Zack pulled himself into a sitting position. Feeding on the Krylok had given him some strength, but he was far from replenished. He looked down at his legs, severed at the knees, the mottled greenish black skin seemed excessively slimy, a byproduct of his accelerated alien metabolism. The cockpit deck was covered in a puddle of dark, pungent blood, both the Krylok’s and his own.
Behind him, from the cockpit hatch, came a steady, rapid fire hammering. That would be the Sentinels shooting the cockpit door. It would hold, at least until they started using grenades. He looked about the blood-smeared floor, spotting his discarded pistol just a couple of feet away. He reached out and retrieved it before pulling himself around to face the cockpit console.
The two pilot’s chairs were small, like children’s chairs, with a small back and no armrests, and designed for the Krylok’s grasshopper like body. But like the small, awkward pistol in his hand, he would have to make due. He sat the pistol on the console and used both arms to pull himself up onto the chair, the contours and ridges of the seat poking uncomfortably into his rump.
He took several moments to scan the instrument panel, letting the Overlords knowledge and memories of their use and piloting fill his mind. It was becoming much easier to tap the stolen memories each time he did it and the electric metal buzz that had accompanied the initial transfer was almost gone as well. He placed his hands on the console; Like everything else Krylok, the controls were constructed to accommodate the Krylok’s smaller hands and digits, and to make matters worse the ship was designed to take advantage of the Krylok’s six arms as well as a co-pilot.
Zack would be able to fly it, but only at its most basic capabilities.
He worked the controls and the shuttlecraft slowly lifted, it’s landing legs hovering three feet off the ground for several seconds before retracting back into the hull while at the same time the entrance ramp closed shut like a giant, hinged lower jaw. Giving it more power, he rose straight into the air at nearly 100 mph, his stomach tingling with the momentum as the ground disappeared outside the cockpit window.
The jackhammer pounding of gunfire against the cockpit hatch ceased, but Zack could still sense the two Sentinels back in the cargo bay, their minds foul as ever. Taking his left hand off the throttle, he quickly tapped another section of the console and one of the small monitors filled with the image of the cargo bay interior. The two Sentinels had stepped away from the cockpit hatch, to the center of the cargo bay. He knew they would begin using their grenades any moment. And once they gained access to the cockpit, he knew they would kill him…unless he could come up with some way to stop them.
An idea suddenly came to him, something he had seen in a movie. He smiled at the memory, his memory, knowing that it was so crazy it just might work. Working the controls, he pointed the nose of the shuttlecraft straight up and gave the throttle a burst of power, the G-force acceleration pressing him down into the small chair, the odd shaped backrest gouging into his flesh. Laughing aloud, he watched gravity do its work and send the Sentinels sliding down the length of the deck to crash into the aft bulkhead. He checked the instruments, noting his altitude was 10,000 feet and his speed at just over 700 mph. On the security monitor he saw the Sentinels were fighting the G’s and climbing to their feet. Bracing himself, he cut the power by half, which dramatically reduced the crafts airspeed, effectively braking, and flung the two Sentinels from the aft bulkhead, down the length of the cargo bay where they smashed into the fore bulkhead to either side of the cockpit hatch at approximately 700 mph. The effect was, to say the least, devastating.
Every single bone in the Sentinels bodies shattered on impact while their withered flesh split apart like old pumpkins, splattering the bulkhead with the foul black ichor that was their blood. Zack leveled off the shuttlecraft and brought it to a complete halt, hovering 11,000 feet above the ground. On the monitor he could see what was left of the Sentinels bodies slowly peel away from the bulkhead like a blob of flat, blackened cheese lathered in its own rotten effluvium, and fall to the deck. He knew they were not dead, but their bodies were so pulverized they would never recover.
