by JJ Zep
Another explosion forced the tent flap to flutter open giving me a brief glimpse of the carnage going on outside. I saw fires and people running and broken bodies. The debris of the wrecked helicopter formed a centerpiece for the battle, lying on its side, a smoldering wreck pouring oily black smoke into the air.
For a brief moment a feeling of dread engulfed me. What if Ruby had been aboard that helicopter?
Almost immediately I was overcome with a dead certainty that she hadn’t been aboard, that she was even now heading south aboard the first flight. I hoped that the same was true of Valerie and her boys.
I knew I had to get out of there even if it meant dragging the bed with me. How long would it be before one of those things pushed through the flap and made an easy meal of me?
I looked past Joe’s bed to the tent flap, half expecting one of them to stumble through at any moment. And then it struck me.
Joe’s bed! In the dream Joe had placed the key under his pillow, not mine. I knew I was right.
I slid over my own bed, then pulled it onto its side, and manhandled it closer to the bed next to it. I ripped down the mosquito net and took a long deep breath before lifting the pillow. And there it sat. Not the key I’d been expecting, but a single hairpin.
“Shit, Joe, what am I supposed to do with that?” I’d never picked a lock in my life.
Still, it was my only hope. I inserted both ends of the hairpin into the slot and started wiggling it randomly. Outside the sound of a tank gun boomed close to the tent, setting my ears ringing. In the next instant I heard a distinct click, and the cuff sprang open.
I’d been focusing on the cuffs as I tried to pick them. Now as I looked up I looked straight into the face of the once pretty nurse.
Her face was now unrecognizable, her eyes blackened by running mascara, her mangled ear bloody, her lips drawn back in a maniacal smile that exposed straight, white teeth that seemed somehow too big. A line of drool trailed down from her chin and from her throat she emitted a low, angry growl, like a muscle car idling.
My hands were free, but I had very little room to move, trapped as I was between the two beds. The nurse lunged forward and I sidestepped, throwing her off balance and them pushing hard into her chest with both hands. She was thrown backward over Joe’s bed and landed in a heap on the tent floor.
She got slowly to her feet, her lips drawn back, and murder in her eyes. The growl in her throat increased in intensity as she prepared for another attack.
Just as she was about to leap, one of the tanks crashed through the tent and caught her side-on, dragging her under its tracks. The sound that it made was like a walnut being crushed under a boot.
The tank rumbled on taking the tent with it and kicking up a mini dust storm. As the dust cleared I could make out the carnage of the battleground. Bodies were everywhere, some half consumed, some blown apart by shellfire, others looking like they were just taking a nap in the early morning sun.
Two of the four guard towers were down and a third blazed furiously. From the forth tower came a murderous rain of machine gun fire, but still the creatures swept forward through gaps in the barb-wired perimeter. Some of them were caught in the wire and wriggled impotently like captured bugs.
To my right there was a massive explosion, as one of the tanks ignited, its ammunition tearing it apart. Two other tanks were on fire, while a third rumbled through the carnage like some terrible prehistoric beast.
This tank now turned its turret towards the remaining guard tower. The machine gunners continued firing, their small arms fire bouncing uselessly off the tank’s armor. At the last minute, one of the gunners jumped from the tower landing in the midst of several of the creatures who quickly engulfed him.
Suddenly the tank rocked backward and spewed flame, the thunder of its gun coinciding with the tower being reduced to match wood.
The tank slowly swung its turret and as it did I could make out the message scrawled roughly on its side in black paint. It said, BC1, and next to the lettering was a childlike drawing of a skull-and-crossbones.
At the barbed wire perimeter I saw a marine calmly executing those creatures caught in the wire, which was breached in several places. I figured I could use the chaos to make a sprint for one of those gaps and be out of here without anyone paying too much attention.
But there was something I had to do first. I headed towards the recreation centre, picking up the rifle of a dead soldier on my way there.
Inside it was deathly quiet compared to the chaos of the battlefield. There were a number of small fires and the corridors were slowly filling with smoke. I crouched down to avoid the worst of it and sprinted towards Brady’s office.
The door was open and I entered the room with the rifle tucked into my shoulder, ready to fire.
Dr Brady sat at her desk, her head thrown backward in her chair. Her mouth was unflatteringly wide open, and her blue eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. A blackened bullet hole perforated her temple. Her hand was still clutching the gun and I pried it from her fingers, put the safety on and stuck it in my waistband.
On the desk was her ashtray, full to overflowing with ash and cigarette butts. There were several manila files and I flicked through them. All were empty, save for blank sheets of lined A4 writing paper. One of the files had my name and blood type written on the cover. Like the others, it was empty.
I walked to the file cabinet and opened some of the drawers. All contained the same manila folders, names and blood types on the covers, blank sheets within. There was no folder for Ruby Collins.
I had hoped to find some indication of where they’d taken my daughter but there was nothing to give me even the slightest clue.
For some reason, the ashtray caught my attention and I walked and emptied its contents onto the desk. Under the ash and cigarette butts was an insignia in red, blue and gold, with the words, US Marine Corps, Quantico, VA, inscribed on it. It wasn’t much but hadn’t Valerie said they were being taken to Virginia?
