Best New Zombie Tales Trilogy (Volume 1, 2 & 3)

by James Roy Daley

  Gravedigger. Keep me sane. Bury me deep, so that I can’t rise again…

  DeCoursi pulled the trigger.

  Coming Home

  DAVID NIALL WILSON

  The eerie, glowing signal lights made luminous trails in the darkness as they swung upward, signaling for the helo to lift off. Billy watched with an odd, distracted concentration. He could see the quick, precise movements of the flight deck crew below as they scurried about. The moon hung like a huge, surreal ball above them.

  In the distance, shrouded in the most complete cloak of darkness Billy had ever seen, lay the Virginia shoreline. There were no lights to mark the location of the city, and that bothered him the most of all. From the anchorage they were in the warm glow of Norfolk’s millions of watts of fluorescent light had always been a cheerful sight on their homecoming. Without it, he almost had to wonder if it weren’t just some navigational glitch––if they weren’t actually far out to sea where the only illumination you ever saw was the glittering reflection of the ship’s running lights and the phosphorescent glow that churned up in the wake. On the open ocean the darkness was peaceful, a pleasant feeling of isolation from the world. Here it was the emptiest void he’d ever looked into, and somewhere in it his family waited.

  As the helo swung out in a long arc, leaving the flight deck behind, he let his thoughts follow. He had plenty to think about. Twenty miles away his small white three-bedroom house was waiting; Jeanne, Eric, Robin…even the damned dog, Bubba. Images of all of them swirled through his memory with eerie clarity.

  They might as well be a thousand miles away. The mission was to be quick and very limited. No side-trips to check on the well being of individual families would be authorized. That wasn’t how the Navy worked.

  There were ten of them altogether, Lt. Hoy, the pilot, the regular flight crew, Wayne, Mark, Jeff, and himself, and five marines, one a grizzled, stocky Gunnery Sgt. whose grey hair and dead eyes spoke of years that had aged him but never passed the normal course of time. The man’s name was Wagner, but the crew, sailors and marines alike, called him “Ice.” Quite the happy group, though Billy could only give them a small percentage of his concentration.

  Not knowing was the worst. If they’d had good, steady communication with Norfolk everything would seem more real, more controlled. As it was, they were flying into a dark unknown that not only included their own dubious safety, but that of their loved ones. A brave man will risk himself without thought, but even the bravest balks at a threat to his home, or the one he loves.

  Billy wasn’t exceptionally brave, but he’d volunteered for this one anyway. Anything to get off that damned ship and do something. One more fucking minute on that ship, sitting and wondering what the hell was going on, and he’d have been going over the side and trying to swim for it.

  The idea here was simple. Since they’d lost communication with Norfolk completely now, they were sending one lone helo on a scouting mission. As soon as they made contact, or determined the problem, they were to head back. At the first sign of trouble of any sort, they were to abort and return to the ship. Shit. Billy could see the reflected glitter in Ice’s eyes. There would be no returning without answers. Orders were one thing, reality another.

  The mission brief had been pretty wild stuff. The stony-faced Marine Captain, Grief had been his name, had lain it out in quiet, calm tones, as though his words were as ordinary as any routine message. Zombies. Dead bodies rising up and taking over towns, defeating military units. Communications less and less frequent, and finally dead. Their last orders had been to return to sea––not to land at any cost.

  Of course, the skipper had had other ideas. He knew, for one thing, that something bad was happening, and if there was any way he and his crew could help, then by god, he was going to do it. Captain Key was a hard-nosed old sailor. He’d been sailing the seas on Navy vessels since they had wooden decks and fought real wars. He wasn’t the type to run from a conflict, and his own family and those of his men lay somewhere in the shadows that now shrouded the Norfolk coastline.

  Of course, Billy had heard the rumors flying around the ship, some of the same he’d just heard, others even wilder, but it put a new and disturbing perspective on things to hear it from the chain-of-command. To hear it legitimized.

