by RW Krpoun
Their boots crunching on the county road’s gravel, the Gnomes crossed the quarter mile that separated them from the bus. The zombies had been alerted by the truck engines and gave their wailing moan when the line began to advance, drawing a few more zeds from the woodlots to either side, but they did not advance more than a few feet, instead milling into a solid knot about twenty feet in front of the bus.
A few drops of rain fell from the low ceiling of dark clouds overhead as the Gnomes advanced. “Stay on line, dress it up,” Marv called, warily eyeing the trees to either side.
“They’re not charging,” JD observed from behind him.
“Yeah,” the Ranger nodded shortly. “They’re waiting for us.”
“Why?”
“If they were Humans I would say that being in a group, as a mob, they stand a better chance given our weapons. But these are zombies.”
“You know, I think we aren’t in Kansas anymore, Toto,” the promoter sounded unhappy.
“This is starting to remind me of the scene in the Coliseum from Gladiator, dude,” Chip observed mournfully. “You know, when the guys who were supposed to lose suddenly didn’t.”
“Thank you for that encouragement,” Bear snarled from behind the line. “These are just zombies. Block with your shield, crack the skull, repeat. Six of us hammered our way through a town full of them last month.”
“That’s right, sir,” Chip bobbed his head, embarrassed at his comment. “It’s probably some sort of herd instinct, like buffalo.”
As the distance between the two groups narrowed to less than fifty yards the knot of zombies began to move, shambling forward to meet the Gnomes, still in their compact crowd.
“Yard Gnomes…HALT!” Marv bellowed. “Dress your line! Hold steady-this is how the Roman Legions mowed down barbarians: discipline, training, weapons. You’re veterans, you know how to do this: one zed at a time, cover the man to your left and the man to your right covers you. Let them come to us.”
And they did. As they closed the zombie’s group broke up as the infected fanned out and speeded up, the gray-skinned figures in tattered, filthy remnants of clothing hurrying to come to grips with the operators.
Chip slapped aside the clawing hand (his foe’s other arm had a severe compound fracture-likely a spiral fracture, his growing knowledge noted) and slammed his hammer-spike into the skull, rocking it free instinctively as the creature, who at one time had been an older man in a suit, dropped.
Smashing the skull of the first zombie to reach him, Brick bellowed the first line of a marching song he had learned in the Polish Army, mainly to bolster the white-faced Associate Charles Hubbard, now forever known as ‘Upchuck’, to his right. To his credit Upchuck had just put down a Hispanic woman in mechanic’s coveralls and was facing off with the next zed.
The center of the Gnome line gave ground as the zombies pressed in, but it was simply a reaction to the mass of the enemy; JD stepped into a growing gap between Sauron and Associate Bill Ware, and the line held. Moments later Bear stepped in between Whiz and Associate George Sanchez as the withdrawal halted. Unable to break the line by weight of numbers and too few to effectively flank it, the fate of the zombies was sealed. Hissing and clawing at shields amidst the terrible chorus of steel spikes punching through cranial bone and then wetly withdrawing, the infected perished one by one.
“Dress to the right! Dress the line on me!” Marv bellowed “Check yourselves, check your buddy.” He looked to their flanks. “JD, half decontaminate, half watch.” He waved in a downward motion, warning the woman atop the bus to stay where she was.
“Everyone’s good,” JD reported when the last Gnome had wiped away their blood splatter.
“Drivers double back and bring up the vehicles, Chip, take two and check the vehicle, Brick, take four and post guards.” The Ranger waited until the rest were out of earshot. “What the hell was that? They waited for us. They started to act together; if they had stayed in a tight bunch they might have broken the line. If they hadn’t gotten eager and split up at the last minute it could have gone a lot differently.”
“Herd instinct?” JD shrugged. “It was weird.”
