New
Sunrise
Jimmy Loong
July 2013
1.
The colonies of
New England were rockier and colder than the other colonies. They also had a
narrower coastal plain than the colonies. The first people to arrived there
were the survivors of the biohazard war. They had no place to go, as the
borders of New England ended up against the open sea. Farming was not an option
with contamination, but they found the fishes were healthy to be consumed. The
plains of the ground allowed them a view of the enemies before it reached their
homes. It was then New England had found its future; the last bastion for the
survivals of the zombie infested continent. It was ideal to name the house;
Last Drinking Post as it was the only standing structure out here on the plains
which we could take refuge. After all, I did stored the only available wines
within five hundred miles radius inland. I had them collected from around the
neighboring states and kept them in the most ideal condition in the cellar. My
prized possession was the large barrel from Virginia state; prime and darned
good crop that year.
My name is Jimmy, never had a last name; was raised in a foster home with nine adopted siblings and one abusive parent. I slugged it out through adolescent and assumed leadership in my young adult days. I learned to kill with my bare hands when I was five; darned chicken were tough bastards then. Since then, I had moved from domestic to national ranking with kills that ranged from pit bulls to wild gun toting bastards. Name me a fight and I would showed you the scars. I operate this last place out of derelict looking two levels brick house outside the safe walls. It ain't much of a home, with its hinged off windows and scarred paintworks but its safe. I got Billy and Milly on the roof; holding vigil for the clients or the solitary aimless dead minded zombies. They are twins born within a few minutes; caused their mum to die from blood loss, but they are bloody shooters. I had them armed with the Winchesters Model 70 complete with scope; lightweight synthetic stock and the twenty four inch barrel. The rifle weighed under seven lbs and chambered in .30-06. Its a sure kill at five hundred yards.
My name is Jimmy, never had a last name; was raised in a foster home with nine adopted siblings and one abusive parent. I slugged it out through adolescent and assumed leadership in my young adult days. I learned to kill with my bare hands when I was five; darned chicken were tough bastards then. Since then, I had moved from domestic to national ranking with kills that ranged from pit bulls to wild gun toting bastards. Name me a fight and I would showed you the scars. I operate this last place out of derelict looking two levels brick house outside the safe walls. It ain't much of a home, with its hinged off windows and scarred paintworks but its safe. I got Billy and Milly on the roof; holding vigil for the clients or the solitary aimless dead minded zombies. They are twins born within a few minutes; caused their mum to die from blood loss, but they are bloody shooters. I had them armed with the Winchesters Model 70 complete with scope; lightweight synthetic stock and the twenty four inch barrel. The rifle weighed under seven lbs and chambered in .30-06. Its a sure kill at five hundred yards.
On the perimeter
on his horse was my Texas buddy, Ian Shane who cover the mile radius for any
crawling varmints. He was twice my age, bespectacled but held a fast draw Colt
on his right side of his belt, or if need be the foot long hunting blade could
removed any bad intentions. Ian does not stopped there as he also had on his
back the Colt M4 carbine fitted with 'Aim-point' red-dot sight with the single
fragment grenade on his chest pocket for that last second throwaway gift before
death. He also have a sawn off double barrel shotgun on his saddle for any close
up.
In my bar, next to
me, would be Sally; my waitress and counter help. She's an amazon with her
towering height of over six foot nine, wrestled in the rings with others of her
breed, and known to thrown out more men of her bed for bad performance. She was
normally dressed in the lowered zipper blouse with matching tight skirts and
trainer shoes. On her back would be the foot long machete and in placed of her
chesty bosom was the twin grenades stored in the full cups of her bra. For her
backup, she had a .38 short stub on her garter belt; she named it her secondary
dildo for bad days.
In the kitchen was
my cook and personal friend, Uncle Bob; like Ian was past his prime in years
but not his ability. He can ruffled up a delicious baked fish dish with the
self growth herbs he had grown in the box garden with uncontaminated soil. Bob
carried no guns but his cooking knives around his slim belt waist are real
choppers and skewers. He was known for his cleaver; the saying was you won't
feel nothing after its chopped. When he was not cooking, he was dressed in an
apron with the poster of a radioactive contamination warning. It was sanctioned
but we preferred he wore some clothes beneath the apron.
With my compliment
of staff, you would had thought that the place would be a fortress but that was
not to be on one cold morning. We had the splashing of blood to flood a tub
over the rim.
2.
It was just
another morning, with Billy doing the night shift had buggered down only one
solitary zombie. Ian was saddling his mare for the morning trot while Bob was
hitching up his pants. He was watching Sally still on the bed, stretching
herself after a morning rumble. You can't deny Bob can give any Colonel a good
licking on any day and Sally would attest to it in a sworn affidavit. I was
still on my solitary cot upstairs watching the ceiling creaked. It was
probably Milly getting up to do her turn on the watch. I was dreaming of my
life back then in the younger days; bashing the lads and humping the girls. It
was good those days, but with the contamination, all was gone. Its a hellhole
we are in, and the lucky ones get either killed or shipped off to the other
continent. Its a sad thing, as only one in ten get shipped while the unlucky
ones tries their luck by swimming or suicide. It matters not to the others as
they need to keep us from contaminating them.
