by John Ringo
Taylor hesitated. He wouldn’t get far in a prison garb in a sane world, and if this place was any indication, sane just took a long vacation.
“Taylor!” Pascoe’s shout brought him back. “Behind you!” One of the crazies, quieter than the others, had managed to get into bad breath range. Taylor spun, just in time to duck under the lunging grasp, jamming his .45 into the man’s ribs and firing.
The guy ignored the new holes in his chest and lunged again, getting a lucky swipe on Taylor’s gun hand. “Shit.” Taylor narrowly avoided a bite, responding with a quick pistol whip to the temple as he swept the crazy’s leg, dropping him to the ground. A bullet to the forehead kept him there.
As quick as he had been, the extra time had allowed more rabid parishioners to close in. A sudden movement caught his eye- Merwick ran forward, tackling another crazy in Taylor’s blind spot.
The preacher shoved the crazy’s chin upward as Taylor approached, the gnashing teeth narrowly missing his fingers. Taylor stomped, holding the crazy man’s head still as he pulled the trigger. Brain and bone painted the gravel.
* * *
More naked people, their faces covered in blood, appeared between the trailers. Taylor swung the pistol, firing quickly as he hauled Merwick to his feet.
“Son of a bitch.” He muttered, shoving the older man towards the truck, “Go! Before I change my mind.”
The engine caught, the big V-8 roaring to life. Taylor dropped two more attackers as he made his way to the passenger’s side door, taking the last one as the slide locked back. He wrenched the door open and got in, slamming it shut just as another crazy hit the window.
Pascoe glanced over at him. “It’s eighty-five miles to Houston, we’ve got full tanks of gas, a shit ton of ammo, it’s getting dark, and we’re wearing tac gear.”
“Just shut the fuck up and drive.”
Pascoe floored it, gravel and dust flying from the rear tires. He jerked the wheel to avoid the small mass of remaining people, fishtailing before he got it under control.
“Jesus, Boss, don’t get us killed before we leave the driveway!”
“Backseat driver.”
Taylor turned, sliding the glass partition open between himself and the preacher. “You and I have a reckoning coming, but it’ll wait until we get some distance between us and your clusterfuck back there. You feel me, old man?” He felt the bump and the change in road surface as Pascoe turned onto 271.
“O, God! Why hast thou forsaken me?”
“Maybe because you perverted His Word to levels no one has seen before?”
“I was proud, thinking that I could see into God’s mind. This is my fall from Grace.” The older man’s shoulders slumped as he spoke. “My flock followed me, yet I led them down the wicked path. My weakness and blindness led them astray!”
He leaned forward, taking Taylor’s shoulder. The old man’s grip was fierce. “No! You don’t understand! You can’t see what I can see!” His head snapped up, red-rimmed eyes overflowing with tears and wild. “You are blind to the truth as I was!” He began squeezing harder.
“You need to move that hand before you lose it.”
“His entire world just came crashing down, Taylor,” Pascoe said, “Cut him some slack.”
“This crazy piece of shit crucified a man, drank his blood, and had us in lined up for the next course.” Taylor raised the empty pistol. “I should end him right now.”
“He deserves it, sure.” Pascoe said, “But remember, ‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.’”
“I’d just be arranging the meeting.”
“Leave him for the courts, Taylor. It’s the right—”
He was cut off by the preacher. “I will show you the light! You must let me cleanse your soul! Aaargh, God has sent the serpents to torment me until I fulfill my penance!” He began tearing at his shirt. “THE SERPENTS ARE HERE!”
Taylor dropped the mag, slammed home a new one, and brought the gun up. The preacher lunged forward just as Taylor slammed the window, bisecting the barrel as he pulled the trigger. Blood and brains covered the bed and boxes of supplies with red and grey lumps. There was a thump as the former holy man’s corpse hit fell back into the seat.
“Say hello to God for me.” Taylor said. He pulled the pistol back and shut the window. “Ok, now that we have some breathing room, what’s the plan?”
