Dead Earth: The Green Dawn

by Mark Justice

  That was about to change.

  Jubal calmly removed the sniper rifle from the cruiser. His father had purchased the Tango-51 though the sheriff’s office, so he could get the professional discount. He had called it the finest rifle ever made. Jubal ran a hand over the green and black finish. His father had taught Jubal to always care for his weapons so he would be able to rely on them. Jubal had followed that advice. It was close to two years since the gun had been fired and Jubal had cleaned it afterward, as he always did. He knew it would fire accurately. He slid back the big bolt action and made sure it was loaded. He didn’t think he would need more than one round.

  Using the roof of the car for a rest—and trying to ignore the pain in his right elbow—Jubal put his eye to the scope and searched for the crimson figure.

  It took a few seconds, but he found it. At first, he could only see a field of red, but the scope’s resolution was amazing. He shifted the rifle a fraction of an inch and he found its hideous face.

  It was exactly as it had been in his dream. The black and bottomless eyes seemed to stare straight into his mind. He could feel the power radiating from this strange being, power that would eventually overwhelm everything on the planet. Fighting back was a lost cause. It would be so simple to put the gun down, to give up—

  No.

  Jubal gasped. That thing had noticed him. Jubal didn’t understand how, but the creature on the flying machine had connected with him like two satphones communicating.

  It had to be the plague. It not only changed humans into those undead beasts, it also linked everyone together in unexplainable ways.

  I’ve tuned into the dead frequency.

  Jubal ran a hand over the wound on the back of his neck. Though the bleeding had stopped, the bite was sticky and it ached.

  That thing could talk to me. Maybe not with words, but I understood the surrender message it was sending out. Does that mean that I’m turning?

  Other than the pain from the bite, and the ache in his arm, Jubal didn’t feel different. But if the disease was transmitted more quickly through direct contact, his transformation could begin at any time. If it happened, he could find himself unable—or unwilling—to fight.

  He couldn’t take that chance.

  The strange glider was still hovering over the army of the dead. He felt an odd tickling deep within his skull, a gentle hand sifting through his thoughts.

  Fuck that.

  He leaned forward with the barrel of the sniper rifle again on the cruiser’s roof. Jubal closed his eyes. He exhaled, as his father had taught him. His opened his right eye and found the non-human pilot through the rifle’s scope. He squeezed the trigger.

  He thought he saw something resembling surprise flash across that alien face before the bullet left the barrel.

  Maybe this communications network travels both ways. Maybe I sent my own greeting across the dead frequency.

  The message may have been delivered, but not as he intended. The 7.22 mm shell tore through the creature’s shoulder, knocking it from its flying machine.

  Jubal had aimed for the head.

  The strange craft began to slowly spin, floating away.

  He lowered the rifle. The orderly lines of walking dead broke formation, each cut free from the robed thing’s control.

  It was time to go.

  Jubal climbed back into the car. He propped the Tango against the passenger door and picked up one of the shotguns.

  The zombies were spread out, both in the road and on the cactus-strewn desert that surrounded it. There were too many of them to avoid, so Jubal decided to use the largest weapon he had. He stomped the accelerator.

  The first zombie he hit rolled under the car and provided a satisfying crunch. The next one flew into the air and landed against the windshield before spinning off to one side. The safety glass cracked but did not break.

  He managed to clip several others with the edge of the front bumper as he tried to inflict the most damage possible without destroying the cruiser. As he drew closer to the spot where the undead had originally been lined up, Jubal saw a flash of red.

  He slowed the car and rolled down his window.

  The creature he had shot was lying in a twisted mess next to the road. Seeing it through the rifle’s scope had not prepared him for the size of the monster. If it had been standing it would have been close to eight feet tall. The thing’s arms were very long and were now bent into unnatural shapes. If it had anything resembling a human skeleton, its back was broken. Its left shoulder was leaking a black gelatinous fluid.

  Jubal checked the perimeter around the car. There were plenty of zombies, but none close enough to pose an immediate threat. He stepped out of the cruiser.

  The alien creature studied him with those insect-like black eyes. They seemed to have sunken even further into the elongated skull. Jubal could now see that the thing’s robe was decorated with hundreds of odd symbols, all delineated in golden embroidery. He could smell something like exotic spices, and beneath that scent was the unmistakable pungency of rot.

  The creature’s breath came in shallow, whistling gasps.

  A wave of terror passed through Jubal as he stood so close to a being that came from somewhere other than Earth.

  “Can you understand me?”

  The creature made no sound save for its labored breathing. He thought he felt the tickling in the back of his mind, but the sensation quickly passed.

  “My name is Slate. I don’t know where you came from or why you’re here, I just—” Jubal’s voice broke. He had to clear his throat before he could continue. “I just know what you’ve done. You’ve killed us all, haven’t you? You’ve taken away everything decent and good in my life and you’ve probably taken me, too. But before I go, I want you to deliver a message for me. If you have any friends out there, send ’em one of your mind bulletins or whatever they are. You tell ’em Slate did this. Jubal Slate.”