The bells clanged
on the rood; that was our warning for visitors.
I got up and
dressed up quick; round neck shirt with denims for jacket and slacks tucked
into a set of heavy boots. I pulled on the shoulder harness and holstered in
the twin Glock Nine with the foot long ice pick in my right boot. I went
downstairs and out the front door. I walked the long wooden bridge way build by
Ian to received the guests as he termed it.
I knew all of them
singularly but hardly knew they travel in a pack.
The vehicles lined
up in a row on the front lawn
The first vehicle
was the SUV of a far east manufacturer, favored by its occupants; the Asian
descent hunter family, Soon comprising father, mother, two sons and one sister.
They are searching for their lost grandmother and any lost relatives or ending
their misery if they have been contaminated. The second vehicle was the Humvee;
eight cylinder diesel with 4x4 works driven by a pair of Nordic kins; Bjorn and
Brigid Soderstrom, direct descendants of the Vikings and bad asses to meet on
the road. They had this poster of the Ultimate Zombie Warrior pasted on their
Humvee hood. They idolized the man in the poster like Stan Lee was to the
Marvel fans.
The third vehicle
was a long silver limousine driven by an ex-pimp, his guard and his lady in
waiting. They were from Pittsburgh and made the annual trip to seek out our
rivals who had turned mindless. His name was Pierre; reckon he had French blood
although he looked darker, with his personal guard, Tiffin; built like one
except this one shoots bullets. His lady in waiting was Stephanie; forty inches
long legs and equal distribution on the weight on the chest with a mean B&D
preference. She was always seen with a biohazard gas mask and seldom removed
it. Sally commented that she was a heavy breather for being too long in the
trade.
The fourth vehicle
was the three tonnes military truck with armored sides, and housed a family of
hunters'; Pa, Mom, and three sons named the Henderson. The last was a hijacked
armored truck that was used to transport gold bars but now housed a trio of
prison inmates from Federal Penitentiary of Virginia. Unlike the inmates, these
are older inmates named Tom, Dick and Harry. They had escaped the contamination
as they were busy trying to dig through the laundry room but ended up in the armory
instead. That saved their asses from other abuses.
"Jimmy, we
were waylaid by a group of them 'zomlies'" It how's Senior Soon named
them. "They are coming on this way."
The Soon siblings
were unloading their stuffs from the SUV and laying it on the ground. I could
see that they had been busy; gold coated items lined the crates.
"Heck, them
mindless gone bonkers or we are faced with the new breed." That was
Pittsburgh talking as he exited from the limo with his dance shoes and pink
suit complete with fedora hat lined with ostrich furs. His personal guard
stepped out holding a M-40 with both hands and the bandoleer hanging over the
shoulder. His bitch stepped out later from the other door with leather wear and
heels while holding on a long katana blade. On her waist line was two more
shorter blades with a set of knives on her left forearm.
"Sit it,
Pumpkin." Inmates Dick hates these pretzels who was his bane behind bars.
They ply their trade anywhere and on anyone. "They are not mindless; they
are driven by a scent or signal over here."
"I trust Dick
theory. He was a bio-chemist professor before he was arrested." Harry
answered for Dick as the former was his bank roller on those poorly dished out
food supplements. He was handling out the shotguns and rifles from the rear of
their truck. Tom was past speaking then as he was busy arming himself.
"Pa saw them
too and followed the limo. We reckon you would know something." Sid
Henderson was talking then as he pimped the bullets into the Winchester model
700 rifle. "Marty and myself going to go up there and watched for
them."
The two brothers
then holding a rifle each ran up the hill. I was not surprised that Mom did not
stopped them; she raised them tough and brave. I whistled to Milly to assist on
the lookup. Ian walked to the corral next to the house and saddled up two more
horses. He had five of them in his barn; for the rides, one stallion and four
mares. They all fed from the hay strewn on the abandoned Ford truck of some
farmers in the corral left there a long time ago. Sometimes on nicer dusk, Ian
may be seen on the truck doing a pelvis impersonation for his horses. He
claimed it helped them to stud with the stallion.
"Waterloo....
" Them crazy Nordic kins were humming as they checked their wares for what
to carry into the house.
"Hey. I got
rooms for only two paying customers. There are five of you and we ain't got no
couch for rental." I raised up my hands but they were past listening to
me. They just paraded into the bridge and made their way to the house. I gave
up as what I lack in rooms, I have food and wines.
If they have the
gold to pay.
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