All communication with the outside world ceased in the last twenty-four hours. For the first three days Ruth and her staff watched emergency broadcasts when they appeared on T.V. but they stopped broadcasting even the “Stay Tuned” banners. Ruth spoke with her husband, rather argued, when he informed her she should stay at Morning View because their neighborhood was overrun. Her husband explained his plan to flee the neighborhood for the Convention Center with their son. He begged her to stay where she was and wait for him to come get her when he had numbers with him. As much as she hated the idea it made sense.
The last local report Ruth heard was bad. Areas of the city had burned while others were overrun by the undead. The final local report she heard on the radio estimated somewhere between forty and fifty thousand undead walked the streets and their numbers were growing rapidly. Ruth made her decision to stay at Morning View when it was announced local police were ordered to shoot and kill any persons on the streets after sunset.
The news, before it went black, had contended the event was due to an unidentified infection spread through all bodily fluids. Ruth knew better. Just the sheer numbers dispelled the rumor of a mythical infection. Down deep in her heart she believed mankind was being punished. She wasn’t a religious person but she believed in God. Organized churches were just money hungry and crutches for the weak-minded. Now, she wished she‘d attended more often. Ruth continued staring out the window. She was shaken fearing her mind would eventually snap if she couldn’t see her family soon. Just to hold them one more time before the world ends. If you’re listening, God…
Forty-One
Yonkey stood near the main entrance of the Convention Center, checking his weapons carefully. Two heavily armed sentries stood directly behind him. One, a former security guard turned donut maker, and the other, an auto mechanic and paint ball enthusiast. Both looked the part wearing all black along with knee and elbow pads. Yonkey ignored the uniform choice. He was grateful for the extra firepower. All three checked over their gear and rehashed the plan to retrieve the short-wave radio located deep in the parking lot.
On the roof, two deer hunters prepped for the operation by checking the scopes on their hunting rifles and checking their ammunition. The small two-way radio sitting on the edge crackled too life.
“Eagle, Raider One.” Yonkey said.
“Go Raider One.”
“Give me numbers.”
“You have two, twenty from the entrance at three o’clock and a cluster sixty feet out at nine o’clock. The prize is clear. I can’t get a good look directly in front of the entrance.”
“Copy. Were moving.”
Yonkey slowly opened the door peering out. Two zombies stood within three feet of the door. Yonkey pulled the door closed quietly.
“We have two within five feet. You guys ready for this?”
The two sentries shook their heads with enthusiasm.
“Lets make this quick. Head shots only.”
Yonkey pushed the door open stepping out. The two zombies stood with their backs to Yonkey allowing him to use the butt of his rifle to dispatch the closest while one sentry did the same on the second. They moved swiftly out into the open confident in the knowledge they had two guardian angles on the roof. The shortwave sat approximately eighty yards out. Yonkey and the two sentries fanned out. Running through the open lawn drew unwanted attention immediately.
The shortwave radio was fifty feet away from Yonkey when the first runner broke for him. The two hunters spotted it and destroyed its brain case with one shot. Yonkey reached the prize without breaking stride. The radio proved heavier than he anticipated and the antenna assembly was long and bulky. For all his planning Yonkey suddenly felt overwhelmed and a little desperate.
“Hey, I need help with this!” Yonkey yelled out to the sentries. He turned his head and dropped the radio.
The landscape changed rapidly, too fast to comprehend. The two-way on his belt sounded.
“Raider, get your boys back to…the rest was drowned out by the sounds of multiple gunshots.
Within seconds of leaving the safety of the Convention Center, Yonkey and the two sentries found themselves in a world of shit. A clear path back to the front entrance remained but it was threatening to close quickly. The two sentries were too busy gunning down the undead to notice the path. For each zombie destroyed two more appeared. Yonkey emptied the first magazine in his .40 Glock and slapped in the second. He scanned the lawn and parking lot seeing no other option than retreating back to the center.
