Zombie Wake

by Storm J. Helicer

  It was after her last walk through the clinic that she came home baffled. “Things have changed,” she said. Since a three billion dollar grant to fund pandemic viral research has affiliated the University with the hospital, the timeline to go from laboratory bench research to clinical trials has been sped up. The consequence, faster than industry standards… and she went on to explain the latest trial... Something about using a genetically modified avian flu virus and there was something about stimulating stem cell production. The treatment had a rejuvenating effect, including, if I heard right, grey hair reversal. Despite forcing myself to sit still and nod, I remember more about the state of our backyard than the details of the conversation. I only half listened to her that morning while sipping my coffee and looking out the window at the neighbor’s cat, who seemed to be stalking our chickens. It took me three rounds of cell biology to figure out that my ability to tune out the subject was and continues to be exceptional. And that discussion, as with so many of those conversations, ended with the plea, “It’s not that I’m not interested. It’s just… you know me and...”

  What questions I would ask her now. Now she is lying in bed ten miles from here—so far away, yet too close to this zombie ridden pier. The head, remember, the head, I remind myself. Lowering the rifle once again, I begin to make my stand.

  Bullets

  8

  Now, I wouldn’t say math was my best subject but I figure, pretty quick, that with two magazines for the AR15 (each 28 rounds), and my 40-caliber Smith and Wesson (three sets of 11 rounds plus 1), I have less than one third the bullets I need for this event. The pier is filled with… individuals. All look tattered, torn and decomposed. One, holding an arm severed at the elbow, spits out a finger. Most are moving forward.

  We are trained that the use of force is a continuum. You are constantly evaluating the circumstances before you, and reacting appropriately. The Peace Officer Protective Equipment, sometimes jokingly referred to as the batman belt, is a toolbox of options. The most common first line of defense is voice, verbal judo it’s called. “Excuse me sir, that behavior is unacceptable in this public setting…” that sort of thing. Then there’s pepper spray and the baton. It is a common public misconception that the use of force is like a ladder. You have to stand on rung number one before you got to rung number two. In reality, you are continuously escalating and de-escalating your response to match your environment. And rungs can be skipped.

  Now it’s time for bullets—all of them. As I start shooting, really start, I think, Don’t pick them up. It’s funny how even thoughts can become routine. In a famous shoot out, three cops were killed because they stopped shooting to collect their brass. During trainings, they had been taught to clean up their empty shells promptly after unloading their weapon. When the real thing went down, they maintained the tidying ritual. Because of that, trainings were reworked and we were taught to let the metal fly. I am conscious of them hitting the ground. BAM, ting-ting-ting, BAM, ting-ting-ting-ting.

  The living dead go down with a thump, one at a time. I’m doing them a favor, I think. But with each shot spent my adrenalin levels increase, and my pity is short lived. What is propelling me started as fear, quickly turned to pity then finally to anger. Rage pumps out each bullet. This is not my job. Furlough days, decreases in budget, failed equipment and now this. This guy with a beer in his hand and one eye hanging out of his head wants to eat me. NO. Boom, tinka ting-ting.

  But that was the last bullet. I let the AR15 fall to my side. Before the strap catches, I have my handgun up and shooting. Eleven zombies, they fall like dominoes almost stacking. I push another magazine in and start pumping. Another layer of them stack up and the ones behind start tripping. I push the last magazine with force. Methodically and calculated, I start back. But instead of plucking one off at a time, hair and scalp start flying--the zombies cease to fall. It takes me three rounds to realize it’s the bullets. Oh no not the pig bullets.

  *

  Months ago, we had some pigs to dispose of. You would never know during the day that they were there. At least, I never saw one—not a one. But their nighttime activity was wreaking havoc on the environment. The churned soil patches appeared completely roto-tilled, especially under oak tree canopies. The pigs were eating acorns, tilling the soil, all the while introducing exotic non-native weeds. We thought they were pigs. And after leaving buckets of fermented corn under a motion-activated camera, our suspicions were confirmed.

