Dead Drunk: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse... One Beer at a Time (21 page)

“You killed them on a hunch?” Charlie pressed.

“Wake up. They were gonna waste us and take our shit the
first chance they got, guaranteed. Probably would have raped Left-Nut too while
they were at it.”

“Okay, Sherlock, explain to me how you know all this.”

“Do you have any idea how many episodes of
Special
Victims Unit
I’ve watched? Like, probably all of them. This is second
nature to me.”

“That Mariska Hargitay is a total smokeshow for an older
chick,” Left-Nut added. “I use to jerky my turkey to her all the time.”

“A little respect, guys?” Charlie closed the dead girl’s
eyes and then covered her up with a reflective vest from one of the dispatched
zombies.

Left-Nut’s face turned red in anger as he pointed to the
ATVs. “Beautiful.” One leaked gas and the other poured out green radiator
fluid. Both were ruined. “And I swear I heard banjoes playing earlier.”

The grim reality that their trip would continue by foot
settled in, and nobody talked as they somberly dragged the corpses into a pile.
After stacking leaves and tinder for kindling, Charlie said a few words and
then put to flame the bodies of the poor girl and hapless zombies. Coyotes and
crows would take care of the rapists.

“What do we do now?” Rob asked while the crackling funeral
pyre became fully engulfed in flame, bathing them with an intense heat.

“We go home,” Charlie said wistfully, almost to himself.
Here was that change of scenery he’d wanted. They silently unloaded their gear
and headed for the tree line, each lost in his own thoughts.

It was a beautiful day for a walk in the countryside, with
the leaves changing and the temperature hitting that magical seventies sweet
spot. The sickly-sweet scent of burning bodies followed them across the fields
for quite a while, finally replaced by the smells of fall, and maybe a little
rain in the distance.

Epilogue

Sarah Birdsong beat her partner until he passed out. Then
she woke him up and did it again. And again. Unluckily for Trent, she was
getting bored and there was only one thing left to do. She grabbed the paring
knife already used to slice the skin off his knuckles and approached the bound
man with a wry smile. “This is it, buddy boy.”

Trent prayed to God for the first time in his life. He
didn’t expect an answer.

KSSSSHHHH
! The storefront window shattered as a body crashed
through it, blinding the two cops with light from outside. Sarah turned to run
but Trent used every muscle of his body to kick through the tape holding him
back, and he tripped her up with one final act of revenge.

The zombie pounced on her and instantly began to feast.
Trent couldn’t see what was happening at his feet but the guttural screaming
and kicking told the story in grim detail. The melee stopped and Sarah was
obviously dead, which meant Trent was now set to be dessert. He was out of the frying
pan and into the fire, so to speak.

The creature stood up, naked and grinning with blood
dripping from its mouth like barbecue sauce. Trent instantly recognized the
long flowing mullet with a signature bald patch. The zombie was Blake’s Uncle
Russ.

Russ nonchalantly pulled the knife sticking out of his arm
and then raised his hands up like a caricature of Frankenstein. Mere inches
from Trent’s face, Russ opened his bloody mouth wide and… laughed.

“I got you good, man. Did you piss your pants?”

Of course, Trent couldn’t answer with his mouth taped shut.
This was a particular problem because Sarah was slowing standing up and an
oblivious Russ kept right on blabbering away. The cop tried blinking rapidly to
get his attention. It didn’t work.

“Fucking Cliff bit me and I ended up crashing Smokey’s car.
FYI, you get a major case of firehole when you become a zombie. Shit myself
something awful, so I came here for some new duds. Then I heard the chick going
on and on about killing you. It also turns out zombies have great hearing. Who
knew?”

Freshly zombified herself, Sarah came to her senses and dove
past Russ, landing on top of Trent and knocking the chair backwards with a
crash. That was as far as she got. Russ buried the knife to its hilt in Sarah’s
heart and then pushed her limp body to the side. She was dead for good this
time.

He continued talking as if nothing had happened. “So I
figured I could find something to wear in here. Maybe like a Johnny Depp pirate
outfit or something. I already got the hair.” He ripped the tape from Trent’s
mouth.

“Ouch. Wait, so are you a zombie or not? What the fuck’s
going on?”

