Love in the Age of Zombies (Book 3): Zombie Destruction

by James K. Evans

  As Sammy continued to flog the blonde with more and more force, she began to thrash her head from side to side. He swung the flogger through the air a few times, enjoying the whistling sound the whip made. Then he reared back and whipped her ass with the flogger, hard. Then again. And again.

  Welts blossomed amid the red stripes on her ass. The blonde cried out and bit down so hard on the ball gag that it split in two. She bit into her tongue in the process. She spit out the piece of ball gag and began screaming, “RED FLAG! RED FLAG! RED FLAG!”

  Sammy ignored her. Cheap-ass ball gag, he thought. He began beating her back, ass and thighs. “HELP! RED FLAG! SAFEWORD! HELP!!” the blonde screamed through her tears.

  That pissed Sammy off. He reared back to hit her as hard as he could when his wrist was grabbed and he was hurled to the ground by three bouncers. Several onlookers cheered while a couple of the men went to help the woman off the Saint Andrew’s Cross. Most turned away from Sammy in disgust. There was nothing worse than having a decent night at the club ruined by a sadist.

  The bouncers dragged him through the rear exit and into an alley. They didn’t say a word but Sammy could see the hatred and disgust in their eyes. Two held him against the wall. The third began to punch his face. Sammy’s nose started to bleed. He screamed as the bouncer began pounding his abdomen, but within seconds he couldn’t breathe as his wind was pounded out of him. Sammy struggled at first, but gave up, and pretended to pass out. The bouncers didn’t fall for it. They let him collapse onto the dirty wet alley and began to kick him. Sammy couldn’t play dead as they kicked him in the side, then turned him over. With what little breath he had, Sammy cried out as he was kicked in the balls. One final kick to the head ended the beating, and the bouncers went back inside after warning Sammy not to come back unless he wanted to play human punching bag again. The door slammed and locked behind them.

  Sammy lay on the ground, his clothes soaking up the dirty water seeping from a nearby dumpster. He lay there, weeping, feeling sorry for himself. After a few minutes, he sat up and leaned against the brick wall. His hands went to his crotch where he cradled his swelling testicles. He whimpered.

  His self-pity quickly turned to anger. He stood up, tried to make himself look presentable, and limped to the front entrance. One of the bouncers was there, waiting for him. This wasn’t their first ride on the merry-go-round with an unruly patron. Despite their difference in size—Sammy was only five foot six—he stalked up to the bouncer and demanded his tool bag.

  “Too bad, you fuck. Get lost.”

  This wasn’t Sammy’s first ride on the merry-go-round, either. “My tool bag is in there. It has my name and address on it. If it’s not in my hands in thirty seconds, I’ll call the cops.”

  The bouncer wanted to punch Sammy in his already bruised face, but controlled himself and spoke into his radio. He nodded, then said, “Go ahead, call the cops. We’ll have you arrested for assaulting a club member.”

  The manager exited the club stepped and glared at Sammy.

  “Think about it, ass-wipe,” Sammy said, now addressing the manager. “Do you really want the police showing up? How’s that going to be for business? Do you think that bitch wants her name in the online news? Because that’s the second number I’ll call. And seriously? Arrest me for assault, when I saw a half-dozen women chained up while their Dom beat them with paddles and canes? You’ll be closed within a week.”

  The manager and Sammy scowled at each other for several long seconds. Finally, the manager looked away. “I’ll get his bag. Then get him out of here.” He gave Sammy a piercing look and said, “Don’t ever show up here again. You’ll be arrested for trespassing. And don’t forget, we know where you live.” He spun on his heel and went back into the club. He knew a sociopath when he saw one. They were bad for business.

  The bouncer crossed his arms over his chest and glowered at Sammy. A minute later the manager walked outside carrying Sammy’s tool bag. He threw it at Sammy, striking him hard in the chest. Sammy winced in pain but didn’t make a sound. He rifled through the bag, taking a quick inventory of the contents. Good implements of bondage or BDSM are not cheap. Once he was sure all his toys were there, he flipped off the men and limped to his car.

  On his way home, the radio began reporting a riot taking place in nearby Saginaw. Something about an infection, about the national guard. He turned off the radio. Sammy pulled into his driveway and sat in the car for a few minutes. He could hear what sounded like gunfire in the distance.

