Rotter Apocalypse

by Scott M. Baker

  “I know.” Denning opened the cab door and pointed to the rotters crossing the pasture. “I plan on using it against them.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “Stay on the other side of the fence and take down any of those things that get by me.”

  “You got it. Good luck.”

  While Windows climbed back over the fence, Denning crawled up into the cab, closed the door, and propped his rifle in the corner behind him. He switched on the ignition, and the engine roared to life. When he shifted into gear, the combine lurched forward and made its way along the fence line. Thirty feet ahead of him and ten feet to the right, a rotter in military cammies lumbered toward the fence. When it saw the combine, it changed direction and headed toward it. Denning steered right and plowed into the rotter. It became trapped in the maize header, and the oscillating blades sawed through decayed skin and bones, severing its legs below the knee cap. The rotter fell forward onto the guides and began crawling, occasionally pausing and grasping for Denning. When it reached the end of the header, it clutched the horizontal spiral blade. The rotating blade tore apart the rotter piece by piece, severing its hand, lower arm, and then upper arm. The rotter did not notice. It kept its face arched upward in Denning’s direction, snarling and snapping its jaws, until its shoulder and head were pulled into the blades. The skull burst, exploding blood and gore across the maize header. The rest of its body went limp.

  Denning swerved back toward the fence. The head of a rotter in front of them exploded from a round fired by Windows and it went down. Denning drove the combine over the body, the vehicle rocking as if crossing a speed bump. He maneuvered around two more nearing the fence, figuring Windows would take care of them, and steered toward a cluster of four a few yards distant. The combine knocked one of them over, its left front wheel crushing it under the vehicle’s massive weight. The other three were scooped up in the maize header and shredded. By now four corpses jammed the header. Denning stopped and shifted into reverse, hoping to dislodge the bodies. The one closest to the edge slid off into the pasture; the other three remained lodged in the blades. Even reversing and swerving back and forth couldn’t clear them. He slammed his left hand against the steering wheel, ignoring the bolt of pain that shot up his arm. There were still over ninety of those things out there, and without the combine they would never be able to clear them out. They’d lost. Unless….

  Denning knew of a way around this. It sucked, but they had no alternative.

  * * *

  Windows paid no attention to Denning, concentrating instead on shooting those rotters that got near the fence. She had taken down three when Denning backed up the combine opposite her and opened the cab door. He leaned out and yelled to be heard over the engines.

  “I need you to clean out the header!”

  “What?”

  He pointed to the front of the combine. “The blades are clogged. I need you to stay by me and clean them out, otherwise this plan’s not going to work.”

  Windows climbed over the fence. As she approached the combine, her eyes darted back and forth to both ends of the machine, waiting for rotters to swarm around it. “You realize I’ll be exposed?”

  “I know. There’s no other way.”

  Windows moved toward the front of the combine. Every one of the living dead converged on them. “This is insane!” she yelled up to Denning.

  Denning grabbed his rifle. “I’ll cover you.”

  Slinging her AK-47 over her shoulder, Windows raced over to the header. The blades were jammed by three decapitated bodies. She grabbed the first by its shirt and pulled. It came loose with little difficulty, spilling muscles and skin across the header. Windows dragged it onto the grass and went back for the second. This one also came free with no trouble except for its trachea and lungs that had wrapped around the spiral blade. Swallowing back the vomit in her throat, she ripped the organs free and rolled the body off the header. She didn’t have the same luck with the third body. Its upper torso was wedged between the spiral blade and back shield, and wouldn’t dislodge. She climbed onto the header, her feet slipping on the blood-coated metal. Grabbing it by the waist, she pulled. The body would still not budge.

  A shot rang out over her head and Windows ducked. A rotter in a blood-darkened yellow sweat suit near the front of the combine fell over backward, a bullet wound in its forehead. A second rotter, this one without a right arm, closed in. A second shot exploded its head, and it collapsed onto the grass. She glanced up to see Denning in the cab, his rifle pointed out the side window.