Now that the immediate danger had passed, he studied the instruments in greater detail. Via a small holographic display of earth, he was provided with the exact location of every Krylok shuttlecraft on the planet. Counting his craft, there were eleven: three more over North America, one over Mexico, one over Great Britain, one over the Middle East, two over Russia, one over China and the final one over Japan. Even as he watched the holo-display, the small red dot representing the shuttlecraft over China winked out of existence, destroyed.
There were also two-dozen small white dots that represented communication satellites in orbit which the Krylok had taken control of for their own use. Despite their advanced technology the curvature of the earth still prevented long-range communication without a means of relaying the signal, either another shuttlecraft at high altitude or better yet a network of communication satellites already in place.
The holo-display also showed the moon in orbit around the earth, with a large green blip located on the dark side. That represented the Krylok Mothership. The Overlords memories of the mishap upon arrival played itself out in Zack’s minds eye again and again, and he couldn’t help but laugh aloud. Such arrogant creatures the Krylok were, smug in their superior technology and mastery of planetary assault. So unprepared had they been for the misfortune that had befallen them even before the Mothership had made the warp jump from the Lupen Homeworld in the Sirius star system to Earth.
Zack shook his head in amazement, overwhelmed by the alien species, exotic worlds and adventures the Overlord had seen and the countless atrocities in which it had participated. The Krylok truly were an ancient race, a scourge upon the sentient races of the galaxy.
He had promised Matt he would return when he had answers, and now he had plenty. But he was weak, and his body had stopped all healing. And it would not continue until he gave it nourishment and fuel for which to burn. He needed to feed. He knew for long space voyages, the Krylok shuttle had special tanks that would be filled with a highly concentrated nutrient paste made from the ground up organs, bones and blood of their prey’s carcasses, but this particular shuttlecrafts feed tanks were empty. There were also half a dozen cryosleep tanks used to transport fresh food, but these too were empty. He would need to find nourishment elsewhere.
At once the half dozen sacrificial victims locked in the dungeons of Mordecai’s estate leapt to his mind. They were weak and tortured into submission. They would be easy prey, even in his current handicapped state. He had told himself he would give them to Matt and the others but he was wounded and in need of sustenance. And they were the only source available. He mind made up, he gathered his bearings and worked the controls, setting a course for Mordecai Necrotura’s estate…
Chapter 62
Wednesday, June 27, 2001
Rainbow Lake, UT
7:37 AM
Morning came, and with it a sense of bittersweet victory. They had survived the siege of the dead, but at a terrible cost. For some that cost had been higher, but they all felt the heavy hand of despair, knowing that those who had died had done so in a most horrible way; torn to pieces and devoured by zombies!
The ground level floor of the house was filled with dozens of head blasted zombie’s, piled atop one other, their rotten, putrid brains splattered across the walls and floor, furniture and appliances.
Once they had David, Mac and Corporal Carey settled into one of the second floor bedrooms, not an easy task considering the main stairwell was a blasted charnel house choked full with twisted and mangled bodies, Matt, Jenkins, Major Farrell, Pvt. Jimenez, Sgt. Turner, Commander King and Corporal Philips all began to drag the zombie carcasses out of the house, into the backyard, and throw them onto pallets. When a pallet was full, one of them would use the forklift to drive it across the corpse littered yard, down to the lakeshore and dump the bodies into the remnants of the pyre, t
o be burned the same as the zombies yesterday morning.
“I can’t get the image out of my mind.” Matt said as he and Jenkins tossed another dead zombie onto a pallet just outside the shattered rear patio door.
“What image is that?” Jenkins asked, turning back to the house. King and Philips were just coming out with a deadfuck between them.
“Rick.” Matt said heavily. His mind was constantly filled with the image of Rick, reaching one chewed and bleeding arm up to him through the devouring horde, fingers splayed out, his eyes wide with terror yet fully aware of what was happening to him. It kept repeating over and over in his mind, whirling about like the Tasmanian devil inside his skull.
