by Bible, Jake
He hops into the backseat of an SUV and closes the door behind him, his eyes catching sight of a new group of Zs heading his way. He sets his gear down on the floor of the SUV and pulls his uniform away from his shoulder.
Grimacing at what he sees, he readies himself for what he has to do. Pulling two shotgun shells from his gear, he cracks them open and pours the powder into his wound. It’s a through and through, luckily, so he doesn’t have to worry about a stray slug stuck inside. But that’s little comfort as he picks up a glove and jams it into his mouth. He mentally counts to three and then lights the powder.
God, he tries not to scream too loudly, but there’s no way to stay quiet as the flesh around and inside the wound is cauterized by burning gunpowder. The Zs in the street hear him and start their slow shuffle towards the SUV. John knows he has to move or he’ll be trapped, but he can’t get his legs to work.
The wound keeps burning and burning and soon his head is spinning. He leans back into the seat, planning on resting for just a second, just enough to catch his breath. But his eyes instantly roll up into his head and he passes out, slumping down out of sight.
The Zs make it to the SUV and their undead hands claw at the windows. They groan and hiss, trying to get inside at the source of the smell of burning flesh. They smack the glass, the doors; they rock the SUV, but they can’t get in. And John isn’t coming out. As the sun starts to dip lower in the sky, and John hasn’t moved an inch, more Zs crowd around the SUV. One by one, they shamble up to it, called by the swarming of their kind, continuing their never ending search for food, for the flesh that drives their hunger.
Chapter Seven
Stunned into silence, Big Daddy reaches back, catching Pup’s hand so he can be helped onto the bale of hay behind him. Not stunned into silence is Brenda Kelly as she rails at him, pacing back and forth, her hands moving frantically, alternating between pointing at the PCs trussed up on the barn floor and the now seated Big Daddy.
“The President of the United States! We fought against the President of the United States! How are you not full of shame? Why are these men still tied up? We need to free them immediately and contact President Mondello!” Brenda shouts, turning to the bound men. “What kind of name is Mondello? Is that Mexican? Italian? What?” She then spins about, glaring at Big Daddy. “Why are these men still tied up? I just asked you that and you refuse to answer! If I have to have my Head of Security come in here and untie them I will, Mr. Fitzpatrick! Mark my words, I’ll have Mindy Sterling set these men free!”
“Are you quite finished, ma’am?” Big Daddy asks, a sheen of cold sweat on his forehead. “Because I have similar questions, just without all of the spit and vinegar.”
“Spit and vinegar? Spit and vinegar! What are you babbling about now, you dumb redneck?” Brenda yells. “There’s a reason I wanted Whispering Pines secure! And not just because of the Zs! It was to keep away from ignorant yokels like you, Mr. Fitzpatrick! Spit and vinegar!”
“Ma’am, please calm down,” Pup says. “And don’t be insulting my daddy. You’re our guest here, but not for long if you continue to act like a-”
“That’s enough, Pup,” Big Daddy says, “she’s a silly fool and fools can’t help what they are.”
“How dare you? How dare you!” Brenda screeches.
“Ma’am, please be quiet,” Big Daddy says. “I shouldn’t have to remind you every single, gosh darn time I see you that there is no need for this behavior. We can all be adults and discuss this without resorting to hysterics and name calling.”
“Oh, hysterics is it? Why? Because I’m a woman and lesser than you? You think any time a woman exerts her power she’s hysterical?”
“Well, I think you’re pretty hysterical,” Melissa Fitzpatrick says from the barn door. “A down right hoot. Personally, I could laugh at your pompous face all day long. There’s just something about the way you look. Kinda like a watermelon with legs and arms.”
Brenda tries to respond, but just sputters and fumes. Melissa smiles at this. The designated head of the Whispering Pines scavenger crew, Melissa, has seen horrors that Brenda can’t imagine. While protected in the relative (and former) safety of Whispering Pines, Brenda Kelly used her bluster and ruthlessness to intimidate most of the residents and HOA; especially since the majority of them didn’t set foot outside the gate, ever.
