Deadrise 2: Deadwar

by Steven R. Gardner

  Smitty fought with the wheel as a pair of tires came apart, decelerating quickly to keep from careening into the guardrail once again. Once the speed was down to 40 mph he got the truck completely under control.

  “Fall back! Fall back!” Wild Billy screamed from the sidecar, looking behind them. “Smitty’s in trouble!” Angel decelerated and Wild Billy brought his AK-47 to bear. “That’s Augie! They turned Augie into one of those deadfucks!” Spittle flew from Wild Billy’s lips and he squeezed the trigger, emptying his clip at the creature on Augie’s bike. The superzombie swung the bike in tight behind Smitty’s truck, out of Wild Billy’s line of fire.

  “HOLD ON!” Smitty screamed back to Chico before slamming his foot on the brake pedal. The air brakes hissed as the hydraulics fought to keep the wheels from locking, but he felt the jarring impact of the superzombie and his bike as they smashed into the tail end of the truck. Chico was thrown into the front bulkhead, and Bear’s unconscious form slid across the floor. Smitty worked the gearshift, gathering speed once again. In the side view mirror he could see the mangled wreckage of Augie’s bike.

  One problem was solved, but the pursuing 4x4 had pulled to within fifty yards. Smitty could see a figure driving and another riding shotgun, plus another standing in the bed of the truck, upper torso splayed out over the roof of the cab, M-16 with attached grenade launcher in its hand. Smitty couldn’t push the truck above 40 mph. otherwise the blown rear tire caused too much interference with driving. He kept one eye on the road and another on the mirror, watching the truck draw closer with each second.

  “Chico!” There was no answer. “Chico?” Smitty screamed at the top of his lungs.

  “I’m here.” Chico said from just inside the access door, near the floor. He sounded rattled and in pain.

  Smitty would have said more, but in the side view mirror he saw the superzombie standing in the back of the 4x4 raise its weapon, bracing to fire the grenade launcher. “Fire in the hole!” he screamed, cringing down into his seat. The back panel of the trailer exploded inward, spraying wooden splinters down the length of the trailer, covering Chico and Bear’s prone figures. Searing pain lanced through his wounded shoulder, nearly causing him to let go of the wheel. But he managed to get it under control, his speed barely 20 mph.

  Chico sat up, his head ringing from the concussion of the explosion. Blood was running into his eyes, blurring his vision. He wiped his eyes and looked around. Bear was slumped next to him, covered in shards of wood. He looked down the length of the 20’ box trailer, and saw that the entire back panel had been blown apart, leaving a gaping hole in the rear of the truck. His vision blurred from dripping blood, and he wiped it clear again, rising painfully to his knees. Looking out the back of the trailer, he saw a black Toyota 4x4 less than ten feet behind the truck. A superzombie clad in military battle gear was crawling over the roof of the 4x4, sliding down the windshield onto the hood. Its M-16 was slung over its shoulder. Its bloodshot eyes were locked on Chico’s, its lipless mouth twisted into a jack-o-lantern grin. Chico’s hand scrabbled for his shotgun, but it was not in its holster on his thigh, it had fallen from his hand in the blast. He reached for the razor sharp machete tucked into his right boot instead.

  The superzombie leapt from the hood of the truck, soaring through the blast hole and landing in the back of the trailer ten feet from Chico. With a snarl Chico lunged in, swinging the machete in an overhand arc. The deadfuck raised its arm to parry, and the blade sank halfway through its forearm bone before stopping, allowing the superzombie to wrench it out of Chico’s hand. Before Chico could react it lashed out with a kick, catching him in the chest, sending him flying back into the front bulkhead of the trailer with a crash.

  Meanwhile, the 4x4 had swerved to the driver’s side of the truck and accelerated, trying to draw parallel to the door. The superzombie in the passenger seat had rolled down the window and now hung its upper torso out the window, an AK-47 in its hands. Smitty swerved the truck hard to the left, causing the 4x4 to go off the pavement and onto the shoulder of the road. It smashed through a mile marker post and a road sign before decelerating until it fell behind the truck and was able to swerve back onto the pavement.

