When we are through with this we will have hundreds of Deads, lots of weapons, and more ammo than we can use. The only thing left to do now is follow Ms. Blake to Bermuda, rendezvous, and kill her and her entourage. All those infected on her ship with no food is not a good mix. Anyone left will follow me to kill Maslow, and I will celebrate in the warm sands of Bermuda.
The killing continued throughout the night and into the next day. There are hundreds of infected on the ship now as we ferret out the last of the Healthies. We are in pretty regular radio contact with Ms. Blake but something doesn’t sound right. Bermuda is close and we will rendezvous soon. No radar has been detected but radio chatter is constant. They have been trying to contact our ship for a few hours. We will have to answer soon or we may cause suspicion.
Our ships anchor and we arrange to meet on board Blake’s ship. We take a dinghy over with 5 of us aboard, Bogle remains at our ship. As we get closer we don’t see any signs of life of any sort. Climbing aboard we find nothing but carnage. I guess the math is simple when it comes to a ship full of Deads.
No Food + Long Trip = Frenzy.
Blake and Company must be hiding in the helm/radio room. We head that way and find body parts everywhere. Some moving, some not. We head up the rungs and knock on the door. No answer so we kick it in. There they are, the five of them. Blake and the General are moving, the other 3 are not. Blake looks up and knows what’s coming.
“You knew this would happen.” She says.
“Yes, I did”. And with that, I pull her head completely off. Still conscious, I throw it to the General. He is in better shape than her.
“We need you, come on.” I say.
“I always hated this bitch, almost as much as Maslow” he scowls as he crushes it with his hands.
I believe him.
“Your friend Maslow is going to be ready for anything.” Spicer says. “He has Alliance, live and dead, ready to protect the island. He also has weapons, but I have an idea.”
We really do need this guy. I listen as he continues.
“We will move some Deads to this ship. How many you got over there? I imagine hundreds. We will have one of your men run the cruise ship aground spilling Deads all over the island tonight. You, me, and whoever else you got that can follow orders, will circle around to the other side in our ship. We will fire some big rounds into the island first and then do the same with this ship. You and I, however, will be in a dinghy headed in to shore a little west of the point where the ship will hit. Then it’s a rat hunt for Maslow. Guarantee he will be internal somewhere, held up. Probably in a hotel. We can find him. It might take a while, but we will find him.”
“Sounds good. What do you see as our chances of killing him and taking the island?” I ask.
“Zero to none.” He answers coldly. “We will kill him, but we have little chance of taking over that island. Too fortified. We will be lucky to get off the rock ourselves. We will need to find a ship there to get us out.”
“I am not leaving.” I say. “I am there to take over.”
The General looks at me and smiles. “Point taken.”
Night falls as we shuttle about a hundred infected to the General’s ship. We make sure it is full of Healthy remains to attract and keep our comrades busy. Bogle and the others stay on the cruise ship to run it aground at the dock, as far onto the beach as they can. They will try and get internal on the island to find Maslow as well. We will have more than enough men and women on board both ships to handle anything the island has in the way of protection. Spicer calls in an Alliance air strike for the same time. I guess they do still think he is alive.
We circle around in our ship and wait for 1030, our agreed upon time. We need to make sure that the ships hit the shore as close to the same time as possible. We want to hit near large docks to allow our people something to climb out on.
At full speed these large ships should both travel well inland and have ample exit ways, especially if the ship tips over.
It’s time.
We fire some rounds to the center of Hamilton and jump into the dinghy, leaving the ship aimed toward a large dock. We radio Bogle, and both ships are on their way. We head West and watch as the ship runs aground, smashing through wood and steal docks and screeching to a halt. I imagine the Deads leaving the ship and roaming the streets.
We then hear gunfire. Each has met resistance now. It goes on for a while until we hear Spicer’s air strike heading in. Communication is lost with Bogle as the planes light up our people. It must be a strike by Maslow! I turn to the General and he is smiling. He hands me the radio.
“Hello Mr. Madden, Dimitri Maslow here. Things didn’t go to plan did they? The General is an old friend of mine. If you look, you will notice he has a gun to your head.”
He does, and the others don’t even notice.
“Come and join me for a drink, won’t you?” Maslow says gentlemanly.
I should have known.
As we near the shore I have to ask. “You made them Frenzy and wanted Blake dead, didn’t you?”
“Roger that.” Spicer said. “She was crazy; I just used her for her supplies and contacts. As we got closer to Bermuda, I radioed Maslow and told him I had you. We struck a deal, one that neither of us will honor. I bring you to him and he gives me a position. I, of course, intend to kill him. That air strike got as many of Maslow’s men as ours, probably more. Most of our boys were still on the ship. They should be getting off about now. Maslow wasn’t expecting very many. I kinda dumbed down the total number. They will keep the rest of his men busy while we arrive at his door, invited guests. He is insane and easily manipulated. I assume you know I have nothing against you.” He puts the gun in his holster. “I also assume you are on board. The gun was so you would sound believable to that nut job.”
