Horror Within : 8 Book Boxed Set

by Mark Tufo

  Harry had a total of sixty-five rounds loaded in magazines, thirteen per mag with four of those on his belt and one in the Glock, and only fifteen boxes of twenty to reload from. He knew that more fire power needed to be located if he was to have a chance at surviving for any length of time. Refilling the magazines was a bit time consuming, even though the springs in the five mags he had were fairly well broken in, allowing rounds to slide in a bit faster. But with zombies trying to bite his ass he had to increase the amount of firepower he carried. “I know just the place to get it, too,” he said with a slight smile.

  The last items he picked up were his badge, a seven-point star he had already attached to a belt clip, and his wallet. The only difference between an active duty officer’s star and a Reserve’s were the small letters spelling out the word RESERVES just above the center badge number. He slipped the clip with the badge on his belt in a location designed to hold it securely.

  Opening the wallet briefly, he saw the familiar police credentials, both with his picture on them, showing through behind opposite compartments covered in clear plastic. One was his active reserve officer ID and the other a regular police ID with the word RETIRED stamped on it. These just might come in handy at some point, he thought, closing and placing the wallet in a rear pocket on his jeans.

  Turning to the laptop on the desk, with the intention of placing it in a backpack to take with him, Harry had a spur of the moment idea. Sitting down, he brought up Internet Explorer and then the Google search page, which loaded extremely slowly. Once the search page finally loaded, he typed in Scott Allen and Sovereign Spirit, then pressed the enter key. After staring at the screen for almost a full five minutes, watching the little working arrow spin indicating a search was in progress, he started to think the Internet had finally failed.

  Just as he was reaching to turn the laptop off to conserve what battery was left, he was shocked to see search hits suddenly pop onto the screen. There was only one site that even remotely matched what he thought he was looking for, and that was sovereignspirit.net. He clicked on the website and impatiently waited while the server once again attempted to connect, his anticipation growing by the second.

  To his relief, the website finally downloaded and opened. The homepage indicated it was originating directly from the ship Sovereign Spirit, and that they had their own web server with direct satellite link. Looking over the page, Harry located another link on the site that he clicked on. That brought him to a blog page, with the current date, inviting survivors to post information on their particular locations and what was happening!

  Excitedly scrolling down the page, he read post after post from people across the nation detailing what was currently happening in their areas. Several seemed desperate, others seemed to have things under control for the time being, but what struck Harry was that he saw only one other post from San Francisco. This concerned him a great deal, and he wondered if maybe there had just not been that many people who had survived the zombies in the Bay Area.

  Reading further, he saw that the posts were being answered by Billy Allen, onboard the Sovereign Spirit, who apparently was Scott Allen’s son. His replies were supportive but it was clear that the Sovereign Spirit would be unable to help most of those who posted or needed help. They were inland and Scott Allen had made it clear in his GNN interview that his focus was on the western coastal areas for now.

  Harry decided to add to the blog the limited amount of information he had gained since the infection had hit, what he had observed in San Francisco, and what his plan was. For all the good it will do, he thought as he sat typing. “If nothing else, it will let them know there are survivors in this area, and they may decide it worth the effort to reach us at some point,” he muttered to himself.

  My name is Harold Lancaster and I am in San Francisco. I have watched as the City has been flooded with the infected. Seemingly hundreds have died right before my eyes as a result of that ever-rising horde or whatever these things are. People have been torn apart in the streets and devoured. Or worse, have risen from attacks with horrific injuries to join the ranks of the infected. It has been like watching piranhas in a feeding frenzy or the worst horror movie ever made! There has been no sign of military assets anywhere in the City, and the police that initially attempted to control the storming masses of infected were quickly decimated.

  All the established ‘safe zones’ set up by the local government have been completely destroyed. There must be other survivors, I am certain, but I have no idea of the numbers or their locations. Unfortunately, I know for a fact that weapons, guns of any type, are almost impossible to locate with this City’s strict anti-gun laws. I doubt folks were able to react quickly enough with other forms of weapons to defend themselves before being overwhelmed.

  I listened to the rather unorthodox interview between Commodore Allen and GNN. Because of what he had to say, I am taking responsibility for my survival. It is my sincere hope that other survivors in the City were able to hear that interview and act accordingly. Our local city officials have accomplished little in helping San Franciscans and, as typical, many mixed messages were sent out about what to do. That included instructions to shelter in place, which I believe caused the direct death of many more people.

  I am a retired cop and have weapons in my possession. Not the level of firepower to do much at this point, but enough I believe to help accomplish a plan I have been roughing out. Upon completing this email I am headed to the closest police station from my location which is about ten blocks away. If I am able to breach the station I will attempt to locate additional firepower which will greatly aid my ability to get through the City.

  I plan to attempt securing water transportation of some sort from our marina and head out to one of the Bay islands. Alcatraz is the closest to the marina and that seems the logical choice. I will be keeping an eye out for survivors that I may be able to help, but at this point I am not sure what I would be able to do in that regard.

