Man Eaters (Book 2): The Horde Read online

  Roper jokes that I’m a lesbian-in-sheep’s-clothing. I’m not. I’m just a woman who knows what she can and will not accept. Right now, I no longer accept our living conditions. Maybe it’s my careening hormones, but I’d give anything to start cleaning a few clocks.

  A woman with a mission.

  That’s me.

  Time to get it on.

  ****

  When everyone was gone, only Roper and Dallas stayed by the fire, their weapons lying across their laps with the gleam of the fire reflecting off the chrome.

  Because the man eaters moved toward loud sounds and bright lights, a huge fire might pull in any that had successfully managed to scoot around the alligators and escape the muck. They would always keep their weapons within arm’s reach. It was standard operating procedure that had served them well so far.

  “Well?” Dallas asked, tossing a stick into the fire.

  “I thought it went well, but I’ll be surprised if we get one hundred percent.”

  Dallas nodded, a tickle of failure on the back of her neck. “The Jones family?”

  “Will stay for sure. They came too close to losing Karl when they left Nevada. They are happy here. Comfortable, even. They have no desire to take any risks.”

  “Do you think this an unnecessary risk?”

  Roper thought for a moment. “Risk is risk. Doesn’t much matter if it is necessary or not, ya know?”

  Dallas tossed another twig in the fire. “I understand. Change is tough, but usually necessary, and I believe this is truly necessary.”

  “You’re asking everyone to risk leaving what they consider a safe place to travel through the danger zone to another place that may or may not be safer.” She shrugged. “It’ll take a little time, like it did when we convinced them to go to the Superdome.”

  “That was awesome.”

  Roper smiled. “Yes it was. I journaled about that day. Want to read it?”

  Dallas looked surprised. Roper had never shared her journal before. “Absolutely.”

  Pulling out the leather-bound notebook from the backpack Dallas had taken from a store in New Orleans, Roper opened it up to the right page before handing it to Dallas. “Read to right here.”

  ****

  Roper’s Log

  Today gave me (and the rest of us) our first glimpse of hope that we could, in fact, defeat these things on a larger scale. All our planning, all the logistics, all of our fears and worries, and still, it went off without a hitch.

  It wasn’t easy getting the ZBs (zombie bait) to get out of the Fuchs, but who could blame them? There had to have been easily five thousand of the things moaning around and meandering near the Superdome, dragging their torn and blood stained limbs across the pavement. It looked like a horde had descended on the area and had picked it clean. There were half-eaten bodies and body parts all over the place and quite a few fresher undead milling about. It was an apocalypse, to be sure, and a thousand to one or more outnumbered us.

  We had been doing this gig for so long, we’d became very good at telling newly undead from old undead—which was one reason why we went after them the way we did: too many newly dead. So we decided to use the Superdome as a sort of fireplace.

  First, we sent out live bait, or ZBs. Einstein and Cassidy were the two with me. They knew the score going in and chose to be the bait anyway. You gotta hand it to that kid. He has brass balls the size of soccer balls and nothing seems to scare him. He and that mop of curly red blond hair have become a staple in my life. I’ve learned a buttload about zombies from him, that’s for sure.

  Anyway, sitting in the back of an old Chevy truck, they hooted and hollered as Luke drove through the streets. I stayed in the back with them for extra protection, but we didn’t need any. All we did was pique their interest, and the man eaters all started shambling over to the Superdome, moaning that eerie sound and dragging their feet along the ground. I think that’s the worst part…that sound. The combined sound of scraping soles and ghoulish moaning gives me nightmares.

  By now, most of their shoes have worn off as well as the skin on the bottom of their feet, so the scraping noise is the sound of bone against pavement. It’s awful.

  Dallas and Butcher took a different route, though with the same results: the undead followed the fresh meat. Before we knew it, the horde swelled up from a few hundred to a few thousand, to more than a few thousand. Those who didn’t go into the Dome were shot with a single bullet to the forehead. One good shot in the head would put the bastards down forever. Truly dead. Didn’t really matter where in the head, a shot to the noggin’ put them down for good.

