Drunk Monkeys 6
Flying Monkeys
When you have to take an apocalyptic road trip, don’t forget to pack…the Drunk Monkeys.
Capt. Kyong Tran is an orphaned pilot stuck in limbo at a base outside of Seattle, with a plane and no crew. Their presumed deaths during LA’s fall weigh heavily on her conscience, as does the mysterious death of her beloved brother.
Despite initial missteps, Kilo and Foxtrot fall hard for the gorgeous, feisty pilot. The unit needs her—and her plane—to move the scientists and their precious research to a hideout in Florida. Meanwhile, they’re still scouring Seattle for a Kite-infected woman who might hold the key to a vaccine.
With local violence on the rise, Kyong has little time to train three of the men to complete her crew. No easy feat when she might be falling for Kilo and Foxtrot. Can she turn three Drunk Monkeys into flying monkeys in time for them to continue their quest to save the world?
Genre: Futuristic, Ménage a Trois/Quatre, Science Fiction
Length: 67,160 words
FLYING MONKEYS
Drunk Monkeys 6
Tymber Dalton
MENAGE EVERLASTING
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
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FLYING MONKEYS
Copyright © 2014 by Tymber Dalton
E-book ISBN: 978-1-63258-571-4
First E-book Publication: October 2014
Cover design by Les Byerley
All art and logo copyright © 2014 by Siren Publishing, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
PUBLISHER
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
Letter to Readers
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DEDICATION
To Hubby, for all his support and love. I can’t do this without him. Seventeen years later, he’s still putting up with me and I couldn’t be happier. Love you, honey.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This is book six in the Drunk Monkeys series and focuses on Foxtrot and Kilo. The books in the series are best read in order. All titles available from Siren-BookStrand.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Author's Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
About the Author
FLYING MONKEYS
Drunk Monkeys 6
TYMBER DALTON
Copyright © 2014
Chapter One
“That damn, batshit crazy asshole fucker in charge there in Pyongyang is the one who stirred the shitpot. Then Beijing made him lick the goddamned spoon and nuked his fucking ass. Problem is, when they did that—not saying they weren’t justified, mind you—our first and best chance to reverse-engineer this clusterfuck went up in a mushroom cloud. All the rest of us could do was fucking bend over and pray for lube and a reacharound.”
—Gen. Robert K. McCammeron (Our Last History? by Willard M. Sterling. Interview date May, 2143)
“In the time since we first became aware of the virus, and the subsequent events that have followed, we’ve come to understand that we have no idea why, much less how, they [North Korea] created it. Unfortunately, when Beijing wiped Pyongyang off the map, they also wiped out any hope we had of creating an effective vaccine in a timely manner to prevent transmission to a majority of the world’s population. It’s estimated that within another five years, over ninety percent of the world’s population will either be dead or infected unless we get lucky and figure it out.”
—Dr. Arnold P. Almer, CDC (Our Last History? by Willard M. Sterling. Interview date April, 2143)
“In terms of [Kite, the drug’s] addictive nature, it makes meth look like baby aspirin.”
—Kimberly Coates, PhD, University of Florida (February, 2143)
“Well, fuck.”
—President Charlotte Kennedy’s reported reaction upon learning that China authorized the use of nuclear weapons against North Korea on July 29, 2142, in response to Pyongyang allowing thousands of people they supposedly infected with the Kite virus to flood across the border into China several days earlier.
“The Drunk Monkeys? Those crazy motherfuckers don’t exist. And boy, are they good at what they do. Thank god.”
—Gen. Joseph Arliss (June, 2143)
* * * *
Long story short…
It’s now late July, 2143. When last we left the Drunk Monkeys, the SOTIF team had managed to escape the LA area an
d set up a new safe house in Seattle, where they’ve been for the last two weeks.
They had also just added another woman to their mix, Captain Gia Quick, former deputy of the LASD, now code named Chief. She tossed her hat in with Omega and Echo when the group departed from Santa Clarita.
