Invasion of the Dead (Book 2): A Fistful of Zombies Page 2

  Hot coffee jetted out my nostrils in the most unique infliction of pain and nerve searing agony of my entire existence at the hilarious mental image.

  “Mother fucker that hurts,” I swore as I danced around in a circle, my free hand clamped onto my screeching nose. Yeah, not all that manly, huh? What can I say? Hot fluids run through delicate sinus membranes will suck the hard ass right out of you.

  “Say third degree burns,” James smirked, then I heard the simulated shutter sounds of a cell phone camera. My dear old friend was busy photographing me as hot coffee poured out of my nostrils. If I hadn't been so incapacitated with agony I might well have stabbed James in the knee with my KaBar. Gloating asshole.

  “Start running,” I finally growled out. I tried to shift my hand from my nose to my pistol, but the pain was still unbearable so that wasn’t happening and my other hand still held the cup of precious fluid. Too precious for me to waste flinging it in James’ face.

  “Suck it up pansy,” James laughed, although he took two steps away from me. Definitely an asshole, but absolutely not a stupid asshole. God I love my friends. “What was running through your head? Before the coffee, that is.”

  “It occurred to me that sooner or later, we’re going to run out of everything,” I said flatly. “And right now we have nothing to replace it with. We don't even have a plan in place to prepare for the eventuality. Think about it, we’ve been out here about a week just riding high on the fact we mostly escaped, but reality hasn't completely abandoned us. We're burning diesel, not rapidly by any means, but we’re still going through the ship’s tanks. Can't guarantee we’ll be able to secure more. Can't even guarantee that there is any more left in the quarantine zone. That leaves biodiesel, and I don't think any of us know how to make it.”

  “So you're actually talking about going back to dry land to find a book on how to make biodiesel? And, presumably, the materials to produce it?” James asked seriously. Neither one of us was keenly interested in facing off with the undead again.

  “And seeds to grow food with,” I added. “And if there's time enough we need to scout for ammunition. The fight at the dock depleted a lot of rounds. My AK has more than enough to last another three, four fights like that, but as far as everything else we have goes we’re hurting.”

  “Yeah, that's a problem,” James turned to face the shoreline. “All day, every day I've been hearing gunshots, pitched gun battles. That's a lot of ammo being fired. Think we’ll be able to score anything?”

  “That's a good point,” I agreed. “I've heard all the shooting going on, but I'm confident we can scrounge together enough rounds to make it worthwhile. We just need to be careful.”

  “Careful? We’d need to be out of our goddamn minds,” James countered.

  “Thanks for volunteering,” I said. When he turned to look at me James didn't seem best pleased, but I knew he wouldn't make me go alone.

  “When were you thinking of going shopping?” James asked. No arguing against the necessity of going, just when to go. That's James in a nutshell. If I've thought it, chances are he has. The difference being James’ natural reserve. Given every damn thing that's been happening over the past week, I really needed to have a sit down with him and plumb the depths of his mind. It was entirely probable that James had thought through the problem from a totally different angle. It's hard as hell to remember that I'm not omniscient and need to ask advice from time to time.

  “I want to make landfall at night,” I decided. “Won't matter to the undead, but if there are twitchy survivors around the less they see of us the better. The night vision googles we took off the KnightStar assholes should provide us with an edge. And we should definitely carry a suppressed pistol a piece.”

  “I though you hated those M9s,” James smiled. It was an old argument between us, nine millimeter versus forty-five caliber. Neither was inherently superior in all facets to the other, so we kept coming back to the debate. For me, the forty-five was an emotional favorite.

  “I do, but I love the suppressors that came with them,” I countered. “Besides, if we need to do any shooting I'd rather it be with the M9s. They carry fifteen rounds, and nine millimeter rounds are like fucking cockroaches. For every one you see, there's a fucking case hidden in the walls.”

  “What about primary weapons?” James asked. “Because I was thinking we should stick with what we’re familiar with rather than try to operate unfamiliar weapons under extreme stress.”

