Dead Science: A Zombie Anthology

by Anthology

  * * * *

  The man stood, leaving Gregory's corpse where it lay and moved to the window. He looked out onto the streets below and smiled at the flickering light of burning fires as he listened to a symphony of gunshots and screams.

  * * * *

  No Man's Land

  by

  Jason V. Shayer

  Lightning tore across the horizon and threatened to sunder the night sky. Heavy clouds were moving in and Rifleman Andrew Middleton hoped that its welcomed rain would wash away the filth that coated his body like a second skin. At the same time though, he dreaded the rain. A heavy downpour could turn the trenches into channels of muddy water that would spread sickness and disease throughout the ranks of Canadian soldiers.

  The strong winds that pushed those clouds towards them did little to clear the air of the lingering smell of smoke, human filth and gunpowder.

  Andrew peered out onto the battlefield and watched the crows and magpies peck at the blood-soaked earth. His thoughts returned again to the rain and he feared the muddy wasteland the battlefield might become.

  "We attack at dawn." The British lieutenant strode with an almost imperceptible limp through the ranks of soldiers that stood along the front-line trench. They turned to look at him as he walked by, but he didn't make eye contact with any of them. He stared straight ahead, unwilling to let them see the trepidation that hid behind his brooding, brown eyes.

  The words he had spoken were those that every soldier on the front lines of the Great War feared more than the lime-fouled water, more than the knee-high mud and waste and blood, and more than being awakened during the middle of the night by a rat gnawing at an ankle.

  Leaving the trenches in a mad, desperate gambit to charge the enemy line was suicide. Andrew knew the grim odds of survival. The enemy had excellent positions for their machine guns. Even with the support of artillery, which was haphazard at best, getting through No Man's Land under fire defied any reasonable amount of courage.

  "I know of a few boys who will be disappointed with those orders," said the soldier next to Andrew. "I helped a corps of engineers set up the gas delivery system yesterday. Over a spot of tea, they couldn't contain their excitement about the prospects of testing their latest deadly concoction of chemicals."

  Andrew sighed and simply nodded. He wasn't in the mood for a conversation. His stomach growled, but he knew better than to eat. He hadn't forgotten the bout of food poisoning he endured a few weeks ago that had seen him drop twenty pounds.

  No one else spoke through the night. They were trapped in what they believed might be their last thoughts. There was the odd coughing fit here and there. Andrew heard a soldier or two nervously talk to themselves, or perhaps recite a final confession.

  Andrew pulled out a well-worn and grimy photograph of his sister. He dragged his filthy thumb across it in an ineffective attempt to clean its surface. He had failed to keep his promise to write regularly to Elizabeth. Early on, he had put pen to paper and sent letters home. As the grim realities of the war settled in, he wrote less and less and eventually stopped. He didn't want to lie to her even though he knew she would see through his awkward attempts to mask the truth.

  As his ship set sail for England, Elizabeth had stood on the deck next to his parents. She wore that soft blue floral dress that made her look like summer personified. While his mother was crying inconsolably, Elizabeth kept her emotions at bay, smiling and waving.

  As dawn crept closer, the tension became more palpable. Soldiers paced about double- and triple-checking their rifles and bayonets. The spectre of death awaited them, mere footfalls away, and no one wanted to keep that appointment. The rain never came, but the heavy clouds still lingered oppressively overhead.

  Andrew closed his eyes and tried to forget where he was. The day he volunteered was a sharp image in his mind. He recalled standing in line with two chums at the recruitment office in downtown Toronto. He had been swept up in the war fervour like everyone else his age, putting aside the teaching career he would have started that fall to fight for his country.

  His parents had been so proud they insisted on a studio photo. Andrew had been embarrassed by the photo and how much it cost them. He was now the only one living of the three school chums. It chilled his blood to think that the photo might be used at his funeral.

  He knew that sleep was impossible, but he needed to relax. The dread that sat in the bowels of his stomach threatened to devour his soul.

