The moonrise reminded Paulie of his grandmother. She always seemed so struck by it. When he was smaller his Granny was the only one who could handle his frequent tantrums. She could shut his raging angers down with just the power of her voice. It was like a spell she’d cast. Whenever he began to freak she’d wrestle him quickly out of sight to the floor, embracing him tightly to constrict the thrashing of his furious little limbs; a hand held over his mouth to muffle his enraged yells as she urgently whispered calmness in his ear.
She’d tell him tales of the men who walked on the dusty surface of the Moon and even played golf across the blue-grey mare – just imagine that! – and how the native Moonlings would replace the Earthlings moon buggy wheels with concrete blocks while they were distracted collecting their rocks.
As she spoke she’d feel his frenzy dissolve beneath the power of her lilting voice, her musical speech, until eventually he’d relax limply into her secure embrace. They’d remain quietly on the ground until the prowling corpses outside of the Commune fence, attracted by his howls, lost interest and wandered away.
But as little Paulie grew bigger – and became more unhinged – trying to subdue him became a different matter entirely.
*****
I think of her a lot, y’know; my Gran. I always thought it was kinda funny; strange funny that is, her and her thing with the moon and all. Weird how only she could calm me down by just talking about it. No one else could ever do that. Not until Booker came along, anyway. Just thinking of Gran and Booker must have made me slow my pace a bit ’cause one of my executioners shoved me firmly, but gently, in the back.
“Keep moving, Paulie,” muttered Darren softly.
My Gran once said I was born unlucky ’cause no one cares for the afflicted in this new world. If you’ve got no skills you’ve got no value, she said. It’s not enough that you read every book in sight like you do, it’s everyone for the community, or out you go and fend for yourself. She was telling me straight I had no future ’cause I just wasn’t right in the head. And if a person’s disruptive like you are Paulie, well just forget it. True, I could get a bit tetchy sometimes, but I wasn’t as bad as she made me out to be. So once I’m gone they may let you stay, just maybe, but you’ll be on your own for sure, she finished, satisfied that she’d made her point.
My Gran was pretty well respected in the Commune, which was a fenced off grid of farmed streets down by the sea. She was my only living relative and when she eventually died I quickly became the outcast she said I would. First off the other kids were warned away from me by the adults, and then the adults warned me away from their kids. They stopped short of actually putting me outside of the fence, but maybe they should’ve, as they could barely put up with me inside of it. Y’know, not a single adult, not one of them, was willing to take care of me until Booker showed up.
Now, Booker’s really great. I don’t know where he came from – and he never said – but ever since he arrived I haven’t felt that awful emptiness that only Gran could fill. How he came across me like he did I’ll just never know. He just turned up out of the blue on a day when I was hungry and missing her really badly. I was sitting there in my secret hideout; a small empty house at the edge of the Commune, when in he breezes and plonks himself right down beside me on the sofa, no hello or anything like that; no introductions. The old couch springs squawked loudly under his sudden weight and I shot up in the air from the recoil. He seemed about two metres tall with a big toothy grin, bare muscular arms, a sharp blonde crewcut and a huge thick cigar stuck fast in the side of his gob. I’d never seen anyone like him. I just couldn’t stop staring.
Hot Wheels! He cried cheerfully when he saw what I was playing with. I love Hot Wheels! Lemme see ‘em, Paulie! And I felt at ease at once. Here, he said after he zoomed a car skilfully across the floor. Have some chocolate!
Well, we played and talked for hours, me and him, for days sometimes. He didn’t seem to bother with anyone else in the Commune even though he’d go out regularly, nor did he treat me like the retard everyone else said I was. We both laughed at the same stuff and everything he said was interesting and made sense. He made me feel good about myself, too – even when I did the sort of things that the adults didn’t like me doing. Do what you want to do, he said to me. Who cares what anybody else thinks? He must have been in the army or something before the Dead came along, before I was even born, ‘cause he seemed to know an awful lot about military type stuff.
The bad trouble I’m in right now started just last week when he began to explain to me how important stealth, and being stealthy, was in today’s dead world and I told him right back that I already knew all about that stuff. But do you really? He asked in a sort of sly way. No, you don’t. But I’ll show you some moves that might come in handy.
So starting that very night he taught me how to creep quietly through the Commune in the dark. Unseen, the pair of us avoided sleeping sentries and tea-drinking patrols; sneaking through streets and laneways and tiptoeing around crops without causing any damage. We even went into some houses and gazed down at sleepers in their beds. It was such a rush. I even saw Gary’s Ma’s boobs. I couldn’t even imagine what Gary’d say if he ever found that out. I’d be dead for sure ‘cause Gary was like that. Booker put his hand over my eyes and led me away; whispering that I was much too young to be looking at stuff like that, but I silently disagreed.
The next night we swapped some peoples stuff around, just as a prank, y’know, between houses; small stuff only, family photos and the like, and back in the hideout we laughed our heads off imagining what people would say in the morning when they’d find their neighbour’s pictures sitting right next to theirs on their sideboard.
But this got us noticed and I was the first in the Commune to be questioned closely by Darren and his brother Johnny, the main security men, but I just fobbed them off. I even made them smile by saying they were right eejits for accusing me of such stupidity.
Of course we should have taken this as a serious warning and quit, but instead it just made us bolder. So that very night we swapped a line of drying clothes from one back garden to the next and on the following night we replaced the Commune Chairman’s kitchen chairs with his garden furniture. What a blast. But when Booker suggested we swap some kids around; y’know, just tiny ones, I should have been smarter and refused. But he said not to worry ‘cause we wouldn’t be doing anyone any real harm. The truth is that I loved this mad idea and I was really gung-ho to go.
As we lifted our first little kid – Booker insisted on infants as they couldn’t rat us out later – he accidentally dropped it from the cot, and when its little head cracked on impact we both had to double over to stop our shocked laughter from escaping. Booker crammed a whole fist into his mouth just to stop his guffaws, but luckily no one copped us. I later heard that the brat’s death was described as a freak tragic accident. But even so, Darren still called on us the next day and asked me some hard questions about what I’d been up to the night before, like where I’d been and all that.
Again, we really should have stopped right there but we were enjoying ourselves too much, and when Booker decided it was time I learned some proper army interrogation tactics we went out and snatched some kids to practise on – one each – and took them back to the hideout for questioning. The really funny thing about this is they weren’t even old enough to talk, let alone answer questions! I mean really… So we just had a laugh at their kiddie antics until dawn and then we all fell asleep. And those kids are probably the reason the grown-ups arrived in organised force outside the hideout a few short hours later.
Booker was snoozing right next to me on the sofa when Bang! The front door burst right off its hinges, and he was up and gone from the room so fast I hardly even saw him move. He was amazing! Just poof! And gone. Just like that. But I suppose that’s army training for you.
The adults were angry when they grabbed hold of me but when they sussed the pair of little eyeless heads sitting comically on the mantelpiece well… they just went mad. I cowered in terror on the floor as solid blows, kicks and punches rained down on me from all sides. Gary was with them too, kicking me the hardest, his eyes shining with glee, and I wondered stupidly if he’d found out about me seeing his Ma’s boobies. Eventually I told them – I screamed at them – that it’d been Booker! That Booker’d done it all, not me, but they weren’t in the least bit interested. And just when I thought the beating would never end Darren and Johnny arrived and pulled me from the mob before I was murdered outright. A few insane parents screaming blue bloody murder had to be dragged off me by force. I mean, lighten up.
The Committee decides what to do with him, not you! Darren warned them all. Then he ordered some of the calmer adults to help restrain their neighbours. Back off, the lot of you! He demanded. It was touch and go for a few tense moments as it looked like Darren and Johnny might get a hammering too, but the crowd backed down like they’d been told. I noticed that Gary managed to grin and look disappointed all at the same time.
Well, everyone wanted me dead but no one on the Committee had the bottle to clip me personally. Booker once said they were nothing but a shower of bleedin’ leftie crusty hippies playing at being grown-ups, but still… y’know…
This damn boy was never right; the Chairman announced at the emergency noon gathering. But is anyone here actually willing to put him down for what he did? Several men stepped forward immediately but Darren pushed his way through them to the podium. I don’t want to do it, he said. But I’ll do it humanely and properly, which won’t happen if it’s left to some of the others here.
Right, the Chairman agreed, banging a little hammer on the stand like a right feckin arse. Darren will do it then, okay? But not inside the Commune. Wait for tonight’s low tide and take him out beyond the sea wall. Let the waters take him away.
*****
So here I am, being walked across the tidal flats in the moonlight, my arms wrapped around my throbbing, broken ribs, wondering if they’d bring me as far as the waterline to do me in. I was afraid to ask in case Darren decided we’d gone far enough already and then that’d be that, so I just plodded on, staying alive for as long as I could, gasping and spitting blood, my tongue scratched by broken teeth, my bare feet scraping over hard sand and through little seawater puddles.
I felt low. Like, really low, y’know? Knowing that in a few minutes I’d be dead and cold forever and ever, just like Gran. I just didn’t think I deserved this. I mean, it really should be Booker getting marched out here and… and not me. My legs were weak from the awful fear of it all. I could hardly stand up to walk. My whole body shook. I was sick to my stomach with dread.
As we got nearer to the water I saw shadows squirming clumsily all along the surf line. It was a heaped up army of floaters, bloaters and crawlers left high and dry by the tide, all piled one atop the other, flopping bonelessly about.
“Stop right there, Paulie,” said Darren quietly as soon as he copped them out there and Gary paused quickly right behind him. Yeah, that’s right; the same Gary whose heavy boots happily stove my ribs in earlier. Gary was just a smelly, skinny seventeen year old who, until Booker showed up, was the only person in the world who’d ever talk to me. Well, abuse me is a better word. With Gran gone, and long before Booker appeared, I needed to pretend I had at least one friend in the world and Gary was it. He scared me to death with his crude bullying but he was the only one who’d tolerate me, so I’d follow him around like a kicked dog despite the slaps and the punches. For all his viciousness he still didn’t like being outside the Commune in the dark. He was as scared as I was right now, but for different reasons. At least he’d get home alive. It wasn’t fair. The Committee, those grown up eejits, thought he might be a comfort to me or something – that is, prevent me from making any trouble on my final walk – and Darren unhappily agreed to this as Johnny had to stay behind to make sure no one followed us out here. I heard Darren say to Gary that a few still wanted me to croak in a way they thought more fitting.
“Right,” sighed Darren reluctantly. “We’ll have to do it here.”
I moaned with dread and began to cry. I looked longingly into the eye of the moon and then up at the free, free stars high above; my guts in my boots, craving some sort of comfort, a hug from Darren or something. I felt so alone. Would Granny be waiting up there for me? I really, really hoped so.
“Please Darren,” my voice hitched as I sobbed. “Don’t kill me. I’m only fourteen. Booker did it all, not me.”
“Booker,” he muttered, “your imaginary friend. He’s your excuse, isn’t he, Paulie? You’ve been Booker this and Booker that all day, well, Booker me hole. There is no Booker! He lives in your mind. He only exists as part of your madness. Now c’mon, on your knees. I promise this won’t hurt, which is probably more than you deserve.”
Darren was no killer but when I saw he was really going to go through with this I turned frantically to Gary. “Gary, don’t let him kill me Gary,” I babbled. “We’re pals, aren’t we? You know it was Booker that did it!” But Gary just gripped and un-gripped a large goalies hurley with twitchy fingers, his eyes darting from me to the floaters and back again. I could see his horror at what was going to see done to me, but there wasn’t a shred of pity there.
“It was Booker…” I whispered hopelessly as my jelly like legs finally gave way and I plopped heavily on the sand. But then, just as Darren placed the cold barrel of his handgun against my forehead I caught a whiff of cigar smoke in the air. I looked up and saw a large figure loom out of the darkness; out of nowhere, it seemed like. A gush of hope jolted through me and I jumped back to my feet.
“Booker!” Â I gasped.
Darren and Gary automatically looked around. I hadn’t heard his footfalls follow us across the flats but Booker could move like a shadow when he wanted to. He ignored Gary completely and twisted neatly under Darren’s gun arm, shouldering him hard in the chest. As Darren fell backwards Booker quickly snatched his gun away, neat as neat, grinning like a big idiot.
I cheered loudly when he shot Gary in the ankle and whooped when he plugged Darren in the guts. He held the automatic high above his head and pranced around like a demented boxer. What a bleedin’ mover! What a big show-off! Watching him strut his stuff like that was like watching the bleedin’ ballet – except with blood and stuff, y’know, and maiming. Â Booker was so funny. He just didn’t give a shite!
Darren slumped on the sand, his arms clamped across his belly, and Gary squealed and rolled in a small pool, holding his shot leg up in the air. And me? I was jumping up and down with joy, clapping my hands like an excited little girl, splashing in the puddles, my heart buzzing with delight and relief. I was alive! Alive!
But feckin hell, all that sudden movement made my ribs explode again. I bent over in pain. Booker stopped his shenanigans when he saw this and came over. He turned me gently around to face the moonlight and his big face frowned as he examined my bruised and swollen eyes, my broken nose, my split lips and shattered teeth. Beyond him the soggy crawlers were already coming for us, attracted by the noise, slopping and slapping their legless way across the sands; rolling one over the other to get to our juicy bodies. Not a single one of them was on its feet – if any even had feet.
Booker got me to raise my blood stained tee and he gazed with concern at my black-and-blue ribcage. He shook his head sadly and ruffled my hair lightly. Then he bent and brushed the wet sand from my knees.
“I sort of ratted you out, Booker,” I admitted meekly, shamefaced.
He grunted in that low, growly voice of his. “Sure who could blame you? Just look at what they did. Anyone else woulda given up their mothers after a beating like that. I’m amazed you’re still alive.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“What? Look, don’t be. Forget it,” he said. “No harm done, eh? We’re okay now, you and me.” We smiled at each other and he said suddenly: “Anyway, hey,” cheerfully like, “which one of those two d’you think’ll die first, huh? The handsome one or the pimply one?”
I laughed as I thought about this. “Well, Darren of course,” I decided. “Gary’s only been shot in the foot.”
“Yeah, I guess.” Booker frowned thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose you still have your blade on you?”
“Nah. They took it.”
“Bastards! Stupid question anyway. Well look, you’d better take this thing so,” he said, handing me Darren’s automatic.
“Wow, Booker! Thanks.” Jeez, it was really heavy.
“Don’t you lose it,” he warned sternly, “and don’t get it wet.” He mussed my hair again and nodded towards the distant level crossing by the sea wall. “Must dash,” he said. “Gotta do number two’s. I’ll see you up at the coast road in a few minutes. I’ll leave you here to clean up this mess.”
I gazed at him with a stupid grin as he loped off into the gloom, back towards the tracks, and d’you know what? The mad eejit was actually wearing his shades – at night time, in the dark. Shades! I mean, how bleedin’ cool is that!
“You are the dog’s bollocks!” I yelled after him. I could hear the awe in my own voice. Then I coughed and it hurt. I spat more blood. I really needed doctoring but Booker would know what to do. He’ll fix me up. I glanced over my shoulder at the tideline, one arm held across my ribs, the other sagging under the weight of the gun. Water swollen corpses heaved and sluiced, joining and separating as they flowed on closer. They looked like several tons of dark, crawly jelly just glistening in the moonlight.
Booker said to clean up but I knew the Dead would do that for me, so I turned and set off after him.
“Wait, Paulie,” groaned Gary through gritted teeth, his fingers clasping and unclasping at handfuls of sand. His foot dangled off his raised up leg and in the bad light I saw it was attached only by his sock and some bloody strings. I gazed at it curiously in passing; I didn’t know bullets could do stuff like that.
“Don’t leave me,” he whined. “My foot…”
“Oh, for Jaysus sake Gary,” I snapped. “Anyone’d think you’d never been shot before.” I barked a laugh at my own joke and carried on.
“No, Paulie, wait! Help me!”
But I ignored him. As far as I was concerned he could rot. But still, but still…I sort of wondered if he had anything to say for himself, y’know, about all that bad stuff he’s been doing to me since Gran died, including what happened today. So I paused, one eye on the closing bloaters as I did.
“Why should I? You were gonna kill me.”
“No. No I wasn’t. Darren was. I was going to like…y’know, stop him!”
“You bleedin’ liar.” I snorted. “You were not. He put that gun to my head and you did nothing.”
“Well… y’know, you snatched it away before I could say anything.”
“Huh? That was Booker, you blind gobshite.”
“But…?” he seemed confused. “…but anyway, Paulie look, we’re pals, right…”
“We’re not pals,” I snapped. “I only said we were so you’d help me – and you didn’t. End of!”
“Please, they’ll be here any minute.” And he was right. They were much closer now, blobbing about, their moans drowning out the rumble of the waters. But here’s a funny thing; even now, out here on the sands, a small stupid part of me still wanted Gary to like me. I just kinda needed his approval or something – I dunno why. But at the same time another part of me had a score to settle and it was by far the stronger, so I stepped closer to him and raised the gun.
“You broke my ribs today Gary, didn’t you? Kicking me. Huh? Gary? Didn’t you? Gary? Huh?”
Are you following me again Paulie? (Kick.) Are you? Huh, Paulie? Following me? (Punch.) Are you? Huh? Here, have another slap, you stupid little weasel.
His hands stopped mauling at the sand as he stared into the muzzle of the gun. I bet right now he was counting every kick and punch he’d ever given me. Poor bleedin’ Gary, he wanted so much to live. But I just smirked. He wasn’t so big and scary now, was he? I touched the gun lightly against his jaw.