You’ve got to love a woman who comes equipped with her own handcuffs. She was also a former MP, so she’s quickly fit right in with the group.
Los Angeles is toast, between riots, Kite, and a devastating earthquake. Not to mention the military started burning the city, block by block, as they forcibly evacuated people out of it.
And then there was the little matter of the military incinerating Barstow, along with over a million refugees from the LA area, many of whom had been exposed to or who were infected with the Kite virus.
Reverend Hannibal Silo is going ahead with his plans to select young “brides” to install at each of the fifteen church strongholds he’s building around the country. He’s also stockpiling his sperm to impregnate other women he deems worthy, and wants to get himself elected President of the United States.
Um, yeah, “eww” pretty much sums it up for us, too.
Fortunately, looks like his long-suffering wife—and we mean that literally—Mary, has some plans of her own.
We now rejoin the Drunk Monkeys in the Emerald City. Let’s see what kind of trouble they can stir up next, shall we?
Chapter Two
In case of an apocalypse, make sure to stock up on coffee…
Foxtrot sat in a chair on the roof of their safe house and stared out over Puget Sound to the west. It was a quiet, relatively clear night. Closing his eyes, he breathed in deeply, inhaling the sweet scent of salty mid-July night air. While at the safe house, none of them, except the people working in the lab, wore surgical masks.
Ahh, night watch. How I love thee.
It didn’t hurt that he wasn’t sweating his balls off, for once. Seattle, compared to some of their previous locales, was a temperate paradise.
With coffee.
He sipped at the mug of delicious, dark brew in his hand.
Good coffee, freshly ground and not the stale, cheap shit they’d spent much of their mission gulping down. At least being in Seattle meant they’d had easy access to supplies. And night watch meant coffee was a necessity.
And Seattle was well-known for good access to great coffee.
Some didn’t like night watch. He and his partner, Kilo, preferred it.
It meant they didn’t have to listen to any of the five triads having loud monkey sex behind their respective closed doors. He didn’t begrudge any of his fellows their happiness. In this uncertain world, they all had to grab every little bit they could, or risk the weight of their responsibilities crushing them.
Didn’t mean he wanted to listen to it. He’d rather curl up in his bedroll, the shades of their room drawn against the daylight, and blissfully sleep without his cock reacting to sexy sounds somewhere in the building.
No, night watch was his preferred shift.
On the other side of the roof, Kilo was watching the city side of the building. He preferred having “something to look at,” as he phrased it.
Not Foxtrot. He preferred the quiet calm of the water. It was peaceful, serene.
And rarely a source of any concern.
They’d been at the Seattle safe house for over two weeks now. It was closing in on the last week of July, and still they were no closer to locating any sign of the woman who’d been infected with Kite and then turned loose on the unsuspecting city by Reverend Hannibal Silo.
But they also hadn’t seen any unusual spikes in Kite infections in the area, either.
No one was sure exactly what that meant. Foxtrot preferred to invoke Occam’s razor, content to hope that it likely meant she’d died without infecting anyone else. Perhaps in her paranoia, induced by the indoctrination methods Silo’s people used, she’d simply found herself a well-concealed hiding space, kept dosing herself with the vials of Kite—the drug and the virus—and had died without anyone discovering her remains yet.
Apparently, no one else wanted to believe in the simplicity of that theory.
Hence why they were still looking for her, while their team of three scientists from The List aggressively pursued all possible avenues to develop a Kite vaccine.
On the roof between the two men, a lush container garden grew, mostly comprised of vegetables and herbs. Pandora had wasted no time setting it up and tending it, including some plants she’d salvaged from their Los Angeles safe house after the earthquake damaged it and forced their move from the area. As the breeze shifted a little, he caught hints of mint, rosemary, and lemongrass.
He tried not to let himself feel too comfortable here. He knew the risks and the rules of the mission. They’d been through a string of safe houses spanning a couple of continents in their search for more scientists from The List.
The scientists they had found seemed desperately close to developing a vaccine for Kite.
