Kill Zombies (Leopard King Saga) Page 7

When he was satisfied that the smoke had abated, Reptilius told Holbourne everything he knew.

  “So this Archon wanker brought me here? Why? I have no experience repulsing undead creatures.”

  “Perhaps he thought that you could lend skills that would be helpful to our cause,” Reptilius added.

  Outside rain had started and Reptilius could hear the drops pattering against his porch. He shot Giselle another stare and she looked down at her feet.

  With Holbourne’s help he managed to put the door back in place but re-attaching it to its hinges would have to be done in the morning.

  Holbourne spoke more of his background in the attempt it would shed some light on the situation. But without a laboratory at his disposal in this ‘slimey rathole’ as he described Reptilius’ home (Reptilius had to bite his tongue to prevent a snide response) his skills would be of little use.

  “It would help if Archon would make an appearance and tell us; that may save time.”

  “He hasn’t been forthcoming with his time,” Reptilius added. “I think we’ll have to figure this one out on our own.”

  After Holbourne fell asleep, Reptilius decided not more could be done at this late hour. So, leaving Sawtooth to guard the makeshift door, he retired to his room to get rest.

  Giselle, having had enough sleep, and complaining about the possibility of being left alone again, stayed awake and kept Sawtooth company.

  After Holbourne closed his eyes he pictured himself back in merry ole’ England where they spoke English the proper way. Not like these yanks who lived in swamps and had pet crocodiles that could swallow a fine English gentleman whole. He was walking through Piccadilly Circus on a fine spring day, or feeding the pigeons in Saint James Park in the heart of London. Not a single bog or lily pad in sight. No bloody American humidity either. The kind that made your pants stick to your arse. Of course those strange yanks called trousers “pants” and pants in American English (if you could bloody well call it English, mind you) were called underwear or something along those lines. Holbourne could care less. He was happy in his smaller world and even happier that crocodiles were nowhere to be found inhabiting London, not unless you visited London Zoo.

  When he woke up he would probably be home with his wife Bea and their daughter Sarah. Sarah was fifteen and she and his wife were the center of his world. Even more than his beloved laboratory in MI6 headquarters. But when the strange light appeared out of nowhere and whisked him away from his lovely England, Holbourne thought that he had died and gone to hell.

  That Yankee bloke Croctus Reptile or Reptilius (what kind of a name was that anyway?) had told him he was in the mid-twenty second century in a different reality. Sure, and he was H.G. fucking Wells. He was waiting for two of his co-workers to pop out from behind the trees and claim it was a hoax. Then the holographic swamp image would fade and they’d all be back in the laboratory, maybe even grab a few pints after work and laugh it off after they were all skunk drunk.

  But for Richard B. Holbourne, Chief Cyberneticist of MI6 and geek extraordinaire, it was not February 11, 2039 in London, England. He was in the year 2146. A place where America was no longer a global power and had suffered a second civil war that had divided it into four separate nations. A third of the Earth was also uninhabitable due to nuclear fallout caused by too many terrorist-sponsoring nations having access to nuclear weapons. By the late twenty-first century all nuclear warheads had been banned by the universal warhead treaty of 2100, but by then the damage had been done. Not that Holbourne was surprised, even in his era it was only a matter of time before some religious zealot would blow themselves up for their religion.

  Reptilius had also told him of how dinosaurs had not gone extinct hundreds of millions of years ago, like in Holbourne’s reality. These menacing lizards had survived whatever it was that had destroyed them in his reality and had become a major menace. Finally by the twentieth century, humanity’s technology had advanced enough for mankind to effectively begin exterminating the overgrown cold-blooded bastards. Although, according to this Reptilius bloke, a few of the dinos had survived, the most adaptable ones were of course the Velociraptors or “Raptors” as they were called.

  But he had heard enough of this mindless babble and when he awoke…

  He was still in the shitty little swamp dwelling Reptilius called his home. The crocodile (he forgot what its bloody name was) was still in front of the makeshift door. After closer inspection Holbourne suspected it was asleep. When two black beady eyes opened, and it snarled at him he nearly shit his pants—or underwear as these American blokes called them.

  “What the…?”