  He knew he’d gone too far at the club. The blonde could still press charges. He was glad he hadn’t told her his name. But it was written on his tool bag. Did they copy down his name and address? Did they call the cops?

  It was nearly 1:30. The kids were in bed—lucky for them—but his wife was watching The Late Show. Sammy hated TV.

  “Sammy! I’m so glad you’re home! Are you hungry? Have you had dinner?” she asked in her infuriatingly moronic voice. She got up, dressed in her housecoat, and took a good look at him. “Oh my God! What happened to your face?! Were you in an accident? Want me to get some bandages?” The house smelled like fried food mixed with fear.

  “Shut your mouth! It’s none of your damn business.”

  “But Sammy, you’re hurt! Do you need a doctor?

  “SHUT YOUR FUCKING HOLE! DON’T YOU THINK I’D KNOW IF I NEED A DOCTOR?”

  His wife looked afraid. “Don’t be mad, Sammy! I’m just trying to help! I didn’t do nothin’! I’ll make you something to eat,” she said, moving toward the kitchen.

  “SHUT THE FUCK UP! DID I TELL YOU TO MAKE ME SOMETHING TO EAT? WHEN THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING TO LEARN? YOU STUPID SLUT!” Sammy shouted. He began to remove his belt as he walked toward her.

  “Sammy! Please! What did I do?” she begged, shrinking back against the wall, eyes wide with fear.

  “WHAT DID YOU DO?! ARE YOU SUCH A STUPID FUCKING BITCH, YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU DID?!” he demanded. He held the belt by the tail end and whipped it through the air. The buckle landed square on her scalp, breaking the skin. Blood began flowing. She screamed.

  He hit her again and again, desperate to rid himself of the anger and pain he felt inside, mixed with a combination of frustration and humiliation at getting thrown out of the club.

  His oldest son, thirteen, shot out of the bedroom. “YOU LEAVE HER ALONE!” he shouted. Sammy paid no mind to the few weak punches from the boy before he walloped him in the head and sent him sprawling. Then he beat the boy with his belt like he’d beat his wife.

  When he finally quit beating them, his wife and son lay bleeding and moaning on the dirty rug. He could hear his daughter crying in the bedroom. He briefly considered paying her a visit to remind her what Daddy does to little girls who cry, but reconsidered. Both his wife and son had wailed and cried a lot as he was beating them. It wouldn’t be the first time the neighbors had called the cops. And if the club had called the cops as well . . .

  He decided to leave town until things cooled down. Maybe he wouldn’t even come back. He was tired of this shitty town and his crybaby family.

  Had Sammy known what the Midland police were dealing with—the first outbreak of zombies that would bring the grid crashing down within a day—he might have packed more thoughtfully. But he was unaware and unconcerned about anyone but himself.

  He put his belt back on and grabbed as many clothes from the closet as he could carry and piled them into the trunk of his 2003 Nissan Altima. He made several more trips for clothes and a few other items: his revolver, ammunition, and collection of porn DVDs and magazines. To hell with everything else in this shithole. Cheap Walmart junk!

  His wife continued to moan and whimper when he walked out the front door, onto the dark porch and down the steps to the sidewalk. The never-ending twilight of Midland and suburban Saginaw provided enough light to see. Sammy had a feeling of impending doom. I need to get far away from here, and I mean now! He thought the cops were breathing down his nec
k. While he had no idea how much danger he was in, he knew it was time for a hasty retreat.

  The cops weren’t after Sammy. They had more than they could handle trying to stop the crazy people, the ones attacking and biting and eating other people. The number of crazy people was growing, and the number of officers left alive was shrinking.

  Sammy didn’t know that. He was unaware of the events going on around him. He was only aware of this strong urge to go! Still primarily concerned with escaping the attention of the police, he knew better than to drive into Midland or Saginaw. That’s where the cops would find him. Instead he headed northwest into the upper basin of Michigan. Acre after acre of orchards and farmland, broken by equally long stretches of seemingly fallow land. Once he got out in the country he turned the radio back on.

