Floyd & Mikki (Book 1): Zombie Hunters (Love Should Be Explosive!) (11 page)

The next morning, Floyd got up late. Zeke was sitting at the table along the wall playing solitaire with an old, weathered deck of cards. Mikki was already up and playing
Doom
. If she died and went to heaven, she would be sitting at that computer for all eternity with an unlimited number of levels, playing in God Mode.

“Did you hear anything strange last night, Zeke?” Floyd asked.

“Hell no. I don’t hear much of nothin’ anyways. Why?”

“I heard something in the wall behind the bathroom, but I couldn’t figure it out.”

“Ah! Yeah, don’t worry about that. The AC equipment is back there. It gets hot and cold, so the walls kind of shift back there. Mr. Gregory told me about it once. Nothin’ to worry about.”

Floyd was relieved, if not fully convinced. He had a developed a robust paranoia over the years that was hard to let go. Of course, you’re not really paranoid if pretty much everything in the whole freaking world really was out to kill you.

Floyd and Mikki suited up and headed out. Floyd had to admire again how damn good they both looked in their new outfits. More importantly, they were protected from pretty much any odd creeper threat that might come along. Every inch of their bodies was covered and armored, yet the form-fitting outfits felt great and looked incredibly sexy. He had refitted his bandolier straps to match the new outfit, covering them in a liquid black rubber paint Zeke had given him to protect it from the elements. Floyd took the opportunity to make Mikki a crossover bandolier as well, with some leather scraps Zeke had lying around.

Zeke offered to sharpen their machetes while they were out, so Floyd and Mikki left them in the safe room. The shotguns and assortment of pistols they carried should be enough to handle any difficulties for the day.

They found a few more zombie raiders wandering inside darkened stores and blew them away with their shotguns, but the two weren’t interested in any of the stores today. They returned to inspect Floyd’s truck (which was undisturbed), then loaded empty gasoline cans and a siphon onto the little wagon they had brought with them.

Making their way through the streets, they inspected each car and siphoned gas from any vehicle that didn’t have a ruptured tank. After returning to Freedom, they traded the full gas cans for empty water bottles, planning to fill them up back at Zeke’s.

Neither Floyd nor Mikki mentioned the incident in the shower. Mikki acted as though nothing had happened, and Floyd felt too awkward to bring it up. He wasn’t even sure if he even wanted to know the answers to the questions that ran screaming through his skull. Mikki removed her helmet, lit up a cigarette she pulled from her nice, new black backpack, and took a few puffs.

“You know those things’ll kill you, right?’ Floyd warned.

“Yeah, when I’m 80. If nothin’ else kills me first. And they won’t turn me undead.”

Floyd couldn’t argue with that logic. They saw another zombie lurking in the shadows of a shop they were passing. Mikki nonchalantly blew its head off with Lucy without breaking her stride. Floyd didn’t bother to look. The same thing happened a couple of stores down.

Boom! Boom!
Two less creepers to worry about.

“Hey, Floyd, let’s pick up some more zombie cakes.”

“Aright.”

Leaving the wagon outside, Mikki dropped the cig, donned her helmet, and they entered the darkened supermarket side-by-side, with Floyd on the right. He blew away a creeper on his side as they entered. “What aisle do you think they’ll be on?”

“Well, the sign says…”

Boom!

Lucy claimed another creeper that popped up from behind the cash register. “…snack food, aisle five.”

“On your left,” Floyd said.

Boom!

Zombie brains splattered all over the liquor aisle. “I seen him,” Mikki explained. “Aisle seven, Floyd.”

Boom!

“Thanks, Mikki.”

“Anytime.” She pulled some shotgun shells from a fanny pack she wore on the side and shoveled them into Lucy. “Looks like cakes are at the end of the aisle.”

As they approached the opposite end of the aisle, Mikki said, “Deli case. Your side.”

“On it.”

Boom!

“Another one bites the dust,” Floyd sang badly. The blast woke up a few more, who came out of the back and lined up behind the deli case, trying to find a way around or over. The case itself was filled with long-shriveled meat.