  Moving to the end of the header, Windows dropped to her knees and reached her hands in between the blades and back shield. She felt the cold, dead flesh and rotting muscles, and nearly threw up. She yanked at the body again, but it was stuck fast. Windows felt around inside the torso until her hands touched the ribcage. She grasped the bones and pulled, and the body moved a few inches. Windows paused, took a deep breath, and pulled again. This time it slipped free. Dragging it along the header, she dumped the body on the grass and retreated to the left side of the combine. When Denning saw that she was clear, he sat back down and shifted into gear. The combine lurched forward again.

  Windows wiped her hands on her jeans. That only cleaned off the surface gore. Unslinging her AK-47, she followed the combine, staying at a distance of twenty feet and keeping the machine between her and the approaching horde.

  When Denning approached the west end of the fence, he reversed the combine to the right and headed in the opposite direction. He missed a rotter in the tattered remnants of a hospital gown that stayed close to the fence. Windows stepped up to it, fired a single round through its brain, and then fell in beside the combine.

  * * *

  Denning attempted to sideswipe the rotters, hoping to knock them over and crush them beneath the wheels rather than scoop them, thus cutting back the number of times Windows had to clear the blades. He was able to do that with most of them, although two staggered into his path at the last moment and were shredded. Denning attempted to swerve around a naked, bloated rotter that wandered in front of the combine. Before he could steer away, the header caught it up and dropped it onto the guides. The spiral blades caught the rotter’s right arm and pulled it into the machine, shredding its arm, shoulder, and head. When the blades reached the torso, rather than becoming jammed in the system, the body erupted. A mix of putrefying liquid and blood splashed across the cab’s windows. The stench of decay filled the cab. Unable to control himself, Denning puked across the steering wheel and dash board. He pushed open the cab door to let out the reek, which did little good.

  Wiping the vomitus from his lips with the back of his hand, Denning took the steering wheel and aimed at the next rotter in line.

  * * *

  Once Miriam had gotten the kids preoccupied with a card game, she sat down on the edge of the bed, reached behind her, and removed the revolver from her pants. It felt cold and ominous. Bringing it around front, she covered it with her left and placed it between her knees so none of the children would see it. She heard the battle raging, and cringed with every rifle shot or ghastly moan. It would only be a matter of time before those things overran Windows and Denning, and then burst their way into the house. She thought back a few days ago to when the rotters killed Paul, and the agony he went through in those final minutes. She wouldn’t let that happen to Rebecca and Philip, or to Cindy. Placing her thumb on the revolver’s hammer, she cocked it back.

  God forgive me.

  * * *

  Windows crawled up onto the header for the sixth time. It resembled a slaughterhouse floor, being completely covered in blood and shreds of tissues and organs. Windows pushed the image out of her mind and concentrated on the job at hand. By now the procedure had become routine, and she could clear bodies in a matter of seconds. She had to work faster because of the increasing number of rotters converging on them. Several times she had to pause in order to help Denning gun down rotters before they got
too close. Following along beside the combine had also become more difficult. Seven passes along the pasture had covered the grass in a slick coating of human debris. She had already slipped half a dozen times, twice landing on her ass, which would have been fatal if the rotters had been too close. After doing this for ten minutes, Windows was soaked in blood, emotionally drained, and physically exhausted.

  While Denning prepared to make his eighth sweep across the pasture, three more rotters moved into his path. Each was scooped up and shuffled into the blades. A loud grinding came from the header, followed by a loud snap. The combine jerked to a stop. Windows ran over to check. The spiral blade sat an angle. Its left mounting had shattered, and the blade had dropped down, the jagged end digging into the ground. The three mangled rotters were still moving. Windows raised her rifle and fired one round into each head.

  Denning opened the cab door and stuck out his head. “What’s wrong?”

  “The header is broken and the blade is stuck in the ground.”

