Dead Drunk: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse... One Beer at a Time, Page 7

  “Dude, not cool,” Smokey said and gave him a dirty look. “But anyways… how do I put this?” He stumbled around the issue for a bit and then focused. “I’m a phony. I never actually sold my art like I told everyone.”

  “What about the pictures of the auction, the ones with you and Sean Penn?” Charlie said.

  “Photoshopped from the Oscars. I added myself in and you can see Quentin Tarantino in the background if you look hard.”

  “Then how did you afford this place?” Blake asked. “It’s not like you have a job, and you’ve always smoked more pot than you sold.”

  “Simple. I won the lottery a few years ago and didn’t tell anyone. Two million and change. It’s just my luck, now the world’s ending. Ironic, huh?”

  Charlie was dumbfounded. “You’re a millionaire and you borrowed money from me last week? You let me go to that shit job every day to pay rent when you had all that cash? I’m gonna fucking kill you!”

  Rob held Charlie back as Smokey tried to explain. “I wanted people to think I was successful.”

  “Nobody thought you were successful,” Charlie said. “You’ve been stoned for the past fifteen years. Jackass.”

  “Besides, I’m not a millionaire anymore. I spent a ton retrofitting this place. Plus I have an expensive habit.”

  “Big deal. We could have been knee-deep in hookers and coke,” Trent said.

  “Be thankful this place is off the grid,” Smokey said. “That means we’ll have power no matter what happens.”

  “Actually, good job.” Charlie calmed down as he realized Smokey was right. “I take back every snide hippy comment I ever made about you. Still, you could have hooked a brother up.”

  “You would’ve been as lazy as me, and weren’t you just complaining about not having any direction in your life?” Charlie nodded, and Smokey continued. “And, Trent, what would have happened if we spent all that money partying?”

  “I suppose we’d be dead. Not that it matters now. At least we wouldn’t be dealing with this shit.”

  “It comes down to being prepared. A prudent person foresees danger and takes precautions. The simpleton goes blindly on and suffers the consequences. Proverbs 27:12.”

  “I didn’t realize you were a bible thumper,” Trent said.

  “I’m not,” Smokey said. “I got that from Armageddon Week on the History Channel. You’d be surprised to know how much television I watch.”

  Charlie scoffed. “Not really.”

  A sudden hail of gunfire somewhere in the neighborhood interrupted the conversation. “Sounds like M-16 bursts,” Trent said. “Must be the National Guard.” The shots ended as quickly as they began.

  Moments later, Russ got a call through. “Everybody shut up for a second.”

  The plague had gone biblical in proportion and there were simply fewer people around to make calls, freeing the lines. None of that mattered to the bleeding and anxious man cradling the phone.

  “Carol, it’s Russ.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line before a gravelly voice answered, “I told you to stop calling.” His ex sounded as rough as Mike Ditka’s mustache, the result of twenty years of unfiltered Camels.

  “Hear me out,” Russ said. “I’m gonna keep this short and sweet, just like you. I know I did a lot of shitty things over the years—”

  “If you need me to bail you out again, you can forget it.” This bridge was torched long ago, if not napalmed.

  “It’s not that. I gotta get this off my chest now or I might not get another chance. I’m sorry about that thing with the landlord’s wife, calling the nine-hundred numbers, and your Momma’s jewelry. I love you and… and I wanna see you in heaven. I’ll keep a spot for you, or vice versa. Kiss the kids for me.” Russ paused for a second, confused. Then he flew into a rage. “That bitch hung up on me. Un-fucking-believable. I take it all back!”

  He shattered his phone on the wall and then sank to the ground while sobbing uncontrollably.

  Mike approached him after realizing no one else cared. “It’s okay, man, you made your peace with her. That’s what’s important.”

  Russ paused his blubbering. “What in the fuck are you brats looking at? Shouldn’t you make some calls?”

  The guys listened and feverishly dialed their own loved ones to give warnings and say final goodbyes. Charlie eventually reached his parents.

