The Undead Chronicles (Vol. 2): Darker Days

by O'Brian, Patrick J.

  “Everyone keep talking like we haven’t noticed it,” Sutton said just above a whisper, and the group members exchanged uneasy glances as they tried to mouth words they didn’t actually speak.

  From the corner of his eye, Sutton marked the location and distance of the drone before pulling up the sniper rifle and firing a shot within a five second span. Struck by the precise round, the drone sparked once before whirling out of control in a nosedive toward the pavement. Sutton took a step forward, assured his shot fulfilled his intentions, before turning to the collective.

  “You all need to head to South Hill,” he stated.

  “What about you?” Gracine questioned with suspicion in her voice.

  “I’m staying here to deal with these military assholes.”

  “That’s suicide,” Luke stated with a hint of a lisp.

  Sutton wasn’t backing down.

  “I just need to slow them down and discourage them.”

  “We can outrun them,” Vazquez said.

  “Until they send up another drone, or maybe a plane?” Sutton countered. He turned to Gracine. “Take the box truck, take Buster, and head with them to South Hill. Wait for me a day, maybe two, if you can spare it, and I’ll meet you there.”

  Gracine visibly grew concerned, seeing him willing to sacrifice the most important things in his life to buy the group some time.

  “You don’t have to do this,” she said, touching his cheek.

  He didn’t turn away, but his gaze didn’t soften, either.

  “I caused this, so I’m going to fix it.”

  No one moved, and their eyes looked to one another as though asking what they should do.

  “We need to go,” Gracine finally said to the group, though she didn’t immediately move from Sutton’s side, or look anywhere except his direction. “You come back to us, Colby.”

  “I’m not planning a suicide mission,” he assured her.

  Jillian observed the two touch hands for the briefest of seconds, wondering if Gracine played off her feelings for the man. Perhaps she harbored gratitude, rather than any form of love, but the two certainly shared some kind of bond.

  Gracine coaxed Buster into following her, and the dog didn’t realize they were leaving his owner behind until he found himself trapped in the cab of the box truck. Jillian jumped into the van, which Vazquez drove as everyone else piled in the back. Left with a sniper rifle, a sidearm, and a survival knife, Sutton had something in store for the National Guard soldiers when they drew closer, and Jillian didn’t want to be one of those unsuspecting grunts.

  When the van pulled past the box truck, she saw the distressed look on Buster’s face as Gracine put the truck into drive and pulled away without his owner. No one liked the idea of leaving Sutton behind, because they’d done well as a group, but the man chose a terrible time to develop a conscience.

  Opening her notebook, Jillian made notations about the day’s events, questioning what the future held for her group, and for Sutton.

  ***

  Sutton stood and watched the two vehicles leave the area, knowing full well he might not see them again. One, they might leave him behind, particularly if he took too long reaching their destination, or worse, he might not survive the encounter with the National Guard members coming his way.

  Clasping the sniper rifle, he searched the area for high ground, finding the woods on either side of the interstate about the same grade, and too far back for him to effectively slow the military vehicles. Less than a hundred yards away, he found a yellow school bus that offered both cover or a higher vantage point if he chose to clamor atop the vehicle. Inside, several preteen zombies clawed at the windows, wanting to chomp into his flesh. Barely visible through windows covered in dried blood, human skin particles, and a variety of fluids, they obviously took notice of Sutton. He couldn’t imagine the events that led to a handful of kids on a bus outright dying, or worse, one dying and turning on the terrified living one at a time.

  Not left with much time, Sutton forced open the main door on the bus, immediately finding the bus driver still strapped into the driver’s seat, trapped for eternity by a seatbelt. A red gouge prominently showed along the man’s neck, indicating he was bitten at some point, possibly bleeding out in that very spot. Forced to ignore him momentarily, Sutton waited for each of the smaller zombies to amble toward the front of the bus, making easy prey for him as they lurched forward, receiving a knife to their skulls, one at a time.

  Prepared to enter the bus after dispatching four child zombies, Sutton was surprised when another came forward from one of the front seats, toppling down the stairs and landing awkwardly on him. Growling and hissing, the small zombie snapped its teeth at his face while Sutton managed to hold it back by lodging his forearm beneath its neck where it couldn’t bite his arm, or his face. During the fall, Sutton lost the knife, which bounced several feet away from him. As he tried keeping the zombie at bay, using his legs to shove his body toward the knife, he heard another sound from beneath a nearby vehicle. Turning his head, he spied a female zombie crawling in his direction, attracted by the noise.

  “Shit,” he muttered, quickening his pace because he couldn’t afford to fire a shot with the military closing in.

  Sutton used his free arm to help maneuver his body toward the blade, and the female zombie came within inches of biting one of his fingers as he lifted his hand from the ground. He might have simply thrown the smaller zombie away from him, but now Sutton found himself trapped halfway beneath the bus, not leaving him much room. Still moving, he thrust his forearm upward, knocking the child zombie’s skull against the bottom of the bus until blood showed against the undercarriage. He continued shifting his body to the knife, occasionally ramming the small zombie’s head upward until it stopped making noise and its eyelids remained fixed halfway down, indicating any rudimentary life left its body.

