The Apocalypse Crusade 3: War of the Undead Day 3

by Peter Meredith

  She felt that two minutes would suffice right up until she saw the size of the horde she was dealing with. A dozen or so were at the gate. A thousand were beyond it. They were heading to the stadium where the burner glowed bright enough to light up the night.

  In an effort to keep them away, she turned on her brights and leaned on the horn. Immediately the RAV4 was surrounded and she was forced to blast into them before they tore off the doors or hammered in her windows. Hoping that they would chase her, she took off toward the school. At least eight hundred followed after—the rest went for the stadium.

  Deckard saw them coming. “Get that thing ready to fly!” he yelled as he stalked toward the zombies with his M4 at his shoulder. He marched right up to the first and plugged it between the eyes. It fell and another took its place. He took two steps back and one to his right and fired again.

  He led the undead away from the balloon, firing slowly, heading for the bleachers on the home side of the field. When he reached them, he ran up four of the odd steps and looked back and saw the balloon slowly filling up with air. Soon it would begin lifting from the ground.

  “Two minutes,” he muttered, his words lost in the din of the hundred zombies arrayed all around him. Awkwardly, they scrambled up the bleachers to get at him. In response, he went higher still and then ran thirty yards down one, in order to give himself more room. They gave chase and he was forced to go practically to the top. From there he had a great view of the school grounds and could see the headlights of the RAV4 in the furthest parking lot of the school—she was too far away!

  The mob came at her from all angles, driving her further and further away. Deckard knew he had to buy her time to get back, but he was in a hard spot, himself. He couldn’t go any higher and there wasn’t much more room to retreat. He was almost to the far end of the bleachers with a hundred stumbling corpses coming after, when he heard a scream and a gun shot from the field.

  The inflated balloon seemed to fill half the field and Courtney looked small standing just beside the basket as it began to lift off the ground. In one hand she held her M16 and in the other was one of the anchor lines—and it wasn’t tied to anything but the balloon. It was about to take off without them!

  “Son of a…” Deckard began cursing as he raced, with wild steps, straight down the bleachers taking them three at a time. Then he was on the track that surrounded the field and was sprinting through the crowds of zombies for all he was worth.

  The inflating balloon and the fire seemed to mesmerize many, however, the girl just underneath drew more than she could handle. She shot her gun one-handed from point blank range, mounding up the zombies as they came.

  Deckard got to her just as she ran out of ammo, with three of them charging. Using the balloon’s tether rope, she leapt up and lashed out with her feet, flailing and kicking, holding them back until Deckard shot them properly. Then, with eight perfect shots, he killed those around them, giving them the tiniest window of opportunity.

  They needed it. The burner was going full force and soon, Deckard had to throw the M16 over his shoulder and pull with both hands on the anchor rope to keep the balloon from flying away. Heaving with all his might as more zombies bore down on them, he pulled the basket low enough for Courtney to climb in.

  Without wasting a second, she turned the tank’s knob, slowing the burner to a hissing simmer, but the balloon kept rising. “How do I stop it?” she yelled, staring around at the small basket as if she had overlooked an anchor.

  Deckard had no idea. He didn’t think you could stop a hot air balloon once it got going. And this one was moving. The wind had picked up and in a second, he was being lifted and hauled along. Only by happenstance was he able to reach out with one foot and catch the open cab of the truck, hooking it with his toes. Then he was being stretched, his hands burning where the rope bit into them.

  He cursed and grimaced in pain, trying to hold on because Thuy was finally coming back. The RAV4, its front covered in black blood and zombie parts, raced onto the field making straight for the balloon, only to be intercepted by a throng of the undead.

  She detoured around them and in those few seconds, the strain became too great and Deckard’s foot lost its feeble hold. Before he knew it, he was twenty feet in the air with the balloon shooting west toward the far end of the stadium.

