Floyd & Mikki (Book 2): Zombie Slayers (Dawn of the Living) Page 2

  “No! I’m afraid of you!”

  She splashed her way out of the water and came over to him, throwing her arms around him and planting a deep kiss on his mouth, her wet breasts soaking his T-shirt. When he tasted her soft tongue, his brain finally kicked into gear. This he understood.

  “Oh, what the hell!” he said as he threw off his clothes and joined her in the water.

  “Come and get it baby!” she squealed. “You better enjoy it now, cause you ain’t getting’ any of this for a while.”

  “Huh? What do you mean? Why not?”

  “I told you before, Floyd, I know my cycle. So unless you want to raise a cute little Baby Floyd in nine months, no more fun after this for a week or so.”

  “Why not a cute little baby Mikki?” he asked, wrapping his arms around her as the cold water lapped against his body.

  “Oh, God no! She might turn out like me!”

  “Exactly! I think you turned out just fine Mikki. Just fine.”

  “Awwww. Maybe someday? In a perfect world, Floyd?”

  “In a perfect world...Michelle.”

  He leaned over and gently kissed her forehead. As usual, she melted into his arms. Then she grabbed him and waded out deeper into the water, where they made love desperately, frantically, passionately.

  Chapter Three

  Back in the tower, Mikki was taking a shower while Floyd waited his turn. This shower wasn’t big enough for the two of them, and they had burned away all the passion they could muster, for the moment.

  “I tell ya, Floyd, that was amazing! But somehow in them romantic movies they never mention that sand gets into yer unmentionables!”

  “Hey, it was your idea.”

  “And a damn good one! Worth a little sand up my ass. And…a few other places.”

  “TMI, Mikki. TMI.”

  “Awww! And here I thought you wanted to know everything about me.”

  “A little mystery is good for a relationship.”

  Mikki turned the shower over to Floyd with a quick kiss, then shook her clothes out one last time to expunge every grain of sand. Sitting in nothing but a clean pair of panties and a bra (with the holy cards tucked neatly inside again), she took the opportunity to polish her toenails bright red to match her fingernails. She had filed her fingernails to a sharp point with just the hint of a round edge. She had made it a point not to claw Floyd’s back when they were in the ocean.

  “Oh, crap!” Floyd blurted out from the shower. “I completely forgot about them satellites! We musta been on every TV in NCH!”

  “Well, I bet that boosted our ratings. I hope they zoomed in real close, cause we gave ‘em one helluva great show, baby!”

  Floyd laughed. “You really are somethin’, Mikki.”

  “So you keep tellin’ me, Floyd!”

  Floyd Finished his shower, dried off with a towel, and got dressed. He opened every drawer in the tower, looking for anything useful. He took a first-aid kit that was hanging on the wall and a flare gun that had one shot. He had no idea what he’d use the flare gun for, but anything could be useful since they were so low on ammo. Maybe he could use it to signal NCH for another helicopter rescue if things got too crazy. Assuming they would respond again. Floyd and Mikki hadn’t exactly left on the best of terms.

  Floyd also grabbed the map he had found earlier on one of the tables. It was just a tourist guide of the area, but it had the names and types of local businesses. He folded it up and stuffed it in a backpack pocket. It wasn’t terribly huge, but it covered the entire city of Long Beach and parts of other cities beyond its borders. It was all he had to go on for now.

  “Emerald Valley Campground, this is Floyd and Mikki, do you copy?” Floyd spoke into the microphone. “Emerald Valley Campground, this is Floyd and Mikki, do you copy?”

  “Hell yeah, we copy!” came a voice from the radio. Clearly sounded like Bob. “How the hell you guys been? Did you make it to New California Haven? Is it real?”

  “Yeah, we made it and it’s real. Repeat: NCH is real.”

  They could hear the shouts of more people than just Bob coming from the radio.

  “Give me the mic, give me the mic! Hello Floyd? This is Ranger Martin. Is it safe to follow?”

