MZS: D. C. (Metropolitan Zombie Survivors Book 4) (3 page)

The consensus is to get out of the Humvee and stay here. It’s obvious, but I can understand why Patrick is hesitant. I wish he would spell out the concerns we all must feel. Every time I think that someone is stepping up to act like a leader they disappoint me.

Sure, we’re a team and a group and we all have valuable data points to be weighed when making a decision. Sometimes though, you just need to own a choice. If Patrick feels so nervous about this that he wants to leave, he should have told us why before he asked for our input.

At this point, if he says we’re leaving there may be a revolt. If he tells us we’re staying, I’m going to read a thousand things into his tone and word choice. Instead of instilling confidence, he is brewing confusion and frustration.

“Here’s the deal,” he says, issuing orders confidently. “Todd, you and Terri are staying in the rig. Terri, you scan the building roof, windows, and ground entrances. Look for armed men or anyone who looks scary. Todd, stay behind the seat. If Terri sees anything bad, you’re in the nest. Let that machine gun rip until we can make it back.”.

“Got it.” Todd is all business.

“What are we supposed to do if
we
see something?” I ask. I want to know why he’s sending us outside if he thinks there will be scary things.

“Parker and Cupcake, put the guns in your waist around back. Make sure your shirt covers them. Leave the other weapons here,” Patrick says.

Stupid ass. He’s going to use me as bait. Stick the pretty girl outside with no weapons and if it’s a trap I can trust that the others will take care of me.

“What. About. Me?” I probe.

“We’re diplomats,” he says. “Kind words and no weapons. If shit gets crazy, stay behind me and get to the rig as fast as you can. Actually, get in the driver’s seat and make sure you’re ready to roll. If any of us go down, just leave and make sure everyone else is safe.” Patrick will at least physically stay in front of the group.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Terri slurs at Patrick.

“Umm?” He’s not even sure how to answer her.

“There’s women and children in like ten windows. Nothing bad is going to happen here.” She caps off her comments with a long pull on her flask.

Before Patrick can answer, his head whips around to the front.

I half expect to hear the eruption of gunfire based on his movement. From my obscured view seat there is nothing to warrant his reaction.

Leaning forward over the seat and pushing Todd off to the side, I can see through the front window. There is a man in a suit, no tie, flanked by two other well-dressed men, entering the parking lot from underneath the building. The man in the middle appears unarmed; the two on the outside are both cradling long black guns.

“You guys ready?” Patrick doesn’t wait for the answer; he opens the door and steps out onto the pavement.

No, we’re not ready. This is no plan. He told us what he wants us to do, but not when or what we’re supposed to react to.

“You follow Cupcake,” Parker whispers in my ear. “Tucker and I will use Todd’s door.”

Before I can object or question, Cupcake is out the door and standing on the pavement. Parker has slipped past Todd and somehow managed to gracefully land feet-first out the door. Tucker is not far behind him.

Confused and angry, I make my way out Cupcake’s door and place my feet as confidently as I can on the ground. I am a strong, intelligent young woman, I remind myself—it’s just hard to show that or feel it in these circumstances.

As the men get closer I begin to worry that our appearance leaves us at a disadvantage.

One of my early lessons in business was to look the part. To sell high-end art you need to have a high-end look. If I was going to wear a watch, it had to be a Rolex or better. Jewelry had to be solid; gold, silver, or platinum. Clothes could not have any tags or labels, nothing “off the rack” was allowed in the gallery.

It was kind of a depressing lesson for an art lover who thought the work should speak for itself. Who cares what I’m wearing if the piece I’m selling is absolutely brilliant? Sadly, the answer was virtually everyone.

The jeans and canvas jacket I put on yesterday morning are far from designer. I suspect we all smell bad enough that the guys with guns can smell us from here. Last night we drank like fishes, slept in our clothes and did not shower. The cardboard-and-duct-tape armor is custom, I suppose, but not what you would call fashion. We are a long way from high-end art.

