by Tufo, Mark
“Just who … who in the … who in the hell is this?” Jimmy asks, looking up from a map at our entrance.
“This is a friend of mine from the army. He came along with me,” I answer.
Jimmy stares, his gaze going from Otter to me and back again. “You look more like his brother than Bill. What did you say your name was?”
“We’ve been told we’re twins on a number of occasions. It’s great for playing jokes. I’m Jake, but people usually just call me Otter.”
“Jake and, uh, Jack, huh?” Jimmy says, then shakes his head as if to clear it of a certain line of thought. “Never mind. We’ve nearly completed the outer blockades and assigned lookouts, for all the good that will do in this downpour. I’m not sure we’ll have enough ammo, but we’ll give them hell when they arrive.”
“I think we’re already there,” I mutter.
“What was that?” Jimmy inquires.
“Oh, nothing. I just mentioned that the harvester should come in handy.”
“What exactly is the plan for that?” Jimmy questions.
“I suppose it could either cull the approaching herd or lead to our deaths,” I state.
“Or both,” Otter chimes in.
“Or both. I guess we’ll find out come morning,” I say.
With night falling, everyone stops their work and gathers in the gym. The last thing we need is to engage the night runners that are sure to show once the sun goes down. The gloomy day darkens to night and I join several others posted around the gym, staring into the driving rain for the first sign of the creatures of dark.
An hour passes with no indication. That’s a good thing and hopefully we’re not discovered. However, we have a ton of things to accomplish in short period of time if we’re to have any hope of staving off the incoming horde of zombies. Deciding to take the risk, I open my mind up to the night runners. There’s nothing. Astonished, I push my mind further outward, seeking any contact. For the first time since arriving in this world, the night isn’t filled with the hunters, at least not in this part of it.
Tentatively, I step outside, expecting screams to erupt in the darkness beyond and a rush of pale bodies. There’s only the sound of the pouring rain splashing onto the ground. I hold my mind open, searching. Nothing. I don’t know why the night runners aren’t showing as they’ve been as regular as clockwork, but I’ll take it. Gathering workers, we cautiously step into the dark and cold, to resume work on the defenses. My focus is to keep my mind open and concentrate on finding the first indication of the night runner’s appearance.
The night is spent readying additional defenses, those in the cold rain miserable as they drive shovels into mud to dig trenches. Working in shifts, the drenched hurry off into tents and nearby buildings, their red and worn hands clenched around steaming cups of cocoa or coffee. They hurriedly cram bites of food before walking back into the pouring rain, still chewing on a pastry or the last remnants of a sandwich.
Several times, headlights stab through the slanted rain, a vehicle heading out toward the approaching horde to measure their progress. It was decided not have a vehicle constantly monitoring the horde as it might spur the zombies to greater efforts, and we need every minute we can get to prepare.
As dawn approaches, the workers not manning the defenses begin heading to the gym. Many of the townspeople will hole up there because of the few numbers of weapons available. Those left behind hunker down in the cover of the vehicles. The defenses have been constructed to engage the leading edges and pull back to secondary and tertiary lines as needed.
Deep trenches dug in the fields adjacent the highway will hopefully capture a few and prevent them from advancing until they are filled with bodies. We can then deal with them at a later time. A few fire traps were also prepared with the scant amounts of diesel and kerosene scavenged throughout the town. They won’t stop the horde, but they will limit their ability to advance and will deplete some of their numbers while also funneling them into a corridor.
The blockades set up will slow them, allowing for them to be picked off. We don’t have the luxury of forming a line and volleying continuous fire into the masses. There just isn’t enough ammunition for us to be wasting rounds. With the numbers I saw, I don’t see how they can be stopped, but they can certainly be depleted.
Buses are parked outside of the gym, and each person there has a bag packed in case the line falters. If we need to, everyone will be bussed south as far as possible and then flee on foot. I still feel that’s the best option, but the community as a whole has decided to defend their town.
The darkness of the night begins to lighten as the morning nears, the black turning into gray. The rain is still coming down in sheets, the drops slamming into cars, jackets, and hoods in a continuous roar. The entire ground is slick, the pavement hidden behind a veil of splashing rain.
“Well, I do believe it’s harvester time. Are you coming?” Otter shouts above the roaring rain.
“I wouldn’t miss it for anything,” I reply.
The cab of the harvester isn’t overly roomy, and I have to wedge myself into a corner. Having observed what the massive propellers of a C-130 can do to a group of night runners, I’m curious what effect a harvester might have. It’s not quite the same, but it wouldn’t be the first time my curiosity overcame sanity.
Otter starts up the machine, working the switches and levers to familiarize himself with the controls. There really isn’t much to it. The blades at the bottom cut the stalks—in this case, undead legs—and then everything is funneled into the cutting blades that are basically a wood chipper. The equipment isn’t built to chop into bone, but I guess we’ll see how effective it is. With the exception of blood and perhaps fine chips of bone, there won’t be much else to fill the seed tank. However, it will quickly fill with the dark fluid that the zombies have for blood and we’ll have to keep the seed conveyer constantly running. If this works, the scene beside and behind the harvester will be gruesome to say the least. Flesh and blood exit the rear with a constant pouring of blood to the side. That is, of course, assuming it doesn’t become a flaming heap of tangled metal with the first contact.
