Planet of the Dead (Book 3): Escape From The Planet of The Dead

by Flowers, Thomas S.

  She climbed out before Jelks or anyone else could object.

  The wind nipped at her exposed face, sending chills down her spine. Polk gazed up at the grey sky, wondering how long it would be before the weather warmed, if at all.

  Suddenly the truck honked.

  She jumped. And then glared up at Jelks.

  He pointed down the road.

  Polk turned in the direction and watched as a lone skeletal-looking man stumbled down the bridge, bouncing between the cars as if in some horrible pinball machine. Turning back to Jelks she nodded and started forward. With the sheer force of gravity, the dead man took no time at all reaching the end of the bridge. He spotted her and growled, the dead voice gravelly, which sounded hardly like a whisper in the cold bitter early afternoon breeze.

  Touching her side, Polk considered using the 9mm Beretta strapped in her leg holster. But in this soundless endless landscape, the report could travel far alerting the dead or otherwise of their presence. No. That wouldn’t be smart. Instead she waited in the middle of the road at the foot of the bridge for the dead man to come to her. She gazed down at her cybernetic arm, the poly metallic material fused with the stump of her flesh the good doctor had given her hidden beneath her parka.

  The dead man shuffled closer. Reaching out with a dead, nearly fleshless hand. Its bones held precariously together with frost covered sinew. The skin pale and waxy. It moaned a pitiful, hissed whisper.

  Polk reached out and gripped the undead man by his skull.

  Confused. Angry. Or some other undefined emotion that the dead feel. It thrashed weakly against Polk’s strong grip.

  She stared into its milky eyes for a moment. The sad lamentable expression and condition. Is this what we’ve become? she wondered. What a wretched existence we’ve created for ourselves. Too much at odds to see the warning signs. And in our own desperation we ensured our own destruction.

  The dead man growled a little deeper, its patience exhausted, if it existed at all.

  With little effort, Polk squeezed her cybernetic hand, crushing the dead thing’s skull. It gave a final shrill breath as one of its white eyes burst and then was forever silent. Shifting sideways, she tossed the corpse. Wiping the dark mush from her hand on her pants, she ignored the hollow pang as the dead man slammed into the guardrail.

  Taking a breath, Polk continued forward. The design of the road entered her mind’s eye. There would only be a few cars she would have to move to give Jelks a relatively clear path. Approaching the nearest car, she reached inside, popped the emergency brake and shifted the car into neutral. Using the natural descent of the bridge, she was able to navigate the car further onto the side.

  Next, she approached the SUV with the teddy bear. Smashing the back windshield, she took the bear and moved the vehicle to the side. Hoping the others didn’t see, she tucked away her prize inside her parka and continued upward on the bridge.

  Four or five cars later, the work became increasingly easy with the steepness of the bridge. Polk simply popped the brakes and watched as the cars drifted downhill, crashing into the guardrail or another car behind it. Jelks followed slowly, squeezing the lifted F-350 between the rail and the remaining cars.

  Cresting the top of the bridge, Polk looked over the side. Below, the Mississippi River reflected the metallic icy bridge in the depths of its brown water. An ancient tugboat bobbed in the current, tethered to a rotting wooden dock with thick manila rope. Icicles hung from the flayed edges, nearly touching the waters edge. Further out on the horizon, the city of Baton Rouge greeted her with an eerie silence. Was there anyone left?

  Doubtful.

  And with a population that was easily in the hundreds of thousands, the thought chilled her to the bone.

  ***

  “Watch it!”

  “I see him.”

  “Look out!”

  “I got it—sit the fuck back, man!” Jelks gripped the steering wheel with both hands. Polk could see the whites in his knuckles. Despite the cold, sweat beaded along his forehead, dribbling down his unshaven face. The truck rocked violently to the side, followed by the unmistakable crunching sound as the once AWOL solider crushed a dead woman with one of the 35-inch mudding tires.

