Invasion of the Dead (Book 2): A Fistful of Zombies

by H. L. Murphy

  Scrounging around I located a series of already loaded magazines and slid them into what I guessed was a WWII Thompson magazine carry bag. This I slung over my head to carry cross draw. I had absolutely no intentions of walking out of this house dressed like a psychotic having delusions of being a Scotsman in Her Majesties army, but what I plan and what actually happens don't tend to coincide. In that case, I should probably slip into my boots. The objects in question lay in a sodden heap upon the bathroom floor, if not permanently water logged then close enough as made no difference. Grunting with disgust I turned back to the main bedroom and searched for shoes and socks. Desperation or no, there was no way in hell I would pull on another man's underwear. Just not happening. I would happily run away with his shoes, but I would run with my junk flapping in the breeze.

  Old Maxwell wasn't much of a clothes horse, but certainly took good care of his feet. There were no less than twelve pairs of shoes in various states of disrepair in his closet. From this I selected the least worn pair, a lovely set of Nike running shoes which turned out to feel positively exquisite on my aching feet. Now all I needed was blue body paint and I was all set. Don't get it? Think about it a minute, I'll wait. Not like there's pressing business afoot.

  Standing in the hallway between the bedroom and the bathroom I realized what an absolute idiot I must look like and laughed at myself, at my redneck kilt, and at the world at large. It was the most ridiculous situation I had ever been in. In my life. The wonderful Czech submachine gun not withstanding, this was the most intolerably bizarre position I had ever known.

  Unable to accept having to run across the face of the earth in a towel held up by an ancient leather belt, I went back into the bathroom to pull on my still soaking pants. I say they were still soaking but I had long invested in wash and wear, quick dry pants so while they weren't dry they also weren't much more than damp.

  Not five seconds after lacing up my new shoes the most malodorous stench ever in the history of the world assaulted my newly regenerated olfactory sense. Stomach acid began a laborious trek up my throat as the pungent aroma grew stronger, and I was forced to cover my face, especially my vociferously complaining nose, with my soaked tee shirt. It helped, but not as much as I hoped it would. Still, some relief was better than none so I tied the shirt around my face as tightly as possible. Then, half naked, I strode into the living room expecting to see Maxwell exploded all over the floor from decomposition. Instead, I came face to rotting, puss covered face with a dozen zombies.

  “Aw, shit,” I whispered, the submachine gun already coming up. The first zombies head exploded in a shower of bone, blood, and rotten brains. Oh, yes, the triple B returned to soil my freshly scrubbed body. Christ on fire, I can't catch a fucking break. I switched targets and triggered another brief salvo into the next zombie even as the undead advanced on me in rapid order. I say rapid order, but it was really more the predatory lunge of a starving animal finally in striking distance of a delectable morsel. Three zombies fell before I retreated back down the hall, which if I had been thinking was where I wanted to be anyway. In the confines of the hallway their overwhelmingly superior numbers didn't mean much. No, in the hallway all that mattered was their near suicidal fervor to clamp teeth to my tender flesh. I wasn't just fighting the undead, I was also fighting a rising sense of panic as the manic creatures pushed closer and closer.

  You need to focus. Focus on the one thing that matters, and all else will fall in line.

  Thanks a lot, Captain Zen, but I'm a little busy right now.

  Focus, or everyone you love is going to die.

  That did it. The terrifying visual of Lizzy and Hermione falling before these animals was entirely too much to endure. Time slowed down as calm settled over me, confidence in myself surged through my veins like an electric shock. The ZK-383 ran dry, and I had the spent magazine out and a fresh one in place before the nearest creature could reach me. My foot came up and launched into its solar plexus with enough force to drive it back into its comrades. The Czech weapon spat heavy metal death into the cranial vaults of the undead, three rounds at a time. I repeated the process of executing the already dead over and over until I was the only thing left mobile in the house. My breathing had returned to something close to normal, and the effects of shit tons of adrenaline pumping through my system dissipated. In that single moment in time I understood why the bitch Queen of the Undead wanted me so desperately. It wasn't me, personally, she desired. It never had been. The object of her unholy desire was, and always had been, the substance in my blood that rendered me immune to the zombie proteins.