But Melissa does step outside, risking her life to obtain desperately needed supplies and materials for the benefit of Whispering Pines. Being Big Daddy’s only daughter, raised with six brothers, a woman like Brenda Kelly is an inconvenience only, not a source of intimidation or fear. And Melissa has no problem reminding the HOA Board Chair of that any chance she gets.
“The fact that Whispering Pines was destroyed should be evidence enough that you have no place criticizing others for the decisions they make,” Melissa states. “So just close your mouth and listen. Or I’ll close it for you, Brenda. I will promise you that. And then you’ll wish things were hysterical.”
“Sweetie Mel,” Big Daddy says, “I believe you’ve made your point. Unfortunately, I think you added to the spit and vinegar.” He holds up a hand to stay his daughter’s objections. “So how about you ladies let me handle this for a minute? If I don’t do an adequate job, then I’ll let each of you have your turns, your ways.”
Melissa nods while Brenda just snorts in disgust.
“Good enough,” Big Daddy says getting back to his feet with Pup’s help. His leg throbs and sharp pains make him want to cry out, but he’s a lifetime farmer and it isn’t enough to slow him down, even at his age.
“Gentlemen,” Big Daddy addresses the men at his feet, “I’m sure you have been listening to what Ms. Kelly has been railing on about. This is wholly unbelievable, to say the least. I’m sure you can appreciate that.” He smiles down at the men; they do not smile back.
“Anthony Mondello is the Secretary of Homeland Security,” Platt acknowledges, having been silent until now. Standing above them all at the edge of the hayloft, Platt has his arms behind his back, his face showing zero emotion.
“Thank you, Master Sergeant,” Big Daddy says. “So we know that part is true. The rest? Can’t be verified. Not right this moment, you understand. While I’d like to believe you, the problem I have is that you’ve already admitted you’re hired guns.”
“Private contractors,” one of the men replies.
“I believe that there is known as splitting hairs, sir,” Big Daddy responds. “Whatever you boys like to be called, you and your boss have been paid to provide a service to a man that calls himself President. I’m fairly certain that if he paid you enough you’d call him the Easter Bunny. Although I believe that particular holy day should be reserved for the memory of our Lord and Savior, and not a rodent handing out chocolates.”
“We knew he was President before we were hired,” another man says. “He’s been President for over a year now.”
“At least,” a third man agrees.
“Funny,” Platt says, “I don’t remember voting for him.”
“I don’t neither,” Big Daddy says. “But I do believe that is besides the proverbial point.”
“This is all besides the point!” Brenda snaps. “So how about you get to it, Mr. Fitzpatrick!”
“Shrill,” Big Daddy says.
“Tell me about it,” Melissa agrees.
“But, to satisfy you, Ms. Kelly,” Big Daddy continues before she can protest further. “I will get to the point. Why were the Stanfords taken? What does this so called President want with them?”
“Don’t know,” the first man answers, “I didn’t ask him.”
“Did he give you the orders or did your boss?” Big Daddy asks.
The men stay quiet.
“Their boss,” Platt says. Big Daddy nods at this.
The men all look up at Platt, their eyes filled with malice and anger.
“What?” Platt asks. “Are the private contractors afraid of regular military?”
“This true?” Big Daddy asks.
“Irrelevant,” Platt says. “It takes more than just saying so to be President. If he knew about us, he could have reached out at any time and made contact, showing proof of his right to the presidency.”
“An argument can be made both ways,” Big Daddy says.
“Hardly,” Platt replies. “Making contact would have compromised the team. Through some convoluted back channels we heard what was going on in Charlottesville-”
“Charlottesville?” Brenda Kelly snorts. “The man doesn’t even know where the capitol is!”
“He’s right, lady,” the first man says. “Charlottesville is the new seat of the government. But Atlanta is where the action is at.”
“Dumb shit,” the second man says.
“What? Atlanta isn’t a secret.”
“It is to us,” Platt says, “what’s in Atlanta?”
