Zombie Paradise Lost: Still Alive Book Six Read online

  The comic book shop owner scoffed. “Yeah, probably. But you have to admit, that kicks arse!”

  He showcased his new toy. “These gloves will replace the gloves of your body condom.” He ran his hand along the wires to the box. “The energy pack is solar charged. Unfortunately, it only has enough juice for a single punch every few hours.” The Tech looked wistfully at the gloves on his hands. “The charge would not transfer to your Nexus Blade. I wish it could shoot lightning, but I am not a miracle worker.” Perhaps if I had more time, he thought as he raised a finger and lifted the energy pack. “See back here? It attaches to your waist on the back of the suit.”

  Randy raised an eyebrow. “Storm Gloves?”

  The Tech smiled. “Almost. They will be inside the suit. Storm Gauntlets!”

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  Days after the Cora left, mayor Collins hadn’t yet had a chance to try out his new toy. The charger added no noticeable weight to his armor, so wearing it became standard. Randy wore his armor whenever there was any chance he could be attacked.

  Rarely coming in contact with a single peevie, his preparations seemed for naught. But he smiled at the thought. That’s what they said about my freeze-dried food, look who’s still wearing pants. It was better to be prepared than to be confronted with obstacles and have no defense. Even if he wore the armor and Storm Gauntlets every day for the rest of his life and never had a need to use them, he would still be glad to have been equipped with them.

  Whenever things felt normal, as if there had been no zompocalypse and the enemy was not at the gate, Randy could almost convince himself it had all been a dream. Maybe there are no blue cannibals. Perhaps we’re all just group of crazy people that murdered a city full of innocents and fought a little war with the Army. That couldn’t be possible. The government wouldn’t just give up even after we handed their asses to them! But with the occasional sightings of blunatics by other town’s folk, however, the mayor knew the monsters would make an appearance eventually. Most likely sooner, rather than later.

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  Late one afternoon, Randy had been summoned to the gas bank. A quarrel had begun over a recaptured vehicle. Of course, The Mayor was called to calm tensions.

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  The gas bank was the depository for all vehicles that had been on the island or brought in by survivors, and rescuers. Set up in the shopping center parking lot on the west side of Highway 431 just at the bottom of Sand Mountain and right before the causeway leading north into town. It was the perfect spot. Since Guntersville Island was not very large, there was no real need for gas-powered vehicles. Other than refueling search and rescue, or lawn equipment, the island used very little of the gas left in the abandoned vehicles.

  Regular shifts of attendants/guards watched over the graveyard of every kind of car and truck you could imagine. They were of course, well armed and used the old bank building in the shopping center parking lot to hold up in during the night.

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  “I don’t give a shit. It’s mine!” A short, clearly foreign man named Rommel, was screaming at another in an almost comical accent.

  A taller man with graying red hair, Monte, held his hands up, palms facing out in the international sign of surrender. “Why does it matter if it was your find? It can be used now to help everyone.”

  One of the attendants of the gas bank had begun explaining the situation to the mayor on the walk from his Humvee to the back of the parking lot, where this argument was taking place. One party found and reclaimed a certain vehicle. The other party claimed ownership to the said vehicle before May Day. Now, the second party demanded rights to the vehicle be given back to him, and only him. Randy could sympathize with the original owner, but he also understood the rules changed the day everyone became blue and naked.

  “It’s all mine. I paid money for it. You can’t have it!”

  Randy almost laughed at the little man and his demands. Money doesn’t mean anything anymore.

  “I don’t want it anyway. It’s supposed to be used for the good of the community!” Monte didn’t want to argue; he just wanted to help where he could.

  The mayor came within speaking distance and looked at the man claiming to be the original owner. “What would you do with it if you had it? You won’t be using that thing on the island.” Randy gestured to the massive black four-door pickup truck suspended on a ridiculously high lift kit. It would take a ladder for even the tallest man to get into the seat.

  “I’m not gonna to be here much longer. It’s coming with me!” Rommel was livid.