  “Jesus fuck, she needs to drain my blood so she can become human again.”

  Interlude Six

  She came to her feet, Her senses alive to the return of the Other. So the Other had not perished after all, so much the better. She would yet have the Other kneeling before Her. Then She would take from the Other all that made the Other so unique. From the blood of the Other would She become something more, something beyond Her current understanding. Her limited knowledge base did not allow for theoretical concepts, yet despite this something in the far corner of Her programming hinted at an existence above and beyond scything this world clean of its species. An elevated existence of deep intellectual discourse and of physical and…emotional sensation. For reasons She could not fathom, this possibility intrigued Her.

  The Other was close, so close. She could almost see the Other in Her thoughts, but They clouded the psychic ether.

  No, She realized it was not Them causing the issue, but the Other. The Other had raised mental defenses sufficient to block Her attempts to enter the Other’s mind. How could such a thing be possible? She had tested the Other many times and had always found the Other’s defenses to be strongest when first awakened, but never like this. She hurled Her will against the mental barrier and came away shocked, or as shocked as Her emotionally bereft psyche could manage, as Her will rebounded upon Herself.

  The Other was growing in strength. This development gave Her pause for She had previously considered his cycle of augmentation completed. It would now seem the Other was still undergoing the cycle of augmentation. How far would the Other evolve?

  It did not matter, She concluded, so long as She achieved possession of the Other. There were, She knew, several hundred of the Lesser still within the Other’s immediate vicinity. The Lesser would slow the progress of the Other long enough for Her to arrive. Strong as the Other may have become, She was still the stronger.

  Data streams were constantly being updated as Mayweather observed, hands clenched behind his back to prevent his subordinates recognizing the concern warring within their commanding officer. In less than a second, the flight of F/A-18 super Hornets would begin the assault on the island. In his mind, Mayweather could visualize the pilots triggering the release of several air to ground missiles. Flight time would be less than ten seconds, and if those holding Dr. Zhao didn't already know of the strike groups presence that would certainly wake them up.

  “Tracking missiles inbound to target, eta five seconds,” a technician announced calmly. “Telemetry reports five positive impacts, one no show. Pilots are swinging around to confirm impact and assess damage.”

  “Eagle one to Nest, primary targets appear to be, wait, what?” The speaker, Lieutenant Tracy Henderson, broke off her report as something moved in the smoke. “Eagle One to Nest, primary targets were only decoys. Island defenses…”

  The speaker was abruptly cut off, but the rest of Eagle flight sounded off immediately.

  “…holy Christ, did you see that…”

  “…Soul Reaver is down, I repeat, Soul Reaver is down…”

  “…not anti-aircraft, that's a goddamn cannon…”

  “…point your nose at the sky and jam the afterburner there's two more…”

  “…Eagle Three, it's tracking you, evade, evade, evade…”

  “…Nest, this Eagle Six, the island has railgun emplacements. I repeat, the is
land has railgun emplacements on some sort of high speed maneuvering equipment. Eagle One and Eagle Three are down. Please advise...”

  “Eagle Flight, this Nest actual,” Admiral Mayweather seized the mic and spoke with authority. “Climb to twenty-two thousand feet immediately, maximum speed. Circle and target railgun emplacements. How copy?

  “Eagle Six copies all,” Lieutenant Roger “Jolly Roger” McEntyre spoke as he pulled his bird into a stomach wrenching climb. “Eagle Flight, burn for the sky.”

  Goddamn it, Cynthia, Mayweather fumed, you'll pay for the lives of everyone that dies today.

  “Report,” the Admiral demanded. “What the hell just happened?”

