“Firebugs! Light these fuckers up from the trees. Gunners! Keep those infected bastards off them!” she shouts, taking down another zombie. “And pay attention to the crawlers. Don’t let them get any closer!”
The line of firing soldiers had tightened dramatically since the shooting had started, what felt like hours ago but had been only seconds. The men carrying the flamethrowers shoulder their way between the others, their thick, blue pilot flames licking at the air. They aim over the heads of the closest zombies and let loose streams of burning hell into the air. The flaming jets of thick gel scorch flesh and burn hair as they pass over the front wave and cover the ones following and the trees behind them. The gunners by their sides continue to shoot at the running zombies, increasing the precious few meters separating them from the infected. As the flames grow behind them. The flow of creatures suddenly slows to a few burning zombies emerging through the conflagration. The firebugs continue to spray in sweeping arcs of splashing fire, setting the surrounding trees and brush ablaze. Smoke begins to choke the air as the fire’s intensity increases. And still, a few staggering zombies push through the flames to get at them. They come stumbling out with their clothes and skin burning. They claw at the flames trying to engulf them as they keep moving forward.
Blackened skin peels away and sluffs off to the ground, exposing the cooking meat it once covered. The air becomes thick with the cloying smell of charring flesh. The ones that don’t succumb to the intensifying heat and flames are riddled with bullets. After that, they all seem to try and crawl off to the edges of the battlefield before the flames can consume them. Most of the bodies not on fire continue to claw and drag themselves closer to the soldiers. Brooks doesn’t see them as an immediate threat but knows they can’t be ignored. The way the flames are spreading, she’ll probably decide to let them cook as they withdraw into the grass.
“They’re spreading it!” Nichols shouts to Brooks.
The major replies with a look that tells him she doesn’t understand what he’s saying.
“The ones on fire!” he continues. “They’re spreading the fire around us! We need to get the fuck out of here before we’re trapped!”
“Hold the flamethrowers,” she orders as she coughs from the smoke. “Cease fire, check your mags and prepare to fall back to the MTV on my order!”
An audible wave of metallic clicks passes up and down the line as the soldiers check and replace magazines. Brooks pulls hers and sees there are three rounds left. Tucking it into the pocket she’d drawn it from in her tactical vest, she grabs one of her two remaining full mags and slams it into place. She’d be more concerned about her ammo being half gone, knowing she’d probably conserved more of her rounds than the other soldiers, but it appears the majority of the fire-fight was over and now it’s time to pick off the stragglers and let the growing inferno do the rest of the work. Reaching down to her feet, Brooks wraps her fingers around the empty she’d ejected in a hurry and slides it into another of the empty pockets.
“Major Brooks, come in,” Patel says through the com device.
“What is it Corporal?” she replies.
“Yeah. I’m sitting here in the truck, watching in the rearview mirrors and having a smoke while I wait for your orders,” he says.
“Get to the point!” Brooks snaps.
“There’s an awful lot of movement in the grass,” he answers, letting the words hang there without further explanation.
“Describe an awful lot,” she says, pressing a finger to the earpiece to not miss any of Patel’s next words.
“It started the moment you ordered the flamethrowers up. Like they were waiting for it or something. Anyway… I can’t see any of them, but it looks like it might be a lot.”
“Damn it,” she hisses, turning to look at the fog covered grass to their backs.
The rest of the soldiers hear the report and turn to follow their major’s gaze. The grass is obscured in the gathering mist and drifting smoke, but they can all see a churning wave of movement coming their direction. The line spreads out past the ends of their position, flanking them on both sides.
Brooks considers ordering the flamethrowers to light the grass and burn a hole right up the middle, knowing it’ll go up like a sea of matches, but quickly rejects the idea. With the inferno already raging to her back, setting the grass aflame would only result in cooking every one of them as the separated fires become one.
Switching his mic off VOX, Nichols leans closer and whispers to Brooks, “Like they were waiting for it. The motherfuckers knew what we’d do!”
