Zombie Fallout 14

by Mark Tufo

  “We’re going to kill him.”

  “Need you to clarify, the colonel or Dewey?”

  “Dewey.” He looked at me. “I can’t imagine at this point the old man would offer any resistance.”

  “Do you think he’ll have someone do it before we get there?”

  “It’s possible, but if not we need to take care of it.”

  “Preaching,” BT said as we descended the stairs.

  “You coming?” I asked Stenzel as I looked back.

  Her face still had a whitish hue to it. “You know you were going to miss, right?” she asked, following us.

  I felt like this was the time for some smart-ass comment to glib over just how close we had come, but the shaking hands that I shoved into my pockets would have belied anything I said. I could somewhat deal with the end of my life, but the dozens of others that would have joined me had I failed would have been too much. Of course, then I had to remind myself that guilt was for the living, and, miraculously, I had not failed. I honestly gave not one shit whether something greater than me had intervened. Divine intervention? I don’t know…maybe an eagle flying high overhead had taken just that moment to clean out his blocked bowels and the heavy bird shit had struck the rocket, dipping the nose of it down just enough to clip the tank. Again, perfectly fine with that.

  The colonel’s office was a massive brass meeting. Damage was being assessed, how and where to deploy troops, and everything else that goes with securing an area and keeping it safe. He ushered me in when he saw me standing by the doorway.

  “I need the room.” The hustle and bustle immediately quieted down. Without another word, it was just me, BT, Stenzel, and Bennington. “I heard about your heroics on the wall,” he said. I always thought it was strange how fast news could move, but that wasn’t why I was here, and the sooner I could let that event slip down my neurological ladder, the better.

  “Not why we’re here, sir,” I told him.

  “The reports I’ve been receiving hardly seem possible. If it had only been from one or two people, I might have believed them to be suffering from histrionics.”

  “Dewey has to die,” Stenzel spoke up. “Not sorry.” She looked over at me.

  “The old base hospital; we’re using it as the commissary now, it has a basement. You’ll need this to get down there.” He handed over a keycard. “They know you’re coming, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t give any more of my guards a concussion. For the record, I am not completely on board with this.”

  “No promises on the guards, and you should be,” I told him as we were heading out.

  “Good work, Captain. Without you and your squad’s help, I fear we would have already suffered defeat.”

  “Not over until it’s over, sir,” BT said.

  The commissary wasn’t more than a block from where we were, otherwise, I would have commandeered a vehicle. There were MPs all over the place as scared residents wanted to make a run on supplies. The store was controlled chaos as the cops made sure people only got what they needed and didn’t clean the place out before others could get their necessities.

  “Captain,” Master Sergeant Wassau said off to my side.

  “Please tell me you’re not here to arrest me again,” I told him.

  “Follow me.” We headed through double-hinged doors marked with Employees Only. We were in the receiving area for the store. We took a right, heading across what had at one time been the ambulance entrance but was now used for trucks bringing in supplies. Then through another door, this one painted red and a foreboding Keep Out sign stuck to it, and if that wasn’t enough, there was an armed MP standing there. I suddenly realized I didn’t so much as have a penknife on me. I wasn’t expecting trouble, but wasn’t that when it was more apt to hit? The MP swiped the card I handed him and held the door open for us. Wassau extended his hand in, I’m sure it was a gesture of good manners, but the skeptic in me declined the offer and instead ushered him first.

  “Paranoia will eat holes in your mind,” Wassau said as he shook his head.

  “Then you’re talking to Mr. Swiss Cheese,” BT said.

  “Really, man?”

  “Tell me I’m wrong.”

  An automated light flicked to life. The room we found ourselves in wasn’t much bigger than a jail cell, and when I noticed there wasn’t another door nor our target, I was, understandably, thrown off a bit.

  “Wassau?”

  “You’re going to love this,” he said.

  Then we were moving.

  “Are you kidding me right now? This is an elevator?”