  The miles shot beneath them quickly, the only sound the whirring of the blades as they chopped through the air. Soon the waves gave way to beach, rocky bluffs, and finally land. They swooped in low, coming up on the Naval Air Station and reaching out with electronic fingers to the control tower below. The base was shrouded in shadows, an odd, glowing panorama, stark and empty in the silver-edged light of the moon. There was no answer from the tower, only static. Circling, the Lt. tried all of the air-emergency channels and even a couple of CB channels, but only the static reached them.

  Looking back at the others, he seemed to shrug. ”We’re going in,” he said. His voice grated like breaking ice in the silence. Nobody answered, what could they say?

  Hovering as near to the control tower as he could find a clear spot, the Lt. dropped them down, setting the helo softly and efficiently to rest on the tarmac. There was no movement among the hangars––no landing lights illumined the runways. Nothing. It was as if humanity had departed, leaving behind only a desolate, abandoned husk.

  With minimum conversation, they got the door open and they all piled out. The marines immediately unloaded their equipment, checking guns and ammunition. Ice was carrying an M-16 fitted with a night vision scope. Lt. Hoy and the flight crew, including Billy, had been issued .45’s and four clips. It seemed horribly inadequate, now that they were actually on the ground. Whatever had happened here, a few sailors with pistols was not going to make the difference.

  Taking charge in silence, unquestioned by any including the Lt., Ice headed them toward the control tower. If there was anything here at all to tell them what was happening, that seemed to be the place to find it.

  Shit, Billy thought, running easily behind the marines, Wayne Mark, and Jeff filling in behind him and the Lt. bringing up the rear, what the hell could have happened to this place?

  The darkness offered up no answers. They made it without incident to the front of the tower, and the doors opened easily. Not locked, not guarded, just open. Something was beyond wrong here.

  “Bozz, Frankie, you take the first floor here. The rest of you follow me. We’re going up.”

  The stairs were not lit, but Billy’s eyes were nearly used to the darkness and Ice was playing a flashlight beam on ahead of them, moving stealthily upward. They passed the first couple of landings, not even pushing open the door to see what was inside. The obvious place to start was at the top, where there should be a room full of controllers directing arrivals and departures––where lights should be glowing, control panels blinking like electronic Christmas decorations. Billy knew they were not likely to see any of that. But what would they see?

  Just as they reached the top, as Ice kicked open the door to the control room and dove through, covering the room in a quick arc with the barrel of his gun, the screams rose from below, followed by a wild, erratic volley of gun shots. Billy froze in shock, not sure whether to turn back, or to lunge into the tower room ahead. Finally, Lt. Hoy made the decision for him, pushing him roughly from behind. He could vaguely hear Ice’s voice, cursing as he moved quickly back toward the stairs.

  There were bodies everywhere. Some were sprawled in their chairs, others were skewed at odd angles about the floor. None was complete. Billy could see huge, gaping holes in throats, entrails already rotting hanging out through gashes that looked as though they’d been ripped open by brute force alone. His eyes locked with those of an airman who stared back at him with dead, cold eyes from a chair across the room. The man’s body was slumped awkwardly, as though he had died in the act of trying to press himself through the back of the chair. His hands still gripped the arms of his chair in rigored stiffness. And accentuating the grisliness of it all,
the screams continued.

  “Come on!” Ice was cursing from half way down the stairs. Something’s by-god happening down there, and you want to stand around like a bunch of assholes? Those are my men, for chrissakes! Now move your candy sailor asses, or I’ll shoot you and go on myself.”

  They all started moving at once, pounded back to reality by the marine’s coarse, abrasive voice. Billy started to turn to follow, to rip his eyes free from those of the dead man across the room, when the guy twitched. The dead eyes moved––not the way they should have, kind of stiff, like they hadn’t been used in a while. The mouth opened in a wide grin and the arms flexed on the chair arms. Pushing off with a lurch, the body staggered to its feet, fixing its macabre grin on Billy, its head lolling to one side at a grotesque angle.

  More screams rose, and Billy turned, running quickly after the others, pulling back the slide on his .45 and locking a round into the chamber. He was halfway down the stairs before he realized that the new screams were his own.