  “Don’t leave me!” Thuy screamed at the top of her lungs, racing the vehicle down the field, one hand on the steering wheel, one hand waving desperately. For a moment Thuy was below Deckard and could see him fighting to climb the rope with bleeding hands. He would know how to stop the balloon, she thought, or at least lower it by bleeding off the hot air.

  He would never leave her…these were her last thoughts as she came skidding up to the fence that surrounded the stadium and watched, helplessly as the balloon sailed over and out of reach. In seconds, it was gone, hidden by the night and then she was alone—except for the thousand zombies charging after her.

  Epilogue—Garden City, Long Island

  Midnight and Beyond

  Anna Holloway and Lieutenant Eng strode across the open grass, mindful of the eyes on them. Of course it was too dark to see anything, beyond a few feet. Even the thrumming helicopter was nothing more than a dark, shapeless lump in the night.

  They couldn’t see out past their noses, but that didn’t mean soldiers weren’t out there. More than likely there were men with high-tech, low-light cameras hidden in the trees, filming their every move, trying to catch a glimpse of their faces—in vain. With all the contraptions the army had these days, Anna knew the dark wouldn’t hide their identities and so she had them cover their faces in scarves, hide their hair under skull-tight hats and bundled themselves in heavy coats that made it hard to tell their true size.

  Less likely, and far more frightening, was the idea that there were snipers perched up in one of the buildings that ringed the park. She had chosen this particular park as the extraction point simply because it was surrounded by apartment buildings, each teaming with people. The idea was that the government would be less likely to assassinate two seemingly defenseless people while there were witnesses about.

  Neither was close to being defenseless. Each carried a Beretta stuffed into the waistband of their pants and hidden by their coats. And they each carried a vial of blood in their fists.

  It was real zombie blood.

  Eng had thought it would be a good way to remind the military who was in charge—and he wanted to be on an equal footing with Anna. He absolutely hated the idea that she’d had the upper hand this entire time with her vial of Com-cells. Now she could fall to her death or get accidentally shot, or get eaten by some stray zombie, or be strangled with her own panties after one last good fucking, and Eng would still be able blackmail the world.

  The vials went unnoticed when they were stopped by a soldier who was armed to the teeth. He gave them a long look. “Get the fuck out of here,” he said in a shout to be heard over the helicopter. He had been told to expect between four and seven people, all of whom were armed and dangerous. The two people in front of him looked like curious hipsters who had wandered over to see what the fuss was about.

  “Morning glory blinders,” Anna shouted back to the soldier. The man twitched as if shocked and then took a step back, raising his gun, the barrel looked as though it was shivering. Next to Eng, Anna stiffened and she too stepped back.

  Eng was the only one of the three who was unafraid. He guessed that if the military was going to arrest them or kill them, they wouldn’t have sent one man, and if they had, he would have been more prepared. “Morning glory binders,” Eng repeated. “Now let us on the helicopter.”

  The soldier looked confused. His gun wavered, the bore switching from Eng to Anna then back again, only to finally point at the ground. “Uh, is this all of you?” he asked, looking over their heads.

  “Yes. Step aside or else.” Eng held the vial up higher so the soldier couldn’t fail to see it.

 
The man edged further away, holding his hands in the air and letting his rifle hang from its strap. “Okay, okay. I-I was just told there would be more of you. That’s all. Everything is how you asked for it, okay? We have been instructed to let you board without interference.” He pointed with one of his raised hands at the helicopter.

  Eng marched toward the helicopter and Anna had to hurry to catch up. When they were out of earshot, the soldier keyed his mike. “This is Papa-two. I have two headed for the bird. I say again, two heading for the bird and they are carrying vials right out in the open.”

  “Roger that,” the pilot said, feeling something twist in his gut. He turned his bulky helmet to the right and picked out the pair moving slowly forward. His night vision goggles gave him excellent night-sight, but he still couldn’t pick out the vials of blood, though he was sure they were carrying them—why else would each of them hold their hands out like they were?

  “Call it in,” the pilot ordered his co-pilot.