  “Sort of…I guess that’s the best way to describe it.”

  There was a stomach-dropping lurch as we stopped. Another MP opened the door—I could see past him to a brightly lit room that looked to be the size of the story above. There were heavy support columns spaced evenly throughout, but other than that, it was wide open, and dead center was everyone’s best friend, Dewey, a bevy of medical personnel all around. The zombie king turned to watch our approach.

  “I know you,” he hissed as we got closer.

  “Do you know why I’m here?”

  “You wish to join me?” He was serious. “I can make your transition easy; preferable to what my kind will do to you once they are through.”

  “As much as I’m sure this big guy would like to eat something besides my sister’s cooking, no, that’s not it. Stenzel, can I have your rifle? You see, Dewey, I’m going to blast a fucking hole in your head, something that should have been done a good long while ago.” Dewey watched diligently as I took the gun, checked the chamber and the safety. Hatred burned in his eyes. “Any last words? Fuck it,” I said as I shouldered the weapon. “Don’t want to hear them anyway.”

  I was lining up my shot, figured the chances of missing were minimal, but no one wanted to find out what a ricocheting bullet would do in a concrete bunker.

  “Sir, help!”

  I eased the pressure upon the trigger. “Springer?” I turned to see his cage placed far up against the wall. He hardly looked recognizable. His face was the gray of a beached whale, large purple veins streaked up the sides of his neck and cascaded over his cheeks and forehead. He was thin as well, so thin I wondered how he was supporting his weight.

  “Springer?” I felt like I’d simultaneously been sucker-punched in the gut while a dominatrix had ignored my safe word and squeezed my balls like she was trying to make a glass of lemonade.

  “Oh, no!” Stenzel cried out, she was the first to head that way.

  I reached for her. “Don’t get too close.”

  “Brayden, what have they done to you?” Stenzel was crying.

  “I’m still in here, Harley…if he kills Dewey, the virus will wipe me out. I’m so scared.”

  I turned back to look at Dewey to see if there was any validity to the statement. The cancerous smile he wore was all the convincing I needed.

  “Get the fuck out of here!” I was yelling at all the personnel. I was afraid I might start taking out my frustration on the ones that had put me in this situation by keeping Springer alive. I started waving the rifle around until they got the message. I waited until the ten medical people left.

  “I’m so glad I was out of the room when that happened or I would have to report it,” Wassau said.

  “You still might want to leave. I’m not entirely sure what I’m going to do.” The anger had been short-lived, as was usually the case. Now doubt, unease, fear, and a half dozen other emotions I didn’t know how to deal with crept in.

  “I want to live, sir,” Springer said.

  My heart jumped when I realized he was addressing me personally.

  “We have to get him out of here!” Stenzel looked frantic.

  “As soon as you open that cage, he won’t be who you think he is,” BT said, gently placing an arm on her shoulder. It looked kindly, but I would imagine he was ready to clamp down and hold her in place, in case she made a run for it.

  “Why are
the zombies talking, Talbot?” Wassau looked like he’d swallowed live frogs.

  If I was a Vulcan—or Deneaux, you know, a creature not driven by emotions—I would have realized that Springer was already dead, merely a puppet being directed to elicit just these types of reactions from us poor, vulnerable humans. That, however, wasn’t the case. Here was a kid that had been my direct responsibility, and I’d let him down. It wasn’t enough that I’d killed him once, now I was going to have to do it again, and in front of another of my charges, who I was just realizing might be in love with him. Dewey had his hands wrapped around the bars, he was watching my slow spiral into despair with a ravenous look.

  “Come on.” BT was leading a crying Stenzel out of the area. Every damn part of me wished I was the one being led out.

  “Will not having witnesses make it easier?” Dewey asked.

  “You shut up!” I yelled, not looking over at the monster.

  It croaked out its version of a laugh.

  “I’m sorry, Brayden, I am.” I brought my rifle up to my shoulder.

