Zombie Crusade Snapshots: Volume I

by J. W. Vohs

  Chien nodded, “Will do, sir, but we’re both gonna get out of here and then we’ll go after these bastards together.”

  The tired, aging mercenary tried to smile as he mused, “I like that country song where the guy says he ain’t as good as he once was, but he’s as good once as he ever was. That’s how I feel right now, my friend. I know I’ve got one more good fight left in me, but I’m not sure if I can fight a war at this point in my life.”

  Chien gave the weary warrior’s shoulder a squeeze as he stood and offered, “I think you have more in the tank than you know, boss. We’re gonna save the people here and seal off that damn bridge, then they’re on their own. Then you and I are gonna lead our men after Barnes.”

  “And those damn bankers,” DeHaven added as he looked up at the younger colonel.

  “Damn right, sir; now send out the orders for the attack and try to get some rest. I’ll get the story copied and see you at dawn.”

  * * *

  As the eastern sky began to glow, the troops were ready to move out. The civilian leaders had added everything they could to the Red Eagle arsenal, including the knowledge many had gained fighting their way to the coast. One fact they all stressed was that most of the people they’d lost to the infection had suffered bite-wounds on their forearms. Leather, vinyl, and plastic vehicle seats had been cut into strips and duct-taped around the arms of the men who would be moving into town. Gloves also were found for each fighter. The civilians had plenty of bats, sledge-hammers, and other blunt instruments they were happy to share with the force volunteering to risk their lives protecting them. Every Red Eagle operative also carried a rifle and sidearm, with as much ammo as they could carry without sacrificing speed and mobility. If they could set up a fixed defense, sound wouldn’t be an issue.

  After discussing attack plans with their squad leaders, DeHaven and Chien had decided to each lead a column of almost a hundred men each. They intended to smash their way quickly through town and attract as many zombies to their formations as possible. Once they reached the shoreline, they would form a double-lined, half-circle with their flanks anchored in the surf. The civilians had adamantly declared that the infected were afraid of water. The Red Eagle leaders weren’t going to count on that report, but figured that the gentle waves would slow the approach of the clumsy flesh-eaters enough to blunt any attacks they might make on the ends of the lines.

  Finally, DeHaven was satisfied that his troops were as ready as they were ever going to be and sent word that they would be moving out in five minutes. Chien already had his column on the road and ready to march at a moment’s notice, so when Marie appeared at the edge of the camp he trotted over to make sure she was okay.

  “Everything all right?” he asked, realizing almost at once that his question was ludicrous. “I mean, nobody bothered you or anything last night, did they? You found the MREs I left for you?”

  Marie self-consciously ran a hand through her hair and nodded, “Yeah, I found the food. Nobody bothered me last night. Look, I don’t know if there are words to describe how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for me . . . and Missy.”

  Chien shook his head slightly, “You needed help; that’s what I’ve spent my adult life doing, helping people in trouble.”

  She smiled sadly, “We were complete strangers to you, and you had no obligation to anyone by the time you found us. I just wanted to tell you that you were like an angel sent specifically to help us yesterday, and I just didn’t want you to leave this morning without thanking you.”

  “I plan on coming back,” he stated matter-of-factly.

  Marie looked down for a brief moment before meeting his eyes once more, “When you do, check in on me once in a while. My world got a lot smaller yesterday.”

  Chien nodded, “To be honest, except for DeHaven, you’re the only friend I have on this island. I’ll find you.”

  She quickly stepped forward and briefly hugged him before moving back. “I’m going to hold you to that.”

  Chien yielded a slight smile before turning to go, but he was pretty sure that, despite her words, Marie wouldn’t be waiting here if he made it back from the fight. He arrived at the head of the column just as word came to move out. The sun was almost breaking the horizon behind the men as they made their way down the road that led into town, the smell and haze of smoke awaiting their descent. What appeared to be a family of four zombies sleepily arose from where they had been lying beneath a large tree in the manicured front yard of the first house they passed, and as previously ordered, one squad separated from the column and put the creatures down with bats and clubs. Moments later the scene repeated itself when two more flesh-eaters climbed from the backseat of a car bathed in dried blood, and as soon as they were dispatched Chien ordered everyone to maintain an easy trot as they headed for the ocean.