Still, we are negotiating and that’s what worries me. Patrick does not seem like a closer. He has the first eighty percent of initiative to engage and entice, but no killer instinct to seal the deal. Yet here he is taking point across from a smartly dressed older gentleman.

Individually we look like a mess and collectively we look even worse. Cupcake and I are on one side of the Humvee. Tucker and Parker are on the other, and Patrick has walked to the front. Not what you would call a formation.

The men approaching us are in a clear formation: leader and two bodyguards. Do we really live in a world that requires bodyguards in an average Washington, D.C., parking lot?

I suppose bodyguards were pretty popular in our nation’s capital. Again, it’s more about looking the part than needing the protection. This guy definitely looks the part. In fact, I think that I’ve seen his face before: maybe TV, a magazine or on the internet.

When I finally look away from the familiar but unknown face, I check the building. Now I can see the women that Terri mentioned standing in the windows. They look scared and stand more like downtrodden prisoners than strong survivors.

Patrick separates himself from the Humvee and walks toward the approaching men. Cupcake steps up to join him and Parker does the same. Tucker and I meet in front of the Humvee. Tucker leans back against the truck like we’re just hanging out by the beach.

“Don’t lean on the truck, it makes you look weak,” I tell him.

I wish I knew what was giving me such a bad feeling about this. Not wanting to look back at the women in the windows, I look to the edges of the building. Along the roof I spot two men holding what appear to be rifles. In the ground level entrance is another man with a black gun that looks similar to the ones held by the bodyguards.

Suddenly my apprehension is obvious, and I know why: the women in windows are prisoners and the guards are on the outside. These men aren’t protecting; they are controlling.

“That’s far enough,” the warden tells Patrick.

“If you didn’t want visitors, you could have told us over the intercom,” Patrick says. Opening on the defensive, not good negotiating.

“Of course we welcome all visitors. After all, this is the current seat of the United States government. That makes this the property of all citizens.” The man smiles a false politician smile.

He is not even looking at Patrick. He’s staring at me. His eyes are hungry, and while I have never been assaulted, I imagine his is the face of a sexual predator.

“We heard that the president was alive: is he inside?” Patrick asks. He’s distracted, which is probably what the man wanted.

“Rumors are dangerous and we cannot make decisions without proof. It is my understanding and assumption that the president did not survive the initial outbreak,” the suit responds, a hint of joy in his voice.

“I guess I understand that. Is there anyway we could talk about this inside? We’ve been on the run for a while and could really use some hot showers and real food,” Patrick says. He’s offering too much information without making the guy work.

“You told me there were five people with you: I only count four,” the government suit says

“My navigator,” Patrick replies. He turns and looks past us toward the Humvee. “She isn’t so mobile, and I thought it would be okay for her to stay in the truck until we knew what was going on.”

“We can allow that. For now,” the politician answers, like he’s giving us a gift.

This guy is creepy.

“Do you have any guns besides the one on top of the Humvee?” the man asks.

“What? Oh no. We don’t even know how to use that one,” Patrick lies and I think he must be getting the same vibe that I am.

“Good. You see, while we are still operating as the United States, I have declared martial law. The Constitution has been suspended.” A broad smile crosses the older man’s face.

“So, my name is Patrick and I feel like we got off on a weird foot. Maybe we should do introductions and then we can all go inside and finish this conversation?” Patrick says awkwardly. He can’t stand still and I suddenly feel naked without a weapon.

“Nice to meet you, Patrick. I’m Senator—or Acting President—Williams, and this is Mr. White and Mr. Black. It’s interesting that you need something, because I need something, too,” the man claiming to be president replies.

“Um, what do we need?” Patrick asks. He never saw this as a negotiation; he was bound to fail from the start.

“You need food and a safe place to rest, of course, you said so yourself,” Senator Williams explains.

“Right. And what do you need?” Patrick appears to have just realized that a trade is about to be proposed.