  “…telemetry incoming. Wait one…”

  “…Eagle Flight at five thousand feet and climbing…”

  “…Helo Blue One feet dry, thirty seconds to drop zone. Helo Blue Two, feet dry…”

  “…railgun emplacements were concealed within the mountain. Visual tracking shows the blast doors swinging out to permit the emplacements to be run out on some kind of tracked platform…”

  “…no possible way those railguns are manned. They must be computer controlled. They're tracking around too quickly…”

  “…Eagle Flight at ten thousand feet and climbing…”

  “…sir, USS Patrick Best reports the Chinese frigates are thirty scones from firing range, requests permission to fire…”

  “Permission to fire is granted,”’Mayweather turned to the Patrick Best’s comm frequency. “Sink those ships before they can launch.”

  The importance of the concealed railgun defenses struck home, and Mayweather turned to the strike group command frequency.

  “All ships, this Admiral Mayweather,” he announced. “Begin active sonar scans. Fill the goddamn ocean with sonar pings, be loud and don't stop. If there are crabs in the ocean floor getting friendly I want a detailed report.”

  Concealed, computer operated railgun emplacements capable of tracking and shooting down a speeding F/A-18 was well within Cynthia Zhao’s skill set. More than that, though, it implied that Dr. Zhao was far less a confined person and more of a guiding force. Previously, his concerns had centered on whatever side experiments might have been turned loose by the good doctor. So long as she continued to produce for the CIA, Mayweather could see them turning a blind eye to her less conscionable experiments. Quid pro quo was very much in the CIA’s playbook. As were the GAU-18 gun emplacements to discourage unwanted guests, but the railgun emplacements were very much not. No, that brainchild would have originated with Cynthia Zhao, and the only way her handlers would have permitted any such thing would be in they were no longer the jailers but the jailed. And if that were in fact the case, then who knew what other unpleasant surprises awaited.

  “Get me the Air Boss, I want everything we have capable of flight in the air in the next thirty minutes,” Mayweather barked to his subordinates. “No excuses, no exceptions.”

  “Air Boss on line, sir.”

  “Listen closely, I want two distinct groups in the air,” Mayweather demanded. “First, anything we have that can drop sonar buoys or conduct anti-submarine operations I want in the air inside twenty minutes. Second, any aircraft not vital to anti-submarine operations is to be fitted out to help pacify the island. Don't argue, just get it done. Grab any hands you need, just get those birds airborne.”

  “Sir, the Patrick Best has engaged the Chinese frigates, designated Nemo One and Nemo Two. Initial reports indicate extensive damage to Nemo Two, with Nemo One having shot down primary missile attack. Negative damage to the Patrick Best, sir.”

  “Captain Baker knows his ship. If he needs help, he'll call.”

  “Helo Blue One, Helo Blue Two report ground element has been inserted. Helo’s are RTB.”

  “Good,” Mayweather nodded. “As soon as they touch down, have them refueled and rearmed to join the fight.”

  Captain Vincenzo slid down the rope to land in the midst of rain forest like jungle. Sweat poured from his body as the canopy closed around him. Unhooking from the descent line, Vincenzo scanned the faces of his Marines. Every Marine present was fully occupied with their particular role. These were some of the best professionals on the face of the planet, and Vincenzo knew they wouldn't fail. He was, and always had been, proud to be a Marine, but never more so than when he led these Marines.

  A quick, silent hand gesture and the Marines of team Thunderbolt moved from the drop zone towards the interior of the island. Eyes never stopped scanning, even as heads rotated to overlap another Marines scanning area. Check, then double check. The deep thunderous report of an unknown weapon indicated the first deviation from their battle plan, but as every combat veteran understood no plan survives first contact with the enemy.

  The receding roar of afterburners indicated the second deviation from the plan, but Vincenzo was too committed to his part to give it much thought. Ahead, the point man signaled a stop, and each Marine fell into cover, weapon at the ready and eyes scanning. Vincenzo moved up the line to kneel beside the corporeal acting as point.