  The door flew backwards and two pale humanoids burst through the door in tattered clothing. They snarled at Holbourne like hungry dogs. Large fangs dripping with slaver. To Holbourne they resembled Zombies, but of a different nature. One of the creatures wore a Nike sweatshirt stained with blood. The other wore a tattered wifebeater that hung lifelessly from its gaunt chest.

  Sawtooth tactfully swung his thick tail in a half-arc, tripping the two Vampire Zombies and sending them sprawling to the floor. They rolled around on their backs like upturned turtles before the croc (Holbourne couldn’t believe how fast the lumbering beast moved) crushed the two undead intruders under its weight. When he stepped off them the two Zombies resembled twisted jumbles of flesh and bones.

  Reptilius appeared, Giselle by his side. Holbourne was nearly trampled by four more Zombies as they rudely wandered inside his host’s home. They made slurping noises and oinked like pigs. Holbourne couldn’t believe his eyes when Giselle grew a set of four fangs and ran towards the Zombies. She knocked one over and tore the head off the other.

  Reptilius had his crossbow in hand and was firing off arrows. One of the arrows ripped off the third Zombie’s arm, but it kept coming. Reptilius then reloaded his crossbow and shot it in the crotch. Its groin, ripped to shreds. The Zombie cried out and collapsed.

  Giselle was lunching on the other. Holbourne couldn’t believe his eyes. Her mouth was dripping with blood as she suckled its neck, which had been conveniently ripped from the Zombie’s body.

  It all felt like a bad episode from a B-rate cable television movie. But Holbourne sat on his arse (or ass, depending on which country you came from) and saw more undead characters plow through the brutalized opening that was once Reptilius’ doorway.

  They came in all shapes and sizes, baring fangs that would put any Bela Lugosi imposter to shame. Some were Male, some Female. Some wore clothes, others few, but the end result was the same: the croc either crushed them to death or tore off limbs. Reptilius’ fast reloading resulted in successful hits. The house began filling up with Zombie corpses. Can Zombies die? Holbourne wondered. Soon Reptilius and his two helpers had pushed the remaining Zombies out of the house. Holbourne wanted to continue watching this show (it was even better than watching an Arsenal-Chelsea derby match on SKY TV) and climbed over the disintegrating Zombie bodies to get outside.

  The humidity made him break out in sweat again and he took off his labcoat and shirt. Directly in front of him was Reptilius. Loading arrows from a quiver like Robin bloody Hood. Did this man ever quit? Holbourne thought. Soon the fissure where the Zombies were pouring Through began closing. The last wave threw themselves at Reptilius, Giselle and Sawtooth.

  One Zombie got through the onslaught of arrows and bit into Reptilius’ arm. The masked bloke’s arm sizzled but he paid no heed. He brandished a sword that looked like a spiked shish-kebob knife and ran it through the Zombie’s milky right eye. It collapsed and disintegrated into a pile of dust, except for its jawbone, which displayed a prominent set of Vampire fangs.

  With the anomaly closed, the floodgate of Zombies dried up, leaving silence in their wake. The disintegrating pile of corpses emitted an odor that reminded Holbourne of rotting fish and burnt rubber.

  Giselle plopped herself on the porch and stretched her arms. The front of her shirt was drenched in Zombie blood. Her Vampir
e fangs retracted and she assumed her former “human” state.

  “You have some explaining to do, mate,” Holbourne said. He pointed at Reptilius’ damaged arm. No blood or cartilage was present, but Holbourne knew circuitry when he saw it. He backed away from Reptilius, who saw his secret revealed, and placed his other hand over the damaged arm.

  “What are you, mate? Some sort of android?”

  Reptilius took off his helm and spat out blood. “No, I’m something else.”

  After completing T. Rex boot camp in Hells Creek Montana Malcolm Hendricks was filled with enthusiasm. Yes! He’d get to carry a weapon and shoot T. Rex’s in the name of freedom. In his first tour of duty in the Middle East, Malcolm Hendricks from Dade County, FL (also known by his friends as Florida’s baddest Nigga) would be spreading truth, justice, and the American way in a remote part of the world most people from his neighborhood had never heard about.