  “Shit!”

  A moaning came from behind the combine. Six rotters approached from the rear. Denning warned Windows to stand clear, and then sat back in the cab. Windows moved away, and Denning shifted into reverse. The spiral blade in the header strained and scraped, eventually breaking loose from the ground. Swerving from right to left, Denning backed over the living dead, knocking them down with the rear chassis and crushing them beneath the wheels. Each one exploded under the weight, sending a spray of blood and organs across the pasture. When the last one had been crushed, Denning stopped, waved Windows over, and opened the cab door.

  “Climb on,” he ordered.

  “Why?”

  “You’re going to direct me.”

  Moving around front, Windows climbed up on the header and used it as a ladder to mount the combine. When she had taken up position on the thresher machinery casing by the cab’s window, Denning shifted into reverse.

  * * *

  The rotter in the EMT uniform lifted its head from Walther’s body, attracted by the noise. Something large moved across the field, and something smaller moved around it. The rotter couldn’t comprehend what it saw or distinguish the noises. Its primitive mind knew only one thing—noise and movement meant food. Climbing to its feet, the EMT rotter circled around Walther’s stripped corpse and set off for the commotion in front of it.

  The other eleven rotters got to their feet and followed.

  * * *

  Denning was halfway through the ninth sweep of the pasture when the combine bucked several times. The engine stuttered and died, and the combine ground to a halt.

  “What’s wrong?” Windows asked.

  “We’re out of petrol.”

  “Now what?”

  Denning scanned the pasture. They had taken down every rotter except for a pack of a dozen approaching from the north thirty meters away, the same ones that had been feeding on Walther. He wanted to kill these things more than any of the others. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out his remaining cartridges and counted them. Six left.

  “How many bullets do you have?” he asked.

  “Five.”

  “Make them count.”

  Windows crouched on top of the combine and took up a firing position while Denning crawled down from the cab and circled around the machine. The pack focused on Windows, which gave him a clear shot. He aimed, lined up on a rotter in a soiled bathrobe, and fired. The back of its head exploded, and it dropped face first into the grass. Denning felt a sense of satisfaction that suddenly turned to rage, rage that these damned creatures had consumed everything. They hadn’t been content destroying civilization. They had to ruin his farm, threaten the lives of him and his friends, and murder Walther. Denning fired off the last five rounds without even focusing on his targets, venting his fury. All he saw was the rotter in the EMT uniform, now covered in Walther’s blood. It tottered toward him, its arms outstretched, wanting to rip the life out of him.

  Raising the rifle above his head, Denning approached it. When he got close enough, he slammed the butt into the EMT rotter’s face with such force its skull cracked. The thing’s head shot back, and then it surged forward. Denning crashed the rifle into the rotter again, this time knocking it off balance. Another blow and it fell over backward. Standing over the EMT rotter, Denning repeatedly slammed the rifle butt into its head, knocking out its eyes, breaking most if its teeth, and dislocating its jaw. He kept up the assault until the skull ruptured, spilling its brains onto the grass. Only then did Denning stop, his anger having dissipated along with the threat.

  He hovered over the body, breathing heavily from the exertion. He suddenly felt drained. His arms ached. His vision blurred. He had overworked himself. Once he had rested for a bit he and Windows could—

  * * *

  Windows watched in horror as Denning collapsed onto the grass. She ran up to him, fell to her knees, and rolled him over. His eyes had rolled up into his head and his breathing had stopped. Placing an ear to his chest, she could not hear a heartbeat. Tearing open his shirt, Windows placed her hands over his sternum and pressed hard three times. Listening again, she still heard nothing. She repeated the process another five times. Denning’s heart never responded.