  “Stop worrying,” his dad said. “You know we’re in the boondocks. Plus, the neighbors have set up a watch for suspicious activity and the Johnsons from down the way have their four wheelers and shotguns out. You’d think it was the Fourth of July the way they’re carrying on.”

  “Dad, you gotta be careful. This isn’t a joke.”

  “We’ll ride it out till this whole thing blows over.”

  “It’s not gonna blow over, this is for real. We’ve seen things. We’ve done things…”

  His father sighed. “If so, we’re in a good place. I’ve got a cupboard of dried goods and energy bars and your mom’s been canning fruits and veggies for years. We’ve got a creek for water, and we can always harvest the wildlife. Maybe you should try and get down here? We’re not really that far away.”

  “That’s not possible. Jim tried to drive two miles, and I doubt he made it. We might be stuck here for—”

  Like Russ’s call, the connection dropped.

  “Check it out, here come some soldiers,” Smokey said, and everyone hurried to the window.

  Talk about a letdown.

  “They don’t have guns,” Rob noted and the realization came like a kick to the groin. The soldiers looked to have been through a meat-grinder and were now searching for victims of their own. There would be no rescue.

  Russ stopped his sniveling and opened yet another beer. “There’s your defense cuts. Fuckin’ Democrats.”

  Chapter 13

  The Hard Times of Marquell Washington

  Prisoner 10046, a.k.a. Marquell Washington, peered through his cell door into the darkness as shotgun blasts grew nearer. It looked like the guards wanted space for the new arrivals, and his already short life expectancy shrank to minutes.

  Situations like this tend to make one ponder how they ended up behind bars in the first place. In Marquell’s case, having a single mom funded by ten-dollar blowjobs and welfare schemes was a good start. Even worse, her powerful crack addiction meant he was on his own since the beginning.

  From shoplifting to being an eight-year-old drug mule, Marquell had learned the game on the street and joined the fast track to hard-core thuggery. By his twelfth birthday he’d mastered the art of the sucker punch and even committed his first murder. No one besides his mom’s pimp ever realized she was gone, let alone cared.

  Far from feeling any self-pity, the dreadlocked and powerfully-built inmate smiled broadly while reminiscing. He’d combined street smarts with an unnatural love of reading developed in juvenile detention, and books like Sun Tzu’s Art of War had taught him to control the backstreets of Chicago like his own personal fiefdom. The Black Lords, a gang known for their brand of violent street justice, were impressed as Marquell ran his block and rose through their ranks one crime at a time.

  He fought, stole, threatened and killed his way to the top, getting tons of money, women and drugs along the way. It was power, however, that Marquell lusted after, and that brought out his sadistic side. Foes that crossed him died painfully, with no quarter given, and no questions asked.

  He was a monster, and a talented one at that. So talented that the F.B.I. collared him on federal Rico statutes for racketeering and extortion. They would have had him on eight counts of murder one, but the key witness suffered an unfortunate “accident” involving a chainsaw and a blowtorch. The trial and resulting tabloid circus put the national spotlight on Marquell and made him a star in the underworld. Lockup hadn’t been horrible. He ran his gang from inside, settling scores and consolidating power, and still managed to get drugs and even sex from a fat prison counselor whe
n needed.

  His major problems came from the Latino inmates and their constant attempts on his life. However, this beef simply gave Marquell a stage for his craft. First, he strangled Captain Juan Garcia of the United Mexican Mafia and framed the 13th Street Crew. While they fought it out, he poisoned Gordo Carlos of Hermanos Locos in the cafeteria. Fat Carlos was face down in the mystery meat for less than five minutes before they mistakenly retaliated against the Chicano Playeros in the weight room with a handful of shanks and a homemade taser.

  Marquell’s Black Lords soon filled the power vacuum and the inner city Machiavelli led a massacre. With a stratospheric IQ and no morality to speak of, Marquell was capable of anything. He could’ve been somebody, given a different upbringing. Now he sat in a squalid ten-by-ten cell awaiting summary execution, all because one of his homeboys dropped a dime to avoid a five-year stretch.

  He instantly snapped back into the present as footsteps echoed down the hallway.