  Once we got them all in the Dome, closed the door, and locked them in, we drove around the entire structure throwing precious gasoline on it and lighting it on fire. I have to tell you, watching the Dome start burning like that felt better than sex. I hate them with every fiber in my body. I’ve been known to run them over and then back over them several times until their skulls are flatter than a Mississippi raccoon on the freeway. Dallas prefers I take a higher road, but the truth is I don’t much give a shit who they used to be. They are nothing but soulless bags of bones who want to eat us.

  The Dome went slowly at first, but once the zombies were caught in the flames, it was like ultra dry timber that needed just one spark before becoming a conflagration. I’ll never forget standing there with Dallas, holding her hand, and watching as fifteen thousand or so undead were finally put to rest. Fifteen thousand flesh-eating ghouls that would no longer be a threat to mankind were toasted like marshmallows.

  And I dug it.

  The smell of their burning flesh and hair was like an elixir to me. I was happy to hear their moans turn into screams and know their eyeballs were popping out of their heads, I hated them that much.

  I was hoping back then that our people might feel the need to start going after these fuckers. I had hoped the burning would inspire our group to continue on the offensive. I hoped…

  One can only hope I suppose…and here’s one person who’s been doing a whole lot of it.

  ****

  Dallas handed Roper the journal. They both sat watching the fire’s dying embers in silence for quite some time, until a breeze kicked up.

  “Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

  Roper shrugged. “Because I thought attacking was something that would happen organically after that. I was so damn certain we’d gear up to start fighting back that when we didn’t, I knew it was too late to suggest it. I just resigned myself to the fact that we were settling here for the long haul.”

  Dallas brushed a stray hair from Roper’s forehead. She loved the shorter cut on her lover and thought it made her look younger. “I remember how happy you were those days after the burning. You were so—”

  “Pumped? Yeah. I thought we’d go after them. I guess I thought we were all on the same page and wanted to leave the bayou. I never thought we would settle for such a Pyrrhic victory.” Roper stood near the fire and turned her back to it.

  “And now? What do you think of this plan?”

  A broad smile spread across her face. “Are you kidding? I love it. Angola is the perfect place to start. It’s north, so we can start luring all those from the south and midwest to it. Think of the damage that could be done. Thousands. Hundreds of thousands even.”

  “It will only work if we make sure everyone has a job they are suited to do once we get there. We’re going to need gardeners, electricians, sharpshooters, cooks. We need everyone to work on digging a massive pit for body disposal. We’ll need cleaners, security detail, nurses. We need—”

  “Every one of us to go.”

  Dallas nodded. “I think you’re right, but there’s no convincing the Joneses.”

  “He’s a turd on the wart of a mud frog.”

  Dallas laughed. “Nice visual. He is a little homophobic, yeah.”

  Roper turned and faced the fire. “Angola is a great idea, but we’ll need to clean it first, and make sure we c
an adequately secure it or else we will have trapped ourselves. The logistics aren’t impossible, though. It just requires manpower I’m not entirely convinced we’ll have.” She turned her head as something crept into the water, making a slight kerplunking sound.

  “We need to get more peeps.”

  Roper nodded slightly, the light from the flames dancing on her face. “Get more. You know that means going into NOLA and looking for survivors.”

  “I know.”

  Roper slowly faced Dallas and extended her hand to help Dallas to her feet. “Then let’s get started tomorrow.”

  Dallas’s face lit up. “Seriously?”

  “Absolutely. You want survivors, then we need to ferret some out. Just me and you. It’ll be safer that way.”

  “That won’t go over well with Butcher and Einstein. You know how they hate being left behind.”

