Undead Fleshcrave: The Zombie Trigger (13 page)

So they did. They clambered up scalable businesses and residences, avoiding the maelstrom of blood-soaked terror that swamped the city folk of Armada down on the streets and stayed up there, moving from roof to roof where they could. They waited, they watched, they travelled when they could. They saw the police fighting a losing battle, they witnessed the horrendous spread across town, and then the undead were everywhere.           These zombie marauders, however, did not remain loitering around the one spot, or stay in an area that was thoroughly ravaged and stripped bare of flesh feasts. They moved on, continually in search of pockets where people were congested, following the trail of fleeing pedestrians or business patrons/owners/staff, always looking for more meat.          

Once groups of them laid waste to whatever they could, they continued their ruthless hunt, their appetites seemingly insatiable. In large packs, in twos and threes, even single zombies prowled, shambled or ran down their prey, their various pursuing methods bizarre, irregular and unpredictable.          

From rooftops, the bunch of survivors from the Undead Fleshcrave massacre watched everything that was visible to them, sometimes even moving with the flow of the main zombie pack to get up to date with what was occurring.          

A couple of them couldn't watch, and didn't want to―the scenes were catastrophically traumatic and the sanguinary mayhem was mind-scarring to them—but those who’d taken the leadership roles within the group were doing so for a very specific reason.          

They were watching certain stores, making plans from their vantage points, brainstorming ideas and coming to agreements on actions they were going to take.          

The main man of this, the protagonist of the escape, had very clear motives, definitive things he wanted to achieve and observing what was going on down below was of great assistance to him.          

Though he had a name, this man had forgone it. He’d bestowed another moniker upon himself and he suggested the members of his party do likewise. They did.          

He called himself Vengeance Priest. He made the decision that he was not going to attempt in some vain futile effort to leave town like so many were trying and failing to do, though no doubt many would have been able to successfully escape the city limits and find freedom from the disaster.          

He made his intentions abundantly clear: he wanted to strike back at these zombie mutants who were going to bring the city to its knees, he wanted to kill and destroy a whole slew of them, he wanted to cut a swathe through their ranks. He wasn't alone in that burning desire. Members of his group who’d elected to take names like Apollyon, Natassja, Empress, Attila, and Demonaz were in strong agreement. They also stood firm with him on his other lofty ambitions.          

Vengeance Priest suspected that in this debacle and this unforeseen threat that was going to prove immensely devastating to Armada. Things were going to change immeasurably and there would be a weakening of all sorts of power, a decline in authority, a rise of anarchy.          

It was early days yet, this was pretty presumptuous of him to assume that police and the many reinforcements that would sometime be arriving to battle the peril wouldn't be able to wrestle control back, but already he and his minions had grand ambitions of somehow seizing some part of the city as their own.          

In the very back of his mind, a secret design was brewing and festering like some suppurating sore―a deep, burning desire for vengeance. A bloody revenge against those the man who called himself Vengeance Priest resolutely believed had wronged him in the worst possible way.          

That little section of the grand blueprint he kept to himself for the moment to keep his legions focused wholly on the things that most urgently required their full focus. And right now he required their attention to be concentrated on specific things, shops and various places where the undead already rampaged through. Because once they moved on from those places he had designs on the refugee group going down to ransack these places for different reasons than zombies.          

The items he and his people needed were going to be of no interest to flesh hungry meat-seeking walking corpses. They would only be of interest to those like Vengeance Priest, who was looking to destroy those meat-seeking corpses.          

He wanted weapons. He knew that many of those shops and businesses the hordes had already gone through like a violent dose of salts, might well contain the implements and instruments he wanted and needed. Guns, knives, bladed weapons, power tools. Things to combat a zombie plague and raise a body count of dead bodies that stayed down and stayed dead.          

When they were relatively certain they could abandon their rooftop positions as the zombie packs seethed on to new pastures, new areas of ripe flesh to plunder, Vengeance Priest and his band of vengeful survivors descended to the Armada streets.

CHAPTER ELEVEN-NOUMENA

Unlike Armada, the town of Noumena was a true coastal one. Whereas Armada was classified a coastal city merely due to proximity, it was close to the coastline, but not enough that it had vast beaches and sea outside its windows and city limits; Noumena was a seaside place.          

To reach the nearest beach from even the outskirts of Armada there was a drive involved; a relatively short one, but a journey that required more time than merely waking up, walking outside and having sand between one’s toes.          

Not so Noumena. The township, less than half the size of Armada, was right on the beach, a popular tourist destination for those seeking sun, surf, and sand, and so thrived on a variety of seaside ventures and pursuits. Fishing, tourism, cruises, and a couple of seasonal fairs provided the chief source of income with those employed within these industries often having to keep a backup plan in place when the colder months of the year rolled around.          