  Warden McCabe often joked about building the prison inside the ghetto in order to save on gas money. No one ever said he had a sense of humor. What he did have was a powerful drive for money, and like Marquell, a total lack of scruples. Working with the governor and mayor to tear down blighted neighborhoods for the maximum-security prison was a major coup and the project was completed in record time. Of course, several sweetheart deals made in the process didn’t hurt.

  He already treated the inmates like roaches and after martial law failed, stomping them was the logical choice. With the breakdown of society complete, he was the law, and the soon-to-be empty prison would be his personal domain. Filling it with wealthy tenants was his next step, though he wasn’t interested in cash, titles or deeds. Gold would be king, and the helicopters landing in the yard were loaded with suitcases of bullion and uncirculated coins.

  For now though, he focused on another vice – revenge. “Have you heard the good news, Mr. Washington? You’re scheduled for early release,” Warden McCabe said in a friendly manner, his smile far too wide. The fake smile evaporated. “Actually, I wanted to tell you in person that Isaac and Slick Luke are not with us any longer. It seems their accommodations were needed by people that were actually worth a shit.”

  Marquell was stunned by the news of his lieutenants’ deaths but kept his emotions in check. “You’re right, those niggas weren’t worth a shit.”

  “Not the sentimental type I see. Nonetheless, you’ll be seeing them shortly,” the warden said softly, as if speaking to a child. “Your schemes have been a thorn in my side like you wouldn’t believe. And staging that riot on Christmas last year, that really was over the top.”

  “I ain’t done scheming yet, bitch.”

  “Oh but you are. Have you ever owned a pet?” Marquell ignored the question. “No, I don’t suppose you would have, being a member of the permanent underclass. I myself had a pet snake growing up. A python, actually. Once a month I’d put a hamster down in its cage. For a while it would keep doing typical hamster things, nibbling on lettuce, wriggling his little nose, totally oblivious to the danger.”

  “Cool story, bro.”

  “Eventually, the hamster would see the snake and freeze, you see, his little brain couldn’t comprehend the reality staring him in his teeny tiny face. Then he would snap out of his denial and run around in circles, looking for an exit. Of course, he wouldn’t find one, and so his next step would be to squeal and squeal and squeal, hoping I’d rescue him.”

  Marquell turned his back as the warden continued. “Realizing help wasn’t coming, he’d frantically dig at the floor. Digging, digging, digging, like he could tunnel out through the glass.” He glanced at his shiny Vacheron Constantin, a watch far too expensive for an honest federal employee. “Look at the time. I need to greet some minor celebrities at the helicopter pad. Paying guests, you understand.”

  The shotgun blasts picked up again in the distance and were even closer this time. Having gloated sufficiently, Warden McCabe began to walk away and then paused for a moment. “Oh, and one more thing. Start digging.”

  Alone again in the dark, Marquell did indeed go full-hamster as the pressure hit him square on. “I can’t go out like this!” he screamed while ripping up his bed, looking for something, anything he could use. For what purpose, he had no clue.

  He pounded on the cell door with all his might, but it didn’t budge. So Marquell turned, and, in an astonishing feat of strength, ripped the metal toilet from the floor. It too clanged off the door uselessly as cold water pooled around him.

  Marquell could hear Steve, the prison’s most demented guard, taunting his victims while reloading, “Don’t worry, dirtballs, I got enough for everyone.”

  Footsteps approached once again and Marquell’s broad shoulders slumped. Lights out.

  Only it wasn’t Steve.

  An angelic voice whispered to him from the shadows. “I’m springing you, baby.” It was Susan, his counselor and pseudo-love interest.

  The cell door clanked open and Marquell stepped cautiously into the hallway as Susan threw her arms around his muscular frame. “You know I wouldn’t leave you.”

  Marquell smirked as he realized all his planning, tactics and ruthlessness hadn’t mattered one bit. In the end, it was his love of fat women that saved the day. “Let me hold that flashlight, in case we run into trouble.”

  She handed it over and he gripped the Maglite tightly. The weight and smoothness felt oddly comforting in his hands. “There’s one more thing, what’s the cell block code?”