“Fuck,” the first man says.
“We’re gonna be here a while,” Melissa says, plopping down on a bale of hay. “Guess I should get comfortable.”
“WHY ARE WE HIDING HERE again?” Harlan asks, as he and Shep stay hidden under the rhododendron bushes next to one of the mansions on Kimberly Ave, across the road from the Grove Park Inn’s golf course, and in sight of the Inn itself. “Didn’t the gunfire come from over on Charlotte? Sounded like it to me.”
“Do you still hear gunfire?” Stuart asks, binoculars to his eyes, focused on the Grove Park. “I don’t. We’ll check it out soon, but right now, I want to watch the GPI.”
“Entrance is on the other side,” Shep says. “All we see here are the same guards walking back and forth.”
“No, Shep, not the same guards,” Stuart replies, handing him the binoculars. “Take a look.”
Shep takes the binoculars and has a look, but just shrugs and hands them back. “They all look the same to me, man. Black armor and big guns.”
“You like those biceps, eh Shep?” Harlan laughs.
“Knock it off,” Stuart says. “They changed shifts, trust me. Those are new guards.” Stuart checks his watch. “Two hours early.”
“How the fuck do you know that?” Harlan asks. “How many times have you come here?”
“I’ve been a few,” Stuart says. “So have some of Leeds’s team. Between us, we’ve figured out a schedule. They’ve stuck to it until today.”
“What do you think it means?” Harlan asks.
“I don’t know,” Stuart says, “but it’s strange. There must have been a disruption somewhere.”
“Like all that damn gunfire?” Harlan laughs. “That the disruption you’re looking for?”
“That could be,” Stuart says. “But it can’t just be that. Something else is going on.”
“We gonna find out?” Shep asks. “Or we gonna go check out Charlotte St?”
“Both,” Stuart says. “The entrance is easier to observe if we come at it from Charlotte.”
“Yeah,” Harlan agrees. “But we could take Country Club Dr and go up the back way.”
“More patrols that way,” Shep says. “Right?”
“Right,” Stuart says, thinking it over. “No, we go Charlotte. See what the dust up was over. Then to the Grove Park.”
“Lead the way,” Harlan says.
Stuart does.
THE SUN BEAMS DOWN on John as he kicks back in the deck chair, his feet up, and a cold beer in his hand. He hasn’t caught a thing all day, but the fact that he’s on leave and away from Fort Bragg for a few days makes up for that. He’s happy just to enjoy the gentle rocking of the small boat on the intercoastal waterway as he sips his beer and watches the swaying of the fishing pole locked in place. Gulls fly overhead, making strange, low noises, but again, John is just happy to be somewhere that isn’t overrun by Zs.
By Zs?
He sets his beer down and shields his eyes. Why would he think of Zs? He’s on leave, enjoying some much needed rest and relaxation. Zs aren’t his problem. Then more gulls fly overhead and the sounds coming from them chill John’s bones. Gulls don’t moan. They don’t hiss and snarl. And are they getting louder?
He starts to stand up, but the gentle rocking of the boat turns into some seriously rough rocking, and he falls back on his ass. Pain shoots out from his shoulder and he glances down, surprised at the blood blooming through his t-shirt.
What the fuck? Is there a storm coming? He crawls to the side of the boat and looks into the water. It is completely still and calm, not a wave. Yet the boat keeps rocking. He starts to look away then realizes the reflection in the water isn’t of his face. The face staring back at him is missing one eye and most of its nose. And it isn’t alone. More faces stare back at him, their mouths opening, timed with the sounds of the groans and hisses.
John scrambles back from the side, his hands frantically searching behind him for his pack and his cell phone. He has to call this in. Something is very wrong in the North Carolina outer banks. Crazy sounding gulls? Dead people looking at him from under the water? What the hell?
His hand finds his pack, but something finds his hand. He looks back over his shoulder as a shadow passes over him. Looking up, against the sun, he can barely make out the features of the person that has taken hold of his arm.
“What the hell is going on?” John shouts. “Who are you?”