  Glancing over at Vincenzo, the corporeal indicated the third deviation from the plan in the form of an epically huge canine like animal being led about by an equally enormous soldier carrying an M240 in much the same way Vincenzo might carry his M9. Looking at the man, Vincenzo estimated his height to be in the neighborhood of seven-and-a-half feet, and his weight to be three hundred fifty, three hundred seventy-five pounds. Such aberrations of nature existed, but it was still unnerving to see one in the flesh. Then a second soldier stepped out of the jungle, this man was, if possible, taller and more heavily muscled. Probably because he was carrying an M2 heavy machine gun in a custom designed sling and didn't seem to strain. When the third man stepped into the clearing, Vincenzo wasn’t surprised to see another mountain of a man. Given what he'd heard about Dr. Zhao, it was easy to believe the woman had somehow altered these men.

  Vincenzo signaled his men to be ready, but to wait for his word to open fire. These three presented no great challenge to the Marines of Force Recon, but whatever else lay within the jungle might. Not to mention that the canine looking animal was likely bred to cut through flesh and bone.

  A fourth giant of a man stepped into the clearing, this one dressed like the others in green BDUs, but carrying a G3 assault rifle and a lot of comm gear. Where the other men had been wearing ballistic helmets, this man wore a flopping booney hat. A hand the size and density of a granite Boulder came up to remove the hat, revealing an impossible face. Deep set eyes were hooded by a pronounced forehead ridge of reinforced bone, and the man's jaw was also ridiculously thick and sported a set of prominent canines which far exceeded anything Vincenzo had ever seen. The man swept his sleeve across his perspiring fore head and replaced his hat. Captain Vincenzo noticed the knuckles on the back of the hand were also extremely pronounced. The impression of these men was one of an artificially enhanced soldier, given traits specifically geared towards creating a savage in fighter capable of inflicting devastating injuries.

  Those traits, however, weren't the most disturbing thing about the man mountain. No, the disturbing thing about seeing the soldiers uncovered head had been the hard wired device penetrating the back of the giant’s skull. It very much seemed as if that particular man had been the subject of a cybernetics experiment.

  The Marine had only just allowed this patrol to move past without interference, when Vincenzo felt the shift in the slight breeze blowing through the trees. Even as the change registered with Vincenzo, the great beast of a canine bayed in an unnatural tone. Then the beast appeared across the clearing, it's lumbering gait eating the distance between them.

  A dozen rifles snapped up as Vincenzo opened fire. Even suppressed, the Marines fire created an incredible amount of noise , although it was dwarfed by the unholy roar of the enemy soldiers weapons. Terrifyingly, the M2 was giving full throated volume as the enormous soldier carrying it fired the damned thing as he stood there, l
aughing.

  Christ, they're all laughing, Vincenzo realized. They're laughing themselves stupid.

  Furious, Vincenzo flipped his weapon to full auto and hosed the oncoming animal in the face.

  “Marines, kill them all,” Vincenzo screamed right before he went down under the massive canine beast.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Wait a fucking minute,” I said aloud as I came to the front door. “How the hell was their even anybody there to inoculate me against the zombie virus if it was all just a random event?”

  Who says it was random?

  “What?” I practically shouted.

  Once again, you don't need to speak aloud to converse with me. See, I mostly exist in your subconscious mind so I'm never more than a thought away.

  Okay, fine, but that doesn't answer my question.

  No, it doesn't, but you've been working this over and over since you were infected. Awake, asleep, and in between you can't let it go. You want answers, and I think you worked it out subconsciously.

  It wasn't a random Outbreak, was it?

  Why ask me? You've already worked it out.

  “Someone deliberately caused an Outbreak to test their goddamn inoculation,” I said aloud, working through the idea. “But if there was someone to inject me, why wasn't Pee Wee injected? Unless he was, but it didn't work on him. Why wouldn't it work? Genetic differences? I was injected, then I was infected. Could the order of events matter? Perhaps Pee Wee was infected first, then injected. Or perhaps there was a range of untested injections and everybody received a different dose? Or maybe the goddamn Man in the Moon smiled down on me.”