by Javan Bonds
The Medicine Man sent a burst of rounds that caught one of the animals in its blackened heart. The first bullet shattered ribs and destroyed organs as it buried itself into the torso under the left lung. The second shot passed between ribs and through the cardiovascular muscle before exploding out the back near the spine. It scrambled ventricles and dark crimson exploded from the entry and exit wounds, letting the doctor know he had ceased its undead life. The third round passed cleanly through, right above the collarbone. Tendons severed and the beast dropped as the body expelled blood and feces.
With each monster put down, two seemed to take its place. Just as in every battle of the day elsewhere, the defenders felt as if they had slain twice the population of Alabama in the past few minutes, but the revenants kept coming. Each victory was a defeat as they slowly but surely lost precious ground. The cardiologist was having trouble fathoming overcoming this horde. He was standing in front of the hood emblem at the occupied truck now and the horrible demons were getting within a yard of him. They would soon be overtaken and the workers in the power station would have little more than a door as defense.
The Medicine Man screamed into his radio to the men disconnecting the power. “Lock the door, stay quiet, and open that bottle of rubbing alcohol!” The doctor decided alcohol could be used as a last ditch effort to confuse the cannibals and possibly send them away from the humans. Maybe not having seen the particular people in the building, the rubber seal around the door, and the atrocious scent of hated alcohol would keep the peevies away and continuing to their original destination. His own survival came second to what they were attempting to accomplish here and if the task in the power station was completed, nothing else mattered.
The offenders shooting from the passenger window rolled it up, locked the door, and went through the back window to fire from the bed with their other compatriot. They were all down to only a few full magazines, and they intended to make every one of them count. Darth Vader had switched to single shot, dropping one infected per spent round. He would soon be using the three grenades in his pouch, possibly wiping out a good number of the mass.
He spiraled a frag grenade as far as he could down the highway to his left. The explosion ripped apart at least a dozen zombies. They took an even greater hit in their numbers as shrapnel ripped through body after body. Pieces of lifted asphalt from the road where the grenade first exploded added to the tiny jolts of immeasurable pain flying through the air. He threw his other couple of grenades shortly after. A second frag exploded on the opposite side of the paved road. His third and final explosive device, a white phosphorus, was tossed to his right and exploded over the heads of incoming infected.
The incendiary bomb rained down onto the animals. Pieces of molten fire burned through their skulls and followed gravity down. The bodies of these former humans were no impediment to the furious lava eating its way to the ground. Dozens of voices screaming in unimaginable pain could be heard as tiny holes were dug through the inhuman monsters.
A tiny speck of molten phosphorus caught a peevie high in the bridge of the nose on its downward path. The scourge screamed and clawed at its face to stop the piece of an arsonist’s wet dream from slowly eating it to death. It took the last intake of air it would ever take through its nose as the sinuses were destroyed and the piece of lava popped through the roof of its mouth and destroyed the tongue before continuing through the bottom of the mouth. The beast stopped walking and could only scream in terror as the tiny fire dropped onto the chest between the collarbones and continued its downward slide. The screaming slowly died as ribs and sternum were cleanly separated while the esophagus and lungs were vaporized. There was nothing the animal could do but drift off in silence in unbelievable torment.
Dr. George could see that his handheld explosives had done their jobs. What sounded like hundreds of afflicted screamed and cried in agony, taking a snail’s pace trip to blue infinity. There were still plenty of them assaulting, but a fair number had been taken out of the game. Now it was up to no more than three or four rifle magazines per defender, pistols, and melee weapons to finish the fight. There were either no more blunatics to continue the warfare or the majority understood a few pieces of meat were not worth the ridiculous sacrifice.
The three men in the truck bed emptied their second to last magazines simultaneously. They were all dropping mags as a lone peevie approached, running on all fours. Before they could reload or even draw another weapon, it was on them and had taken a bite out of the first man’s forearm. He screamed and grabbed the beast by the waist as it went for the second man. His torso was coated in blackened filth when the horrid Blunatic strained to reach the next man. The human and former human grappled as it attempted to infect the man. The defender hugging its lower half was coughing and gagging, unable to do anything more than slow the thing down with his own weight. Its teeth nicked the carotid in the neck, and he knew he was done for. Though not instantly dead, he was rapidly losing blood and infected all the same. At least he could take some minute solace in the fact that he would not have to live as a blue cannibal.
The third man on the toolbox pulled a large knife from a sheath. As the beast fell on him with the added weight of the other man covered in feces, the third defender’s arms gave in. The zombie brought its teeth onto his forehead. He drove the knife into its abdomen just as its teeth broke the skin. It raised up to howl in agony, dragging the serrated blade down through its undead guts. As it topped the cab, The Medicine Man was able to send a round through its lifeless cranium. The round entered behind the right ear and exploded from somewhere around the left temple. Gray matter and blood leaked from the now split face along with mucus and liquefied eyeballs. The number of humans had dropped by three in an instant.