“Cool,” Said Mikki. “Zombie shooting gallery.”

Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!
They took turns shooting the heads above the case.

“Your side!” called Floyd, and Mikki blew away a creeper on her left just as Floyd dispatched one on the right. They both had come up from the end of the aisles and headed in the pair’s direction.

“Oh, there they are!” Mikki found the Twinkies on an end cap of the aisle behind them. “You like HoHos, Floyd?”

“Sure, why not.”

“Cover me.”

Mikki tucked Lucy into the crook of her arm and grabbed three boxes each. Floyd blew away another brain-eater as it came around the far corner.

“I never really liked me the Ding Dongs,” Mikki mused.

“Me neither,” Floyd agreed, spinning around to take out a gray-jumpsuited brain-eater. “Well, I think we found the rest of the raiders. Last four brain-eaters had them gray jumpsuits Zeke talked about.”

“Yeah I noticed that. Nice shootin’ Floyd.”

“Thanks, Mikki. You, too.”

“You know zombies don’t really eat brains, right?”

“Yeah, I know. We had this conversation before. They’re dead so they don’t need to eat.”

Boom!
Floyd dispatched another one.

“I wonder if the soda’s any good,” Mikki mused aloud. “It’s been sittin’ here a while, but we got a fridge back at Zeke’s. Sure would be nice to have an ice cold Coke again.”

“Funny,” Floyd responded, popping off another head that seemed to come out of nowhere with Ol’ Faithful, as they rounded a corner aisle, “I would have thought of you as a Pepsi Girl. Diet Pepsi.”

“Oh, yuck! That diet shit is gross! Back corner.”

Floyd pulled one of his pistols and shot a couple rounds into the thing’s head. “I could use a cold beer,” he said. “But I wouldn’t wanna trust a can that’s been sitting in the heat for two years. Refrigeration clearly isn’t working in here.” He holstered the pistol and poured more shot shells into Ol’ Faithful.

“How can you drink that stuff? Tastes like piss.”

They exited the store and added the snack food boxes to the empty water bottles. Mikki took Lucy in both hands.

Boom! Boom! Boom!
She fired off a few rounds back into the store.

“Nobody likes the taste at first. You gotta get used to it.”

Boom!
Floyd fired off into a creeper emerging from the store across the street, while Mikki tagged the outside of the store with their logo.

“Now why in the hell would I want to get used to something I don’t like in the first place, just so I can get drunk, which I don’t want to do anyways?”

Floyd pulled the wagon with his left hand, with Ol’ Faithful perched comfortably on his right shoulder. “Hell, I don’t really know, when you put it that way. I’ll say this though: ain’t nothin’ like an ice cold beer after a long hard day of work.”

“Yeah, ain’t nothin’ like the clap, too, but I don’t want that, neither. You don’t got nothin’ like that, do ya, Floyd?”

“Nope.”

“Didn’t think so. Good to know.”

And that was as close as they ever got to discussing the shower incident.

The two took the water bottles and grocery items back to the safe room. They planned to refill the water bottles and head right out again. As soon as they entered, Zeke covered up his special project again, and he handed back their machetes. Gleaming bright, with a wicked sharp edge. Floyd asked him about the lockers.

“Oh, that’s the special gear,” Zeke answered. “I told you we was workin’ on some stuff for the government. Like this one right here.” He held up the machine gun he had aimed at Floyd when they first met. “Mini Uzi. Fold-out stock. Specially modified clip and ammo. Original version took two seconds to switch a clip. I reengineered the mechanism to get that down to half a second.”

Zeke popped out the magazine so Floyd could view the nose of the first bullet. “See that red gel inside the hollow-point? Incendiary round. See the notches around the nose? Produces fiery shrapnel. One bullet will blow a person in two, set em’ on fire, and shoot through two or three other enemies if they’re close enough. High charge o’ powder, too. 32 rounds per clip, 1,000 rounds per minute fire rate, so you pull the trigger in short bursts or use the single-fire select switch. Got a whole bag fulla clips hangin’ on the wall over there.” He pointed to an old olive green army bag hanging on the wall, next to the first locker.

