Escape From the Planet of the Dead

by Thomas S. Flowers

  Maberry paused his search. “I think I found it, but its locked. Looks like there’s a key card reader on the front of this drawer.” He looked up and glanced at the dead Bridenstine. “Check his body—he’s probably got the card on him.”

  Nick rolled his eyes and stooped to the motionless corpse. Padding his pockets, he retrieved a key card and tossed it over to the Corporal.

  “Got it,” Maberry said. He pulled out a large black binder and set it on the desk. On the front were the words, “Satellite Command.” He unzipped a satchel and stuffed the binder inside.

  “Satellite? What’s General Rusk want with this?” Nick asked again.

  Maberry zipped up the bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Like I said, NASA oversaw air and space technology, including satellites.”

  “Yeah, but what does he want with that binder?”

  Maberry sighed. “It doesn’t matter, he asked us to retrieve the book. We did that. Let’s dibby the hell out of town, shall we?”

  “Come on, Corporal. What’s so important with this thing that he sent us into a hot area without any backup?”

  “Its none of our concern.”

  “Sure, it is, we risked our lives for this book, right?”

  “Jesus, Seegar—when did you get so fucking nosey?”

  “I don’t know, maybe when dead people started eating my friends and I needed to really watch my shit so I didn’t find myself as some dead fucker’s next meal. Now tell me, what’s with this book?” Seegar glared at him.

  Maberry gazed at Nick as if he was measuring him up, how much he needed to know—what he should divulge. “Access—that’s what’s in this book. Access.”

  Nick frowned. “Access?”

  “Yup,” Maberry said. “Now can we go?”

  “Access to what—satellites?”

  “Yes.”

  Nick thought about it for a moment but couldn’t figure it out. “Why?”

  “Eyes in the sky, Private. With these codes, he can access the remaining satellites in orbit around the planet.” Maberry started for the door.

  After a moment, Nick beamed. “Oh shit—with satellites, he can keep an eye on whatever he wants. Open communication. Whoa, do you think there are like, space weapons up there?”

  Maberry shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t really care. I just want to get this binder back to General Rusk. Can we go now?”

  Nick nodded and took a step toward Maberry.

  Maberry signaled for him to stop.

  “What—”

  “Shh. Do you hear that?”

  Nick focused. The ringing in his ears had subsided. He listened to the quiet drone of the abandoned facility. “I don’t hear—” he started to say. Far off in the distance, a steady roar rose. It started small, like an echo from somewhere far off. And then it grew to the sound of hundreds of moaning voices calling out at once.

  “Fuck. We got to go.” Maberry went through the door first, his rifle aimed in front.

  Nick followed close behind. Sweat beaded along his forehead despite the frigid temperature of the NASA hallway. His heart thudded hard against his chest. He should have known better. There was no telling how many of those nasties lay hidden—aimlessly waiting for some prey to stumble upon them. Now here they were. Rabbits in a foxhole.

  Except here the foxes were much slower.

  More dangerous, despite their speed.

  One bite. One scratch. And you’re gone. Perhaps not right away. You might survive the encounter to live a few more days. A week at most. In the end, you still die and return. Doctors coined those with injuries that would ultimately lead to death the phrase Walking Death—now with the plague, there was no truer sense.

  “Targets ahead,” Maberry called out, firing at an approaching group of walking corpses stumbling down the hall toward them. Their flesh pale and puffy. Eyes devoid of laughter or fear or happiness. Teeth rotting with greenish-grey film. The gun reports ripped through the air. Dark, milky blood misted the walls as the dead fell.

  “Behind us,” Nick shouted, aiming his M4 and squeezing the trigger. Walking dead dressed in molding khaki pants and polos and navy-blue skirts with yellowing, disheveled button up shirts moaned. Some fell. Former employees of NASA, infected and yet remaining in their offices and cubicles, for no other reason than seeking familiarity.

  “Just a little further,” Maberry yelled, still firing into the growing horde.

