Rotters

by Carl R. Cart

  I watched in morbid fascination as another hand crawled crablike across the mud towards Robinson. At the last second it scrambled onto his boot in a final burst of energy, and scratched at the leather. Even to the last, the virus attempted to spread itself to new victims. Robinson kicked the hand away. It landed in the mud, and slowly began to crawl back towards us again.

  “Move!” the captain barked. We ran across an intersection, and stopped beside a concrete block warehouse, temporarily out of the mud. I looked back. The street behind us was a writhing mass of rotted zombie parts.

  “This is crazy!” Robinson growled.

  “We have to keep moving,” the captain ordered. “The roads at the center of the city should be blacktop. Follow me.”

  With that, the captain took the lead. He led us at a jog through the city, staying close to the buildings on the right hand side. The roads were littered with jumbled piles of bones and rotted remains, where the bone men had finally collapsed, that reanimated as we passed by. The pieces still capable of movement scrabbled out of the mud and pursued us; the rest lay wriggling in the mud.

  We traveled four blocks. The buildings we passed were more modern, and larger.

  We stepped out of the mud onto the blacktop and stopped. Directly before us was a barricade that completely blocked the street. An eight-foot tall wall of sandbags stretched completely across the roadway.

  I looked back; the street behind us was a crawling mass of zombie parts, slowly advancing towards us. We could not return that way.

  “Over the top,” the captain commanded.

  Robinson helped everyone over the wall. Dyson lay atop the wall, and lowered his arm. Robinson gripped it, then pulled himself up and over.

  Beyond the wall was a military checkpoint. Weapons and military gear of all sorts lay scattered in the roadway. Another sandbag wall sealed off the road, a block away. Sgt. Dyson quickly moved to the far end to peer over the wall. The captain paced back and forth, examining the area.

  “There was a hell of a fire fight here,” he exclaimed. Hundreds of empty shell casings lay in heaps against the sand bag wall, and dozens were scattered in the street beyond. “Somehow, the zombies got over the wall, and inside this barricade.”

  Dozens of AK-47 rifles lay scattered about. Hundreds of olive green ammo boxes were stacked against the walls of the nearby buildings; some open and empty, others still full. The captain picked up a rifle, pulled back the bolt, looked into the gun’s breach, and carefully allowed it to slide forward.

  “Still loaded,” he reported.

  Keyes wandered among the weapons, but didn’t touch anything.

  The captain walked slowly to a pile of small blocks, wrapped in green paper. Two wires ran away from the pile to a box-like device lying discarded in the center of the road.

  “Is that what I think it is?” I asked.

  “C-4,” the captain replied, “Enough to blow up this entire block.”

  He followed the wiring back to the detonator, laid the AK-47 in the road, and squatted down beside the device. He examined it closely, then, gingerly picked it up. Very carefully, he loosened the connector nuts, and unwound the wiring from the detonator, disarming it.

  I let out a sigh of relief. I didn’t like explosives.

  “What happened here?” I asked.

  The captain looked up at me. “The local military tried to stop the virus; and the zombies, with a roadblock. They were probably overrun. By the looks of it, they lost their nerve and ran. Whoever rigged up this C-4 either bugged out or was killed before he could detonate it.”

  “Sgt. Dyson, report!” barked the captain.

  Dyson looked up from the far wall. He had picked up an AK-47, and was admiring it.

  “Nothing moving out there yet sir. The road is blacktop, and it looks clear,” he replied.

  “Police up anything you think we can use,” the captain commanded. He put the detonator in his fanny pack, and then wound the detonator cord back to the C-4. He quickly, but carefully, stuffed the explosives into an empty gas mask bag that was lying nearby. Robinson picked up an AK-47 and several ammunition bandoliers, and slung them over his shoulder. Dyson handed me an ammunition box. “Nine-mil. We’ll need it,” he said.

  We assembled near the far wall. From the inside the barricade was easily crossed. You simply stepped up to the firing platform and climbed on top. We all crossed over. Once again, Robinson helped Keyes and me down.

