Two sets of disembodied silver-sheathed arms and metal-knuckled hands sprang at Nasher. With his left side turned toward them, his shooting hand drew his magnum in a long upward arc. The hands clasped his forearm, stopping its rise. He fired a burst of two rounds and two holes of black, oily blood ruptured from its neck. He dug his heels and yanked his upper torso back to break free. The other set of hands clenched his left arm and shoulder and pulled him forward with such violence that Nasher’s feet slid out from under him and he flew into the room on top of the two zombies. Each commando scurried and clawed on top of him, ripping off his jacket. Nasher flailed, swung his arms any which way, jostling for position. Flesh tore away by a pair of teeth. He screamed. Fingers dug into the hole as his shirt was stripped away and another set of teeth sank into his left shoulder blade. He turned his head and with the last of his energy, bellowed, “Stanley!”
Stanley rolled and pushed himself off the floor and leaned against the door frame. He gagged and squeezed his eyes shut, fumbled at his bag, screwing his face and shaking his head.
Nasher’s voice, muffled, weary: “Tell my sister—”
“I will, I’ll tell her you send your love.” He gripped the door handle and flicked a grenade into the room with Nasher and the zombies, and slammed the door shut. The boom silenced the snarls and the screams behind the door.
Stanley rolled to his back and balled his fist over his eyes. “Fucking damn it! What the hell is this place?”
Julian crossed the hall and picked Stanley up underneath his arms. Stanley’s eyes watered. “Seriously, Paul, what is this place?”
Sophie stepped around Paul. “This is where Alan kept his projects.”
His eyes wide, teeth bared and hands pointing at the zombies at the far end of the hall Stanley walked toward Paul and Sophie, shrugging off Julian. “Projects?”
Sophie hid behind Paul as he turned around to face Stanley. “Yes, projects. He said it’d help the city.”
“These projects,” Stanley said, gesturing with his hands, “are going to fucking kill us.”
“And she can stop them,” Paul said, reaching for his sister’s hand.
Stanley’s eyes narrowed to look past Paul and Sophie. Karen planted her feet and fired a round at a gaunt-eyed male zombie with unconnected wires sprouting from its neck. The bullet entered its left eye and exploded through its temple, collapsing to the ground.
Thomas ran into the hall holding the steel IV pole like a bloodied trident. Trailing behind him, he pulled a hospital bed and twisted behind it.
“Guys, we need to move.”
By Paul’s estimate, nearly a dozen zombies milled about the end of the hall. Gray and decayed, none seemed fast, but most had arms and a full set of teeth in their snapping jaws. To the other end, outside the doors sat the chopper.
“Can the helicopter get us over the building at least?”
Stanley shook his head. “We burned the last of the fuel getting over here. It’s fumes. We’d crash on a roof if I even got it up in the air.”
“We can run through the courtyard,” Julian said, stepping to Stanley’s side.
Paul looked to his sister. “Sophie, is that possible?”
All eyes stared at Sophie, and her cheeks burned red. She hugged her stomach and looked down. “I don’t know, nor do I know how many projects are in this building. But,” she took a breath and looked up at her brother and Stanley, “if there are more, it means things will get even worse.”
“Guys? People with guns and bombs?” Thomas called out. “Decide something. There’s more of them coming from the other halls.”
At the end of the hallway, the dozen zombies in a pack grew to a small hoard jammed wall to wall, a glacier of undead.
Julian placed his hands on the back of his head. “God damn it.”
Paul grabbed Stanley’s shoulder. “Do you have any more of those sensor bombs, the ones you used back at Nasher’s?”
Stanley tapped his bag. “The claymores? I got one left.”
“Let’s use it,” Paul said. He ran to Thomas and jostled the cart, and keeping hold of it, shoved it forward. In turning around to motion to Stanley, he saw Donovan’s body sprawled across the floor, his skin not yet fully drained of life. “Thomas, put that body on the bed. Stanley, let’s see the claymore.”
Stanley jogged to the bed, removing the mine from his bag. Thomas dragged Donovan by the feet, leaving a trail of smeared blood. The growls, screeches and hisses grew to a cacophony. Louder and jarring. Wafts of rotting flesh and bodily fluids permeated the hall. Paul grabbed Donovan by the wrists and with Thomas, lifted the body to the bed. Stanley settled the claymore across Donovan chest and jiggled it lightly. It slid off the chest and on to the bed.