The person leans forward and John wants to scream. The face that is pressing close to his doesn’t have any flesh; nothing holds its jaw on except for a couple strands of dry tendon. Its tongue is black and swollen, coated in wiggling maggots that squirm off of it and fall onto the boat’s deck. John finally does scream as he sees the thing’s eyes.
Eyes he has seen in the mirror every single day of his life.
Still screaming, John bolts awake, thrust back into the true nightmare of real life. Panicked, he looks around, realizing he’s still in the SUV, surrounded by Zs, with a shoulder that, while no longer literally on fire, fucking hurts like it.
Oh, and the SUV is rocking back and forth rather violently as dozens and dozens of Zs try to break inside to get at John’s living tastiness. The windows are holding fine even with the pounding they are taking from the Zs due to the bulletproof glass they are made from. John is pretty sure the SUVs are reinforced, so he doesn’t think there’s any way the Zs can get to him. But that doesn’t solve the problem of being surrounded by the undead without any supplies. He forces himself to move and search the vehicle, but he comes up with nothing; not even a canteen of water. Which he so desperately could use right now.
“Fuck,” he croaks, his throat raw and dry. Then he looks at the undead faces. “I thought you guys would have left by now.” He figures he must have been making noise in his sleep, which kept the Zs interested. That and the smell of his burning flesh.
The sound of his voice just eggs them on. The Zs double their attack, clawing over each other as they catch sight of him inside. He tries to slide down in the seat and rest in the shadows of the fading evening light, but it doesn’t make a difference. As long as one Z sees him and shows interest, then they all will. Zs aren’t known for their independent thinking abilities.
There is one thing John is happy about: all the ammunition he has. He knows that when the time comes, he can shoot his way out of the SUV. He has no idea how far he’ll get, but he doesn’t have to die trapped if he doesn’t want to. No, he has lots of choices. Such as dying out in the street, or making it to a house and dying there, or possibly being picked up by some of the private contractor fucks and dying in a brutal firefight.
He is busy thinking through his next move, separating the full magazines from the partial ones, when he stops and cocks his head. The light outside the SUV has almost completely faded, so it’s hard to see, but John swears there�
�s movement out there. Movement not very Z-like. He picks up the highly modified M4 rifle he snagged from a dead PC and slaps a magazine home.
Some of the Zs start to hiss loudly and turn from the SUV, their attention drawn to whatever is out there. John keeps the rifle butt pressed to his right shoulder, glad that it’s his left that is wounded. Well, not really glad... He watches carefully, tracking the changing behavior and movements of the Zs. Soon most are gone from the SUV and John can hear the distinctive sounds of skulls being crushed and bodies dropping to the pavement.
The sun has hit the crest of the mountains and the bright sunset glare nearly blinds him as he tries to make out what is happening outside the tinted windows of the SUV. Not all of the Zs have left the vehicle; some just refuse to give up, knowing the prey inside is theirs for the picking if they could just get in.
But even those drop and John takes a deep breath and slowly, very slowly, lets it out as his finger lightly touches the trigger of the rifle. A light knock at the driver’s window, makes John turn quickly, ready to fire.
“Hello?” a voice calls quietly, trying not to draw more Zs to the SUV. “Is someone alive in there?”
John knows that voice, but can’t quite place it.
“Hey! Whoever is in there, don’t shoot!” the voice says. “I’m going to open this door and check on you. Just hold your fire, okay?”
John is about to place the voice when the door opens. He readies himself and is one squeeze away from blowing away the head that looks inside.
“Fuck me, Stuart,” John says, “am I glad to see you.”
John lowers his rifle and lets out a grateful sigh.
“John? What the fuck?” Stuart asks. “How’d get yourself stuck in here? And what the fuck is that smell?”
“Needed a secure place to pass out,” John says, nodding his head towards the mess that is his left shoulder. “Had to perform some emergency surgery.”
“Smells like you cauterized the wound,” Stuart replies, his nose crinkling even more from the stench. “Damn, soldier, that takes guts.”