Dead Drunk II: Dawn of the Deadbeats (Dead Drunk: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse... One Beer at a Time Book 2)
Authors: Richard Johnson
Dead Drunk II
By Richard Johnson
Copyright © Richard Johnson 2014
All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce
this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. This ebook is licensed
for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be resold or given away to other
people. If you would like to share this ebook with others, please purchase an
additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this ebook and did not
purchase it or it was not purchased for your use, then please return it to
Amazon.com and purchase a copy for yourself.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and
incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or
dead, is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Chapter 2:
Finger Lickin’ Good
. 6
Chapter 7:
Friends in Low Places
. 31
Chapter 9:
Three Morons and a Baby
. 39
Chapter 11:
Strange Nerds with Candy
. 48
Chapter 12:
No Rest for the Wicked
. 51
Chapter 13:
Dangerous Liaisons
. 57
Chapter 14:
Enter the Dragon
. 59
Chapter 15:
It’s Complicated
. 64
Chapter 21: Parting
is Such Sweet Sorrow
.. 95
Chapter 22:
Dawn of the Deadbeats
. 102
Check Out
“Weekend At Vidu’s… A Dead Drunk Short”
. 115
1: The Lost Boys
“I don’t care
how many times you say it, Grace Jones was not, I repeat,
not
a fucking
Bond Girl,” Charlie Campbell said as he struggled to put one aching foot in
front of the other.
“She’s in the
credits dude,” Left-Nut replied. “Plus, she was pretty nasty in Vamp. Her red
wig and whiteface scared the crap out of me and gave me major chub when I was a
kid.”
The group
plodded through yet another patch of timber. Six hours of walking and it was
the same pattern over and over – walk through a section of the woods, sprint
through a field, rest and repeat. The light-hearted conversations, dumb as they
were, kept their minds off the terrors of the day and the monotony of their
hike.
Charlie
cracked a smile. “The scariest thing in that movie was her Adam’s apple. And I
wouldn’t bang her with your baby-dick. I’m really starting to question your
standards.”
Left-Nut
clicked his tongue. “I told you guys, standards are like expiration dates.
Close your eyes and they don’t exist.”
Smokey
pointed to Left-Nut’s white hair, which had recently gotten much whiter during
the course of their escape from the city. “It’s a good thing you don’t have
standards ‘cause you aren’t going to be pulling anything now, you Obi-Wan
Kenobi-looking son of a bitch.”
“We can pick
him up some Just For Men Gel,” Rob said, uncharacteristically jumping into the
fray. “No play for Mr. Gray.”
Left-Nut
stopped walking as they entered a clearing. “It ain’t so bad. You can call me
the silver fox, baby. Anyways, are we even going in the right direction? This
field looks familiar.”
The plan had
been to follow the power lines through the countryside, but when the lines veered
into a city that appeared to have been consumed by flames and a massive
bombardment of artillery, an audible was called for.
Big Rob
nodded. “Pretty sure I know how to go straight west. Just follow the setting
sun. Duh.”
“Okay, fine.
So I guess that isn’t the same tree I pissed on an hour ago?” Left-Nut pointed
to a massive oak tree that had the word “boner” crudely written on it in yellow
liquid.
“Damn it, and
here I thought you knew what you were talking about for once,” Charlie said to Rob
through gritted teeth.
Rob sighed.
“The sun was overhead for a bit, so I couldn’t see which direction—”
“Way to go,
Bear Grylls,” Left-Nut interrupted and instinctively backed up.
Charlie took
charge and had the group turn thirty degrees to their left. Moments later they
sprinted across the unpicked bean field for the second time. Charlie and
Left-Nut arrived first and waited in the shade for the slower members of the
party.
The friends
had survived a zombie outbreak, starvation, bad luck, a touch of madness, a
Chinese military invasion and a hell-ride out of Chicago. Now everything hinged
on their outdoor skills and teamwork. In other words, they were screwed.
“Look, I
realize nobody wants to say it, but that was a huge fuck up,” Left-Nut said
between heavy breaths. “We can’t be adding any extra miles now that we’re on
foot.”
“Yeah, and
what’s your point?” Charlie asked.
“No more
decisions from Rob, and I mean
none
. The guy is a walking calamity.”
Charlie shook
his head. “At least he’s stepping up. You haven’t done a thing but bitch this
entire time. As a matter of fact, even Zombie Cliff was a bigger help than you
back at the apartment.”
“I just saved
us from walking in circles, didn’t I? And on top of that—”
As if on cue,
a zombie shot out from between the tall plants nearby and grabbed Left-Nut from
behind, cutting his tirade short. Left-Nut somehow twisted free and fell
farther into the weeds while Charlie scrambled to pick up his Chinese assault
rifle. But rather than press the attack, the zombie merely stood in place,
pawing in the direction of its intended victim.