  “Captain, what are you doing?” Wassau asked. We were watching in real-time as the layers of zombie-dom were peeled back, revealing a terrified and confused kid.

  “I…I don’t know.”

  “Please…” Springer had his hands up. It was the universal gesture of protection. At one point in early human evolution, that would have diminished or possibly prevented an attack, but once we learned how to fling remote objects with deadly momentum, that had ended. Still, we all did it. The bullet went through the palm of his hand, entered his face just above the mouth and below the nose. The look of betrayal in his eyes is something I’m going to have to live with for the rest of my days. He fell over, his head smacking wetly on the bunk behind him.

  “Shit, sir. You could have warned me.” Wassau had his hand on the handle of his holstered sidearm.

  I was breathing heavily as I slowly let the rifle down. “I ordered everyone out, not sure what else you wanted me to do. Had to figure at that point, the dice had been rolled, and I didn’t want to discuss it any further. So fucking sick of this day.”

  A sound like loose change inside a garbage disposal emanated from Dewey’s cage, he was laughing. “I did not think you would do it.”

  “Funny? You find this funny? I did that to someone I cared for; what do you think I’m going to do to you?” I spun my rifle already at the ready.

  “It matters not at all if I should die. There are many like me that will continue our quest.”

  “I think you’re full of shit, Dewey. Oh, not the part about other smart zombies, I know that’s real. But to you, I think it matters a lot if you live or die. You can’t pick and choose which human attributes you’re going to take with you as you evolve, and self-preservation, yeah, that’s a big one. You keep lying to yourself about that whole hive collective or whatever bullshit you call it, but this is more like Animal Farm, right? You’re all equal but some are more equal, like you. Did I nail it, Dewey? You don’t want to die.”

  “What would you have me do, human? Would begging for my life sway your mind?”

  “Nope. Not at all. I just feel like I needed to know that this isn’t just another day for you. It’s a strange thing, your transformation. It somehow makes you more and less human. Any last words, Dewey?”

  His mouth opened.

  I shot him flush in the forehead; I wasn’t interested in what he had to say.

  “You sure you wanted to do that?” Wassau asked.

  “If it wasn’t some grandstanding manifesto, he was either going to tell me to drop dead or eat a bag of dicks. Didn’t want to hear either.” I looked over to Springer; I felt physically ill. I didn’t know what the hell I was going to tell Stenzel—or any of them.

  “We should get going,” Wassau said after a few moments. I had to think he was realizing how difficult this was for me and staying here wasn’t making it any better.

  We headed out and into the strange elevator. BT and Stenzel were waiting.

  “Springer?” she asked, hopefully.

  I shook my head.

  “He was already dead,” BT told her as gently as he could.

  Whether or not that was going to make it easier for her to deal with was open for debate. I could only hope that the anger that was surely building in her wouldn’t be directed at me, but, yeah, I’d understand if it was. I’d come to this place with a wave of white-hot burning anger. I’d mistakenly figured that once I killed Dewey, it would be sated, or at least feel like it would be. If anything, it was even sharper and more acute. I’d cut off a head, but we were dealing with a hydra-monster, and now that I was pondering, I thought it possible I’d even made the situation worse. Before, everything needed to be routed through Dewey. There would be a lag from the battlefield to him and back out again, but if the Field Marshals were already out there, they would be able to make changes in real-time.

  I walked out of the building and went the complete opposite way that I needed to go.

  “Talbot,” BT said. I didn’t reply. If anything, I began to walk faster. There are times when just dealing with yourself is nearly unbearable; throwing another in there is an impossibility. There was a lightness in my head which was in direct contrast to the leaden heaviness I felt in my chest as anxiety began to build up. The sensation in my core was making it difficult to capture full breaths. I sped up to get to where I was going; I was moments away from a panic attack that was going to leave me immobile. I walked past what remained of my house not even pausing to look at the charred remains instead I went up the front steps to Winters’ now-abandoned base housing. I didn’t check to see if any of Deneaux’s lackeys were watching. Truth be told, I wasn’t all that worried about being blown up; a part of me welcomed the thought of it, thus sparing me from what was to happen next.

