Zombie Rules (Book 7): The Fifteens

by Achord, David

  The sun had set, and the shadows were long. He looked around anxiously. When they first spotted him, he had taken off running in a blind panic and after several minutes of cutting back and forth along streets, he was hopelessly disoriented and in a residential neighborhood that had burnt to the ground some time ago.

  He heard the crew yelling and laughing while they were chasing him and knew if he were caught, he’d end up like Erin and Sully. Or worse.

  After sprinting from street to street for several minutes, his lungs were on fire and he knew he could not keep it up much longer. He glanced over at a pile of charred rubble that used to be a house and buried himself in it.

  Now, he was standing in a weed-infested driveway, wondering where the hell he was and how the hell he was going to get home.

  He peered down the street and saw a sign. He walked quickly, but as quietly as he could toward the sign, all the while turning in circles. When he was close, he read the sign. Leeds Way.

  It didn’t help. All he had memorized on the map were the main roadways and landmarks. All he knew, or guessed, was that I-64 was east from his present location. Flash dropped to a knee beside a rusted-out shell of a Nissan Sentra, took a deep breath, and tried to inspect his shoulder wound. It wasn’t gushing, more like oozing, but he needed to stop it altogether.

  He pulled out his bandanna. It was dirty, but he had nothing else, except his underwear and he was reasonably certain they were dirtier than the bandanna. He rolled it up and stuffed it in the wound. He then tore a sleeve off and wrapped it around his shoulder. It wasn’t quality work, but it would have to do.

  He scanned until he saw the faint glow in the western sky, turned his back to it, and began walking. He was thirsty and he was having stomach pangs, but unless he came upon a clean water source, which was highly unlikely, he’d have to do without. His life depended on him getting away. Water would have to wait.

  It did not take long before he found Washington Boulevard. He knew where he was now, sort of. The road led to I-64, which would take him to Richmond, and eventually back home. Flash took another breath and started walking.

  While Flash walked, he tried to make sense out of what happened. Why did they attack them outright? Did Norma’s association with them seal their fate?

  As Flash walked, the realization of what happened put him into a deep state of despair. Not only had he failed the mission, he’d gotten two of his closest friends killed. If he thought they’d kill him outright, he’d find the men and let them open fire, but he didn’t relish the idea of being castrated first, so he kept walking.

  Flash made one promise to himself—if he lived through this, he’d get revenge for his friends.

  Chapter 50 – The Battle at Fort Detrick

  I could smell them before I saw them, and that meant there were a lot of them. Guard post six radioed in first.

  “Contact! Zeds, hundreds of them!”

  He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t need to. Everyone could hear the eruption of gunfire.

  “Contact! Contact! Contact!”

  The word echoed over the radio again and again by each guard post, followed immediately by gunfire. Someone turned on the sodium lights that were dotted around the perimeter and they revealed a frightening scene. There were indeed hundreds of them. Some were slow walking, some were ambling, and others were running.

  I had ten thirty-round magazines, as did each guard post, but the magazines were only loaded with twenty-five rounds each. So, each guard post had two hundred and fifty rounds. From the sounds of the gunfire, I knew some of them were going to be out of ammo within minutes.

  I mentally told myself to make each shot count. I took a slow, deep breath to control my heart rate and began picking targets. My weapon was an AR-15. I’d had it since Tennessee, and I loved it. I’d fired many thousands of rounds through it over the years and had recently replaced the barrel, but it was still reliable and accurate. In a matter of minutes, I had multiple dead zeds around my guard tower. The problem was, I’d already gone through two magazines and there were still zeds everywhere.

  Justin shouted over the radio to cease fire in sector one. My guard post covered part of sector one. As I watched, a group of people burst out of a set of double doors on the side of the main building and quickly formed up into a phalanx. There were several enthusiastic yells at the sight of them, and several people broke radio protocol with shouts of encouragement.