I was about to leave when I heard a sound from under the desk, the sickening sound of ripping flesh. Brady’s body started to shudder and then her chair began to roll slowly back.
As her legs came into view I could see that her skirt was pushed up and that chunks of flesh had been ripped from her thighs. Then the creature emerged from beneath the desk, his face bloodied and a chunk of flesh still hanging from his mouth.
He was a skinny kid of 12 or 13, his throat ripped open and one of his arms a bloody stump. He looked at me with his head cocked to one side, the way a visitor to the zoo might look at a curious animal.
I lifted the rifle and lined it up at his head, but he showed no reaction. Then he took the chunk of flesh from his mouth and extended it towards me. I felt my finger tightening on the trigger, but I couldn’t squeeze it. This kid hadn’t chosen to become what he’d become and killing one more of them didn’t make a whole lot of difference in the grand scheme of things.
I turned and walked quickly from the room and had just made it to the corridor when I threw up violently.
Outside, the battle was all but over. The base had been overrun and hundreds of the creatures stumbled through the debris, chewing on corpses, fighting each other for the choices tidbits. In the midst of it all, Bronson Chavez stood on the turret of his Abrams tank, one hand clutching the mounted machine gun, the other raised in a clenched fist victory salute. The tank was doing tight circles, whipping up a storm of dust.
I headed south, found a gap in the wire along the 97th Street Traverse then crossed the road into the trees. I skirted the reservoir and planned to exit the park near Columbus Circle. But there were too of many of the creatures on the streets and I decided it would be better to lay low until nightfall.
I may have dozed for a while and at one point I heard the sound of a tank rumbling along Central Park West towards downtown. I imagined Chavez sitting in the turret the wind in his hair, the skyscrapers of which he was now lord and master reflected in his
designer shades.
After dark I worked my way west and south towards Hell’s Kitchen. I had to use the rifle twice and after the second time, the hammer fell on an empty chamber.
I judged it to be after midnight by the time I reached the clogged roads leading to the Lincoln Tunnel. Some of the vehicles stood empty, their doors thrown open by fleeing occupants. Some had been raked by gunfire and a few were burnt out frames. In others I saw bodies, some half consumed, some burnt, some remarkably intact.
I approached the tunnel with its three tubes opened up in front of me like the gaping mouths a three-headed mythological beast, dark and dank and hungry.
I stared into the darkness and was sure I saw movement. I heard noises in the dark too, scurrying noises, snapping, low-pitched growls and the sickening sound of flesh being torn from bone. But then it was silent again and I wasn’t sure if what I’d heard was real or just my imagination.
A faint breeze drifted out of the tunnel, bringing with it the stench of a charnel house, of congealed blood, putrid, rotting flesh and the aftermath of a deadly fire.
If I wavered, it was only for a moment. At the other end of this tube lay New Jersey and the way south, towards my daughter. I had made a promise to her, a promise I intended keeping.
I removed the pistol from my waistband, slid the safety back, checked the magazine, and cocked the weapon, the way Joe had shown me. Then I entered the blackness of the tunnel.
____________________________________________
Dead On My Feet
(Book Two of the Zombie D.O.A. Series)
by
J.J. Zep
PUBLISHED BY:
JJ Zep
Copyright © 2012
www.jjzep.com
one
The city shimmering in the heat on the horizon was Tulsa, Oklahoma. Not that it mattered, it could have been Beijing, China for all I cared. I wasn’t going there.
In the three years since I’d left New York to look for Ruby I’d learned some things. The first was that cities were to be avoided. Cities were the domain of the Zombies, or the Z’s or Grunts, or whatever you chose to call them.
The only ones brave enough, or stupid enough to go into the cities were the Resurrection Men. And while the rewards were great, and there were plenty of takers, that particular career was normally a short one.
Not that life outside the cities was that much safer. There were Zombies here too. But you stood a much greater chance of being mobbed, or cornered and eaten alive, in a city.
So you took your chances with the road crews and the cutthroats and the cannibals. Or you took refuge in one of the armed compounds or fortified towns.
That wasn’t an option for me. After I’d left New York, I’d made my way south to Quantico, Virginia, then to Washington DC.
I hadn’t found Ruby in those places.
So I’d headed into West Virginia and from there, south into Kentucky, not knowing what I was looking for. Just knowing, hoping, believing, praying, that somewhere, somehow, I would find my daughter.
Little did I know that while I was looking for Ruby, someone was looking for me, too. It was in Kentucky that The Corporation first found me.
The car I’d been driving had gotten stuck in the mud while I was trying to round a burnt out tanker. I’d spotted a gas station a few hundred yards down the road and set off in that direction. I found a truck, fitted it with a new battery, siphoned some gas into it and then walked to a diner attached to the gas station to look for some provisions.
I was just about to leave when two men walked in. I’ve since learned that standard attire for Corporation agents is black suits, skinny ties and shades. Back then it was kind of surreal to see two guys, looking like Jake and Elwood Blues walking into a deserted diner after the world had ended.
