Dead Drunk II: Dawn of the Deadbeats (Dead Drunk: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse... One Beer at a Time Book 2) Read online

  Dead Drunk II

  By Richard Johnson

  Copyright © Richard Johnson 2014

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with others, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this ebook and did not purchase it or it was not purchased for your use, then please return it to Amazon.com and purchase a copy for yourself.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: The Lost Boys

  Chapter 2: Finger Lickin’ Good

  Chapter 3: Creeper

  Chapter 4: Three Amigos

  Chapter 5: Girls’ Night Out

  Chapter 6: Breaking Bread

  Chapter 7: Friends in Low Places

  Chapter 8: Sisters

  Chapter 9: Three Morons and a Baby

  Chapter 10: Fine Dining

  Chapter 11: Strange Nerds with Candy

  Chapter 12: No Rest for the Wicked

  Chapter 13: Dangerous Liaisons

  Chapter 14: Enter the Dragon

  Chapter 15: It’s Complicated

  Chapter 16: Fatso

  Chapter 17: Old Baggage

  Chapter 18: Oasis

  Chapter 19: Prison Break

  Chapter 20: Graveyard

  Chapter 21: Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow

  Chapter 22: Dawn of the Deadbeats

  Epilogue

  About The Author

  Check Out “Weekend At Vidu’s… A Dead Drunk Short”

  Credits

  Chapter 1: The Lost Boys

  “I don’t care how many times you say it, Grace Jones was not, I repeat, not a fucking Bond Girl,” Charlie Campbell said as he struggled to put one aching foot in front of the other.

  “She’s in the credits dude,” Left-Nut replied. “Plus, she was pretty nasty in Vamp. Her red wig and whiteface scared the crap out of me and gave me major chub when I was a kid.”

  The group plodded through yet another patch of timber. Six hours of walking and it was the same pattern over and over – walk through a section of the woods, sprint through a field, rest and repeat. The light-hearted conversations, dumb as they were, kept their minds off the terrors of the day and the monotony of their hike.

  Charlie cracked a smile. “The scariest thing in that movie was her Adam’s apple. And I wouldn’t bang her with your baby-dick. I’m really starting to question your standards.”

  Left-Nut clicked his tongue. “I told you guys, standards are like expiration dates. Close your eyes and they don’t exist.”

  Smokey pointed to Left-Nut’s white hair, which had recently gotten much whiter during the course of their escape from the city. “It’s a good thing you don’t have standards ‘cause you aren’t going to be pulling anything now, you Obi-Wan Kenobi-looking son of a bitch.”

  “We can pick him up some Just For Men Gel,” Rob said, uncharacteristically jumping into the fray. “No play for Mr. Gray.”

  Left-Nut stopped walking as they entered a clearing. “It ain’t so bad. You can call me the silver fox, baby. Anyways, are we even going in the right direction? This field looks familiar.”

  The plan had been to follow the power lines through the countryside, but when the lines veered into a city that appeared to have been consumed by flames and a massive bombardment of artillery, an audible was called for.

  Big Rob nodded. “Pretty sure I know how to go straight west. Just follow the setting sun. Duh.”

  “Okay, fine. So I guess that isn’t the same tree I pissed on an hour ago?” Left-Nut pointed to a massive oak tree that had the word “boner” crudely written on it in yellow liquid.

  “Damn it, and here I thought you knew what you were talking about for once,” Charlie said to Rob through gritted teeth.

  Rob sighed. “The sun was overhead for a bit, so I couldn’t see which direction—”

  “Way to go, Bear Grylls,” Left-Nut interrupted and instinctively backed up.

  Charlie took charge and had the group turn thirty degrees to their left. Moments later they sprinted across the unpicked bean field for the second time. Charlie and Left-Nut arrived first and waited in the shade for the slower members of the party.

  The friends had survived a zombie outbreak, starvation, bad luck, a touch of madness, a Chinese military invasion and a hell-ride out of Chicago. Now everything hinged on their outdoor skills and teamwork. In other words, they were screwed.

  “Look, I realize nobody wants to say it, but that was a huge fuck up,” Left-Nut said between heavy breaths. “We can’t be adding any extra miles now that we’re on foot.”

  “Yeah, and what’s your point?” Charlie asked.

  “No more decisions from Rob, and I mean none. The guy is a walking calamity.”

  Charlie shook his head. “At least he’s stepping up. You haven’t done a thing but bitch this entire time. As a matter of fact, even Zombie Cliff was a bigger help than you back at the apartment.”

  “I just saved us from walking in circles, didn’t I? And on top of that—”

  As if on cue, a zombie shot out from between the tall plants nearby and grabbed Left-Nut from behind, cutting his tirade short. Left-Nut somehow twisted free and fell farther into the weeds while Charlie scrambled to pick up his Chinese assault rifle. But rather than press the attack, the zombie merely stood in place, pawing in the direction of its intended victim.

  Left-Nut rose to his feet and peered cautiously at the beast’s expressionless face. The man had once been a retired game warden, spending his golden years angling for steelhead and king salmon. Now he was a glorified digestive system.

