Zombie Apocalypse: The Chad Halverson Series

by Bryan Cassiday

  “We’ll be committing suicide if we go over there now,” said Rogers.

  He had now backed the Taurus up to within a few feet of Halverson, who remained standing still as he regained his breath.

  “What the hell happened?” said Halverson, unable to come to terms with the slaughter they had just witnessed.

  “What’s the point of crying over spilt milk? We have to get out of here.”

  “Oh no,” said Rosie.

  Halverson twigged that she was staring at the creatures. When he turned to look at them, he realized the cause for her concern. The creatures had spotted them. They had cleared the van of its occupants and had consumed them. Now the zombies wanted more. Their grisly faces dripping with blood, they were headed this way, Halverson could see.

  Gorged on human flesh and blood but not satiated, the zombies skittered toward Halverson and his group. The uncoordinated creatures clawed the air, all elbows and legs.

  A circus of herky-jerky sideshow freaks, they made their way inevitably and ominously toward the Taurus.

  “Maybe somebody’s still alive in the van,” said Halverson.

  “If anyone was alive in there, those things wouldn’t be heading for us,” said Rogers. “They’d be glutting themselves on whoever was in there.”

  “We can’t hang around here,” Rosie practically screeched.

  “No matter how much those things eat, they’re still hungry. They’re not like living creatures. They can never satisfy their urge to eat.”

  “How do you know?” said Halverson.

  “I’m just watching them and making an observation. Who knows anything about these zombies? This is uncharted waters for all of us. All bets are off. We’ve got to do everything on the fly now.”

  Full of dread, Halverson felt a frisson as he watched the zombies plodding toward the Taurus. He discharged a burst from his MP7 at the things, even though he knew they were still out of range.

  “You’re just wasting ammo,” said Rogers.

  “I’m sick of those damn things,” said Halverson. “You kill them and there’s more. You kill them and there’s more. There’s no end to it.”

  “We’re well and truly screwed,” said Rosie. She slumped back, exhausted from witnessing the chilling spectacle of the van’s demise and the annihilation of its passengers.

  Halverson ducked into the Taurus’s front seat.

  Rogers drove forward. He wasn’t about to return to the freeway. He would drive onto a surface street.

  Halverson knew that if they drove back onto the freeway the creatures would trap them in a cul-de-sac of serried stationary cars.

  “We need to hook up with Tom and the others,” said Rogers. “Alone we have no chance. We’ll end up like Ray and Foster.”

  “The problem is, where is Tom?” said Halverson.

  “And how are we gonna find him?” asked Rosie.

  “We could backtrack.”

  “If we backtrack, we head right into that pack of zombies that nailed the van,” said Rogers.

  “We circumvent the van.”

  Rogers drove onto a surface street. Fewer cars than had been on the freeway were strewn across it. Halverson noted that Rogers could make better time driving here. Rogers actually got the car up to thirty miles an hour.

  Rogers was easing up on the gas pedal, Halverson realized.

  “Looks like we got trouble right here in Virginia City, folks,” said Rogers.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  “What are you talking about?” asked Rosie.

  Halverson could see what had caught Rogers’s attention. Up ahead three military jeeps with Browning M2 .50 caliber machine guns mounted on them were parked in the middle of the road blocking it.

  “We got the damn Rat Patrol ahead of us,” said Rogers.

  Halverson remembered the old TV show about desert warfare in World War II “The Rat Patrol” that he had seen on reruns. Rogers had a point.

  Rosie heaved a loud sigh of relief. “Those can’t be zombies. They can’t drive and they don’t know how to shoot guns. That’s help up ahead.”

  “I’m not so sure,” said Halverson. He eyed the jeeps charily.

  “Me either,” said Rogers.

  “Those Ma Deuces are aimed straight at us.”

  “Ma what?” asked Rosie.

  Rogers gave Halverson a quizzical look. “For a journalist you know a shitload about guns.”

  “I do my research,” said Halverson.