  The reports he heard from Midland were almost comical. Dead people coming to life. People eating people. He briefly thought it was some kind of joke, like the War of the Worlds radio broadcast by Orson Welles. But it was too early for a Halloween joke. As he went from station to station he realized it was much, much more than a joke.

  Many people were asleep and had no idea things were falling apart around them. Even so, as he continued driving in the early morning hours he encountered more cars than usual. Some folks were already heading for the hinterlands. He stopped for gas and coffee in Cadillac. It was only 4:30 in the morning, yet it was as busy as Ann Arbor on game day. For the first time in years he had to wait in line to fill up his tank. He parked his car on the side of the building, got his tools from the trunk, and quickly exchanged his license plate with the car next to his. He waited in line at the ATM to withdraw all of the money in their checking account which wasn’t much—just over eight hundred dollars. He’d have to live on the cheap.

  Observing all the traffic, Sammy drew a quick conclusion: people thought something was coming. They acted like they do when a big winter storm is forecast. He passed a Meijer and noticed the parking lot was fuller than usual so early in the morning.

  He turned into the next entrance and parked the car near the front of the store. It was eerie seeing so many cars and people at this hour. After grabbing a cart, he made a quick tour of the different departments, noting the swarm of people buying ammunition in the sporting goods department. Sammy had plenty of ammunition.

  Hardly anyone was buying clothes or housewares. The grocery aisles were pretty busy and he decided it was a good idea to stock up before everything was gone.

  He hurried through the aisles, filling his cart with non-perishables: canned vegetables, dried beans, soup, peanut butter and jelly, crackers and bottled water. When his cart was full, he paid at the checkout and loaded everything into the car, then went back inside for alcohol.

  The coolers of beer were emptying quickly. He grabbed two cases of Natural Light and a case of Bud Light, then headed for the liquor aisle. The shelves were looking thin as well, and even as he made his own choice he saw several people with carts filled with bottles. Sammy began to do the same, grabbing the biggest bottles of bourbon and tequila he could find. He purposely chose from the bottom shelf. He had to buy on the cheap to stretch his money. On impulse he bought a few bottles of margarita mix as well, in case he met up with someone who needed a few drinks before she could be much fun.

  He made one more quick tour through the store, picking up a stout winter coat and pulling it on as discreetly as possible. He tore off the price tag and used a utility knife in the hardware department to cut off the security tag.

  In the electronics department, all the TVs were tuned to different news stations in Saginaw, Detroit, and Chicago. They all showed essentially the same thing. Detroit was burning. Flint was, too. A few webcams showed crowds of crazy people attacking other people. Biting them, chewing and swallowing their flesh. Before each clip a warning, both text and verbal, that the following footage was intense and could cause distress. Yeah, boy! Sammy thought. How far away was this recorded? Detroit was only a couple of hundred miles from where he stood.

  The banner running across the bottom of the screens gave even worse news: NATIONAL GUARD DEPLOYED TO WASHINGTON, NEW YORK, BOSTON, DETROIT, CHICAGO, LOS ANGELES . . . PRESIDENT ADVISES CITIZENS TO REMAIN CALM AND STAY INDOORS . . . CDC OFFICIALLY CONFIRMS PANDEMIC . . . EVERY STATE NOW REPORTING INFECTION . . . TENS OF THOUSANDS REPORTED DEAD ACROSS THE U.S., ESTIMATES RISING . . .

  A large group had gathered around the screens. One woman was crying. People looked frightened and in a state of shock. One bald man wearing a hunting jacket suddenly turned around and pushed his cart towards the front of the store. Sammy thought that was a good idea. He rushed to the checkout just as the PA system announced “All cashiers and baggers to checkout lanes. All stockers to front.” Every lane was packed, but Sammy was fortunate to be in front of an empty lane just as a cashier loaded her drawer and turned on the light.

  As she began ringing him up, she looked at him nervously. “Pretty bad out there, eh? They called a bunch of us in ‘cause it’s so busy.”

  “Just ring me up,” Sammy said tersely. He didn’t feel like talking. He wanted to get out the door with his purchases and the winter coat he was stealing. At least the flurry of activity helped him avoid scrutiny.