  Randy smirked. “You’re just going to leave, now? You sure didn’t mind accepting the island’s help before.”

  “I never needed any of you fucking people! You just threw your shit at me.” The little man continued to scream.

  “You’re free to leave. But we’ll need some kind of compensation for everything we did for you. The truck works as payment.” It almost made the mayor feel sick. What he was doing would have been considered stealing before May Day. Though it felt like socialism to say it, the community came first, especially when it came to squabbles over things valued in the old world.

  The short man was enraged. “My truck goes with me! Fuck you all!” The man’s heels were against the front left tire of his truck.

  Rommel violently jerked a pistol from his waist and pointed it at Monte. This is my truck! I paid a lot of money for it, and it’s more important than some old guy’s life and the lives of every one of those fucking moochers’ on the island! They won’t have what I worked for. It’s mine!

  The older man stuck his hands in the air. “Whoa now! Let’s be civil about this.”

  Randy picked up his pace when Rommel brought up his gun. Almost even with the back of the pickup, he was about to try and defuse the situation with some calming words. Before the mayor could speak, a shot rang out.

  Rommel had just shot Monte.

  The round hit the older man just above the sternum. The hollow point stole his ability to breathe. It instantly destroyed arteries and sent blood flying. A slow whistling started at first, then immediately quickened to a loudening hiss as unused oxygen, and leftover carbon dioxide filtered into the air in a misty haze of blood spatter. The lead projectile exited out of his back, vaporizing spine and muscle on its first and only flight. Monte collapsed in a heap. No one but The Screenwriter knew whether blood loss or lack of oxygen would end his life. But it ended quickly.

  Rommel appeared shocked, dropped the revolver, and turned to face the mayor. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know it would do that.”

  Mayor Collins was stupefied. “It was a .357! What’d you think it’d do?”

  It was impossible to understand Rommel through his mumbling and weeping. What could be understood was the distant, excited howl from the Southeast. Zombies did not often encroach on the expanded green zone to the south of the island. A gunshot, however, would alert them to the opportunity of game, and they would eventually smell fresh blood. With the sun setting, they would be especially active. Starvation would drive most any animal to take ridiculous risks for just a bite of food.

  “Boys, we got company.”

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  Everyone who had been alive since May Day knew what that sound meant. Rommel looked wide-eyed at the mayor. He pointed down at his pistol lying on the ground. “Can I use that?”

  Mayor Collins was glad the little man was respectful enough to ask. Rommel deserved to see justice; Randy was confident he wanted to see it as a human. “I don’t think you’ll be shooting us. Keep it pointed at the peevies.” Rommel daintily picked up his revolver, making a show of keeping the muzzle pointed far away from the other humans.

  The survivors waited and readied positions and were met with complete silence. They continued to watch, remaining as unmoving as everything else around them. Suddenly, twigs snapping, and the shuffling of leaves could be heard. At the southeast end of the parking lot, a single revenant charged out of the tree
line. Hunting with no clear path before it, the animal appeared puzzled.

  Randy lined up on the scourge with the 3X magnifier on his SKS. As he readied to take the shot, the little foreigner to his left began jabbering. “You’ll never take me from my things!” He stood and lined his pistol up on the peevie. Before he could take the shot, it let out a screeching call, letting the others know; dinner was served.

  Rommel sent three slugs at the creature and miraculously hit it with two. The first round caught it in the inside of the right elbow. As lead exploded out of the back of the arm, it forced out blood and fragmented bone back through the entry wound. The forearm was left attached only by a strip of dangling skin that would surely give way to gravity. Even if this had been the only strike, the monster most assuredly would have died from the massive amount of blood being lost.

  Almost at the same instant, the second round caught the zombie above the left collarbone. Traveling at over 1450 feet per second, the magnum round vaporized bone, muscle, cartilage, and sent everything rocketing out of the gaping 12-inch exit wound as a dark red liquid bubbled and gurgled continuously. Arteries must have been severed as blood nearly geysered from the new life-ending rent in its body.

