Z-Risen (Book 1): Outbreak

by Long, Timothy W.

  Joel knocked gently.

  “Ty. You there, Ty? It’s Joel Kelly from the base. Come on buddy, at least let me know you’re on the other side of that door.”

  He knocked a few more times then shook his head in frustration.

  “What’s the plan?”

  “Watch my back.”

  Joel glanced left and right, dropped the backpack, and went to one knee. He rummaged around in the bag until he came up with a MacGyver-looking complement of tools and wires. He’d split a large coffee can in half and lined the concave surface with grey packs of something that looked dangerous. He yanked out a double wrapped freezer bag of water and added it to the package.

  “The fuck?” I whispered.

  Joel shook his head and held the can up against the door. He broke out duct tape and applied a few strips until the device was held in place. He stood back and tugged a wire out of the side of the can, then looked around again.

  “Shit.”

  “What?”

  “Be right back.”

  He dashed to the condo next to us and came out twenty seconds later dragging a mattress. I moved to help but he pointed at his eyes then forked his fingers, indicating that I needed to stay sharp.

  Joel tugged the mattress over and draped it against the door. He pulled the wire out of the can while shielding himself with the mattress, then ran it down the hallway, gesturing for me to follow. We crouched around the corner while he plugged the wire into a detonator.

  “Holy fuck balls,” I whispered. “Don’t. It’ll wake up the whole city.”

  “In and out, buddy. In and out.” Joel smiled, then held the device up.

  “Dude. How many will that bring?” But it was too late. He already had his finger on the trigger.

  I covered my ears; he tried to do the same by using one hand and an elbow. Even with the mattress in place, the explosion was immense. The building shook and dust and debris showered the floor. Joel was level-headed and didn’t rattle easily, but when it came to fuck ups, this was a big one.

  I looked at my watch and marked the time. Thirty seconds were going to come to an end very quickly. In fact, I doubted we even had fifteen seconds. Shaking my head, I followed him into his friend’s condo.

  I waved smoke out of my face as we entered. Joel had his assault rifle at the ready, so I followed suit and pulled out my M45.

  The door had been blown off its hinges. Joel walked over it in a half-crouch. He had the AR level with his shoulder and aimed into the smoky interior. I followed closely but kept my eyes on the entrance. Just as I cleared the entryway I got a look over the railing.

  I gasped and reached for Joel to get his attention but he wasn’t there.

  Out on the brown grass, the dead were gathering. Not a few, not even a dozen. It seemed like they were coming out of their undead comas from every corner of the city.

  I swore and walked into the haze left by the explosion.

  The entryway was a mess. The door had been blown into the small space and smashed whatever furniture had been there. The smell of smoke and explosives burned my nose. There was a mirror on one wall but it had been shattered, and when I looked into it, I saw my face splintered into five pieces.

  "Ty, don't shoot us, man!" Joel called. “It’s me, Joel. I told you I’d come.”

  Hey Ty, we just broke into your house but it's cool because you and Joel go way back, so don't, you know, blow us away. If someone broke into my castle I'd be pissed whether I knew them or not, and would probably shoot them out of pure spite.

  "Joel!" I whispered as loud as I dared. "A shitload of dead are on the way. We don’t have thirty seconds."

  Joel came back into the hallway and gestured. I followed him into the living room and found it filled with tech gadgets. A huge flat-screen TV sat dead on the wall, surrounded by speakers and stereo equipment. There were cables and wires everywhere, some attached to a huge car battery. Whatever the occupant had been trying to do had gone to the grave with him.

  In front of a gorgeous tan leather couch lay an unmoving figure. He was a black guy in his twenties, as far as I could tell. He couldn’t have been dead all that long because his face wasn’t a rotted mess. He had a series of bite marks on his arm, the same arm that held a handgun which had been applied to his forehead before a bullet had torn his brains out of the other side of his head.

  “Goddamn,” I said.

  Joel dropped to one knee and said a prayer. He took the handgun from his dead friend’s grip, hit the safety, and slipped it into the band of one of his tactical vest’s many straps. He touched his friend’s eyes below the bullet hole and tried to close them, but they were frozen open.