  Some of the civilians suspected that the infected usually rested at night unless disturbed by noise they associated with food, and following the first two encounters with the flesh-eaters in the final moments before dawn, Chien had a strong feeling that the reports had been accurate. As they approached the shore, DeHaven’s column emerged from the haze about a hundred meters away, and within minutes the entire Red Eagle contingent was drawn up in the crescent formation they had planned on using. The fighters stood shoulder to shoulder, rifles in every hand now that noise-control wasn’t an issue.

  DeHaven walked along the front line, telling the men in a low voice that on his signal he wanted everyone to start shouting and prepare for contact. The troops were eager to get this over with, and as soon as the boss fired his pistol toward the town, everyone began screaming and yelling at the top of their lungs. For a long moment nothing happened, and gradually the noise dropped to a few whistles and mutterings about the whereabouts of the infected. Then everyone grew silent as a low moan emanated from buildings partially concealed by the smoke and a light mist that was rising with the sun. The eerie noise came again, this time answered by a chorus of hungry moans that seemed to be coming from everywhere.

  Chien could feel his heart beating in his ears, and he felt a drop of sweat roll slowly down his spine as he saw the first of the zombies emerge from the fog-shrouded town. Seconds later, a pair of the creatures became visible, and then the floodgates opened as dozens of the flesh-eaters stepped into the growing sunlight and grimly shuffled toward the waiting humans. Some of the monsters were moving more easily than others, mostly the ones that revealed no obvious injuries. Others seemed to be stepping out of a horror-movie set, with gaping wounds on their faces, necks, and appendages. Worst of all were the creatures trailing their own guts; at least that was the worst until the first toddler showed up.

  Chien and DeHaven had been concerned when planning the operation that some of their men might freeze up when confronted with the zombies, but they hadn’t even considered the different types of people who were succumbing to the infection. The capable-looking men and women were expected, but the infected elderly, children, and toddlers led even the hardest soldiers among the Red Eagle line to hesitate before pulling the trigger. Finally, one of the squad leaders in the middle of the front rank shot a gore-covered female in the face and dropped the creature in mid-step. Then the entire line opened fire on the approaching flesh-eaters and the battle for Mount Desert commenced.

  As resistance fighters had been learning around the world over the past week, accurate head-shots on moving targets were extremely difficult to accomplish. Red Eagle tried to recruit their operatives only from Special Forces units, and preferred combat veterans over men who had only trained in their profession. Every man in the formation was an expert with multiple makes and models of firearms. Nevertheless, fewer than ten percent of the bullets fired were finding a zombie-brain to scramble.

  In less than ten minutes most of the gunfire was being directed at flesh-eaters close enough to touch, and then one of the men went down. Survivors said that a toddler had somehow navigated through the advancing mob and grab
bed the fighter’s leg. The man seemed to freeze with indecision at the sight of a young child with its arms around his knees, and during the few seconds in which he’d stopped shooting, two adult-zombies dug their fingers into his arms and pulled him screaming to the ground. In an instant the fallen soldier was buried under a pile of monsters frantically tearing at the thrashing body beneath them, ripping the man apart and stuffing pieces of his flesh into their mouths before any of his shocked comrades could help.

  The entire front line was endangered when the dying fighter’s squad-mates left their positions and started pulling zombies from the pile. Most of the Red Eagle men shot the flesh-eaters as they yanked them away, but one soldier didn’t realize he’d only blown off the side of one creature’s head before he tossed it aside, and the hungry monster quickly sunk its teeth into the unfortunate man’s calf. The stricken fighter screamed as he fell into the pile-up, and Chien sensed that the formation was about to disintegrate into a free-for-all melee.