  Surprisingly the zombie turned to rush back into the cover of the trees, the dangling forearm slung around limply. The sound of a rubber band snapping sounded as the arm tore away from the ragged skin. The fingers on the blue appendage twitched briefly before going still. The rest of the body would soon become that way, whenever it finally grew too weak to press on. It might take several minutes, but the creature would succumb to the cold embrace of death shortly. Silence would be the last thing it heard before blue infinity overtook it.

  The mayor looked over to the smiling little man. “You’re an idiot.”

  Rommel lost his grin. “What? Why? I killed it!”

  Randy opened his mouth to reply when barking was heard. It grew closer and more intense. His response was to cock his head, and raise his eyebrows as if to say “See?”

  Rommel opened his mouth and closed it. He understood what he put into motion. It was only a guess if the man was shaking with impotent rage or horrific dread. Rommel replaced the now empty shells in his revolver and prepared again for an incoming throng of the maniacal blue enemy. Bodies could be heard rushing through the foliage. Suddenly, ten more peevies cleared the tree line in a dead run. In another instant, what had to be hundreds of sets of bare feet, came slapping against fallen leaves and then the pavement. “Company has arrived, with several guests! Plus one my ass!” One of the men called out. In response, Randy checked to make sure his magazine was full and that he had a round chambered in his SKS.

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  The call of the peevie had been picked up by the other gas bank attendants, and the alarm had been sounded. They retreated to a fortified and defendable location. Being able to strike back at their own attackers, they wouldn’t be able to reach out to assist the mayor’s group. The mayor, wearing his full armor carrying his SKS, the lightly armored gas bank official with a pump action shotgun, and the worthless pipsqueak, Rommel, wearing a T-shirt carrying his .357 snub nose were on their own about to face a horde. Randy had dealt with similar situations in the past. If it is The Screenwriters will, I’ll come out of this!

  “Up there!” Randy turned to see Spencer pointing up to the cab of the truck. That would be great; there’s just no way we will be able to get up there. Just as Randy thought this, the lowest in stature of the three turned into a Parkour ninja, ran up the front tire, jumped over to grab the railing, and heaved himself up to open the door. A rope ladder was suddenly flying down by the door. The Screenwriter was smiling down upon them. They could do nothing but hoot and holler as they sprinted to their salvation.

  Sitting in the driver’s seat, the mayor smiled at the man who just proved his worth. “Good job, Rommel! Now I just wish you had more than a few shots.” Rommel smiled and raised a finger. He popped open the glove box to reveal a fifty count box of .357 ammunition for his revolver.

  Randy chuckled. “Hot damn, son! If I wished for some more 7.62, would you have that?” The short man frowned, indicating he was all out of miracles.

  Down on the ground, zombies sparred to get first dibs to rip into the buffet that was formally Monte. The body was being ripped apart, and peevies continued to fight for every last piece. Animals gashed into each other, causing each tender morsel to be paid for in blood. The sounds of snarling and angry yipping were the soundtrack playing over the horrific dismemberment of the now fallen survivor.

  Spencer lowered his window behind Randy, shouting profanities down at the infected. He stuck his shotgun in the opening. “Take this, you sick fucks!”

  He sent shell after shell of superheated pellets into the throng. Blue bodies were ripped by the metal rain, getting wanted screams from the undead. Cannibal after cannibal exploded from back to front. Tiny pellets ripped through muscle, organs, and even bone to burst into grayish red, sloppy piles. A revenant would step over their fallen to get closer to the cuisine, taking the next volley of lead.

  Spencer continually fed shells into his shotgun's tube. Eventually running out of buckshot, he dropped the shotgun without a word. He screamed, on par with the infected in front of him as he repeatedly launched pistol rounds into the mass of shit covered zombies fighting for a taste of Monte. The onslaught falling onto them could not be realized past their insatiable hunger.

