Charlie nodded. “Fine. I told you this hero shit would get you killed.” Tears ran freely down his face. “Fucking Left-Nut.”
“Later, muchacho.” His features hardening, the Titan of the Midwest, Viking Rob Magnusson, went into beast mode one final time as Charlie ran off, unable to look back.
All alone, Rob spit on his hands and lifted his trusty bat, bent and dinged from countless kill shots. The mob closed in, but the giant didn’t wait for them. Instead, he roared an improvised battle cry and charged, ignoring the pain in his ankle and the natural instinct to flee. This man truly had been born in the wrong era.
The battle was met and Rob smashed two skulls with the first swing, and the force whipped him around in a full circle whereupon he obliterated a third with the same glorious blow. Next he brought the bat up and down as if chopping wood, dropping foes one bloody explosion at a time.
They kept coming, Rob kept swinging and the bodies piled up like dirty dishes. But the adrenaline soon ebbed and he began to grow tired. His swings slowed and some of the infected got up again, having been stunned, not killed. He pounded them again, even stomped a few for good measure. But they kept coming. The crimson bat slipped from Rob’s tired grasp as he fell to his knees, and they kept coming.
One nightmarish beast lurched from Rob’s side and he didn’t even see it. But Charlie did, and he hammered it with the butt end of his machine gun, finishing it off with a couple of clumsy bashes.
“Never leave a man behind, remember?” he said while helping his friend rise.
“Acting like a hero’s gonna get you killed, Chuck,” Rob said and beamed a smile, partially reinvigorated.
“No shit,” Charlie answered as the final half-dozen stragglers attacked all at once.
The problem was that Charlie was built for speed, not fighting, and as the melee got hot and heavy he was getting in the way more than helping. At one point, he barely avoided getting himself maimed by stepping into Rob’s kill zone, and ended up dropping his awkwardly shaped assault rifle at the worst possible moment. Forced to grapple with a biter, he was lucky that it was smaller and weaker. Even so, Charlie ended up on his back with the slobbering fiend searching for an opening.
Machinegun fire erupted and bullets whizzed around the combatants. It wasn’t clear who the targets were, but Charlie felt his opponent go limp and warm blood gush down onto his own face. He wondered if the next bullet had his name on it.
Then there was some hurried shouting in a coarse, foreign language. Charlie pushed the body aside and stood up next to Rob as Chinese soldiers emerged from the forest, their weapons raised.
“Fuckbucket,” Rob said.
They were captured, and in deep shit, but at least they were alive. For now.
Chapter 10: Fine Dining
Trent instantly knew who the scoundrel was before him. It was not a good thing. Even worse, the leader of the Gutter Punks recognized him in turn.
“Well, lick my gnads and call me Choppy. If it isn’t the biggest asshole cop in all of Chicago. My old buddy, Officer Trent. Or as I once called him, Officer Gank, for ganking my dope every chance he got.”
“Hello, Xavier,” Trent said in a subdued tone. “Nice place you have down here.”
“This isn’t a dialogue,” Xavier said and turned to his men. “Tie ‘em up. If anyone gives you problems, throw their ass in the pit.” His henchmen quickly pilfered everything of value from the trio and led them to an opening in the pipe, which happened to be an access station to the surface. Littered with crappy furniture, horror movie posters, and empty bottles, it resembled an unkempt teenager’s basement bedroom. But the reality was much, much darker.
The Gutter Punks were an informal gang that had made the Clockwork Orange crew look like amateurs even before the apocalypse. Afterwards, their depravities had grown tenfold. This group of maladjusted hooligans used to ride the trains into the city every spring from out west, looking to drink, fight, forage, and fuck their way to notoriety, and not necessarily in that order. Now the man-bun-wearing hipster douches were the lords of the underground, raiding Chicago from below while keeping one-step ahead of the zombies and foreign invaders.
Trent and company were handcuffed to a steel pipe as the Gutter Punks hurled insults, garbage, and several solid punches. Xavier grabbed the raccoon and began gently stroking her head. “So well mannered. I hope it tastes good too.”
