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Liberty Lost

The Sons of Liberty rode into what remained of Miami. Their Harley-Davidsons roared as their leader, Daryl, slowly came to a stop. He stroked his heavy beard–its color fading to a dull grey–and removed his blue pair of KD’s Biker sunglasses. Sweat dripped from his face, which had recently adopted the hue of leather from months spent riding in the sun. As he stepped off his bike, a strand of fingers connected by a string around his neck, jostled with each other, and then came to a rest. A wedding ring remained on one of them.

“This ain’t a small town, and these fuckin’ things are loud. Horace, you and the new guys watch the bikes. The rest of us are gonna take a little vacation in Miami.” Daryl said.

Zimmer, a large and intimidating mountain of a man, looked at Horace and said, “If one of those things touches my bike, you’re a dead man.”

“Get the fuck out of here, Zim. Your bike will be fine. Just bring back something good to eat. None of that veggie-burger shit this time.” Horace said.

Daryl, Zimmer, and three others left, leaving Horace and four others behind. Horace looked on as the departing group disappeared into the profusion of abandoned cars that littered the main highway leading into the city.

*

The southern tip of Florida was the final bastion of civilization. Miami, in particular, was a haven for refugees hoping to piece together a life in the new world. That was until a horde of the undead, immeasurable and undocumented in size, ravaged the city and left it in ruins. News spread quickly, and Daryl’s gang arrived a week later.

“Hey, chief, remember when we hit up Cutler Bay and Pine Crest on our way here? Nabbed me some knuckles off a bouncer at Showgirls, then used the workshop in Pine Crest to weld these on em’. Check it out.”

Zimmer showed Daryl the modified brass knuckles he made. There were sharp metal spikes protruding from the tops of the circular brass openings for the fingers. They were no doubt the work of a seasoned craftsman, and the gang had come to rely on Zimmer’s skills to refurbish their weapons. Daryl even had Zimmer place a spike at the top of his axe so that he could stab and hack at anything that looked at him funny.

“Helluva piece of work. Should keep your machete from dulling out so quick. Maybe you should –”

Daryl stopped talking when he saw three infected near one of the cars on the highway. He motioned his group to get down, and to wait for his orders.

He swirled his index finger in a circle like baseball umpires did whenever a player hit a home-run. It was their sign to proceed with an old fashioned bait-and-switch. Daryl crept along, using the cars as cover, until he was next to a white van. He pounded on the hood, and gained the zombies’ attention. The three infected snarled, then staggered unnaturally towards him, picking up speed as they acquired his scent. When they were within ten feet, Zimmer and the three others emerged from behind their cover. Zimmer singled one out, and had it bite the magazine taped around his forearm. Assured of the zombie’s grip, Zimmer thrusted his fist into its face and then tackled it to the ground. He continued to pound its skull into the tar with his new knuckles, until parts of its brain were sprayed onto the road.

The other three men dispatched of their targets with metal bats, and soon blood splatters had given an old blue Mercedes a new paint job.

“Good work boys. We’re losing sunlight though. Let’s head farther in until we find something worth taking.” Daryl said.

*

The massive horde that destroyed Miami had long since moved on, but a fair number of stragglers remained. Daryl’s group made quick work of the few that they came across, when they suddenly found themselves in front of a large circular encampment surrounded by a broken palisade wall.

“Looks abandoned, let’s check it for food.” Daryl said.

Meanwhile, Horace and the others sat by the bikes. To pass the time, they played a game of poker and siphoned gasoline from a few motorcycles nearby.

“How much longer till’ they get back?” asked of the new recruits.

“Who knows,” Horace said. “I’d be worried if they weren’t back by morning. They’ve got a couple of hours before the sun’s completely gone though. That reminds me, one of you go get the mini-chainsaw from Zimmer’s bike and cut down that palm tree over there in case we need wood for a fire.”

Mike, the newest recruit, volunteered. He was only thirty-five while the rest of the bikers were in their forties and fifties. They let him join when they saw him blow the head off some drunk asshole (20-gauge shotgun style) who tried to swindle him at a bar in what remained of Naples. The settlement there was about to lynch him, but Daryl’s gang intervened. They saw that he had the look of a biker, and told the encampment that they’d leave for good if Mike lived.

