Legacy of the Living

by Sean Liebling

  Then the Reaper leaped down, taking the eight-foot drop with a paratrooper forward roll, and came up shooting. Travis sighed and followed. He didn’t leap off like Jason had, though. He had pins in his leg and foot and was afraid of screwing them up if he did so. Instead, he swung down from the edge one-handed, then dropped the remaining two feet. He also started firing immediately.

  The Reaper was wading forward, taking out the undead left and right. Travis heard a few shots followed by a crack! as the Reaper’s rifle butt crashed down on a diseased head, squashing it like a melon. Travis followed, keeping his back close to the Reaper as they advanced across the playground. They made it to the gym set and the Reaper spoke quickly.

  “Do you have someplace safe to go if we get you out of here?”

  “Yes!” gasped one of the women; tear tracks had made lines on her dirty face. “Over there through that glass patio door. Our place is on the second floor.” Her hand pointed, and looking over his shoulder Travis saw it was trembling.

  “Alright. Get ready to get out of there. Get the kids on top and hang on until we clear a path.”

  Suddenly the bottleneck Travis had created in the opposite alley entrance pushed open and a swarm of zombies rushed into the clearing.

  “Christ Almighty,” the Reaper muttered, and started firing again while kicking out at one coming up to their side. Shoulder to shoulder the two men fired, taking the monsters down in waves, but there were so many of them. The leading creatures had almost reached their position and Travis was starting to think that maybe this was a good day to die after all, when suddenly gunfire rang out to their right. What the hell?

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw two figures advancing side by side, just as he and the Reaper had done. One was a man with flowing blonde hair down to his waist. Effeminate looking, but there was nothing girly about the M16A2 he was carrying, for that was indeed what he held. Travis could tell from the three-round bursts. Beside him was a woman, a tiny little thing with dark hair cut in a page-boy style, holding what had to be an UZI but firing single shots carefully. Both were dressed in biker leathers with gang colors on their shoulder and breast patches. The Reaper seemed to take them in stride and even nodded, a soft smile on his face. They nodded back but never stopped firing. The blonde boy switched magazines on the fly by flipping them as he ran out, releasing the bolt to chamber another round and keeping up his bursts. Travis saw it was two magazines taped together, just upside down. He shook his head but didn’t stop firing either.

  Together the four of them managed to clear out the immediate zombies and create another bottleneck in the alley. More started coming from the other direction, hearing the gunfire, and the Reaper shouted.

  “Now, get down and run for it. We’ll cover you. Go go go go!” He practically screamed the last as he dropped to one knee, slamming his last magazine home while gathering up the four at his feet and shoving them in a cargo pocket, then fired again, advancing forward.

  “Together now everyone. Take them down. Travis, you’re on me. Left, center left. Blondie and Darkie, right side, Blondie center right, Darkie center left. Take them down and now.” With that, he started firing, advancing forward at a fast walk as the others followed. The women and children stayed within the four with rifles blazing as they headed to the glass patio door that had been indicated earlier. Travis idly noticed the blonde guy and dark-haired girl had followed directions perfectly and were firing into their respective zones.

  They barely made it of course. That’s how it always seemed to happen with these creatures, but make it they did, with the Reaper forced to fall back on his revolver as the last of them scooted inside the building and slammed the glass door shut.

  “Get going. We can’t stay here. They’ll break through this in a heartbeat now that they know you’re here.”

  Two of the women headed into the interior of the apartment, boards ready, as the children followed single file holding hands, the last woman bringing up the rear. Jason had replaced the rounds in his revolver and held it ready.

  “Give me a hand with this Travis.” The Reaper was at the hallway leading to the interior exit door and was trying to push a large china hutch across the entrance.

  “Watch the kids, Travis, we’ll give the Reaper a hand.” It was the tiny dark-haired girl who had spoken, and she and her partner bent down on either side of the hutch to help push it across the room. “My name’s Mouse, by the way. Not Darkie. He’s Dane,” she tilted her head to the long-haired blonde kid as she spoke to the Reaper.

  “Dane? As in Great Dane?” the Reaper grunted.

  “No, as in the Danes. It’s more manly than Lucas,” the blonde spoke, grinning up at Jason.

  “Whatever. All together, push. They’re hitting that glass now, we only have a few moments.” With almost identical grunts they slid the hutch across the floor to block the hallway, then taking turns helping each other, climbed over the new barricade and ran into the hallway. One of the women was at its end to their left near a door, waving at them. They headed in her direction and followed as she led them up the stairs. Soon they were in a large apartment cluttered with cases of food and drink; Travis looked out the window, gun ready, and reloaded magazines. The Reaper turned and bolted the interior door and placed the security rod he saw against it.

  “Alright, I guess we’re safe enough. We’ll all intro in a minute, but first I really want to know why you were outside in a playground when hell’s minions are swarming all over the place.” Jason was addressing the women, and he did not look especially happy. One of the women stepped forward. Her age was hard to guess but she was possibly in her late thirties to early forties.