I recall being relieved, pleased even, to see normal people and I may have opened my mouth to say “hi”. That was when one of the agents shot me.
When I came round, I was still in the diner, cuffed to a chair, with the smaller of the agents, the Jake Blues lookalike, sitting across from me and the other, somewhat resembling Elwood, leaning against the counter, sipping from a cup.
Jake was asking me something I couldn’t comprehend. I felt groggy, and my neck throbbed from where I’d been darted.
He learned over and slapped my face. Then he repeated his question. It sounded like, “Where’s the trigger?”
“What?”
“Where’s the trigger?” he repeated.
“What? I don’t know what you…”
“This could go hard for you, you know,” Elwood said from the counter.
“I really don’t know, what you’re talking about.”
Jake half-turned towards Elwood, who shrugged. “Do what it takes,” he said.
The Jake lookalike got up and walked towards one of the booths. He had his back towards me and when he turned he was holding a syringe.
“Now, you might think this is sodium pentothal,” he said, walking back towards me,“ but it isn’t. This is something infinitely more powerful. Problem is, the side-effects are somewhat unpredictable. Permanent brain damage is not unheard of.“
He sat down in the chair again, the syringe in his hand, a clear liquid contained within. “Last chance, where’s the trigger?”
“I told you I don’t…” I started to say and that was when I noticed the Z rise from behind the counter close to Elwood.
Elwood must have seen something in my expression because he dropped the coffee cup and spun around. As he did, the Zombie bit him in the face, and Elwood started screeching like a steam whistle.
Jake swung round and as he did I kicked out at him and he stumbled over the chair. He came up with the needle protruding from his cheek and a confused expression on his face. He reached inside his coat, probably going for a weapon, and then he collapsed.
Next thing I remember I was running towards the door, crouched over and still bound to the chair. I crossed the forecourt without looking and didn’t stop running until I heard the squealing of tires.
I looked up to see a rust-colored truck sliding sideways towards me, smoke spewing from its tires as the driver stood on the brakes. I braced myself and felt the vehicle side swipe me.
Then, as if in slow motion, I felt myself being lifted from the ground. I was airborne and the world seemed to stand still for a split second before I crashed into the pavement and slid towards the curb. I don’t remember any pain – that would come later. For now, there was just blackness.
two
When I woke I was lying in a bed in a room with muted floral wallpaper and lace curtains. The window was open a crack and a cool breeze crept in and rustled the drapes. I could see a porch with a neatly trimmed lawn beyond that. To the left ran a dirt track lined with tall tulip trees.
I tried to rise and felt pain jolt through my side. As a fighter I’d suffered a few cracked ribs in my career, so I was no stranger to that exquisite variety of pain and recognized it right way. What was worse though was the throbbing in my head.
Nonetheless, I had to get up so I took a deep breath and forced myself into a sitting position ignoring the lightning bolt that exploded along my right side. I noticed a tube of aspirin on the nightstand, shook out two and dry swallowed them.
I brought my hand up to my face and I could feel that it was bruised and tender, with a doozy of a lump on my forehead.
I peeled back the covers and swung my feet to the floor. I was wearing a pair of navy blue pajamas a couple of sizes too big. My first attempt at standing was a dismal failure and I slumped back onto the bed breathing heavily. On the second try I found my feet, tottered slightly but this time stayed up.
The pajama bottoms chaffed the side of my leg and when I pulled it away, I noticed that the skin down there had been severely scraped and bruised. Someone had taken the time to apply a healthy dose of iodine.
There was a dressing table with a mirror against the wall and I shuffled in that direc
tion. The man who looked back at me was almost recognizable.
Early in my career I’d fought a catch weight contest against a guy named Ronaldo Holmes. Holmes had outweighed me and outreached me and had basically pummeled me for four rounds until my corner had thrown in the towel. I’d gone to the emergency room with a broken nose, a cracked cheekbone and badly bruised ribs. This was worse.
My face was a ripe shade of purple, turning yellow in spots. My right eye was closed to a slit, and the left was also blackened and bloodshot. The skin on the tip of my nose and on my chin had been scraped off and there was a blackened, goose egg sized lump on my forehead. The worst of it was, I couldn’t remember where I was, what had happened, or how I’d got here.
But I intended to find out.
The first thing I needed was a weapon, and I saw the perfect thing slotted into the space between the dressing table and the wall, a Louisville Slugger. I can’t tell you how I thought I’d swing it, but I guess it gave me a measure of comfort.
Leaning heavily on the bat, I shuffled down a dark passage, at the end of which was a hallway. The front door stood open, and through it I could see a man crouching down in a flowerbed.
Further along I heard a woman’s voice, a clear soprano singing something that sounded familiar, but that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I followed that voice and found myself in a large, sunny kitchen with a heavy, oak table as its centerpiece. The table was cluttered with the fixings of a meal and at the end of it, a grey-haired woman stood, stirring up something in a mixing bowl.
She was intent on her work and singing to herself, so at first she didn’t notice me. The woman poured the contents of the bowl into a mould and then she raised her head and started to bring her hand to her mouth as though getting ready to call someone. That was when she saw me.