Unrest

by Reed, Nathaniel

  The pesky one on his windshield clung on, stupidly trying to claw through the window. He turned the wipers on as if it were only a bug. It snagged his fingers and irritated him but he clung on, until Morris decided to put the wipers on full blast and simultaneously squirt some of the windshield fluid. It had the desired effect. The rapidly moving wipers caught its fingers between the blades and the glass, drawing blood, while some of the fluid sprayed on the creature’s face and got in its eyes, temporarily blinding it. The rotting man fell off, creating a satisfying crunch as he rolled under the vehicle.

  He kept stamping on the accelerator, and swerving the car from side to side to try to shake the others off, but he almost immediately steadied the car, noting that it was in danger of tipping or rolling over, and if that happened he would be as good as gone. It would be nearly impossible to exit the vehicle.

  “God damn it!” Morris cursed, pounding his fists on the steering wheel, which caused the horn to blast in a series of angry honks, as the car continued

  to barrel down the highway.

  ***

  Finding only empty rooms on the first floor they took the stairs to the second. A white marble statue of George Washington, with a cane in one hand, and an overcoat draped on the other arm stood in the large rotunda, protected by a circle of metal spikes, and flanked by equally well coifed figures in half-dome inserts in the orange cream colored walls. Above this a white railing bordered the mezzanine level in which numerous historical oil portraits were visible; beyond that the domed ceiling from which a cascade of natural illumination passed through the inset skylight onto Washington’s form. Behind Washington was the entrance to the Old House Chamber.

  They looked inside. One man sat on a dark mahogany chair facing the podium, the only man amongst dozens of empty seats. His head was cocked to one side. He had taken off his suit jacket, and his white dress shirt and blue tie were stained with blood. In his open hand rested a pistol. Walking around to see him clearly, his eyes looked out blindly, lifeless. Marina lifted his head slightly off his shoulder. Blood had pooled and dried there from the gunshot wound. He had shot himself in the head, taken his own life. Who he was and why he chose this as his final place of rest none of them knew.

  Ian winced. “Poor bastard.”

  Marina looked at Samir. “Still think we’ll find anyone alive here?”

  He didn’t say anything but they still left the chamber, out into the branching halls in search.

  The dog walked alongside them as they explored the rooms and corridors. To their left was the Senate Chamber. The heavy bronze double doors were closed. Samir and Kamara each opened one side.

  There were people seated sporadically through the great curved chamber looking forward though no one was at the platform. They seemed unnervingly still. There had to be close to a hundred of them. As the four of them slowly entered the chamber the whiff of rot assaulted their nostrils, and the dog Ariel whined beside them.

  The people turned, both men and women dressed in suits and business skirts, dresses and jackets. The dead-eyed stared at them through faces of decaying flesh and teeth that no longer had lips to cover their gums, stringy matted hair that hadn’t seen a comb or brush in months, and mouths that opened slowly into a deafening moan of need.

  ***

  “What do we do with them?” Jomo asked.

  “Do?” Lupe said. “We leave them in there.”

  “Isn’t that a tad inhumane?”

  Lupe laughed. “Inhumane Jomo? They’re

  already dead. They can’t feel anything. If they could the cold would have already killed them.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right. And if we let them out we’d have to kill them before they kill us.” He shook his head. “Still seems wrong somehow.”

  “That’s because some part of you believes they’re still human,” Lupe said. “I watched these things tear my family apart in front of me. Trust me, there’s nothing human about them.”

  “I’m so sorry you had to see that,” Jomo said.

  “It’s so odd to be speaking of killing the dead. Still I wonder how long they’ve been in there. Can’t have been long. Even if they can’t feel anything they would still have eventually frozen.”

  The pounding at the metal freezer door steadily grew louder, the undead inside more frantic.

  One of the zombies began viciously pounding his head on the thick glass, forming a substantial pool of blood that trickled down, in danger of actually braining himself.

  “Maybe we should step away from the door,” Jomo said.

  “Yeah,” Lupe said, as they both began backing away.

  The door assembly was unfortunate for them. The inside didn’t have either a sliding or a pulling mechanism built in. It was a simple metal push bar. Though the zombies had no clue how to actually get out, the pressure of their hammering fists and the sheer weight of their numbers pressing against the door caused the simple mechanism to engage and eventually unlock the door. The man with the dented, bloodied forehead was first to slide through, and as the door opened wide, releasing them, the rest of the congregation of dead followed.

  ***

  “What is that?” Xinga asked first, raising her head at the distant sound. George still sat watching the front door with the shotgun in his lap. Lana looked up from the bedroom where she’d tried to read at the bed but had sat there reading the same sentence over and over, unable to concentrate due to the stress of waiting. While she was sure the man deserved whatever he got for what he did and would have likely done to the girl Xinga, she had never seen a man get shot and she wasn’t sure that she was ready to.

  She listened. The sound was steady, strident and appeared to increase in intensity the longer she listened, until she could make it out. “It sounds like a- horn.”

  “Yeah,” George said. He got up and strode toward the door, with the shotgun in one arm.