  Nick kept glancing back at the Corporal, keeping most of his attention on their six. Aiming and firing. Hitting center mass on too many and not enough head shots. In Basic, they never trained on taking head shots—it was always center mass. People; normal people go down with a gaping chest wound. Not these nasties. Only a head shot would suffice.

  “There the lobby—lets make a run for it. On three,” Maberry called.

  They continued firing at the swarming dead.

  Men.

  Women.

  Race—gender—ethnicity...none of that shit mattered anymore.

  They herded together. Reaching out. Clawing at the air. Gnashing their darkened teeth. The hallway was now filled with them. Nick glanced over his shoulder at the lobby—even more waiting for them there. Stumbling down the staircase. Shuffling out from the tourist area. From behind counters and desks littered with mold bloomed food and blossoms of bacteria floating in what used to pass as coffee.

  A man dressed in a black and white suit scuffled in front of the horde of walkers, greenish spit drooling from his snarling lips. Nick aimed and fired. And the dead man went down and became overrun by the mob.

  “One.”

  Another dead man jolted on shaking legs—somehow able to outpace rigamortis. Nick aimed at his head and squeezed the trigger. The former NASA employee’s head snapped back as his body dropped to the floor.

  “Two.”

  Growling with a mixture of loneliness, a woman lunged from a nearby office as they passed by. Nick sidestepped and aimed, firing at the woman’s head. In this moment, he quickly aimed and fired at a janitor that was getting too close, misting what remained of his brains into the crowd and gnashing teeth behind him.

  “Three—run!”

  Pivoting, Nick turned and bolted after Maberry. Ahead of him, the Corporal shouldered two of the nasties—shoving them into more behind them, knocking them off balance and creating a hole toward the main doors.

  Maberry slammed into the large front doors, holding them open. What remained of sunlight poured into the lobby. Nick could smell the salt and ash-polluted air—it had never smelt so good to him.

  “Come on!” Maberry shouted, holding the door open.

  He was nearly there.

  And then he felt them snatching—clinging on to his body, his uniform and tactical gear. Greedy fingers clutching on to whatever they could find.

  Struggling, he turned awkwardly to the crowd. He aimed at the few that held him and squeezed the trigger.

  Nothing.

  Empty clip.

  “Fuck!” he shouted.

  Maberry started firing into the horde of dead around him.

  Nick fumbling for a fresh magazine from his vest. The clip slipped from his fingers, clinking on the floor over the dulled NASA insignia.

  More and more groped on him now.

  Ripping at his clothes.

  Teeth searching for flesh.

  Nick punched.

  And kicked.

  But there were too many.

  He stared at the still open door—glaring at the seemingly bright light and smells of comparable fresh air. And then Nick gazed into Maberry’s eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” Maberry said, his voice just audible above the roaring moan of the dead that swarmed around him—pulling him to the floor. Digging into his skin. Ripping open his innards. He thrashed as much as he could. And screamed—his voice croaking against the violation. Between the bodies that massed, he watched that beautiful light fade as Maberry let the door shut behind him.

  Jelks

  Par
t I

  Days Inn

  Abbeville, LA

  He kept glancing up across the room at the closed bathroom door. Looking not really at the cheaply painted wood but beyond. Imagining Ashley Polk reflecting at herself in the bathroom mirror—tracing the fingers of her actual arm along the strange silver veins that had started showing on her shoulder and neck in the last few weeks, stemming from the prosthetic arm Dr. Ahuja had given her. It had been highly experimental, using a new nano technology he had been researching during his time with DARPA. There had been no human trials—until the good doctor offered it to Polk.

  Jelks glanced over his shoulder. Dr. Ahuja sat in a chair by the window. Notepad in his lap, he was jotting something down. Looking between the blinds every so often. Keeping watch while he documented whatever...

  “What do you think?” Collins asked, his voice jarring Jelks from his thoughts.

  “Huh?” Jelks turned back to his friend. They had maps of Louisiana, Texas, Mississippi, Alabama and Georgia spread across one of the queen-sized beds.

