Undead War (Dead Guns Press)

by Thompson, John

  He started to holster his weapon, then stopped for a moment; listened at a sound that was just barely there, an almost sound.

  "How secure is that?" he gestured at the shack.

  "They haven't found it yet. Which is as good as it gets as far as I'm concerned." She reached down to help him up, wondering what made him fall in the first place. In an instant her bow shot back up, "You're bleeding!" she hissed.

  "Yeah, and you're starting to annoy the fuck out of me with that bow," he growls at her, hobbling toward the shelter, brushing past her. "The trick with a bow is to make sure you hit a vital spot. Think you could manage that?" he asked, turning toward her. "Otherwise the target has a chance to crawl off, die somewhere else. Or, if they're real clever, maybe put one between your eyes." He pats the gun at his side. "I never miss," he finished, turning his back to her again, limping to the shelter.

  "Bet I could hit your vitals," she murmured, aiming for his crotch as he lowered himself to the ground, "Dickhead." Entering the shelter, she glared at him and started to say something, but stopped. He seemed in no fit state to fight with her over the matter. "Here, let me take a look at it." Half slumped over already, it wasn't hard to push him the rest of the way. "Relax," she told him, "my mom was a doctor." Well, she had a PhD in Art History, which technically made her a doctor anyway. Blood matted the pants leg to his shin, making it nearly impossible for her to pull up. "What the fuck happened?"

  "Hail Mary move," he answered. "Things had me surrounded. Them on three sides, a cliff on the other. I jumped. Turned out to be a long, steep slope, rather than a cliff. Some of the brush and scrub broke my fall. Ended up with the better part of a tree stuck in my leg," he said.

  "You know where they came from?" he asked, not knowing why, but talking kept him awake, and his mind off the pain. Gave him a chance to be remembered, in case things took a real nasty turn. "I mean in the beginning, not just that night?" It was a redundant question, few people actually knew. "I did my time in the desert. Hair was shorter, shaved more often. 'Til they decided being clean and pretty helped single us out," he stroked at the hair on his face.

  "They developed a new medicine," he said between painful gasps as she examined the wound, “Allowed the medics to carry it in the high desert temps. Shit gets hot there. You think you know hot, but you don't. Not unless you've been there. It's almost like the country doesn't want you there either.”

  "Uh huh," she nodded, pulling out her pocket knife. He wasn't making much sense, but it was the most conversation she'd had in . . . , she couldn't remember how long. Didn't want to remember. Especially not on those nights where she could swear she heard Joey out there, calling her name. Leaning her body weight against his foot she slipped the blade under the hem of his pants and yanked up, ripping the stiffening material away from his skin. He jerked, more from the sudden movement, than the sudden pain shooting through his leg.

  "That was the moment they opened the gates of Hell. The magic elixir worked. A teaspoon of it was enough to take the place of a couple of pints of blood. Real potent shit. The war lasted long enough, thousands had been injured. Had plenty of opportunities to use the shit on them. The thing about that war," he paused making sure she was paying attention, "they kept sending us back. Get wounded, get patched up, go back. Get a leg blown off, get fitted for a new one, make it yours, get sent back." His tone became bitter, "Some guys had more of that elixir running through them than their own blood. They were the first ones. Anger problems, but they were stronger and faster. They started relapsing though, ended up getting hospitalized. Couldn't hold down any food. It turned to poison in their stomachs. Had the docs scratching their heads. Soldiers, starving to death," he glanced at her again. "That's when things got desperate. In their hospital beds, I.V.s in them like they were pin cushions, kept alive, but hungry. Real hungry. Grown men and women, soldiers, every one of them, sobbing cause they couldn't eat. The first ones started chewing on themselves. I dunno, maybe it eased the pain. Shit really hit the fan then. They started to turn on anyone they could get their hands on," he continued.