  “Well, not just yet. You can’t come the way we did. We’re heading back to you and we’ll find a safer route. The good news is: the folks at NCH know about you and will be expecting you. If you can get close enough, they’ll send a helicopter for you. Really nice place for you and your people. You’ll all like it.”

  “How long till you get here?”

  “Hard to say. At least a week. Maybe two. Shouldn’t take long for you to get here after that, though. We’re kind of in uncharted territory here. You still got control of the raider camp?”

  “Sure do. We’ll have more than enough cycles and dune buggies to make the trip.”

  “Good. Keep an eye out for us. We’ll most likely head in on that interstate from the west. Not sure though. Ran into a few…complications along the way.”

  “I can imagine. Everyone here wishes you the best. Emerald Valley Campground, out.”

  Before the radio went silent, they could hear a group of people shouting best wishes and thanks in the background.

  Her toenails sufficiently dry, Mikki put on her socks, pulled on her pants, and stood up. “You didn’t tell them,” she said.

  “Nope.”

  “Probably for the best. You’re right, Floyd. Good place for them. No place for us.”

  “The only place for us, Mikki, is the one we make for ourselves. We figured that out a while ago.”

  “Well, time to saddle up, Floyd?” she asked, zipping up her jacket and snapping the neck collar.

  “Time to saddle up, Mikki. Let’s see what’s out there.”

  The two grabbed their helmets but didn’t put them on yet. No need for them at the moment. They left the tower, holding the helmets in their left hands and custom AA-12 shotguns in their right. If things went all to hell real soon, they’d run back to the tower and hope zombies hadn’t learned to climb stairs that steep yet.

  Chapter Four

  The two continued east along the narrow ribbon of cement that divided the sandy beach, helmets in their hands. No doubt, only a couple of years ago, this beach would have been full of people on blankets, with bicyclists, skateboarders and roller bladers zipping up and down the walkway. Floyd and Mikki would kill for a bicycle or right now, but there were none in sight. Zombies didn’t do very well on two wheels.

  The sun had reached its place in the top of the sky and was already heading back down without anything eventful happening yet. Floyd and Mikki looked like any other couple taking a romantic stroll along the beach. Any other romantic couple wearing battle armor and carrying shotguns, Mini Uzis, sniper rifles and hand grenades, that is.

  As they came to the end of the walkway, where the end of civilization began, Mikki blurted out, “Damn, Floyd! What’s up with the Flyin’ Butt-Monkey Attack?”

  “What?”

  “Why d’ya hafta shoot all them flyin’ monkeys outta yer ass?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You farted!”

  “No, I didn’t! I thought it was you!”

  “For God sake, Floyd. I’d think you’d know by now that I never fart. Never!”

  Floyd had to admit it. She never had. Not in his presence or not to his knowledge, anyway. Maybe she was really some kind of femme-bot? That would explain a lot more than just the absence of gaseous vapors exiting any of her bodily orifices.

  “I guess you’re right,” he said, at last. “You never burp, either.”

  “Oh, I can burp, if I wanna.” To prove it, she let loose the loudest belch Floyd had ever heard. She would have put all his buddies back at the auto garage to shame. There went the femme-bot theory.

  Mikki laughed hysterically at the look on Floyd’s face. He interrupted her by saying, “There’s the cause of the stink.”

&nbs
p; He pointed up ahead of them. A big nearby pipe trickled a small stream of raw sewage out into the ocean. As they went to step over it, the smell nearly knocked them over. Holding their noses, they jumped and ran away as fast as they could, but then Mikki stopped.

  “Hey, Floyd! Remember what you told me about that can o’ fish oil you used to have? Screwed up them creepers so they didn’t know you was human?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well that stuff outta work just fine, doncha think?”

  “Maybe, but can we stand it? This smell might make me puke up in my helmet!”

  “Well, if you do, don’t go kissin’ me until after you brush yer teeth. Maybe we can get you one o’ those little car air fresheners and hang it from yer nose.”

  Mikki laughed. Floyd didn’t think it was all that funny, but he reluctantly agreed the plan would probably work.

  “Alright then, let’s get to it,” he said.

