by Brian Keene
Instead, he was driving a civilian box truck that had been commandeered weeks ago. Once used to ferry bread deliveries all over the state, it now served as a mobile detention unit, transporting prisoners back to Gettysburg. It was currently empty, but Warner had no doubt that would change before this reconnaissance mission was over.
Warner carried no illusions about what they were doing, nor did he care.
He was on the winning team, and if cracking some civilian in the head with a rifle butt to keep them in line was what he had to do to stay on the winning team, then he was all for it. Besides, he figured, they'd been protecting these soft mother fuckers for so many years, it was about time civilians showed some respect and busted their ass for them.
Forced labor and prostitution? Maybe-but at least they were alive. They should be grateful.
Warner had never had any illusions about his position. The way he saw it, he got paid to protect people from themselves; and cracking heads, whether they were a rioting protestor or a looter after a flood or tornado, was one of the benefits. He didn't care about the citizens he was sworn to protect. Most of them didn't deserve protection anyway.
They wanted their houses and businesses kept safe, but they were the first ones squawking on the news when the media showed a Guardsmen taking out a few of the very same fucks they wanted protection from.
Although he had never said it aloud, Warner secretly liked things the way they were now. He got laid on a nightly basis, and who cared if some of them fought back at first?
Pussy was pussy, whether it was willing or unwilling. You just had to break the bitch down was all. He ate well, slept well, and got to utilize his skills. He was still alive, and more importantly, his life had purpose.
"Warner," Sergeant Ford's voice crackled over the radio. "You see that shit overhead?"
He keyed the mike, eyes still trained on the birds.
"That's affirmative. Something tells me they ain't flying south for the winter."
"Staff Sergeant Michaels says to stop. He wants to wait them out. If it looks like they're going to attack and they breach your truck, make for us. We'll cram you in until it's over."
"Roger that," Warner replied, as visions of beaks smashing their way through the truck's windshield ran through his mind.
"Warner's clear," Ford informed Michaels, warily eyeing the circling birds. He'd never seen so many at once. Their attention seemed, so far, to be focused on something beyond the curve in the road.
In the back, Lawson and Blumenthal readied their weapons and fidgeted nervously.
"This entire mission has been a cluster-fuck," Michaels grumbled. "First York, now this. Schow's going to be pissed."
Their reconnaissance of York had found the town to be hostile; filled not just with the living dead, but with warring factions of skinheads and street gangs too. A large portion of the downtown district had been destroyed by fire, and most of the surrounding areas were inhospitable as well. Certainly not worth wasting manpower on. The bottom line was that York was unsuitable for a new base.
He turned back to the birds, in time to see most of the
group drop downward. One flank separated from the main body, wheeling back toward their location.
"Shit," Ford barked. "They've spotted us! Get on the horn and tell Warner to move his ass!"
Blumenthal turned to Lawson and whispered conspiratorially "No bunch of birds is going to peck their way through this tin can."
"Maybe," he shrugged noncommittally, "but I'm glad we got the flame-thrower, just in case."
Baker swerved left, then spun the wheel to the right, searching for an escape, but the creatures were everywhere. The birds zoomed down upon the car. Bodies smashed against the windshield like living dead torpedoes, heedless of the damage being done to themselves.
Whimpering, Worm clawed at his seatbelt and closed his eyes.
The windshield began to crack under the barrage, and the cracks quickly spread. The sheer force of numbers rocked the car back and forth along the road. Each splattering body sounded like a rock as they pinged off the roof and hood. Baker turned on the wipers and blew the horn, but it did nothing to dislodge them.
Suddenly, the car slammed forward as something hit them from behind. The truck! In his panic, he'd forgotten about it. Terrified, he glanced into the rearview mirror.
The pickup truck was right behind them, close enough that he could see the leering grins of its two undead passengers. The truck sped forward and the car lurched again as their grille crashed against the Hyundai's rear bumper.
Metal shrieked as something drew its talons across the roof. Baker spun the wheel again but the car wasn't responding. The birds' bodies littered the road, and the tires slid uselessly over them. More carcasses collected in the wheel wells, choking the tires and sending the car careening toward the guardrail. Just then, the truck rammed them a third time and the car began to spin. Now the birds pounded it from all sides, and the rear window began to crack as well. A crow forced its head through the shattered windshield and cawed at them.
The car shuddered to a halt and the cacophony of the assault grew to thundering proportions. Eyes tightly clenched, Worm placed his quivering hands over his face. Baker reached for the gun, knowing how futile the weapon it would be against this enemy. There was only one way out of this.
There was a loud bang as something heavy landed on the hood. Baker peered through the feathery mass of wings and saw the eagle; once a proud symbol of freedom and democracy. Now symbolizing corruption and death. Spreading its massive wings, it darted towards the shattered windshield.
