Page 24 of Desiderium (Devil Dogs of the Apocalypse #2)

Hawk

“AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH! HOLY FUCKING COCK SUCKERS!” I scream at the top of my lungs.

The screeching noise I make could rival any of those rock bands from the eighties.

It’s high pitched, annoying as fuck and, much to my delight or dismay, fucking working.

They’re on my ass like white on rice. Which is good.

It’s what I came here for. But oof, if it doesn’t make my butthole clench… just a little bit.

I keep my pace steady, needing to lure them as far away from the property as possible.

The last thing we need is for me to do a half-ass job and end up surrounded again.

So I take my time but stay out of reach.

A few of them lunge for me from time to time, quickening their pace in bursts, but like I told Jax, they’re no match for me.

I’ve always been agile—quick reflexes and all. At least it’s being put to good use.

I try to maintain my positive outlook on my mission like I always do.

Even though I could die at any possible second if I let my guard down, I can’t let myself focus on that.

You end up getting tunnel vision, and that can be even more dangerous than the original situation.

So, I do what I do best, and make the most of it.

Opening my mouth and drawing a deep breath, I set my pace to the cadence of the song playing in my head and belt out the lyrics as loud as I can. What can I say… it seems pretty appropriate for the current circumstances.

Run to the Hills by Iron Maiden pours out of my lungs. My voice is going to be shot by the end of this but it’ll be worth it. The high octave and overall loudness of the song draws the undead closer to me with eager intent, exactly as I wanted. Let’s get this shit show on the road!

Unlike what Jax instructed, I don’t run immediately to the old Johnson house, but rather run further west for a bit.

I know he said to get there as fast as possible but I don’t want them on top of me when I’m trying to lift a fucking boat into the water, either.

Who do I look like? Superman? Ain’t gonna happen.

Plus, I’m fast as fuck. Humility be damned.

Once I get these assholes far enough away, I can sprint back over there in no time.

It's been about a half an hour since I caught their focus and had them chasing after me but I’m getting a little tired of the cat and mouse game.

I decide to end it and make a quick turn down an adjoining street, leaving the zombie horde in the dust as I B-line it back over to the main lakeside road.

It takes a few minutes, but I eventually find a giant, gaudy fish mailbox in front of a green house.

I think since it’s the only house matching the tacky description Jax issued, I can reasonably assume this to be the Johnson’s house.

The property is large and distracting but I find the willow tree and turn, running to the backyard before heading over to the shed.

That better fucking have a boat in it or so help me….

The old wooden doors creak as I pry them open.

It’s so weatherworn that one of the doors falls right off its hinges.

I pay no attention to it. Mr. Johnson won’t mind.

People with fishy mailboxes don’t seem the type to get mad about anything.

They have a fish for a mailbox for crying out loud!

That automatically makes them cool as fuck!

Not that I really have to worry about it, either way.

Not too sure Mr. Johnson is even still alive to be butt-hurt about my breaking his shit.

And if he is, I’m sure he has more important stuff to worry about than an old busted door.

The inside of the shed is large and pitch black, even with the doors wide open. It’s full of all kinds of dusty, musty shit. Cobwebs, spiderwebs, decorative Halloween webs. Like I said, all kinds of shit. And there at the very back, is the fucking boat.

Why in the fuck do I always have to tackle the hoarders?

This immediately reminds me of the old couple’s house we scavenged at the southern end of the lake over the winter.

I shiver at what we uncovered there. This shed better not be housing any fucking fake vegetables or there will be Hell to pay!

Thank God I adjusted the plan and lured the zombies even farther away since I have to have a fucking yard sale to get the boat now!

I sigh, shaking my head, but get to it, chucking all manner of hoarder’s paradise out onto the lawn. An old tube television. Gone. Golf clubs. Gone. Fucking ping-pong table. Gone. An original copy of The Goonies movie with the deleted octopus scene?!

Well fuck me sideways. I finally get a copy of this to prove to Jax that I was right all along—It does exist! —and now I have no tv or VHS to watch it…. Oh well…

GONE!

Gone. Gone. Gone. All out the door. There’s so much shit in here I’m sweating buckets by the time I reach the back where the row boat is. I drag the piece of shit out until it’s just by the shoreline, but cock my head at what’s missing.

Where the fuck are the oars?

White Snake’s, “Here I Go Again,” pops into my head as I trudge my way back to the NeverEnding Story of sheds.

This shit just doesn’t fucking end. The leaning tower of junk I’ve created to my left is almost awe inspiring.

I have no idea how he fit all of that stuff in there.

