by Carl R. Cart
The captain whistled to the mercenaries, and motioned them towards the truck. We all advanced cautiously. Sgt. Dyson circled to the far side, and then checked the cab and cargo areas. He signaled everything was clear. He opened the driver’s door and peered inside. There were blood-stains on the seats and floorboards, but no bodies.
I noticed the truck had a Mercedes emblem on the grill. “I didn’t know Mercedes made trucks.” I said aloud.
“Oh yea, Doc!” Blythe responded. “This is a Unimog. These things are absolutely brilliant. Tough as nails; drive over anything. I bet you she’ll fire right up.” The keys were still in the ignition.
Blythe climbed into the driver’s seat.
“Hold on, Blythe!” the captain commanded. “Do not start that truck!”
Blythe froze in the seat. He slowly looked around.
“The noise,” the captain explained.
Blythe relaxed. “I won’t start her, sir.” He slowly reached out and turned the key. “The battery is good,” he said. He turned the key back.
“This is awesome!” Keyes said excitedly.
“No,” the captain retorted. “We cannot take the truck.”
“What?” Keyes asked, confused.
“Come on, Captain,” Robinson chimed in.
“Look people, that truck is going to be very noisy,” the captain explained. “We won’t know what’s ahead of us until we are right in the middle of it. We could drive into a zombie horde before we even knew they were there.”
“With that truck we could smash right through them,” Robinson suggested. “Nothing could stop us.”
“Until we ran out of fuel, or had a flat, or broke down,” the captain countered. “I need to know exactly what we are getting into, or we are going to end up dead.”
“I think it is worth the risk. We could be in Gatou by tomorrow morning,” Blythe suggested.
“While I am in command, we will travel only on foot,” the captain stated. “I will not blunder into a situation that we cannot handle.”
“But we could travel so much faster in the truck,” Keyes complained.
“Slow and low, Keyes,” Sgt. Dyson emphasized.
Blythe climbed down out of the cab. He quietly closed and latched the door.
“We walk, people. End of discussion,” the captain declared, motioning us on past the truck.
Blythe and Robinson were obviously not happy with the captain’s decision. I wondered if it would cause trouble later. The track led to the south; we followed it.
We walked on into the deepening gloom. The forest closed in around us, and at some point I noticed there were no open spaces anymore, just a lot of trees. We walked closer together; you could barely see into the darkness on either side of the road. The trees were huge; much bigger than the trees I was used to. They spread their canopy across the road, leaving us to travel down a shadowy tunnel. Countless animal calls echoed and reverberated from the forest all around us. Keyes jumped and twitched with each new sound.
I grew more nervous as we progressed into the forest. I felt trapped. There was nowhere to go except forward or backward down the road. The forest on either side was an uncharted wilderness where I knew I would become instantly lost, and we had barely entered this vast territory. It was also rapidly becoming dark. My eyes began to play tricks on me in the dusk’s failing light. Finally, the captain whistled softly, stopping the column.
We all gathered together in the road. “We are going to move off the track and make camp,” the captain said quietly. “Follow me.” He led us off the road and into the woods. There was less undergrowth than I had expected. Ferns and creepers grew in great profusion, but there was enough clear ground to snake our way through. We reached a small clearing between three tree trunks, and the captain stopped. “This will do.” he indicated.
Blythe and Robinson strung out the perimeter alarms while Dyson rigged the trip wire around the bases of the closest trees. The captain set the shape charges very close; there was barely room to hang the tarp between the trees and spread out the sleeping bags.
Keyes climbed into her bag and lay there quietly. I saw her shake some small white pills into her palm and quickly swallow them. I assumed they were Valium. I didn’t blame her, but I knew the captain would not have allowed it if she had asked.
Dyson took the first watch; he glided into the trees outside the perimeter defenses and disappeared. I lit the primus stove and heated water in a canteen cup.
“You must be beat, get some sleep, Doc,” the captain suggested. He sat nearby. He and the two mercenaries had each commandeered a tree trunk to lean back against.