  Left-Nut grinned as the others ran up, their weapons at the ready. “Haha, this dumb-shit’s stuck in a bear trap. I was about to karate chop the crap out of him and then teabag—”

  “KACHINK!”

  “Aughhh!” Left-Nut screamed as he stepped onto a second bear trap hidden in the grass and the 38-pound snapper locked tight.

  At that moment the zombie’s shredded foot tore loose from his own contraption, and he lumbered forward once more. The zombie fisherman didn’t get far – after a few steps, the front of his head burst apart and splattered all over a screaming Left-Nut.

  But the gunfire hadn’t come from Charlie’s crew, and it didn’t stop with the demise of the solitary cannibal. “Get down!” Charlie called as more bullets whistled past them and tore through the tree branches.

  The crew scurried behind trees for cover while Left-Nut screamed in agony and fruitlessly yanked at the steel device buried deep into his shin. Luckily for him – though he was not feeling so lucky at the moment – the trap was heavily rusted and not working properly. Its weaker grip saved him from an even more grievous wound.

  The firing stopped and Charlie peeked around his tree, spotting two people in tan uniforms about forty yards away. They were busy reloading their rifles, so Charlie rose to shoot in their general direction, hoping to drive them off with the automatic fire. He did even better than that.

  Now two people were screaming, one in pain and one with grief. Charlie and Smokey ran towards the ne
wcomers while Rob attempted to pry the trap open using nothing but brute strength.

  A hysterical man knelt over his fallen friend, oblivious to the approach of Charlie and Smokey. They quickly gathered the men’s rifles and peered deeper into the forest.

  “Is there anyone else out there?” Smokey asked the standing stranger as Charlie sat down to check on the other. The young man shook his head and then buried his face into his hands again.

  Charlie rolled the motionless man onto his stomach and found a gaping exit wound in the center of his back. On an impulse he tried to plug the hole with his hands, but he realized it was pointless. The lifeblood had already drained from his body, leaving behind a puzzled expression frozen on the young man’s gentle face.

  It was at that point that Charlie got a better look at the uniforms, and his heart sank. They were Boy Scouts.

  Chapter 2: Finger Lickin’ Good

  Russ casually threw a metal trashcan through the door of a darkened gas station and walked in without hesitation. For whatever reason, be it his scent, the way he breathed, or some other unknown mechanism, the zombies flat-out ignored him now and he was basically free to go about his business unhindered. His business for now was finding some whiskey, and any whiskey would do.

  Trent, however, had no such special abilities and was on edge while waiting nearby on his freshly pilfered motorcycle. The naked woman painted on the side was supposed to be Angelina Jolie, but the artist had bitten off more than he could chew, and his attempt had resulted in the woman looking more like Sandra Bernhard.

  Eventually he could wait no more and snuck inside to see just what in the bloody hell was taking so long. Not surprisingly, he found Russ in the liquor aisle. “I thought you had to take a dump?”

  “I did. That cop I ate went right through me. Indian food always does,” Russ said, then took a heavy gulp from a fifth of room-temperature Jack Daniels. He coughed heavily. “Smooth.”

  “She wasn’t Indian Indian, she was Native American. But whatever. Fucking idiot.” Trent’s newfound religiosity had been short lived, with Russ’s shenanigans pushing him back to his natural position of chaotic neutrality with a hint of dickishness thrown in for good measure.

  The dynamic duo had realized riding through Chicago was too dangerous by day, and had wisely holed up in an appliance store until midnight. Their second attempt to flee the city had been just five minutes underway when Russ pulled the surprise pit stop.

  “You just drank a whole bottle while we were hiding out and you’re already drunk again? Seriously, you got a problem. And that means something coming from me.”

  Russ capped his whiskey and then offered up a water bottle to the third member of “Bad Company.” Elvis the raccoon grabbed the bottle in his nimble hands and drank heartily. “Thirsty devil,” Russ said, then made his way to the beef jerky. “Hell yeah, teriyaki.” He took a huge bite of trucker steak but immediately spit it out like poison. “Damn.”

  “I didn’t think jerky could spoil,” Trent said.

  “It doesn’t, but ever since I got bitten everything tastes like shit. Except for your partner. She was finger-lickin’ good. And I’m starting to get hungry again.” Russ walked towards Trent. “We’re talking ravenous.” The stab wound on Russ’s arm was bleeding onto the floor and he remained completely unaware of it.

  Trent backed up and moved his scabbed finger to the trigger of his holstered pistol. This was the situation he’d been dreading since Russ rescued him that morning. He appreciated the liberation, but if he had to put Russ down he would do it without hesitation. He might even enjoy it.

  Russ saw the fear in the cop’s eyes. “Now hold on there, Tinker Bell. That’s what the whiskey’s for.”

  “Bullshit. You want me to believe it’s a cure?”

  Russ chuckled, but his unblinking eyes made the gesture anything but reassuring. “No, but if you haven’t noticed, I’m kind of an alcoholic. And when I drink, eating never crosses my mind. Unless I’m at a strip joint, if you catch my drift. In that case, line me up at the buffet.”

