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

by Flowers, Thomas S.

  He watched the coastline for signs of life. In the beginning, when he'd set out of Houston Bay, he watched houses burning in the night. Sirens at all time of day. Crackling over the speakers of his radio. Sometimes people would run along the beaches, waving, calling out to him. Some idiots jumped in the water to swim after him. He'd thought about helping, more than once. But he never did. From Texas to Louisiana to Mississippi to Alabama, all the way to Florida. There had been other boats too. Loads of them, all heading in different directions. One week, a fleet of them had followed each other--Surfer Dude among them. They had talked to each other, not directly, but over the radio, or yelling from boat to boat. All happy to have some sort of community; none willing to take a risk on the other.

  Eventually the fleet spread apart, and boat by boat they slipped away. Disappeared to seek out their own way in the Caribbean or sunk by a fierce storm or worse. He'd known for a fact that some of those boats harbored those who had been infected by one of the nasties. A few were not infected, and yet--upon death, they turned all the same. The way Surfer Dude saw things, whatever the government had cooked up in their underground labs, it penetrated the very fabric of mortality.

  No one was safe.

  Death was a constant threat.

  Better to stick it alone.

  Find his own way.

  By the time he reached the coast of the sunshine city of St. Petersburg, he was in fact very alone. Not a single ship, though every few hundred miles or so he would spot a survivor on a beach--not waving but staring at him as he passed by at sea. He slept horribly. Never wanting to give up control. He slipped one day and fell into the water. Thankfully the boat had not picked up any wind. But he had seen a fin breeching the waves, and a large dark torpedo shaped body coming towards him. Panicked, he hoisted himself on deck. Panting. Spitting ocean water. Then he passed out and when he woke he had damn near coasted along to the other side of Florida.

  He kept his distance around Miami--giving the poor bastards stuck in that city a silent prayer. By the sounds of the sirens and explosions and the screaming, it wasn't looking good for them.

  The next day, according to his GPS, he was somewhere off the coast of Georgia. Gazing out at the shore, he sat down in frustration at another dead beach.

  And then he saw something.

  Away from the coast line by at least several miles.

  He pulled on the forward sail, angling his boat to get a closer look. The Atlantic wind whipped at his hair and clothes that hung from his body. The MacGregor sailed the length of this landmass and curved around, and around.

  "It's an island--beaches, trees..." he whispered, gazing out at the land, squinting, trying to see if there were any people living there, or undead.

  "Hello?" he yelled, guiding the ship closer for another pass around the island.

  He waited.

  Nothing.

  Watching carefully, Surfer Dude wrenched the sail, slowing the ship down. He got as close as he dared without grounding and dropped anchor. The swim to shore would be brief.

  Gazing out over the island--just to be sure, he dove into the water.

  The Atlantic waters were cold--colder than he'd expected. He came up, gasping and alert, as if he'd jumped into an icy shower.

  He swam to shore.

  "Hello?" he called again, and then immediately crouched.

  Shit, he thought, I forgot to bring a weapon.

  He glanced back to the MacGregor bobbing in the water.

  Fuck!

  He kept low and trotted up the beach toward tall brown grass that lined the dunes. A couple of seagulls flew off, annoyed by his presence. Cusping the top of the dune, he peered around for any sign of danger.

  There was nothing.

  Only stretches of fields of grass and large ancient looking oaks with Spanish moss hanging from the branches and fern trees. It was unkept and wild looking. He stood, his fear from a lack of protection dissipating.

  "Hello?" he shouted again.

  More annoyed birds fluttered away from a nearby oak.

  Cautiously, he started inland, searching for any signs of civilization.

  Or any signs of the walking dead.

  Sweat beaded his forehead, yet the humidity wasn't nearly as bad. Back home, just standing outside often felt like a workout. The warmth was pleasant. In the winters though, there would be some cold, maybe even snow, he wagered. Hurricanes would be seldom--which was a primary concern, sailing south into the Caribbean. It was bad enough having to survive against those nasties, but having to survive against nasties and gull force winds...

