Of all the weapons, he had chosen the one that absolutely would not work.
He threw the crossbow at the creature and it struck it in the face. It snarled and kept coming, though the weapon had left a sizeable gash on its forehead.
Tom ran to the display case, and picked up the broadsword, as Taylor screamed. The broadsword was light, too light, probably painted balsawood. He picked up the halberd and was happy to note it had actual heft to it, and the blade, beak and spike were all steel.
Good to go, he thought.
He brought the weapon out, turning in his panic the wrong way around, so that it caught on the edges of the case. As he fumbled with it, Taylor screamed and dropped the mace. It landed on the tiled floor with a dull thud.
Tom looked up to see that she was now surrounded; other creatures had come in the door behind them.
Tom swung the halberd clumsily, trying to get a feel for its balance and weight. He grazed the first creature in the back with the spike, and it snarled, spittle flying into Taylor’s face.
As Tom adjusted his grip and swung again, a zombie in a barista apron bit deeply into Taylor’s neck, and bright blood jetted across a wardrobe case for Queen Elizabeth.
“No!” Tom screamed and managed to slice deep into the bicep of the first creature. It turned on him, even as its fellows were tearing into Taylor. Tom saw them rip away her tee shirt, exposing fair skin and a pink, lacy bra, before they opened her up and pulled out intestines that looked like purple sausages.
Tom vomited into the display case, unmindful of the creature advancing on him.
There was a loud report of a revolver and the creature was blown back, a large hole blossoming in the middle of its Student Union shirt.
“Come on!” Dez screamed in his ear, and he was pulled toward the exit by Dez and Newkirk.
Tom struggled against them. “She’s hurt!” he cried, tears now spilling from his eyes.
“She’s dead, bro, we gotta bail!”
They dragged him from the place, and his last memory was of Taylor, her convulsing in a pool of blood as her ribs were cracked and everything protected there, was ripped away and eaten.
Tom shut down then, following his friends on some sort of autopilot, his mind not really understanding or processing the chaos and carnage around them. Newkirk had brought his SUV up Bruin Walk.
That’s a violation, Tom thought.
They piled in, Dez taking out a zombie EMT and a guy dressed only in an athletic supporter.
“House?” Dez asked.
Newkirk shook his head. “Called Poe – he and Sugar Bear are trapped on top of the parking kiosk for Lot 2.”
“Poe” was an English major, hence his nickname, and “Sugar Bear” was studying psych. Sugar Bear was a burly African-American fellow with a deep voice. Tom had never gotten a nickname; some of the guys in the frat just never inspired one. He had tried to get them to call him something artistic, but nothing had ever stuck – he was always “Tom” or “Meyers.” Sometimes, one of the brothers would call him “Tommy Boy,” which he detested, but the best way to make such a nickname permanent and in wide use, was to protest.
Taylor is dead
Taylor is dead
Taylor is…
“Tom!”
Tom looked at Dez.
“Bro, we’re gonna need your help if we’re going to save our friends and get back to the house – you can flip out later, just not now.”
“It’s my fault she’s…”
“It’s no one’s fault, Jesus! Now focus, or I’ll loosen a couple of teeth, got it?”
Tom nodded.
People were pounding on the vehicle now, only he guessed they weren’t really people anymore. One girl, scraped and bloody, jumped on the hood of the car.
“Let me in, goddammit, let me…”
She was dragged off, and disappeared screaming into the mob forming there on Bruin Walk.
“Can’t go back,” Newkirk said, and gunned the SUV, moving forward. The living tried to slow him down, but moved when they saw he wouldn’t stop – the others, they were just bumped aside or mowed down.
The mob began to thin as they crested the hill, and Tom guessed the creatures were flowing downhill, gravity encouraging them to do so. If they were on foot, they never would have made it.
“Thanks, Newkirk, for coming to get us.”
“You owe me twenty bucks, Tommy-Boy – you think I’d let that go in the middle of a zombie apocalypse?”
“You guys, you think that’s what this is?”
“Look around, dude,” Dez said, “if it walks like a duck and fucks like a duck…”
“But… it’s just not possible…” Tom protested. “Nothing on Earth reanimates after it’s dead.”
“Well, not counting Jesus,” Dez said, and laughed. “But, bro, I reiterate, if it looks like a freakin’ duck…”
Newkirk continued east, moving over to the shoulder when he came to a series of steps, then gunning it when the way was clear. The campus was a maze, and not all his choices were meant for vehicles, but Newkirk drove with a confidence Tom envied.
The kind of confidence that might have saved Taylor.
He shook his head. This wasn’t the time, he had two brothers depending on him. Four if you counted Dez and Newkirk, and they were his best friends.
