Last Man Standing (Book 2): Cordyceps by Keith Taylor Page A
Authors: Keith Taylor
Tags: Zombie Apocalypse
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bear."
"Good night, guys." I grab my jacket, turn the knob on the lamp until the light fades, and follow Warren down the corridor back to the front of the building, glad for the opportunity to take a little fresh air.
"After a month locked in that box this is something I'll never take for granted again," I say, heading straight for the window.
"What's that?"
"Air. Just... fresh damned air, whenever I feel like taking a breath. You don't miss the breeze on your face until it's gone, you know? All I want to do now is go live in the middle of a big, open field and just live under the stars, feeling the breeze."
Warren smiles. "Me, I just wanna get a nice little yacht and find some island somewhere. I don't care where, as long as it doesn't stink of dead people." He tugs a bottle from the depths of his duffel and tosses it over. Lagavulin, 16 years old. "Thanks." I nod appreciatively. "Hey, this is good stuff."
"Yeah? I boosted it from a liquor store out in Valley Lake. I'm not a big liquor drinker, to be honest. I just grabbed the bottle with the biggest price tag."
"Good call." I unscrew the cap and take a long swig, enjoying the warmth as it coats the sides of my throat like honey. "This is my drink, when I can afford to switch from beer." I hand it back, and try to resist the urge to laugh at Warren's expression as he takes a gulp of the burning liquor.
"Jesus," he groans, wiping his mouth. "People drink this shit for fun? Gimme a cold beer any day of the week."
I take the bottle back from him. "It's an acquired taste, but if you ever want to get drunk again I'd advise you to acquire it. I get the feeling the future isn't so bright for cold beer." I take another swig and lower myself down against the wall by the window. I'm already feeling the whiskey kick in after a month without touching a drop. "So what's your story, Warren? How'd you end up on the wrong end of the apocalypse?"
He grabs an office chair in the darkness, rolling it over by the window so he can see out to the street. "My story? Well, it doesn't take much telling. Typical army brat. I spent a lot of time following my dad around the world as a kid. Little time in Germany. Couple of years at Okinawa. Far too much time in Guam. Soldiering is the family business, so when the time came I joined up. Trained as a sniper at Fort Benning, then it was straight off to Afghanistan, then Syria. Three tours, 107 confirmed kills." He reaches over and takes back the bottle. "I never really cared for it, to be honest. I always wanted to be a firefighter, but what are you gonna do? Turns out I'm just really good at killing people from far away." He winces again at the burn, then sighs. "Anyway, I took an IED hit near Damascus just back in March. They shipped me off back home, and I'd just about had the last piece of shrapnel pulled out of my ass in Maryland when everything started to go south. I checked myself out, found a ride north, hooked up with Vee's unit from Fort Dix and the rest is history. We spent the last month on cleanup duty, trying and failing to get some kind of handle on this mess."
Another pull, another wince. "Gah! That shit's awful." He hands it back again. "We bugged out after Vee's husband was killed last week, when we found out what was really going on at Camp One. Figured it was best to carry on solo after we realized who we were really fighting for." He falls silent and takes a long look out the window, scanning the street below. "What about you? What did you do before all this shit?"
I pull out my cigarettes. "Do you mind if I...?" Warren shakes his head, and I light up. "Well, before all this I guess I was a professional drifter, if we're being honest." I take another swig, and I'm surprised to realize I'm already getting pretty drunk. "I was a freelance journalist. I traveled around the world picking up work here and there. Mostly small stuff, you know, local papers, airline magazines, that
"Good night, guys." I grab my jacket, turn the knob on the lamp until the light fades, and follow Warren down the corridor back to the front of the building, glad for the opportunity to take a little fresh air.
"After a month locked in that box this is something I'll never take for granted again," I say, heading straight for the window.
"What's that?"
"Air. Just... fresh damned air, whenever I feel like taking a breath. You don't miss the breeze on your face until it's gone, you know? All I want to do now is go live in the middle of a big, open field and just live under the stars, feeling the breeze."
Warren smiles. "Me, I just wanna get a nice little yacht and find some island somewhere. I don't care where, as long as it doesn't stink of dead people." He tugs a bottle from the depths of his duffel and tosses it over. Lagavulin, 16 years old. "Thanks." I nod appreciatively. "Hey, this is good stuff."
"Yeah? I boosted it from a liquor store out in Valley Lake. I'm not a big liquor drinker, to be honest. I just grabbed the bottle with the biggest price tag."
"Good call." I unscrew the cap and take a long swig, enjoying the warmth as it coats the sides of my throat like honey. "This is my drink, when I can afford to switch from beer." I hand it back, and try to resist the urge to laugh at Warren's expression as he takes a gulp of the burning liquor.
"Jesus," he groans, wiping his mouth. "People drink this shit for fun? Gimme a cold beer any day of the week."
I take the bottle back from him. "It's an acquired taste, but if you ever want to get drunk again I'd advise you to acquire it. I get the feeling the future isn't so bright for cold beer." I take another swig and lower myself down against the wall by the window. I'm already feeling the whiskey kick in after a month without touching a drop. "So what's your story, Warren? How'd you end up on the wrong end of the apocalypse?"
He grabs an office chair in the darkness, rolling it over by the window so he can see out to the street. "My story? Well, it doesn't take much telling. Typical army brat. I spent a lot of time following my dad around the world as a kid. Little time in Germany. Couple of years at Okinawa. Far too much time in Guam. Soldiering is the family business, so when the time came I joined up. Trained as a sniper at Fort Benning, then it was straight off to Afghanistan, then Syria. Three tours, 107 confirmed kills." He reaches over and takes back the bottle. "I never really cared for it, to be honest. I always wanted to be a firefighter, but what are you gonna do? Turns out I'm just really good at killing people from far away." He winces again at the burn, then sighs. "Anyway, I took an IED hit near Damascus just back in March. They shipped me off back home, and I'd just about had the last piece of shrapnel pulled out of my ass in Maryland when everything started to go south. I checked myself out, found a ride north, hooked up with Vee's unit from Fort Dix and the rest is history. We spent the last month on cleanup duty, trying and failing to get some kind of handle on this mess."
Another pull, another wince. "Gah! That shit's awful." He hands it back again. "We bugged out after Vee's husband was killed last week, when we found out what was really going on at Camp One. Figured it was best to carry on solo after we realized who we were really fighting for." He falls silent and takes a long look out the window, scanning the street below. "What about you? What did you do before all this shit?"
I pull out my cigarettes. "Do you mind if I...?" Warren shakes his head, and I light up. "Well, before all this I guess I was a professional drifter, if we're being honest." I take another swig, and I'm surprised to realize I'm already getting pretty drunk. "I was a freelance journalist. I traveled around the world picking up work here and there. Mostly small stuff, you know, local papers, airline magazines, that
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