“I’m alright,” I replied. “I used to go two days at a stretch without sleep back in med school.” I poured instant coffee into the heated water. “I still haven’t got that decent cup of coffee, Captain,” I complained.
The captain chuckled softly and lit a cigarette. Blythe broke out a curious looking pipe and a small bag of tobacco. The pipe was carved to resemble a skeletal hand clutching a skull.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” I remarked.
“Only to relax,” he replied. He packed the small pipe and lit it. The pipe gave off a strangely sweet scent.
“Is that?”
“Opium, cut with tobacco,” he nodded in reply.
“Under the circumstances I didn’t think anyone would mind,” he looked askance at the captain.
Capt. Christopher shook his head, “Just don’t get so wasted that you can’t function.”
Blythe held the pipe out to me. “No thanks, I don’t smoke,” I declared.
“More for me,” he grinned. He passed the pipe to Robinson.
The big mercenary took two hits and passed it back. He held his breathe a long time, and then exhaled slowly. “It’s not crack, but I guess it’ll do,” he laughed. In that moment, the two seemed almost human.
“How did you two end up being mercenaries?” I asked.
Blythe considered this question. “I grew up on a farm in South Africa; we had trouble all the time. I spent a lot of time in the bush. I didn’t get along with my father so I joined the army at seventeen,” he explained.
He paused to draw on the pipe again and slowly exhaled. “Since I had spent so much time in the jungle, they assigned me to a commando unit. I did a lot of recon. One of my senior officers referred me to a friend of his who did freelance work. After my tour was up I hired on with his company doing convoy work, armed escort, bodyguard; that kind of shit. The pay was a lot better. I worked mainly in Africa, but I went wherever there was a war going on. I always had work. Luckily for me, I was out of the country when the virus hit. Due to my experience here I was offered my current contract by your government, and here I am.” he finished slowly.
“What about you, Robinson?” I prodded.
At first I didn’t think he would answer, but the opium must have mellowed his mood.
He looked up at me and laughed. “I like killing people,” he replied earnestly. “And this is the only job where I can legally get paid to do it. I was always in trouble as a kid; constantly in and out of jail. My parents couldn’t handle me. Finally, I almost beat a guy to death. The judge offered me five years in jail or a four-year stretch in the army. I chose the army and earned my Ranger tabs. I served two tours in Iraq, but it didn’t work out,” he continued.
He shot a sideways glance at the captain. “I have a problem with authority figures.” he laughed. “I joined ACG right after Iraq, and I’ve been a merc for over fifteen years now. I tried the civilian thing, but it wasn’t for me. I’ve got an ex-wife and two kids somewhere back in Colorado. I still send em money, but I don’t see them anymore. After this job I can retire and do anything I damn well please,” he concluded.
I sat and absorbed this for a minute. I had always wondered what could drive a man to take up warfare as a life’s calling, a profession. The concept seemed very alien to me. I was technically a doctor; I saw death every day. I just did not deal in death.
I did not dispense it; I dealt with the after effects. My research was focused on delaying the onset of death and degeneration; these men hastened it for money. We certainly made odd bedfellows, but I recognized that the thought would be a wasted sentiment in my present company.
I realized that the captain had not spoken throughout our exchange. I really knew very little about him.
“What’s your story, Capt. Christopher?” I asked.
The captain looked at me narrowly. “I am a United States Army officer. I graduated from West Point with honors, second in my class. I have a degree in mechanical engineering. I am a widower, and have two kids in college back in the states. I am an Aries. My favorite color is blue. I like to rock climb, play golf, ride motorcycles and drink rum and colas; just not all at the same time,” he concluded jovially.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
“I have my orders,” he replied and ground out a cigarette. “Get some sleep, Doctor. That is also an order.” He climbed into his sleeping bag, and laid his gun close at hand. I did the same.