  Still grasping at his feet, the second zombie wanted nothing more than to taste the meaty part of his lower leg. Sutton kicked it in the skull twice, but the ravenous creature kept crawling at him, trying to clasp the blue jeans he wore to establish a solid grip. Feeling relieved the others didn’t see him struggle so mightily against one member of the undead, Sutton felt his fingertips graze the knife’s blade. Luckily the metal didn’t cut him, and as he grabbed the handle, he swung the knife at an awkward sideways angle to avoid striking the bus’s metal frame. The blade struck home, leaving him safe from the zombie’s attack as it fell limp atop the pavement.

  Wriggling his way out from under the bus, Sutton looked around, hearing no danger nearby. The wreckage of the drone lay atop the pavement between a few vehicles, one of its green power lights still blinking intermittently. Its front, where the camera would normally be, faced the ground, so Sutton imagined the military couldn’t see video feed of him from their position.

  Collecting the sniper rifle from the ground, he entered the bus, using the knife to swiftly stab the bound driver in the side of the skull, silencing him. At this point, Sutton wasn’t sure if the lieutenant he confronted earlier went rogue and pursued him individually, or the man somehow convinced some of his men to assist. Suspecting the latter, Sutton didn’t imagine the man could track him, deal with the undead, and operate a drone simultaneously.

  Before taking any action, he needed to lay eyes on his enemy and decide if he could neutralize the threat alone, or if warning the group might save their lives. Knowing that Lieutenant Keppler held a grudge against him, Sutton wanted to own the responsibility and deal with the threat personally. While the others were present when Sutton reclaimed his box truck from the thieving officer and his lackey, they certainly didn’t initiate the embarrassment the lieutenant suffered when Sutton bound him and left just outside of his post.

  Moving to the back of the bus, Sutton found several youthful bodies on the floor, and in a few of the seats, too badly devoured to reanimate
. Turning away from both the ghastly sight and the odors produced within the formerly sealed bus, he poked each of the bodies while covering his nostrils, making certain none of them could ambush him later.

  Sutton reached the emergency door at the back, facing the direction he anticipated the military men could be spotted from when they drew closer. Sutton used his shirt sleeve to wipe dirt and blood smudges from the rear window. He stared out the square surface, seeing no movement for a few minutes. Only the sounds of his breathing accompanied him as he wondered if his dog missed him, and how the group might fare without his survival instincts.

  Wanting only the responsibility of caring for himself, and his sons, if he found them, Sutton didn’t particularly like being saddled with the group. They delayed his search, though they provided extra eyes and ears, which never hurt when the dead were adversaries in great numbers, and the living couldn’t always be trusted.

  Some of his view was obscured by vehicles, but Sutton knew he’d see movement through the dingy glass. A few minutes later, he heard gunfire in the direction his group had come, and he figured the National Guard people were dealing with some of the undead. He waited a moment longer, seeing a Stryker vehicle make its way around a few stalled cars, likely carrying at least half a dozen soldiers within its armored plating.

  Knowing he couldn’t kick open the emergency door, because he’d ruin his cover, Sutton decided to exit the bus from the front to find a better vantage point with cover.

  He walked to the front of the bus, making a mistake by glancing at the down bus driver once again, because when he turned to exit the main door, Sutton found five guns pointed at him by angry soldiers. Obviously, they’d scouted ahead and seen his position, creating a diversion so he never saw the real threat coming.

  “You’re coming with us, asshole,” one of them said, snatching the sniper rifle from his right hand. “Our lieutenant has plans for you.”

  Four

  Daniel Metzger couldn’t believe his eyes when two Buffalo police officers stepped from the patrol car, and immediately put their hands halfway up, indicating they didn’t pose a threat, and didn’t want trouble. The car’s light bar remained flashing, which didn’t seem like the best idea since the undead were attracted to virtually anything loud or bright.

  Both wore the navy colored uniforms and black tactical boots from their patrol days, including the armored vests worn over their shirts. Each possessed a sidearm, but neither appeared interested in aggression towards the military convoy.

  “We aren’t looking for trouble,” the one from the passenger’s seat stated.

  His sewn nameplate indicated his last name was Mullins, and he was the thinner of the two. A shaved head and eyeglasses completed his look, and Metzger couldn’t help but wonder if the two men were actual cops before the apocalypse or donned the uniforms and stole a squad car after things went bad.

  Both men appeared to be in their forties, closing in toward the young retirement age many modern cops utilized before working in the private sector.

  “Stay frosty,” Nestler ordered his troops, not hiding his distrust for the two men parked before them.

  Every gun remained trained on the two men, and every soldier except Nestler looked from side to side, scanning for possible enemies and ambushes.

  “We’re just curious what brought the military to our town,” Mullins said defensively. “We’d pretty much given up hope of anyone coming to help us out.”