The defender still in the cab screamed as the others tried to climb in through the back window. “Whoa!” He pointed his rifle at the man squeezing through the small opening. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
The infected man was incredulous. “The thing bit us! We’re just coming in for a breather.”
The driver was freaking out. “No the fuck you’re not! I ain’t getting sick!”
The other man chuckled and continued through the window. “Dude, we ain’t gonna bite you. Chill.”
The driver grew frantic as the man continued into the cab. The newly infected human let out a quick “boo” to scare his buddy. It was not a smart move to scare the antsy coward pointing a rifle at you. The driver fired, sending a bullet directly through the man’s beard, into the top of his chest. He had no time to react as everything behind the rib cage was vaporized. The man was dead before the bullet exited right below his tailbone. The bullet passed through the window and pierced the man on the toolbox behind him on the inside of his upper thigh.
A geyser of blood shot from the femoral artery. “What the fuck did you do that for, you stupid sumbitch?” The man reached down but was unable to stop the rapid flow of precious lifeblood. He took a step back into the truck bed before dropping to take a rest against the tailgate, bleeding out at an accelerated rate.
“Oh my God! I just killed my best buddies.” The man opened the door and wandered aimlessly. He couldn’t believe he had just murdered two humans. And even if it was accidental, it was still murder. Philip George watched the crying man pull his pistol from his hip as he adamantly apologized. He knew the man was going to put the pistol under his chin before it happened, but it was still shocking and saddening when he took his own life.
The field was leveling and the cardiologist was able to fight the beasts mostly one-on-one in melee combat. He dropped his rifle on the sling and pulled his mace from over his shoulder. One of the crazies drew up to him just as he brought his weapon to bear. From his shoulder, he flipped the weapon over and brought the head that was closest to the ground up and over the skull of the plague carrier. The razor-sharp barbs sank into the scalp before cracking through cranium. Gray matter was squished through the orbital socket
s, nose, and mouth as the head of the beast was destroyed from the back to the face. The twitching body fell over, expelling an inverted bidet of black liquid.
Dr. George walked over to the recent suicide and took the bottle of rubbing alcohol from his pocket. He moved to the truck as he emptied his final submachine gun magazine. His G19 would fend off any more comers as he closed on the driver’s door. He jumped into the cab and slammed the back window. He shut the door, locked it, and simultaneously rolled the window up. Dumping the alcohol all around him on the seats, he could only sit still and pray the enemy moved on past.
He kept a watch on the building, ready to swing the door open and take out any revenant attempting to gain entry. This would obviously be a great risk to his own well-being, but the needs of the island outweighed his own. Thankfully, the wave of deceased people slowly continued northward to their original destination. He waited for several minutes until he was sure he was completely alone. Over his radio, he sounded to the men in the power station. “They’re gone. I’m coming to the door, let me in.” He slowly opened the driver’s door and made his way across the yard. Feces, blood, organs, and uncountable blue bodies lay behind him. It broke his heart to realize four humans were also dead on the scene.
He came to the door and knocked three times. He stepped through and all three men immediately exhaled in relief and pointed their guns away from him. The Sith Lord spoke to them through his breath mask. “Is the task complete?”
One of the electricians smiled. “Of course. We were about to come out right as you told us to lock the door.”
He nodded and turned to go back to the door with pistol at the ready. He spoke over the radio with contained excitement. “Storm. Darth Vader. Mission complete. Out.”
10
Coke
GUNTERSVILLE ISLAND WAS fed electricity from the other side of the western causeway. The mainline from the TVA dam snaked around, eventually winding up on the west side of the city. The line had not been severed along with the bridges on the causeway, so nothing would immediately need to be done on that side of the island. Runners had been dispatched to ensure the lines remained intact and there would obviously be occasional maintenance trips to keep power flowing. The survivors could thank The Screenwriter for not causing too much extra work for once.
The power station and connecting lines leading from the island over the panhandle in the southwest had been easily disconnected. The lines had been severed when the canal had been dug, but the station from which those lines were fed was thankfully right across from the elementary school on the island side of the waterway. Disconnection had been quick and easy. The Expert was grateful something had been. She doubted disconnection at the southern point would be anywhere near as straightforward. She knew no matter what, she was guaranteed to end this day with fewer comrades.
The southernmost power station requiring a visit was right beside the high school. Just down the short hill on the south side of the massive complex, the small station looked miniaturized in comparison to the school campus. All the powerless buildings not on the island were beyond unsafe. It went without saying that a huge compound like the public school full of small rooms would be crawling with infected.
At least the windowless, tiny facility owned by the utilities board was standing alone within its own block. If everyone kept protocol, Hammer was thinking this could actually go smoothly. She nearly slapped herself for having the pipedream. Someone always made a mistake. The stupidity of insignificant characters and the sadistic tendencies of The Screenwriter could always be counted upon.
The civilian vehicles drove down the service road in front of the high school and crossed the street to reach their target. The gas bank on the other side of the highway was normally safe, at least during the day. It was striking that not even a hundred yards away, death could be lurking in every shadow. The gas bank had a huge parking lot, with very few trees anywhere around it. So it was easy to maintain and keep peevie free. To the west of their current position was a small, dingy neighborhood and dark, threatening woods. Maybe we can get in and get out quick, The Expert wished. If the situation remains normal, things might go smoothly. She laughed. If the situation is normal, there will always be a foul up.