OPS ORD 15-1
CAPT. CHRISTOPHER, BE ADVISED THAT NOA PREDICTS SEVERE WEATHER IN THE CONGO REGION.
HEAVY RAIN IS FORECAST FOR THE NEXT THREE TO FOUR DAYS, POSSIBLY LONGER.
ORDERS END
Chapter 8
08:00 a.m. Zulu
The Congo
Central Africa
I awoke to find Sgt. Dyson poking me with a stick. The sun was above the tree line. I could smell coffee and someone had fried some reconstituted eggs. I sat upright and stretched. I could hear bird noises, and no one was screaming, so I assumed that there were no zombies present.
“I got you a little present last night, Doc,” Dyson suggested mysteriously.
“Really,” I replied. “I didn’t get you anything.”
“Aw, that’s alright,” he said. I climbed out of my bag, scratched my nether regions, and wandered over to pick through what was left of breakfast; at least there was coffee.
“Don’t you want to know what it is?” Dyson asked.
“Not really,” I replied. I figured he was screwing with me. I fixed myself a cup of Government Issue coffee and drank it quickly. It seemed like it was going to stay down so I chased it with crackers and cold eggs, then more coffee.
“Come on, Doc,” Dyson pleaded. “Check this shit out.”
“Oh, alright,” I responded.
“Bring your kit,” Dyson suggested.
I picked up my pack with a groan and sleepily followed the sergeant outside the perimeter to the base of a large tree. Three headless zombies were propped upright around its base. They moved feebly, straining at their restraints. Each had been neatly nailed in place with steel tent stakes. I looked at the sergeant, he seemed very proud of himself.
I yawned. “Where are their heads?” I asked.
“What?” he replied.
“You know, their heads,” I suggested. “They aren’t any good to me without their heads.”
Dyson looked crestfallen and confused.
“I am totally messing with you, Sgt. Dyson.” I finally relented.
“Damn you to Hell, you cock sucker!” Sgt. Dyson laughed. “I wore myself out dragging these bastards in here. You totally got me!” he laughed again.
“Good work, actually,” I said as I moved to examine the corpses. “I should be able to do some serious work on these fellows,” I exclaimed, “and cross examine them, since I have three to work with. All joking aside, excellent work, Sergeant.”
“My pleasure, asshole,” he replied and added. “If you just ate, I wouldn’t stand too close.”
The smell hit me like a punch in the stomach as I approached the struggling zombies. I gagged, and almost threw up. My reaction surprised me. I thought I was totally immune to the smell of rotten human flesh, but this was something new, even to me.
“They reek,” I mumbled through my hand. I had thrown up a little in my mouth.
“We call them ‘rotters’,” Dyson replied.
The zombies were extremely rotten. “Were these things ambulatory?” I inquired.
“Yea, all three of them were up on the road, just walking along. I ambushed them and brought them down here. The heads are still up there if you really want one,” he replied.
“Nope, I’m good,” I answered. I spit and pulled my AVR into position. The stench was still overpowering. I forced myself to squat beside the corpses, and slowly breathe through my mouth.
Sgt. Dyson cocked his head to the side and looked at me. “What you doing, Doc?” he asked.
“I am trying to adjust to their smell,” I answered. “If you smell something long enough, the stench eventually subsides.”
The sergeant nodded. “Like when you first get to a pig farm,” he added. “It stinks like shit at first, but after a while you don’t notice anymore.”
“Exactly,” I concurred.
It took longer than I would have liked, but eventually I felt like I could work without puking. My stomach had settled somewhat.
I bent down to examine the first zombie. It had been a male, as far as I could tell. I was amazed at the advanced level of decay. The blackened skin had burst everywhere on the body, and hung in rotten tatters and putrid, shriveled strips. The white sheen of exposed bone was clearly visible throughout the cadaver, and the man’s internal organs were entirely gone. His abdominal cavity was an open, empty shell framed by rib bones.