  They donned their helmets to keep out most of the stench, and then went back. Reaching down into the green, slimy puddle, they smeared the disgusting crap all over each other, covering their legs, chest, back and shoulders. They even smeared some on the outside of the helmets.

  “I wonder if this is some kinda radioactive crap that’ll turn us into superheroes?” Mikki mused aloud.

  “Nah. More likely just give us a rash in places we’d rather not have.”

  “Always the optimist, Floyd! Now let’s test it out.”

  “You really do love this zombie shit way too much, Mikki.”

  “Love it or hate it, we’re stuck with it, Floyd.”

  He couldn’t argue with that. Shotguns at the ready, they crossed over Ocean Boulevard and made their way to Bay Shore Avenue. According to the one map Floyd had, the quickest way outta here was the East Second Street Bridge. They’d have to cross through or around some kind of little island and take another bridge, or so Floyd hoped. If either of those bridges were down, they’d have a much longer walk around a maze of waterways to get out.

  They had to be careful. Floyd only had one and a half mags of slugs left for a total of 12 shots. Mikki had a few mags of anti-armor rounds, but that was exceedingly rare ammo and something they preferred to not waste on emptying creeper skulls of their contents. The drum mags held 32 shotgun shells, but they were all empty, waiting in backpacks to be refilled if the two Zombie Hunters ever found more shells. Their pistols all had a few mags each, but these were the least effective firearms they had.

  Long Beach hadn’t been a very gun-friendly place when the infection hit, so they weren’t likely to find any abandoned gun stores in this area. Each Mini Uzi only had less than one clip left and they had divided up the remaining grenades, so Floyd and Mikki each had six securely fastened to the bandolier belts Floyd had made for them. The grenades could quickly and easily be pulled from their straps when needed, but wouldn’t fall out on their own, even if Floyd or Mikki was hanging upside down. That was something they generally tried to avoid, anyway.

  The sun was still up so there was no sign of creeper activity on the streets. The two made their way up Bay Shore with the beach to their right and a row of cute little beach houses on the left. They passed a Starving Students moving truck parked outside one of the houses. Looked like the students never made it. Considering the alternative, starving to death would have been preferable. They were probably starving zombies now, hungry for a bite. Floyd debated taking the truck, as the keys were in it, but just firing up the engine would have brought out every brain-eater in the area. Not to mention it would be hard to maneuver through the tiny streets.

  Continuing on, they could see an occasional creeper or two standing motionless in the darkest areas of a house, or shambling about aimlessly in an upstairs room. Clearly, none of them were aware of Floyd and Mikki’s presence, and the two planned on keeping it that way. The road was very narrow, so they decided to stay as far away from the buildings as possible by staying on the beach. The sand was harder to walk on and slowed their progress, but they had a clear view of whatever might lie ahead.

  At the end of the street, just before the entry to the bridge, stood a pack of about eight shamblers, hanging out on a corner in the shade under an awning. Like high schoolers playing hooky. Mikki decided it was time to try out her stink theory.

  “Floyd, gimme yer machete.”

  “Use your own!”

  “I will use my own, but I want yours, too. We can’t afford to be wastin’ ammo on these losers.”

  Floyd sighed and grumbled, but handed over his machete.

  “Thanks, Floyd! Here take this.” She handed him Bonnie. “And this.” She handed him the Uzi. “And this.” She handed him the rifle. “Alright, let’s see if this works. Showtime!”

  Clutching a machete in each hand, Mikki shambled off like a creeper, shifting her feet unevenly and walking very slowly. Floyd held his breath, and his shotgun, as Mikki got closer. Inch by inch, she shuffled nearer and nearer to the group.

  She was right on top of them before they noticed her. They all turned and faced her. Floyd tensed, raising the shotgun and staring down the scope. He was ready to take off the head of the zombie nearest to Mikki with a slug round, if necessary. But then something amazing happened.

  Through the scope, Floyd could clearly see the brain-eater’s face. It changed from one of interest to one of total disgust. Floyd never knew a zombie could react that way to anything. Every zombie near to Mikki turned around and shambled a couple of feet away. Like a group of cheerleaders shunning a chess nerd, Mikki kept getting closer and they kept turning and wandering away. She waved at Floyd and kept it up, clearly enjoying herself far too much.

