by Jack Wallen
Echo squawked out her disapproval of his excuse. “No way. Those dudes were going militia on you. You did more than that.”
Gabriel glared at Echo as if a moaner had exploded out of her chest and lunged for his face. “You’re kidding right? You know what it’s like out there on the streets. Fear is the driving force behind every action. You can’t look someone in the eye without them thinking you are after anything and everything they have. It’s brutal. Yes, that’s all I did. I took some food and ate it. I was starving. It’s every man, woman, and child for themselves now.”
A stare-off silence drifted down between Echo and Gabriel. I wasn’t sure, but Echo looked like she was about to ram her fist through the man’s face. I placed my hand on her knee to try to cool her off. As soon as my fingers found purchase, her shoulders relaxed, and the eyes returned to their normal size.
“Thank you, by the way, for saving me.”
A single, broken sentence and my resolve melted away. How can you continue to be angry at politeness? Seriously – it’s the apocalypse, when someone has the wherewithal to drop a thank you and please, you can’t just brush it aside. After all, the human race set aside manners when the Zero Day Collective drop kicked us in the nuts.
“You two have names?”
I was afraid of this. It was one thing to let Echo into the center of my world – she’s a young woman, I could take her if necessary. A man? That, I’m not so one hundred percent on at the moment. So, when Gabriel asked for names, my first thought was How far would he dig?.
“Name’s Echo. That’s all you get, for now. And don’t bother asking about a last name. I don’t have one.”
The temperature inside the car seemed to drop a few thousand degrees as the Ice Princess unleashed her special brand of cold shoulder on the stranger.
Gabriel scoped me looking at him through the rear view. He was waiting for my go at the game.
“I’m Bethany and that’s my baby in the back.”
I gave our new recruit the low-down on what was going on. He seemed straight-forward with us, there was no reason I could think of to lie in return. He got everything but the core of what was going on. For him to know about the Zero Day Collective, and my plans to rip them asunder, required an earned trust. So we were now four. I wasn’t perfectly settled inside with the change, but knew we stood a better chance with an extra pair of hands in our group. Besides, a male among us couldn’t hurt.
Gabriel seemed amenable to joining our little crew.
We chit chatted until we were far enough away to be safe. It was now just after three AM. My eyelids were at war with gravity, and gravity was certain to win. Morning would come all too fast.
The rest of the night, I would sleep with my gun in my hand and the proverbial one eye open.
Chapter 7
November 20, 2016 9:05 AM
Zombie Response Team Minneapolis, MN Unit
“Minneapolis unit, checking in. This is Franklin Tash. Check, check.”
The Minneapolis division of the Zombie Response Team was one of the largest in the north central United States. Because of their size, they were all business, all the time. The color of military flowed through the very veins of every member of ‘ZRT MinSin’. No one knew where the nickname came from, they just knew it existed and everyone was expected to use it.
“Officer Tash, this is Morgan Barnhart. What’s your SITREP?”
“All units in place and ready for action. If a moaner or screamer breeches our perimeter, we’ll know it immediately and neutralize the threat.”
“The target should be arriving in your location within the hour. Make sure the area is cleared. Morgan out.”
Franklin pocketed his mobile and picked up the walkie to radio his squad leaders. “Operation clean and sweep is – ”
The unit leader was cut short by a hideous chorus of screams, shortly after the squeal, the radio went silent.
“Sir, we have a sizable group of zombies heading our way. Type is Two. Your orders?”
‘Type Two’ referred to screamers. Franklin and his men had faced down only two screamers so far – and that was a challenge. Now there was a group of them on the way.
“Fuck.” Franklin’s jaw nearly released itself from the top portion of the skull. Once again, he spoke into the radio. “Incoming. Type Two. Shoot on sight. Repeat, shoot on sight.”
Everything went silent. The moment before war always seemed to have that tiniest of moments where time seemed to lose its relevancy. Ten seconds could stretch out into ten hours. Breath was held, hearts refused to beat. All was placed on hold.
