A Fistful of Zombies: 12 Zombie Tales

by Dane Hatchell

  “In a situation, my job is to put myself between whom I am protecting and who is attacking. My job is to beat the enemy or die trying. My job is not to escape. I should have not known about this escape hall. I don’t have clearance to use it.

  “Let’s just say that someone in the organization was kind enough to share the information with me when I was assigned to head your security team. I used a special pass code to bypass the ID reader. There are many such escape halls in and around the Capitol.

  “So, when this is over, and the records are checked, my job is over, too,” Engels said.

  The General clasped Engels on the shoulder. “Well then, you better hope I’m elected to be the next President. I can save your ass and make you head of Homeland Security.”

  * * *

  “My family should have arrived yesterday,” The President said, standing at a window and bouncing the fingertips of his hands together.

  “This is rough terrain for people traveling on foot. Plus, their radio batteries ran down a few days ago. That may be an indication that their GPS is also down. So, if they are traveling using a compass, they may have missed us. It may take some time to figure that out and double back,” Pastorek said.

  “We could use thermal imaging cameras at night to find them if they’re that close.” The President paused and looked at the ground. “But, that would only happen if I was the President of a country whose military didn’t desert their posts and break their sworn oaths.”

  “Sir, all the bases were attacked. We don’t know who is left or what is operational anymore. Not only that, but you need to consider that the soldiers have families too. Desperate people do desperate things in times of crisis. This may be more than a crisis, it may be the apocalypse.” Pastorek opened a bag of dried apples and crunched a piece between his teeth. “You’ve talked to Putin and Cameron. They’re in the same situation.”

  “We shouldn’t have come here. It would have been easier for them to find us somewhere else.”

  “Camp David is one of the most secure locations in the world. You’ve got the Marine Security Company, one of the Corps most elite units protecting you, right now. You’re surrounded by acres and acres of woods in a national park. Marine One’s propeller was damaged just before takeoff. Those dead things weren’t the least bit scared of a whirling blade. When that undead lost its head to it, it came at a price to us. We were lucky to make it this far.”

  “What’s the refugee count up to?” The President asked.

  “Still just the original sixty or so, along with Stilwell and his security team.”

  “He still refuses to come in the camp?”

  “He said he and his team won’t come in unless we allow the other civilians to come in too.” Pastorek drank from a can of water and grimaced, “Damn military canned water.”

  “We can’t let civilians in. The risk is too great. We still aren’t sure how this thing that’s bringing the dead back to life works. They’ll just have to wait until we find a way to test them. They can seek refuge somewhere else if they can’t understand that.” The President turned and stared down his nose at Pastorek.

  Pastorek took another swallow of water and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “They’re not going to leave. They believe in you and what you had said to them. You know, individual salvation depends on collective salvation.”

  “The needs of the rest of the country outweigh the needs of these few. I can’t risk the security of this nation for a handful of people. It pains me to act this way, but I am the President and I have to make tough decisions sometimes.” The President pointed his finger at Pastorek. “Something else has been on my mind, how in the hell did Stilwell know to come here to find me?”

  Pastorek put his can of water down and stood in front of the President. He locked gazes with him. “His security team leader knew where we were. I radioed Engels and told him our location. The General felt that he could best serve the country by your side. Or, in your place. If perhaps something unfortunate would happen to you.”

  The President’s ire increased. “You’re not suggesting treason, are you? Killing me and let the good General take over? We can’t locate the Vice President or the Speaker of the House. It would be a convenient coincidence.”

  “No sir, nothing that malevolent. But I am a registered Republican. And if fate were to deal you a fatal blow, there would be someone as equally qualified to assume the role of Presidency. We’re already technically under Martial Law. What better leader of the nation than a General?”

  *

  “What’s your name, soldier?” General Stilwell asked, to a guard standing behind six feet of razor wire.

  “1st Sergeant Darryl Thompson, sir.”

  “Sgt. Thompson, any word about my request to meet with the President personally?”

  “Negative, sir. My orders stand unchanged.”

  “How about my request for increased provisions for the citizens?”

  “Negative, sir.”

  Stilwell was just about to ask another question he already knew the answer to and stopped himself. It didn’t look like the president was going to give an inch. Stilwell was in no position to try and take one. But he was not going to leave these people outside of the make-shift fort on their own.

  These past days had taught him a lot about himself and about humanity. As bad as he wanted to assume control and secure the country again from this menace, he could not find it within himself to abandon this group of people. If he, or mankind, were to survive this holocaust, ideals must be adhered to.

  He and his security detail had stumbled upon the group huddled up in a Ranger’s outpost thirty miles from Camp David. They were unarmed and in need of leadership badly. He just couldn’t leave them out there on their own.

  The sixty-two people now under his care had protection from the elements due to some military modular frame tents. That, and the daily food rations, were the only physical aids shared from the compound. Stilwell could tell from talking to the various guards over the last few days they were on his side, and would let all of them in if it were up to them.