  “We didn’t see any out. The kids have been going crazy for the last week. We were trying to give them a little bit of playtime. They’re just kids and need it. They were driving us crazy inside here too.” Her eyes were downcast and she started crying softly again. Jason sighed and patted her shoulder.

  “I understand, well, don’t do it again. Almost got you and the young ones killed.” The children were all lined up staring at the newcomers in awe and with some trepidation. He continued, turning to the two that had helped them shoot the zombies.

  “Now who are you two and how did you know my name?”

  “Dude, you’re famous. You’re the Reaper. You’re signature!” The blonde guy, Dane, was speaking with excitement while Mouse looked on, smiling slightly.

  “Signature?”

  “Yeah dude. Your leather boonie hat, brown pants and combat boots along with your rifle give you away, man. You’re a hit on the CB. Everyone’s talking about you. Newaygo’s broadcasting on thirteen hundred AM now and they’re telling everyone to be on the lookout for you and to lend a hand if needed.”

  “OK, the CB again. I get it. Now, who are you guys?”

  “We’re members of the Sirens gang.”

  “Sirens?”

  “Yes, we’re all Lesbian and Gay bikers that have our own chapter here in Grand Rapids. Of course, I’m the last gay left. My partner died on day three when we were rescuing survivors.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” the Reaper grunted.

  Dane shrugged, but the others could see tears in his eyes. “He died good, and brave, saving others. He died well.” He stopped speaking and turned away.

  The Reaper cleared his throat and turned back to the three women with all the kids.

  “Now what to do with you. You can’t stay here any longer. The spawn know you’re here now and will eventually break down that barrier. They’ll break down every door in this place looking for prey, and they’ll find the stairs.” He paused, thinking.

  “We’ll take them to our place.” Mouse had spoken up. “We already have several hundred refugees and we’re adding more every day. Alethea wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “Alethea?”

  “Our Leader. Alethea Baldwin. HBIC.”

  “HBIC? Why do I feel I’m learning a new language?” the Reaper grumbled.
Mouse’s laugh was a tinkle, like crystal bells and all smiled.

  “Hot Bitch in Charge is our Alethea. She’s bad ass. We’re holed up in a large factory downtown with really high walls and barbed wire. It keeps the zombies out.” Mouse smiled at the Reaper. “And Alethea is mine!” she said possessively.

  “Got that too. So you will need help. You want to do this now? We can probably get out the other side if we move fast.”

  “No need, Reaper.” Mouse pulled a Motorola two-way radio from the fanny pack she had slung around her back. It was one of those rugged yellow and black water resistant ones with probably a five-mile range. “Dane and I were out looking for survivors. We don’t mind going out alone. I’ll give Alethea a call and we’ll move them in a few hours as soon as it starts to get dark. Newaygo was right on the zombies’ habits. The best time to move around for us is near dusk and mid-morning. We’ll be fine. We move in the sewers mostly anyways.” She smiled and Jason noticed she had dimples. He didn't smile back.

  “Then we’ll leave it to you. Travis and I will head out.” During this time, the Reaper had been loading his own magazines with fresh ammunition. He was almost finished. “Travis you ready? We’ll head out the front.”

  “Can I have thirty minutes?” Travis had been talking to one of the three women; she was smiling at him and standing very close. Jason rolled his eyes, and then replied.

  “No.”

  “Hell. Fine, old man. You’re killing me.” Mouse, and even Dane giggled.

  “Satan’s get will kill you before I have a chance to. Now let’s move.” The Reaper saw Travis give the girl’s hand a brief squeeze, then he headed over to the door while cocking his M14 and stood ready. They headed out.

  *****

  Don swiveled the microphone to his lips and called out, “Come in Bravo three nine. This is Central.” Don was contacting their base south of Columbus and Cincinnati, Ohio, hidden in the foothills of the Shawnee State Forest and supplied by hydroelectric power from nearby rivers. They were close enough to do the job and he was about to give them something to do.

  “Bravo three nine, go ahead.”

  “I have an approved mission for you boys.”

  “Go ahead with mission parameters, Central.”

  “I need four F-15s for an attack on Newaygo, Michigan. Full load-out.” Don wished he had access to the nukes but only the doctor knew the arming codes, and this was something he didn’t need nor want the doctor to know about. “Be advised they have Badgers, so come in low and stealthy.”

  “Roger that Central. Not giving us an easy one, are you.”

  “If it was easy, I would do it myself, three nine.”

  “Roger that, and out.” The transmission cut off before Don could reply, and he tossed the headset on the cargo seat in the back of the Black Hawk. Now he would wait. Newaygo needed a scare and he was positive the Badgers were not at full readiness. Jean also needed a wakeup call and the knowledge her master was coming.

  *****

  Chapter 7

  DAY 9: 1000 ET SATURDAY NOVEMBER 12TH

  Sergeant Vonn Dominic spit tobacco juice out the open side bay of the MH-60L Assault Black Hawk whose door gun he was currently operating. His hardened gaze swept over the overfull tarmac and the hundreds of flight crew, dependents, and refugees milling around the Jackson County Airport they had relocated to. The McNamara Airport outside Detroit, Michigan had been their old station, where the FEMA camp was located, but things had gotten tight and when all hell broke loose they had picked Jackson. The Special Forces boys had already designated it a secondary camp before the shit that went down, and the sense of loss they had all experienced over the last five days still hung over them like a palpable force, though the tears had dried long ago.