  “Everyone stay super sharp,” the captain said in a low voice. “There could be zombies in any stage of the disease out there.”

  On the far side, we stood at a four-way intersection. The barricade lay directly behind us, to the east. Another road ran to the north and south, through the heart of the city. Our path led away from us to the west, slightly downhill. Although we couldn’t see it from here, the bridge was only a short distance away down that road.

  There were no wrigglers on the road, and no zombies that we could see.

  “It’s too quiet,” Dyson said aloud.

  He was right. Even I could feel it. A menace hung upon the city. It was as if something hidden was preparing to strike. I knew there could be hundreds, even thousands, of zombies ahead of us. We all knew it.

  “Move out people!” the captain ordered.

  Sgt. Dyson led us down the road, slightly ahead on point. We had traveled only three blocks when a bone man stepped out of an open doorway just as the sergeant had passed by it. The captain carefully dropped his satchel of C-4.

  “No one fire,” he ordered. Capt. Christopher dropped into a fighting stance. As the bone man advanced clumsily forward the captain swept its legs out from under it with a spinning round kick. Before the zombie could rise the captain stood and crushed its skull with his boot. The headless zombie grappled for the captain’s legs, but he moved away before it could get a grip.

  “Move!” the captain ordered. He snatched up the explosives.

  Sgt. Dyson walked a few steps forward, then froze and lifted a closed fist. We all stopped again.

  Two rotters emerged into the roadway from around the corner directly ahead of us. They almost passed by, then one of them spotted us. It gave out a low, keening moan, and moved directly toward us. The other rotter followed. From all around us, that moan was echoed, and re-echoed. Suddenly, every building on the street disgorged dozens of zombies in all stages of the disease. They closed in from every direction.

  “They’re behind us!” Robinson bellowed.

  “Open fire!” the captain screamed.

  Everyone began firing at once. The two closest rotters were cut down at point-blank range. One regained its footing and took two more steps forward before being shredded by concentrated machinegun fire. The other zombie’s head was blown completely off. It’s decapitated body groped blindly along the roadway, searching for a victim, until Capt. Christopher shot off its arms.

  Three bone men staggered up the roadway, directly into Sgt. Dyson’s withering fire. He shot out their legs, and as they tried to crawl forward, he took off their heads, one by one. The burly Marine dropped his empty clip, and slapped a fresh magazine into his KGP-9 just as a rotter crossed the road and reached out to grab him. Dyson fired off the entire magazine into the rotter’s head and neck. The zombie staggered back against the rounds, its skull came apart in putrid chunks of bone and bacteria riddled brain matter. As the decapitated corpse staggered forward, the Marine tripped it. He stepped on its back, slapped in a fresh magazine, and quickly shot out its shoulder and hip joints. The rotter was completely crippled. It flopped ineffectually on the road.

  Robinson fired his newly acquired AK-47 into the zombies behind us. The larger rounds hammered the approaching zombies. The big mercenary fired off the thirty round magazines on full auto, only pausing to reload before firing again. Zombie after zombie fell to pieces on the roadway behind us.

  Keyes and I joined in with our pistols. I fired a complete magazine into a bone man’s head and shattered its skull with th
e repeated hits. As the headless zombie crawled towards us Keyes shot out its arms. The crippled bone man then pushed its ruined torso towards us with its legs. It came to rest against the remains of the first two rotters, and could move no further.

  Dozens of zombies were down, or shot to wriggling pieces in the road, but hundreds more were coming up the road, and pouring through the buildings all around us.

  “Fall back!” the captain screamed. “Back to the barricade!”

  We began to walk the three blocks back to the barricade. Robinson led the way, shooting with the AK-47 until its barrel glowed red-hot. Keyes and I moved forward to help him clear the way, firing with our pistols.

  Sgt. Dyson slowly brought up the rear. He only fired to cripple the zombies following behind us. He walked backwards, firing off short bursts with his KGP-9, taking out the zombies’ knees and legs. As they fell, they were trampled by the zombies behind them.

  Capt. Christopher moved between the front and rear, adding his fire to which ever person was in the most desperate straits.

