In those four minutes, two more men were brought to the fire. Although neither seemed bloodied in any way, they both looked like they were at death’s door. They were uniformly white, had listless, glazed-over eyes, and both shook from head to toe. One was Wesley’s friend Kas and the other was a sergeant from 3rd Platoon named Renfro.
“Hypothermia,” Kas said. “I’ll be good as new in a few minutes. I just need something for this headache.”
Renfro shook his head. “Ain’t no hypothermia. We’re as fucked as this guy.” He gestured at the man who was missing most of his face. Wesley’s eyes lasered in on Renfro’s hand; in the webbing between the thumb and index finger there was blood and ragged, loose skin where a number of blisters had formed one over the other, each bursting and then tearing away until there was no more skin to tear. Renfro was bleeding.
Kas looked at his own hands—he was bleeding as well.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” Wesley said. “You may not be infected. I’m not and I’m worse off than any of you.” Renfro and Kas looked away and said nothing. “I’m not infected!” Wesley insisted. The poor guy stretched out on the ground was certainly infected, and Renfro sure looked like he was turning a shade of grey beneath his pallor, but Kas was always very white and Wesley felt fine.
Yes, his hand had begun to thrum and sharp pains had started to shoot up in his temples, and he was beginning to sweat, but none of that meant he was infected.
“I’m fine,” he said when the silence around the fire had carried on for too long. He held up his left hand, which still trickled blood. He thought that was a good sign. It was washing away the germs. “I’m a righty anyway, and I don’t need a left hand to kill the stiffs. Kas, can I borrow your bat?”
Kas stared around with his washed out eyes until he saw the bat sitting in a bush a few feet away. He reached for it as Renfro buried his head in his hands and groaned in pain. Before Kas could hand it over, there was a blare of lights that had the three lucid soldiers cringing. The light seemed to carry with it needles of fire that burned right into the stem of their eyes.
“Turn that shit off!” Renfro screamed.
A dark figure, like a ten-foot tall demon, stalked toward them, its face filled with rage. Wesley grabbed the bat and brought it back, only before he could swing it a hand caught his arm.
It was the captain. “Careful, Wesley.” He nodded at the demon, and now Wesley saw that it wasn’t a demon at all. It was General Johnston and his face was far from angry. He looked sad.
“Let’s move these men back to the valley,” the general said in a tone so low it was hard to pick out over the crackling fire.
The captain agreed with a nod. “For their sake and for the morale of the others. It’s the river, sir. The water is not just as cold as ice, it’s also diseased. It has become a pool of filth. And perhaps worse, it’s rising. Every stiff we kill adds to the dam, which then adds to the height of the water. I have men trying to fight with the water up to their armpits. It’s treacherous.”
“And your suggestion?” Johnston asked.
“M240s,” Grey said. “We can set them up at head-height on the riverbanks.”
Johnston drew in a sharp breath at the suggestion. “I can’t authorize that. I’m sorry. We have less than four thousand rounds left. It has to be preserved in case of a general attack by the Azael. Is there any way we can continue a defense with hand weapons?”
Grey shrugged. “Of course, but we can expect a very heavy casualty rate. The men aren’t accustomed to these sorts of weapons. Kaslowski, hold up your hands. You see, it’s just blisters. Any cut or scratch is a death sentence. We have to change tactics.”
“Then we use the big guns,” Johnston concluded. Now it was Grey’s turn to look skeptical to which Johnston said: “We’re out of choices. Mortars won’t cut it in the river. The water will absorb too much of the force of the explosions. They’d be a waste. And we don’t have a large enough stockpile of 7.62 rounds to make a difference. It wouldn’t last an hour. It has to be artillery. A few rounds will decimate them and buy us some time.”
Wesley watched the exchange with little comprehension. He understood the deadly nature of the virus as well as anyone; however, he just couldn’t wrap his mind around the idea that the deadly germs could have possibly entered his system. After all, he had fought the beasts for so many long months. There had been a dozen times he had gone into battle with cuts or scratches and he had always been fine.