“Do you really want my help?” I asked and he nodded rigidly. “Then tell me; are you sorry for being such a bollocks to me?”
He nodded frantically.
“You have to say it out loud for it to count, Gary.”
“Please Paulie,” he began to blub, looking stiffly from me to the approaching dead. “I’m sorry about all the stuff I ever done to you. Really I am. Look, I’m really hurt. You’ve killed Darren and you shot my foot right off. Why can’t we just call it quits, okay? Please! I’m not meant to die.”
I gazed at him quietly for a long moment. “Well, okay, then.” I said, kind of easy like. I lowered the gun, leaned over him a little and poked my finger into his eye – not very hard though, not as hard as Booker did to those two kids last night, but hard enough for my nail to pierce the gooey white bit a little. Gary screamed sharply and twisted away. I chuckled and wiped his squirty eye jelly on his pants leg.
“There,” I said happily. “Now we’re quits, okay? Right, let’s get you sorted out here.”
“Oh Paulie, thank you!” he cried through his pain, relieved. “I knew you’d help!” He held one hand to his eye and offered me the other to pull him up.
“Whoa there,” I laughed. “I can’t like, physically help you, Gary. I can’t lift you at all. You smashed my ribs, remember? I’m in bits. But listen, I’ll stay right here with you until those bloaters get here, alright? I’ll be, eh… a kinda comfort to you, y’know? And don’t you worry,” I said reassuringly, waggling the gun. “Before they get here I’ll be sure to kill you first.”
“What?” He wailed. “Paulie, that’s just not fair! You said you’d help! I…I can’t die. Listen…I think…I’m sure if I tried I could stand…”
“Naw,” I muttered. “Look! Your foot’s hanging right off. You’re a bleedin’ goner, pal.” I prodded his dangling foot. He howled and I laughed again. “Anyway, you’ll probably bleed out long before they even get close; which’d be good,” I added in a kindly way, sort of to myself. “‘Cause then I won’t feel so bad about having to club you to death with your hurley.”
“Club me?” he cried in horror.
“Yeah, it sounds like fun, huh?” I tucked the gun into my belt and hefted the curved length of the hurley. There’s no way my grinding ribs would let me swing it, but Gary needn’t know that. I was really just messing with his head before I scarpered.
“Oh, this is bad,” I said quietly, again sort of to myself. “It’s not very heavy, is it Gary? And look, we need to work fast. Those crawlers are nearly here and it’ll probably take me at least, oh…twenty good, solid smacks to finish you off with this. Hmmm…Yeah, so we’d better get started right away, okay? So come on; stick your head out there. I’m sure you won’t feel a thing after the third or fourth blow, probably…”
“No!” He recoiled. “Paulie…Don’t…”
“Oh, c’mon Gary,” I snapped impatiently. “Don’t be such a baby. It’ll be over real quick and besides, I need to get out of here too, y’know. Surely you don’t want me to get eaten as well, do you? Not when I can just walk away from here.”
“Paulie!” he cried frantically. “Stop messing!”
“I’m not messing,” I said, inspired. “And I’ll even tell you what, if it makes you feel any better, when I get home I’ll send your Ma up to heaven after you, okay? Just to keep you company. Would you like that?” I took note that the slippery Dead were homing in nicely on the sound of our voices.
“Me Ma?” said Gary in a voice that sent a little bit of doubt running through me. This threat to his Ma seemed to… I dunno. But for the first time tonight he was looking at me in his old Gary way, y’know, just like he would’ve done normally as he’d prepare me for a kicking.
“Listen Paulie,” he said in a low, dodgy voice. “That’s really not fair. You bleedin’ well leave my Ma out of this.”
“But I like your Ma,” I said lightly, though not with the same ease I felt a moment ago. “Whenever I see her she makes me feel sort of… funny, y’know, in my tummy.”
“Touch my Ma and I’ll kill you,” he said, very calm like.
“Oh, yeah?” I snorted a laugh. “How? Just look at you! You’re a feckin cripple.”
“Right!” he snapped, sorta to himself, like he’d just decided something. “That’s it! I’m getting up right now. I’m getting up and I’m going home. D’you hear what I’m saying, you stupid retard? I’ve had just enough of your shite.”
I took another step away as he rolled awkwardly to his knees. Had he forgotten the gun? This didn’t make sense. His mangled foot swung loosely around as he made a awkwardly shuffled on the sand. Then he actually managed to heave himself upright and stand, hopping about on his good foot. I backed away further. I wasn’t sure about this at all.
“What are you doing?” I asked. This wasn’t fun anymore. He wasn’t meant to be standing. He was meant to be at my feet and scared, under my control. Lucky for me I didn’t tell him about his Ma’s boobies. This standing up thing was bad enough.
“To hell with you, Paulie.” he grunted. “I don’t need you or your help. I’ll get myself home. Now, gimme that hurley or…”
I shot him in the mouth, but Jaysus! My eyes…my ears…I’d never fired a gun before and now I was deaf and blind. When my senses came back Gary was lying on the sand near Darren; still alive, mind you, crying and moaning – but alive.
“Aw, for fecks sake!” I muttered angrily, staring at the gun; wondering how it could have made me miss. I mean really, look; the bullet only grazed his idiot face. I picked up the hurley and, ignoring my swollen ribs, threw it at him in disgust. Happily though the bullet did some damage. In the pale light I could see a loosened ear slide glistening down his cheek to plop gently on the sand. I shook my head. Honestly, feckin Gary.
Then I noticed that Darren seemed to be alive as well. I was sure he was dead. He was looking up at me with hooded eyes and I didn’t like his expression much. I could see he was judging me, the prick. It was the kind of look I got when I was caught peeping through windows and stuff.
“What are you bleedin’ staring at?” I snapped.
“At an evil little maggot,” he snorted weakly, spitting blood at me. He shouldn’t have done that. I mean, I’m the one with the gun here, right? Or had he forgotten, like Gary seemed to?
“I’ll bet you miss your Granny,” he rasped. “Don’t you Paulie? Yeah? Well, your Gran didn’t even like you. Did you know that?”
I’m not thick. I knew what his game was. He needed me to shoot him before the Dead got him. Well, I laughed. I mean; fat chance of that happening after him saying things like that about Gran.
“You’re full of shite Darren, my Gran loved me.” I knew he was a feckin liar, my Granny loved me. She’d often tell me as I screamed at her to let me out of her cupboard – but that was before I got too big to be wrestled into it in the first place.
“She didn’t love you.” Darren argued in a feebly, amused voice. “You gave her the willies with your blank stares and your spooky imaginary friends. And your dead pets, of course.” He snickered painfully. “She couldn’t stand you, Paulie. She’d’ve drowned you in a sack except you were all that was left of her daughter.”
“Liar.”
“Oh yeah? She once asked the Committee to pop you, did you know that? She was frightened for the other kids and what you might do to them when she was gone. D’you think you weren’t been watched? She told us all about the little animals and the wire coat hangers.”
“Okay, Darren,” I snorted. “Here’s what’s gonna happen. For lying about my Gran I’m gonna make sure that later on tonight Booker’ll wear your kids face for a mask.” I could tell I’d scored a point with that one. “He might even let little Amy live, Booker might. And he’ll leave her eyes alone so she can see her dead Daddy coming for her. He’ll…”
Darren growled and lunged at me. I screamed and accidentally pulled the trigger. The shot tore a chunk from his neck and he flopped around for a bit, gasping and choking. Then I screamed again. I’d been so stupidly tormenting Darren that I’d forgotten all about the Dead! I scrambled madly backwards as they swarmed over his twitching body like mating eels.
“Ha!” I yelled at him as I stumbled away. “Ha! Don’t you worry, Darren,” I shouted into the snarling melee. “It’ll be over real quick, which is more than you deserve, you lying dick.”
I continued to back slowly away, listening to the sound of old teeth pulling at meat. The Dead were moaning, yes, but all those sweet, sweet whimpers were Darren’s. As I smiled I noticed a lone, skinny corpse lurching upright towards solid ground. But it wasn’t a corpse at all, was it? No, it was Gary, going home to see his Mammy. He leaned heavily on the hurley, his loose foot bouncing and dragging across the hard, rippled sand. Sometimes he even walked on the stump. A breakaway clutch of bloaters followed him several metres behind and I followed too, breathing shallow little breaths and hugging my burning ribcage. I was really interested to see how far he’d get before getting dragged down. I was sure I could stay well clear of the creeping pack.
“They’re catching you, Gary,” I catcalled hoarsely. “You’d better lift both of them legs now!” But he blanked me out and stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on the level crossing. Maybe that bullet loosened something in his brain, I dunno, but he really didn’t seem to hear me. Then I nearly shit myself when a pair of arms grabbed my shoulders from behind. I yelped and struggled free of their awful grip, swinging the gun around wildly.
“Whoa, whoa,” laughed Booker, playfully ducking and covering his head until I pointed the gun away.
“Booker!” I yelled; really, really angry. “You utter bollocks! I nearly crapped myself!” I should have known he’d get up to his old tricks. He got bored awful easy. “I coulda shot you! I thought you were up at the road.”
“I was,” he said. “But you were late, so I came back down to see if you were okay. Don’t be mad, Paulie. Huh? I’m sorry. Okay? C’mon, let’s have a bit of a laugh, how about it? And a little bet. Just to cheer you up.”
“What sort of bet?” I asked sulkily, already feeling my annoyance slip away just having him here.
“Well, how about this,” he suggested. “How far d’you reckon Gary’ll get before they drag him down?” This perked me up a lot; both of us wondering the same thing at the same time.
“Well, I dunno,” I said, gasping a bit but interested, as we fell into a slow, unsteady step together. “I reckon…I reckon he’ll get up to the level crossing anyway. Maybe even the road.”
“The road?” laughed Booker. “Not a chance. Are you serious? Look at him, he’s practically bled white.” But Gary floundered gamely on and I reeled after him, bent and winded, Booker guarding my side and the crawlers following along.
It seemed to take us forever but we eventually made it to the solid ground at the level crossing. I rested my aching body against the barrier and it was only then that I noticed that Booker wasn’t there. I looked around and saw Gary, face down just a few metres back. The Dead were almost on him and there was Booker, that big eejit, stood right over him and doing nothing about it.
“D’you still think he’ll make it to the road?” he asked casually. “He’s not even up to the tracks yet and already he’s slacking. I think you’re about to lose this one, Paulie.”
Now, a bet is a bet but I hate losing, even to Booker, so I gripped my sides harder and stumbled back past them both. I put the gun against the head of the nearest corpse and shut my eyes. The report was deafening and the automatic jumped in my hand. I rested the barrel against the head of the next one and fired again but really, there were too many to keep this up.
They were just about to crowd around so I helped him struggle to his feet…well, foot. Foot and stump; his shot foot had broken off and lay discarded somewhere out on the beach. Anyway, helping him was probably against the rules of the bet, I know, but I just wanted to spite Booker for scaring me so badly. Once we got as far as the road the bloaters, floaters and crawlers were welcome to his miserable carcass.
Gary had an arm around my neck and sweat poured down my face as we struggled along, the Dead tickling our heels. Booker was no help at all. We were crossing the tracks when clutching hands found my ankles and I was so weak they brought me heavily down. Gary managed to lumber numbly on; leaning on the hurley.
Without thinking I rolled on my back, raised the gun and fired wildly at the enemy, blinding myself in the process. I kept kicking violently at the grasping arms until my sight returned. Then I wished it hadn’t. Booker lay motionless at my feet, his grip on my legs relaxing; a bullet hole punched clean through his shades. I cried out in grief and loss.
“Booker! You stupid…” Didn’t I tell him not to do that? Didn’t I? Wet Dead poured over Booker’s body and he was quickly buried beneath a flood of grunting, slurping corpses. I stood in horror as a murderous rage filled me. Gary. It was Gary’s fault that Booker was dead and all that mattered now was making him pay.
I staggered drunkenly after him and caught him at the edge of the road. I wasn’t afraid of him any more. But I was being very careful here. I wasn’t sharing him with anything, so I raised the gun and sighted on a pair of faster crawlers that were almost on him and I shot them both point blank, eyes closed again.
“Gary, you bastard,” I hissed. “You made me kill Booker.” I stumbled feebly against him and we both hit the tarmac. I came over all weak all of a sudden and the gun slipped away from my hand. I fallen on top of Gary and I was reaching for his face, but before I could get my fingers to his one good eye I was suddenly lifted upwards bodily from behind. I could feel my ribs grind together as I was dragged screaming across the road.
“Granny!” I howled. “Granny! Don’t let them eat me!”
“Shut it, kid,” grunted a rough voice. “Just quit your bleedin’ kicking, willya? It’s okay. You’re safe! We’ve got you!” I was lowered gently and carefully to the hard tarmac, my sides and chest a blaze of agony. I stared up in terror as a pair of strange faces looming over me. Across the road two other strangers were pulling Gary clear of the crawlers and calmly clubbing all undead stragglers. I couldn’t see Bookers body from where I lay.
“Please,” I blurted. “Don’t take me back to the Commune.”
“Commune? We don’t know any commune. We were passing and heard shots and we saw you protecting your friend over there; shooting those corpses off him. Very coolly done. Very ballsey, kid.”
“Yeah,” agreed the other. “Pretty hard core, all right. Your friend’ll live to sing your praises too, by the looks of things.”
Now, that wasn’t good. That wasn’t very good at all, so I had to think fast. “I did try to save him,” I lied desperately. “But look at what they did to his foot.”
“Oh, my god, Bill,” whispered one. “He’s right. Look at that poor sods leg? Aww, shite! Well…eh…look here kid, I know he’s your pal and all, but… well…you know what has to be done, don’t you?” I couldn’t believe they just went and took my word for it, so I nodded sadly. “Yeah, of course I know. But let me do it, willya? I’m the one that let him down. I mean, I know he’d prefer it if I finished him off.”
They gazed down at me in silent approval. “Best not, kid. I mean, Jesus Christ, just look at the state you’re in. You’ve been through the wars. No, you just sit tight and let us take care of your friend.”
“Yeah,” said Bill. “Just leave it all to me, little brother. He won’t even see me coming. I’m very quick and quiet. He won’t feel a thing, I promise.” He took a short handled axe from his belt and strolled over to where Gary lay panting on his back, utterly relieved to be rescued. To my endless delight Gary glanced up just as Bill swung his weapon down hard. Gary screamed and dodged and the blade crunched deep into his shoulder. I smiled. I couldn’t help it.
“Don’t!” Gary shrieked as Bill panicked and clumsily tore the axe head free to swing it down again. Gary dodged once more, the axe smacking meatily into the side of his ugly face. My new friend Bill was really crap at this killing stuff. Gary bawled again and covered the top of his head with his hands as Bills next stroke successfully split his stupid skull. Protective fingers shot off in all directions and pattered softly along the roadside. This was so great, but watching Bill stand on Gary’s face to wrench his axe blade free just finished me. Even better, if that was possible, was the top of Gary’s skull coming away with the blade. I curled foetally in a ball to hide my laughter. I so wished Booker could’ve seen this.
“For Jaysus sake, Bill,” snarled Bills pal. “You clumsy feckin imbecile, just look at what you’ve done? You’re after traumatising this poor kid.” One of the other strangers, maybe even Bill himself; I daren’t uncurl to see, put a comforting hand on my quaking, shaking shoulders.
“There now lad,” he said awkwardly. “There, there now.”
*****
They treated me like glass as they lifted me gently into their Land Rover. I’d never been in a car before. Not a moving one, anyway. It was brilliant. There were loads of little lights on the dash. Once they’d patched me up a bit and made me comfortable in the back they even gave me the furry dice to hold.
“Ever been to school, kiddo?” asked Bill cheerfully as we drove through the remains of south Dublin. I could tell he was feeling very bad about Gary but I just shook my head no. “Well, you’ll be going to class as soon as you’re all in one piece again. We’ve got about fifteen other kids on the base so you’re bound to make a few new friends.”
Fifteen kids? Wow! I gazed through the front windscreen and thought about this brilliant piece of news. Just as I was wondering what fifteen eyeless little heads would look like all lined along a mantelpiece I saw a tall, muscular figure standing calmly in the middle of the road ahead, clearly lit by the main beams. No one else seemed to notice him though and we just zoomed by.
I twisted around in my seat as best I could and grinned with delight. I mean, just look at him back there: walking calmly after us, waving at me and blowing cigar smoke through his nose. I shook my head admiringly as I wiggled my fingers back at him. I mean, the mad eejit still had his shades on – and it was still the bleedin’ night time!
]]>SUBJECT: Hazard Company Duty Appointment Orders
1) Harold Monroe, Captain, 173rd Airborne BCT, Fort Carson Colorado, is hereby ordered to report for duty as Commanding Officer of Hazard Company, Special Operations Battalion
AUTHORITY
1) Captain Monroe is to transfer from current posting to Special Operations Battalion and assume duties of Commanding Officer of Hazard Company
2) Captain Monroe is authorized 10 days leave prior to deployment.
3) Further Orders upon Arrival…
* * *
Monroe crumpled the letter up and tossed it away in disgust. Hazard Company! How could they do this to him? Command of Hazard Company? Who would want it? Hazard Company was the dregs of the Army. Hazard Company got the nasty, dangerous jobs and was considered an expendable asset. That is why they were called a Hazard Company. It was practically a penal company. The worst offenders who hadn’t yet graduated to rape or murder were unceremoniously dumped there. Malcontents and thieves almost like Viking raiders of old. The men were known to be less than enthusiastic in their duties and had an unorthodox esprit de corps, as in none. There had been stories of some of the terrible shit that Hazard Company had been through, sustaining appalling casualty rates. They were in a way legends however, because the sheer Darwinian process of serving in Hazard Company ensured each man had brass balls the size of watermelons. They had the reputation of getting the job done, regardless of losses.
