Undead Fleshcrave: The Zombie Trigger (51 page)

Dax, the next closest following Tempest, took a couple of steps closer to the ladder, ready to haul himself out of there.

“Maybe you should stay down here, Seth,” he said maliciously. “Wait around and let more people who pay attention to detail handle business. Maybe you can go on ahead, check out the rest of the tunnel to make sure those Undead Fleshfucks aren’t still down here somewhere. Though, given your observation skills, I’d hardly be surprised if you walked right among them and weren’t even aware of it.”

“Fuck you…”

“Get on the fucking ladder!” Black barked at Dax. “I don’t think a couple of people on the thing at the same time are going to bust it, pretty sure it was built to hold a few. So rather than fuck around wasting time taking pot-shots at others, get your ass on the fucking ladder and move. We’re already running on less than petrol fumes, so every second you waste is a second we can’t afford!”

A scowl replaced the smug smirk on the visage of Dax and he bit down on anything else he’d been about to add. He promptly stashed his weapon and began ascending the ladder after the quickly disappearing Tempest.

Seth was in no hurry to be the next one up there, seething at the attitude that crept steadily back into Dax, the bristling animosity such that he wasn’t certain the two of them were even friends anymore. He knew one thing, he sure as fuck didn’t trust the guy anymore and those thoughts he’d had earlier about Dax somehow throwing him to the wolves or leaving him for dead, if the opportunity arose, resurfaced with renewed vigour. Though Scarlett looked ready to be next on the ladder, Seth stood back, allowing those more anxious to escape the tunnel to crowd in for a chance to do so. She caught his attention and cocked an eyebrow of query at him just slightly, then caught on why he was avoiding being the next to be up there.

She probably thought it was so he didn’t launch at Dax and punch him in the face, throwing more dissention and tension among the ranks, and he supposed that was part of the reason. As much as he might have wanted to smack the smug motherfucker in the head and get him to wake up to this shit, firstly, he didn’t want to stir up any more trouble than they were already facing, and secondly, he wasn’t exactly sure how he’d fare if he did instigate any fight with Dax.

After all, Dax was severely unravelled, if all of Mark’s accounts were to be believed, and well, Seth had seen for himself that their friend wasn’t really rowing with all of his oars in the water. He’d flipped out to an extent, shifted into a dark, violent persona who actually believed his own hype, paralleling himself with Subversion; certain he was on a completely different realm to his former best buddies. He bore Seth more of a grudge, more hostility and animosity, than Seth bore him, so consequently, what he was capable of, and what he might actually do weren’t easy to ascertain. Rather than risk anything, Seth elected to play it safe.

Sure, Tempest and Nate were both up there as well, but who was to say they wouldn’t just let the two throw down and get all the shit out of their system while they waited for everybody else to ascend to the surface, especially if there were no undead threats or anything potentially hazardous up there to cause distractions.

So Seth waited below while others climbed, eager to be out of the stench of death and other atrocities riddling these tunnels, safe in the knowledge that the hosts of undead fiends hadn’t yet travelled out to wherever near the alleged Orlando Street they’d come.

CHAPTER FORTY TWO-RENEGADE MASTERS

Assembled up above, all of them finally free of the narrow tunnel confines traversing beneath the city of Blackwater Park, Seth was still none the wiser as to where Nate the Renegade Masters boss had brought them.

Where they were was in some dark span of space, crowded with abundant shadows and sparse streetlights, somewhere behind hulking rows of buildings, no immediate sign of Orlando Street in view. Though Nate asserted there were no lurking packs of humanivores around, the place was still too dark and bathed in pools of shadow for anybody to be completely sure. While, most likely, the undead would have come swarming with the arrival of new human meat had they noticed it, Seth knew all of these zombie freaks didn’t adhere to motion picture ideologies. Not in their motion, the way they sensed or hunted their prey, not in the way they turned, not anything about them at all. Some of them, yes, they were archetypal zombies as most people would have been brought up understanding, but for the most part, they were wildly unpredictable, meaning all the rule books had to be flung out the window. It was pretty much a case of anything being possible here, and with each new crop created by either the Trigger itself or an infection from one already morphed into zombie state, it seemed as if they were changing, mutating, turning into wholly different strains of undead beast with different abilities or facets.

With that taken into consideration, Seth would hardly be surprised if some of them retained enough cognition and thought processes to be able to know when they should be lurking and staying in shadows, hiding and waiting to attack unwary prey. Like everybody just emerged from the subterranean tunnels, standing around like deer in the headlights, uncertain where it was Nate expected the absconded death metal band to be holed up.

Seth knew he wasn’t the only one entertaining uneasy notions about the undead with some semblance of intelligence potentially being present somewhere around this general vicinity; those who’d only recently become entangled in this hellish adventure wore their expressions clearly on their countenances.

“So, where to, big man?” Black challenged the Renegade Master. “I’m temporarily handing over the captaincy of this ship to you, since you’re the man with the plan on where these fuckers might be. So, lead on.”

