Zombie Rush 3

by Joseph Hansen

  "Hi, Chief. What can I do for you?" he asked, leaving no doubts in Benson's mind that he was interrupting the man at whatever he was doing.

  "We have Skinner located in some buildings across the street and down a ways. There are about a thousand Z's between here and there—" Benson started.

  "Only about four hundred and fifty, in truth," Tommy said, causing Benson to look at him dubiously.

  "Yeah, well, there are too many for us to clear out without the machines, and his rifle up in those buildings has them on hold. He is effectively cut off from us. I was wondering if you could help us out a bit?"

  "How's that, Chief?" Tommy asked, not quite understanding what Benson intended for him to do that they themselves couldn't do.

  In Tommy's mind he was playing his part, even though Benson might not see it—he may never see it. There were those who'd refuse to see, but that didn't change the fact that Tommy was doing his part.

  "Well, we need some help to be honest. We need planners and strategists as well as scouts and people to do recon."

  "Scouts? Recon? Let me guess, you're not really interested in me for the planning committee, are you?" Tommy said; not in an accusatory manner, but rather as a simple statement of fact.

  "Look, you escaped that bridge when nobody else could and then swam over a mile upstream. Not many could do that … and you weren't even breathing hard."

  "I'm sorry, Chief, but my skills are better served elsewhere," Tommy replied calmly.

  "I don't get it. You told me that it was your duty to help all people get through this."

  "I did, and I am doing just that. Within my endeavors I place a special focus on the Skinner, Chief. That is the most that I can offer right now. Is there anything else?"

  "Would you care to explain?"

  "It's complicated. You would have to move into my world for a bit just to get a glimpse of what is happening right now. They're waiting for me inside, Chief, so I had better get back to it."

  "Back to it? Back to what?"

  "Helping you with the Skinner—or Doctor Webber as I prefer to call him."

  "You're helping me from in there? How?"

  "As I said, it's complicated and time is critical right now. I have lots to do yet so ..."

  "I guess that's that then, isn't it? Thanks for nothing, Tommy," Benson said snidely before he walked away.

  #

  Tommy watched him go, wondering why it was that some could see the value in certain things while others consider them useless. So much of the world had been made better by the very things he was doing and they just didn't know it, or couldn't see it. Powerful magic existed in the world, but it has to be milked—not summoned; felt—not touched.

  Tommy returned to the seven who were huddled around the kettle of water being filled with hot rocks from the fire. His eyes took in each one of the occupants, making sure that they understood the gravity of the situation. They had seen the Ojibwe man building his sweat-lodge but none knew why. They only knew that the Native American man had played a huge role in the creation of the compound so he was allowed to do as he wished.

  He used strands from his own hair to scatter evenly throughout the structure as well as small drops of his own blood. Not major amounts, just enough so that a piece from his own being hit each of the comfort zones. The floor was rubberized matting meant for kitchen and warehouse floors, with the exception of the center where the fire and water would create the steam needed for the cleansing.

  The world was where he existed and though some products were artificial, they had still originally come from the earth, everything came from the earth. Someday it would all be returned to the earth to be devoured by time and fire until it became the earth once again.

  He entered the lodge and gave them all a reassuring smile.

  "We are going to take a journey together. It is a journey of great importance. A journey where we might do some good for everyone."

  There were two there from southern tribes who had been in Hot Springs on business when it went down, while the majority of the seven were locals. There was no shortage of those looking for spiritual guidance and the Ojibwe way of the earth and ancestors was appealing to a select few. He chose them specifically to have the ancestors from as many nationalities as possible join in because it was a very special summons.

  Tommy started slowly with soft drum beats. He soon added his voice in slow rhythmic tones meant to soothe and draw in the minds of those who may have doubts.

  Ever so gently, he added words from his native Ojibwe—a language of the earth. They heard his words with clarity and felt their meanings within.

