Storm of the Undead Page 20

  “Keep running your damn mouth,” I spat, “and I'll strap your gimp ass to the grill like a fucking deer.”

  “Better than listening to you two hillbilly assholes pretend to have class,” Carroll shot back.

  “Hey, I'm not a hillbilly. I'm from Texas,” I insisted. “I'm a fucking redneck, you Florida cracker.”

  “So you're calling me a hillbilly?” James asked as he climbed into the MRAP.

  “Uh, Kentucky? Total hillbilly heaven,” I explained as though to a not too bright child. “He's a cracker, you're a hillbilly, and I'm a redneck. How hard is that to keep straight?”

  “Well, if you're a redneck, what does that make Lizzy?” James asked.

  “A fantastically wonderful woman for putting up with my ass,” I stated unreservedly. “You would not believe the number of times Lizzy has looked upon some craziness or other and just shaken her and walked away. Never said a word, just let me do my thing until it blew up or fell apart or I came to my senses.”

  “Yes, I would,” James said. “I would easily believe anything Lizzy told me about how enormous a pain in the ass you are.”

  “Fuck you,” I said, and sparked my cigar back to life. “We need to locate a new boat.”

  “Do you have any preferences?” James asked.

  “Yeah,” Carroll added weakly. “A twelve cabin yacht capable of transatlantic voyages…”

  “Shut up,” I interrupted before Carroll could pick up any momentum. “I'm willing to bet the surf is definitely going to be up, so it will have to be something we can ride over a few sizable swells if you catch my meaning.”

  “Yeah, just try not to hurl all over me,” James said, turning the MRAP onto a beach road. Row after row of small docks lay abandoned, some of the previous tenants’ vessels were still tied up, but were resting on the ocean floor.

  “There,” I pointed to a beachfront home with a high fence, and a decent sized launch tied to an old dock leading up to the house. The launch favored the retro styling which had been popular the past few years. Wood paneling, classic lines, and, beneath sand and scum, bright paint work. More importantly, it looked sturdy enough to deal with the rough seas between here and the Churchill.

  “Yeah, that'll do nicely,” James smiled, undoubtedly seeing himself as captain of that fine craft, sailing away with his family to the Riviera or Bahamas or wherever the fuck else you go when you have a fifty foot cabin cruiser. Come to think of it, depending on the state of the embargo the Churchill could go almost anywhere. Of course, discovering the state of the fleet enforcing the quarantine might get us killed. I say us because I'm fairly sure an anti-ship missile powerful enough to obliterate the Churchill will reduce me to my component atoms, and I doubt I could come back from that.

  Certainly in the old world a high fence served as a societal divide between where the average person could and could not go. James utterly ignored the fence as he pointed the seventeen thousand pound armored truck towards the private dock. The behemoth came to a stop near the rear of the house, but far enough away from the slope leading to the dock, and the ocean, that little possibility existed of the truck sliding into the water.

  “Help,” Carroll said, lifting a trembling hand towards me. “I don't think I can make it.”

  “I am not carrying your fat ass one more step,” I said and slapped his hand away. “Get up you fucking girl.”

  “Worth a try,” Carroll said. Despite myself I gave him a hand out of the truck and let him lean against me on the walk down to the boat. Once His Corpulence was situated aboard ship, I helped James unload the truck. Getting the damned boat started proved more difficult than originally thought. Still, long before the moaning undead contained within the beachfront home burst through the back patio French doors James and I managed to spin up the engine. We were backing away from the dock and I happened to glance up into the madness filled eye of El Rapo. He stood on the asphalt, staring death at me, and I smiled and waved. His black BDUs were singed and burnt to a crisp, and what I could see of his skin was black and red from the fire, chemical burns, and shrapnel. What can I say? I'm not a very nice man. From my vantage point I could spot half a dozen ten penny nails sprouting from the side of El Rapo’s head. It shouldn't have surprised me, but I couldn't help it. I actually said the words.

  “That's not possible,” I said. “He should be dead. That many nails in his brain.”

