“Oh, is that all?” I said with all the sarcasm I could muster. “If you think this is where I now say that the plan is just crazy enough to work, you’re wrong. This is just plain, out-of-your-fucking-minds crazy.”
“Can you think of a better way to save your friend? Remember, you were the one who said Phil was like a father to you.”
It was never pleasant to hear your own words used against you. But Cam was right. I couldn’t think of a better way, and if that was Phil who fired the shot, then I would risk my life in this insane plan to save him.
“Okay, I give up. I can’t think of anything better,” I confessed. “But how about tipping the odds more in our favor with some homemade napalm and flame throwers?”
The eyes of the ex-military men lit up at the suggestion, and Cam and a couple of those men jumped in their trucks and headed back to Fort Ace. It wasn’t long before they returned with a pair of propane flamethrowers and six beach ball-sized spheres of compressed hay held together with chicken wire, and thoroughly soaked in the home-brewed napalm, then wrapped in plastic sheeting for transport. Cam ordered everyone to extinguish their cigarettes before he would bring the truck within 50 feet of the men.
They all immediately set to work like the trained paramilitary group that they were. I felt about as useful as tits on a bull, and when it looked as though I was going to be completely excluded from the entire operation, I went to Cam and asked what the hell he thought he was doing.
“Trues, I know I risk having you kick me in the balls for saying this, but this is one time where you are going to have to stand aside and let the men handle it.”
Was there any time in my life where I was angrier? Perhaps, but at that moment I couldn’t think of one. In fact, I was so utterly and completely furious that I actually appeared calm. Did I want to slide down a rope into the Lion’s Den of zombies? Hell, no. But was I going to let anyone take that risk for me, while I sat in my car and knitted wooly mittens for the men? Fuck, no.
“Cam, I am by far the lightest person here, so I am the obvious choice to test out the rope before any of you gorillas try to cross,” I began, loudly enough for most of the men to hear me. “I am also the only one who can identify Phil if he is unconscious or unable to speak. I am also the only one who can determine if he is beyond help, and if so, the only one here who will fire that shot if necessary.”
Cam was not happy about the convincing argument I had just put forth, but on the other hand, he was visibly relieved that I didn’t kick him in the balls. It was agreed that I would take part, but I had to promise that I would follow Cam’s orders to the letter. He would not risk anyone’s lives by having me deviate from the plan. For once in my life, I had to be the good soldier.
Before I had a chance to wrap my head around the thought that I was actually going over the wall into that stinking hell hole, someone shouted that the grappling hook was on the guard tower and they were ready for me.
It’s better that I don’t have time to think about it.
I once again ascended the ridiculously tall ladder. The wall was clear of all the razor wire, so I sat on the top while someone tied a safety line around me that looped over both my shoulders. It was a precaution that saved my life, because as I began crossing the rope hand over hand, the grapple pulled free of the guard tower and I swung backward into the wall. I hit hard, skinned both elbows, and screamed at the top of my lungs. The zombies below surged toward me like Christmas shoppers who were after that season’s hottest toy. Fortunately, I was just barely out of their reach, and the men on the wall yanked me up like a teabag. I had time to catch my breath before they were sure the grapple was firmly affixed again.
After the fall, Cam rushed up the ladder, and he told me I could still change my mind and no one would think badly of me.
“Yeah, but I would think badly of myself,” I said as I cautiously lowered my weight onto the rope.
It seemed to be secure this time, and without looking down, I quickly traversed the rope and dropped down onto the platform that went around the tower. All the men on the wall started yelling and I thought they were cheering my success, until I saw that their rifles were pointed my way. My breath caught in my throat, because that could only mean one thing.
I spun around just in time to duck the outstretched arms of a corrections officer—a very dead, putrefying corrections officer. I fell backwards, and did a rapid crab crawl away from him to the other side of the tower. I couldn’t crawl and reach for my guns at the same time, but I didn’t need to. Shots rang out from all the men on top of the wall, and the body of the ex-zombie hit the platform with a mighty thud. His face fell towards me, and I saw that one of the bullets had entered his skull through his left eye.
That’s my Cam! I thought proudly.
I waved my hands over my head and shouted that I was standing up, so they wouldn’t mistake me for another zombie. I pulled out one of my pistols and checked the inside of the tower. The coast was clear, so I could start breathing again. I untied the grapple and wrapped the end of the rope around the railing and gave it one of my best nautical knots. Then I signaled the others to come across.
Cam was the next over, and four others followed. After tossing the body to the ground, they started shuttling across the equipment and weapons in a cargo net. In no time, the six of us were squeezed onto the platform with flamethrowers, napalm balls, guns, and cutting tools. But even with all that and the 20 men posted along the walls to provide cover fire, I did not feel any less terrified.
From our vantage point, we could see that the thousands of roaming zombies must have been held in a single, enormous barbed wire pen that their combined weight had knocked down. A few dozen zombies were still hopelessly entangled in the wire, and their thrashing only made the sharp barbs dig deeper into their flesh. I would have liked to put bullets in their heads just to stop the distracting flailing of bloody arms and legs, but I couldn’t waste any ammunition with so many untangled zombies walking around.
