Storm of the Undead Page 19

  “Of course, sir,” James muttered in his finest British chauffeur imitation. “Would sir care for anything else whilst I'm at it? A kick in the groin? Jab in the eye? Perhaps sir would care for a disease laden whore so sir’s pathetic excuse for a cock can rot, fall off, and all pretense of sir being a man can finally be laid to rest.”

  I wanted to be mad, I really did, but the prick pulled the whole monologue off without a hitch or stumble. Laughter, despite my best efforts, bubbled up in barely restrained fits.

  “Sir certainly would care for something else,” I rejoined in my finest Dublin brogue. “Sir would like to stop at the local liquor store that we might obtain a few bottles of the establishments finest offerings.”

  “Hey, that’s a hell of an idea,” James nodded, considering all the various brands of obscenely expensive alcohol we had each dreamed of one day imbibing. Cognac, scotch, and maybe a bottle or two of champagne. Oh, fuck yeah, we were making a pit stop. “Think they have Johnny Walker Blue?”

  “I know of at least four bottles of Blue on the shelves,” I said. “Plus whatever is in the backroom. I'm more interested in a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle, but since there are just so many bottles made every year and most of those go to auction I guess I'll force myself to make do with a couple bottles of Laphroaig thirty-two year-old.”

  “Seriously? How can you drink that stuff?” James asked, fake gagging as he did so.

  “Since Laphroaig Thirty-Two costs more than most of the cars I've owned in my entire life,” I responded, “nary a drop has passed my lips. I don't plan to suffer through a zombie apocalypse without crossing a few more things off my personal bucket list.”

  “A few more things?” James repeated. “What the hell have you done that counts as bucket list material?”

  “Well, I got to fire a light machine gun, basically like a crazed Rambo-esque wannabe. That was actually a lot of fun,” I admitted. “Plus I stole a car today, and side stepped any potential guilt associated with it because it belonged to a dealership and the owner of said dealership is likely dead.”

  “Fuck me, the way your fucking mind works,” James muttered. “Anything else?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Not sure if you want to hear this though.”

  “Oh, don't stop now, its just getting interesting,” James taunted.

  “Alright, asshole, I got to be a hero. An honest to god hero. I saved my family from evil, rescued a damsel in distress, and overcame the unconquerable foe,” I leaned back against the steel of the MRAP and let loose a deep sigh. “For a moment in time I wasn’t just another drone, slowly trudging back and forth to work for a job that doesn't matter, managers that can't remember my name, and a paycheck that will never, ever make up for the time I had to spend away from my family. Eleven goddamn hours a day. That's what I lost to employment. Time I could have been with my wife and daughter. It was hard enough when it was just Lizzy and I, but she worked also so it wasn't as though she was alone all that time. Now, its Lizzy, Hermione, and I. How many precious moments have I missed because I wasn't fucking there? How much of my daughters life did I miss, and if the dead hadn't risen how much more of her life would I have missed because I was working. Since Outbreak Day I've spent more time with my family, then I have in the past year. If I die out here, at least my little girl will grow up with Lizzy telling her stories about her father, the hero.”

  Yeah, dumping my purse out all over the truck floor.

  “Damn…” James whispered, maybe a hint of a sniffle.

  “This moment brought to you by Midol,” Carrol wheezed. “For when your bleeding vagina turns you into a weeping mass of estrogen.”

  I laughed.

  I nodded my head.

  Then I kicked Carroll in the ribs hard enough to draw a gasp of agony from his lips.

  “What's that? Want your fucking Midol?” I whispered.

  I meant what I said. If I died out here through some fucking miracle, my daughter would grow up with me as a hero in her mind, and not some broken down schlub working a dead end job until he literally falls over dead. It wasn't until I held my daughter for the first time that I ever cared about how people thought of me after I kicked the bucket.

  A gust of wind rocked the MRAP, drawing the conversation to a close.

  “That's worrisome,” I said.

