Dead Drunk II: Dawn of the Deadbeats (Dead Drunk: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse... One Beer at a Time Book 2), Page 3

  Sam walked over and pulled the twitching creature off the nun. Up close, it smelled even worse than it looked. The infected man shuddered once before ultimately escaping the purgatory he’d been trapped in, and a state of peace appeared on his withered husk of a face.

  “There’s your zompy right there, lady,” Charlie said.

  Rob ruffled Sam’s shaggy brown hair. “Nice shooting, Tex.”

  “That’s the first one I actually hit,” he said, beaming with pride.

  The Mother Superior rose from the ground and smoothed out her clothing before taking a deep breath.

  “He’s the priest from town. Now I know why he never bothered showing up for his annual summer visit.”

  “Sorry,” Charlie said.

  “He was a blowhard.” Mother Agnes pointed to Left-Nut, still comatose, as her godly vows finally kicked in. “Let’s get the injured one inside and see what we can do. We are healers, after all.”

  The disfigured and barefoot nun opened the door from the inside and greeted her much older superior with a nod. Oddly enough, the woman didn’t say anything about the deadly encounter she’d just witnessed, but her eyes were a mile wide.

  “You can’t come in past the entryway. This is a cloistered convent.” The men looked at her as if she were speaking Aramaic. “It means we don’t allow visitors. This is a quiet place of prayer, reflective thought, repentance, and most importantly, solitude.”

  Of course, it was at that moment Left-Nut woke up from his punch-induced slumber.

  “Ouch, my fucking leg! And where’s that horse-cock motherfucker Rob at? That shithead sucker punched me in the god-damned mouth. I’m gonna blow his stupid nuts off!” He caught a glimpse of the scarred nun’s good side and his disposition changed instantly. “Ooh, hello.”

  Charlie looked at Sam. “See, I told you. Total creeper.”

  Chapter 4: Three Amigos

  Russ chewed happily on Ace’s warm flesh before shaking his head like a man waking up from a nightmare. “Aw shit, what did I just do?”

  “You ate my friend, that’s what you did,” Marquell said, puffing up but not getting too loud in the process. He was unwilling to let his anger alert the nearby sharpshooter, though it didn’t really matter right now. Said sharpshooter was about to have his first orgasm in months and wasn’t worried about their plight in the least bit.

  Russ bowed his head and pointed to a bullet wound on the expired man’s gut. “I just couldn’t help myself. Must be a side effect or whatnot. He was gonna die anyways though, honest.”

  Trent whistled at them both and pointed to the horde of zombies charging up the road. “We’ll sort this out later, but we gotta go. Marquell, you can either come with us or climb back up on that cross. Your pick.”

  “Fine, but I’m not riding with that crazy motherfucker. Did you see what he just did?”

  Russ climbed down while sucking the blood off his fingers like sticky syrup. “I’m not hungry now, brother, I just ate.”

  “See? Dude’s crazy. No, I’m riding with you,” Marquell said and walked next to Trent, keeping a wary eye on Russ the entire time.

  “Climb aboard then, cupcake,” Trent said and brushed the seat off behind him as if cleaning it for a girlfriend.

  With no time to spare they fired up their motorcycles and took off, all thinking about different things. Trent was seriously questioning his decision to stop, Marquell was trying to calm himself down, and Russ was wondering if he could reach the bottle of whiskey behind him without crashing his chopper.

  Soon their thinking converged to one topic, and it was where in the hell should they go next. More roadblocks, fires, and the growing army of cannibals rapidly cut down their options.

  The two motorcycles pulled up next to each other and Trent turned to Marquell. “I’m stumped. How well do you know the city?”

  “Like nobody else. I used to own these streets. We need to head three blocks north, and then two west.”

  “I’m listening, but then what?” Trent asked while Russ took advantage of the brief pause in action to scratch Elvis’s head and take a swig of the brown stuff as a palate cleanser. The raccoon cooed with pleasure and pushed its body farther into Russ’s four-fingered hand. Zombie Cliff had eaten the missing digit the day before, but it hadn’t seemed to slow the man down much.