  “George!” Lana cried out, “What are you doing?! Don’t go out there!”

  Xinga stood up from her chair grabbing her Sai off the table. She instantly felt better and more in control with the weapons in her hands.

  Lana shakily grabbed the hammer from the table and stood next to Xinga.

  George flung the door open to see the man who’d kidnapped Xinga, piloting her friend Samir’s car, driving at what had to be at least 80 mph, probably 500 ft from them. There were at least four meat eaters clinging to the vehicle, atop the hood, the two sides, and it looked like the back. And the car was launching itself straight toward the cabin, laying on the horn the whole way.

  “Fuck!” George said, slamming the door shut. “Get back away from the door!”

  Xinga and Lana did.

  “Is it him?” Xinga said.

  “I think so,” George said, moving with them to the back of the cabin, “And he brought some friends with him.”

  ***

  TWO MONTHS AND THREE WEEKS EARLIER

  “Where are we?” Dr. Fielding asked, as he sat on the bed, the Marines sitting on chairs throughout the room.

  “This is a safe house,” Private Wilkes responded. “Only a few people know of this place.”

  Theodore Fielding almost choked on a laugh.

  Wilkes and the other troops looked at him.

  “Does the president know?” Fielding asked.

  “About this place? No. Some government agencies know. The FBI...”

  “Are they in collusion with the president?”

  Wilkes looked at him confused.

  “Whose side are they on?” Fielding said.

  “Ours,” Wilkes said. “I hope.”

  “That’s not very reassuring.”

  “I have a friend on the outside. He’s on our side. I’ll contact him as soon as we’re sure the coast is clear and we weren’t followed. He’ll help us.”

  A Marine was stationed by the entry door, which opened to the living room, with an AR-15.

  “How do I know I can trust you?” Fielding posited.

  �
��Because you’re alive, and they’re not. I don’t take the taking of a fellow Marine’s life lightly. In this case it was an absolute necessity.”

  “Yes, I suppose you are correct. I’m still rattled by all this.”

  “We all are sir.”

  Fielding smiled for the first time since the massacre. “You all certainly don’t show it.”

  “No,” Wilkes said, turning away, “We don’t.”

  “How long do I have to stay here?” Fielding said.

  Another Marine responded, “A day, a week. We can’t know for sure.”

  “As soon as I can contact my friend on the outside we’ll know. He’ll set us up with a place no one knows about. More secure,” Wilkes said.

  “What is he, an ex-cop?”

  “No, better. He’s militia.”

  A shot rang out. A man thumped to the floor. Someone had shot through the door and the Marine standing sentry was down, his blood already soaking into the carpet.

  “Shit, they’ve found us!” Wilkes shouted. “Everybody take cover!”

  There was a man on a bullhorn outside. “WE ARE FEDERAL AGENTS! WE HAVE THE PLACE SURROUNDED! COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP AND NO ONE ELSE HAS TO GET HURT!”

  “Fuck they say!” one of the Marines stated.

  They hid behind the bed and furniture, weapons ready. Wilkes slunk around, slowly pulling aside one of the sheer curtains and peaking through a corner of the front bay window. There were at least five unmarked cars at the front side of the house alone, and men in suits with shoulder holsters on both sides, visible on the ones who had taken their jackets off. Others stood behind the vehicles in full tactical gear with assault rifles at the ready should anything go wrong. They looked like SWAT, backing

  up the feds.

  “We are surrounded. They ain’t lying,” Wilkes said.

  “It’s gotta be twenty to one,” another Marine added, peeking out as well.

  “Shit. Yeah,” Wilkes agreed.

  “What do we do?” Fielding asked.

  Wilkes turned to him. “We fight.”

  twenty-two

  As the dead rose they walked backward toward the heavy doors.

  “I think it’s a good time to be leaving,” Samir said. They moved back out into the hall and tried to push the doors closed again, but they wouldn’t budge, even with two of them pushing on each one.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” Ian shouted, “This is the sort of shit that only happens in horror movies!”

  “Well, it’s happening. I don’t think those doors have been oiled in a while. But this is why we brought the heavy firepower,” Marina said. She began blasting through the rotting men and women in their business attire. Some of the rounds hit their bodies before eventually hitting their heads for the kill shot. They danced under the assault as she sprayed bullets from side to side as if they were extras in a Michael Jackson video.

  The four stayed just inside the doorway. The dog Ariel stayed just outside the doors, shivering and growling low in her throat. “Let’s not let them get out. It’s better if we get them all inside of here,” Samir said. He had several rounds ready for the shotgun. He pumped the first round, and it threw him back, the shot going wild and hitting the chandelier. It dropped into the throng of dead, crushing a dozen or more of them under its impressive circumference. Their moans echoed with the tinkling of glass and crystal, hands grasping at the air from beneath.