“Let’s get back to the center, on my six.” Yonkey yelled out to the sentries. He turned from the shortwave radio just as the two-way on his hip crackled. The deer hunters on the roof were desperately trying to warn Yonkey of the zombies approaching him from behind. A runner at full speed hit him hard in the chest. He and the zombie tumbled over the small table holding the shortwave radio, landing hard on the ground. Putrid blood and meat invaded Yonkey’s senses. His mouth and nose flooded with the rotting essence of the zombie. He pushed the zombie to one side, preparing to fight but noticed the zombie was missing half its head. The hunters above took the shot at the last moment. Yonkey scrambled to his feet wiping blood and brain matter from his face trying not to vomit.
Twenty yards out the two sentries backed away from a moving wall of zombies controlling their shots and looking for Runners.
“Where the fuck did they come from?” The donut maker yelled out.
“Don’t know, don’t care.” The mechanic answered.
The two sentries walked slowly back to Yonkey’s location withdrawing in horror at the sight of him wiping blood and brain matter from his face. Yonkey gave into the sickening feeling and vomited.
“Fuck dude, what the fuck happened to you?” Donut maker asked.
Yonkey couldn’t answer continuing to vomit.
“We have to get back to the Center.” The mechanic said, taking a quick shot at a runner ten yards away.
Yonkey again didn’t answer but did stop vomiting. Donut maker reached down and grabbed him by the arm.
“We’re out of here.”
The two sentries led Yonkey towards the Convention Center carefully choosing their shots. Yonkey attempted to raise his gun but found his vision blurry. The wall of undead closed quickly as the three men retreated to the main entrance. The hunters continued to fire into the wave of zombies but did little to help Yonkey and the Sentries.
“Where the hell did they all come from?” Yonkey asked not expecting an answer.
The three men continued for the Center’s entrance with the wall closing in. Yonkey’s mind swirled around erratically finding it hard to stop on one thought. Will I become one of them because I tasted their blood? Will we make it back to the Center? Am I out of bullets? The real world came rushing back into focus. The yelling, the gunshots, the taste of blood and most importantly, the empty clicking sound of his Glock.
“Fuck. I’m out of ammo.” Yonkey said sharply. He reached down patting his side for a new magazine and tripped. He hit the ground hard losing his gun. His thoughts all stopped dead center on his certain demise. He’d put this mission together from the ground up including picking the two sentries to accompany him. Now he lay on the ground, no gun, no ammo and puke all over his uniform along with blood and what appeared to be old sausage or brain matter. The whole objective of the mission was to retrieve the shortwave and the antenna assembly and he had failed dismally.
The sentries picked Yonkey up and carried him the remaining way to the entrance firing their weapons one-handed.
“Open the doors. Open the doors now!” One of the sentries yelled out while gunshots continued to ring out from above.
The front doors opened. The two men standing inside looked out and began to instantly close the doors.
“What the fuck, open the doors you assholes.” The first sentry yelled. Their bodies slammed into the doors pushing one open. The second door had latched and didn’t budge for the mechanic. Yonkey f
ell to the side, half in, half out of the open doorway. The donut maker pulled Yonkey into the Center by the arm and turned to help the mechanic. He was blind-sided by a big man slamming him into a wall knocking his wind out. The light filtering in from outside, was quickly engulfed by darkness.
Outside, the mechanic quickly scrambled to his feet and began banging on the door.
“Let me in… Open the fucking doors.” He yelled out.
The doors didn’t open. The mechanic quickly turned raising his rifle. He began taking head shots at the closest zombies while quickly scanning for Runners. The numbers were closing in and he was trapped. He continued firing and searching for an escape route. The zombies climbed the stairs over the fallen bodies in front of them. He continued to fire until his final magazine was empty. He turned back towards the large doors and raised the rifle.