“Elvis, sic balls!” Russ shouted in desperation, but the raccoon merely licked Xavier’s face. “Damn.”
Xavier nodded to one of the lower ranking members of the group, a fat teenager wearing face paint. “Jester, we’re gonna show our little friend here the kitchen. Let me know if they have anything interesting to share. If they don’t, I’ll be back in a bit to ask some questions myself. With a blowtorch.” He rubbed Trent’s hair and left, taking the other members of the gang with him.
This left Trent, Marquell and Russ in the dimly lit room with the guy known affectionately as Jester. The giggling teen with a ninth-grade education was happy to have a captive audience for once, and was bound and determined not to screw up.
Trent had always told people he hated clowns, when in reality they scared him half to death. This meant Jester’s clown makeup was terrorizing the crap out of him.
The young thug noticed that Trent’s eyes were plastered shut. “What’s wrong, piggy?”
Trent kept his mouth closed as well, which of course was something Russ was physically incapable of doing.
“What’s with the face paint?” Russ asked. “You part of the KISS Army or something?”
Jester rolled his eyes. “KISS? What decade do you think this is?”
“That’s what I said,” Marquell noted to nobody in particular.
“If you really want to know, I’m a Juggalo. Maybe the last one,” Jester answered with pride.
Marquell whispered something and the pride in the teen’s voice turned to a threat of violence. “Got something to say, smart mouth?”
“Just the Lord’s prayer.” To Marquell’s trained ear, it was obvious the young man was a weakling and a follower, one that was only playing the ruffian while using his false bravado to hide the scared child underneath. And so Marquell kept the discourse open, something that had saved his own life numerous times. “Why do they call you Jester? he continued.
The Gutter Punk smiled, happy to be talking about his favorite subject. “It’s ‘cause I like to tell jokes. Before the end of the world I wanted to be a comedian or an actor.”
“I got some good ones for you,” Russ said. “Who was the country singer with the biggest boobs? Conway Titty.”
Jester groaned. “Weak.”
“Okay, that was kind of a dad joke I guess,” Russ said. “You’ll like this one, though. What do you call a thousand lesbians with machine guns?”
“I’ll bite. What?” Jester asked, trying to hold back a grin.
“Militia Etheridge,” Russ said, already laughing at his own joke. It became so quiet you could hear the zombies scratching at the walls in the pit. “Hey, comedy’s hard, you got anything better?”
Jester broke into a reasonably good Andrew Dice Clay impersonation. “You know, date rape drugs aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. When I take ‘em I can’t even stand up, let alone rape anyone. Oh!”
Russ and Marquell fake laughed at Jester’s performance while Trent still cowered in fear. After a few minutes sharing more of his terrible jokes, the comedian wannabe let his guard down ever so slightly. “Look, I’m not that bad of a person, but these guys were the last people around. It was either fit in or die.”
Now Trent began to wonder if the kid was playing “good cop/bad cop” with them, a tactic he had done countless times himself. He decided to find out, and slowly opened his eyes. “Hey, buddy. Why don’t you let us go? You can come with us and get a fresh start. Nobody can live in a tunnel forever. Except for rats. You don’t look like a rat to me.”
“Sorry, dude. I can’t risk it.
But let me know some good info and I can probably make things easier for you. I mean, you guys aren’t so bad. I feel sorry for what they’re gonna do to you.”
“What’s that?” Trent asked.
“You’re probably better off not knowing, but that raccoon is gonna be the appetizer. We don’t exactly get a lot of fresh protein down here.”
“For real? I survived zombies and now I’m gonna get eaten by scurveball dipshits?”
“Gutter Punks and cops just never got along. Like a cats and dogs type of thing. Plus, it sounds like Xavier hates you with a passion.”
“What about me? I ain’t no pig,” Marquell said.
“How do I put this? You didn’t pass the blackground check.”
Marquell shook his head. “Is everybody in this damned tunnel racist?”
“Hey, I’m not racist,” Russ said. “My second wife was black. Hell, one of my kids was black. At least I think he was my kid. He was pretty damned tall come to think of it. Either way, I had to pay child support. I mean, I was supposed to pay child support.”
