Rise of the Dead

by Jeremy Dyson

  "Those fucking things are going to be all over the place any minute," Quentin urges.

  The captain walks around the desk and puts his arm around Quentin. "Calm down there, son," he says. He speaks with a mellow voice like he is reading a child a bedtime story. He withdraws the cigar from his mouth so he can speak more clearly. "It's time you go with the Lieutenant Commander.”

  "What are you talking about?" asks Quentin. "There's too many out there. We need to evacuate now."

  "You are being evacuated," he says. "I have orders to hold this base at all costs. We will fight to the last man." The captain removes his hand from Quentin's shoulder and walks back around the desk. He withdraws his pistol from the holster and pulls back the action.

  "No," says Quentin. "I'm not leaving you to die here."

  "I can't leave my troops to die here," the Captain says. "You can see that, can't you?"

  "Then I'm staying to fight them, too," Quentin says. "I'm not leaving you either."

  The captain's calm demeanor fades for a moment. His brow furrows and when he sticks the cigar back between his teeth his jaw clenches as he bites the tip. For a brutally long moment, he just stands there, staring at his son.

  "You still don't get it," he says. "These men are willing to lay down their lives to protect those people back there. So that some of them can survive. And I can lead them down that road because I know that you can survive this. I can't do it for nothing." His eyes are glassy but fierce and determined.

  "Pop," says Quentin.

  "Get on that chopper, boy," the captain growls. He nods at Reynolds and turns around and faces the window again. One of the Blackhawks is circling the fence, firing rockets into the crowd of undead, the sky erupts into a burst of flame and chunks of flesh and bone. The building trembles beneath our feet.

  Reynolds salutes the captain, then steps out into the hall. Danielle follows him, and I walk out behind her. Quentin remains a moment longer, staring at the back of his father. I want to get the hell out of there, but I stop in the doorway and wait for Quentin. He opens his mouth as if to speak then seems to change his mind. He glances down at the floor and shakes his head.

  "So long, Pops," he says. Then he backs out of the office, and we move quickly down the hall.

  Twelve

  We come down the stairs into a crowd of people rushing in every direction. Soldiers are coming up the stairs from the armory laden with assault rifles and ammunition. Several soldiers block some civilians at each of the corridors. More people try to push through from doors that face the rear of the building. The sounds of machine guns outside continue to build. We push through the front doors behind a squad of soldiers.

  The courtyard is teeming with the undead. Bodies and limbs constellate the ground, but the horde continues onward toward the building, stumbling over the fallen bodies. The dead have already overrun the barracks. Corpses pour into the entrance unopposed. Some soldiers bust out windows in the upper floors and take up firing positions. Glass fragments rain down around us.

  I take this in as we file through a firing line of troops on the stairs. The last line of defense before the dead reach the headquarters and the thousands of people sheltered behind. The large machine guns at the sidewalk chew through long belts of ammunition. I reach the passenger side of the truck and wait as the others get in and scoot to the driver's side. I notice a young soldier stops firing for a split second as he eyes us getting into the vehicle. For a second, I think he is about to come running over to get in too, but he squints one eye and looks down his sight and begins firing again. I hear the Captain's voice from what sounds like a radio somewhere.

  "Pace your shots," he says. "Conserve your ammo. Hold those lines and give them hell boys."

  I look up and realize it isn't a radio at all. The Captain stands between a pair of soldiers in the open window of his office, barking into a bullhorn and gesturing urgently.

  "Nuts to butts!" he yells. He stops for a moment and watches as I get into the truck and shut the door.

  Fletcher whirls the vehicle in a tight u-turn, and then I am pushed back against my seat as tires wail and the armored Humvee zips down the road. The dead along the far edge of the street grab for the truck as we go past. The soldiers keep the line, still firing furiously, and a few wayward rounds pepper the side of the vehicle. Who knows, maybe they are pissed off to see us escaping while they fight a battle with the dead they have no hope of winning.