  Collins pointed to an island off the coast in Vermillion Bay.

  “Marsh Island?” Jelks said, gazing down at the twenty-two-mile-wide island.

  “Yeah,” Collins said, “it’s probably non-inhabited. What do you think?”

  Jelks cleared his throat. He knew this was still a touchy subject. Ever since they went AWOL from the Extermination Squads back in Texas, all Chris talked about was escaping to some island some place. First it had been Galveston—finding a tiny undisclosed refuge. Somewhere no one knew about—and not many people lived.

  “I don’t know, man,” Jelks finally said.

  “Come on—we got to start thinking about finding some place we can survive long term. We’ve been lucky so far, being on the open road. No one’s dropped a nuke on this part of the country. We haven’t run into any military checkpoints in a few days. But we’re inching closer to New Orleans—man, that city is going to be crawling with the undead.”

  Jelks looked at the map. “Yeah, but Marsh Island?”

  “Safer than being near a city.”

  “Until someone gets bit by a snake. Or an alligator takes a chunk out of one of us. And look, the next hurricane that hits the gulf, we’ll have nowhere to go; no bunker to climb down. I don’t see any development on this map.” Jelks looked closer. “Says here Marsh Island is a wildlife refuge.”

  Collins threw up his hands. “Fine—what’s your plan than?”

  Instinctively or by reflex, Jelks glanced back up at the closed bathroom door.

  Shaking his head, Collins said, “I see. You want to keep chasing after something you’re never going to have. Man, you need to get over your little puppy crush before you get us killed.”

  Jelks looked quickly back down at the map. He cleared his throat as he padded his pockets for a pack of Camels. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, lighting a cigarette with a Bic. “I just think its best we stick together. Polk thinks we should keep heading east.”

  Smiling now, Collins asked, “Why east?”

  Exhaling smoke, Jelks shrugged. He offered Chris one of his cigarettes.

  Taking one, Collins let Jelks light his cigarette. He inhaled, holding in the smoke for a moment, and then exhaled. He gazed at his fellow AWOL compatriot. “Seriously, why east?”

  Jelks looked at him. He was silent for a moment. Thinking. He knew, but he didn’t know. Not really. He trusted Polk. And she seemed awfully tenacious about keeping east. Finally, he said, “I don’t know.”

  “I know you don’t, and that’s my point, man. Ashley’s cool. She can hold her own. But she’s lost; I don’t mean on a country back road lost.” Collins glanced at the still closed bathroom door, leaning back on the bed’s headrest.

  “We all have,” Jelks said.

  “In a way, but not like her,” Collins said, leaning forward. He kept his voice low. “She lost people close to her; family. Us? We didn’t lose anything we hadn’t already lost. So here we are—our priority should be finding some place safe, a long-term game plan. But instead we’re following this woman who for all intents and purposes doesn’t care about what happens. She’s wandering. And we’re wandering with her.”

  Jelks was about to say something, but then the bathroom door opened. Polk stepped out into the room, drying her hair with a towel.

  “Any hot water left?” Dr. Ahuja asked from his post.

  Polk shook her head. “There wasn’t any to start with. But the pressure is good.”

  “The parish probably runs off a nearby nuclear power plant,” Jelks said, taking the last drag of his cigarette before extinguishing it in the room’s complimentary coffee cup.

  Sighing, Dr. Ahuja said, “I’ll take what I can get, I suppose. Mind keeping an eye on things?” he asked Polk, gesturing towards his chair and window.

  “Sure.” She flopped into Dr. Ahuja’s chair, kicking her feet up on the windowsill. Tilting her head, she peered between the blinds.

  Ahuja paused. For a moment he was quiet, but then he asked, “Any issues with the...arm?”

  Polk didn’t look up at him. “Nope,” she said.

  Ahuja nodded, not entirely confident. “Okay then.” He hesitated, and then added, “If there were anything wrong—you would let me know, correct? I cannot help you if I do not know what’s wrong. We’re far from my lab, but—”

  “Everything’s right as rain, Doc,” Polk said, matter-of-factly.