Pascoe shook his head slightly. “I don’t know. We’re out of touch with base, as well as anyone else that could tell us anything. We need info, first and foremost.”
“Yeah. Problem is, you saw how fast that went downhill back there. Chances are that whatever this is, it’s spreading. Hell, most of those people back there looked like they were getting over the flu, before they went through with the communion.”
“Best I can come up with now is to find a remote location, small, out of the way gas station or something, and make some phone calls.” Pascoe glanced down at the truck’s radio, and clicked the power knob. “Surf through the airwaves and see what you can find. We’ve got some time before we hit another town.”
Static crackled as Taylor spun the dial. The occasional burst of music was punctuated with voices.
“…And the Texas Department of Health confirmed another attack was caused by the ‘Human Rabies Virus,’ H7…”
“…Local health officials remind the citizens to stay indoors as much as possible, avoid contact with anyone that may be infected, and to use common safety precautions. Wash your hands, use anti-viral sanitizer…”
“…The CDC announced today that the H7 virus is a major concern, and that a vaccine is in still in the development stage…”
“No word as of yet as to where the strain has come from, only that it is not a naturally occurring form of the flu. State and Federal officials are requesting that anyone with any information…”
Taylor clicked off the radio. “Think we’ve heard all we need to hear for right now. Looks like this shit is spreading fast.”
Pascoe nodded. “Yeah, if that little speck on the map had it, I can only imagine how the bigger cities are getting screwed.”
“Zombies. The word no one is using.” Taylor laughed. “And with all the media in the last several years. Hell, I can’t believe I’m saying it.” His chuckle became louder, growing into a full throated guffaw.
Pascoe held out a little longer, but a smile crept across his face. “Heh. All those times I’ve gone home worried about getting shanked in the lockup, and I really should’ve been worried about some prom queen feeling peckish.”
Taylor howled, pounding his knee. “Starved herself for months to get in that dress, what did you expect?”
Pascoe was able to contain himself long enough to get the truck to the side of the road, then doubled over. “It’s the Om-nomnomageddon!”
They laughed, purging the strain and tension of the last several hours.
Taylor recovered first, wiping his eyes. “Oh man, talk about your totally fucked up situations. Zombie apocalypse, and I’m stuck with a cop as my battle buddy.”
“Hey, look at it from my side- I have to deal with a murderous scumbag, and he’s the best choice I have.”
“Speaking of murderous scumbags,” Taylor said, “I can contact the guys that hired me. Tell them to forget the lawyers, but bring guns and money. They have safehouses all over, maybe we can hole up until this blows over.”
“Better than anything I got.” Pascoe shrugged, adding, “I don’t think this is blowing over, Taylor.”
“Yeah, me neither.”
The other man nodded, his face set in determination. Without another word, he eased back onto the asphalt, guiding the truck towards the next town, and an uncertain future.
Best Laid Plans
Jason Cordova & Eric S. Brown
The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.
Or at least, that’s what he grew up hearing. Strange how a Scottish saying could infiltrate a strict Bavarian family, he thought as he noticed a str
ange smell in the apartment. It took him a few moments to realize that the smell was Paris itself no longer being crowded out by the familiar scents of a Chinese restaurant. The family downstairs must have contracted the same disease which had been talked about in the news that day, he figured. That did bring him back to the discussion at hand, though.
“There is a strange illness rampaging across Europe,” Günter Schneider said to the men assembled around the dining room table. He jabbed a finger at the detailed, hand-drawn blueprints which were spread out across the top of it. The form of the Louvre was obvious to all involved. It had been their life for the past six months, and they knew it better than they knew their own apartment. Many hours had been spent within the museum taking notes, as well as infiltrating the security personnel with one of their own, to achieve such a perfect floor plan.
“The Avian Flu, perhaps? Nobody is sick yet, ja, so we do not have to worry about this. Many staff called in sick, or have acted rather strangely during their shifts. This has left a hole in the perimeter of the security. We had agreed to wait a month more before we strike, but this opportunity is too good to pass up. I say we push the timeframe forward and strike tonight.”