  He thought of a warm, late August evening. A mild breeze carried with it the scent of wild flowers overpowering the stench of death. In his mind's eye, he imagined himself standing outside of the enemy trench and watching a glorious sunset painted on the canvas of the horizon.

  "Stand at the ready!" The lieutenant's shout awoke him from his reverie. Andrew picked up his rifle and wiped off the mud that clung to its stock. His hands shook terribly and it wasn't from the damp cold. He stretched his long arms to chase the stiffness from his inactive limbs.

  Andrew heard and then saw flares launched into the early morning darkness. The flares illuminated the battlefield in a dull, red haze and revealed that the enemy had also decided to strike this morning and had caught them off guard.

  The lieutenant spat a litany of curses and dispatched a soldier to report the situation to his superiors. He pulled off his helmet and passed a hand through what was left of his thinning hair. He put his helmet back on and caught Andrew staring at him. He drew his lips tight and nodded. Andrew's eyes returned to the battlefield and watched the surging enemy soldiers scurry towards them.

  The lieutenant was a life-time military man who had initially looked down upon Andrew's Canadian battalion. But all that was in the past now; they had proven their worth over and over again and the lieutenant respected them and was proud to serve with them.

  Then, a deafening horn sounded in staccato bursts. The soldiers scrambled to find and put on their gas masks. Teams of soldiers moved to the edge of No Man's Land, pulling long metallic pipes which were in turn connected to the snaking pipes that wound through the trenches.

  A hellish orchestra of pump engines roared to life and streams of a yellow-green gas spewed from the ends of the pipes. The jets of gas blended into a thick, billowing cloud that rolled over the battlefield. A stiff breeze blew at their backs and urged the cloud of poisonous gas towards the enemy.

  The advancing German soldiers had progressed more than halfway through No Man's Land, thrilled as they had yet to face any machinegun fire. Their excitement was quickly replaced by panic as they realized they were trapped between the cloud of gas progressing towards them and the bales of barbed wired that wound serpent-like through the pitted, dead landscape.

  Only a handful of soldiers stood their ground. The rest broke formation and fled in every direction away from the gas. Some were caught up in the barbed wire struggling to free themselves, while others tripped into shell holes and on the dead bodies of their compatriots who had fallen in the previous day's battle.

  The cloud of gas moved like a hungry beast and swallowed up the enemy soldiers. The gas lingered over the area for a few minutes before it started to dissipate. Slowly, the devastating carnage that was left behind was revealed.

  Andrew had witnessed other gas attacks, mostly on the receiving end, but this was different. A gas attack could decimate an advancing force, but it was rarely an effective deterrent. But, this time, it seemed to have been devastating. There were no survivors.

  A quiet discomfort settled over the Canadian troops. They were all stunned by the gas's brutal efficiency. A resounding cheer would have normally followed a successful repulsion of the enemy, but now, not a sound was heard. Even the lieutenant, who was prone to barking orders to cover up his anxiety and nervousness, said nothing.

  Then one of the German soldiers stirred. His arm flailed about, searching for something. He then pushed himself up onto his knees and unleashed an inhuman wail that Andrew heard as if he was next to him.

>   Rising to his feet awkwardly, the enemy solider surveyed the landscape and cried out again. Near him, other soldiers started to move and joined him in a hellish cacophony of laments. They fanned out, chaotically probing the landscape.

  "Mortars!" shouted the lieutenant as the soldiers were looking his way for direction. Several soldiers jumped into action and split into pre-assigned groups to set up the mortars. After making judgment calls on the distance and conditions, they adjusted the angle and placement of them. In rapid succession the shells were dropped in and then fired out with a dull plop. The shells whistled through the air and rained down upon the enemy.

  The shells exploded around the enemy troops, throwing earth, debris and bloody body parts into the air. The soldiers adjusted their mortars and let loose with another volley. In the meantime, the enemy troops seemed to have been attracted by the noise of the soldiers' chatter and were making their way towards them.