Monroe had heard tales of the last such exploit. The entire company had been deployed into the path of a massive horde containing tens of thousands of Zekes in order to prevent an abandoned nuclear reactor from going into meltdown and contaminating half the state of Nebraska. Their job was to protect the team of nuke engineers while they went about the process of shutting down and cooling the reactor. It was supposed to be routine, and the company was there “just in case” shit went south. Well it did.
It turned out that the area surrounding the plant was packed with thousands of survivors who were living off the nuke plant’s electrical generation. There was no way in hell the Army had the resources to airlift out a few thousand civvies within a few hours before the horde marched through the area, scouring all life before it. The unit was ordered to abandon the civvies once the reactor was scrammed. The Company refused orders and stayed behind. There was no other choice but to stand and fight. Supposedly the battle lasted for days as the massive tide of dead besieged the walled community. Supposedly there were so many thousands, that the walls collapsed from the weight and survivors were forced to spread out into the surrounding area. By the end of it, people were down to using spears and machetes. Only a couple hundred survivors made it through unscathed, mostly women and children. The men of the community were practically wiped out. Hazard Company itself lost half its men, including the CO. This was why Captain Monroe suspected he was now in his current predicament.
Well, at least he could take the ten days off and go see his parents one last time, because he was almost certain that he’d just been handed a death sentence.
* * *
Ten days later, Monroe arrived at a special annex to Fort Carson far out in the boonies. It was a long drive deep into the wilderness and mountainous ridgelines along a treacherous mountain road. The Hummer the Captain was in was being driven by a stern faced and stone silent PFC who pretty much only answered “Yes, Sir” and “No, Sir” and volunteered no extra information about where they were headed. The hummer wound up into the rough countryside and down into a wooded valley and finally came upon the camp. Monroe got out and grabbed his gear then closed the door to the hummer. It peeled off, leaving the Captain coughing in a spray of dust and gravel; he turned around and looked at his new command.
The company camp was nothing more than a ramshackle collection of WWII era Quonset huts set in the shade of a mountain in the middle of nowhere as far from any form of base infrastructure as could be found. The army couldn’t even spare proper quarters for Hazard Company. Monroe shook his head and made his way towards the ragged collection of rusted, half falling down huts, surrounded by half trampled barbed wire and leaking, falling over piles of sandbags.
Just as Monroe was passing into the sandbag perimeter he stopped in his tracks and turned his ear towards a sound coming from inside a dilapidated machine gun pit. The sound was obviously that of a man snoring loudly and Monroe made his way over and peered into the bottom of the position.
A ragged, foul smelling wraith of a man was haphazardly lying in the bottom of the machine gun position on a makeshift bed, a sandbag his pillow. His mouth was wide open to the sky above and each time the man breathed a loud snore would echo out of the hole. Dried vomit caked his shirt and the area and around him, a mason jar lying inches from his open palm where it landed when the man blacked out. Monroe turned and walked away, stupefied.
Suddenly, the rickety, wooden door of one of the huts suddenly flew off of its hinges with a loud crack of splintering wood and landed in the dirt in front of the hut, quickly followed by two men struggling against each other. Both were large men, one was black and the other was white. They pulled from each other and the white guy swung in a large haymaker, connecting with a solid whack onto the jaw of the black guy, staggering him for a moment. Then the black guy recovered and returned the blow with one of his own to the white guyâ€s midsection. The Caucasian fellowâ€s wind flew from his lungs with a loud “ooph†and he crumpled to the ground where his assailant began pummeling him badly.
The entire scene took on the overtones of a riot as soldiers of both races rushed out of various Quonset huts and proceeded to beat each other senseless, their curses and racial epithets echoing around the valley. Monroe skirted around the knots of wildly fighting men and continued on his way. His heart filled with dread at the idea of commanding this unit of malcontents, racists, and thieves.
He made his way up to one Quonset hut that held a sign in the front that said Commanding Officer. However the “Commanding Officer” was crudely spray painted through in red, and a spray paint scrawl of CHICKENSHIT ASSHOLE was painted underneath. Monroe stared at the sign in shock for a moment and then sighed, before pulling open the squeaky door and stepping into his new command quarters.
It smelled awful, like a barn. The floors were dirt. Sunlight poked through rusted out spots in the corrugated metal of the hut. Equipment and weapons were stacked haphazardly in every conceivable space. Between the weapons and ammo, were various foodstuffs. There were cases of MRE’s next to cases of old K-rations that looked like they hadn’t seen the light of day since 1972. Field radios of various makes and models, some looking like they were requisitioned from a Vietnam era rifle platoon were stacked up in one corner. In the center of the room there was a crate marked with the Coors Logo upon which sat a pyramid of empty Coors Light cans. Standing around that crate, a beer in their fists, was a motley group of four men.
The barely visible stripes on the grubby and greasy BDU jacket of one of the men identified him as a Sergeant First Class. That was all the man had to identify his membership in the US Army and his rank. Otherwise he wore a pair of faded blue jeans, rather than combat boots he wore a pair of scuffed up Red Wing steel toe work boots. Rather than a field cap, he was wearing a Denver Broncos baseball cap. His long, unruly hair spilled out from underneath in long locks. The hat was reversed so that the logo faced the Captain. He listened for a moment as the four men continued their conversation, oblivious to his presence.
“Shit man! That was nothin! Hey LT, you remember that time they sent us into Houston? Man, check this shit out. We get sent down to Houston as part of an op to rescue a couple hundred survivors who had been holed up in a skyscraper for several months. Man when we fast roped on to the roof and went down, we didn’t know what to expect. Unfortunately them people had been there a long time without food or nothin and drinking nothing but rancid water in toilets and their own piss. Can you believe that? Drinkin’ their own piss!” the Sergeant said, all the while flourishing his beer can around to add emphasis.
“Anyway, more than a few of them had died of starvation and came back and were wandering around in various rooms. Other rooms would be packed with grubby kids and a few women living in their own shit and filth. We go in there and these people looked like they came out of an old Nazi death camp. Skeletons barely scraping by alive. Hell a few of them even got killed by accident when one of the new guys broke into a room and saw them laying around, all naked and moaning, too weak to move hardly at all. His dumb ass mistook them for dead fucks and put a bullet in each one of their beans before someone stopped him. Jeezus man! Some of ’em looked like they were cannibalized, not in that tore up fashion the Zekes leave you in, no. It was organized cuttin’. Like savin’ some for later type shit! Jeezus!” the Sergeant declared and then drained his beer before belching loudly and tossing it over his shoulder, narrowly missing Monroe. One of the men’s eyes locked with the Captain and the man’s eyes went wide. The Sergeant turned his head around to see Monroe standing there, his hands on his hips, nostrils flaring.
“Oh my fucking God! Sir! I didn’t see you there! Look alive you dumb fucks, the new boss is here!” the grubby sergeant said loudly and then snapped to attention and threw up a salute, the rest followed suit quickly and smartly.
“What the hell is going on around here Sergeant? Who the fuck are you and where do you get off just drinking and tossing the empties at your chickenshit asshole of a CO?” Monroe barked sharply. One of the men in the back, the dirt stained bars of a 2nd Lieutenant on his collar, made a half smile and a snort of a chuckle. Monroe was on him in a flash, literally touching nose to nose and let fly with a shout that would put the loudest sergeant major in the Army to shame.
“Just who the fuck are you dipshit? Don’t tell me you’re one of MY platoon leaders!? I’ll rip your arms off your body and feed you to the Zekes you piece of shit, now explain yourself!” Monroe unleashed, the LT went white.
“Sir.. I’m sorry sir, it’s just that things around here are kinda… loose since…” the LT weakly offered up. Monroe spit in disgust on the floor and then backed up 2 steps and looked at the four men, who had now shrunk to about three inches in height.
“You listen to me and you listen well, because I won’t repeat myself. Whatever shit hole of an outfit the old chickenshit asshole let this place become is over with. From now on there is a new rooster in the barnyard, and unlike the old chickenshit asshole, this rooster will tear you a new chickenshit asshole. Do I make myself clear men?”
“Yes sir!” echoed from the men.
“Very well, now I want the three of you outside and breaking up the race riot taking place out on the quad and I want to see my company standing out at parade rest within 10 minutes and if that doesn’t happen, I swear to all the Gods you may or may not hold dear that I will personally shit down your throats. Now get out of my sight!” the Captain roared and the four men instantly ran for the door and, knocking it clean off its hinges, disappeared out it as fast as they could. Monroe smiled to himself and then looked up at the ceiling and rolled his eyes.
* * *
Ten minutes later, the men stood at something that looked like parade rest. The formation was ragged, disjointed. The men just sort of hung there limply. There was no snap to the men, just a general atmosphere of not giving a fuck. Well that was about to change Monroe thought to himself as he stood in front of the ragged bunch of sorry sacks of shit the Army had decided to place into his tender mercies. He was angry and frustrated as he looked at the outfit that was responsible for his safety and then involuntarily shivered. Fuck this.
“Right dress Men! Come on look alive!” came from the SFC that had nearly beaned Monroe with a beer can. He didn’t have any oomph to his voice, and the men just sort of limply reached their arms out and dressed up their lines in a half ass manner. Jesus Christ, what was he going to do with this? Dirty Dozen? Fuck that, this was the Dirty One Hundred.
“All men present and accounted for Sir!” the SFC called out and took his position next to two bedraggled and hung over looking Lieutenants. All three men had bags under their eyes and their breath and clothes reeked of stale beer and marijuana. They wore no standard uniform, just bits and pieces as each man fancied, all of it unwashed and awful smelling. They were unshaven and longhaired. They looked like homeless bums one might find on the street corner begging for spare change, not active duty troops. These men were supposed to represent the leadership of Hazard Company! Their ragged appearance and demeanor extended to the entire company behind them. It was obvious to Monroe that he had his work cut out for him.
“Listen. I know this outfit isn’t exactly known for élan…and I can appreciate the individual…character of a unit. But this shit is out of hand. You fuckwits are NOT going to get me killed!” Monroe bellowed sharply.
“Now I don’t know how the other guy ran this outfit, but I can tell you this. I have absolutely no intentions of following his ass into hell! So I’m going to tell each and every one of you right the fuck now. In the interests of my own survival if any of you disobey one of my orders I will blow your fucking brains out without warning or reprieve, instant summary execution.” the Captain said and picked out faces from the crowd to make stern eye contact with. None held his gaze for more than a split second.
“This unit gets the nastiest, filthiest, God forsaken jobs the Army can find. The casualty rates are unacceptable. Starting now, I intend to keep each and every one of you alive for as long as I possibly can. I will play no favorites and I will treat you all exactly the same, just like shit! I don’t give a shit if you’re white, black, Asian, Jew, catholic, protestant or atheist. You’re all a bunch of walking ration tins for the Zekes as far as the Army is concerned. You may not like many of the things I will tell you to do, but you damn well better fucking do them.” Monroe barked out. He then stood a moment and let the words soak in.
“First order of business is to police up this nasty pig sty you call a company bivouac. It stinks! You stink! How the hell can you men live like this?” Monroe asked.
One of the Lieutenants, not understanding the rhetorical nature of the question spoke up.
“Sir, we’ve been without running water for more than a month, the mains to this area are shot and the S-4 just ignores our requests. Basically says to go to hell.”
Monroe shot him a glare and the young man instantly straightened, becoming aware that he had not been invited to speak.
“Well. I assure you that one of my first tasks is to get you men the basic support that you need, regardless of how Army logistics feels about you.” Monroe responded.
“I’m going to be holding interviews over the next week with each and every one of you. The entire company is going to be reorganized from the ground up, and I’ll be conferring with your platoon and squad leaders about how best to handle your individual skills, talents and… shortcomings. In the mean time, I want you all to return to your quarters. You have until 0530 to prepare for my inspection, anyone who fails I will whore out to the entire base for latrine and KP duties. Dismissed.” Monroe said and the men broke and smartly made their way back to their huts.
One of the men, a big corn fed mother fucker with a deep southern drawl, spit a wad of chew into the dirt and then spoke up.
“One question Capâ€n†he called loudly.
Monroe looked at the insolent soldier quizzically.
“Do we have to bunk with the nigs?â€
Instantly, as if a switch had been thrown, the entire company squared off by race. The scene devolved into pandemonium and Monroe just shook his head and walked away, leaving the Platoon Leaders to resolve the sleeping arrangements.
* * *
The next six weeks were a blur for the men of Hazard Company and Captain Monroe. The sign referring to the effluent nether regions of barnyard fowl was replaced within hours of Monroe finishing. The first week he did as he intended and interviewed every member of his company for at least 30 minutes. He was appalled at the lack of care the Army gave this unit. It was always under supplied in just about everything except weapons and ammunition. There was a massive over abundance of that, although Monroe wasn’t sure if that was because of the preference of the army, or the men. Foods were MREâ€s and whatever the men could scavenge from others on the base and surrounding area. The only water that was available was by making a two hundred meter hike with 10 gallon jerry cans down to a local creek. There were no vehicles assigned to Hazard Company. The Quonset huts were falling down around the men from age and lack of care. It was a clusterfuck. No wonder the men looked like they did.
Monroe spent a huge amount of time on the phone pleading with Supply. The major in charge was always dicking around with requests that Monroe considered urgent. He was always being put off with the excuse of equipment and technical service shortages. Even simple, easy to obtain items like BDU’s, shirts, socks, boots and caps were denied on this paper thin excuse. He did manage, after 10 days of cajoling, to get the water mains repaired and turned back on. His men were grateful for that simple luxury and gorged themselves in fresh clean water. The captain even managed to have a new shower unit installed for the men to have a hot shower.
One day Monroe slammed the phone down and rubbed his temples in frustration after yet another two hour argument just to get a couple vehicles requisitioned. Just at that moment, the SFC who had tossed the empty at Monroe on his first day walked into the ramshackle office the Captain sat in behind a beat up, dented and rusty field desk.
“Morning Sir” the SFC said.
“Sergeant Shales, have a seat. I need to discuss something with you.” Monroe said, indicating a half bent folding chair in front of the desk. Shales had a seat and Monroe regarded him. His personnel file stated that he was 28, had joined right out of high school back before the Zekes started getting up and eating everybody. He was the longest serving senior member of Hazard Company along with Lieutenant Allen. Jesus, the man had a thousand yard stare and Monroe could see that there was a very dark place in Shales’ mind somewhere that he kept locked away, while presenting a semi professional and friendly demeanor to his buddies and comrades.
“Sir?” Shales said.
“What did you guys do to piss off S-4 that got you and Lieutenant Allen and the rest of the men stuck out here?” Monroe asked.
Shales ran his hands over his sandy brown, newly cropped hair and gave a sheepish grin to the Captain.
“Well sir.. uh.. me and Lieutenant Allen sorta, accidentally, burned down one of the supply warehouses.” the SFC stated.
“Just how in the hell did you do that?” the Captain asked incredulously.
“Well, we were pretty drunk one night and uh.. the LT and I had RUMINT that Supply was keeping a load of frozen steaks in a warehouse. See his platoon had a rough time on a recent op and they needed a boost. So we broke in and were searching for the goods when the MP’s showed up. The LT reached for what he thought was an open box of CS grenades but it turned out to be a white phosphorous round. He tossed it to cover our tracks as we went out the back door and well.. the entire warehouse was destroyed in the fire sir.” Shales responded.
Monroe’s mouth dropped, an entire warehouse of goods, destroyed by two drunken buffoons searching for some mythical steaks? No wonder they were condemned to living their careers out here in the sticks of the base. They were effectively exiled from civilization. This, along with dozens of other incidents of insubordination, thievery, and drug and alcohol abuse by the rest of the men had ensured that Hazard Company was treated like some dog shit on the bottom of Uncle Sam’s shoe. The Army didn’t even bother with court martial for a lot of offenses anymore. You just got assigned to a Hazard Company. After all, even a thief and a scoundrel can kill a few hundred Zekes before he’s used up completely, so the Army wasn’t about to waste manpower. If the guy ran off into Zekeland after arriving at the company, well best of luck to him. If the Zekes don’t get his ass the bandits will, and the bandits did not take kindly to boys in uniform. So most of the men stuck around and learned to survive.
“Sergeant, it seems every other man in this company has been written up for theft. Perhaps we can put all this skullduggery to use. Focus it, so to speak towards more positive outcomes that can benefit the entire unit.” Monroe stated.
Shales smiled wickedly. “Sir? What exactly did you have in mind?”
* * *
Once Monroe had figured out how to channel each of the men’s talents in positive directions, he focused them like laser designators on to improving their situation. He personally supervised the men, more like a platoon sergeant, than a Captain at least at first. He got down into the dirt and filled sandbags and HESCOs with them. He dug trenches with them. Supervised them but never micromanaged them. The unit began to respond. Morale skyrocketed. As Monroe walked the camp, he was pleased to see the men busy as ants repairing and mending their digs. The Quonset huts were being completely dismantled and the materials that could be scavenged were reused. The entire unit was moving underground.
Rather than dick with Supply, Monroe located a mechanic within the outfit and sent him and Allen’s platoon out to procure some vehicles. They returned 3 days later with several civilian pickup trucks and a deuce and a half that was full of bullet holes.
“What’s with the deuce and a half?” Monroe asked when he saw the bullet holes that peppered the cab, had spidered the windshield, blown off one of the mirrors and.. was that blood still smeared across the driver side window?