  “There’s an old steel mill right there with a TARP entrance inside. I had some underlings making meth for me in the tunnels there.”

  “TARP tunnels?” Trent asked. “Never heard of ‘em.”

  “Water drainage tunnels. Damn deep and thirty feet wide. We can take them all the way out of the city. No muss, no fuss.”

  “I hope you know what you’re talking about. Russ, come on.”

  In a few minutes, the trio pulled up to the mill and parked their motorcycles by the front door. The change in plans was a big one, and Trent was hesitant about listening to their new “friend.” But they simply had no other options. The next dead end would have been a literal one, and the cop started panicking on the inside.

  They shut the door behind them and entered a long, empty hallway. Trent turned on his police-issued Maglite and led the way while Marquell kept a safe distance from Russ. He was still fuming about the ignominious end to his friend’s life, and once the trio came into the plant cafeteria, Marquell stopped.

  “Before we go any farther, y’all have some explaining to do. Like, what’s going on with that peckerwood right there?”

  “Russ is… a little under the weather,” Trent said.

  “That’s what you sick bastards call it? Look, you better be one hundred with me. No bull, and I’m not playing.”

  “He’s infected, sort of,” Trent said. “Not like the dumb-fucks running around eating people. I guess he’s still a dumb-fuck running around eating people, but not like the other ones. He can talk.”

  “Gee, thanks for your kind words,” Russ mumbled, proving that, indeed, zombies can have feelings.

  “Anyways, we think he might be the cure to ending this whole thing, like in the movies. So we’re trying to get him to some scientists or military base or whatever.” Marquell smirked and Trent lost his cool. “You got any better ideas, asshole? At least we’re trying to come up with something.”

  “Your child-like interpretations of communicable diseases are a joke and your escape plan was dog shit too. Couple of simpletons.” Marquell was stirring the pot deliberately now to test their mettle and gage their response. The master manipulator could usually get others to react precisely as he wanted.

  Trent took the bait and his temperature started rising. “A little gratitude would be nice.” He moved a hand to his holstered weapon. “We did cut you down. You were just zombie bait without us.”

  “Lordy, Lordy, thank you, thank you. If I’m lucky, someday I’ll get to come in from the fields on a rainy day and mend your shoes by the campfire. Maybe even sing some hymns.”

  “Typical,” the cop said dryly. Old habits die hard, especially for jerk-wads like Trent.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Marquell said and grinned on the inside. It hadn’t taken him long to find the man’s weakness.

  “Just what I said, typical. Your kind are always unthankful. We should have picked our own damned cotton five hundred years ago. Ain’t that right, Russ?”

  Marquell snorted. “Your historical knowledge is dog shit too. And I was the one behind bars? Talk about an unjust society.”

  “That was a good home for you. How about we take you back? That’s right, back to where somebody beat your ass and tied you up like a chocolate sacrifice to King Kong.”

  “Oh, I’m done with that place,” Marquell said. “And don’t think I didn’t recognize you from yesterday. You’re the buster that boned out when shit was getting real. Left your friends to fend for themselves. You served and protected the hell out of them, didn’t you?”

  Trent was speechless for the first time in a while and Russ finally jumped in.

 
“Both of you need to cut the crap. Elvis and I are sick of listening to it.” Russ punctuated this point by taking a slug of whiskey. “And frankly, I’m getting bored.”

  “Fine, let’s hear your masterful escape plan, Marquell,” Trent said, eager to change the subject. “Like with these tunnels, are they gonna be full of water and crap? Did you think that through, genius?”

  “No man, the tunnels aren’t fully connected to the system yet so they should be empty still. One hundred plus miles of concrete tunnels. We’re only going twenty, though.”

  “And how do you know about this shit anyways?” Trent said.

  “Bored,” Russ interjected with a huff.

  “This was my planned escape route from prison if I ever got the chance,” Marquell said, then paused. “I guess I did get the chance. Anyway, should be maps all along the walls down there and safety stations with emergency food, water and flashlights. I had my cookers scouting the place out for me. Bunch of idiots, but they made me money.”