Had the zombies not broken out of the pen, this operation would have been relatively simple. However, with our incendiary weapons, we could still clear some space below us. The first step was to get the grapple to stick into the metal roof of the pens, which turned out to be tricky business. The cheap, corrugated metal was not very thick, and the grapple easily pulled out on the first few attempts. Finally, on the fourth try the grapple caught onto something more solid, perhaps a support beam, but the angle came in perilously low. If I were to slide down, at the end of the rope I would easily be in grasping range of the zombies.
That’s where the napalm balls came in. One of the grizzled veterans lit the fuse of the first ball and gently tossed it so it landed about 25 feet from the base of the tower. A few seconds after it landed it burst into intense flames. I could feel the heat on my cheeks even at the top of the tower. All of the zombies surrounding the burning ball caught on fire. While they didn’t feel pain, they were clearly distressed and shuffled into the crowd, spreading the flames.
The second ball landed about 40 feet out and created a similar path of destruction for the zombies, but a clear path of descent for me. But just to be sure, this time I crossed my ankles over the rope so I could slide down with a lower profile. The heat rising up beneath me was incredible, and while I felt a bit singed by the time I reached the roof of the pens, I would take a little burnt over a lot bitten any day.
I did have a quick stab of fear when I found that the grapple had torn the metal roof into a sharp edge, which had been cutting into the rope. It wouldn’t have held much longer. I took a hatchet out of my backpack and started hacking some holes on either side of the peak of the roof, until I exposed the main support beam, which fortunately seemed sturdy. The holes also exposed the four hungry zombies beneath me, who were growling and reaching for me, but the roof was a couple of feet above the height of the tallest—or so I thought.
As I cut away the grapple and was preparing the rope to tie around the beams, a m
assive hand pushed up through one of the holes and grabbed my foot. The unusually clever bastard had figured out that he could reach me if he stood on one of the cots. It took several blows with the hatchet using all of my strength, but I was finally able to pry the detached zombie hand off my foot and toss it to the ground. Then I stuck the muzzle of my gun through the largest hole and made damn sure no one else would be grabbing me.
I wound the end of the rope around the support beam several times, and tugged the knots as tight as I could get them. Then I signaled that it was time for the others to descend. This was a much steeper angle, and everyone chose to use their legs to help them down—not to mention to literally keeping their feet out of the fire. It was decided it was too dangerous to send down the napalm balls as we were certain they would ignite when they passed over the flames, and then fry us when they reached the roof. But they did send across the flamethrowers in the cargo net—as quickly as possible.
The distance between the rows of pens looked much closer from the top of the wall. I had my doubts I would be able to jump that distance. Cam would jump first, but before he tried, we needed to clear out some of the zombies packed in the aisle between the pens. I really wanted to try one of the homemade flame throwers, but didn’t complain when two of the men started crisping the zombies beneath us. The sizzling and popping—especially of the eyeballs—was a little too gruesome for me.
The flames drove back the zombies and created a wide gap on the ground, which was the point where Cam attempted his leap. He had the distance, but his feet slipped out from under him when he landed. There was nothing to grab onto, and he slid right off the roof onto some smoldering zombies. He let out a yell, more out of disgust than fear, scrambled to his feet and was able to hoist his lean frame back onto the roof.
While he caught his breath, we discussed the situation and realized that even if we found Phil and he was healthy—which clearly he would not be—there was no way he was going to jump across the gap. Cam would proceed alone down the line of pens, and we would all move parallel to him from our side. We all started shouting Phil’s name, and Cam pounded on the roof of each pen to see if he would get a reaction. The only reaction we got was the hungry mob of zombies following our every move and grasping at the edge of the roof. A quick blast of a flamethrower was sufficient to repel even the most determined zombie.
I was trying to stay low so I could see into the pens across from me, but with the crowd of zombies, my view was blocked. About 30 feet in, Cam suddenly bolted forward, yelling, “Here, here!” We rushed along the rooftop until we were opposite of him.
“What do you see?” I shouted.
“There’s a bullet hole in the roof!” he replied. “Trues, can you see anyone in this pen beneath me?”
“No, there’s too many zombies in the way. Phil! Phil are you in there?”
We couldn’t hear any response. I tossed Cam the hatchet and hack saw, and he began cutting a hole in the roof. In a couple of minutes, he pried back a section of metal about the size of a pie plate and peered inside. I was ready to burst waiting for him to tell me what he saw.
“There’s two bodies—no, three bodies on the ground. Two have been shot in the head. I don’t see the third one moving. I’m sorry Trues, this doesn’t look like—wait, I think I saw some movement. Hello in there! Give me a sign if you’re alive.”
“Anything? Is there any sign?”
“Wait…yes! The man is moving his hand.”
“Is it Phil? What does he look like?”
“Christ, I don’t know. He’s as filthy and ragged looking as everyone else,” Cam replied, putting his hands up in the air. “I’ll have to go down there.”