“Ahhhh, I’m glad you asked,” the senator says. “A willingness to negotiate and compromise are important survival skills in these uncertain times.” His silver hair is probably the same color as his tongue.

This is a classic power and control tactic. He’s dictated our needs and is withholding the details of his own. My guess is he’s hoping we offer up a blank check to do “whatever he wants” just to get something to eat.

“Well, we can’t do either without knowing what you need,” Patrick says, still unsteady.

“Not that much really. In exchange for your safety, dare I say your lives, all I request is a simple blow job.” The early smile is now a smirk.

“Dude, even I know now is not the time.” Tucker calls out to the suit.

“I’m sorry, what’s that?” Patrick acts as though he didn’t hear what the slimeball said.

“You need somewhere to rest and I need someone to suck my dick. A simple trade.” The smile and smirk are gone.

“Fuck you,” Patrick says, and turns to leave.

“Suit yourselves. Our computer models put the survival chances at lower than five percent for non-trained civilians. You may have a military vehicle, but you hardly seem
trained
in survival tactics. I’m sure the young lady has performed the act in exchange for a nice dinner or some other token. Six lives in exchange for something that could be at worst unpleasant is unfairly in your favor and hardly a token.” The Acting President is also acting like he’s being generous.

“Let me say it again because you didn’t hear me. FUCK YOU!” Patrick’s voice trembles slightly.

This is almost worse than shooting people from a distance like the guys in Philadelphia. They were detached and not affected by the proximity of human contact. This monster is up close and personal, like he’s getting high from watching us squirm.

“Patrick, wait,” I say, stopping him at the hood of the Humvee.

The guys crowd in around me and form a protective wall. None of them speak, but I can see rage in the eyes of Patrick and Cupcake.

I’m not sure I’m ready to drop to my knees and take this guy in my mouth, but am I ready to let my friends die because I’m a prude?

Wait, that’s not fair to me; not wanting to be raped at gunpoint does not make me a prude.

“This is bad news. Even if they let us inside, do you think a parking lot BJ will be the end of it? They have the guns and all the power,” Cupcake whispers emphatically.

“I don’t see any men in the windows. This isn’t a shelter; it’s a prison or a work camp. Not the kind where men do the hard work either,” Parker says. He’s not interested in staying.

“So we leave these women to suffer and do nothing about it?” I ask.

Being the group that saves people during the zombie apocalypse wouldn’t be the worst way to be remembered.

Why is it that perverts and psychopaths are the ones who survived the end of the world? With our little group of good guys being the obvious exception, of course. Do we get to keep the title of good guys if we abandon these women here with this lunatic?

What the hell is she thinking? There’s really no discussion to have. This isn’t about sex or release; it’s about power and control. If getting him off was a one and done type of deal, I’d do it myself.

“Get in the rig. We’re leaving,” I order my crew.

“Wait. What about the women in there? Are we just going to leave them?” McLean asks incredulously.

I turn and look at the building. In the windows are several women looking down at us. The child I saw earlier has disappeared.

But we are not rescuers.

The scumbag was right that we have no training. Surviving out there against the zombies will be tough enough. Starting a fight against trained and armed humans holding a fortified building probably has even lower chances of survival.

“That’s a good idea. My offer warrants a conversation—just don’t tire out your mouth, pretty one,” the scumbag arrogantly calls over to us.

His words drip with evil and set my blood to boiling.

“Remember that girl from Arkansas or something? She loved sucking dick,” Tucker adds, a totally irrelevant thought.

“She was from Oklahoma,” Cupcake says, correcting Tucker on his pointless stroll down memory lane.

“It doesn’t matter. This guy is a lunatic,” I say, trying to stop the conversation.

“Just sayin’, if
someone
might enjoy it, why not go for the win-win?” Tucker says as he bends his head in the direction of McLean.

“No one would enjoy being raped at gunpoint,” McLean hisses at Tucker. “If I do anything, it’s so I have a chance to kill this bastard.”.