Newkirk skirted the Inverted Fountain outside Franz Hall, just as a lurching man in a hospital gown rose up from a partially consumed body of a nun, her habit covered in blood and gore. Newkirk roared and tromped down on the accelerator, and the vehicle struck the lurcher dead on. He flew backward and struck a cement wall with a sickening crunch. Newkirk sped on, and something struck the vehicle’s tailgate with a loud bang.
“What the hell was that?” Dez yelled, “Is someone shooting at us?”
“The way I’m driving, probably,” said Newkirk, and he laughed.
They hit Charles Young Drive East and Newkirk turned right, heading for Lot 2.
Dez pointed to the halberd, which Tom was still gripping tightly, as if it moored him to reality.
“You any good with that, bro?”
Tom shook his head.
“Well, you’d better learn quick ‘cuz, I am nearly out of bullets and we need Newkirk to keep the car running.”
The parking lot was just ahead, and they could see Poe and Sugar Bear on top of the kiosk. There was a young blonde with them and a middle-aged parking attendant. Around the base of the kiosk, a dozen of the creatures reached for them and snarled.
Newkirk slowed, wanting to assess the situation.
“You could ram them,” Dez said, “then they could pile on the roof – we drive to a place where it’s relatively quiet and they climb in.”
Newkirk shook his head. “Too many of them – one slip and whoever’s even partially exposed, is toast.”
“Then I guess we gotta draw those mothers away while you grab ‘em.”
Newkirk nodded. He looked at Tom.
“They seem pretty slow. If you get in a jam, run for cover and I’ll get you.”
Tom nodded, his heart hammering. His grip on the halberd loosened and he thought he might puke.
Dez checked the action on his gun. He looked at Tom and grinned.
“.45 – belonged to Newkirk’s grandfather.”
“Gramps did love to shoot things,” Newkirk said.
Dez and Tom piled out of the vehicle and Newkirk drove a few feet away.
Tom, still feeling weak, sick, and useless, tried to hold the halberd the way he had seen it done in the movies.
He felt like an impostor. He was no hero; he was a first class fuck-up.
“Hey, pus-bags,” Dez yelled, “come get some Mexican food, putas!”
“I thought you only swore in Norwegian,” Tom said.
Dez laughed. “Don’t be stupid, Tom, what zombie is going to understand Norwegian?” He looked at the zombies and said, “Hey, helvetes fitte, I’m talking to you!”
Several of the
creatures turned. They realized two on the ground were better than four out of reach, and began lurching toward them.
“That’s it, dead meat, keep coming! Fordømte drittsekk!” Dez yelled. He looked at Tom and motioned at them with his head.
“Over here, zombies!” Tom yelled, his voice cracking slightly.
Dez laughed and looked at the group of undead heading their way. All but two had abandoned the kiosk, and Newkirk could deal with them.
Dez sighted carefully and fired. One of the creatures, a tall and gangly man in a business suit, was struck in the shoulder and went spinning off balance. He went down, tripping a large woman in nurse’s scrubs.
“Two down,” Dez said merrily.
“You gotta hit ‘em in the head,” Tom said.
“I got news for you, bro, I was aiming for the head.”
Tom could see Newkirk as he gunned the SUV and ran over the last of the kiosk zombies. They crumpled like broken dolls and remained unmoving. Poe and Sugar Bear jumped down on the roof of the SUV and helped the girl and parking attendant down.
Feeling emboldened, Tom moved forward and speared a small, dark man dressed in military fatigues in the chest. The man snarled - he was impaled on the pike of Tom’s halberd. Tom tried to dislodge the snarling man, but the pike was embedded in his sternum, and stayed fast. Tom kept thrusting and pulling, trying to keep his balance and keep the skewered zombie between him and the other undead.
Poe ran up, holding a pry bar he had grabbed from Newkirk’s vehicle.
“Hit ‘em in the head, Meyers!”
Poe swung the hook end of the pry bar down on the small zombie’s skull, just as Tom managed to dislodge the halberd. Tom went sprawling backward, landing on his ass.
The pry bar went deep into the top of the creature’s skull, and it immediately went slack.
Then its head exploded.
Shards of skull, blood, and brain matter, flew in all directions. Had Tom been standing, he would have been caught by the grotesque shrapnel. As it was, a large shard sliced Poe’s throat, and he went down.
Two large skull fragments embedded themselves in a nearby car with explosive thrumps.
The zombie went down, and then the real nightmare began.
Worms began to emerge from the zombie, and it was clear they were like nothing on Earth. Large, nearly a foot long, they were the color of dead flesh and crawled forth on dozens, maybe hundreds of tiny legs.
And they were fast.
Tom saw with mounting horror that the creatures had multiple black eyes, like a spider, and a pair of cruel mandibles that clicked and gnashed.
They made a beeline for Tom and he backpedaled, stifling a scream.
A heavy work boot came down on the two nearest worm-things and Tom looked up to see Sugar Bear.
“Let’s get the hell out of here, Tommy-Boy,” he said.