  “Right?” James slowed the behemoth, then drove over the concrete median. City of Stuart spent good money to clean up US-1 through the more scenic areas of town, including the addition of several new medians meant to reduce the number of vehicular accidents occurring per quarter. Mostly what it had done was frustrate drivers into near murderous rages. The bouncing of the truck drug a strangled cry from Carroll, and a wicked grin from me. What? I still hadn't forgiven him for running off. We came to a stop before what had been a brand new building before the rise of the undead. Now, there were exterior marks from all manner of impacts, none of which were identifiable. The interior seemed intact, a minor miracle given the onerous presence of Bad Eddie and the Circus Minimus.

  Two minutes later I understood why. The entire building had been fitted with shatter proof hurricane glass as well as reinforced security gating.

  “Okay,” James turned to me, “what now?”

  “Now we apply greater force,” I turned to point at the MRAP. James stared at me for a moment before shrugging his shoulders and climbing back into the armored behemoth. Seventeen thousand pounds moving at twenty miles per hour proved a convincing argument the security gate could not refuse.

  We moved swiftly through the store, hands grasping ridiculously expensive spirits in a mad dash to fulfill a foolish desire on a list of outrageous actions to undergo before the reaper claimed each of us.

  “Uh, hey Finn,” James stopped and faced me.

  “What?”

  “Before, you were talking about rescuing a damsel in distress,” James continued slowly.

  “Yeah, and?” I turned from the rows of scotch bottles to face my friend.

  “You weren't referring to the psycho Gypsy Whore, were you?” He asked, not sure if he could stomach the answer.

  “Oh, hell no,” I said, and threw a cheap bottle of scotch in his general direction. “I meant Angie. She was literally being drug off to be sacrificed to the blood lust of the Circus. I stepped in, all gallant like, and saved her and her bitch of a boyfriend.”

  “The boyfriend you later let get eaten by a super zombie?”

  “I didn't let him get eaten,” I spat hotly. “He was just too fucking weak, too beat up to make it. It was as much Angie’s choice to leave him behind as it was mine.”

  “And if he hadn't been too beat up?”

  “Where are you going with this, James?” I demanded.

  “I'm just wondering at what point you make the decision to leave us behind if we can't keep up,” James said, in a frustratingly reasonable tone.

  “Well, one, fuck you,” I said and emphasized it with a vigorous offering of my middle finger. “And, two, you answered your own question.”

  “So how does that explain Carroll?” James asked, tossing me a bottle of Bulleit bourbon.

  “What do you mean?” I returned.

  “He can't keep up, nowhere near it, but you went out of your way to save him,” James explained.

  “Extenuating circumstances,” I offered. “He is key to the uncovering of two crucial pieces of intelligence. The location not only of the missing engine parts, but also of the missing supplies.”

  “Which brings me to the point,” James stepped up to me. “What makes you think Farrah is going to give up her leverage?”

  “One of the two of the possesses the location of the supplies,” I said, and bagged another three bottles of Bulleit bourbon. Before things went crazy, it had been my brand of liquor, and nothing had occurred to change my mind. “One or the other will give me that location. Whether that happens before or after eyeball loss is entirely up to them.”

  “Eyeball loss?” James said haltingl
y.

  “Yeah, it’s where I use a spoon to scoop somebody’s fucking eye out of its socket when they fail to tell me where our fucking food is,” I said in the coldest tone I could manage. “Our children are depending on that food, on those seeds, and on us not failing to obtain the intel. I'm sorry I'm so cold blooded about it, but it's the truth.”

  “I don't have a problem with what you're saying, but you might not want to repeat that in anyone else's company,” James suggested. “Not all the crew have reached your state of mind.”

  “What? Insane?” I offered.

  “Nope, not insane. Just willing to do whatever is necessary to survive,” James countered. “They still hope the government will swoop in and put things right.”