  He raised the shotgun.

  If the creature understood what was happening, it did not show it.

  “Do they believe in Hell where you come from? I hope so.”

  The thing’s thin, lipless mouth twitched.

  Jubal pulled the trigger. The alien head exploded in a geyser of thick, black blood.

  He shot it again for good measure.

  His eyes burned with hot tears, but he had no time for remorse. The dead army was getting closer. He returned to the cruiser.

  Before he climbed into the vehicle, the sun glinted off something metallic. A few feet from the corpse of the alien thing, a strange silver rod lay among the rock and sandy soil.

  He didn’t know what it was, but it made his skin crawl just looking at it.

  It belonged to that thing. That’s what he used to control the dead army.

  Jubal got into the car and backed over the staff. It broke into many pieces.

  He put the cruiser in drive and drove away, clipping a few more zombies along the way.

  The zombie demolition derby had damaged the cruiser’s radiator. He kept going long after the temperature gauge climbed into the red. Just outside of Van Horn, Texas, the engine seized up with a grinding crunch and a cloud of smoke.

  He gathered his weapons and supplies and walked into town.

  The streets were deserted, but he took no chances. The first building he saw was a Rexall drug store. He hammered the glass door open with his Glock. There was no alarm. He let himself in and shoved a heavy cosmetics display case against the broken door. At least it would give him some warning. He curled up behind the checkout counter and slept for a long time.

  September 4, 2048

  When he awoke he was parched and his neck wound and elbow hurt worse than ever.

  He located hydrogen peroxide, antibiotic cream and bandages.

  Why go to the trouble if I’m turning into a zombie?

  He dressed the wound anyway.

  The power was still on in the store and he found a fully stocked soda case and plenty o
f candy bars and chips. He ate until he was sick, then slept again.

  September 5, 2048

  The next morning, he shoved the cosmetics case away from the door and watched the brilliant emerald strip running across the horizon.

  Gathering his supplies, augmented with several cans of Coke and a dozen candy bars, Jubal went out into the empty streets.

  He found a used car lot two blocks down. He blew the lock off the door of the office with one of the shotguns, no longer afraid of drawing anyone’s attention. The town was dead. He could feel it. He didn’t know where the zombies were, but he would worry about that later. Jubal grabbed a handful of keys from a pegboard in the small office and unlocked vehicles until he found one with plenty of gasoline. It was an old truck. He tossed the guns and the rest into the passenger seat and drove away.

  Sometime that afternoon he crossed into Mexico.

  He slept in the desert that night, stretched out in the bed of the truck.

  The sky was clean and clear and full of stars. Jubal wondered how many people were left to wish upon them.

  He dozed for a while, only to jerk awake for no apparent reason. He couldn’t remember any dreams.

  Then he heard it. A nearly silent hum.

  Jubal lay quietly in the truck’s bed, afraid to move. High above him something passed over the face of the moon.

  It was one of the alien flying machines.

  He held his breath until the hum was long gone.

  September 6, 2048

  The next day he drove to the Gulf. He waded out naked into the warm ocean until the salt water burned the wound on the back of his neck, as if scalding it clean. He floated for a long time, allowing the ebb and flow of the water to carry him away from the beach.

  It would be so easy to just give up, to allow the sea’s embrace to deliver him down to a peaceful surrender.

  After a while, Jubal rolled over and swam back to shore.

  September 12, 2048

  The plague hadn’t reached this far. Not yet.

  Jubal found a small house on the beach. It had no power, but there was a bed and a lot of canned food in the kitchen.

  He also found others who were still alive. More arrived every day.

  He had been here nearly a week. The wound on his neck had scabbed over. It looked like Fiona had been right. He didn’t have the disease and apparently wouldn’t get it.

  The newcomers had all seen the zombies. Most had to deal with family who had changed. One man from Del Rio had to put down his own wife and kids. After he told his story, he didn’t say much more.

  Every night there were more fires on the beach. It had become a regular refugee camp.

  But Jubal couldn’t forget the sight of the alien flyer in the desert.

  They couldn’t stay here much longer.

  Most of them wanted to keep moving, stay on the run, hide until there were no more safe places.

  There were a few who felt like Jubal, who had nothing left but the screaming in their heads that could only be silenced through vengeance.

  It was something he could use.

  They would travel to the Pacific, then make their way through California. Eventually they would reach ground zero. Nevada.

  He hoped they would pick up others along the way. It was a suicide mission; they all knew that. Jubal just wanted to take as many of those red-robed alien fuckers with him as he could.

  For his mother and Fiona and the rest.

  For Serenity.

  He sat on the porch of the cabin and cleaned his guns, watching the sun set in the green sky.

  The saga continues in:

  DEAD EARTH: THE VENGEANCE ROAD

  Available now from Permuted Press!

  http://www.permutedpress.com