  The people did little around the camp during the day. Sitting on the ground, watching the children play, and keeping one eye on the lookout for danger. One of the men had a deck of cards, which only provided more opportunities for conflict.

  A shot cracked through the cool autumn air breaking through the General’s thoughts. Engels and crew sprang to attention with weapons drawn at the sound.

  Parents quickly gathered the children, and the group ran toward the General at the make-shift gate.

  The Agents searched in all directions but didn’t see anything to be alarmed at. The target remained unknown.

  *

  “What was that?” The President asked.

  Pastorek placed his hand to his right ear. “The snipers, sir. Enemy spotted at the tree line, fifty yards from the east gate. A .50 caliber bullet made it history.” He pressed his radio mike on his lapel. “Single or multiple targets?”

  But before an answer was given, a shot rang out, and then another. The answer came through loud and clear.

  *

  “I see them! They’re coming from twelve o’clock,” Nadler pointed as he spoke.

  Engels looked around. “And three o’clock and nine o’clock. The whole damn woods are full of ’em! Lock and load boys. Don’t fire until you see the dead in their eyes!”

  The crowd screamed for the guards to let them in. Women and children cried and pushed against the fence as reinforcements arrived inside the east gate. The gate remained locked.

  *

  “Sir, it’s a full attack. The spotters can’t count the numbers of those damned dead things coming. We need to let the civilians in now,” Pastorek said.

  “No, I’ve made up my mind. We can’t take the risk. The country, the world can’t afford compromising our security,” the President said.

  “Excuse me sir, but there isn’t much left to the country or the
world. All we know for sure is what’s at hand. Those people out there need us now. For the love of God sir, let them in.” Pastorek turned his head down and concentrated on the new message coming over his radio. “Sir, your wife, daughters, and their security team have been spotted.”

  “Where?” The President asked.

  Pastorek raised his hand, motioning the President to pause. “The east gate, running for their lives. Just ahead of the living dead.”

  “Get them some help!”

  “They’re too far out. The snipers are our only chance.” Pastorek waited for the next report. The seconds felt like hours.

  “Good God man, don’t leave me hanging like this. Are they safe? Have they made it to the gate?” The President put his head in his hands.

  With a look of terror in his eyes, Pastorek reported, “A group of zombies have cut them off before the gate. They’re trapped, sir.”

  “Trapped?”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  The Presidents face went blank. “Tell the snipers not to let those damn monsters get to them.”

  “Sir, do you mean—”

  “You know what I mean,” the President snapped, and turned his back to Pastorek.

  Pastorek gave the orders and waited for the report. His eyes closed tightly. He forced himself to speak. “Mission complete sir . . . It’s over. They never felt a thing.”

  The President lowered his head. Large tears dropped down to a rug on the floor as he steadied himself next to a desk.

  An alarm sounded, Pastorek started speaking in a low buzz over his radio.

  “What now?” the President whispered.

  “The underground bunker has been breached.”

  “How?”

  “Through an above ground escape hatch located by the east gate. One of the soldiers opened it to let refugees in.” Pastorek unlocked a cabinet and pulled out a pistol and several clips of ammunition. “Here you go, sir. It’s a fight to the end.”

  *

  The only thing more surprising to Engels than seeing the First Lady and her daughters running from the zombies was watching them drop to the ground after their heads exploded. Beats the hell out of being eaten alive, he thought.

  Getting the people down the hatch and into the bunker was going much slower than he imagined. They were doing their best to keep the living dead away. But when one fell, it seemed like it was being replaced by two.

  Engels’ clip went empty, his gun silent with the slide locked open. “Ammo, Nadler! I need more ammo!”

  Nadler paused and squeezed off a round. “Out, sir. I’m down to my last clip too.”

  Stilwell’s gun had gone silent long ago, but no one noticed. Valin’s MP5 went empty. Nadler’s pistol clicked hollow.

  “Damn it Nadler, we could have won this thing if you had brought more ammo!” Engels screamed.

  The three security agents stood between the army of the undead and the General as he frantically helped people into the hatch. But their hand to hand fighting skills were no match for something that didn’t feel or fear.

  Voracious mouths tore at tender flesh as a wave of living dead surrounded them. The General was the next to fall and then a handful of the others remaining above ground.

  One of the zombies leaned over the open hatch and fell head first into the tunnel below. Others followed the smell of fresh meat lingering in the air.

  *

  “Be ready for anything, Mr. President.” Pastorek stood by a closed door in the compound’s Marine barracks. That door, fifteen Marines, and four special agents on the outside were the only things between the President and the ravenous zombies. The gunfire from the outside roared in continuous thunder. A scream from a dying man occasionally broke above the fray. “It’s been an honor to serve you, sir.”

  The compound had been overrun by the living dead. Pastorek had kept the President moving until they found themselves totally surrounded. That is what he was trained to do. Keep moving, keep moving. When the area is hot, your best chance for survival is to keep moving. Even if you’re blown half to bits—move—move—move. To remain in one place is to give up. But fate had dealt him one final hand. He didn’t have many cards left to play.