We now live in a world where killing a senator is something the good guys do. I have no doubt that we are the good guys, but I’m starting to worry that we’re the only ones.

“Let’s just leave. We didn’t ask for this and we don’t have the first clue of how to launch a rescue mission for those women in there. Even if we tried, it would probably wind up getting all of us killed,” I plead.

This is why I didn’t want to be in charge. Whatever we decide is going to feel awful. Leave and I will feel bad for the women in there; fight and we will likely lose someone I already know and truly care about.

“Come on sweetie, you could probably use the protein,” the pig calls out and his wingmen snicker.

For some reason that is the comment that sends me past the point of no return. I want to fucking kill this asshole. He can suck on the end of my hockey stick if he thinks it’s that easy.

“Laney, you stay here by the Humvee with Tucker,” I say and stare at her, hoping she understands how serious I am.

For some odd reason, I suddenly feel like I am in love with her. She’s not just a friend or a sister like acquaintance. McLean is the reason I want to be good—or better.

The timing for my revelation is way off. I’m flooded with confusion and certainty. Why now, I don’t get it? There is no doubt in my mind I would sacrifice every other person in the Humvee to keep her safe. Was that true in Philly as well?

There was a hint of a plan in my head but now it’s getting lost in a fog of romantic fantasy: walking hand-in-hand on the beach, a quiet candlelight dinner and a long drive through the countryside. None of these things feel possible if we turn into ruthless killers of the living.

“What do you want us to do?” Cupcake asks, snapping me out of the fog.

My plan comes back into focus and I feel the goose bumps rise on my flesh.

“Assume the previous formation,” I say. “When I put his dick in my mouth and the bodyguards are distracted, take them out and then get your asses in the rig.”

“What?” they all ask me in unison.

“He didn’t say who he wanted to have suck him off,” I say, offering a determined look.

“And how do we get to the women inside?” Tucker asks.

“We need them to step up. If we take out the leader and his two bodyguards, hopefully they can get the guys on the roof. If they don’t help themselves, we’re outta here.” I’m trying to manage a tough compromise.

“I’ll try and catch someone’s eye and signal them somehow,” McLean says and nods slowly.

“Your time is up, honey. If you think that these guys aren’t going to take what they need anyway in few days, you’re probably too naïve to live. Good luck out there, I hope you make it to dinner without becoming dinner,” the senator says and laughs maniacally.

I turn to see the senator spin around and start walking back to the building.

“Wait!” I call out to him.

He stops and faces me with a big shit-eating grin.

“Excellent decision,” he says, while closing the gap between us.

I separate myself from the Humvee and walk toward the pervert.

In junior high school I saved up enough money to buy a nice stereo. I’ll never forget the weeks spent researching features and models. Three hundred dollars was a lot of money at the time and I wanted to be confident in my decision. Back then we didn’t call them data points, but that’s what I was gathering.

I’m getting ready to take a human life and I have almost no data points. This could be just a creepy vibe with an awkward initiation. He may be sincere in saying that once we’re inside, everything will be okay.

Regardless of the data or the possibility of goodness, my gut says we need to kill him. That’s probably the only survival skill that matters: trusting your gut when there is a life on the line.

“When you finish, we all go inside, right?” I ask, checking to be sure.

“Of course. Will you be doing the honors?” He raises a single eyebrow in the creepiest way possible.

“You didn’t say who it had to be, just that it had to be done,” I answer coolly.

“Well, it won’t be my first time; will it be yours?” the older man asks confidently.

“Yes.” I’m not interested in a conversation.

“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” the slimy bastard says. “Just relax your throat. I’m a little longer than most and I don’t want you puking on my shoes.” Senator Williams grins sadistically.

Slowly I drop to my knees. My eyes stare down at his polished wingtips and the idea of getting them dirty makes me smile a little.

