Dying Days 2 (12 page)

He ran to the front door as two more zombies came up the walkway. The street was dotted with undead.

"What the heck happened?" He decided not to stick around and figure it out. Obviously, the defenses had failed, and in a major way.

They were coming at him now, and he decided to put as much distance between them as possible before he was surrounded.

John shot the two closest zombies in the face but before he ran he hesitated. All of the supplies, as well as his gear and his crossbow and bolts, were back in the room.

He took a step back but had to dodge a hand as it reached for him. Without thought he pointed and pulled the trigger, closing his eyes as gore splattered on his face and arms.

There were too many, and the circle was tightening around him. His indecision might cost him his life.

He screamed in frustration. He wanted to kick himself in the ass for not realizing that nowhere was safe and nowhere would ever be free of these monsters, and he should've grabbed his gear and moved when he’d had the chance.

Now he was down to a couple bullets and whatever shells he had in his pockets, knowing he was leaving behind a full box of ammo with his gear.

The street was crowded with the dead, and John, frustrated, began punching his way through them, tossing bodies into other bodies and cursing as he went.

He didn't know what had happened to the others but he hoped they'd escaped. John pushed away the thought they'd left him there to die, but he was angry. He decided to use that emotion to get him through this pack and to safety.

Safety? Where would that be? If they broke through the fences, got past the patrols, and no general alarm had been sounded, the city could be overrun already.

His only bet was a familiar area. He decided to get to the center of town and hope the remaining survivors were making a stand, because to run to an outlying area might be suicide. At least inside a building with other survivors he had some small chance of surviving.

John Murphy hoped it was enough.

Chapter Fifteen

"Do you know who I am?" Steve asked the imaginary crowds surrounding the tour bus. He could hear the roar of the crowd as they cheered him on, and he remembered all the times he stood on the roof of his lucky number 75 car and raised his arms in victory.

Now, there was no crowd, no winner's circle, and no milk bath. There was nothing but a hangover trying to push through his drunken haze, and two and a half tons of bus that needed to be driven.

Or did it?

Steve stuck his head outside, hoping to see Mike hanging around, but he was long gone. There was no one on the street or sidewalk, and none of the buildings had lights on.

"Fuck it, I'm parked." Steve, still naked, dropped his bottled water and went to the cabinet, pulled an unopened Southern Comfort out and poured a generous portion into a glass. Three ice cubes from the freezer were added and he swirled it around before sipping it. Hair of the dog and all that, he mused.

He went back into the bedroom and found his underwear, putting them on and tossing the women's undies into his closet. He was starting to amass a collection again. He wished people in this day and age still had phones or addresses. He missed the days of getting women's numbers or addresses, for the next turn through town, written on their bras and panties.

Somewhere back at home in Miami he had duffle bags filled with the articles of clothing.

He propped some pillows on the bed, stretched out, and grabbed the remote control, laughing when he realized he was trying to surf through channels that no longer existed.

Just as he turned the computer off he heard a knock at the door.

"I knew you'd drag your sorry ass back, Mikey," he said and guzzled the Southern Comfort. He went back out but grabbed the bottle first, pouring more over the ice.

There was another bang on the door.

"Hold your horses, I'm almost sober."

Steve opened the door and swung it wide. It almost smacked into the woman standing on the street. He laughed because it was funny he almost knocked her over and because everything was funnier with some hard liquor in you.

"Can I help you, baby? Lost? Need to party with The Breeze? Come on in."

He went back to the freezer, added four more pieces of ice to his glass, and scooped the Southern Comfort bottle off the counter as he passed.

When he glanced back, she was face-first on the floor and struggling to rise.

"Sloppy drunk? Normally I'd toss your sorry ass out, but I'm in the mood."

As she slid across the floor and righted herself, another female fell into the tour bus.

"Hey, bring a friend, that's what I always say. Back here, ladies."

Steve slopped the liquor onto the bed when he sat down and tried to add it to his glass. "Fuck it," he muttered, and put it to his lips, relishing the heat as it slid down his throat. This is the life.

When the two zombies finally made it to the bedroom, Steve 'The Breeze' Brack was already passed out, dreaming of his Daytona 500 win.

He didn't stop smiling in his sleep, even when they went to work, chewing his manhood.