  Rogers didn’t look convinced, decided Halverson. So be it.

  Each M2 .50 caliber machine gun had a man standing behind it and each man was drawing a bead on the approaching Taurus.

  “That’s not a welcoming committee,” said Halverson.

  “They’re not exactly letting us drive through,” said Rogers.

  Rogers slowed the Taurus. Halverson figured Rogers had no other choice. It was either that or plow through the row of jeeps. The machine gunners would open up on the Taurus before it got anywhere near the jeeps, Halverson knew.

  “Maybe they think we’re zombies,” said Rosie, puzzled by the reaction of the machine gunners to them.

  “I doubt it,” said Halverson.

  “Then I don’t understand. We all need allies to fight off these creatures.”

  “I don’t think they see us as allies,” said Rogers.

  “Then they’re idiots,” said Rosie. “How else can they look at it?”

  Halverson picked up on what looked like reverse SS runes printed in black within a red circle painted on the front grills of the three jeeps. He could only wonder what the insignia stood for.

  “Please halt your car and step out of your vehicle, sir,” came a voice through a loudhailer.

  Halverson could see one of the men standing in a jeep wielding a loudhailer. The man looked to be in his early forties. He had white hair with grizzled sideburns. Stocky with broad shoulders, he appeared to Halverson to be their leader. He wore a lightweight khaki safari jacket. The man standing beside him was training the M2 on the Taurus.

  Rogers pulled the Taurus to a halt next to a Chevron station. “We better do as he says.”

  “Who does he think he is?” said Rosie, at the end of her rope.

  “He’s the guy with the Ma Deuce,” said Halverson, who opened his door to get out of the Taurus.

  Rosie climbed out after him.

  Rogers slid out of the driver’s seat.

  “Throw down your weapons,” said the man with the loudhailer.

  “We mean you no harm,” said Rogers.

  “You’re in our territory.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m Rick Painter, commander of Zone Zero.”

  “I never heard of any Zone Zero. This is Los Angeles, as far as I’m concerned, and there’s no commander of Los Angeles.”

  “This was Los Angeles. It’s now Zone Zero under my jurisdiction.”

  “What is this? Some kind of martial law you’re imposing?” said Halverson. “That’s illegal. Read up on Posse Comitatus.”

  “Posse Comitatus refers to the federal government. I don’t represent the federal government.”

  “You’re flouting the United States government,” said Rogers.

  “What United States government?” said Painter. “There is no United States government.”

  Halverson exchanged looks with Rogers.

  “Have you been living in a cave?” Painter went on. “The government collapsed. The president’s dead or in hiding. Nobody knows what happened to him. DC is controlled by zombies. You are now setting foot in the territory of Zone Zero, our territory.”

  Halverson could not believe his ears. “How could the government collapse so quickly?”

  “The plague. Zombies are running wild in the streets of what used to be the US of A.”

  “This is insane!” blurted Rogers.

  “We need you to put down your weapons, gentlemen, to show that you mean the good citizens of Zone Zero no harm,” said Painter.

/>   “You’re the ones aiming machine guns at us,” said Halverson.

  “It’s our territory you’re trespassing on. We have the right to defend our territory from enemies.”

  “This is LA. We’ve got as much right to be here as you.”

  “I suggest you throw down your guns at once. You’re acting in a bellicose manner.”

  “We have the right to defend ourselves, the same as you.”

  “If you truly come as friends, you have nothing to fear from us. We will welcome you with open arms.”

  Halverson looked at Rogers and said under his breath, “I don’t trust these guys.”

  “Join the club,” whispered Rogers.

  “What are we gonna do?” Rosie asked Rogers.

  “We don’t have much choice,” said Halverson.

  “They’ll cut us to pieces if we try anything,” Rogers told Halverson out of the side of his mouth. “We better play along for now.”

  Halverson nodded.

  “We come in peace,” Rogers told Painter. “We mean you no harm. Our weapons are for the zombies.”