“Yeah, I’m on board.” I say, trying not to smile too much.
So, having a few minutes to think, I do just that. Things seem to have gotten easier. Spicer has set it up so we are invited to see Maslow. Our armies are on the island. Maslow’s forces are depleted. And Maslow is quite mad.
We get to shore and get out of the dinghy, 7 of us. The other 5 are slower witted than I would like. We head in, and they follow. We hear fighting to the East. Screams, and gunshots. Our boys must be doing well. Spicer’s radio comes alive with the familiar voice of Dimitri Maslow.
“General, we are at the Hilton, downtown. Penthouse. Please join us. Keep Madden alive. I want to talk to him before he dies.”
“No promises.” Spicer answers and smiles at me.
We start walking.
On the island we see mostly Healthies and a few infected. They are both heading to the interior of the island followed by our men. We walk down the street, hotels in the distance. We see the Hilton. We find a golf cart by the side of the road and use it for the rest of the trip. It is difficult negotiating the roads.
This is not as neat and well kept as Manhattan was under Maslow’s shepherding. It is filthy and deserted.
“I don’t think he had a lot going here General.” I say.
“Nope, looks as dead as he is.” He answers.
We head into the driveway of the hotel and 3 guards await us.
“Don’t worry, I got this. It’ll just take some diplomacy...” The General says.
He draws his gun and shoots all three in the head in less than a second.
A regular diplomat.
Then he looks at me and says “Lets head to the top.”
We don’t trust the elevator or the steps but those are our only choices.
“Even if he doesn’t want you alive, he won’t kill us both in the elevator.” Spicer says. We get in and head up. When we get to the top, the door opens. He pushes me out of the elevator, gives me a gun, and heads down the hall.
“I’ll head around the rear while you go in the front.” He says.
I go the other way, not really knowing where I am heading. Where is the front? I look down a hall and s
ee a set of large double doors with two guards in front of them.
Of course this couldn’t be easy.
I ease back and lie down behind the corner and peer around with my semi-automatic rifle aimed at one of the guards. I will shoot the first one in the head, and then the second. Two quick shots like Spicer did to avoid making too much noise and it has to be fast, and it has to kill them. I clear my head, aim, and squeeze off one round and then aim at the other and squeeze off another. The first guard I hit in the neck, the second in the forehead. Number two goes down and so does number one. They were Healthies. Fair enough.
I run down the hall and throw open the penthouse door. I enter and see Maslow and Smith sitting at a table. They are arguing and Maslow shoots Smith. A guard grabs me but I swing around and bite deep into his Healthy neck. Maslow sees me and asks “Where is the General?!” while shooting three times. Two bullets go in my chest and one misses.
“The Healthies have betrayed me and are attacking. They want me dead!” he shouts nervously.
I return fire with all the rounds in my gun and hit him several times. He does not bleed. And he notices this.
“Where’s your blood, dead man?!” It’s the General’s voice. Smith, not dead, aims for Maslow but hits the General in the head. He drops instantly. Maslow shoots and kills Smith this time and his revolver is empty. He tries to reload but is having trouble. I, too, need to reload my gun to finish him off so I reach into my pocket to get some ammo.
The jacket is still stained with the blood of the dead soldier from New York. I am right in front of Maslow now, in pain from the shots to my chest.
“So you feel the need to finish me Mr. Madden?” Maslow says, his throat gaping from my gunshot. He has dropped his gun. I still feel the need to shoot him instead of attacking. I want to execute him. I root around and find a half empty clip. I load it up, and look for more. I feel something else at the very bottom of the pocket.
“...Even though I allowed you to live.” He continues. Feels like paper but I can’t tell what it is.
“You can’t DO THIS Madden. I can’t die!” He screams.
“You are dead, and always have been!” I shout back.
Then he looks at my chest and calmly says, pointing and smiling, “By the way, isn’t your first name Hetfield?”
I can barely get my fingers to grab whatever it is but I finally pull what turns out to be a picture of two people from my pocket. A man in his late 40’s and a teenage boy are at a lake. It’s a beautiful day in the photo.
“What did you do Madden?” The man who knows everything about me smiles and says. Then he laughs.
In the photo the sun is out and they are both smiling, the man’s arm around him. I feel the first chill in my spine I have felt in a long, long, while. I remember days like this with my son.
“WHAT DID YOU DO MADDEN?! DO YOU THINK IT WAS COINCIDENCE HE WAS THERE?!”
I remember endless fun, warmth, love, and happiness. I remember how the grass smelled; I’m so dizzy now.
“CAN YOU APPRECIATE THE DIFFICULTY FOR ME TO GET HIM THERE AT THE PRECISE TIME NECESSARY?! TO ALLOW WHAT HAD TO BE DONE?!”
