by Bowie Ibarra
“Looks like Nickson and Garrison are in a bit of a bind,” Sgt. Arnold said.
“What about Noble?” Knight asked.
“Noble’s good. She’ll be back here in no time. I assure you.”
He hoped he was right.
* * *
The soldiers on the opposing rooftop watched in awe as the bandits unleashed a cruel and unorthodox attack on the zombies, clearing a path to the ladder that led to the roof of the H.E.B. Some of the thugs were using hammers, axes, picks, and bats to hack and slash their way to their goal. Others had guns and were lucky they didn’t pick off any of their own—the zombies were doing a good enough job of that. Though many of the thugs were cutting the ghouls down like it was their job, some were not ready for the different angles the creatures sometimes appeared from. Lucky for the thugs their partners quickly put down the zombie and the infected thug with a savage quickness. After all, everyone really only had known each other for close to a day. No one had any real time to make friends. Not that that fact bugged many to begin with.
Sleepy cut a path with a riot shotgun he had procured from the prison. Each and every zombie that came within punching distance had their heads blasted off. He reached the ladder in no time.
He arrived on the rooftop to much fanfare. His underlings gave him hearty howls of approval and pats on the back.
Nick Lopez nodded gratefully and said, “Thank you for coming.”
Sleepy was then given the lowdown by Ducky. “Hey Sleepy, I think a shitload of soldiers just left the place.”
“No shit?”
“Yeah. They all just pulled out fast as shit and took off.”
Sleepy looked through a pair of binoculars, then looked at Nick. “That’s where your family is, amigo?”
“Si, mon.”
Sleepy refocused on the base. His mental gears clicked, and he formed a very simple plan. “All right, hermanos. This is how it will go down.”
* * *
Specialist Elizabeth Noble found a hiding spot near a convenience store a block away. Though she was wedged in tight between a dumpster and a brick wall, the accompanying stench was welcome when compared to the funk of the living dead.
It was going to be tough getting out of the corner, as the area around her had become quite crowded with zombies. When those in pursuit lost track of her, they just loitered nearby, stumbling back and forth and sometimes bumping into each other. She figured Sgt. Arnold was probably chewing his fingernails off right now while he scoured the landscape with his binoculars in search of her.
More than anything else, she did not want to let him down.
Considering her situation, she figured her best bet would be to head to the roof. Rooftops were serving her and her teammates well. The zombie plague was like a flood disaster, and constantly searching for high ground seemed the natural response.
She thought she might be able to scale the wall by using the dumpster for a boost. It was risky, and the ledge of the rooftop was high. She wasn’t sure she was tall enough to make it.
She hesitated, awash in anxiety. The feeling was frustrating. Never before had she felt so helpless, so scared. Her military training and brief experience overseas was even more dangerous, and she had faced them with the same guts as her male counterparts.
But for some reason, this was different. She was alone. Her adversaries were armed with only their teeth and hands. Perhaps it was the sheer numbers, or the threat of infection that froze her in her tracks once again. The fear of being eaten alive—of a pair of rancid teeth tearing flesh away from her arms or face—was paralyzing. Getting shot was something very different. The bullets were penetrating, to be sure, but not as violating as a beast eating your physical self, tearing pieces of your flesh away from your body while you scream.
She needed to shake herself out of it, though, as a zombie spotted her. It approached her position, forcing her hand.
But she could not move. She was frozen again. She looked down at the pavement as the zombie edged closer to the dumpster. An old and crusty wrapper of Laffy Taffy was stuck to the filth and grime below the dumpster. A smiling strawberry looked up at her, ready to tell some of the jokes written on its wrapper.
A joke crossed her mind as the zombie scooted into the narrow space between the dumpster and the wall.
Q: Why did the monkey fall out of the tree?
A: Because it was dead.
She giggled. The joke always made her laugh, and her laughs began to come out like spasms.
The zombie, only three steps away, looked her in the eyes. As it approached, raising his hands to grab her, it somehow began to share her smile, her laughter somehow resonating with it despite the fact it was still about to grab her and eat her. She covered her mouth with the hand that held her knife to stifle her laugh, but it didn’t matter. More zombies heard her delicate laughter and made their way to the dumpster. Blood dripped down the knife as she giggled, shoving the advancing zombie with one hand, pushing him just two steps back. She thought it was weird that his chest felt so hard. Not like the firmness of a body builder. More like a wooden board.
The beast was still smiling with her, and she giggled at him. He wore a yellow H.E.B. security shirt, and his headset was still in his ear. He took a step forward only to be pushed back again, this time into another zombie that was directly behind him.
Her heart rate rose and she was finding it difficult to stand. The beast took another step toward her. His smile made way to a gaping mouth. Blood and flesh and watery saliva fell from the open orifice.
It was the spark she needed.
She imagined it was her blood. Her flesh. Her fate. Shaking her head, dragging herself back down to earth, she looked at the ghoul again. Her smile turned to a frown, and for an instant the zombie retracted as if confused.
