The Z Chronicles

by Ellen Campbell

  “I’m using the chute camera to survey the ground,” he says, using a joystick to control the onboard computer and shift the gaze of the camera tasked with monitoring the parachutes. The camera view swivels, pointing down to one side. The leading edge of the Odyssey takes up almost a third of the screen. Jackson adjusts the orientation of the camera so only a thin sliver of his craft runs down one side of the screen, giving him a bird’s eye view of his descent.

  “Passing through 10,000 feet. I can see houses, cars, trucks, but nothing’s moving down there.”

  Jackson shuts off his internal oxygen and opens the faceplate on his helmet.

  As he descends lower he notes, “There’re a few fires down there. Smoke is billowing north by northeast.”

  For almost a minute, he watches details on the ground slowly come into view in mesmerizing clarity.

  “Coming down to two thousand feet. I got a glimpse of the stadium a moment ago as the Odyssey drifted to one side. The stadium is west of me. The playing field looks cultivated? Are there gardens in there? Plowed rows? I’m not sure. At a guess, it must be five or six in the afternoon down there. I’m seeing long shadows, so I could be mistaken.”

  He’s nervous.

  “A thousand feet. I’ve got a good view of the ground now. There are people wandering in the streets. I can see cars and buses, but they’re not moving. There are lots of people! Hundreds, maybe thousands of them out on the streets watching the Odyssey descend.

  “I can see the headlines now: Astronaut freaks out and lands in suburbs—a single faulty fuse on his radio and he junks a multimillion dollar spacecraft in a backyard swimming pool.

  “I’ve got to tell you, Houston. I’m feeling pretty damn stupid right about now.”

  Jackson stiffens in his seat, waiting for the inevitable thud that will mark his landing.

  “Hundred feet… Fifty feet… I’m drifting. Have visibility of a mall, a parking lot, a main road. There are so many people. They’re running toward the Odyssey. Get them back! Tell them to stay back!”

  The Odyssey swings wildly to one side.

  “I’ve clipped a tree. No, I think it was a street light.”

  He braces.

  The Odyssey thunders down on top of a vehicle, crushing metal and breaking glass. Even within the confines of his reentry capsule, Jackson can hear metal twisting and breaking beneath two and a half tons of spacecraft returning from orbit.

  Jackson is thrown violently to one side. His body jerks, fighting against his seat restraints and the extra padding on his couch.

  He shouts.

  “Houston, I’m down! Odyssey is down! Over.”

  The Odyssey doesn’t come to a complete stop. The parachutes drag the spacecraft a few feet across the crumpled metal. On the monitor, Jackson catches a glimpse of crushed bodies lying in the street, but the capsule twists beneath the parachutes and the image shifts to a shot of a radiant sunset.

  “Oh dear God. I think I’ve hit someone! What the hell are they doing out there? Get them away, Houston. Get everyone away from the capsule.”

  The capsule comes to a rest at an angle, making it difficult to unbuckle. Jackson climbs out of his seat. His muscles complain at the exertion of moving under gravity, but he forces himself on. He grabs his emergency survival kit including a first aid pouch.

  A bloody hand reaches up from below the capsule and slaps at the glass on the hatch. Dark fingermarks streak the glass as the hand falls away.

  “Houston, we’re going to need paramedics. I’m okay, but there’s at least six or seven injured people out there. I’ll help as much as I can, but I’ve only got a one major trauma kit. This is Odyssey signing off.”

  Jackson unlocks the hatch, pulling at a lever that causes the hatch to swing in and to one side. Almost immediately, he’s overwhelmed by the stench of rotten meat in the stifling humidity outside. He steps forward, his legs feeling unsteady.

  Hands reach up from below, grabbing at the hatch. Dozens of people are clamoring to get into the Odyssey, which is confusing.

  Standing in the hatchway, Jackson gets his first good look outside. The Odyssey has come down on the back of a bus, crushing the rear roof. A large crowd has gathered, numbering in the hundreds, perhaps thousands. They’re all trying to get on top of the bus. And it is then, Jackson realizes what has happened on Earth.

  Zombies.