The general choice of music in Noumena varied, principally driven by surf punk and surf rock, even a fondness for the classics of the surf music era like the Beach Boys, Jan and Dean, and instrumentals, but alternative genres and grunge were also popular as well as stoner rock and metal. There also existed a reasonable population of those who were more interested in heavier forms of music, the extreme metal genres with a healthy collective of death metal aficionados in the mix.          

There was nothing of the massive death metal culture that made up distant neighbour Armada, but there were certainly enough people in town who would fill up a venue for a death metal supergroup should they happen to play a show in town.          

And they were playing in town. Noumena was the very next stop on the coastal tour of Undead Fleshcrave.         

In a township of this size, it wouldn't be overly difficult for Simon Black and his cohorts to discover exactly where the fleshcraving fivesome were playing, most likely the following night, so once they located where the two vans and the tour bus were apparently holing up for the night, the two vehicles of band pursuers found their own accommodation for the evening.          

This came in the form of Neptune Towers, which was nothing like the grand luxury high rise holiday complex its name may have suggested. Instead it was a flea-bitten dingy little motel a street or so from the edge of the sandy stretch of Sunset Beach, the main beach which spanned almost the entire length of the town, broken into smaller beaches down the far end of the populace. Dressing the basic lodge up in palm trees, dolphin insignias, beach umbrellas, and affiliated paraphernalia didn't distract from what it was, or alter the fact that it was nothing more exotic than a simple affordable place to lay one’s head for a night or so.          

For the purposes required by Black and his collective, that was all they needed; none of them were about to lay out megabucks for fancy resorts with spa baths, in-room movies, beds with magic fingers or that sort of crap. They weren't on a beachside holiday visit.          

Seth Tanner realised just how deep his name was scribbled in the bad books of Julietta when she insisted on a separate room for her and Miranda once they all were finally able to evacuate the vehicles and stretch their legs. Essentially he hadn't just been lightly written into those books, he'd had his name scrawled in big block letters, then had that traced over until those same letters were big angry black things, the imprint of them going right through multiple pages and leaving a mark on a host of them.          

Mark appeared to be in better stead with Miranda; she certainly wasn't holding him responsible in any way for dragging the lot of them into this situation with the menacing, murder-intent Black and his dangerous support cast, but all the same, she elected to accompany Julietta to a different room, perhaps so she wasn't by herself.          

With Black and his crew sorting out their own accommodation, and the stupefied trio of Heather, Wayne, and Doug rooming together that left the three Amigos Seth, Dax, and Mark to their own devices.          

Considering it was too late to be doing any sort of shopping for alternative outfits or different clothes, the duo of Julietta and Miranda headed immediately to their room, having purposely asked for one far from the remainder of the factions, their door slamming shut with no intention of reopening until the sun rose in the morning.
That was, assuming the sun opted to reappear tomorrow morning
, Seth contemplated glumly, watching the two girls depart without a backwards glance.          

Frightened by the tale relayed to them on the journey by Lizette and Madeleine, or at least put into deep worried contemplation of it, Heather and the two guys also decided to get themselves indoors and out of sight, most likely to discuss the horrible hopeless state of affairs they'd become entangled in.           

Seth figured it wouldn't be overly surprising if the three of them tried to abscond early in the morning and attempt to make their way back to their hometown. Which he was guessing was not going to bear much resemblance to the one they’d formerly known. He hoped he was dead wrong about that and by some massive stroke of fortune the authorities, government, military, whoever was going to be needed to get drafted in to contain the undead threat were going to be able to do so with minimum fuss.          

Somehow he didn't believe it was going to play out that way. He suspected he—and everybody else currently involved in this debacle―had just had their lives permanently altered in ways that they could not come back from.          

While Black and his collective stalked around the perimeters of the motel complex, undoubtedly making plans and holding discussions that didn't require the presence of Seth and his buddies, the three left behind explored their meagre room.          

There was one double and one single bed, a single long lounge, a television set that looked older than any of them, a simple wooden drawing table with one rustic old chair and a dresser or two. Undoubtedly there were a handful of other staples stashed away in the basic wardrobe and elsewhere, but a room of absolute luxury it was not, just a place of minimum necessity.          

While Mark sat on the edge of the double bed and switched on the TV, searching to find a channel with some form of news reports happening, Seth and Dax wandered out onto the meagre veranda section located out the front of their room—and each other room facing the same direction―where they were afforded with a modest view over a wide, currently vacant park down to the beach.          

"Shouldn't you have a shower?" Seth broached the subject with Dax, his friend still clad in the long-dried blood of the hobo he'd killed in the alley.           

"Yeah," Dax murmured with a solemn nod. "Yeah. Just want to try and clear my head, y'know? Try and get my head around things. I mean, fuck, this is unreal. And not a good unreal. It feels like a bad fucking dream."          

"If it's a bad dream I hope I wake up soon then," Seth said. "Real fucking soon."           

Dax lit up a cigarette and gazed off into the distance, eyes catching the undulations of breakers rolling on the seas and crashing on shore.          

"Yeah, at least you haven't killed anybody."          

"Yet," Seth finished for him, though he wasn't certain Dax intended to add that on.          

