Death After Life: A Zombie Apocalypse Thriller (13 page)

But the manager robbed Lena of her chance when he got on the mic in the D.J.’s booth, turning down the music.

“The club is now closed. Sorry. Please come back again… And bring some friends with you next time, okay?”

Click.

No one seemed to care when the lights came up and the music faded entirely. The hipsters just picked up their coats and headed for the exits.

Nic and Lena emerged onto the street, blinking against the sudden change in atmosphere from warm and sweaty to cold and drizzly. Nic straightened, breathing in a gulp of air, and seemed to sober up. A little.

“I don’t remember where we parked.”

“That’s okay, hon, I do. Come on.”

Lena took Nic’s arm and they walked quickly down the street. Distant sirens pulsed in the night air. But that was nothing unusual.

#

Gavin Richards dragged himself across the floor, averting his eyes from the creatures feasting on his still spasming daughter in law. He was aware of the rapidly expanding pool of blood beneath her twitching body, but he didn’t think about it.
 

Gavin’s focus was entirely locked on the C4 in the corner of the storeroom. If he could just reach it, detonate it, and go to the grave in a massive conflagration, he might find some peace in this brief and limited retribution taken against those who had taken everything from him.

His shame and fury was intense. This was the outcome he’d lived the last three years to avoid. An army of disgusting, mindless, worthless pus-bags tearing his home down around his ears. Maybe they weren’t so mindless after all, with their relentless focus on taking human lives and depriving others of what they had, not so long ago.

The feeders had swept through the sentries like a Mongol horde overwhelming a genteel, unprepared populace. They tore through the barricades and reinforced walls like Katrina laying waste to New Orleans. Lying here, bleeding out from several finger-torn furrows in his shoulders and thighs, Gavin was struck by the devestating facts of his defeat. He had failed to keep his family safe, failed to champion the cause of independence and biblical justice.

But God had not forsaken him. Gavin didn’ t think that for a second. No, he knew that in some way he had failed God. There was something he missed, some decision he didn’t make or preparation he overlooked. This was not bad luck or an inescapable event like an earthquake or hurricane.

Gavin hoped he would have the opportunity to ponder his failure in Heaven. Perhaps on balance he had earned that.

The man in the mask stepped between him and the cache of plastic explosives. Gavin’s tormentor waited patiently, body language casual. The feeders seemed to pay him no mind. This impossibility nagged at Gavin, but wasn’t highest on his list of concerns right now.

He released the Mac-10 clenched in his half-numb fingers. He knew he would never reach the C4, or be allowed to aim the machine pistol, but there was still the hold-out piece in his boot…

“So, Mayor Richards,” the man said, chummy tone only slightly distorted by the layer of neoprene wrapped around his lantern jaw. “You had a good run, but I must regretfully inform you that the state of Kansas has decided to implement a recall.”

“W-who are you…” Gavin said.

A huge dead woman, almost 300 pounds but carrying it well on a six-foot frame, lurched toward Gavin with malicious intent in her marbled eyes. In a smooth, effortless motion, the killer whipped a big handgun into position and blew her head clean off.

The hefty corpse crashed to the floor beside Gavin, cold skin touching his arm and giving him goosebumps.

“I’m an independent contractor,” the man in the mask said in a conversational tone. “So out of respect for your duly elected position, I will give you a choice. How do you want to die?”

Gavin tried to affect the posture of a defeated man, sitting on the floor with his head against his knees and his hands naturally falling toward his boots. Inches from the loaded pistol.

Out of some prescience or previous intel, Gavin’s enemy acted before he could. The crack of a shot cost the mayor most of his fingers and left him clutching the bloody stubs in agony.

“Can’t give you long to think about it,” the masked man said. “We have a saying in the Marines — get in and get out before they know you’re there. Be fast or be last.”

“Why don’t they come after you?” Gavin asked, not so much buying time as genuinely befuddled by this man’s immunity to the murderous desires of the dead.

“That’s a long story, one we don’t have time for right now,” he responded. “Let me simplify things. Want me to shoot you, cut you or let them eat you?”

“Shoot me,” Gavin said. “You sick fuck. I’ll see you in Hell!”