Stanley mumbled, his hands patting down Donovan’s waist. “Belt, better be wearing a belt.” Underneath the untucked shirt, his fingers grazed a metal buckle and leather strap. He yanked it loose and immediately began threading it underneath Donovan’s back and looping it around his chest. With one hand he held the claymore across the sternum and pulled the end of the belt through the buckle, tightening it so that the leather dug into Donovan’s bloody shirt. He rustled the mine again and it stayed in place. He stepped back and eyed the mass of bodies at the end of the hall. “Okay, let’s do this.”
Julian jogged out of a room, wielding an IV pole in both hands.
Thomas smirked and nodded. “Nice.”
“Well, I’m out of ammo, and the sawed-off isn’t much of a club,” Julian said holding the pole out in front of him.
Paul wheeled the bed to the middle of the hall, and turned back to the group. “When this goes, we need to move quick before they regroup after the initial blast. Got it?”
Everyone centered behind Paul. They nodded and focused their eyes at the swarm they would soon need to dodge at the end of the hallway.
“Which way do we go to get out of here?” Stanley asked.
Sophie turned. “Right, then left. The ZMT bay will be not too far from the doors.”
Stanley puffed his cheeks with a large exhale. “All right,” and pulled his bag snug on his hip.
Paul rolled his shoulders and twisted his back, ignoring the fatigue of being awake for nearly twenty hours straight, working a ZMT shift and taking a beating to survive to this point. He leaned forward, gripping the metal bed rails and bent his left knee, planting his foot. He lulled the bed back and forth, and with the fifth iteration he sprang and locked his elbows, his legs kicking. He channeled all his momentum into the rolling ferry of a guided bomb. At three quarters of the way down the hall, he shoved the cart forward and let go. With nothing to steady his momentum, he stumbled, falling to the tile floor arms first.
Karen and the rest tread slowly while Paul kicked his way down the corridor. As he fell, she jogged faster, ignoring the bed cart careening toward the swarm.
The bed veered to the right, its tail swerved to the side and collided with the zombies. Two fell over upon impact and flailed, pulling two others down with them. The back end of the cart jumped up and turned to a sea of outstretched arms that clutched the remains of Donovan’s body. Three hands dove for the stomach and clawed for the bowels. An arm strafed the chest and scraped over the claymore’s sensor.
Sophie shrieked at the blast, covering her ears. The packed steel bearings burst the enveloping horde and scattered mottled chunks of flesh and withered arms. Bodies collided and tumbled. A pile of burnt muscle and sinew twitched.
Karen shuddered, not having expecting the blast to rattle her body. She reached to Paul, on the floor. She touched his shoulder. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Paul blinked and drew a breath. He pushed himself up as the prattle of footsteps ceased. He pushed at Karen and swung his arm, pointing at the hallway on the right.
“Go. GO!”
Thomas and Julian charged ahead. Thomas flipped the feet of the IV pole forward and jabbed at the ruptured remains of the hospital bed. Medical grade foam absorbed coagulating
blood and fluids, and metal shrapnel lay strewn in fist-sized chunks. Thomas put his weight behind the pole to clear a path free of an outstretched arm or a neck that could lunge with a mouthful of rancid teeth. The bitter tinge of C4 masked the bile and copper splattered along the wall. Julian used the tip of the IV pole to spear the head of any zombie on the floor whose eyes might still roam or whose jaws unfurled a blackened tongue.
Sophie and Karen hesitated, looking from Paul to Thomas and Julian. Paul pushed himself up to his knees. “Karen, go. Get Sophie to the bay.”
Stanley stepped to Paul’s side and pulled him to his feet. Paul wavered and leaned into Stanley’s shoulder. “You must have landed hard,” Stanley said. He turned to Karen. “I got him. Go!”
Karen tugged at Sophie’s hand and lead her through the scrum of exploded zombies. Julian cleared the right side of the hall around the corner while Thomas fended off a resurgent tide of undead on the left. Karen and Sophie streaked through a narrow, bloody path, skipping over a bloated corpse with wires tracing the contours of its body.
