The Village of Dead Souls: A Zombie Novel

by Michael Wallace

* * *

  In the makeshift sandbag bunker in the parking lot of the stadium, General Brown watched a video screen of the re-an battle a half mile from his position. The overhead shot, taken from a helicopter, showed the clouds of smoke loft above the streets for several blocks. As the haze dissipated, he saw a line of his troops advance on a wave of zombies, and surround them on the street. In the distance, he could hear the gunfire and explosions of the battle echo off the buildings. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his flask, unscrewed the cap and took a swig. "Finally, these civvies are starting to look like legit soldiers."

  His clerk walked into the bunker with several pages of printouts in his hand. The thin young man wore glasses with duct tape holding the arms to the lenses. Brown turned to him and said, "What now?"

  Shuffling through the papers, the civilian turned soldier replied, "If it can clear the re-an blockade in Kansas, our next shipment of diesel should be here late tomorrow. The civilian food and fresh water stations are reporting some of their shipments are not arriving and the missing supplies are not showing up on the black market. And with the latest hits to the grid, power rationing to the civilian population needs to be cut in half. The nuclear plant in Arizona, is providing all the power to the southwest."

  "Send someone to the distribution warehouse and tell them to start handing out the water filters, so the civilians can take water from the rivers," Brown replied and quickly took another sip from his flask. "Tell the courier to ride one of the horses. Our fuel reserves are running low. In fact, send out the word that horses are now the primary source of transportation. If someone wants to take a truck, they have to clear it through me."

  "Okay." The clerk sorted to another page in the stack. "Let's see, France and Germany want to know if we can send troops of any branch of the military to help them out at their front lines. Uhmm… Oh, and Brazil has gone dark. It appears the re-ans greatly outnumber the living and there have been no communications transmitted out of their country for over a week."

  Brown took a longer swig from his flask. "I don't know why Europe thinks we have excess men. We were all hit with the same EMP and all of us lost troops with the re-an breakout." He glanced over at the video screen and saw his second wave of soldiers move toward the front line. "This looks like we finally might start to turn the tables on these walking road kill."

  At the top of the screen in an area too dark to show details, he saw a large group of people move through the streets toward the battle. He pointed to the screen and asked, "Who are these people? Is this another civilian militia?"

  The picture began to shake and spin. It flashed between the buildings, the street, and the sky right before the screen went black. Brown kicked his chair across the bunker. "Aww crap! Off in the distance of the downtown skyscrapers, he saw the wall of flames from the downed copter shoot down a street. A lieutenant ran into the bunker and called out, "Sir, we just lost our last bird to an RPG."

  "Yeah, I'm aware of that, Lieutenant."

  From the radio on the table in front of him, came the voice of a soldier in the battle. "Echo One, Echo One, this is Lima Two. We are surrounded on all sides and we have lost air support. Requesting immediate evac."

  The large General picked up the radio mic and said, "We have no one left to come get you, son. Gather your men and make a run for the Platte River. Re-ans are skittish about crossing water. That should give you enough of an opening to get out of there."

  He waited for a response, but heard nothing. Again, he put the microphone to his mouth. "Lima Two, pull back to the river. Do you copy?" No response. "Lima Two, do you copy?"

  Through the radio speaker, he heard the moaning sounds of a re-an, which caused him to throw the mic at the radio with a sidearm pitch. "Damn it!"

  He went to take another swig from his flask, but it was empty. He turned it upside down over his mouth with only one drop falling from the rim. Annoyed, he threw the flask across the bunker, reached into a trunk filled with supplies, and pulled out a full bottle of whiskey. Spinning off the cap, he chugged three large gulps. When he lowered the bottle and turned toward his two men in the bunker with him, he saw them slowly step back away from him, with wide eyed looks of fear on their faces."

  He put the bottle on the table. "What? You've seen me drink way more than that and I've had far worse tantrums than this."

  The two men continued to back step toward the front entrance of the bunker. Brown yelled, "What is it?"