  And a flurry there was. Even since he’d arrived, it’d become noticeably more crowded. It started to feel like the day after Thanksgiving, only people weren’t hoping for bargains. They were hoping for survival. The mood was far from festive. Sammy felt like punching the wall when the background music was Air Supply singing All I need is the air that I breathe and to love you!

  That and some decent weapons, plenty of booze, and an occasional ass beating that’s so much fun you scream, Sammy thought as he walked out the exit. The early-morning sky was cloudless, stars shone brightly despite the glare of the parking lot lights. Sammy had forgotten how bright the stars were out in the country.

  By the time he went through the checkout the second time, he’d spent nearly four hundred dollars. That made him nervous, but it was now nearly 7:00 and the parking lot was getting fuller by the minute. By noon they’ll be out of milk, beer, Poptarts and ammunition, he thought. Damn, I should have gotten some Poptarts!

  He sat in his car and watched a stream of people pour into the store. From what he could see, shopping carts were now in short supply. He felt another jolt of urgency and opened Google Maps. It was time to decide on a destination. As he studied the screen, he listened to the news reports on the radio. Whether people knew it or not, their way of life had come to an end.

  He had few marketable skills in a post-apocalyptic world. He needed to find a place, fast, that could potentially give him the resources to survive. He scrolled northwest until he found Traverse City. No, too big, too many people. It would probably get overrun by zombies. He jumped southwest. Grand Rapids? Manistee? No, again too many people. He scrolled the coastline until he found Frankfort.

  He’d been to Frankfort. Quaint but lively town. Fairly protected from invasion. Enough people to make it interesting. He’d be a big shark in a small pond. A nearly invisible shark. They wouldn’t know what hit ‘em until it was too late.

  The sun rose behind him as he passed Crystal Lake on M-115. He was only a few miles from Frankfort and he still hadn’t settled on a cover story. Most of his ideas were too far-fetched. He couldn’t claim to be a licensed tradesman because he wasn’t good at building or fixing things. He couldn’t pretend to be a carpenter, a plumber, or an electrician. He wasn’t a cook. He didn’t have good people skills either, which ruled out any retail positions.

  When he was younger he worked one summer on a Lake Erie fishing trawler, hauling in nets of yellow perch. He didn’t particularly enjoy the work, but knew enough about it to fake it. It required more brawn than brains anyway, and he had plenty of brawn despite being a bit short.

  He passed under the gateway arch welcoming guests to Frankfort and cruised into town. Most of the traffic he’d passed was going the opposite direction, headi
ng away from Frankfort. A lot of the cars were packed with belongings.

  There were lines of cars waiting to fill up at the gas station, just as they had been in Cadillac. It looked like people were on the verge of panic. Cars began to honk at one lady having trouble with the pump. Sammy saw a sign which read Bay Port Lodging and pulled in to the parking lot. After a few rings of the front desk bell, a lady appeared, bleary-eyed but welcoming. He paid a week in advance and took a half-hour to unpack his car, stacking the boxes of food and alcohol in a corner of the room. His clothes fit in the closet but there wasn’t much room to spare.

  He put a six-pack of Natty Light in the fridge and turned on the TV. Within ten minutes he was asleep.

  His sleep was disturbed by the reports on the TV, and his dreams reflected the reports. Only in his dreams, he was the zombie, desperately reaching out for human flesh to devour. And yet he was also on the run. He heard someone yell “There it is! Shoot it!” just before tree bark above his head exploded from the impact of a bullet. He was desperate for food and desperate to escape. He seemed to be racing toward Lake Michigan as if it was sanctuary. As he neared the beach he saw a young girl looking out over the water. He lunged toward the kid and attacked her, relishing the taste and texture of blood spurting into his mouth as he bit through the tendons in her throat. As he chewed and swallowed he realized he was eating his daughter.

  He heard the sound of gunfire and awoke with a start. The sound was coming from the TV, playing yet another disturbing clip of a zombie attack. In this clip, taken from a ceiling security camera, a man emptied his shotgun into a zombie’s abdomen, tearing away massive chunks of flesh. It didn’t bleed and it didn’t slow down. The man reloaded and shot it in the chest. The zombie barely slowed down. As it reached the man with the gun the view switched back to the newscaster.