Floyd & Mikki (Book 1): Zombie Hunters (Love Should Be Explosive!) (2 page)

As usual, only static came from the radio as Floyd sat on the roof, scanning AM and FM bands from one end of the spectrum to the other and back again. The portable radio had a hand crank that provided up to 30 minutes of power at a time for the receiver, a built-in flashlight and even a 120-volt electrical outlet. Floyd used it occasionally to keep his rechargeable batteries at full power, but even those batteries wouldn’t last forever, and the batteries he found on the shelves of abandoned supermarkets rarely registered more than half power on his battery tester.

Yes, life would only get harder in the years ahead, but Floyd was focused on the present. A momentary lack of focus at any second could mean a gruesome death, so Floyd planned as best he could for the future, but focused on the immediate dangers all around him. He had spent nearly a week at his home base, filling all the gas cans in the back of his truck, restocking his rations, refilling his water bottles, and reloading all his ammo clips. He had picked the area clean of anything useful for miles around, and it was time to move on.

Several months earlier, Floyd had picked up a radio signal. It was obviously an automated message as it kept repeating without deviation. He had been driving through New Mexico somewhere when a voice started crackling through the radio. It came out of nowhere, startling him so badly that he nearly ran off the road.

“...to New California Haven. We have power, clean water, housing and medical facilities. If you can hear this message, don’t lose hope! Your government has established a safe zone in Southern California. If you show no signs of the disease, we can provide you safe shelter, food and clean facilities. Make your way to New California Haven. We have power, clean water...”

Floyd had laughed to himself. Typical government bureaucracy crap.
If you show no signs of the disease
. What a joke! If anyone “showed signs of the disease,” they wouldn’t be able to understand the message in the first place. He hadn’t heard the message anywhere in this area, but if there was any chance that Humanity had survived the devastation, it was worth checking out. After all, Floyd had survived on his own with basically just a truck, Ol’ Faithful and his wits. Surely the feds and the military would have a better chance than he did.

Then again, Floyd hadn’t seen another living human being for nearly a year. Few of those who eluded the infection had the survival skills necessary to make it in a world where bottled sparkling water wasn’t trucked in to the local supermarket every day. Many had committed suicide rather than face the harsh reality of this dark world. The American Dream had become a hellish nightmare, and only the strongest could survive.

Of course, that was the other problem. Roving gangs fought each other for scraps and Floyd had learned to stay out of their way. One gang back in Amarillo tried to recruit him, and that hadn’t ended well (for them). He pretended to join them, acting all bad-ass until they trusted him enough to give him guard duty. At the first opportunity, he grabbed as many guns as he could carry—including Ol’ Faithful—and disappeared into the night.

Oh, she was a shiny new shotgun back then. Full barrel and unmodified stock. Floyd left silently, terrified that the gang would track him, find him and kill him when they found out he was gone. He needn’t have worried, however, for soon after he left his post unguarded, the entire camp was invaded. From quite a safe distance away, Floyd could hear the alarm sound, accompanied by screams and gunfire. And then...silence. Utter silence.

Floyd stared through his binoculars for hours, searching for any movement inside the camp. No one came looking for him. Eventually, he caught sight of some of the gang members, but they no longer posed any threat. They had already been initiated into a very different type of gang. Floyd turned away and never looked back.

No remorse. No sadness. The gang members had all lived like scum and they died like scum. They stole everything they could from anyone they found, living or dead. Now, none of the gold, jewelry, or weapons they had stolen had any value to them. God himself could no longer redeem their souls.

Deciding when to travel was always tricky. Nighttime held the most danger, but sleeping during the day left little time for travel before the sun set. Floyd’s truck helped to partially solve that problem, as the huge tires and the razor-sharp iron grill he had added to the front enabled him to drive at night, running over or through virtually anything that might get in his way. The windshield and windows were all made of unbreakable plastic he had picked up from an abandoned auto body shop, and the heavily modified engine was powerful enough to manage high speeds even with a full load of gasoline and water, not to mention the other survival gear he had squirreled away throughout the truck.

It was just about midnight when a little town came into view. Floyd stopped and looked at several maps, but the town wasn’t on it. It seemed to be just a few buildings and houses, but unlike his home base, this area was surrounded by trees.

Floyd hated trees. Things could hide behind trees. Things could hide up in trees. Things could drop down from hiding up in trees. Bad things. Horrible things. And you couldn’t always get a clear shot off in an area that had trees. Floyd avoided areas like this whenever he could.