“Any chance we can see what’s in the lockers?” Floyd asked.

“Anything useful for killin’ zombies?” Mikki asked.

“Now that you mention it, there might be a couple items in there you would find useful. Not sure what Mr. Gregory kept in there. I built all the special weaponry on my workbench here, but what he kept in those lockers and what he sent up to the armory at the nuke plant, I have no idea. I don’t think Mr. Gregory would mind you takin’ a peek, though. Just gotta get the key from him.

“The key?” asked Floyd.

“Yeah,” answered Zeke.

“From Mr. Gregory?”

“Yeah,” answered Zeke.

“You mean the guy we just
buried?
” Mikki asked.

Zeke’s big smile suddenly transformed to one of total embarrassment. “Oh, yeah,” he said eventually. “That would pose kind of a problem, wouldn’t it?”

“Kinda. Yeah!” Mikki said with disgust. She bit her tongue. She was pissed, but she knew Zeke meant swell, and after all, he had taken them in. No point insulting an old man.

“Well, we gotta fill up these water bottles and get them back to the truck,” Floyd said, changing the subject.

“You guys still plannin’ on leavin’?” Zeke asked.

“Yeah, eventually. Gotta find out if this place in California is real or not. Either way, we’ll come back for you. That’s a promise.”

“You really are good people. It’s funny. I never really been on my own before. Always had Mr. Gregory to talk to. Or listen to, I should say. Lord, that man could talk! Babble really. Got worse towards the end. He couldn’t handle what been goin’ on out there. I suppose in some ways, them raiders did him a favor. Ah, well, you two best be going while there’s still daylight left.”

They filled the water bottles and made it to the truck without any incident, but there was still daylight left, and they weren’t quite ready to go back to the safe room. Neither one wanted to be cooped up in that room again just yet. It might be safe, but it also felt like a prison. In many ways, it was.

Leaving the little red wagon by the truck, they headed off down the street toward a residential neighborhood in the east. There were about 12 houses in this area scattered over a low hill. Other than the wind blowing lightly, there was no sound anywhere. The remnants of a torn American flag hung from a pole outside one of the houses.

It was a sad scene. Just a few years ago, dogs would have been barking and children would have been playing. There was an empty playground with an assortment of playthings for kids, all of them sitting idle. The only movement came from the swings that were gently swaying in the breeze.

Floyd headed over to the flagpole. He lowered the flag, turned it upside down, and raised it back up.

“Ain’t that kinda disrespectful?” Mikki asked.

“No. It’s actually the right thing to do. You fly the flag upside down to show you’re in great distress. I reckon this is just about as great a distress as people can get.”

“Got that right.”

Floyd walked over to the front window and peered inside. None of the windows were broken in this neighborhood. Floyd wasn’t sure what to make of it. The sun was at the wrong angle, so it was too dark inside through the dusty white lace curtains to see anything.

He tried the doorknob and it wasn’t locked. He nodded to Mikki, who took her position in the center in front of the door, aiming her shotgun at the door and ready for anything. The door opened inward, so Floyd twisted the knob, then threw it open and stepped back.

BOOM!

Mikki went flying backward and skidded about three feet on her back.

“Mikki!” Floyd screamed, but she didn’t move. He quickly spun around, Ol’ Faithful in his hands, looking for any sign of movement inside the darkened house. What he saw was a double-barreled shotgun rigged to blow away anyone—or anything—that opened the door. In this case, it was Mikki.

Floyd ran to her side as she lay there, motionless. He quickly unzipped her jacket and pulled it open. There was no blood on her new white cotton T-shirt. He saw she was wearing the rosary she had taken from the priest around her neck. She was breathing! Thank, God!

Mikki let out a moan. Floyd helped her sit up and asked, “How do you feel?”

“Like I just got hit in the tits with a baseball bat.”

“Pretty close. Shotgun blast. Door was booby trapped.”

“Yeah. My boobies.”

They both broke out laughing so hard it was difficult to stop. Mikki winced at the pain her own laughter caused.