“And here I thought you’d punched your ticket to paradise a long time ago. Nice to see you realize what you really are. It’s good to have a moment of clarity at the end. A rare and beautiful thing, actually.”

The gun boomed again and gut-shot, Gavin writhed on the floor.
 

“I meant shoot me in the head, you fucking prick,” he roared, ravaged intestines screaming in white-hot agony.

“No, that wasn’t an option. I asked if you wanted me to shoot you, you said yes, so I did. But you are going to rise and walk with your fellow vermin of the earth. Because you pissed off the wrong people and the nail that sticks out gets pounded. Adios, compadre.”

On his way to the door, the hulking mercenary dispatched the other feeders in the room with quick, sure shots. Gavin heard the lock click behind him. While the blood oozing from his stomach was steady, it was not a merciful rush. He would be lying here for twenty, thirty minutes before he blacked out.

Gavin had no doubt that the last twenty minutes of his life would be the longest.

#

When they got home, Lena started making a grilled cheese sandwich. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Nic pouring herself a shot of tequila.

“Whoa! Babe. You have to work tomorrow, right?”

“Tomorrow is tomorrow,” Nic said, smiling at her in that slightly wolfish way that always got Lena hot. It was her Alpha smile. “We’re celebrating.”

She walked up to Lena and offered her the shot.

“No thanks,” Lena said. “Are you trying to get in my pants?”

“I’d like to,” Nic said, giving her a sly look. “But you’re too tired.”

Lena took the shot and pounded it. Grinned. “I’m good. Where’s yours?”

Nic smirked and grabbed the bottle. “Body shot?”

“You can’t be serious,” Lena said. “Spring Break was a long time ago, babe.”

“We’re not working right now,” Nic said, cajoling. “And I don’t need a lime. So lie down.”

Lena shot a look at the couch. “Shouldn’t I take a shower first?”

“Think your sweat bothers me? I’d rather taste that than the body oil you just bought. It’s like a mouthful of flowers.”

“Ouch,” Lena said playfully, pretending to be wounded. The tequila was warming her stomach and lightening her head. “You know I was about to turn on the sandwich grill, have a little midnight snack—”

“Lie down,” Nic commanded, maneuvering her to the couch with the bottle in her hand. Lena hopped out of Nic’s grasp and gave her a little shove back. Nic stumbled, ungracefully. That shot had taken its toll on her motor skills.

“Come on, tough stuff,” Lena taunted. “That all you got?”

Nic took her down with some kind of judo move that Lena barely glimpsed before her ass was planted on the cushions. She glared fiercely at Nic, but her breath was rapid with excitement.

“You think I’m going to let you drink tequila off my body?” Lena whispered, in an unblinking staredown with her wife.

“I know you are,” Nic said. “Just keep your thighs locked though or we’ll need a new couch.”

She set down the bottle to unbutton, unzip and peel down Lena’s pants in a couple of quick, violent moves. Lena gasped and squirmed as if being violated. “You bitch… Let go of me. I could have you shot,” she mock hissed.
 

“I’ll have a shot right now, and a midnight snack,” Nic giggled with a boozy glow in her eyes. She positioned the half-full bottle over Lena’s hips. “I’m goin’ for absorption,” she said, and poured tequila onto the white and lacy expanse of her wife’s underwear.

Lena squealed as the tequila hit her, instantly soaking her panties and pooling in the cup her tightly closed legs formed. They had never done this before, but Nic had mentioned it while reading some online “listicle.” It was a Japanese thing.

Nic thrust her face into the triangle between Lena’s thighs and groin to drink, sucking tequila from the saturated silk. Lena gasped, the shivery, tactile sensation of it making the fine hairs on her neck stand up straight.
 

Once Nic had vacuumed up the tequila with her lips she whisked the panties off Lena in one quick motion.

“I think there’s more to be had,” she whispered, and buried her face between Lena’s legs. Lena went rigid, moaning in pleasure.

Sometimes it was easy to forget the world they lived in and just appreciate what they had.

It was also easy to forget a half-made grilled cheese sandwich.