A black soldier exited the cab of the truck and came up to Monroe and saluted, the Captain returned it.
“PFC Holland, sir! We found it on the side of a highway about 25 miles from base. It had been there quite awhile, probably bandits ambushed it. There were no bodies when we found it, just some dried blood in the cab. The radiator was full of holes, but we managed to replace it from scavenging another wreck that was around. She’s a good truck sir!”
“Very good Private. I have a squad from Shales’ Platoon over there expanding the east side of the compound and building a motor pool area. Get these vehicles over there and get them covered under tarps. No sense letting others in the area know that life is improving around here. Some might get jealous.”
Holland grinned a white tooth grin. “Yes sir.” and then jumped into the cab of the big truck and led the caravan past him and over to the east end of the compound.
Monroe turned and walked over to a group of men who were digging a new trench and emplacement line surrounding the entire company area. Monroe intended on turning the bivouac into a personal fortress. A Fort Apache, completely separate and self sufficient as possible from the rest of the base. No one gave a fuck about Hazard Company anyway, so he intended to assure that his men could live somewhat comfortably and securely in their exile.
Lieutenant Pendleton and his entire platoon were dragooned into this duty. Monroe had delegated the entire planning and execution of the defenses of the camp to the young Lieutenant and he wasn’t a bit sorry. The young man was tactically proficient, perhaps even brilliant. He carefully surveyed Pendleton’s plans and found few if any real faults and gave his blessing. The young officer bloomed into a leader within weeks as he led his platoon in a real task for once besides throwing men into a meat grinder and drinking away the terror, guilt and grief he felt at doing so.
Monroe was shocked at the latitude he was given by his superiors. His battalion commander, Lt. Colonel Starke told him to just babysit Hazard Company, and if they were needed, they would call. But otherwise his job was to keep “that wild band of longhaired outlaws out of trouble and away from me!”
There was surprisingly little trouble after the beginning. Monroe kept the men so busy, they had little time or energy to engage in much shenanigans. He chose to overlook the smaller things, like pot smoking or gambling although he curtailed heavy drinking and instead rationed out alcohol personally as a reward to units who did particularly well at a task. It wasn’t like money was any good these days anyway. Basically the Army just took from the civilians what it couldn’t get from official stores. But the soldiers looked at it as a fair trade for protecting the civilians from both the bandits and the Zekes that prowled the unpatrolled roads and highways through the mountains. It was basically feudal, might makes right type shit out there. Tough world for everyone involved.
Pendleton’s plan involved tearing down the Quonset huts and effectively moving the entire company to a series of underground earthen bunkers that could be easily supplied with electricity, heat and running water, all with a minimum of building materials. There would be a command/comms bunker and an ammunition storage bunker as well. The ammo bunker would be built out of concrete that the company managed to find. The entire compound from the outside would look like a giant triangle of barbed wire surrounding a trench line and a series of earthen mounds and bunkers. Almost no surface buildings would be visible.
Each bunker would house a ten man squad in relative comfort and ease compared to what they had been living in before. The idea of moving underground as the cold winter approached appealed to the men and they worked diligently to dismantle the huts, dig the trenches and move the massive amount of earth necessary to build each of the bunkers to house the men and materiel they rapidly built up with careful bartering and scavenging from around the base and various civilians in the area. Monroe ensured the men worked efficiently, but otherwise allowed them wide latitude to accomplish their tasks. He was no prison warden, no matter what the Army thought.
By the time fall came and the first snows began to filter down onto Fort Carson, the camp was complete and was essentially an impregnable fortress. Each building was connected to each other by a shallow trench. This then connected to the deeper perimeter trench. At intervals around the perimeter was an earthen machine gun nest and all were carefully sighted and surveyed to interlock fields of fire. Guards were rotated every 4 hours during the day and every 2 at night.
Monroe and the men felt much more secure. Monroe managed to get electricity restored to the area. Each barracks bunker was equipped with a wood burning stove that had been scavenged from a hardware store in Colorado Springs. The chimneys poked up through the earthen tops of the bunkers and the entire compound had the look of a militarized Shire from a Tolkien novel. Comfortable underground living spaces. The men soon personalized them with personal artifacts, items and belongings, and the men were snugly at home by the time 14 inches of snow came in early December and blanketed the entire camp in white.
* * *
After the men had dug out from under the snow, life wasn’t too bad for them through Christmas. They celebrated it in their own way, over hunted meat and scavenged cans of vegetables mixed with MRE rations. It was tolerable for them at least compared to what they would’ve had to face had they remained above ground. To a man, they all were thankful that the Captain had the foresight to keep them all warm and cozy like hobbits. They spent the winter in relative luxury.
It was mid-February when the Army finally remembered Hazard Company existed. Monroe was sitting at his battered field desk, now safely placed inside the new commo bunker along with all the radio and satellite equipment. Specialist “Eyes” Malone was off to one side at a homebuilt work table pouring over a disassembled PRC 25 radio. The various tubes and parts were all laid out in front of him and he was whispering technical gibberish to himself quietly when the phone rang next to him. He picked it up.
“Hazard Company Operations”. Eyes said into the receiver that was balanced on his shoulder while he soldered at a wire on a board in front of him.
“Yessir, just a moment.. Captain?”
“Yeah?”
“Battalion for ya” Eyes said and set the phone down. Monroe walked over and picked it up.
“Yeah?”
Monroe listened for a moment. “Yes sir. Be right there sir.” Then hung up.
“Eyes, I gotta run down to the main base for a briefing, apparently the machine realized we still exist out here. Let Allen, Pendleton and Shales know to be ready for possible deployment planning when I get back.”
“Yessir” Eyes said while throwing a salute like gesture at the Captain without even looking up from the table. Monroe wasn’t offended, Eyes was actually the “ears” of the Company. He kept all the company radio gear in working order and ensured that all three platoons could keep in contact with Monroe at all times if the situation ever came to them getting deployed. Well now that time had come.
* * *
Four hours later Monroe returned to the camp and parked one of the pick up trucks he had been driving in the motor pool area and made his way to the commo bunker. The two Lieutenants and SFC Shales were standing around going over lists of supplies they would need when he walked in.
“Sir” was echoed around as he walked in, formalities were dealt with and Monroe got down to business.
“Alright, seems we’ve drawn us a clearing operation. There is a small town about 80 miles away that the brass wants cleared for resettlement by refugees. Apparently there are some mines in the region the Government would like to get running again. The town is called Fraser, population 937. As far as anyone knows, there are no survivors living there. Recon flight shows about a hundred or so dead fucks wandering the streets and yards at any one time, but most are probably locked indoors. We’re to move in and clear a 10 mile radius from the center of town of any and all Zeke. Now I know this is a pretty large chunk of real estate to clear, and will probably take awhile. A few months at least. We have 14 days to train up the men and prepare for extended deployment into Zekeland.” the Captain said as a short briefing.
Two weeks later, a convoy of twelve large two and a half ton trucks arrived on the dilapidated service road that ran in front of FOB Hazard. That was the official name the brass had decided to call their underground home. Though to the men it was known as “The Shire”, and the men living there jokingly referred to themselves as FOBbits. The company filed out through the main gate and except for a single squad left behind to maintain security at the camp, the company loaded up into the back of each truck and prepared for the long ride to Fraser. Several of the trucks were pulling trailers containing pallets of equipment and a bobcat front loader to use for construction of Forward Operating Base, Fraser.
Monroe planned on spending at least 90 days on this operation, probably longer. Zeke tended to be single mindedly cunning in the way a small child can be cunning when angling for a cookie. There wasn’t so much pre planned thought as a sort of collective convergent instinct among groups of Zeke that grew larger as the hordes grew in number. One found them in all kinds of places. The predictable ones were houses, stores, and hospitals. Those are always the worst to clear. Fraser had a good sized medical clinic and Monroe expected heavy resistance from any Zeke there that were no doubt wandering the halls and grounds by the hundreds. They were nasty for pulling surprises on men, coming out of nooks, crannies, from under trash. Just about anywhere. They could lay around for days or weeks in a single spot, just like any other corpse. Then, when something gains their attention, they crawl to their feet and shamble mindlessly towards the source of the disturbance. If some poor asshole gets too close to what he thinks is just another dead corpse, he’d get bitten for sure.
They also tended to clump together in thousands and mindlessly walk for weeks in any direction that food was last seen. They collected stragglers as they went, coalescing into massive crowds. There were tales of images from the ISS showing hordes in the millions migrating north and south throughout the Great Plains with the seasons, mindlessly following wildlife herds as they migrated away from the hordes. Like a tornado or a hurricane these hordes stripped swathes of countryside of all life as it was either consumed, or fled from the awful smell of decay of millions of slowly rotting corpses.
This should’ve been a full battalion size op, but the brass decided that Hazard Company had faced worse odds and with “proper supply and support”, which Captain Monroe was convinced meant absolutely none, the brass were confident Hazard could get the job done. Casualties were of course a secondary concern. Monroe wasn’t so sure about his chances considering he was at the tip of the spear on this one.
But, his was not to question why, his was but to do and die. So he did what the rest of his men had no choice but to do, he soldiered on. It took several hours to arrive at the drop point about 5 miles outside of Fraser itself near an old gas station. A long range patrol was sent out that way to scout the area and said that the gas station had gasoline in the underground tanks, and the area was mostly clear of Zulus. It was slightly elevated and would make a perfect FOB site. The trucks would stop, the company would deploy and using hand weapons clear the immediate area of any Zeke, avoiding using guns at least at first to avoid bringing the undead residents of Fraser down on their heads before they were ready.
Then the company would construct a temporary FOB by building a HESCO wall around the gas station. Once this was complete the trucks would be refueled and sent back to Fort Carson, stranding the company 80 miles from safety in the middle of a Zeke infested wasteland. This was all old hat for Hazard Company. Their asses were always on the line like this. Monroe was convinced his men were fairly competent enough to carry out this operation with a minimum of casualties. These town clearing ops were nasty business, forcing men to get close and personal with all kinds of Zeke. Women and kids were the hardest ones for the men to put down in mass numbers. It helped when the Zeke was rotted and monstrous looking. Then it was easy to put him down, but the fresh ones. Those could be difficult as hell, especially the children.
Lieutenant Pendleton had told Monroe about an op the company had a year before, similar clearing operation. The men came across a day care center full of undead children. The Lieutenant, drunk as a skunk and in tears, explained to the Captain how he looked in the windows of the place and saw the children, not a one of them older than 7, leading little parodies of children’s lives. One little boy, his face a chewed up mess, sat on his ass dumbly rolling a Tonka truck around. One little girl, her white dress stained black with blood and large chunks of flesh missing from her arms and legs, had a blanket locked in a death grip that she dragged behind her as she wandered the play area with the other zombie children. It was eerie and disturbing just to hear the tale, let alone to have experienced it Monroe thought. Pendleton had to order men in there to put the children down, and turned away from the window as his men kicked the door in and gunfire erupted from within the day care center.
Men could break down, lose discipline and turn savage and feral having experienced such horrors. Yet Hazard Company’s men, for some reason, despite all their petty criminality and lax discipline were dedicated to their task and held together remarkably well. The rumors of them being unenthusiastic about their duties may have applied in camp, but in the field, they were brutal and efficient. They still had hearts though, and such events could shred a man’s soul. Monroe was certain that there would be blood.
* * *
3 days later, a camp had miraculously grown out of the dirt outside of Fraser. It was a hub of activity as men prepared for their outbound patrols to begin. About thirty or forty ghouls had wandered up to the area while the camp was being constructed and were quickly dispatched. There was some confusion when a group of fifteen or so came out of the woods about ten feet from one of the squads filling HESCOs, surprising the men initially. Sergeant Shales was on the scene in a few moments and directed a quick and violent melee. Wielding their entrenching tools, most of the squad broke free and began smashing the skulls of the slow, rotted corpses as they slowly stumbled through the high grass. Within a few minutes the men were high fiving and laughing as they returned back to work. They made sick jokes about the corpses and what each other would do to one of the female corpses laying naked in the grass face down. Her body had fallen in such a way that her skeletal ass was in the air as if presenting it. A cloud of flies already gathering around her pale emaciated and rotted body, it was quite grisly.
Allen and Shale’s Platoons were tapped to begin the first clearing operation. There was a small hospital just inside the edge of town. The men softly swore to themselves when they found out. Hospitals were the worst places imaginable. Being a key center of infection, they were always packed to the brim with lots of hungry and dangerous undead. Dozens of rooms and corridors made for an ugly amount of hiding places and opportunity for accidents. They were blood covered, rotten charnel houses. But they needed to be cleared, so it was best to get it done early.
The chosen men were standing in a semi circle around Captain Monroe as he explained the situation using an aerial photograph of the hospital and surrounding townscape.
“We’re going to clean out a whole mess of these things in one fell swoop. The first thing we do is set up a redoubt here at this intersection just inside town near the hospital and the town hall. Here weâ€re going to set off flashbangs and draw every single bastard that can shamble, walk, crawl or drag itself towards our position and take them out. Be smart guys. I want everyone to make it out of this. Once we’ve cleared out the external Zekes, we’ll have to start the internal clearing operation. The goal is to take and clear the hospital and town hall in order to provide a foothold for us to move further into the town. This operation is going to take months guys, we’ll take our time and make sure we get every single deader in the town and surrounding area. We don’t want civvies to wake up for breakfast and find Zeke crawling out of the rose garden.” the Captain briefed to the men. The men answered with a Hooah.
Allen, Shales, Captain Monroe and the rest of the men of the two platoons equipped themselves for the 5 mile march into Fraser. Buddies carefully checked each other’s equipment and loads. Spreading weight of ammo and weapons around evenly so that each man could carry as much as possible, but not be too slow to react to a sudden threat.
“Form the men up into column Sergeant Shales. On to Fraser.” the Captain stated.
“Hazard Company! Ten-HUT!” boomed out from Shales and the men snapped to attention with precision.
“Lets get our asses on down the yellow brick road. That bitch Dorothy has some explaining to do.” Shales hollered out and off the men went, their boots clopping on the asphalt while Shales called out a cadence.
Five miles later the men arrived at the intersection where they were to construct the redoubt. As the men came up on the edge of town, they stood ther silently at first as the chill spring wind in the mountains blew the trash and tumbleweeds and various detritus of a lost civilizaiton around the road in front of them. The buildings were mostly burned out wrecks here. Only the hopsital, scarred by fire in several windows and the city hall, largely boarded up and unscathed, remained for several blocks. The cracked, faded pavement of the main street had grass and weeds growing out of every gap in the asphalt. Rusted or burned out vehicles littered the sides of the street. Curiously, there were no dead wandering the street at the moment. Though that was about to change.
The men quickly went to work building an improvised redoubt out of debris located around. They pushed several rusted out vehicles together in places and blocked off the entire street. An entire town with at least one thousand hungry corpses was before them. Monroe gave the order and several flashbangs were tossed out into the street in front of the makeshift barricade. The men all looked away and covered their ears as the concussion rolled through them and still disoriented them slightly despite the preparation. They recovered rather quickly though and stood to with their weapons. Waiting for the inevitable onslaught of the coming horde, the hellish moans and cries of which were already reaching a blood-chilling crescendo in the men’s ears as the first corpses began stumbling out of the nearby buildings, alleys and side streets and began to gather in the street.
“I want one squad from each platoon behind us about 20 yards to be held in reserve and watch our six. Otherwise, you men know what to do.” Monroe stated.
“Hooah Sir.” came from his platoon leaders and they rapidly went to make the necessary adjustments and await for the command to open fire. Monroe did not make them wait long.
“Get some!” the Captain barked and within an instant the air was rent with the cacophanous noise of 40 well trained and heavily armed men opening fire with everything they had on the corpses in front of them. Corpses began to drop to the pavement, their heads popping and exploding in fountains of gory dark mist. The men, nervous and jittery at first quickly emptied magazines at the quickly growing numbers of dead that came crawling out of doorways, alleys, windows, from under trash, dumpster lids and vehicles. Each one was a mangled ghoul seeking their flesh and the men dumped masses of lead into them, then quickly dropped magazines and slapped a fresh one in.
Slightly displeased at the waste of ammunition, Monroe went to Shales and Allen and ordered them to conserve ammunition at once. Single head shots whenever possible, and the squad machine gunners were to limit to short bursts. They nodded and spread the orders on down to the men. The corpses in the street began to melt to the pavement with astounding swiftness. The vast majority of the men had seen plenty of action against the zulus and most of it was automatic. As the dead corpses continued to collect into the street they were dispatched cleanly and efficiently.
A continuous roar of small pops, cracks and zings echoed out over the town, drawing every dead corpse within earshot that could make their way towards Hazard company. The men now fired more discriminately, taking thier time and dropping the dead with much less waste of ammunition. Monroe nodded in approval at what his ears told him.
The squad machine gunners, their weapons at their shoulders and braced on the roofs of vehicles walked tracer rounds into the clumps of rotten bodies, cutting them in half and exploding thier heads like watermelons. Also blowing off their fragile limbs and then thumping a few dozen more heavy rounds into them after they fell to keep them down.
The front door to the hospital shattered and a massive crowd began to flood out into the street to join the scattered clumps of Zekes that were continuously being knocked down. Every now and then a corpse got back up and required a second helping of lead. The stench was overwhelming and some of the men choked, gagged and vomited from the violent odors that assaulted their olfactory senses. Monroe tied a bandanna around his nose and mouth to try and keep out some of the stench. Bodies continued to be mutilated by the steady fountain of copper jacketed rounds that were being delivered by the rump of Hazard Company. The squad machine gunners turned their attention on the big clump of dead that formed in front of the hospital. Red tracer rounds zipped out towards the knot of necrotic bodies and flesh gave way, caught fire, and shattered dry, brittle bones. The crowd just melted like wheat under a combine.