  For hours it seemed he walked, and eventually he came out to another clearing. He stared out at the ocean, and just visible with a naked eye, the mainland.

  He rubbed his face.

  This could be it--the island.

  The safe place.

  Far enough not to worry about any nasties walking on water.

  The only way to get here would be by boat or helicopter.

  Swimming would be risky--too risky for most.

  He turned and gazed out at the wild vegetation.

  This could work--plenty of land to grow crops, build huts.

  Rebuild society.

  He started off back the way he came.

  He stopped.

  Behind him came the all too familiar metallic click, the sound of a hammer to a revolver being cocked.

  "Say something," the stranger said. The feminine voice was tense, terrified even. But absolutely serious.

  Dude held up his hands, "I'm unarmed."

  "Well, that's stupid."

  "Thanks. Wasn't really the plan, you know?"

  "What are you doing here, stupid?"

  "Just looking for a place--a safe place."

  The stranger seemed to consider this.

  Dude started to turn.

  "Hold it--don't you move another inch."

  Dude froze, "Sorry, I just...look, I don't mean any harm. I'm sorry if I trespassed on your land or whatever. I'm not here to hurt anybody or steal."

  "Right," said the stranger. "I've seen how people are when the shit hits the fan. Even without being infected, people can be savage when it comes to life or death. How do I know you're telling the truth?"

  Dude shook his head. "How am I supposed to prove--look, you're just going to have to trust me, here."

  "And how am I supposed to do that?"

  "What's your name? My friends call me Dude. A couple weeks ago, when the outbreak hit, and people started getting sick and dying from a fever and then getting back up again and biting people, I took off. I got a boat on the other side of the island. I sailed from Houston all the way here searching for a safe place--a place like this, isolated but livable." He stopped to catch his breath, unsure if what he was saying was sinking in. Apparently, this chick had been through some trouble.

  "You said you sailed all the way from Houston?" the stranger asked, her voice filled with admiration and pity. "Have things really gotten that bad out there?"

  Dude laughed without emotion. "Worse. Last time I got a signal on my radio, I heard they were dropping bombs on the cities--I'm talking nukes."

  The stranger's voice quivered, "Jesus..."

  "And that's why I'm here. I don't want no part of that mess. I just want to find a place away from the sickness, away from those nasties, man--you dig what I'm saying?"

  Silence.

  And then the unmistakable sound of the hammer being uncocked.

  Dude put his hands down and turned.

  The stranger was of average build, a sturdy looking woman, somewhere in her thirties with dark brown hair pulled back in a pony tail. She wore cargo shorts, a tucked in t-shirt with the motto "Life is Beautiful" written across it, and hiking boots. She holstered her revolver into a hip holster.

  "Kelly Faust," she said, holding out a hand.

  Dude took it. "Nice to meet you. This your place?" he asked, nodding his head at the island.

  Kelly glanced around. "I su
ppose. In this day in age, I guess whoever plants the first flag, right?"

  Dude chuckled. "Yeah, I guess you'd be right. You got a name for this island?"

  She smiled. "I was going with 'Kellyland,' but I thought that might be too pretentious."

  "Just a tad."

  "Well, all the same. Welcome to Paradise."

  "No shit?"

  "No shit."

  Supreme Leader

  Pyongyang,

  North Korea

  "They've breeched the compound, sir!"

  "I see them--help me!"

  "What should we do, sir?"

  "Shoot them. Stop them!"

  AK-47 rounds rattled down the corridor. Brass cartages rained like tiny bells on the cement floor. A squad of olive uniformed soldiers aimed and fired. A mist of sour-smelling sulfur rose to the ceiling.

  And still they came.

