Fred’s stomach sickens as the death toll rises. The zombies in the building spill onto the steps. He throws himself over the railing and lands in water logged hedges.
Seth pries open the bus door and drags Angela into the vehicle.
“Get your hands off me,” Angela shrills as Seth spins her around, his hands tearing at her skirt.
Larry runs onto the street with two 9mms drawn and a duffle bag flapping against his back. He shoots a few downed thugs in the head before they turn.
Harry dashes from the car to the bus. M2 fires wildly and wounds Harry on the thigh. The vet focuses only on saving Angela and takes another three steps.
“Don’t you walk away from me, whitey!” M2 yells and shoots his last bullets into Harry’s back.
Larry aims at M2 just as a zombie child leaps on the impersonator. M2 shrieks in pain as the little girl tears into his jugular. Larry adjusts his aim and shoots the zombie child in the head but lets M2 drown in his own gurgling blood.
Fred bravely runs into the bus. Inside Seth backhands Angela to the floor. Around them zombie children fastened in their seatbelts reach out and groan. Seth blinks in confusion as Fred enters the bus and points his gun.
“Get off her!” Fred yells as he barrels through the aisle.
“You’re a dead man,” Seth snarls and shoots, but the gun clicks empty.
He deflects Fred’s hammer with the empty pistol, sending the tool flying out of a window. They struggle in hand to hand combat as the zombies grab at them. With a burst of fear born adrenaline, Fred tosses Seth from the bus
Outside Larry and Mark dispatch the remaining thugs and zombies as Fred deals with Seth. Seth slugs him in the jaw but Fred doesn’t feel it. He hits Seth with an upper cut and the man flies backwards. Fred picks up his hammer from the ground.
Seth coughs and struggles to get up. Clip-clops echo through the block as a hellish neigh freezes everyone.
The zombie horse stops in the middle of the street and rears up as it gives another blood curdling neigh. Behind the beast groans the horde. Seth shrieks in terror as the horse looks at him and charges. He lifts his hands in defense as it chomps into his right shoulder and savagely rips off his arm.
Mark and Larry rush into the bus.
“Are you ok?” Mark asks as he helps Angela to her feet. She nods, shaken and bruised, but focused.
“Let’s get to the roof of the bus,” Larry says as he pushes past them.
Shaking off the shock of the sight, Fred dashes forward with the hammer. He sweeps the blunt weapon at the horse’s front leg, shattering it above the knee. The horse pitches forward. He reverses the hammer and smashes the horse’s rear leg, crippling it further.
Multiple gunshots and the sound of breaking window glass rattle through the street as Larry shoots zombie children in the bus. Near Fred’s feet M2’s body convulses and he backs up. The approaching horde is deafening. He tucks the hammer in his tool belt and scrambles in the bus and tries shutting the door as dozens of zombies launch themselves at the stranded vehicle.
40
“Secure the bus door,” Larry orders Mark.
A zombie child near the back of the bus squirms as it reaches for Larry.
“God you’re ugly,” Larry says and shoots it in the head.
“Is that really necessary?” Mark asks.
“Yeah it is. They’re little zombies and will eat us at the first opportunity.”
The bus floor is sticky with blood. Zombies outside crash into the vehicle. Hundreds of fists pummel the reinforced windows.
“The door won’t shut!” Fred yells as a zombie thrusts its head into the bus.
Larry opens the duffle bag and retrieves a compact shotgun. He pushes Fred into the driver’s seat and shoves the barrel into a zombie’s mouth.
“Suck on my little friend,” Larry says.
Boom.
The blast tears off the zombie’s face and Larry slides the door shut.
“Secure the windows,” he orders.
Fred, Mark and Angela crowd into the center isle as zombies pile over each other against the windows. Grimy, blood covered palms streak the glass. The bus shakes and rattles. Windows break and Larry discharges the shotgun.
Boom boom boom.
Cartridges hit the floor. Angela grabs a gun from the duffle bag and helps Larry.
Pop pop pop.