He saw all the buildings were dark, as he looked through his binoculars from the relative safety of his cab. Nothing seemed to be moving. He considered stopping to scavenge one of the more promising buildings, but decided to move on.

Even from this distance, the place made his skin crawl, and Floyd had learned to trust his gut in these matters. He put the truck in gear and was ready to floor the gas pedal, when something caught his eye that would change his life forever.

He wasn’t even sure if he had even seen it at first. It frankly couldn’t be possible. He put the truck back into park and scoured the area again with his binoculars on the highest setting. He searched up and down every opening and walkway he could see throughout the little town.

“Oh, Floyd,” he muttered to himself. “What the hell are you doin’?”

But suddenly, there it was again! There could be no mistake. It was only a flash, but it was there. And it wasn’t just random. There was a definite purpose behind it. Somewhere down in that forgotten little town that existed on no map, there was a light.

“Oh crap!” Floyd exclaimed, as he turned off the engine.

He desperately wanted to throw the truck into high gear and burn rubber out of there, but he knew he couldn’t. Something highly unusual was going on in that town, and he had to find out what it was. He pulled a large metal briefcase from behind the passenger seat and opened the lid. It was armor time.

True, it was paintball armor, but it served Floyd’s purposes. Lightweight but durable hard plastic coverings for his forearms, upper arms, shins and thighs, as well as a breastplate and backplate. All had a series of angled slits for air circulation to prevent his body from overheating. The facemask offered a wide field of vision—including peripheral vision, which was critically important. Floyd had added a black plastic bowl under the straps to cover the back of his head. He also put on an old leather neck brace he had found along the way (neck attacks were the worst), and completed the ensemble with a thick pair of heavy leather workman’s gloves. He might look like a motorcycle rider who shopped at the local thrift store, but the gear was effective and offered free movement.

Over this outfit, Floyd strapped on the custom weapons belt he had made. The leather straps crossed over his chest and back with a belt that buckled in the front. Leaning over the dashboard, he used the sling to slip the hunting rifle onto his back, then added his favorite four handguns into the four holsters on his belt (two in front and two in the rear). Preloaded spare ammo clips already adorned the straps covering his chest, filled with high-powered hollow point ammunition for maximum damage. At his right side hung a wickedly sharp machete. He hung the binoculars around his neck and tucked them under one of the chest straps to keep it from bouncing around unnecessarily, or getting caught on something in an awkward moment.

Taking Ol’ Faithful in his left hand, Floyd pulled the keys from the ignition and placed them in his right front pants pocket. Looking around carefully, he opened the door and sniffed the air. Nothing nearby. At least, nothing upwind nearby. Standing on the foot rail, he grabbed a can of fish oil spray and doused himself to cover his human scent. Damn! That was the last of it. Pushing down the door lock, he stepped down from the cab, closed the door as quietly as he could, and tossed the empty can away.

The road here was in reasonably good shape. No gravel or crunchy twigs on the ground to give him away. The soft rubber of his heavily soled shoes did not betray him as he quietly trotted down to the town.

Floyd had seen the flashes of light down by the third building at the far end. There seemed to be no movement outside the ring of buildings, so he made his way as silently as possible around the perimeter to avoid the center of town. He could faintly hear what sounded like the shuffling of feet in the area, but with the odd angles of the buildings, the sound could have come from anywhere. Floyd’s eyes were wide open and his breathing was deep with anxiety as he quickly peered around the corner of the third building.

He saw nothing before he ducked back. He took a longer look. Still nothing. A slight fog had rolled in through the town. Not enough to limit visibility much, but it added an exceptionally spooky quality to an already chilling atmosphere, like a scene from some third-rate horror movie. There was even a full moon out tonight, which lit the area dimly.

Suddenly, a loud noise shattered the silence! Floyd knew that sound. A shotgun blast. There was nothing else it could have been. All of a sudden, he could see movement through the fog. There, in the center of town, a couple of dark figures shambled through the gloom. Floyd looked around and saw no immediate danger in his area, so he propped Ol’ Faithful between his knees and pulled the hunting rifle from his back.

The rifle was fitted with a military-grade silencer and hollow point 30-06 ammunition. It held a clip of eight bullets that could be changed rapidly to reload. Floyd looked through the scope. Sure enough, he recognized two figures shambling through the fog for what they were. He fired twice and dropped them both. Then the moaning started.