  The information you passed along about water and hills is extremely helpful. As you may know, San Francisco is famous for steep in-city hills. I believe that it might be possible to avoid some encounters with the infected by using stealth, staying quiet, and using some of the steep streets to my advantage. Although that may just be wishful thinking from what I have seen. However, the City is also burning, so I will have little choice but to move soon. I also observed something happen near or on the Bay Bridge. Looked like several large explosions but I have no idea what that was about at this point.

  There is something else very important that I need to pass along in the event this could prove helpful to others. I had begun to notice a peculiar behavioral pattern developing in the infected the second day after the infection hit. In the late afternoon, always at about the same time, they seemed to start to move in what I can only describe as a migration pattern. I spent a couple of days watching them but the reason for this behavior eluded me. That was until I saw the GNN interview with the Commodore! The infected are afraid of water and the realization of what was causing this strange movement hit me! It’s the fog! They are trying to get away from our heavy moisture-laden fog!

  Although I realize the Flotilla cannot help us here, we can nonetheless take the example of what you have done. Humanity stands at the doorstep of an extinction level event but we certainly do not have to go quietly into the night. San Francisco is dead but the Bay may offer hope. I know it will offer at least a chance rather than waiting here to either burn to death or be consumed by these spawns of hell. I will write more if, and when, I am able. Luck to us all!

  9

  After completing the blog entry, which he also copied and pasted into an email to the Sovereign Spirit, Harry powered down the laptop and slipped it into the backpack sitting by the desk. This pack contained the boxed ammunition, several energy bars and a few bottles of water, a small first aid kit, and a change of clothes. “Thank God for earthquake preparedness,” he said, shaking his head. “If
the Big One could only have been the least of our worries.”

  Taking one final look around the apartment, realizing he might not see it again, he walked toward the front door, slipping on his leather jacket, pulling on the thin Kevlar-lined tactical gloves and shouldering the backpack. He looked at several mementos, photos with friends, several framed commendations, art he had collected over the years, and several other items that once held sentimental value for him. Each item now seemed different, void of anything meaningful somehow.

  What he had once seen in those objects was now gone. “There’s no more room for stuff other than what can keep me alive,” Harry said to himself. He knew the old life was dead, and it was time to move forward with the plan he had formulated after finally realizing he had an unexpected ally of sorts; an ally that had almost gone completely unnoticed.

  Harry had been watching the infected closely from his apartment windows since the first day. He’d watched the growing horror unfold; the survivor population was quickly being decimated, with more zombies than people left on the streets. That was when he began to notice what he’d thought was a pattern of behavior, but with the stress of everything, his brain wasn’t getting what his eyes were seeing.

  At around 5 p.m. or so every day, the zombies all seemed to start heading south. After the first couple of days, Harry went up to the roof; from there, he had a fairly decent view of the surrounding area. Being six stories up, he was not too concerned about being seen from the street, but he was nonetheless careful in remaining hidden.

  His job had required him to be observant, to notice every nuance of his environment – searching for evidence, interviewing victims and suspects alike, noticing what was being worn, bulges in a coat that could represent a weapon. It had become second nature to take in a scene at first glance, and although Harry did not have a photographic memory, he had developed a method in which he cataloged what he saw and was able to bring it to mind fairly well when needed.

  But this zombie pattern, if a pattern at all, was eluding him. He knew they moved in the late afternoon, at about the same time, and usually in the same direction. In a moment of complete frustration he remembered his first FTO, Shane O’Connor, the stereotypical Good Irish Cop, who had once told him, “You better get your fuckin’ head out your ass there, boy! You want to be a good cop someday? You keep your mouth shut, your eyes open, and you damn well better pay attention to what’s going on around you at all times!”

  O’Connor’s pearls of wisdom, along with a hot, heavy, spit flying, all in your face ass chewing, had occurred after an area search on a robbery investigation; Harry had walked right past the weapon that had been used in the crime. It had been thrown in some bushes, and not easily seen, but O’Connor had found it by double-checking the rookie’s initial search.

  For the rest of Harry’s tour assignment with this FTO, he was constantly challenged on his observation skills, along with a thousand other things FTOs threw at rookies. O’Connor’s favorite exercise was to allow Harry to inspect the squad car, as was normal procedure prior to going in service.

  The car needed to be swept to ensure nothing illegal had been dropped by suspects, to confirm all equipment was present, that the radios worked, as did the lights and siren, and any puke had to be cleaned up. That was every rookie’s job: cleaning up puke, urine, and all matter of disgusting things left behind by the previous shift.

  O’Connor would plant objects in the car, and if Harry did not find them he was privileged to spend the first couple hours of the shift listening to the shortcomings of all rookies, and “why they had believed their mommas when they told them they could be cops,” along with references to Harry’s inbred ancestry resulting in his level of intelligence being equal to pond slime.

  Harry had been surprised to get one of the highest evaluations O’Connor had ever written, according to the division captain. O’Connor had retired a year after Harry had passed probation, and he had been invited to his going away party at a seedy Irish pub in the middle of the Tenderloin, of course. He remembered O’Connor coming up to him, grasping his hand firmly, and saying it had been an honor to work with him.