  Jelks smiled through clenched teeth and pale skin. “I’ll never get used to that sound—ugh!” He swerved again, just avoiding a couple who together in death walked inseparable.

  Polk glanced at him.

  Jelks shrugged. “Would hate to break them up.”

  The I-10 had been too congested with abandoned cars and tractor trailers and box trucks of every size. The remnants of the population’s hopeless bid to escape the city in every direction imaginable. Instead they took one of the smaller highways that went straight through the eastern suburban outskirts of Baton Rouge. Yet, in the jammed packed, single-family dwelling neighborhoods, it felt just as claustrophobic navigating through the streets of Hwy-190. Dark and dormant businesses lined the main road. Burger King’s and McDonalds’ and Chicken Shacks and Little Caesars Pizza and Jay’s Bar-B-Qs that would never be eaten at again. Banks and ATMs gutted of their value. St. Joseph Cathedral, First Presbyterian, First Baptist, St. James Episcopal, United Methodist, and Abounding Love churches with their doors permanently shut. Polk wondered what would become of these places, the landmarks of American civilization in the next several decades. Would they still be standing in one-hundred years? Five hundred?

  “...for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return,” she whispered.

  “Huh?” Jelks asked.

  Polk glanced at him. “Just some bible verse.”

  He smiled. “I didn’t peg you for the bible type.”

  “I’m not,” she said, “just something I heard growing up.”

  “Your mom?”

  “Yeah. Just before she ditched us for another family.”

  There was silence for a moment, and then Jelks said, “You don’t talk much about your family. Brothers? Sisters?”

  “There’s not much to talk about. We’re all orphans on this planet of the dead.” Polk glanced behind her and asked Collins, “Where does this road lead out?”

  After a moment of rustling with the map, Collins answered, “Quite a way east. I think we should turn north though, get on Highway 1027. It’ll take us into the more rural parts—away from all this suburban bullshit before merging back on 190. I doubt we’ll get much further than Satsuma before nightfall. Not at our speed with Jelks dodging dead folks instead of plowing through them.”

  Jelks glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah man, you want to fuck up our ride? Be my guest.”

  Collins waved him off. “The next major area is Hammond.” He traced the map with his finger. “We’ll need to decide on another route by the time we reach Covington. At our rate, keeping to the country roads and highways, I’d say another day’s journey to Mississippi. From there...”

  Polk heard the tenseness in his voice on the last part. “From there...” was a question she herself was unsure about. All she knew at the deepest part of her core was that heading east was the best course of action.

  Hours went by. And from what they could see of the sun through the grey dark sky, evening was fast approaching.

  “Lets start thinking about a place to pull into and park for the night,” Polk said, scanning the road. The houses had become fewer and fewer as they entered the more rural parts of Highway 190.

  “I think I saw a sign for a Conoco gas station—just a few more miles up the road. Might be a good idea to check out the fuel situation,” Jelks added. “Who knows, we may get lucky.”

  Collins smirked. “Right.”

  “I’ve got to pee. The sooner we stop the better,” Doctor Ahuja chimed in.

  “Do you need the jug?” Jelks asked, grinning in the review mirror.

  “If it’s all the same, I’d rather urinate in privacy,” Ahuja remarked, pulling his blanket tighter against his chest.

  “Sure, doc. Whatever you need.”

&nbs
p; “I Could go for a smoke,” Collins added.

  “You think the gas stations still stocked?”

  “Who knows. Couldn’t hurt to look. Might find some food too.”

  “So, you’re on board with getting gas, now?”

  “I was never against it—I just don’t think we’ll find anything. Besides, I don’t see any lights around here. Doubt the area has power to run those pumps.”

  “Might have a backup generator.”

  “Might being the key word.”

  Polk waved them off. “Shut up—what is that?” she pointed ahead at something glimmering on the road in the horizon.

  Jelks leaned forward in the driver’s seat, squinting through the front windshield. After a moment he started to say, “Looks like—"

  Something exploded beneath the truck.

