by Dan Decker
The best thing to do would be to take out the zampys first and hope it was another smuggler just looking to beat him to the Sullivan compound.
Nesting zampys were territorial in addition to loving non-zombie-humans as a food source. Once he took out the first one, he figured that he might have as long as ten seconds to take out the next, if several didn’t attack at the same time. He took conscious control of his breath and let it out.
From his left, he heard the sound of gravel sliding down the hill. He swallowed a curse as he looked up from his scope while bringing his right hand from the trigger guard of his rifle to the butt of his pistol.
As he turned to face the person who had snuck up on him, he brought his pistol up and zeroed in on their chest. He was glad he’d picked up on their presence. He’d almost become too focused again, and he was lucky he’d stopped to think things through.
He looked at his stalker from the top of his pistol and was surprised to see it was a woman.
Her hair was cut short and looked as though it had a half a bottle of hair gel holding up the spikes she had made with it.
That stuff wasn't cheap, and that fact alone let him know he was dealing with somebody that had money. She was dressed in a leather jacket and thick black camo pants with boots that went up to her mid-thigh. She had a messenger bag slung over her back, held a sawed-off shotgun in her hands, and wore a pistol on either side. Glocks by the look of them. Her face was covered with a playful smile that he might have taken for flirting in another context. The only flirting going on now was a dance with death.
“Those zombies have done nothing to you,” she said, “Watcha going to shoot them for?”
3
“Shh,” Parry hissed, but it was too late, from the corner of his eye he saw a zampy rear its head from the nest. “There are zampys down there.”
She swore, and her face paled as she brought up her shotgun at the same time the zampy called out. It was a shrill cry of alarm that made every hair on Parry’s neck stand on edge.
He normally didn’t have that kind of reaction. He’d heard zampy calls on a regular basis since he was ten years old. It must have been something about having the unknown armed woman at his side.
“Frickin’ newbies,” Parry muttered as he looked back down the hill. The zampy had poked its head out from between the rocks of the nest and was staring at them. Its long snout was pointed their direction, and its beady eyes were focused on them, but it wasn’t attacking. That could only mean one thing. He’d been right that the nestlings were down there too. He wondered if any others had managed to escape the nest.
Subconsciously, Parry began to count as he put his pistol back on the ground and picked up his rifle. One, two, three. When he had first started smuggling, he would count the number of rounds that he’d fired but as time had drawn on he’d found it more useful to keep count of the seconds as they ticked by. The attacks were usually a few seconds long, and he’d become a good enough shot that he rarely ever came close to emptying the nineteen-round magazine of his rifle anymore. He still carried three more magazines on his person and six in his bag, though, just in case.
“Its mate,” he said scanning the area while trying to keep an eye on the zampy down at the nest. “Look for its mate!”
Eight, nine, ten. A cold sweat broke out on Parry’s forehead; they should have seen something by now. He looked back the way he’d come, and it was clear back there at the moment.
The woman began looking around as well. The very fact that she hadn’t been doing that already didn’t bode well. For a brief moment he thought he saw a look of confidence on her face, but it had disappeared.
Not trusting to chance that she was as good at spotting as she was stalking, he covered the whole area rather than breaking it in half and letting her take a side.
That shotgun of hers had better have slugs or buckshot. She looked like she was serious about her guns and gear but wouldn’t it just be his luck to have a sudden sidekick with a twelve gauge loaded with trap shot?
A breeze had picked up and was rustling bushes, making the job much harder. His eyes stopped on some of the moving bushes but after waiting several seconds he’d moved on and made a note to keep checking that area. Sure, it had looked like wind, but one couldn’t be too certain when dealing with zampys.
Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one. They should have been attacked by now. The zampy at the nest hadn’t taken its eyes off of them and hadn’t moved away from the nest.
“Got him,” the woman said. “On the left.”
“Shoot him.” Parry swung his rifle around to provide backup. The zampy back at the nest called out again.
It was a low bark that ended with a hiss. There was always a hiss. Parry could make out the squeaking of the nestlings as well because they increased their volume in response to the alarm.
The woman had frozen; her finger was on the trigger but wasn’t moving. Cursing, Parry was pressing his trigger when she suddenly moved back from the charging zampy, bumping into his rifle in the process. In the confusion he was unable to aim and was forced to point and fire on instinct.
The gunshot echoed off the nearby hills.
He had been too high and missed. The sound of the rifle blast hadn’t even fazed the zampy.
Parry growled and pulled the scope up to his eye, aimed and fired again, but he’d been too hasty and hadn’t taken into account the movement of the zampy.
The woman said something, but he didn’t hear it as he squeezed the trigger again and the report of his rifle cut her off.
This time, his shot was dead on, and it took the zampy in the chest. It squawked in pain and fell to the ground in a rolling ball. Forty seconds, he thought, forty-one, forty-two. He fired another two shots into the monster as it rolled to a stop a few feet away from them and turned back to the nest.
The zampy from the nest was now running their way, but Parry had anticipated that and was already swinging his rifle over.
