The Zombie Wars: Call To Arms (White Flag Of The Dead Book 7)

by Joseph Talluto

  “Apparently things have been going well for our friends from Garden of the Gods!” I shouted at Charlie who also waved at the group.

  “Whatever it takes, I’m all for it!” Charlie shouted back.

  We passed along, and a quarter mile away we heard the crash of rifles as the hunters became the hunted.

  Tommy pulled into a large intersection and parked the tractor. It was stained all over the front from running over zombies, and black goo dripped from the corners of the bucket.

  We left the keys with the tractor, figuring the group that relieved us was going to probably put it to good use. Working tractors were always in demand, and this one was a front loader to boot.

  We piled into the trucks, and this time I rode with Charlie. I was actually exhausted, since I figured we got about three hours of sleep before we made our jailbreak.

  “You want to drive?” Charlie asked. He looked about as beat as I did.

  I shrugged. “May as well. We’ll stop as soon as we can for some rest.”

  “Thank God,” Charlie said.

  I pulled us out of the parking lot and pointed us north. The southern section of the state was in good hands, and I wanted to see about the rest of it before heading home.

  Effingham, IL

  “What kind of swing do you favor?” Charlie asked me.

  “Depends on what I’m using,” I said. “What about you?”

  “I like a backhanded swing with a slight downward angle.”

  “How slight?”

  “Probably no more than fifteen to twenty degrees.”

  “Why the backhand?” I asked.

  “Sweeps the Z away to the side, becomes less of an obstacle if I have to step forward,” Charlie said.

  “Nice.”

  “What about you? How do you like to swing your pick?” Charlie wanted to know.

  I thought for a second. “I favor the baseball swing, using the shoulders and hips to deliver the power, keeping my arms from getting too tired.”

  Charlie looked thoughtful. “I could see that. Do you think you do more side hits or top of the head hits?”

  “I’d have to say top of the head when they’re down, and side hits when they’re up,” I said.

  “Nice.”

  We’d spent the last three weeks driving around a major portion of the state, from Carbondale to DuQuoin, Sparta to Red Bud, Waterloo to Belleville. We’d encountered quite a few people along the way and managed to get a few of them started in clearing their immediate areas. Belleville was completely dead, but there was a large enough community from Carlyle to handle it.

  The pattern I was beginning to see was the people in the rural areas survived the outbreaks much better than the people in the more populated areas. Most of the smaller towns, the ones that don’t really show up on too many maps, they weathered the storm just fine aside from the loss of power and regular restocking of their local grocery store. They’d dealt with any zombie wandering their way and were damned efficient about it.

  At Fort DuChartes, we found that the locals had lured the massive hordes of zombies to attack the limestone walls while they stayed safe within. The men took turns killing the ghouls from the ramparts until there were none left. The last battle took a month to finish them all.

  We stood at a bridge overlooking the Mississippi into St. Louis, and it was then I realized we were going to need the whole army to take on the lands west of the river.

  Another fight for another day. Right now, Charlie and I were resting in the lounge area of the Flying J Travel Plaza at Effingham. We’d stopped here for the night, thinking it was safe. In the morning, we discovered it wasn’t. Outside the window about three hundred zombies milled about waiting to see what we would do. They tried to break the windows, and even now they pounded on the glass, but it wasn’t going to break. That glass was meant to quiet the engine braking of semi trucks as they pulled in off the highway. It was thick enough to handle dead hands as they beat a staccato on the barrier.

  This was an interesting mix of zombies. Apparently, when the Upheaval hit this place it must have been at night. In a truck stop like this one, in a decently populated town, truckers don’t always sleep alone. Mixed in with the locals, the truckers, and the workers were some obvious working girls. Some were pretty sad sights as it was plain some of their johns tore them to shreds before they turned themselves.

  “Are you better with your right or left hand?” I asked Charlie. I knew he used both with his tomahawks, but he had to favor one.

  “Interesting question,” Charlie said. “I’m right handed, but I think I’m more accurate with my left hand.”

  “Why do you think that is?” I asked.

  “Probably because I’m right handed. When I swing with my left, I’m focusing more on the swing and where it lands, and that concentration helps accuracy,” Charlie said.

  “That sounds about right,” I said. “When I swing—”

  Whatever I was going to say was drowned out in a large crack and crash of breaking glass. I jumped off the counter I was sitting on and whipped my pick out, Charlie joining me with his ‘hawks. We were in the back of the store, hanging out among the stickers to decorate one’s ride.

  Charlie stuck his head around the corner. “Damn!”

  “Window?” I asked.

  “Door.”

  “Damn.” That was the one weak spot in holding off the zombies. We thought they wouldn’t rush the place when they couldn’t see us, but we didn’t really figure on the door glass to be so weak.

  “Plan?” Charlie asked, shrugging into his backpack.

  “Back door,” I said.

  We moved as quickly as we could for the rear door, passing by the junk that even looters wouldn’t care for. If we had time, I’d have grabbed the fuzzy dice for the truck, but as it was, we were borrowing it right now.