“We don’t need artillery!” he declared to both of the officers. His headache was making him cranky and the way they were both tap-dancing around the real issue was annoying. “What we need is for men to step up.” He snatched up Kas’s bat and brandished it. “We need to keep fighting like we were trained to do.”
He started marching off toward the river when Captain Grey magically appeared at his side. “Wesley, no. We have plenty of men for the job. You need to rest.”
Wesley could not admit to himself what everyone else knew, at least not on a conscious level. It was his subconscious that was the cause of the tears that ran down his face, unnoticed. “I’m fine. I really am,” he said. “Fine enough to crack a few skulls.” The laugh that accompanied this was burdened by a sob which he couldn’t explain. He pulled his arm from Grey’s strong grip and pleaded: “Let me do my job.”
Grey stared for a moment and then put a hand on Wesley’s shoulder. “Ok, soldier. Do your duty.”
“Thanks,” Wesley gushed. “You can count on me.”
“I know I can,” his captain said. The officer watched him for a second and then turned to General Johnston and practically ordered: “Spin up the artillery.”
For reasons Wesley could not understand, he felt an urgent need to get back into the line before the artillery struck home. He went straight away for the river though he had no idea if this was where his platoon was. He simply knew that was where the fighting was the hardest and he was a warrior in his heart.
With the bat cocked, he waded in with a battle cry that screamed out of his soul. It was filled with anger and sorrow and the pain that had built up inside of him. The bat was so easy compared to the table leg. It clanged off of skull after skull sending strange vibrations up his arm. It was so easy to kill with it that Wesley understood how Kas had formed blisters so quickly.
The bat was light enough to wield without tiring. He had clubbed down a dozen stiffs and all around him the unknown soldiers had backed away in awe of the one-handed soldier.
When the first of the 105mm shells ripped through the night sky with what sounded to Wesley like a rebel yell, he joined in.
A hundred yards downstream, the shell exploded fifty feet above the surface of the river in a tremendous fireball. The soldiers in the river hunkered low in the foul soup of blood and fleshy chunks. Wesley did not. His battle cry rang out in the gaping silence that followed. There were still zombies to kill and there was still time to kill them, not much time it felt, but enough.
Shell after shell screamed overhead, landing with pinpoint accuracy in the river, changing forever its course and composition. Great hollows and deep pools were dug in seconds and for years afterwards they were lined with the shards of millions of pale bones.
Wesley gloried in the destruction. He felt as though he had reached some sort of peak in his life and he strove with all of his dwindling strength to retain the feeling because on some level he knew the feeling would be fleeting.
And it was.
He was witness to twenty explosions of epic proportions and in that time he killed thirty of the beasts. He was standing on the dam of the dead, exhausted, breathing out great gasps and wondering why his head was splitting and his arms were as heavy as downed tree trunks when he saw streaks in the sky. They were lines of fire, but they were heading the wrong way! They were heading towards the valley.
His eyes tracked the progress of the streaks until they disappeared behind the far hill and then there was a pause, followed by a flash of l
ight and a distant rumble. “Shit,” he whispered. Even with his head pounding like the worst hangover he had ever experienced, he knew what the lights had been: counter-battery fire. The Azael had waited with unexpected patience to unleash their own artillery and now they were filling the Estes Valley with deadly shrapnel.
Wesley waited for the answering shots coming from his side, but there were none. The Azael fired round after round without a single shot in response. “They’re all dead,” he whispered. He could picture the burned out wreckage of the valley’s four guns. He could almost smell the charred flesh. Unbelievably he felt a sudden pang of hunger.
“Fuck that!” he raged.
Although the artillery had practically vaporized the entire horde of zombies flowing up the Big Thompson, there were still a few hundred to take care of. Private First Class Paul Wesley planted his feet on the dam of corpses. At that time it was horribly impressive in its dimensions; it ran the length of the gorge cut out by the river and was as wide as a four lane highway. He stood in its direct center and swung his bat one-handed, cursing in a screeching voice. His head felt like it was about to split wide open, but at least he was warm.
