Invasion of the Dead (Book 1): Treasure Coast Zombies Read online

  “Hey, guys, what's the matter?” I asked softly, swinging the crowbar back and forth gently. I just wanted the heavy steel moving, not sitting idle while I worked out who to hit first. “Let me guess, you've been eating in the cafeteria again, haven't you?”

  Chaz solved my dilemma by lunging ahead of his partner in cannibalism, his flailing arms grasping for me. Unlike his partner, whose feet were literally tripping over themselves, Chaz was setting land speed records and new highs in regards to infected coordination. Yeah, that’s right, I was not nearly ready to admit to myself what I was facing.

  Chaz accelerated directly into my swinging crowbar, the curved end connecting with the underside of Chaz’ jaw. I am five feet, ten inches and two hundred thirty pounds of Texas born terrified muscle. So when the crowbar struck it not only shattered his jaw, crushed his teeth, it lifted the poor bastard right off his feet.

  Sounds really cool, huh? I wish.

  The truth is I damned near pissed myself. It’s been a long goddamn time since I’d been in a fight, and I had an ocean of adrenaline pumping through my veins. To make matters worse, my action amped brain was transmitting every image before me to my brain in startling clarity. Yay, couldn’t do this uber focus three weeks ago when my daughter hid my fucking keys. No, not at all. I have to undergo this joyous experience when faced with hyper aggressive infected persons. Yup, still not ready.

  The flying body of Chaz Nasty impacts his partner, and both crumple into a heap of shattered teeth, flailing limbs, and ruptured pustules. Oh, Jesus fuck, this is seriously fucked up. Up comes the crowbar, crack goes an infected person’s skull. Like a truly fucked up game of whack-a-mole, and that’s exactly how I will remember this moment so my sanity doesn’t go skipping into the night. When it’s over, I’m covered in bone bits, viscous fluid, and patches of scalp while Chaz and his buddy had definitely seen better days. It’s a sight that won’t soon leave me.

  “Cowboy the fuck up, Finnegan,” I tell myself, trying my best to motivate my psyche into holding itself together. “Lizzy and Hermione are waiting on you.”

  Thoughts of my wife and daughter solidified my resolve, my knuckles went white I clenched the crowbar so tightly. To get to my family, I’ll need to get to my car keys, safely tucked away in my pack above my locker. On the other side of the security wall. After I get my keys, it's straight to my Jeep, and then straight home. That’s it, that’s my plan from beginning to end. Simple, direct, and to the point.

  Pumped and ready, I walk into the main hallway…

  And straight into hell.

  The infected were everywhere, some chasing screaming coworkers and others were scrapping with one another over recent kills. Many were feasting voraciously on still thrashing victims, victims I spoke to at the beginning of the day’s shift. I don’t know how long I was out of it, but I was suddenly confronted by the undeniable fact it must have been a lot longer than I suspected. Blue and red toolboxes had been overturned at random, blood covered the entirety of a nearly complete helicopter cockpit, the unfortunate soul’s remains hung limply out a cockpit door. Sitting atop a hydraulic cart lay the mutilated head of Junior Mendez, recognizable only by his thick mop of straw like black hair.

  “Zombies,” I muttered to no one in particular. “Fucking zombies.”

  My words, sadly, did not fall on deaf ears. Three ravening infected, yes fucking zombies, rose up from the corpse of a coworker, and let out an indescribable shriek.

  “Fuck that,” I breathed just before I took of running. To my left, four aircraft are carefully lined up for presentation to visiting customers. The best aircraft stands in the facility stood alongside each helicopter, flat panel televisions bolted to each stand projected estimated delivery dates, earned hours versus deficit hours, and zombies munching happily away on people too slow or too stupid or too fucking terrified to survive. I thought these things as I kept hauling ass, willing my body to perform in ways it was not accustomed to.

  Weight lifting? You betcha.

  Push ups till I couldn’t feel my arms? Bring it on.

  Long walks with my girls? My favorite.

  Running? Not so much. I hadn’t run the fifty yard dash since junior high.