  One of the men pointed to the General's face. Brown touched his cheek with his fingertips and patted his way to his upper lip. Right below his nose, he felt something wet and sticky. In the low light from the single bulb overhead, he saw his fingers covered in blood. As the two men ran out of the bunker, the Lieutenant called, "The General has the Omega Virus!"

  Brown rubbed his palm across the bottom of his nose and saw even more blood. Wiping the blood off on his shirt, he picked up the bottle of whiskey and said, "It looks like I don't have much time left. I better finish this now."

  He inverted the bottle over his mouth and poured the liquor down his throat.

  * * *

  With the scattered fires leftover from the battle lighting the area, Captain Bartholomew sat on a piece of wreckage from one of the downed helicopters. He pulled out a rag and wiped the blood off his sword. Around him, a few remaining humans tried to escape, but were quickly pounced on by the undead. Their screams dissipated, as they bounced off the rubble remains of the buildings while they were eaten alive.

  Patricia walked up and stood in front of him, still in the waitress uniform, and with her weapon on her hip. "That was some fine sword work you showed."

  He glanced up from polishing his blade. "Aye, and I can say da same about you."

  The lady pirate adjusted her sword so she could sit down next to him. "It is a shame we spent our years in confrontation with each other. We work well together."

  Still cleaning his sword, he replied, "Aye."

  "The descendants have pulled their forces back. Our territory has grown. The new arrival, Hellion has her soldiers stationed on the new front line."

  "Aye, this be how it goes in this war. They attack, we eat them, or they run."

  Pointing to a slash on his arm, Patricia said, "You have a wound. I shall help you get a dressing on it."

  With a quick glance at his arm, Bartholomew said, "Tis be a scratch. Besides, I be dead. No use in tending ta something which do me no harm."

  She slid closer and snuggled up to him. "What I would do for a bottle of rum right now."

  Chapter 15

  Prometheus walked along the dark street with several of other undead. Smoke continued to cling in the air from the earlier fight with the military forces. Ravens and Turkey Vultures scavenged the remains of the body parts, which littered the street. The occasional screams of the remaining living humans echoed off the buildings as they were eaten alive. Midnight, still wearing her silky blue nightgown, strolled alongside him and asked, "How often do we get involved in these battles?"

  "I don't really know, my new friend. I only recently came back to this world. All of my memories are from the early days of this apocalypse, when the descendants greatly outnumbered us. Our confrontations in those days consisted mostly of small skirmishes. It appears as their numbers diminish, they are more willing to fight."

  Greg, who had exchanged his business suit for a black canvas kilt and leather motorcycle vest, pointed to the front entrance of a building on their left. During a previous altercation with the humans, an explosion had blown the charred doors off their hinges. Broken glass and rubble lined the sidewalk of the dark structure. He said, "The last time we fought on this street, the descendants fought with much honor to keep us from entering this place. We never did break their lines of defense. Perhaps, we should investigate the interior to see what was so important for them to put up such an impenetrable barrier."

  Prometheus gazed at the burnt out building. The smoke scars and blast holes told th
e story of the fierce battle that once took place on this spot. He replied, "Yes, perhaps this dwelling will give us information that could help us in our cause."

  Walking inside the dark corridor, over the rubble of what remained of the transit, Greg led the others with his sword drawn and held in front of him. They all cautiously walked over the crumbled remains of the walls and ceiling, which lay on top of the once brilliant marble floors. Electrical fixtures hung free dangling by their wires and burn marks etched anything still standing. John, wearing a long red ball gown marred with tears and scorch marks, said, "By the looks of this equipment scattered around, I would say this was some kind of research lab."

  Greg replied, "But we have attacked these labs before. Why would they protect this one with more exuberance?" He pointed to a large silver door and asked, "What is past that grand threshold?"

  John glanced at the door and said, "It's a walk-in freezer."