“Mother fuckers!” he pulled the trigger. Nothing. “FUCK!” The mechanic turned back towards the wall of dead and pulled out his first pistol, a Barretta 9mm, fired. Zombies continued to fall but were replaced by more. Soon he was out of 9mm ammo and down to his last gun, a .38 pistol. In the back of the crowd the mechanic could see Runners trying to make their way to him. The crowd was full of ghouls who moaned and made other unnatural sounds. The zombies closed the gap quickly, reaching the top step.
The mechanic pulled the trigger on his last bullet and watched brain matter splatter a group of zombies. At that moment, he wished he‘d saved the last shot for himself. He dropped to his knees and began to pray. He held his hands together and looked down to the ground. Spent casings lay all around him and he marveled in the beauty of the brass at his knees. A spent casing from his rifle lay perfectly reflecting the face of a zombie standing two feet from him. He closed his eyes and hoped for a quick death.
The mechanic felt the first grasp. A strong hand grabbed the collar of his jacket and wrenched him backwards. He fell hard on his ass and felt himself being drug backwards. He didn’t dare open his eyes. He didn’t want to see the horror before him and he didn’t want to give the zombies any satisfaction, if that was possible. His eyes remained shut in anticipation of the first bite. He suddenly felt the urge to fight back one last time striking out with a closed fist connecting with flesh.
“Whoa there brother, you’re safe.” Reverend Littleton said as he held the mechanic in his arms. Next to him laid the big man who closed the door on him. He was unconscious.
The mechanic looked up at his new savior. Soft light from high widows filtered down and bathed Reverend Littleton in an angelic glow. The mechanic, Cecil McCade, felt as though he was in the presence of a great savior and quietly pledged his life to the Reverend. Near them, Yonkey lay on his side trying not to vomit again while the donut maker stormed off to find Gates.
Outside, the wave of undead remained near the front entrance milling about, stepping over the bodies of the fallen. Some knelt picking meat from fresh zombies. There fervor for the live flesh was slowly being replaced by extreme hunger and the urge to eat. Above, the clouds opened up. Rain fell on the walking dead but did little to slow them. They continued with no regard for their appearance. On the roof, the two hunters stared down watching the zombies.
“Weird isn’t it?” One asked the other.
“What?”
“No umbrellas.”
“They’re dead, dumbass.”
Forty-Two
Nearly two weeks had passed since the event started and now Kilo Company; a ragtag unit of two hundred men formed from different branches of the U.S. Military, received orders and began their tour of duty 31 miles south of Redding in Red Bluff, California. A few dead towns dotted the interstate between them and their intended target. Kilo Company was classified as a Search and Destroy unit, responsible for clearing towns and main corridors of anything that moved. Their orders were simple, “Terminate all.”
Kilo Company cleared Walkers, Runners, and debris along Interstate 5 during their first four days of tour. The men of Kilo Company, unlike the over dramatized soldiers in horror movies, never questioned orders, even when it meant killing innocent citizens. The orders, as explained by Commanding Officers, came from the office of the President requiring the total extermination of any persons, dead or alive, found in the infected zones. Kilo Company was efficient, precise and lethal in their actions.
The military caravan stopped on a flat stretch of interstate to clear wreckage and explore strategies for the Redding mission. The men of Kilo Company earned a little down time finding every quiet corner and free floorboard to catch a quick nap. Sentries positioned themselves at the corners of the caravan. Soldiers slept, played cards, read books, or stared out at the falling rain while the Officers discussed the layout and topography of Redding and studied recent satellite imagery. Differing strategies for clearing the city were debated for the Officers knew Redding was the last stop on the tour and would become their home after sanitation was complete.
***
A sentry stood in the falling rain, staring out over the interstate and the surrounding fields. Nothing moved. Rain was cutting visibility to a minimum and it began to intensify. The Sentry scanned the fields with a pair of binoculars seeing nothing. The radio on his belt sounded.
“S1, S2.”
“Go for S1.” The sentry replied.
“Status.”