  CHAPTER 2 - RUN

  “Houston?” Jackson mumbles into the microphone on his helmet even though he’s disconnected from the comms unit. No one can hear him. No one ever could.

  The zombies immediately below the capsule tear at each other, clambering to reach him and pull him into the horde. Their hands grab at the shattered frame of the bus and slap at the bottom of the heat shield on the Odyssey.

  He’s surrounded by a sea of arms grasping at the air, pressing to get closer. There’s nowhere to run to. No escape.

  Mindless groans fill the air along with snarling. Teeth snap at the breeze. Jackson starts to back into the capsule, but there’s nothing back there for him. There’s no hiding from these monsters. To retreat is to wait to be overrun. Already, several zombies have climbed on top of the bus. They’re on the far side of the Odyssey, but not for long.

  A dark shadow blocks the setting sun.

  The last of the three massive parachutes that slowed his descent from the Phaethon drifts slowly to the ground, landing some thirty feet away, blanketing the zombies to his right. Jackson realizes this is his only chance. He slings the survival pack over his shoulder and runs down the length of the bus. The edge of the parachute flutters as it drapes over dozens of zombies tearing at the fabric. There’s still a mass of zombies between him and the canopy, but he doesn’t hesitate.

  Jackson doesn’t slow his pace. He thunders along the roof of the bus with his boots slamming on the thin sheet metal. Bloody hands reach up on all sides, beckoning to him. A ghostly wail calls out as sunlight fades.

  He launches himself off the roof of the bus, still pumping with his legs, and lands heavily on the shoulder of a rabid zombie.

  Jackson falls face first into the horde, sinking into the sea of undead animated corpses.

  Hands grab at him, tearing at his clothes. Teeth bite into his day-glow orange flight suit, but no sooner has he hit the concrete than he’s up again, pushing through the press of zombies.

  “Goddamn it,” he yells, reaching with his arms and pushing zombies aside as he wrenches himself free and runs through the crowd.

  He reaches the parachute and launches himself up and on top of the thick material, scrambling on hands and knees over the undulating mass of zombies trapped beneath the parachute. He tries to run but it’s impossible, and he finds himself peg-legging through the horde as though he were running through waist deep snow. Several zombies follow him, but they can’t make headway, snarling and growling as they flop around on the vast parachute.

  Jackson is breathing hard, pushing off of trapped zombies with his gloved hands. He lifts his knees high as he runs, trying to get on top of the swell. It feels as though he’s sprinting up a steep mountain. His heart is going to explode, but he pushes on.

  The zombies thin out and Jackson finds he can pick his way through the last of them as he bounds over the parachute. His boots are like lead weights strapped to his feet.

  As he clears the flapping edge of the chute, he looks back and sees dozens of zombies swarming over the bus, fighting with each other to see who will climb into the Odyssey. They’re like a pack of wild dogs fighting over a bone.

  Jackson jogs on, but he’s exhausted. He stops by a sapling tree on the edge of a park. He has to. He can’t keep running. His heart feels as though it is about to explode out of his chest. His lungs scream for oxygen. It’s all he can do not to collapse. He leans forward resting his hands on his knees, sucking in air.

  With his head down, his helmet blocks his peripheral vision. He wrestles with the locking ring around his neck and pulls the helmet off, holding it
by the collar.

  “Should have stayed up there,” he manages between breaths. “Should have died in orbit.”

  A dog growls and snarls behind him, and he turns to see an overweight middle-aged man in an immaculate pinstriped business suit staggering toward him. At first, Jackson is confused. He could have sworn he heard a dog. The banker bares his rotten teeth and the realization that his clean white shirt and paisley blue tie is meaningless becomes all too clear.

  “Hey, Mr. Space Man,” a voice calls out. “Over here!”

  A woman waves at him from an alley, not daring to expose herself to the horde but trying to get his attention.

  Jackson jogs over. His lungs hurt.

  Another zombie lunges at him. Jackson swings his helmet, hurling it at the monster’s head as though it were a discus but keeping a firm grip on the chin guard. The back of the helmet connects with the zombie’s jaw, sending the creature tumbling backwards to the ground. In that split second, Jackson learns something. His helmet gives him both added reach and leverage, making it an effective weapon. He runs on, not looking back at the zombie writhing in a pool of blood on the ground.