  My radio buzzed, static filled my earphone, and a voice I'd heard once before filled my earphone.

  “Run you little shit,” El Rapo snarled. “Run fast and far because I'm coming for you. I'm going to tie you down and carve my fucking name into you.”

  “El Rapo?” I asked.

  “What?” He stumbled over the single word as I'd knocked his train of thought askew.

  “El Rapo,” I stated with authority.

  “What the fuck are talking about?”

  “Your name, stupid,” I answered. “Somehow I just can't visualize the words ‘El Rapo’ carved into my flesh.”

  “My name is Eric Linner,” he said slowly, with hate and loathing dripping from every syllable.

  “Good,” I cut off whatever he was going to say. “Now I know what to put on the headstone after I cut your fucking head off.”

  Interlude Six

  Negotiations Were Brief

  Dane Kincaid and Kyle Gaunt stared into the maddened eyes of Will Swan as Buttermilk Jones argued amongst himself and whatever psychotic break induced personality or personalities filled his cranium. Rivers of tears ran down Swan’s face as Buttermilk withdrew a straight razor from his pocket and walked up to the dismembered Swan. The wicked sharp razor sliced into the stump of a leg with repulsive ease, carving out fresh meat with every flick of the wrist. Turning away from the shrieking Swan, the psychologically broken Jones raised the bloody bunk of man meat to his lips. Discolored, but not cracked teeth sunk into Swan’s flesh with terrible relish and Jones shook his head back and forth in the manner of a wild animal tearing into its kill.

  Dane’s nine millimeter Jericho simply appeared in his clenched fist, spitting hollow point death at the abomination before him. A cacophonous detonation exactly eight inches from his left ear spoke to Gaunt’s own instinctual revulsion as a seven hundred grain fifty caliber revolver round was propelled from the barrel at twelve hundred feet per second. Additionally, Dane lost all hearing on his left side for the subsequent twenty minutes.

  For his part, Buttermilk Jones ignored the nine millimeter rounds as the buzzing of flies, but roared in agony, spewing quasi chewed pieces of Swan, as the seven hundred grain bullet shattered his right arm at the shoulder and shredded the freakishly pale flesh so thoroughly the appendage dropped to the floor. In a flash, Jones squatted down long enough to snatch his limb from the floor, then leapt at his attackers. Dane fell back as Jones swept his severed arm across his bearded face. Leading with snapping teeth, Buttermilk Jones crashed into Gaunt, who back pedaled urgently and swatted at his attacker with his revolver. Jones rounded the corner before either man could level a shot, which didn't stop Gaunt from firing a round into, and through, the intervening wall. A grunt, followed by profane oaths indicated a positive strike.

  “Somehow,” Gaunt snapped open the cylinder to replace the spent rounds, “I told you so just isn't enough.”

  “Shut up,” Dane mumbled, switching out his partially spent magazine with a fully topped off one. “How was I to know? Huh? We built helicopters here, not creepy ass phantom of the opera super zombies.”

  “Fair enough,” Gaunt nodded, “but I'm still calling this your fault.”

  “You suck hairy chimp balls,” Dane muttered as he edged around the corner, pistol leading the way. Splashes of oily black fluid led away from the shooting up to a set of stairs leading to a second floor of offices. Strangled cries of pain drifted down the steps, overplayed by the immediate screaming of Bill Swan.

  “KILL ME. PLEASE, FUCKING KILL ME. YOU CAN’T LEAVE ME LIKE THIS.”

  N
either man shifted their attention from the shadow shrouded staircase and the whimpering therein. Slowly, Dane brought his support hand down to his belt, where several milsurp pouches hung. From a pouch he produced a chemical light. Snap, shake, and an eery green glow came to life. Swallowing back his concerns, Dane hurled the chemical light into the darkness.

  Cast in the hellish light of the chem stick, Robert Jones hunched over the mewling form of a woman suffering from extreme blood loss and dismemberment. Crimson covered Jones’ mouth and lower jaw, droplets of the precious vitae fell as he shuddered violently. His formerly severed arm was, as Dane and Gaunt watched, being pulled back into place by multiple tendrils of ropey sinew and muscle. Those tendrils literally flowed out from Jones’ stump to plunge into the unhealthy looking milky white arm.