  "I remember the news stories about the 'heroes at the front' volunteering to go back in after being patched up. Funny how the news neglects the details." She shook her head. "Then, when the really weird shit started going down they blamed the Muslims, as if they weren't getting eaten too. Then bath salts of course, after it came to the U.S. I guess it was getting harder to cover up? Thing is," she poured water from a scavenged container over the wound, washing away the worst of the blood, "if you were there, how come you ain't eating me?"

  "Don't flatter yourself,” he tried to grin, wound up wincing instead, “I got lucky, didn't get injured bad enough to need the shit. Would have refused it anyways. Never trusted it. Still, not everyone that got the elixir went nuts. Never could explain it. Lucky for you," he grimaced as she poured more water on the newly, reopened wound.

  "Oh yeah, lucky me," she said trying to examine the wound in the dim light.

  Wishing the moon was brighter she felt round the wound gingerly, not willing to risk any attention a flash of light might cause. Seemed like scrapes, but then again, claws made scrapes too. "Look at me," she told him, grabbing at his face, fingers near his eyelids. The red started from the outside, they said, if they could be believed, then slowly covered the whole eye making it shine like a cat's in the night.

  "Lookin' to see if my eyes are starting to glow, yet?" he suppressed a grin. He wasn't mad at her for it, figured he'd do the same if he were in her position. He turned to look at her, hoping his eyes weren't too bloodshot. Didn't want her getting confused.

  Ignoring his comment she raised the lid and examined each eye closely, having to control herself from letting out a relieved sigh. "You're clean," she announced, "It’s ok if you wanna’ check me, but I know I'm clean."

  "Well, I wouldn't go that far. A little gamey maybe, but not like you're running a fever," he smirked.

  She grimaced at him, but a smile peaked out at the tease, "Thanks. You could do with a shower yourself, asshole. You want me to cut that stick outta you?" She raised her pocket knife and grinned mischievously.

  "Don't know if I want you that close with a knife. Might cut something important," he said. Regardless, he straightened his leg the best he could.

  ***

  Moonlight shined on a pack of the creatures as they continued to tighten their circle, slowly closing in on the small shelter.

  ***

  She straddled his foot to steady the leg and poured more water over it to help her get a view of the wood. It was too far in to simply grab and yank. Seemed like she could lever it out, like her Dad used to do with her splinters. Taking the knife alongside the bulge where it appeared to have imbedded itself, she stuck the exposed tip and slid up, sharply, hoping the wood wouldn't simply break off in the wound.

  The move was quick enough to yank the wood out, in one piece. There was just enough tug on it to let him know the wound had started to heal around it; the last thing he wanted. A sharp intake and the bulging veins in his neck nodded at the bellow of pain he was holding in.

  After pouring more water to douse the fresh blood, she said, "I'll have to check that in the morning to make sure it’s all out, but it'll do for now. I don't like all this blood around the shelter though. I don't suppose there's anything we can do about it." Suppressing a sigh, she pulled out her only extra shirt from her pack and wrapped it round his leg, tying it securely. She was surprised he hadn’t yelled when she yanked the wood out, doubting without a hint of teenage modesty that she could've done better. "Might as well sleep, watching the night isn't good. Not if you want to stay sane anyway."

  "Doesn't seem like sane's all that safe anymore," he shrugged, looking out into the night. He didn't like just waiting, knowing they were out there. "I'll take first watch. Wake you up for your shift," he lied. He'd watch until sunrise.

  She nodded, after how many nights of not being able to sleep, she was thankful to have someo
ne else watch the night. Not that she'd admit it. Instead she hugged herself into her jacket and rested her head on the backpack that had seemed so important back when things like cell phones and nail polish mattered. And slept . . .

  "Red eye!" someone shouted, sending a ripple of panic through the children waiting on the airstrip. Barely ordered lines started tripping over themselves, the older ones screaming and the little ones confused and sobbing. And then a hand wasn't inside her's anymore.

  She gasped herself awake, staring around blankly.

  "You alright kid?" he asked, recognizing the look of a nightmare on her face.

  She wondered if that was why he didn't mind taking watch, gave him a reason to keep the sleep away. Biting her lip, she set her face and nodded, then shivered. "I'm just cold," she managed, her voice thick, "Do you mind?" She started to crawl in next to him, traitorous tears running down her cheek.