  “Not bad,” Trent said, feeling like he’d made the right decision after all. “But what happens when we leave the tunnel?”

  “See, that’s where my plan really takes shape. We pop out and find a vehicle, then drive to a small airport not too far from the city. I had some pilots who were junkies, and they made runs for me so they could wet their beaks. I bet one of those planes is still there, and I know where the keys are. We grab it and fly to wherever we damned want. Oh, and there might be some meth left behind in the tunnels, too. Can use that for barter along the way.”

  Trent’s eyes widened and his teeth clenched slightly at the mention of the drugs, and Marquell saw the cop’s other major weakness. This would be easier than he thought.

  “I take it you can fly?” Trent asked as they entered yet another empty room, finding countless cobwebs and storage lockers. The smell of mildew was thick and the air felt dirty.

  “Never have, but I could play flight simulator when I was high on some dank-ass weed. The real thing can’t be much harder. It’s just pitch control, banking, power control and shit like that.”

  “And landing,” Russ added, becoming the unlikely voice of reason.

  “I find your lack of motherfuckin’ faith disturbing.”

  A smile crossed the trucker’s lips that was off putting when paired with his vacant eyes. “Hey, that’s from Star Wars. Are you a fan?”

  Marquell grinned back, showing off the charming side he could produce at will – the hallmark of a true psychopath. “You damn right. Baron Lando Calrissian was a pimp. If that shit was real, though, he’d a turned Princess Leia out in a minute.”

  “God, I thought I was done with the dumbass conversations,” Trent said with a groan. “Let’s move.”

  “Not as long as I’m around,” Russ said. “Marquell, you kinda remind me of a young Eddie Murphy, before the tranny incident. Not judging him, mind you, I had my own run-ins with a few over the years when I hauled gravel for a living. You gotta, and I repeat, gotta check for the Adam’s apple. That’s always a dead giveaway.”

  “Eddie Murphy? What decade do you think this is? You achy breaky vampire motherfucker—”

  “Zombie,” Russ corrected him emphatically, very proud of his affliction.

  Marquell shut his mouth and followed them farther into the maze of rooms, content to put up with their insults and ridiculous actions for now. He’d gain their trust, learn their idiosyncrasies, and even entertain them if he had to. But when the time was right, Marquell would kill them without a second thought.

  Chapter 5: Girls’ Night Out

  Cindy hung up her phone and looked at the other girls in the bachelorette party with a bemused expression on her lovely face. “Jim just told me they’re at a pizza place right now. The funny thing is I could hear the distinct sounds of a strip club in the background. I could almost smell the cotton candy perfume.”

  Jen, the bachelorette and Blake’s fiancée, took out her own phone. “Yeah, he’s full of shit. Watch this,” she said and placed a call of her own, taking a drink of her umpteenth martini as she let it ring.

  In the midst of getting a lap dance at The Sugar Shack, Blake picked up and did his best impression of a bored, sober guy. “Yeah, we’re at a taco place at the moment, getting ready to turn in after we grab some nachos. It’s been a pretty lame night.” In the background, someone shouted obscenities in broken English. Something about Cheetos and boobs.

  “Sounds kind of loud for a taco place,” Jen said.

  “It’s one of those late night—”

  There was a fumbling sound over the phone and a man with a thick accent got on. “I have a hairy balls.” It was Vidu. Drunk, horny, angry, and a bit confused. Just a normal Friday night.

  Jen rolled her eyes and hung up, not realizing it would be the last time she ever talked to her fiancé. “Yeah, they’re totally at a strip club.”

  The group of women had enjoyed their own wild night of partying and recently returned to Jen’s condo to wind down. Still, it hadn’t been completely wild. Lots of flirting, some sitting on laps, a few makeout sessions, but not the pants-crapping insane bender the guys were currently having.

  “You don’t seem that pissed. I’m fuming over here,” Cindy said as she fought the urge to call her husband again. The pregnant fitness instructor was the sole sober one of the group and was currently thinking up numerous ways to make Jim miserable over his indiscretions. Withholding sex was always an old standby. Minimal effort, maximum payback.

  Jen shrugged. “Boys will be boys.”