  We reach the end of the main building and roll past the parking lot. The vehicles nearest the road are all abandoned. The people have all moved toward the lake, hoping to reach the offshore boats, which I can see now in the daylight. I can hear the screams of panic coming from the lakeshore and see people diving into the water and swimming for the boats.

  A Blackhawk lifts off from the middle of the track and flies low over the cab of the truck. Chuck pulls off the road and into the grass. He steers over the packed dirt toward the last helicopter waiting in the middle of the field. I panic when I notice the blades are already circling, but the helicopter does not take off. A half dozen armed soldiers have taken up positions around the helicopters. We have to weave through several dozen bodies riddled with bullet holes on the ground. Once or twice the truck bounces as we roll over one.

  Fletcher brings the Humvee to a skidding halt about thirty feet from the swirling blades. Fletcher pops the trunk, and two of the soldiers run over to assist with packs.

  "Let's move," says Reynolds.

  I get out of the back and duck my head instinctively as I hurry towards the chopper. I look inside and notice that other than the pilot there are two other passengers seated in the rear of the helicopter. A woman around my age with long blonde hair, wearing dark aviator sunglasses and a black sleeveless top with camo cargo pants. She seems unconcerned about the whole situation. To my surprise, I notice as I step into the cabin that she is casually reading a thick, paperback novel. The other passenger is an older man with a graying beard wearing a dirty white dress shirt and a bow tie. The old man keeps turning his head nervously back to look at the road and the horde of undead that can't be far behind us.

  Danielle takes a seat next to the blonde woman. I sit across from them next to the old man in the bow tie. Quentin takes the seat next to me. Fletcher is next to the other pilot, strapping on a helmet. He turns back and points to indicate a rack above my head where several other helmets are stowed. I grab a couple down and hand one to Danielle, and put the other on myself. I hear Fletcher's voice through the headset in the helmet.

  "Those belts are there for a reason," he says.

  I strap the belt around my waist and wait for what feels like an eternity for the soldiers to board. One of them mans a giant machine gun mounted on the open door.

  "Get us the fuck out of here," one of the soldiers yells into the microphone. "They're coming our way."

  The rotors seem to accelerate, kicking up dirt and grass from the field. The moment before we lift up a small creature darts through the cabin door.

  "Holy shit," screams a voice over the intercom.

  My heart races momentarily, my fingers ready to free the safety belt from my waist.

  "Everything alright back there?" Fletcher asks.

  "Yeah man, it's just a dog," replies a soldier with a laugh. "Good pooch."

  The helicopter slowly ascends off the ground, and the soldiers up front move the dog back to the rear to keep it away from the doors. I notice it's the same dog that followed us around all last night. I get a hold of it by the collar and scratch it on the neck. I notice the metal tag on the collar with "STITCH" engraved into the aged blue surface. The helicopter banks to the left and we make a wide arc around the station. The courtyard is just a sea of the undead now. The corpses have overrun the soldiers and pushed through the entry of the main building. They flow through and around it working their way towards the shore. Thousands of survivors flail in the water. They fight to get aboard the boats already overloaded with people. The mas
s of corpses slowly works its way through the giant parking lot behind the building to a crowd of people still standing on the shore. They can choose to get eaten alive or drown trying to reach the boats. As the dead move closer, more and more people plunge into the water. They swim for the boats even as the ships begin to sail slowly away.

  "All those people," sighs Danielle.

  I am thinking about the kids on that school bus. It's seems wrong that we are flying out in this helicopter while those kids are stuck on shore.

  The helicopter banks again and circles before flying off to the west with our backs to the morning sun. We watch the horrific scene that is playing out, and that we are totally powerless to stop.

  I feel bile creeping up my throat and my stomach churns. It is only partially from the movement of the helicopter. I lean forward and heave, but since I haven't eaten in eighteen hours, hardly anything comes out.

  “Stop puking in my helicopter,” Fletcher says over the intercom. I look up to see all the soldiers laughing. They just saw me doing the same thing yesterday. Now, I’m doing it again. I’m turning into the guy that pukes every time he is on the helicopter. That’s my thing.