  Sitting down cross legged on the blood-soaked grass, Windows cradled Denning in her arms and sobbed.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  The hardest part of the morning so far had been descending the eastern slope of the Diablo Range. Once on the valley floor, the line proceeded toward their objective: the Sierra Nevadas on the eastern side of the valley. Headquarters had cautioned them to move slowly since the armored and recon units as well as air support were dedicated to the drive to Berkeley. That suited Natalie fine. For over an hour her section of the line had leisurely advanced through farmland and open fields toward their destination, the town of Delhi. Those abandoned farm animals that had escaped from their enclosures had done well, for she saw clusters of cows, chickens, and pigs roaming across the valley as well as an abundance of rabbits and deer. After walking for over an hour, they had not encountered any rotter activity.

  As they closed to within a mile of Delhi, gunfire sounded to the north, a few rounds at first that increased in intensity within a minute.

  Ari moved closer and nudged Natalie’s arm. “You hear that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Makes me nervous,” said Ari.

  Natalie saw Mesle a few paces to her left talking into his microphone. When he finished, she sidestepped over to him. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m not sure, so don’t let your guard down. Get back in line and stay alert.”

  “Copy that.” Natalie rejoined her unit.

  The line continued its advance to the town outskirts. A few hundred yards ahead of them stood a fairground. A large, windowless building dominated the center. This was surrounded by five roofed-off open-walled areas, one of which contained animal stalls. At one point during the outbreak, the grounds had served either as a Combat Surgical Hospital or containment center. A military-style ambulance with its back door open sat parked to the right of the windowless building. Beside it stood a white tent with a large Red Cross emblazoned on the side. A two-and-half-ton truck stood in front of the building at an angle, partially blocking the view of the area, and one hundred feet behind that was a Humvee with its hood raised. There were no signs of combat or that the camp had been overrun. There were no bodies, blood, or debris. It appeared as though the military had packed up, pulled out, and left these vehicles behind.

  Master Sergeant Napier held up his hand, signaling for the line to stop. Natalie placed her forefinger on the trigger guard of her M-16A2 in case she needed to fire quickly.

  “Some of the squads outside of Modesto are reporting revenant activity,” said Napier. “Nothing compared to San Jose, though. We’ve been ordered to stop so the line doesn’t over extend, so take five.”

  Napier walked up to Mesle and pointed at the fairground. “T
ake your squad and check out what’s inside those vehicles. They’ve probably already been cleaned out, but I’d hate to leave something useful behind.”

  “Copy that.” Mesle stepped away from the line and faced his squad. “You heard the man. Move.”

  Stephenson sighed. “So much for taking five.”

  As they approached the abandoned vehicles, Mesle pointed to the ambulance and tent. “Branson, see if there’s anything of use in them. And see if that ambulance still runs.”

  Branson nodded and led half the squad to the tent.

  “Natalie, Ari. Check out the Hummer,” Mesle ordered. “We’ll take the deuce-and-a-half.”

  * * *

  Branson’s unit approached the tent. When they were fifty feet away, he ordered them to stop. “Akers, you’re with me. The rest of you provide cover.”

  He raised his M-16A2 into the high ready position, moved up to the tent, and motioned for Akers to open the flap. Akers pulled it aside, and Branson stepped inside. Nothing looked out of place. Five cots lined each wall, with a desk and medicine cabinet located at the far end. Walking between the cots, Branson crossed the tent to check out the medicine cabinet even though the drawers and doors had been left open. As he expected, everything had been cleaned out. They only items left behind were sheets and pillows. Moving over to the desk, he opened each drawer, finding only office supplies. He exited the tent.

  “Whoever was here last took everything of use when they left.”

  “Should we check out the ambulance?” Akers asked.

  “It couldn’t hurt.”

  The rear doors to the ambulance had been left open. All the drawers were open and empty, just like inside the tent. Moving along the left side of the vehicle, he stood on the runner and peered into the cab. Nothing was inside. Opening the door, he slid into the driver’s seat and pressed the ignition button. The engine sputtered. Branson pumped the gas pedal twice and tried again. This time the ambulance’s engine roared to life.