  The phalanx immediately engaged a dozen of them, one of whom was surprisingly wielding a stick and using it to strike at the shields.

  “That’s new,” I muttered and continued to watch.

  They were tearing into them. Even so, multiple zeds surrounded the phalanx and pressed them. Members of the phalanx were stabbing repeatedly with their spears and scoring kill shots, but they were unable to move in any direction. After about five minutes of this, the phalanx was surrounded by a pile of dead zeds. Other zeds were climbing over their dead brethren and launching themselves onto the top of the phalanx.

  I wasn’t certain, but I believed Justin was in the phalanx, which would be typical of him. He never led while hiding in a bunker—he was always in the thick of it. In other words, a Marine. When the zeds started diving on top of them, an order was given, and the pikes were immediately turned skyward. Soon they had several zed shish-kabobs on their pikes, which another issue. I watched as they clumsily knocked the zeds off.

  The problem was, now the phalanx was wrapped up like a cocoon by the zed corpses and more of them were piling on. I took shots when I had a good target, but it was tricky. An errant shot or ricochet could injure one of the good guys. Justin’s voice came over the radio.

  “Team Two, this is Team One, we are absolutely trapped. The fuckers have immobilized us. When you engage, keep moving forward. Don’t let them stack up corpses around you!”

  I grudgingly gave an inward nod of admiration for this tactic. They had used their mass of numbers and willingness to sacrifice in order to immobilize the phalanx and render it ineffective. It was amazing and I was going to write up a detailed report about it, assuming I lived through this.

  The second phalanx burst through a set of double doors on the opposite side of the main building. They followed Justin’s directive and kept moving. This meant instead of stabbing the zeds in front of them, they used their shields to push them aside, like a snowplow or offensive linemen clearing a path for their running back.

  It was almost comical watching the phalanx moving around like a bumper cart, pushing the zeds out of the way while the people on the flanks poked their spears and pikes out, trying to hit their targets. Several zeds followed, but others did not engage and sought out other potential targets.

  The zeds were everywhere, but I had to keep watching my shots. There was a lot of gunfire going on, and as I suspected, soon people were shouting over the radio that they were out of ammo. After several attempts, I was able to get through.

  “Everyone, listen up. If you’re out of ammo, arm yourself with one of the melee weapons that each guard post is stocked with and hide in place. The QRF is on their way. Hang in there!”

  I got a few affirmations, but I also got a lot of profanity-laced pleas for help.

  It suddenly occurred to me that this was not some random attack by a horde of hungry zeds. This attack had a specific purpose; a goal, an objective.

  I continued picking targets as I tried to analyze what objective the zeds had. It came to me as I loaded my eighth magazine and a panicked radio transmission confirmed it.

  “They’ve gotten into the labs!”

  My stomach went into knots. The labs were, or should have been, locked down at the first alarm. But something told me this was bad. I felt like I needed to be there. I looked at my choice of melee weapons. One was a baseball bat with half-inch long spikes adorning the business end of it. The other was a four-foot-long spear fashioned out of a bayonet attached to the end of a one-inch diameter galvanized pipe.

  There was
a sudden, singular bang on the door. I thought it was someone who’d got caught out in the open and needed shelter. Stupid of me to think that. When I unlocked and opened the door, a zed charged in, knocking my rifle out of my hand.

  He was big, he stunk, and he had me pressed up against the table on the far wall within a microsecond. He was trying to get me in a bear hug, but thankfully I had my hands up to chest level. He was amazingly strong, and his face was mere inches from mine. His breath was rancid, and I fought the urge to gag.

  While the two of us struggled, it suddenly occurred to me the zed was breathing. I worked my left hand up to his throat and squeezed. He was strong and he had a thick neck, but within seconds, I felt his throat being crushed. He began flailing at my hand, which allowed me to reach into my pocket with my right hand and pull out my knife.