Baker put the gun to Worm's head and prayed that he'd have time to finish them both before the creatures reached them.
Warner watched a squadron of birds break off from the rest of the formation and wing directly towards the truck and the HumVee.
"Oh hell!"
"Warner," Ford shouted over the radio, "get your ass moving! Now now now now NOW!"
Flinging the door open, he dashed toward the HumVee. Blumenthal emerged from the top-hatch, clutching an M-16 and urging him on.
Something sharp whizzed by his head, and he felt a sudden pain. He placed his hand to his ear, and his palm came away red. Another bird snapped at his ankles, and a third clawed at his hair. Shrieking, he clenched the bird in his fists and squeezed. It fought back, snapping at his hands and fingers with its razored beak, drawing more blood.
Warner stumbled, falling to his knees in the middle of the road. His back felt heavy, as the weight of more birds forced him to the ground.
He rolled and thrashed, crushing them beneath him.
The HumVee backed towards him, and Blumenthal fired off a burst from his M-16. He managed to actually hit a few of the small moving targets, but the rest scattered, flitting out of range.
Warner pulled himself up, screaming as something pecked it's way into the back of his neck.
Inside the HumVee, Michaels' attention had been focused on operating the vehicle and not running over Warner. Ford was the first to notice the red Hyundai that careened around the bend in the road, spinning uncontrollably before it slid to a stop. A rusty pickup truck skidded to a halt behind it, and two human zombies got out of it.
"Christ," he muttered, then turned to Michaels. "We've got company!"
Still firing, Blumenthal jumped out of the moving vehicle and ran towards the injured soldier. Warner was covered in feathery bodies. The birds chattered excitedly, picking at his exposed flesh, as he writhed in agony. Blumenthal took a few more strides toward him and then retreated as more of the creatures bombarded him. Screaming, he dropped the M-16 and flung his arms protectively over his eyes.
Lawson clambered into the sling chair atop the HumVee and aimed the flame-thrower. A liquid orange burst roared through the air, setting dozens of birds aflame. He swung the weapon in a wide arc, and the rest of the airborne hordes retreated.
"What about Warner?" Blumenthal shrieked
Their fallen comr
ade was a mass of quivering meat, red and raw. His uniform had been ripped to pieces as had most of his skin. Zombie birds landed on him, tore away strips of flesh, and then took flight, making room for their brothers.
Without a word, Lawson turned the weapon on Warner and his attackers, turning both into an inferno. As the fire engulfed everything behind them, Blumenthal climbed inside the HumVee.
"Eyes front," Ford shouted to Lawson. "More of them!"
Lawson swung the flame-thrower around, gasping in astonishment when he spotted the huge eagle on the hood of the car. He sent a fiery spray arcing toward them.
"Slide the fuck over!"
Blumenthal popped his head through the opening in the roof and opened fire with the .50 cal, laughing as the enormous rounds tore through the two human zombies and their truck, scattering heads, limbs and torsos along the blacktop.
The few remaining birds lurched toward the sky.
"We've got movement in the car," Ford cautioned them. "Non-zombie. Hand me that bullhorn."
"I'm surprised it didn't catch fire too, way you were spraying everything."
"Shut up, Blumenthal," Lawson growled. "It worked, didn't it?"
The driver's side door of the Hyundai swung open, and both men trained their weapons on it. A man, bleeding and singed but still very much alive, raised his hands toward them.
"Don't shoot!" Baker cried. "We're human!"
He ducked back inside, hugged Worm, and convinced the quaking boy to open his eyes.
"We're safe, Worm," he mouthed. "Safe. Army men!" He pointed towards the HumVee and the box truck.
"Passenger, please exit the vehicle with your hands in the air! Driver, remain inside!"
"My companion is deaf," Baker called. "He can't hear you-"
"DO IT NOW!" Ford roared.
Using hand signals, Baker urged Worm to get out. After some coaxing, the terrified boy reluctantly complied.
"Driver, now it's your turn. Keep those hands up!"
Baker did as he was told, trying to ignore the fragile bodies and wings crunching softly beneath his feet. The stench of burning flesh hung heavily in the air. The zombies from the truck lay scattered over a wide area.
Two soldiers-Baker could see that they were Army National Guard-dismounted and walked slowly towards them, weapons at the ready.
"Thank you," Baker clamored. "Thank you gentlemen so much! I really thought we were-
Blumenthal slammed the butt of his M-16 into Baker's abdomen, cutting him off. Clenching his stomach and gasping for air, Baker fell to the ground and curled into a ball.
"Bayhker!"
Worm squealed in fright and tried to run. Lawson flung him to the ground and placed a booted heel on his head.
Baker wheezed, unable to speak. He clawed at the road with his hands, fighting for breath.
"Put them in the truck," Michaels ordered. "Lawson, you take over driving."