Vehicles are pulled out of the way as we drive through the defense lines, their wipers moving quickly back and forth but doing little in the downpour. The windshield is covered with streams of water immediately after each pass of the wiper. Driving slowly up the highway, wary of the width of the harvester, it isn’t long before we run into the leading edge of the zombies.
“Are you ready for this?” Otter asks, coming to a stop.
“I suppose so. But I’m also ready to leave you strapped to your seat should this thing take a sudden turn sideways,” I answer.
I notice Otter quickly reach down to unbuckle his seatbelt before putting the heavy equipment into gear and starting forward. I have to admit that I’m a little anxious as we close in on the horde. If we get stuck, we’ll quickly be surrounded with no way out. Sure, the cab will protect us from the ever-reaching arms and teeth, and we’ll have a bird’s eye view, but death will eventually come to claim us without a way to get more water. That’s something I should have thought more about before eagerly climbing aboard our purple chariot.
The leading zombies reach out as we draw near, stumbling ever quicker toward us. They become hidden behind the upper part of the shielding, and then the harvester lurches with the first contact. Otter keeps our speed low in order not to overwhelm the churning machinery, with the cutter to the front taking up most of the highway. The undead that aren’t swept into the cutters are either pushed back or to the side.
Dark liquid mists up above the shielding only to be driven back down by the sheets of rain. The harvester takes on a deeper note as zombies, cut off at the ankles, are swept into the deeper recesses of the cutters. It almost sounds like a sneaker tumbling in a clothes dryer mixed with that of a wood chipper hard at work. Thank goodness for the pelting rain against the windows because I can also imagine a mushy, slosh
y note to what’s going on in the harvester’s innards.
“I don’t think ol’ Ted is going to appreciate the condition in which he’ll be getting his harvester back,” I state.
“What?! It’s getting a wash in this rain. Heck, it’ll probably be cleaner than when we borrowed it,” Otter replies.
“Uh huh … I seriously doubt that,” I say as I hear the particularly loud noise of a body being ground down. “They’ll still be pulling guts out of this thing three generations down the line.”
We move up the highway, the harvester shaking a little from ingesting its dinner. I glance out through the side window to the rear and immediately wish I hadn’t.
“That’s just fucking gross!” I say.
Black liquid streams down from the long arm that was meant to convey seeds to a container, not deliver decayed blood splashing to the ground. I can’t even imagine what the highway to the rear looks like.
A few zombies make it around the wide front to amble quickly toward the cab. Unable to climb the ladder, they are caught under the rear wheels, the harvester rising and falling slightly as the undead are crushed beneath. Both Otter and I are silent, listening only to the drumming rain hitting the cab. I think we are both glad to see our plan working, but anxious that the harvester won’t hold up to what we’re asking of it. Plans only go so far before that wrench comes into the picture and everything begins to slip.
Our slow progress goes on, us having covered what I believe to be about a mile. Although some have slipped around us, few have escaped the teeth of the harvester. We’ve put a significant dent in the horde and may not need all of those defenses we constructed in Valhalla. I’ve actually begun to relax a little. The conveyer is draining the seed tank as well as it can, but the gauge lingers near the full mark. A couple of times, Otter slows even more to allow for the blood to drain. I’m not an expert by any stretch, but there’s a chance some sort of shutoff mechanism will turn off the cutting blades if the container fills to a certain volume.
It’s not long after I begin to relax that the wrench in the works appears in the form of a giant clank coming from somewhere deep inside the harvester. The clang of metal snapping is followed by a lurch, and the harvester begins to shudder. The engine dies as Otter shuts it off.
“Well, I do believe that’s all the damage we’re going to do,” Otter says, the roar of the rain louder in the absence of the engine.
“I also think it’s time we get the fuck out of here,” I reply, reaching for the door handle.
Rain immediately pelts me as I step onto the first rung of the ladder, the cold instantly replacing the warmth of the cab. Zombies are moving around the sides of the wide front, shuffle-running for the now open cab. I jump for the rear wheels, hoping I don’t fall off their slippery surface. Landing, I reach for the deep treads to steady myself, hearing nothing but the hard plops of raindrops on my hood and jacket.
Long streams of blackened blood drip down from the overhead arm, mixing with the rain. Catching my balance, I leap for the harvester’s rear, landing on the mushy remains of flesh, organs, and intestines. I smell the decay even through the sheets of rain pouring from the heavens.
Glancing down the highway toward town, I see the pavement is covered with a thick, gelatinous strip of chopped flesh, bone, and the tattered remains of clothing. Rainwater runs dark to the sides of the road where it gathers in ditches. I’ve seen a lot of things, but this has to rank among the grossest. The already decaying flesh of the zombies seems to have melted into a congealed mess. The thump of boots beside me draws my attention away from the gross mess we left along the road.
“Looks like we left a trail of bread crumbs to find our way home,” Otter says.
“Yeah, and unless we want to end up in an oven, we should probably get going,” I respond.
“An oven?”