  Harry had not only deeply respected Shane O’Connor, but during his own time as an FTO had utilized much of the training techniques O’Connor had. Not as much yelling, screaming, ancestry references or ass chewing, but nonetheless very similar. Rookies still got to clean out the puke, but that was a rite of passage – one other thing O’Connor took great pleasure imparting on many occasions. Harry had even been convinced at one point that Shane O’Connor was somehow related to R. Lee Ermey. That salty, bushy-eyebrowed, sadistic old drill sergeant turned actor, of sorts.

  So he continued to watch for that elusive pattern the zombies were demonstrating. He knew it was there; he just needed to keep his mouth shut, his eyes open, and needed to damn well pay attention to what was going on around him.

  Looking down from three various locations on the roof, he observed many of the infected moving south at about the same time each day, almost like they were migrating. Three things he was certain of was the time of day this apparent migration occurred, that they all headed in a southerly direction, and that there seemed to be slightly less of them in the areas surrounding his location.

  Their numbers were relative, of course. There were still seemingly dozens spread out in the area, but less of them than in the beginning. Something was definitely odd about their behavior, other than the obvious fact they were zombies, but he just couldn’t put his finger on it. He could see down Stockton Street, a fairly steep hill, past Union Square, toward a section of Market Street that appeared to be packed with the infected. “Why are you all down there?” Harry pondered several times.

  On the second and final day of his zombie stakeout, another event occurred that would ultimately help Harry. As he was just getting ready to open the roof door to descend down the stairs back to his apartment, he heard what could only have been the report of a very large weapon from the direction of the Bay Bridge, which was southeast of his building. It was very similar to something heard during fireworks shows just before the huge shell blanks exploded overhead.

  As he turned toward the sound, a section of the Bay Bridge was clearly in view. The next thing he heard was a huge explosion followed immediately by thick black smoke rising from the bridge section nearest Treasure Island. Harry had just said “What the fuck!” when he heard three more shots in fairly rapid succession and, with the corresponding explosions, more black smoke rising but in different sections of the upper deck. All in very close proximity to the Treasure Island connector.

  Harry had no idea what was happening, but the effect the noise had on the zombies was immediate. They all started walking, running, or crawling in the direction of the bridge and the noise, clearing yet more of them from his area. In addition, they were headed right for the burning section of the City, so it became Harry’s fervent hope that the fire would also take out some of them along the way.

  The elusive zombie behavior had finally become very clear to Harry, the realization hitting him like a ton of bricks, as he was watching the interview on GNN “… zombies don’t swim and are afraid of water,” and “zombies prefer to walk downhill, unless they get attracted to something up hill.” Harry had sat bolt upright in the chair when he heard that. “Could it be that simple?”

  “It’s the fog!” Harry had shouted. “They’re trying to get away from the heavy fog, forcing them downhill!” That was when the gears started turning in formulating the plan he was going to attempt. But he needed to be sure. The City was continuing to burn, and his time was running out to remain in the building much longer, so whatever he was going to do, he needed to do it soon. Being burned to death or ripped apart by zombies were options Harry preferred to avoid.

  10

  The late spring and summer months were generally the time of year that the fog was the heaviest in San Francisco; it was very thick and rolled into the Bay past the Golden Gate to ulti
mately blanket a good portion of the City. This fog brought along with it a heavy mist, almost like a light rain drizzle, sometimes covering everything like dew. "The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco,'' was a saying that had become a San Francisco cliché. Although this was supposed to have been something Mark Twain had said, it had turned out to be an invention of unknown origin. But never truer words were spoken. This time of year San Francisco was the foggiest.

  Going back onto the roof, Harry spent a couple days, just to be certain, never leaving and only dozing for an hour or two at a time, observing the zombies and their behavior. Unfortunately he was forced to witness things he would have rather not: survivors apparently trying to make a break for safety, wherever they had thought that might be, and either on foot or in vehicles. The ones on foot were usually brought down almost immediately, being set upon and consumed. Harry had been an avid NatGeo fan. Now he had center seat to an all-new series for them. The feeding habits of the anything-BUT-elusive Super Rabies Infected Zombie. “See mutilation and death in 3D, high definition,” he’d said to himself sarcastically. “Thank God we don’t have smell-a-vision.”

  The survivors in cars, vans, or trucks fared only slightly better, which meant they just lived a little longer than those who tried running on foot. The sheer number of Zs that would surround a vehicle would bog it down to a complete halt. The vehicle took out portions of the horde, smashing them into bloody masses of flesh and bone, but never enough to really do much good.

  The infected would quickly surround vehicles, bringing them to a halt as their tires could simply find no traction on the inches-thick gore that covered the street. Once the vehicles were stopped, the zombies made short work of breaking the windows and dragging the survivors out, kicking and screaming, to be lost in the middle of yet another feeding frenzy. There was never much left of the bodies when the zombies were finished with them other than scattered bloody bones and pieces of shredded clothing.