Zombies VS Bikers

of nomads for half a year. They took what they needed, and they never stopped for long.
Trading supplies and information with other survivors was crucial, and from more than one source they heard about Covington, Florida. It was a small town in Southern Florida, apparently big on fishing and crabbing. The rumor spreading amongst the survivors that fought tooth and claw for their stunted and terrifying lives was that on June 10th a large number of ships were convening in Covington. There they would be loaded with supplies and with survivors. The hope was, as others explained it to the Jesters, that going to sea for as long as possible, and taking as many as possible, would let the undead deteriorate until they could no longer move, and limit the amount of people who could become undead themselves. Of course, there was always the chance of someone dying aboard the ships, but Big Mack was sure that men smarter than him had already considered and planned for that.
The Dead Jesters slowed their bikes and then stopped all together after pulling off of the highway and into the parking lot of the Wal-Mart. A massive mob of undead were in front of the building, the ones furthest from the door pushing forward, causing the ones in front to slam against the doors hard enough to be audible to the Jesters a hundred yards away. It reminded Big Mack oddly of the ocean, something he had only seen once, a long time ago. The undead behaved like the sea, an unending wave that flowed forward, attempting to get into the building. Big Mack wondered how long some of the undead had been here in this parking lot. Months probably.
“Well shit,” Bard said, looking over to Big Mack. “Should we keep going?”
“No,” answered Big Mack. “Let’s check the back first. These fuckers wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t someone inside, right? They probably have something we can use.”
“Engines off?” Double D asked? She was the only female in the motorcycle club proper, though of course there had been plenty of wives or girlfriends considered family as well. Double D was Dianna Dunne, but her nick name was apt, she was a large woman and her breasts were gigantic, constantly straining against any black Harley shirt she wore.
“Yeah,” Big Mack replied. The Dead Jesters that remained had done so this long by not being stupid. Each of the nine bikes was turned off and their riders used their feet to guide them forward, angling for the side of the Wal-Mart. While the vast majority of undead in the parking lot were centered near the front of the building, six were along the side, in between the Jesters and their destination. Big Mack kicked his stand down and climbed off his bike while a wiry bald man named Willy did the same beside him. Big Mack pulled a wooden Louisville Slugger from a make shift holder along the handlebars from his bike, while Willy unsheathed his trusty six inch hunting knife.
Willy was the oldest member of this small crew by at least a decade, putting him nearer to his seventies than his sixties, but Big Mack had been impressed by the old man so far. Back in Cincinnati the Jesters had been overtaken by a large group of the ghouls while they had been refueling at a miraculously untouched gas station. First everyone had scrambled for their weapons, but when Big Mack realized a massive amount of undead was still flooding into the area he ordered everyone on their bikes and out of there. Willy had his knife and yelled for the others to go, and without another word he strode into the group of undead.
The rest of the Jesters left their friend behind, willing to accept Willy’s sacrifice. They had all seemed to turn and focus on him when he walked into their midst, and Big Mack himself thought perhaps Willy wasn’t willing to live in this world any more, but didn’t want to puss out and kill himself, so he simply went down taking as many of those things with him as possible.
Two hours after they had left him, Willy came roaring down the highway behind him, covered in blood that was still wet, shining red in the midday son. Big Mack had noticed that no one in this new world liked to use the word zombie, even though that’s clearly what these things were. It just seemed silly. Zombies were fiction, creatures from old black and white movies. Still though, when Willy started riding up to them, from that point on they had started calling him The Zombie Fucker-Upper.
Big Mack swung his heavy bat at the nearest ghoul, connecting with the side of its head, which crumpled and cracked open, releasing a noxious stench that made Big Mack gag. There was no blood, not like there always had been in the movies. Since these things hearts didn’t beat, their blood pooled down in their feet, turning the rotting skin there a deep purple. Willie stepped past Big Mack and took on the next undead in line. His knife slashed forward, glinting in the sun before embedding its blade through the eye of the zombie, smashing through the bone behind the eye and piercing the damned things brain. The zombie let out a groan and collapsed in a heap. Willy was already moving on to the next ghoul.
Soon the undead were taken care of and Willy and Big Mack were back on their bikes, leading everyone around the back of the store with their engines still off. Farther down the back stood two zombies who began shuffling towards the Jesters when they saw them, but they were far away enough to not be a concern. Big Mack stopped at the first door he came to, a small metal one that was locked. Big Mack pulled a shotgun from his bike near his right foot and take aim at the lock, blowing it loudly