  “I warned you about that kickback,” Marina said, “but nice going getting the drop on them,” she winked. Samir steadied himself, holding the gun in a

  wide legged stance, rooting himself to the ground, and fired again at one of the shambler’s heads. Its head exploded in a torrent of blood and brains. Now that he had a hang of it he loaded and reloaded, pumping rounds into each consecutive corpse in line, popping their heads open like blood filled balloons.

  Ian and Kamara took the ones that got around them, that threatened to get out.

  Kamara cleaved skulls in two bringing down the dual-bladed axe, decapitating others. Ian brought the full brunt of the spiked mace, which he swung by its handle in these close quarters, instead of by its strap, into the heads of man and woman alike. They were all dead, rotting. Just because they were in business attire didn’t make them appear any more human, and frankly it made them easier to kill.

  “I’ve never hated government so much!” Marina shouted between blasts from her AK, almost as if she’d read his mind.

  “I think we’re getting more done than they ever did,” Kamara said, swinging the axe in a state of contentment.

  Ian saw a woman who was dirty blonde, due to actual dirt and not because it was her natural color. She was dressed in a now filthy white blouse and a hole filled beige skirt. Her face was oozing with pustules, covered in fevered blisters. “Congress is in session bitch!!” he said with glee as he caved in the side of her head with the mace. Yellow pus oozed down the remnants of her face along with blood and brain matter, and the egg white droppings of her left eye. “Ugh!” Ian said.

  One of the shamblers came up behind him, an inch away from biting into his shoulder. Ian turned in time to pull the Ruger from its holster with his other hand and shot it in the forehead. The blast went out

  the back of the creature’s head, spraying the wall

  with a fine mist. “Shit, that was a close call!

  Whoo!” he shrieked with released tension.

  “Are you guys having fun?” Samir said seriously, blasting through one after the other. Then he smiled. “Shit, me too.”

  All of them broke out into a fresh peal of laughter. It was wrong they should get joy out of this, but they did. It was the only thing that would get them through it.

  ***

  “Oh no no no no no!” Jomo said. He and Lupe backed away, but he held his spear out and was already piercing through the chest of the first one coming through. Lupe thwacked the side of its head with her Bo Staff. The rest of the undead moved around the body, stepped over, or tripped over it, but they all spilled out into the backroom. There had to be at least two dozen of them.

  The way they were coming out of the freezer, reminded Lupe of some old commercial she’d seen on the internet with a slew of clowns streaming out of a Volkswagen. It was supposed to be an example of its roominess, but all she’d said when she saw it was, “No way!” It was ridiculous to think so many clowns could fit in that tiny damn car. The freezer was a bit roomier, but damned if there weren’t more of them inside than she’d expected.

  Jomo was impressed again by how quick she was with the staff, how fluid her movements were as she used both ends in one hand and switched it to the other, and then did the same with both hands. She seemed to know when she needed just a quick hit and when she needed the full brunt of the staff to knock the zombies senseless, braining them with brute force. At one point she almost made a full circle with it using both her hands, as if it were nothing but a cheerleader’s baton and not a heavy stick taller than she was.

  He felt like a brute in comparison with her death dance, spearing them through the head when he could; the neck, the torso, the chest, the groin, when he couldn’t. Eventually he got around to killing the ones whose head he’d missed while they lay prone on the ground. One he’d speared all the way through the stomach, his weapon coming out its back and then sticking to a corkboard on the backroom wall.

  Pin the spear on the zombie, he thought idiotically even as the not so pleased man corpse growled and reached for him, flailing both arms desperately, held out of reach by the spear’s length.

  He had trouble wrestling the spear out of its gut. Lupe bashed its face in with her stick, blood fanning out like a cartoon splat against the corkboard, and went back to whatever it was she was doing before he got his weapon caught.

  Finally he wrenched it free, a coil of intestines wrapping around the end of his spear, curling halfway up the pole. He shook them free with undiluted disgust.

  Even as fast as she was, one of
the zombies caught a hold of the end of her Bo Staff, and was tugging on it, trying to pull her to him. It was Jomo’s turn to save her for once. He managed to spear it through the neck, momentarily lifting it off the ground with a sudden rush of adrenaline, tossing it aside before stomping its head on the ground. It almost took Lupe’s stick with it, but she managed to pull it free at the last instant. For creature’s that appeared so frail and broke so easily they were stronger than she first imagined. Jomo shook as much of its caved-in head off his sneaker as possible. Bits of brain still clung to the treads of the soles and stuck to the laces. He had to try not to think about that, or the way it felt when his foot came down and the head gave way underneath, first solid then yielding to a wet, spongy mush. He had to focus on the task at hand.

  A zombie came at him and Jomo brought his spear up just in time to pierce through its open hungry mouth. The metal point stuck out the back of its neck and it gagged on the pole, making horrible retching sounds as blood poured out of its mouth onto the white employee polo and the red and white Freeland’s name tag. His name might have been Bruce, or Bryce, or Brine for that matter. Only the first Br and the last e were visible. It seemed that he’d got locked up with the clientele.

  The zombies circled them until Lupe and Jomo stood back to back, shoulder to shoulder.

  Jomo stated the obvious. “It looks like we’re surrounded.”