Lost in his own thoughts now, Dax didn't respond. He remained fixated on the distant waves as if he wished he were out there, maybe being carried further out to sea, out beyond those oscillating into the beach.          

Staring at the sea made Seth think of this seaside township being overrun by zombies.          

Any ordinary person standing on the deck of some beachfront motel gazing out to sea, no matter how ratty the lodgings inside might be, wouldn't be ruminating on cogitations of a swarming undead plague besetting the town they were currently in, but after the hellish expedition of happenings Seth had just lived through over the course of the evening, he couldn't help it.          

He was a little surprised that none of the trio thoroughly checked every nook and cranny of the paltry room they were in just to ensure no undead menace was stowed away in the shower, lurking in a broom closet or hidden under the beds. He knew his dreams, if he slept at all, were going to be overrun with terrible visions and he didn't particularly enjoy the thought. For now his brain was racked with illogical scenarios, questions, possibilities and conundrums.         

Would sea air have any adverse effect on zombies? Would salt water be in some way detrimental to them? As corpses would they bloat up if they were to end up in the sea? Since essentially they were already dead, clearly they couldn't drown. Many always spoke of a sea change being good for them, sea air drumming up people's appetites, all those kinds of things. Would that be the case for zombies? How would their appetites fare in the healthy waft of breeze off the ocean? Would they be likewise increased from insatiable to, well...something even beyond insatiable?         

The thoughts made Seth shudder inwardly, annoyed at himself with the morbid preoccupation, but unable to switch his brain off all the same. He wondered if he would be better dwelling on the rift that appeared to be widening between himself and Julietta but surmised that neither line of thought was very pleasant. Better to try and mend things with her tomorrow with the dawn of a new day, and hopefully a new sunrise.          

"Hey," Mark's voice sounded from the interior of the room. "News report from Armada."          

Exchanging glances, Seth and Dax both hurried back inside, the cigarette in Dax's hand still trailing smoke. Whether it was a smoking room or not seemed inconsequential; it was probably fair to say the room had seen its share of different odours and tribulations.          

“
...a warning to anybody attempting to travel to Armada, the city has been quarantined with reports of a massive chemical spill circulating. Details at this point are very vague, but we have correspondents keeping us up to date with further news as it comes to hand. At this point in time all we know is that people are not being allowed to broach the city limits with traffic being turned away at all possible entry points to the city. It is not known exactly what has caused this potentially hazardous situation, but we are being advised that nobody will be allowed in, and if you are intending to try and make your way there, please alter your plans. I repeat, breaking news in the city of Armada, there have been some reports of a potentially hazardous chemical outbreak that may have widespread repercussions. All people with intentions to travel to that vicinity are urged to change your itineraries, you will not be granted access to the city. We will keep vigilant on this situation as news comes to hand..."
          

"What the fuck?" Dax blurted, his virtually forgotten cigarette growing a dangerously long section of ash as he stared in disbelief as the news report was replaced by another story regarding a multiple homicide. "Chemical outbreak? Is that the kind of bullshit the head honchos or Armada are feeding reporters? A cover up?"          

"Makes sense, I guess," Seth said. "Whatever keeps people away has to be a good thing. Who is going to really be able to swallow the truth of the matter?"         

"People need to know the damn truth!" Dax exclaimed. "That's just further proof of the media botching shit, covering shit up, and feeding people lies."         

"Come on, would you believe a news report that said undead masses are swarming your hometown?"          

"No, of course the fuck not. But still..." Dax turned his attention back to the television screen as if it were suddenly going to launch into another story about Armada's zombie chemical crisis and the ash piece fell off his cigarette and onto the mottled mess of the carpet.          

Mark didn't say much; he was busy staring at the TV as well, his hands clasped together on his lap. Finally, he glanced at the others.          

"You know what this means, though?" he said. "Chemical spill, zombie outbreak, tsunami, bird flu pandemic, whatever the hell they're using to run the story with, it all means the same thing for us."          

"Which is?" Dax asked, striding into the unit’s modest kitchenette section to drop his cigarette butt in the sink and run water over it, extinguishing it.          

"We can't get back into Armada. At all. Until this blows over. We're fucked. We can't go home."          

"Says who?"          

"Dax, were you even watching the damn thing? I know you were, man, they aren't letting anybody in, and I'm guessing they aren't letting anybody out."          

"Oh, yeah. Yeah. Well, maybe it means they have shit under control them. Just a precautionary lockdown until they can ascertain if there are infected people and shit like that."           

"Really? You think they have it under control?"          

"Well, if they have people cordoning off the city, watching the exit/entrance points, making sure nobody tries to get in it, sounds like they have some level of control over what's going on."          

"Maybe," Mark mused. "Sounds like they have enough nous to concoct a story to feed to the media, to keep things from blowing out of control."          

"Which would indicate that they have pretty high hopes that they can keep it under wraps and under control, I guess," Seth proposed, buoyed by his own notion.