He knew the way these lizards liked to operate. Kill the mate and the other one charged, screaming in alarm, never mind the brood that it was leaving behind.
The screech of the zampy was higher pitched than the call had been earlier and for several seconds seemed to be in harmony with screams of the nestlings, like some blood-curdling orchestra of fear and rage.
The zampy’s cry had the eerie feel of a call for help and Parry shuddered.
Those that believed the zampys were an alien species also subscribed to the theory that their level of communication was just as nuanced as humans.
There might just be something to that, Parry thought as he lined up his rifle and fired. The round took the zampy square in the chest. It shrieked in pain, a horrible sound that caused Parry to feel a brief twinge of both guilt and pleasure.
It was either her or me. He snorted. If they even have a female equivalent.
To the untrained or even well-trained eye, it was impossible to tell one gender from the other. He’d even heard it suggested that the zampys had three or four distinct genders.
It was anybody’s guess, the anatomy of the things made even less sense than the fact that their bite turned people into the walking dead.
The zampy he’d just hit twitched, and Parry fired another shot into it. Ammo was expensive, but it wasn’t wasteful to invest a bullet to protect his future.
The nestlings were crying but other than that everything had become still again.
It wasn’t uncommon to find two adult zampys with a nest, but he wasn’t about to relax yet.
If one or two more were out hunting, they would have heard the screams and would be on their way back now.
The woman was pale and breathing loudly.
At least she didn’t run, he thought, he’d give here that. The first time Parry had faced a zampy alone, he’d frozen as well. Lucky for him he hadn’t been alone that trip.
She had lowered her shotgun. These newbie smugglers were all the same, they thought that a cool hairdo, some s
weet looking camouflage fatigues, and a shotgun were all they needed.
She was among the worst dressed that he’d ever come into contact with. She’d undoubtedly spent more time doing her hair and assembling her outfit than learning what she needed to survive out in the wild.
Judging by the spiky hair, she’d read a few too many stories about Aleb Shaw. That woman’s ascension to celebrity status hadn’t done Parry and those like him any favors. If he ever met the woman he wouldn’t be asking for an autograph.
“Get it up,” he hissed, pointing at her gun. “It’s not over yet.” Seventy seconds, he thought, seventy-one, seventy-two. Had it only been that long? It had felt like five minutes, at least.
She snorted but brought up her shotgun still the same. Parry suppressed his desire to roll his eyes. He wouldn't be surprised to learn that this was her first time in the field.
Well, she had another thing coming if she thought she was going to get to the Sullivan Compound first. He wouldn’t leave her to the zombies—not even his worst enemy deserved that—but he might send her down a wrong path if he had time to work it out.
Frickin’ newbies, he thought, I bet that twelve gauge of hers is loaded with birdshot. In fact, I’d better plan on it.
Thirty seconds later a zampy burst out of the brush behind him. It was further down the hill and past the tree where Parry had first spotted the woman hiding in the bushes.
Parry turned but the sudden movement caused him to lose his footing, and he slid down the hill. Cursing, he brought up his rifle and fired a shot anyway. He missed, and the zampy didn’t even pause.
The cursed things were becoming too experienced with their ways if the concussive blast of a large caliber rifle didn’t even faze them anymore.
Something cut into Parry’s thigh as he slid down the hill and he saw that he was leaving a small trail of blood behind him in the dirt as he hooked one arm around a tree and braced his foot against a sagebrush plant.
He dug his other foot into the ground and brought up his rifle as he heard a blast from behind him. He saw through his scope as the pellets from the woman’s shotgun made a deep blue bloody circle on the zampy.
It only served to make it mad and run faster. Parry’s mood wasn’t helped by the fact that he now knew her gun was worse than useless. He’d been right about her light shotgun ammo.
All she could do now was function as bait. If there were anymore zampys on the side of the hill that had the nest, hopefully, they would go for her first.
The raging zampy increased its speed again as Parry released his breath and pulled the trigger. The Triton dot was right on its chest, but the bullet took it in the lower abdomen.
By that time, he was already firing another shot that compensated for the speed of the monster. This time, the zampy went down, the bullet blowing blue blood and yellowish green flesh out its back.
He fired another shot into the carcass and looked for more. Ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven.
When he didn’t see anything, he turned back to the woman who had once again lowered her shotgun and was staring at the zampy that Parry had just killed.
As he trudged back up the slope, he thought about telling her to get it up again but didn’t have the energy for it.
He’d been thinking of sending her away down the wrong path, but it had become apparent that she didn’t have what it took to make it out here on her own. He might as well just shoot her as let her go on her way without an escort.
If she was smuggling anti-venom, perhaps he’d let her tag along with him to the compound. He’d make sure she understood that he got to sell first, of course, but there was no harm in letting her make a little money for her troubles after he was all set.
He’d do that if she was contrite and humble after the lecture he was going to give her. It was going to be a doozy.
Several feet from the top he froze. A zampy was sneaking uphill from the other side and because the woman had allowed her back to stay turned for quite some time it had gotten pretty close.
Swearing and aiming at the same time, Parry fired. The zampy had already leaped, and Parry’s bullet met it in mid-air.