  The last shots were fired and a last cry for help from outside signaled that the two were all that were left alive, now. Just one man stood between a ghastly horde of hungry corpses and the most important man in the world.

  Pastorek stood in his shooting stance and let the bullets fly when the door buckled open and the undead spilled into the room.

  His teeth clenched tightly as he pushed back his fear squeezing off round after round. He sent the lumbering dead to the floor and stacked them up like cordwood.

  His gun went silent and so he let it drop, and brought another from his side. Every bullet found its target. Ever bullet counted. One shot one kill.

  Then, the moment came he knew was inevitable. His gun again fell silent. Ironically, the song ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper’ played through his mind.

  He ripped off his sweat-stained, long sleeved shirt exposing a tee shirt that read, ‘Fighting solves everything.’ He was trained to fight until the end, even if shot or gassed. As long as he was capable he was expected to fight. There were ‘the dead man’s last ten seconds’ he had anticipated throughout his training. No matter how severe the wound, he was trained to give it all he had for those last ten seconds of remaining life. That training wouldn’t apply here. But he figured that ten seconds was about all he had left to live.

  He now put himself between the protectee and the problem. He was supposed to, make himself as large as he could and become a meat shield.

  Pastorek chuckled to himself. His instructor never meant for him to literally become a meat shield in this way.

  With rage contorting his expression and uttering a snarl he ran full speed and sprang off his left leg. Pastorek delivered a kick to the jaw of the first zombie with his right foot. The zombie’s head flew backward. Dead flesh tore away from the neck and jaw. The head now lay upside down between its shoulder blades. It held to the body by a flap of skin between the back of its head.

  The other few blows he managed to deliver weren’t nearly as effective. And despite a promise he made to himself, he couldn’t help but scream as he felt his flesh being torn away from his bones from gnashing teeth. He never wanted anything as badly as he now wanted death.

  The President stood with his back to the wall and held the gun with a shaking hand. He was in awe of the bravery of Agent Pastorek. The onset of shock had him unable to rise to his guard’s aid.

  Two of the zombies passed on the latest victim and lurched their way toward the President.

  The President didn’t believe his heart could beat any faster, but it did. He felt pressure build in his head and a ringing burned through his ears.

  The two dark creatures kept a steady approach. One slow step at a time.

  The President raised the gun and tried to aim for a head. But his hand was shaking so badly he couldn’t focus on his target.

  Then, a grim realization came to him. The two zombies coming for him looked familiar. “Teddy . . . Teddy Kenedy?” he said, not believing his eyes. “Senator . . . Bird?”

  Their flesh had withered on their faces. Their stature was smaller than when they were alive. But, still in death the President was able to recognize his former comrades.

  The distinguished men of the Senate showed no hesitation. The President’s cries for mercy mingled with the sounds of two voracious zombies feeding. The two shrunken Senate members seized him in their hands and mashed the Presidents living flesh with their yellowed teeth.

  They fed until the President was nothing more than cracked bones, blood stained clothing, and a dream never realized.

  The End

  The Garden of Fear

  Charles Duncan could see the brick piers and shattered chimney stack of the old cabin on the hill while standing by the tree where his grandfather was murdered. The eroding waves of
time had left its mark without the broom of a caretaker to sweep it back.

  Magnificent Bald Cypress trees growing by Salt Bayou touched the western perimeter of the five-acre homestead. The cabin set on one acre. The other four were dedicated to growing sugar cane. It was some of the richest soil east of the Mississippi.

  His grandfather, Sylvester Duncan, was a proud man who earned his living as a laborer on a nearby farm. It was hard work, sun up to sun down, six days a week. Coming home to his wife and four-year-old son made it worthwhile. The sugar cane went exclusively into the production of syrup. Sylvester cooked it the old-fashioned way in a large iron kettle and heated by a wood fire. The profits bought luxuries for special occasions, mostly gifts for his family during Christmas time.

  The cool autumn breezes rattled the leaves of a mammoth water oak. Charles let his mind drift back to the day when his grandfather hung feet first from a branch on the cypress towering fifty foot above. Such acts of vigilante justice had been common for years. Disobedient slaves from Africa the common brunt of impromptu judge/jury/executioners.

  His murder would have been deemed savage even if he had been guilty of his charge. The label ‘reprehensible’ paled to describe the wrong done to his grandfather that day. Not because he was treated no better than a pig gone to slaughter, but because his wife and two year old son had been forced to witness it.

  Mary Nettles, the farmer’s wife, had accused Sylvester Duncan of attempted rape. Jake Nettles and two sons had left the field early and happened upon Sylvester lying on top of Mary over a pile of hay, inside the barn.

  The two were struggling in an embrace. Mary cried rape as soon as the barn door opened and she caught the silhouette of Jake from the corner of her eye.

  Before Sylvester had an opportunity to speak out, Jake and his two sons pummeled him with fists, elbows, and kicks. Beating him to within an inch of his life.