And then, Hell was unleashed above ground. What seemed like a small army of screamers descended upon the unit. The second the first pair of sour-milk eyes was spotted, the tattoo of machine gun fire filled the air. It was on. War. And this time around, it was good for something – for killing zombies.
“Drekker! Behind you!” One of the soldiers cried out, but too late. The screamer was on top of the young man before he could turn and fire. Cold, dead fingers tangled within the hair on either side of the man’s head and pulled hard. Hair and flesh released themselves from their permanent residence around the skull. The soldier screamed out as the zombie slowly dug its fingers into the exposed skin of the man’s head. The rotting flesh of the fingers had already peeled back to expose sharper bone. Those bony tips of the phalanges easily wormed their way into the space between flesh and bone. Once the deadly fingers were buried under layers of skin, the zombie yanked its hands out, tearing away the flesh like wet paper.
The soldier passed out from the shock of pain. The screamer wrapped its fingers around the skull and bashed it on solid ground. It took only three cracks, before blood began to pour. After five cracks, the skull was sufficiently ruined to allow greedy fingers inside.
Franklin, and the rest of the Zombie Response Team, had been trained well. But that training only applied to Type One Zombies – the slower moaners. The reality of the screamer went far beyond anything the Minneapolis unit had experienced.
“Sir, what are your orders?” The second in command shook the leader out of his fear fugue.
Franklin Tash had no orders. He couldn’t think. His brain misfired. The only command he could think of was ‘fire’. That had done no good. His men were going to die.
“Sir! Your orders?” Again, the second demanded.
“Fire.” Franklin half-whispered.
“We’ve been unloading on them and it’s done nothing but piss them off.”
The commander had another meaning of ‘fire’ in mind – a literal meaning. Without a word of warning, Commander Tash pulled away and headed back up the hill to his truck. In the bed of the pickup he had what he hoped he’d not need, a secret weapon.
Franklin’s feet carried him faster than he ever thought possible. He knew how short time was. Bethany would arrive soon and there could be no danger in the area. Tash had one task, he wouldn’t fail it.
As soon as he reached the truck, he jerked open the topper hatch and lowered the tailgate. The gleaming metal of the portable flamethrower spoke to him, begged him to put it into action. It would get its wish.
The tanks were heavy with fuel. The dual metal pods slammed against his back, assuring him they meant as much business as their wielder. With the tanks strapped down tight, Franklin grabbed the nozzle and lit the device. The ‘fwump’ and hiss were a subtle music of death and mayhem he needed to hear. The liquid flame that spilled from the nozzle promised redemption for those members of his team that had just perished. Franklin Tash would uphold the honor of his men.
When Tash returned to battle, the contents of his stomach were upturned and spilled to the ground at his feet. The screamers had snuffed the life of every member of his squad. With no brain matter left to dine on, the zombies pulled limbs from torsos and sucked marrow from bones. The thick stench of blood flooded Franklin’s senses. The heaves of vomit dried and stomach cramped; but the flame of redemption continued to fan fr
om the hose.
“Hey! Over here. The last big brain matter in the area. You want it; you better come and get it.”
The screamers gladly complied with the command. All at once, the monsters descended upon the flame wielding sole survivor. The second a zombie was within reach of the fire, the rotting clothing and skin ignited. Once alight, the beasts began aimlessly wandering around, screeching like pitchforks on chalkboards. Franklin had to do a bit of sidestepping and dancing to avoid becoming nothing more than a collateral fire sale.
The smell of meat seared by liquid fire was caustic. One by one, the screamers dropped to their knees and gave up their final ghost. The crackle and pop of burning flesh was replaced by a sickening black smoke. Franklin’s flamethrower spit up its last life and went cold.
Commander Tash stood, motionless, staring out at the carnage of a battle that took less than fifteen minutes to fight. He lost every man on his team, but the goal was achieved. The path was cleared for Bethany. Even still, Franklin couldn’t find the silver lining. Though he lived, his existence was at the cost of every man he commanded.