  Halverson reached for the MP7 slung over his shoulder in order to throw it down.

  “Do it slowly,” said Painter.

  Halverson and Rogers heeded Painter’s warning. They tossed their weapons to the asphalt. Disarmed, the two of them stood beside the Taurus. Rosie followed their example.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” said Painter. “We’re glad to have you join our territory. We’re always in need of able-bodied men—and women—to help us in our war against the zombies.”

  “We want to wipe out the zombies as much as you do,” said Rogers. “That’s why we were armed.”

  “Come with us to our Zone Zero headquarters.”

  Halverson, Rogers, and Rosie climbed into different jeeps driven by men from Zone Zero.

  “What’s the point of all these guns?” said Rosie. “Why can’t we all just get along? We’re all fighting the same enemy.” She shook her head in befuddlement. “I don’t understand why we can’t join forces against them.”

  “That’s what we’re doing,” said Painter. “What do you think we’re doing?”

  “You have a funny way of showing that you’re on our side with those machine guns aimed at us.”

  “This is our territory and we will do anything to protect it.”

  Halverson restrained an urge to rebut again Painter’s assertion that Los Angeles was Painter’s territory.

  Halverson didn’t know what he was getting into. All he knew was he had misgivings. Painter’s “greeting,” if you could call it that, had given Halverson pause. It had triggered primordial alarm bells in the back of Halverson’s mind.

  No matter how wary he felt about accompanying Painter, Halverson wasn’t prepared for what followed.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  After riding the better part of five miles in one of Painter’s M2-mounted jeeps, Halverson could see what looked like a stadium for a high school up ahead through the smog. If nothing else, at least the smog was lightening up a little, decided Halverson. He could see farther.

  Not that he particularly wanted to see what lay up ahead.

  Through the veil of smog he could make out crucifixes with squirming zombies nailed to them standing in a row around the schoolyard’s perimeter. The crucifixes seemed to be concentrated in the area around the stadium, Halverson could see. He heard Rosie scream in the jeep behind him when she picked up on the gruesome, obscene spectacle of the crucifixes.

  The scene that confronted them was even worse than that of the zombies writhing from the freeway overpass at the ends of hangman’s nooses, Halverson decided. There was something appalling and truly unsettling about zombies being nailed to crosses.

  “Why?” was all Halverson said to Painter, who sat beside him in the jeep.

  “It’s a warning to those things to keep out of our territory. We’re setting an example for other zombies.”

  “Do you really think these crucifixes mean anything to zombies?”

  “With live zombies nailed to them, you bet they do.”

  “If you can call them alive.”

  “You’re splitting hairs. You know exactly what I mean.”

  Halverson hung fire. “Still, from what I’ve noticed, they don’t seem to be afraid of anything. I’ve seen them walk off the second story of a building without so much as batting an eye.”

  “Everybody’s afraid of something. Even brain-dead spaz zombies.”

  “It’s the living people who are gonna be scared away from here, not the zombies.”

  “Fine with me. Let them find their own territory.”

  Halverson searched Painter’s face. Painter looked dead serious. Definitely a guy to watch out for, decided Halverson.

  Halverson noticed that, unlike the other zombies, one of the bodies on the crucifixes was bleeding from his wrists and ankles.

  “I thought zombies don’t bleed,” said Halverson.

  “They don’t.”

  “But that one is.” He pointed at a thirtysomething tall brown-haired man hanging from a crucifix. Bare-chested, he wore only a pair of Bermuda shorts.

  “What makes you think only zombies get nailed to these crosses?”

  Taken aback, Halverson faced Painter. “You’re crucifying humans too?”

  “All enemies of the state end up at the end of a rope or nailed to a cross.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He didn’t like the way I was running things here.”

  As they drove closer to the crucified man, Halverson could hear him groaning in pain.

  “Why crucify people?” asked Halverson.