“No sweat,” Nate nodded, tossing a glance back at the assembled squadron, most of them a pitiful collective of terrified souls swept up in a deluge with black metal vigilantes. Without really needing to be told, the majority fell automatically back into the formations they’d been in before, back in the Park, with the newcomers, the spectators who’d been caught in the chaos and fortunate enough to end up on the Plaguewielder stage, all drifting into the centre of the pack while the more formidably armed found themselves appointed perimeter guards once again, delegated the duty of keeping the others safe from danger if threats suddenly presented themselves.

The other two Renegade Masters, Drill and Rusty, didn’t look overwhelmed or petrified by the situation. As they’d done from the get-go, they were prepared for any outcome, taking it all on board as quickly as their leader did. However, this time, since Black headed up to the front of the assemblage, both of the bikers dropped back behind it, one going to either side to flank.

Blizzard remained back there as well, while Tempest and Dax both stayed up near the front, obviously wanting their most lethal members to be on hand should Nate’s mission bring them immediately face to face with Undead, at least in the case of Tempest. Dax, as potentially deadly as he might have thought he was, was showboating, as far as Seth was concerned. Sure, he might be unhinged to the point where his recklessness and bravado would render him a dangerous customer, but it could also get him and the rest of them wiped out in no time flat.

Right now, Seth was glad the guy elected to usurp him and appoint himself a frontrunner. Hopefully with the likes of Tempest, Black, and Nate there on hand, they would be able to counter anything stupid Dax would be prone to do. He was also glad the two staunch biker sorts elected to fall into rear guard position, flanking Blizzard. With he and Scarlett on the left-hand side of the party, and people such as Roxana, Mark, and Miranda over on the other, things weren’t looking all that fortified should something horrendous befall them before they made it to this sanctuary Nate spoke of.

Heather also took herself up near the front, just back behind Tempest, and Seth had no doubt the fiery blonde was a much changed woman from her early encounters with these people and the terrible stroke of fate which threw her into their company. He suspected that, like him with Scarlett, she was loathe to be separated from the stormy Subversion drummer/Moons wielder, regardless of the fact that he would be appointing himself one of the very first to go on the attack against anything or anyone appearing before them.

Everyone in the middle were just a motley assortment of misfits and folks who probably shouldn’t even be here. Renee, Gavin. Lilith, the pair of shell-shocked newcomers, the others dragged along from the bloodbath at Stage Four, none of them looked like they’d be any assistance whatsoever if shit got nasty, but then again, they weren’t really here to be of assistance, they’d been swallowed up in a terrible snowball of fate. Fuck, even Seth and his buddies weren’t supposed to be involved in the killing, not originally. But shit had changed. A whole lot of shit. And if killing these zombie making death metal motherfuckers was the only way for Seth to be able to push through to some semblance of reality beyond that where a relationship with the delectable Scarlett waited tantalisingly on the other side, then that was what he was fully prepared to do, swinging the lethal, temporary gift of Mother North, though he was somehow expecting Black to request the weapon guitar back for this final stand. Perhaps that was still coming, once Black surveyed the situation here, wherever Nate was leading them.

Then Nate steered them out and into a larger open gap between buildings, which Seth acknowledged was a large darkened car park area, profoundly drenched in shadows, an abundance of trees with big leafy branches overhanging the vicinity, and he was abruptly struck with a strange sense of familiarity about their new surroundings.

That was swiftly followed by a creeping feeling of dread and unease as he observed that the car park was extensively filled. A handful of cars and other motor vehicles dotted it, but primarily it was full of rows and rows of motorcycles, big sleek, silent Harley Davidsons, all gleaming metal muscle and menace. Biker rides.

There was something very wrong here, he could feel it in his bones, a stealthy chill that froze him from the inside out.

Back behind him, a stentorian whistle rang out, a piercing sound that needled into his ears with a spike in sound that bordered on painful, and he instinctively jumped in panic, hurling a stunned look back there.

Trailing the group, over on the right hand side, just about shrouded by the overhanging foliage of the trees lining the car park, Seth saw the shape of Drill, the Renegade Master who’d elected for he and his bikie brother Rusty to accompany Blizzard at the back of the procession. He’d stopped moving, falling back even further, and it was he who gave vent to the whistle, his thumb and forefinger curled in his mouth.

Closer to the edge of the park, where those trees stood like silent sentinels, surrounding the multiple rows of motorcycles, all like a pack of waiting mechanical beasts, primed to move on command, Mark and Miranda jumped in fright with the blast of the whistle, as did most everyone else. They might have been expecting furtive undead lurkers to dart out at them, or spill en masse from the shadows, but nobody was expecting an ear piercing whistle to split the night.

And while it didn’t bring marauding zombies, it sure as hell brought other figures.

They came from further back in dark patches of thick shadow, slipping out between the trees and stepping onto the asphalt surface of the car park, from the other side of the group, detaching themselves from positions on the wall of the adjacent building. They appeared in front of the main body, fanning out in a line that blocked the forward progress of the Subversion duo and the others at the head of the party. And back behind Drill, Blizzard, and Rusty, they circled around there as well.