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

BAD DREAMS

GIVEN THE GENERAL climate of instability, it was in vogue among the upper classes to keep a quantity of cash in an extremely secure location, but one that could be accessed on short notice. The theory being, with the bank failures and Wall Street crash, that no organization’s individual participants could be expected to accept liability. The legal system, while not having ground to a complete halt, was hopelessly backlogged. If a brokerage firm went under, the lost funds would be recovered at the end of a very long queue. Western civilization persisted, but government had become a bureaucratic nightmare of Orwellian proportions.

In more than a few smoky back rooms, there were rumblings that it might be wiser to simply turn your money into weapons and men to use them.
 

In the meantime, the emergency fund idea had circulated. The criminal element got wind of it along with the media and public at large. Robbery crimes skyrocketed and precipitated an arms race between security services and hard men looking for a nice score.

James Voskuil hired a man named Wellington to safeguard his funds. Voskuil’s “emergency fund,” and that of many others, resided in Wellington’s fortress house. He had bodyguards on retainer and considered his operation a “neo-bank.” He was not alone in this emerging field. In urban areas, caches of survival gear, weapons and other valuables were hidden or protected by coteries of well-armed, semi-legal guardians.

Wellington was not surprised by Voskuil’s call — on occasion, his clients showed up in a panic to claim their stakes.

“Sure, come on by,” he said. Nor was it uncommon for Wellington to be awake at any hour, weekend or weeknight. He was a crystal meth addict and enjoyed some fairly perverse hobbies.
 

Voskuil was admitted by a stone-faced door guard. The living room had been re-styled as a lobby and was decorated in restrained tones and simple lines. The ambience was one of calm and control. Here, the lights were always on.

Voskuil waited, preoccupied by the bandaged wound he concealed within his coat-sleeve. He was fortunate that it was high enough up the arm to be hidden. People were extremely suspicious of any injury that could be a scratch or a bite. That was how feeders attacked, after all — with their fingers and their teeth. Strangely enough, there was true equality between the genders in the feeders’ lethality. Often, what females sacrificed in size and vestigial strength was compensated for with long fingernails.
 

After five torturous minutes, Voskuil was greeted by a functionary who, but for his five o’clock shadow, could be the manager of a five-star hotel. He had an air of prissy authority.

“I’m Mr. Wellington’s associate,” the man said, not offering a name. “This way.” He led Voskuil down another well-lit hallway to a vault door, which another guard opened.
 

Inside, the “hotel manager” opened Voskuil’s personal safe. The guard remained nearby, a machine gun slung around his shoulder on a strap.

“We took the liberty of removing the early withdrawal fee,” Wellington’s associate told Voskuil as he handed Voskuil the briefcase inside. It felt noticeably lighter. Damn them.

“Early withdrawal fee? What the hell are you talking about? We never—”

“Dr. Voskuil, we don’t ask any questions here,” the man said, and looked meaningfully at Voskuil’s sleeve. There was a blood stain on it. Voskuil had noticed it in that first wild car-ride and resolved to change his coat when he got home. But as he rushed out, he’d put on his usual coat again.
Idiot!

“We think our clients like it better that way. Don’t you?”

“Fine,” he snapped, carrying out his money. They’d probably removed the “fee” upon his original deposit. Whenever he came would be considered an “early withdrawal.”
 

Acutely feeling the preciousness of every second, Voskuil hurried back to his car. His next stop was the Center, where he would obtain what he needed. Supplies and….the necessary transportation.
 

After all, he was about to embark on a road trip of his own.

#

Lena awoke screaming from a nightmare. Her cry ended abruptly because she was instantly reassured by the familiar sense memory of their cozy bedroom. Decorated in warm earth-tones, it had a womb-like feel accentuated by the bed’s enormous creme-colored comforter.
 

Nic awoke and wrapped Lena in her arms. “I’m here, baby. You’re okay now.”

Lena nodded, wide-awake now. She wasn’t crying, nor even trembling, but her face retained a stricken cast that suggested dreaded basement doors were opened in her dreamscape.

Nic stroked her hair, whispering reassurances into Lena’s ear. “Just a bad dream, I have ‘em, too. Usually about
them
….”

To her credit, Nic immediately registered what she’d said and looked mortified. “Wow. Some bedside manner. Now we know why I’m not in your business.”