“It’s tough. I’ve seen a hundred buddies go down to those fuckers, everyone of them screaming like babies right until the end.” Jenkins said it with the nonchalance one would attribute to a discussion about the weather.
“I thought shooting Adam and Kelly was rough. They were zombies, and I was doing them a favor. But Rick…he was alive, and I did nothing to help him. I could have at least put a bullet through his head and spared him the agony.”
“At least he didn’t end up like Ron.” Jenkins had recounted the whole ordeal to them last night. “It’s behind you now, so there’s no use dwelling on it. It will only distract you and that could be deadly.”
“You’re one cold son of a bitch Jenkins.” Matt said with disgust, but they spoke no more about the matter…
“This place is going to stink to high hell.” Mac said as he paced back and forth with a crutch under his left arm. His thigh still hurt but the morphine had dulled it to a minor throb. Too bad it hadn’t dulled his sense of smell. The rotting deadfucks downstairs had filled the house with a heavy, musky blanket of foul stench.
“And it’s going to take a month to clean and deodorize.” Susan said. She had gone around to every room on the second and third floor and opened all windows and balcony doors, hoping the flow of fresh air would help clear the stench out. So far it had done nothing.
“Not to mention all the repairs needed. The front door was blown to shit. The picture window is gone. The main stairwell is blasted to hell and the sliding glass patio doors in the kitchen are shot.”
“Maybe we should relocate to another estate?” Norris commented. He was just putting the finishing touches on Cpl. Carey’s bandages. Getting the bullet shrapnel out of his shoulder hadn’t been easy for either of them, and Carey had gratefully accepted a large dose of morphine that quickly put him into a painless sleep.
David slept peacefully in the bed on the opposite side of the room, his broken leg enclosed in an inflatable cast and his dislocated shoulder bound in a sling. Sharon sat in a chair on one side of his bed, Samantha on the other, her face wrought with fresh grief over the loss of Jennifer, Rick and baby Tiffany. A small blanket was wrapped around her shoulders and she cradled baby Tyler in her arms.
“We’ve fought too hard and sacrificed to much to move.” Susan said, her emotions suddenly swelling.
“Damn straight! It’s going to take a lot more than some housecleaning and home repairs to drive us out of this place.” Mac added, hobbling toward the balcony with an unlit cigarette in his hand.
“What if more of them come?” Norris asked.
“If they were going to come, they would have come by now. What hit us last night was all there was up here on the lake.”
“What about those white robed freaks? You two saw with your own eyes what they did! What if more of them come? I don’t want to end up being fed to zombies on a crucifix!”
“They hit us with their best shot last night.” Mac insisted. “They were working with those superzombies. We saw a pair of them standing out on the balcony watching the crucifixions. They were fully expecting to overrun us last night. We took a good chunk out of those freaks numbers.”
“The zombies ignored them until they were wounded, but once they were bleeding they tore them apart.” Susan said. “I shot a pair of those robed nuts; as soon as they were hit they were zombie food.”
With a snort Mac he put the unlit cigarette in his mouth and stepped onto the balcony.
“Your father would be proud of both of you.” Sharon said from the opposite side of David’s bed. The toddler, Mary, was asleep in her arms and Sharon gazed down at her sons sleeping face with a sad smile. Susan walked over and knelt beside her, draping one arm across her shoulder. Sharon cradled her head in the crook of her daughter’s neck.
“He’d be proud of all of us mom. We survived. It wasn’t easy, and for a while there all seemed lost. But when the time came, we were all strong. David, myself, and you.” Susan stroked her mother’s head gently.
“Me?” Sharon said, unbelieving.
“Yes, you mom. Do you think little Mary would be alive right now if it wasn’t for you? I know Dad’s death was hard for you, but when it counted most, you pulled it together and did what you had to do.”
“I miss him so much.” Sharon said, her body shaking with gentle sobs. “I still can’t believe he’s gone.”