“I think so,” he said while licking his lips. “That bitch
did taste like steak.” Russ didn’t know it, but he’d hit the genetic jackpot.
Years of huffing paint combined with massive amounts of nitrates from a beef
jerky and cat food diet had altered key brain cells drastically. The result was
a partial immunity to the killer virus, making him the world’s only
zombie-human hybrid. Russ had been dead drunk for years. Now it was official.

“Cut me loose. And put some clothes on, shit.”

Russ nodded and pointed to Sarah. “Yeah, I better. That hot
little number’s giving me bit of a zom-boner if you know what I mean.”

Russ freed his friend and then found the pirate outfit he’d
been looking for. While he changed, a bruised and battered Trent wrapped up his
own bloodied hands and pondered the recent events. There was no reason he
should have lived, and yet, here he was. The veteran cop believed strange
coincidences simply didn’t happen in life, and that he must have survived for a
reason.

He thought of that reason as they walked outside. “You know
Russ, it’s possible your dumb ass might be the savior of the world.”

“I’m listening.”

“Maybe scientists can make a cure from your blood or
something. Like in the movies.” Russ shrugged and Trent continued. “I’m gonna
make sure we find out.”

They picked around the wreckage for anything useful and
settled on two motorcycles in decent condition. While searching for the keys,
Trent found a note stuck to the tire of a smoldering ATV. He read it aloud.

Dear Dickhead (Trent),

If you are reading
this, it means you’re still alive. We’re going to Charlie’s mom and dad’s
house, and hope to meet up with Brandon and the girls soon after. There is
supposed to be a military base nearby. Come find us if you can. Or whatever,

Smokey

Spoiler Alert, Charlie’s pissed at you.

Trent laughed. “I really think the Lord’s telling me something.”
Russ rolled his vacant, creepy eyes and Trent crumpled the paper and tossed it
towards the gutter. It bounced off a raccoon.

“Come here, you little bugger,” Russ said. Elvis happily
scampered up his back before settling on the zombie’s shoulder. He adjusted
Little E’s tiny pirate costume. “Look at that, we match. I don’t have to get a
parrot after all.”

Even though he was in extreme pain, Trent hadn’t felt this
good in a long time. He now had a purpose. “We need a name for our group.”

Russ climbed onto his jet-black Harley and turned the engine
on. The steel machine rumbled with power while he took a swig from a flask of
whiskey and replaced the cap. “That’s easy. Bad Company.” Elvis chirped in
approval.

“I like it,” Trent said and started his own motorcycle, a
purple chopper with a naked woman painted on the side. But then something
strange happened, as if strangeness even registered anymore with these guys.
Like out of a dream, a group of giraffes came around the corner and wandered
right towards them.

“That beautiful gay bastard pulled it off,” Trent said
without a trace of malice. “Way to go, Mike!”

The odds of a born again cop, a raccoon, a drunk zombie and
several giraffes meeting peacefully at the corner of Armitage and Damen were a
trillion to one, but that’s exactly what happened. The gentle creatures nibbled
on a few leaves and then moved on in search of greener pastures elsewhere. Like
all survivors, they were going to have a long winter.

Trent took a deep breath. “Let’s go save the world,” he
said. “And one more thing, you’re not gonna eat me, right?”

Russ pulled away as Elvis peeked over the handlebars. “No
promises.”

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank all of the people who have helped me
finish this project as well as those who have given me tons of encouragement
along the way.

Big thanks go out to Derek Murphy of Creativindie Covers for
creating such an eye-catching cover design, and to the crew at
ManuscriptMagic.com for their excellent copyediting work.

Thank you to my friends and family for believing in me,
thank you to my lovely wife Kristin and my boys Kevin and Ryan for being there
for me, and thank you to my parents for allowing me to watch gory zombie movies
at an inappropriately young age.

Most importantly, thank you for taking interest in my book.

About
the Author

Richard Johnson is a writer and small business owner who
grew up in Galesburg, Illinois during the 80’s. He graduated from Monmouth
College as a double major in History and English and earned a Masters degree in
History with a teaching certificate from Western Illinois University. He
currently lives with his growing family in a small town outside of Chicago.

Richard is a self-acclaimed expert in the zombie genre after
spending countless hours watching B-rated horror movies. He is a good friend, a
bad cook and a terrible dancer. If a real zombie apocalypse strikes, seek him
out for protection. But bring plenty of beer.