Stretching out as far as they could see, the dead marched in the millions like a swarm of dark silhouettes growing larger and larger with each passing moment.
Jelks exhaled. “Look how they move, like cattle.” He rolled down his window. “Listen.” On the wind, they could hear them—the dead in untold number groaning out in a singular insatiable desire to consume, like a slow, crackling echo building in volume. “Where do you think they’re coming from?” he asked.
“North, maybe? Driven south by the storms. The cold. Food. We’ve seen them cluster before. But this...” Polk gestured out the window, “this is a maelstrom—a super herd. Completely unstoppable. No way you could drive through that.”
Bernie came from the back and nearly screamed. “Holy shit! Are they coming our way?”
Jelks shook his head, smiling despite the utter horror he felt twisting his guts. “No, looks like they’re shifting to the west.”
“Then we go east,” Polk said.
Nodding, Jelks shifted into drive, pulled down the ramp and entered Highway 32. There were a few stragglers, small clusters of ice covered dead, but the majority had moved on with the others. Driven by whatever was guiding them. Less than an hour later the stragglers became less and less. As they approached I-95, a large manmade sign guided them to an adjacent highway. The road was surprisingly clear of cars and people, both the living and the dead.
“Heads up,” Collins reported.
“I see them,” Jelks answered.
“What is that?” Bernie asked, kneeling behind Collins.
“A check point,” Polk answered.
Jelks slowed the RV. Glancing at Polk he asked, “What do you think?”
Polk studied the small group of obviously armed civilians ahead of them.
He followed her gaze, noting the bridge that the group was blocking. Signs hung high above them that said, ‘Approach Slow.’
“Well, Bernie,” Polk said finally without taking her eyes off the check point. “Let’s go see if this Paradise of yours really exists.”
Jelks eased on the gas and slowly pulled the Winnebago forward. One of the supposed guards came forward, raising his hand as if signaling them to stop.
Jelks stopped and rolled down his window.
“Welcome to Darien,” a bearded, middle-aged man said. He smiled a generous smile, as if he was truly glad to see them.
“Howdy.” Jelks smiled in return. His right hand touched his sidearm holstered on his thigh.
“Where you headed?” the man asked.
“Paradise.”
The man beamed even brighter. “Well, you’ve come to the right place.” He turned and waved at another man who remained near the bridge. Turning back to Jelks, he said, “Before you go in, Dude likes to greet newcomers.”
Polk leaned forward. “Dude?”
“Yeah, hold on,” the man said. He stepped out of the way as a lanky, longhaired man jogged toward them. He wore a brightly colored beanie cap that reminded Jelks of a comedian from a movie he used to know.
The one the man called Dude stepped closer and peered inside the Winnebago. He spotted Polk and laughed. “Far out—I was hoping I’d see you again!”
Despite everything, Polk smiled. “Surfer Dude, wow. Well, I guess you found that place you were talking about.”
Jelks and Collins gave her a look.
Polk waved them off, “Long story.”
Dude laughed again.
Feeling like the subject of an inside joke, Jelks asked, “So, where is this Paradise? We heard it was an island near here.”
Dude slapped the side of the Winnebago, still laughing and smiling. He seemed honestly happy to see not just them but especially Polk. “Yeah, man. You’re not far. Just over that bridge is a ferry that’ll take you to our slice of heaven.”
Collins leaned closer. “Is it true, the island is...you know...”
Dude shrugged. “We’ve got a doctor who clears everyone before coming on the island. Just a quick examination to make sure no one is infected. But, man—I’ve seen people turn without getting bit, so...I don’t think no place will ever be one hundred percent safe—but Paradise is as good as its going to get.”
Jelks smiled. “Oh yeah, how’s that?”
Dude nearly danced on his feet. “Man—we got a tight knit community. Everyone’s got something to do to help contribute. And no one lords over anyone. We have a committee that votes on island matters.”
“Island matters?” Polk asked.