  Still, being chased by a small horde of flesh eating zombies is enough to make anyone rise to the occasion. Heavy steel toed boots weren’t ideal for my little foray into physical fitness examinations, however one makes do with what one has.

  Three aircraft pass by before I realized the fastest of the trailing zombies was barely moving faster than a spirited power walk. Way to go Captain Overreaction, run yourself to death escaping from shambling zombies. Jesus Christ, may as well trip over nothing and twist your ankle Finnegan. The only goddamn thing missing from this moment in time is a cheerleaders uniform and huge balloonny tits that constantly test the structural integrity of a Sluts-R-Us lace brassiere, yet somehow never burst free. The lace is even strategically placed to ensure the nipples, the mission goal of men everywhere, are covered by impenetrable floral designs worked into the lace and glued to the actress’ skin.

  Okay, so maybe I’m not dealing with this nearly as well as I thought if I’m busy transforming myself into a slasher movie queen. On the other hand, most of the scream queens I’ve seen survive the whole movie so maybe I’m not as bat shit crazy as I thought.

  Plus, boobs.

  My insane ramblings aside, I geared down my flight from danger to a gentle jog. Maintaining that pace was probably the most difficult thing I’ve ever done, especially in the face of a growing mob of undead cannibals. I felt certain I would make the security door long before the zombies when Usain goddamn Bolt burst through the crowd and sprinted, fucking sprinted, toward me with intent.

  Son of an undead bitch.

  Chapter Three

  Son of an undead bitch.

  The sprinting zombie closed on me too fast for me to take off again, so I came to a screeching halt, spun on my heel, and lunged to the side with the crowbar swinging out. Hardened steel slammed into Zombie Bolt’s right kneecap, the impact jarred the crowbar from my hand even as I heard the joint shatter. Zombie Bolt flew from his feet, his face slammed into the sealed concrete and cracked teeth exploded into a million pieces. I didn’t hang around long enough to see what happened next, but this time I didn’t choose to slow down. I rounded the corner of the last aircraft, my rising sense of joy crashed headlong into the group of ten zombies planted before the security door.

  “Fuck,” I screamed, and managed to alter my direction enough to bound up a three step stand and onto the nose door of an aircraft. This part of the assembly line has a low completion level so I’m crunching down hard on unfinished product. My heart is thundering as I ascend the windshield onto the top deck of the bird, my heavy step cracking the composite material of the cockpit exterior. I climbed up and over the stand gates, and dropped onto the metal grating of the stand. Below me, the zombies began to encircle the stand. The most physically coordinated of the zombies decided to risk the stairs.

  This does not a very happy Finnegan make.

  Steel toed boots make for an enormous mess when propelled into the face of an undead cannibal. This I discovered as I did everything in my power to kick an eighty yard field goal with the head of an electrical inspector renown for his ability to disappear whenever there’s work to do. Years of deep seated resentment are assuaged upon the impact of my boot with his teeth. The once, and never again, electrical inspector called Ghost falls back onto the zombies behind him. My last sight of Ghost before the other zombies stomp him into paste is his much loved Cleveland Browns tee shirt, autographed by his favorite players. No one ever asked what he went through, or paid, to secure that shirt, but for just a moment I think it’s only right and proper that he died in it.

  At least, I hope he’s dead.

  I hope they’re all dead, well undead. I found myself hoping and praying the infected were all dead, that no part of who they were survived with the horrifying knowledge of th
eir actions, of the injuries they were sustaining, and of the screams of their victims as they were eaten alive.

  Oh, please let them be dead, uh, undead.

  The next zombie up the stairs received an up close view of the bottom of my boot, cartilage popped beneath the tread. The zombie rocked back, it's face a canvas of splattered flesh and coagulated blood. In the bloom of life, the zombie would have collapsed into a heap of screaming, bleeding mass of broken face. Most likely a surgeon, happy to charge an arm and a leg, would have been required to undo the damage, over the course of many treatments. Today, in undeath, the zombie doesn’t make a sound as it rocks back, then tries to reach for me again.