“What the fuck?” Emanated in surprise from somebody in the collective, while other responses varied from stunned gasps to frightened, strangled screams, these souls dead certain the converging surrounders were undead monsters seeking flesh. Seth already knew better.

Those who stepped into whatever scant light was afforded by the sparse collection of street lamps and any moon glow from above, were clad in leathers, denim, chains, and gloves, the illumination sparking off silver studs, pins and other clothing ornamentations. All were brandishing weaponry of some description, predominantly firearms. Coming from the left-hand side, where he was located with Scarlett, Seth observed at least two shotguns in the mix, one of them sawn off and held down at waist level.

Up ahead, a couple of paces in front of Black and Tempest, Nate lengthened his strides until he was well out in front, then swiftly swivelled around, raising both hands. Formerly, as he’d ascended the ladder from the tunnel, those big, beefy extremities had been empty; now, one of them hoisted his pistol, aiming it skywards.

“Hold up everybody!” He boomed, his commanding voice ringing out in a crescendo across the expanse of the threat-laden car park. “Gonna have to ask everyone to stop right where they stand. Weapons down.”

As a murmur of confusion and dismay ran through the lot of them, spreading like wildfire, Nate lowered his gun until it drew a bead on Black’s face. The slow response in people hastening to lay down their weaponry drew the crowding throng of newcomers in closer, more guns raised and targeting those who openly carried their guns or blades.

Glancing back around to the rear, Seth saw that Drill had one arm crossed over his midriff, a pistol in his other hand resting atop it, the nose pointed directly at Blizzard. On the other side, Rusty too held a handgun aimed towards the main body of the group, and Seth didn’t have to be any brain surgeon to acknowledge that the two shotgun wielders on his side had the muzzles of their weapons pointed towards him and Scarlett.

“What fucking gives?” Dax, predictably, was the one to let his voice be heard. “What’s the fucking deal?”

His co-frontrunners, Black and Tempest, both remained tactfully silent, already knowing yelling and spitting fury was to no avail. All around them, Renegade Masters stood like deadly sentries, their guns ensuring they covered everybody.

“Now, no need to make this shit any more painful than it already is,” Nate continued. “Everybody, lay your fucking guns, knives, whatever you have, down on the ground. Right now. Don’t do anything stupid, nobody get any heroic notions in your heads. That shit is going to get you deep-sixed quick smart. I know some of you boys-and girls-are pretty damn slick with those heaters and fancy instrument weapons you’re toting, so best play things smart and put them down now.”

“You doublecrossing, dirty motherfucking piece of…” Dax’s explosive outburst was cut off abruptly as Nate’s voice suddenly cracked like a whip, the good natured vibe of his tone dissipating under a stentorian bark.

“Bite down on your fucking tongue, boy! Drop your piece and kick it away, pronto! Any folk want to drag the chain and you’ll get a blast of hot lead up your ass. No games, no fucking around, just play it cool, do as you’re told and things will be copasetic. You dig?”

Black and Tempest complied, and though Seth could only see their figures from behind, he imagined the visual violence that must be swarming across their respective faces right about now. Others followed suit, dropping their appropriated bladed items, Mark and Miranda among those who wasted no time getting rid of the offending implements.

Caught in a stunned state of disbelief, Seth barely acknowledged he was one of those dragging the chain until something hard and unrelenting prodded him in the ribs. Letting his eyes slide to the left he saw a short, but stocky bald-headed biker with a plaited grey goatee beard, cold, blue ice eyes and a thin slash of lips pointing a Ruger P95 at him, this particular unfriendly looking item what was used to jab him in the ribs.

“I’ll be relieving you of that fine looking creation you’re lugging there, son,” Baldy advised him, the steely set of his voice a warning for Seth to make with it and keep any prospective tricks to a minimum of zero.

The guy with the sawn-off shotgun was drifting in to disarm Scarlett as well, and up close, Seth saw that he was correct in his assumption that all of these bikers were affiliated with Nate and co.; these two both wore patched Renegade Masters insignia on their jackets.

Rather than merely wait for everyone to lay down their weapons, although the majority had already done so, various members of the encircling Renegade Master posse moved right amidst the bailed up congregation with designs on frisking them, no doubt.

Nate’s booming voice from up front makes that fact clear a second or two later.

“Just on the off chance that some of you more ingenious souls might be armed with a little more than you were carrying, some of my boys will just take some precautions and relieve you of all those items too. Rest assured, all of us are keeping guns pointed at skulls so remember, same rules apply. Fuck around and there will be holes opened up in heads.”

Chromedome took Mother North from Seth’s hands with a long low whistle of approval, momentarily taking time out to stare in appreciation at the fascinating instrument of death, her blades still dark with blood. He stepped back and laid the lethal beauty on the asphalt behind him, a warning glance to any of his biker brethren not to touch that particular treasure; it was his prize only.