“Yes, an oven. You know, Hansel and Gretel? The candy house? The witch and getting tossed in an oven?”
“What the fuck does that have to do with leaving a trail of bread crumbs?” Otter asks, his expression confused.
A quick backward glance at the harvester shows the twisted remains of zombies wedged between the dual wheels, some still snarling and others with only their lips moving.
“Never mind. Let’s get going,” I say.
Creatures round the harvester as we set off at a slow jog. The stink makes it difficult to take in a deep breath as we trot through a river of black studded with chunks of flesh. My stomach is rebelling and threatens to empty its contents with each jarring step. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt more miserable. There’s not only the stench, but being soaked and cold. Rain works its way past my hood and trickles down my back. And that’s nothing compared to my drenched fatigue pants or the sloshing inside my boots. Thankfully, what took us nearly an hour to drive is covered on foot in about twelve minutes, and soon the line of vehicles across the road comes into view.
Arriving, we give a quick briefing to the others and I settle behind the hood of one vehicle that overlooks the first line with my carbine lying across. About an hour later, the first of the zombies materialize from out of the slanting sheets of rain, just fuzzy, slightly darker figures shuffling in a gray wall. I bring my M-4 to bear, flicking my scope to the 4× setting.
The zombies come to the line of vehicles and are held up as they try to push through them. I have my sight centered on one, the creature still trying to walk forward through the trunk of the car that is impeding its progress. All thoughts of the miserable conditions leave as I focus on the upcoming battle. I wait to hear the first report of a gunshot and finally realize that they may be waiting on someone else to shoot first.
The wind is directly behind, so I only have to allow for a little bullet drop from the weather. I squeeze the trigger, my round exiting the barrel to twist through the driving rain. I’m rewarded with the image of the zombie rocking backward and slumping out of sight, and by the sharp reports of other weapons opening fire.
A series of creatures fall out of sight behind the vehicles, but others quickly take their places. Some zombies are making their way around the edges, others finally clambering over the top of hoods and trunks as if they’d just learned how. The semiauto fire is now continuous. Some of the undead slide down the sides of the cars while others remain motionless atop them.
I scope in on the ones that have made it around the sides only to see them drop out of sight into the pits that were dug in the fields. I’ll keep an eye on them in case some are lucky enough to avoid the traps, but for now, they aren’t worth a wasted bullet.
Even though zombies are falling by the dozens, there are too many to fully contain. Slowly, they manage to make it over the vehicles and run/shuffle across the intervening space. Several more fall to be trampled into the mud by those behind, vanishing from view as the horde comes closer.
Some of those in the lead are more agile and able to manage a semblance of a run, even though they didn’t show that kind of energy on the road. Some lose their balance while doing so, crashing to the ground in a spray of muddy water, and slide forward. They then rise to continue their chase, such as it is, their faces and the remains of their clothing looking as if they’re competing in a mud run.
With the zombies having made it halfway across the intervening space, I know with certainty that they won’t be stopped before they reach our lines.
“Everyone pull back,” I shout, my words lost on the far edges of the line due to the roar of the downpour.
But the word is passed and fire slows down to a couple of sporadic shots. Turning, we leave our defensive line to race toward the next one. Boots pound through the slippery mud of the field, splashing water from the deeper puddles. At the next line of cars, I jump, turning a 180 in the air to land rump first on the hood of a vehicle. Sliding on the wet surface, I turn around again to land feet first behind the auto. We took out some, but we’ll have to do better this time as we only have one more line of defense to fall back to.
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nbsp; In the mass closing in on the previous line of cars, I see gaps form in the sea of heads as the zombies fall into the many deep pits. Those will soon fill to capacity and then cease to be functional, the creatures merely walking across the heads and bodies of their comrades. Even with the numbers we cut down, I just don’t see this ending without a headlong retreat to the south.
I’m about to mention that we should probably tell the ones waiting at the gym to begin boarding the buses, perhaps even transitioning to the southern part of town, when movement of a different kind catches my attention. Through the obscuring haze of the rain, I see a line of white that stretches from side to side. One end vanishes into the trees of the hillside while the other fades from view in the downpour. The bar of pure white grows until it’s about thirty feet tall, rapidly rushing toward our lines.
“What is that?” I call to Otter.
He turns to look in the direction I’m pointing.
“Zombies?” he asks, wondering if I’ve lost my mind.
“You don’t see a giant band of white closing in?” I inquire.
He looks again, peering through the sheets of rain. Turning back to me, he shakes his head and shrugs.
I look at the moving line of white, growing larger in my field of view. I momentarily think it’s a trick of the lighting, that somehow the sun is finding its way through a break in the clouds and creating this phenomenon. But the rapidly closing line is just too solid to be some kind of mirage. As it nears, there is a little more detail. What I thought to be a solid bar of white actually contains tiny sparks of silver winking in and out of existence, giving it the appearance of something electrical.
A quick glance up and down the line shows determined men and women leaning over vehicles, their eyes glued to whatever sight is mounted on their weapons. Not a one gives any indication that a giant bar of electrified light is bearing down on them. I think of turning to run, but that won’t do any good; the band will be upon me inside of two steps.