  Aadisookaan wanisin giinawind andodamaw naazikaw bagami dibendan wiineta awenen debinan gaye giinawaa gid.

  "Spirits of the lost I beseech thee to come forth and claim he who has done this to you."

  Purified water was slowly poured over the stones in the hut, causing steam to rise and form ethereal images before bleeding through the bramble-covered smoke hole. Some would have seen images of those they knew if they had been looking, but the powers in the lodge held them all mesmerized by the words of power being spoken. No meanings were lost on the assemblage as the voices of the recently demised relayed his words.

  Miikawaadendaagozi makwa awi'iwe gikendan wiin izhiwidamaw gimoodishkiiwinini jichaag.

  "To the beautiful bear I lend my cunning so that she may lead the taker of souls."

  ***

  Kodiak looked at the base of the lift, wondering how she could sabotage it. She knew that it was set to allow for the doctor's escape but it was currently swarming with zombies. Zombies don't climb, so six feet up the boom arm the collection of dead ended, leaving a cleared basket hanging over the roof edge above. She saw a dumpster and then some filled cans that left a haphazard clear path into the ground floor of a building across the alley. It was meant as an entrance or an exit and she didn't know how she could get to it through the horde that she barely stayed hidden from.

  "Dean, what's going on up there?" she asked into the mouthpiece supplied to them by the lieutenant.

  "I don't know, but it looks like he has a group of people lined up," Dean replied as he watched the scene from another rooftop. He watched as the doctor pulled a man from the group and brought him to the opposite roof edge, when suddenly lights on the building flashed on. More light in the distance caught Dean's attention as he saw the electronic billboards come to life.

  "Fuck me," he said.

  Through binoculars, he watched the face of the doctor display a huge, maniacal smile just before he violently slashed the captive's neck. The zombies almost howled with glee as they tried to press deeper into the building. Dean could see the rooftop door throbbing from the pressure behind it. With the rooftop now lit, he could see that six more living people were tied up to some lattice work beneath a billboard.

  "Fuck me," he said again.

  "What? What the fuck, Dean? Talk to me!" she whispered loudly and then pulled completely out of view in case one of the zombies heard her. Her fear was not justified, because they seemed focused on the building where all of the excitement was happening on the roof.

  "He just sprayed a guy's blood all over the Z's on the street. Now he just threw the zombies the guy's body as if they were a pit of rats or pet wolves."

  "What the fuck?" she whispered.

  "He's put it on the jumbo-tron, Kodi," Dean said, seeing the colors flash on a distant billboard.

  In a city of virtual darkness, a color picture stands out pretty well and he could see the scene changes with every flip of a screen. Like a very slow stop motion, one scene after another played for the living trapped within the compound.

  "At the stadium?" she asked, confused by his meaning.

  "No, them goofy billboards that show video pictures."

  "Oh, over at the Sam's … holy shit, Dean! He's broadcasting this shit to the entire compound. We gotta stop him."

  "How? He's too far away for me to get to. I suppose I could try t
o shoot him, but it's a long way and I'm bound to hit one of the captives. I'm more of a shotgun guy, you know."

  "You gotta do it, Dean."

  "All right, I'll set up and see what I can do. Oh fuck ..."

  "What?"

  "New player in the game. On the next building over … there's another live one watching."

  "Is that his escape route? Are they laying out a plank or something?" Kodiak asked before she heard a scream of rage from a powerful female voice.

  "Holy crap!" Dean exclaimed. "She ain't no ally. She just threw a chunk of something at him and almost hit him. She's looking for more … now she ducked … he's shooting at her!"

  "Shoot that fucker, Dean!" she said too loudly and then started to change position before the Z's came to investigate. She had to find a way over to the space blocked by the dumpsters; that was his path, she was sure of it.

  Dean set up on the roof's edge but couldn't get his body to bend right to hold the gun steady so he took a knee. Then, knowing that a two-hundred-yard shot was well beyond his capabilities, he moved over to a small shack on the rooftop to use its wall to stabilize his rifle.