  Susan realized for the first time that Marquell might not be the sweet-talking cuddle-bunny of her dreams. She ignored the chill creeping down her spine. “I don’t know it and—” Susan’s words were cut short as the Maglite crashed heavily into her jaw. The impact turned the flashlight on, and a stream of teeth and blood glittered momentarily in the beam before falling out of sight.

  He yanked Susan from the floor by her hair. “What’s the fucking code?”

  She sputtered it out between sobs, and Marquell dumped her to the ground like a piece of garbage. Things were about to get interesting for prisoner 10046.

  Chapter 14

  Clown-Car Cluster-Fuck

  Blake’s hands trembled as he opened the back door to his fiancée’s apartment, his optimism already robbed by the discovery of a shattered balcony window. They quickly fanned out and found signs of a raucous bachelorette party, but no girls.

  “Guys, come out here,” Cliff said ominously from the living room. There was a large, dark red puddle in the middle of the carpet. Blood red.

  Jim sank to his knees. “Oh no. No, no, no.”

  Blake stuck a finger into the liquid, sniffed it, and then put it to his lips. “Relax, it’s red wine.”

  “Quick, grab some seltzer water,” Cliff said, cutting the tension down noticeably. “The girls must have left.”

  They were so relieved in fact, that nobody saw the G-string wearing man coming down the stairwell behind them, and the muscle-bound stripper pounced on Cliff in an instant.

  “What the hell?” the banker said as the weight landed squarely on his back.

  Blake raised his weapon to fire.

  Click.

  To nobody’s surprise, the shady-looking gun Smokey had purchased for a twenty-sack of weed and a cracked water bong failed miserably.

  Cliff tried to fling the bigger man off him while Blake grabbed a nearby barstool and bashed at the spray-tanned assailant, accomplishing little as the slippery man ignored the blows and focused on his squirming prey.

  Jim put his gun to the back of the stripper’s head and pulled the trigger. The exit wound spewed Blake with gore and the spent bullet struck him square in the chest, knocking him down.

  “I’m hit,” he said while instinctively reaching for the injury. But the bullet had slowed just enough, and there wasn’t one.

  “Thank God.” Jim lifted his friend up and turned to a visibly shaken Cliff. “You okay?”

  “Good thing I had
my coat on. Men’s Warehouse. Fuck yeah I like how I look,” he said with a nervous laugh.

  Blake pointed to the body. “And what was this asshole doing here?”

  “I can give you two guesses, but you’ll only need one,” Cliff answered.

  “Pretty cocky for a guy that just got tea-bagged a minute ago,” Blake said. “Anyways, don’t tell the guys about the stripper. We’ll never hear the end of it.”

  Jim shook his head. “My wife and your fiancée are nowhere to be found, and that’s what you’re worried about?”

  There was a loud crashing noise downstairs as a crowd ran through the front door at full speed. The gunshot had gained unwanted attention and the mob began storming one apartment after another.

  Cliff threw his hands up in the air. “Really?”

  Blake took the lead. “Grab whatever we can and let’s go out the back.” They ransacked the fridge and rustled up a dozen frozen dinners, some bottled water and a half-eaten penis-shaped cake.

  “This is it?” Cliff asked.

  “Jen doesn’t cook, and this is Chicago. You know there’s a restaurant on every block.” Blake searched for something in the back of the fridge. “Where the hell is it?” he mumbled under his breath.

  Cliff peeked around his shoulder. “Do you need help finding something?”

  “It’s nothing,” Blake said and then followed the others outside. Now all they had to do was make it to the car and navigate past about a thousand bloodthirsty savages. Piece of cake. Piece of penis cake.

  * * *

  “Give it a rest. You’re not coming in,” Charlie said out the window. The men had shoved a couch between the door and the stairwell, but it still threatened to cave in at any moment as more cannibals crowded onto the porch.

  “We need to clear a path for Jim and the others,” Trent said. “It’s looking like the welfare office at the first of the month out there.”

  “Do you think you can shoot a few?” Bruce said. “Thin the herd out so to speak.”