“Later!” she barks. “Patel! Get Captain Walker and the rest of the squads down here. We’re about to get overrun!”
“They won’t make it down here in time!” the corporal replies.
“Don’t argue with me unless you have a better idea!” she shouts, knowing Patel has accurately assessed the situation. The infected sons of bitches had set a different trap for them. They’d adapted their strategy and she’d walked herself, and her men, right into it. Now, they were about to be proper fucked.
“Hold on, Major. I’ve got an idea!” Patel answers as a thick cloud of black smoke billows from the exhaust stacks of the MTV.
“Whatever you’re going to do, you’d better make it fast,” Brooks says, fighting to keep the panic from her words.
The line of churning grass hiding the horde draws closer and they can all feel the heat from the forest fire they’d started at their backs. Brooks and her soldiers begin firing blindly into the grass, trying to slow the tide of rapidly creeping infected. For every bullet they fire that finds a target, five others thud impotently into the dirt. Another cloud of smoke billows from the MTV and the grinding gears can be heard over the suppressed gunfire as it begins to roll. Within seconds, Brooks is swapping in her final mag for the M4 and releasing the bolt catch. Some of the soldiers have already exhausted their 5.56 ammo and are now relying on their sidearms. She keeps firing into the grass as the undergrowth directly behind them blackens and begins to smoke. Halfway through her remaining hollow-points, she knows she’ll be relying on her sidearm soon enough. She hopes the soldiers who’d failed to conserve their ammo from the beginning, weren’t down to using their Ka-Bars and sharp sticks by then.
Less than ten yards from where she’s standing, the first of the crawling horde emerges from the grass. They spring out like runners sprinting from starting blocks as the horn form the MVT blares. Bullets slam into the zombies from multiple directions, causing them to jolt and dance like they were being hit with an electric current. The ones behind them crash into the leaders, forcing a momentary roadblock as the infected riddled with holes begin dropping to the ground. Brooks’ bolt locks open again. She drops it, not bothering to release the empty magazine and lets it hang from the sling as she pulls her M9 from its holster and thumbs the safety off. In her peripheral vision, she sees Nichols take a step back from the surging horde and she assumes he’s weighing the flames over being eaten alive. A hand grabs her by the strap on the shoulder of her vest and yanks, pulling her back from the path of the MTV, reversing toward them at full speed.
While they’d been making their final stand between the building conflagration and the surging horde, Patel was following through with his idea. Instead of radioing for reinforcements, he’d remembered how they’d plowed over the earlier zombies in the road. Patel figured there was no reason why that wouldn’t work in the grass as well as the pavement. So, he’d swung the diesel behemoth across the lanes and meridian in reverse, because he didn’t think he had time to get it turned around before the major and the squads became hot meals for the infected masses. He’d lined up the leading edge of the surging mass in his mirrors and ran them down, drawing a wide line of bloody salvation between the infected and his fellow soldiers. Skulls smashed and splintered as they slammed against the heavy, metal tailgate. Bones snapped, and organs burst as bodies were churned under the sets of dual tires. Black gouts of blood erupted like geyse
rs from the wheels as feted organs jet from every orifice. Patel stomps the air-assisted brakes, smearing the bodies beneath the tires and causing the MTV to slide a few feet from a combination of slickened grass and momentum.
“Need a lift, Major?” Patel asks, looking down at his commanding officer from the driver’s seat.
“I need gunners with enough ammo to cover us at the back of this rig. The rest of you, pile into the back, double time!” Brooks orders her men, ignoring the smug comment Patel had earned. But they weren’t out of this yet. The zombie fuckers had outsmarted her once and she’d be damned if they caught her unprepared again. Eight soldiers who’d been smart and accurate enough to each have two full magazines left, positioned themselves at the rear of the MTV while the others loaded in.
“Move over,” she tells Patel as she jerks open his door. “Get in, Nichols. I’m driving,” she orders. Patel slides over and the sergeant slides into the middle seat as Brooks gets in behind the wheel.