  Dozens of zombies flooded into each intersection as we retreated to the barricade, block by block. Each time, we were stopped for a moment, and almost overrun.

  One block from the barricade, Robinson threw down his AK. The smoking gun was completely out of ammunition. He snapped up his KGP-9 and fired it on full auto, slamming in magazine after magazine as he slowly walked forward into the horde of zombies between safety and us.

  Sgt. Dyson slung his KGP-9; he, too, had run out of ammo. He pulled his fifty-caliber rifle around on its sling and fired from the hip, blasting off the heads of the encroaching zombies as quickly as he could point and fire.

  The captain moved to the rear with Dyson and fired his sub-machinegun in short controlled bursts to save his ammo. They slowly pulled back, leaving a twitching carpet of ruin behind them in the blood-soaked street.

  Robinson fired one last burst from his machinegun and destroyed the last zombie between the barricade and us. He snatched Keyes up and threw her onto the wall. He cupped his hands. I stepped into them and he threw me over the wall. I landed inside the barricade on my head. “Grab an AK, Doc!” he screamed at me.

  Keyes scrambled down the firing platform and snatched up a rifle. Robinson had climbed the barricade, and was sitting atop the wall. He fired off the last round from his KGP-9 and threw the empty gun at a zombie. I grabbed the two closest rifles and threw one of them up to him. He fired it down into the zombies at point-blank range. I jumped up onto the firing platform and looked over. The street beyond the barricade was packed solid with zombies as far as I could see. Only the space directly before the wall was still clear. The captain and Sgt. Dyson were down to their last few rounds. I opened fire with the AK-47; it bucked and stuttered in my hands. At this range even I couldn’t miss. The zombie heads directly below me exploded.

  “Cover fire!” the captain screamed. He jumped for the wall and pulled himself up. Keyes thrust her rifle into Robinson’s hands. The mercenary swept the AK-47’s fire into the zombies reaching for Dyson just beyond the rifle’s barrel. Their hands and heads disintegrated in bloody chunks. The captain and Robinson both reached over the wall and grabbed Dyson by his web gear. They pulled the kicking, screaming Sergeant over the wall.

  Keyes had brought up three ammunition bandoliers. Robinson snatched them from her and reloaded his rifle. He stood atop the wall, firing down into the struggling zombies below him. I handed my rifle to Capt. Christopher. He reloaded it, and opened fire.

  Dyson jumped down inside the barricade, and set box after box of ammunition onto the firing platform. “A little help here, Doc!” he yelled.

  I jumped down and helped him set ammo boxes on the wall. Dyson snatched up an AK-47 and climbed up on the wall. He fired the big rifle on full auto, covering Robinson and the captain while they reloaded. The road before the barricade was completely choked with destroyed zombies. Their still twitching bodies were packed tightly against the sand bags, and more kept coming. They began to climb over the bodies of their own dead.

  “Shit, I think I know how the zombies got inside the barricade!” the captain shouted. “Doc, get your ass up here!”

  I climbed up onto the firing platform.

  “Keep handing these two assholes magazines,” he ordered then dropped down off the wall.

  “Keyes, get the computer over here!” he ordered.

  I handed Robinson and Dyson fresh magazines as fast as they could shoot them.

  Keyes had opened up her laptop, and was frantically typing in the captain’s orders. He had his map and his GPS out and knelt beside her.

  “Drop everything you have on my coordinates. I repeat, I am declaring a broken arrow. Hit everything from me to the river, on my coordinates!” the captain shouted over the gunfire.

  “Ah, shit!” Dyson yelled.

  “What is a broken arrow?” I asked.

  “You don’t even want to know, Doc,” he replied.

  The captain climbed back upon the wall. “We have to hold them for about ten minutes,” he explained. He loaded an AK-47 and fired down into the swirling mob of zombies. I reloaded for him and Dyson. Keyes climbed up onto the firing ledge and reloaded for Robinson. The three men slowed their fire from full auto to single shots. They began to pick off the zombies with head-shots, shooting farther and farther back into the milling mass as they could. Still, the zombies came on. Again and again, one of the men would have to switch back to full auto to drive the climbing zombies back from the wall. The bodies were piled so deeply that the zombies could almost reach out and grab us.