“Clear.”
The radio continued to sound as the remaining sentries checked in. He resumed scanning the fields and interstate for movement. He almost dropped the binoculars when headlights entered the lens.
“S1, S2.”
“S1 go.”
“Vehicle approaching from the north, one click out and moving. Unable to determine vehicle type or occupants.”
Men poured from the military caravan fanning out. The vehicle continued traveling towards them in the pouring rain. The soldiers readied awaiting an order. The rain fell harder decreasing visibility with each passing second. Standing just outside a Humvee, the Commanding Officer of Kilo Company, Lt. Col. Hutto held up his binoculars attempting to get a clear view of the approaching vehicle. The vehicle stopped almost fifty yards away from the caravan. The Commanding Officer could see the vehicle was a bus of some sort, possibly a city bus. He reached down and picked up the radio.
“Kilo Company, on my word.”
***
Mariano stared out the window of the bus trying to focus on the road blockage. In the back of the bus Dayton and his friends talked about video games and giggled to themselves unaware that the bus had come to a stop. Rain beaded up on the windows in between the slow moving wiper blades hampering Mariano’s visibility. The bus idled in neutral while he thought about his options. Those look like military vehicles. He could have sworn he saw people moving off the roadway appearing like Runners. A chill ran up his spine.
Mariano reached down and pressed the reverse button. He cringed as the bus moved backwards with the back up beeper sounding. He turned the wheel sharply to the right, stopped the bus and cranked the wheel to the left pushing the drive button. He started back in the direction he had just come from.
Hutto watched the bus perform a flawless turn about and accelerate in the opposite direction.
“Sniper 1, eliminate the driver.” Hutto said over the radio.
Perched high up in a live oak tree, Sniper 1 sighted the left shoulder of the driver through an opening in the driver’s side window. He squeezed the trigger on the M40A5. The bullet traveled at 2,550 feet per second through the open window without a sound.
***
Mariano didn’t even hear the rifle shot. The bullet entered through his left shoulder, tearing through his left ventricle exploding through his chest. The force of the bullet pushed Mariano against the steering wheel killing him instantly. His right foot slipped from the accelerator and the bus slowed to a stop.
The sudden decelerations startled Dayton and his friends. Dayton’s eyes blinked rapidly as he attempted to make sense of the scene before him. His best friend in the
world lay across the steering wheel with blood splattered on the windshield. Dayton walked forward apprehensively. The closer he got, the more he feared the worst. His protector and savior lay before him with blood running down to the floor. His friends from the home sat in the rear of the bus not speaking. Dayton stood directly behind Mariano’s slumped body. He reached out and touched his shoulder. Mariano didn’t move. He shook his shoulder and began crying.
“Mariao…wake up…peas wake up…” He continued crying while shaking Mariano’s shoulder even harder.
Three soldiers from Kilo Company made their way to the bus. The point man remained just behind the brush line observing the bus intently through a high-powered monocular. He had a clear view of the driver slumped over the wheel and a second man standing behind him. He scanned the remainder of the bus counting two more persons in the rear. The soldier made three quick hand movements witnessed by his fellow point men. The second point man moved from his vantage point to the rear of the bus, lifted the engine hatch and found the kill switch for the engine. The two remaining soldiers moved to the bus shattered a side window and tossed in flash-bang grenades.
Dayton and his friends didn’t see the attack coming. They didn’t notice the engine shutting down and they had no time to react to the crashing window. The flash blinded all of them and the explosion was deafening. All three boys fell to the floor holding their ears. The pain was intense. Tears rolled down Dayton’s cheeks as he pressed his palm tightly to the side of his head. His friends lay in the back of the bus with Naruto cards and candy strewn about. The front door of the bus opened and soldiers entered. Dayton didn’t look up to see the rifle pointed at him. His death was instant as the bullet passed through his temple into the floorboard. His friends met the same fate.
Welcome to Necropolis Page 18