  He tried to warn the others but they were already too far ahead, moving down into the darkness. Behind him, he heard the scrape of lurching steps and he launched himself down the last of the stairs, almost plowing into Lt. Hoy’s back as he rounded the corner into nightmare. Ice was firing now, slow and steady, into the room beyond them. The two marines he’d left––Bozz and Frankie?––were down. Bozz lay, outlined in a growing pool of red. There was a huge gash where the back of his neck should have been––it looked…chewed. Frankie was still screaming. He was being dragged down the hallway by two men––or they must have been men at some time.

  Ice’s aim was deadly accurate––patches of skin, bits of bone, even one arm were sliced from the retreating bodies, but they did not stop. The passageway around them was spattered with blood and gore, and dull, scraping footsteps approached from all sides now. The airman and what remained of the other corpses they’d left in the control tower were midway down the stairs behind them. The door to their left, which Mark and Jeff were frantically trying to block, closed, shook, and rattled, as deadened fingers scraped along the other side and impossible dead men pushed and shoved in unfeeling strength. Coming for them.

  “Let’s go!” Lt. Hoy screamed, grabbing at Ice’s shirt and dragging at him. “We have to get back!”

  Ice turned like a panther, ripping free. His face was contorted, the deadly control of a few short minutes before long gone. “Fuck you,” he said in a flat, frigid voice. “Those goddamned freaks have one of my men. I’m getting him back.”

  The two locked eyes, but only for a short moment. Snapping his head back around, the Lt. gave the order to cut out. Thus far the only sign of these things was in the building; the door to the outside was clear. They hit it together, struggling through and onto the runway beyond. In the distance, coming out of holes in the buildings and from the dormant husks of abandoned aircraft, a literal army of the dead was moving relentlessly toward them, as though sensing the only pocket of true life anywhere near.

  The two remaining marines stood by Ice for a second, looking longingly over their shoulders. Billy was halfway to the helo when he heard their pounding steps falling in behind. The gunfire from the control tower continued, unchecked.

  Billy was almost to safety when his mind began to fully function again. His first coherent thought was: Jeanne!

  Shit, what was he doing? He couldn’t leave, not with his family out there somewhere, not without knowing what the hell had happened to them. But the crawling, limping, scrambling hoard was closing in at astonishing speed. The helo beckoned, relative safety, escape at the very least. Billy looked about wildly.

  Just to the side of the runway that ran off beyond the helo, a jeep stood. None of the creatures, as of yet, had reached it. Cursing himself for a fool, he ran toward it, ignoring the cries of his friends and the sharp, barked orders of the Lt. The rules had changed here, and somehow disobeying a lawful order seemed the least of his problems. He reached the abandoned vehicle in a few quick strides. Yanking the door open, he cried out in fear and disgust as a grisly, half-man skittered up over the back seat from where it had been laying near the floorboard. It had no legs––both seemed to have been gnawed or ground off at the knee, but it pulled itself over the seat and toward him with unbelievable strength, using its arms as legs. The eyes stared off beyond him, but it could obviously sense him in some other, primal way. He staggered back, pulling up the pistol and firing two quick shots into the things head. As the .45 caliber slugs tore through the flesh in its face, the back of the creatures head exploded in a fountain of gore, and it slumped––seemingly dead once more.

  Gripping it quickly by one cold, lifeless arm, Billy yanked it free of the jeep and jumped into the drivers seat. He tried vainly to wipe the sticky, cloying blood and fluids from his hands, nearly gagging at the stench, but all he succeeded in doing was spreading it over his pants.

  “Shit,” muttered, groping for the remnants of his sanity to concentrate on escape. He’d be of no use to Jeanne or anyone if he died here.

  Miraculously, the keys dangled from the ignition, and the engine roared to life with little coaxing. The gas gauge read ¾. He turned toward the gates leading to the city, running quickly in front of the advancing line of dead men, that now stood––as if confused––watching the helo lift clumsily off from the field and wing its way into the sky beyond. Out of reach. Dismissing them, focusing on the road before him and on avoiding the crawling, drooling bodies that now swung on him in mindless hunger, Billy roared off of the landing field and onto the abandoned streets of the base.