Unfortunately, there were growing reports of the virus mutating. Sometimes to a less deadly strain, such as their team member, Doc, had picked up.
It also meant the stick tests were no longer a surefire guarantee of someone’s true Kite status.
He heard Kilo’s boots crunching in the gravel on the roof as he rounded the planting containers and walked over. “Quiet tonight. Weirdly so.”
“Your idea of weird and mine differ greatly, buddy.”
Yes, thankfully, Seattle was a far quieter city than Los Angeles had been. Far less gang activity to worry about. Still, it wasn’t unheard of for a distant gunshot to ring through the night.
“I mean there’s not a lot of foot or vehicle traffic.”
Foxtrot glanced at his watch. “It’s nearly three in the morning on a Wednesday. What do you expect?”
Kilo shrugged as he looked out over the Sound. “I don’t know.”
Some guys in their SOTIF unit were Nervous Nellies. They didn’t like it if something bad happened, but they were always worried when something didn’t happen. As if a never-ending wait for the other shoe to drop had become their preferred norm.
Foxtrot wasn’t like that, although Kilo frequently could be. At twenty-nine, Foxtrot was only a year younger than his partner. He didn’t think a few months difference in age would create such a difference in their personalities.
Then again, he hadn’t seen the duty Kilo had before they’d both qualified for the SOTIF unit and paired up. Oh, he’d seen his fair share of shit, but with his linguistic skills, he’d been sent into intelligence-based assignments before he’d made the SOTIF team, whereas Kilo was a hard-fighting hammer. A self-proclaimed meat shield who took great pride in his fighting skills.
While Foxtrot would never dismiss his partner’s gut instincts out of hand, the immediate evidence pointed to the fact that all was well, quiet, and a blissfully low-pucker number in their current neck of the woods.
They both turned at the sound of the door to the roof opening. Their unit’s medical officer, Doc, emerged with a small device in his hands.
“Hiya, boys,” he said.
“Figured you’d be asleep,” Kilo said.
Doc walked over to the building’s western edge, where a cool breeze coasted in off the Sound. “I’m supposed to be. Couldn’t sleep. Needed to check a few things.”
“Like what?” Foxtrot asked, walking closer.
Doc held up the device. “Wind currents. Never hurts to check.” He flipped a switch and the device came to life. Upon Doc holding it up, Foxtrot realized what it was.
“Rad counter?”
“Can’t be too safe. Or complacent.”
“Told you,” Kilo muttered from next to Foxtrot.
The device beeped, and Doc looked at it, smiling. “Good. Nothing concerning.”
“You thinking radiation?”
Doc switched the device off. “Levels fell off several months ago. The Chinese did us a favor and used lo
w-yield devices. But it never hurts to be cautious.”
“Anything else on the news about the supposed Russian invasion?”
Doc settled in one of the chairs that Pandora had also brought up to the roof garden. “Not lately, no. But then again, Barstow has fallen off the headlines in lieu of Kite spreading. China has finally admitted the severity of the outbreak there and reached out to the international community for support.”
“I’m surprised they aren’t just wholesale offing people,” Kilo said.
“I’m sure they were and still are,” Doc replied. “But their leadership is quickly realizing that they no longer have control of the population. They want to get things under wrap before their military goes off the reservation.”
“Funny how that works, isn’t it?” Foxtrot asked.
Doc made a noise that sounded a little like a snort of derision. “Their ambassador made an emergency plea to the UN general assembly yesterday and has promised their scientists will join forces with any scientific teams already working on a vaccine or treatment.”
“Surrrrre, they will,” Kilo said. “And I’ve got a gorgeous oceanfront condo in Phoenix, Arizona, that I’ll sell you.”
Doc shrugged. “Hey, apparently it’s bad form to cough bullshit while someone’s speaking on the floor of the general assembly. But our government is talking to their government, and Russia was quick to jump up and not only pledge their support to the endeavor, but to swear that they have no plans to invade America, or anywhere else.”