“We’re almost out of here, men,” she says into her throat mic. “When we start rolling, I want a couple flamethrowers hitting the grass behind us. I wanna see those zombie fucks roasting in my mirrors as we plow them under. Understood?”
Her orders are answered with a few enthusiastic hooahs and some other expressions of relief, each man knowing how close they’d just come to their respective ends. But none of them had gotten so much as a scratch on this ill-planned extermination run.
As Major Carolyn Brooks steers out of the grass and onto the pavement, she admires the growing flames in her mirrors as the burning bodies of the infected horde writhe and twist in the fiery grass.
Chapter Four
“The door’s open, sweetie, but watch your step!” Lynn shouts before Ben has a chance to knock.
Leaning close to the door to avoid having to shout, he replies, “Can you open the door?”
Zack turns the handle and pulls the door open, taking a step to the side. Ben exhales a sigh of relief and starts inside. He’s carrying a duffle bag in each hand, the one in his right is stuffed so full it looks like a couch pillow. The one in his left appears much heavier than its twin, and not nearly as full. Based on the edges pushing from the inside of the thick fabric, the contents appear to be boxes of something. They’re collected at both ends of the large bag and hang unevenly from the handle at the middle. Making the drab green bag look like a large, canvas scrotum with two dozen pointy testicles inside. There’s a third bag he’s slung over his head and shoulder like an overprotective golfer with his clubs. Three barrels, in varying diameters and lengths, poke out of the top.
Mid-step, Ben sees the carnage spread across the entryway and nearly stumbles in an attempt to pull his foot back before he can dip it into the goo covering the floor. His eyes immediately flash from Pam’s to Zack’s and finally land on Dave, still covered in a whole lot of Betty. Drying blood covers most of Dave’s upper half, causing his torn shirt to stick to his skin. Gore is smeared down his neck with accentuating flecks of bone fragment, brain bits, and pulverized cartilage. Shock flashes across Ben’s expression as he drops the cushion from his right hand and swiftly reaches for the small of his back.
“Want some help with your stuff? All you had to do was ask,” Zack says sarcastically, leaning over to pick up his youngest brother’s bag from the cement.
There’s a gasp from behind him as Zack’s fingers wrap around the handles. He feels a wave of embarrassed panic wash through him as he tries to remember if he’d pulled on the old jeans he owned with the hole torn in the ass and if so, did he happen to go commando today. He stands, fighting the urge to reach back with the fingers of his free hand to check his denim-integrity, and sees Ben pointing a black, semi-automatic pistol at him.
“Shit. Do you want me to carry the other one too?” Zack asks without moving.
“Get out of the way, Zack,” Ben rasps, carefully setting the heavier bag down before lifting his left hand under his right in the standard, cup-and-saucer shooting stance and curling his finger over the trigger.
“Dude. What’s wrong?” Zack asks with genuine concern, albeit suddenly and for his own wellbeing.
“Dave. He’s… He’s…” Ben replies, jerking his chin toward his stepfather and shifting his feet a little.
“Oh shit,” Zack says in relief as he turns to look at his dad. “I know. Totally gross, right?”
“Get the fuck inside,” Dave tells his sons.
“He’s not…” Ben says, searching for the words when Zack turns back to face him.
“Sick? No. Still an asshole? Yeah,” Zack tells him with a grin.
“So, same as always then?” Joe shouts from the kitchen.
“I would have sworn he’d been turned into one of them,” Ben says, lowering his pistol and switching the safety back to on.
“Nah…” Zack says as he looks past Ben and lets his eyes scan the neighbors’ houses. “But still. Get the fuck inside,” he adds, stepping back out of the way.