The zombie fever baked the chill of the river right out of him. It made him numb to everything except the desire to do his duty. He wasn’t going to let his fellow soldiers down again no matter what. No matter that there were zombies all around his legs feasting on his flesh. That didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered to him was making sure no one else would die that night.
Chapter 9
Jillybean
As night fell, the Azael grew as eager as children on Christmas Eve. They sensed that victory was only hours away and they went about grinning or rubbing their hands, greedily. Their tremendous zombie hordes had been whipped and kicked and pushed up the twin highways leading to Estes. This undead army was unstoppable, invincible. Their numbers were beyond count...though Jillybean had a fair estimation.
The seven-year-old had found her stomach aching at the sight of the seemingly endless march of the monsters and her nerves jangled and tears were close as Eve hissed in her ear about killing and blood and what baked brains would taste like. She was trying to break Jillybean’s mind. As a refuge, the little girl threw herself into the intricate dance that numbers unexpectedly revealed.
Jillybean scrounged up paper and pens and began to explore math in a manner similar to how a person might take on the Rocky Mountains. She trudged her way uphill against the incomprehensible numbers through sheer will, her progress aided on some occasions by sudden intuitive leaps and on other occasions by Kay, who would explain various things such as the multiplication tables or long division.
Then the way before her would suddenly open up and there would be vistas of understanding as majestic as any mountain and as beautiful as any lush valley.
It wasn’t long before she could solve the simplest algebraic equations with barely a pause and she was well down the path to learning the principles of Superposition, though she had no idea of its official name, when the shooting from the west began to taper off.
Everyone agreed that it was a portentous sign and that the end couldn’t be long in coming. Everyone included Eve, who pushed her way past the math and to the forefront of Jillybean’s mind.
Stupid Neil is dying, Eve said in a hissing whisper. He’s being eaten right now. Same with dumb ‘ol Sadie and all of them. They’re being eaten alive. Aren’t you glad we killed that ugly baby?
“Oh, shut up!” Jillybean snapped.
Why? You should be happy we killed her. If we hadn’t, she would be being eaten alive along with the rest of them right now, and wouldn’t that be sad?
“I said zip it! I didn’t kill her at all. It was you. And besides, you don’t know what’s going on up there.”
Kay, who was sitting as far from Jillybean as possible, which because of the handcuffs, was the seat next to her on the bus, gave her arm a jerk, yanking Jillybean halfway around. “You’re doing it again.”
The woman got the heebie-jeebies whenever Jillybean spoke to Eve; it was a visible reaction. Her lip would curl, her eyebrows would drop into a line across the lower ridge of her forehead, and sometimes she would do a weird shimmy as if a giant spider were walking up her spine.
“Sorry. I can’t really help it,” Jillybean said, not looking up. That wasn’t exactly the truth. She could control Eve as long as she could control her fear. Just then she was afraid for her friends. The gradual decrease in the amount of gunfire from across the tips of the mountains most likely meant that the people of Colorado were being overwhelmed. She could picture them trapped in dark caves with mobs of the hateful monsters struggling to get in.
This fear made Eve strong.
Jillybean decided to refocus on the work she was doing. Eve hated math, it sent her sulking in some dark crevice of Jillybean’s mind. Unfortunately, the evening was turning into a chill night and there wasn’t any light on the bus. She tried squinting at her papers, but couldn’t make out anything besides a few scratchings on a white background.
Yep, they’re all getting eaten now. Chomp! Chomp! Chomp! Eve cackled.
Now it was Jillybean’s turn to get a shiver up her spine. She tried to force her mind away from the awful visions that were filling it and was successful for a few hours. She was happily trying to calculate the number of monsters that had been drawn together in the Azael army when the bus door came open with a long, metal, creaking sound.
All of the women on the bus sat up straight as they had been trained to do, though not a one lifted their eyes from their laps.