It was low but intense, a cross between a dying asthmatic and a sick cow. Creepy to the max. A long, sustained chorus of moans from multiple sources. Floyd guessed there were about eight in the area, but there could be more. As he shouldered the rifle and picked up Ol’ Faithful again, he saw a light appear from around the building. Another shotgun blast and the light was gone again.

Goddammit! Whoever the hell was out there was a moron! Light attracted these creatures. So did sound. The idiot was attracting every goddam freak in the area. Floyd made his way quickly to the edge of the building and ran right into one of them face to face!

If you could call that a face. Blank stare, gaunt features, unblinking eyes covered with a gooey white film, a rotting hole where a nose should have been, and of course...the mouth. That horrible gaping mouth, with cracked lips, rotting teeth, and dripping the same kind of white goo as the eyes. The stench erupting from that mouth filled Floyd’s nostrils. It was worse than the fish smell and nearly made him gag.

The creature looked right at Floyd with its mouth wide open, then sniffed in Floyd’s direction but made no move to attack, obviously confused by the strange fish odor. Before the thing could figure it out, its head went flying, thanks to a savage swipe of Floyd’s machete. Floyd wanted to keep as silent as possible for as long as possible. The machete was obviously only a close combat weapon, and close combat was something he strived to avoid.

Holstering the machete and taking a deep breath, Floyd readied Ol’ Faithful and jumped around the corner. Two shamblers were only six feet away and sensed his presence immediately. Ol’ Faithful took care of them both before they fully turned around. Floyd spun around looking for any others attracted by the noise. Just then, he heard a series of shotgun blasts and saw that weird light flash a couple more times from somewhere in between the two buildings across the way. All the while, that eerie moaning continued rising in volume and intensity (although from seemingly fewer voices).

Floyd jumped over the broken glass of a storefront window, looked around to be sure nothing was inside, then knelt down. Grabbing the hunting rifle, he peered through the scope and quickly blew away the heads of five more shamblers that were heading toward the random light. This area was clear for the moment, so he rapidly changed the clip, slung the rifle onto his back, and popped two more shotgun shells into Ol’ Faithful to replace the ones he had used earlier. Heading out again with his trusty shotgun in front of him, Floyd trotted as quickly as he could to where he had seen the light. When he got there, he was alone.

Damn!
Whoever this guy was, he sure moved fast. That might explain why whoever it was had remained alive. Slow people met a quick death in this world. Or undeath, as the case may be. Floyd shuddered at the thought.

The sound of another mystery shotgun blast came from down the way. Floyd was really wishing now that he had stayed in his truck, but he was also more curious than ever to find out who was behind all this madness. He rounded the corner to meet a group of three shamblers creeping along the side of the building. Three blasts from Ol’ Faithful and three head explosions later, and Floyd was back on his way between the next two buildings. Two more shotgun blasts rang out before he got there.

Breathing heavily now, Floyd tried to control himself. He poked his head around the corner and saw a lone figure in the fog. Steeling himself for the confrontation, he jumped around the corning wielding the shotgun barrel in front of him when he was hit square in the face with a blinding light.

“Shit!” Floyd screamed, and he ducked back around the corner just as a shotgun blast blew a chunk of red brick from the building wall, right where he had been.

“What the hell?” a voice called out. “You ain’t dead?!”

Floyd couldn’t tell if it was a question or a statement, but he answered loudly, “Hell no I ain’t dead! And I’d like to stay that way, goddammit!

The voice sounded young, like an 8-year-old boy, but the figure in the fog was no kid. Skinny, but larger than a child and wearing some kind of battered old football helmet with full facemask. Probably some high school quarterback, back in the day. Suddenly, the kid jumped around the corner, shotgun aimed directly at Floyd’s head. Out of instinct, Ol’ Faithful rose to meet the attack, but neither one fired.

The two stood there, too shocked to move, each waiting for any sign of an attack. Floyd could barely make out a pair of cold, grim, ungooey eyes through the helmet’s facemask. Introductions were interrupted by nearby moans as five more creatures closed in. Spent shells went flying and the smell of gunpowder filled the air, as one by one, zombie heads were vaporized by precision attacks. When the last headless body hit the ground, all was silent except for the rapid breathing of the two hunters. No more moaning could be heard.

“Come with me!” said the stranger, grabbing Floyd’s wrist. Floyd could barely see in the deepening fog and gloom, but the stranger obviously knew this area well. He ran to a nearby storm cellar, opened the doors, and practically threw Floyd down the stairs. The doors slammed shut and everything went black.