“Poe…”
Sugar Bear shook his head. He helped Tom up and they hurried back to the SUV.
Tom saw several of the worm-things crawling on Poe’s still body and he stopped just shy of the car to vomit. It was mostly dry heaves now, and his gut clenched and cramped.
“Come on, bro,” Dez said. Dez handed the .45 to the parking attendant and then took the halberd, which he stuck in the hatch area.
Several of the zombies gathered around Poe, as if waiting for something to happen. Tom didn’t think he wanted to see what that would be.
Newkirk sped off.
The blonde, whose name was Heather, sat up front next to Newkirk. Sugar Bear, Dez, and Tom, were squeezed in the back seat, and the parking attendant, Monroe, was in the hatch area.
None of them spoke for a moment, until Tom broke the silence.
“What the fuck were those things?”
“Worms,” said Sugar Bear.
“No kind of worms I’ve ever seen,” said Tom. “Jesus, do you think somebody was doing some kind of genetics research on campus?”
Dez shook his head. “They’re years away from something like that, maybe decades.”
“And that thing’s head… it just exploded,” Tom said.
“Could you please stop talking about it?” Heather screamed, and burst into tears.
They rode in an awkward silence as Newkirk made his way down Hilgard Avenue. He tried to pat the girl’s shoulder but she flinched away. He looked at Dez and Tom in the rearview mirror, and shook his head.
Traffic was already beginning to snarl on Hilgard, and they all jumped as a U-Haul truck suddenly veered over to the wrong lane and smashed into a Prius. Newkirk dodged through the impending jam as best he could, sometimes driving up onto the shoulder or even the sidewalk to get to Le Conte Avenue, and from there to Gayley, and then Strathmore and the frat house.
“I gotta get home,” Monroe said.
“Where’s that?” Sugar Bear asked.
“Palms.”
Newkirk shook his head. “I think the freeways are going to be jacked up, if this thing has spread.”
“I gotta get to my wife and kids,” Monroe said more firmly.
“Dude, I’m sorry. We need to get to our house and figure out what to do until the National Guard or whoever cleans this shit up.”
“Then take me back to my car,” Monroe insisted.
“Look, Monroe, we can’t…”
Monroe leveled the .45 at him. “It’s in the structure, lot 2. Just drop me off at my car and then you go to your house and I’ll go to mine.”
“Whatever you say,” Newkirk said. He was pissed, but what could he do? Tom understood Monroe’s point of view – he began to wonder how his family was faring back in Akron.
Newkirk swore under his breath and did a wide U-turn. Several cars honked at him loudly, as if they were angry.
“Apocalypse, assholes!” Sugar Bear yelled out the window. “Lighten up.” He thought about what he said and laughed.
“Sugar,” said Dez, “that one’s going down with ‘Damn the torpedoes’ and ‘I shall return’.”
“Thank you, thank you,” Sugar Bear said. “Make sure they spell my name right. D-e-s-m-o-n-d R-i-t-t-e-r.”
“I think ‘Sugar Bear’ is more colorful, and will really give historians something to think about.”
“Uh huh.”
Newkirk swung back up Westholme and the entrance to Parking Lot 2.
Poe still lay there, now in a bright pool of scarlet. The zombies surrounding him saw Newkirk’s car and left their vigil.
Newkirk plowed through the barrier.
“Hey!” shouted Monroe, probably more out of habit than anything else.
“Sue me,” Newkirk barked. “Where’s your fucking car?”
Monroe indicated an older Chevy near the office. Newkirk made for it and slammed on the brakes. He popped the hatch. Monroe prepared to exit.
“The .45, drittsekk,” Dez said.
“I need this,” Monroe whined.
Quicker than Tom would have thought possible, Dez struck out and clocked the man in the face. As Monroe rocked back, Dez grabbed the .45.
Monroe put a hand to his face and started crying. “Please, man, I’ve got a wife and two little kids, a boy and a girl.”
“We need…” Dez began, but Newkirk interrupted him.
“Give him the fucking gun.”
Dez started to protest, then handed the man the gun. Monroe took it gratefully and scrambled out.
They waited until he was safely in his car and then Newkirk peeled out.
Zombies were coming up the ramp, and Newkirk plowed into two of them.
One flew into the retaining wall and its skull promptly exploded. Tom thought he saw something fly out of the gore, something that went straight up and then out of sight.
“What about you?” Newkirk asked Heather.
She shook her head. “My roommate was killed over by Royce earlier. I don’t care where we go.”
Newkirk nodded and began threading his way down Hilgard. It was still easy if you were willing to drive over lawns and
sidewalks. Other drivers who hadn’t thought that was an option honked and swore.
Not knowing what else to do, Tom leaned back and closed his eyes…
…and thought of Taylor.
The Thetis Plague is available on Amazon here
Adaptive Instinct (Survival Instinct) Page 57