Planet of the Dead (Book 2): War For The Planet of The Dead

by Flowers, Thomas S.

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Dead-ication

  The News Pt. I

  Private Jelks

  Ray & Tom

  Polk

  Specialist Romero

  General Rusk

  Elliot & Mia

  The News Pt. II

  Twitter

  Polk Pt. II

  Private Jelks Pt. II

  Paul

  Tammy

  General Rusk Pt. II

  Polk Pt. III

  Amy Horrigan

  Vladimir Ryazanskiy

  Collins

  Christy Stokes

  Monk

  Doctor Ying

  Polk Pt. IV

  General Rusk Pt. III

  Surfer Dude

  Supreme Leader

  To Be Continued...

  About the Author

  More from Thomas S. Flowers!

  THOMAS S. FLOWERS

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this eBook may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author.

  SHADOW WORK PUBLISHING

  Copyright © 2018 Thomas S. Flowers

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Cover created by Travis Eck

  Dead-ication

  To George A. Romero's 1978 cult classic Dawn of the Dead--the true epitome of zombie movies where the rules of Romeroism were established for all similar styled zombie movies to follow. And to my fellow writers and authors of zombie fiction, to Mark Tufo and Jonathan Maberry, and Brian Keene, and so many more, for keeping the nightmare alive.

  The News

  Part I

  24-Hour News Network

  "The President is dead," a man in a wrinkled suit said somberly to the TV camera. The footage was shaky at best. "He was shot during an escalating situation at the White House, involving several members of Secret Service. There have been rumors following last week's bizarre Press Briefing as the signal was cut out during Deputy Press Secretary Walter Friendly's press update, reports of gunfire, and of course the now deceased President's inactive Twitter feed. Many are speculating that the President had become infected with this strain of Super Flu." The newsman combed his unkempt brown hair back from his eyes--sleepless eyes, the kind of eyes circled by too many cold, bitter coffees and smoke, red and irritated, but too stubborn to stop--too scared to think about anything but the next news story. "The President died in the oval office, sometime during the attack. He was sixty-six years old. He is the fourth President to be assassinated in office, the first since John F. Kennedy. Vice-President, Bruce Johnson, a seventy-five-year-old native Virginian, took the oath of office at the hands of an unidentified judge in Washington."

  There is motion off screen. The newsman looks confused, squinting at some unseen person. He waves his hand, shooing whoever it is away. Another man runs up and hands the anchorman a few crumpled sheets of paper, whispering something in his ear. The anchorman nods in confirmation.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, this just in from KOUH News, Army General Rusk of the 1st Calvary Division out of Fort Hood has just taken command from Governor of Texas Greg Abbot. The whereabouts of the governor are unknown. General Rusk has dispatched platoons from 1st Cav to Austin, Waco, Houston, and other major cities and surrounding areas. Several other states have followed the same cadence. This is being reported in between the first shock and the harried attempt to reconstruct a sequence of fact from weeks of tumult and uncertain leadership. However, in what appears to be the end to the Age of Information, and every network and station in the nation having gone dark, we are one of the few to cover this appalling story. It begins to form a grisly pattern, even under martial law, as ghastly as that is, this looks like the end of civilization as we know it, a coup de grâce of democracy happening not only in the United States but throughout the World."

  Buzzing static.

  Another channel on the dial.

  "...a massive riot which supposedly began at a Manchester pub, has quickly spread across Liverpool and the southern portion of Leeds. Protection Command and other Special Police Operations have mounted line after line in an attempt to put a stop to the madness, to no end...no end...these things won't stop...are they even human--? God save the Queen!"

  Another channel, this one with an aged man in a tweed coat, scruffy hair as if he'd quickly and carelessly combed it before the cameras turned on. Judging by the bags under his eyes, he most likely didn't care.

  "NATO has reported the deployment of 'thousands of troops' to bolster what has been called the 'Second Western Front,' a counter offensive, joining what remains of France's Special Operations Command and the Royal Danish Army to contain what sources have called 'rioting the likes of which the world has never seen', which has taken place for weeks now in Western Europe. According to Chancellor Angela Merkel, German Kommando Spezialkräfte have been given orders to shoot any rioter that approaches the border. No official statement has been released from the Monarch or the Prime Minister. Rumors have speculated from a strange and highly contagious sickness to a wave of madness. All contact from the Royal Family has gone dark since last week. Gunfire has been reported on--"

  More buzzing.

  "Safe zones have been created to help ease the tide of panic. Talk of use of old prisons and... camps from the Second World War..." Arguing, outside the cameras view. The anchorman looks at them, smirking. "Camps, that's what the teleprompter said, camps. As in concentration camps? Have they lost their ever-fucking minds?"

  Another channel. Another anchorman, this one is oddly clean shaven and fresh for the cameras. He read from the teleprompter as many others did, stopping every other sentence to frown, as if what he was reading simply couldn't be real and perhaps someone's idea of a sick joke.