“Fuck.” Was all Franklin could get out.
The flamethrower clanked to the ground, the sound echoed to the heavens. He knew he was supposed to leave no trace, but there wasn’t time to clean up. No time for shovels, buckets, and body bags. Bethany would arrive any moment and every member of the Zombie Response Team was instructed to leave the site before the target arrived.
Franklin took off toward his truck. As he ran he pulled out his mobile and hit the speed dial entry for headquarters.
“This is Morgan.” The sweet voice of the young ZRT leader chimed out of the speakerphone.
“Franklin Tash. The zombies have been neutralized. The area is clear for arrival. But… I lost my men.”
A brief, awkward silence sucked the air out of the conversation.
“How many men were lost, Frankin?”
Another, darker silence.
“All of them sir.”
As expected, Franklin was commanded to remain in the area, out of sight, until Bethany arrived and took off safely. Should the target pass through the area, Tash was to follow, at a distance, until the route was clear.
The eyes and ears of the Zombie Response Team had his orders. He tucked himself away, inside of the main building of the Flying J Truck stop. His position offered clear site of the area and clean shot, should something befall Bethany.
The unexpected always had a way of following Franklin Tash. As he sat, waiting For Bethany’s arrival, he saw movement coming from the pile of bodies that was the remains of his men. It wasn’t possible. He torched every screamer in the area.
“Oh fuck.” The realization hit him in the gut, like a punch in the night from a too-large boogeyman. The men that had limbs and intact skulls were amplifying. There was something strange about the whole situation. The process of infection never happened so quickly. Infection to amplification normally took, at least, twenty-four hours.
The swelling chorus of moans proved that assumption very wrong.
Franklin scrambled for his weapon, but came up with nothing. He’d dropped his pistol in the melee and, obviously, left the extinguished flame thrower out in the parking lot. He had nothing for defense.
A gust of wind swung the door to the building open.
“Shit!” Tash scrambled to the door, slammed it shut, and twisted the dead bolt. He knew the door would hold the zombies out. The multitude of glass panes, on the other hand, was a different story. It would buy him enough time to locate some form of weapon. No matter how dire the situation was, he knew he had to do everything he could to clear the area for arrival. Keeping Bethany safe was above even his own life. And now he had, maybe, ten newly amplified zombies to take out by himself; with no weapon of significance.
Franklin dashed around the inside of the building, in search of something that could do damage enough to neutralize the walking dead. Connected to the convenient food mart was a diner. The smell of grease and trucker body odor had long since evaporated. All that was left was a slick floor and empty cupboards. Fortunately the cooks’ cutlery was left behind. The knives weren’t quality, but they had a point and held an edge. A cheap knife was better than nothing at all.
He grabbed the biggest blade he could find. The song the knife sang as he picked it up from the counter brought some reassurance that things could possibly work out. Franklin Tash could survive yet another battle with the undead.
The dead walked toward the building. The lumbering gate of the new-born zombies was the antithesis of how his men were in life. At least there was some strange comfort in knowing that. If Tash was about to go up against the soldiers that had served under him, he’d never survive. Type One zombies? That’s a different story.
His confidence peeked just as the zombies were about to reach the building. But before the first blood was drawn, the gray Audi pulled into the parking lot.
“Bethany.” Franklin whispered as much in awe as he was in fear. Quickly that adoration washed away to be replaced by a sense of panic. He’d failed his one duty and had to rectify the situation. The target had arrived and zombies were present.
The situation called for swift action. Franklin took an inventory of what weapons he knew to be in the area. Caution was tossed out the window when he realized there were automatic weapons in the trunk of his car. All he had to do was make it thirty yards across a parking lot, grab a weapon, and unload on the men that were once his colleagues.
Bethany had yet to swing a leg out of the car. For Franklin Tash, this was now a race against an apocalyptic clock.