“Does it hurt bad?” Floyd asked as he helped her to her feet.

“Let me kick you in the nuts and see how you feel.”

“No thanks. Looks like the Kevlar worked, though,” Floyd opined. “We are definitely keeping these outfits.”

“Oh hell yeah! I look damn good in this stuff!” Mikki said. She twisted her body wrong and grimaced in pain. “Damn my tits hurt!”

Floyd wanted to offer to massage them for her later, but he didn’t dare. Mikki zipped herself up, adjusted her weapons belt, and headed toward the door. “Well that’s a new one,” she said at last, pointing to the rigged shotgun.

“Hey, wait a minute! You’re not actually going in there, are you?”

“Damn right! I just took a couple rounds of buckshot in the chest. I’m gonna find out what it was all about. Lucky it didn’t ruin my new jacket, or I’d be really pissed!”

She looked around the room, her eyes adjusting to the dark. She saw several bear traps scattered around the room and pointed them out to Floyd. “Those could be useful sometime,” she said.

Floyd disarmed the traps so they could walk about freely. The far wall had a closed door at the left and a staircase up on the right. Mikki cracked the door ever so slightly and saw a piece of string. “Cool!” she said, reaching in carefully with one skinny arm while opening the door as little as possible. She yanked her arm down and showed Floyd her prize.

“Another hand grenade!” she said, smiling brightly. She untied a string that would have pulled the pin from the grenade if the door had been opened any wider and hung the grenade on her belt.

“You sure do love blowin’ shit up, don’t you?”

“A girl’s gotta have a hobby.”

The door led to the kitchen. The light was on and the refrigerator was humming. She opened it carefully and squealed softly with delight. She pulled out a cold can of Cherry Coke, popped the top and drank it down.

“There is a God, Floyd! And he likes me! Sorry, no beer. I guess he don’t like you.”

From the looks of the rest of the food in the refrigerator, nobody had eaten anything in a while. Everything was moldy and rancid.

“Quite a science experiment going on in there,” Floyd quipped. “Let me know if you get an infection. It’s growing penicillin.”

They went back through the living room. About a dozen pictures of a happy family lined the walls. Babies, kids, high school graduations, marriages. No doubt all the same four kids. Several pictures of mom and dad from when they first met and through various stages of life, heading into old age.

There were three bedrooms on the top floor. The first two were empty. So was the bathroom. Nothing hiding in the linen closets. As they approached the last bedroom at the end of the hall, they smelled the stale stench of death. Not zombie death. Death death.

There were no traps on the door, but several more bear traps were scattered around the bed. The owner of the house lay sitting up in bed, a shotgun on his knees. Obviously dead for quite a while, because the smell wasn’t too strong. A couple of plastic medicine bottles were on the table beside him, along with an empty glass that probably once had held water. Or dentures. There were no flies around the body. Flies had died off long ago.

“Well, he was determined to survive,” Floyd mused, as he disarmed the bear traps.

“Lotta good it did him,” said Mikki, as she pulled a metal box out from under the bed.

The box was full of money and jewelry. All totally worthless. The jewelry was real gold and diamonds, but it was all old lady stuff. Nothing she would wear.

“Check this out, Mikki.” Floyd pointed to a box on the wall that contained several military medals encased in glass, including a Purple Heart and a Silver Star. The engraving at the bottom said, “To Dad. You will always be our hero.”

Next, the two looked in the closet. Nothing but dusty clothes on the racks and shoes on the floor, but there was a large ammo box on the top shelf. Floyd pulled it down and found a couple boxes of shotgun shells (wrong size for their weapons) and a couple more grenades.

“I call dibs!” said Mikki.

“You can’t call dibs on hand grenades!” Floyd insisted.

“I just did! Dibs! There, I called it again!”

Floyd just laughed and handed them over to her. She sat down, took out a small bottle of red nail polish from her pack, and started painting them with their logo. Floyd looked out the window, smiling.

Nothing at all was moving for as far as the eye could see. No birds, no animals, no zombies, nothing. The sun was nearing the horizon. Time to head back.