We all protested that it was too dangerous, but once again, we had no other options. Using the flamethrower right in front of the pen might harm whoever was inside. We waited impatiently as Cam cut a larger hole, then he peeled back a section big enough to lower himself through. He tied a rope to the support beam, but before he jumped in, he looked right at me and gave me a reassuring wink. That was his “I’ve got this, baby,” wink, which he never used unless he was certain the situation was under control. Well, as much control as one could have in the middle of a zombie infested containment facility.
Agonizing seconds ticked by. I was about to scream from the tension, when he came to the front of the pen and yelled, “It’s him!”
Relief flooded over me and tears streamed down my face, which I quickly wiped away before anyone could see.
“But he’s very weak. There’s no way he can walk,” Cam yelled over the growls and grunts of the bloodthirsty zombies throwing themselves onto the fence, trying desperately to grab him. The fencing wouldn’t hold for long with the combined weight of the mob. One of the men with a flamethrower told Cam to take Phil to the back of the pen—where, I later found out, another mob of zombies was pressing themselves against the chain link wall, bending it inward—and then delivered a few short bursts of scalding flames that at least sent the mob back from the front of the pen.
The only thing Cam could do was carry Phil out of the pen, then hoist him up to us on the roof. But we would need time and a clear path for Cam. We needed the napalm balls. We had to wait about 15 minutes until the heat from the first two balls had diminished to a level safe enough to send down two more balls. At that point, the two flamethrowers had to push the crowd back at least 20 feet on either side of the pen, then we had to ignite and drop the napalm balls.
They were things of beauty when they burst into two walls of flame that even zombies weren’t stupid enough to cross. As soon as the way was clear, Cam used the bolt cutters to open the pen. I was not prepared for the sight of the dirty, frail, bearded figure that Cam carried out in his arms. I never would have recognized Phil. I later found out, the only way Cam had identified him was from the ID in his wallet.
Phil was conscious, but just barely. I called down to him, told him it was me and that he would be okay, but he didn’t seem to understand. Cam quickly tied a rope around Phil, and two of the men were easily able to lift the bony figure up to the roof. Then they reached down and took Cam’s hands and pulled him up. Finally, they loaded Phil into the cargo net and hoisted him up to the tower. Before any of us ascended the rope, another napalm ball had to be ignited to disperse the crowd gathering under the rope. Apparently, this ball had a little extra napalm as the flames licked the thick nylon rope to the point where it snapped in two.
Fucking perfect! I thought as we stood helplessly on the roof of the first row of pens, while someone outside the wall scrambled to find another rope long enough to reach from the tower. The stench was so sickening I was beginning to feel like I couldn’t catch my breath, and the sea of murderous walking corpses was just becoming too much to bear. I fought off an anxiety attack by trying to concentrate on exactly how I was going to treat Phil’s desperate condition. I closed my eyes and went over in my mind the medications, the dosages; anything to take my mind off where I was and what was happening.
The rope they finally found was old and pieced together, but it seemed to be the most beautiful rope in the world as I worked my way back up to the tower. I think the last few seconds of crossing from the tower back to the wall were the most nerve-wracking; kind of like when you dive under water and really need to take a breath, and those last few feet between you and the surface seem like an eternity.
When I reached the top of the wall and swung my legs up and over to the ladder, I welcomed the wobbly, unstable rungs as I climbed down, because it meant I was out of that horrible place. But I didn’t have time to dwell on the nightmare I had just been through, as all my fears dissipated when I saw Phil on a blanket on the ground. He was alive, but barely, and I prayed—yes, prayed—that he wasn’t so infected that he was about to switch. After all this, I couldn’t have dealt with that.
I cleaned off the caked-on grime from one of his arms to start an IV. He was dangerously dehydrated, malnourished, and had several infected wounds—non
e of which appeared to be bites, but that was a small consolation. I had to be realistic. If he had spent the last three weeks in the midst of thousands of infected people, there was no way he couldn’t be swarming with parasites.
And speaking of parasites, I made sure everyone took an Eradazole pill. Then I gave them several bottles of the pills and a few of my poisoned meat grenades. After expressing my heartfelt gratitude to every one of those brave and crazy men, I asked for one more favor—find me a secure building where we could bring Phil so I could take care of him.
Within an hour, they were gently carrying Phil into a house just a minute or two from the prison entrance. Fortunately, there were no occupants—living or dead—as it looked like they had packed up and left. The men also carried in all the medical equipment and supplies I had brought, and before I knew it, I had a kitchen laboratory. Someone even found a generator in the garage to give me some power.
I had told Cam I could take it from here, but he flatly refused to leave me with a badly infected person.
“What if he switches while you’re asleep?” he asked, shaking his head like I had no sense.
Perhaps I didn’t have any sense. Perhaps I had been spending so much time alone and on my own, I forgot what it was like to have someone watching my back. And I had forgotten how nice it was just have to have company. So while some of the men went back to Fort Ace to return the things we had borrowed—and find out their wonderful napalm recipe—I welcomed having a house full of people. It was a relief to be able to relax for even a few hours knowing that someone else was there to fight alongside you.
HVZA (Book 1): Hudson Valley Zombie Apocalypse Page 19