For an hour the slaughter continued. The bodies were piling up on top of each other, holding many back and slowing them down enough that the pace of the killing became very leisurely. For another hour, single individual shots would ring out once every few minutes, but otherwise, the carnage in the street was nearly complete. It was a terrible sight. Piles of bodies, limbs all askew in every possible direction and in weird angles. Many of the bodies were skeletal in appearance, and there were dozens and dozens of crippled and mutilated zulus still writhing about which would have be dispatched by hand. Monroe shuddered at the disgusting, hellish scene he had just created.
“Fix Bayonets!” Monroe roared. The sound of knives coming from sheathes and being attached to rifle ends was heard. Time to go in and get personal.
The Captain gave the signal to Allen and Shales and they moved their men out from behind the barricade slowly. Monroe used hand signals to keep the two squads in reserve to man the barricade and hold it while the rest of the men finished the killing. The men spread out around and began spearing the skulls of moving corpses. Occasionaly a clawed hand would reach out and grab the boot of a soldier. That soldier would kick at the weak limb until it broke and then angrily spear the skull of the offending Zeke with a bayonet thrust. Single shots rang out here and there as the men finished off corpses in the street, or the occasional corpse that wandered outside a little later than the rest. Another twenty minutes and most of it was done.
“Shales!” the Captain shouted.
“Sir!”
“Get your platoon lined up and ready to push into the hospital. Clear the lobby first and move on up by leaping your squads. Keep ’em tight and for God’s sake make sure everyone is good and covered up. I don’t want to have to deal with decimating our own men like the damn romans because of bites.”
Shales gave a hooah and rallied his men towards the front of the hospital.
“Allen! Get your platoon lined up and cover the street for any more stragglers. There are bound to be a bunch of them over the next few hours send some men out around the campus and clean up any wandering corpses that might be around, but be careful about it. I’m joining with Shales in the hospital.”
“Yessir! Come on men perimeter around the entrance to the clinic.”
Monroe nodded in satisfaction and disappeared into the dark, yawning maw of the Fraser General Medical Center.
* * *
The first thing that Monroe noticed was the stench. It overpowered everything else around him. The blood that was smeared in vast streaks and splatters across the walls. The spiderwebbed glass panes and shattered remnants of the medical center lobby merely added accentuation to that awful, all consuming odor. Skeletal remains, the evidence of chew marks on the bones were scattered around like an ossuary. Brass casings in hundreds littered the floor and skittered around as the men crunched over the broken glass and debris strewn floor and began clearing rooms and corridors immediately adjacent to the lobby.
“Clear!”
“Clear!”
“Clear!”
A gunshot rang out followed by the thud of a body hitting the floor..
“Clear!”
Monroe walked over to where Shales was standing, his jaw working a piece of chewing gum as he took in the awful scene.
“Jeezus sir! Look at this place. It’s always the same in hospitals.” Shales observed.
“Yeah Sarge, it is. Get the squads moving up and clearing the floors.” the Captain replied
“Yessir. Pavel! Menendez! Get your men and take the staircases. Eyes! Take a couple guys with you and see if you can find the generators. If we can establish light and power, it’ll make the clearing safer. Holland! Put that fucking blunt out! You can smoke on your own time, right now you’re on Uncle Sam’s. Let’s get our shit together people this shit is no joke.” Shales barked out as he marched off to coordinate the assault squads for the move into the clinic proper.
Shales took a squad himself and penetrated towards the back of the ground floor of the medical center which housed the ER. The scene in the corridors was chaotic. Beds lay toppled and overturned in the hallway. Bagged bodies were stacked up like cordwood along the walls of the corridor four layers deep. Blood was spattered and streaked on the walls. The squad came to a corner where a barricade had been erected and a short fight had taken place, several dismembered bodies were piled in the corner, torsos twitching and soft moans coming from the pile of dead flesh.
The doors to the ER loomed at the end of the hall and the men slowed down. Shales stepped forward and peered into the narrow windows of the ER doors and shuddered at the sight. There were at least a dozen zulus in sight just standing there in the darkness. Their heads tilted at the floor, giving them the appearance of being asleep on their feet. Some wore hospital gowns of patients, a few nurses and a doctor all stood in the room, undisturbed.
Shales motioned for quiet from the men and backed them down the corridor.
“What is it Sarge?” one of the men asked.
“Fucking shitload of Zekes just standing around in there. It’s pretty dark, I don’t know how many more I couldn’t see, but what I could see were alot.” Shales said and then thought for a minute.
“Okay, it’s damn dark in there so we’ll need light. Gimmie some road flares. Good. We’re gonna toss a coupla these through the door and then we’re going in. Check your angles of fire. No friendly fire incidents. Everybody covered up good? No exposed skin. Good. Lets do this.” and Shales moved back down the hallway and the men behind him stacked against the door. Shales lit three road flares then pushed open the swinging doors and tossed in the flares. The dead immediately woke up and began moaning and turning towards the door.
Shales, pulling two Barettas out and cocking the hammers back shoved open the door and went in blazing, the rest of the men following behind quickly. Shales lifted his left hand. BANG! Down went a corpse, then he raised his right. BANG! Another corpse disappeared. A shadowy form loomed out into the eerie red light of the flares towards Shales and the hideous, twisted face of a teenage boy, one eye hanging on a strand of tendon from a gaping eye socket presented itself. Shales used the butt of his pistol to strike the teen right between the eyes, shattering it’s nose with an audible snap and knocking it back. Shales then put his left hand pistol squarely on the teens forehead and pulled the trigger. The back of the teens head exploded outward and he dropped into a pile on the floor.
Other men fanned out into the room and just at that moment, the power kicked back on and the men were momentarily shocked and blinded by the sudden lights that shined into their faces. The zulus however had no reaction to the lights and the few moments of hesitation among the men was enough for several zulus to close the distance and take down a man.
The man screamed out as a huge chunk of flesh was torn from face as he was embraced by several zulus. He fell to the ground, the zulus on top trying to get even more delicious flesh while he struggled benath them. The other soldiers turned at the screams and fired taking the zulus in the head and one by one knocking them off the man, but the damage was done. The wounded man, wailing wildly “NO! NO! NO! NO!” flew through the swinging doors of the ER back towards the lobby covering his face with his hands. Gunshots rang out from the lobby as the men there realized what had happened to took the man out.
The battle continued for a few more brief moments, and then it was over. The men stood huffing and puffing over the scattered corpses. Smoke and dust hung in the air in a thick fog, the reek of gunpowder and rotten death as thick as the dust. Black, congealed slime was spattered on every surface. This place would definately require hardcore decon when this op was over Shales thought to himself and then moved his men forward through hand signals to clear the rest of the ER of any remaining stragglers.
* * *
On the second floor, Sgt. Pavel Levchenko lead his fire team out of the stairwell and into an elevator lobby. The entire floor was in the shape of a giant rectangle, the corridor forming the border of the rectangle, with patient rooms off to each side. The elevator lobby stood at the bottom of the rectangle at the end of a long corridor that ended at the nurse’s station. The smell of decay was so overpowering the men coughed and gagged for a moment. The occasional low groan from Zeke could be heard in the darkness ahead.
Levchenko prayed in his head in his native Russian. His parents and he had illegally immigrated to America in order to escape debts that Pavel’s father had accrued with the Russian mob. He joined up as part of a program to become a legalized citizen through military service. He had only had six months to go when the entire world went to hell. He had decided that staying in was the prudent choice of action considering everything else that was going on, and here he was leading a fire team into a horror house.
The five men creeped down the hallway carefully, tactical flash lights slowly panning back and forth, searching for targets. Motes of dust hung in the bright beams as they advanced down the hall, sphincters on full pucker mode. They came to the nurse’s station. Papers were scattered all over the floor and a thick layer of dust sat on every surface. Computer monitors and keyboards were smashed on the floor. Wide streaks and smears of blood were evident on everything, even spatter spots on the ceiling. Several dismembered skeletal remains were scattered behind the desk. Levchenko panned his taclight up and then spotted them.
There were several dead standing on the far side of the nurseâ€s station about fifteen feet away. They turned toward the light, their pale skin practically glowing in the taclights. Levchenko and his men took aim and popped rounds into them. Just as expected, a loud collective groan eminated from the entire floor as dead came slowly streaming out of the rooms and into the hall. There were a lot more on the floor then Levchenko had predicted. No matter, they had plenty of ammunition and space to trade. The men went to work, carefully popping rounds into the skulls of the dead as they came into view of their tactical lights, while slowly retreating backwards down the corridor and towards the elevator lobby..
The dead continued to drop as they came into view and Levchenko had the men hold up at the elevator lobby near the stairwell. The men were able to spread out a little and still fire down the corridor, taking the dead out. The bodies of the slain lumped up in the corridor, blocking those behind and the soldiers began to relax as the corridor became a carnival shooting gallery. Levchenko knew that it was only a matter of a few minutes before the men had the corridor clear and they could move on and finish mopping up the stragglers remaining on the floor.
Then Mr. Murphy of Murphyâ€s Law fame kicked Levchenkoâ€s squad in the nuts. Eyes was hard at work in the basement getting the emergency generators running and at that moment he chose to hit the on switch. The generators roared to life. The power on the second floor kicked on suddenly and the entire corridor lit up a bright, intense white. The elevators in the lobby dinged and three of them opened, spilling packs of undead into the lobby right on top of Levchenko’s fire team. The men were caught completely by surprise, spooked by the sudden flooding of light into their eyes. At least twenty zekes flooded out of the elevators where they had been packed in shoulder to shoulder. They spilled onto the men in a big pile up and pulled them down in moments, feeding on any exposed flesh they could find.
Levchenko turned and saw his entire team go down in moments, screaming wildly. He roared in anguish and fired an entire clip on full auto into the pack of writhing flesh but it did no good. A couple corpses reached out for him. He buttstroked one in the face with his rifle, breaking the stock. The Zeke fell backward into the pile of writhing necrotic flesh that was consuming his best friends. He dropped the broken weapon and drew a combat knife, thrusting it deep under the chin of the second creature as it grabbed hold of him. Its one eye rolled back into its head and it slid to the ground as Levchenko pulled his blade free. He looked for an escape route and found his way to the stairwell blocked by the crowd of feasting dead. So he turned and kicked one of the dead who was wearing a blood stained doctor’s coat square in the chest, knocking it back into one of the blood spattered elevators and then went in after it. He pinned the growling corpse against the back wall of the elevator by placing his left arm under its chin and forcing the thing’s head up. He swung his knife down, blade first and impaled it straight into the eye socket of the doctor, then wiggled it around in a circle.
The snarling doctor zeke continued to struggle for a moment before bone gave way with an audible crunch. Levchenko forced the blade deeper into the thing’s skull. A putrid smelling gurgle emanated from the throat of the corpse, and it slowly slumped to the floor of the elevator just as the door shut, leaving Levchenko closed off from the frantic screams of his men as they were consumed. He hit the bloodstained button on the elevator for the ground floor and to his relief the elevator began to move. He waited as it reached the first floor and dinged open. He found the muzzles of several rifles pointing at his face as the door opened, young grim faces behind them.
“HEY! HEY! Don’t shoot!” Pavel screamed. There was a moment of hesitation and then the men in the lobby lowered their weapons. Levchenko stepped into the lobby and then collapsed to the floor in tears, unleashing a torrent of grief stricken sobs at what he had just witnessed and barely escaped. The young men peered into the blood painted elevator and examined the corpse of the doctor leaning against the back wall of the elevator, a K-Bar handle sticking out of its eye socket.
“Jesus Christ..” one of them muttered to the other.
* * *
On the third floor, Sgt. Menendez was having a better time. The lights kicked on just as the men reached the door from the stairwell into the third floor lobby. Mendendez slowly cracked open the door and peeked in. The elevator doors were closed, a number two blinking on the digital floor displays of several of them. Mendendez could see the dead, excited by the lights suddenly kicking on, begining to wander around, staring at the ceiling fixtures.
Mendendez smiled and opened the door, the men went in and gunshots rang out, bodies dropped. The men continued forward, swiftly gunning down any corpse that came into view. After a few minutes, the floor was quiet, and the men went on and began clearing individual rooms. The rooms were filled with dismembered corpses, often still twitching or crawling about on mutilated limbs. The men carefully put each one down as they were encountered. Then moved on.
* * *
Captain Monroe stepped out of the lobby into the sunlight and away from the terrible stench. Gunfire could be heard popping off around the hospital as his men cleared the grounds. Eyes Malone came back from the basement reporting that the power was now back on. The Captain nodded and then looked out over the burned out main street. A small knot of zulus emerged from down the block and began stumbling towards the men standing guard in front of the hospital. Shouts went up followed by “I got em!” and single, well placed shots rang out, exploding the zulu skulls. The bodies dropped to the street. The Captain shook his head. How long can men do this without going insane?
He quickly found out when Levchenko came flying past him and put a fist squarely into Eyes’ jaw. He never saw it coming. The man’s Government Issue specs flew through the air along with a tooth as he went down hard on the street. Within a moment several men were grabbing Levchenko and holding him back while he screamed obscenities at the unconscious form of Eyes.
“Bastard killed my men! He…killed my.. men..” Levchenko sobbed as several men pulled him away still screaming threats. Monroe sighed and went after them to find out what in the hell just happened.
* * *
After questioning Levchenko, Monroe had him sent back to FOB Fraser. He had witnessed four of his best friends ripped apart and his psychological state was a big question mark. Either way, the sobbing, ranting Sergeant had done enough for one day. Monroe sent a squad from Pendlenton’s platoon up the stairs to finish clearing the second floor while Levchenko and a two man escort walked the five miles back to the FOB.
Eyes woke up a couple hours later. It was only a miracle that he didn’t have his jaw broken. He lost a tooth, and would be sore for a long time. But he’d survive. Monroe was enraged. He lost five men already dead and one to a section 8 for sure and they hadn’t even begun the clearing operation in earnest. This was just the warm up for when these men would have to go house by house. Once the houses were clear, they had to turn to the surrounding woodlands.
Using a grid pattern, the entire company would hike over 100 square miles of ground during the next several months, clearing out the zulus and making the area safe for resettlement. Monroe wasn’t very happy about the prospects of success.
Monroe stood, puffing on a cigarette and blew the gray smoke into the blue sky. What a fucked up world this is, he thought to himself. He grappled for some grand revelation, some meaning in all this death and terror. Unfortunately, he simply came up short. Monroe stubbed out the butt of his smoke and turned towards the hospital entrance. It was time to plan phase 2.
To Be Continued.
]]>Congratulations Justin! Lead them to victory.
-ed. Ryan
]]>
In those days, I loved office Halloween parties. Really. I’d dress up as every historical pirate, Black Sam Bellamy, Edward Teach with the cannon fuses twisted in his beard, Bart Roberts with the gold cross around his neck. I had more pirate costumes hanging in my closet than regular clothes.
And this party went well at first: people laughed, glasses clinked, music pounded from the boombox on the refreshment table.
Then a cape-wearing, plastic-fanged Bela Lugosi look-alike wrinkled up his nose and said: “There’s that smell.”
“What smell?” I asked through my fake beard.
But I knew what he was talking about. The call center had always had this odor about it, just strong enough to be noticeable. Some employees thought it was mildewed carpet, or maybe that something had died under the building.
One of the team leads, dressed as Scarlett O’Hara with a red dress and long black wig, ambled up to us, fanning herself with a Japanese fan. “I think it’s Elbert.”
Now Elbert was a man. That much, we knew. And it was all anyone could know by looking at him. He kept strictly to himself, always wearing sunglasses big enough to cover half his face, and a red knit cap pulled over his head. Once, when I stood beside him at the men’s room sink, I saw every visible inch of his face plastered with flesh-tone makeup. He was also the only one who wore long sleeves and gloves regardless of the temperature, and the gloves covered even his fingertips. That had to make typing difficult, especially if you’re doing it over and over for call after call, taking messages. His voice never got too loud, barely a murmur, as if he wanted to hide that, too.
I never knew much of his history except that, supposedly, he’d worked for the government on some kind of “chemical project.” I don’t need to tell you the name of it, because by now you’ve heard of it. Everyone has.
Operator-assisted text messaging was waning by this time, and the place had more cubicles than operators. Elbert always sat in a deserted area, with empty cubicles all around him. I walked past him sometimes, and he always cringed and huddled up like a turtle withdrawing into its shell. I’d never actually spoken to him, and I got the idea that if I tried, he’d bolt.
But now I, and Scarlett, and Bela, stiffened as the smell grew stronger. And a voice that had hardly ever risen above a whisper now crowed, “Hi everybody!”
And for no particular reason, something from The Phantom of the Opera sprang to mind.
It was a scene I’d read just that day. A costume ball like tonight, attended by the phantom. Every other time of the year he has to hide his deformity, the noseless death’s-head face that once got him a carnival job as “the living corpse.” But at a Halloween bash, with everyone in costume, he can come as he is, the one time he can emerge from his shell. Everyone would think his face was just a particularly grody mask…
People stopped talking. The place fell silent. Eyes opened wide. Scarlett dropped her fan, and her gloved hand flew to her mouth.
Slowly I turned around, knowing he’d left his sunglasses back wherever he lived, and pulled the cap off his head, and wiped away the makeup, and…
I looked.
And almost smashed the door down flying out of there. And never went back.
That did it for me as far as Halloween parties. It would be days before I even got my appetite back. Never again!