Kneeling, Blumenthal snapped a pair of handcuffs around Baker's wrists.
Then he plucked the RHIC identification badge from his coat. He scrutinized the picture on the card, then grabbed Baker's chin and stared at his face.
"Same guy?" Lawson asked. "What's the ID say?"
"Havenbrook. Wasn't that where that Top Secret government lab was? You know, the one that was on the news just before everything went to shit?"
"Yeah," Lawson shrugged, putting cuffs on Worm as well. "So what? The President of Palestine and that transvestite supermodel were on the news too, but I don't see them here."
"Hey Sarge," Blumenthal called. "I think we've got something here that might make this trip worth it after all!"
Lawson dragged Worm to his feet, watching the sky closely for any returning birds.
Blumenthal handed the badge to Michaels. "Wasn't this the place where they were doing those experiments?"
"Maybe. I thought it was a weapons lab or something like that."
"Well," Blumenthal cleared his throat, "I was thinking maybe Colonel Schow would like to interrogate this guy, on account that he obviously worked there. At the very least, there's probably all kinds of weapons laying around, but also-"
He faltered, unsure if he should proceed.
"Go on, Private."
"Well, if I remember correctly, most of it is underground. I'm thinking that would make a perfect place for us to move to."
Michaels looked from Blumenthal to the cowering Baker and then back to the Private again.
"Blumenthal, if you're right, you may have just earned yourself a promotion."
The soldier grinned. Forcing Baker to his feet, they loaded the captives into the back of the truck, then rolled the door down, padlocking it.
It was pitch black inside the truck. Worm sobbed uncontrollably as the engine roared to life. Baker slid toward the sound of his voice and the frightened boy cowered against him. Baker wished he could murmur words of assurance, but Worm wouldn't be able to see his lips moving in the dark.
The intense pain in his stomach and chest had drowned out much of the soldier's conversation, but he gathered they wanted information on Havenbrook. That meant they would keep him alive.
In the darkness, Baker wondered how he and Worm would remain that way after he'd given them what they wanted.
Brian Keene 162
Jason grabbed a rifle from the gun cabinet and dashed out the door before Jim could stop him.
"Jason, wait! We don't know what's out there!"
Unheeding, the boy jumped off the porch and ran across the front yard.
Weaponless, Jim ran after him.
Martin limped across the field, carrying Delmas with him. The elderly preacher looked pale and haggard, and his mouth hung open. His unseeing eyes stared past them. His pants were torn and blood streamed down his leg. His feet shuffled along automatically. From his belt loop, a length of baling twine had been tied around the trigger guards of the rifles.
He dragged the guns along behind them, the stocks and barrels digging furrows in the dirt.
Delmas was in worse shape. Chunks of flesh were missing from his arms, legs, and face, and his body was covered in bite marks. He was coated in blood, and his eyes were shut.
"Pop!"
Jim caught them both as Martin stumbled, and gently eased them to the ground. Martin blinked, gazing up at him, and licked his lips.
"What happened? Are you alright?"
"Ambushed," the elderly minister coughed. "They were waiting for us in the hollow. They set a trap!"
"How many?" Jim demanded.
"More than-more than I could count. First it was just deer, but then there were squirrels, birds, and a couple of humans. Working together.
We managed to destroy a bunch of them. I don't know how many are left."
"Are you okay?"
"A dead groundhog bit me on the leg, but I'm alright. Thought I was going to have a heart attack getting us back here. Just let me rest a minute."
Jim checked him over. His skin was hot and flushed, and he had an ugly gash on his leg. The cut had started to clot already though. Otherwise, he seemed okay.
Jason cradled Delmas' head in his arms. His father wasn't moving.
"Let me see him," Jim said gently, and Jason looked up at him, tears streaming down his face.
"Please don't let him die."
At the sound of his son's voice, Delmas opened his eyes.
"Jason..."
"I'm here, Pop. You're gonna be alright. I'm gonna take care of you."
"Delmas," Jim asked, "can you walk?"
"My leg's busted."
"Then I'm going to have to carry you. Jason, can you help Reverend Martin? Maybe carry the guns?"
The boy stood up, wiping his nose with his sleeve.
Delmas wrapped his arms around Jim's neck and bit his lip in anticipation.
"Ready?"
He whimpered in the affirmative. Jim lifted him off the ground and the wounded man screamed in anguish as his leg banged against Jim's thigh.
The gunshot
wound in Jim's shoulder flared to life in response.
Struggling with the effort, Jim got him into the house and laid Delmas in the same bed that he had occupied only hours before. Martin stumbled in behind them, followed by Jason. Wide-eyed, the boy put the rifles on the floor and slammed the door shut.
"There's more coming!"
Jim ran to the window. Three shadowy figures stepped out of the twilight; two humans and a doe. The zombies lurched toward the house.