Dude waved her off. “Nothing too serious. Boring stuff, mostly. What crops to plant, where and when, that sort of thing. This girl I know is on the committee. She’s real cool.”
“What about you?” Polk asked, teasingly. “You aren’t on the committee?”
Dude laughed. “Nah, man. I like being out here taking in whoever we can. Speaking of which.” He turned and signaled one of the men by the bridge. A moment later, the guard rail was hoisted into the air, clearing the path forward. He turned back to them and said, “Well, what are you waiting for? Welcome to Paradise.”
Captain Morton
Fort Hood,
Texas
Bright tracer rounds of 5.56 mm flew into the massive horde of undead. 50-cals mounted to armor plated Humvees thundered in unison, thump thump thump. Frag grenades were thrown by teams of ground troops, followed by a deafening boom, showering bits of rotted flesh and bone and ice. Bradley tanks—as many as they could operate, which wasn’t much—spread out across the base’s northern and eastern perimeter. Captain Morton could hear their M242 Chain Guns rattling.
With all of that, it wasn’t stopping them!
This swarm of dead surged without pause. Stretching out for miles in either direction and several miles deep. Migrating from the northern parts of the U.S., like birds in the winter seeking warmer ground.
General Rusk’s troops had firepower.
Limbs ripped from sockets.
Bodies crushed by impact or velocity.
Yet the dead continued, unabated.
They simply stumbled over disseminated corpses and continued forward. No fear. No pain. Only hunger. Why were they here? Where did they all come from? None of that mattered. They were here. They wanted them—this place, drawn perhaps by the sounds of life, the very thing they could never have again.
Through a pair of binos that hung around his neck, Morton gazed in horror at the battlefield. The quadrant for which he had been given the responsibility for keeping it secure.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
He shifted over to where the closest Bradley was laying suppressive fire on the massing horde. The barbed wire fence that was meant to keep the dead out had collapsed. Partly because of the surging number of walking corpses pressed against the weakening metal and the weight of snow and ice, but also due to their own gunfire.
As the fence gave way like a bloated balloon, it burst. The dead surged inside and in their own strange shambling way closed the distance between them and the thumping tanks. Morton winced as he watched the operators of the tanks climb out—panicked and unfamiliar with the equipment, they tried to get away. The dead surrounded them quickly, pulled them to the ground. He couldn’t hear their screams, but he could imagine.
He forced himself to look away. Scanning the horizon beyond the fence, he shuddered. The dead were endless. The entire snowy landscape of what used to be Killeen, the plazas and gas stations and tattoo shops and barbers and shoe shiners—though long abandoned now—were completely shrouded.
They couldn’t hold them back.
This was madness.
They had to get away.
He had to get away.
“Fuck this,” Morton hissed. He turned and started for his truck where a private sat, waiting in the driver’s seat, shivering and bug eyed.
“We’re getting out of here,” he called.
The private looked at him, glanced at the battlefield and nodded.
Even the kid knew i
t was insane to hold the area. What was General Rusk thinking? He should have evacuated the base. No one could stop this vortex of gnashing teeth and hunger.
Morton started for the truck and stopped.
Another truck was barreling down the road toward him. Screeching on ice and wet brakes, General Rusk stepped out and without missing a stride marched and stood in front of Captain Morton.
Out of habit more than anything else, Morton came to attention and saluted.
“At ease,” Rusk barked,
Morton relaxed and felt instantly ashamed for even saluting. The man didn’t deserve respect. Not from him or anyone else in uniform. They had sworn to serve and protect, from both foreign and domestic enemies. Look at them now. Forcing the very people who had trusted them with their lives into labor camps.
Rusk had already turned away, surveying the battlefield—which was quickly turning into a massacre. “What’s the situation?” he asked.
Morton glared at him. “Situation?”
“Yes. Situation. Are you holding the quadrant?”
“You tell me.”
Rusk turned and met Morton’s glare. “I don’t really care for your tone, Captain.”