It was all the time Specialist Noble needed to jam the blade of her knife up the chin of her smiling friend, shoving the blade through its mouth, cutting the tongue perfectly in half. The blade traveled up through the nasal cavity. Noble thought she heard someone cracking eggs as the knife punched into the brain. The zombie trembled, then fell limp as Noble removed the knife. The second zombie was already on the way, taking an extra moment to negotiate the new impediment in front of it as Noble scaled the grimy green dumpster.
She did not anticipate the plastic lids to be so flimsy, and almost fell in. But she quickly regained her balance along the steel edges. She looked up. Her heart sank.
The roof was too high for her.
Below, three zombies had made their way into the space she just occupied and were clawing at her boots. Others had gathered all around on all sides now. She was limited to her one and only choice, and that was the jump she could not make.
She looked, took a deep breath, and made a jump.
Her fingers reached the edge, but had no grip. She fell back down. Hoping to land in the dumpster, she instead tumbled awkwardly on the zombies. She fell on top of two, knocking them face first into the pavement. But the third fell on top of her. She knew she had also lost her knife at some point in her fall as she heard it clink against the dumpster and on the pavement somewhere.
She had no time to look for it. The zombies below were trying to regain their footing. The zombie on top of her had regained its bearings and grabbed at her. She fish-hooked the beast with both hands in a dangerous attempt to control it. As it wiggled to take a bite at her thumbs, she pushed against its head, her thumbs tearing through its paper-like cheeks and subsequently losing her grip. Its head fell on her, and the beast closed its teeth on her chest, taking in a mouthful of clothing. A portion of her khaki field shirt ripped away, buttons popping like corks.
She instinctually screamed long and loud.
A portion of her mind told her to just give herself over to submission, to let the monster go ahead and finish her because she was screwed anyway. To just get it over with. There was no point fighting; it would just delay the inevitable. Exacerbate the pain. Prolong her dem
ise.
Then she realized—remembered only when she looked down with fearful eyes and caught a glimpse of it—that she was wearing her Kevlar underneath. Teeth could never penetrate it.
She gritted her teeth and chose to fight.
Grabbing the beast by the chin and head, she whipped its head to opposite sides, tearing enough of the spinal cord to immobilize it. She pushed it off and towards yet another zombie entering the vicinity. She turned, got to her feet and found the knife was actually just within reach. She grabbed it. With the approaching zombie impeded by the bodies and the two others still under her, she stepped up onto the dumpster with much more ease and confidence than before. With adrenaline pumping through her veins, she thought she now had just enough energy to make the jump. She grabbed the ledge with her fingertips and writhed until she was gripping with full hands. With some effort she pulled herself up to safety.
She looked back down at the crowd that had gathered around the dumpster, close to twenty or thirty strong, and flipped them the finger.
She took a deep breath and sat near the edge of the flat roof.
She inspected her thumbs: No bites or scratches.
She wiped her hands on her pants near her boots.
She removed the small mirror she kept in her pocket and started flashing calculated bursts of sunlight, short and long, at the video store across the way.
* * *
“She’s all right,” Sgt. Arnold said, turning his face just long enough to display a wide grin to his team. “Don’t know how she did it.”
Knight and Parcells skinned palms.
“Girl’s got skills,” Knight said.
“I want to signal her back,” Arnold said. He patted his pockets. “Either of you got anything?”
With his head held low, Parcells dug into his pocket. After a moment he handed the sergeant a mirror.
It was a compact.
“Parcells?”
“Long story, Sergeant.”
* * *
The conversation of blinking and flashing light was being eavesdropped on by the eyes of someone who was even more perceptive than Sgt. Arnold.
Specialist Daniel Talltree.
Creeping along the parking lot, camouflaged among the dead, Talltree quickly interpreted the signals and dashed to a nearby McDonald’s to get a better look from the top of the building.
On the McDonald’s roof, Talltree found a comfy spot to sit. He was just a little over a hundred yards away from the fireteam. From the contents of his pack, he began to assemble a long range rifle, taking just a moment to wipe the scope with a soft cloth.
It did not take him long to get the weapon assembled, and he peered through the scope. He quickly found the men on the roof of the H.E.B. He then found the truck with Nickson and Garrison bound to it.
He placed Sgt. Nickson’s inexplicably burned and blistered face in his crosshairs.
Red-man.
Talltree smiled, let his finger do a tapdance on the trigger.
No.
His true advantage was his concealment. Shooting Nickson could possibly expose him to Sgt. Arnold. If he was to shoot anyone first, it would be Arnold. Nickson and Garrison were clearly not going anywhere for quite a while.
Arnold would go first, like he had planned from the start.
He just needed to wait for the heads of Arnold and the two men with him to be up all at the same time so they could be shot in rapid succession.
They would expose themselves. He just had to wait.
* * *
On the roof of the H.E.B., the bandit army was planning a similar tactic, prepared to reveal themselves to the military compound, their goal. Sleepy approached Ducky to gather more intelligence.
“Ay, we just saw two more big ass trucks pull out of there with more soldiers.”
“No shit?”
“For realz.”