“They’re zombies, infected Humans,” Bear shook his head. “Where would they get herd instincts? I’m getting really sick of these bastards being inconsistent. Its gonna get one of us hurt before it’s all over.” He grabbed the boot of a corpse and dragged it away from the others. Flipping open his lock blade knife one-handed, he knelt and sliced its rotting shirt open. “Look at this: gunmetal gray. He could be white, Hispanic, Asian, or a light-skinned black for all we can tell. There’s some sores and most of his hair is gone, but otherwise the skin’s intact, well, except for the big bite mark on his shoulder.”
“An older one,” Marv nudged the corpse with his foot as Bear wiped off the knife blade and stowed it. “We knew they get a little more spry and cagey after a few days of infection. This one’s clothes are rotting, so I guess it was one of the early ones.”
“But skin doesn’t just change color when someone dies,” Bear objected. “It goes manky and loose, and slides off. Corruption blackens corpses.”
“Well, technically they’re not wholly dead, the virus keeps the body going, sort of like a new computer program…JD, what are you doing?”
The promoter had donned surgical gloves and knelt by the body with his knife in his hands. “Hang on as sec.” A moment later he held up half the leg of one of the corpse’s pants legs. “Look at that.”
“Yeah, it’s a really foul-smelling rag. So what?”
“These are Levis,” JD half-rolled the corpse to expose the leather label. “These don’t rot fast.”
“Which is why I figured it had been a zombie for quite a while,” Marv said patiently.
“Wait a minute,” Bear held up a hand. “I’ve seen junkies live in the same pair of jeans for months. Homeless types. Why would they rot on a zombie? I mean, they get worn out and nasty, but Levis are tough pants.”
“These are wet, well, sticky,” JD tossed aside the cloth and carefully peeled off the gloves, discarding them into the ditch. “I think the reason they’re rotten is because the zombie was…oozing into them.”
“Secreting?” Marv frowned at the rag lying on the gravel.
“Fat,” Bear suggested, nudging the corpse. “Dead people’s fat melts off them when its warm.”
“That could work,” JD nodded.
“If the fat is dissolving, why is the skin holding together?” Marv objected. “Skin gets loose on living people when they have a drastic weight loss, but these zeds seem to have fairly tight skin.
“Dunno, but that would explain why the other zeds’ clothes are rotting off their bodies. You put organic material on cloth and the cloth will rot faster.”
“None of this makes any sense,” The Ranger kicked the corpse in frustration.
“You expect zombies to make sense?” Bear grinned.
“We saw that older ones had an effect on fresher zombies,” JD said thoughtfully. “Maybe they’re not inconsistent; maybe we’re making the false assumption that zombies all act alike. If the older ones get more…well, smarter, that could explain things.”
“Great, as if just plain zombies weren’t bad enough,” Marv shook his head as the trucks rumbled up. “OK, let’s assign Addison to keep a record of our suppositions, and get some pictures of bodies, see if we can track infected age. If you’re right and they get more cunning with the amount of time infected, then we need to get a working knowledge of their capabilities. We had better stay one step ahead of the curve or we’ll end up as statistics. And let’s keep this topic away from the Associates for now.”
“Sir, this is Margie and her son Tom,” Chip led the two to Marv. “They’ve been stuck on top of the bus for two days.”
“Living on green beans,” Margie shook the Ranger’s hand, and then just hung on. “I grabbed a bag on our way out, it had a case of Green Giant green beans…luckily Tom had his Leatherma
n tool.” She looked like she had been a soccer mom before the world went insane, but now her eyes looked like someone who had ridden a hang glider over the mouth of Hell.
“You’re OK now,” Marv said awkwardly. “We’ll take you back to Texas with us. What happened here?”
“We broke down…on the Interstate,” Margie struggled with tears. Tom, who Marv guessed was eight or so, was glued to his mother, both arms around her waist. “We lost…my husband. The people in the bus got us out, they were taking us to this encampment, they were establishing a Relocation Center there. We rolled up, it was getting late, and when the man got out to open the gate zombies came from everywhere.” She waved a hand helplessly. “Shooting and screaming…we got on the roof. Some of the others might have gotten away.”
