by David Bourne
“I think Watson will always have someone to take care of him,” said Scott with a grin.
The VW Multivan was fueled up—with supplies in the cargo area and Chris lying on the rear bench. The kids were already sitting next to him in the back. Phil and Ray leaned against the side of the van as they waited for Scott. After a few minutes, Scott exited the store, leading Watson on a rope leash.
All of a sudden, Chris opened his eyes and groaned loudly, which frightened the children.
“Daddy!” Fiona screamed.
Phil and Ray ran toward Chris. After his eyes cleared, he tried to get up, but then he immediately paused and lay back down on the rear bench with a pained expression. “Where am I?”
“You are safe. How are you feeling?” Ray asked with a concerned look. Chris’ breath made a raspy wheezing sound but despite this, he smiled at Ray.
“I feel like I’ve been kicked by a mule. I would rate it somewhere between shitty and really shitty,” he answered quietly. “You don’t look so good yourself.”
Ray smiled. “It’s a long story. Just hang in there Chris, and we’ll find some help soon. If everything goes smoothly, we’ll reach Fort Weeks today. They’re sure to have doctors there.”
“That would be great. I can hardly breathe, and something’s definitely wrong with my ribs. It all feels really strange, Ray.”
“I believe you, my friend. When I saw you fall, I thought you would surely break your neck.”
“I’m so incredibly thirsty.”
“Wait.” Ray got a water bottle from the cargo area and gave it to Chris. “Drink slowly, or you’ll throw up right away.” Scott had meanwhile reached the van with Watson and stood next to the others.
“How’s he doing?” Scott asked apprehensively.
“He’s a tough guy.” Ray forced a smile and displayed it to Chris and Scott. He knew Chris needed urgent medical care as soon as possible.
Chris slowly sipped the water. “Thanks,” he finally whispered.
“Try to get some more rest,” Ray said. We’ll leave soon. We only have to...”
The remainder of the sentence was drowned out by a bloodcurdling roar. The children screamed, while Watson yowled loudly and jumped into the open van. Before the group realized what exactly was happening, another primal, animalistic scream could be heard coming from the direction of the road. When they turned around they could barely believe their eyes: While they had been occupied with Chris, a zombie had approached them from behind. The creature was about 6 foot 3 inches tall and had a massive chest. His muscular arms were stretched out, as if to signal he was about to attack. Mostly unclad, he only wore the shredded remnants of a pair of pants. The flesh of his muscles was not shriveled up like that of the other undead but looked tight and firm. His skin had a grayish-brown hue resembling a rust-like shade, but the most remarkable aspect were the scars and wounds that crisscrossed his chest and the rest of his body. He appeared to have been attacked and wounded several times over. Some of the scars looked like old lash marks that had healed and formed bulging strands of tissue. Other wounds seemed to be more recent, comprised of various cuts and even holes, from which a dark muddy liquid was trickling.
Scott, Phil and Ray stared in shock.
“What in seven hells...?” Phil exclaimed.
Ray knew they had to act fast. “Quick, into the van,” he hissed. Phil crawled next to Chris and his children, who were crying in terror. Ray climbed toward the steering wheel from the passenger side, and Scott sat next to him. Ray started the engine without hesitation and passed the gasoline pump on the right. “What do you want to do?” Scott asked frantically.
Instead of responding, Ray floored the accelerator. “HOLD ON TIGHT!”
Their enemy had not moved. He tightened his neck muscles and lowered his head. Then he ran, directly toward the van—and he was fast.
What happened next seemed to occur in slow motion. When their opponent was still five yards away, he contracted his muscles, stretched his arms away from his chest and jumped.
The VW rammed the zombie head-on. The monster collided with the radiator grill at a speed of about sixty miles per hour and left a deep dent in the van’s short hood. The impact was hard, and the airbag’s inflation modules deployed with a loud explosion. Ray and Scott were thrown against the soft pillows and then bounced back into their seats. The VW kept rolling a few yards to the right.