Left-Nut rose
to his feet and peered cautiously at the beast’s expressionless face. The man
had once been a retired game warden, spending his golden years angling for
steelhead and king salmon. Now he was a glorified digestive system.
Left-Nut
grinned as the others ran up, their weapons at the ready. “Haha, this
dumb-shit’s stuck in a bear trap. I was about to karate chop the crap out of
him and then teabag—”
“
KACHINK
!”
“Aughhh!”
Left-Nut screamed as he stepped onto a second bear trap hidden in the grass and
the 38-pound snapper locked tight.
At that
moment the zombie’s shredded foot tore loose from his own contraption, and he
lumbered forward once more. The zombie fisherman didn’t get far – after a few
steps, the front of his head burst apart and splattered all over a screaming
Left-Nut.
But the
gunfire hadn’t come from Charlie’s crew, and it didn’t stop with the demise of
the solitary cannibal. “Get down!” Charlie called as more bullets whistled past
them and tore through the tree branches.
The crew
scurried behind trees for cover while Left-Nut screamed in agony and
fruitlessly yanked at the steel device buried deep into his shin. Luckily for
him – though he was not feeling so lucky at the moment – the trap was heavily
rusted and not working properly. Its weaker grip saved him from an even more
grievous wound.
The firing
stopped and Charlie peeked around his tree, spotting two people in tan uniforms
about forty yards away. They were busy reloading their rifles, so Charlie rose
to shoot in their general direction, hoping to drive them off with the
automatic fire. He did even better than that.
Now two
people were screaming, one in pain and one with grief. Charlie and Smokey ran
towards the newcomers while Rob attempted to pry the trap open using nothing
but brute strength.
A hysterical
man knelt over his fallen friend, oblivious to the approach of Charlie and
Smokey. They quickly gathered the men’s rifles and peered deeper into the
forest.
“Is there
anyone else out there?” Smokey asked the standing stranger as Charlie sat down
to check on the other. The young man shook his head and then buried his face
into his hands again.
Charlie
rolled the motionless man onto his stomach and found a gaping exit wound in the
center of his back. On an impulse he tried to plug the hole with his hands, but
he realized it was pointless. The lifeblood had already drained from his body,
leaving behind a puzzled expression frozen on the young man’s gentle face.
It was at
that point that Charlie got a better look at the uniforms, and his heart sank.
They were Boy Scouts.
2: Finger Lickin’ Good
Russ casually
threw a metal trashcan through the door of a darkened gas station and walked in
without hesitation. For whatever reason, be it his scent, the way he breathed,
or some other unknown mechanism, the zombies flat-out ignored him now and he
was basically free to go about his business unhindered. His business for now
was finding some whiskey, and any whiskey would do.
Trent,
however, had no such special abilities and was on edge while waiting nearby on
his freshly pilfered motorcycle. The naked woman painted on the side was
supposed to be Angelina Jolie, but the artist had bitten off more than he could
chew, and his attempt had resulted in the woman looking more like Sandra
Bernhard.
Eventually he
could wait no more and snuck inside to see just what in the bloody hell was
taking so long. Not surprisingly, he found Russ in the liquor aisle. “I thought
you had to take a dump?”
“I did. That
cop I ate went right through me. Indian food always does,” Russ said, then took
a heavy gulp from a fifth of room-temperature Jack Daniels. He coughed heavily.
“Smooth.”
“She wasn’t
Indian
Indian, she was Native American. But whatever. Fucking idiot.” Trent’s newfound
religiosity had been short lived, with Russ’s shenanigans pushing him back to
his natural position of chaotic neutrality with a hint of dickishness thrown in
for good measure.
The dynamic
duo had realized riding through Chicago was too dangerous by day, and had
wisely holed up in an appliance store until midnight. Their second attempt to
flee the city had been just five minutes underway when Russ pulled the surprise
pit stop.
“You just
drank a whole bottle while we were hiding out and you’re already drunk again?
Seriously, you got a problem. And that means something coming from me.”
Russ capped
his whiskey and then offered up a water bottle to the third member of “Bad
Company.” Elvis the raccoon grabbed the bottle in his nimble hands and drank
heartily. “Thirsty devil,” Russ said, then made his way to the beef jerky.
“Hell yeah, teriyaki.” He took a huge bite of trucker steak but immediately
spit it out like poison. “Damn.”
“I didn’t
think jerky could spoil,” Trent said.
“It doesn’t,
but ever since I got bitten everything tastes like shit. Except for your
partner. She was finger-lickin’ good. And I’m starting to get hungry again.”
Russ walked towards Trent. “We’re talking ravenous.” The stab wound on Russ’s
arm was bleeding onto the floor and he remained completely unaware of it.