  Several former soldiers, now members of the living dead, trotted forward on unsteady legs. Bits of fabric torn away, revealing recent purplish bite marks and gashes along the throat and torso from careless, greedy fingernails. One soldier's lower jaw had been snapped off, his blackish-red tongue coiling like some mangled snake as he gurgled a hungry moan.

  "Shoot them, you idiots!" the Supreme Leader screamed, standing behind them, his newly tailored black suit scuffed with white powder and rips in the fabric. His eyes wet with terror.

  The soldiers fired at their fallen comrades and all the others that packed the hallway, pouring in from the front checkpoint that had been blown in by the Supreme Leader's Mercedes-Benz during his escape from the city.

  Round after round.

  Red misted the walls; the ceiling; the floor.

  Groans and gnashing of putrid teeth.

  They kept coming--a seemingly endless supply.

  Several of the dead began crawling over the motionless ones, grabbing one of the soldiers on the line and pulling him into the horde.

  "Jung!" shouted one of the soldiers, reaching out in vain for his friend.

  Jung held out his hand--hoping--praying to be saved. Swarming hungry dead piled on him, shredding his clothes, penetrating, rooting for meat. Crying, he spat blood as it bubbled up his throat. One of the corpses, some woman with burnt clothes, missing half her face, gnawed on his cheek, pulling away fat and muscle and nerve as if she were eating a bowl of kimchi. For a moment he was blinded as crimson sprayed in his eyes. And then he could see before the end as they opened his stomach, spilling out his noodled intestines. He watched them clamor vigorously, licking his organs as if they've never tasted anything so sweet before--like a junkie getting his fix. And then nothing.

  "Jung!" his friend cried out again.

  His other patriots kept firing into the crowd.

  Shells and casings and magazines littered the floor.

  The rattling didn't seem to want to ever end.

  "Sir, we need to fall back!" one of the soldiers yelled over his shoulder, hoping the Supreme Leader heard him.

  The Supreme Leader gazed dumbfounded out at the unstoppable horde. "Retreat?"

  More moaning--hissing.

  "Sir? There's too many of them. We'll be overrun soon!"

  Exhaling, the Supreme Leader whispered, "Fall back--yes, we need to fall back." He turned and started down the hall.

  "Sir?" one of the soldiers called after him.

  The Supreme Leader ran, full sprint. His expensive dress shoes clicking off the concrete floor, the fat in his face jiggling and flush white. With the door in sight, he reached for the handle and rushed inside. Spinning, he slammed his shoulder into the door and locked it.

  He backed away.

  Pounding echoed a moment later.

  "Sir? Sir! Open the door--they're coming. Sir?"

  More gunfire.

  Shouting.

  Screaming.

  The Supreme Leader spotted a desk and pushed it against the door. He toppled over a file cabinet and backed away again.

  More pounding on the door now.

  "Sir!" pleaded the soldier.

  More gunshots.

  Followed by even more growling and guttural rasps.

  "Sir!" the soldier yelped, his voice turning into a pain filled scream.

  And then pounding on the door, but not from the soldiers, as bodies ran into the frame, fighting, scrambling for the food.

  Soon finished, the dead began pushing against the door. More and more of them until the hinges began to groan and bend. The barricade was not going to hold.

  The Supreme Leader backed away even farther, running a pudgy hand through his buzz cut black hair. He glanced around, too terrified to take his eyes from the pounding of the door for too long.

  Where was he?

  A conference room of some kind.

  There were people.

  Dead.

  Suicides apparently, from self or otherwise inflected headshots. Sprawled in office chairs, heads back and motionless--eyes wide.

  Among the dead was an older man in uniform, slumped back with a service pistol still clutched in his ridged fingers. A gnarled-looking exit wound punched out the top of his skull, blooming what remained of grey hair. Bits of brain matter clung to the ceiling and light fixtures.