At first, Paul lumbered toward the end of the hall supported by Stanley. He squeezed his eyes and stretched his jaw, accepting the possibility of a concussion, his second of the day. At the end of the hall, Thomas stopped spearing the growing number of modified zombies and pushed them back, knocking them over like a flesh-hewn row of dominoes.
Julian and Thomas were losing ground. With each shove, Thomas inched back to plant his feet. Julian spun around to jab a fallen zombie. Each extended limb fell like the edge of an oncoming glacier. Slow and certain. And with more wired undead appearing from the depths of the building, monumental.
Paul separated from Stanley and tread lightly around the corner, holding onto the wall, stepping over the wired corpses.
“I got one more grenade,” Stanley said, and held out his hand to Thomas and Julian. He tilted his head to the crowd.
Julian speared one last zombie with the full force of his shoulder, pushing the IV pole hard and letting it go, sending a tumble of bodies to the floor. He jumped back and joined Paul. Thomas clenched his jaw and pumped the feet of the IV pole in rapid succession to the nearest swarm. With his last shove, a wet crack of a broken clavicle snapped and a zombie with black hair snarled, bouncing backwards. The pole clattered atop the destroyed bed cart and he leapt back.
“Do it!”
Stanley walked in reverse, flicking the pin from the grenade and with an underhanded toss, it sailed over a crest of arms and sank into a sea of bodies. They crouched around the corner as the dense mass of flesh muffled the explosion. Legs tore away below the knee and the concussive force created a mountain of writhing torsos and snaking wires still snarling and screeching.
Julian ran ahead while Thomas stood by Paul, who still leaned on the wall as Stanley hustled and looked over his shoulder. “That’ll slow them a little bit,” Stanley said.
“Good enough,” Paul said. “Let’s get to the bay.”
Chapter 24
Paul jogged, leaving behind the deluge of zombies, screams fading as they neared the exit. The side of his head still hurt and the glowing red exit sign at the end of the hall was blurred. He strained to keep running straight as he shook his head.
Stanley paced ahead and kicked the door open with the heel of his boot. It wooshed open and the cold night air swooped inside. To Paul, the draft rolled over his arms and neck and distracted him from his headache. He and Thomas stepped outside and Stanley slammed the door shut. Through the broad pane of wired glass, at the end of the hall a pair of zombies turned the corner and staggered forward.
“Fuck,” Stanley said. “Your sister better have her shit together.”
Paul backed away from the door and turned. “She will. Let’s move.”
“Plus, there’s guns in the bay,” Thomas said. “So we can at least fend them off.”
Paul rolled his neck and spotted the fading figure of Julian walking at a brisk pace towards the gates. He couldn’t blame the man from wanting out. None of this was his fight to fight, despite what Alan or Nasher said. It wasn’t Thomas’ either.
“Thomas, when we get inside,” Paul said, grabbing Thomas by the shoulder, “go up to dispatch, and secure that area. Barricade everyone in.”
“Like a medieval castle,” Thomas replied. “I think there’s a crossbow up there somewhere.”
He looked up, and all three ZMT bay doors were closed, as procedure dictated. If a call came in or a rig returned, chains would rattle inside and pulleys would raise them open. Paul’s sense of balance returned, but he remained conscious of each step, landing harder than he’d intended. He gripped the handle of the door to the right of the third bay, leaning forward before opening it.
Thomas and Stanley rushed in and Paul followed. They scanned the garage for Karen and Sophie. Stanley eyed the back of a ZMT truck with it doors open and cabin illuminating its cache of weapons. He dashed to raid its contents.
Thomas pointed to the other side. “Over there.”
The room buzzed with activity. Crews of ZMTs milled about, stocking their rigs and talking, awaiting any additional calls to Belleville or other areas of the city. Paul caught a bit of conversation about two crews dispatched with fire personnel to Foxer after reports of explosions. He spotted Karen next to Sophie at a computer station nestled between a pair of tall aluminum tool boxes.
He approached to the sound of Sophie’s fingers orchestrating a stream of bright green lines of text to ebb, flow and stop. The words appeared in a form of English he could read but shortened and paired with characters on a keyboard he rarely used. Sophie’s eyes flickered as she read the screens’ response to her commands, focused with her lips pursed.
