ONSLAUGHT: The Zombie War Chronicles - Vol 1 Read online

  It sinks away as I feel a surge of adrenaline, and scramble onto the raised planks. Lilly has taken them out, and now motors toward me.

  I don’t wait for her to reach me. I jump off the boardwalk and clamor into the boat, falling onto my back and lay there, staring at the sky.

  “You didn’t make it to Denny’s for the goddamned fuel, I take it,” says Lilly, nonplussed.

  Not a word I use very often, but it describes Lilly perfectly. Especially right now.

  “Lilly, don’t be a bitch right now. You don’t have any idea what I’ve been through.” I feel the boat sweeping in a starboard arc, so I know we’re headed back.

  “You hungry?” she asks.

  “Yeah. Thirsty, hungry, tired. Glad you showed up.”

  “I’ll fix you somethin’ when we get back to the shop.”

  I nod. I don’t have the strength to answer her.

  I figure I’ll rest a bit after I eat, then I’ll start to tell you the story of how our family went from five to just two in a matter of two weeks.

  It all stems from somethin’ nobody ever saw comin’. And no matter how much shit you’ve heard about the dumb people in Florida, rest assured, it wasn’t us who did it.

  People are sayin’ it began with a witch doctor from the nearly-extinct Henomawi Indian tribe, living on a tiny reservation just outside the town of Alturas, California.

  I got no reason to doubt what’s been goin’ around, so as far as I’m concerned, Climbing Fox Wattana is the reason the deadheads started turnin’ up.

  They say he started the black rain.

  Ω

  CHAPTER ONE

  August 31, 2017:

  Okay. This is where I back up to the beginnin’ of this mess. It was a Thursday and it was supposed to rain, but it hadn’t yet, and for now, the sky was bright and sunny. I was preppin’ the boats while Clay and Tanner went down the road to fill up our spare gas tanks.

  Better paint a picture, I guess. Like I said earlier, I’m 31. I’ll turn 32 in November, but I’m guessin’ either I’ll be too busy or too dead to celebrate it. I hope I’m wrong on both counts and Lilly throws me one helluva goddamned party.

  My oldest brother is Clay, which is why I always seem to mention him first. Kind of a respect thing, I guess. He taught me a lot, bein’ seven years older’n me at 38. Tanner’s 35 years old, and he looks most like my Ma, who was long dead by the time all this went down. She was the lucky one, I still think.

  Lilly, the prettiest and smartest of all of us, is a mere child of twenty-six. And bein’ born five years after me, you might figure she was an accident. I think it was Ma’s doin’. She wanted a girl, and even as a five-year-old kid, I could see that; she doted on that girl like she was the second comin’.

  I could also tell my Pa wasn’t happy about her sudden appearance. I’m still not sure he even realized Ma was carryin’ right up to the moment she popped out Lilly.

  But Pa loved her. Yeah, he did. Treated her like his little princess, because she was a daddy’s girl to beat the band.

  Then there’s my Pa, Hank Lloyd Baxter. Just before the rain started, Pa was 62 years old and a head-down, nose-to-the-grindstone man’s man. Less so after Ma died.

  Hank Baxter could tear down a motor and build it back up with all the correct specifications and tolerances, all from memory. No gapping tools, no timing lights.

  He knew when a valve got thrown or when there was water in the fuel just by the color of the smoke billowing out of the motor. Pa was maybe one of the last of the self-taught men.

  I got most of that talent from him, I guess. I’m good at that shit, too. Real good.

  The only thing in his entire life my Pa got for free was the land we run our business on, left to him by Ernest Baxter, my Grandpa. Grandpa Ernest is dead a long time now. I don’t miss him and never did; after all, I never even heard him say my name one time.

  He was from the school of thought that children should be seen and not heard. Or talked to, I guess.

  For that reason, I don’t think the old prick should be remembered much, so just put him outta your mind like I usually do. I was just tryin’ to provide y’all with some lineage shit.