  Again, Dr. Ahuja nodded. Pausing, he finally started off for the bathroom.

  Jelks watched as the doctor closed the door. He glanced over at Polk. She looked thoughtful. Irate, even. Something was wrong. They could all see it—literally. The cybernetic arm—the nanos that were coding into her DNA, it was all causing an effect. Biologically; mentally maybe. Could Collins be right? Was Ashley leading them astray? Did she even care about finding a place free of the undead?

  Collins cleared his throat.

  Jelks turned to him.

  Keeping his voice low, Collins said, “Let’s at least find a route around New Orleans.”

  Denise

  William Byrd High School

  Vinton, VA

  “I’m cold, Miss Aspell.”

  Denise looked at Rebecca, a former student who had played the piccolo in the high school marching band. She would have been in seventh grade this year, had the world not come to an end. “I know it’s cold. But it’s too dangerous to go outside for wood to build a fire. Doesn’t sound like the storm outside has passed us by. I don’t want anyone getting sick.”

  The small seventh grader pulled her blanket tighter. “I don’t care. I want to go home,” she said, her voice low and mousey.

  “Don’t be dumb, Rebecca,” snorted Zac. “You don’t have a home, no mom or dad—none of us do.”

  “That’s enough, Zac,” Denise warned her other former student. He had been a tuba player in the brass section.

  The other children were stirring now, too, drawn by the argument. They all looked cold, shivering, and hungry. In the last radio signal, they reported that a nuke was detonated on New York. It was possible fallout could drift down the east—penetrating the Appalachian Mountains. She didn’t know which was worse. Fear of radiation. Fear of the endless cold. Or fear of one of the infected. Perhaps it would be better to walk outside and face whatever calamity awaited them—let it be over.

  Yet—here they were; here she was.

  Protecting them.

  Surviving as best she knew.

  Denise checked the time on her watch. It was early morning, not that time mattered much in the windowless music room. The children would be wanting something to eat soon. She exhaled, watching her breath fog in front of her, and then glanced at the two doors on either side of the room. They’d done what they could to barricade them while still making it accessible to leave. Glancing around the room, it was a wonder how long they had been able to survive. Sleeping bags and blankets taken from the school’s donation
drive for the homeless earlier in the year. Ironic, she guessed. She had escaped her home after her husband attacked her. Somehow managing to snatch her car keys on the way out as she ran from the growling, moaning man she’d loved for over ten years. She drove aimlessly for hours, dodging police cruisers and firetrucks and EMS and frantic fleeing residents, and without any forethought, pulled into the William Byrd High School parking lot. It looked safe as she stood on the outside, listening to the sirens and gun shots in the distance. The chaos sounded as if it were closing in. Inside, she stumbled upon some of her students who had also sought the school as a refuge. But there were also those things—not many at first. They were able to keep quiet and hide when necessary. Then more showed. Why? Why were they coming here? Maybe for the same reason she and the children had come. The school was familiar. Or maybe they were just looking for a warm place away from the radiated snow.

  Standing, Denise went to the other side of the room where they kept their provisions. Rummaging in the boxes, she counted a few bags of chips, candy bars, and four sodas—leftover from what they’d raided from the vending machines. Sighing, she knew she would have to venture into the school. See if there was anything left that was edible in the cafeteria. There had to be something left. Canned goods perhaps that they had overlooked. She was certain there was still something of worth there. God help them if there wasn’t.

  She walked back over to the group, still snuggled in their sleeping bags and donated blankets. Kneeling, she said, “I’m going to look around the cafeteria. See if there was anything left that we missed. I’ll bring back something we can use to start a fire. Maybe see if we can pick up a signal on the radio—okay?”

  Denise stood and started toward the barricade.

  “Miss Aspell, you want me to come with you?” Zac asked, running up to her.

  She turned around. Keeping her voice low, she said, “No, Zac. I need you to stay here and keep an eye on the others. Can you do that for me?”