The Apocalypse Fugitives

  The Apocalypse Fugitives

  The Undead World: Novel 4

  By Peter Meredith

  Copyright 2014

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Fictional works by Peter Meredith:

  A Perfect America

  The Sacrificial Daughter

  The Horror of the Shade

  An Illusion of Hell

  Hell Blade

  The Punished

  Sprite

  The Feylands: A Hidden Lands Novel

  The Sun King: A Hidden Lands Novel

  The Sun Queen: A Hidden Lands Novel

  The Apocalypse: The Undead World Novel 1

  The Apocalypse Survivors: The Undead World Novel 2

  The Apocalypse Outcasts: The Undead World Novel 3

  The Apocalypse Fugitives: The Undead World Novel 4

  Pen(Novella)

  A Sliver of Perfection (Novella)

  The Haunting At Red Feathers(Short Story)

  The Haunting On Colonel's Row(Short Story)

  The Drawer(Short Story)

  The Eyes in the Storm(Short Story

  Chapter 1

  Deanna Russell

  The Island

  Deanna was late. She was never late. Ten year of being on the button had programmed her to fear even a single day's delay. Now she was three weeks late and she was petrified.

  They would kill little Emily if they found out. Whenever she thought about the baby growing inside her, and she did quite often, Deanna always pictured a she. A little girl to dress in pink and white. A girl with long blonde hair that Deanna could braid before school. A beautiful daughter with slim, coltish legs and ankle socks on her tiny feet and a happy smile on her face.

  She would be named Emily because it sounded so wholesome. No daughter of hers would have a stripper name: there'd be no Candi, or Destini, or Jazzee with two Es. Not for her sweet little girl. Deanna smiled as she imagined Emily with pigtails and a missing tooth up front. The smile didn't last; it went crooked as her stomach heaved. The nausea was another very clear sign that she was in huge trouble.

  Deanna really didn't need any more signs. It was all there before her: she was on the highway to Babyville and there was only a single exit before that wonderful destination, a nasty place called Coat-Hanger City. That was the exit she'd be forced to take if anyone found out.

  "Oh crap," she said, breathing heavily, trying to fight back against the rising queasiness that crept up the back of her throat. "It'll be ok. It'll be ok. It'll be ok," she repeated over and over until the feeling diminished.

  I can do this, she said to herself, taking a dry washcloth to her damp forehead. Just as long as he doesn't want me to swallow, I can do this. Sergeant Robinski frequently wanted her to blow him. He complained that he didn't like how she was all used up down there. She secretly agreed. Once, a few months before, she had taken a mirror to her downstairs area and was appalled at how open and flappy she was.

  But she couldn't blow him, not then. She would puke for certain and then there'd be questions, because she had never even gagged before, let alone got sick; everyone knew she was like some side-show sword swallower.

  "I've got to be strong for Emily," she whispered, squinting at her hair and at the heavy makeup on her face. It was taking more and more of it to cover the fact that it wasn't just her downstairs that was beginning to look all used up. She reached for her brush which was matted with her blonde hair, but Melanie smacked her hand away, lightly.

  "Stop stalling," Melanie lisped. "We don't have time. There are people waiting."

  "I wasn't stalling. I was just…just…" Ok, the truth was she had been stalling. What was being asked of her was almost suicide. If she was caught, they would kill her, but nor before they tortured her first. As always when she thought of the repercussions, Deanna's breath started to pick up and the fear in her chest began to work its way down into her hands. They began to shake.

  Melanie hugged her. She was smaller than Deanna and whipcord thin, but she was strong. Deanna felt crushed in the warm embrace—it was exactly what she needed. Melanie held her for only a couple of seconds before she pulled back, saying, "You can do this. It's just once more. Once more and then…"

  "We'll be free," Deanna said. "Ok. Alright. Oh crap, I'm so scared."

  "Don't be. Let him do his thing and then leave him sleepy. Do you know what you're going to do if his keys aren't sitting out where you can see them?"

