Tucked safely between two of the Marines, Metzger wasn’t close to Bryce or Nestler, meaning he needed to wait his turn before entering the building. Once inside, the Marine behind him closed the door, and the group faced a new horror because dozens of the undead lingered inside. Metzger heard a scream to his left as one of the men was surrounded and taken down by four undead. He prayed his brother was safe, and the lighting inside proved difficult because a lot of shadows were occasionally broken up by the streams of light from above.
Fighting to keep from panicking, Metzger heard some of the military men yelling, and it sounded as though they were trying to establish their positions and find areas of safety. Personally, he always preferred making noise and drawing the undead outside before entering a building, but the circumstances in this case appeared dangerous either way.
Pulling his flashlight from his pocket, he was able to navigate to some nearby stairs where he shone its beam downward once he reached a landing above the ground floor. Half a dozen zombies continued to feed on the intestines, arms, and legs of the downed Marine, and fortunately for him, he died almost immediately after the initial or second bite. Looking around, he saw that Bryce and the six remaining Marines had also reached forms of safety, their eyes indicating they hadn’t expected such horror when the undead discovered victims.
Knowing the gunfire would attract more of the undead, and resources wouldn’t hold out long enough for them to hole up inside the factory, Metzger decided to carefully deal with the situation the best way he knew. Drawing the shorter of his two swords from his pack, he held his light with his right hand and slowly descended the stairs where zombies already attempted to climb up to intercept him.
He promptly sliced through the skulls of the first two, uncertain if dozens, or hundreds remained inside the confines of the dimly-lit factory.
“I’m sorry about your man,” Metzger called over to Nestler, his voice muffled by the gas mask, “but we need to deal with this now because more will be heading our way.”
Nestler gave a nod before aiming down from the top of the large press he’d scrambled atop for safety from the incoming dead. He was able to shoot them in the skulls like fish in a barrel from his position, because they couldn’t grasp the small, sometimes slick, metal components to pull themselves up to him.
Everyone joined in, opening fire on the undead before the collective could surround them and ensure certain doom. The group made good progress, thinning the zombies in their immediate vicinity, but Wheeler failed to notice a zombie already lurking in the shadows along his landing. By the time the others took notice and attempted to yell warnings, the zombie had gotten behind the Marine and chomped into his shoulder blade, causing an agonized scream from the man. It somehow missed the portions of his body armor that covered his shoulder areas, and bit hard enough to pierce his fatigues. Within a few seconds, he drew his knife and thrust it behind him, into the zombie’s skull.
Wheeler groaned in pain a few seconds as the reality of what the bite meant entered his mind. Everyone ceased shooting, speaking, and breathing for a few emotional seconds, feeling as though part of them shared his impending doom. Wheeler reached up, clutching the shoulder with a wince and a groan before glancing at the faces around him.
“Flesh wound,” he said, trying to lighten the mood, possibly smiling behind the gas mask.
No one else could muster so much as a smirk, knowing their comrade wouldn’t be making the return trip with the group. For his part, Metzger felt his heart sink, having experienced the heartache of seeing someone fade away and die before his eyes.
Not wasting any time, Wheeler looked directly to Nestler, removing his mask before speaking.
“Permission to lead these fuckers away from you and take as many of them with me as I can,” he stated more than asked.
“Granted,” Nestler replied solemnly.
Wheeler started down the stairs from his respective landing, shooting several zombies on the way, and taking a clear path toward the back of the factory, drawing many of the undead away from the others. He occasionally turned to shoot a few more of them, but his ammunition wouldn’t hold out forever, and his injury might prevent him from reloading his rifle correctly. Metzger imagined the man would go down swinging, stabbing a few of them in their skulls, serving his country to the last.
“Let’s clear this place out,” Nestler said, putting forth a stoic front, leading the charge as he jumped down from his perch to shoot a few lingering zombies through their brains.
Everyone else followed suit, but Metzger headed for the front door, deciding to deal with the zombies devouring the downed Marine before they grew bored and looked for a fresh meal. He cut through the skulls of the first two, forced to shoot the other two before he stabbed the cranium of the fallen soldier through the side of his skull. Recent dead maintained solid skulls for a few days, and the side, particularly the temple, provided an easier kill that didn’t damage his swords.
Outside the front door, Metzger heard the undead moaning and clawing at the building’s exterior. He questioned how the group would survive the day after drawing more undead to their location. Flicking the blood off his sword, Metzger carefully navigated the dark aisles of the factory, catching up to the group who’d banded together to ensure no one else was surprised by the undead.
At this point, everyone held a firearm, and several used their free hands to aim flashlights in various directions. The factory felt like a labyrinth with no end in sight because machines and work stations blocked their view every way they turned. The experience felt akin to haunted houses around Halloween, though Metzger couldn’t openly shoot the people who leapt out to scare him back then.