  “Good point,” I admitted. We'd both been through that the day we liberated the freighter, and it had sucked. Before the Internet had gone down we had executed searches in how to operate the Belgian FN P-90 submachine guns taken from the KnightStar vehicles, but spent most of the time teaching Lizzy and Melinda how to use them. Neither woman had particularly enjoyed the lessons, but both fully understood the situation and carried on like troopers.

  True to form, Carroll reinforced my belief he should never be allowed to shoot anything other than a sawed off shotgun at close range, provided that he stood in front of me.

  “Now for the hard part,” I steeled my resolve, “telling Lizzy I'm going ashore.”

  “You poor bastard,” James empathized, utterly failing to conceal the massive shit eating grin plastered from cheek to cheek.

  “Asshole.”

  Chapter Two

  “Have you lost your goddamn mind?” Lizzy demanded the moment I explained my plan to her. It would not get much better no matter what I said. Her beautiful eyes shot hellfire-and-brimstone-like accusation at me, daring me to speak again. It didn't matter that we needed to do this before we ran low, it didn't matter that she knew I was right, and it didn't matter because Lizzy absolutely did not want to risk losing me on a shopping trip into hell.

  “Apparently, because if I still had a working brain I wouldn't have bothered to tell you my plan,” I said testily. “I would have just gone, done the job, and told you about it after it was all done.”

  If I thought Lizzy had been ready to rip me to pieces before, just the concept I might do something without telling her guaranteed my execution. The smart play here would have been to back away slowly, without making any sudden moves which could be construed as hostile or aggressive. Naturally, that's not what I did. Instead, I surged forward, gathered my loving, homicidal wife in my arms, and planted a lip lock on her to jumpstart the dead.

  I may be a stubborn asshole with authority issues and delusions of eloquence, but I can lay a kiss on a woman so she can't think of anything but that moment in time. It's a gift, and a solemn responsibility. I have only ever tried to use this power for the betterment of my sex life. Naturally, since I married Lizzy she's been the only recipient of this power. Still, it's nice to see I haven't lost my touch when my loving wife doesn't knee me in the groin. Just to make sure I've won this argument, I drop a little love on the nape of her neck. The shudder that runs through her body tells me I'm free and clear.

  “Oh, you rat bastard,” Lizzy whispers in my ear. Her voice is breathy and unsteady. She wants to argue, but just can't seem to focus past all the tingles.

  “We need to do this, and James and I are the only ones that can get it done with any degree of safety. You and I both know that Carroll may be willing but he can't hit the broad side of a barn, let alone shoot a zombie in the face,” I explained. “Going now is better than later, because now there will be more than adequate supplies. Later on there might be nothing. Besides, I might be able to find Angelica.”

  Now that really was playing dirty, and we both knew it. Angelica Devaigne had been Lizzy’s best friend since before we got married. The only reason she wasn't in the freighter already was an incurable inability to keep her fucking cell phone charged. No matter how many times it happened to her, Angelica just couldn't remember to plug the goddamn thing in. I bought her two car charging cables, neither of which she had ever even opened. This stultifying flaw aside, Angelica was actually a decent friend with extensive knowledge concerning g
ardening. Before going into the local modeling scene, Angelica had grown up on a working farm giving horsemanship lessons. When she bought a house, she converted the entire backyard into one massive, and awesome, garden. That skill set might be all kinds of useful in the near future.

  The problem was Angelica lived in Port St. Lucie, with the most useless swinging dick to ever walk the planet, her boyfriend Simon. To get one, I would likely have to take the other as well. Not mention the possibility that Angelica had been at her grandmother’s farm in Jupiter Farms, not fifteen miles from the exact spot the outbreak occurred. Of course, we might actually have some actionable intelligence if Angelica had bothered to charge her goddamn cell phone. Lizzy must have called at least a hundred times on the drive to Vero Beach, where we discovered the enormous barricades assembled by KnightStar Solutions, and shoved right up our collective asses. No response, and since the cell network was shutdown by God only fucking knew who there never would be.