  "Come on, Dad, shoot him," Charlie said.

  Dean took the shot and smiled when it sparked off some of the lattice work right by the doctor's head. His smile turned to fear when the doctor then, in one smooth movement, turned and put three pistol rounds into the shack wall right next to him.

  "Holy fuck, that guy is good," Dean said to Charlie, who was now on his belly with his hands covering his head. Dean poked his head out and two more rounds splintered the wood by his face, forcing him back.

  "Stay down," he said to Charlie then tried to lie flat and look out at the doctor.

  #

  Web was quite proud of his accomplishments up to that point, though he felt he was pushing himself a little too hard. His heart rate was elevated and he was working off of minimal amounts of sleep—not to mention his diet had been shit for the last few days. He knew that he was going to have to change something when he found himself ravenously tearing into a bag of chips just a couple of hours ago. He didn't eat chips or any other highly processed, over-salted food, but being on a schedule, he had no choice.

  He could feel his blood pressure rising with his adrenalin just at the thought of what he was going to accomplish in only a few more minutes. He wanted the darkness of the night sky at just the right level before he started the show.

  Web stood back and contemplated which of his captives he would start with. His eyes floated from the pretty blond to the older school teacher woman, but then decided that the men would be better. His eyes settled upon the pretty boy—Gordon he remembered him being called. He looked like a salesman. Web hated salesmen.

  He pushed a button on what looked like a flat screen TV remote then punched a code into the numbers section and smiled when the electronic billboards flashed to life. They were the same two billboards that advertised his cosmetic surgery clinic. Finding the codes to control them was easy when he knew where the ad company was. Supplying the power to the roof top was the hardest part, but a construction generator tied into the building more than fit the bill.

  The moaning and hissing from the crowd of undead just below him was a fitting live soundtrack and he found himself getting caught up in the moment. The last remnants of the sun faded into the blackness of night, leaving only one bright spot in the city other than the compound. It was there that Web was performing his greatest work to date. Oh, he had done some more artistic things in the past, but never so many and definitely never under the scrutiny of the public eye.

  With four separate cameras running and controlled by his remote, he stepped forth as the ringmaster of his own personal circus. Arms held wide, he bowed to the camera then a quarter turn and bowed in the direction of the compound. He thought about a long speech, but then decided that would ruin the moment for everyone—including him.

  It was with the moans of the dead as his orchestral backdrop that he grabbed Gordon by his hair and sliced the bonds that bound him to the lattice at the base of the rooftop billboard. With Gordon's hands still bound, the wiry doctor dragged him over to the edge of the building and looked up toward the cameras that were cued.

  He felt very utilitarian to have forgone the showmanship of trying to explain the whys and wherefores of what he was doing. There was no reason behind what he did, other than the fact that he really enjoyed doing it. People could never understand his need for that type of self-gratification. It always came so easily that he wondered if it actually was a need or something deeper that was ingrained into his very being.

  He remembered the times in the past when he attempted to deny his true personality. He would become like a rabid dog hiding in a darkened corner of his own mind, waiting for his needs to burst and knowing the wrong time and place would ruin it all. He remembered the sweat and the loathing he would experience during those times when he was nothing but a wire ready to snap. He had no control; his lust acted out of impulse, often at inopportune moments. He had to take control of it the same way he controlled everything else in his world: with deadly precision.

  Happiness never came until he accepted who he was and designed his life around his calling. Coming from a family of wealth, and into a career of great wealth, he found himself in a world of almost unlimited resources where he could act on his needs and fulfill his lusts. Then the world changed and he didn't even have to spend money or sneak about anymore.

  It was with that elation that he drew back the blade aimed for Gordon's throat before coming down and slashing halfway through the neck of the prone man, pulling his head back to allow the blood to spray on his lustful fans below.