  Flicking open a lock blade knife with one hand is not easy, but that knife and I were old friends. I got the blade open with my thumbnail and locked it into place with a flick of the wrist. I then buried it in the side of his head and wiggled it vigorously. Joker called the act scrambling their eggs.

  The big zed fell, only to be replaced by another one. This was a woman, smaller in frame, and easier to kill. Another one followed her, and soon I had a stack of zeds blocking the doorway.

  There were more coming up the stairs. I grabbed the spear and began stabbing heads as they clambered up the stairs. After only a few minutes of this, the stairs were crammed with dead zeds, effectively blocking any further attempts to get at me, but now I was stuck in the guard tower with only a dozen rounds of ammo left.

  I had no visual on the NBACC building, and both phalanxes were now out of sight. I could hear occasional gunfire and other sounds of violence, but there was nothing in my observation sectors, other than dead zeds lying around, stinking up the place.

  I could have jumped out the open window, but it was a fifteen drop to the ground.

  “Risky,” I said to myself.

  I thought if I could somehow halve the distance I had to drop, I would escape injury. There was no rope in the shack, but the big zed who originally attack me was still wearing a belt. I pulled it off him and tied it to the window frame. It gave me maybe a foot of belt to hang from. I muttered a few choice words and started inspecting the other zeds for belts, suspenders, or rope. I came up with one additional belt, which would have given me one additional foot. Maybe.

  Additional gunfire and yells for assistance over the radio made the decision for me. I used my own belt, tested my knots, and eased myself out of the window. Dropping my spear to the ground, I hung from the ledge with one hand, grabbed the belt, and began lowering myself down. I got almost to the end before one of the knots gave way.

  I’d like to say I landed gracefully, but that would be a lie. I landed on my heels, but my momentum flopped me onto my back, knocking the wind out of me. I didn’t pass out, I don’t think, but I hurt like hell and couldn’t breathe.

  I felt around for the spear, found it, and held it close. I knew from experience that a sudden blow to the solar plexus, or in this case, the back, causes the diaphragm to spasm into a temporary paralysis. Which is fancy talk for saying it was damn near impossible to breathe.

  I willed my body to relax while looking around for any zed that might have spotted me. My bad luck was continuing. I spotted one coming toward me. She was dragging one of her legs, like it was broken or something, but there was nobody around to stop her.

  I was still lying on my back and was probably turning blue by now, but I readied my spear. When she was close, I stabbed. To my surprise, she batted it away and jumped on top of me. I was able to inhale slightly as I pulled butterfly guard and grabbed her by the head. She was struggling, but I managed to twist her head and roll her off. I rolled to the side and grabbed the spear. She was getting to her feet when I impaled her in that soft fleshy area where the shoulder joins the neck.

  She snarled, like it was painful to her. She flailed at it with her arms in an ineffective attempt to dislodge the spear. I kicked her in the chest as I pulled it out and finished up by stabbing her through the mouth.

  My breaths were coming in short gasps. I pulled the spear out and dropped to one knee until my breathing returned to normal and the spots floating around in front of my face went away.

  I looked around for the phalanxes. One of them was still rendered immobile by the sheer number of zeds surrounding them; the second one had moved out of sight. Standing, I checked myself, retrieved my spear, and started walking toward the labs. In addition to the spear, I was armed with a lock blade knife and a Glock Model 19. Most all of us carried 9mm handguns now, because that was the only handgun ammo we had plenty of.

  I started jogging but after rounding a building, I pulled up short. A mass of about a hundred zeds were coming toward me. I backstepped to the corner of the building and drew my handgun. And waited.

  More than a few of them saw me. One started to break away from the group and come after me but stopped suddenly and looked back. Something happened, I don’t know what, but the zed returned to the pack as they continued walking out of the compound.

  I could have fired at them, but I only had two magazines. They were fifteen-round magazines, thirty rounds total. Thirty-one if you counted the round in the chamber. Not enough. I held my fire.