  “I’m aware of that, but it’s safer for us if the man eaters just ignore us and walk away instead of making a beeline for our ZBs. We need to secure new survivors, not spend the time protecting the old ones.” Roper shouldered her rifle before folding her arms around Dallas’s body and pulling her into an embrace. “You got us here in one piece, baby. I believe you’ll do the same wherever we go.”

  The sound of a foot being pulled from the muck made both women instantly break the embrace, swiftly grab their rifles, and blast the head off the zombie struggling to free his other foot from the cement-like silt at the shore’s edge.

  “Fuckers,” Roper muttered. “Tomorrow, we find us some survivors, and work on getting the hell out of here.”

  ****

  Just as Roper had said, no one was happy that she and Dallas were heading out in the Fuchs alone, so when Churchill offered to come along and at least man the Fuchs while they were helping to get people to safety, they couldn’t really say no.

  “Got my machetes all sharpened,” Churchill announced when he got in the back of the Beast.

  Early on during their stay in the bayou, Luke and Butcher had spent weeks training everyone, trying to learn people’s strengths and weaknesses. It was no good handing a rifle to someone who couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn. It was a waste of good ammo and a hazard to the shooter, so they opted to give different people different jobs and different weapons. Churchill, while a decent shot with a gun, was a maniac with the machete and could, with a very sharp weapon, cut the head clean off with a single stroke. As a baker, he had massive arms that, when swinging the machete, made him a formidable force.

  Everyone loved Churchill. He was a smiling face and a warm hug whenever you first saw him.

  “You can’t leave without me,” he said, grinning like a Cheshire. “I’ve got mad knife skills.” Churchill had come to them about a month after they’d arrived in Louisiana. He was incredibly frightened, having stood by weaponless while a zombie horde tore his family to shreds. When he finally grabbed a lead pipe, he kept swinging and swinging and swinging it, not realizing that the horde was not even attacking him.

  It had been too late for his family, though, who succumbed to the attack and was left in blood soaked pieces.

  Dallas had seen firsthand what he was capable of doing with a machete. When they’d first spotted him, he was covered slick in the blood of the zombies that had taken his family. Swinging the pipe, he had dropped the undead left and right, crushing their skulls in one swing of his Popeye arm. The only part of his body not covered in blood was his tear-stained cheeks as he cried and swore, swinging and crushing his way to exhaustion. By the time Dallas had reached him, two dozen broken zombies lay in a bloody heap at his feet next to his half-eaten mother.

  “Stand back!” He’d cried, crushing the head of the nearest man eater. “For some reason, these motherfuckingcocksuckingshitforbrains won’t eat me. These fuckers won’t eat me!”

  Dallas had walked through the crowd unscathed. This had finally gotten his attention, and Churchill lowered the pipe to stare as she walked untouched by the remaining three zombies.

  “The reason they’re leaving you alone,” she said, calmly plugging the remaining three in the head with her Glock, “is because you’re gay.”

  “How the hell—”

  “So am I.” Dallas glanced around at a couple of undead meandering across the way. “Look, there’s no time to explain. Come with me if you want a safe place to call home, but they’re gonna be crawling all over the place in about two minutes.”

  And so he did, proving himself to be a valuable member time and time again with his one slice head removal program and his ability to throw a rock in a straight line the length of a football field. He was a great addition to the group, and now, he wanted to contribute.

  Roper turned to him and gave him a quick thumbs up as he climbed into the Beast. “Glad you could make it.” She flashed him her best shit-eating grin.

  “Hey, you want to recruit for your garmy. I’m garmy.”

  Garmy was what they had called their gay army for short.

  Both Dallas and Roper turned to look at him. “That you are.”

  He flashed imperfect rows of white teeth, the front left incisor sporting a chip. Churchill, while not handsome, had a cute away about him with his Popeye arms and Superman haircut. All the guys gave him a second look.

  Dallas could only shake her head. “If we’re going to war, we’ve got a lot of work ahead of us turning flamers into fighters.”