  The experienced warrior shouted instructions to the nearby squad leaders, ordering them to stay in place no matter what happened to any individual. Then he stepped through the second rank and ran to the center of the formation. There he sent half a dozen fighters forward to plug the gap in the line, shouting for them to stay in place and keep shooting. Within a few minutes all but three of the men involved in the scrum around the first fallen soldier had scrambled back into the formation, and the lines stabilized despite the increasing number of attacking zombies.

  Chien soon ran low on ammo and holstered his pistol before lifting the pike he had fashioned back in the camp. All the weapon consisted of was a six-foot-long oak branch with a bayonet duct-taped to the tip. After two misses the Ranger started to find the proper angle, and soon there was a growing mound of corpses with punctured faces lying in front of his position. The other men were also switching to their hand-wielded weapons, and the scene quickly turned to one that might have been witnessed a thousand years earlier. Hammers, axes, and fixed bayonets were doing their bloody work along the entire line, and while the occasional fighter still fell to the mob of zombies trying to claw their way through the wall of deadly steel before them, the tide of the battle was slowly turning in Red Eagle’s favor.

  The size of the formation continued to shrink as the hours passed, and by noon the men in the center of the line were only a few meters from the water’s edge. But the ground they had grudgingly yielded throughout the morning’s slaughter was literally carpeted with layers of dead flesh-eaters. The creatures were still arriving at the scene in large numbers, drawn from miles away by the sound of the hungry moans, gunfire, and shouting men, but they were attacking as individuals and being systematically cut down. Chien found himself thanking God that the infected couldn’t talk and plan with one another, as he’d been surprised by the thousands of zombies who’d been attracted to the scene of the fighting. If the creatures could have coordinated their activities and charged the humans en masse, the Red Eagle contingent would all be dead. Or worse.

  As the sun passed its zenith the gore-splattered, exhausted fighters found that they were able to take short water breaks as they waited for late arrivals to crawl over the rotting corpses and stumble into the blades and blunt objects awaiting them. Everyone realized that the crisis had passed, even though zombies continued to show up all day long. Eventually Chien accepted that the battle was won, and ordered four squads to maintain a perimeter around the position as he went looking for DeHaven to discuss how they would extricate themselves from the field of carnage surrounding them before darkness fell.

  He found the Boss sitting with his back against a large rock behind the formation, still barking out orders to nearby squad leaders in spite of the fact that he was obviously wounded. As Chien approached, the old mercenary turned to his left and pointed to a ragged wound in his shoulder, shaking his head as he explained, “I bent over to pull one of our guys back into the line and one of the little bastards got me. Hell of a way to go, huh?”

  Chien sadly nodded, “How many dead soldiers around the globe are chuckling in their graves over how the warrior who killed them bought the farm.”

  They both smiled without an ounce of humor in either man’s eyes. The two veteran fighters had been in this type of situation too many times during their careers: saying goodbye to a stricken comrade. Neither of them were the sentimental type, and the nature of this latest conflict had left both of them drained of emotion. Chien finally asked, “Your orders, sir?”

  DeHaven lifted a gore-crusted hand to his eyes, trying to shield them from the sun as he stared up at the retired colonel he’d grown to trust and respect during the final days of his tumultuous life. “Lead the men through the surf to get around the mess to our front; don’t walk through those corpses. Get our boys back to the campsite before the sun sets, and keep a damn sharp eye out tonight. Tomorrow, and every day after, work to clear this damn island of every flesh-eater still moving. Build a wall across that bridge; these creatures don’t like the water. Use boats to raid the nearby towns for food to get you through the winter. And someday, after you feel you’ve done all you could to make these people safe here, track down General Barnes and his banking-buddies. You cut their damn heads off!”

  Chien stood with his battered spear, blood and gore streaked face set in a hard expression as he swore, “They will pay for their crimes, sir. I promise.”

  DeHaven nodded and handed his pistol to his friend, “I was raised a Catholic; still a bit superstitious about offing myself.”