  "Perhaps the object behind their fight is stored inside the room you call a freezer."

  John stepped over some toppled shelves and pulled the freezer door open. The white interior light illuminated the room as a frosty mist rolled out across the floor. "It's empty, but it still has power. It must still be connected to one of the live main lines."

  From the dark end of the lab, Prometheus heard the muffled words, "Kill me." He turned his head to listen to see if the words would repeat. He stopped and asked, "Did any of you hear that? I thought I heard someone speak to us."

  "Do you think it’s a human trapped in the rubble?" John asked.

  Greg stepped away from the freezer and turned his head toward the darkness. "It can't be one of the living, because this voice spoke in our language. It would have to be one of our brothers or sisters."

  The group quickly moved through the darkness until they came to a second room with two large heavy wooden doors hanging crooked on their hinges. Cautiously, Greg pushed the structures aside and led the other re-ans into the lightless room. From somewhere in the darkness, they heard a voice once again whisper, "Kill me. Whoever it may be entering this room, please kill me."

  Nemi pulled out a flashlight from his backpack and scanned through the interior. The light reflected off metal autopsy tables and more overturned lab equipment. At the far end of the room, underneath some large chunks of fallen drywall and some support beams, they saw the source of the voice. A zombie strapped to a table called out, "Help me. Let Odin have mercy upon my soul and please kill me."

  Prometheus and the others quickly moved across the room and unburied their brother. With the light illuminating his face, Prometheus recognized the trapped undead person. "My brother, Gunnar Benwa."

  Gunnar lay naked on the table. His body was covered with round bruises and each one had notes of human scribble written on his skin next to the marks. One of his legs had been amputated with the bone and desiccated muscle still exposed. He ran his tongue over his dried cracked lips and with sadness on his face, he said, "It has felt as though many lifetimes have passed since I last heard my name spoken. My eyes have forgotten whom they see. I do not recognize you, but you remember me. Please, help my failed memory and tell me the name of the person who has come to my rescue."

  As the others untied the leather straps, the Athenian grabbed his friend's hand. "It is me, Prometheus. I was killed shortly after our last discussion. For some reason, the gods felt the need to send me back and I returned in a new body."

  "Prometheus, my brother," Gunner made a partial attempt to force his mouth into a smile. "I have thought about you and our talks. As I have laid here, unable to move for these many years, I replayed our conversations to keep my mind sane." He gazed up at his friend. "I see your eyes are still green. You have not been feeding enough to change them to blue."

  "I have made the effort, but my feeding on human flesh has not yet elevated me to the final level of our quest."

  Greg slid his sword back into its sheath and asked, "What happened to you, my brother? For years, we presumed you to be dead."

  "I was captured by the descendants and placed on this table, so they could conduct experiments on me. They started by cutting off my leg and injecting it with all kinds of magic potions. In time, they eventually burned my leg and gave their evil concoctions directly to me. I believe they have tried to kill my soul, but Odin will not allow me to leave the world in such a way."

  Midnight placed her hand on his chest, focused her eyes, scanned his body and said, "He has some kind of sickness in him. I can see it, but I do not recognize this type malady. It is a blackness, which travels through his blood and into his muscles. Unlike all other afflictions, I have seen, this one appears as though it is alive."

  With the straps removed, Gunnar continued to lie on the table. "Yes, the descendants have experimented on me, all these years. This potion in my body causes me great pain as if it flows though me like fire. I once longed to remember what it would be like to feel again, but now I beg you to help me end my suffering."

  John examined many of the vials and around the room. Holding one in the beam of the flashlight, he said, "I can't read this, but it sure looks like they have been working on an anti-virus. They must have been injecting this into him."

  "There have been others who have been given the potion." Gunnar relied. "I have seen them die shortly after the injection. They screamed out in pain until the suffering ended. Their skin turned colors making them look like the livings."