  The co-pilot didn’t reach for the radio. He was half turned in his seat, watching Eng and Anna come up to the Blackhawk. His goggles were perched on the brim of his helmet and he had no problem seeing the glass vials reflecting the glow of the instruments.

  “Shit,” he whispered. “They’ve got the vials just sitting in their hands. Are they stupid? What happens if they drop them?”

  The pilot flipped his goggles up and blinked until he could see things in their natural hues. Under the dim interior lights, he could see Eng climbing into the bird, one-handed. The other was still held out.

  “Stow that shit, damn it!” the pilot barked as Eng sat down. When it was obvious that Eng couldn’t hear him, the pilot keyed his mike: “Bill, get a helmet on that one so I can talk to his dumb ass.”

  The helmet was offered and the pilot started in immediately: “We aren’t going anywhere until you and your friend stow those fucking vials. We’re not going to risk you dropping them.”

  “Actually, you’re going to do as you’re told,” Eng explained.

  After a moment in which the pilot gritted his teeth, he came back on, saying, “Look, you have free passage to Washington. No one is going to do anything to you. Those are the orders. The only time we can do anything is if we believe you are going to use the bird to spread the disease. With the vials out, we aren’t leaving.”

  Eng hesitated, but Anna made a show of putting the vial in her pocket—she kept her hand there as well. Eng did the same. “Safe and sound,” he said. “Now we can go.”

  The pilot stared back at him for a moment and then faced forward, gripping the stick a little too hard. “Call it in,” he growled.

  Word was relayed from channel to channel until the president heard it thirty minutes before midnight of the third day of the apocalypse. He sat back in the plush seat absolutely uncaring that it had cost taxpayers thousands of dollars. “Okay, that’s that. How many drones to we have in place?”

  “Fourteen at the moment,” the FBI director said, glancing at his notes. “But we’ll have three more ready to go by the time they reach DC.”

  The president turned his bleary eyes to General Heider, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “And Pennsylvania?” The president longed to look back at Colonel Manzetti to confirm that he hadn’t disappeared, but he’d been told by Marty Aleman that it was beginning to creep everyone out how often he let his eyes linger on the man with the nuclear codes.

  Heider had his glasses off and was rubbing his face with both hands, up and down, pulling his old man’s flesh around like it was a mask. “It’s up in the air still…but it’s going to be close.”

  “I gave you the damned planes,” the president snapped. “You wanted planes, I gave you planes. You wanted tanks, I gave you tanks. What more do you need?”

  “Honestly, I need time,” Heider replied. “You only federalized this mess this morning. Given enough time, we can hold, I know it.” He needed time to catch his breath, to figure who was where, who was alive, who was dead and who was only sort of dead.

  Marty picked his head up from the desk where he’d been resting. “Time is the one thing that’s not ours to give. The people won’t stand for any of this much longer. This morning, when this was only an up-state New York issue, we had people murdering each other over loaves of bread. What do you think it’s like out there now?”

  Heider honestly didn’t know. His focus was on the battle and it had been enough to keep him so busy that he had forgotten to eat or drink and now his head was pounding.

  At his shrug, Marty said: “I’ll tell you how it is, people are at each other’s throats. The number of murders has skyrocketed since yesterday. It’s up over twelve-hundred nationwide and the numbers of lootings is reaching epidemic levels. I don’t need to tell you, General what that’s doing to your ability to mobilize.”

  It’s killing me, Heider thought. Every state had called up their guard units, but none had turned them over to the federal government. What was more, many of the governors had illegally appropriated reserve units, if not their men, then their equipment. It was a huge mess that only added to his woes.

  And yet…“Twelve hundred?” Heider said after a moment when the number reached his groggy brain. “In a country of three-hundred million, that’s not a lot. I would have thought it would be more.”

  “You don’t know these people like I do,” Marty said. “They’re sheep right up until the shit hits the fan and then they turn into blood-thirsty…” It took him a moment to come up with the right word: “…Jackals.”