  * * *

  He felt like some sort of warped-out warrior of the Apocalypse. Nothing was really torn down, though there had been fires in a few sections of the city that had obviously burned out of control. Cars and trucks littered the streets, abandoned, wrecked––some with the windows bashed in. He didn’t see any of the corpse-things, but somehow he knew they were there, and that they could probably sense his presence.

  As the Jeep flew threw the city, squealing around the obstacles that littered the streets and winding ever closer to his home, his mind took off ahead of him. It was the homecoming from hell––not possible. He’d always feared that something would happen to his family while he was deployed––out at sea and not even in a position to know something was wrong, let alone to help.

  Jeanne’s soft brown curls filled his thoughts, her deep green eyes and the smile he’d been aching to see for the last 1500 miles of their trip back from the Med. He thought of Eric’s tousled, dark hair and endless enthusiasm––of Robin’s hectic, teenage problems––of Bubba, all 145 pounds of him, panting and drooling all over anything within reach and barking like a bullhorn. Could they be alive? He’d seen no evidence of life, but humans are resilient. Surely the ones who were left would have found a way to hide themselves away––to live.

  He turned on Norview and headed for home, taking the last couple of turns at nearly maniacal speed. He screeched to a halt in front of his home and leaped from the Jeep.

  It was just as he’d left it. The grass was a little bit long, but Jeanne never had been one for yard work, and Eric wouldn’t have mowed it unless he was paid. The two family cars sat side by side in the driveway. It was all too strange. Surreal. He moved to the front door in a daze and pulled open the outer screen door. He knew he’d have to be quick, but somehow, now that the moment had arrived, he felt a strange reluctance.

  Up until that moment, all it had been was a wild, impossible nightmare. The reality of it had not hit him. Now he was on the threshold of finding his real world torn apart as well––his family dead, or eaten. Everything gone. From the house, he heard a scratching sound, followed by a familiar booming bark. Bubba!

  He tried the door and found that it was unlocked. That was bad. But Bubba was okay. Maybe…

  He stepped quickly inside, and the huge Rottweiller lunged, knocking him back into the door with a fierce growl.

  “Hey, Bubba! It
’s me, for God’s sake. Chill out!” Bubba backed up a bit, as though confused, but it was only a couple of seconds before he was up again, this time licking Billy’s face with huge, almost frantic swipes of his over-large tongue.

  “Okay, okay, buddy,” Billy said, pushing the dog away quickly. ”Where’s mama? Where’s Robin?”

  It seemed like the dog was going to start growling again, but it turned to a quiet whimper, and he sat down, staring at Billy with soulful eyes.

  Billy frowned. “Come on, Bubba, where are they?” He felt like an asshole, standing around and talking to the dog like he was on some damned Lassie rerun, but Bubba seemed to understand. The big dog perked up his ears and barked at him, as if he were dense. ”Damn,” he said, turning and heading for the kitchen.

  There were no sounds anywhere in the house, other than the padding footsteps of his dog following him, and his own hoarse breathing. The kitchen looked as if a hurricane had hit it. Food was strewn all over the floor––it appeared that Bubba had ripped open the door to the refrigerator and helped himself. Billy turned, as if to scold the animal, but he stopped short of it. Nobody was here to feed the dog––it had had to feed itself. His heart went cold.

  Now he moved almost frantically through the rooms, the den, the bedroom, rushing up the stairs to the kids rooms. Nobody was there. No dead bodies, but no live ones, either. Then maybe they’d escaped. That thought lodged itself in his mind, and he began to think furiously, trying to come up with the most logical place for people to go in an emergency. He was shocked back to the moment by the sound of Bubba’s loud, insistent barking, and a sharp scraping sound from near the front door. He launched himself back down the stairs with a curse.

  Below him he could see them; there was a window on the landing halfway up to the second floor. They were coming from all over––the neighbors houses, lurching down the street in a silent, decomposing herd. It would be only moments before they reached the Jeep. And directly in front of his front door was another.