The beast had been thrown a few yards backward and plummeted to the asphalt. It skidded a bit further and finally lay motionless in the ditch.
Ray and Scott wanted to make sure the collision had done its job. Ray stopped the van. “Is everyone alright?” Scott asked. He only saw some punch-drunk nods from the rear bench.
“Let’s finish him,” Ray said.
Scott shook himself and nodded. “Yes, Captain.”
After they squeezed themselves past the airbags, they swung open the doors and stepped outside, approaching the monster with their weapons ready. When they reached the creature, he began to move again. Scott looked at Ray incredulously. “How can this mofo have survived that?”
Ray shook his head. “I don’t give a shit. He won`t survive this.” Ray raised both his hands to grasp his machete over his head. He swung the blade downwards to cleave the monster’s skull, but suddenly, the creature’s hand shot out. The blow was interrupted as the zombie firmly grabbed Ray’s hand. He pulled Ray closer and roared so loudly that Ray’s hair was moved by his breath. Ray had to squeeze his eyes closed.
“SCOTT!” Ray screamed.
Scott had his ax ready and swung it toward the zombie’s head, but it was also in vain. His opponent had let go of Ray and pushed him toward Scott. While the two of them struggled to keep their balance, the zombie rolled to the right and got on his feet again. Now he stood directly across from them.
Scott was boiling with rage. He gripped the handle of his ax so firmly that his knuckles were white.
“Oh no, you fucking bastard,” he yelled. Scott swung his ax sideways and it hit the undead in the ribcage, where it got stuck. Scott had expected this plan of attack would almost cut his opponent in half, but he was wrong. The weapon had barely entered its body. The undead staggered back several yards and screamed while looking at the ax sticking in his side. He grabbed the handle, pulled the ax out with a sudden motion and let it fall to the ground.
“He... he seems to possess some kind of armor. Something is wrong with his bones,” Ray said. “We should...”
“RAY! SCOTT! HELP!” Phil was screaming hysterically from the VW van. When Ray and Scott turned around, they saw the reason for his panic: From the direction the monster had originally come from, a group of at least twenty additional undead was approaching. Just like the prior situation with them horde and the Jumper at Chris’ house, these slower creatures also appeared to have been following this extraordinary zombie. Staring in complete surprise, Scott was so spellbound by the arrival of this new danger, he had lost sight of their opponent.
Ray saw the disaster coming, but he was too slow to react in time. With a mighty blow, the beast struck Scott in the back, and he was thrown sideways and crashed to the ground several yards away.
Ray vainly tried to crack the zombie’s head again with his blade. The machete left a laceration on the zombie’s head, but it did not cut deep enough to cause any real damage. As if to acknowledge his superiority, the undead uttered a shrill scream of triumph, which in turn provoked the zombie group on the other side. He took a step toward Ray and flung him aside with an almost casual motion, and Ray also found himself lying flat on his back. His machete was thrown from his hand and slid several yards away.
Winded, Ray gasped for air and desperately tried getting back on his feet again, although he knew that it was too late Scott—completely dazed and on his back—was still lying immobile on the ground. Both had lost their weapons, but these seemed to be ineffective against the alpha zombie, anyway. Behind the VW van, the army of undead they had attracted moved
inexorably closer. The armor-skin zombie was headed directly for his prey trapped inside the van, where no one would have the slightest chance of survival. A highly agitated Watson barked incessantly inside the van. In a last-ditch effort in this desperate situation, Ray sent a quick prayer heavenwards. God, if you exist, please help us. Send us a sign. I swear I’ll never act like an asshole again if we get out this alive. No answer came.
The alpha zombie had now reached the van. He tore at the sliding door with such force that the hinges snapped like twigs. He tossed the door aside, and it clattered loudly on the ground. The noise filling the air was incredible. Ray’s ears were filled with a cacophony of a dog barking, children screaming and zombies howling. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Scott slowly regaining consciousness. He would be just in time to see how the people who meant most to him right now would be slaughtered. Ray closed his eyes.