I remember being happy. Loved. I remember holding the camera out in front of us and taking this picture. I just stare at the photo, unable to take my eyes off it. Maslow continues to laugh.
“Who really won, Mr. Madden? Who really won, indeed?” Maslow picks up his gun again, aims, and pulls the trigger but it’s empty.
I drop the photo and I look down at the name on the front of the jacket I am wearing, the one I took from the young soldier I ate and killed. The name reads M. MADDEN.
My God... My Michael... I feel sick... All I can do is fire all my bullets into Maslow’s forehead.
I stare down at the lifeless body of Maslow. I became consumed by my desire to kill him and now I had. I also killed my son. My Michael. I feel a loss like I have never felt before. I can’t see, I can’t hear, I can’t think. Even more dizzy now, I stagger back and fall against a wall. Sitting there, I can’t move. And then I lose consciousness....
17
Magnetic North
My dreams are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
-Robert Frost (Well, sort of.)
I wake up in the dark and feel confined, wrapped up in something. I feel like I am inside a sack. I must have passed out from exhaustion from all the gunshots. It takes a head shot to kill us, but trauma can knock us out for a bit. I feel around and find a zipper and realize I am in a body bag. I work a finger through the top of the zipper and pull down to unzip it from the inside. I slowly peer out and see that no one is around. I seem to be in the cargo area of what looks like a plane. I can definitely feel that I am in the air. Two bodies are next to me. I assume they are Spicer and Maslow, but I have to check.
I get out and unzip the first bag; it’s Spicer, a bullet hole in his head. Maslow in the other bag, a mess from the ears up. I really unloaded on him. Both are dead. I zip up both bags. I have the worst migraine headache I can remember. I reach up to my forehead and feel a hole in my head right between my eyes where my hazmat brand is, or was.
What the?
I push further in, working my fingers in the hole until I feel a bullet. I am three inches into my skull, into my brain. I pull out the bullet and realize why someone might think I am dead. Someone shot me in the head. But it didn’t kill me. I still walk.
I still have my radio, so I get back in my bag, zip it up, and listen. I start to piece it together.
Maybe the air strike that General Spicer called in brought a rescue as well. They thought, as I was told, that he was alive when he called. They must have traced his phone and come to rescue him in the hotel. They came in, shot me, and that’s why I passed out. But why would they take my dead body with them? None of it makes sense. I feel around the hole in my forehead with my fingers and keep listening.
The radio says there are 3 planes and we are heading North to the Alliance’s Eastern Base of Operations in Newfoundland. I can’t imagine too many of us up there in that cold. What did Maslow mean when he said he got Michael there for me to kill “to allow what had to be done”? Sorrow is slowly being replaced by rage over Michael’s death and I want answers, and I want to bring down the Alliance if it’s the last thing I do.
I continue to listen and one of the voices on the radio sounds familiar. I recognize the woman. That’s Chris...
“Are you listening, Mr. Madden?” she says.
I tear open the bag and sit up. I turn around and in the doorway of the cockpit I see her. She is wearing a rather tight leather flight suit and smiles at me. I had forgotten how beautiful she was, or is. She must have heard my radio. I get up and walk toward her.
“Did you miss me?” She says coyly. “I heard you moving in here and new you were OK. We heard Spicer call in the air strike and flew down to find him and Maslow, hoping you might be there. Found you all dead, sort of. I just knew we’d find you, Het!” she says as she runs over and hugs me. “Like the outfit? The leather keeps our bodies strong and together. We have one for you.”
I can barely get words out; “You’re alive... How?” I can see into the cockpit over her shoulder. Bob is flying the plane. Yes, that Bob.
He looks at me and groans “A lot to talk about.”
“We are better than we ever were before, Het. It’s The Vaccine. It is more than we ever could have imagined. That’s how I knew you weren’t really dead.” Chris explains. “I woke up after the battle we had in Manhattan in a lot of pain. I didn’t remember much. I could not move and my back was snapped in half. The pain was unbearable, especially my head. I lay awake for hours and fell in an out of consciousness. I dreamt of you, Het, and of finding you. I “came to” once and found I could move my arms and I reached up and felt a hole in my head, like yours I see.”
I nod, still in disbelief.
“I reached in and pulled out a bullet!” She continues. “I had been shot in the head, but was not dead. I then noticed that my back was fairly straight. It wasn’t perfect yet and I couldn’t walk. I pulled my self around the building looking for food, and answers. I eventually passed out again, and when I woke up my back was straight enough so I could stand. And I could see out of the eye you pushed back in my head. I healed, Het. See, my eye works!”
She points to the eye she had cut out to prove her dedication to Stout; as I watched back on Manhattan. I felt bad about it, but could never tell her. It was working, and moving in the socket. Amazing.
Het Madden, a Zombie Perspective: Book One: WRATH 2012 Page 15