“And no one came to check on you?”
“No. You’re the first real people we’ve seen.”
“OK, Chip will get you situated in a truck and find you something to eat that isn’t green beans.” When the pair were out of earshot the Ranger turned to JD. “Maybe we need to rethink leaving the girls behind; we need someone to handle rescued subjects and we’re thin on the ground in terms of empathy.”
“We need someone to keep an eye on our gear and housing,” JD countered. “Someone we didn’t just hire, that is.”
“Yeah, well, think on it. We need someone to take charge of refugees, someone with people skills. Anyway, officers’ call in ten.”
“Who is in charge of the two from the top of the bus?” Marv asked as the senior Gnomes assembled.
“I left them with George.” George Sanchez was the old man in the group of Associates, a former Marine in his mid-thirties, a quiet man of average height who looked shorter because he was barrel-chested and thick through the shoulders. He was dark-skinned and balding, with a dense mustache that gave him an air of educated aloofness that reminded Marv of the actor John Benedict Hillerman. His air of dignity and quiet competence made him stand out amongst the rowdy young Associates, and whose respect amongst his peers was demonstrated by the absence of a nickname. Marv had him earmarked for early promotion.
“Good. What’s the word?”
“We got a lot more food and some household goods, dude,” the big Gnome glanced around to make sure no Associate heard him being so familiar. “Looks like they were coming back from scouting and a little light salvaging.”
“No bodies, big surprise, but we picked up two Mossburg 500 riot shotguns and a variety of ammunition, which puts us at full strength on long guns and short three sidearms.”
“That’s good news. Anything else?”
“We need somebody as a liaison with the people we rescue,” Dyson pointed out. “A dedicated assignment.”
“Yeah, JD and I were talking about that. We were thinking about Sylvia and Bambi, but that leaves us with no one we can trust watching over our gear back home, so kick the idea around. We need to recruit three more guys to bring the rank and file up to twenty; that way we can roll at full strength and still leave a couple bodies back for security or R&R. But not until we’ve got enough weapons and gear on hand to equip them.”
“Looks like Addison called it: from what Margie, the woman from the bus, told us the encampment’s over-run with zombies,” JD observed.
“Why?” Bear asked. “We’re in the sticks.”
“They were setting up to be a Relocation Center,” Marv said. “I figure they got hit by a FASA cell.”
“Great,” the biker shook his head.
“Relocation Center is the refugee camp, right?” Dyson asked.
“Relocation Centers take initial input, dude,” Chip explained. “They deal with immediate medical issues, screen for the virus, and try to get families reunited. From there they ship ‘em to Liberty Stations, which are the processing and screening points for the safe enclaves, the Patriot Homesteads. Freedom Stations are the refugee camps inside the Patriot Homesteads.”
“Where we live, dummy,” Bear swatted at the Georgian’s head, but Dyson easily sidestepped the blow.
“Too many code names,” the martial artist shrugged. “What now?”
“Now you and I sneak into the encampment while the rest get set to roll in shooting if need be,” Marv decided out loud. “We’ll get a good look at the arrangement and I’ll come up with a real plan.”
“OK. We’ll get the bus out of the way and put the canvas covers on the trucks, but leave the sides rolled up,” JD nodded.
The rain increased steadily as the two men slipped through the woodlots surrounding the encampment until they were moving through a steady downpour. “Another day in the Infantry,” Marv sighed, leaning against a tree trunk, water dripping off the bill of his cap. “I make it about a hundred yards.”
“Yeah,” Dyson nodded.
“Might as well get this over with.”
Marv had Ranger school, countless hours of drill and training, and four tours in Afghanistan hunting men, while Dyson was a bow hunter and outdoors enthusiast. While their camouflage was wrong for the terrain, the soaked material appeared much darker than usual, and the pair moved with little noise. They moved slowly, covering a few yards and pausing behind cover to look, listen, and smell before moving again, senses alert. Speed was the least of their concerns-neither moved until they were comfortable with their understanding of their surroundings. Recon work, as Marv liked to point out, was slow work.