After Ben is safely inside, Zack signals to Brigette for her and their boys to come inside. Jaxson’s nine and Braxton is two years younger. Their car door swings all the way open and the boys bail out of the car like it’s on fire and run to the front door. Pam helps them get past the mess in front of the doors by lifting them over it and setting them on the other side. Brigette exits from the driver’s side and hip-checks the door closed. She has her 380 APC pistol in both hands, keeping it pointed to the ground as she moves with purpose around the front of the car. She closes the rear door the boys left open and comes into the house, the entire process taking less than a minute before the front doors are closed and locked again.
“What happened to your mailman?” Brigette asks, pointing at the uniformed body on the floor.
“That’s Betty,” Mike tells her.
“Not anymore,” she replies.
“Joe made her face explode,” Dave answers.
“Wow!” she says, getting a look at him. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks,” he replies, casting an annoyed glare at Joe. “Right. That’s everyone. So, fuck all of you for a few minutes. I’m going to take a shower,” Dave says, turning toward the stairs that leads up to the bathrooms.
“Hey Dave,” Mike says, coming around from the other side of the marble island separating the kitchen from the breakfast table. “Go ahead and use the shower in the basement, okay?”
“What difference does it make?” Dave asks, more than ready to get the muck washed from his skin. He’s pretty sure he can feel it beginning to harden into a carapace.
“The basement is already kind of messed up with Apollo and everything. I’d rather not get any more of that stuff tracked around the house,” Mike answers.
“Are you kidding?” Dave asks, staring at the faceless Betty sprawled in front of the double wooden doors.
“If you don’t mind,” Mike replies, pointing to the steps leading down to the basement.
“There’re clean towels in the closet next to the bathroom down there,” Lynn says. “I’ll find some clothes for you and have Pam bring them down while you’re in the shower.”
Dave looks to his wife who returns a, what do you want me to say sort of look.
“You’re serious?” he asks Mike, although he already knows he is. Mike’s a great guy and Dave can’t imagine a better father-in-law, other than his political opinions, but he’s never been the type for pulling anyone’s leg.
“If, you don’t mind,” Mike replies more forcefully and points to the basement.
“Fine,” Dave says in defeat. He sulks down the first steps to his left and mutters, “But I just fucking hate it down here,” as he descends the stairs.
“What took you so long to get here?” Pam asks Ben.
“Yeah, dude. We talked to you a while ago,” Zack adds.
“Wait,” Joe interrupts. “You actually talked to him?”
“Oh, hell no,” Zack scoffs, tossing his brother’s overstuffed duffle by the table. “It wa
s a text.”
“I was gonna say…” he replies.
“Ben?” Pam prods, ignoring the other two.
“What size sweatshirt should I grab Dave, sweetie?” Lynn asks her daughter.
“Because he never answers the phone when I call,” Joe continues.
“Same here,” Zack agrees.
“None of you kids answer your phones,” Lynn says. “If I really want to get a hold of Pam, I have to call Dave’s phone.”
“Well, yeah,” Joe and Zack reply in unintended unison.
“Jinx!” Zack immediately adds, slugging Joe in the shoulder.
“Dick!” Joe barks, reflexively rubbing his shoulder.
“Mom never answers her phone,” Ben adds.
“At least she carries one,” Lynn says, glaring at Mike.
“Why should I?” he asks. “You’ve always got yours.”
“That’s not the point, Mike. What happens if you need one and I’m not with you?” she asks him.
“Can everyone just please shut up for a minute?” Pam asks, raising her voice over the others.
“Right,” Lynn says. “What size did you say Dave needs?”
“Shit!” Pam hisses, shaking her head.
“What’s wrong?” Lynn asks with motherly concern.
“Nothing, Mom. A large is fine. If you’re going for jeans, he wears around a thirty-four, thirty-two but thirty-four, thirties will fit. He’ll just have to deal.”
“I think Mike wears a thirty-six or a thirty-eight, thirty. Will that work?” Lynn asks, heading for the stairs.
“Whatever, Mom. Just grab him some sweatpants.”
“What size?” her mother asks.
“How many different sizes do you have?” Pam asks in utter dismay
“Just larges,” Lynn answers.
The F*cked Series (Book 2): Proper Page 6