It was obvious that whoever was doing it was trying to get someone's attention and she looked toward the compound she had spotted the night before. That was it! Someone was signaling for help. All Sharon had to do was wait, and when they came to rescue them she would flag them over to help her.
She struggled to see what the flash from the strobe was trying to show her but she couldn't quite make it out. The strobe light sped up, allowing more frequent flashes and giving her eyes a little more time to focus. Her stomach turned from the flashes as she struggled to make out what she was seeing on the other rooftop. Over the zombies and snare, she could hear the screams from those at the compound as they realized what was happening. How they could see it she didn't know, because it was obviously the same horror that was becoming clear to her. Maybe she saw it and her mind rejected such an atrocity.
The drum roll stopped and the opposite roof top was suddenly lit up like a theater marquee with spotlights shooting straight up into the air and marking the spot for all to see from miles away. Bright lights shone on six people who were bound and gagged to some kind of lattice work. One man sat on his knees, gagged, with his hands tied behind his back and looking straight toward the rooftop.
"Oh god …" Sharon said as she recognized the other members of her party. She saw her best friend, Marcy, in the middle struggling against her bonds. It was Gordon who was on his knees before the others. Sharon started to back toward the door, wondering how she could get to them when she knew that the building beneath her friends was filled to bursting with zombies.
The lights flashed as the drum roll from huge speakers next to her friends started up again; screams from the compound filled her ears as they too saw what was going on. The drum roll stopped and the lights flashed just long enough for them all to see a new person standing on the rooftop. In one hand he held a long knife, in the other he held Gordon by the hair.
Disco music started in short burst with the lights flashing to the beat, only letting them see what happened in stop-motion flashes. Gordon was dragged to the edge of the building by the bald man. Still on his knees, his head was hung over the edge.
He's drugged, come on boy … fight! Sharon's mind screamed. The bald man reached around him from behind, pulling a complacent Gordon's head back by the hair and exposing his throat.
The razor-sharp knife appeared to cut halfway through his neck, spraying the zombies with his warm blood and causing an almost orgasmic reaction. He held Gordon's head back, trying to get every ounce of blood onto the undead horde below.
Sharon fell to her knees, overwhelmed by the horror she had witnessed. Zombies started to feed on the ones coated with his blood. In a final act of depravity, the man flung Gordon over the edge to the mass below as if he were feeding his pet lions then stood back to watch as Gordon's body was torn to shreds. As ricochets from large-caliber rifles being fired from the compound almost a mile away flashed near the man, he laughed and seemed unaware of them. There was only him and his bound prisoners behind him. Sharon could only assume that they were aiming low to avoid hitting his prisoners and he knew it.
He turned and sauntered back to his captives. He went to Marcy, kneeling in the center of the bound group. Sliding the knife covered in Gordon's blood up under her blouse, he plucked the buttons off one by one with an evil grin that Sharon could see even from her distance.
Rage began to boil in her blood, and she reached for her spade. She didn't know how, but she knew that she had to try to stop this.
#
The first of the trucks pulled into the work area where people mixed more of the special mud found in the second storage locker. Others carried bags of the ball bearings here and there as Lisa, Krupp, and Mustafa, the retired Green Beret captain, studied a map. They had set up on the Raymar Bridge over Interstate 30 where the highway widened, showing nothing but trees lining both sides of the asphalt. The truckers moved quickly, depositing prepared load upon load on both sides of the interstate and creating a bottle neck.
Lisa had found out through word of mouth that the zombies responded best to percussion sounds. It struck some sort of primal instinct deep within the dead, creating an irresistible drive to follow wherever it led. Tim was using those sounds now as part of his attempt to rescue humans who were trying to escape the feeding frenzy in Little Rock.
Almost two hundred had made it back behind the barrier a quarter mile in front of the bridge on which they now stood. Sixty or more living had been marked by the extraction teams; some of which could be rescued, while the others were told to hold tight until the zombies had passed.
"Tim, are you there? Over."
"I'm here, Lieutenant. What are your instructions? Over."
"Just want you to know to cut and run at your own discretion. Over."
"Will do, Lieutenant. Over," Tim replied. He didn't know why she had chosen him to be the go-to for all of the military people who showed up, but he didn't like it. He was squad leader on his warrior weekends but hadn't seen Regular Army for almost fifteen years. Mustafa was more equipped to deal with the organization thing and he was happy to push it off on him. Tim was there to carry a gun. On other weekends, he spent his time at Civil War reenactments and searching out conventions and auctions.
"So far we've seen more zombies than we have escapees, but we're approaching a group that looks alive right now. Over."
"Get all that you can, Tim. We're going to need as many living bodies as we can get. We need to keep as much of the horde as we can focused on the highway, so send any refugees that way to draw them in. I have some loaders and skiddies setting up a corridor for you to get back to us. Over," Lisa explained.
"Roger that, Lieutenant. Need to put some focus on the north side about ten miles out from your position. There was a large concentration of dead. Over."