  He nodded, motioning her on. Cautiously he draped his arm around her. He didn't know how long she'd been on her own, wasn't any of his business. But human contact would be a nice change.

  "Shared body heat," he mentioned.

  "Thanks," she wiped her eyes surreptitiously, sinking into the warmth. "How long has it been since the evacuation? I've lost track."

  "About six, seven weeks," he mentioned. "The nearest I can figure anyways." Glanced out into the night, looking for the glowing eyes, a tell-tale that they were out there. Nothing yet. Still, he'd thought he heard the distant sound of their hyena like laughter earlier. "How'd you end up out here?" he asked.

  "That long? I thought maybe a week or two," her voice trailed off thinking about her mom and stepdad, and her dad, wondering if they had moved on already or if they still missed her and Joey. "My little brother, he . . . there was a red eye scare when they were loading the kids on the carriers. He ran off. I went to find him and the carriers took off without us. I never found him, but sometimes . . . " she felt herself slipping on the edge of sanity, "I see him in the night." She closed her eyes and breathed in the sweat stink and solidness of the stranger, finding the edge and pulling herself up again. "Anyway, I ran, found a farmhouse where I got my bow. My stepdad used to take me for lessons, so I knew how to use it at least. The farmhouse wasn't quite unoccupied enough for my liking, so I kept running. And yeah," she told him, a hint of anger creeping into her tone, "I can hit the vitals with an arrow so you can fuck off about that.”

  "Good. Anger means you're still alive," he said. Pain was another reminder, but much less welcomed. "I'm sure they're safe. Probably worried sick about you. Wondering if you're driving the nice soldier who's going to bring you back nuts?"

  "With that leg?" she asked, "I better get some sleep so I'm up to carrying you tomorrow." She laid her head down and fought the urge to snuggle in. For the first time since she saw the mega-carrier dusting the treetops she felt a glimmer of hope.

  He smirked at her comment. He'd had his doubts before, but things were starting to look better. Getting her back to her family gave him a renewed sense of purpose, something he hadn't realized he needed. Until now.

  She woke in the predawn light feeling rested but wondering vaguely if her air mattress had failed. Then her memory returned and she snuggled into the soldier's side, knowing the peace wouldn't last.

  He looked down at her as she forgot herself. He'd let her sleep through her watch. He was more than used to staring into the void of night. No glowing eyes, always a good sign. The wind shifted, ever so slightly. Enough for him to smell . . .

  "Smoke!" scrambled to his feet. "Come on kid, get up," he shouted at her, a drill instructor rather than a friend.

  She grabbed her pack and with practiced speed strung her bow. "Where?" she asked, looking around.

  "That way," he gestured in the direction behind them. "That's their answer for everything. Burn it down. We got to get ahead of it, quick," he mentioned. He hoped it wasn’t already too late.

  She nodded and started to run.

  When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again

  Paul “Deadeye” Dick

  Lt. Frederick Patrick was ashen-faced and out of breath. He was not what you call a “fighting fit” US Marine. He had went through training at West Point and then fast-tracked through official basic training like all Marines to join the Corp, but was not front line material. He was always in Admin roles of some sort both in civilian life, and then in the Marines. Patrick was a professional pencil pusher. Marine's need Admin just like any other organization and he took his role seriously. To him he was that vital part of the armed forces taking back to ancient Rome and Sparta and even before that – The messenger.

  He had worked his way up through the ranks to be in the General's Aide de camp team and the message he carried was more important than anything since Oppenheimer and Heisenberg sent the plans for the A-bomb. Nothing was going to stop him delivering it in person. Not that brown-nosing Captain Gilmore who had it in for him. Not the other Lt.s and definitely not the Peons, especially not the two Marine guards with mountain range shoulders and little between the ears...posted on the door. He would willingly violate the chain of command to have this brought to the General's attention personally by him, this could mean promotion....

