by J. J. Fowler
“I hate that bastard Vlad,” he whispered to Mifune.
“We all do,” came the sergeant’s hushed reply.
Vlad heard them, of course. He considered the humans’ hatred of him inconsequential to the ultimate goal—one not quite in line with that of his human comrades.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Colonel Tarte lay on his back, dozing off in his private sunbathing chamber. A lit cigar rested in the ashtray on the floor beside him. It was peaceful moments like these when he thought of his sister. She was so young when the soldiers terminated her for the bite, he thought. Why couldn’t I save her?
The entrance door swung open and an old, frail, communications officer stepped into Tarte’s private sanctuary.
Tarte was annoyed. “What?”
The old man cleared his throat and spoke nervously, “Sir, you told me to inform you of any news.”
“Well?”
“There is none, sir. However, they were last reported near the target.”
“I know that, you imbecile.”
Tarte sat up and picked up his cigar. He took a drag and blew a large plume of smoke toward his subordinate and then bent over coughing.
“Yes, sir. You did know that, but I felt it necessary to inform you of no changes.”
Tarte controlled himself and then stood up. “Did I tell you to inform me of no changes?”
“Well, no, sir. I took the initiative.”
“Quiet. Are they still in that shack?”
“Yes, sir. They are very close to the target.”
“Stop repeating yourself, old man.”
“Sorry, sir. I meant—”
Tarte slammed his fist into the man’s face. The frail soldier lurched back from the blow and collapsed onto the white tiled floor. “Quiet. I’m thinking.”
The old soldier stood back up and rubbed his injured chin. Tarte took another puff of his cigar, dropped it on the floor, and crushed it with his boot. “It’s time we sent a rescue mission.”
“But, sir, we’re under constant attack. We cannot afford to send a force after them.”
“Do you not learn, Captain? We need those men.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Inform all platoon commanders to come to the control room immediately.”
The old man nodded his head and left.
Tarte sat back down on his couch and picked up a glass of whiskey resting beside him on an adjacent table. He swirled the whiskey around the glass gazing intently into it and thinking about her eyes. Then he drifted into the past…
The death squad burst into their apartment based on a tip Tarte’s sister was bitten. They confirmed the bite and shot her as Tarte’s mother screamed. His father already lay unconscious on the carpet for resisting the invaders. His sister’s terrified blue eyes met Tarte’s the moment before a 9-millimeter round tore through her brain and sprayed the young and frightened Tarte with his sister’s blood.
The glass of whiskey fell out of Tarte’s hand and shattered beside his feet. He didn’t notice it. Why would he? She was gone forever.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chosin held the severed zombie head before him and looked upon the decayed face in disgust and contempt before tossing it away.
“Filth,” he muttered.
“You done?” Drake said to him. Chosin snarled. “Fine. Move on.”
Chosin’s strength was greater than before as a result of drinking Casey’s blood. Human blood gave a vampire far more power and agility compared to the rather mediocre pig’s blood Vlad and Chosin subsided on.
The group made their way across the long summit of one of the Dead Mountains toward a light which grew brighter and brighter as each kilometer passed. Casey walked next to Chosin, the latter feeling uncomfortable because of Casey’s selfless act. Chosin knew he owed his existence to Casey, but didn’t know how to respond to him. The notion of saying “thank you” was alien to a vampire who long forgot what it was to feel human.
Casey, for his part, felt uneasy too. Why hasn’t Chosin said anything to me? He kept saying over and over again in his head, I saved his life, after all. He decided enough was enough and broke the silence by saying, “So, pretty bright ahead. Huh?”
Chosin said nothing.
“You figure that’s where the deaders are congregating?”
Again, Chosin said nothing. Casey spat on the ground as they trudged along one step at a time. He was pissed now.
“You’re an asshole, Chosin.”
Casey started walking faster to get away from Chosin when the vampire said, “Casey.”
Casey looked back at the vampire and resumed walking beside him.
“Yeah?”
Chosin pulled out a package of cigarettes. “I thought you might like these.”
“Where the hell did you get this?”
“Found it.”
Casey smelled the pack. The tobacco was as stale as ever, but Casey couldn’t care less. It was tobacco! He pulled out a cigarette and stuck it in his mouth. He patted his pockets looking for matches when a flame appeared near his face. Chosin held a lit lighter before him.
“Where the hell did you get that?”
“Found it.”
Casey grinned, lit his cigarette, and took a deep drag. He coughed several times and said in a high-pitched voice, “Good stuff!”
Then Vlad, leading point, held his hand up for everyone to stop. Drake hustled toward him as the rest of the group crouched down, carefully looking around.
“What is it?” Drake whispered to Vlad.
“We are here.” Vlad pointed to the summit of a particularly tall mountain for this ancient and worn-down range. “We climb up there and you’ll see the camp.”
“You sure?”
“Dead sure,” Vlad replied without even a hint of irony in his perpetually serious voice.
* * *
Drake and Vlad made their way up alone as the rest of the team kept watch at the base of the mountain. It took them almost an hour to climb to the summit. On the summit, the light was particularly bright. It illuminated a number of mountains that formed a circle. Drake and Vlad walked forward until they could see what was at the base of the circle.