  Chico pulled his face from the floor of the trailer, blowing bloody splinters out of his mouth. He looked up and watched the superzombie pull the machete from its forearm with its other hand, then look him in the eye, giving the blade a slow, arcing swing. Amazingly as Chico scrambled to his feet, his left hand came upon the sawed-off barrel of his shotgun. He snatched the weapon up, rising to his knees and pumping the action just to make sure there was a live round in the chamber. If the superzombie could have registered surprise it would have, but instead it simply lunged forward, machete raised over its head for the killing blow. Chico took a quick aim and fired, the blast catching the deadfuck in the upper chest and throat. At that distance, the twelve-gauge double-ought buckshot actually lifted the zombie off its feet, threw it backwards three feet and planted it firmly on its back. Chico stood up, pumping the shotgun and advancing on the superzombie. It sat up with a snap, swinging the machete wildly at his legs, but Chico was still out of its range. He took aim and fired, disintegrating its head from the jaw line up. Its headless body fell onto its back, flopping about blindly. Holstering the shotgun, he reached down and grabbed one of the deadfuck’s flopping feet, bracing against its convulsions and using its own energy to propel it out the back end of the trailer where it was steamrolled by the Toyota 4x4.

  Angel kept to the left side of the interstate and decelerated, letting the truck pass him and swerving over to put his bike between the truck and the 4x4.

  “Gotcha motherfucker!” Wild Billy screamed, opening up on fully automatic. The 7.76mm rounds shattered the 4x4’s windshield, peppering the driver and passenger with bullets. It swung around to the driver side of the truck and accelerated out of Billy’s line of sight.

  But not Chico’s.

  He stood at the blown open rear of the trailer, raised his shotgun and took aim. The superzombie driving the 4x4 was visible, less than fifteen away. Chico fired, blowing the left side of the deadfuck’s face off. The truck swerved hard to the left a decelerated, recovering just as two of its tires hit the unpaved shoulder of the road.

  Angel dropped his bike back to come parallel with the 4x4. Wild Billy held a grenade in his hand, and had pulled the pin as Angel brought the bike alongside the 4x4.

  “Merry fucking Christmas!” Wild Billy screamed, tossing the grenade over Angel’s head into the cab of the 4x4. Angel gunned the bike, pressing Wild Billy back into his seat of the sidecar. The two superzombies inside the 4x4 were scrambling to find the grenade, but to no avail. Just as Angel was pulling the bike up alongside the box truck, the grenade exploded, blowing both deadfucks to pieces. The blast reached the 4x4’s gas tank, which in turn exploded, turning the vehicle into a rolling fireball that swerved off road, crashing into the base of a hill. Wild Billy let out a long, whooping yelp of victory, a sentiment echoed by Smitty Tucker and all his surviving crew.

  Smitty was pulled from his revelry by the passenger door opening, and the superzombie that used to be Augie began climbing in from underneath. It locked eyes with Smitty; it had Augie’s same missing tooth, and still had Augie’s jewelry on its fingers and in its ears. One hand was gripping the open door while the other reached in and sank its blackened claws into the cushion of the seat, trying to pull itself into the cab. It must have grabbed the underside of the truck after it crashed into the rear bumper, pulling itself along the undercarriage to reach the cab.

  “CHICO!” Smitty pulled one of the five 9mm pistols he carried, took aim at the superzombie’s face and began firing. When his pistol clicked empty, half of the creature’s head had been blown away, the remnants like a rotten egg leaking thick black ichor and foul fumes, but one of its eyes still burned fiercely, boring into Smitty like a drill. The superzombie gave a heave, pulling itself halfway into the cab. It let got of the open doo
rframe and braced its hand on the dashboard, its other hand still gripping the seat cushion.

  Chico poked his shotgun through the access door, took aim at the hand gripping the seat cushion and fired, disintegrating the hand and upper wrist into a splatter of dead flesh, bone and black slime. It went off balance, teetering out the open door. Chico sprawled his upper torso through the doorway, lying on the floor of the cab between the seats. He aimed his shotgun at the zombie’s chest and fired. The point blank shot blew a softball sized hole right through its chests and out its back, dislodging it from the side of the truck where it tumbled into a broken heap along the side of the road.