  Floyd kept waiting for something to go wrong. Damn her! Why did she always have to push everything? “Get out of there, Mikki!” he whispered into his helmet mic.”

  “Oh, relax, Floyd,” came the reply. “Be there in a minute. Got somethin’ to do first.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like this.”

  Mikki unleashed her machetes, slicing off a nearby creeper head with each hand. Instead of howling like they normally did when one of their own was attacked, they didn’t even notice. The smell was screwing up all of their senses!

  Mikki kept up the action, whirling around in a flurry of steel. She put the Ronco Chop-O-Matic to shame. It slices. It dices. It’s Mikki on a rampage! [Not sold in any stores.] Clearly, Floyd’s fears about Mikki losing her edge were unfounded. Ron Popeil would have been amazed at her skill with a blade.

  Mikki stopped and picked something up on her way back. As she approached, Floyd asked sarcastically into the mic, “So did the Zombie Walk help?”

  “It helped.”

  She handed Floyd his machete back and held up a one-liter water bottle she had retrieved from the gutter. “We have got to go back and get us some more of that slop before we leave, Floyd!”

  Chapter Five

  The short bridge ahead was empty. On the other side was the island. It wasn’t a very big island, but travelling on foot, the two had to decide whether to go straight down the middle and save time, or take the long way around next to the water. The long way might be safer, but it also meant they had to cover more ground – and that meant a greater possibility of running into more creepers. Zombies couldn’t swim, but neither could Floyd and Mikki with the heavy load of weaponry they carried.

  They decided to take the road down the middle, counting on their stinky perfume to get them through any clusters of brain-eaters. The Second Street Bridge was wide enough for eight lanes of traffic, but other than a few wrecked cars scattered about, it was pretty clear. As they walked, an interesting mix of houses and apartment buildings lined the right side of the street, while a bank, a few restaurants, and assorted other businesses stood on the left. The city planner must have been off his meds when he designed this section of town.

  The sun was on its way down, but it was still light enough outside to keep any shamblers off the street. All along the way, howev
er, Floyd and Mikki could see them. Lurking in the dark behind shop windows, inside the bank, or huddled along the sides of buildings, cuddling up to the shade. The two walked slowly and quietly down the dead center of the highway. They saw a sushi restaurant, but the thought of two-year-old uncooked fish was even less than appetizing than when it was fresh. Floyd didn’t mind sushi – as long as it was cooked right.

  Then Mikki saw something that caught her eye. She tapped Floyd on the shoulder and pointed at a little shop to the left. Floyd just shrugged, not seeing what excited her so. She pointed again, whispering that he should look in the window. He still didn’t get it.

  They had turned their helmet mics off to save the batteries. Fortunately, Floyd had shoved the charging cords into his backpack when they were at the roadhouse, so they were still in the packs even after Mikki blew up their truck. They had left the radios and Mikki’s iPhone Nova to charge while taking turns showering in the lifeguard tower, but there was no point wasting the batteries on a stroll down the street.

  “Come on!” she yelled through the helmet, exasperated.

  Mikki pulled her machete and Floyd unholstered a silenced pistol as they approached the little shop. He still didn’t get what the big deal was, but he wasn’t about to let Mikki go alone. It was an odd little store with a wide assortment of useless junk in the windows. They could see three brain-eaters inside. A couple of females and a male. All very nicely dressed, as undead fashion standards went.

  Mikki slowly opened the door, which drew their attention, then she staggered in slowly, walking like a zombie again, they came to inspect her and turned away as soon as they got close to the smell. Floyd entered and shut the door behind him, then walked briskly up to her.

  Immediately, the three shamblers all turned and gave an odd sort of hiss. As they headed in his direction, moaning, Floyd froze. They came up to him, cocked their heads as they inspected him, and eventually moved away, returning to a state of semi-hibernation. Mikki took off two of their heads with a machete while Floyd blew out the last one’s brains with his pistol.