ZOMBIE'S DOOM? "Chronicles of Jack Doom" (34 page)

The dead were everywhere, the undead were everywhere, and the dinosaurs were everywhere.

The people that were still alive high-tailed it out of there pronto, thinking that the dinosaurs were eyeballing them for their next rampage, and
knowing
that the zombies were eyeballing them for their next meal.

The raid didn't come close to killing off all of the zombies that were wreaking havoc in the zone, and even though the velociraptors and T-Rex's mutilated multitudes of the undead, and they did a pretty good job of deterring the flesh-eaters from their sole mission in life, which as you know is having us for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. They just disappeared as fast as they had appeared, they vanished without a trace just like the planes, and left tens of thousands of the undead still walking around unfettered searching for their next human dining experience."

I listened intently as Derek conveyed to me the reason that
that
part of Indiana was called the Badlands. Then I asked him how he acquired his vast knowledge of the zone.

"So, if you ran like a frightened school girl with the rest of the mob, how is it that you know what took place in the zone after you left?"

"I was born a few miles south of Indianapolis, and after I beat feet away from the killing fields and figured out that the Army and the other branches of the military had all but disbanded, I made my way south to where I grew up hoping to find my family.

Nobody that I ever knew was still there, but being familiar with the area, and the prevailing winds blowing the stench from the massacre due east most of the time, I decided to stick around, I figured that it was as good as any place else to ride out the apocalypse," Derek explained.

"I headed south myself," I interjected. "To a warmer climate."

Looking a little annoyed at my interruption, Derek continued.

"Yeah, right!

Anyway, some time back, me and this guy I partnered up with named Todd, decided that it might be a good idea to head up north and join the Caucasian. Of course, at the time he didn't have the reputation that he has now, at least not as bad as it is now, he was just the leader of another group of survivors taking in other survivors.

The spring rains kept the biting bastards at bay, they're scared shitless of water you know, but it turned the place into a mud pit.

So, Todd and I decided to pack our trash and fight our way through the city and up into the Badlands. We had no idea what we were getting into.

Stomping through the barren fields of mud, carrying five pounds of the sticky shit on each boot, made each mile seem like ten.

I'm telling you Jack, you haven't lived until you've slid down the side of a bomb crater and landed nard-sack deep into three feet of marinated churning body parts complete with bloated heads chomping at your ass," Derek described graphically as he smiled. "I think I'm still carrying around some of
that
smell on me."

"Indeed you are. Your foul stench is gagging me as we speak," I joked, as I lightly punched him on the shoulder with my fist. "So are you going to hike your skirt up and go back into the Badlands with me, or am I going to have to make the trip alone?"

"What the fuck, I'm not going to live forever, and just sitting around waiting to die is just not my style," Derek answered, still smiling. "Besides, I couldn't live with myself knowing that I let a little sissy like you hike into the fabled and dreaded
Badlands of Indiana
all by yourself."

"Okay then, wipe that shit-eating grin off your face and let's get to ransacking some of these houses, and find some supplies," I ordered, again laughing on the inside.

******

Jack and Derek began rummaging through houses in search of needed supplies and ammunition for the journey into the Badlands.

The undead population in the city of Indianapolis, was far less than in most of the cities of the same size that had been ravaged by the zombie plague (as all cities had been), due to the mass exodus north in the beginning, by the panicked people searching for the none existent sanctuary that they sought.

That exodus also meant that there were fewer survivors inhabiting the town too. This equated to less rogue humans and hostile gangs roaming the streets taking pot shots at people, or trying to capture them for countless unsavory purposes that won't be mentioned here (remember your delicate stomach).

With the lack of the walking undead stalking humans, and the near total absence of the living within the city limits as well (it was a miracle that Derek met up with Todd), the search for supplies was easier than normal for Jack and Derek.

Even though during their quest, the men did cross paths with several zombies and a couple of inept humans that thought they were badasses, both hostile entities were divided equally and dispatched summarily by the boys in a classic zombie apocalypse fighting fashion.

Limbs hewn off, intestines hacked out of the torso, at least two skulls blown clean off their
stalks
, you know, the usual.

Somewhere off of Payne Road (no really), on the north side of Indy, in a quaint little house that they surveyed, Jack and Derek found a stash of ammo, guns, knives, and a plethora of hunting and camping gear.

******

"Jackpot Derek, we found the mother lode," I announced to my partner. "Look at all of this stuff, guns, ammo, flashlights, all sorts of shit, this guy had way more than he could carry, probably way more than he could haul away in his vehicle too."

"Well, in any case, it was nice of him to leave the excess here for us!" Derek exclaimed, sorting through the boxes of ammunition we'd found. "With all of this shit, he was most likely a prepped, or an avid hunter, and took with him what he felt was going to be necessary and adequate to be able to survive this hell."

I was less picky than Derek as far as the ammo was concerned.

My guns were mostly of the 9mm variety, my Beretta and Glock pistols were both of that caliber as was my Sub 2000 folding carbine.

My assault rifle was chambered in the traditional 5.56mm NATO round, or again, for all of you slimy civilians, the .223 Remington cartridge.

Although there is a slight difference between the two shells (something about the headspace, it's technical, we wouldn't understand it), my M-4 can safely accommodate both bullets.

Therefore, unlike Derek who was busy digging through the quantity of ammo for .50 cal. rounds for his S&W revolver, I collected what I needed and began to look in other areas of the house for food and water.

However, before I left Derek prospecting for the ever-elusive hand cannon slugs he so greatly coveted, I suggested another avenue that he might consider exploring.