They took ten minutes to cover the last hundred yards, but at last they reached the edge of the clearing. The encampment consisted of a large central field with a two-story lodge building to the north which they guessed served as mess hall and administrative areas, and a row of five bunk houses lining the east and west sides, while the south side was a parking area.
The two Gnomes came in on the east side; after looking over what they could see of the arrangement Marv gave JD an update at not much above a whisper, and then led Dyson to the back wall of the center bunk house on the east side. Between the rain and the arrangement of the buildings the pair couldn’t see much of the encampment as a whole.
“Where are the zeds?” Dyson whispered.
“Inside?” Marv shrugged. “Maybe they moved on-they hit the bus out on the county road.”
“There should be some wandering around-there’s always stragglers.”
“One way to find out.”
One careful step at a time Marv moved to the south corner of the building and took a quick tactical look around the corner, choking back an exclamation into a startled hiss as he lurched back.
“What?” Dyson asked as the Ranger shook his head and leaned out to take another look.
Marv leaned back against the varnished siding of the bunk house and rubbed his face, the tips of his fingers and thumb standing out sharply in the poor light against the dark leather of his tactical gloves. “You look.”
Slipping past the Ranger, Dyson approached the corner uneasily. He hadn’t known Marv all that long in actual terms, but the seven original Gnomes had been through a lot together and he hadn’t ever seen Marv as rattled as he looked right now.
Crouching, he performed a tactical look: a slow lean to let one eye’s field of vision come into play; a watching eye catches fast, regular movement easier than objects, so the point was to ease, pause, ease back, not fast, not slow.
Like Marv he froze and had to bite back an exclamation.
Standing in in the central open area, packed together, were at least two hundred zombies.
Chapter Three
“They’re jammed in together like a group hug,” Marv shook his head, then rubbed his face again.
“They’re all standing with their faces raised, all of them,” Dyson couldn’t quit looking.
The two had climbed onto the peaked roof of the bunk house, which they now saw were numbered with signs that proclaimed them to be ‘Solidarity Cabins’, in order to get a better look.
“That’s just not right,” Marv whispered. “That’s…not mindless. They’re supposed to be
zombies.”
“Herd instinct,” Dyson slid down below the peak. “But not an instinct they should have; Humans are social creatures, but not herd animals.”
“Animal instincts are built-in survival programming,” Marv slid down. “What they’re doing isn’t built in, and it looks…I don’t know what it looks like. The word that keeps popping up is ‘purpose’, but that can’t be right.”
“You mean you think that they have a purpose in what they are doing?”
“Yeah, but that can’t be right. They’re a body hijacked by a virus. They’ve got a reproductive imperative and a bit of self-preservation when facing impossible situations, but beyond that they’re supposed to be mindless. What instincts they should have are Human ones, brain stem stuff.”
“I have to tell you, I’m seriously creeped out.”
“You and me both. I keep feeling like I’m playing a game and I don’t know all the rules.” The Ranger thumped both clenched fists against his chest. “OK, we have a mission. This changes things-however they’re acting, there’s a couple hundred zeds down there. Bringing in the main body is out. The question is, what can we accomplish by stealth?”
The pair eased back to the peak.
“There’s how the zeds got here,” Dyson jerked his chin towards a yellow Ryder truck in the center of the parking lot, the rear cargo doors standing open with streamers of industrial plastic sheeting and lath drooping down. The pair had seen FASA mount ‘zombie truck bomb’ attacks by loading a cargo truck with subjects in the last throes of the infection, driving it to a site, and opening the cargo doors. The plastic and lath barrier was to delay the zombies long enough to allow the delivery crew to reach the waiting extraction vehicle.
“Yeah.” Marv ducked down and muttered an update to JD, along with instructions to get the trucks turned around and ready to withdraw the way they came. “I hate to retrace our steps, but if we have to bug out I don’t want to risk running into an obstruction.”