  Deanna shook her head. "I don't know, make some small talk, poke about a bit if I can. It's going to be hard, he doesn't like it if I hang around. Normally, he wants me out of there so fast, it's like he hates me."

  "They all do, Dee," Melanie said. "Never forget it. Why else would they treat us the way they do?" Out of habit, she touched her nose, feeling the ugly scar and the awful bend of it.

  "Don't do that," Deanna said, taking her hand away. The hand smelled of chemicals and shit; Melanie's whoring days were behind her but that didn't mean the humiliation and abuse had stopped. She had been placed on permanent latrine duty after her nose had been broken and her once smooth skin had been disfigured by a sadistic NCO.

  "You are beautiful." They embraced again and Melanie's closeness calmed the thrumming in Deanna's chest slightly. She was so afraid that she didn't want to let go, but Melanie gave her a little push.

  "You're right," Deanna said. "I gotta go. Wish me luck."

  Melanie smiled with her lips pressed together to hide the fact that her front teeth were missing. "Good luck," she whispered.

  With her eyes flicking all around, nervously, Deanna stepped into the dark. The Island was always dark at night. No lights were allowed. A light violation held a ten-lash punishment and they didn't go easy on anyone, not even the women. In the last six months, Deanne has been lashed three times. She shivered at the memory and then drew her shawl closer around her bare shoulders.

  This night she had on her best dress, hoping to lure Sergeant Robinski into intercourse. "Please, no blowjobs," she intoned, looking up at the sky as though in prayer.

  Because she wore high-heels, she had to be very careful as she picked her was across the bridge going from the small island, where all the whores and non-essential workers lived, to the big island, where the soldiers stayed. Most of the men were quartered in large barracks, but Sergeant Robinski held enough rank to warrant a little cabin, it was not much more than a hut that he shared with three other NCOs, all of whom would be out for the evening.

  Deanna took a deep breath, pulled at the hem of her dress to straighten any wrinkles, and knocked on the door with a shaky hand.

  "Come," Robinski commanded. Another deep breath and she went through the door, and shut it behind her before she parted the black, light-control curtains and stepped into the single room of the cabin. It wasn't much of a place. The air was rank, smelling of feet and sweat. The furniture consisted of four beds, and a couple of dressers; nothing else. There were no decorations or anything in the least cozy. Everything was strictly functional.

  "Hi," she said, tilting her head, invitingly.

  "What's this?" His eyes roved over the clingy dress, staring unabashedly. Her usual attire was a miniskirt she could yank up easily.

  "I wanted to look good for you. We haven't had a real night together in weeks and I'm feeling…horny." She ran her right hand across her breasts and then down her flat belly, as she did her mind was wild with chaos and fear. Am I being too forward? Is this what a horny woman acts like? Should I gr
ab his dick? Even after six months she didn't really know what she was doing.

  She stepped closer and reached out. Her hand hesitated between touching his manhood or his hip. She chose his hip and added in a soft whisper, "I want you…you to, uh make love to me."

  His face split into a sneer and he scoffed, "Make love to you? Shit, is that a joke? Let me remind you of what your place is around here: you are a dirty, little fuck-whore. Men don't make love to whores. Now, get on your knees."

  Being treated like scum was normal and his words went right past her, all except the last part. "My knees?" Her stomach went squirrely as he started to unbutton his camouflage pants. "I was hoping we could fool around, you know?" she asked, hoping the cringe trying to work across her face wasn't noticeable.

  "I don't care what you were hoping for." Robinski dropped his pants and Deanna's eyes bugged and her throat went tight and her stomach...she was on the verge of throwing up even before she put his thing in her mouth.

  "Ok, just a sec…" She turned away and started fumbling with her dress, buying time, hoping that her nausea would just magically disappear. And it did, to a degree, when she caught sight of his keys. They had been tossed on his bed and hopefully forgotten. The keys are all that I should be thinking about right now. I have to get the keys! She let that run through her head as she shimmied out of her dress. She laid it on the bed over the keys and then bent to remove her shoes.