Every so often, the group heard gunfire further into the large building as Wheeler continued to battle the undead. Metzger couldn’t imagine the other reconnaissance missions went much more smoothly, and he now questioned the risk of human life to discover who detonated multiple chemical agents across the world. There wasn’t a cure for reanimated death, and though they might save a few lives by manufacturing a cure for those bitten by the undead, the military risked good lives simply attempting to reach that point.
“Look for remains of the truck itself,” Nestler said. “We can also use shipping invoices from the office, or their computers.”
“Computers?” Metzger questioned, staying in formation with the group.
“We can power them up at the base and search through their hard drives,” Nestler answered, though sounding a bit annoyed about being asked questions at such a risky moment.
Carefully moving through the ground floor, the group managed to take out most of the zombies in their vicinity. As his eyes adjusted to the low lighting, Metzger began to see details that included char along the walls and the structural beams that supported the upper floors. The damage appeared superficial, as though the explosion itself didn’t rip through the factory, incinerating people instantly. By no means an expert in fires or explosives, Metzger wondered if the bomb simply served to release the chemical agent.
Considering he currently wore a mask to protect his lungs from chemicals, he felt reasonably certain he knew the answer.
Within a few minutes, the group made their way to several offices, closing doors behind them, even though the doors didn’t necessarily latch correctly. Nestler ordered Stanley to keep an eye on the access points the undead might use to bombard them, and everyone else began looking for useful intelligence.
Metzger rummaged through a nearby desk, finding nothing of use, so he moved to another desk while the others went through filing cabinets and began unhooking computers in case answers didn’t come in a form that weighed less. Familiar with waybill papers from his father’s work on the railroad, Metzger remembered that other forms of transportation were required to provide paperwork when carrying hazardous materials. Trains, planes, boats, and land vehicles all carried paperwork and warni
ng labels while transporting chemicals, so he looked for a binder that contained information about ordered or received chemical products.
With paperwork scattered everywhere throughout the room, he didn’t find any binders hanging along the wall where they might normally be for immediate retrieval. He searched along the floor and furniture, locating a thick, white binder a moment later. Upon inspection, it revealed scheduling and personal day requests, which failed to help at all.
He continued searching, but like everyone else in the group, he didn’t turn up anything useful once they ransacked the office. Nestler and one of the other soldiers set the two computers near the door, obviously planning to retrieve them as a last resort once they cleared the remainder of the factory.
“I don’t know about any of you, but I don’t plan on spending the night here,” the second-lieutenant commented as he nodded for Stanley to open the door and take point to their next location.
Spilling into the hallway, the group took turns shooting several zombies in their skulls as they moved forward. Only a few seconds on their way to the next set of offices, they heard an agonized scream further into the factory. Metzger could only assume Wheeler met a horrific end after running out of ammunition, or getting ambushed by another zombie, because no one uttered a single word. They stood perfectly still only a few seconds before collecting themselves, not wanting to share his fate.
Two offices that shared a common divider wall came into view within a minute, and the group cautiously stepped inside, clearing the area with a flashlight before delving into any potential answers. Like everyone, Metzger carried out the same kind of search as before, but this time he found a file organizer hanging on the back of the office door. He scooped out two binders, finding shipping information inside both of them.
“These might help,” he said, handing them to Nestler.
“This might be the jackpot,” Nestler said as he thumbed through the pages quickly.
A few minutes later, the group set another two computers from the offices in proximity to the door, daring to step outside once again. An incredibly eerie silence filled the factory, and even birds fluttering and cawing along the upper floors could be heard like surround sound in a home theater. Now at the heart of the factory, its absolute center, the group followed the char markings as they grew darker and more intense. Whatever blast initiated the onset of the apocalypse in Buffalo occurred near the loading dock, and as the group passed several machines that blocked their view, they came upon the source directly.
Each of their eyes widened at the sight before them, and for Metzger, the image seared into his mind, due to return in his nightmares, because it reminded him of apocalyptic images he’d seen in movies and magazines over the years.
“Holy fuck,” he muttered, ready to examine the wreckage and leave the factory behind forever.
Seven
From the front passenger’s seat, Jillian navigated Vazquez through the state highway until they reached the outskirts of South Hill, which caused butterflies to churn in her stomach. She understood the anxiety Metzger talked about when searching for his parents, because not knowing the fate of a loved one left a glimmer of hope inside one’s mind.
Not finding them beat finding them already dead.
Highway 58 became Atlantic Street within the town limits, and basically comprised the business district of South Hill. Unlit signs of Cracker Barrel, McDonald’s, Best Western, and a dozen or so other businesses lined the road where a few vehicles remained frozen in time. Several undead wandered around the area, but what little tourism South Hill received throughout the year likely dried up when the apocalypse struck. Less than five-thousand residents occupied the entire town, and a majority likely left, or died on their own property.