  Stunned beyond conscious thought, both men watched as the shattered bone seemed to grow together, fuse, harden, and disappear beneath bundles of new muscle. Yet even as the muscle covered the newly healed bone, the men could see the shattered area grow thicker as though the bone were becoming more dense than normal.

  Jones exhaled a sigh of ecstasy, then plunged his face into the gory wound that was the dying women's stomach. Her body violated beyond its ability to report to a nervous system already overwhelmed, the woman could only moan slightly more and stare into Dane’s eyes. What he saw there was a horrifying understanding of her fate, and the hope it would end soon.

  “Die,” Dane yelled as he fired a double tap at the writhing monster devouring the contents of some poor woman's abdominal cavity. Disbelieving shock plastered itself across Dane’s face as the situation crystallized in his thoughts. Moving faster than Dane could track, the horror which called itself Buttermilk Jones had drawn the woman's body from the floor to use as a shield against the incoming rounds. Semi jacketed hollow point nine millimeter rounds punched through flesh and bone, expanding in a bloom of lethality as they struck the victim’s heart. With a shudder, her suffering ended and though not a religious man, Dane would later swear he'd see the exact moment a tortured soul slipped from between the cracked, bleeding lips of the woman to pass from sight, possibly from this world.

  “That was most unfortunate,” Jones wheezed. “I could have overlooked your immediate reaction as poor judgement, but to repeat your behavior in so callous and rude a fashion is unforgivable.”

  “Go fu…”

  Gaunt’s voice trailed off as Jones roared to the heavens. His voice, up to that point, had been soft, dry, almost brittle, but now it filled the building, reverberating off every surface until neither man could even hear their own thoughts.

  In the next moment, silence. In its way, the total secession of the all pervading sound was as deafening, if not more so. Dane worked his jaw in an effort to force his ears to pop while Gaunt shook his head and wriggled a finger in one ear. Seconds passed, then minutes, then both men could hear again, though what they did hear filled their hearts with dread.

  Nearly silent scraping of soles over concrete floors served to accentuate the low, soulless ululations of the approaching undead. Each man turned to face the nominal direction from which the unholy moaning emanated. First came ones and twos, which quickly grew to groups of five and ten until the massive hallway running the length of the building seemed to fill with moaning, demented, undead cannibals whom appeared to have under gone upgrades of their own. Specifically, makeshift helmets which protected the brain case while allowing teeth access to the tender, tasty bits.

  “Normally, I'd ask you to leave,” Jones’ voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, “but, I simply cannot abide bad manners.”

  Doctor White sat back in the uncomfortable office chair favored by corporate CFO’s for its durability and low price tag, and which everyone in all creation utterly despised. He drew in cold, clear air processed by the very best air conditioners, biological and radiological filters, and scented with just a hint of lavender. Custom built by KnightStar to his personal specifications, Doctor White nonetheless wished to run amok within the mobile headquarters unit. Another deep breath helped him to remain in control of his emotions. Before him, on a bank of screens, the mission footage from Eric Linner’s second attempt to capture the subject replayed for the third time. Following god only knew what trail, Agent Linner arrived before a liquor store, and for the briefest of moments the doctor thought his asset merely wished to procure a libation. That was before the asset pointed out several items which he indicated were proof of the subject’s presence. Then, apparently without any thought as to the consequences, Agent Linner rushed the building, charging for what looked to be a reinforced area.

  The explosion came as no surprise to either Doctor White or the Armorer.

  “If the objective of Agent Linner’s pursuit were not critical to our operations,” the Armorer smiled in his own dangerous fashion. “Watching him fail continually might wear thin and cease to be amusing in fifty years. More so since he seems to have gained a semblance of the subject’s functional immortality.”

  “Meaning no matter how many times the subject drops a piano on Linner’s head,” Doctor White conceded reluctantly, “he would continue to get back up only to be knocked down again.”