  Following a ton of paperwork, permissions, environmental consultants, waivers and calls, we baited three traps with sixteen pounds of fermented corn. We called it the Feral Pig Eradication Project of the Gaviota Coast. Take them out three by three. Shoot them. We had inquired about donating the meat to the local homeless shelter but some line had been drawn deep in the sand and the encouraged alternative was to dump the carcass off the bluff. To stay environmentally conscientious, I ordered lead free bullets. But in my rush, I didn’t look at all the options. Didn’t even realize there might be a lead free bullet without the punch. I ordered the first on the list, which happened to be the ammunition used by air marshals, frangible ammunition. It’s designed to break apart when it hits a solid surface.

  One boar came eager to eat. Walked right into our trap. I wasn’t on duty the morning of the episode but the rangers told me every detail—what a mess. They didn’t know why the animal wasn’t going down. They just kept shooting. Shot after shot went into the kill spot until finally… It must have run out of blood. They took me up to show me the stains on the trail. After reenacting the scene and promising me I didn’t deserve it, they opened an adjacent cooler and pulled out a gallon bag full of red meat. I tucked it into my bag knowing that it would be a long time before I lived this one down.

  *

  Would I live it down now? The extra magazine I grabbed just an hour ago was left from that pig eradication project. I had been meaning to move the open box to a better spot. Now, I aimed for remnants of a nose in hope of finding a soft entrance. The result—her face blew off. I shot another one clear into the eye and he dropped. But the next two came out like puffs of air. Panic washed over me. Sheer panic.

  In survival situations, the people that make it are the ones that feel as though they can. It’s hard to see how you could be in such a situation and not contemplate the worst. I needed a plan. Survivors always have a plan. Something to keep them going.

  I had about three feet between the wall of rotten humans and me. Bodies littered the planks; the prone ones were still. But the cadavers moving toward me were making headway and the pier was thick with them, at least a hundred. I holstered my weapon, took a step back and looked down into the water. The sun was far from rising; the air, clear, dry and brisk. The water must be below 60 degrees. But I could swim to shore. Many times I had watched the junior lifeguards jump from the pier and knew that the shock would be tolerable. My twenty-pound gear belt would have to go. I can’t see the bluffs or the beach, it’s still too dark. With the water temperature, I wouldn’t be able to withstand it for too long. Not time for that…yet, I think.

  Red

  9

  A screech sounded, loud and long. It was Toothbeak. Human hair emerged from her beak and an object was clearly lodged in her throat. Her neck resembled a crescent moon. Her head swaggered back and forth.

  Putting animals out of their misery is not new for me. For the hogs, we quickly went back to normal bullets, a fast, effective method. I’ve seen pictures of a giant boar in Vanuatu brought down by one swift club to the back of the head. Following a long wind up, skinny arms delivered the whack. It looks just as effective as our means without the heavy metal environmental hazard. The image of those spindly wiry muscles pulling down a club spurred my next line of attack.

  The wall of dead park visitors continued its shambling, slow motion advance. I found myself relieved that real zombies—real zombies?—were slow. As each of my bullets left the barrel of my Smith and the adrenaline level went up
, I found myself in condition red but knew I was teetering on the edge of condition black. These were terms I had taught to my student over the years. They refer to the way the human body reacts to stress. As the amount of stress increases the human body begins to shutdown non-vital processes. The vision narrows down. People in this state describe feeling like they can focus in on minute details but have almost no peripheral vision at all. Time slows down.

  I holstered my 40 cal and went to my last resort. The baton. I had stubbornly hung on to my solid wood 44-inch straight stick for nine years. Finally, out of laziness more then anything else, I hung the old mahogany red diamond wood stick up and went with a stainless steel (for the beach) collapsible straight stick. While it’s promoted as an Asp for its fast snakelike strike, I never bought into the idea that it had a venomous bite. I remember taking a ration from my team because I was the defensive tactic instructor who always talked about the silly “radio antenna” batons that so many officers were carrying. I always said that if you’re going to a club fight bring a club not a radio antenna.