  They moaned in ecstasy as the hot liquid poured over them, covering their faces and hands, causing their brethren to pull large masses of hot, blood-covered flesh from their faces or wherever it landed.

  He pushed Gordon's head down farther over the ledge until gravity took over and he let the body fall into the devouring pit below. The satisfied moans did nothing but spur on the others that didn't get to feed and the pressure both inside and out of the building reached a new level. The entrance door to the roof seemed to bulge at the hinges as undead flooded into the front and back doors below. Their lust was something that Web had felt many times before; he could feel their drive to feed.

  There were moments that he enjoyed dabbling at that level; like when he tied the racist to the front of the building and watched as his terror escalated with every zombie he prevented from biting the bound man. The next moments were going to be epic as he forced what remained of humanity to watch his art on the most macabre level.

  It was as he stood that he heard the enraged scream from someone way too close for comfort, forcing him to draw his sidearm. Then he saw her and had to laugh. He was impressed that the thick girl had survived; he had left her practically swarmed by a horde yet somehow she managed to make it out. Although impressed and the thought of her being in his hand for a few hours had crossed his mind, it didn't prevent him from sending a couple of rounds her way. It didn't matter, any living for several blocks around would be nothing more than a snack for the masses that he had acquired. At first disappointed by the lack of consequence in the zombie apocalypse, he now found himself loving the sheer amount of terror he could cultivate.

  He stepped next to the lattice work where the rest of his victims were tied, and waited for the black girl to show her face again but she was too smart and stayed hidden.

  A spark next to his face caused him to involuntarily flinch. Coming from another direction, it caused the doctor the first inklings of self-doubt.

  The area had been secured and he had set the scene meticulously for his grand display, yet here was a girl who should be dead only one building away and a stranger taking potshots from the distance. He saw the movement after the shot and turned with his gun blasting out two rounds, forcing the shooter behind the building that he had shot from. Web waited, knowing that he w
ould return, and fired three more that impacted right next to his face as soon as he did. It was a long distance for a pistol, but Web had trained for that and was disappointed in himself that he had missed on all shots.

  Web reflected for just a moment; it was the ability to stay focused on his goals and knowing when to break that kept him out of harm's way. He was constantly looking for signs of when to move. The girl on the roof, his missed shots at her. The unnoticed sniper on the opposite roof and five missed shots at him … it was time to move. Everything was set to play out without him, and that was enough to cause Web to consider throwing caution to the wind and watch the show he had so painstakingly designed. But that would be insane, and Web was by no means insane—not even on a good day.

  For the camera, everything looked staged with no action out of place, but in Web's mind, today didn't go nearly as smoothly as he planned. He turned and shot two more rounds at the woman, who looked as if she was going to try to jump the chasm between the buildings. She had some type of half-moon spade which she held to her side like a pole vaulter, but that would be foolish, as the pole wasn't long or flexible enough. Then he saw it. She held it as if she were trained to fight with such a weapon. It's no wonder she survived the horde, he thought. She's some kind of Amazon ninja or something.

  Web dropped the magazine, letting it fall to the roof floor before slamming another one home. He grabbed a two-pound hammer before running over to the bulging rooftop door. With the hammer, he slammed the paddle lock that he had rigged earlier, knocking it completely off the door, which instantly opened from the force of the zombies behind it. He ran for the lift-bucket that was behind his captives and hovering four feet off the ground. He had to beat the Z's to it by at least ten seconds or he wouldn't be able to get the throttle clutch combination going. He heard the woman's scream, and out of the corner of his eye saw her leap the twelve- to fourteen-foot-gap between the buildings. She almost didn't make it and he heard her spade skitter across the roof surface in front of her. He could see her arms clasped over the roof's edge as she barely hung on and was tempted to go and help her to complete her fall. It was a distraction and he recognized it as one; he already had his plan of action and only had to follow it through. Another day he would make up for the folly that this day had become.