But it made no difference, of course. You know that. This was in the beginning.
Before long, the Elberts of the world…would be coming to all of us.
]]>“Zombies are practically by definition unintelligent. They’re human beings minus intelligence. People reduced to their appetites and passions.â€
“No. Not passions. They’re entirely devoid of passion. That’s part of why we’re so afraid of them. That and the fact that they want to eat our brains.â€
“This isn’t Plants vs. Zombies. The whole ‘brains’ thing is just a cheesy stereotype. They’re cannibals but they’ll probably take your arm just as happily as your frontal lobe.â€
The boys are huddled near a gabled window. One is an artist, dressed in a lovely pea-green coat. is a Stoic, wearing an old cardigan and a worn t-shirt. It’s dark and they can’t see anything down below, but the fine spray of pin-prick starlight is somehow comforting. Besides, the window gives the impression that they are gathering intelligence, that if something happened down there they might see.
“You’re deflecting attention away from my central point. They’re not just “human beings minus intelligence.†They are also human beings divorced from the capacity to love, to feel, to indulge in empathy, to appreciate the image of eternity in a wildflower. They are utterly indifferent to the works of van Gogh.â€
From the far side of the attic there is the sound of a trap door very quietly closing. The two fall silent, hardly breathing. A hunched figure picks its way across the cramped space. The artist readies his lighter next to a pile of kindling scavenged from around the attic. In the event that it becomes necessary, the house is old and dry. It’ll go up fast.
“Who says they’re indifferent to Starry Night? Whenever I see a throng a zombies standing around in the street they’re always just looking straight ahead, staring, not really doing or saying much of anything. Maybe they’re sunk in aesthetic contemplation.†A human voice, their brother’s. He reaches into the pocket of his black leather jacket and take out a pack of cigarettes.
The artist lowers his lighter and replies somewhat waspishly, “They are not. You can tell by the soulless expression on their faces. They’re not contemplating anything, just standing about waiting for prey.â€
The smoker lights his cigarette in a corner, far from the window. “Have you ever watched yourself draw? Half the time you’re looking off into space with an expression like a hollow turnip. Obviously if someone is contemplating the beauty of a landscape or the curve of a youthful thigh you can see that they’re engaging with their environment. But if they’re contemplating how the youth’s thigh is actually an expression of the beauty of the Laws of Athens and the cosmic splendor of the first cause, then they kind of look spaced out – not unlike a zombie. Maybe zombies are really the next stage in the evolution of humanity. Maybe they are actually more, and not less intelligent than us.â€
The Stoic looks pained. “That’s stupid. First of all, zombies are wholly irrational.
“Prove it.â€
“I don’t have to “prove it.†It’s obvious. You can’t reason with a zombie. You’d be crazy to try.â€
“Sure, but you’re collapsing rationality to the function of dialectic reasoning through the medium of human language which is clearly limited and reductionist. I mean, when a severely autistic kid is sitting there staring out into space and contemplating the mathematical relationships in a spider web the kid is certainly engaging in intelligent rational analysis, even though he exhibits a total incapacity for dialectic philosophy.â€
“Right…but now you’re drifting into Popper’s dolls territory. You’re suggesting that maybe zombies are rational even though they display absolutely no observable rational characteristics. Your argument is that their rationality cannot be engaged by another reason, which means that your thesis is unfalsifiable.â€
“Holy epistemological chauvinism Batman! Since when is your capacity to observe a phenomenon the sine qua non of its ontology? That’s like saying that because a mouse can’t read Plato, Plato isn’t intelligible. Obviously we can’t engage with them rationally, but that doesn’t mean they’re not engaging rationally with one another. I mean, look at how many of them there are. Usually this place would get like four visitors in a month, but there are dozens of them down there. They must be communicating somehow.â€
“You can’t deduce anything from the congregation of zombies around their prey. It’s like proposing that flies are telepathic because they congregate around roadkill.â€
“Flies can smell meat from 7 kilometers away. There’s no evidence that zombies can smell us, and it’s just as likely that their condition grants them some form of telepathy as that it grants them enhanced olfactory super-powers. We don’t know what they’re capable of, only that they’re capable of something that we’re not. Which means it’s perfectly possible that they are communicating.â€
“Even if they are, we can clearly observe that they are not engaging in rational or moral deliberation. Like that woman back at the diner. She attacked her own children without even thinking about it. No pause. No hesitation. She didn’t stop to consider whether it was a good course of action or not, she just did it.â€
“How do you know she didn’t deliberate?â€
“Because she acted immediately without stopping to consider and you could see from her expression that she was experiencing no internal conflict whatsoever.â€
“So moral deliberation exists only where there is evidence of a conflict between competing passions? Stop me if I’m wrong, but I would have assumed that for a Stoic the ideal form of moral deliberation would be dispassionate. That a soul in a state of perfect equilibrium would be able to quickly and decisively survey its moral options and move towards action without first having to engage in the kind of agonistic indecision that evidences itself through visible grimaces and white-knuckles.â€
“Right. But there’s a huge difference between immediately and dispassionately moving towards the good, and immediately and dispassionately doing evil. One is an expression of rationality, the other is bestial.â€
The smoker shrugs and takes a drag, “I think you’re taking a wholly vivicentric view of the situation. You’re assuming that being eaten and becoming a zombie is bad. But what would Epictetus say? It’s external. It’s beyond your control. You may think it’s bad, but that’s only your opinion. “
“The loss of my rational freedom and moral capacity would definitely be bad! That is rationally provable. All other misfortunes that could befall a man are only perceived to be evil, and can be appreciated as being in accord with nature. The loss of myself is the one thing that is truly intrinsically evil, and that cannot be construed to be otherwise.â€
“But your proof that zombies are irrational and amoral rests on the assumption that one must take as a first principle that “being alive is preferable to being undead.†Look at that zombie mother: maybe she was in a state of zombie ecstasy. Maybe the scales had fallen from her eyes, and she had just emerged from Plato’s cave and was stunned by the dazzling beauty of undeath. Maybe she was eager that her children should join her on the zombie plateau. From her point of view, she might have been saving them from the agonies and anxieties of earthly life and translating them into a state of perfect equilibrium and indifference. Maybe she knew that they would experience pain and suffering when her teeth ripped into their tender flesh, but she also knew that the suffering would be brief and the rewards great.â€
“That’s bullshit.†The artist toys with the lid of his lighter but doesn’t dare light it. He’s sure that they’re still gathered there in the yard, but so far they haven’t assailed the house. It’s not clear whether they’re waiting for something, or whether they’re confused. Either way, one flicker of firelight could be enough to goad them into action. “The whole reason that the undead are terrifying is that they are a perversion of immortality. They represent the perpetuation of corporeal existence in the absence of spiritual life. They are an image of Hell. They’re not on some sort of noble Manichean crusade to divest the living of the burdens of life.â€
“Prove it.â€
“No. You’re just being a dick. You don’t want to become one of them any more than we do.â€
“Maybe not, but I’m open to the possibility that my fears are irrational. I’m not just playing devil’s advocate. I’m trying to think this through. ‘Cause we know that if you burn them, they actually die, and we know that if you burn this house down we are going to actually die. So it’s not entirely an academic point.â€
“I think I’ll take my chances with the almighty, rather than take my chances with the undead.â€
“We’re not getting into the God argument again. I’ll be surprised if we’re still here in the morning, and I doubt we’re going to get that one cleared up by then. I think it would be more fruitful to at least consider the possibility that being undead is not conterminous with being brain-dead. Think about Omega Man for example. When the zombies are allowed to have dialogue, we’re able to see their thought processes – and their thought processes are not entirely unrelatable.â€
“You’re moving the goalpost,†the Stoic interrupts. “The “zombies†in Omega man are clearly still in possession of some rationality. They are capable of language, and organization, they have an ideology and they are not undead. But we’re talking about Romero style zombies. Cannibalistic corpses, not people with a weird disease.â€
The artist shakes his head. “How on earth do you know that?â€
“Well, I don’t exactly. But since you forgot to charge your phone, we don’t have internet access and I can’t Google it. I’m just going by what I’ve seen, and based on what I’ve seen this looks more like Dawn of the Dead and less like 28 Days Later.â€
“Forgive me if I’m showing my ignorance of obscure horror trivia, but wouldn’t it be true that if a zombie is categorically different from a diseased human being – that is, if it’s a difference of kind and not merely of condition – then strictly speaking it wouldn’t be cannibalism. Not that I want to support Juvenal, but it does seem that if they are actually “undead†that would involve a kind of indelible ontological transformation. Like, for example, that woman attacking her own children. It’s obviously horrific from the children’s’ point of view, but it’s only a moral atrocity if we suppose a continuation of personality. I mean, when a newborn baby turns and suckles at the breast it doesn’t stop to consider the moral implications of this action. It doesn’t contemplate whether it is hurting its mother. It probably isn’t conscious that the breast has any direct connection to the womb that it just vacated. It is hungry, and it eats. All of the zombies that we’ve seen are basically newborn zombies. They haven’t really had time to develop their faculties, to navigate their existential position within the universe, to develop a sense of identity.â€
“So you’re positing that a capacity for morality and rationality exists in those things, and that over time they will come to manifest more overtly human behaviors?â€
“Why more overtly human behaviors?†the smoker’s cigarette has gone out. Damned cheap manufacturing. “Does not the excellence of a horse consist in it behaving excellently as a horse? Does not the excellence of a man consist in his behaving fully as a man? Does not it then follow, slave, that the excellence of a zombie consists in its behaving not like a man, but like a zombie?â€
“Yes. But the question is whether zombies, as a species, possess intelligence, rationality, and moral capacities that would render them deserving of the same kind of moral consideration that we extend to human beings. If a zombie is basically just the host for a parasite that consumes human flesh and perpetuates itself by manipulating the nervous systems of its victims, yes, consuming human flesh and infecting people would be excellent after the kind of that particular parasite – but when we encounter a cancer or a virus that behaves excellently as a cancer or a virus we do not then conclude that it ought to be celebrated and valorized by human beings. Your original hypothesis was that zombies are an evolution of humanity, and not just a degradation.â€
“Right, but as a more evolved species we should not judge the success of the zombie individual in terms of whether it would be excellent if it were human. That was my point.â€
“But my point is that if zombies are in fact superior to man in a hierarchy of beings, then they would have to display superior characteristics.â€
He gets his cigarette relit. It tastes like ash. “Sure. Zombies are more efficient than human beings. They have more leisure. Their appetites are simple and unitary, leaving them free for unrestrained contemplation whenever they are not feasting on human flesh. They are indifferent and untroubled by their passions. They live in a society of perfect harmony. Zombies will attack other species, but they never engage in intra-species conflict. They are not troubled by externals. They have no worldly ambitions. They are unconcerned with culinary, sartorial or sexual pleasures. In fact, zombies are pretty much completely without vice. Even when they attack people there’s no malice in it. The zombie exists in a state of perfect interior freedom, it fulfills its needs simply without guilt, pride, shame or anger. Although a zombie may be subject to the corruption of its flesh, such corruption does not cause it pain or mortality. On the whole, I think that’s a pretty exhaustive demonstration of the superiority of zombie kind.â€
The artist presses his face towards the window. A sliver of moon has come out from behind the trees, and he’s pretty sure that he can see movement. “I think its a pretty exhaustive demonstration of the inadequacy of stoicism.â€
“Shhh.â€
The Stoic looks unimpressed. “Yeah, yeah. I got the joke. But the entire argument is premised on the assumption that there is something going on inside the zombie’s head. That we’re seeing the decayed external vessel of an elevated internal self. I don’t see any evidence to substantiate that claim. What I see is a rotten corpse that wants to rip me open and feast on my intestines. I see a being whose behavior is entirely driven by a monomaniacal appetite, a creature that is non-functional except when it is able to feed. I admit that there is a very small chance that its external behavior is deceptive, that it is actually engaged in lofty contemplation, and that its body has become an almost extraneous complication that it largely ignored. I also admit that it’s possible that zombies possess the capacity for rationality and that given time they will go on to develop language and culture. If those things are the case, then it is only my human opinion that it is bad to be a zombie. But I don’t think it’s likely.â€
There’s a sound downstairs, something twisting the doorknob. The smoker is barely stopping now to breathe in between puffs. He lights another cigarette off of the first one. For a moment the attic is illuminated. They’ve built up a very large pile of kindling, and a couple of gas cans are standing by ready to fuel the flames. There’s a sound of cracking wood below, and the scraping of a bookcase that had been barring the front door. “I don’t know if it’s likely or not, but the question is quickly ceasing to be academic.â€
]]>“Whatâ€s going on?†Mr. Perkins kept asking him.
“I told you I donâ€t know.â€
“Well, God damn it, get me out of here!â€
Mr. Perkins†demand went without reply as Clyde was too distracted by the hellish scenes occurring through the open doorways of the rooms that flew by.
In room 301, two nurses held down a helpless patient to his bed and snacked greedily on his arms and legs—the patientâ€s heart monitorâ€s releasing the endless whine of a flat line.
In room 302, a doctor slashed out widely with a scalpel at two approaching patients, blood running from their mouths from the already devoured nurse on the floor.
In room 303, all Clyde saw was blood.
“Oh, heavenly father, have mercy,†Mr. Perkins whispered. He clasped his hands in prayer as Clyde wheeled him down the body ridden hallways. A heavy sweat ran down Clydeâ€s forehead, resulting from a combination of physical excursion and fear. While Mr. Perkins frail body offered little weight resistance, the still wet blood and other bodily fluids under Clydeâ€s feet made pushing the wheelchair a considerable challenge.
Ka-thump.
           The right wheel rolled over yet another splayed limb.
“Careful!†Mr. Perkins shouted. “I almost fell out that time.â€
It had been several minutes since the old, crippled manâ€s incessant nagging began to rake across Clydeâ€s nerves. If it werenâ€t for the fact that Mr. Perkins†wheelchair was serving as an effective battering ram to clear his path, Clyde wouldâ€ve ditched the old man seven irritating comments ago. But when the steel chair slammed open yet another pair of heavy double doors, Clyde found himself unwilling to let go of the rubber gripped handles.
Once outside, Clyde planned to ditch the old paraplegic and peel out of the parking lot in the first unlocked car he found. He had no desire to hunt for a van with a wheelchair ramp, and carrying the handicapped codger was out of the question. The wheelchair had use. Mr. Perkins did not. Without it, he was merely deadweight, and Clyde had no intentions of being held down. The hospital didnâ€t pay him nearly enough to continue his job after the end of the world.
Fortunately, Clyde knew the front exit of the building was just beyond the upcoming set of double doors. His hands squeezing the chairâ€s handles like two constricting pythons, Clyde prepared for the final gauntlet that separated him from escape. He didnâ€t know exactly what the last obstacle would be, but it was safe to say they wouldnâ€t be able to simply saunter out the exit.
“Get ready, Mr. Perkins.â€
The old man said nothing back as the two slammed through the doors—
—And stopped dead in their tracks.
The situation was worse than Clyde had ever expected. The front doors were gone, completely blocked from view by a horde of the infected. Clyde stood frozen behind Mr. Perkins†chair, dumbfounded by the extremity of their position. The zombies, as Clyde had come to accept them as, faced the front door but couldnâ€t seem to find their way out. They shambled against one another, some stumbling into the walls, others bent over and munching on scattered pieces of flesh and viscera.
“Oh, God in heaven,†Mr. Perkins mumbled.
“Shut the hell up!†Clydeâ€s voice slid through his clenched teeth like a hissing cobra.
But Mr. Perkins ignored the order, clutching at his chest with a clawed hand. “Heart…canâ€t…take this.â€
Clydeâ€s eyes frantically scanned the lobby. To the left was another corridor, leading down to various examination and operating rooms. The front desk sat adjacent to the exit doors, where a nurse or office assistant usually sat and answered an incessantly ringing phone. Now, the chair sat empty, and a pale skinned armed stretched out from behind the corner of the desk.
No help there.
Clyde looked to his right. A short staircase sat against the wall, where it paused at a platform before winding around and continuing up. Though Clyde knew climbing upward would only lead him further into the overrun building, his eyes still lingered on the staircase. But it wasnâ€t the stairs that held his attention—it was the decapitated corpse lying face down on the middle platform.
The man was a police officer, or at least he had been until the moment he lost everything above his shoulders. Regardless of the chaotic circumstances, Clyde did not fail to note the irony of the officerâ€s thick bulletproof vest that had successfully protected his torso. But the vest was hardly of interest—it was what was in the dead manâ€s sprawled hand that snatched Clydeâ€s attention:
A Remington 870 pump shotgun.
When not giving the elderly sponge baths or pocketing the occasional bottle of prescription drugs, Clydeâ€s other interest was guns. He kept a Walther PPS in the glove box of his truck, but that of course was inconveniently tucked away on the other side of the employees†parking lot. More than once had he cursed the hospital for not allowing him to keep the weapon in his locker. The administration apparently figured Clyde would go on a shooting spree long before the zombie apocalypse.
But lucky for Clyde, there was no bureaucratic red tape that said an officer of the law couldnâ€t arm himself to the teeth. With that riot gun in hand, Clyde could blow his away right out the front door.
That is, if he could get to it.
Mr. Perkins twisted around in his chair and looked up with wide white eyes. Between two wheezy breaths he asked, “What are we going to do?â€
Clyde looked from the old man to the undead mob. The infected in the rear of the gathering had become aware of their living guests and were starting to turn around. The first began to shuffle towards them, soon followed by another and a third.
The time was now.
Clyde returned his gaze to Mr. Perkins.