Out of nowhere a shot rang out like a crack of thunder, and it hit the beast in the back of the neck. Uttering an animalistic wail, the giant undead lurched sideways. His skin seemed mostly impervious to blades, but it apparently could not withstand armor-piercing bullets. More shots followed in quick succession. With every shot, the zombie twitched as its skin burst open until he finally collapsed next to the van after being hit in the head. Ray jerked his head around in irritation and saw an Army jeep approaching from the North at high speed. The vehicle had a roof-mounted machine gun manned by a soldier in uniform who was firing at the undead. As the jeep drove past Ray, he could see two other soldiers inside. Was this the divine intervention he had prayed for?
The soldiers slowed down a bit and made a curve around the VW van, toward the zombie horde. Now the soldier unleashed a hail of bullets on the other undead creatures. As the projectiles hit them, they performed a bizarre dance before falling limply to the ground. The soldier kept shooting until no zombie was left standing. When he ceased fire, the barrel of the machine gun was red-hot. The gunner rotated the barrel and slid it off the receiver. Then he took the barrel with special gloves so that it could cool off.
Ray and Scott had meanwhile managed to get up and were stumbling toward the van. Ray cast a quick glance at Scott, who understood what he meant. Be careful. Even if they helped us, we don’t know who we are dealing with here.
Phil and the children left the van, together with Watson.
“Are you okay?” Ray asked.
“We’re fine,” Phil replied. “Saved in the nick of time” Watson barked loudly as if to confirm this.
Meanwhile, two of the soldiers had left their vehicle and were walking toward them. The passenger, a 6 foot tall blonde man, whose name tag read Corporal Brady, held out his hand to Ray. The driver, Private Rickson, stood behind him. The machine gunner stayed in the vehicle and worked on the hot weapon. “The Fifty has overheated, sir. We have to let it cool down.”
Brady firmly shook Ray’s hand. “Corporal Thomas Brady, US Army.”
“Captain Raymond Thompson, pilot for Augusta Airline. I am deeply grateful to you and your men, Corporal Brady. Whoever sent you had a damned good sense of timing. You couldn’t have arrived one second later.”
Brady smiled, displaying two rows of flawless white teeth. “We were on our daily round. You were just lucky, sir.”
“As far as you can still use the term lucky these days, you are certainly right,” Ray said. “What do you mean by your daily round?” Ray suspected he knew the answer, but he wanted to hear the Corporal to say it himself. There was no other logical explanation.
“We are a patrol from the Fort Weeks Army base. We follow a long route around the base every day. One of our tasks is to look for survivors—like you and your people. After we finished our patrol today, we started out for Chester to look for more supplies and medication. That’s when we encountered your group. Is everyone okay?”
Ray was cheering with relief inside, but he tried to restrain his elation. “We have an injured man who suffered a pretty bad fall. He’s lying in the van.” Ray pointed at Chris, who was spread out on the rear bench with his eyes closed again.
Brady just nodded. “If you follow this road for about eighty miles, you will reach Fort Weeks. Someone will take care of him there. We still have to complete our mission.”
“I still have a few more questions, Corporal…”
“I believe you, Captain Thompson, but you will have to be patient. We have to follow orders. Drive to Fort Weeks. People will help you there.”
Ray nodded briefly. He did not want to press his luck too much today. He went to the van to check on Chris and assess the damage.
While they were walking to the vehicle, another primitive scream made them jerk around. The alpha zombie was standing upright again. In the eyes of the group he appeared almost invincible, but Ray saw an oozing wound on the side of his head. The shot had only grazed him.
“Corporal Brady!” he yelled.
Brady had already turned around and stared in disbelief at the zombie. He had never seen anything like it. Without hesitation he drew his pistol from its holster and opened fire. His shots hit the beast, but they caused hardly any damage. Brady looked at his machine gunner.
“Sanchez, bump off that fucking thing,” he barked.