“Shut it, hillbilly,” Jester said, switching back to bully-mode once more. He realized time was running short and his task was still unfulfilled, which meant Xavier was just as likely to use the blowtorch on him. He was a dick like that.
“Thank you,” Marquell added.
Jester got into Marquell’s face. “As I said, I’m looking for useful stuff. Like, if you have a stash outside or a safe house or something. And what Xavier wants most are females. They don’t last very long down here on account of—”
Russ cut him off. “They already took my stash. Two-fifths of whiskey, one flask of rum. Mostly cheap stuff, but it sure gets the job done. Hell, I bet they’re getting drunk as skunks right now.”
“And they didn’t want to share it with you,” Marquell said, stirring the pot. “Not very nice of them. I guess you’re the low man on the totem pole.”
“For reals? Man, you’re full of it.”
“Honest,” Marquell said and pointed to Russ. “You can smell that Joe Dirt looking motherfucker’s breath. He was drinking all damned day.”
Alcohol was the one thing that kept Jester going, so he turned to Russ and leaned in, breathing deeply. “He does smell like a hobo that just… argh!”
Russ’s head shot forward and he chomped down hard, ripping away Jester’s painted nose as well as his upper lip. It was obvious the truck driver savored every bite as his eyes rolled into the back of his head.
The young man slumped to his knees in shock and convulsed, instinctively pulling the trigger on his pistol. The bullet blew a hole in Jester’s foot and he fell the rest of the way down, landing on his ruined face. He had told his last joke.
Russ’s feral hunger sated, he snapped back into the moment, licking his lips. “Juggalo? More like Jugga-licious. We’re talking Arby’s Big Montana right there. Could’ve used some Horsey Sauce though.”
“Okay, now what, smart guys?” Trent asked as Jester writhed around, moaning for his momma.
“Ask Marquell, this is his plan. He told me to bite the dude,” Russ said.
Just then a Gutter Punk brandishing a machete burst through the door at the sound of gunfire. “What’s wrong with Jester?” he asked.
“Case of the Mondays?” Marquell suggested, buying some time.
Trent shrugged. “Nah, it looks like he’s having a Shaq attack.”
“Real funny.” The man saw the massive amount of blood and advanced towards Trent, raising his blade to strike. “Let’s see who’s laughing when I cut your tongue out.”
Jester rose and jumped onto the young man’s back, ripping into his neck and feeding on the soft tissues underneath. Moments later more Gutter Punks ran in, but they were met by Jester and his victim, now a zombie as well. It was a bloodbath, and when Trent saw Jester’s mangled clown-face going to work he had to shut his eyes once more to avoid passing out from fear.
Soon the feeding frenzy would grow and the tied up men would be dropping to the bottom of the food chain. Realizing this, Russ did something drastic. He leaned over and started chewing on the bottom half of his own left hand, grinding through bones and tearing through flesh. Unflinching, he yanked hard on his hand, and what remained of it slid through the handcuff while his pinky and ring finger dropped to the ground. Russ’s third wedding ring rolled across the tunnel floor and made the tiniest of clinks as it bounced off the wall, never to be seen again.
Xavier and the rest of his men came in and were immediately set upon. But they were better prepared and put up a fight, blasting away at the cannibals that had been their allies minutes before.
Trent and Marquell yanked on their own handcuffs as the carnage in the small room daisy chained. Jester stopped chewing on his latest victim and made a beeline for Marquell, who was forced to jump into the air and kick with both feet. The freak show plowed into Xavier, who then shoved him towards Trent.
Jester grabbed Trent and bit down, but his face exploded outwards in a shower of wet mush. Russ had shot the zombie with its own pistol. Then he turned and fired three shots, dropping two zombies and one Gutter Punk.
The door to the tunnel creaked open and Russ turned to see Xavier sprinting away with the last of the zombies chasing after him, drawn by his rapid movements. Russ shut the door and surveyed the massacre. The whole battle had taken less than a minute.
“Seriously Marquell, that was like some Tango and Cash shit right there,” he said and beamed a reddish smile. “Mumbling the plan, knowing that only I could catch it with my badass hearing.”