“You think it will work on short notice?” Hans Flick, asked, his tone filled with skepticism.
“Nothing can stop us from succeeding,” Günter declared.
“Except for the zombies…” Hans muttered in a low tone. The others around the table nodded in agreement.
“There are no such things as zombies,” Günter said. He was growing tired of this argument with his men.
“No zombies? Then we shall call them dead people who walk around eating the faces of others,” Hans threw his hands into the air in exasperation. “Günter, mein freund, rational people do not act like this. It is a sign, one that is telling us to not attempt this. Not now. Not while the world seems to be at a tipping point.” His face suddenly brightened. “Perhaps they are within the confines of the Bundestag, ja?”
“We do not know that they are undead,” Günter reminded him, though the mental image of certain Bundestag members being eaten alive warmed the darkest cockles of his heart. “They could have ingested…what is it, bath salts?”
“Oui, he has a point,” the team’s inside person and lone Frenchman, Chetan Neghiz, said in a soft voice. The security guard shrugged his shoulders as Hans glared at his apparent betrayal. “We do not know that they are dead. What we do know is that the Louvre is practically unguarded right now. Monsignor Lajoinie has asked me to come in tonight to help secure jewelry and smaller items in the unlikely event that the Louvre must close for the duration of this…crisis. So Günter is correct—this must happen tonight.”
“Sooner or later someone is going to find that USB drive Chetan hooked up to their servers,” Folsom Duncan said around his cigar. The lone American nodded thoughtfully. “To be honest, I’m surprised nobody’s found it already. Any old cell phone could have tried to access it and been denied. That would have gotten me curious, that’s for damn sure. Sorry, babbling again. That WiFi is only good for up to one hundred yards, and the signal’s gonna be faint as is. The less people with their cell phones inside, the better it will be for me. We need to go tonight.”
“So it is settled, yes?” Günter looked around and saw affirmative nods. Only Hans seemed uncertain. He glared but decided to let it go for now. “It is settled then. Tonight we shall burgle the Louvre as we have planned. In two weeks time we shall be in the Cayman Islands, drinking champagne. Once our fence moves the goods to his Russian friend, we shall live the rest of our lives as billionaires.”
“Besides, we’ve had six good dry runs so far,” Folsom added. He looked at each of them and smiled. “What could possibly go wrong?”
* * *
“This,” Chetan said through tightly-clenched teeth, “is why one does not tempt fate, Folsom Duncan. May there be a pox upon your house.”
While driving to the Louvre that night they made three very important, earth-shattering truths about themselves as they drove through the dark streets of Paris. These truths nearly shattered them all.
The first truth: the reports of the Avian Flu and bath salts turned out to be grossly incorrect. There were people fleeing across Champs-Elysee, and naked men and women in hot pursuit. The first few had been amusing to the four men, but as they drew closer to the Louvre it became obvious that the naked people were no longer living. Indeed, it appeared that Hans had been correct and Paris—perhaps all of France, perhaps all of Europe—had been invaded by zombies.
Odly enough, the zombies milled aimlessly around the Peugeot, ignoring the electric SUV while pursuing other cars roaring down the road. It got to the point that Folsom quit trying to dodge the fallen zombies that were struck by other vehicles. This, however, was far more disturbing than watching the zombies chase down and eat unaffected human beings.
The second truth was a harsher one. High-end jewelry thieves, as they styled themselves, were typically not murderers. The mangled corpses of the zombies they left lying in the road behind them affected each of them differently, with Hans growing more disturbed with each passing bump. To Günter, it seemed as though Folsom had the least trouble with the uneven drive. He would normally have chalked it up to typical American brashness except that he had known Folsom since they had met at Cambridge ten years before. The so-called “American cowboy” was anything but.
