APOCALYCIOUS: Satire of the Dead (26 page)

             
“Can we play it tonight?” Mia asked. She had heard of the game, but had never played it and learning new things was a favorite pastime of hers and her little sister.

             
Sir Regeliel laughed. “I would be delighted to demonstrate the nuances of the game. It truly is a game for those who like to think.”

             
“That cancels Mick out,” cracked Nan. Mick rolled his eyes. She was like a little sister to him and he spoiled her in many regards.

Mia looked over to Mick. “It would be a nice diversion,” she said, giving him her doe eyes.

              Mick shook his head. “Sorry Mia, but I still have to work out tonight and check the perimeter to make sure the fence is secure” he said without much remorse. Mick was never big into games; instead he relied on routine to maintain a facsimile of normalcy.

             
“As soon as I get done talking to Death Wagon, I’ll play,” said Nan excitedly.

             
Sir Regeliel looked puzzled. “Who is this Death Wagon of whom you speak with such exuberance?”

             
“He’s my boyfriend,” said Nan proudly with a big grin that showed her perfect white teeth.

             
“Actually he just calls himself Death Wagon, Reg. I don’t know why people can’t just pick a normal name,” he said shaking his head. “Speaking of, what is your last name Reg?”

             
“My full name is Sir Regeliel of Graylocke.”

             
“No…I mean…never mind.”

             
Nan re-entered the conversation. “Death Wagon drives a hearse and he plays the guitar and writes his own songs; most of them are about me.” She wasn’t bragging, she was just excited; she and Death Wagon had been an item since February and Mick actually liked the guy. Mick had decided that as much as he hated for little Nano to grow up there was no denying the sparks between the two of them.

             
“Ahh... excellent, a minstrel,” bellowed Regeliel, clapping his huge hands together.

             
Mia looked over to Mick and pursed her lips and blew him a kiss, with a playful wink. She knew that this was just as amusing to him as it was to her, he just, for some reason, liked to act annoyed.

             
“I’m going to marry Death Wagon,” said Nan triumphantly.

             
“Huzzah, M’Lady, Huzzah!” cheered Sir Regeliel, as Mick smacked himself in the forehead.

             
Mick put on his Kevlar armor and took his pump shotgun and strapped his father’s bone-handled .357 Peace maker to his thigh. His machete sheathed on his other hip, he checked the monitors and saw no zombies moving about. “Be back in about thirty minutes, Nano,” he said to Mia’s little sister. He had given her the nickname years ago because of her small stature and love of science and learning. He grabbed his pack from the wall that contained tools and wire for repairs to the fence.

             
“I’ve got you covered,” she said, grinning as she slid into the chair facing the closed circuit monitors. “You have your radio on?”

             
“I’ve got it.” he said with a quick wink. Nan disengaged the half inch thick steel door lock and Mick disappeared down the dim hallway.

             
When he walked outside the main garage he stopped suddenly; Britney was no longer chained to the tree. He immediately chambered a round in the Mossberg. When he had cracked her upside the head earlier he thought that he had heard her skull shatter before she dropped. Blunt head force trauma didn’t always punch their ticket, but he had thought that he had over-done it this time. He listened closely for any of the uncoordinated dead lumbering through the thick brush surrounding the mines. He walked to where her chain still lay in the mud. Sloughed skin and corpse cheese was packed into the heavy links. He wanted to find her, he couldn’t have the flesh eating ghoul stumbling about the grounds, but he would have to do that later. For now he had to check the perimeter. He walked to the path that led into the trees.

             
“The path looks all clear, Mick,”
said Nan’s voice through the static of the speaker of his radio. He walked the path and found that the concertina wire contained part of Britney’s plaid skirt and more skin with chunks of muscle and sinew. The chain link fence had been bent up from the anchors in the dirt and she must have exited through the opening. He found more of her soft tissue and another remnant of plaid sticking through the links. He dropped his bag and opened it to repair the fence when a zombie suddenly slammed into the fence in front of him. Mick fell backward and reached for his shotgun. He turned it butt end forward and jabbed at the zombie, smashing it in the face. It was recently deceased and wore the uniform of the West Virginia National Guard. It staggered back and Mick quickly crawled through the opening in the fence and smashed it in the neck before it could call for back up. It tried to scream, but its wind pipe had been crushed. Mick didn’t want to shoot and draw any undue attention either by zombies or human and commenced to smashing it with the butt of his shotgun in the skull until all that remained was a jagged mushy pulp. Satisfied, he crawled back through the fence and finished re-wiring the hole together and then hammered two new anchors into the ground.

“That should do it,” he muttered to himself.  It appeared that Britney was gone for good though. He couldn’t really blame her; he probably wouldn’t stick around if he got walloped with a frying pan every other day either. He walked methodically around the compound
, checking the chain link fence for holes. He could hear deer ambling through the woods and the occasional moan of a stray zombie, but he was always careful not to attract their attention as they had some innate ability to mass together whenever the living were found. He had heard that distinctive call for reinforcements many times and it always sent a shiver up his spine.  He finished his loop of the property. “I’m at the door Nan,” he said and heard the lock disengage. He glanced back at the chain once more before reentering the mine.