Trent backed
up and moved his scabbed finger to the trigger of his holstered pistol. This
was the situation he’d been dreading since Russ rescued him that morning. He
appreciated the liberation, but if he had to put Russ down he would do it
without hesitation. He might even enjoy it.
Russ saw the
fear in the cop’s eyes. “Now hold on there, Tinker Bell. That’s what the
whiskey’s for.”
“Bullshit.
You want me to believe it’s a cure?”
Russ
chuckled, but his unblinking eyes made the gesture anything but reassuring.
“No, but if you haven’t noticed, I’m kind of an alcoholic. And when I drink,
eating never crosses my mind. Unless I’m at a strip joint, if you catch my
drift. In that case, line me up at the buffet.”
“I guess that
makes sense.” Trent relaxed and then chased some painkillers with a warm beer
from a six-pack on the floor. He let out a quiet belch and rubbed Elvis’s head
before draining the rest of the beer in one long pull. The raccoon made a
strange purring type noise and then wandered over to eat Russ’s discarded
jerky.
“Suppose we
better get back to it.” Russ picked up Elvis after he had eaten his fill and
walked towards the door. “Same plan, right? Gonna keep heading north for a bit
and then shoot west to try and meet up with the gang?”
Trent nodded
and grabbed some sour cream potato chips, then stuffed two more beers into his
pockets for the ride. “This is gonna be a killer booze cruise.”
“Yep,” Russ
said. He grabbed a pair of cheap sunglasses for himself and a child’s pair for
Elvis, then went to check for any nearby stragglers outside. After a moment he
waved Trent over.
They climbed
aboard their respective choppers and took off, alternating between cluttered
roads and sidewalks, depending on the obstacles.
Soon they had
left their old neighborhood, and the zombie population began to pick up
dramatically. Even worse, the savages they passed along the way were now
swarming behind them, unable to keep up but following just the same. But Russ
and Trent rode past the bulk of them with little effort, and there had been no
sign of the Chinese invaders.
The easy ride
came to an abrupt halt as they spotted an overturned semi ahead that completely
blocked their route. Russ took the lead and turned west down a side street only
to find a crumbled apartment building that was partially on fire. The crowd of
zombies was getting closer as the pair circled back and headed east, then
south.
Then things
really got shitty. Machine gun fire from a Chinese patrol up ahead drove them
away, and so they headed west once more. Luckily the shooting drew the zombie
crowd’s attention and sent them smack dab into the Chinese position. An initial
hail of gunfire ended abruptly as the soldiers were overwhelmed, demonstrating
once more the unpredictability of biological weapons.
The
motorcycles approached a foreboding landmark several miles later – Richard
Daley Prison – and with it came an unsettling sight. Just outside the new
prison’s double barbwire fence, three wooden crosses had been pounded into the
ground at various heights with men attached to each one. Duct tape was wrapped
around the men’s limbs dozens of times, creating an unbreakable seal.
Below them
was a handful of zombies in various states of injury. Some were missing limbs
or horribly burned, but all circled like hungry sharks waiting for a chance to
strike.
One of the
tied up men had been set lower than the others which resulted in his feet
getting gnawed off by the crowd. He’d obviously gone zombie and now strained to
look at the other two motionless captives.
“Sucks to be
them,” Russ said and prepared to ride off again.
“Should we do
something?” Trent asked, hoping Russ would say no.
“I suppose I could
eat the sumbitches. They’re tied up for a reason. Must be murderers or animal
rapists or something.”
Trent nodded
in agreement, but an unknown force tugged at his heartstrings, begging him to
act. It was his much-neglected conscience returning from a decade-long hiatus.
He was feeling guilty about abandoning his partner, and also remorse for
murdering a man on the day of the outbreak. The die was cast as Trent cut his
engine. “Screw it… let’s cut ‘em down.”
“Okey dokey,”
Russ said with a shrug. Trent was still a turd, but at least he was trying. For
now.
*
*
*
Marquell
Washington raised his battered head as the motorcycles approached, wondering
who the newcomers might be. Not that it mattered to him. For the second time in
months, the ruthless gang leader was waiting to die. This time Marquell had
been blindsided by the woman he’d left in charge of the prison. During his
brief absence she had led a rebellion, which resulted in one heck of a breakup.
Of course, he
had
murdered her husband, the warden, and the relationship had been far
from consensual. So he should have seen the double cross coming from miles
away, but amazing breasts have a way of clouding a man’s thoughts, even one as
brilliant as Marquell.
For her part,
Heather McCabe had taken the prison with the help of loyal guards and a
surprise attack, striking when Marquell left to get medicine for her sick dog.