  Churchill nodded. “The dyke squad will be much easier to train onnaccounta ya’ll are a bit on the aggressive side to begin with. But the femmelots?” He shook his head. “Are a little on the soft side.”

  “You’re not,” Roper said.

  “That’s because I watched those monsters make a meal out of my family. Payback’s a bitch, and I’m her queen.”

  Dallas studied Churchill as the Beast warmed up. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to watch someone you loved get eaten right in front of your face. That was a wound that would never heal, a nightmare that would haunt you the rest of your life.

  The one horrific moment in her post-normal life when it looked like Roper was going to be swarmed on by a horde, Dallas had done the unthinkable: she ran to her and they held each other, waiting to be attacked, waiting to be eaten right where they stood. Two hearts beating as one, they clung to each other…waiting for the pain of the first bite. Waiting to be eaten alive. When the man eaters moved right on past them as if they were a tree or a post, Dallas had been stunned to still be alive and unbitten.

  That was when they started trying to figure out what it could be that made the zombies uninterested in them. That was when they changed everything about the erroneous belief that homosexuality was a choice, and as they met up with more and more gays and lesbians who had survived the apocalypse, that theory rang true, and that was the biggest game-changer of the battle. It meant they actually could take the fight to them, but to do that, they needed an army first.

  A gay army.

  A garmy. Yes, that was what they needed, and that was what she was creating.

  “Well, we’re glad you’re here.”

  Churchill ran a meaty hand over his Superman haircut. “To be honest, I can’t take one more day in the swamp. I been fidgety for a coupla months now. I want action or I’m gonna die of boredom. I don’t know what’s worse…death or perpetual boredom.”

  “Who are you kidding? You’re not bored. You want retribution.”

  He shrugged as he tried to roll his sleeves over his thick forearms. “Don’t matter what you call it as long as we start wiping those things out one at a time.” Churchill, so named because he often quoted the Prime Minister, double-checked the numerous blades he carried on him at all times. “Continuous effort—not strength or intelligence —is the key to unlocking our potential.”

  “Winston?” Dallas asked, jamming the Fuchs in gear and starting off toward the closest paved road.

  “You know it. The brother knows what he’s talking about.”

  The Fuchs was
an amphibious military vehicle that made it the perfect escape vehicle in any terrain. It had a back ramp that lowered, had a seating capacity of up to fifteen, but could hold well over that. The front was a wedge so it could easily move past the many dead cars littering the freeways. On top, there was an anti-aircraft weapon that shot 45 mm shells and it came with sensors that would warn them of any biohazard attacks. It also carried with it some biochemical weapons they’d never had the courage to use. They’d stolen it from an army base in Barstow, California that had been overrun with eaters, and so far, it had served them well.

  “What’s the word?” Roper asked. After they had initially picked Churchill up and explained to him their theory, Roper had seen a great opportunity of installing eyes and ears for Dallas. Just to keep a pulse on those living with them, Roper had Churchill report back any time there was a rumbling or dissension. For his part, Churchill loved the role of spy, or as Roper preferred, tattler.

  He’d only had to report back twice in the seven months he’d been with them. The first time was when people grumbled about their work assignments, and the second was when they’d wanted to make “better” use of the yacht. Both times, Dallas had enough of a heads-up to quash anything before it began.

  “I’m pretty sure the Joneses won’t come. They feel safe here. They like it,” Churchill offered. “But they’re keepin’ it close to their chest. What I really mean by that is that redneckgoosesteppin’sheetwearin’sob daddy a theirs is. God, I hate that man. He is a fool to think they are safe here.”

  “That’s everyone’s first mistake,” Roper replied, cutting Dallas off before she could launch into her give peace a chance soliloquy. “Feeling safe anywhere. Hell, we’re not even on the menu and I never feel truly safe.”

  “He tryin’ to get the Duartes and Fischers to stay, too. Gave ‘em that safety in numbers speech. Asshole.”