Morton laughed. “My tone? Are you even aware of what’s going on? We’re losing this battle, sir.”
Rusk shook his head. “Nothing is lost yet—we can hold this base.”
“At what cost?” Morton shouted.
“Whatever it takes.”
“We won’t have enough soldiers before long.”
“Then we’ll use the labor crews—send them in. fight to every last man, woman, and child if need be. Anything worth fighting for is worth sacrificing for.”
“You’re insane.”
Rusk stepped toward him, oblivious to the chaos behind him, the armored trucks and soldiers on foot retreating up the field. Those that didn’t we’re swallowed by the constant flow of walking, shambling snow-covered corpses.
“And what would you do? Run?” he growled.
Morton stepped toward him. “Yes! Look around you. You’ve lost. Nothing can stop them! The only logical thing to do would be run!”
“Coward...”
Morton stepped back. The word hurt, but did he care? “Maybe,” he said. “But at least I haven’t completely lost my mind. At least I haven’t completely lost my soul.” He gestured behind him toward the heart of the base. “What you’ve done here—there’s a special place in hell reserved for men like you.”
Rusk said nothing.
Morton glanced at the field as the dead continued to advance. “I’m done. This is over and I’m done.” He turned and started for his truck and the waiting and even more nervous looking driver.
“Captain Morton,” Rusk called.
Heaving a deep sigh, Morton turned and gasped.
Rusk aimed his revolver at him and squeezed the trigger.
Sound.
Space.
Time—it all disappeared. Morton stood still. Waning on his feet. He stared down at himself and touched his chest. Gazing at the blood on the fingers, he looked up at Rusk. And then he collapsed to the ground. Coughing. Gurgling on frothing red foam.
Morton’s truck suddenly took off. The private apparently losing his nerve.
Rusk stood over Morton and watched the vehicle departing the battlefield. He glanced over his shoulder as troops retreated—those few in number who could—before turning back to Morton on the ground, still sputtering blood.
“You are a coward, Captain. Just like all the others. The ones who doubted me; doubted all of this. We had something here. The last beacon of humanity. A bright light in the darkness. But you are right about something. This place is finished. The line is failing across the entire complex. There are just too many of them.”
Morton glared at the man standing above him. His vision blurred. His lungs burned. He could feel the life draining from him. Yet he heard every word the man spoke. Every explosion. Every bullet fired. Every scream.
He watched knowing he was dead. Mustering what strength he had left Morton reached for his sidearm.
Rusk knelt hard on his chest.
Wracked with pain, his body seized up. Morton gasped and sputtered more of that frothy red, all the while Rusk glaring down at him with a smile.
“No, my time hasn’t come. Not yet. There will be no fairy tale ending here, not between you and me. You’ll die. Here on this cold battlefield. And me? I’ll survive. Because that’s what has to happen. I’ll find somewhere else to colonize. Teach my ways for generations to come. If humanity is to survive this new world.” Rusk stood, releasing the pressure from Morton’s chest and lungs. He took one final look at the mayhem around him and said, “Too bad. This could have been something special.” And then he walked away.
Morton couldn’t move. He listened as Rusk’s snow muffled footsteps disappeared and the firing up of his truck engine and the tires as they pulled away. And then it was quiet—for a moment or two. Until the groaning voices of the dead filled his ears.
Doctor Ying
Part III
Undisclosed Military Underground Compound
Chongming, China
Doctor Ying glanced at Doctor Lien beside her. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in weeks. His balding head slick with beads of sweat. His clothing askew under his white lab coat. Grizzled, unshaven face. And a yellowing on his fingertips and teeth from chain-smoking and drinking an absurd amount of coffee.
“Where’s Doctor Bai?” he asked.
“Sleeping in her quarters. I gave her a sedative. She should be out for a while.”
“Do you think that’s wise?” he asked.
She turned back to the observation window and asked, “What do you think?”