  Gently he caressed the scarred surface of the General Electric M134 Minigun that had saved his ass more than once in the last few days. With pride, he remembered the sinking feeling in his belly earlier in the week when he saw the F-15 barreling down on them, and then the missile release as it dropped an AIM-120 AMRAAM in preparation to taking his bird out. Damn thing had been so close he actually saw the twelve-foot air-to-air missile separate from the pylon supporting it. Only by sheer luck had he managed to hit the missile with a four-thousand-per-minute stream of 7.62, detonating the warhead and causing the destruction of that rogue government fighter along with it. A one in a million lucky shot, but others in their task group had not been so lucky. Too many others, in fact. Those days were already hazy and only the recollection of screaming in rage and terror while trying to push the right toggle of the Minigun through its handgrip remained. Along with that memory was the one bearing the stink of burning plastic and flash of disintegrating ammo links along with the screams of the women and children they were carrying to safety. Vaguely he also remembered the smell of hot steel and urine from bladders too scared to hold their contents, the pounding in his chest, and wondering if his heart would explode.

  He wished the first sergeant and remaining officers and chiefs would make up their damn minds about this new group they had been hearing about. They had all heard the broadcast as it had been piped live over external speakers so everyone could hear. Was it too good to be true? Or was it a ruse to lure them to their deaths? One thing was clear. They needed to get away from here, as Jackson was only a temporary refuge and far too close to Detroit for safety. CAP/Strike was up and ready, which meant overhead Combat Air Patrol was not restricted to defense and could pursue any enemy aircraft sighted. Active radar was showing two of the bad guys circling at twenty thousand and close to one hundred fifty klicks out. Too far for their current ordnance to take down, and too fast to pursue at that distance. Not with Blackhawk and Little Bird Helicopters and a few A-10C Thunderbolts, and not against F-15s. He remembered the lovely soprano voice in the announcement they had all heard. The strength of her crystal clear tones piercing through them, instilling in them hope, and the need to believe.

  "Attention, all United States Military units operating within the borders of the State of Michigan and surrounding areas. By order of emergency elected decree, Reserve Colonel Jay Scarmon of the United States Marine Corps has been appointed temporary Interim Governor of the State of Michigan during these International crises. As the senior surviving officer of military standing within the borders of Michigan, he has also temporarily assumed control of all forces operating within and around the State of Michigan, and barring correction by higher-ranking authorities of legal standing, has ordered all units to proceed to the immediate Newaygo, Michigan area. Surviving men and women of the Armed Forces, both enlisted and officers. Listen closely. There is a war on. Our forces need to combine and make a stand! Shadow Government units are assassinating our leaders along with senior military officers, and it is the commander and governor’s feeling that with a united and strong front we can combat those rogue elements currently trying to take over this great nation. Again, all units are ordered to report in immediately and to proceed with all due haste to the Newaygo, Michigan area. Please observe tactical and operational security while en-route. We urge you to observe extreme caution and to institute deadly force Rules of Engagement with suspected elements of rogue factions. Do not take any chances. The governor also wishes to say welcome aboard, God Bless, and to take care of our surviving people. Message out and will repeat on this frequency."

  Vonn desperately wished to believe the satellite broadcast was the real deal—that there was hope in this shithole of a world left over from whatever had created these dead-undead creatures, and that his wife Sarah and their son and daughter would be safe. It was only by the grace of God that they were all still alive. Many dependents were not. He felt a hand settle on his shoulder and looked up, seeing Staff Sergeant Carl Frees bending over him, mouth opened to speak.

  "Hey Sergeant. How you holding up?”

  "Okay Staff. Just trying not to remember stuff." Vonn felt the strong hand on his shoulder tighten in grief. They had all lost people during the last
few days. Staff Sergeant Frees was one of the lucky ones in the 162nd SOAR Special Forces Air, as was Vonn. Most of their dependents were safe, if that word could be used nowadays. Too many of their dependents weren't able to be rescued and many also had received the vaccines, turning them into obscene replications of life. Too much death. Too much loss.

  "What do you think they'll decide?"

  "Why you asking me, Staff? You're almost in their group. You know them better."

  "Yeah, so I am, but I value your opinion, Sergeant. Separate squadrons and all that shit aside, I want to believe the broadcast is real."

  "Me too. I want my wife and children to survive."

  "Mine too, Sergeant. Mine too."

  Both men pondered in silence, each lost in their own thoughts of the events over the last few days.

  *****

  DAY 4: 1400 ET MONDAY NOVEMBER 7TH

  Major Robinson, Commanding Officer 1st Brigade, 2nd Battalion, 9th Special Forces Detachment glanced at his watch and swore again. Everything was taking too long, and rarely had a cluster fuck been so pronounced. Command was all fucked up with the losses to their Corps and lately had an especially hard time finding their ass with both hands. Conflicting orders was the game of every day, with interruptions in every kind of supply.