  Gunnar squeezed Prometheus' hand. "I have lain on this table in this corner for years, while they injected me with this fire. I have been motionless here all these years only able to see this same spot on the ceiling and limited parts of this room. No longer am I able to move. Please brother, end my suffering."

  "Tell me what you need."

  The Viking motioned for the Greek man to move closer and he whispered his wishes to his friend.

  * * *

  On the bank of the lake in the center of the city park, Prometheus and his crew stood around a small rowboat partially in the water. Inside, Gunnar lay motionless as they covered him with dead branches and leaves. The Viking looked at his Greek friend and said, "Thank you for this. I hope I will finally get my journey to Valhalla where I will walk along side my father once again."

  Patting him on the shoulder, right before the last of the branches filled the boat, Prometheus said, "You will be there soon, my brother. If you do not return in another body as I did, we will know you are in the land of honored warriors."

  With only his face showing through the branches, the Viking replied, "And I hope you can soon give your gifts to the descendants and bring this apocalypse to an end."

  John ignited a road flare and threw it into the boat. The dried wood quickly took to a blaze as the group pushed the vessel from the bank. Flames rose higher reflecting on the water and lit up the whole body of water as the boat coasted to the center. The flickering light attracted more zombies as hundreds staggered from the darkness and gathered around edge of the entire lake.

  * * *

  John Colton stood in the stadium parking lot talking to two soldiers. From the distant skeletons of the skyscrapers, small trickles of smoke continued to snake into the air from the previous night's battle. A bonfire made of dead bodies burned on the edge of the lot, as soldiers and vehicles moved about without interest. The smoke drifted upwards and merged with the smoke from other distant fires turning the sky gray.

  The civilian police officer, now in charge of the local military unit, spoke to the soldiers in front of him. "What did they do?"

  The soldier who acted as the clerk to the General said, "About three in the morning, this large group of re-ans set a boat on fire and pushed it into the center of Ferril Lake, over in City Park. The scientists said it has to be some kind of territorial ceremony. The re-ans are claiming the park as their dominion."

  Colton ran his fingers through his hair. "Why didn't you burn the General's body last night? There's been a standing order for both the military and
civilians to cremate dead bodies immediately after death."

  The young lieutenant quickly glanced at the burning pile of bodies, back to the officer and he replied, "When we saw General Brown bleeding from his nose and ears, we ran to get the bio team. By the time we came back, he had already died and turned into a zombie."

  The other young soldier next to him continued, "All the flame throwers were being used in the battle downtown and all the diesel is in the vehicles until we get that reserve shipment. The only thing we could do was let him stagger away."

  Colton shook his head. "Great, that's all we need is a giant yeti-like zombie with all of our military intelligence fighting against us." He tilted towards the remains of downtown Denver. "Where did he go?"

  The lieutenant pointed to the east and said, "He wandered off toward the red zone."

  Throwing his hands in the air, John said, "Fantastic. He's probably already the new leader of the horde. I'm sure without his flask of booze, he's one cranky zombie."

  * * *

  General Brown sat on the curb in front of the library drinking from a bottle of whiskey. His new body was that of a thin, somewhat short young man, with a bullet hole under his chin and a large exit wound in the back of his head. The bullet hole caused the whiskey to drip from his jaw. Vic, from Chicago, walked up to him and said, "Yo leaking guy, you're doing it all wrong."

  Angry, the General yelled back, "Back off re-an, or I'll kick your decayed ass back across town."

  Vic stood his ground. "Hey butthead, I'm trying to help you. Besides, you're dripping the booze all over yourself. You're going to go up in flames the next time the humans launch an attack."

  Brown stood up, still holding the whiskey bottle and said, "That's it, I'm gonna-" He paused, as he scanned the dead man in front of him, paying particular attention to the top of his head. "There's something wrong."

  "What's that?"

  "You're taller than me. Nobody's taller than me."

  Vic replied, "Yeah, welcome to your new body, get used to it." He pointed to the bottle in the General's hand. "I know what you're trying to do and you're doing it wrong."