  I was, by bringing up Angelica, offering my wife a bribe of sorts. Underhanded? Conceivably, but all is fair in love and war.

  “No. If you run across her, fine, but you don't risk yourself. Do you understand? I can't lose you,” Lizzy demanded. She wanted her friend, but not at the cost of her husband. That kind of trade would never pass muster with her. Even given the fact I didn't seem to be killable, Lizzy refused to risk my life. Must have been that exact moment I decided to bring Angelica back. What? Someone drops that kind of loyalty sacrifice for you, you owe them. You owe them at least that much loyalty in return. My wife was willing to sacrifice seeing her best friend ever again if it meant me coming back safe and sound. The least I could do was to make that meeting happen. Maybe that's just my own fucked up view on the matter, but loyalty is an important trait to me.

  “Never going to happen, baby,” I leaned in close to plant another kiss on her. “Never going to happen.

  The rest of the day was engaged in running through our normal routine. Checking for gun toting idiots in speed boats, checking the sky for missiles or helicopters, and, my favorite, making sure Carroll wasn't about to blow the goddamn engines into a billion little useless pieces. That would put a crimp in my plans and universally ruin everybody’s day. No ifs, ands, or buts about that. To give the man credit, Carroll seemed to have the engines well in hand. Of course, he practically lived in the engine room and read nothing but the manuals all day.

  Assembling gear for James and I proved mind numbingly easy since all we planned to take we didn't carry each minute of the day was a pair of rucksacks, two suppressed M9s, a list of parts for Carroll, a list of foodstuffs for the kitchen, and the ship’s zodiac launch. As far as the ammunition requirements, I had those memorized. I also planned to mostly ignore the grocery list since it would be impossible to be certain of getting what was listed. Freeze dried, vacuum packed, and long shelf life rations were the order of the day whether anyone liked it or not. Zombie fucking apocalypse, remember? Take whatever you can get and shut the hell up about it. Although, I would still pick up as many seeds as possible. Fuck, forgot about the gardening dirt. That would be heavy. Hooray, the suck factor just skyrocketed from traffic stop to full on IRS audit.

  Oh, well. What's life without a little suck in it?

  Enjoyable?

  Shut up, I'm busy and don't have time for another chat.

  There's absolutely no need to be like that. I only wished to point out you might want to commandeer a vehicle.

  Like my wonderful, abandoned Land Rover? In Fort Pierce? Where the Queen of the Dead drove her hoard through like the Germans taking Paris?

  Uh, yes, but I wouldn't have put it quite that way.

  Fucking of course you would have put it that way, jackass. We're the same fucking person.

  True but I think I might have gone with like Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse rolled over Custer.

  Wow.

  Yeah.

  Still and all, a vehicle isn't a bad idea. Not that it will be my Land Rover since we’re off the coast of Stuart, not Fort Pierce.

  Hot wire Carroll’s truck.

  What? That's rolling wreck?

  It’s not that bad, it just needed some work.

  I know, I did the fucking job.

  Then what are you complaining about? You did the work you should know precisely how far to trust it.

  Point taken. We would move with greater rapidity, carry more supplies, and it would annoy him no end for me to drive his truck.

  And that's what we call the bonus round.

  Jesus, I need help.

  Oh, you're fine. Just a little dinged up around the edges of your sanity. Nothing that won't buff out over time.

  Yeah, that's what bothers me. The buffing out. What do I do when something happens that won't buff out?

  I imagine we paint ourself blue and dance around the wheelhouse naked.

  Fun for the whole family. Fuck off, I need to work now.

  When I put Hermione down for a nap I decided it was a damn good idea and laid down near my little girl. We both slept hard and woke with a staggering lack of celerity. The first thing I focused on was her angelic little face cracking a smile. It was the smile of innocence, of simple joy at seeing one of the two most important people in her world. With her daddy near her, all was right in Hermione’s universe. Zombies be damned, she was going to have a smile and possibly a giggle. I want that kind of strength. That kind of power. To simply ignore everything and find total joy in a single moment.