  “This isn’t a mercy mission,” Nestler stated. “We’re here to carry out an op for the federal government.”

  “There’s still a government?” the second officer asked with genuine surprise. “We’ve had radio silence since the end of the first week.”

  Metzger noticed the man’s name on his uniform, which revealed his surname as Weir. Just a tad husky, the man possessed a beard of reddish-brown, peppered with some gray around his chin. His hair remained close to the scalp, a police flattop of sorts, which raised the question how he kept up grooming habits in the apocalypse.

  “We aren’t here for you, or anyone else,” Nestler reiterated. “You need to clear the area.”

  Both cops looked to one another, refusing to simply turn and leave before they received some answers or assurances.

  “We’ve been stuck here for a month, waiting for something, someone, to show up and tell us what the fuck we’re supposed to do,” Weir said firmly. “I sent my family ahead to South Carolina with friends, and I have no idea if they survived.”

  “Why did you stay?” Metzger asked out of curiosity, receiving a cross look from Nestler, who obviously didn’t want to suffer any further delays.

  “Duty,” Weir answered, “and to help my buddy here figure out what happened to his two children.”

  “My ex had them when everything went bad, and I couldn’t locate them,” Mullins added, though his tone indicated the story didn’t have a happy ending.

  Metzger’s brother leaned in close to Nestler so the cops didn’t hear his words.

  “We might be wiser to keep these two close to us,” he suggested. “They might be able to navigate us through this shit quicker, and if they’re up to something, we deal with them up close and personal, rather than wonder where they are.”

  “It’s bad enough we have one civilian tagging along,” Nestler replied, giving the Navy lieutenant commander a bit of a dig. “You willing to take responsibility for these two?”

  “I’ll keep an eye on them. We don’t need to take everyone inside that building.”

  “No, but it’s your brother’s idea, so I’m taking him.”

  “I heard that,” Metzger chimed in. “Can we get this over with and argue about civilian participation later?”

  Nestler looked to the lieutenant commander.

  “He’s not so bad. Get those two disarmed, though.”

  Next, the Marine addressed his team.

  “Bryant, Wheeler, Stanley, look alive. We’re accompanying our guide inside the facility. Everyone else stays with the squid and our two city employees.”

  His ‘squid’ comment, directed at Metzger’s older brother, came from the old days in the military, much like Marines might be referred to as jarheads to instigate a bar fight. Much like his brother, Metzger ignored the barb, ready to head into the warehouse to retrieve some useful items. He turned to the three Marines, figuring they were itching to lead the way, and his intuition proved correct as the three held their rifles in ready positions and marched to the front entrance.

  Likely ranking near the end of anyone’s priority list of places to loot, the fireworks warehouse didn’t appear barricaded or secured beyond regular locks. The Marines assumed either side of the door, putting forth much more effort than Metzger would if he were alone, and Stanley gave the metal door a firm tug. Refusing to give, the door forbade them entry, and the building had no windows visible from the two sides Metzger viewed when the group entered the parking lot. He imagined any rear entryway wouldn’t grant them ready access, so he thought of ways to break past the metal door when Stanley dropped his pack to the ground.

  Metzger imagined the man pulling out some C4, or another sort of explosive to blow up one side of the entry, just like he saw in the movies, but instead he pulled out a small sledge hammer and a prying tool.

  “What did you expect?” Nestler asked when Metzger glanced at him.

  “Something cooler than that, I guess.”

  Nestler grunted, finding a bit of humor in the statement.

  Built somewhat like the vehicles the group used to enter the city limits, Stanley required only three strikes of the hammer and four slight maneuverings of the prying tool to get the door open. He worked the tools around the doorknob itself, compromising the frame around the latch until the door swung open.

  “We’re in,” he said as he pocketed the tools and took up his rifle.

 
Based on personal experience, Metzger knew the building likely held absolutely no undead, or dozens, because someone tried locking them up so the living could remain safe. Being respectful, he let the Marines enter first because they certainly weren’t going to let a civilian go before them. Once inside, Nestler pulled out a light stick, snapped it, and shook it until it glowed like an LED flashlight. Certainly not the lower grade light stick kids used for Halloween, it illuminated a large area around the men, revealing a number of shelves with reachable tops, and several that climbed almost to the ceiling.

  “What are we looking for?” Nestler asked, deferring to his civilian guide.

  “We want something that fires a good distance,” Metzger replied. “We want them to chase after it instead of focusing on us.”

  “Look around, and lock it down, gentlemen,” Nestler ordered.

  Metzger found a hammer lying on the ground and struck the metal frame of one of the industrial shelves with it several times, drawing almost hostile stares from his companions.

  “If they’re in here, better to deal with them first,” he explained.

  None of the Marines argued the point, and after nearly half a minute with no noise from any direction, they resumed their search.

  ***

  “Why are you two still here?” Bryce Metzger asked the two police officers. “And why the hell are you still in uniform?”