“Librarian, reload this.”
Larry tosses the empty shotgun to the seat and grabs a handgun.
Mark fumbles with the shotgun and says, “I don’t know how.”
“Give me that,” Fred says and takes the shotgun.
Fred locates shells and reloads the shotgun. Seconds later Larry is tossing him the empty handgun for reloading. For every one zombie they shoot three take their place.
“There’s too many,” Mark yells.
Fred runs out of bullets and uses his trusty hammer. The undead weighing down the front window breaks the glass and they pour inside.
Bang bang pop pop pop pop bang bang.
“Retreat to the roof,” Larry orders.
They scramble up the steps. The upper deck is covered with bricks from the destroyed third arch of the Old Post Office. An American flag droops into the bus from the balcony.
“It’s the final showdown boys,” Larry says.
The cop places various guns and cartridges on the seats and takes a drink of whiskey.
“We can use that flagpole to climb into the building,” Mark says.
“Let’s do it!” Angela says and pops a few rounds. Her gun clicks empty.
Zombies crawl over each other until they reach the side railings. Among the first to fall into the bus is M2. The impersonator groans off key and attacks Angela. Larry’s gun clicks empty. The impersonator tears his teeth into the flesh surrounding Angela’s collarbone.
“Mark, help me!” Angela shrieks.
Mark tries shooting the gun but the safety is on. He fumbles with the safety button as Angela wails. Undead fall into the bus around the impersonator and Mark stumbles backwards.
“No fuckin’ way,” Fred shouts.
Around the bus and on the steps are thousands of zombies. Larry pulls out a grenade and tosses it over the railing.
Kaboom.
The bus shakes and everyone is knocked from their feet.
“Get to the flag,” Fred yells, pointing to the flag balcony.
“Grab as many guns as you can!” Larry says as he takes out a grenade belt.
Fred grabs a 9mm Browning and grabs the stunned Mark. Larry lobs another grenade into the horde.
“Climb!” Fred yells and pushes Mark up climb the pole.
Kaboom.
The explosion rocks the bus as Mark helps Fred over the broken balcony rail. Larry and the zombies are tossed like toys as a raging fire engulfs the lower floor of what was a bus.
Larry struggles to his feet but a familiar growl stops him in his tracks. A dog lands on all fours near the cop. He can’t distinguish the dog’s features but recognizes the pixilated fur. The K9’s eyes are muddied over as blood drips from her shoulder.
“Pixel?”
Larry is utterly dumbfounded and lowers his gun in shock. Pixel barks, her tone is deep and sinister.
“Is that you Pixel?”
The dog stares at him for a moment, then snarls and leaps for his throat. Larry raises his arms to deflect her and the 9mm clatters to the floor. Her razor sharp teeth sink deeply into his forearm.
“Fuck you, Pixel,” Larry says and unpins all the grenades with his free hand.
KABOOOOOOM.
The deafening explosion rocks the Old Post Office as the bus explodes high into the air and hundreds of zombies are blown to bits and pieces.
41
Mark falls on the hard floor below the window with a thud. The room is large and dark with tables and booths eerily lit by the fire outside. Smoke from the explosion pours into the window. At the tables zombies stare blankly at trays while making motions wit
h their hands as if eating. Others stand in line at the cash registers. To the right are three zombies gnawing on a corpse. Fred crawls inside next to him and immediately points his gun at a zombie.
“No,” Mark whispers and places a cautioning hand on the barrel of Fred’s gun. “Noise alerts them.”
“They don’t smell or hear us,” he continues after a moment. “The fire must be masking our presence.”
“We’re going to die,” Fred whispers loudly.
Zombies lift their heads from their repetitive motions. They groan and one approaches the window. Terrified, Fred points his gun again.
Ppsh.
The bullet makes a hole in the zombie’s forehead above the right eyebrow.
“What have you done?” Mark cries as all the zombies in the cafeteria become agitated. He points his .22 and successfully downs two undead with a double pop. The last zombie leaps at them.
Ppsh ppsh ppsh.