  The back of the truck stop was an even bigger mess than the front, but thankfully, there didn’t seem to be any signs of struggle in here. There were no bloodstains, no battle marks or bullet holes. Charlie found the exit first since I turned in the wrong direction.

  “Here!” he yelled, getting my attention. He popped open the door, and I was right behind him.

  Right into a crowd of about ten zombies. I didn’t stop to count because one lunged at me and grabbed my collar, pulling me in for a bite.

  I got my hand up and grabbed it by the throat, fighting its two handed hold with my single one. I spun around and slammed the zombie into the back wall of the building, holding it there while I dropped my pick. I twisted my back, reached around my waist, and pulled my gun left handed. I swung it up and fired point blank into the face of the zombie that was charging my back. I fired again at another that was getting close, and that bought me a second to kill the zombie I was holding against the wall. Dark brain matter spattered the brick as the fully dead corpse slid down the wall.

  I didn’t stop to admire my handiwork as I had others to kill. Charlie was better off than I had been, he had stepped into a small space clear of zombies which gave him room to swing his ‘hawks.

  And swing them he did. Zombies advanced, and zombies died. Charlie backhanded one and then another, kicking a third down while he wrenched his axes out of the skulls of those he killed. Charlie had been at this long enough that he knew how much force he needed to crush a zombie skull with one swing. Most of the zombies we met these days were older and had more fragile skulls, but some were not. Charlie hedged his bet by swinging the same for all.

  I fired twice more, and as soon as the shots stopped echoing the attack was over.

  I looked over at Charlie, and he shook his head.

  “We nearly made a really big amateur mistake,” Charlie said, wiping off his axes.

  “Nearly?” I said. “It was amateur hour. You ran right out the door, and I followed you like I had never seen a zombie in these parts before.”

  “Are we telling Duncan and Tommy?”

  “Not on your fucking life.”
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br />   The door behind us banged with increased activity inside, and it was only a matter of time before they opened the door. The older zombies, being more fragile, were also a little smarter. Not enough to be a big problem, but enough to encourage extra precautions.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said. “My shots will bring more of the goopy ghouls, and I’m two days away from bath day.”

  “That long? Shoot. I’ll toss you in the next river,” Charlie said as we ran up a side street.

  “Try it and see what happens,” I replied, taking my depleted magazine out of my gun and replacing it with a full one. I’d fill the other one later when I wasn’t in mortal danger.

  “Sure could use Duncan’s cat right about now,” Charlie said as we moved deeper into the subdivisions surrounding the car and truck plazas that lined I-57.

  “No kidding. He was pissed as hell for us spending the night away at SIU,” I said.

  “Thank god he wasn’t in our truck. Duncan said Tucker shredded his backpack trying to get at the food Duncan had there,” Charlie said. He held up his hand as we moved past a house. Dark shapes inside moved with us, their glowing eyes revealing what side of the line they were on.

  “Let’s move a little faster. Duncan said he was going to try something different to deal with the zombies, and I am personally scared to death,” I said.

  “Any idea what he planned?” Charlie asked.

  “When was the last time he told us about his plans?” I countered.

  “Good point,” Charlie said. “Whoops. Hang on.”

  Ahead of us, under a large maple tree, two thin forms detached themselves and started a slow walk towards us. One was moving with a limp, stumbling awkwardly. That was understandable since she was missing her left foot. The other was almost hypnotizing to watch as he swayed from side to side as he moved, and his head bobbed back and forth from one shoulder to the other. They looked to be about the same age, but that was it for similarities. She was dressed in jeans and a tank top, and he was in khakis and a polo shirt. If they were dating, I’d say she was definitely trying to marry up.

  Charlie wasted no time. He walked up to the nearest one, the girl, and cracked her skull with a blade to the head. The boy moved in, and Charlie swung with his other hand, connecting the beard of the axe with the boy’s skull. Another crack later, and the two were down.

  “How far should we go?” I asked.

  “Probably to a point where we won’t be a distraction for whatever happens,” Charlie said.

  “What’s that sound?” I said.

  It was a persistent banging, like someone was beating a wooden spoon on a metal pot. It was fast and seemed like it was too consistent for someone to be doing that by hand.

  “I have a feeling we might be seeing the start of whatever Duncan had planned,” I said.

  “Agreed. If he’s making noise like that then he wants the zombies to come to him or whatever he has going on over there,” Charlie said.

  “Let’s give him an audience,” I said.

  We went back up the street and then split up, Charlie taking one side of the street and I the other. We worked at a quick jog pace, moving from house to house and opening the front doors. The ones we couldn’t open we just left. I kicked in a few and was away before any inhabitants came to see what I was selling.

  Charlie and I cleared one street and then another, and then we took refuge in a parked RV that was sitting under a carport. The vehicle wasn’t going anywhere, having four flat tires, but the interior was clean. I took the time to reload my depleted magazines, clean off my knife, and pick off any zombie residue. Charlie took it step further and sprayed some kerosene in his scabbards and sheaths, frying any virus in there as well. I followed suit, and was unpleasantly surprised when the flames turned red from my knife sheath.

  “How long should we stay here?” Charlie asked from the front of the RV. He was standing in between the front seats, watching the procession of zombies stroll past on their way to whatever was making the noise.