  The woman in the alley cuts a slight figure. She’s wearing a tank top and jeans. Her arms are gaunt, bordering on anorexic. Long dark strands of matted hair hide her face.

  Jackson slows his jog as he reaches her. He starts to say something when she slams him into an open door and he finds himself sprawled out on the floor of a department store. The door slams and locks behind him.

  He again tries to say something when a hand grips his mouth.

  “Shhh,” the woman says, pointing as a zombie ambles past the glass window toward the alley. She whispers, “Smell, sound, sight—in that order.”

  The zombie disappears around the corner and Jackson can hear it bumping into the fire door, trying to follow them into the store.

  “This way,” the woman whispers.

  She runs through the store as graceful and silent as a cat, barely making any noise as she springs over fallen clothes racks and scattered dresses. Jackson follows her, running on the balls of his feet to reduce the noise from his boots.

  “Wait,” he calls out in a whisper, but the woman disappears into the shadows. She leaves by the rear of the building. Jackson follows her out into a back street. Glass breaks somewhere behind him. The zombies have busted into the store. Out on the narrow back street, the woman pauses beside the alley, looking down at the door they passed through just moments before. A small band of zombies pounds on the metal door. Beyond them, one of the parachutes from the Odyssey lies draped over a tree.

  “Always against the flow,” she says, darting across the alleyway. Jackson follows her. “They go this way, you go that way. Yes. That’s the way to go every time. Every time. Yes?”

  “Yes,” he replies, trying to keep up as she runs on.

  Her speech is as erratic as her motion.

  “You were spam in a can—man,” she says as she stops behind a strip mall. “Oh, they were looking for a good feasting. They thought you were a gift from the gods. They saw those red parachutes and thought they were lollipops. You’re crazy, man. Crazy! They say, I’m crazy, but not me. You, man. You’re the crazy one.”

  She leads him up an external staircase to a rooftop, chatting incessantly.

  “You’re a madman. What made you come down here? You should have stayed up there. You’re insane. Certifiable. I mean, like straightjacket and leg restraints insane, you know?”

  And Jackson gets a glimpse of who’s lost their marbles. He nods as she leads him onto an open rooftop connected to various other buildings by a waist-high walls. A sleeping bag lies crumpled in one corner. Flies buzz around empty cans piled up against an air vent, but Jackson can see why she lives up here. She can range over almost an entire block on the shop roofs. There must be dozens of entry and exit points, and they’re all highly visible.

  Severed zombie heads sit skewered on poles mounted by the edge of the building. Their eyes follow him as their teeth grind.

  “What the?”

  “Oh, you like my little darlings? My scarecrows?”

  “I—ah.”

  “What? You think I’m too petite to handle an ax? I haven’t survived this long by being Ms. Congeniality.”

  And she laughs, but her laugh is unsettling.

  “What’s your name?” Jackson asks, trying to shift the subject.

  “Jennifer. And what do they call you? Mr. Buzz Lightyear?”

  Jackson fakes a smile. “Dan.”

  “So what have ya got for us, Dan?” she asks, gesturing toward his backpack.

  “Ah, it’s a survival kit,” he replies, feeling uneasy about the reference to ‘us.’

  “You got ray guns?”

  “No,” Jackson says. “No ray guns.”

  Not that anyone sane would need to be assured of such a thing.

  “Just water purification tablets, a flare gun, first aid kit, thermal blanket, matches, things like that.”

  “Can I see?”

  See? In Jackson’s mind, anything Jennifer sees is going to become a point of contention so he ignores her, saying, “I’m looking for someone. A young girl. Daisy. She’s trapped in the local police station.”

  “Daisy’s dead,” Jennifer snaps, never taking her eyes off his backpack. She twists her head to one side, intensely curious about his pack with its NASA logo displayed proudly on the side.