  He braced himself for the coming melee of people trying to stop him and take credit for the message delivery...But it was the General that came to him instead. He was leaving his office with other Generals and Colonel Watkins.

  “General Wilson, Sir... You really have to see this. It was

  Sent on a secure channel to one of our Captains…Intelligence decrypted it. Captain Dickerson would not have seen it.”

  The General turned around from his throng, quizzically and regarded the flustered Lt. Patrick. However before anything was passed to him, Captain Gilmore stood up like a spoilt kid and blocked the transfer from Patrick to the General.

  “Now just wait a minute right there, Lt. Patrick. Sir, this man was meant to pass anything from intelligence to me to give to you – he's violated COC and protocol here.”

  General Wilson was getting sick of Captain Gilmore and planned to replace him.

  “Oh get your head and that stick out of your ass Captain. I award initiative as you know. At ease Lieutenant....Let me see that...Captain Dickerson you say? Why's that name familiar?” Before Patrick could answer Gilmore piped up.

  “He's the Marine Captain in Bravo Company, has that model wife, uhhh, Lynn? You remarked on her beauty sir at the Ambassador's party when she attended with her husband?” Added Captain Gilmore unbidden.

  The General gave the Captain a withering stare at that useless piece of exposition and Gilmore snapped to and averted the General's gaze...Patrick instead answered his question in military terms...

  “Dickerson's in the VA hospital recovering from his PTSD so he never saw what was in the message. He's due to be rotated back home soon on an honorable discharge and already put in his papers from Iraq.”

  “Ah yes...well I hope he gets through that PTSD and finds a better life with his wife Lynn. I've seen several Post Traumatic Stress Disorder cases like him...They almost look like zombies from some bad B-movie....PTSD is terrible.”

  This was what made General Wilson a great Commander-in-chief to everyone at Fire Base Snyder Romero. He was someone that seemed to genuinely care for this Men and Women under his command. They gave him their unswerving loyalty and respect in return.

  The General looked wistful and solemn by measure as he spoke...

  “They're emotionless most of them... Then suddenly prone to unexpected emotional upset ranging from deep depressive states, crying, sometimes even violence...Never getting enough sleep for 'the night terrors'... Reliving the battle that traumatized them...shambling around in half-lifes...Then the waking nightmares start.”

  Patrick added his two cents about Captain Dickerson's condition...

  “That Marine has had more than his fair share of woe. His platoon was killed in a chemical warfare attack... He was the only survivor...
Nasty business. I sequestered for him personally to go back home. Right now he needs his family. His beautiful wife, Lynn and his broth- Oh my God.” The General's face blanched and he looked unsettled.

  The General stopped as he read the sender/recipient info and where it had come from. He turned to another one of his Aides Lt. Secretary Samara Raimi. It was no secret the General kept her around not just for her professional secretarial skills but for her tits and ass as well as those muscular, bronzed legs. Word was she wrapped them round the General nightly.

  “Hold all calls, Raimi. I don't want to be disturbed. At ease Marines.”

  Everyone snapped to and he nodded especially at Patrick and patted him on the shoulder as he marched briskly passed him much to the chagrin of Captain Gimore

  The General had an inkling of what was in the file before he slotted the pen drive in to his desktop and opened the mail with the video feed. He had been responsible for both the Chemical attack on Captain Dickerson's platoon and been one of the key senior Generals that green lit a military project after the cold war ended - Codename: Lazarus Marching.

  A project whose aim was not only resurrect KIA US forces personnel to fight again and again, but also to resurrect the hostile enemy personnel. Then those resurrected hostiles could be controlled then. to attack their own nation. No one would stop the USA then.

  To field test a newly created weaponised gas variant of the biochem weapon, Bravo Company volunteered. He didn't think twice about gassing his own men as well as the hostiles. If Lazarus worked, there would be plenty of renewable and expendable human resources for the American Armed forces.

  He had killed a good-sized chunk of the enemy and a platoon was justifiably expendable in his book in light of the benefits made from the field test. General Wilson may have appeared to everyone that didn't truly know him as a benevolent benefactor and wonderful leader of men.