Mike grabbed the mini-chainsaw from a compartment on the back of Zimmer’s bike. The palm tree was about fifty yards from the group on a grassy island next to the highway. To get there, he had to climb down a slanted ledge near an overpass in order to reach the street road below. When he got to the tree, he looked around, saw nothing peculiar then started up the chainsaw. The engine was louder than he remembered, and the buzzing noise it made as it pierced into the wood, amplified the commotion. A wood-chip suddenly flew into his eye.

“God damn it.” he said.

Mike turned off the chainsaw, and tended to his eye. As he rubbed it, he heard something behind him coming from the direction of the overpass. He turned around, but his blurred vision prevented him from seeing anything. When his eyes finally regained focus, he saw them–a pack of infected heading his way.

“Shit, shit! Horace!” Mike yelled.

“You hear that?” One of the bikers said.

“Hear what?” Horace replied.

“It sounded like–”

“Horace!”

The bikers ran to the side of the highway and leaned over the far-left median. Horace took out his binoculars and zoomed in near the palm tree where he saw Mike trying to make his way back onto the highway. The infected were right behind him, and soon shots were heard.

“What do we do?” one of the bikers asked.

Horace paused then sighed deeply. “Nothing.”

Mike shot one more of them in the head with his 9mm glock then realized the chamber was empty. He quickly turned around, but stepped on his shoelace. This caused him to lose his balance, and he slid back down the ledge. Instinctively, he removed the small combat knife attached to his leg, but the infected rushed at him in a frenzy while he struggled to get back onto his feet. Mike wailed in agony as the pack of infected ripped away at his body. The echoing screams sent chills down the necks of the surviving men.

*

“It looks like whoever was here had to get the hell out pretty quick. There’s a whole bunch of good shit! Canned food, water bottles, and what’s this? A gentleman’s magazine?” Zimmer said with a grin on his face.

“Hurry up and put what you can into your bags, and let’s ge–”

Daryl froze as he saw infected climbing over a weakened area of the palisade wall.

“Sweet Jesus.”

Daryl cocked his Desert Eagle and ordered his group to get moving. Soon, the undead were pouring over the entire circular perimeter of the encampment, with the exception of the entrance. The group sprinted back the way they came, while Daryl did his best to clear a path in front of them by shooting anything in the head that got in the way. They made it to the entrance and continued running, but were suddenly shaken by an explosion. Daryl composed himself, and smelled propane. He looked near the entrance, and saw a propane tank. More infected started to flow out from the entrance, but this time Daryl heard a loud gunshot first, followed by another explosion. The propane tank was eviscerated.

“Look, up there!” One of the bikers yelled.

A red flag was waving in the window of a high-rise apartment complex.

“C’mon Daryl, this place is gonna be crawlin’ with them soon.” The same biker said.

“Alright, alright…wait. Where’s Zimmer?” Daryl said.

“He was right behind us…”

“Oh, Christ.”

*

The four remaining men managed to lose the infected that were following them. Exhausted, they reached the base of the apartment complex. Daryl noticed an intercom, and pressed the button.

“You the ones waving that flag? We don’t mean any harm.”

There was a long pause until a male voice replied.

“Hold on.”

They heard a creaking noise, and a wooden-barricaded door opened to the right of them.

A voice called out, “Stand by the entrance and tell me who you are, where you came from, and what you’re doing.”

Daryl stood in front of the makeshift doorframe and peered into the darkness inside.

“Name’s Daryl. We’re bikers, and we’re looking for–”

He was interrupted by the tortuous screams of the undead in the distance.

“Please, let us in.”

The howling and screaming started to get louder.

“…Alright, hurry up.” The voice said.

Daryl followed his men inside. “I can’t see a damn thing in here.” he said.

The mysterious man suddenly illuminated the room with a flashlight.

“Help me move that desk over there in front the door.” The man said flashing his light over it. After the desk was secured, he continued, “Good, follow me upstairs.” When he turned around and walked past a stream of light poking through a hole in the wooden beams outside, the sniper rifle on his back became visible.

Daryl’s group clumsily made their way up the stairs aided by the man’s flashlight. Daryl was quiet, however, and had to take periodic breaks against the railing on the stairs.

“You alright, boss?” One of his men asked.