  Now I’m in need of some skull cracking and I’m carrying a radio antenna. My old stick, the diamond wood one would have made short work of these things. But instead, I whip the handle of my Asp out to the side and feel a surge of anticipation as the baton extends with an audible rasp. The small metal ball at the end coupled with its collapsible characteristic gives it the appearance of an obese radio antenna. The little ball, about twice the size of a marble, the business end, could put a hurt on the most tenacious of resisting felons. Or so the brochure claimed.

  The first monster to come within my range was a fat woman in a bathing suit that she had no business wearing. There were bulges in all the wrong places and it looked like the shoulder straps were cutting into her flesh from the load. I raised the baton up over my head, one handed, and then reversed with a swift downward swing toward the center of her head. I knew before I even started the strike that it wasn’t fast enough. The baton hit the center of her skull and bounced back six or seven inches in the air. The woman grunted and did a sorta shuffle in place and then growled and started to reach for me.

  This time I wound up like I was swinging for the cheap seats. I visualized a target 6 inches past the left side of her head and swung from the right with the intention of blasting right through her temple and on through. The end of the baton hit her temple with an audible crunch as I let out a grunt that would make any black belt proud. The side of her skull and face crumpled in several inches and she dropped like 300 pounds of jello.

  The instant I made impact I took several steps backward and felt a wave of guilt come over me. I had just broken a cardinal rule by aiming for the head. From day one in the academy we had been taught to avoid certain targets. The head was the biggest one. Never ever hit someone in the head with a baton. And now, there before me on the splintery planks of that pier, was the quivering evidence of what a baton could do to the human skull. I shuddered at the sight of the glistening clearness of cerebral spinal fluid dripping out of her nose. The woman’s monstrous torso shuddered once and then was still.

  A tall gangly zombie in a Body Glove wet suit stumbled as it stepped over the body and continued its advance. This was getting ridiculous. It seemed like every time I dropped one of these things there were two more to take its place. I wasn’t sure how much more pier I had but I knew that I would soon be on the last 50 feet, shark country. There was an age-old war of pier real estate that went on between the mackerel slingers and the shark fisherman. Shark hunters felt that the end was their country. They would show up on a busy Saturday armed with massive poles and ice chests and march like a platoon right out to the very end and wedge out all the other fisherman. I couldn’t count the number of times I have responded to shark country to break up a disturbance between the mackerel slingers and the shark hunters. It usually ended with me throwing the whole gang of tattooed muscle bound shark thugs out of the park, energy drinks and all. As I readied for my next swing I felt a pang of regret that some of those shaved head construction thugs weren’t here now. With a few hammers or crowbars those punks could really help out with this crowd of death.

  I quickly discovered that one blow to the head usually wasn’t enough to end these miserable creatures existence. I found myself swinging two, three, sometimes four times before they would drop. I was mentality admonishing myself not to chop wood. Take aim, wind up, swing hard and fast, and aim for six inches behind the target. Martial arts instructors discovered that if the target is visualized six inches past where it really was, attackers could hit things noticeably harder. I had already proven this point four times when I remembered to breathe.

  That’s the other irritating thing that human physiology habitually does in a fight. We hold our breath. We clench up and forget to breathe. I always taught my officers to kiai. A kee-i is an audible exhale right at the moment of impact. More oxygen in, more CO2 out. The louder and more forcefully you kiai the more power you pack so long as you time it right. Think Bruce Lee on this one.

  I was sounding more like an injured buffalo as I cracked open the skull of an elderly man in a cowboy hat. I hit him on the top of the skull with a two handed downward strike that dropped him in one hit as I backed up and readied for the next one I saw that his cowboy had was stuck to the end of my baton. I whipped the baton around and smacked it onto the railing of the pier. As soon as I made impact I pulled back and down. The whitish sweat stained hat plopped off the end of the baton and disappeared into the murky waves below.