  I wasn’t sure how long we had been firing when suddenly I heard the low roaring noise of an approaching jet. “Everyone down!” screamed the captain.

  We all dropped behind the barricade wall. The zombies surged forward. A huge wave of roaring flame washed over the wall just as it buckled and collapsed on top of me. A tremendous explosion rocked the entire city, and then everything went black. A second later, I was awake again. My ears were ringing, and I couldn’t breathe. Then a weight was lifted from me, and Robinson pulled me free from the crushing weight of the sand bags. He helped me back onto my feet. The heat was intense.

  I looked across the shattered barricade. It was like looking directly into the mouth of Hell. The street beyond was a burning inferno of flame shrouded, smoking human remains. A few zombies still stood, engulfed in flames. They staggered about, and then dropped back into the burning road.

  Capt. Christopher rallied us quickly. “We don’t have much time,” he pointed out.

  “What do you mean?” I shouted back at him. I could barely hear.

  “The air strike didn’t kill all of the zombies, just the ones nearest to our position,” he explained. “We have to reach the bridge before they come back.”

  “What was that?” I asked, pointing to the flames.

  “Napalm,” Sgt. Dyson answered. “Sticks to kids.”

  Robinson and Dyson quickly garnered up all the ammunition they could carry. Everyone now carried an AK-47. Dyson handed me one, along with two bandoliers of extra ammunition. “You can carry the spare, Doc,” he laughed.

  Everyone was filthy. The explosion and the fire had covered everything with soot and mud. I rubbed my face, my fingers came away black.

  We climbed over the mass of burning, twitching bodies and onto the roadway beyond.

  The captain led us down the burning lane. The blacktop was still hot and stuck to the bottom of my boots. The falling rain hissed as it struck the burning roadway. Everywhere I looked laid the burned remains of the zombies. Some of the pieces that hadn’t been completely incinerated still struggled to move. The smell of burning rotted, flesh was nauseating. Once again, I was being treated to a new revulsion.

  As we passed through the intersections, I could see fresh zombies approaching through the smoke, not far away.

  “We have to run for it!” the captain shouted.

  We ran for our lives. We arrived at each
intersection barely ahead of the approaching zombies. We turned a corner, and there before us was the Congo River, and the bridge. I had never seen anything so beautiful. We ran raggedly down the lane. The rifle banged painfully against my elbow with every step, and I was out of breath.

  I looked behind us. Zombies poured into the road from every section of the smoking city behind us. They were beyond number.

  The black top ended at the Congo River. It was swollen far beyond its banks. The dark waters lapped at the bridge supports, just below the roadway.

  We staggered out onto the bridge and stopped at its center. It was only one lane, and a quarter mile long. A gravel road led into the rain forest on the far side.

  The captain pulled out the detonator he had found in the checkpoint. “Dyson, clear the far side and give me cover,” he ordered.

  “Captain, I…” Dyson began.

  “Do it, soldier!” the captain barked. He dumped the C-4 out onto the bridge and pushed det cord into the bricks as fast as he could. “Move it, Dyson! That’s an order.”

  Dyson sprinted to the far side of the bridge.

  Robinson stood beside the captain. He brought his AK-47 to his shoulder and began to fire. Keyes knelt in the road and fired her rifle as well. The zombies had reached the bridge. The first few toppled off and were washed away as they were hit or dropped into the roadway, but more moved forward to take their place.

  Shots rang out on the far side of the river, and Dyson yelled back. “Clear!”

  The captain carefully placed the C-4 into position across the bridge’s deck, stringing out the det cord behind him.

  Robinson’s AK-47 chattered angrily, and stopped. “I can’t hold them, Captain,” he growled as he slammed in a fresh magazine. He raked the approaching zombies on full auto.

  “Give me your AK, Doc,” the captain ordered. “The launch phrase for the nukes is Queen’s Rook seven to King’s Bishop seven. Now get the fuck out of here!”