Lien pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m beginning to think we should take that helicopter before somebody else does.”
Ying looked at him again.
Lien glanced at her but said nothing.
“You heard about Wei’s men?”
“Three AWOL?”
“AWOL, you think. Where could they run off too?”
“Tunnels most likely. Where else could they have gone?”
Turning back, gazing through the glass she understood perfectly what he meant. On the other side was Doctor Zhang’s laboratory which was beginning to look very much like something from a Universal Studios monster movie. She was truly living up to the nickname the soldiers had given her.
Frankenstein.
Laying prone on a dozen exam tables, dead men and woman glared up at the ceiling without moving an inch as Zhang performed her quick surgery—implanting electrodes and circuits necessary for her to show the merit of her experiment. She promised to provide undead troops for Major Wei to use however he wished. Ying had serious doubts though that this was what the Major wanted. Not with some of his men missing and unaccounted for.
“Okay, Z-77. Stand,” Zhang ordered.
Promptly, though on jittery legs, what used to be a woman—now ashen grey with a gnarled puffy wound on her neck, stood.
“Good, Z-77. Now sit down,” Zhang ordered again.
The corpse complied and sat on the exam table.
“Z-79. Stand.”
A man of unknown age stood on shaky legs. His right arm was amputated, by fate or design, Ying was uncertain. His skin was swollen and looked mildew green. One of the “older” specimens, she assumed.
“Good, Z-79. Sit.”
The dead man sat.
Zhang gave several simple orders of which her experiments performed without hesitancy. One of them even looked as it were smiling at her, spit and pus drooling from its open black toothed mouth, proud of its obedience.
“Good. Very good. Now its time for your reward. I brought you something good.” Zhang walked to a storage closet in her lab. She hoisted a tin bucket, something farmers would use to milk cows in, except this one sloshed murky red.
“What is that?” Lien asked, more to himself.
Both of
them peered forward, nearly pressing themselves against the glass. Watching as the groups of undead each ate from their bucket of crimson sop. The one called Z-79 smiled again as it held up a noodle looking chunk of flesh. It clenched the meat in its hand and begin chewing. Red froth bubbled between its smacking happy lips.
“Is that—?” Ying started.
“Can’t be,” Lien interrupted. He covered his mouth with his hand. His skin was paler. Coughing, he looked as if he was going to throw up.
“What the hell is going on in here?” came a voice from behind them.
Ying and Lien turned, startled to see Major Wei standing in the doorway, fully armed. He carried an QBZ-95 assault rifle across his chest. Pistol in his side thigh holster. Lieutenant Chen stood behind him. Also armed. He glared at the two scientists and then turned toward the observation window. His eyes grew wide at what he saw. He marched past them and slammed into Zhang’s lab. Chen followed quickly through the door.
Ying and Lien watched horrified through the glass.
“What are you giving them in there, Frankenstein?” Wei knocked one of the buckets from one of the subjects. The subject gazed at the fallen gory food and moaned in a sort of lamentable song.
“Answer him, Frankenstein!” Chen barked.
Zhang looked flustered. Eyes wide and bloodshot. Lab coat and latex gloves covered in blood and hair. She stood by the storage closet as if protecting whatever she had in there, as if it were precious or worse, secret.
Wei pushed her out of the way. “Huh? What are you feeding them?” He thrust open the door to the closet and stared at the contents. Reaching inside he pulled out a bloodied uniform.
A soldier’s uniform.
He glanced at the buckets and at the subjects consuming greedily the mucky, gory contents.
“What have you done?” he shouted and aimed his rifle at Zhang. “Are those my men in there?”
Zhang threw out her hands as if to ward away the attack. “No, you—you must listen to me, Major. You must listen!”
Wei clicked off his safety. “Listen to this.” And he squeezed the trigger to his rifle. The reports blasted and echoed sharply in the closed space of the lab in bright flashes of white.
Planet of the Dead (Book 3): Escape From The Planet of The Dead Page 12