  I sensed the approach of yet another zombie and spun around with a high backhanded swing. I caught him just above the ear with a glancing blow. His head snapped to the right and popped against his shoulder but he kept coming. He reached out and grabbed the strap of my AR-15. I panicked. The thing was useless to me now. Every time I swung the empty gun would flop around on its strap and interfere with the blow. I shrugged out of the strap and let the gun drop to the deck. I took two steps back and with a primal scream I went in for a jab. With two hands on the shaft of the baton I used my entire upper body to slam the small ball shaped end of the baton into the monsters forehead. There was a wet sloppy sounding pop and I found that my baton had punctured the skull and was imbedded six to eight inches into this guy’s braincase. I pivoted and took a step back. With both hands I yanked the baton backwards. To my horror, instead of coming free of the skull it pulled the body with it. As he fell forward, his shoulder hit my thigh and knocked me off balance. I pulled my baton out at the moment he impacted me and felt dread as I fell backwards.

  My worst fear in a fight has always been going to the ground. If I allowed my momentum to carry me, I could roll through the fall and come up fighting but I worried that the corpse of my most recent victim might impede my progress. With one opponent, there are tactical advantages to getting in close. But this was different. This was an army of hungry dead people with a one-track mind. The ground was the grave.

  Luck was with me and I rolled all the way over my left shoulder and came up into a squatting position. Three more zombies came forward over the corpse at my feet as I leaped up and backed away. I looked over my shoulder and saw the end of the pier was only 10 feet or so away.

  Time was running out. I might be able to dispatch the three but then I was going to have to jump. There were no more options. The one on my left reached for my neck. Instinctively I raised my right hand, and stepping to the right, I caught his arm at the wrist and smoothly rotated into an arm bar take down maneuver. He lost his balance. I brought my left hand up to his shoulder and with a heave spun him into two more. With a push, I knocked the three of them over in a writhing pile of putrid flesh. I stepped back and then swung my baton down onto the head of the nearest one. I felt the skull give and then stepped back yet again. The three on the ground began to sort themselves out in a morbid slow motion dance.

  The crowd behind them was starting to move in. I lost hope at the sea of snarling heads disappearing in the
murky blackness. I backed into the corner of the rail. End of the road. Nowhere to run. No bullets left. My arms felt like numb noodles from all the swinging. With a half sob half exhale I jumped up onto the rail. I took one last look at the wall of death that was slowly creeping towards, turned around, tucked my baton under my arm and unsnapped the buckle on my gun belt and pulled it out to the side. From a decade of post shift habit I pulled the belt as my left hand instinctively unsnapped each of the leather keepers that fused the gun belt to my pants belt. The fifteen pounds of leather and tools fell from my hand, flopped onto the railing, hung there for a half a second and then slowly slid over and fell to ocean below with a loud splash. I still had my baton. There were only three or four feet between me and the first of them, at this point. I figured I would take one last swing and then leap clear.

  Tilt Rotor

  10

  There I was. Standing on the handrail of the pier swinging my Asp like I was harvesting wheat. There was a lot of splatter and bits of scalp hanging from the end of baton. My arms were numb. Back and forth, up and down. I was just about to leap backwards into the cold ocean below when I heard… no felt a roar of man made power; the throbbing “whump-whump” of a rotor. It was a deep visceral feeling as rotor blades whipped round and round beating the air. A bass sound so low that you felt it in the marrow of your ribs long before you heard it.

  I turned and looked up into the inky black sky. A dark monstrous bird was descending from out of the clouds. It behaved like a helicopter but it was no helicopter. I had had several opportunities to ride in helicopters. They always looked like they were precariously hanging in the sky seconds away from plummeting to earth in a shriek of metal and petroleum fed flames. If I ever thought helicopters had a tenuous grip on flight, this thing looked nothing less then miraculous. It was a tilt-rotor, half airplane half helicopter. Its stubby wings rotated the twin turbo props from horizontal flight to vertical flight. It had a long cigar shaped body the size of a city bus. With the back end facing me its twin tail just visible above the rear ramp I noticed a reddish glow emanating from within the crafts body.