Dead Drunk: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse... One Beer at a Time (5 page)

Chapter 9

Shit
Meets Fan

Trent flicked his cigarette into the rose bushes and lit
another. As he savored the chalky menthol flavor, two ambulances streaked by
with lights flashing and horns blaring. He’d been waiting for his ride for
fifteen minutes and wondered what in the hell was going on.

A squad car finally pulled up. “I’m driving,” Trent told the
attractive woman scowling from behind the wheel.

“We really don’t have time for your macho bullshit,” the
woman replied sharply.

He got in while his ex-partner, Sarah Birdsong, avoided eye
contact and pulled away. The descendant of Sioux Indians had a fiery
disposition and pissed Trent off slightly more than she turned him on.
Slightly.

“Put that out. You know I'm allergic.”

“Jesus, you’re like my mother,” he said and tossed it out
the window. “Only my mother never gave me crabs.”

Sarah slammed on the brakes. “Let’s get this straight.
Sleeping with you was the biggest mistake of my life, and you’re an asshole for
taking advantage of me.”

“You weren't that drunk, sunshine.”

“Bullshit. But we need to set that aside for now.”

“And why’s that?” Trent asked.

Sarah’s voice faltered. “Something big’s going down.”

Trent leaned forward. “I'm listening. Fucking Al-Qaeda,
isn’t it?”

“Loads of people are getting really sick.” A 10-101 call
came across the squad radio, code for a civil disturbance.

“I wondered why they sent a car,” Trent said.

“Every cop in town’s been called up.”

His fear turned to anger. “We aren't trained for this. I
spend my time harassing teenagers and sleeping behind abandoned factories.”

“FEMA’s in charge and the National Guard’s doing the heavy
lifting. They’re running a triage at the United Center, and we have to man
roadblocks. No one gets in or out. No one. We’ve got live-fire orders here.”

“Do we get masks or something? I mean, what's gonna keep us
from getting sick?”

“They don’t think it’s airborne so we’re not supposed to let
anyone get too close,” she said. “Whatever it is, they think it’s spreading by
direct contact.”

Trent was sick to his stomach, and even felt a little
ashamed that Sarah was handling the situation so well. He wondered if maybe she
wasn't as useless as he'd been telling everyone.

Sarah grabbed Trent’s shoulder. “A lot of people are
depending on us. Are you ready?”

He nodded and lit another Parliament while thinking about
the woman sitting next to him. Trent didn’t actually hate her, but rejection always
made him act like a junior-high bully. For her part, Sarah did find him
charming in his own uncouth sort of way, and she hadn't been that drunk. But
she would never admit it.

New calls flooded in as the car picked up speed. First,
there was a 10-46, sick person and ambulance en route, followed by a 10-54,
possible dead body. Codes 20 and 10-57 meant an officer needed assistance and
shots had been fired. They grew even worse from there.

“The shit’s hitting the fan, it’s like a full moon on
steroids,” Trent said and then changed his tone. “Sarah, look... I just gotta
say... I've been a complete prick.”

“Now isn't the time—”

“No, now is the time. From here on out, you get nothing but
respect from me.”

Her pouty lips flashed a tempting smile. “Thanks. You know,
I…” A heavy object shattered the windshield and Sarah instinctively slammed on
the brakes, quickly losing control. The car only stopped after jumping the curb
and crumpling around a telephone pole.

“I knew I should have drove,” Trent muttered as he fought
the darkness creeping over him. Two long minutes later, an intense pain jolted
him awake. The lit cigarette had landed on his lap and the smoldering cherry
slowly burned through his slacks and into his flesh.

Meanwhile, a warm and wet liquid ran down Trent’s face and
momentarily blinded him while a strange clicking noise came from somewhere
nearby. He patted the flames out and then rubbed his eyes, blinking for a few
seconds. The world slowly came into focus, as did the cause of the clicking
sound.

“Jesus Christ!”

Confronting Trent was some grade-A nightmare fuel. An old
lady was stuck in the windshield mere inches from his face, chomping and
drooling like a ravenous beast. The woman pressed further into the windshield,
ignoring the broken shards slicing into her neck. Blood and spit dripped onto
Trent's forehead like Chinese water torture as he fumbled with his pistol. He
aimed the shaking sidearm at the woman's shattered face while reaching a hand
out to Sarah's shoulder.