  “I’d say we’re better off here than in the vicinity of whatever Duncan has planned. Besides, I’d say we’ll know soon enough,” I said, stretching out on the bench seat in the kitchen. There was a small flat screen television built into the wall across the table, and I wished we could watch something to pass the time.

  I must have dozed off, because Charlie was tapping me on the shoulder.

  “I think something is going to happen soon. The zombies have stopped travelling by, so most of them must be wherever Duncan wants them,” Charlie said.

  “Well, since I don’t have anything else to do,” I said, extracting myself from the bench’s comfortable embrace.

  Whatever Charlie might have said at that moment was eclipsed by an amazingly loud explosion. If we had been outside, I’m sure we would have been deafened. The RV rocked a little from the concussion, and we both put our hands out to steady ourselves.

  “That was a good one,” Charlie said.

  “Best so far,” I replied. “Wonder what he managed to blow up?”

  “Guess we’ll find out.”

  We stepped out of the RV, and at the same moment there was a sound like hail on the carport above us. I looked at the driveway and saw the hail was bits of metal. Nails and screws were all over the place, with nuts and washers joining in. There were other bits as well, not easily identified, but clearly pieces of flesh and bone.

  “Glad we were under the carport,” I said unnecessarily.

  “Amen, brother,” Charlie said.

  We walked carefully back the way we had come, walking around the metal and flesh on the ground. It was a grim minefield we navigated, and it got worse as we got closer to the epicenter. Larger pieces were showing up, like full hands and the occasional arm. Charlie pointed out a few head pieces, but there was nothing to finish off. Whatever Duncan had done, he had done it well.

  At the edge of the gas station parking lot, we looked out over the interstate. In this part of the town, the highway was built below the level of the rest of the buildings, making use of a valley that bisected Effingham. In the center of that valley was virtually stacks of zombie bodies. They were all lying like they had been blown down by a massive wind that had erupted in the very center.

  That center was a smoking crater about fifteen feet across. There were the remains of what might have been two large trucks and car off to the side.

  I didn’t have the words to describe what Duncan had achieved here. He must have killed at least two to three thousand zombies in one shot. I was impressed and awed at his skill, and that awe raised my fear factor of Duncan’s handling of explosive to another notch. If this was his success, I couldn’t imagine the range of a failure.

  “Wonder where he is?” Charlie asked.

  “Wonder where Tommy is?” I asked. I pulled out my radio. “Tommy? Duncan? Anyone out there? Over.”

  I repeated myself twice before there was a reply.

  “Tommy here. We’re on the north side of town about a mile from where we left the trucks. Over.”

  “Stay there, we’ll meet you. Out.”

  “North it is,” I said.

  We backtracked a little to get out of the worst of the debris and then turned north. We didn’t see any more zombies out in the open, and this area was going to be clean after the next major rainstorm. Not bad for a day’s work.

  A mile and a half later, we reunited with Tommy and Duncan. Duncan was playing with a very active Tucker, and Tommy was looking at a map. At our approach, Tucker jumped off the truck and scampered over to rub his head on our legs. I picked up the purring ball of fur and scratched Tucker behind his ears. He closed his eyes in pure kitty pleasure as his front paws flared.

  “I have to ask,” Charlie said. “What did you do?”

  Duncan grinned. “Three full propane trucks, two barrels of scrap metal, a small fuse, a candle, and a lot of luck.”

  “How did you make the noise?” I asked, handing off a very happy Tucker t
o his keeper.

  “Jacked up a car, jammed a metal rod in the rear tire, and let it bang away on a tire rim. Seemed to work,” Duncan said.

  “Yeah. It seemed to do the trick,” I said. “Nicely done.”

  Tommy held up the map. “I think I might know where we can find a lot of volunteers.”

  “Oh?”

  “Right here.”

  “What the heck is Shelbyville?” Charlie asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  Strasburg, IL

  We headed north on some road that didn’t have a name, just a number. 2800E was its official name, and like a lot of things, made no sense since we were travelling north. But we were used to things like that by now, so it wasn’t even worth the effort it took to complain about it.

  Stewardson was a really small town in the middle of some serious nowhere. The town looked to be mostly populated, and several people waved as we drove past. We stopped for a minute to speak with a few of the inhabitants and learned that they were already making sure the surrounding areas were clear. But if we were looking for more people, they suggested heading north to the lake. That’s where a lot of people relocated from Mattoon, Effingham, and a few other towns I had never heard of. We told them about Leport, and what we were doing, and there were several volunteers that were ready to go, but we told them to wait until we did a push to the west.

  The day was winding down, and we were looking forward to a place to rest. Tommy was driving the truck ahead of us, so Charlie radioed and told him to look for a place to spend the night. We’d look for the lake in the morning.

  Tommy acknowledged, and we drove for a little while longer until we came upon another town. This one seemed kind of nice except for the fact that it was very empty. Every single building was abandoned, and as we slowly drove the streets in the dimming light, I could see signs of hurried escape. Garage doors were open, house doors were left open, and there were toys and clothes in yards. It was just strange.