  “I guess that makes sense.” Trent relaxed and then chased some painkillers with a warm beer from a six-pack on the floor. He let out a quiet belch and rubbed Elvis’s head before draining the rest of the beer in one long pull. The raccoon made a strange purring type noise and then wandered over to eat Russ’s discarded jerky.

  “Suppose we better get back to it.” Russ picked up Elvis after he had eaten his fill and walked towards the door. “Same plan, right? Gonna keep heading north for a bit and then shoot west to try and meet up with the gang?”

  Trent nodded and grabbed some sour cream potato chips, then stuffed two more beers into his pockets for the ride. “This is gonna be a killer booze cruise.”

  “Yep,” Russ said. He grabbed a pair of cheap sunglasses for himself and a child’s pair for Elvis, then went to check for any nearby stragglers outside. After a moment he waved Trent over.

  They climbed aboard their respective choppers and took off, alternating between cluttered roads and sidewalks, depending on the obstacles.

  Soon they had left their old neighborhood, and the zombie population began to pick up dramatically. Even worse, the savages they passed along the way were now swarming behind them, unable to keep up but following just the same. But Russ and Trent rode past the bulk of them with little effort, and there had been no sign of the Chinese invaders.

  The easy ride came to an abrupt halt as they spotted an overturned semi ahead that completely blocked their route. Russ took the lead and turned west down a side street only to find a crumbled apartment building that was partially on fire. The crowd of zombies was getting closer as the pair circled back and headed east, then south.

  Then things really got shitty. Machine gun fire from a Chinese patrol up ahead drove them away, and so they headed west once more. Luckily the shooting drew the zombie crowd’s attention and sent them smack dab into the Chinese position. An initial hail of gunfire ended abruptly as the soldiers were overwhelmed, demonstrating once more the unpredictability of biological weapons.

  The motorcycles approached a foreboding landmark several miles later – Richard Daley Prison – and with it came an unsettling sight. Just outside the new prison’s double barbwire fence, three wooden crosses had been pounded into the ground at various heights with men attached to each one. Duct tape was wrapped around the men’s limbs dozens of times, creating an unbreakable seal.

  Below them was a handful of zombies in various states of injury. Some were missing limbs or horribly burned, but all circled like hungry sharks waiting for a chance to strike.

  One of the tied up men had been set lower than the others which resulted in his feet getting gnawed off by the crowd. He’d obviously gone zombie and now strained to look at the other two motionless captives.

  “Sucks to be them,” Russ said and prepared to ride off again.

  “Should we do something?” Trent asked, hoping Russ would say no.

  “I suppose I could eat the sumbitches. They’re tied up for a reason. Must be murderers or animal rapists or something.”

  Trent nodded in agreement, but an unknown force tugged at his heartstrings, begging him to act. It was his much-neglected conscience returning from a decade-long hiatus. He was feeling guilty about abandoning his partner, and also remorse for murdering a man on the day of the outbreak. The die was cast as Trent cut his engine. “Screw it… let’s cut ‘em down.”

  “Okey dokey,” Russ said with a shrug. Trent was still a turd, but at least he was trying. For now.

  * * *

  Marquell Washington raised his battered head as the motorcycles approached, wondering who the newcomers might be. Not that it mattered to him. For the second time in months, the ruthless gang leader was waiting to die. This time Marquell had been blindsided by the woman he’d left in charge of the prison. During his brief absence she had led a rebellion, which resulted in one heck of a breakup.

  Of course, he had murdered her husba
nd, the warden, and the relationship had been far from consensual. So he should have seen the double cross coming from miles away, but amazing breasts have a way of clouding a man’s thoughts, even one as brilliant as Marquell.

  For her part, Heather McCabe had taken the prison with the help of loyal guards and a surprise attack, striking when Marquell left to get medicine for her sick dog. Now she slept peacefully for the first time in months, snuggled up with the poor dog she’d poisoned herself and dreaming about mani-pedis and iced coffees.

  The crucifixion was simply Heather’s homage to Marquell’s fiendish peculiarities. She didn’t have the historical knowledge of torture that he possessed, and so this was her best go of it. Still, it wasn’t a bad message to keep outsiders from coming too close.

  Marquell wasn’t alone in his predicament. Two surviving lieutenants initially joined him in the live performance art, but only one of them remained. Mad-Dawg Mike’s cross was shorter than the others, and so his feet were promptly devoured by the crowd below. Marquell’s other henchman, Ace Kool, was still conscious, but a bullet hole in his shoulder was taking its toll and he was fading fast.

  Marquell could see the two men arguing in the distance and it looked like they might leave. So he raised his dreadlocked head and called out for help, driving the zombies at his feet into a frenzy. Even worse, he risked alerting the guard in the nearby tower. The feared marksman and turncoat only known as Gus was eager to shoot Marquell, and would do so without hesitation if he attempted escape.

  Every zombie and human below the tower would have been easy targets for Gus, but he was currently jamming to electronica through his headphones while getting a sub-par blowjob from one of the prison nurses. Being second in command had its privileges, and for helping Heather with her dangerous plot, his rewards had come quickly indeed.

  As one of the men dismounted from his motorcycle, Ace managed a whisper. “Whatever happens, don’t leave me, Markee. I’m not ready for the Big Sleep.”