  The horde continued walking down the road. Somebody fired a round and dropped one of the zeds bringing up the rear. The rest of them kept walking and disappeared into the darkness a couple of minutes later.

  I started to jog toward the labs, but the leader of the first phalanx was pleading for help to get them dislodged. I headed back toward them, shouting along the way so nobody would confuse me for a zed and shoot me.

  Reaching the blob—that was the best way to describe it—I picked a spot and started pulling zeds out and dragging them from the entrapped phalanx. It was physically demanding and more than once I had to stop and fight a zed who was not fully dead. After several minutes, I created a hole large enough where individual members could crawl out. All of them were drenched in sweat and appeared on the verge of heat exhaustion.

  “Move away from the bodies and regroup,” I directed. I led them over to an open area and encouraged them to drink water.

  “Man,” one of them exclaimed. “I don’t know about you guys, but I damn near passed out.”

  The others echoed their agreement.

  “The way they had you guys boxed in cut off the air,” I said. “It was a damned clever tactic, but now we know about it. Let’s form back up and move toward the other phalanx.”

  “Hey, Zach, I’m not hearing any gunfire.”

  She was right. All gunfire had ceased. I got on my radio and checked in with each guard post. They each advised there were no live zeds in sight. The second phalanx team reported the same.

  “Have they left?”

  “There’s only one way to find out,” I said.

  I got back on the radio and confirmed it with Justin. He rallied everyone, reformed the phalanxes, and began patrolling the perimeters. The QRF arrived and I’m sure everyone felt a little safer now that we had extra manpower and a fresh supply of ammo. I certainly did. I cleared the steps to the guard tower and resumed my post and stayed vigilant.

  They were gone, but the question was, were they coming back?

  Chapter 51 – Things Go Boom

  The thick smoke lingered, causing their eyes to water and their throats burn. Trader Joe went back to their SUV and came back a moment later with a towel. He began fanning it to get the smoke out of the magazine. It helped, and after several seconds, enough of the smoke had cleared where they could at least breathe.

  “Can you see anything?” he asked Joker.

  “There are definitely some crates in here,” Joker replied. He used his flashlight to identify the lettering and peered closely.

  “Alright, we got something. Let’s get to loading,” Joker directed.

  Little Joe hustled inside and read the lab
el on one of the crates.

  “PAX-41. What’s that? It’s not the MX stuff,” he exclaimed.

  “No, it’s not, but we’re good. This is what they use in antipersonnel munitions.” He made a single grunt. “Zach is going to have a heyday with this stuff.”

  Joker picked the nearest crate and hefted it up. He almost dropped it. His hands were throbbing now, but he kept the discomfort to himself and walked the crate out. Trader Joe noticed.

  “Let’s get the trailer backed up here. It’ll save us a little time and effort,” he said. “Maybe one of us should keep watch in case we get company. My son and I will load this stuff.”

  Joker gave a curt nod. He’d like to think he would’ve normally thought of that, but his hands were hurting so much he was having a hard time thinking of anything else. He went back to the SUV and gingerly picked up his rifle. Walking up the earthen embankment, he crouched and performed a slow three-sixty. He saw nothing, but frankly he wondered how long it was going to be before the zeds found them. The noise was loud enough to be heard from a great distance, and even the fifteens were still attracted to noise.

  Joker did not have to issue any directions. The father and son duo moved with a sense of urgency and soon had several crates on the trailer. When the crates were stacked three high, Joker called a halt.

  “That’s got to be enough,” he said. “Let’s get it strapped down and get going.”

  “Back home?” Little Joe asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Hell yeah,” he whispered and started uncoiling the straps.

  Once they were finished, they took a break and passed around a water bottle. Once it got to Trader Joe, he finished it off.

  “It’s a good thing we’re heading back. We’re running a little short of this good stuff. Although, I sure wished we would have found a nice bottle of single-malt.”

  Little Joe gestured at the crates of explosives.