Trent shook her, slowly at first, then like a rag-doll.
“Wake up!”

Sarah mumbled incoherently, so he smacked her, hard, and she
slowly came to. “What happened?”

“Woman driver. And your airbag didn’t go off so don’t move.
I'm coming around to get you.” Trent eased the door open and put one foot on
the ground. Dull and empty eyes followed him from the windshield.

The old woman jerked her head backwards and Trent scrambled
out to raise his firearm. But the freak-show was hopelessly stuck. She gave one
final furious tug before her head popped right off, making a disgusting ripping
noise in the process. The corpse slumped to the ground, twitched for a few
agonizing seconds, and then lay still.

Blaaaaugh
. Trent threw up the super-nachos he ate at
four a.m. as well as several confiscated pain pills. He wiped his face and
turned to Sarah. “Are you hurt?”

“Yeah, I think it’s bad.” She coughed up blood. “My leg
hurts like hell.”

Trent could see a pure white bone poking through her pant
leg and realized it was a nasty compound fracture. He grabbed the radio. “Unit
145 has an officer down near Hermitage and Augusta, ambulance needed.” There
was no reply so he repeated himself four times. “Somebody fucking pick up!”
Still no answer. Other than a figure approaching from the south, the street was
oddly deserted. “Sit tight, we got someone running towards us.”

“I'm not…” She coughed up more bright blood. “…going
anywhere.”

Trent waited until the man was twenty yards out and raised
his pistol. The runner, a black man wearing a janitor's outfit, gestured to
Trent to lower his weapon. He did and the man cautiously approached, sweating
heavily and gasping for air.

“Thank God. I thought I was all alone. You got to get me
outta here,” he said between breaths.

“Back up, buddy. Why are you running?” Trent raised his gun
again.

“I work down at Cook County Hospital. It’s going crazy down
there. Man, we need to go.”

“What do you mean?” Trent asked.

“The hospital was packed, but more people kept showing up
and we couldn't let anyone else in. Then folks started going ghetto and it got
nuts. People were screaming, punching, they were even biting each other.”

“You ran off?”

“Hell yeah I did. My friend got his damn ear bit off right
in front of me. I wasn't gonna wait for the bus.”

“Then what?” Trent asked.

“It spilled into the streets and then big trucks showed up.
There was a bunch of gunshots.”

“Military?”

“Fuck, how many questions are you gonna ask?” Trent glared,
so the man continued. “I hear gunshots all the time, and I ain’t never heard any
like that. They were shooting at everything.”

Trent grabbed the radio. “Where is everybody? I got an
officer down. Hello?”

“Look, I ain't sticking around. There were some dudes
chasing me and I don't know where they are.” He finally noticed the decapitated
body in the street. “Holy shit. You hit that bitch with your car?”

At that moment, a group of subway workers, several bums and
a naked man rounded the corner two blocks away. They moved with a strange
shambling gait, almost as if they were drunk.

“Those are the guys.”

Trent ignored him. “She’s hurt, so we’ll need to move her
till help comes.”

“We? You got a turd in your pocket? I mean, I ain't doing
nothing but getting outta here.”

“Listen, asshole—”

“It ain't asshole, it's Tyrone.”

Trent cocked the hammer back on his pistol. “Listen, Tyrone,
I'm not asking you.”

“Fine, but don't think I won’t sue your ass,” Tyrone
replied. “Police motherfucking brutality, that’s what this is. I’ll get Jesse
Jackson up in here.”

“You can take every penny I have, brother. But we need to
get her into one of these buildings. Be careful, her leg is busted and probably
her ribs too.” Trent put his leather wallet into Sarah's mouth and gently eased
the door open. So far so good. Even better, the crowd hadn't noticed them.

Sarah clamped down and fought the urge to pass out as they
started to pull. But the shattered femur worked a jagged groove through her
thigh and blood quickly pooled on the floor.

“She's bleeding too much, we gotta put her back,” Trent said
and gritted his teeth. They carefully eased her into the front seat.

As luck would have it, the radio crackled back to life.
“What’s your location again unit 145?” Trent and Tyrone looked to each other
then turned back to the crowd that was now numbering in the dozens and staring
directly at the car.