  "The World Health Organization has released news on the explosive spread of what is now being referred to as..." the anchor paused, squinting again at the screen, "as the Teralis Virus, named after the ophiocordyceps unilateralis fungus. Experts on the committee have commented that Teralis could be a mimic strain of the fungus..." he paused again, smiling, "...while others, including both Doctor Sally Weaver and Matthew Desmond with the Epidemic Intelligence Service, have disputed this sensational claim, stating lack of credible evidence to the existence of a strain fungi or even if said strain would have the slightest impact on our own immune systems. More focus should be given to the outbreak of what the American CDC is calling a Super Flu, and I for one couldn't agree more, to say anything, at least the Brits with WHO haven't lost their sense of humor during this ordeal..."

  Another dozen channels later. Fewer and fewer by each passing day.

  "Yes, Xander, you're breaking up...what was that? Are those--?" Maria Garza licked her lips as she glared at something, or someone off camera. She pressed down on her earpiece, listening to an inaudible report. Garza had been with CNN Headline News for over a year now, yet she still maintained her signature appearance, a tight fitted, knee length dress that revealed just enough of her cleavage and supple curves to pass the FCC TV-MA 14 rating the network typically held. Tonight, her dress was black. And her usual warm inviting smile was replaced with a look of absolute uncertainty. "Excuse me, I'm being told that we just lost contact with Xander, reporting live in Seattle. While we
try to reconnect, in other news, the FAA has reported cancellations for international flights arriving from..." Maria glared at the screen, "...all terminals..." Looking off camera, "That can't be right, can it?"

  Muffled voices argued off screen.

  Maria cleared her throat, returning to her bosom-slightly-out posture, and continued.

  "The FAA has just announced the grounding of flights both domestically and internationally. If you are a ticketed passenger, authorities request you contact your booking agency. Only emergency personnel and services will be given access to flights. Resumption of service is undetermined--"

  On another channel, two newscasters report the latest of developing conditions with that same unwashed appearance as so many others on so many channels, uncertain about what they were reporting, but too terrified to stop, as if the mere act of turning off the cameras and walking out the door would be the worst thing they could ever do. To quit meant to accept that this was real.

  "This is an ABC 13 Eyewitness News Breaking Report, coming to you from La Porte, Texas, I'm Melanie Lawson--"

  "--and I'm Jack Mason filling in for...no one...there's no one left..." giggling.

  Camera pans back to Melanie in her not usual navy-blue blazer, stained with sweat and a torn pearl white blouse. Her hair is normally kept in a curled bob, but now, she looks as if she hasn't any time to comb her hair or even apply makeup. She glances at Jack, unsettled.

  Clearing her throat, she said, "We're coming to you with a Breaking News report. According to officials, they are asking people to..."

  Panning to Jack, his twelve o'clock shadow looking even more gritty. If asked, he'd have a hard time remembering the last time he showered or even brushed his teeth. His brown suit looked obviously ruffled as if whatever sleep he'd had was while wearing it.

  He looked at Melanie and continued without her. "The bodies of the recently deceased are to be surrendered to authorized members of the CDC and City Healthcare authorities, working in conjunction with the U.S. Army. Any citizen caught hiding the recently deceased or other failure to comply will be met with swift punishment following the ruling of...General Rusk."

  Melanie now giggled offscreen. The camera jerked to her. She stopped and glared at the camera, deadpan and pale. "Why are they doing this?" she whispered, unblinking. "Why do they want the dead...?"

  Another channel. One of the dying breeds of news networks showing a large domed room with stadium-style seats and small desks. At the front was a large raised podium where a man in a blue suit and red tie hammered a gavel. Rolling waves of murmured conversation refused to give way. Most of the talk carried hints of dismay and panic, the rest aggravation and frustration for the opposing party. The Speaker hammered his gavel once more and finally the grumbling ebbed into a slight whisper. A disembodied voice fills the rooms of viewers nationwide.

  "As we can see, it looks like the Speaker has just called the House back in session regarding why funds for National Emergency Services have not been dispatched across major U.S. cities. Fewer and fewer Representatives have shown for the assembly, unable to be reached for session. Both Republicans and Democrats are disagreeing on what the reaction should be regarding the epidemic and mass rioting in cities. Representative Fred Turner of Arizona has stated before the session began that he believed State governors should be given authorization and freedom to issue martial law as they deem fit. While Representative Daniel Shay of Virginia has stated that he thinks it's too late and the federal government should initiate Martial Law on a national level instead of the regional, as some have--"

  Shouting broke out among the scattered assembled Representatives. Arms and hands flaying in the air in dramatic indignation, neither side willing to comprise or come to some sort of agreement. Two men across the room, jabbing fingers at each other, neck ties loosened, red faced and shaking with anger.

  Another Representative near the epicenter of the room shouted to the Speaker, "Where is the newly sworn in President, sir? Why haven't we heard from the West Wing? We understand this is sudden for the former Vice President, but the Commander in Chief ought to be--"

  More hammering of the gavel.

  More thunderous shouting from the gathered few.