"We're on it," she said after a nod from Mustafa. "Don't get swarmed, Tim. We need everyone back here. Out."
"Roger and out." Tim twisted and focused on a group of thirty or so struggling to stay ahead of a horde three times larger bearing down on them. Runners were already penetrating the back line of the group. Tim was proud to notice that the back line was not the weak and sick left as fodder so that the strong could survive. It was strong, healthy men and women meeting the runners with bats, rods, machetes, and even a few guns.
An older deuce and a half pulled to a bouncing stop in front of the fleeing civilians and the troops inside poured out. Two stayed and directed the civilians on board before sending them back to the main group. The soldiers knowingly sacrificed their own safety so that the others could survive. A horde of civilians running away is an action filled with panic and typically little direction. For the soldiers, they were a tactical maneuver intended to take control of their movement.
Being a war history buff, Tim had thought a lot about it. He had seen how Lisa fell naturally into a role that required actions outside of the scope of military procedure. There were multiple examples from what Tim had seen and learned that told him a soldier might not have been a better choice than Lisa. They couldn't fight the things as if they were a battle to be won; they had to fight them as if humanity's very existence depended on it—because it did. Stopping and engaging the enemy in a pitched battle was futile; they would inevitably be overrun. He had learned from how the compound was established. So through the distraction of the horde to keep them from swarming and establishing mobile kill zones is what he did. He didn't know that this tactic—or plan—came mainly from Brett, the contractor, who basically ran the compound. It didn't matter though; Lisa was in charge, so it was her plans they pursued.
He sent two Humvees left and two right, intending to taunt the outside edges of the mass. They shot and honked and screamed at the horde that had actually turned out to be a couple of hundred strong in this particular grouping. The dead didn't travel in one even wave, as each was following their own internal prompts. They did have a tendency to cluster because of the variable ambulatory speeds of the walkin
g dead. Crawlers always had a buildup of walkers trying to get past—and tripping over—their slower counterparts, slowing the horde even more. Tim wondered how they were making as good of time as they were and assumed that there would be a lot of shooting the stragglers later.
The clusters started to loosen from their barrage of activity, spreading the Z's out and making them easier for the loaders to clear when they met. Once the mass was spread wide and the rescued party was safely on their way, they broke off and picked up the ground fighters to search out more of the living.
It was apparent to Tim that the people had heard the broadcasts, as some were pulling their business equipment with them. Landscapers and construction workers with large pickup trucks and trailered skid-loaders, backhoe/bucket combos, and even some larger front-end loaders were on trailers as they made their way to Hot Springs.
Some of the trailered equipment was not only running, but manned and ready for battle. Splashes of blood and chunks of fleshy pulp graced the powder-coat paint of the heavy steel machines—some of these men were already experienced at the best defense against the dead.
Through his binoculars, Tim spotted a group in distress and had directed his group over to help when two trucks from a landscaping company screeched to a halt. Men with rifles filed out of the four-door cabs and started picking off the ones engaged with people fighting with garden tools.
Two skid loaders, one yellow and one orange, flew off the back of their trailers eagerly. He could hear their growl and continued to be amazed by the agility of the little machines. Huge swathes of bodies were swept away at eight miles an hour. They were the irresistible force against the flood that rolled over and destroyed everything in its path. Shooters had learned to work with the machines to keep any of the smarter, faster ones from climbing up and blocking their vision. The people were freed and moving west when transport trucks pulled in front of them and loaded them for the rest of the trip. Tim pulled up next to the driver of one of the pickup trucks.
"Nice job here, mister."
"Thanks, we've had some practice," the driver replied.
"You'll find the rest of us about ten or twelve miles down the road at Raymar Road. Once you get there, they'll either send you to Hot Springs or assign you line duties."
"Assign us line duties?"
"Welcome to the Army, bud; if you're breathing, you're a soldier. Besides, we got to end these fuckers right now."
"You mean you're going to fight that horde?"
"No, sir." Tim smiled. "We're going to destroy it." Tim didn't know how she would do it, but he knew that the lieutenant would come up with something.
Tim realized that he could feel a thumping down in the pit of his stomach. It carried a pattern-like beat and forced him to look around to see if there was something visible creating it. There was nothing … yet there it was. "Have you seen any more behind you that may be in trouble?"
"Yeah, about a mile back there was an old brick filling station with fifteen or twenty on the roof but there were too many for us to take; likely too many for you too."
"Yeah, you're probably right, but the lieutenant said she wanted everyone, so that is what she is going to get. Thank you for your patriotism," Tim said and slapped the roof to move forward. Two Humvees, a half track, and a deuce and a half started heading into the swarm. His other Humvees were searching for other groups and keeping the trail open as zombies came in from all angles.
They hailed an ammo truck for refreshments and had them distribute more to the two pickup trucks and skidloaders that had decided to come along with Tim for the fun of it. Tim smiled; he had no intentions of dying tonight but if he did, he would die knowing that he had seen the best in people. By his standards, it was more than good enough. He turned to the other Hummer and gave Carlos a wink. They had been weekend warriors together for years and knew they had each other's backs.