“Man, I don’t even know what that means. Just find the handcuff keys.”
Russ searched the corpses, found the keys, and released his companions. Then he took a filthy shirt from one of the bodies and made a tourniquet for his hand while the others gathered weapons and ammo. Though he didn’t feel the pain, Russ could still pass out from the loss of blood, and so getting the wound closed up was important.
“Looks like we’re done down here,” Trent said and got no arguments. “Let’s find Elvis and roll out.” They opened the door to the lair of the Gutter Punks and noticed it was even more of a pigsty than the last room. Small lamps lit the area, as did a working gas grill, and the scent of cooked meat was thick in the confined space. It actually smelled pretty good.
“Awww, those bastards.” Russ slumped to the floor when he spotted the freshly slaughtered animal carcass on the rack. Grilled to perfection and seasoned with salt and pepper.
Trent put a hand to his friend’s shoulder as it became apparent that, yes, zombies can cry. The cop even felt an odd flood of emotion for an animal he cared little for, though his mouth watered at the smell of the meal.
“What are y’all busters crying about?” Marquell asked as he poked around for supplies, finding little of use.
“Elvis… has left the building,” Russ said and shuddered.
Marquell nodded and gave them a moment to grieve. Then he pulled the meat off the fire, blew on it forcefully, and took a bite.
“Oh, no you didn’t,” Russ said and rose to his feet, his good hand clenched in a fist. “That ain’t kosher.”
Marquell casually pointed to the corner of the room. There, next to a dirty sleeping bag, a raccoon was happily licking up a spilled bottle of maple syrup.
Russ grinned creepily and wiped the tears from his face with his bandaged stump, leaving behind a glob of coagulated blood.
“Not to change the subject, but Trent, when you find yourself hundreds of feet underground during a zombie apocalypse and you’re still running into people that hate you, it might be time for a life change. And that’s coming from me.”
“I’m trying, Russ. I’m trying,” Trent said and took a bite of the roasted tunnel rat. It was a bit salty and a bit gamey, but damn was it delicious.
“Eating rats in the actual sewer. Winning.”
He and Marquell ate the carcass in under a minute and then pilfered what meager supplies they could whi
le Russ retrieved his liquor.
The trio and their trusty mascot opened the exit door and then climbed the spiral stairs for quite a while until they reached the top. Eventually they exited the access building and walked outside into the cool night air, finding themselves mere miles from the suburbs. They had done the near impossible, but in some ways their journey had only just begun.
Russ pointed dead ahead and grinned. “That might be the prettiest damned thing I’ve ever seen.”
Chapter 11: Strange Nerds with Candy
“Permission to come aboard?” someone said from the dark as two flashlights illuminated the startled women. Of course, the intruders were already standing in the middle of the water pumping station, so the question was moot.
“Dammit,” Jackie swore as she stood up quickly and grabbed her crowbar, assuming a defensive stance. She had insisted on keeping a vigilant watch, and now their security had been blown by a moment of carelessness.
“Relax there,” one of the men said reassuringly. “I’m Phil, this is Bobby, and we’re here to rescue you… if you need rescuing, that is.” Both middle-aged men had awkward demeanors and were dressed like they just got off the golf course. “Does anyone have a sweet tooth?” he continued and tossed a handful of snack-sized candy bars to the women.
They tore into the treats and breathed a collective, yet guarded, sigh of relief. Someone had finally come to get them, even if they were dorky. Still, the women had some questions for the strangers bearing gifts.
“What’s going on out there?” Padma asked. “Last Sunday we were minding our own business and then things just went berserk. Is the government getting things under control?”
Phil casually approached and sat down on an upturned five gallon bucket. He looked like a younger version of Weird Al Yankovic. “We don’t actually know. It seems that no place on land is safe. And we haven’t seen anyone from the government other than some dead sheriff’s deputies at one of the harbors. We’re on our own for now, which is why we’re out looking for survivors. Trying to pitch in.”
Dead Drunk II: Dawn of the Deadbeats (Dead Drunk: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse... One Beer at a Time Book 2) Page 8