Fred successfully hits a vital spot and the zombie spins and falls. Mark takes aims at the zombie behind the cash register and shoots it with a single pop.
“Look out,” Fred yells as a zombie swipes at Mark. He grabs its greasy hair and thrusts the pistol into the base of its neck.
Ppsh ppsh ppsh ppsh is followed by clicks.
“Look out,” Mark shouts as a crawling zombie reaches for Fred. He tosses the useless gun away, grabs a tray and bashes the zombie’s head.
“Cowboy up,” Fred drawls and kicks the zombie’s face in.
A food prep zombie groans from the cafeteria’s hot food counter. Mark aims as sweat stings his eyes.
Pop pop pop.
They all miss and the gun clicks empty. Half a dozen zombies rush out of the kitchen.
“This way,” Fred yells.
They run into a small private dining room and slam the door shut. The zombies fling themselves against the sturdy door.
“Maybe they’ll give up after a while” Mark says as he grabs a table.
The thuds become a steady stream of punches as they shove the heavy oak table against the door. They sit on the floor.
“We’re trapped like cats in a box,” Fred says.
“Unlike Skinner’s cat, I don’t want to die in the box.”
“I don’t know who this Skinner is. Can they knock down the walls?”
“I don’t think so.”
Fred takes out his hammer and rages, “We’ve got to get out of here.”
“And go where? Where do I go when this is done?”
“What do you mean?”
“I lost my fiancé, my parents, and my entire apartment building yesterday.”
“I feel for you. I lost my son today.
“That blows.”
“You know what’s worse?” Fred says. “I don’t know what’s happening to my wife or other children.”
“Where are you from?”
“Twin Cities, Minnesota.”
The pounding at the door lessens as a couple of zombies wander off. The air in the room becomes stuffy.
“Why did you come to D.C.?” Mark asks.
Fred pulls out a cigarette and pats himself for a lighter. “Hope you don’t mind if I smoke. The cop was shady but was a good shot.”
“I saw a dog take him down. I don’t normally smoke but could use a drag.”
“No problem. I was hoping to find my grandson in the capital if you really wanted to know why I’m here,” Fred mutters as he takes a long drag and hands Mark a cigarette.
“Did you find your grandson?”
“Yes and no. The marines evacuated him to a bunker in Virginia called Greenbrier.”
“Sounds like the famous hotel congressmen go to.”
“How am I supposed to find him? I lost my truck and son…”
“Hey, stop this negative shit. We’re not going to let some mindless zombies stop us from getting out of the city. I’ve seen you swing that hammer, you’re a natural zombie slayer.”
“Yeah, well I suppose I’ve gotten practice using tools with Coca Cola over the years,” Fred says.
“I need a weapon,” Mark says.
“Take my flashlight,” Fred says, handing him a heavy police issue flashlight.
“Thanks. I guess I can bash them over the head when the batteries run low.”
The zombies stop pounding at the door but they can still be heard.
“There’s too many zombies downstairs and outside to try to escape the building,” Mark says as he turns on the flashlight. “Maybe we should try the tower.”
“Better then dying in here I suppose,” Fred says.
Mark braces himself behind the door as Fred opens it and tosses a screwdriver against the far wall. As the zombies move toward the sound they slink out of the lunchroom and run down the hallway.
Fred trips over a garbage can. An orchestra of undead groaning lifts from the courtyard below. By the sound there are dozens of them. Ahead of them a zombie in a guard’s outfit turns around. It doesn’t have time to even lift its arms before Fred smashes the hammer into its forehead.
“We got maybe a minute or two until they get up here,” Mark says.
“There’s too many to fight, run!” Fred yells.
Mark picks up a fire extinguisher and swings it at a zombie near the maintenance stairwell door. The metal canister bounces of its skull and sends the undead to its knees. Zombies from the cafeteria rush into the hallway and block any retreat.
“Mark, what happens after we get to the roof?”
“We can make a beacon, maybe signal a passing helicopter.”