  The sun is setting. He’s running out of time. From the rooftop, he gets his bearings. Knowing the sun is to the west, he faces north looking at the sprawling suburb before him. The stadium is behind him and to his right. Mentally, he triangulates his location against his memory of the map on the Phaethon, and figures he’s no more than two blocks away from the police station.

  “I have to go,” he says.

  “So you’re a knight in shining armor, is that it? You think you’ll last out there? You won’t last five minutes in prison clothing. They’ll see you coming a mile away.”

  It takes Jackson a moment to realize what she’s referring to, but his flight suit does look like something from the county jail. He loosens the locking cuff on his gloves and strips down to his t-shirt and shorts.

  As he changes out of his flight suit, he asks, “What happened here?”

  His boots are bulky, but given all the broken glass he’s seen on the streets, Jackson doesn’t want to go barefoot so he puts them back on and fastens them tight.

  “It’s the Book of Revelation, man. Judgement has been cast. We have been weighed and found wanting. It’s the apocalypse. The end of the world. Hell has been emptied of her demons. The devil has come to Earth.”

  “But how did it happen?” he asks.

  “Who knows?” she asks, “Does it matter?”

  “It matters,” Jackson replies, rummaging around in his pack and pulling out a protein bar. He tosses the bar to Jennifer and she tears it open, stuffing it in her mouth in one go. He tucks the flare gun into the small of his back and picks up his helmet. It might not be as effective as a baseball bat or a machete, but it will crush a skull.

  “Come with me,” he says.

  “Oh, no,” Jennifer replies with her mouth full. She waves her finger at him, saying, “You’re crazy.”

  Jackson says, “You should come.”

  She shakes her head as though she’s a dog shaking itself dry. Her matted hair whips around her face and he gets the message.

  With the sun dipping behind the distant buildings and shadows burying the land, Jackson starts jogging across the rooftops, climbing over the low separating walls.

  “Scent, sound, sight,” Jennifer calls out after him. “Remember!”

  He doesn’t turn back, but not because he’s rude. She’s wrong about Daisy. He spoke to Daisy not more than two hours ago. But two hours is an eternity in the zombie apocalypse. Jackson buries that thought.

  He’s not thinking straight. As an astronaut, he’s mission focused. The mission is everyt
hing. The mission demands precision, dedication. He has to find her. There are no other considerations.

  At the end of the block, Jackson climbs down a fire escape and drops the last few feet to the ground. No sooner have his boots touched the concrete than a growl comes from the shadows.

  Jackson jogs down a broad avenue, staying in the middle of the road. He’s running into a breeze which gives him a slight advantage as his scent trails behind him, allowing him to run past unsuspecting zombies before they realize he’s there. They snarl and growl as he passes by, but he’s able to give them a wide berth. Behind him, though, a swarm of zombies builds, following in his wake.

  “Hang on, Daisy,” he says between breaths. “I’m coming.”

  Although he kept up an aerobic exercise regime on the Phaethon, nothing could condition him for the jarring blow of each thud of his boots against the concrete street. His knees are sore, but he keeps going.

  The police station looks like the Alamo. Cars and trucks have been rolled over on their sides to form barricades. Zombies hang twitching from razor wire stretched over the hood of a burned out SWAT van. The tires have been shot out, lowering the truck’s profile, but that hasn’t stopped zombies from crawling beneath the chassis. Dead legs stick out onto the road.

  Bullet holes pockmark the vehicles. Black scorch-marks stretch upwards above the windows in the police station, testifying to an inferno. It’s a war zone.

  Jackson doesn’t have long to weigh his options. He needs to get in and out of the station quickly as he’s got his own party in tow.

  A zombie staggers up to him wearing a police uniform. Jackson doesn’t hesitate, swinging with his helmet and connecting with the undead officer on the side of the head and sending him tumbling to the road.

  Bodies lie in the street. Some of them are still moving, crawling slowly forward. One of the police cars has been dragged out of place, allowing Jackson to jog through and up the steps of the police station.

  “Daisy!” he yells, stepping through the broken front doors.

  Glass crunches under his boots.

  An overturned desk has crushed a police officer. Even in death, the officer’s right hand grips a semi-automatic Glock.