  Chien slowly took the weapon, pointing the muzzle at DeHaven’s skull just behind the ear. “Go with God,” he whispered before pulling the trigger. He tossed the weapon into the ocean and walked away without a single glance at what he was leaving behind.

  Zombie Crusade

  Tennessee

  Fifteen miles east of Nashville, the Cumberland River meanders through several big loops that eventually bring the opposing banks to within a few thousand feet of one another. For the past four months, the large loops had allowed several thousand inhabitants of the Volunteer State to survive the deadliest pandemic in history. The “zombie virus” turned its victims into flesh-eating monsters that quickly evolved into highly efficient hunters of any animal that could satisfy the protein demands of their new species. Nobody knew for certain why the hunters preferred human flesh over any other, but everybody still alive knew that fact was the single most important truth to live by in their new world.

  The monsters were created by an infection that first sent its victims into a fever-fueled, catatonic state resembling death, then revived them into beings whose entire existence centered around the pursuit of meat. At first the people called them zombies, deadly creatures if they surprised you, or as a group managed to surround you, but easily killed if you had the time and means to smash their skulls and destroy their brains. Most individuals who lived through the early days of the outbreak fought the flesh-eaters with firearms, but quickly learned that the sound of gunshots usually attracted more of the creatures than were initially killed with the loud weapons. So the survivors adapted and discovered other means of stopping the monsters. Anything blunt, heavy, or sharp would do, but combining all of those characteristics into one weapon worked best.

  Initially, a few natural leaders emerged from the groups of survivors banding together between the loops of the Cumberland River. Former soldiers and law enforcement veterans were the first to organize and train civilians regarding how to fight the infected. These individuals were soon supported by capable civil-service types who were better suited to manage the mundane daily needs of the growing settlement. After a few weeks, the survivors agreed that some sort of governing council would be the most efficient means of making decisions in the best interests of the whole group. There was no official vote—people either volunteered or were nominated by someone else. The result was a seven member council where those who had volunteered for the job often bickered with those who had been
nominated to their leadership roles.

  If there was one main person in charge of this Tennessee settlement, it was Sheriff Larry Meeks. In the early days of the outbreak, Meeks had proven to be a practical voice of reason in a growing sea of hysteria. He was an old-school, no-nonsense sheriff who took his public service very seriously. Even though by all appearances he was no longer young or fit, he had the strength and stamina of a bull in his prime. Over a dozen families credited Sheriff Meeks with saving their lives, and there were probably more who didn’t give him the recognition he deserved. Meeks had been nominated to the leadership council by a chorus of voices, and it was clear to everyone that he would be the chairman or the president of the group, even if they didn’t give him any special title.

  Two other nominated members of the council included Curtis Jones, a former college football star who was somewhat of a local celebrity, and Shiloh Forrester, a short, middle-aged, firecracker of a woman who’d been an elementary school principal for nearly two decades. She was adored by former students, parents, and teachers, many of whom had banded together and refused to let her decline her nomination. Forrester’s nineteen-year-old son had been bitten by one of the infected and had taken his own life shortly thereafter. She saw her grief and despair as a liability, but most people thought it made her especially qualified to represent other families who had also faced unbearable losses. Retired Marine Captain Joseph Harden rounded out the individuals who had council-ship thrust upon them. Harden was tall and wiry, with gray eyes and a gravelly voice that betrayed his affection for Cuban cigars. He hated bureaucracies and was less than thrilled when several young men who’d been fighting under his leadership wouldn’t stop chanting his name during the settlement meeting called for the purpose of creating the leadership council. Sheriff Meeks let it be known that he greatly respected Captain Harden’s military expertise, and he felt that the retired marine was the most valuable man in the settlement. Harden had come up with the idea to fabricate hundreds of iron-tipped, ten-foot-long pikes to kill the monsters that poured from the cities in waves, and these weapons had proven to be an exceptionally efficient means of defense.