  “Jesus fuck.” I spat. The predictability of soft, scared people never fails to disappoint. Refusing to dig into that conversation, I walked back to the truck and loaded up my haul. Outside I heard something extremely out of place given the current state of affairs. It was the rattle of an old truck with a rotting muffler, coupled with country music played at a painfully high volume. I moved outside quickly, rifle tucked against my shoulder though not really pointed at anything. Parked not five feet from the massive MRAP sat an old Chevy pick up with an even older man standing next to it, smoking a cigarette and cradling a lever action Winchester. We stared at one another for a long moment, each knowing the other, but unwilling to admit the truth of the situation. Two men, known to one another, who survived Outbreak Day just happen to meet up outside a liquor store in Stuart, Florida.

  “David Clancy,” I said the name before I realized I was speaking. “As I live and breathe.”

  “Well, hell, Finnegan, don't sound so happy to see me,” Clancy laughed around a lungful of smoke. He took another long pull on the cigarette, then flicked the stub away. “How’ve you been?”

  “Staying alive,” I said, and may have whispered the word ‘mostly’ at the end. “You?”

  “Moving around a lot. Can't say in one place, nope, deaders will getcha if you do,” Clancy shifted his rifle, so the barrel rested against his shoulder, a decent position in case he needed to drop the business end in my direction. “Headed up north, thought I might stop for smokes and a case or two of beer.”

  “Had the same thought myself,” I admitted, watching Clancy’s eyes for any indication this was going south. “I figure there's probably enough here for both of us.”

  Clancy’s face split in a wide grin.

  “That's good to hear because it's a long trip to Jacksonville, and I'm gonna get mighty thirsty on the way,” Clancy cradled his rifle again as he walked past me into the store proper.

  “Uh, that won't work out too well,” I said. “The government built a goddamn wall of cargo containers running from Vero Beach straight across the state, and they have machine gun nests at regular intervals. These cocksuckers have one priority, keep us inside the quarantine zone.”

  “Goddamn, Finnegan, where have you been hiding?” Clancy smiled gently. “The wall fell about a week ago along I-95. Gigantic goddamn zombies knocked the wall over, and those smaller deaders ate everybody left alive. I'm heading up to Ft. Benning, join up with army boys setting up lines of defense to hold the zombies long enough to bomb those mother fuckers off the planet.”

  Clancy kept talking as he loaded a shopping cart with beer, but I can't remember what he said. My thought process had stuck on a single piece of information.

  The Line had broken.

  Zombie Green broke the Line with his horde of undead nightmares.

  Goddamn it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Oh good, the Cavalry

  Clancy was long gone before I shifted my brain back into action, most of said action consisted of busting a lot of cheap booze bottles against the floor. An icy fury slid through my veins, an unusual state of affairs for me. Normally, I burned as hot as the sun. This time I didn't allow my anger to blind me. This time the fury focused my attentions. Before I could deal with the issue of the Line, I needed to deal with my shadow.

  Once I had a decent lake of high proof hootch pooling, I went out to the MRAP to retrieve a few party favors. My nemesis would likely enter this building to determine fuck only knew what, but I was sure he would need to see what I had seen. Carefully, I arranged a surprise or two for El Rapo, energetic activities which should keep him busy long enough for us to disappear.

  After my work was done, I ransacked the store’s insignificant humidor and popped the top on a bottle of Glenlivet. As bad as the Quarantine Zone was, and I was in a position to know just how bad it was, I'd held out hope the rest of the country was sorting this out. That somehow, by sacrificing everybody inside the zone, those outside would be safe.

  That my parents and my siblings would be safe.

  James stepped up next to me with a pair of glasses he acquired, he clinked the glasses against my bottle of scotch. I poured three fingers into each glass, then corked the bottle, and dropped it onto a shelf. The outbreak had passed beyond anyone's ability to control. The human race was straight fucked, and we both understood that unpalatable fact in a fundamental way.

  The scotch burned going down my throat, which helped me beat the rising sense of futility back down. Tears formed in corners of my eyes, but I stubbornly refused to allow a single drop to fall. It's the same situation we had been in since Outbreak Day, simply writ large. That's what I told myself as I battled to control the turmoil in my heart. Like a goddamn savage, I bit the tip of a cigar off, confiscated a cigar torch, and sparked the stick to life. Blue smoke curled up from the tip of the Perdomo Lot 23, doing a lot to settle my nerves. I followed up a couple deep puffs with a slug of scotch.