The third and final truth was one which they would never openly admit. Each and everyone one of them was greedy. A zombie apocalypse could not contain their greed. If Günter or any of the others had felt differently, the heist would not have ever been executed while the world burned. Especially after seeing the pyre that the Montmarte district had become.
Their planned entry point was less congested than anticipated, all things considered. Even so, there were a few zombies wandering around the loading dock. Their heads swiveled almost as one when the bright, LED headlights flashed across them. Chetan pulled the SUV as close to the loading dock as he dared and parked. Two zombies fell on top of the hood from the raised landing dock, their piteous moans muffled through the windshield. Chetan yelped and turned on the window wipers. The arms began to glide across the window and a spurt of cleaner helped clear some of the collected dirt from its face.
The zombies remained on the hood, growling.
“Window wipers? Really?” Folsom asked with a frightened giggle. Chetan chuckled nervously. He turned the wipers off.
“We have no other choice,” Günter decided. “Chetan, you close the door to the dock as planned. Try to hurry before any other zombies make it down here. Hans, you and I will get rid of the zombies. Folsom, you may proceed.”
“Allons-y,” Chetan muttered and swung open the driver’s door. The zombies turned as one and focused on the Frenchman. He slammed the SUV door shut and sprinted to the automatic rolling doors of the loading dock, the two zombies hot in pursuit. Their howls echoed loudly. Answering howls responded from outside the loading area.
Folsom produced an ancient-looking .38 from the pocket of his jacket. “Did anyone else think to bring a gun?”
Günter glowered at the American. “I said no guns! We are thieves, not killers!”
“As long as you don’t count our completely organic road bumps out there in the street,” Folsom muttered as he shoved the pistol back into his pocket. The motion had far too much reluctance in it for Günter to remain happy. The American grabbed his laptop from the floor and booted it up. Moments later he smiled. “I’m in. Amazing reception down here. The dry runs up top only gave me two bars, max. I’m getting four down here. Sweet.”
“Hans, there is a prybar on the floor,” Günter said. “Hand it to me.”
“Why?” Hans asked as he picked up the metal rod from the plush, carpeted floor of the vehicle. He passed it forward.
“Because I must clear the dock so Chetan survives,” Günter said as he grabbed the crowbar. He took a deep breath before he swung open hi
s door. “Gott min uns.”
The first zombie to reach him appeared to be a young one, about to start university. Günter swung the crowbar with all his might and cracked the skull of the undead. It staggered under the blow but came right back at him, unfeeling and uncaring about the pain. Günter took a step back and jabbed the pointed end of the rod into the zombie’s face. Through a combination of skill and blind luck the point drove straight into the eye socket of the zombie. It jerked violently as Günter twisted the crowbar and yanked it back out. The zombie managed to remain on its’ feet, though it was obvious that the crowbar had done significant damage. Günter gabbed the rod with two hands and swung again, putting all his weight and strength into the swing. The bar opened the zombie’s head like a ripe melon, blood and brain matter spraying all over him. The undead collapsed to the concrete floor, finished.
Günter stood still for a moment, hands shaking as he clutched the gore-covered crowbar. He looked at his hands, which were coated in blood, then down at the zombie, which was clearly dead. A thought suddenly came to him and he bit down a manic giggle.
Is an undead dead when it dies?
Günter heard the doors of the loading dock slam shut as Chetan managed to close the bar. He screamed something in French and barely managed to escape from the clutches of the two zombies pursuing him. A second zombie appeared from around the corner, drawn to the SUV by the howls of the others. It appeared to have been a little old lady once, though the gaping maw and blood-curdling shrieks put any doubts of what Günter was doing to rest. He swung the crowbar and struck her in the neck. The frail neck combined with the German’s strength decapitated the zombie. Her head went flying through the air and struck the SUV’s rear passenger door while her body rolled on the ground.
He shook himself and turned around. Chetan was trying to make it to the SUV but was cut off. Günter looked around quickly but saw no other zombies. Without a second thought he charged the undead, his crowbar high over his head, a war cry in his throat.