  Not one to repeat unsuccessful actions, I step back far enough to build up some speed as I ran straight at the zombies. My size eleven boot struck the zombie square in the sternum with force enough to drive the thing from its feet and out over the growing mob of undead. Saliva mixed with blackish fluid spewed from the zombies mouth as I landed the kick, the vile substance splattered against my shirt. I swear I will never be clean again at this rate.

  “Finnegan,” someone yelled out. It was a man’s voice, loosely familiar. I spared a second to glance around, locked onto the waving figure of Andrew Cooms, who stood on an aircraft down a side aisle. Several other men, and one woman, stood upon the airframe as well. Those who could, swung makeshift weapons, mostly simple mechanical tools, at determined zombies. More often than not, the wrenches, hammers, and pneumatic drills did little more than keep the zombies at bay. Still, they had weapons. My fucking crowbar was fuck only knew where, and I was trying to curb stomp the undead back to death. “Don’t let them bite you! That’s how it spreads!”

  No fucking shit, I thought but didn’t have the breath to waste on saying it.

  “Finnegan,’ Andrew shrieked in a tone of voice just this side of a tantrum throwing two year old and gesticulated wildly at something behind me. I stepped away from the ascending undead to glance over my shoulder. Zombies had made their way up the other side of the aircraft, but were stumbling as they set foot upon the airframe. At least two zombies managed to impale themselves upon the flight control mixer.

  “Aw, Jesus wept,” I breathed. A bad situation was swiftly becoming an absolutely shitty situation in record time. In the next thirty seconds those undead fucks were going to turn their impaled brethren into a bridge, and cross the River Kwai. “Fuck it.”

  Hauling as much ass as I could, I went back the way I came. If possible, even more adrenaline was coursing through me as I leapt up and over the forward gate. I crashed down on the composite cockpit roof, the small crack I caused minutes before became something slightly smaller in length than the Mississippi River. Automatically, I estimated the cost of the repair to the damage, the time table set back, and the depth of shit I would be in when I informed supervision. Couldn’t help it. I’ve been doing this kind of work a little too long. Old habits and all that nonsense.

  I dropped from the cockpit onto the nose of the aircraft, then onto the floor. The zombies by the security door were still there, still feasting away so I started running. My course took me out and around the mob. Single minded determination rated high on the list of zombie assets, though at least two must not have gotten their fair share. They broke away from the group to give chase again. Instead of heading straight for Cooms I sprinted past, nearly to the end of the assembly line. No one was moving and I had seen no zombies that far back. I came to a stop next to a row of tool boxes and began pulling at the drawers in hopes of finding something to fight with.

  Once again, I really wished I had my goddamn pistol. Even hopped up on an ocean of human go juice I could put a bullet in the heads of these fuckers.

  Box after box, precious seconds ticking away, I found no joy. I moved to the other side of the airframe, and began checking boxes again. Finally, I slid open a sheet metal box.

  “Fuck yeah,” I shouted as my hands came away from the box holding a ball pean hammer and a heavy brass punch about a foot and a half long. I swallowed hard and told myself yet again. This was how I was going to get back to my family. Adrenaline, fear, and my dear old friend anger, focused their properties in the pit of my stomach. Cold, hot, power, weakness, one at a time and all at once. “Get it done, get it done, get it done.”

  That was my mantra as I came out from behind the airframe, hammer and punch at the ready to face down my pursuers. The larger of the two, a black man the approximate size and cellular density of Mt. Fuji by the name of Danny Green, had been a friend of mine before this moment. Big Green as he was known had an easy smile and a tolerant nature, pretty easy to do when you can bench press Buick’s from the 1950s. Now my very large friend wanted to conclude our friendship with his teeth. I didn’t hesitate as he approached, rather I slapped out at his left hand with the brass punch. Without knowing it, I swung with enough force to break Big Green’s wrist. That, however, wasn’t why I did it. Recent experience had taught me zombies don’t care about injuries. They care about warm, bloody flesh attached to a still beating heart. So when I forced Big Green’s hand out of the way I did so to prevent the zombie he became from latching onto me.