  "Leave them on," he ordered.

  She glanced back and saw that he was at half-mast, his penis, slowly waking up. Her stomach rolled over again. "Y-You sure you don't want to…" She patted the bed.

  "So you can just lie there like a slab of beef?" he growled. "Fucking you is like fucking a grunting slug. It's bad enough that you're a whore but you're not even good at it. Now, get over here."

  Deanna had no more self-esteem left to shatter. She went to him and dropped to her knees. Slowly she reached out her hand and gripped him and then started to slide her hand gently up and down his shaft. He let out a low groan and she had a moment of hope that she would be able to get away without putting it in her mouth.

  "What are you waiting for?" he said after a minute. "Suck it."

  Dear God, help me, she prayed. It was barely in her mouth before her stomach started to heave and she started to gag.

  "What the fuck?" Robinski asked, his face screwed up in anger and disgust. "What? You think there's something wrong with my dick?"

  "No, I…I…" Before she could finish her sentence she bent over and vomited on the floor. They'd served beef stroganoff for dinner in the mess hall, and it didn't look all that different coming out as it did going in.

  "You filthy whore!" Robinski roared. Afraid, she put her hand up as she puked again. When she sat up, tears in her eyes, her stomach quivering, a long stream of multi-colored drool running from her red lips, he smacked her across the face. It was like an explosion in her head. She fell to her side and was just getting up when he hit her a second time and then a third.

  She didn't beg for him to stop. The wisdom of experience told her to take the beating in silence and it would be over quicker. He slapped her only once more and then screamed at her to clean up her mess. Her head wobbled on her thin neck as she looked around. The only thing there was to clean up the mess was her fancy dress. Naked, she went for it and made sure to grab the keys under the thin material.

  "Clean it up and get the fuck out," he said. He seemed so disgusted with her and the spew on the floor that he turned away, shaking his head. It was a relief not to have his cruel eyes on her and it made the fact that her left hand never unclenched that much easier to hide. When she was done she struggled to her feet. He stared at her with contempt and said, "You're going on shit-house detail for the next two weeks and you better hope your replacement is as bad a whore as you or it'll be permanent."

  Deanna moved her head in a jerky nod of acceptance while keeping her eyes to the floor. She didn't trust her eyes, afraid they would somehow give away the fact that in one of the folds of her vomit-covered dress were Sergeant Robinski's keys to the motor pool.

  They were the keys to her escape from The Island.

  "Now get out," he hissed. She left the hut and for one brief second, smiled at the night.

  Chapter 2

  Jillybean

  Northern Alabama

  She tried to stay awake. She struggled against the inevitable, afraid of where her mind would go in sleep. Jillybean's eyes grew heavy and her yawns became frequent, gaping her little mouth, one after another. The rocking of the Humvee and the steady growl of its engine lulled her as it had the infant cuddled next to her. Unable to resist she drifted right back into the dream.

  Her hand came up out of the I'm a Belieber backpack holding the shiny pistol. It was bright like silver. Normally, Jillybean associated good things with silver, like tinsel at Christmas, or necklaces with charms, or her mom's forks and spoons that she brought out when company was supposed to come over for dinner.

  In spite of its silveryness the gun was bad. It killed people. It made her a killer.

  She brought the gun up and poked it in the bounty hunter's side and pulled the trigger. Her fear that it would be loud was unfounded. As was her fear that it would kick wildly and start spraying bullets in every direction as though possessed by an evil spirit like a ghost or a banshee. Jillybean barely felt it jump in her hands and the sound it made was a muted rumble compared to the power of the pulse in her ears.

  Yet when the man grunted, she thought it hideously loud, and when his breath came out in a long ahhhhh, it screamed in her ears. It sounded as though the bullet had punctured his soul and it was hissing out of his body.