Sleepy looked at the complex yet again, fancying himself like a battlefield general, rivaling even the great tacticians of old. “Well, I told everybody what they need to do. What are we waiting for now?” He turned to Nick Lopez. “Hey, Nick. Let’s go get your family, ese!”
Below, languishing amid a crowd of living dead, sat the unwitting prisoners of an unthinkable zombie war. Sgt. Nickson simmered like a pot of broth, angry and searching for a way to escape. He had been twisting and moving as best he could to loosen himself in his bonds, so when an opportunity presented itself for him to free himself entirely, he would be better prepared. He had been making slight progress, but the pain of his scorched and blistered wrists and hands had made the going extremely
painful.
It wasn’t as bad as Spc. Garrison, though. Beat up and missing most of his fingers, both his eyebrows, and the trademark goatee that used to hold fast against his chin, his face had swelled to cantaloupe proportions. Both his cheeks were puffed around his eyes. His nose was broken. Duct tape hung near his now exposed mouth. Fingers lay stuck on the duct tape still stuck to his cheek near his filthy, blood-caked mouth. He had swallowed his teeth.
Garrison had long since given up the ghost. He was broken, a cowardly liar who had paid his price. He wished for death. He longed for it.
But Sgt. Nickson was far from it. The energy of revenge kept him moving, shifting in his seat, bearing the pain of his burns as he tried to wiggle free of his bonds to exact vengeance on Sleepy, who was on the roof initiating his simple plan.
“Ey! Caiense los sicos. Escuchen!”
* * *
“Looks like Jose over there is rallying the troops,” Sgt. Arnold said.
Knight popped his head up to look. His anxiety was causing impatience. “What would you like us to do, Sarge?”
“Nothing yet,” Arnold replied. “Keep your head down.”
Knight returned to a crouch.
* * *
Talltree grunted.
* * *
Fireteam Arnold remained hidden for close to ten minutes, until at last there was a development.
A battle cry was heard coming from the human horde over at the H.E.B. that sounded as if a column of Mongols had been unleashed on the world. The gang, most members clad in orange, returned to their vehicles with cruel intentions, again pounding, smashing, and blasting their way through packs of shoulder-to-shoulder Virals. Some of the thugs jumped from the roof with shouts of “whoo-hoo!”, crushing small groups of zombies under the weight of their fall like pirates swinging to board a ship.
After the last man entered their vehicles, the mob of thugs drove away with reckless abandon, crushing legs, arms, torsos and skulls under their tires.
They were heading for the FEMA camp.
“All right, ladies. Let’s go,” Sgt. Arnold said, standing.
A chunk of concrete block next to his head was instantly pulverized into mist, spraying sand and pebbles against his face.
He barked, “Down!”
Knight and Parcells hit the deck.
Parcells covered his head and exclaimed, “What the hell was that?!”
“Another goddamn sniper,” Arnold said. He scooted against the short wall and swiped the back of his hand across his cheek to remove the grit.
Knight muttered, “Snipers and Austin, man. It’s like a bad joke.” He looked over at his sergeant. “How many enemies can we possibly have out there, Sarge?”
Arnold didn’t need to think about it for long. He replied, “Rodriguez is unaccounted for—but he’s heavy-duty. I’m guessing it’s the injun.”
“He ain’t too good, apparently,” Knight said.
“He got the drop on us, so he’s good enough.”
“What do we do?” Parcells asked.
“Personally, Parcells, what I’d love for you to do is learn to be chill,” Arnold said. “We’re close to the Hummer. We can’t stop now. Move to the door, people. Stay low.”
“And Noble?” Knight asked.
“We’ll pick her up. Get moving.”
The men crawled to the door, skimming their bellies ac
ross the rooftop. Evening was waning, giving way to twilight. On one side of the sky the sun radiated orange-red rays and on the other side a scattering of stars were twinkling.
Arnold allowed his charges to pass through the door first, then followed. They negotiated the ladder and hit the ground floor.
Arnold had a choice: Lead his team back through the store and go out the broken windows near the main entrance, which was probably just what the sniper was hoping for, or open the foreboding door at the end of the service hallway that declared in large red lettering, ‘EMERGENCY EXIT. ALARM WILL SOUND WHEN OPENED,’ and he knew that once the alarm sounded, the sniper would know for certain they were no longer on the rooftop.
There was really no choice. He nodded toward the door.
“You want me to try to disable it first, Sarge?” Knight asked.
“Negative. Just go.”
At the other end of the hallway appeared the Viral they had first seen standing by the new release rack, and this time they got a clearer look at her face. She seemed to have been a sweet girl in her living days, short blonde hair (that now had specks of blood peppered throughout) and pale white skin. Hints of blue were noticeable behind the infection-blurred eyes. Her shirt was stained red with blood from her neck and shoulders where she had received her fatal bite wound.
She had a DVD in her hands.
“Citizen Kane?” Parcells said.
“Oh, wow! The special edition,” Knight said. There was a hint of envy in his voice. “Man, that just came out last week.”
“For a Viral, she has good taste,” Sgt. Arnold said.