  The second the ball pean hammer landed against his temple, Zombie Green may have had an undead epiphany concerning the fragile nature of the human skull when placed in the path of accelerating hardened steel. A second blow ensured whatever insights Zombie Green uncovered go back into death with him.

  When my family is safe, I’ll say a prayer for you, Big Green, and maybe I’ll even ask forgiveness for putting you down.

  The second zombie opens its disgusting yap wide, probably to issue some nerve wracking, resolve destroying sound, but actually gagged when I shove the one inch diameter brass punch into its mouth and halfway down its throat. Wow, for a moment my mind actually considered how to form a cutting remark concerning a zombies gag reflex. I don’t mention this to demonstrate how close to the psychological edge I had come, but because I wonder whether or not the rest of you hiding in a bunker bitches can come up with something.

  Broken, blood encrusted finger nails swiped at my face, but the zombie couldn't quite reach me with eighteen inches of brass punch being rammed down its throat. Gagging, tearing sounds emanated from the zombies throat as it forced itself closer by driving the punch further down its own esophagus.

  Well, that’s something I could have lived without seeing. The ball pean hammer swung into the zombies temple with bone crushing force, and like that, the creatures legs went out from under it. It laid on the floor twitching uncontrollably. Since the fucking thing no longer seemed interested in rending my flesh, I left the zombie to have its fit. Blood and esophageal lining coated the ragged end of the brass punch, and maybe I involuntarily projectile vomited onto the flailing zombie. Not the best thing I could have done as the undead thing ceased flailing about pointlessly to drag itself to the steaming pile of stomach fluid, and began slurping at the pool.

  “Oh, what the unholy fuck?” I spat as I wiped bile from my lips. “Fuck this, I’m out.”

  I hauled ass back behind the airframe and around the tail. My eyes tracked over the facility searching for a way out when I locked onto the bare metal staircase leading from the second story ladies room to the roof. The open air staircase was typical of the minimalist industrial nature of the old facility. All I had to do was get past three or four zombies, mount the stairs to the ladies room, force the access door, and climb to the roof. It didn’t lead anywhere near my locker, but it did access the ceiling support girders. As I glanced past the bathroom staircase, I noticed Cooms and his people were in a bad way. The zombies were starting to pile up, climbing over one another in their haste to feast. Screams of absolute terror in a particular voice told me the most useless of people I had ever met was alive and shrieking,

  Madalina fucking Hurgoi.

  Infamous among the floor workers as the least knowledgeable electrical inspector in the history of the company, as well as the method by which sh
e secured her employment. A remarkable lack of gag reflex was credited for Madalina being qualified to apply for and receive the position of electrical inspector. Worse, in the five years since she arrived Madalina had, with malignancy of forethought, slept her way through half of the male employees. It wasn’t so much her promiscuity I took issue with, it was the systematic method by which she insinuated herself into her victims life, drained his bank account, reportedly gave him a scorching case of herpes, and then fucked his best friend so she could move on to the next poor, dumb bastard. Nothing like having a succubus roaming about freely, preying on the souls of unsuspecting fools.

  Still, Cooms and the others were still human and probably didn’t deserve to die at the teeth of a mob of zombies. I should just move on and save myself, save my family. Lizzy and Hermione were waiting on me. I looked back at Cooms and his band of survivors, each of whom, except for Madalina, had families of their own waiting for them. Wives and children hoping and praying for the return of their loved ones.

  Madalina, I was fairly certain, would merely have crossed back into the ninth ring of Hell to brag to her demonic sisters about her latest conquest.

  Goddamn it.

  My goddamn traitorous brain brought up an unasked for image of my little Hermione waving good bye to me as I left for work. I remembered the sadness on her face as she realized I was leaving, and the joy she expressed when I came home. How many children out there wouldn’t be seeing their parent, or parents, again because of this insanity? I couldn’t do a fucking thing about most of those deaths, but maybe I could have given these people a better chance to survive. I could spare thirty seconds to help, right?