  The next volley of mortar shells struck with devastating effects. Andrew could no longer bear to look. Instead, he looked down into the trench at the thick, cold mud that threatened to seep over the top of his boots. After a few moments, the shelling had stopped. Andrew took a deep breath and looked over its aftermath.

  He expected to hear cries of pain and the wails of the dying, but instead, he heard inhuman moans that grated at his soul. Most of the enemy troops had survived the mortar attacks and were shambling their way through No Man's Land towards the Canadian trenches.

  He spotted one soldier in particular, who had lost his helmet and rifle. His left arm had been cleanly severed and yet, he still pushed on. It was a testimonial to his fortitude and dedication.

  Andrew didn't relish what had to happen next. It was up to them to open fire and kill any of the advancing survivors that had made it through No Man's Land. He wondered if the positions were reversed, would they be as hesitant to kill as he was? A part of Andrew couldn't help but admire their bravery and courage.

  He brought his gun up and took aim at the closest enemy soldier. Andrew held off his fire as he noticed that his target and some of his compatriots near him weren't holding their rifles. The few that did hold their rifles did so awkwardly as if they had never handled one before.

  The other soldiers near Andrew didn't hold back, shooting rapidly. While the bullets hit their mark, the enemy recoiled at their impacts, but it didn't slow their progress.

  Despite being riddled with bullets and suffering severe bodily trauma, they didn't stop their approach. They didn't move like soldiers; they moved more like sleepwalkers, lumbering forward with arms outstretched.

  They were now close enough for Andrew to see their eyes and what he saw terrified him. Their eyes were completely white: a dull, dead white that betrayed no emotion.

  The soldiers closest to the oncoming wave of unstoppable enemy combatants started to panic and ducked into the trench and pulled back.

  "Stand your ground!" barked the lieutenant. He ran behind the group of soldiers who had left their posts. He pulled out his Webley revolver. "I will shoot any deserters. Stand your ground, cowards!"

  The stream of enemy soldiers fell and tumbled into the trench. They fumbled around, slowly getting to their feet, with more soldiers falling in behind them. The scared Canadian soldiers had regrouped and opened fire. The lieutenant joined their volley, firing until his Webley was empty.

  The horde of enemy combatants wasn't deterred by the gunfire.

  "Bayonets!" yelled the lieutenant, who cautiously took a few steps back from the soldiers that stood between him and the advancing enemy.

  The soldier closest to the enemy was a young lad named Terrence who Andrew had spent a couple of evenings with playing cards. Terrence came from a family with a proud military legacy and he was determined to make his mark.

  He did his best with his bayonet, but was overwhelmed by the savagery of the seemingly unstoppable soldiers. None of them had their rifles and each of them bore numerous bullet and shrapnel wounds.

  Terrence struck out with his bayonet, stabbing like a madman, but it was like stabbing a piece of meat hanging in a butcher shop. The enemy soldiers didn't seem to feel any pain as they were gutted by the bayonet.

  The enemy soldier closest to Terrence opened his mouth wide in a hiss and grabbed hold of him. In a split-second, the undead soldier had pulled Terrence in close and started to gnaw at his throat. The other enemy soldier within arm's reach joined in. They pinned him against the side of the trench and started devouring him.

  Andrew saw the lieutenant, still gripping his empty Webley, unable to look away from the inhuman carnage. He could see that the lieutenant wanted to act, but he was in shock, overwhelmed by the savageness of these monsters. Andrew was also mesmerized by what had taken place. Terrence was torn apart and they ate his flesh while he drew his last breaths.

  A primal survival instinct from deep within the animal part of Andrew's brain finally spurred him into action. The soldier within him wanted to attack these monsters, but the realist within him knew he would probably end up just like Terrence. They needed to figure out how to stop these soldiers. He had to put as much distance between them and himself as he could.

  Andrew took a few steps back, carefully watching the dead soldiers as a few of them moved on from Terrence's carcass and overwhelmed the lieutenant. To his credit, the lieutenant stood his ground and went down fighting. They tore into him with merciless speed. They didn't see Andrew and were content for the moment to eat the fallen soldiers.