  I promise you, little girl, I will do everything in my power to make sure you get to have this moment as many times as humanly possible.

  When I met up with James after sunset, he was pensive and a little preoccupied. Whatever was bothering him, he would tell me when he was ready. I reviewed my gear for the umpteenth time. Magazines, pistols, pistol magazines, suppressor, KaBar, protein bars, canteen with water, rucksack, medkit, zodiac, and paddles. I nodded to James and we humped the zodiac down the boarding stairs sea level. A quick tug and the zodiac inflated. This would be a bitch to carry up tomorrow.

  “Paddle in, collect supplies, and paddle out,” James listed the condensed version of our to do list.

  “Yup, simple,” I said, not believing for a minute that events would unfold that way.

  “Let's get to it,” James said and dropped into the boat. It didn't escape my notice James had added a wickedly curved blade to his equipment. Apparently James had been doing some after action reviews of his own, or he thought we were venturing down the Congo in search of King Solomon’s mines. I would really hate to break it to him that H. Rider Haggard covered that base long before Crichton. Not that I thought James would care one way or another. Just saying.

  Let me say that paddling a zodiac into shore in the pitch black for nearly a quarter mile of shore to a shore of unknown condition and occupation straight up sucks big fat hairy moose balls. First of all, it took fucking forever to get into shore. Even then we stayed a good two hundred feet offshore looking for the right place to beach. It is a little understood fact to those who do not live on the ocean that every fucking place you think you know like the back of your hand looks entirely different when you are at sea looking inland. For a long, long time I stared blankly into the darkness, unable to figure out where the unholy fuck we were. Finally, I spotted the rise of the Roosevelt Bridge and realized we must be just off Stuart. Which meant that the little spit of land before us must be the north end of Jupiter Island, home to the deplorably rich. Even the servants there are in a higher tax bracket than I was. If I seem a tad jealous it's only because I am. Given the state of my education at the time of the outbreak, it was a foregone conclusion it was beyond my ability to amass that kind of wealth in my lifetime. Don't get me wrong, I was more than able to provide for my family but that's all. Incredible, stupendous, mouth watering, jealousy boner inspiring riches lay just beyond my grasp. I know, entirely too much detail. I didn't hold it against the people who lived there or had all that filthy lucre, not at all
. If there is fault to be found, it lies with me. I didn't read the right book, or pay close enough attention when the teacher was handing out the secret of becoming obscenely wealthy.

  In the green glow of my night vision goggles I discovered the unfortunate fate of the previous inhabitants of Jupiter Island. Some, at least, hadn't avoided the infection because the undead were lining the beaches, arms out stretched to where they heard sounds of our progress even if sight eluded them. The undead poured forth from a home which made mine look like a rotting shanty in ever increasing and ever agitated numbers. These people may well have had money and to spare, but I was the one still alive and kicking despite my best efforts to the contrary.

  It didn't take terribly long to move past Jupiter Island and approach Port Salerno, Twin Rivers Park clear even in the dark of night. Beyond, I could make out Sandsprit Park, where I wanted to beach. Once in Sandsprit Park it was a hop, skip, and a jump to A1A. Maybe, just maybe, along the way we might find a vehicle in better shape than Carroll’s truck. One could hope, no matter how vain a hope it was.

  “We should follow southeast St. Lucie boulevard south to A1A,” James whispered into my ear. Since this was his neighborhood, and had been for twelve years, I nodded my agreement. We set off slowly, peering into every shadow, every patch of absolute black to be seen, searching for the undead. Through the NVGs it was almost impossible to distinguish what might have been a blood stain and what was just an indeterminate stain whose origin couldn't even be guessed at, but which exist on every street across the country. A mix of oil, grease, road sludge, and possibly crushed roadkill internal organs left in the sun to decompose into a congealed mass of immutable disgusting. Tension rose in my body with every breath, reminding me of the body’s natural desire to remove itself from imminent danger. Deep breath. Deep breath. No, in no way did it help to calm my pounding heart I merely wanted to be well oxygenated when the trouble comes.