Karen realized he stood by and pulled him close by his waist. “She’s doing something, searching for the program or the source of it. She said it has to be accessible if it’s connecting to the Greenport network. It’s a matter of how secure did Alan make it.”
Sophie continued to tap the keyboard. Paul frowned. “Can’t we just knock the servers off line?”
“No. Well, yes, but Alan has four redundant server farms across the city,” Sophie said, blinking at the screen. “And those are just the ones I know about.”
“So we’d be running around, wasting time and still not stop whatever’s controlling his zombies?” Paul said, leaning forward.
“Exactly.”
He squeezed Sophie’s shoulder and kissed the top of her head. Her fingers paused and the text on the screen froze. “Go get it. You got this,” he said.
She looked up, smiled and nodded, and returned to entering commands in search of the source program.
A muted bang of metal rung near the bay doors. A crew of ZMTs stopped and turned their heads, mouths hung open in mid sentence. The sound came again, and a tall brunette woman broke away from the group and tread to the doors.
Bang.
Bang bump.
Bump bump thump bang.
Scritch bump bump bump bang bang thump bang.
She peered out the narrow frame of glass on the side door. Her chest heaved a sudden breath of air.
“Dead! Dead ones in the perimeter!”
Her crew of ZMTs dispersed to their rig, where Stanley stepped out, strapped with a nylon bandolier of shotgun shells and a 12-gauge automatic shotgun. He ignored the crew, who scrambled inside to grab weapons for themselves, and strafed to the bay doors and ran his hand across the thick aluminum. It vibrated and shook with each rattle of a body forced against it. He skirted to the side door and glanced at a growing mob of decaying bodies covered in wire and metal.
A black helmet floated through the mob, bobbing and weaving, forcing a path nearing the bay door. It didn’t wear the full black commando jumpsuit that pursued him through Nasher’s building. It wore a shirt stained with oblong blossoms of blood. Silver mesh glinted beneath the ripped strands of cloth. Its head looked up and scanned the length of the bay door and pushed to the front of the crowd. It raised bot
h hands, covered in black gloves, and pushed gently on the metal. It balled its fist, ratcheted its arms back over its head and slammed them through the door.
Stanley jumped back to a line of ZMTs as the door thundered against its rails. A pair of fists clutched the punctured aluminum slats, twisted and popped them. A storm of stressed metal roiled through the room as the holes grew larger, revealing a wave of zombies.
Sounds of the shuffling of boots and clicking of safeties disengaged came up beside Stanley. “Fire as you see ’em,” a male voice yelled.
“Paul!” Stanley yelled, raising the shotgun to his shoulder. “Get your sister to shut them down.”
Sophie paused and exhaled. “I need more time. I’ve narrowed down where it’s coming from, but it’s not as simple as killing a single zombie.”
Paul blinked. The bay door’s rupture grew to the size of a tire, with arms swarming in. “Just do what you need to do. Karen, can you stay with her? Guard her? Lead her to the—”
Snapping planks of metal gave way to screeching and the bodies tumbling inside. Bursts of gunfire popped and bullets ricocheted off concrete. The opening in the bay door could now let in a small car as the two holes converged and errant slats of aluminum brushed against the horde of bodies coming in. Stanley and the line of a half dozen ZMTs inched back, firing at the approaching zombies.
Paul pulled opened the tool cabinets beside the computer station. He shuffled through wrenches and sockets and drill bits and palmed a foot-long flathead screwdriver. He squeezed Karen’s hand and dashed across the room to the ZMT bay shift office. Aside from the desk, computer, and administrative paraphernalia, the office stocked a gun safe. The armory was housed behind the bay and required iris scans and logs and security bullshit Paul didn’t want to deal with.
The gun safe in the office required a key, or a very determined person who could pry it open.
He attacked the safe, spearing the head of the screwdriver behind the metal clasp that the lock hung from. The door buckled and groaned as he wedged the tool further in and pried it off. Sweat trickled down his brow as his arm pumped. A pair of bolts gave way and the door sprang open. A scream ripped across the room and a ZMT fell, tackled by a pair of zombies. Paul grabbed safe’s contents, a AR-15 with a 30 round magazine and a semi automatic Glock, and ran back to Sophie and Karen.
Survivor Response Page 24