“We all miss him.” Susan said, holding her mother tighter. “But we’re alive, and that means he didn’t die in vain…”
The day passed without event, all the daylight hours consumed with hauling, and burning dead bodies. Not content to sit up stairs and do nothing, Mac hobbled down and operated the forklift. Susan stayed inside, assisting Norris with the wounded and keeping watch on the balcony. Thankfully, no more live zombies appeared out of the forest, allowing them to work unmolested. By nightfall, the house and back deck had been cleared of bodies, but the yard was still littered with hundreds more, most of them pulverized to pieces by the tanks heavy treads.
“We’re never going to clean up that mess.” Sgt. Turner muttered. The work crew was standing out on the back deck, drinking beer from a case that had been cooling in the fridge all day, and the last rays of sunlight cast the back yard in a sublime light, seeming to highlight the carnage.
“We’ll have to do a controlled burn.” Cpl. Philips said.
“What do you mean?” asked Commander King.
“We need to go around and burn that back lawn in sections until the whole thing is scoured clean.”
“We don’t want to catch the goddamned forest on fire.” Sgt. Turner said.
“That’s why I said a controlled burn…in sections.” Philips said with mock annoyance. If need be we can dig small breaker ditches around the edges. I’m sure there’s some landscaping equipment to be found around here somewhere.”
“And there’s plenty of fuel out in the boathouse.” Matt added. They fell silent with their thoughts and their beers.
“This beer ain’t doing shit for my pain.” Mac muttered and drained his can, crushed in his fist and tossed it aside before turning toward the house. “I’m going inside to see Norris and get a shot of morphine…”
The clean up crew burned the clothes they had been wearing that day and each of them took a long, hot shower, scrubbing clean. They rotated a watch of two all night, and come morning they set about implementing Cpl. Philips controlled burn plan. Starting with a 50’x50’ section of lawn nearest the back deck, they used wide bladed snow shovels to push as much of the chewed and mangled body parts and gore slicked lawn to the center then doused the whole section with gasoline and tossed a lit match. The stench was stomach churning, and any appetite anyone may have had was lost quickly. It took the better part of the day, but an hour before nightfall they lit the last patch of the controlled burn. The back lawn was a giant, blackened patch of smoking earth, but there were no more bodies to be seen. Any worry of a spark picked up by the wind and catching the house or surrounding forest on fire was put to rest as thick clouds filled the sky and a heavy summer rain began falling just as the last patch burned out.
Before they could file into the house, Norris met them at the back deck with a large plastic garbage bag.
“Ok, you all know the drill. Strip naked and put your clothes in here
. We’ll burn them tomorrow. After you shower I’m going to give each of you a cholera booster shot, a penicillin shot, a tetanus booster and a shot of B-vitamin complex to boost your immune system.”
“Is all that really necessary?” asked Pvt. Jimenez.
“You’ve been swimming in dead bodies, blood, guts and decay for two days, not to mention breathing the smoke from the burning corpses. Trust me, it’s necessary.”
“Breathing the smoke from those burning bodies can’t be healthy.” Muttered Cpl. Philips.
“It may not be healthy but it won’t turn you into a zombie.” Jenkins said. “Two days ago Major Farrell and I breathed a heavy dose of that shit in a tightly enclosed space. We tested negative for the infection.” His story of what had become of Ron filled them all with a chilling sense of dread.
After they had stripped down in the rain Sharon and Susan stood in the kitchen just inside the shattered patio doors, handing out clean towels for the men to cover themselves. Seeing the blushed, uncomfortable look on some of their faces brought a smile to both women’s faces.
“Don’t be modest boys. You don’t have anything we haven’t seen before.” Sharon chided.
“Well now that you’ve seen ours, when do we get to see yours?” Sgt. Turner joked back, smiling when he saw Sharon’s cheeks blush red.
While the clean up crew had spent the day burning body parts in the yard, Sharon and Susan had spent the day scrubbing, disinfecting and deodorizing the ground floor of the house.
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