*   *   *   *   *

"You have to be kidding me," Doug Conrad spat. "This is it? This is what we did all this for, a handful of rice and some dirty water?"

Rusty punched the wall and everyone else took a respectful step or two back, giving their leader some room.

The stockpile of food, water, supplies and weapons in St. Augustine was a bust. Even though several rooms of the Flagler College proudly had 'line forms here' signs and masking tape on the ground, it was a magic show, a bait and switch.

Large crates marked as food were actually empty, and sheets and blankets had been draped over tables and chairs to give the illusion of supplies.

"Is it possible they moved it? That they knew we were coming?" Doug asked with a growl in his throat.

No one responded and he didn't expect them to. He was sure his legendary temper had preceded him, and most of these men had been with him long enough to know when he spoke you did what you were told.

"Where are all the people?" he finally asked, controlling his voice.

Rusty leaned against the wall. "Most of them broke through the barrier on the bridge and ran off, dragging their tents and bags. They didn't have much. We stopped a few but they didn't clean this place out, especially that fast."

"We could've saved ourselves time here." Doug shook his head. "These people would have starved to death soon enough. Hundreds of people living here with enough food to last three days, I think. Unbelievable. Orlando had more food."

"As did that group in Georgia," Rusty said.

"Load up." Doug stepped away from the boxes. He was disgusted. The plan was simple: get in, take what they could carry, grab a couple of the women, and set sail again. Then wait for the city to rebuild and re-gather supplies and keep attacking until these people were gone.

Now they had nowhere to go, no new camp to attack. And no food to get them there.

Doug turned to see everyone staring at him. He saw fear in their eyes, and confusion. He blinked and shook his head. "Didn't I give an order? Load up."

Rusty grinned. "You heard the man. Let's get this back on the boats as quickly as possible. We'll start a chain of men from here to the beach."

Doug smiled at his old friend. He put an arm around him and they walked outside. It would be light soon, and Doug wanted to be out on the water before the remaining citizens could reorganize and attack. "We need to whip them so they get this done quickly. This food will last us a few weeks and nothing more."

"Understood."

"We also need women to keep the men in the game."

Rusty nodded. "I'll send a couple out door to door. Maybe they'll round up some lookers."

"Lookers?" Doug snorted. "At this point as long as they have a hole to fill and aren't too cold they’ll do."

Rusty laughed. "Hey, kid, come here."

Dylan James ran up, smiling at Doug.

"Doug, this is the kid who got off the ship and punched holes in their defenses. Dylan, right?"

"Yes, sir."

Doug put his hand out and gripped the teenager's hand, squeezing it hard and firmly. "Great work, son. You'll stick with me."

Dylan smiled.

Doug turned to Rusty. "That thing we just talked about? I want you to personally do it."

Rusty frowned. "Me? Are you going to get the men back to the ships?"

"I'm heading back now, and taking Dylan as my personal escort. You'll take another man with you to find what we really need. Dylan, you ever been with a woman?"

Dylan blushed and looked away.

Doug laughed. "Find a young one for my new bodyguard."

He didn't wait for Rusty to respond. There was no need, as Doug knew his right-hand man would follow the command to the letter.

As men began walking past with boxes and crates, Doug smiled. They'd be loaded and ready to sail in no time.

The city of St. Augustine, with lions proudly displayed on their bridges and gates, and named on a restaurant, had gone out like a lamb.

The firefight Doug was dreading had been avoided, which was perfect, because he didn't have enough men to go around. Every one of them, for better or worse, was needed.

Like the young kid he was walking with. This was the future right here, the heir to Doug's eventual kingdom. Once the zombies finally died out he'd be able to reconstruct the world in his image. He'd let them bow before him, bring him food and wine, and worship him.

And this kid would be trained to take over once Doug had built his kingdom.

Chapter Sixteen

The undead were everywhere. John had only a general idea about the layout of St. Augustine. He decided to get to Kimberly's Bar and take the street past it to Fort Matanzas. If the survivors were making a stand, the fort would be the logical place.

As luck would have it, the zombies were spread out, walking in random directions, looking for the living. John skirted past most of them without getting close, only twice having to barrel past. He didn't want to shoot his pistol and draw more to him.