Sanchez frantically worked on his weapon. “Nothing doing, sir. The barrel is still too hot, and I cannot fire!” While saying that, he grabbed his assault rifle and looked at Rickson, who was holding his at the ready. Sanchez jumped down from the jeep and stood next to him. The two formed a firing line by alternately taking five steps forward and firing at the zombie. Some bullets struck the armored skin of the zombie, but they only caused superficial injuries.
Everyone expected the creature to attack again but instead, the zombie turned around and started running away. As the undead moved away, he placed the van between himself and the soldiers as a means to protect himself. They had to cease fire for a while in order to avoid endangering Chris and the kids in the vehicle. They hurried toward the van with their guns raised.
When they arrived on the other side of the vehicle, the zombie had already covered a remarkable distance. He ran over a nearby meadow toward the large forest.
The soldiers started shooting again. A shot hit the beast in the shoulder and made him stumble, but he kept on running. When he was hit in the right arm by a second bullet, he suddenly started running zigzag. A moment later he had disappeared between the trees.
“Did that creature just evade our shots? I can’t believe it!” Brady scratched his chin. Then he turned around to Ray.
“You know what to do, mister. Drive to the base. We are going to pursue him. This monster is too dangerous and must not escape.”
“I understand, Corporal. Good luck. Thank you for your help, and take care of yourself. We’ll meet again in Fort Weeks.”“
“Same to you. You’ve got a brave group here. I hope you arrive safely,” Brady called while walking toward the jeep. The men got in and drove in pursuit of the alpha zombie.
Brady sat in the passenger seat and stared into the forest. He and his men had encountered the undead several times, but this was the first time he had seen such a specimen. Once he’s lying dead at our feet, I am going to have a closer look at him, he thought.
A Little Bit of Normalcy
During the past few days, several groups had been sent on missions outside the base. Besides the regular reconnaissance teams and patrols that were sent daily in order to locate and eliminate larger groups of the undead, they were now also sending supply troops.
In the beginning, they had focused on looking for fuel, food and ammunition. In the meantime, though, they were planning ahead and had started to move agricultural and construction machinery to the base. If there was one thing Fort Weeks had plenty of, it was space. The base’s entire rear area, which had been previously used as training and explosives testing ground, was now supposed to be turned into farm land by next spring. The soil was not optimal, but such problems had to be accepted.
&nbs
p; A great deal would have to be accomplished before real fields would come into being. A large number of volunteers had been found who whole-heartedly threw themselves into this new task. After it became clear to base officials that the refugees would be staying there for a long time, they had begun inquiring about their former jobs and tried to assign them suitable tasks accordingly.
Thus, everybody did his or her part for the greater good of survival. Josh was doing his part, too, just like he had discussed with his dad. He was just changing for his shift. In addition to his normal hospital clothing, which consisted of a lab coat and pants—similar to what he had recently worn when working in the morgue—he now wore another item. He had talked to the dog handler at the base and managed to coax him out of a part of his protective clothing. So now Josh attached the two straps of a bite-proof lower-arm guard on his left arm. After his prior experience with the fat undead man in the Augusta hospital, he didn’t want any more surprises. Particularly considering the tasks he had now assumed control of on the base.
Only several days had passed since he had fled Augusta and started out for Fort Weeks, and already Josh was working as a team leader in the medical tent of a U. S. Army base. His assigned tasks were to escort all new arrivals from the main gate to the medical tent and examine them for possible injuries. Although he had not yet identified a shifter among the arrivals, it was far from impossible that one might be among the refugees.
The soldiers referred to people who had been infected as shifters. They had either been bitten or scratched and would sooner or later turn into zombies. One thing was clear to the people at Fort Weeks: Zombies could mean the end of humanity as we know it.
The world had drastically changed in the days since Josh’s arrival. It was still a mystery when the epidemic had started and where it had originated because it appeared all hell had broken loose simultaneously worldwide. Josh thought one of the military chaplains had explained it quite well: