The Longest Midnight: A Zombie Novel

by J. J. Fowler

  Drake awkwardly sat on the couch beside Tarte and lit a cigarette. He adjusted his sunglasses, leaned back, and felt the heat of the UV lights enveloping his pale face.

  Tarte spoke first. “I know you’re angry with me, but I couldn’t commit more troops when a full-scale assault may have been upon us. Do you understand?”

  Drake cleared his throat. He thought Tarte’s logic was off. Reinforcements could’ve prevented a gap forming in the outer defensives. If not for the strangers who appeared on their flanks, the deaders would’ve surely devoured Drake’s team.

  “I guess so, sir.”

  Tarte poured himself a glass of expensive Freetorian whiskey.

  “Would you like one, Captain?”

  “I’m never one to turn down a drink,” Drake replied.

  The two of them sipped their drinks in silence for several, long, agonizing minutes before Drake lost patience.

  “Why am I here, sir?”

  Tarte grinned. “Why do you think?”

  “If I knew, sir, I wouldn’t be asking. Would I?”

  Tarte laughed and downed the rest of his whiskey. He then went into a coughing frenzy and held a tissue to his mouth. Drake spotted blood on it.

  “You know you’re the best man I have, right?” Tarte said after finally controlling himself. “You and I may not see eye-to-eye, but we’ve always done what needed to be done. No?”

  Drake said, “I suppose so.”

  “I believe we should find those rogues who came to your aide and give them a couple of medals. They certainly deserve it—especially since I was unable to spare any men to come to your aid.”

  Drake said nothing; he simply stared into his glass of tasty whiskey. Tarte appeared agitated and pushed a hand through his graying hair.

  “Who are they?” Tarte asked.

  “I have no idea,” Drake replied.

  Tarte cleared his throat and took a long sip from his whiskey.

  “I read your report from the other day, Captain.”

  “Oh?” Drake said. “What did you think?”

  “Well, Captain, I find it interesting you believe one of the dead was speaking rudimentary Humanese.”

  “So do I.”

  Drake lit another cigarette.

  “Must you smoke so much?” Tarte said with annoyance.

  “Why not? It’s not as if I’m worried about my health in this shit.”

  “Indeed, but I am. Cigar smoke is one thing, but cigarette smoke is dangerous.”

  Drake reluctantly extinguished his cigarette.

  “Thank you. Back to business. I think the deaders speaking our language is extraordinary. Don’t you?”

  “I only heard it once, sir. During yesterday’s battle, I heard nothing similar.”

  “Yet you heard it. We need to investigate this. I’ve already sent your report back to Freetoria. They want this examined immediately.”

  “Oh?” Drake asked dryly. He hated the bastards running the Army from the safety of Freetoria. They had no understanding of what truly happened at Alpha. “How do they propose we do that? Find out who their Humanese teachers are?”

  Tarte laughed.

  “You always had a way with humor. Captain, they want you to find out what’s going on with the deaders. How are they learning Humanese? How are they organizing so much better than before? What are our options to stop them?”

  Drake poured himself another whiskey and downed it.

  “In other words, you want me to head into enemy territory and gather intelligence. Right?”

  Tarte nodded his head. “They must have a base of some sort. I want you to find it and gather as much intel as possible. Take four men with you. Do not engage.”

  Drake didn’t like the sound of a suicide mission, but he agreed with Tarte. This peculiar new development amongst the dead needed investigating.

  “Okay, sir. Can I pick my team?”

  “Of course, Captain.”

  “When do I leave?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  Drake nodded and poured himself another glass. Tarte didn’t object. Drake took a sip from his whiskey, leaned back against the couch, and swallowed it down. He wondered if he’d ever sit in as comfortable a place as this again—soaking in glorious UV rays, sipping fine whiskey. Probably not, he concluded, but that’s life.

  “I’ll assemble my team right away, sir.” Drake stood up and saluted.

  “Captain, remember—this is an intel gathering mission. You are not to engage the enemy unless necessary or out of defense. Most especially, do not attack the enemy base. There is a reason I gave you only four men. There will be no support.”

  “I’m used to that,” Drake replied.

  Tarte wasn’t amused. “Dismissed.”

  After Drake left, Tarte released several long, hoarse coughs and then pressed an intercom button on the coffee table.

  “Sir?” a voice buzzed.

  “Send in Lieutenant Colonel Dagos.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Casey always loved the armory. It was the safest, most secure place on the base, and was filled with pistols, assault rifles, sniper rifles, machine guns, grenade launchers, mortars, and even old-fashioned crossbows. He imagined if the shit truly hit the fan, he’d flee inside here and make his valiant last stand with a nearly inexhaustible supply of weaponry. Naturally, he preferred not to end up in such a situation. Likely, he would run away to save his own hide.

  In front of the gate leading into the armory was a skinny sergeant. His nose was missing, blown off in some battle ages ago. Casey wondered if that was what made him act like such a stubborn bastard when dispensing weapons. “I need a paper signed by the colonel authorizing the release of two grenade launchers,” the sergeant spouted smugly. “There’s no problem with ammunition for your rifles or more frag grenades. We just got a shipment in; grenade launchers, though, require the colonel’s signature.”

  “This is ridiculous!” Casey yelled. “We never needed jack shit before!” Whenever Casey got angry, his nose twitched on his gaunt, rat-like face, as if his nostrils could detect what was frustrating him. This time was no different.

  “Well, now you do,” the armory sergeant replied.

  Drake stood in the corner of the armory smoking a cigarette. He was lost in thought about the mission, but finally noticed the sergeant was giving Casey a hard time.

  “Hey, Sergeant!” said Drake.

  “What do you want, Captain?” the sergeant dragged out the pronunciation of Drake’s rank as if to mock him.

  “I want those launchers.”

  “Sorry. I require a signed form.”

  Drake finished his cigarette and flipped it in the sergeant’s direction. It narrowly missed the arrogant man’s bald head.

  “I see your nose is missing,” Drake said as he approached the sergeant. “Would you like to keep your ears?”

  Drake pulled out a massive six-inch knife and lifted it in front of the suddenly terrified man’s face.

  Casey chuckled.

  “You know you’ll both be court-martialed for this,” said the sergeant. Drake made no reply as he examined the other side of his knife blade. “I’ll get them.”

  “Thanks,” Drake said, and put the knife away.

  The sergeant hurried off to collect the grenade launchers.

  “That was great, sir,” Casey said.

  “We don’t have time for this shit,” Drake replied.

  Casey abruptly got serious. “Don’t you think this insane? They’ve sent out deep intel patrols before. None of them come back.”

  “I know.”

  “So, I mean, this is nuts.”

  “Casey, shut the fuck up.”

  A few seconds later, the sergeant appeared with two grenade launchers on a cart, and a flamethrower pack as well. The noseless man appeared more calm and reasonable now. He even grinned at Casey and Drake.

  “We didn’t ask for the thrower,” said Casey.
/>   “Well, I thought you might want it. You know, so there’s no hard feelings,” said the sergeant.

  “Thanks,” said Drake. “You get to carry that, Casey.”

  “Oh? What the hell?” Casey complained. “One deader bullet and my ass will be as hot as a fried rat sandwich with hot peppers.”

  Drake smiled. A fried rat sandwich with hot peppers was a popular, inexpensive dish for the poor in Freetoria as rats were the one thing they were never short of. He hadn’t eaten one in years and missed them. He made a quick mental note to have one the next time he was in a dive bar in a shit district in Freetoria.

  “Check to make sure they’re in working condition, Corporal,” Drake said to Casey after controlling his hunger for fried dead rats. “I’m going to find us a fifth man.”

  “But, Cap, I don’t want the flamethrower.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Casey,” Drake said as he exited the armory.

  * * *

  Drake walked outside the heavily guarded entrance to Alpha. Two machine gun nests flanked the sides of the guard tower. Another nest was on top. A series of slim trenches were dug out in front to repel any zombie attack. Snipers were also positioned atop the side and rear walls to scan the area for approaching deaders in case any strayed through the forward positions.

  Sergeant Mifune was busy talking to a twenty-something soldier with pierced ears and a tattoo on his forehead that read, “Kill It.” The tattooed soldier sported a three-day beard and was a smoking a cigarette as he spoke to Mifune.

  “Think you’re up for this, soldier?” Mifune asked the tattooed man.

  “Why not?” the young man replied.

  Drake reached the two men and pulled a flask out of his pocket.

  “Want some?” Drake asked the tattooed man.

  “What’s that, sir?” he replied.

  Drake took a swig of the whiskey-filled flask and coughed a few times. It was the cheap, homemade kind the boys secretly made in the base.

  “It’s shit, but it hits home,” Drake said with a smile.

  “Thanks, sir.” The muscular man took a hit.

  “This is Francis, Captain Drake,” said Mifune. “He’s in the fourth platoon. He is one of the best shots on the base.”

  “Francis?” mocked Drake.

  Francis was noticeably disturbed by Drake’s teasing. He puffed a cloud of smoke in Drake’s direction.

  “Got a problem with my name, Captain?” Francis hissed.

  Drake chortled and said to Mifune, “He’s good. Get the others ready.”

  “See you, faggot,” Drake joked to a thoroughly annoyed Francis, and then left the two men.

  “He’s not normally so humorous,” Mifune reassured Francis. “But he is an asshole.”

  “I prefer serving under assholes,” Francis replied. “They’re more predictable.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Atop Alpha’s concrete structure, an experienced sniper named Trujillo scanned the horizon through his night-vision scope. Trujillo loved his job at Alpha. Each day (or was it night), he sat atop Alpha looking for random zombie targets and took them out. He was never sent to any of the perimeter machine nests outside Alpha. This minimized his chances of dying in this godforsaken place. Like many of the guys stationed at Alpha, Trujillo just wanted to get back home alive, or at least to one of the bases in the rear. This was his last thirty days of his deployment to Alpha. He dreamed peace for him was right around the corner.

  His scope found a slow-moving zombie. This was nothing out of the ordinary for Trujillo. He sighted and took the shot. When the creature’s head exploded, Trujillo’s mouth formed a sly smile. Yep, he thought, just another normal shift.

  Near the body of the wasted zombie, Trujillo spotted several more deaders shuffling toward Alpha. That’s odd. The forward positions normally take out small groups, he mused.

  Trujillo fired four carefully aimed shots and terminated them. “Hope that’s it for today,” he said aloud. But it wasn’t. Dozens of zombies appeared through his scope just moments later. Now Trujillo was nervous, and he grabbed his walkie-talkie.

  “Sir, we have a situation outside. A large enemy force is heading toward the base.”

  “How many is large?” said a demanding, staticky voice.

  Trujillo stared through his scope again and saw what now appeared to be hundreds of zombies.

  “Hundreds of deaders, sir. Hundreds.”

  “Are you sure?” came the response.

  “Positive, sir.”

  Emergency sirens immediately wailed inside and outside the base.

  “What are your orders, sir?” Trujillo said anxiously.

  “Shoot the fuckers,” came the harsh reply.

  Trujillo obeyed.

  * * *

  Francis and Mifune were still outside the base talking when the sirens began to wail.

  “What the fuck?” said Francis.

  “Large-scale attack,” Mifune responded.

  “Without warning?” Francis said incredulously. A bullet buzzed in between the two men and slammed into the face of a private running to his trench.

  “There’s your warning. Let’s get inside,” said Mifune.

  “No. We fight!” Francis argued.

  “We can’t, Private. We have other things to attend to.”

  More bullets began to whiz by them. Francis didn’t like not pitching in to help defend the base, but he realized Mifune was right. Besides, the troopers could probably handle things. Francis nodded his head in agreement, and the two men raced toward the entrance of the base as the machine gun nests opened fire.

  * * *

  Inside the base, Drake, Murphy, and Casey frantically put their gear together as the alarms blared around them. They were in a special operations room off-limits to troops who didn’t have clearances granted to them by the colonel.

  “What’s going on?” asked Casey anxiously.

  “I think it’s an attack,” replied Murphy as he checked to make sure his Glock pistol was loaded.

  “It is an attack,” Drake confirmed.

  “Shouldn’t we help?” Murphy said earnestly.

  “No. Get your shit together,” Drake ordered. “Don’t forget to stock up on Vitamin D pills. We ain’t gonna be using the UV room for a while.”

  The door swung open, and Mifune and Francis ran inside.

  “Who’s that guy?” Casey said, pointing at Francis.

  “Private Francis,” said Mifune.

  Casey chuckled a bit. Murphy went back to packing.

  “You got a problem with my name, Corporal?” Francis growled over the wails of the alarms.

  Drake slammed his fist on the table. “Enough!” yelled Drake. The men immediately froze. “Mifune and Francis, you both have one minute to get your shit together. Casey, put the flamethrower pack on. We’re heading out in two minutes.”

  “But we’re being attacked,” Casey said. “How are we going to get past that horde?”

  “There’s a secret rear entrance. This attack couldn’t come at a better time. Every one of those things within a five-kilometer radius will be attracted to the fighting in the front.” Drake slammed a clip into his M-16. “It’s perfect.”

  The men said nothing and went back to readying themselves, except for Casey who muttered ‘Sicko’ under his breath as he put the flamethrower pack on.

  * * *

  Outside the base, the machine guns nests fired wildly into a mass of incoming zombies, blasting them apart as the men in the trenches tossed grenades to finish off any that weren’t shot in the head.

  Atop the base, Trujillo and his fellow snipers attempted to take out as many of the armed zombies as possible. A sniper next to Trujillo fell forward, wounded in the gut from a zombie bullet.

  “You gonna be okay?” Trujillo asked the groaning man.

  The wounded sniper shook his head. It was a mortal wound.

  Without thinking twice, Trujillo pulled out his pistol and shot the man in the head, not even giving t
he poor bastard a last word before the bullet traveled through his brain and ended his existence. To Trujillo, shooting his comrade quick and without mercy was doing the man a favor. Many at Alpha shared the same feelings—probably even the man Trujillo shot.

  Instinctively, Trujillo, a man of slight frame who most men would find weak and timid, went back to his job of killing the dead without any emotions shown over the death of a fellow soldier. The blood from the dead sniper’s head dripped off the top of the base and onto the helmet of one of the machine gunners pouring fire into the attacking horde. The machine gunner paid the blood no heed. He was too busy trying to stay alive to notice a little blood dripping off his helmet onto his strained face, lined with wrinkles from years of relentless war.

  * * *

  Colonel Tarte appeared calm inside the control room even though his insides felt twisted in a tight knot. Like any other commander, he hated surprise attacks, especially ones so close to the base. Fortunately, they were a rarity given the defensive perimeter he painstakingly established after assuming command of the base years ago. Back then, the brass in Freetoria said Alpha only had a year until closure. How wrong they were.

  “Sir?” a frantic officer manning one of the archaic computers displaying the fight addressed the colonel. “The enemy force is getting dangerously near.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  Tarte stared at the giant monitor in the front of the commodious room. He saw the massive red blob on the screen representing the zombies getting progressively closer to the smaller blue blob, representing his men. Tarte knew his men would hold; they had to. Otherwise, it was certain death for them all.

  A communications officer swiveled around in his chair and took off his headset.

  “Colonel Tarte, a squad is trying to leave through the rear entrance. Security wants your permission.”

  “Permission granted,” Tarte replied.