  I sit back in the seat, feeling a little light-headed. The old man has his head tilted back and stares up at the roof blankly. The blonde woman turns a page of the book she is reading. It's a copy of The Stand. She is reading an apocalyptic novel during the apocalypse. Now I know the world has completely gone insane. I glance back up and realize she has noticed me staring at the book. She smiles so slightly that I can't tell if it was intended to be amicable or if she was enjoying my apparent astonishment.

  Beside me, Quentin sits so rigidly and quiet in his seat, I had almost forgotten he was there. He stares out the window, not even noticing the dog sniffing at the leg of his pants. I see his lips move and realize he is talking angrily to himself. I debate getting his attention somehow, maybe asking if he is okay. Instead, I decide to leave it be for now. Nothing I might say could make this mess any easier for him to deal with anyway.

  After only ten minutes or so in the air, we set down on the rooftop landing pad of a hospital building. We get out of the helicopter once the soldiers have cleared the roof. The place looks deserted, but sure enough, a couple walking corpses approach the sliding doors to the hospital and try to grab us through the glass. They press their pale faces and palms crusted brown with dried blood against the barrier. It's almost worse to look at them when you aren't running away. When you stare at them longer than you should, you notice too many gory details, like the congealed fluids seeping from the gnawed off parts of their bodies. You start to focus on the way their eyes have clouded over. Or they way their pupils don't move so it seems they are never looking at you, even when they are. The corpses stare past us like we are not actually what they want. We are just something in the periphery to tear apart on the way to some indistinct, unquenchable desire.

  "Don't worry," says Fletcher.

  I flinch at the sudden sound of his voice. I am still tired and hadn't even noticed when he walked up behind me. Seeing my reaction made him smile.

  "Easy boss," he says. He jerks his head toward the Blackhawk. "We won't stick around long enough for them to bother us. We lost contact with another bird. Since we were the last ones out, we'll see if we get any radio contact before we vacate the area. We'll be back up in twenty."

  He starts to walk away, but I say, "Hold up. Where are we going?"

  "Hardened site. Bout twenty clicks southwest of here."

  "Hardened site?" I ask.

  "An underground bunker owned by the United States Army at the Manhattan installation."

  "I never knew there was an army base down there."

  "That's kind of the point," he grins. He tosses his helmet back in the bay of the Blackhawk and replaces it with the cowboy hat.

  Quentin hasn't left his seat in the chopper. He stares off at the skyline of the city. The dog runs past my leg, panting and excited. It's almost strange to me to see anything that can be so optimistic regardless of everything going on around them. After realizing I was not up for playing, the dog runs back to Danielle on the other side of the chopper.

  The blonde woman remains in the Blackhawk, turning pages in her novel. The old man, though, has made his way over to the glass doors and studies the corpses.

  "Who are those two?" I ask Fletcher.

  He glances over to see if she is paying attention, and then he jerks his head to indicate the blonde and says, "Spooky in there is CIA."

  "Spooky?" I ask.

  He turns around and sits on the floor of the helicopter, so his back is to her. "Says her name is Jessica Lorento, but that's probably a fake. Spooks never use their real names, so we just been calling her Spooky or J-Lo behind her back."

  "And the other guy?" I ask.

  "Charlie Foxtrot?" he asks. "That's just her luggage. Some lab geek she is hauling to New Mexico to try and figure out what all this shit is. Unfortunately, he's all ate up."

  "So he's, what, some kind of doctor?" I ask.

  "Radiation expert," he says.

  "Radiation?"

  "Fuck if I know," Fletcher shrugs. He reaches into a pack beside him and pulls out two water bottles and hands me one. "They probably don't know either."

  I twist the cap off and take a long drink. I feel the warm liquid slosh around my empty stomach. Though drinking the water only makes me feel even hungrier, I take another long pull, downing half the bottle.

  "What do you think this is?" I ask him.