“That’s it,” Drake said to himself as he gazed upon a massive military camp crawling with thousands of deaders. There was a large barbed-wire fence surrounding the camp along with guard towers and a concrete bunker with two machine guns nests atop it facing the zombie horde.
“That camp must be two square kilometers in size,” Drake said quietly to Vlad.
“Two point one, to be exact,” corrected the ancient vampire.
A deafeningly loud siren echoed throughout the camp and the horde abruptly stopped shuffling around and formed into groups of about hundred. A deader wearing a bright red cap stepped out of the concrete bunker and saluted the ghouls. They returned the salute and were dismissed. Drake was astonished by what he was witnessing. “No wonder they’re kicking our asses,” he said to Vlad.
“Now you know the importance of our alliance.”
“Sir?” said a new voice behind him.
Drake glanced back and saw Murphy standing at attention with a sheepish look on his face.
“What’re you doing up here?”
“Mifune sent me because you were taking a long time.”
“Come here, Murph.”
Murphy moved next to Drake and stared in horror at the deader camp below. He saw zombies practicing shooting at bodies tied to metal polls. Others marched in organized groups and performed routine military drills.
“Jesus Christ!” exclaimed Murphy. “Is he down there?”
Drake ignored Murphy. “This camp is too organized. Zombies don’t think or plan.”
“It’s not organized by the walking dead,” Vlad responded. Just then, a figure with a bright red beret emerged from the concrete bunker, flanked on both sides by guards. They weren’t walking slowly and sluggishly like deaders normally do, but rather with a confident and measur
ed pace like humans do. Another siren went off and the deaders again formed into groups of one hundred.
“Murphy, I can’t find my binoculars, do you have any?”
Murphy nodded, but did nothing.
Drake growled, “Well, get them the fuck out.”
“Yes, sir,” a startled Murphy said. He pulled out a small pair of binoculars.
“Here you go, sir.”
Drake snatched the binoculars and focused on the strange figures that emerged from the bunker. He saw another group formed in a tight square and carrying cattle prods exit the bunker. Inside the square was a frightened young man in his early twenties.
“Are those real people?” Murphy said as he squinted his eyes.
“Yes,” Vlad replied.
“Shut up,” Drake ordered.
* * *
The zombies in the camp roared when Harbinger raised his arms high above his red cap. He knew they were hungry. The humans with the cattle prods led a terrified young nomad to one of the bodies the deaders used for target practice.
“Cut down that body,” Harbinger ordered. One of the men pulled out a machete and cut the rope holding up the severely decayed and bullet-riddled corpse. “Tie him to it.” The nomad shook his head violently and tried to run, but was instantly zapped by a cattle prod. The man fell down motionless. Two guards picked him up and tied him to the pole.
Harbinger grinned and gestured for his men to return to the safety of the bunker. He followed them inside. Two humans closed the giant steel door entrance. The zombies eyed the now fully conscious nomad with murderous desire. Then the steel door opened again and Harbinger emerged alone carrying a megaphone. “Troopers! Eat!”
The deader horde dropped their weapons and descended on the doomed man like a mass of ravenous vultures. Within seconds, the man’s screams were silenced as the zombies quickly dismembered him. A young private moved next to Harbinger and said, “Sir, we should go back inside.”
“You see, Private,” Harbinger said, ignoring the private’s suggestion. “If you feed them, these filthy bastards will do what you say.”
The private appeared unconvinced.
“Sir, it’s only one man. How can they all get something to eat?”
“It doesn’t matter. They all enjoy the rush created from the kill.” Harbinger glanced at the greenhorn soldier and said, “Don’t you?”
“Yes. Yes I do, sir.”
Harbinger looked back at the desecration of the slain man’s body and chuckled quietly. “There’s really something beautiful about it all, something…poetic.”
The young trooper was baffled. To him, it was anything but poetic. It was human sacrifice.
* * *
Murphy vomited near Drake’s boots. He had witnessed much since this dark journey began, but fellow humans feeding their own to deaders? Never. How could that be? he thought.
“Murph, get control of yourself. Tell Casey to radio HQ that we found the training compound.”
Murphy wiped the vomit away from his mouth and relayed Drake’s orders through his walkie-talkie. Drake took out one of his last cigarettes and lit it. He waited for several moments before asking, “What’s the deal, Murph?”
“Casey says he’s not getting any contact. Just static.”
“Tell him to try again.”
Murphy relayed the command to Casey down at the base of the mountain.
Drake stomped out his cigarette and spat on the ground.
“Anything?”
Murphy shook his head and said, “What if they got Alpha?”
Drake didn’t reply. His mind was racing with what to do next. Should we head back? Should we attack it? No, that’d be madness. There are thousands of deaders in that camp.
“What are your plans, Captain?” Vlad said.
Drake sighed. “Well,” he said with some hesitation. “I intend to get a closer look.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The entire team was now at the summit of the mountain checking their weapons, counting ammunition, and preparing themselves for whatever may happen.