  Anyway, on that Thursday at around 9:00 in the morning, we had a group of six customers waitin’ in the gift shop, a couple of ‘em readin’ the copies of NRA Magazine we left out for everyone. They came free with the membership, and there was no reason they should go to waste.

  I finished up the tune-up of the boat and walked back in, wipin’ the last of the grease from my hands.

  “Everybody ready to see Ol’ Stanley and his big, bad buddies?”

  It was a good group. They hooted and hollered and passed out smiles like they were dollars in a titty bar.

  I like the good groups. The best ones didn’t treat us like we were a bunch of hicks; they treated us like the knowledgeable tour guides and boat operators we are.

  Now, on this particular tour, there were four men and two women; a mama and a pretty girl of maybe fourteen. Mama couldn’t have been more than 35 herself, and her husband wasn’t much older. There was an older guy, too, who I pegged as the kids’ grandpa, on one side or another.

  Good lookin’ bunch.

  There was a young dude I put at about age twelve who I think was the brother to the girl, and an easy-goin’ longhair named Butch, relation unknown. The reason I even know his name should become clear later. Anyway, I’m 99% sure he was stoned.

  “CB, is that boat ready, ‘cause I can tell ya, these folks are.” Lilly flashed her best smile, and I saw stars and little blue birds flyin’ around Butch’s head, he was so taken.

  More hootin’ and hollerin’.

  “Well, come on, then!” I said, sweepin’ my hand to the door and pushin’ it open. I held it, then told ‘em to stand in a single-file line and I’d lead ‘em to the boat. They followed my instructions to a tee.

  I jumped down and gathered up the properly sized, orange life preservers. Absolutely the geeky kind that look like big orange maxi-pads strapped to your chest. Hell, they’re cheap and they float you – and it keeps the profit margins higher.

  Next, I gave everyone hearing protectors, and told them not to put them on until I was done with the instructions.

  Every one of them motherfuckers put ‘em on. Like they’d never seen hearing protectors before.

  I think the boy was waitin’ for some of that gangsta rap shit to play through ‘em.

  Now, the boat I took that day is aluminum. It’s a twenty-four-footer, and seats eight passengers plus the driver, on extremely uncomfortable aluminum bench seats with grooves in ‘em, specifically designed to dig into your butt cheeks.

  The boat’s called Gator Bait, which ain’t always appropriate, but sometimes it is.

  So, after havin’ them pull the hearing protectors off again, and gettin’ them distributed on the boat in order of weight, we got down to business.

  As I left, behind me I heard the door to the shop slam, and turned to see Lilly standin’ on the dock, lightin’ up a Marlboro menthol. She threw me a wave, and I threw one back.

  I don’t do a whole lotta talkin’ on the boat, because it’s loud as fuck. I tend to bang on the boat and point, and everyone looks back at me, then follows my finger. Swear, if I pointed at my dick they’d look.

  I had my eye on the sky, I remember. The dark clouds were movin’ in, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out how. The blackest clouds were hangin’ low in the sky; I could tell that, but there wasn’t any wind to drive them. High up I could understand; crazy wind up there.

  But down here, nothin’. Yet, the dark – no, black – clouds continued to close out the blue in the distance.

  We were almost to Ol’ Stanley’s hideout – which might as well be a pedestal because he probably thinks he’s human by now – when my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and read the message from Lilly. YOU SEE THE SKY?

  I punched in a Y and hit send, not because I’m a man of
few words, but because I hate goddamned textin’. My pudgy-ass fingers ain’t compatible with a tiny-ass keyboard.

  KEEP AN EYE OUT came back, and I texted back, K.

  I stopped the boat and slapped the side. Everyone turned.

  “Y’all mighta noticed the sky’s lookin’ a little ominous. Don’t hear any lightnin’, so as long as we only get a few sprinkles, we’ll still be okay. We won’t sink, so don’t worry about that.”

  They were all game, so I drove on.

  In another five minutes, we pulled up to Ol’ Stanley’s home for the last several years, and on command, he swam out three feet or so and just lay there. Unlike the billboard, his mouth was closed, but I was quick to point out the two teeth that did hang over his lower jaw; probably some of the last teeth in his head as far as we could tell, but we weren’t gonna tell them that.