My left hand reaches up and grabs his belt while my right pulls down on his zipper. The fly opens wide and I reach in with my fingers. I feel the soft cotton of his boxers and probe for the opening.

Behind the folds of fabric, his dick is easy to find. It’s already semi-hard. I’m shaking a little bit and it’s difficult to pull his member out through the hole.

“Easy, killer,” he says smugly. His velvet tongue cannot hide his anticipation.

Kneeling has my mouth level with his naval. Slouching back so that my ass rests on my heels positions my mouth at just the right level. My mouth is suddenly very dry and I lick my lips to try and get some moisture to spread around.

When my right hand is wrapped tightly around his cock, I lower my left to the ground and let it trail back along my leg. I straighten him out with my hand and move my mouth closer and closer to the tip of his penis.

From the corner of my eye I can see one of the machine guns drop slightly. The bodyguards are no longer watching my friends: they are waiting to see me violated.

The knife stuck in my wine box armor comes out cleanly. Using all the strength I have, I thrust my left hand upwards until the silver blade is buried in the area between the senator’s legs.

His screams are drowned out by the sound of two gunshots, and the bodyguards crumble to the ground. A few beats later the machine gun on top of the Humvee rumbles to life. Cupcake and Parker are no longer beside me, but I can’t get up off my knees.

A bullet whizzes past my ear and the Humvee starts with a whine. Why can’t I move? Why can’t I remember what I was supposed to do next?

On the ground in front of me, the senator is writhing in pain with my knife buried to its hilt between his legs. Another bullet hits the pavement in front of me and a bit of gravel flies up and scratches my cheek.

“Patrick, come on!” McLean screams at me from behind the driver’s door of the Humvee.

If we were trying to save these women, why are we running away?

I can’t move.

For the second day in a row I find myself in the middle of a gun battle. Yesterday I ran; today I am immobilized with fear. It is amazing how different my reaction is to similar situations. Even this contemplation is heavy for me, so what changed?

The blood trickling down my face is the only thing that makes me move. Was I shot? No, a mental check of my body reveals no significant injury. I get to my feet and run, stooped over, to the rear door of the Humvee.

When I climb inside, McLean is already seated behind the wheel and the engine is running. I can hear the occasional pop and ting of bullets hitting the truck. Mostly what I hear are the explosions from the heavy machine gun above me… and Terri screaming.

“That was a senator! You just fucking killed a senator of the United States! OH MY GOD what the hell were you thinking?!” The words stream from her mouth as a single string of syllables.

I don’t know what I was thinking. It was a bad scene and we had to do something. We’re trying to save the people he has imprisoned in the building. I think that’s what we are trying to do, but Terri wasn’t there for the conversation.

“He’s a monster and a rapist!” I scream at her, defending my actions with my assumptions.

The explosions above me stop and there is a brief moment of silence. Suddenly, hell breaks loose.

A steady hail of bullets rains down on our Humvee. Surprisingly nothing penetrates the windows or roof. I have to remind myself that this is a military vehicle prepared for war, not a civilian imitation designed for comfort.

We are being shot at by far more than the three people I saw around the building.

“FUCK!” comes down from the machine gun turret, followed by a steady stream of explosions. The tings and pops slow down but do not stop completely.

“This is why I don’t go outside!” Terri is crying, rocking herself from side to side.

“What are we supposed to do?” McLean asks loudly, but she is barely audible above the heavy machine gun fire.

“Get us the fuck out of here! Go! Go! Go!” I holler back at her.

“Terri, you need to tell me where to turn! Terri, I need you!” McLean screams at the top of her lungs.

Terri is lost in her flask. This can’t be the original; I wonder how many she brought? The bottom is pointing to the sky and her eyes are pressed tight. Her mouth is wide open and I can see a steady stream of amber liquid flowing into her mouth.

“Backward through the gate! We have to get out of this compound!” I scream, so loud it scratches my throat.

Human-on-human violence and chaos in the middle of a zombie hell; maybe we don’t deserve to live.