  Jackie, Jen’s maid of honor, came in from the kitchen with a freshly opened bottle of red wine. “If I catch Bruce up to no good I’ll send his pasty butt packing in a heartbeat. Once that business starts, it never stops.” The Southside native and daughter of a former congressman had an authoritative air about her, and what she said was definitely not a bluff. “But who goes out for hotdogs when you have steak at home? Am I right ladies?” she said and grabbed her own breasts for emphasis.

  “I’ll try a bit of that steak,” said Kelly, another friend, and tried to grab a boob, only to have Jackie playfully slap her hand away. Kelly was one-half of the identical twins known affectionately as the “Nut and the Slut.” She was the slut. By a mile. Her sister Monica had already passed out in a spare bedroom after downing too many shots of tequila. The poor girl never even made it to the bar and was now sleeping with her high heels on and a gum wrapper stuck to her forehead.

  “Seriously though, and I mean no offense, but Blake’s college friends are losers,” Jackie said. “Why does he even hang out with those guys?” She received an instant dirty look from Cindy. Her husband was one of those losers.

  “It’s one of those situations where he feels stuck with them. But to be honest, he won’t be seeing most of them after the wedding. I’ll see to that. They’re holding him back.” She looked to Cindy. “Not Jim, of course. He’s solid as a rock.”

  Now it was Padma’s turn to speak. She was Jen’s college roommate, a great friend, and even better trauma surgeon. “Blake’s friends are lame, but is it true what they say about Big Rob?”

  “What about him?’ Jen said.

  “That he’s hung like John Dillinger?”

  “I have no idea what that means, but you have my full attention,” Kelly said and Jen shrugged as well.

  “There was a story in our anatomy class about John Dillinger… you know, the famous bank robber? Anyways, there was a rumor that he was so big he had to have his pants specially tailored to fit his enormous junk. Supposedly after the cops killed him right here in Chicago, historians pickled the old pickle – for posterity, I‘m sure. Other rumors say it’s still floating around the Smithsonian somewhere.”

  Jen nodded. “I’m pretty sure it’s true. Rob’s about the size of Shaquille O’Neal, so if he’s just proportionate… but the guy’s a total teddy bear and kind of a simpleton, so he probably wouldn’t know what to do with it anyway.”

  “I can
show him,” Kelly said with an impish grin. “But speaking of Blake’s friends, weren’t you going to set Padma up with that Vidu guy?” The dark-skinned beauty threw a pillow at Kelly and she almost spilled her beer.

  “Watch it, hookers. You spill, you pay,” Jen said and eyed her white carpet for any damage.

  Padma was not finished. “Just because I’m Indian doesn’t mean I’d date that guy because he’s Sri Lankan. Not to mention he’s a complete moron. I only met him briefly, but I’d swear that guy is inbred. Besides—”

  The conversation was interrupted by the loud buzz of the intercom system. “Miko’s delivery,” came the voice on the other end.

  “Awesome, it’s the Greek I ordered,” Jen said and buzzed him up. “Sorry, but the penis cake you guys bought wasn’t cutting it for me.” She answered the door a minute later and let the man inside. “Just put it on the counter.”

  The short and tan deliveryman set a large paper sack down and smiled heartily, looking like he’d come directly from the Jersey Shore.

  “Oh, this guy looks legit,” Padma said.

  At that moment the man ripped his detachable pants off lightning quick and pushed play on the boom box disguised as takeout. “Did somebody order kielbasa?”

  Cindy’s mouth shot open in disbelief as the stripper’s sweatpants hit the floor. “Are you serious?”

  “Girls will be girls,” Jen said and finished her martini with a monster gulp as Kelly turned the volume up on the boom box.

  The fast-moving Greek stripper wasted no time, and the aptly named Magic Miko was like a force of nature. He could pop it and lock it, do The Dougie, pelvic thrust like no other, and his rendition of The Running Man was priceless. And of course, there was his patented finishing move, The Wrecking Balls. Big Rob had been right earlier in the night after all because the bachelorette party did indeed have a big dong waving in their collective faces. And they loved every fake-tanned, spastic, oily second of it too.