  “I wish you would have held out, buddy.”

  I pointed out the bite marks. Joel stood up and moved away.

  Joel and I advanced on the kitchen like the starving heroes we were. I raided the fridge and found Nirvana. A couple of six-packs of cheap PBR. An unopened package of store-bought pepperoni. No power, but that was okay. The fridge wasn’t that hot and pepperoni could sit for days. Joel and I devoured a half-pound of the thin slices like it was fucking filet mignon.

  “We. Need. To. Go!” I said as I swallowed.

  He tore open cabinets while I inspected the pantry. Ty had left a lot of goods. There were boxes and bags of pasta, jars of sauces, and canned fruits and vegetables. I practically fainted at the bounty. The problem was that we couldn’t carry all of it. I had my backpack and Joel had his, but if we weighed ourselves down, we’d be moving targets.

  I grabbed the pasta and a few cans of fruit and jammed them into my backpack. I added one precious jar of spaghetti sauce and then tested the weight. I added a few cans of veggies, saw spinach and avoided it like the plague.

  Joel moved beside me and packed his backpack as well. We’d been inside for a few minutes, and with every beat of my palpitating heart, I knew the dead fucks were getting closer.

  “You pack the heavy stuff,” he said, and handed me his backpack. “We’re going out there and you’re not letting go of my shoulder. We move as one until we’re free of the mess.”

  “Why do I have to be the fucking pack mule?”

  “Because you’re built like one and I need to shoot shit.”

  He made all kinds of sense but I didn’t have to be happy about it. Before we headed out, I grabbed a six-pack, jammed it into my backpack and tried to close the bag, but the beer stuck out of the top.

  “Drop your wrench and use your Colt. It’s going to get hairy.”

  “The fuck you say. I ain’t leaving my weapon.”

  Joel wanted to argue - he gets like that - but we didn’t have time. I jammed the tool into my belt and fought to keep my overalls straight as it tugged them down toward my knees. I shrugged and pointed at the door.

  ###

  19:05 hours approximate

  Location: Undead Central, San Diego, CA

  We hit the landing and tore to the right. I gripped Joel’s shoulder while he moved (once again) in a crouch. I drew my M45 and switched it to my dominant right hand. On the grass, an army of the dead had congregated. Joel leaned over the railing, aimed…and fired at a car of all things. What the hell? He’d picked a high-end BMW; when the bullets punched into the hood, they set off an alarm.

  “Jesus fucking Christ!” I cried.

  The dead turned toward the sound and I realized Joel was smarter than he looked. Give a Marine a gun and they suddenly turn into a fucking brain surgeon.

  “Let’s go.”

  We rounded the corner we’d hidden behind when Joel had blown the door off. I wished we could have stayed, but this place was going to be swarmed. Once the dead moved on, scavengers would surely pick the place over before we could make another trip. Dammit! The condo had been a treasure trove of goods.

  We moved to the other side of the building and took the stairs. I’d been sweating before, but now the last few minutes of activity hit me. I was carrying about forty pounds on my back and we were rushi
ng down hallways and stairs.

  Luck was still on our side when we hit the ground level – it wasn’t swarming with Z’s. The car alarm continued to howl behind us, but that just drew away any that were on the other side of the building.

  A small pack wandered away at nine o’clock. Joel motioned to stop and stay still. The pack didn’t see us, so we moved toward the street. Making our way north, we skirted the block that hosted the swarm and kept on jogging. The pack beat at my back with each step and I had no doubt the wrench would leave bruises.

  We came to a house and stopped for a breath. As I stood there gasping, Joel, with no respect for my lack of stamina, moved on. We rounded a corner, found a trampoline, a pool, and four Z’s. I broke right and fired as soon as I had a bead. Joel followed suit and pumped two rounds into the lead crawler’s head. The old man fell down but another, even older guy in a tropical-print shirt stumbled over him. Joel put that one down, as well, while I took out their wives. It must have been the world’s worst pool party even before the shit had hit the fan. One of the women had to be in her sixties and was dressed in a one-piece swimsuit. I shot her out of pity.