                                        
Chapter 26 - Cruising with the Death Wagon

Seven months after infection

Marietta, Ohio 

             
Death Wagon drove along interstate 77. His headlights were out to avoid being too visible. He didn’t worry about military aircraft; they had used up most of their jet fuel by now and resorted to driving Hummers and Five Tons. Still the going was treacherous as many rusted out hulks of wrecked vehicles still lined the highways and byways. He wanted to surprise Nan by being there in person instead of talking to her through the satellite phone he had given her. His every waking thought revolved around her. Where Mia was beautiful, Nan was even more finely sculpted. Mia had the look of her father’s race, while Nan had more of her mother’s Asian appearance in her. Both were exquisite, but to him there had never in the history of the world been one finer or sweet of spirit as Nan. He wanted to be there with her, not just from his longing to be near, but to warn her of the things he had heard and seen in the larger towns that hadn’t been nuked. In many areas the radiation levels from nuclear fallout spread like an invisible fog and a large portion of the Ohio Valley was going to be enveloped by it.  The nights had been strangely colder but he was snug as the heater spewed forth like a blast furnace. He thought it was peculiar that July would be so unseasonable cool, but he thought it might have something to do with the nukes. He pulled into Marietta, Ohio, and saw a gathering of zombies feeding feverishly on an unfortunate man. He saw the man’s head turn in his direction and the man started to scream for help. He continued to beg for Death Wagon’s mercy as an arm was ripped from his shoulder socket. Death Wagon could hear the ligaments snap like rubber bands from inside the hearse and knew there was no help for him. He noticed a light flickering in a window and the silhouette of someone peeking through the drapes of a second story window. It was the same everywhere, people wanting to help, but too scared to risk their personal safety. He pushed the gas pedal and turned the corner to follow 77-south. There was wreckage blocking the road and he would have to take a detour. He turned down the heater and switched off the stereo.

             
He pulled over, keeping his foot on the brake and as he was checking his maps when he heard a tapping at the side glass. A sawed-off shotgun met his gaze. Behind it stood a scraggly scarecrow wearing a t-shirt that read ‘No Fat Chicks’. The Dickees work-shirt over top of it proudly claimed that his name was Troy.  Death Wagon was reasonably sure that this douche bag wouldn’t turn down anything with a heartbeat, let alone a fat chick, and the former may be optional.

             
“Get out of the car, hippie,” said the scarecrow.

             
Hippie, really?
Death Wagon sighed and slammed the gear selector into park. This guy was a prime example of why he preferred most zombies to the vast majority of the living; you never saw a zombie carjacking anyone. He threw open the driver’s door and stood in front of the skinny lowlife.

             
“Problem?” Death Wagon asked. He watched as Troy’s Adam’s apple bobbed, as he swallowed hard.

“Let me get straight to the pacifics,”
Troy began after a moment of collecting his thoughts. “I want that sweet ride of yours.”

“
Pacifics
…are you going to the ocean?” asked Death Wagon sarcastically. Troy stared at the metal head without comprehension so Death explained. “The word, I believe, you’re looking for is ‘specifics’.” Death watched Troy’s puzzled expression slacken and he half expected a line of drool to hang from his lip. “Nothing? Nothing at all?”

Death Wagon smiled at
Troy as he waited for a response.

Troy
obviously had no idea what Death was talking about and he continued to stare at him with an expression that translated into Death being the dumbest bastard on the planet.

“Better hurry up, those zombies are still looking hungry,” Death Wagon coaxed and
Troy turned his head to look behind him.

             
Idiot,
Death Wagon thought and balled a hand into a fist that happened to be adorned with quite a few spiked silver rings. His fist shot out and connected with the scarecrow’s temple. Troy’s eyes rolled in the back of his head as he fell over backward, stiff as a board, his head hitting the pavement sounding like a ripe melon being thumped. Death Wagon picked up the shotgun, cracked Troy’s skull open with the butt of it and whistled at a troop of the undead. Mostly naked, but virtually genderless in their decomposition, they lumbered slowly toward the hearse.

“Enjoy your dinner,” Death Wagon said as he slid back behind the wheel. He had no compassion for the fool. He had known a lot of
Troys
in his day, they seemed to all drive beat up pick-up trucks that they considered customized because they had hung a naked lady air freshener from the rear view mirror. They normally slathered the back glass with a myriad of stickers from Bass Pro Shop, Hooker Headers, and a Dale Earnhardt number 3.
Troys
always bragged about getting laid, but usually smelled like onions and dirty socks. Unfailingly, they thought that they were Chuck Norris or some other icon of action cinema and always tried to pass off senior pictures of chicks from high school as all their girlfriends no matter how long ago they had graduated.
Troys
were generally morons that used words that weren’t even close to the one they should have used, and they drank a ton of Busch Light. Death Wagon turned the hearse around and shone the headlights on the feast. Zombies never tried to engage you in a battle of wits.
Troys
did and they always thought that they were the champions of said verbal throw downs.

             
He could hear the teeth crunching into gristle and bone, blood jetted from the severed arteries while one naked ghoul clamped down on his cheekbone as Troy regained consciousness, and his screams attracted even more of the dead.  Zombies weren’t evil they were just hungry.

                                       
Chapter 27 – Evasion of the body snatchers

Xenia
, Ohio 

             
Number 47 was a big man and a sizeable target. He had escaped the Air Force Base and its make-shift concentration camp with his bunkmate Number 48 and fellow inmate Number 16. They had been prisoners in the Dayton Airbase work camp. It used to be the Dayton Correctional Institution. The prison had reeked of death from the prior inmates who starved to death in the first few weeks of the plague. The dead inmates had been mass buried in a landfill by the new batch of inmates, although these inmates had done nothing wrong, certainly nothing to deserve a life sentence, they were only civilians. Three days ago there had been four hundred inmates, but tonight there were only three hundred and ninety-seven. They had parted ways with a guy named number 16/ John Walker. Walker had told them that he had a debt to settle elsewhere.