  “They broke quarantine?” James more stated than asked. All I could risk at that moment was a stiff nod. Thankfully James didn't press me, just nodded along with me. “Wonder what that means for the naval blockade.”

  It was a good question, but it was a question I wished he shove up his own ass. I wanted to finish this drink, and maybe a few more after that. Maybe I just wanted to get lit up so this whole goddamn nightmare wouldn't be so fucking unbearable. I might have done just that if I hadn't heard a voice in the back of my head, my father’s voice, telling me to suck it up buttercup, and carry on like a man.

  “The Line was manned by KnightStar mercenaries,” I said, knuckling down hard on my faltering psyche. “The naval blockade was US Navy. I'm not sure the Navy would drop and run at the first sign of trouble.”

  Rain fell outside, felt like god planned on repeating Noah’s little boat ride because it was such a hit last time. The remainder of my drink slid down my throat and I drew a deep breath before heading back into the world, cigar clenched between my teeth.

  “If the Navy has split, we have to decide whether or not to sail the fuck away from here,” I said. “And whether we can do that depends on finding the missing parts on the Churchill. Which means this fat bastard is going to help me get the truth from Farrah, or he's going to watch me cut her throat.”

  We climbed into the MRAP and drove out of there with a purpose. Lightning flashed, thunder crashed, and somewhere overhead a military drone had risen above the cloud cover and lost its target. We cruised out to the coast and soon found ourselves outside a certain house which once belonged to a friend of mine, but which now stood abandoned. Carroll whined about being left behind, again, and I may have kicked him, again. My friend, Maxwell Wyse, sat where I'd left him, though in a much worse state than I'd left him in. Decomposition had done its ugly work. Add in the little scavengers which naturally attend death, and you might get the picture without the use of visual aids. Personally, I didn't want to think about how I'd arrived here the last time. Too many unanswered questions.

  This time I gave Maxwell’s house a thorough going over and came up aces. To start with the old man had stocked ammunition like it was free. Then came the real surprise. There was, within the wall, a hidden compartment containing an RPG-7 launcher, and several grena
des.

  “Who does this?” I mouthed the words, but didn't speak them out of respect for the dead. In addition to the rocket propelled grenades there was a small crate of fragmentation grenades. The crate was covered in Cyrillic script. Not that it mattered all that much where the grenades came from, operation was essentially the same worldwide.

  “Finn,” James whispered as he turned to present me with two small, foil wrapped bricks labeled C-4. “Who the fuck was this guy, and how did you know him?”

  “Do you know how to use that?” I asked, pointing at the plastic explosive.

  “No. You?” James inquired hopefully.

  “Yeah, sure, covered this in A&P school,” I snarked. James snorted and turned away in disgust. He dropped the explosives in a corner of the room, and, though I knew better, I couldn't help but flinch. As we loaded up the truck, Carroll rolled onto an elbow eager to snap out some biting comment or other, but held his tongue as he spotted the RPG launcher and attendant ammunition. Instead, he nodded once and lay back down.

  A muted crump drew my attention, and in the distance I could just make out a spot which was less all consuming darkness and more regular darkness with a hint of pitifully weak illumination. The source appeared to be in line with the liquor store on US-1. My nemesis seemed to have discovered the present I left behind. I do so hope he enjoyed it.

  “Was that?” James asked.

  “Sure was,” I smiled. As I stood there in the deluge, blood and unidentifiable whatever being washed away, I considered driving back to the store and ending this once and for all. Killing my nemesis would likely require a lot of time, effort, and repetition. “Let's get the hell out of here, it won't be long until he's back up and running.”

  “You know all the best people,” James expounded in his British accent. “Society welcomes you at every turn.”

  “What can I say, old boy?” I mimicked James. “When you live under a blessed star, everything just breaks your way.”

  “Will you two idiots get out of the fucking rain,” Carroll whinged from within the cab, “and get us back to the boat?”