  We had to skirt a tall chain-link fence before the area started to look familiar.

  Joel and I moved at a fast pace, again taking out stragglers as quickly as we could. A few more minutes of hiding behind houses, ducking behind cars, and then Fortress came into view.

  The house we occupied was set behind a few tall trees. We’d boarded up everything on the first floor and had left no easy way to the second. We had a ladder, but it was buried under a pile of old leaves and branches, and when we were inside, we just pulled the ladder up. Even if Z’s surrounded us, we’d be able to wait them out.

  I still worried about determined human scavengers.

  Joel moved out on point and I was left behind a hedge to catch my breath. I wiped sweat off my head again and studied the area. No zombies stumbling around made me smile. It had been a bitch of a mission but at least we’d made it with food and a six-pack of beer intact.

  Then my day went downhill.

  The first crawler broke free from a cluster of dying hedges and was followed by six or seven other equally ugly, rotting souls. White eyes swiveled to find me, and like an army, they advanced.

  “Oh fuck-knuckle!” I swore, falling back and drawing my M45A1 as I went. I drew a bead, fired, and missed the head zombie—a guy dressed in a sanitation outfit. It was on me before I could scream for help and, just like that, I was fighting for my life.

  I slammed it to the side, my forearm working like a hammer, but it just kept on coming. A shot rang out and I swore again. One thing we tried to avoid at all cost was the sound of gunfire near our home base. We’d already broken that rule twice in the last fifteen seconds.

  Another shot and one of the Z’s dropped. I punched my attacker again. His head cocked to the side, but then he snarled and I got a look at broken teeth. There wasn’t time to make a smart-ass quip. I tried to avoid a bite but screamed in horror as his mouth closed on my arm.

  Thank god for my jumpsuit. It was hot as hell but the zombie’s mouth closed on fabric, and when he tore, he got a piece of that instead of my skin. I pushed him away, raised my Colt .45 and blew off the back of his head.

  A shuffler took notice and was in the air before I could take aim. I emptied the magazine but didn’t have a chance to reach for a fresh one because the shuffler came in with flailing arms and a screaming mouth. I kicked his legs out from under him and shrugged out of my backpacks so I could maneuver. When the shuffler hit the ground, I ducked away from his wild grasping, got behind him, and kicked him in the ass.

  He went down but was back on his feet in a heartbeat.

  I reached down and grabbed my wrench. When he leapt at me again, his mouth a snarling howl of hate, I swung the wrench around and caught his jaw, ripping it loose.

  But that was the problem with shufflers. They were so psychotic that even a massive amount of damage couldn’t put them down. Headshot or enough damage to squish the brain had to be applied.

  Joel’s AR jammed. He dropped it and drew the pistol his friend had used to kill himself, then moved on the last couple of Z’s. He put one down and fired a few more times until the gun was dry.

  The shuffler, minus a jaw and part of his face, was on me again. I stepped on the body of the sanitation worker I’d shot and went down on my ass. The shuffler, arms still flailing, hit me hard enough to knock the breath out of my body for the second time.

  I got a foot up and caught him in the chest as he bent down for me. Joel barreled into the shuffler, allowing me to roll to the side. I came up slowly because my body was all beat to hell. Another Z was on Joel, so he drew his Ontario 498 combat knife and slashed the creature across the gut, spilling intestines in a wet pile of gore. He reversed his grip and drove the blade into the dead woman’s head.

  He faded back as the shuffler looked between us.

  He must have made up his mind because he went for Joel, the remnants of his mouth producing gurgles in place of a howl of fury.

  I grabbed the wrench and closed in on the shuffler. Joel saw me coming and pushed the psychotic Z back. I hefted my weapon and let him have it, crushing his skull like it was a soft egg. The corpse dropped to the ground; Joel nodded at me and then the wrench with a half grin.