“Go on up, I’ll meet you there.”

After twenty flights of stairs, they arrived on the twentieth floor.

“This is it. Room’s this way.”

Daryl had caught up to the group, and brushed pass two of his men with his axe in his right hand.

He grabbed their host’s shoulder, spun him around then drove him into a wall. He pointed the modified spike on his axe towards the man’s throat.

“Listen to me you son of a b…”

The man started to struggle.

“You squirm like that one more time I’ll cram this thing into your throat. Now, tell me. When you shot your little rifle, how many of us were outside the place?”

“I – I don’t remember. P-please, I don’t…”

“Dad?”

A young boy came out from one of the rooms with a teddy bear in his hand. Daryl saw him then looked back at the man. He eased his grip on him, then put his axe away.

“Look, I lost someone back there. A good man…”

The man was breathing heavily. He started to speak, “I’ve… been getting food for my son and I from that place…” He caught his breath. “I was about to head out there, but I saw all hell had broken loose. Once I saw you folks near the entrance I blew up those tanks. Normally, my son watches over me, and in the event I was being chased, I told him to wait for me to round that corner, then use my rifle to blow up whatever the hell was chasing me. From my scope, it looked like all of you had cleared out. I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Daryl said. “We both need food right? So, you’re gonna help me get back there, grab what we can, and then we’ll see what really killed Zim. By the way, name’s Daryl.”

“….Jason.” The man replied.

Jason stared ominously at the necklace of fingers around Daryl’s neck as the sun finally disappeared over Miami.

*

Horace and his companions ate their food in silence. They all shared the same fear; the fear that death was prowling in the shadows waiting for them to drop their guard. None of them voiced this fear, but their eyes said otherwise. They were beginning to become impatient, jittery, and aggressive. Horace did his best to maintain his composure for the sake of the men around him.

“Horace, you said we could start worrying if they weren’t back by morning. What’s the plan if they’re not back?” A biker named Terry asked.

“I don’t know, Terry. If I do know anything, it’s that Daryl’s one tough son of a bitch. It’d take an army to bring him down. He’s got that brute Zimmer with him too. The infected probably have more to worry about than we do.”

Horace’s reply seemed to put everyone at ease. They continued to eat their food in silence, waiting for their eyes to become heavy so that they could fall asleep.

*

Jason invited Daryl and the others to come inside his apartment. Daryl’s men shuffled in after their host, but Jason’s son remained outside the door and watched these strange men enter the apartment. Who were they? Why did they dress so funny? What was with that necklace around that big one’s neck? Before heading inside, Daryl bent down so that he was eye level with the boy.

“What’s your name kiddo?” Daryl asked.

The child didn’t respond, and Daryl could see the kid staring at the fingers around his neck. He couldn’t remember the last time he was in the company of a child. His crew raided towns, took what they needed, and then left. That was the lifestyle he had become accustomed to, but what kind of a world did this youngster live in? He probably relied on his father to take care of him, like any child should. Stealing from survivors, raping timid women, and stealing their father’s ammunition was a way of life that justified wearing a necklace of fingers.

“Hey, I hear you’re a good shot, kid. I’m Daryl, by the way. What’s your name?” Daryl asked.

The young boy ran inside. Daryl got up, heard something inside him crack, then entered the apartment. Candles illuminated the apartment. The first thing he saw was a box of Cheerios on a coffee table in the middle of the living room. Two of Daryl’s men sat on a couch, and another sat on the floor. Jason sat in a red, comfortable-looking La-Z-Boy recliner with his sniper rifle propped up against the armrest. The ceiling had holes in it, and the carpet looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in months. Daryl saw the balcony and the red flag that had been used to gain their attention. A Winnie-the-Pooh book lay on the ground in front of him, and Daryl picked it up.

“That one’s his favorite.” Jason said. “Did you scare him or something? He ran into his room a second ago.”

“Probably. I don’t blame him. I had an axe to your throat a minute ago.”

The two stared at each other until Daryl broke the silence.

“I’m tired. We can plan what we’re gonna do in the morning.”

The group agreed and Daryl found a place on the floor. He closed his eyes and soon fell asleep.

*

Daryl awoke to the sound of a rustling noise near him. His men had helped themselves to boxes of Captain Crunch and Cheerios cereal. Big, mean-looking men eating Captain Crunch cereal with their hands; Daryl laughed to himself and then said, “Give me some.”