  “That was Augie!” Smitty hissed through clenched teeth, wincing against the pain of his wounds.

  “Get the fuck out of here!” Chico exclaimed, sitting in the passenger’s seat.

  “It was! Those motherfuckers got to Augie and put one of those slugs into him!”

  “Fuck.” Chico said with deflation.

  Smitty growled in frustration. He held the truck at a steady 30 mph. He felt a boiling anger in his gut, and he wanted to press the pedal to the floor, to wash away his problems with the roar of the open road, just like he always had, but the truck was too battered to go any faster. Angel’s bike was fifty yards ahead of him. Even at that distance, he could read Angel’s pain in his body language. In the sidecar, Wild Billy’s face was in his hands, his shoulders slumped in sadness. Augie had been his best friend.

  “Do you think those deadfucks remember their life from before?” Smitty asked.

  “I don’t know? I try not to think about that kind of shit.” Chico was regaining his composure, and began reloading his shotgun with shells from his jacket pocket.

  “Me either. But with Augie turned into a superzombie, I’m wondering if he can remember where we are holed up at?” The last thing they needed right now was for the Augiezombie to lead Green Rivers ten thousand plus horde of zombies to Rainbow Lake.

  Up ahead, Angel was decelerating, bringing his bike along the driver’s side. Further down the highway, Smitty could see two large delivery vans approaching. The radio crackled from the floor between them. “Sgt. Gleason to Tucker do you copy?”

  “The cavalry to the rescue.” Chico piped, loading the last shell into the chamber of his weapon.

  “Answer the radio, give them a report.” Smitty settled back into his seat, trying to get as comfortable as possible, trying to forget about the pain of his bullet wounds.

  “Maybe this will help ease your pain?” Chico offered an unlit joint in is free hand as he reached for the radio with his other. “It’s my special blend.” Which meant it was sprinkled with heroin.

  “Maybe.” Smitty said with a smile, putting the joint in his lip and reaching for a light…

  CHAPTER 13

  Tuesday, August 7, 2001

  Mountain View, WY

  5:52 PM

  General Jenkins stood outside the front entrance of the lodge, smoking a cigarette, waiting for the Mountain View security chief to come down. For the past two days a delegation of Council members consisting of Patty, Matt, Dr. Reilly and Jenkins, as well as Alphas One, Two and Three, had been staying at Mountain View, bringing their leader, Hughes, and his people up to date on what had happened to the world. They had taken the news of the Krylok invasion rather well. After all, once you had come to terms with the fact that the dead were coming back to life, was an alien invasion really that much more of a stretch? Now they were trying to decide how best to continue forward.

  Jenkins had ordered Captain Turner to mop up the fifty or so deadfucks scattered in the nearby towns of Urie and Lyman. They were handled easy enough, but Jenkins was more concerned with the Sentinel that had once been a member of Smitty Tuckers crew of Freebooters. Smitty had assured him that the Augiezombie had been terribly mutilated and would not be one hundred percent operational. He doubted it could access the biker’s memories, but a superzombie running wild in the region, with ten thousand plus deadfucks in Green River at its disposal, was a bad situation no matter how you sliced it. So far the security patrols out along I-80 had reported no sign of advancing zombies from Green River, but Jenkins knew that wouldn’t last. Sooner or later that Sentinel would start herding them southwest along I-80, towards home.

  “Let’s do it.” Came a gruff voice over his shoulder, and Jenkins turned to see the security chief, Boone, had finally presented himself. Boone was a middle-aged, nondescript man with a crew cut and a clean shave. His eyes were a shade of grey, and his teeth stained yellow from coffee and cigarettes. He wore standard military fatigues and combat boots, with a combat utility belt clasped around his waist. An AK-47 was slung over one shoulder, a pistol and a machete on either hip. In one hand was a thick Manila folder while in the other was a tin cup of coffee. Pre-plague, Boone had been a rightwing, militant white supremacist, who saw the world through a prism of vast secret societies conducting clandestine warfare with one another for control of the world. The realities of the walking dead had quickly forced him to reassess his racial bigotry; after all, when the dead were rising up and devouring the living, a live human being, no matter their skin color, was a blessed sight. But he still held a deep suspicion for the United States Military Industrial Complex, or any vestige of the old United States Government, as both were the central villains in most of the conspiracies that had governed his life.