  From the disembodied voice, "That was Representative Wendy Evans of Washington, addressing a concern many have communicated. Rumors have only spread following this morning's threat from North Korean Supreme Leader Kim Yong-un to use nuclear weapons against, according to Yong-un, an obvious chemical weapon attack against the peaceful people of North Korea--"

  Flickering signal pans to another news channel. Two men are angled toward each other, chatting moderately, as if giving an interview.

  The smart looking one with thick eyebrows and yellow teeth looks to his host, the frustration in his tone obvious. "Why dispose? Why? Because they kill for one reason: they kill for food. They eat their victims, you understand that, Mr. Berman? That's what keeps them going!"

  Mr. Berman, a forty something black man folds his hands together. "People aren't willing to accept your solutions, doctor, and I for one don't blame them!"

  The doctor laughs, somewhat manically. "You're not running a talk show here, Mr. Berman! You can forget pitching an audience the moral bullshit they want to hear."

  Angry murmuring off camera.

  Berman holds up a hand to silence the unseen mob.

  The doctor looks at them nervously. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he squints and relaxes, a measure of composure returning. He looks at his host. "I'm sorry--listen...this situation must be contained before it's too late. They're multiplying too rapidly. Despite our best efforts to define what they are or how this is even happening, they simply are--they exist because we exist."

  The black anchorman, play-acting as a talk show host, frowned. "What are you saying, doctor?"

  "They must be destroyed on sight!"

  "You can't be serious..."

  "I am deadly serious! What are the choices? They won't run out of food as long as we're still alive. Forget some magic vaccine. The infected and the dead need to be dealt with as any life threating bacterial infection--cut them off from the source."

  Buzzing static, on another channel a reporter is live from the field in the city of Birmingham, Alabama.

  "And what happened, ma'am, when did the military arrive?"

  A short round woman, cheeks a rosy pink. She talked out of breath, as if she'd been running from something or someone. "Oh, yes," she said, nearly shouting into the camera. "Tanks and Humvees from them Thirty-First Dixie National Guard came rolling through town just a few hours ago, telling people they were setting up checkpoints, telling us about curfew and what not. I said, man I haven't had curfew since I was a little girl and even then, I snuck out."

  Another channel, the same story--different town.

  "Someone said they were part of the 160th Infantry Regiment, but damn man, I've never seen so many troops. They've got checkpoints all over Los Angeles. Disposal Units--that's what I heard them calling themselves, bunch of them Hollywood Marines going around, collecting and disposing the recently deceased. You ask me, I don't think they've got enough men."

  Another channel, another city.

  "...and I shit you not, this fella ran straight for that checkpoint and they lit his ass up with 5.56 mm rounds until he was nothing but swiss cheese. I don't know if he was infected or just scared. It's like...it's like we're at war with ourselves, man."

  Private Jelks

  Part I

  Somewhere near Austin, Texas.

  As ordered, Jelks took position with four other members from his squad, squeezed together, backs against the only cover they could find, a dumpster that smelled like rotten fruit and soiled diapers. Wallis, who most in the unit called Wally--as in "Wally's gone ape shit, man!" It happened, typically after being back post-deployment too long. The rage bottled; the kind that can only be uncorked in the desert, upon unsuspecting and marginally pitiful "ragheads," as he called them. Witho
ut the War, he'd drink and drink and bitch about something or another--whatever was grinding his gears at the moment. The government or the Army or some stripper that refused to return any of his advances. Tonight, it was the Army, or more accurately, the "assholes," as he called them, holed up in this slum dog apartment complex, refusing to do what, in Wally's opinion, every American should be doing. Respect in dying? To Wally's credit, Jelks didn't see much point in that either--not after all the shit he'd seen.

  "Residents of Hillshire Apartment--" Captain Iverson, a middle-aged, tired looking man, bellowed through a bullhorn near the front of a tall, red brick apartment complex. The front doors had been chained and locked from the inside. The windows boarded. Curtains drawn. One of many similar apartments around Austin. All ordered to be cleared and marked with chalk as being "DEAD FREE."

  "Citizens? What a joke," Wally quipped. "Illegals more like it. Holed up in there--we ought to let them burn. Just strike a match and let it burn. No sense worrying about what's festering in there."

  Jelks watched Wally from his peripheral. Trying to not make eye contact, eye contact meant you agreed with him or you didn't, there was no in-between. While he never cared much for Wally's vernacular, he wasn't wrong. Why take such a risk? Wouldn't it be easier just to...burn the building?

  "--by order of General Rusk, you are to hand over the recently deceased for disposal. To harbor the dead is considered an act of treason against the people of the United States. Failure to comply with our orders to search the premises will be considered a hostile act and we will be forced to take necessary action."

  Wally hissed between his teeth. "Fucking spics, I say we fucking waste them. Waste all their lowlife spic asses. These people ain't going to fucking listen to nobody. The only way they'll listen is if we blow them out."

  Jelks noticed the new guy licking his lips, looking paler by the second. He nodded at him. Getting his attention. "You okay?" he whispered.