  He looks over at the undead lurking by the doors and considers it a moment. "I think this whole thing is Charlie Foxtrot. That’s what we say when something is completely fucked. Just like that old man over there."

  Fletcher takes a drink from the bottle, wipes at his mouth with a forearm and caps the water.

  "You get anything, Wiz?" Fletcher asks the co-pilot.

  "Negative, Fletch," answers the other pilot without turning. He flips some switches and starts the engine.

  Fletcher lifts up his left boot and ties the laces.

  "Sorry to ask," he says, "but is that your hammer over there?"

  "Hammer?" I ask.

  "The girl," he says. "Is she with you?"

  Once I realize what he is getting at, I say, "No, I'm married." I glance down at the ring on my finger and twist it around. Then thinking about it I say, "I was married."

  "Sorry to bring it up," he says. He stands up and grabs his helmet from the helicopter. "Just like to know the situation."

  The rotors begin to churn and Fletcher straps on his helmet.

  "Okay ladies, we're bugging out," he says.

  Officer Reynolds walks over and gathers the old man from the entrance. He leads him back to the helicopter by the arm. The old man glances around at the soldiers and helicopter with an expression of stunned confusion, like he was just seeing the soldiers and helicopter for the first time. He hardly seems to be capable of figuring out where he is, let alone how to fix this mess.

  We strap back into our seats and lift off from the roof of the hospital. The corpses stand in the doorway, still reaching for us as we drift away in the sky.

  Thirteen

  The streets we travel above show the extent of the destruction of the past couple days. Most of the fires have burned themselves out, but the air still smells and tastes of ash. Entire city blocks have been incinerated. Figures, some of them charred, shamble along every street. A couple of times I can see the corpses swarming around a house or building where there might be survivors. One man sitting on the roof of his house waves as we pass overhead, but the helicopter is full, and we keep on going. Even a war could not have created this much devastation in such a short time.

  We pass over the airport, the planes are motionless on the ground while zombies wander around the runways. They look up at our helicopter flying overhead. It's a relief to be back in the suburbs, which are slightly less horrific than the city. There are still a lot of undead, but
nothing like the hundreds of thousands that surrounded the naval station. They congregate on the main streets and around buildings, but some side streets seem relatively clear. We pass over a forest preserve where I don't see any at all.

  The helicopter touches down in the middle of an enormous grassy field, along the Des Plaines River, just southwest of Joliet. Though I had only seen a single barb wired fence along the perimeter, there were very few corpses around it. From where we are, there is nothing but prairie grasses and trees visible in any direction, so I can't imagine we could attract much attention. The nearest town is maybe five miles away, and there are several large farms on one side and the river on the other. It seems like a secluded location.

  We unload the helicopter, and I throw one of the heavy packs over my shoulders. It weighs a good seventy or eighty pounds, not including the assault rifle, which I also sling over a shoulder. We walk single file through the field, following one of the soldiers along.

  "Everyone, keep your eyes peeled," whispers Reynolds. "It should be clear, but don't assume it is."

  We walk about fifty yards east and come to a blast door embedded in the earth, almost invisible amongst the tall surrounding grasses. It leads down a flight of stairs to another thick steel door next to a keycard lock. The lead soldier swipes a badge and following two quick beeps the lock disengages.

  We file into another room that seems like an airlock of some kind, then through another doorway into a small storage room. It's a relief to see the halogen lights on the ceiling. Somehow this place still has power. The soldiers carry their rifles but drop their packs, so I follow their lead and set my gear down on the floor. My shoulders ache just from that short walk from the helicopter.

  "What is this place?" Danielle asks.

  "This site was part of Project Nike during the Cold War," says Reynolds. "It used to house Army surface-to-air missiles before the Air Force took over air defense fully and the sites were decommissioned. Well, officially anyway. As you can see, it's still here. It's been refitted to protect against chemical and biological attacks, in addition to a nuclear strike. The SEALS just happened to be up here doing some training exercises when the shit hit the fan."