Tyrone chose that instant to flee, and the crowd surged
towards them while Trent froze. Looking at his partner, he noticed her beauty
even under extreme pain, and as the morning sun glistened off Sarah’s
tear-soaked, emerald eyes, he knew what he should do. He knew what he must do.
And he did the exact opposite.

“Don’t leave me!” Sarah shouted as Trent took off. The mob
reached the car and several forms dove through the window while the rest
followed their moving prey.

Ghastly screams echoed off the buildings followed by the
sharp crack of a pistol. Trent simply quickened his pace and put Sarah Birdsong
behind him, figuratively and literally. A few minutes later his gut ached, his
lungs burned and the crowd grew closer by the step.

Meanwhile, Tyrone had problems of his own. Already winded,
his ill-fitting work boots were causing his feet to blister. Still, he was
pulling away from the overweight cop.

Trent’s years of chain-smoking hadn't given him much to work
with, and he soon hit the wall as his silent chasers closed in. So Trent
stopped running and fired every round in his clip. The first shot grazed
Tyrone's shoulder and the second blew the man’s knee apart.

“You son of a bitch!”

The janitor hit the pavement and Trent didn’t even turn
around to see the mob rip the helpless man to pieces. He was only a mile from
home and just might make it after all.

Chapter
10

Par for the Course

Charlie and Jim made their way towards the dog pile while
the crowd panicked and spectators ran in every direction. Fights were breaking
out all over, and Left-Nut, being Left-Nut, had already fled amidst the
pandemonium.

Reaching the scrum and seeing Vidu’s orange shirt at the
bottom of the pile, Charlie grabbed his squirming legs and pulled him from the
mass of tangled bodies. Vidu slid out and latched onto a lady running past,
tripping and grabbing her in one fluid motion. He opened his mouth wide and
ripped a chunk of flesh from the screaming woman’s calf.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Charlie dropped his friend
and backed away in horror as two more deranged lunatics tore into the woman’s
trembling body like she was a downed wildebeest.

Jim tugged at Charlie’s arm and they sprinted pell-mell towards
the apartment, ignoring the trampled and torn apart bodies around them. Men and
women, young and old, found themselves caught in the quickly growing cycle of
exponential carnage. If there could be hell on earth, it would look a lot like
this.

They caught up with Left-Nut and told him to pick up the
pace with a few choice words. One hot minute later, the trio reached the
apartment. Of course, Charlie had lost the key during his tumble down the fire
escape earlier, and the doorbell was broken.

After they pounded on the door for what would seem like an
eternity, Smokey emerged wearing a zebra-patterned Snuggie and holding a joint.
“Who kicked your ass?” he said upon seeing his friend’s shiner.

Charlie shoved Smokey aside, slammed the door and turned the
deadbolt. “Everybody wake the fuck up!”

The remaining crew was in varying states of disarray, but
the consensus was that nobody wanted to “wake the fuck up.”

Blake rubbed the sleep from his eyes while sitting up on the
couch. “This better be good, my head’s pounding.” He squinted. “Holy shit,
Charlie, what happened to your face?”

“Guys, something crazy’s going on and I’m not kidding.”

“Like what?” Mike asked. “Terrorists?”

Charlie shook his head. “I got no clue, but it’s a fucking
nightmare outside.”

“It’s true, people are going ape-shit,” Jim added while a
speechless Left-Nut nodded in agreement.

Russ crossed his arms. “You guys think you can pull one over
on old Russ do you? Well you can all kiss my ass because I’m not taking the
bait.”

Charlie pulled the living room drapes back and revealed the
spiraling mayhem in the neighborhood. “Take a look for yourself.” Cars zipped
past, ignoring traffic signals and common sense as people ran about in a panic.

“Okay, let me see this crazy nightmare,” Russ said with finger
quotations as he brushed past Charlie. Right as he got to the window, a
speeding ice cream truck crashed into a hydrant and sent water shooting into
the air. “Damn, they’re giving that truck driver the Reginald Denny treatment.
Wait, are they… are they fuckin’ eating that guy?” The truck’s tune continued
to play during the assault.

“We need to stay inside,” Blake said, stating the obvious.

“Where’s Vidu?” Mike asked.

Jim looked at the floor. “He didn’t make it.”