  Like thunderous pops, two by two.

  And then the truck swerved.

  “Shit!” Jelks shouted, struggling to control the steering wheel.

  He slammed on the brakes.

  The tires screamed.

  Polk braced herself, one hand on the door, the other on the roof.

  And the truck turned and rolled.

  All she could see was the fading light of day and the screech of metal scraping against the cold hard ground.

  Glass shattered.

  Ahuja.

  Collins.

  Jelks.

  They were all shouting.

  The foul stink of diesel stung her nose.

  Finally, the truck came to a stop.

  Dazed, she stared out the broken window at an upside-down field with trees far away. And then she heard voices. Shouts of victory and jubilation. Shadows descended upon them.

  General Rusk

  Part I

  Ft. Hood,

  Texas

  He stared out the large window from what became in the past months not only his office, but base command too, and also where he ate and slept, dreaming dreams of days gone by—about how close he had gotten to calling life quits. Retirement wouldn’t have suited him. He knew this as fact.

  No wife.

  No children, none that he knew of at least.

  All he had was his Army career. His service was his purpose in life. And when Lieutenant General Ted White, the 61st Commanding General of III Corps had pushed the issue, Rusk, who had been a Colonel at the time, prayed for the chance to shove those condolences up that prick’s ass. Yet, there had been little option. Court-martial would have been worse than retirement, but only slightly.

  And then the world changed. The epidemic spread exponentially without regard for borders or countries or flags. This sickness penetrated the deepest level of government and like a maze of dominos the entire system collapsed. Retirement was no longer necessary, he mused. Just like everywhere else, Fort Hood was also swept up in the mania. Officers were either AWOL or dead—or undead. The upper elite was not immune. This disease cared nothing for rank. And he would have been a fool to not take advantage.

  Few knew what actually happened to Lt. General White. Some say he’d been infected—his housekeeper took a chunk clean from his neck, they’d said. Another rumor, of which few were still alive to recount how Colonel (Ret) Rusk had confronted Lt. General White in his office soon after the outbreak had been officially announced, the very same office one he now stood. There had been an argument. Things got heated, and then...

  Colonel (Ret) Rusk took the rank of General and few questioned it. Not the surviving base commanders. Not the Garrison Deputy. Not even the Secretary of Defense, when he had been alive, none of them once blinked. No one said a word because they knew Rusk was two things: ruthless and motivated. And in a world in which the dead walked, perhaps they needed a man like him.

  Operation Continental proved my worth, General Rusk recalled.

  Arkansas was now a dead zone—a warning to what remained of the Armed Forces.

  “Do not fuck with my command.”

  But as the months went by and weather conditions worsened from the fallout, more and more camps and stations were going dark. General Machann and Guillot from the east coast hadn’t reported in weeks. Only Colonel Taylor, General Miller, and a handful of lesser ranked, loosely banded units spread across the nation remained. Nothing from the northern states, the ones closest to the bombed cities. Washington, Oregon, California, New York, Illinois, Wyoming and Arizona—all silent.

  Something was going on.

  Some kind of change.

  But he couldn’t see.

  He was blind.

  “General Rusk, sir?”

  Rusk turned away from the window. “Captain Morton, what is it?”

  The young Captain strode into the room carrying a black binder in his hand and stood at attention.

  “At ease,” Rusk said, dismissing the gesture with a wave.

  Captain Morton nodded and said, “Sir, one of our scouts just returned.”

  Rusk exhaled. “Good. Did he find anything useful?”

  “Yes sir, I believe so, down in Houston.” Captain Morton handed Rusk the binder in his hand. “We’ll need someone in COMSEC to confirm the codes are correct, but if they are—”

  “We’ll be able to get eyes in the field,” Rusk interrupted. “This is good. This is very good, Captain.” He flipped through some of the pages. “We’ve been flying blind for too long. And with radio communication going dark across the board, well...I’m the kind of guy who likes to know when people are sneaking up to stab me in the back.”

