We sprang into action quickly, just as the first war cry howl resounded from outside.
"Fuck!" Martin grunted. He was throwing bundles of magazine pouches over his shoulder.
I grabbed a M4 and a pair of magazines pouches—the clips already loaded and ready—and a Glock .45 semi-automatic handgun, stuffed it in the right front pocket of my slacks, and dashed to the front of the house as the rest of my clan took their positions around the house.
The moment I exited the front door I heard two simultaneous screams and yells. One was from Wesley. "What the fuck!?"
The other was from the front line of primitives who were approaching the front of the house. For a moment I almost balked; it was pitch dark outside and I couldn't see shit, but I could feel their presence. They were ten, maybe fifteen yards away from me, and they were making no attempt at being quiet now. I heard a gurgling howl and then Tracy flipped on the floodlights that lined the perimeter of the house.
And there, standing in front of me, nearly shoulder to shoulder and across the entire perimeter of the front yard, were primitives.
An old Biblical verse came to me. I am Legion.
I yelled and let them have it with the M4 as they cried out in unison and charged.
I could hear gunfire erupt from the east end of the property.
The magazines we had for the M4 held fifty rounds of 9 mm ammo. I mowed down close to that many in under a minute. Rocks were hurled in my direction like missiles, most striking the house and breaking windows, two of them hitting me in the shoulder and chest. Another band of primitives was quickly coming to join the fray and I ejected the spent magazine and slapped in a fresh one, focusing my attention on this new wave of primitives, who were greater in number. I yelled out a war whoop as I shot them, firing indiscriminately at anything that moved, but they kept coming, throwing rocks and what appeared to be crudely shaped spears. I ducked, blocked the invading missiles, received a glancing blow on my head and back for my trouble, but ignored the pain. For the first time, they kept coming.
I slapped in another fresh magazine and barely got the weapon back up to fire again when this next wave was almost on me. I shot ten primitives in quick succession, but then four got past me and another slammed into me from the right, knocking me on my ass. I was dimly aware of a sudden outburst of gunfire that flew over me as I fought the primitive that tackled me. Once again I was bit, this time in the upper arm. I yelled as the primitive's jaws locked on the flesh of my biceps and tore a chunk of flesh away. I grabbed the Glock from my slacks pocket and in one quick motion gut shot the primitive.
I heard screams, and it wasn't until later that I realized those screams weren't coming from me.
I was totally oblivious to what else was going on around me. My sole focus was in keeping the primitives away from the front entrance of the house. Specifically, to keep them from entering through the front door and windows. But it was obvious that Tracy was holding her own and keeping the interior of the house free of those primitives that breached my perimeter.
I shoved the dying primitive off me and stayed low, swinging my M4 around to point it at the ever-invading horde that was still coming. I took down another dozen, maybe more, and then I was joined briefly by Tracy who took down a bunch. She looked like a woman possessed, firing her weapon with mad determination, a lock of hair hanging over a gash in her forehead.
This latest onslaught from the front of the house seemed to be under control now. I quickly assessed the situation as I changed magazines. "You okay?" I asked Tracy. Dozens of dead and dying primitives lay all over the porch and the front yard, extending well into the grassy field beyond. I heard a generous babble of primitives from the east end of the house; some of them showed themselves and, upon seeing us, began heading in our direction.
"I'm okay," Tracy said, reloading her own firearm. The bleeding on her forehead didn't appear too bad.
"I can handle these," I said. "Go back and secure the inside of the house, I can take these."
Tracy darted back in the house and I took this latest wave of primitives down, ignoring the enormous pain in my left arm from the bite wound that was bleeding profusely.
A third wave of primitives descended on us and I quickly took them down, blowing some apart as the shells tore their bodies into bloody shards. I heard an excited yell from Wesley, heard running footsteps and then he was at my side, rifle in hand. The entire left side of his head was caked in blood that appeared to be soaking his shoulder and left arm. "Motherfuckers!" he yelled as he joined me, shooting indiscriminately at the primitives that came at us.
My M4 was growing hot in my hands. I ejected the spent magazine, slapped another one in and raised the weapon. There were only a few primitives left, and they seemed confused. They stood there, immobile, as if torn between running away or continuing the attack. I heard Martin call out from the west. "Everything okay back there?"
"Got it covered!" Wesley answered. He raised his rifle, took careful aim, and took the remaining four or five primitives down.
But I still heard more of them. The sound of their voices—that guttural, demonic sound—was clearly audible.
And it was coming from the south side of the house. Where Lori had taken up position.
With the north side of the house now secure (so far) from primitives, I cradled the now-hot M4 in my hands and flattened myself against the wall. "Tracy, are we clear in the house?"
"Clear!"
"Lori, are you okay?"
No answer.
"Shit," Wesley muttered. Crouching low, he moved ahead of me toward the east side of the house.
"Cover the front door!" I called out to Tracy. Then, I followed Wesley.
I could barely breathe as I followed Wesley around to the south side of the house. Those primitive, ugly sounds grew louder the closer we got to the corner.