  When his platoon went up against his first T. Rex, Malcolm almost dropped a load in his shorts. The big ass scaly motherfucker stood 17 feet tall and weighed over five tons came at him and his boys like some locomotive from hell. Its roar could be heard for miles, and that’s the way Malcolm liked it. For Florida’s baddest, this was what he was meant for.

  The big ass scaly lizard with the tiny arms caused minor tremors when it ran at him and his boys. But when it got within fifty feet, he and the others opened up on it.

  Long bursts of energy ropes exploded from the muzzles of their M85 “Rex” rifles. The big-ass scaly fuck didn’t know what hit it. Its scales ripped open like an overfilled grocery bag stuffed with too many cans. Its last cries before collapsing in front of Malcolm was the biggest rush he had felt since the first time he had smoked his first blunt.

  “Did you see that big bitch blow up like some overinflated balloon?” Roscoe, his lieutenant said. Roscoe was an enlisted man like him who had received a battlefield commission six months ago when his own commander had fallen at the hands of a female T. Rex. He was a gangly blonde kid from Baton Rouge, Louisiana, who enjoyed deep sea fishing and reading old western novels.

  “Yep, Ros’,” Malcolm said, giggling like a kid. That was back in the days before he went by the name of Croctus Reptilius. Florida’s baddest was a lot more gregarious then, unlike the man he would later become.

  Everyone gathered around the fallen mass of scales, guts and bone for picture sessions. They’d transmit them back to their families, friends and fuck buddies when they were off duty. That’s how things rolled out here in the desert.

  When it was Malcolm’s turn to have his picture snapped, he made a goofy ass grin next to the silent head of the T. Rex. “Not so bad anymore, are you, beeitch,” Malcolm said. Much to the amusement of his comrades-in-arms.

  That night in camp he transmitted the picture to his folks back in Miami. Mama and Papa would be so damn proud of their oldest son. And his little brother Gruss, who looked up to him like he was some sort of boy band idol, would be bragging about him to his classmates for the next few days.

  Malcolm and Roscoe were pretty tight. As tight as two southern boys could be. They’d talk about their glory days playing football and running track. Getting into all sorts of shenanigans that high school punks would. Girls were also a major topic; as was porn: something the whole platoon shared a fascination with.

  “So what you going to do when you get back home?” Roscoe asked Malcolm. They were both busy catching up on the latest news from home on their global transmitters.

  “Probably gonna hump as many girls as I can,” Malcolm replied. Roscoe laughed. It was the goofiest laugh Malcolm had ever heard. It sounded more like wheezing; as if he suffered from some sort of lung disorder. Even though cigarettes had gone out of style over fifty years ago, people still managed to get lung disease. Malcolm attributed it to all the nasty-ass global pollution on Earth.

  “Yeah, me too,” Roscoe said. “I was hoping to go back to Bama and use my G.I. Bill money to get myself a degree.

  Now it was Malcolm’s turn to laugh. Except he didn’t wheeze. “You? College? Man, you can barely read your goddamn orders, son.”

  There was a knock at the door of their room. Roscoe (being the lazy prick he was) acted like he hadn’t heard it, leaving Malcolm to answer it. As soon as he opened it there stood their Battalion Commander Lt. Colonel Keith Sanderson.

  Malcolm saluted the Colonel and cleared his throat loud enough to have Roscoe jump from his bed, face red and knees knocking against one another like pistons.

  “At ease, men.”

  Sanderson had come to give Roscoe a new set of orders. Their platoon was to be the lynch pin in an operation to drive out a particularly vicious tribe of T. Rex’s, nicknamed appropriately, the “Red Rexes” threatening the Saudi Arabian city of Jeddah, which was a major Arabian city overlooking the Red sea.

  Of course Roscoe was thrilled to be a major factor in his C.O.’s plan. “Hell, you might even make Captain after this,” Malcolm had told him excitedly.

  Three days later the operation began. Nicknamed “Repulse Rexes.” Their platoon was part of Sanders’ Battalion “A.” Malcolm, Roscoe and the rest of the boys were restless to get busy with some serious action.

  Everything was going according to plan, but that was before their sub-orbital air cover drone fighters had malfunctioned and were stuck 62 miles above Malcolm’s battalion. Being a total-automated unit it would take at least fifteen minutes to get a response repair team to fix the snafu. Unfortunately this was enough time for disaster to strike.