  “Indeed,” the Armorer smiled again, this time with something approaching warmth.

  “Tell me, Armorer,” White chose his words carefully. “Did you work up a personality profile on the subject?”

  “I did, Doctor White.”

  “Did you pass it over to Agent Linner as I requested?” The doctor asked.

  “Oh, yes. He was in possession of the profile for several hours before mission go,” the Armorer confirmed.

  “And what, pray tell, was his response when you handed him such crucial intelligence?”

  “Agent Linner made several remarks of a personal nature about the source of the information, the subject, the subject’s parentage, the subject’s preference for farm animals, and how he needed no help from physically undeveloped cubicle commandos,” the Armorer reported with a special glee.

  “Dear god,” Doctor White sighed. “Our asset seems to be unraveling. Strange, his file indicated a stronger personality matrix. Given his experience, training, and subliminal indoctrination, Agent Linner should be performing miracles. What do you make of it, Armorer?”

  “According to my observations,” the Armorer produced a printed report. “The Class One specimen recently obtained is generating a low level energy field along the frequency believed to be responsible for telepathic communications.”

  “Human beings aren't capable of telepathic communications,” Doctor White declared. “My personal experiments have proven this beyond all doubt.”

  “Correct, Doctor White. Human beings are incapable of telepathy,” the Armorer acknowledged. “At least, non infected human beings.”

  Doctor White glanced up at the Armorer, then put on his reading glasses and dug into the report.

  “That's correct, sir,” the Armorer nodded as Doctor White’s head suddenly came up to lock onto his cold, dead eyes. “There is an element of the virus which allows for direct telepathic communication between Class One entities and the foot soldier class. It explains the directed attacks we've been seeing.”

  “That is brilliant work, Armorer, but I fail to see the relevance,” White stated.

  “Yes, sir, allow me to explain,” the Armorer said. “Agent Linner, like the subject, received an injection of Doctor Zhao’s experimental serum, which has acted not so much as a vaccine, but rather as a retrovirus. The serum rewrote a part of the pathogen until the majority of the zombie creation elements were removed. An examination of the before and after blood sample of Agent Linner show the element, I believe responsible for telepathic communication is intact if somewhat latent.”

  “So Agent Linner could conceivably speak to the subject telepathically?” White asked, finally beginning to grasp the enormity of the revelation.

  “Yes, but he is also tuned in, if you will, to the zombie ne
twork,” the Armorer continued. “As well as being on the same wave length as the remaining Class One entity in this area. Which could pose a significant problem. Our observations of the subject during one of his many exfiltrations from the main land indicated several moments of erratic action as if his decision making matrix were suddenly going haywire.”

  “You think it was the Class One entity,” White concluded. “Interfering with his ability to think clearly.”

  “Yes, sir,” the Armorer smiled delightedly. “Though in this particular instance, I think the subject is responsible. As his abilities seem to be of a higher order than Agent Linner, I must conclude this includes limited telepathic communication as well.”

  “In your opinion, will our asset be able to overcome the subject under the conditions you've described?

  “As described? Not likely. The asset should have incapacitated the subject during their first engagement,” the Armorer said. “Instead, the asset came out on the losing end. It may be the subject has learned to use this ability as well as his others, or he may simply be broadcasting a general interrupt signal in order to gain the advantage over all infected. It would explain his remarkable success against them.”

  “So, the question becomes how we might protect our asset against a non physical attack,” Doctor White proposed.

  “I'm afraid I can't be of help in this area, although I know a man who may have a solution.”

  “Really? Who?” Doctor White asked.

  “An associate of mine who spent a considerable amount of time uncovering the secrets of the Soviet psychic programs,” the Armorer said. A gleam entered his eyes at the mention of the Cold War activity.

  “Will it be of any practical help? The last thing we need is more theoretical data.”

  “He should be able to provide actionable intelligence, sir. Dmitry Raskolov is the reason I became who I am. He shared a number of highly classified reports with me in my youth, I think, to encourage my curiosity. Raskolov never bothered with programs that didn't produce results,” the Armorer explained.