And smiled.
“Meals on wheels.â€
Mr. Perkins gasped as Clyde shoved him forward as hard as he could.
Clyde didnâ€t wait to see the elderly man collide with the pack of flesh hungry corpses. But as he darted towards the stairs, he could hear everything—the tearing skin, the gushing blood…
The screams.
He took the stairs two at a time, reaching the copâ€s headless body in three quick steps. Snatching the shotgun up from the dead manâ€s curled fingers, he said a silent prayer as he took aim at his first lurching prey.
Please let there be ammo.
           His answer came with a deafening boom.
Even as their undead brethren ripped apart and exploded from Clydeâ€s unremitting onslaught, the infected continued to take mouthfuls from Mr. Perkins†neck and shoulders. The distraction was working even better than Clyde had anticipated. All his marks cared about was the free lunch delivered right into their lap.
Clyde pulled the trigger and pumped. Pulled the trigger and pumped. With the infected bent over Mr. Perkins, their heads were in direct line with the barrel of the shotgun, making them the easiest targets.
Still, it took three reloads to finish the job. Fortunately, the headless cop had stuffed his pockets with two full boxes of ammunition. Some of the dead would stagger toward him as Clyde injected more shells into the weapon, but they would never pass the foot of the stairs. By then they were already without their brains, courtesy of the shotgunâ€s lethal pepper.
In a matter of minutes, the lobby was clear. The only body not splayed across the floor was that of Mr. Perkins, still propped up in his chair. Blood ran down the old manâ€s neck and soaked the once light green hospital gown. Though his attention had been completely on disposing his enemies, Clyde had caught glances of Mr. Perkins under the scratching hands and tearing teeth. The man had made very few sounds after the first initial screams, only a fluid filled groan bubbling from his lips. Most of his painful death was spent twitching, violent seizures racking his entire body as his life slipped away.
Clyde stared at the half eaten patient. The feeling of the remorse was fleeting at best.
“Better you than me, old man.â€
The gruesome aftermath still holding his gaze, Clyde took a step over the headless policeman. He was still grinning at the success of his wheeled diversion when the floor under his foot rolled across the sole of his shoe.
His foot shot forward, propelled by something small and cylinder. Clyde darted his hands out to his sides, releasing the shotgun as he desperately reached for anything to support himself.
But there was nothing. Like a cartoon clown stepping on a banana peel, Clyde flew into the air, legs out in front and chest to the sky.
He was granted a full second of hang time before crashing back onto the stairs.
Somehow, most of his body was spared from the blunt stab of the jagged steps. His legs were still bent upward when he came down, and his curved spine saved the upper part of his back and shoulders. But the same could not be said for the base of his spinal column.
The entirety of Clydeâ€s body weight fell upon his lower back, the edge of the top stair centered exactly on the bone. A sharp, deep injection of pain punctured his muscles, shooting down his arms and legs. Clyde inhaled to cry out in agony.
Except—
The pain was gone.
What was so intense and excruciating had vanished as quickly as it arrived. There was nothing now. No ache, no throb, no burn—nothing.
The breath meant for a scream caught in his lungs.
From his waist down, Clyde could feel nothing.
Craning his head upwards, the orderly looked down to his sprawled, bent legs. He told his right ankle to rotate, his left knee to bend. Though he could still see his appendages, their nerves gave no sign they still resided within. Nothing short of telekinesis would ever move his legs again. The step forward onto the shotgun shell was the last order they would ever take.
Breath coming in short, sharp gasps, Clyde strained his arms to prop himself up on the staircase. His gaze danced around the lobby before him looking for any sort of movement. With the exception of one, all the bodies remained still. And the one beginning to spasm and lift its head was of no concern to the orderly.
Mr. Perkins.
The motion was so slight that Clydeâ€s eyes initially passed over the sitting corpse. But when the elderly man began to moan, Clyde knew he was no longer alone.
The pain filled groan brought with it an initial muscle clenching jolt of panic. The thought that he had somehow missed one of the undead squeezed his heart to a near stop. But when he realized who the moan belonged to, the remaining muscles that still worked instantly relaxed. Mr. Perkins had turned as quickly as any of those bitten before him, but the fact remained that his legs were as useless as Clydeâ€s.
Bound to that chair, Mr. Perkins presented zero threat.
“Sorry old man,†Clyde said to the ex-patient. “But I donâ€t see a wheel chair ramp. Guess you wonâ€t be eatin†today you stupid son of a—
Mr. Perkins stepped up from the chair.
While he crazily flailed for the shotgun, Clyde contemplated what he had just learned about the virus. In resuscitating the recently deceased, it somehow repaired nerve damage as well. If only it werenâ€t for that little cannibalistic side effect, modern medicine wouldâ€ve surely benefited from such a discovery.
Sweat pouring down his forehead in beads, Clydeâ€s fingertips just barely wrapped around the barrel of the shotgun and pulled it close. Pumping it one last time, he pointed it at the chest of the now walking Mr. Perkins.
“Hope you enjoyed your little stroll.â€
He pulled the trigger.
He pulled it again.
And a third time.
His soul shattered a little more with every click.
As Mr. Perkins stepped onto the first stair, Clyde closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Thanks to Mr. Perkins, it looked like heâ€d up and walking again in no time at all.
]]>
She put her head down again, staring into the ruck sack. “We’re out of food,” she meekly stated. Alex knew this; they had been traveling for quite some time now. More times than not they had to stay in the trees to avoid those creatures. It had been close to two weeks now and Alex and Beans had not even left the outskirts of the city yet. Every time they thought they caught a break some feral zombies would stumble along. Alex tried to fight them off once but they seemed near invincible, and were very strong for how decomposed their bodies were. Refusing to kill them and take whatever life they had now, Alex and Beans ran, and continued to run away from the dead. It was all they could do. Alex had apologized, apologized time and time again for not wanting to or being able to kill them. Beans had just looked at him and said “it’s okay, I can’t either.”
So the two had been running ever since, and they were tired. But now, with no food, they had to do something, and quick. “We’ve traveled down this river before, right?” Alex questioned. Beans, startled by the question, looked up at Alex with confusion.
“Yeah, we have,” she claimed after a short silence.
“Well I remember we went pretty far last time, much further than this, of course we had bikes back then. But I don’t remember it being much further down until we came to houses on the banks of the river. Maybe they’ll have some food, or even a place to stay.”
Beans looked towards the river and down the path they had been taking. She smiled, remembering that day that seemed like ages ago. Or had it been ages ago, she couldn’t recall ever since life flipped everything on top of its head. But she remembered it just as well. Retrieving confidence from somewhere deep down inside she turned back to Alex with a stern face and nodded. “No, it wasn’t too much further. I remember it too.” She smiled sweetly at Alex who returned the gesture. With no time to spare they set off underneath the forest canopy, truly not realizing the change of color in the leaves.
After a few hours of consistent walking they finally arrived to the houses they had once biked past. Ivy was rampant on the outer walls of the buildings, and some houses looked as though they had already been broken in to. Windows were smashed and outside furniture had been strewn all over the porches and back yards. Alex, knowing it could have also just as easily been years of neglect and the weather, moved on with a rock in his hand. The rock was smooth all around but large, which it needed to be due to the large size of Alex. Beans traveled close behind, clenching tightly to the straps of her ruck sack. Naturally, they turned to the white picket fence of the first house they came across. The paint was chipping off and the gate was leaning on its side, being held by only the bottom hinge. They both silently walked into the overgrown back yard.
Traveling up the wooden steps, letting their boots softly clomp on the old wood, Alex and Beans got ready for whatever was next. Beans went and placed her hand on the door knob, slowly turning until she couldn’t turn anymore. She pushed the door frame forward, making the hinges plead for oil as the entrance shifted open ever so slowly. The sun sent streaks of light in through the cobwebbed windows, illuminating the dust particles that danced in the air. The house looked immaculate, as if it hadn’t been touched, except by the dust and spiders of course. The only sign of outside contamination was from a small break in the window to the left, next to the light blue couch. There were some dried leaves that had made their way in but the break was too small for any person to have fit through. As Alex shifted his weight inside the door frame Beans followed, curious as to what the house held within. That’s when her eyes lit up.
“Food,” she whispered as she ran past Alex into the kitchen. Alex put his hand out as if to stop her but she was already traveling ahead of him, mind set on one goal. Letting the excitement of food get the best of him as well, he followed in suite. As her ruck sack bounced back and forth, she turned into the poorly lit kitchen and ran for the first cabinet. She went to reach for the handle as Alex opened up the fridge. She turned up her nose as she saw that there were only dishes behind the door, but that’s not what made her cringe. Turning behind her towards Alex she covered her nose as tears began to stream out of her slanted eyes. “Close it,” she ordered louder than she should have.
Alex did just that, returning the rancid stink back to the place of origin. The rotten meat and molded cheese was enough to send tears to his eyes as well, and he promised himself he’d never open another fridge up again. He was leaning on the door handle of the refrigerator, trying to grab some fresh air. He turned back to Beans, who still had her hands clamped down hard over her nose. “Oh come on,” he joked, “it wasn’t that bad.” They both smiled and laughed at the humor. It was good to know even in the face of death and decay they could still both laugh. However, as they abandoned their silent tactics, they truly did not know yet how deadly this new world could be.
Raiding the kitchen for everything and anything edible, they plopped down on the tile floor and popped the top off a can of corn, ravishingly eating the yellow delicacy within. After thirty seconds the inside of the can was empty, and Alex tossed the tin cylinder behind him. It clinked off the tile and he heard it roll away. As they went to open another can the sound of metal being crunched was heard. Shocked, the pair quickly turned behind them to see a horror they had recently forgotten about. His hair was still intact and the color was brown. His green jacket had been torn and his pants were stained with red hand prints. His jaw looked as though it was dislocated and his eyes, it was his eyes that gave him away. They were red.
The fresh zombie screeched at the two sitting on the tile floor and came in for a charge. He was fast, but Alex knew that he would be. He must have recently turned, and the U.S. Military had taught the survivors in Philadelphia the anatomy of zombies and how to tell when a person was no longer human. This man here hadn’t been a zombie for more than a few months by now, and the nimbleness of the creature sent fear shivering through his spine. Alex got up just in time to stop the monster’s attack, grabbing it by the shirt and picking him up. The zombie chomped at him as he did so. That’s when Beans screamed. Alex risked a quick view behind him to see that Beans was doing the same, fighting off an elderly lady. Alex quickly moved and threw the man into the refrigerator. With a thud the zombie landed into the door, leaving a large dent.
Alex then ran to Bean’s aid, but was relieved when she saw that she had beaten the woman to the ground, using one hand to hold the woman’s wrist behind her back and the other hand to hold the woman’s chomping head to the ground. The sound of windows shattering and the moans of infected let the two know they weren’t going to win this fight. Alex grabbed both ruck sacks as Beans jumped off the old woman. They went to leave, glancing behind to see the woman and man clumsily getting back up to their feet.
Rushing into what used to be the family room they realized how bad their situation truly was. The whole room was full of infected individuals, hissing and howling, desperate for a bite of human flesh. Alex looked to their only exit, the stairs, which were unfortunately blocked by a scrawny, poor looking zombie. It had been dead so long and decomposed so much that Alex couldn’t even tell if it had once been a boy or girl. Alex felt sorry for it as he charged the creature.
It gave a guttural growl as Alex shouldered into the zombie, knocking the infected down and sending him flying into the wooden railings. As the wood broke and the zombie tumbled a cloud of dust plumed from the wreckage. Up the carpeted stairs and down the hallway the living two now went, scrambling for an exit. They made a left into the bathroom and locked the door. As the pair caught their ragged breaths they had just enough time to stare into each otherâ€s eyes. The only thing they both saw was fear. The infected began to bang on the door, sending them both jumping and throwing them back into the nightmare they were currently living. With death quite literally at their doorstep Alex took the smooth rock he had put into his ruck sack and threw it into the window, sending glass shattering outwards. Bean moved to support the door while Alex wrapped a towel around his hand. He began to punch the remaining shards of glass and make a path through the window. Sticking his head out he saw only one way to go, the roof.
“We can climb onto the roof from here, that’s are only bet. That or a two story drop.”
“Anytime now,” Beans cried out. Alex turned to see the bathroom door itself was actually cracking. He quickly switched spots with Beans.
“Go, now!” Alex screamed.
“No, no, no!” Beans replied. “I’m not leaving you!”
“We don’t have time, I’ll be right behind you.” The door began to split even more. There were tears in her eyes.
“Promise?” Beans asked through a choked voice.
“Promise,” Alex replied, not fully knowing if that would be lie or not. She climbed through the window and onto the roof. Alex took a deep breath and let go of the door. He threw both ruck sacks up into Beans hands and began to wiggle through the window himself. Being much taller than Beans it was a challenge, but the sound of the door breaking was enough resolve to keep Alex moving. He climbed up onto the roof and was just nearly out of the window when something grabbed his foot. With brute force it tried to pull him back. Alex cried out and if Beans hadn’t jumped to his aid Alex would have been gone. Beans pulled with all her might and Alex kicked back and forth, struggling to get away from the inhuman grip of the dead. Before the creature lost his prey Alex felt a crushing pressure on his foot and knew what had just happened.
Rolling onto the rooftop Alex barely caught his breath before jumping up out of concern. “What’s wrong!?” Beans anxiously questioned, still sitting on the roof recovering from helping Alex.
“I was bit!” Alex cried. In this moment it felt as though all his emotions came together at once and flooded through him. Tears rolled down his cheek as in his head Alex apologized for any errors he had ever made in his short life and pleaded with a higher power over and over again. He looked down at his foot to see what the infected had done. There were teeth marks, that was for sure, but there was no blood. The zombie had bit down on his shoe, leaving marks on the brown rubber of his boots.
“Where were you bit!?” Beans cried out. “Oh god no! Talk to me. Where? Where!?” She was frantically sobbing now as Alexâ€s face turned a shade of red.
“It,” Alex started with but stopped, too embarrassed to continue. “It bit my shoe,” Alex claimed with his head down. Beans gave a perplexed look and then saw the bite marks in the rubber. She stomped over towards Alex and smacked him across the face. “You’re an idiot,” she claimed as she then held a kiss with him. Alex broke away from the warm embrace, looking down into Beanâ€s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. She hugged him and whispered, “It’s okay.”
“What do we do now?” Alex questioned.
“I don’t know,” Beans replied overwhelmed. They looked in all directions and saw nothing but other rooftops. They then looked over the side of the building to see a swarm of dead heads surging into the house. Alex looked out towards the river. There was no way they could jump into the water from here. They’d never even make it. Then, he saw the only opening they had.
“I got an idea, but you’re not going to like it.”
“I think anything’s better than this Alex,” Beans said with a snarky reply.
“See that tree?” Alex continued, ignoring her remark and pointing out towards the tree in the back yard.
“Okay,” Beans replied with. “Maybe I was wrong.”
Again Alex ignored her. “Well make a jump for it and grabbed one of the branches. There’s a rope connected to the one of the limbs. We both use the rope and swing ourselves into the river.”
“Yeah, okay I was honestly wrong. Maybe we can just stay here.”
For a third time Alex ignored her. “Weâ€ll let the river take us down until we think it’s safe. You ready?” Alex turned to see the terrified look on Bean’s face. “Come on, it will be fun.” Beans shook her head over and over again until Alex had already set her up for the run. The tree truly wasn’t far away, but the difficult part would be grabbing onto the branches. After an abate debate Beans finally realized this truly was their only way out. “I should slap you again,” Beans nervously laughed, trying to hide the fear on her face.
“You can when weâ€re both out of this mess,” Alex smiled back. She nodded her head and then ran into a full sprint. Right before the roof ended and turned into nothing but air Beans jumped and threw herself into the tree. She hit hard, shaking branches and sending red and yellow leaves falling to the ground, but she made it. Alex went right after, hurling his body through the air. He hit the trunk and reached for a branch. SNAP! The branch couldn’t support the force and broke free. Panic ran through him as Alex began to reaching for anything he could grab onto. He flailed his arms as he went tumbling down to the ground. What felt like a lifetime went by before he got hold of a branch with both hands. Climbing back up he realized his palms were scrapped and cut open, but that didn’t worry him now. He bit the inside of his cheek as he climbed back up to Beans, ignoring the pain. The sound had attracted unwanted attention.
By the time Alex had gotten back up to Beans the unwanted visitors had surrounded the tree, biting up into the autumn air, wanting nothing more than the prey that hid in the oak. Beans already had the rope untied from the branch and held it out for Alex. “You ready,” she asked softly, terrified of so many things at once. Alex meekly nodded his head, fearful of everything as well. They grabbed the rope together and counted aloud. “3, 2, 1,…” and they were off. The cool air made their faces numb as they soared over land and zombie alike. They let go while mid air over the body of water and came down forcefully with a splash. The rocks on the river bed gnashed and scraped at the two as they rolled with the current. The river was cold, much colder than Alex had anticipated, and both he and Beans raced to the surface of the water. Big gulps of air were taken as the current took them down stream, away from the dead on the banks of the shore.
]]>It has to, right? I mean, thereâ€s no denying it.
Thatâ€s the only thought running through my head as I watch it fumble with the door handle with all the dexterity and grace of a mop. I should be screaming for my life, but I am just so shocked that I am still alive, at least for now, that I canâ€t help marveling at its incredible inefficiency. Its stiff, lumbering limbs. All it wants to do is eat me. And all thatâ€s standing in its way is a single turn of the key I left dangling from the door of this hatchback in my desperate struggle to get inside alive.
Dying made this thing stupid, no doubt about that. So what does that make me?