  We didn’t see many gators after we left Ol’ Stanley. It was okay, because while we didn’t know this group, we had lots of regulars, and jammin’ that airboat to full speed and cuttin’ in and out of the sawgrass, reeds and mangroves was a big thrill for ‘em. Sometimes, when it wasn’t mating season and the gators were just layin’ low from the heat, it could get awfully boring on a tour.

  In those cases, we used a shitload of gas, tryin’ to keep our guests happy. It was always worth it.

  Ω

  The rain started with a single, enormous crash of lightning. It felt to me like that bolt struck every tree around us at the same time, and to my amazement, when I looked out at my passengers, I saw everyone’s hair stickin’ straight out, like we were a bunch of goddamned human dandelions.

  I rubbed my hand over my head, found the same thing, and checked my watch. The second hand wasn’t movin’ anymore, but it read 9:52.

  I’m still not sure it was rain; it was as black as the clouds themselves, and it smelled like that permanent crap women get put on their hair to make it curly. Kinda like a mix of farts and puke.

  Rather than stop, I spun the boat around and started heading back to the shop. It still wasn’t windy, but the movement of the boat created its own wind, and as I cranked that freshly tuned motor to its max and cut through the shortest route I knew back, I saw something ahead – too late.

  We’d found ‘em. The gators were goin’ crazy. Wherever they’d been, they were on the move. I’d lived in that swamp my whole life, and I’d never seen so many of ‘em, swimmin’ so fast in all directions, as though tryin’ to escape somethin’, but with no idea where to find refuge.

  It was like mating season on steroids.

  All the while, the rain came faster and harder, and soon, it was comin’ down in black buckets. Normal rain is just water, so you can mostly see through it, even when it’s heavy; not this stuff. It might as well have been night. The sun was no longer visible; just pure blackness.

  It was the oddest sensation I’ve ever experienced in my life. Broad daylight and yet pitch black everywhere you looked.

  Everyone in my boat was screamin’, and that wasn’t helping me concentrate. I was drivin’ blind, tryin’ to crank that airboat steering wheel by memory to get back home, but the goddamned gators were rammin’ the side of the boat, jarring us from all sides and further distracting me.

  Big ones, small ones. Just before it got too black to see anything, I saw some babies spring from the water like they were on catapults, and I could hear ‘em landin’ in the boat.

  I finally gave up tryin’ to find my way and backed off the motor. It was just too damned dangerous. I let the boat coast to a stop, but that black rain just continued to pour down, and I couldn’t see any of my passengers, just feet in front of me.

  A man cried out in the wet blackness, and I heard a splash, followed by what sounded like a massive baitfish boil.

  But there were no baitfish, and I knew those sounds, even above the hammering of the rain on the water and my boat. The first was the sound of one of my customers fallin’ into the water. The second was … .

  Well, it was the gators tearin’ that person to shreds.

  Like my Ma woulda been if I hadn’t shot those bastards and jumped in to pull her out. Not that it did any good then, and I knew it wouldn’t do any good now.

  Whoever it was didn’t even scream after hitting the water. I’m pretty sure it just happened too fast.

  I had to get back. The rain wasn’t lettin’ up, the gators were on the rampage, so I had to try.

  I fired the motor again and pushed the throttle forward, ignorin’ the screams from my passengers. The fan spun to full RPMs just as the rain began to let up a little, and I could now see a sliver of daylight ahead.

  I took advantage of it and pushed on the throttle to try and get anything else I could out of her, crankin’ the wheel and headin’ for the light.

  I barely saw Ol’ Stanley before we hit him. He’d apparently gotten a good head of steam on him from whatever had set all the other alligators off, and he moved in front of my boat so fast I didn’t have time to turn the wheel or reduce my speed.

  I hit that old bastard like a speed bump, and we flew into the air. Our weight distribution was off now, with everyone shifted into whatever position they were as they bounced around the boat, and I felt it tilting the second we were airborne.