As they run up the stairwell Mark finds the discarded maul and fire axe used earlier.
Fred lifts the fire axe and whistles in appreciation and says, “Look at this baby.”
Zombies thud up the stairs behind them. As two zombies reach the landing, Fred uses the flat of the axe to push them back downstairs. Mark directs Fred to the manmade hole in the wall and they crawl in.
They run up granite steps as zombies pour through the hole in the wall. A zombie groans under a framed poster of the original clock tower. Mark swings the maul midlevel and breaks its ribs. They continue to run.
They dash past the iron mesh elevator pit and run to the roof. Panting, Mark points to a corridor leading to the Congress Bells and outside. They enter the observation deck.
Iron bars in windows overlook the capital. In the center of the room are building artifacts and lockers.
“Mark, it’s a dead end!”
“Help me pry the door open,” Mark says as he struggles with a small door access door.
A padlock and chain holds the door shut. Zombies rush past the Congress Bells and are feet away.
“I don’t want to die,” Fred yells as slams the axe into the padlock.
The axe glances off the metal and clatters to the floor.
“Screw you, damn zombies,” Mark screams and throws a garbage can at the monstrosities.
The can bounces off the Congress bell. An earth shattering tone fills the tower. The undead lift their hands to ears and fall to the ground. Fred picks up the heavy maul and swings it at the padlock, finally breaking it.
“Go figure, they hate bells,” Mark says.
Fred opens the door and they escape onto a six inch ledge. There are only inches to maneuver. Mark tries pulling the small door shut but zombies rip it away. Through the metal bars they see the observation deck filling with Zs. Before them government buildings lie empty and abandoned. The White House billows smoke into the heavens as it smolders to the ground.
Mark and Fred take positions on either side of the small door and push charging zombies off the ledge with minimum effort. Many plummet off the ledge without being touched. After dozens have fallen Mark is finally able to yank the small door closed.
“What will you do if we survive?” Fred asks.
“Maybe find a new library and rebuild.”
“We have a library in the Twin Cities.”
“You know we’re not surviving this, rig
ht? I was thinking of jumping instead of letting them eat me.”
Fred asks, “You believe in God?”
“I do, but I’m not religious.”
Fred offers his hand and asks, “Want to pray with me?”
“You know church has no place in the state, right?” Mark jokes.
“Sometimes it’s needed.”
“I’m not against it,” Mark says, taking Fred’s hand. “Go ahead.”
“Lord God and Jesus,” Fred prays, his voice goes solemn. “Please give us a lending hand. I don’t understand the lesson in all this but we really need you. Amen.”
“Amen.”
In the distance there is a humming. Then a small dot appears in the horizon. Fred opens his eyes and smiles. Mark waves his hands as the search and rescue helicopter swoops into view. The helicopter lowers a rope and two soldiers point guns at them as they are raised on board.
42
The helicopter buzzes through the capital heading west. Hordes of zombies reach for the flying bird. The undead are simply everywhere. They cross the Pontiac River. The only sign of the 14th Street Bridge are cement blocks jutting out of the ocean. On rooftops are sandbags and unmanned machine guns. Soldiers, once human, look up and reach for the helicopter. Mark shudders as they zip over the Pentagon.
“The heart of the American empire has fallen in one day,” Fred says.
Zombies in hospital gowns, business suits, fatigues, pajamas, and nothing at all look upwards and groan as they pass. In Arlington Cemetery a lone soldier stands in the amphitheater. The helicopter dips and collects him.
“Looks like you went through a blood bath,” Mark says as the solider settles into a seat.
“Fucking fought those freaks with my knife and watched my unit die.”
“This is Fred and I’m Mark.”
“I would shake your hand but I’m covered with zombie blood. Name’s Brandon Gibbs,” the airborne ranger says.
“Where are we going?” Fred asks the pilot.
“To the refugee camp in Greenbrier Resort,” the pilot answers.
“No shit. That’s where my grandson is.”
“It’s where the National Guard and reserves are planning to make their last stand.”
Killer Z Page 15