“This is the plan,” Drake said to his men and the vampires. “We’ll all go around to the rear of the base and search for some sort of sewage entrance that leads inside the camp. I think I located one just outside the fences.”
“You mean we’re fucking attacking?” Casey replied incredulously.
“No, you pussy,” Drake retorted. “We’re going to get a closer look and gather some intel. That is our mission.”
“What is our role?” said Vlad.
“The same as ours,” Drake replied. “Keep close and learn as much as you can. Everyone clear?”
No one said anything.
“Good, keep prepping. We leave within the hour.”
Mifune stood up and pulled Drake aside. Drake knew what he was going to say even before he opened his mouth. “I don’t like this, Drake,” Mifune said. “Our mission was to locate the camp, not go inside it.”
“We’ve lost communications with Alpha. For all we know, they’ve been overrun. We have to get in and get a closer look.”
“You know as well as I do that you intend to start trouble down there.”
Drake grinned devilishly and said, “Why not? They’ve caused us enough grief. Haven’t they? How about a little payback?”
“That payback may cost all of us our lives.”
“You’re assuming we had lives to begin with.”
Drake walked away and pulled out his .45 caliber pistol and examined it. What else am I to do? he thought. Trek all the way back when it may be futile? The deaders could be in the city right now tearing everyone to shreds. No. Fuck them. Fuck all of them. Most especially, fuck the humans down there training these cunts. We’re going to kick a little ass. He cocked the pistol and put it in his holster. He hoped he was doing the right thing.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Within the zombie training camp bunker, a small dungeon was constructed below ground. The corridor of the poorly lit prison was moist from pipes leaking small amounts of brown sewage water, which splashed onto the floor forming large puddles. The puddles of shit, piss, and other assorted waste flowed into several of the dozen cells lining either side of the rancid corridor.
A rat scurried down alongside several of the cells paused for a moment to sniff the air. Rats flourished in the Longest Midnight by consuming decaying flesh and occasionally attacking live humans. It was the one species on Earth that benefitted from the zombie plague.
The rat stopped sniffing the air, spotted a hand sticking outside of one of the cells, and moved cautiously toward it with its neck elongated, nose sniffing the air to detect dead flesh. When it arrived at the hand, it stopped and cocked its head. Then it took a few more steps and put one of its paws on the yellowish hand. The hand abruptly closed upon the rat and squeezed hard and violently. The rat squealed and thrashed uselessly until another hand grabbed its rear and broke its back. The dead rat was pulled into the shadowy cell. It was dinnertime for one of the prisoners.
Most of the prisoners were in rags and covered in filth. Virtually all were nomads captured by Harbinger to feed his frenzied dead troopers. A human guard passed the cells looking at each prisoner with disgust. If it were up to him, they’d all be fed to the deaders and this place cleaned up. But, of course, it wasn’t up to him. It was up to Harbinger, and the commander enjoyed the smell of decay and feces too much to change anything radically in the prison.
The guard arrived at the final cell and tapped the bars with his taser.
“Get up,” he said.
A figure in the shadows slowly stood up and walked into the small light shining into his cell. It was Lieutenant Colonel Dagos.
“What do you want?” Dagos said sourly.
“I’m to inform you that you’re next.”
“Why bother to tell me this?”
“Commander Harbinger felt it was his duty to inform a fellow soldier of his fate,” replied the guard. “You’re not like
the rest of these nomadic trash we have in here.”
Dagos spat in the guard’s face and said, “Give Commander Harbinger my kind regards…as a fellow soldier.”
The guard considered blasting Dagos with his taser, but didn’t want to face Harbinger’s wrath if the prisoner was unable to walk out of the prison to meet his fate. So he wiped the spittle off his face and headed back down the corridor to leave the foul air of the dungeon.
“Hey, guard!” Dagos yelled.
The guard stopped and looked over his shoulder. Dagos glanced at the dead body in his cell and said, “There’s a rotting corpse in this cell. Aren’t you going to take care of it?”
The guard shrugged his shoulders, opened the steel entrance to the prison, and then locked it behind him.
“This is insanity,” Dagos mumbled as he grasped the bars of his cell.
“Hey. You in the next cell,” a raspy voice called to Dagos.
Dagos cocked his head curiously and replied, “What?”
“Do not mess with Harbinger.”
“Why not?”
“He’s a madman.”
“I can see that.”
“No. He truly is mad. He was raised by demon walkers.”
“Demon walkers?”
“The dead.”
“No one has been raised by deaders.”
“He was. He was abandoned by his family in the wilderness and the demon walkers took pity on him and raised him as their own.”
Dagos couldn’t help but laugh and then said, “You know that’s nomad bullshit. Right?”
“We are not nomads,” the man said angrily. “We are Seekers. We seek a better life.”
“Okay, Seeker. No human has ever been raised by deaders.”
“Then how else do they obey him and know the human tongue?”
“They don’t know Humanese.”
“Some do. I have been here for a month. I’ve seen it.”
“What’s your name, friend?” Dagos replied.
“Victor.”
“I’m James Dagos.”
“You’re a Freetorian?”
“Yes, I am.”
“They will take you quickly then, but not before me. My time will end here soon,” Victor said ominously.