  The Supreme Leader turned away, his stomach tightening as if he was going to be sick. He knew the dead man, of course. It had been General Park Doo-Hwan. In front of him a set of monitors buzzed with static, all but one, a hacked news broadcast from Seoul. Apparently, the General had been watching what was going on--and when the Supreme Leader wrecked his Benz into the lobby, he'd thought the worst--that the end had come.

  And perhaps it did.

  Squealing metal jarred the Supreme Leader from his thoughts.

  He glared at the door, stepping back farther into the room, away from General Doo-Hwan's corpse. The door was folding inward. Crimson-stained hands reached in the opening space, searching blindly for substance.

  Wait.

  The monitors.

  He knew this room.

  This was air defense.

  Missile launches were monitored here.

  General Park Doo-Hwan was the gatekeeper, tasked in the inevitable and seemingly unlikely event in which the Democratic People's Republic of Korea decided to use nuclear capabilities. All of which were top secret, the intercontinental ballistic missile project was hidden from the public and from the world. For all they were, they'd never perfected anything more than short range capabilities. If the world had known the truth...it would have meant war.

  Deeper into the complex...

  The Supreme Leader strode over to Doo-Hwan's motionless body. Hesitating, uncertain if he wanted to touch it, he reached out and felt along the neck. A moment later he withdrew a cardkey, tethered on a lanyard necklace, dangling from his trembling hand.

  Tucking the prize in the pocket of his suit jacket, he walked to the back door. He peeked out into the new hallway. With no one in sight, he gave the room he was in one final glance and fled. Shutting the door behind him, he ran for the next series of offices and corridors, unable to lock the one he'd just left.

  He followed the hallway to the next office, pausing for any sign of movement or unwanted surprise, and continued to the next, and the next, following the flow of the spiraling corridor all the way to the heart of the complex.

  At the last door, he used his own keycard to enter the room labeled Launch Center. Inside, the room was dark, the only light came from several blinking red emergency bulbs high above him. On a series of monitors, one warned of a breech at the front lobby. On the screen he could see what remained of his Mercedes and a still seemingly endless stream of shambling corpses falling over each other and swarming into the facility.

  His face slick with sweat, he sat at the main workstation and typed in his authorization passcode. Recalling from weekly drills, the Supreme Leader executed all the necessary prompts, accessing control and beginning the process of launching what remained of the country's viable nuclear missiles.


  Out of four, three were operational.

  Using General Doo-Hwan's keycard, he accessed launch controls, setting targets for Tokyo, London, and Arlington, Virginia. He armed the malfunctioning missile as well, knowing that it would never launch and instead overheat and detonate inside the compound.

  "Better this way," he told himself.

  With one last push of a button, the mechanism was started. He could feel the rumbling as siloes shifted open. The countdown flashed across one of the higher screens. He gazed into his own monitor as the 1.2 Megaton yield nukes, also known as Bunker Busters, cycled down to the last stage.

  Nothing would survive from these targets.

  Nothing.

  Outside the locked door, he could hear them.

  The living dead banged and pounded against the metal, moaning irritably--somehow knowing he was inside. It was unlikely they would be able to get through. Launch Control had better security, reinforced. There could be thousands outside, they would never be able to push their way in.

  But inside, there were no provisions.

  No water.

  No food.

  He would starve.

  A slow death.

  Not an honorable death.

  The Supreme Leader had no desire to die in such a way.

  "Better this way," he said again, watching as the final digit counted down. A low rumbling vibrated throughout the facility. Warnings flashed across the screen. Warning of impending detonation of the malfunctioning nuke.

  He glanced at the higher screens as three intercontinental ballistic missiles took to the sky in a sea of dark clouds billowing along the ground.

  "If Korea burns, so will our enemies," the Supreme Leader choked defiantly, listening to Aegukka, the Patriotic Song of North Korea as the last missile went critical.

  In a violent quake, the complex thrust and crumbled and was blown outward in massive fireball of red, orange, and yellow ballooning up into the sky.