Only Jillybean, who considered herself way too young to be a part of the adult things that were going on with the sad-looking women, dared to look up. It was a repetitive sight for her. Very tall men of the Azael were let onto the bus by the grizzled woman who was not only the bus driver but also the guard. The men would go down the aisle looking at the women, sometimes lifting their chins, sometimes opening their blouses.
The women never seemed to breathe during these times. The bus would be stone-quiet until one was picked and led away to the small pup-tents that were set up on the ground next to the bus. Only then would there be a collective breath let out by the remaining women.
This time was no different. It was one of the king’s brothers who came in this time. Not many men were allowed to frequent the bus. Generally, only the royals with high ranks got to choose a woman. This big, bearded duke went by the name of Baldwin; he had a vile reputation and a voracious sexual appetite. A number of the women began to shake as he strutted onto the bus.
“It’s fun time,” he said, in a growly sort of voice. He stood at the front of the bus, behind the white line, gazing up the rows with an ugly grin on his face. When he started advancing, Kay grabbed Jillybean’s hands, their handcuffs making a merry clinking sound as they shook.
Baldwin stopped a step from them and it was Jillybean he was looking at with perverse lust in his eyes. This smote her well down into her soul and there was an ensuing echo that caused her chest to hurt. What was he going to do with her? She had read, in the vague manner that dictionaries provided, what prostitutes did: they were ‘sex workers’ who engaged in sexual relations in exchange for payment.
She supposed being a prostitute was bad in some way, but she had never thought that it was dangerous. And yet, by the way the women were acting, Jillybean had every right to feel the fear blooming inside her.
“Has anyone gotten at you yet?” the duke asked her. Jillybean could only shake her head, not knowing exactly what was being asked of her.
Next to her, Kay slid away to the far side of the little padded bench they shared. Jillybean looked over at her but the woman was studiously staring forward. When the seven-year-old glanced back she found the duke leaning over her, one of his beefy paws on her skinny thigh.
“I’m n-not a prostitute,” she stammered. She didn’t even know what sex was beyond the little the dictionary had told her: a means o
f procreation. It was how babies were made, but she was too young. And she wasn’t married. Only mommies and daddies made babies, not little girls. Everyone knew that.
“Well, you got to do something around here and it doesn’t seem like we’re going to need that big brain of yours.” He seemed to be correct in this. The gunfire coming from the Estes Valley had petered into nothing two hours before. Any logical reading of that sign pointed to the complete destruction of the Colorado Army. “You’re going to have to earn your keep another way.”
The hand on her thigh tightened until it hurt. “I’m only seven,” she gasped, unable to think of anything else.
Tell him, if he touches us, I’ll cut off his balls, Eve said. The evil girl inside of her wasn’t actually angry. She was looking forward to what was going to happen. She knew it would be her ticket to control of their shared body.
“Seven? Sounds like a perfect time to start training you.” Baldwin put out his hand and Jillybean was forced to put her tiny one in it as though he were her daddy.
He is not daddy! Eve raged, growing stronger. I’ll kill him. I’ll cut off... Her rant was cut off as Jillybean was caught up suddenly. Baldwin had tugged her along so quickly that Kay hadn’t had time to pick up the twenty-five pound dumbbell to which she was handcuffed.
“What the fuck?” the duke growled.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have the key,” Kay whined, as she struggled with the weight.
Baldwin’s lip curled at Kay’s battered face and then he muttered a curse as he saw the handcuffs. Jillybean thought he was going to explode in anger, but after a moment he shrugged and his features relaxed slightly. He said to Kay: “If you’re going to come along, you might as well give the girl some pointers.”
Kay blanched, unable to hide her look of disgust. “You want me to come with you? You want me to...” She seemed unable to go on.
“Yeah, and don’t piss me off or you won’t have any teeth left after I get through with you.”
“Yes, sir,” Kay said and then hefted her dumbbell. She pushed Jillybean ahead of her in a rush and was only slowed by the stairs of the bus which were difficult to manage, handcuffed as they were and with the fact that Jillybean found her legs practically giving out on her.
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