  The little girl immediately wanted to feel sorry for what she had done, however after the hunter dropped to his knees, he began to reach for his own gun with hate and murder in his eyes. There was no mistaking the look. In that brief second she saw right down into his black heart. He knew he was dying and still he lusted to kill.

  Her mind screamed: Why?

  Why would he seek to harm others when he was already dying? What good would it do him? Or was the man just so evil he couldn't help himself? These were real questions, but Ipes was…Ipes wasn't responding.

  She was all alone. A small girl alone with a killer. There was only one thing to be done: finish the job.

  Jillybean took one step back, instinctively giving herself room to shoot properly. She had never been given a lesson in firing a gun, but she had watched the others when they battled the undead and she had learned all that was needed. She had noted that when Neil shot a gun his stance was weak, his arms soft, his face set in a grimace. The gun seemed to control him. It seemed to possess far more authority than its shooter.

  Captain Grey was different. His training made his muscle-memory automatic. Without thinking, he would bring up his gun in a fluid motion, step into a firm stance, and sight down the length of the barrel, all in one quick move. He'd caress the trigger instead of jerking it and the gun never seemed to kick, instead it looked as if it only wanted to settle more firmly into the pocket of his shoulder.

  Jillybean emulated Captain Grey as though she had done this a thousand times. Before she was even aware of what she was doing, she had the silver pistol pointed into the hunter's flat grey eye. He sneered and his mouth began to open.

  Was he going to beg for his life? Ridicule her? Put her in the corner for what she'd done to him? She did not wait to find out. Hesitation would have doomed her.

  Eyes open and sighting along the short barrel; right arm out stiff, left hand under the grip in a supporting role; she brought the trigger back and the gun blazed. It was like the flash from an old-time camera. That brief light froze time and she saw how his eye had exploded, and she saw the red-rimmed tunnel that snaked back into his brain, and she saw the look of fear in his other eye.

  He was afraid of death because of the life he'd led. Because he was a killer, and now she was, too...

  "Hey,
Jillybean, wake up."

  "Hmm? Are we there yet?" she asked, looking blearily out the window. There were still trees all around and no mountains at all. This wasn't Colorado.

  "You ok?" Sadie asked. "You were talking in your sleep. You kept saying you were sorry."

  "Oh." She almost said "sorry" for saying sorry. "I had a nightmare, that's what means a bad dream is all. So, uh, where are we? Is this still Georgia? It's awfully hot." The sun was straight up above them; shadows pooled at the bases of the trees as if they were hiding from the heat or shriveled small by the sun. Next to her, Ipse was snoring and Eve was reaching for one of his ears.

  Neil answered: "No, we're in Alabama now. It's hot here, too." In the rear view mirror his baby-blue eyes crinkled from a smile. It was brief, perhaps only a reflex and then they went back to looking as if the man behind them had died. The innocence in those blue eyes was gone. It had been something of a miracle that Neil's eyes had retained the quality for so long. But it was gone now. Experience and pain had turned his eyes into...Jillybean didn't know the word for what she was thinking, other than to say his eyes were different.

  The not so innocent eyes glanced back the way they'd come, quick and sharp. On impulse, or maybe out of fear, Jillybean looked back as well. She looked over the body in the cargo area and at the road behind them. It shimmered with the heat. She squinted, trying to see as far as she could. Despite the nagging, anxious feeling that they were being followed, no one was back there.

  Sadie looked back too, however her eyes strayed to the body. It was Sarah, wrapped in a sheet like a mummy from some old movie. "I think we are far enough away. Right?" Sadie asked. "The Believers wouldn't come this far. Not so quickly, at least."

  It seemed to Jillybean that the feeling of being followed was contagious. Captain Grey, who'd been sleeping fitfully in the front passenger seat, turned to look back also. As he did, he winced in pain. "They aren't coming," he said. "Cultists are inherently weak-minded and cowardly. Now that Abraham's dead they'll look for someone to replace him, someone who'll tell them what to wear, what to say, and even what to think."