  Mayor Collins, however, was saving his rounds for when he needed them. Rommel wasn’t going to waste bullets from his snub nose on targets at a distance he knew he would not be able to reach with assured accuracy. This was one of the occasions Randy approved of his greediness. Even six shots might come in handy.

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  Spencer used every single shot he had on the horde that was facing the opposite direction. Not that Randy was upset he was shooting them in the back; he just thought it foolish to waste precious ammo on an enemy that was not currently attacking. They would be appearing soon enough. Randy was sure every bullet he had would be needed to fend off the monsters. Be smart. Be prepared.

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  When tiny death began flying from the cab of the truck, the peevies understood this was where the pain came from. The monsters had enough intelligence to stay away from the front of the truck at least until they were up high enough to get at the tasty buffet inside. Randy launched a few pieces of lead at the animals as they ran under, or around to the back of the truck. They weren’t giving up easily.

  The occasional zombie caught a round from his rifle as they rushed for cover. A blue skull would take a hit, caving in and spewing grey matter before the bullet continued on its destructive path downwards. Though momentum carried the truly dead undead bodies for several feet, they eventually slid to a stop, gushing lifeblood from the gaping hole in their cranium. Eventually, the asphalt began to disappear entirely under the sheer weight of sanguinary volume being distributed by the punctured peevies.

  One unfortunate peevie took a round in the head of its erect penis. The full metal jacket 7.62 didn’t slow as it went cleanly through this thin member. The head went flying like a wingless roach. Blood rocketed from the wound, and the peevie almost instantly collapsed into a screaming heap. Incredibly painful, the animal could die from this wound as quickly as if an artery were severed. There’s a reason it’s called ‘the main vein’ after all.

  Unsure how they got up to it, the mayor watched the creatures lift themselves over the tailgate and into the bed. Spencer had already opened the rear window and plastered himself against the back of the driver’s seat. Randy aimed at the opening and prepared to send some pain downrange.

  Before they got to the window, he had an idea. “Spencer!” The young man looked up to see Randy throwing down a holstered pistol and attached spare magazines. “Here. Make it count!”

  Peevies detected the scent of fresh human through the window, and it drove them into a feeding frenzy. Monsters careened
at the opening, willing to do anything for a bite. High-velocity metal would keep the infected back, but not indefinitely. Incalculable numbers would overcome all defenses given enough time.

  Randy sent a shot through a blue face. It entered through the snarling mouth, shattering teeth and vaporizing the infected monster's tongue. The round exploded out of the back of the head, just under the skull. Cerebral cortex, the spinal cord, and everything in between the back of the throat and the top of the neck disintegrated in an instant. Ballistic tip plunged into the back above the solar plexus and exited just between the kidneys. It is slammed into the gut of the demon unfortunate enough to be directly behind the first.

  By now the three occupants of the truck cab were temporarily deaf from the rounds being fired from within the enclosed area. With ears pounding and hearing almost nothing but a constant ringing in their ears they fought on.

  The onslaught continued with the occasional tracer around from the SKS. With each tracer, Randy was alerted his magazine was down to five rounds. Upon each reload, Spencer would assist by pumping a few .45s into the faces of death. Hopefully, Rommel was smart enough to keep his snub nose as a last-ditch defense.

  A cannibal would start to slither through the gore-spattered window to be met with small caliber torment. The hollow point pistol rounds would catch an infected under the chin or at the top of the throat. A monster would be rendered instantly brain-dead as any connection with the cranium was completely severed. Undead compatriots would heave, fall and back out of the opening so the next contestant could die painfully. Pop goes the peevie. Next!

  During one of Randy’s reloads, Spencer put down another zombie and clicked on empty. He hurriedly ejected the mag to replace it. Randy was nanoseconds from inserting his fresh mag when Rommel thought he would come to the rescue. He screamed in what sounded like fearful glee and launched five rounds from his revolver at the beasts plastered against the window. Glass puckered and cracked under three Magnum rounds. One of the inaccurate chunks of lead sank into the rear bench. Though he was not aiming anywhere near Spencer, the fifth and wildest round sank into the man’s kneecap.