Wesley stopped at the edge. We waited. The sounds continued, accompanied by what appeared to be some jostling, rummaging around. It was hard to tell how many primitives were there.
Wesley nodded at me and mouthed "On three." I nodded, and he counted off silently. When he mouthed "three" we jumped out to the south side of the house, weapons raised at the scene in front of us. I was so surprised by what I saw that I was momentarily frozen.
I caught everything in a brief snapshot. A group of a dozen primitives gathered around Lori, who looked badly beaten and injured. Her T-shirt was ripped off her body and there were several bad gashes that ripped across her torso. Her left breast appeared mutilated and was hanging by strips of flesh off her chest. Likewise, the right side of her face had a chunk of flesh torn off, showing the teeth and jawbone.
By all rights she should have either been dead or unconscious from shock.
But her eyes were wide open.
And she was no longer there.
When Wesley and I showed ourselves, those eyes locked on us.
But that wasn't what made Wesley and I freeze briefly in sheer terror.
It was the sight of the desiccated thing that stood behind Lori, one bony claw-like hand gripping her shoulder.
At first I didn't recognize what it could be. First thing I thought was it had to be the most fucked-up looking primitive I've ever seen. Its skin tone was greenish, actually tan-looking in some areas. Its limbs were withered sticks; its torso and hips looking even more skeletal save for the stomach bloat that pushed the tattered T-shirt it wore to the breaking point. I quickly surmised that at one point this primitive had to have been a punker—its hair appeared spiky, with a long blonde Mohawk running along the center. I was just recognizing this fact and noticing the multiple piercings it had on its ears, when Wesley whispered, "Heather."
My body went numb.
Now the gunshot wound to the head was clear. Left temple, big giant exit wound. Right temple, little-bitty hole, from where Wesley had shot her that night a month back, when we were in California. It was Heather all right. Dead and reanimated by the God of the New World.
The other primitives turned to us and I quickly saw that they were dead, too. Some were in various states of decay; some had a stench that clung to them like a foul miasma. They didn't charge us. They stood grouped around Heather as Lori was propped up between them like a large mannequin.
"I got the nigger," Heather said...only it wasn't Heather. It was the God of the New World speaking through her. Its voice was rough, ageless, sexless, and cunningly evil. "I got her, and now I'm going to kill that mongoloid half-breed baby of yours...David!"
"And I'm going to eat that bitch you call a wife," Lori said. Again, it wasn't Lori speaking. The voice coming from Lori's vocal chords was the God of the New World.
That broke my paralysis.
I screamed at the top of my lungs.
And opened fire.
Thirty rounds slammed into them at close range—ten feet. That kind of firepower from that close can do a lot of damage to living flesh. With the reanimated primitives, it blew them apart. Steaming corpse chunks rained down, spraying wet chunks of gunk everywhere. Wesley joined in and within seconds all of them were reduced to pieces. Heather's upper half was completely separated from her waist, her left arm blown completely off. Somehow, amid all the gunfire, she took another headshot.
If Lori wasn't dead in the brief moment I temporarily lost my mind and opened fire, she was surely killed in the first second. I only hope that if she was, she was killed instantly and didn't suffer any pain.
When my magazine ran out I ejected it and immediately slapped in a fresh one. My rifle was so hot in my hands it burned. I didn't care. I was going to kill every last one of these motherfuckers.
"Oh shit, I don't believe it," Martin yelled. He was still at his position, on the west side of the property. I heard him fire a couple shots. "They're coming back!"
The moment he yelled that I sensed a stirring nearby. I whirled around and my heart leaped into my chest.
The dead primitives that now littered the perimeter of the house were beginning to rise.
"Oh shit," I said. I threw the now burning rifle on the ground, drew the .45 and stormed back onto the porch, making a beeline to the house. I had to get another rifle.
From the house, Tracy was screaming. There was a burst of gunfire from inside. In front of me, a newly risen primitive dropped to the ground.
"Tracy!" I yelled.
"They're coming back!" Tracy yelled back. "What the hell?"
In the yard and the field in front of the house, the dead primitives were coming back to life. They seemed to be possessed, as if powered by something else entirely. They pulled their mangled bodies together, shuffling forward. Some were so badly torn apart that they pulled themselves along with one arm, or with large chunks blown away.
I took one down with a clean headshot from ten yards away. From the corner of my eye I could see Tracy cowering in fear, rifle clutched in her hands, behind the threshold of the front door. The other primitives were lethargic, as if they were slowly awakening from a deep sleep. I dashed in the house and past Tracy, heading toward the gun cabinet.
Pounding footsteps came from both sides of the house, followed by staccato blasts of gunfire. Wesley and Martin. I grabbed another M4 and headed back toward the front door. "Whatever happens, keep Emily safe," I said. I spared one brief glance at Tracy, then stepped out onto the porch.
I'll admit at this point, time became a blur to me. Looking back, it was as if I'd stepped into a weird kind of alternate universe scripted by George Romero. The dead were coming back to life and my clan bravely fought them. Once again, our weaponry proved to be superior; bullets shattered bone, pulverized flesh, tore through limbs, blew heads off. The main difference in this wave of attacks was the voice of the God of the New World coming from the throats of all those primitives. And they were all saying the same thing, over and over.