As I had noticed in every zombie I had examined, the major muscle groups were still intact, as were the tendons and connective tissues. I quickly prepared a slide from each zombie’s muscle tissue, and set up the electron microscope. As I had theorized, the virus and bacteria combination were present in each slide. Bacteria were actively breaking down the zombie’s tissues, and somehow these nutrients were being converted to energy. The zombies were fueled by self-cannibalization. I assumed that once all the other tissues were gone, the muscles would also be digested.
I also noticed more of the chains of bacteria throughout the muscle tissue slides. They formed long strands, light green in color. I wasn’t sure what purpose these bacteria served, but I guessed that they aided in the transfer of nutrients.
I assumed that the awful stench given off by the rotters might be due to a chemical reaction within the cellular materials as the bacteria digested them. They certainly smelled worse than anything I had ever been exposed to before.
Sgt. Dyson was still waiting patiently nearby, guarding me while I worked.
“Well, Doc, what do you think?” he finally asked.
“I think that these guys stink!” I answered. Dyson laughed.
I put away my microscope and slowly stood up, rubbing the small of my back. “These things will eventually fall apart,” I concluded.
“That’s great, Doc!” Sgt. Dyson quipped.
“I think as we progress closer to the Gatou we will find that the zombies have completely disintegrated. This has to be the terminal stage for these things. I just wish we could take the time to observe a couple in captivity and I could prepare some cell cultures,” I added.
“The others will be happy to hear that,” Dyson said.
“We might as well go back,” I suggested. “I’m done here.”
We returned to the camp. Everyone was gathered together, camp had been struck.
“The Doc thinks the zombies won’t last much longer,” Dyson blurted out.
“I’m not sure,” I added. I explained my theory to the others. Everyone seemed relieved to hear it.
“That doesn’t mean we can let down our guard,” the captain added.
“No, we still have to be careful,” I explained. “But, I think as we progress, we should find that the older zombies have completely decayed.”
“I hope you are right,” Keyes added with a wan smile.
“We will find out, I suppose,” the captain said as he shouldered his pack. “But we’re not out of the woods yet.”
We all gathered our gear and
pushed our way through the brush and back out onto the road. The sunlight barely penetrated the canopy overhead, and the road led on into the dim green gloom. We resumed our battle formation, with Sgt. Dyson on point, just within sight ahead of us on the road. Blythe and Robinson dropped back and brought up the rear, while the captain walked along with Keyes and me.
We walked for a long time without seeing any zombies, or any sign of humanity at all. Animal noises surrounded us, echoing through the jungle in a wild cacophony. I grew used to them, but I could tell that Keyes was still nervous. She occasionally jumped or cursed. The captain brought us to a halt for a quick lunch, which we ate cold, and then we resumed our march. I tried half-heartedly to start up a conversation, but no one felt like talking.
“Aw, damn,” the captain softly cursed.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, but the answer came before the captain could respond. A soft hiss spread through the trees, and fat rain drops began to splatter on the track all around me. Within seconds a deluge opened up, and I was soaked. The captain pulled us aside.
“Put on your rain gear,” he ordered.
I shrugged out of my pack, and rummaged through it until I found my poncho. I pulled it over my head and struggled back into my pack. I was already soaked, but I deferred to the captain’s order. I helped Keyes get her pack back on. If she had looked unhappy before, she looked really miserable now.
Dyson walked back to where we had stopped in the road. He and the captain conferred, their heads close together. The mercenaries came to a stop in the road behind us.
“Capt. Christopher,” Blythe spoke up.
“Yes?” the captain replied.
“If you are discussing this rain, I can assure you that it may continue for quite some time.” Blythe suggested.
“I am aware of that,” the captain replied.
“I mean, it could rain for the next three months,” Blythe shot back.
Keyes let out a loud moan. I did too. Robinson cursed the sky and Africa in general.
The captain shook his head. “We knew this would happen eventually people,” he said. “Let’s just press on, maybe we can find some shelter before we camp tonight.”