  Army intelligence—despite having the latest in twenty-second century military technology—had underestimated the Red Rex population. Not taking into account the hatchlings that had greatly added to their numbers.

  Hence, without air cover and facing 4,000 angry, hungry T.Rexes, Battalion “A” bore the brunt of the dinosaur attack.

  To say it was a massacre would be undermining the ability of the Red Rexes. Malcolm found himself fighting the battle of his life. At first the rush was intense, just the way he dreamed of, but when, for the first time in his short military career, he saw his fellow comrades get torn to shreds by the first wave of T.Rexes, he cursed his luck.

  “Somebody fucked up,” said Roscoe, as their desert hopper was knocked over by a T. Rex that Malcolm could’ve sworn had a few feathers strung across its body. Little did he know that those three words would be his friend’s last ones on Earth. The lead Rex, the big motherfucker with the feathers coming out of its armpits, extended his bite which grinded Roscoe into tiny chunks of bloody meat.

  Malcolm’s screams were drowned out by the other men’s cries for their loved ones. Some had stood their ground and were giving back as much as they were getting. But the Rexes kept coming back like a nasty case of genital herpes. Malcolm knew the feeling.

  With no time to mourn Roscoe, who had been like an older, albeit, unintelligent brother to him, Malcolm sounded the retreat. He also tossed as many laser grenades as was humanly possible.

  Then it happened. One T. Rex had sniffed him out. With all the human carnage, it wasn’t difficult. Malcolm found himself face-to-face with the 18 foot butcher who had turned his best friend into a pre-packaged lump of beef.

  “Take this you scaly motherfucker,” Malcolm said as he threw his last grenade. The Rex dodged it like a Running back before Malcolm saw his right arm disappear. There almost wasn’t any pain since the Rex had bitten through it so fast. The next sensation he felt reminded him of a grape being grinded up by a strong set of razors. Then, Malcolm Hendricks, Florida’s baddest, felt nothing.

  When Reptilius had finished the story everyone in the room was silent.

  “So…basically…you’re a Cyborg?” Holbourne asked.

  Reptilius tried not to sigh. He hated showing emotion, it made him feel weak, especially after the pain he’d endured.

  “In a sense. However I still retained 35% of my corporeal form. My torso, left leg, and the lower part of my face. But my memories had to be
implanted from my original dying brain.”

  Both Giselle and Holbourne looked at him in awe. “Impressive,” the Englishman said. “Now it makes sense why I was brought here. And am I correct in assuming the helmet serves as a sort of life support mechanism?”

  Reptilius nodded. “I can only survive for a few hours without it.”

  “Impressive,” Holbourne repeated.

  Not really doctor, Reptilius thought. The pain I must endure in this “body” almost makes me wish I had died on that battlefield, years ago.

  “I think I have to rest,” Giselle said. She wandered out of the room to find someplace to sleep.

  Around them the Zombie bodies had completely evaporated, as if they had never existed, although a few shallow puddles of slime remained, in time, it too would evaporate.

  “Malcolm,” Holbourne said.

  Reptilius stirred. It had been years since anyone had called him that name. Even though his driver’s license still had him listed under his former identity, no one had called him ‘Malcolm’ after his accident. “What is it, Doctor?”

  “I think I know why I was sent here.”

  Now would be a good time to mention it. “I see.” Sawtooth inched over to where he and Holbourne were having their discussion. The croc’s snout opened and he made a gurgling noise. Holbourne looked at the creature with disgust.

  “I think he’s hungry.”

  Reptilius nodded. “Please come with me Doctor.” Inside the kitchen the food synthesizer hummed with activity as Reptilius loaded plates of gelatinous brown cubes.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “Replicated chicken.” Reptilius placed the plates on the floor for Sawtooth to dine on. The croc sniffed the artificial food and shook its head before tucking into it. “He doesn’t like synthetic food,” Reptilius said, “but purchasing real chicken is expensive. Now, you said you knew why you were here?”

  Holbourne sat down. “Yes. I think this Archon fellow wanted me to help you. Are you experiencing any other issues with your…how can I say this…body?”