"Going to kill that mongoloid baby of yours..."
"Going to eat that bitch you call a wife..."
"I got the nigger and now I'm gonna get that wetback faggot..."
"...gonna scalp that redskin Indian motherfuck..."
"...gonna shove Wesley's severed head up his ass..."
And all I could do was yell and shoot, eject spent magazines, slap in fresh ones with one fluid motion and continue the assault. I think I reached some kind of zone where I became a killing machine.
At one point I heard Tracy yell, "Oh shit!", followed by a heavy burst of gunfire toward the south end of the house. A moment later she came back. I could hear her behind me, guarding the interior of the house as she reloaded. "A bunch of them just tried to get in through the side," she said. "I think one of them was Lori."
There was a brief lull in the fighting. I swapped magazines and acknowledged her. "Lori's dead," I said.
Tracy said nothing.
From the west side of the house, more gunfire. "Fuck!" Wesley barked.
I glanced out at the yard in front of the house. Primitives that had been killed twice were rising again for a third go-round. I raised the rifle and took careful aim at one, to see if the myths were right. A headshot took it down and I waited, not expecting much to change. Sure enough, getting shot in the head wasn't much of a deterrent. It was still moving and it began to slowly pick itself up off the ground. "Shit."
"Shooting them in the head doesn't work!" Wesley yelled. "You've got to totally pick them apart!"
"What?"
"Shoot the fuck out of 'em! I got one here that ain't got a head and it's running into the wall. Another one doesn't have any legs and it's dragging itself along the ground." There was a series of gunshots. "Now that one's missing a head and it's not going anywhere, but it's still twitching."
I heard Martin join in. It sounded like Martin had joined Wesley on his side of the property now. "It's stopped moving."
That was it. The formula for killing these things once and for all. Total disarticulation. Made sense. Tear a puppet or a doll into several pieces and you make it harder for the puppeteer to manipulate it. Still, would even that be enough? For a brief moment a hideous vision of severed limbs crawling toward the house came to me and I banished it from my mind. We had to do something!
With a new sense of purpose, I stepped forward and continued shooting, blowing further chunks out of them. We were joined by Martin, who concentrated on a mass of living-dead primitives that were stirring near the west end of the property. Tracy actually stepped outside at one point and mowed down a bunch near the south side of the house as Wesley slipped inside. I ran out of ammo and was slapping a fresh magazine inside when he came back out. With one quick movement, he lit what I now took to be a torch he was holding in his left hand. "Let's see how they like this," he said as he stepped off the porch and headed toward a line of dead and shot up primitives who were still trying to move.
The sight of the blazing torch didn't deter them. Wesley threw the torch into a mass of primitives. They immediately went up in a blazing inferno.
While our adrenaline and the edge Wesley had given us with his idea to burn the undead primitives made me feel that we might win this latest battle, I couldn't help but feel a twinge that the God of the New World was gnashing his teeth in anger at this latest turn of events. If his sights had been turned away from us in the past month while we'd been in hiding, they were surely on us now thanks to its possession of the undead primitives. I had the sense that this force, whatever it was, knew our location.
If that was the case we had to get out of our new home and do it fast. That meant killing the rest of the undead primitives by fire as quickly as possible.
"We need more of those torches!" I yelled at Martin and Tracy. Another band of undead primitives was wandering over to me and I shot them, buying another twenty seconds of time. "Let's go, let's go!"
With Wesley's assistance, Martin and Tracy brought out more torches as I kept things covered. They got the torches lit, then threw them out into the bands of primitives. I followed with volley afte
r volley of gunshots, further scattering their limbs and heads, causing some to flee directly into infernos of their brethren. Working in concert, we managed to beat back this latest wave of primitives by the most primal weapon known to mankind: fire.
My rifle was growing hot in my hands again. The heat from the fires caused by the pyres of undead primitives were creating a susurration of heat and burning flesh. Unlike the movies, these undead did not flail around with burning limbs akimbo; if they had, they would've run into the house and we'd be in danger of losing that, too. Instead, they simply seemed to collapse right there and give up the ghost.
It looked like we were finally getting the upper hand. Those primitives who were killed and had come back were now either so blown apart by gunfire that they were flopping around limbless and/or headless, or they were burning. I felt a sudden burst of hope that the tide had turned despite the presence of the God of the New World. Perhaps if we eliminated as many of the primitives in our general area in the way we'd just killed all these—by fire—we would temporarily blind its gaze on us, allowing us to escape.
I turned to Martin. "There were a bunch along the side of the house. Make sure you get rid of them the same way. I'm going to check inside."
"Kill Alex while you're at it," Martin said grimly.
"You got it."
I stepped inside the house. Wesley was still on the porch, rifle in hand, surveying the burning landscape in front of us. At this point the fires appeared controllable, but that could change. We had to assess the rest of the perimeter and make plans to leave in a hurry if we had to.
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