He dodged out of the way as the zampy landed between them on the hilltop. Blood from the zampy fell on both him and the woman. She gasped. He growled. He’d be up half the night scrubbing the stuff out of his clothes.
4
The woman began to murmur under her breath about the zampy blood. Parry groaned. Honestly, it was like she was trying to get them killed. He couldn’t wait to dump her at the Sullivan Compound and be done with her.
“Shut up!” Parry said, he’d meant for it to be a whisper, but it was closer to a yell. He lowered his voice. “Nobody ever became a zombie because they got some zampy blood on them. It's only their bite that counts. We’re not through this yet.”
He scanned the area from where he stood on the hilltop. They’d been doing enough shooting that anybody within hearing distance would know something was going on.
The zombies had disappeared. For a second he was tempted to try to pinpoint their location, but he could do that later, once he was sure the area was clear.
The zombies had gone to ground when the shooting had started. They tended to stay put for a least a few minutes after hearing a gunshot or large explosion before moving again. Even those that were bonded to the zampys.
He’d have to keep an eye out for them. If those zombies were bonded, they’d move towards the nest instead of away from it.
In the early days, most people had been converted by zombie attacks and the government had been convinced that zombies were the main problem. The zombies had spread much faster than the zampys because of the convenience and ease of quick transportation of those infected with the virus.
That was part of the reason why the government hadn’t lasted long after everything had started. D.C. had been one of the hardest hit by the miniature zampys. The little squirrel-sized zampys looked like a nestling but had the ferocity of a full grown adult. If the zampys had hitched a ride on the comet that had destroyed Denver, how had the miniature zampys traveled to D.C. so quickly? There were some that believed that zampys were a biological weapon from some place in Asia.
Parry snorted at the thought as he stared down at the nest and continued counting the passing seconds. There are as many theories about the zampys as there are people. All I know is that I’ll kill every last one of them if I can. If they were created to be a weapon, I’ll make it my life’s mission to kill whoever was behind them.
Once organized zombie control began in earnest, it was rare to hear of human infection from a zombie source.
No, the usual culprits were the zampys, particularly the miniature variety. The ones he’d been killing over the last couple of minutes were full grown but smaller than some he had seen.
Parry shuddered at the thought of the mini zampys and looked around again. Mini zampys and nestlings were pint-sized death traps.
The woman sniffed and cleared her throat. Except for her noises and the chattering and screeching coming from the nest, all was quiet.
He frowned when his silent count reached two hundred fifty.
He’d never killed only four before on a nest. He was sure that there were zampy nests out there with only four zampys, but the fact remained that it left him unsettled. It was hard not to grow superstitious when dealing with death day in and day out.
He continued until his count reached five hundred. When nothing else happened, he released his breath and quit counting, uncertain when he’d last thought to breathe.
It had been at least three minutes since the last zampy attack. Parry looked at his watch but was uncertain what time it had been when all this started because he had a tendency to speed up his count when things were hot. There was now just a little over an hour to get to the Sullivan Compound. He still had plenty of time.
He was in the habit of checking the time just as he started shooting to keep a tab on things, but the presenc
e of the woman had thrown off his normal process.
His pistol was still where he had left it on the ground, but it had a few drops of zampy blood. Sighing, he pulled out a wipe and cleaned it off. He’d give it a much better cleaning later tonight once he was indoors. He pulled out several more wipes and did the best he could to wipe the zampy blood off him and his rifle. He offered some to the woman who began to clean her face with one of them.
“Careful with that,” he said. “That’s bleach. You don’t want to get it into your eyes.”
She rolled her eyes. The stink of the bleach was quite strong. On second glance she was being careful with it and hadn't needed the warning. Maybe there was hope for her yet.
He pulled up his pant leg to look at the wound he’d taken. The woman gasped when she saw the blood on his leg. He was relieved to see that none of the zampy blood had fallen on the gash.
“Did you get bitten?” She started to raise her shotgun.
He snorted. “Did you see a zampy get close enough to bite me? Even if I did, I still have plenty of time to get some anti-venom so lower that gun!” He toned his voice down a little; he would save his attitude for the lecture he was going to give her once he knew they were safe. “I snagged it on something when I went sledding down the hill on my butt.”
He pulled out another bleach wipe and cleaned off the wound. It wasn’t bad. He had bandages back in his backpack, but he wasn’t ready to retrieve that yet. Instead, he pulled out a small roll of duct tape that he kept in one of the pockets of his vest and taped it up. He’d never heard of anybody converting via zampy blood infecting a wound, but he wasn’t taking chances. After that, he used another wipe to clean his hands.
“We're probably safe,” he said turning to her once he was all done, “but it would be wise to keep an eye out just in case. Also, it doesn’t hurt to whisper. We still gotta take care of the nest.” He didn't relish what was going to come next, but it had to be done. Some had tried to take baby zampys home as pets. What fools. One little nick of one of those razor sharp baby teeth was all that it took. Some even tried to defang the little lizard-like creatures, and they'd learned the hard way as well. You just don’t mess with zampys.