A large water tower painted a powder blue proclaimed the town’s name in large black lettering, looming above the businesses and their signs. Jillian remembered times when returning home for college breaks, or the holidays, meant something special to her. Part of her put off returning home because she needed to find her sister when the maniacs at the converted school abducted her. After that, she wasn’t sure her parents could withstand the news of Deena’s death if they’d survived the first month of the world’s end.
“Where are we heading?” Vazquez asked.
“There,” Jillian answered, pointing to State Road 47, which would take the van through the primary residential area of South Hill.
Quaint, familiar houses looked much the same to Jillian as they passed through the neighborhood. Lawns were untended, several driveways displayed red, bloody streaks, and an eerie quiet overtook the area. Strangely, she noticed only one zombie as they passed by residences and a variety of roads, as though the town was evacuated. The occasional reddish stain indicated South Hill wasn’t exempt from the violence that swept through the world during the first week of the outbreak.
“It’s about half a mile up the road,” she informed Vazquez, looking behind her to see most of the group getting some needed rest.
Her folks lived on the fringe of town, just short of being considered rural residents. Their house was addressed off Arrow Wood Lane, a single road slightly northwest of the main town. Not attached to any other streets, except for the highway, it would provide isolation for them during the onset of the apocalypse. Although her father wasn’t a prepper by any means, he believed in staying prepared for common issues, such as inclement weather, intruders, or some form of local terrorist attack.
When Vazquez passed the last true street on the right before Arrow Wood Lane, Jillian began to feel physically ill from anxiety. She didn’t want to appear weak in front of her travel companions, but she wasn’t certain she wanted to face any of the impending events alone. Having Metzger or Sutton around wouldn’t change her feelings on the subject, and she wouldn’t want them to scout the area for her. She knew she needed to face the familiar homestead alone and see the details for herself. While she didn’t consider her own saga particularly important in the history she penned, Jillian wanted the chapter concluded so she could move forward with her life.
Arrow Wood Lane contained nearly a dozen nice houses, and with each passing residence Jillian saw nothing unusual, leaving her with hope that her parents, and some of their neighbors, might have survived. No undead staggered around the yards, the grass actually appeared tidy compared to some areas she’d witnessed, and no evidence of looting or chaos was visible.
“This is so weird,” Vazquez commented.
“I know, right?”
“Which house?”
“Second to the last on the right side,” Jillian answered.
A two-story house painted a beige bordering on yellow, the house and its garage of the same color appeared undisturbed. Her father hired a company that painted the exterior with some sort of resin and ceramic mix so he wouldn’t have to paint for at least a few decades. He preferred doing most things himself, so Jillian was surprised to hear he used any contractors.
When the van pulled into the driveway, no one came rushing through the front door to meet them, and no curtains floated or whisked from the living room to indicate anyone even peeked outside. A maroon, four-door car she didn’t recognize was parked at a strange angle in the yard, rather than the driveway, indicating someone either didn’t care how it was parked, or hurried to get out of it.
“Let me check it out,” Jillian insisted, opening her door as the others began to stir in the seats behind her.
Vazquez nodded affirmatively, though he reached for a pistol tucked to the side of his seat, prepared for the worst. Gracine pulled up with the box truck, parking at the end of the driveway.
When she opened the door, Jillian felt a cool breeze as clouds grew darker overhead. A storm approached from the west, and she wanted to step inside before any heavy rain pelted the town, bringing its darkening effects with it. Exploring any building was challenging, but the i
nability to see clearly around corners, and behind doors, sometimes proved lethal to those unprepared.
Jillian approached the front door, trying to look through the windows, but with curtains or blinds drawn behind the glass everywhere, she couldn’t see inside. Opening the storm door, she tried the front doorknob, finding it unlocked, much to her surprise. Not considering the sign a good omen, she slowly stepped inside, rapping her knuckles against the door frame several times to either draw any undead, or let her parents know someone was visiting.
She refused to fool herself into thinking they couldn’t be dead, though she wasn’t mentally prepared to see them as walking corpses.
“Hello?” she called out. “Mom? Dad?”
Her heart immediately sank because she wanted to hear something, even if it wasn’t the positive response she’d dreamed about the past month.
As she began walking through the house, she heard the van doors close outside as her companions stretched their legs and kept lookout for trouble. Everything appeared in order, as though she were returning home from college for a weekend and her folks expected her. Jillian saw nothing out of place in the living room or the adjoining kitchen, so she made her way to the two guest bedrooms where she and her sister slept when they returned home, finding them much the same after opening the doors.
Saving the bedroom where her parents slept for last, Jillian felt a sense of dread as she reached for the doorknob.
“Everything okay?” Vazquez asked from behind, startling her enough that she jumped a few inches off the floor. “Sorry,” he immediately apologized.
“I don’t think it’s going to be,” she replied, turning the doorknob to confirm her worst fears. “Oh, God,” she said, turning away from the room as Vazquez gave her a hug, shielding her from the single corpse lying atop the king-size bed.
The Undead Chronicles (Vol. 2): Darker Days Page 9