Hammer drove the leading transport, going no more than thirty-five miles an hour in a school zone, halting at each stop sign, finally continuing at a cautious pace after looking both ways at the nonfunctioning red light.
She pulled in squarely to the imagined parking spot in front of the chain-link gate and fencing surrounding the facility. After coming to a complete stop, she signaled to all passengers it was safe to unbuckle and summarily un-clicked her own harness. She shook her head disapprovingly at the driver of the blue F150 when she stepped out of the truck. The tires weren’t all lined up!
She was tasked with guarding the entrance to the building while the three men inside cut the breakers. The Expert, outfitted in the Samus armor and cradling her AR15, with the sheathed broadsword over her back, trailed the electricians, watching all angles for any tangos. The sword over her shoulder was Andúril, sword of Aragorn. The massive blade had been forged from a shard of Narsil, the weapon wielded by a human that severed Sauron’s hand to end his reign of terror in Middle Earth. This Elven-runed piece of forged steel, known as The Flame of the West, would slice those pinkos to ribbons. She had decades of training and actual melee combat under her belt, and she was ready and willing to show these communists what Liberty had to offer.
While Hammer waited in the gravel yard for the electrical workers to do their jobs, she looked over at the men stationed in their four by four, trying to stay out of the beating sun. There were other armed defenders, the task would be over in the blink of an eye, and there were not many tangos on this side of the island since the recent battle. She felt that she could take a breather. Of course, she remained armored with a loaded weapon in her hand, but she felt she could take it easy. Just as she let her shoulders sag, an infant began wailing from the direction of the high school.
“There’s a baby in there! We gotta help.” One of the men pointed up the hill as he bounded from the passenger’s door.
“But that’s just a tango bab—.” She let her sentence die as the other three naïves followed the idiot leader to a labyrinth of terror. She hung her head and went to watch the morons die horribly.
☠☠☠
The bumbling fools walked into a darkened alcove lined with drink machines. Most contained water, Gatorade, and various energy drinks. Finally, the quartet came to a machine which featured soft drinks. Carbonated beverages had not been all that plentiful on the island, even with the raids on the grocery stores. The baby in dire need of help could wait; these caring individuals had to bust up some drink machines first.
“You want a coke?” asked the natural criminal closest to the machine to the co-conspirator behind him.
“I don’t drink that shit. Gimme a Pepsi.” This survivor was obviously not a native to the area. He didn’t hear “coke” as a generic term meaning all carbonated beverages.
The first man looked back at him with an expression of incredulity. “I don’t care what you drink!” He either didn’t have the patience or the intelligence to explain his meaning, instead choosing to be insulted by nothing. He stood up straight and calmly turned around with a menacing smile on his face. “Get your own damn drink, stupid fucking Yankee.”
The second man inhaled deeply, trying to make himself look bigger. “Fuck you! I’m from North Carolina.” He pushed the man backwards into the already broken plastic front of the drink machine. The broken plastic made a small tear in the back of his neck.
He swelled with rage and threw himself forward, pushing the other man back with both hands. The man stumbled backwards through the narrow alleyway. His back impacted a cracked-open doorway bathed in shadow. He toppled over and fell over into the darkened room. Confused scuffling could be heard, then the sounds of a struggle. Someone was fighting for his l
ife. Horrified screaming followed.
It was unclear how many monsters were in the room. Using his hands to hold at least one at bay, the survivor howled as one lunged and sank its teeth into his left cheek. The blunatics, no longer desiring their victim’s tainted blood, stood from what was no longer a meal and charged out of the room at the still confused humans.
The scavenger who had been pushed into the drink machine had his rifle at the ready. He was intending to point it at the defender he had pushed into the room. He wasn’t planning to actually shoot the man, he simply wanted to make threats and retain his reputation. Now, he was glad he had his firearm raised. His other two compatriots just stood there, looking at each other and then the charging crazies like they had no idea what was going on.
He fired a dozen 5.56 rounds in half as many seconds. A trio of naked cannibals came out of the room at near inhuman speed and seemed to drive themselves into the bullets. Three pieces of lead caught the one on the left in the abdomen. Intestines ruptured as the bullets made a triangle with the bellybutton as the center. The shock of the hits caused black, chunky diarrhea to squirt out the rectum. A bleeding stomach and punctured intestines meant that besides a final voiding of its bowels, this would probably be the last movement the beast’s guts would ever make.
Two of the tiny missiles hit the next animal in the left leg. The first round took it directly in the kneecap, exploding out of the back with severed tendons and shards of bone. The second projectile dug into the inside of the thigh, shredding muscle, fat, and the femoral artery. Blood began rushing out the entry wound before the shattered knee could completely fall out from under it. The peevie was truly dead, it just didn’t know yet. It dragged itself forward to food, not understanding straining would make the end come sooner.