  He turned and ran along the wooden duckboards that lined the muddy floor of the trench. He ran down a communication trench to the support trench then to a bunker. There, he joined the rest of the soldiers who had fled the scene. The bunker was cold and damp and made of pre-fabricated concrete blocks. No one said anything. Everyone seemed to be in shock and was content to hide behind the bunker's defences.

  Andrew consulted the trench map pinned up against one of the bunker's beams. This bunker was at the end of the trench system and the only way out was through those monsters.

  Then he saw what he hoped would be their salvation. A few days ago, another regiment had joined them after completing a bold raid of a German checkpoint. During that raid, they discovered a new weapon prototype: a flamethrower. No one on their side had used it yet, but Andrew hoped those undead soldiers wouldn't resist its cleansing flames.

  He strapped on the harness and bore the weight of the large can of pressurized air, carbon dioxide and oil. He had heard the soldiers discuss its operation and hoped he could figure out how it worked.

  The fear of being eaten alive by those monsters drove him on. A few others regained their senses and left the relative safety of the bunker with him.

  The trenches were designed in a zig-zag manner to contain the shrapnel from enemy shells and to prevent an enemy, who had breached the front-line trenches, to fire straight along them. Two soldiers walked ahead of him and two behind. They cautiously retraced their steps back to the communication trench and then pushed forward towards the front-line trench.

  A lone soldier stood before them. It was the lieutenant. His throat had been torn open and the front of his jacket was seeped in blood. He stumbled towards them with one arm extended and fingers gnarled. His other arm had been gnawed down to the bone, leaving behind no muscle or tendon for movement.

  The two soldiers in front of the lieutenant immediately looked at Andrew, evidently unsure of what to do. He motioned to them to move behind him. Andrew was reluctant to unleash the flamethrower against just one of these undead soldiers.

  "Shoot him," Andrew said flatly.

  While they raised their rifles and aimed, the undead lieutenant still moved towards them, sniffing the air. Andrew imagined he must now consider them fresh meat, which would explain why the other monsters had ceased to devour the lieutenant. At some point during their carnal feast, the lieutenant's body must have finally died and perhaps soured or spoiled the taste of the meat.

  The volley o
f bullets tore holes into the lieutenant's jacket. While the impact of the bullets jerked his torso back, they didn't impede his progress towards them. However, the noise of the rifle fire did attract the attention of his undead brethren.

  A motley collection of dead German and Canadian soldiers rounded the corner of the trench eager to sink their teeth into fresh meat. Fortunately, they moved slowly and awkwardly, allowing Andrew and the soldiers to stay away from them long enough for him to set up.

  Andrew unleashed the fury of the flamethrower and it belched an arc of burning oil that engulfed the dead soldiers. There were no screams as the flames ravaged their dead flesh. They flailed about helplessly like walking Roman candles.

  The intense heat from the inferno threatened to burn the skin off Andrew's face. Some of the trench's sandbags had split open from the heat and poured out their contents.

  A thick, black smoke poured from their smouldering bodies. An appalling odour, which was an unpleasant combination of burnt flesh and hair, and the sharp, pungent smell of the flamethrower's oil, hung in the air.

  Perspiration streamed down from Andrew's brow and stung his eyes. He wiped his forehead and saw too late that one of the flaming undead had broken away from the rest and grabbed hold of him. The dead man's face was burnt black in places and in others stretched horribly like melted wax.

  Andrew panicked. The burning man's jaw snapped at him and his unholy strength held him and pulled him in close. He could smell the burning hairs of his stubbled cheek as the undead soldier gripped his face.

  Andrew instinctively dropped the flamethrower's nozzle as he brought up his arm to protect his throat. The arc of fire continued to roar out of the nozzle, but this time it splashed onto the living soldiers that had huddled behind him. The flame showed no mercy and the victims screamed.