I look through the dirty glass at the key fob dangling there rhythmically like a hula skirt-wearing hood ornament. A blunder like that and maybe I deserve to die. Its hands accidentally bump the key ring every few seconds to keep the rhythm going. On the upswing, whatâ€s left of its fingers smear the driverâ€s window with a brownish grease that makes me want to puke.
Brandon said you get used to it after a while, but I havenâ€t. How do you get used to watching walking corpses wander the streets and eat the living? Brandon, he just called them the Dead, never the creative type. I wonder if he became one of them, after–
I think its eyes see me for a moment, I mean actually look at me, but no. They more look through me and I look away. Thereâ€s not much going on behind those eyes except the virus rampaging through that brain, commandeering decaying bones and tendons and muscles against their will like the mad captain of a sinking ship. Making it move and reach and bite, to find fuel to keep going, all so it can spread. The virus has no consciousness to reason with, to tell it we can all just get along. It isnâ€t evil, though maybe its existence has created more of that. Itâ€s just hungry. Kill or be killed. Itâ€s only doing what it needs to do to survive. Just like us.
Its rotting vocal chords vibrate and a low unnatural moan comes out, the sound muffled through the glass. Itâ€s a sad, despairing sound. Reminds me of a child pouting over what he canâ€t reach on the top shelf. Sounds, almost, like itâ€s asking for help. I start something like a moan myself, anything I can do to block out the sound. It elevates to a scream and I rap my palms on the steering wheel. Trapped. I try to catch my breath, quiet myself down. Donâ€t want to attract any more of them. What do I do?
I canâ€t start the car. Canâ€t even turn the radio on, not that any music plays anymore. But I would settle for a hiss of static that could drown out the moaning and the brittle fingernails trundling slow along the window like dying beetles. I canâ€t just stay in the car. Thereâ€s no gun, no food or water in here. And before long, more of them will gather like vultures. Before long they will get in, except this time itâ€s the carrion doing the eating.
I could just go out the passenger door, and run. I could outrun this one, thatâ€s never the issue. But then I would be out there, with no gun or supplies where those things roam the streets like blown litter. I could try for the keys. Stupid, sure. But stupid got me in this situation, so no sense changing the game plan now. But the delay has only made the thing more persistent, more eager. The second the door opens or my fingers peek over the rolled down window, itâ€ll be on me. And thereâ€s no plan B from there.
My options range from bad to terrible to certain death, and Iâ€m hopelessly indecisive about what kind of toothpaste I should buy. White teeth, or no cavities? I mean, how do you choose? I would give anything for mundane. For the old world, but it seems weâ€re stuck with the new.
I look back to the key ring, still swaying there, mocking us both. Itâ€s just two keys – the one to the car stuck in the door, and one to our house that I donâ€t know why I keep – and a single ridiculous ornament. The two inch rubber bass is an ugly, silly thing. But it was a gift from Paige after the sixteen pound largemouth I snagged two summers ago.
Has it only been that long since the world went to hell? Seems like a lifetime.
I hope sheâ€s safe. With the others. She wonâ€t get a phone call from the cops. I just wonâ€t come back. Thatâ€s how sheâ€ll know. Sheâ€ll have to accept it and move on and keep going. Like we talked about. Whatever it takes to survive.
Whatever it takes.
I look back at the fish through the smeared glass. I exhale and rest my forehead on the steering wheel. Think. All I can think of is the stupid fish, the largemouth tugging for its life and me yanking the rod back. The bass had been after a meal, but nibbled a shiny gold lure instead. I wonder if itâ€s still sitting in the garage, ever-watchful guardian of the tool bench.
A scream cuts through the air. A child, a little girl, not far away. I raise my head and sheâ€s standing in the grass just past the parking lot. Confused, scared, alone. Sheâ€s holding onto something, dragging it behind her. A leather coat maybe.
I watch the girl as she wipes her dirty face and turns in circles, dreamlike. Itâ€s so rare to see children anymore, alive anyway. I just stare at her, forgetting where I am. I almost donâ€t notice it stop scratching at my window. I hear its feet shuffle along the blacktop, dragging like sandpaper. Away from me.
The keys dangle from the lock, the plastic bass smiling. I almost laugh. All I can think is that Iâ€m alive. I pop the window down and grab the keys. Iâ€m so happy that I donâ€t mind the fleshy residue that sticks to my fingers like glue. I was the meal, but the Dead was diverted to the bait instead, just like the bass. I try to block out the screaming girl as it comes for her. Try to tell myself the world is different now.
Heroes donâ€t survive, not anymore.
Paige needs me. We can build a life again, after we find a safe place. If I was on my own, then maybe things would be different, but I have to think about her. Whatever it takes.
My hands are shaking when I force the key into the ignition. Force my eyes to stay below the windshield and its view of the terrible price being paid so I can survive. Whatever it takes.
I turn the key.
Click.
Nothing.
Click. Click.
The battery light blinks on the display. No, no. This isnâ€t happening.
I bang my forehead into the steering wheel. Ball my fists and scream.
The girlâ€s screams have faded to quiet sobs. I watch it ambling onto the grass toward her, still making its determined slow and very unsteady course to its next meal. The meal that was supposed to be me.
“Run!†I whisper. “Run!†Why arenâ€t you running? Why are you just standing there?
Now that Iâ€m looking at her I see that sheâ€s no more than four years old. She is frozen in fear. I canâ€t imagine what itâ€s doing to her, just watching that thing walking toward her with outstretched arms. She doesnâ€t understand whatâ€s happening. How could she? She just stands there with the bloodied leather coat balled up against her chest, waiting.
I snatch the keys out of the ignition, kick the door open. I stumble out and I can smell the decay hanging in the air like a cloud. I cough, lurch forward, force down the urge. He, it, is close to her now, and it knows it. Its moans are eager now like a tormented dog seeing a meal for the first time in days. I donâ€t know what to do, so I reach back in the car and push the horn. The sound blares through the empty lot and echoes over the whole town like a siren. Iâ€ve just broken Brandonâ€s number one rule for surviving the new world: Stay quiet. Heâ€d kill me himself if he were still around.
It stops cold then at the sudden noise, with the girl just out of armâ€s reach. I reach in again and push down hard, letting the horn blare for five whole seconds. Now Iâ€ve rung the dinner bell for every corpse in the neighborhood, but I donâ€t care. It worked.
It turns then, slowly, all the way around. And sees me. This time, it really is looking at me. Right in the eye.
Thatâ€s the first time I really see it. My hands close over my mouth.
The tattered AC/DC T-shirt that clings in patches to the thingâ€s gray flesh. The gold chain that glitters intact and out of place around its wiry neck.
I just stand there dumbly, frozen in place like a wax figure reject. Itâ€s Brandon. My friend Brandon…
The fingernails scraping the window should have clued me in. Brandon started growing them long after a few close calls. Looked crazy but he didnâ€t care. Said it was just one more line of defense. You run out of ammo and drop your knife, might as well have a backup-backup. He was a survivor, Iâ€ll give him that. Was.
Heroes donâ€t survive. I learned that from you, Brandon. Youâ€re living proof.
Whatâ€s the use? You stick your neck out for somebody, you get bit, you become one of them, then you end up killing and eating who knows how many. All to save one. The rules have changed. But that doesnâ€t make it any easier to walk away.
I slam the car door. Brandonâ€s still watching me. Tilts his head a little like a dog hearing a whistle. Does he recognize me? Some part of him still hanging on? Does he know itâ€s me, his old friend, the one he stuck his neck out for? No, Brandonâ€s dead. I watched it happen. Right after he clawed us a path through the mob. We got to safety and turned to see he was still out there in the middle of it. I covered Paigeâ€s eyes with my hand.
The girl looks up at me, peeking around Brandon.
“Brandon,†I say aloud and I donâ€t know why. For now at least, sheâ€s safe. Brandonâ€s corpse has its dead eyes set on a bigger meal. Iâ€m the bait now. If only I hadnâ€t dropped the gun running out of the gas station. My bare hands are useless weapons, I need something, anything. I turn and grab the keys from the door. The house key glitters gold in my hand. Short, but effective with enough force. Itâ€s got to reach the brain to do any good, and that means getting close. Intimate. Brandon takes wide swaying steps in my direction.
“Whatâ€s your name, sweetheart?†I say, eyes locked on Brandon.
Nothing.
“Whatâ€s your name?â€
“Alice,†she says.
“Alice, okay. Alice, honey, I need you to run now. The big movie theater at the end of the street with the pink sign. Thereâ€s a door with white paint on it. Knock four times, okay? Theyâ€ll keep you safe there. Understand?â€
She frowns, wrings an edge of the coat between her fingers. Nods.
“Okay, go now. Go!â€
The girl turns and starts away, exits my line of vision. Good. With her far away, Iâ€ll have no trouble outrunning Brandon. No need to get close. I know he would have wanted me to put him out of his misery. Maybe if I had a gun. Iâ€ll come back later, buddy. I promise.
Alice screams. She had run, but not far and I see why. It must have been the car horn. They are everywhere. Swarming on the park from every direction like moths flooding to the last light in town. Sheâ€ll never make it. Not alone.
I turn back and Brandon is already reaching for Alice again after the scream. His arms wobble out in front of him like a man doing a slo-mo run to his loverâ€s embrace on a stretch of empty beach.
I run at Brandon as fast as I can. Fingers clench white-knuckled on the keys. Itâ€s either this or the little girl is eaten alive. All I can think about. For that moment, all that matters.
I had hoped to take him from behind, but at the last second Brandon turns and I fall on top of him. I can feel bones crunching, cracking beneath me, but he doesnâ€t notice. Heâ€s swinging his arms in stiff circles. I straddle the cold corpse of my friend and with one hand try to brush away his slowly flailing arms, and bring the key down to his face with the other.
Brandon is moaning now, not because he knows whatâ€s happening but simply because he is hungry. His mouth opens and closes like a baby bird and keeps doing it as the key pierces his eye. I force his arms away and stand. Center the key beneath the heel of my boot. Stomp down as hard as I can, driving it in the rest of the way like a tent peg and his arms drop, still.
Then Iâ€m moving again. The others are getting closer, closing in all around us. Alice is standing there, waiting. I turn to grab the girl, but remember the key ring and bend down to retrieve it, in case I need it again. I tug and the rubber fish breaks away from the chain. The rest is stuck in Brandonâ€s head and thereâ€s no time. Thereâ€s time just enough for me to register the blood running down my arms.
Claw marks.
No. No. But my eyes donâ€t lie. The virus is already in my bloodstream. So thatâ€s it then. Brandonâ€s two final acts were saving me and killing me. I guess now weâ€re even.
Aliceâ€s scream snaps me back into the moment and one of them is almost on top of her. I grab her arm and yank her up into my own as it reaches for her. She drops the coat and screams again and again for me to go back for it, but I donâ€t.
Then weâ€re running through the park. The grass is emerald green and the yellow leaves flicker in the trees above our heads. My feet are just moving as if independent of my control. Blind instinct. Survival, but not my own. Arms reach out and just miss us. Around the next tree there is a mass of them, arms reaching, so we turn.
Then weâ€re in the street and the running is easier. I can see the old pink theater marquee looming over the tops of the burned out storefronts in town. I donâ€t know how much time I have, before… before I become one of them. I have to get her to safety before then.
My vision starts to blur, in and out. My head feels fuzzy, like Iâ€m underwater, seeing the newly sunken world through a murky porthole. I stumble, my feet like rubber. I stop, focus. Keep going. Not much farther. Alice is silent in my arms. I wonder if she knows. I hope she doesnâ€t remember any of this.
I lean against an overflowing mail drop box to keep from falling, mounds of forgotten letters spilling out onto the sidewalk. I breathe in. Out. The world is fading, full of shadows. The girl grows heavy but weâ€re getting closer.
“Almost there, sweetheart,†I hear myself saying. “Donâ€t look at them.â€
We round the building, and Iâ€m relieved the alley is empty. I carry her the last steps to the door splattered with white paint. I set her down on her feet in front of the door. Breathe in. Out.
I raise my fist and rap against the metal door one, two, three, four times. I think. I hope it was four.
“Stay here,†I tell her.
Then I turn to go, and stop. I look down at the rubber fish in my bloody hand. I drop it to the ground in front of the door next to Alice.
I love you, Paige. Iâ€m sorry I didnâ€t come back. I wanted to.
And then Iâ€m running again, my shoes smacking the cement unevenly and the world going black. Iâ€m running away from the theater and the people inside, as fast and as far as I can.
]]>The two women, mother and daughter, exchanged a look. “We’re very traditional people,†the mother, Elizabeth Reed, said. “I think we’ll just go with a burial.â€
I nodded. “I understand,†I said, keeping my voice soft and even, trying not to show how desperately I needed this to work out. The rising of the dead had not been easy on my business. After the cemeteries had opened, sending the dead staggering out onto our grounds, destroying the property, most of the family had left. Once, we’d been Walters, Gambol, and Sons. Now, it was just me, Rebecca Gambol, not even one of the sons. It figured.
“I understand,†I continued, “but I have to tell you a little about the burial ceremonies before we proceed. Now, I don’t mean to be insensitive, but you should know the truth.â€
I stood. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you what I mean.â€
Elizabeth and her daughter, an attractive but vacant eyed girl in her late teens, followed me into the showroom. I crossed the room to one of the coffins, a heavy stainless steel model, and opened it. Elizabeth gasped, and her daughter had to steady her. I felt a bit guilty about my theatrics, but I had to make a point.
“What is that?†she asked.
“This is a standard, government-sanctioned burial unit.†I tugged on the chains inside of the coffin. They clinked loudly. “These restraints are titanium,†I explained. “A bit more than is needed, the dead aren’t that strong, but the government is very serious about burial safety.â€
I was bluffing a bit. Actually, close-fitting leather restraints, not unlike an old-fashioned strait-jacket, or coffins fitted with a special lock were viable alternatives, but the chains and cuffs were showier.
Elizabeth was beginning to weep, leaning heavily on her daughter, and I knew that my exhibition had worked. “Come,†I said gently. “Let’s go back and sit down.â€
We returned to my office. Elizabeth sat heavily in one of the overstuffed chairs, and I handed her a box of tissues. I waited in silence while Elizabeth regained her composure.
“I’m sorry I had to show you that,†I said. “â€But I need you to understand that burial isn’t the most humane option these days.â€
She shook her head. “How long does it take for them to…†she trailed off.
“About a month,†I said. “They pass in about a month.â€
“They starve, you mean. They starve, strapped into a cold, dark metal box, all alone.†She began to cry again. “I don’t think I can take that.â€
I laid a hand on her arm. “I know, Mrs. Reed. Your husband deserves better than that. That’s why there are alternatives.â€
“But I don’t believe in cremation,†she said.
“Nor do I.†Well, my father hadn’t, at least, and hadn’t ever installed a crematorium, which had forced me out of business for the months when the army had been enforcing cremations. Only in the last few weeks had I been able to reopen the funeral home, and even now I had to be creative to stay in business. “Which is why we now offer reawakenings for your loved ones.â€
“I’ve heard of those,†she said. “Aren’t they dangerous?â€
“It’s perfectly safe if done right. Your husband will be partially embalmed and heavily sedated, which will keep him docile. We can repair all the damage from the accident. And with regular re-embalming sessions he should remain relatively fresh.â€
She was nodding, now, and I continued. “And it’s a beautiful ceremony. So much more hopeful than a burial or cremation. Your husband will be returning to your lives instead of leaving you.â€
She looked at her daughter again, and the girl nodded. I wondered a little if she could speak. “Yes,†Elizabeth said. “That sounds lovely. How much more is it?â€
I began to arrange the paperwork, handing her a pen. “It’s affordable,†I said. “There are some additional costs like safe housing, sedatives treatments , and re-embalming fees. You have to remember that reawakening is a long term investment. But we have payment plans and I know that it’ll be worth it to have your husband back. If you’ll just sign here…â€
Elizabeth’s hesitated, pen poised just above the paper. “I don’t know,†she began.
“Do keep in mind,†I said, “that they’re working on a cure for the virus. There’s still a chance that the dead can be completely restored. If they do, won’t you be happy you’re husband has been maintained?â€
That did it. She signed and pushed the papers back towards me. “Okay Ms. Gambol, we’re in your hands.â€
A loud groan came suddenly from the back room, followed by a crash and a muffled curse. Elizabeth jumped a little at the noise.
“One of my assistants must have knocked something over,†I said, forcing a smile. I stood and gently began to usher her and her daughter outside. “I promise that we’ll take good care of your family. I’ll be in contact soon to work out the details of the ceremony.â€
As soon as they were gone, I rushed to the back room. Mr. Reed was strapped to a gurney, his face still mangled from the car crash, bits of glass protruding from his cheeks and forehead. He began to thrash when I entered the room. Steven, the last of my cousins to stay in the business, was sitting on the floor beside the gurney, holding a blood-soaked towel to his face.
He waved his hand dismissively at my look of concern. “Nose,” he said in a muffled voice. “He kicked me when I was securing him. Strong, that one. The sedative should kick in soon, though.â€
“You should be more careful,†I rebuked him, “at least when we have patrons.â€
I began to prepare my tools as the dead man slowly stopped thrashing and slouched back into the gurneyâ€s harnesses.
“So you really think this will work?†Steven asked.
I smiled and began to pick glass from Mr. Reed’s face. “I do. I think we might just be back in business.â€
Author’s Bio:
Robb Walker is a writer of speculative fiction and poetry. His works have appeared in a number of publications including Niteblade, MicroHorror, and Every Day Poets.
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