  “General…” Jenkins added, giving Boone his hardest, coldest stare. The defiance in Boone’s eyes flickered then withered and died.

  General sir…I…I…” Boone stammered, unsure of what to say.

  Boone usually had a lackey or two that tagged along wherever he went. Tonight they were going to take a Humvee to the security checkpoint the Militia had setup out on I-80.

  “None of your men are coming along?” Jenkins asked, cutting the tension and changing the subject as they began walking for the parking lot. It allowed Boone to regain his composure and his submission to Jenkins will was complete.

  “Not tonight. I want to speak with you privately.” Boone said quietly, conspiratorially.

  Jenkins had suspected Boone would try something like this. When Jenkins had first met him two days ago, Boone had expressed concern with Hughes leadership of Mountain View. Tonight, during the discussions, Jenkins had seen Boone casting Hughes odd looks, often glancing to Jenkins as if to tell him see what I mean?

  “Captain Turner and his driver will be accompanying us. Will that be a problem?” Jenkins asked, equally conspiratorial.

  “That’s up to you. How much do you trust them to hear?”

  “My men are loyal to me.” Jenkins said confidently.

  “Very well…” They spoke no more as they continued walking down the path to the parking area, where the Alpha One Humvee was parked. Captain Turner and Corporal Durbin stood idly about, chatting and smoking. As they walked up, both the Major and the Corporal snapped to attention.

  “At ease…” Jenkins said. “Let’s get rolling.” They all piled into the Hummer, with Durbin at the wheel, Turner riding shotgun, and Jenkins and Boone in the back. Once they were out of the parking lot and winding up the drive, Jenkins raised his voice.

  “Ok listen up! Boone and I are going to be discussing some things that are to remain in this vehicle. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes sir.” Echoed both the Captain and Corporal.

  “Say your piece, Boone.”

  “There are several of us who are unhappy with the way Hughes is handling things.”

  “Why haven’t you spoken up?” Jenkins asked.

  “You’ve talked with him. You know how paranoid he is. To question his methods or motives will only turn his paranoia on you.”

  “And everyone just falls in line?” There was half a smirk on Jenkins face as he was reminded of the conversation he and Mac had while forming the Militia, and the docile civilian sheep of Rainbow Lake, and the way they had submitted to his will and put their lives in the hands of the Council, who were
but extensions of his own power.

  “He has a grip on the people. A Cult of Personality.”

  Jenkins understood fully. “Does he eliminate those who oppose him?”

  “Not openly. Not yet. But they are definitely cast to the bottom of the pecking order; the last to eat or bathe, or receive medical attention.”

  “Are there enough of you to overthrow Hughes?” Jenkins asked bluntly. Are there any of my own that conspired to overthrow me

  “If there were we would have done it by now. There are only a handful of us. He has twenty armed men at his disposal who will kill on his command without a seconds thought.”

  “Why you? You seem to have it made here. You’re the security chief, basically Hughes right hand man.”

  “I won’t lie… I have taken advantage of my position. But threatening to kill anyone who tried to go with your people? What the fuck is that? Who is he to tell me that I can’t try to find a better place for me or my family?” Boone was simmering with rage.

  “Does he suspect your loyalty?” Jenkins asked. Who would challenge me? Lucas? The Sheriff? Mac?

  “No. Not yet.” Boone replied.

  “Why?” Let the bastards try! I will put a fucking bullet between their eyes!

  “Because I don’t question what he says. I carry out his orders and keep him safe. But I know there has got to be a better way. Just look at what your people are doing. I know you guys are out raiding other towns for supplies. I wanted to do the same thing, but Hughes forbade it. He said it would lead the zombies back to Mountain View. Listening to your account of the siege on you lake, or the battle of Evanston, you’ve proven what I suspected: The zombies can be handled in large numbers using a well-armed, well-coordinated attack plan. We do not have to stay huddled here in this lodge like frightened sheep, waiting for a nod from Hughes to try and better our situation.”