  Gator Bait came splashin’ down, landing on its port rail, half in the mangroves and half out. When the boat struck the pitch-black surface of the water, two more of my passengers flipped over the edge, sinkin’ into the black water of the swamp.

  The gators were still in a frenzy. They charged on the spot, tails whippin’ and mouths open. The water churned and roiled, and the resulting wake rocked the boat.

  That’s when I noticed the baby gators – four of ‘em – flipping around the raised feet of the remaining passengers.

  “Keep your feet up!” I shouted. I quickly unfastened my seatbelt and jumped up, my boot slipping in the black muck coating every surface. Narrowly avoiding slipping and tumbling into the water myself, I jumped down from the raised platform and onto the deck, where I stomped on the two closest ones, smashin’ their heads.

  I jumped across the boat and cornered the other two baby gators, grabbed them by their tails, and flipped them back out of the boat.

  Then I reached into my waistband for my .45. I held the barrel down at the water where my passengers had fallen in, but found no clear target in the still-churning water.

  Everything was happening below the surface. If I fired, I’d be just as likely to hit one of my lost customers as the gators. I knew, anyway; it was way past the time when we could save anyone.

  I tucked the gun away and stepped my way back into my seat.

  “Do something!” shouted the girl, who had wiped enough of the black shit away that I could now tell who she was. Her younger brother and the longhair had both had the wherewithal to hold on, but mom, dad and grandpa apparently hadn’t.

  “Guys, we need to get back to the shop and call 911. They’ll get choppers out here to find them, but there’s nothin’ we can do.”

  “No!” shouted the girl, jumping up.

  “Sit down and hold on!” I shouted, firing the motor again.

  She obeyed, but the younger boy stood up and charged toward me, slamming his open palms on my knees and screaming, “Save my family! You gotta save them!”

  “Sit the hell down or you’re goin’ in with ‘em!” I shouted. “I told you, we gotta get back and call 911!”

  I pushed the throttle forward slightly, just to send my message home. He teetered for a moment before dropping down and gripping the bench seat.

  I brought my speed up to half. The gators seemed to have sunken back into the swamp, so it was safe enough. The longhaired kid never wiped the black shit from his face. He just stared, his eyes wide, saying nothing.

  I knew I should try to say something comforting as we slowed on our approach to the dock. No words came. It was just as well; the boy and girl were both doubled over in tears, and the longhair looked like he was in
shock.

  As for me, this was the worst catastrophe I’d experienced since we’d opened Baxter’s, and any words I might’ve had were lost in my throat anyway.

  When I reached the dock, I threw the bowline to Clay, who was also covered in that black shit, and Tanner was there to take the stern line. He was cleaner than Clay, but still a mess.

  We were all too freaked out to talk. I helped everyone out of the boat while Lilly – the only one who wasn’t covered in the black, ink-like crap – ran back inside to call 911.

  We walked the three to the shop door and sent them in to Lilly. Clay pulled my arm and I followed him out to the dock. Everything was coated in the black scum.

  “I thought you had six, CB! Where are the others?”

  “They fuckin’ fell outta the boat, Clay. When that black rain started, the gators went crazy. Rammin’ the boat from all sides!”

  “I saw the dead baby gators on the floor of the boat, man,” said Clay. “CB, this is serious. What the hell was that?”

  “No shit, Clay! That fuckin’ rain! I can’t get that smell outta my nostrils. You turn on the news?”

  “Nah, I’ve been runnin’ around. We had a group of eight ready to go out, but they took off when that rain started. Just as well, I s’pose.”

  Lilly started to come out the door, but stopped short, again seeing the black residue coating everything. She leaned out, supporting herself on the doorframe of the shop. “911 said they’ll do their best, but it’s gonna be a while. That rain was everywhere.”

  “How everywhere?” asked Clay.

  “Like, maybe the whole east coast. They’re calling it a phenomenon.”

  “Under-fuckin’-statement of the year,” I said. “Hey, Lilly, turn on the news.”

  Amidst the blackness everywhere, our sister looked like an angel in a world of dark demons. She was the only one untouched by the black rain.