"That monstrously heavy gun you're toting around is pretty cool when it comes to relieving eaters of their brains and the skulls that they are attached to, but it only holds six rounds and sounds like an artillery piece when it's fired," I reminded him. "You might want to consider taking one or two of these 9mm pistols that the previous owner so magnanimously contributed to our cause with you into the Badlands, as a matter of fact, I insist on it."

Looking up at me while still fishing through the pile, Derek sarcastically whined.

"But I like my revolver!"

"Yeah, and I like my life, if you're going with me to meet the Caucasian, you're going to take more firepower with you than just that 500 Magnum cranium exploder of yours," I insisted once more.

"Oh shit, here they are, right in front of me. Hell, if they'd been a zombie they would have bit me," Derek said giggling, as he picked up a box containing 50 of the Magnum loads.

"Great, I'm getting a boner, now can we stop fucking around and get back to business? I insisted once more.

Grab a light and the rest of the 9mm ammo, and pick out a couple of those spare pistols to use with it, and toss me one of those flashlights, we're going to need them. And God damn it make it quick," I said sternly, hoping my urgent tone would penetrate Derek's thick semi-loser skull, as I dropped two additional flashlight batteries into my pocket.

Derek quickly took my suggestions to heart and threw me a flashlight, put one into his own pocket, and then chose two of the abandoned 9mm pistols (another Glock 19 and a Springfield XDM), then grabbed the remaining Luger ammunition and followed me out of the room.

Upon further perusal of the dwelling, we discovered several cans of tuna fish, and five 16 oz. bottles of supposedly spring water. Which was most likely water drawn from the hose out behind the factory that had been bottled to cater to the well to do
suckers
that purchased it.

In addition, we found a few miscellaneous items such as crackers and peppered beef jerky to take along with us.

We decided to spend a couple of days in that house, resting up for the upcoming journey and getting our gear in order.

Besides getting the well deserved rest that Derek and I both needed, among other things those two days gave me a chance to finish drying Cassandra's womanhood, and stitch her
borrowed
shoelace around the edge of her severed tit to insure the opening of the titty-bag would close firmly when cinched up tight.

When I was finished, I ran my belt through the looped drawstrings (shoelace) and hung the bag at my waist on the left side so that it wouldn't interfere with drawing my gun from its holster.

In the early hours of the morning of the third day at the rest home, we were ready to resume our trek north.

"Let's go son, were burning daylight, we wouldn't want to keep the Caucasian waiting," I jested, as I peeked out the front door to see if the coast was clear.

Geared up and on the move again, we sprinted outside and jumped into our restored 1951
fastback
getaway car that had been so generously donated to us days earlier by an unknown benefactor.

Upon getting back to the interstate, we headed north again up I-65, and after driving slowly for about fifteen miles to avoid all of the usual pitfalls that we both had grown accustomed to, Derek informed me that things were about to change.

"Take this exit to highway 39, I-65 is blown all to hell about a hundred yards ahead," he warned.

I followed Derek's directions and eased onto the freeway exit that led to state highway 39. We turned right onto 39 to maintain our heading north, but after only a half-mile or so, the road ceased to exist.

"This is where we walk, unless you have a tank or a four wheeler hidden up your sleeve," Derek informed me as he opened the passenger door.

"How much farther to the Caucasian's stronghold?" I asked, noticing the extremely pock marked landscape.

"Fifteen or twenty long ass miles," Derek responded, pulling his meat clever from his belt.

"Fifteen or twenty long hard miles through this crater ladened, eater infested frontier, wonderful," I retorted, as I stepped out of the car and planted my tomahawk deep into the face of the first of many walking corpses that I would cack along the way as I continued the search for my Marine Corps
buddy
the Sarge.

"Damn it Jack, you got the first kill in the Badlands," Derek spouted.

"Don't worry pal, from the looks of things there's plenty of kills to go around, maybe too many," I warned, pulling my weapon from the fallen zombie's skull and replanting it into another snarling and growling decomposing face that had quickly encroached into my personal space.

"Try and stay away from the craters, they have a tendency to trap the dumbasses in the deeper ones, and with rain water settled at the bottom of almost every one of them, the maniacs go crazy trying to claw their way out. Plus, almost all of them have snappers in them thanks to the dino's," Derek claimed, as he hacked the top of a dwarf zombie's bluish-purple head off. "Look at this Jack; I just cut this midget down to size."

Stepping forward to avoid a maggot filled slaver that was dripping from a toothless goober's mouth that had tried to blindside me from behind.

"You're hilarious," I grunted, while disassembling the goober's lower spine by hooking it with the pointed beard of my combat ax and wrenching the vertebras apart.

As the brute bent at its knees and dropped to the ground, I ripped my hawk from its back and separated its skull, exposing the source of the white larvae in its drool.

With no time to respond with more tedious banter, Derek hurled his cleaver into the side of a brown-haired toddler's skull, which had attacked him at knee level.

With the force of a panicked golfer's nine-iron impacting the youngster's head, the heavy blade of the kitchen utensil carved its way through the soft immature cheek bone of the child and lodged three quarters of the way through the cranium just below the brain.

The young zombie continued to hiss and growl, intent on pleasuring itself by gnawing on the leg bone in front of it. The handle of the meat clever bumping against Derek's knee and obstructing its path, was the only thing standing between the miniature zombie and the meal it craved.

Derek now being besieged by several other ravenous corpses, pulled his model 500 double action revolver and squeezed the trigger.