“What do you mean he didn’t make it?”

“I mean he’s running around biting people and shit,” Jim
said. “He didn’t make it.”

Blake turned on the news while others tried to call loved
ones and Charlie did a head count. “Who are we missing?”

“Trent’s at work, so only Big Rob,” Blake said.

Jim was puzzled. “He was supposed to stay here till I took
him to the train station.”

Smokey put his joint out in an empty beer can. “He was
complaining that you wouldn’t let him use the toilet. You don’t think—”

“I know exactly where he is,” Charlie said and headed for
the front door.

* * *

Smokey’s elderly downstairs tenant stared out her front
window at the man sleeping blissfully in her rosebushes. Making matters worse,
the giant’s pants were around his ankles, exposing himself to the world. After
getting no help from the police, Mrs. Stone planned to use her garden hose on
the delinquent.

Meanwhile, Charlie crept down the front stairs and found Big
Rob right where he expected. “You gotta wake up,” he said and tapped his
friend’s forehead.

Rob rolled over, revealing definite morning wood and the
true origins of his nickname. “Where am I?”

Her sensibilities were now completely overwhelmed, and Mrs.
Stone ran outside screaming like a banshee. “Out of my yard, you sodomites!”

Charlie grabbed his aged neighbor by the shoulders and
forcefully shoved her into the apartment. “Get inside, you old bitch,” he said
while shutting the door. “Pull your pants up and come on. I don’t have time to
explain.”

But no one talked to Mrs. Stone like that, and they
definitely didn’t put their hands on her either. The feisty grandmother of
twelve and former WWII riveter calmly grabbed her dead husband’s Big Bertha
golf club from the entryway and crept back outside.

Rob was taking his sweet time and turned his head to the
street. “Ooh, I hear the ice-cream man.”

Charlie pulled Rob up by the ear. “I’m not kidding, you need
to hurry up and—” Charlie’s sentence ended abruptly as a wooden driver smashed
the back of his skull and knocked him to his knees. It saved his life.

At that exact moment, a sprinting maniac sailed right over
him and crashed into the furious granny. It instantly began to savage the
old-firecracker, although she did get a few good whacks in.

Now Rob had no trouble moving quickly and even beat Charlie
upstairs where Jim held the door open, slamming it as they entered. “Dumbass,”
he said and gave Rob a hug.

The friends gathered in the living room and tried to make
sense of the lunacy, but it was difficult to focus with random screams and the
ice cream song blaring outside.

“Has anyone been able to call out yet?” Charlie asked.

“Everything’s busy,” Blake said as he tried in vain to call
his fiancée again. “Must be too many calls overloading the system, like on
nine-eleven.”

There was a loud pounding on the front door, and time seemed
to stand still. “Somebody order a pizza?” Blake’s uncle said with a nervous
laugh.

Charlie peeked out the window overlooking the second-story
porch. “You gotta be kidding me, it’s Mrs. Stone.” The nonagenarian wasn’t
looking too good either as she was missing an eye and a good chunk of her
scalp. Still, she methodically hammered away at the steel door, leaving behind
a trail of bloody handprints.

“Now we’re getting attacked by senior citizens,” Cliff said
in amazement. “What’s next, killer midgets?”

Rob put one hand up to his ear. “Anyone hear that?” A faint
cracking noise came from Trent’s bedroom. They rushed in to see rocks hitting
the window.

Charlie stuck his head outside and found an exhausted Trent
hiding behind old furniture in the alleyway.

The cop waved up. “It’s about goddamn time.” He looked
downwards. “Ah man, I stepped in a huge pile of shit.” Big Rob grimaced,
knowing where it came from.

“Go to the back door,” Charlie said.

Trent gave the dirtiest of dirty looks. “I’m not a fucking
moron, I already tried that. There’s a bunch of assholes sniffing around out
back like they’re here for a barbecue. Just get the old bag off the porch.”

“Okay, wait here,” Charlie said and ran upstairs with Big
Rob close behind.

There was a huge crash out front, and Trent peeked around
the corner to see blood streaming off the porch.

A fifty-pound air conditioner picks up terminal velocity
very quickly, and the widow found this out the hard way when one landed on her
head and crunched her frail bones like an accordion. Big Rob waved down from
the roof. The coast was clear.