  “I’m a self-taught student of world history. Here in Zone Zero we’re trying to emulate the ancient Romans. They had the most successful nation that has ever existed on the face of the earth. They ruled most of the world for over four hundred years. No other empire has ruled that long.”

  “Torture’s OK with you? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Let me finish. The Romans must have been doing something right. One of the things they did was crucify their enemies.”

  “They had a little more going for them than crucifixion.”

  “They maintained their authoritarian rule by terrorizing their enemies,” stated Painter with an air of finality. “The Romans were motivated by hatred of their enemies. Spreading fear and terror is how you stay in power.”

  “Haters rule, huh?”

  “Welcome to the real world.”

  “You and Hitler have a lot in common.”

  “Hitler wasn’t that far off the mark.”

  “But the Thousand Year Reich lasted more like a thousand days.”

  Painter looked Halverson straight in the eyes. “Hitler didn’t hate his enemies enough.”

  Halverson was feeling more and more uneasy by the minute with the fuehrer Painter.

  The three jeeps drove inside the stadium.

  Again, Halverson was shocked at the spectacle that greeted his eyes.

  Inside the stadium on a football field, zombies were staggering every which way, colliding into each other as they pawed the air. That wasn’t what caught Halverson’s eye, however. It was the burning tires around the zombies’ necks that snared his attention.

  Meanwhile, spectators seated in the stands cheered and hollered at the burning creatures as they shambled around in confusion, their necks and heads going up in flames. The stench of the burning tires and smoking dead flesh were enough in themselves to turn Halverson’s stomach. The roaring, ecstatic crowd caused Halverson to stop and wonder who were supposed to be the good guys.

  Everybody piled out of the three jeeps.

  Rogers and Rosie drifted over to Halverson.

  Eyes riveted on the nightmarish circus taking place before her eyes, Rosie said, “This is sick.” As if to emphasize her words, she gagged on the putrid odor of burning rubber mixed with flaming zombie flesh.

  Spectators in the audience haile
d the zombies on the field with catcalls and guffaws. Some of the spectators, under the influence of alcohol, began raining empty beer bottles down on the hapless creatures.

  Painter sauntered over to Halverson. “Remember what the ancient Romans said. Panis et circenses. Bread and circuses. That’s how you keep the good citizens from revolting.”

  Raucous cheering and clapping erupted as a zombie’s entire body went up in flames on the grassy field. The burning, smoking zombie collapsed to the tune of thunderous applause.

  “At least when those things kill, they don’t take any joy in it,” said Rogers. “They just do it to eat.”

  Petrified, Rosie watched the horrors unfolding on the field and in the stands. “Is this the new world we’re headed for?”

  “O brave new world, That has such people in’t,” muttered Halverson dryly, remembering his Shakespeare, even as his mind recoiled at the sadistic goings-on unfolding before his eyes.

  “What the hell’s happening to us?”

  More cheering and elated hoots from the crowd as another zombie became a torch that spun on its heels and collapsed dead on the grass as its brain burned to a crisp.

  Rosie shut her eyes and turned away.

  Painter strutted around, his chest puffed out. “Those things don’t stand a chance against us. Zone Zero will never be theirs.”

  Painter sported a full head of long white hair that curled around his ears, reminding Halverson of a ram’s head—or maybe of a horned devil’s head if Halverson thought about the resemblance long enough.

  “You’re not gonna say that when you find out how many of them there are out there,” said Halverson.

  “Over my dead body, they’ll take this land. Their brains’ll burn to black gunk just like the brains of those zombies in the arena.”

  Painter’s eyes gleamed as he beheld another zombie’s head go up in flames and fill the air with a reeking black pillar of smoke.

  Halverson had seen enough. He felt like telling the world to go to hell. Was this what they were fighting for? he wondered. A new field game? Torch the Zombie? He didn’t want any part of Painter’s Zone Zero—even if it really was the future.

  “How do you sleep at night?” Rosie asked Painter.

  “I sleep like a baby,” Painter answered.