  Heider sat back from the table. A large part of him wanted to get up right then and walk away. “That’s how you think of the American people? You’re wrong.”

  “The numbers don’t lie, General.” Heider thought Marty’s snide look needed to be punched right off his face, but there were three Secret Service agents in the room and the general remained seated. “Good,” Marty said, thinking he had won some point when he had only further cemented his distaste for the very people he helped to lead.

  He gave the general a smarmy, shit-eating grin, never realizing that his doom and gloom outlook was nowhere near accurate. He saw things through the very narrow tube offered by the media, who fixated on anything negative. The truth was that most people weren’t looting and very, very few were committing murder or even considering it. In fact, many crimes had dropped to almost nothing. Arson, pedophilia, burglary and rapes simply weren’t occurring.

  The people had seen the news and were properly afraid. The great majority of them did as they were told: they remained indoors, they made lists of their supplies, they began rationing and they began hoarding water in tupperware containers and pots and even in bathtubs.

  They also began to look out for one another in a manner that was almost unheard of in twenty-first century America.

  On their own they began trading with neighbors, and on their own they gave what they could to those who were in need, and on their own they looked out for one another and on their own they took up their weapons.

  Milo Musial, a recent graduate of Brentwood High in Pittsburg, Pennsylvania was one of these. Just nineteen, he took up the Winchester 30.06 he had been given as a birthday present two years before, and headed east. Next to him on the bench seat of his Dodge truck, was a backpack that held seventy three rounds of ammunition and a lunch packed for him by his tearful mother.

  He drove east until at sunset he was ten miles from the New Jersey border. There he was slowed by a line of cars and trucks, many of them sporting the Stars and Stripes. The line was four miles long and before five minutes had passed, thirty more cars joined it behind him. An hour later, he was pointed to a field that had once been planted with turnips but was now a three hundred acre parking lot.

  As if he were pulling into a concert, civilians with flashlights directed him to a spot and then hustled him out of his truck, asking for his keys in the process. “We may need them,” was all the explanation given and was all the explanation needed. He
understood: they might need the truck or just the gas. Either didn’t matter to him.

  The truck was simply a conveyance. He was there to fight. He was there to die. He was there for God, family, and country. He was part of a voluntary crusade that had sprung up out of nowhere. If the gas or the battery from his truck were needed for the cause, then so be it.

  He left the keys, slung his pack and shouldered his rifle. With hundreds of others, he marched for miles and then was placed on the line. Around him were men and women in camouflage, and in overalls, and in jeans that hung so low that half their asses were open to the cool night air.

  Milo expected to be afraid. These were zombies he was facing and he had watched enough television to know that it wasn’t going to be pretty. But his fear wasn’t any greater than anyone else’s. In fact, two seconds after arriving he found himself comforting a soldier in uniform: a pretty young thing named Ginny Kinna.

  All day, Ginny had kept hold of her MOPP gear and her gun and a few bullets, and all day she had marched until her feet were filled with blister-pus and her muscles ached. They were retreating, which, in Ginny’s mind meant they were losing. At sunset, the line had underwent a major shift. Again to the west. West, west, west.

  At least, with this last shift, she had been able to ride in a truck. They rode to the Pennsylvania border and for some reason she thought that since she was a New Yorker, she could be done with the fight. But no…more marching, deep into the night and then an actual fight with real zombies that came out of nowhere.

  It was dark and Ginny could hear their moans long before she could see them. She could hear the moans and the sound went right up her spine and made her shiver and the shivering never stopped. She was still jittering when the first monster came crashing out of the forest in front of her.

  She froze, her gun stuck on her shoulder as if she had sprung some useless, rigid growth. Thankfully, she wasn’t alone. There were real soldiers around her who knew how to shoot and weren’t afraid and hadn’t peed themselves. When Milo Musial came on the line and was pointed to a spot next to Ginny, the first thing he noticed was the cute girl. The next thing he noticed was the dark stain spreading from her crotch.