Now she slept peacefully for the first time in months, snuggled up with the
poor dog she’d poisoned herself and dreaming about mani-pedis and iced coffees.
The
crucifixion was simply Heather’s homage to Marquell’s fiendish peculiarities.
She didn’t have the historical knowledge of torture that he possessed, and so
this was her best go of it. Still, it wasn’t a bad message to keep outsiders
from coming too close.
Marquell
wasn’t alone in his predicament. Two surviving lieutenants initially joined him
in the live performance art, but only one of them remained. Mad-Dawg Mike’s
cross was shorter than the others, and so his feet were promptly devoured by
the crowd below. Marquell’s other henchman, Ace Kool, was still conscious, but
a bullet hole in his shoulder was taking its toll and he was fading fast.
Marquell
could see the two men arguing in the distance and it looked like they might
leave. So he raised his dreadlocked head and called out for help, driving the
zombies at his feet into a frenzy. Even worse, he risked alerting the guard in
the nearby tower. The feared marksman and turncoat only known as Gus was eager
to shoot Marquell, and would do so without hesitation if he attempted escape.
Every zombie
and human below the tower would have been easy targets for Gus, but he was
currently jamming to electronica through his headphones while getting a sub-par
blowjob from one of the prison nurses. Being second in command had its
privileges, and for helping Heather with her dangerous plot, his rewards had
come quickly indeed.
As one of the
men dismounted from his motorcycle, Ace managed a whisper. “Whatever happens,
don’t leave me, Markee. I’m not ready for the Big Sleep.”
“That ain’t
happening, Ace. We always and forever, blood for life,” Marquell replied. But
following the motto of The Black Lords might be impossible under the
circumstances, and for Marquell, self-preservation was much stronger than
brotherhood.
Defying all
logic and common sense, the man dressed like a pirate walked towards the crowd
of zombies carrying a mere crowbar. In moments the beasts would be upon him and
the stranger would add to their ranks as just one more hungry mouth.
Only it
didn’t quite work out that way.
“What the…”
Marquell’s words trailed off as the crowbar clanged against a zombie’s forehead
and flew from the man’s hand, sticking into the dirt. But the zombie ignored
both the attack and the man, and still focused intently on Ace’s feet.
“The name’s
Russ and I’ll have you boys down in a jiffy,” the man said. He picked up the
iron bar, smashing it into the zombie’s face and killing it this time. Blood
oozed off the crowbar as he looked at Marquell with eyes deadish and empty.
“That is, as long as you’re not kiddie-diddlers or lawyers. You’re not, are
ya?”
“No man,”
Marquell managed to sputter out through his disbelief. Russ nodded and
continued the slaughter of the defenseless zombies, a task made more difficult
by the fact that he really sucked at it. The ‘slaughter’ consisted of Russ
slipping in blood, falling down, and missing his targets all while cursing
heartily.
“Watch this
one Trent, I’m like Bobby Bonilla over here.” A swing and a miss. He paused to
take a drink from a brown bottle, and it became clear to Marquell just what was
going on. Russ was shitfaced.
Trent rolled
his eyes at his idiotic antics and walked closer as Russ finished off the last
of the infected. But then he recognized Marquell, and his hair stood on end.
The muscle-bound man in the middle was the leader of the raiders they’d
scuffled with the day before.
How the man
had ended up in his current predicament was unclear, but Trent instantly questioned
his own call. He thought about leaving them behind to their fate, but the
memory of shooting an innocent man was weighing him down, and if rescuing a
couple scumbags could lighten the load he would do it. Not to mention, Trent
couldn’t shake the feeling he was being tested by a higher power.
He climbed
the cross and used his pocketknife to sever Marquell’s polyethylene bonds, then
tossed the knife to Russ before jumping to the ground.
Russ scaled
the second cross while Trent gave Marquell a stoic look. “Don’t try anything
funny. We’re gonna cut your buddy down and then you two are on your own.”
Marquell
nodded. “That’s straight. I’m Marquell, he’s Ace.”
“How’d you
end up out here anyways?” Trent asked, arching a suspicious eyebrow.
“Bitches, man,
you know how it is.”
“Yeah, I sure
do.” Trent rubbed his sore jaw with sliced up hands, compliments of his own
female problems. “You guys should—”
“Auuugh!
Auuugh, ughh—” Ace Kool screamed in pain and then stopped abruptly as Russ
severed his vocal cords with a nasty bite. His body went limp briefly and then
reanimated, but the heroin dealer was now but a shadow of his former self.
Russ clung to
the man in an awkward embrace while a vein dangled between a gap in his front
teeth, dribbling out hot crimson blood. The drunk looked more like an entrant
in a wing-eating contest than a ravenous beast, but for a moment, that’s just
what he was. “Juicy,” Russ said as he licked his fingers.