  I stumbled over the threshold, and, like a man trying to escape a flash flood, I climbed the stairs to perceived safety. My vision was blurring as long-held tears finally soaked my eyes. I sat down slowly on the floor, my back against the bed. I wailed, I sobbed, I blamed any and all deities. I slammed my fists down on the ground, and repeatedly on my legs. I’d sought out this solitude to grieve, and now I was distraught no one was here to help me through. No one said you have to be rational when you’re losing your shit. I wanted to wrap my arms around Henry’s thick neck and sob into his fur. The big dog always had a calming effect on my psyche. I wanted to embrace my wife, have her absorb the racking cries that ran through my body. I wanted all of those things…and I didn’t. I felt that I was due this suffering, that it was my fault Springer had died. Shooting him was the right thing, that I did not doubt, but I had put him in that situation to begin with.

  I sat there for an hour, maybe two, my head hanging down, tears flowing onto my lap. It was the first time that day I laughed. It was a dry, shriveled little thing that carried no mirth, and the only reason it revealed itself was because the juvenile idiot still inhabiting a portion of my psyche thought I’d wet my pants. I pushed up off the bed to stand. I was wobbly and my head pounded with sinus pressure. Not sure why your body feels the need to throw in that little added bonus. As if whatever has you crying isn’t enough, your body decides to enflame your sinuses to the point where blinking hurts. I went to his dresser, found a pair of sweats, tossed the camis I’d been wearing onto the bed and changed. The depression that had been weighing me down, coupled with the anxiety that had threatened to take flight, had both eased. I found myself staring into the bathroom mirror. The man glaring back at me looked gaunt, not physically, but spiritually; he needed help, and I hoped he would get it. I turned and headed downstairs. I stepped outside; BT was sitting on the steps. I stopped short, I had guilt and embarrassment, something I knew I absolutely shouldn’t have. It was just the old school wrong way of thinking that I’d been brought up with. Men don’t cry, men don’t need help, and men never ask for directions.

  BT said nothing. He stood when I came out; he never re
ally even looked over at me, and for that, I loved him more. He knew I’d just about wicked every drop of moisture from my body with my tears and draining snot; looking into my washed-out face would have only made it worse for me.

  “Want to get a beer?” he asked.

  I croaked; I’d not used my throat for anything besides sobbing. Once I cleared a pathway for speech I spoke. “Sounds good.”

  “The zombies that slipped through have been dealt with,” he said, as if that had even been on my mind. It should have been. I nodded.

  We walked for a bit before he wrapped an arm around my shoulders. I was thankful for the gesture, and also a little worried that I might start blubbering again. I was getting hesitant as we headed closer to our new apartment building; I wasn’t sure if I could put on the mask that assured everyone I was all right and clearly capable of leading this group through the war and to safety. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever been that man. BT led me into a building a little way up the street from where we were staying; I didn’t protest. There were two folding chairs set up and a cooler.

  “You were in there for a while,” he offered as way of explanation before handing me a beer.

  I didn’t respond, fearful that anything that came out wouldn’t even sound vaguely human as it struggled to get through my constricted windpipe. I drank the beer instead. His friendship meant the world, and I could only hope I didn’t let him down somehow. We sat in silence for some of the time, others, when BT must have thought I was on the verge of spiraling down, he would tell me stories of his youth, all the trouble he got into and out of. I appreciated every word, even if sometimes I was only listening with half an ear.

  “Running low on beers,” he said some hours later.

  I started to stand, that was when I realized how drunk I was and how absolutely topped off my bladder was. It was difficult to stand up, and the added pressure threatened to wet my pants for the second time that day. I walked barely far enough away and relieved myself.