  We dragged the corpses away from Fortress, retrieved the ladder, and scurried up as soon as we were sure no one was watching. Inside, we unpacked our treasure. I was not a happy camper to learn that a couple of our beer cans had exploded in one of my falls. At least we survived another expedition and came back with food and a new weapon.

  “Sorry about your friend,” I said.

  Joel nodded. “Thanks, man. We saw some action in Iraq. He always had my back and I had his. Like you and me.”

  “Are you going to look that sad when it’s my turn to bite it?”

  “Depends on if I have to put you down myself, motherfucker.” He grinned.

  I grinned back and we toasted the day with warm PBRs.

  “Oh yeah, what was in the paper bag?”

  I dug out the bag I’d pulled from under the front seat of the old Ford pickup and looked inside.

  “Shit yeah,” I said, and pulled out an ounce of weed with a California medical dispensary logo on the bag.

  “Stay sharp and don’t smoke that shit. You white boys get all sad-eyed when you’re high.”

  “Only on special occasions. Besides, I bet we can trade it if we run into other survivors.”

  “Good call. I’m gonna go use a few baby wipes to take a bath.” Joel rose to his feet and headed toward his room. “Good work out there, Creed. And thanks for saving my ass.”

  Joel nodded again and left.

  I sat back and drained my beer, then eyed the weed. Special occasion, eh? How about still being alive.

  This is Machinist Mate First Class Jackson Creed and I am still alive.

  The Boat

  10:35 hours approximate

  Location: Undeadville, San Diego – Fortress

  Nothing to do except hang out and try not to kill each other. We’re flush with supplies for a day or two but no reason to start stroking each other’s egos after yesterday's mess. Frankly, I’m surprised we’re still alive. And with all of these supplies I’m really missing Tylenol. My body feels like I worked out until I puked.

  So the day we boarded up the place, Joel had the bright idea to fill the tubs with water. We drank until our eyeballs were floating and then we drank some more. Joel kept telling me what it would be like in a week when the water stopped running and he was right. Now the water tastes foul and I’m worried about mosquitoes. I run a vegetable strainer over the surface every few hours. Tomorrow I’ll use cheesecloth but that won’t kill parasites. So do we burn through the few remaining Sterno cans boiling water or just put up with a bad case of the shits?

  Joel said we can treat the water with a little bleach but I'll be damned if I can find a bottl
e in the house. I guess we'll have to find some on our next run.

  ###

  Supplies:

  1 pound of Jasmine rice

  ¼ pound of dried beans

  1 ½ pounds of tofu-jerky

  7 cans of tuna

  2 cans of cat food - where the hell is Butch?

  6 boxes of pasta

  1 beautiful jar of spaghetti sauce

  5 cans of various veggies

  2 cans of mixed

  1 case of canned spinach

  “When you gonna talk about how we met?” Joel pointed at my logbook. I had the pen ready to start recounting our day – and that was going to be boring.

  Day X: Sat on ass. Stared at empty beer bottles. Pissed in a bucket.

  “Like the day you bought me flowers and a drink?” I looked across the Sterno flame and batted my eyelashes at Joel. “Fucking Marines. Always trying to get into a lady’s panties.”

  We had a can of water boiling up some rice so we could put it aside and let the grain set. It was the quickest way to accomplish two tasks. Boil water and have a little food in an hour. I'd probably toss in some tofu jerky just to add to the blandness.

  Fortress was hot. It might be October out there, but this house hadn't had a breath of fresh air in days. No fans, no central air. That meant we sat in a room and fanned ourselves with a collection of Playboys I'd found stashed under a kid's bed.

  “Yours were pretty fucking frigid,” Joel chuckled, “and it took a whole bottle, but just like a Navy puke, you put out on the first date.”

  I stifled laughter.

  “Too bad you couldn't get it up. You know they make little blue pills for that?”

  Joel had his assault rifle stripped and was quizzing me on parts while rubbing them down with motor oil. His towel had been white a few days ago. Now it looked as grimy as gopher guts.

  “Marines are giant blue pills. Just being in the Corps gets me hard,” he said. “That’s what my old Drill Sergeant used to say just before he quarter-decked the shit out of us.”