Chapter 8
November 20, 2016 10:15 AM
Flying J Truck stop Minneapolis, MN
The Audi was as low on gas as my bladder was low on space. It seemed almost a tragic relativism, my bladder versus our survival. But even in the given circumstances, the Audi running on fumes at least held some truth and validity over our survival. My bladder was nothing more than a discomfort. Even still, when the Flying J appeared on the horizon, I could finally uncross my mental anguish that radiated out from just below my uterus.
Of course that relativism was shot to Hell when the small band of moaners made themselves known in the parking lot. At that moment, my hands wanted to jerk the wheel and head back to the freeway. The only problem with that plan was that we’d not get very far. The combustion engine was still very susceptible to inadequate amounts of fuel. So somehow, I had to first hope there was fuel in the tanks and, second, figure out a way to take out a small group of the undead.
I stopped the Audi just on the periphery of the parking lot, its nose pointing directly at the shambling mini-horde. As the engine idled, the idea hit me. I had spent enough time with Sam Leamy to know the blunt force trauma of a car’s grill could quickly bring a flight of angels to sing these zombies to their rest.
The gas pedal hit the floorboard. The engine roared, bringing the attention of the zombies my way. My brain scrambled for a pithy Shakespearean quote. The only thing I could come up with was “To die, to sleep; no more.” Cliché and touché at the same moment.
Just as I was about to release my foot from the brake, a male came screaming out of the building. He wasn’t a screamer, of that I was certain. Who he was, and what he was doing, was clearly lost on me. I thought maybe he saw the car and was making a break for us, but he was running in the wrong direction. What the man was doing was suicidal.
“What the heck is going on with that dude, B? And why are you revving… oh no, you’re not going to do what – ”
Echo was a clever girl, much cleverer than her years should allow. But this was the apocalypse. People had to grow up damn fast now.
“Echo, strap yourself in. This is going to be a bumpy ride. Gabriel, grab a hold of Jacob. Don’t let anything happen to him.”
“Bethany, couldn’t we just pull out a piece and pump their asses full of lead? Why risk our only means of getting the fuck out?” Gabriel�
��s words momentarily stopped me from pushing the car into a maximum overdrive zombie smack down.
And then tragedy struck. The Audi choked and chugged until the engine went silent. The gas gauge clearly proclaimed the car was bereft of fuel. Now, we had no choice. It was full-on war. Before my conscious mind could grasp what was going on, my hand grabbed the gun and my legs insisted I leave the car. These were moaners. Moaners die.
I channeled the spirit of Jacob and the balls of Sam Leamy to go full-on hero. I was a La Femme Wrecking Ball, about to go beast mode on a small gang of brainistas.
“Hey! Over here! IQ of 161 on the menu. Gray matter so sweet and delicious, it’ll make you smack your momma!”
And like the film of my inner marine bad-ass, I dropped to one knee, brought the pistol to bear on the pack of monsters, took in a deep breath, and took a shot.
The explosion was far louder than it should have been. When I saw more than one moaner go down, I realized what had happened – someone else had taken a shot. Two of the moaners had been dropped, the rest of the pack split in two; half coming after me, the other half after the mystery shooter.
Three moaners. I had no idea how much ammunition was left in the weapon. Now was not the time for doubt. Now was the time for kicking ass – and willing extra bullets to magically appear in the clip of my pistol.
Another breath in. Another shot taken. Another moaner down.
I wanted so badly to do a bit more channeling, only this time the Count, from Sesame Street.
“One dead zombie! Hahahaha!” The words actually came out of my mouth.
The explosion of a larger weapon was heard, followed by a scream. Whoever the mysterious militiaman was, he was likely either dead or infected. Either way, his life was forfeit.
Another breath, another shot, another dead bastard.
I had one zombie left and he was getting much too close for my comfort. At first, it seemed the best plan of attack was to head back to the car, climb on top, and take my last shots from up high. But drawing the undead anywhere near Jacob was an obvious mistake.