All I have to say is that Mr. Johnson must have been awesome at Tetris… .

I don’t see the missing oars immediately, so I walk along the sidewalls with my hands raised. It’s still difficult to see anything in here with the lack of light, but I do my best, feeling around in the mess for the long wooden shapes of the oars.

What I wouldn’t give to have Jax’s awesome fucking watch right about now.

“G uraaarrgagh…”

I’m halfway back to the doorway on the other side when the sound makes me stop and clench my butt cheeks. I’m almost positive I know what it is, but I don’t want to acknowledge it. I’ve had enough for today. I just want to find what I need and get the hell out of here.

“Graauuragher…”

Ah shit. That was closer… Much closer. I can definitely smell the dingy stench of death breathing down my neck as the hair on the back of it rises.

No. Nope. Nope. Nope. Not today, Satan. I might be deliciously nutritious, but I am not going to turn around to see a fucking zombie frothing at the mouth for me. Nope. Not gonna happen.

I turn my head to the side ever so slightly. Over there, in my periphery, less than an arm’s length away, I see the thing groaning out the sound.

“Mr. Johnson, I presume?”

He looks fucking awful, if I do say so myself.

I have no idea what he looked like when he was alive but damn, dude needs a spa day or something.

Half his face is gone. I have no idea where it went but, where there should be skin, muscle and whatever else that makes up the gooey bits, there’s just bone and…

well, goo. Lots of fucking goo. It's oozing out of him. His damn eyeball is hanging out of his eye socket like it’s a paddle ball, just dangling there and shit.

I look down at the rest of him and notice his arm looks broken, if the contorted weird angle it’s hanging at is any indication.

Doesn’t seem to be bothering him though.

His clothes are torn, filthy and falling off of him but I’d like to think that his fashion choices are the least of his problems right now.

Drool, blood and pus drip out of his gaping mouth as he stares at me, almost as if he ordered Grub Hub and I was delivered to him for dinner.

“Looking a little juicy there, bud. Not in a good way either, sorry to say.”

“Grararururugh...”

Poor guy must have gotten infected, turned, and then got trapped in here. Can’t think about that though—the humanity of it all. At this point it’s him or me. And I need his shit. So it’s gonna be me.

Haha! Cue the awesome song change in my head!

I quickly run through my options. I can turn and shoot him, but he’s so close he might get me before I get him. I can turn and run to the boat. I’m fast. I can make it. But that thought flutters away as I sigh internally.

The fucking oars…

I can’t go anywhere without the oars. Without them I’m a sitting duck out on the lake. Up the river, literally without a paddle. So, I guess I have no choice but to take option one, then. Yippee.

His teeth clack together, chittering his need to attack, as I ready myself, slowly raising my hand to the pistol on my leg and counting down.

One…

Two…

Three…

Breathe.. .

The entire world slows down as I turn, raise my weapon, and aim but the asshole lunges at me just as I do so.

Shit. It’s not high enough. I needed to shoot him in the head but only managed to tag him in the chest. It knocks him back enough, however, allowing me some room to move and shoot again.

This time it hits its mark and the zombie formerly known as Mr. Johnson drops to the floor.

“Holy motherfucking shit...” I rush out the words on a breath I can’t seem to replenish. I bend over, resting my hands on my knees, blinking my eyes and trying to rationalize what the fuck just happened.

“That was not... fucking nice... Mr. Johnson! Hawk is NOT what’s for dinner!

” I keep my gun pointed at him as my heart beats out of my chest to a cadence I barely hold the reigns to.

“I swear to God, your motherfucking wife better not bum-rush me from out of the shadows or so help me I will stick one of those damn firecrackers I chucked outside right up her ass and light her up like it’s the fucking Fourth of July!

” My adrenaline is still spiked, but it’s beginning to slowly descend from hyperdrive.

Breathe...

That was fucking close. Too close. Fuck, I need a drink. Or a joint. Or Aly. Fuck, maybe all three.

Breathe...

The thought of Aly calms me enough to get my shit back together. I’ve wasted enough time dealing with this bullshit. I need to hurry my ass up and get back to them. To her.

Damn, I’m gonna fuck her so hard later. Holy shit .

I eventually find the stupid oars in the very back corner under a tangled-up set of fishing poles. They clatter to the ground as I toss them and take the oars in my arms, leaving the death shack for good.

Heave hoe-ing the boat down the muddy strip of land, I push it into the water, lift myself into it and get comfortable, setting my sights on the swimming dock in the distance while I put a song in my head and start rowing.