  “Yes, sir. You want me to take this to one of the officers in Signal?” Morton kept his expression and tone neutral.

  Rusk handed him the black binder. “Let me know the moment we have a reestablished link with the satellites.”

  Captain Morton saluted. “Yes, sir.” He about faced and started for the door.

  “And Captain,” Rusk called.

  Morton stopped and glanced back at the General.

  “Which scout was this?”

  Morton thought for a moment and then answered, “Sergeant Maberry. I believe he’s a carry over from the National Guard unit that joined us from Waco.”

  Rusk nodded his approval. “See to it that Sergeant Maberry gets special treatment at the Leisure House.”

  “Yes, sir,” Morton said, though his voice was low. He turned and quickly left the room.

  Rusk watched the Captain leave, smirking as the door swung close. He knew what the men called Leisure House—the Boom Boom Room, Fort Bordello, Juicy Bar, etc. etc. Call it whatever they wanted. He knew the men needed a place to blow off steam, a place to relax, to indulge in their baser needs. They were, after all, effectively at war—war with the dead. The death rate among the troops had climbed steadily throughout the last few months. By infection or exposure to the fidget elements or some other sickness that had once been easily treated. With their lack of medical professionals, even the flu had sent several bodies to the burn pit.

  He sneered at the thought.

  Turning back to the tall window, Rusk gazed out at the once pristine, massive parade ground now turned part containment part village. An almost endless sea of green army tents stretched militaristically over an acre, in neat orderly rows coated with layers of snow. The camp was surrounded by six-foot barbed-wire fence with two exits manned by two sets of guards at each port of access. Here nearly five hundred refugees, according to his last head count, called home. This was his labor force.

  They worked in the mess halls on Battalion Avenue.

  They sorted and stored supplies at what used to be Copeland Soldier Service Center.

  They made ammunition at DRRF (Deployment Ready Reaction Field).

  They cleaned and maintained the soldier barracks along Old Ironsides and Tank Destroyer Boulevard. As well as keeping the base of operations, the III Corps building pristine.

  And yes, they worked the Leisure House that used to be a Candlewood Suites Building on 761st Tank Battalion Avenue. Hand selected woman and men tended to the needs o
f his troops—for those who had earned reward based on a simple point system.

  They brought chow to the many checkpoints positioned throughout the base.

  They installed new fence lines along the outskirts—further securing the complex.

  He watched them now. Pleased at the uniformity. Single file lines of laborers going on shift and coming off. Each signing in or out with an individual bar code tattooed on their forearm. Each number based on individual code, tent location and duty assignment.

  The tattoos were new, instituted only a month ago.

  He knew what it looked like.

  But they were at war.

  And war demanded sacrifice.

  General Rusk saw his grizzled, bearded reflection in the window and smiled. Past the white of his hair he could see his kingdom—all that he had accomplished, turning a 214,968-acre installation into a fully functional city, purged of the undead.

  This is a stunning achievement.

  But this dream could not have been realized without making hard decisions. In his youth he had sown the credo of freedom into the American flag—a credo he believed fervently with all his heart. But in this new world such liberties couldn’t exist if humanity were to survive. Yes, these people came to him looking for protection. The refugees hadn’t signed up knowing what that protection would cost. He made the decision for them, for seldom are people ready to sacrifice personal liberties for the sake of others.

  “And we have a solution for unwilling cowards,” he whispered into the glass, gazing out just past the refugee camp at the wooden gallows, now coated with ice, and covered in shadow. The structure was a tall platform with beams stretching across the top, almost like a children’s swing set, with just enough space to hang five criminals simultaneously. He recalled the executions, not just of civilians who refused to do their duty, but also those of his men who likewise denied their responsibilities. Those caught AWOL. Those found in dereliction of duty or found mutinous—they all were rewarded with a last stop at the gallows.