#
Lisa and Krupp shared a look. What they had set up was ingenious, some might even say brilliant, but it was going to cause an insane amount of collateral damage. They couldn't help but feel they were doing something wrong on an immeasurable scale, others would say cosmic scale, but Lisa wouldn't; there was nothing cosmic about this situation. Some kind of dirty pathogen or virus had been unleashed on the world. It had to be. For everyone to change so quickly … so pathologically, it had to be by design. An evil like—yet worse than—the Skinner. She didn't have the luxury of worrying about it though; the way things were going, she may never get the opportunity to ponder upon what may have caused it. It took all of her energy just to stay alive while keeping as many others alive as she could manage in the process.
Mustafa, the war-hardened captain, also showed signs of remorse over what they had planned. Lisa found out the he was from Little Rock and that he was aware that his friends and family would be among the masses of the intended destruction.
They watched as the kettle and bass drums started a rhythmic beat to call in the infected.
The beat rolled over the street, creating a vibration that would be felt for a long time after the sound dissipated. Each percussion of the mallet reinforcing the one before, extending the range in ripples of vibrating concrete and dirt.
Trucks full of survivors started to appear in the distance, causing Lisa, Krupp, and Skit to head down to meet them. They would be off-loaded quickly so the trucks could make another run.
The receiving area was already set up with guards and dogs to inspect those who exited the trucks. Dogs had been found to be particularly sensitive to the infected. Self-preservation is a good teacher, and dogs responded to that better than anyone could have expected; even the earliest cases could be detected and separated from the healthy. The holding area for the bitten was a grim scene with people in denial slowly realizing their reality as the toxins burned through their veins.
Some waited until they had painfully passed, trying to get the last few seconds of life before the end. Others opted out. There was no judgment or determination, simply an area where religious devotees offered their words of hope as volunteers offered the courtesy of a bullet. There had to be something said for the finality of a clean shot through the head. If there is a moment of survival after the shot, the brain isn't in any condition to register it.
Unfortunately, some would attack when they were singled out and had to be restrained until they turned. Sad but they could never be too careful in stopping a potential infected from getting through.
Tonka was a credit to his training and breed. He was an all-purpose breed whose herding instincts were very subtle as he separated certain humans from the pack.
Lisa heard a shot from a recently emptied school bus commandeered for the evacuation before a body was dragged out and dumped on to the ground. A shuttle van approached from the front lines, swerving all over the road and soon slowed to two miles an hour.
Lisa and Krupp responded first, right behind Tonka who was already pacing around the shuttle bus front and passenger side, agitated. Lisa came up behind him with her gun ready. Skit quickly arrived behind her, while Krupp moved toward the door. They could see the driver inside fighting with a zombie as others battled in the back of the bus.
The driver freed a hand and threw the door lever, opening the side door on the passenger side. Being a separate cab, he was able to push his zombie toward the side door before opening his own and sliding out.
"Are you bit?" one of the guards yelled at the driver.
"I don't know; I think it's only a cut on my wrist," the driver cried out as the first shots started hitting the zombies coming off the bus.
Soon, people were dragging infected and living indiscriminately into the open so Tonka could separate and the shooters could do what they do.
These were the people that the world had left for them. Stripped of love and hope, they continued on, knowing that something bigger than them was at work and survival was paramount. They didn't care who they worked with as long as they were alive. These were the survivors
; each and every one of them necessary for the fight that would continue, had to continue.
Each and every one—mentally and emotionally scarred from the horror that was their new life while dreading the strife that was their future—carried on. They would continue to fight, struggling for each precious breath with the hope that humanity could, on some level, prevail. All the while trapped within the macabre recollections of their own actions, living the rest of their lives as shells of their former selves. Loving the memories of the life they once had.
Lisa didn't need to hear their stories; she had lived her own. Although many had gone through worse, no one was going to commit worse than what she had planned with Krupp and Mustafa. The silence at the end of the radio when she informed Benson only heightened the dread that they all were feeling.
The world had changed so they too must change or they would become what the rest of the world had already become … dead.
Chapter 7
Sharonator
Art Benson walked over to the small earthen lodge that Tommy had built and knocked on the mat that posed as a door. He had seen a steady flow of people coming in and out of there but was never quite able to pin down what was going on. He smelled the unique scent of marijuana and for a second was tempted to follow the old laws and arrest everybody connected with it. But this is a new age where most of the old laws just didn't matter. The stress levels were so high that if a little weed smoked in a sweat-lodge helped to retain some sort of normalcy, then Benson was all for it.
More important than the weed, he needed some help, and Tommy—with his size, strength, and ability to survive—was just the man for the job. The tall Native American came out of the hut covered in sweat and wearing nothing but an old school loin cloth that consisted of several flaps of leather front and back.
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