As he ate, he looked around to see where Jason and his son were. He found the young boy on the balcony staring into the cityscape. He asked one of his men where Jason went, and they told him that he had gone downstairs to see if the wooden beams around the windows were still intact. Daryl got up and joined the boy on the balcony.

“It’s pretty ain’t it. Well, it used to be. I used to ride through here and…” Daryl was about to ramble on about his gambling and prostitution days, but caught himself. “…and, well it don’t matter anymore now does it?” The boy didn’t say anything so Daryl continued. “I wasn’t gonna hurt your daddy, you know. I…”

Daryl heard a door shut. He turned around and noticed that Jason had returned.

“Looks like you guys helped yourself to the cereal. Don’t worry, we’ll replenish our stock when we head back there today. Speaking of which, where’s D–”

“Just out here enjoying the view!” Daryl said. “I think I’ve done enough waiting around though. Let’s talk things out.” Daryl went back inside and continued, “We gotta be quick. That place is dangerous; it was like they waited for us. I say we grab what we need, check Zim’s body, then go our separate ways.”

Jason looked at Daryl. “If you find that those things didn’t kill him, I…”

“I’m over it. Doesn’t matter how he died. I need to get something from him.”

“I see. Anyways, here’s what I’m thinking. I’m going to bring those things,” Jason pointed to two propane tanks next to a stove, “and my son will watch us from the balcony with my rifle. If the plan goes south, we’ll get out of there and he’ll blow em’ up, and waste whatever’s chasing us. Like I said before, his aim is steady enough. When we get to the entrance, I’ll put the tanks where I did last time, and sneak in. I’ve done it about fifteen times or so, and I know how to get by without attracting their attention. So, I’ll make two trips; one to get my stuff, and one to get yours. You and the others wait by the entrance. It’ll be quieter this way.”

Daryl absorbed his words. Why was he risking so much for a group he had just met? One of them had even threatened to kill him the night before. Maybe he killed Zimmer, and was looking for a way to clear the guilt. Whatever his reasons, Daryl found no logical holes in his plan.

“You’re the one with the experience. We’ll watch your back and help out where we can. You can count on it.” Daryl said.

*

They soon arrived at the encampment with the palisade wall. The infected from before had cleared out, and the group only came across two of them on their way there. Daryl decapitated one of them with his axe, while his men beat the other one with their metal bats. Daryl promised to give Zimmer’s machete to Jason when they located the body. In the meantime, the young father was armed with a small shiv made out of metal. As they came to the entrance, Jason crept ahead and placed the propane canisters where had before. He gave a motion for Daryl and his men to come closer.

“It seems pretty quiet, so now would be a good time to look for your friend. I’ll head up to where the supplies are and meet you back here.” Jason said.

Daryl saw Jason maneuvering his way carefully around boxes, cars, and whatever else he could use for cover. The silence of the place was similar to what he remembered when he first came through here. Another ambush seemed likely, but maybe one man instead of five would be able to sneak through without alerting the horde. Daryl hoped that was the case.

It took about two days for someone that had been killed by one of them to turn into one of them. Zimmer probably had a day before he awoke as one of the undead– if that was indeed the cause of his death. Daryl understood this, and scrounged the dead bodies from the explosion the day before. Some of their faces had been ripped apart, while others were missing limbs. He figured the way he would recognize Zimmer would be by the Sons of Liberty vest he was wearing, or by the machete strapped to his thigh. He saw both on a charred body buried beneath two others.

Daryl fell to his knees and put his hand on Zimmer’s back. He turned him over, but looked away in disgust when he saw his exposed jawbone and remnants of his teeth. The machete, however, was still in its holster attached to Zimmer’s thigh, and Daryl removed it. Carefully, he took Zimmer’s index finger, sawed it off with the machete, and put it in his pocket. From his examination of the body, there was no evidence that Zimmer had fallen victim to the infected. No scratches, bruises, or bites. Just a dead man; a very dead man who met his fate, not at the hands of the undead, but by someone still alive. He left Zimmer’s disfigured face to rot amongst the grave of the nonliving.

We hope that you enjoyed this short story written by Bart Gnarly.

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