The Longest Midnight: A Zombie Novel

by J. J. Fowler

  “You son of a bitch!” Drake screamed at Tarte.

  Drake charged the colonel and kicked the pistol from the man’s hand. Then he pointed his rifle at Tarte’s head.

  “Too late,” said Tarte.

  “The hell it is!”

  Tarte picked up his pipe from the floor and lifted it toward Drake. “Got a light?”

  * * *

  Murphy and Lara sat in a small utility closet with a single light hanging overhead for illumination. They stared at each other in silence. Then Lara broke it, “What are we doing here?”

  “Following orders.”

  “What orders?”

  “I have to keep you out of trouble.”

  “What trouble could I cause?”

  “Plenty.”

  She sighed and licked her upper lip. Murphy found her incredibly attractive. She had blonde hair, a bird-like mouth, bright blue eyes, and a slim figure. Lara knew he wanted her.

  “Ever fucked?” Lara asked him.

  Murphy chuckled quietly. “Sure.”

  She moved closer to him. He could feel her breath on his face as she whispered, “I bet you haven’t.”

  He nervously locked eyes with her. She moved her lips closer to his and then they locked in a deep kiss.

  * * *

  Mifune threw down the headset in frustration and yelled, “Nothing! It keeps asking for a password.”

  Dagos frantically shook the unconscious comm operator to wake him. “Come on, kid. Wake up!” Dagos screamed at him. The door behind them opened and two clueless guards walked into the communications room.

  Mifune pointed his pistol at them. “Far enough,” he said. “Put your weapons down.” One of the soldiers, a diminutive, overweight man, dropped his rifle in fear. The other soldier, a tall and muscular man with a cruel face and no front teeth, pointed his assault rifle at Mifune.

  “Soldier,” Dagos said. “Put that weapon down.”

  “Identify yourselves,” the soldier’s deep voice bellowed.

  “I’m Lieutenant Colonel Dagos. Now put your gun down. We are not the enemy.”

  The tall soldier looked at his fearful, fat comrade for a moment, and then back at Dagos. “I’m sorry, but that’s impossible. We are trying to rescue Lieutenant Colonel Dagos at the moment. Now I want to know what’s going on here.”

  “We don’t want this to escalate to violence. Just put it down,” Dagos pleaded.

  “No violence, huh?” the tall soldier growled. “What about him?” He gestured toward the unconscious communications officer who lay sprawled across the floor.

  “You get one last warning,” Dagos replied. “And then my friend here is going to put you down. Lives are at stake here.”

  “What are you talking about?” the soldier asked skeptically.

  “We don’t have time!” Mifune yelled.

  “Shut up!” retorted the tall soldier. The fat one stood frozen next to him.

  “Please!” screamed Dagos.

  The tall trooper fired his rifle at Dagos, hitting him in the shoulder. Dagos fell back atop the communications officer, grasping his wound in pain.

  The tall soldier swung his weapon toward Mifune, but was cut down before he could fire. Mifune aimed his pistol at the still-frozen fat man, moved close to him, and let out a curse word before pistol-whipping him. Dagos stood up next to Mifune.

  “All right, sir,” Mifune said while wiping his face. “Let’s get that officer up and going.”

  “Too late.”

  “Why?”

  Dagos pointed at the man’s head and Mifune saw why they were too late. The bullet that had traveled through Dagos’ shoulder struck the young communications officer in the head.

  “What have we done?” Mifune muttered to himself. He slumped to the ground and laid on his side in a fetal position. Dagos stared at his comrade in bewilderment.

  “What are you doing?” Dagos said. “Get up.”

  “We failed.”

  Dagos could see Mifune was losing it and decided to let him be. Had they failed? No, he told himself. I’m not ready to let all those men die.

  “Stay here,” Dagos said to Mifune. Then he ran out of the room.

  Chapter Forty

  Atop the valley of ruins, thousands of armed deaders awaited Rhodes’ troops. They were not a mass of disorganized walking dead, but rather, highly organized troops arranged in formations. Officer deaders wore bright orange bandanas and carried assault rifles.

  The zombie with the red beret leaned over the edge of the valley and then growled something unintelligible to a deader wearing an orange bandana. The red-bereted zombie, wearing spectacles along its rotted flesh and dressed in a bright red matching uniform, addressed the dead army with a series of high-pitched wails. It was clear the red-uniformed zombie was the commander of this army of the dead. The dead army responded to their commander with their own wails.

  “We must fight!” the zombies screamed in Humanese. “We must fight!”

  The spectacled zombie growled and then peered over the edge. Rhodes’ small army was nearly in the center of the valley, highly vulnerable to attack. The zombie commander waved his assault rifle high above his head toward the deaders atop the other side of the valley. A moment later, the foul beast observed another zombie repeating the action toward him. It was a command to commence the attack.

  The dead army moved into position near the edges of the valley with grenades in their hands. The deader commander ordered a zombie to get on all fours so he could stand atop his trooper. From this heightened view, he could see the dead troops were ready. He could also see rain falling from the blackened sky above. The dead commander raised his gun above his head and fired off a single round, which echoed throughout the valley.

  Then, in unison, the dead army threw their grenades at Rhodes’ helpless men below.

  * * *

  Rhodes knew walking into the valley of rubble was a risk, a huge risk, but he had orders. He was to attack the deader training camp and rescue Captain Drake and his men. That was all he needed to know to march his men through the valley.

  His men moved carefully through the valley. They were spread out as much as possible, and their eyes were peeled above them, searching for any sign of zombies.

  Then it began to rain. Rain was rare in the Longest Midnight. Several of the men paused to enjoy the acidic rain. Steiner and Rhodes ordered them forward.

  Rain, Rhodes thought. I haven’t felt rain in ten years. He heard a shot ring through the valley. A moment later, a different kind of rain fellow upon his men: a rain of frag grenades. They burst all over his men, lighting up the darkness with bright yellows and oranges. It would have been a beautiful sight, he observed, if not for the screams of his troops and the body parts flying in all directions.

  “Return fire!” Rhodes yelled. His men clung to the sides of the rubble and fired at the shadowy deaders above them. The deaders unleashed a torrential volume of fire on Rhodes’s men, cutting down dozens of confused and terrified troops. This is chaos, Rhodes thought. He pulled out his pistol and aimed it at the concrete cliffs above. He depressed the trigger and hoped he hit something.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Drake’s fist collided with Colonel Tarte’s leathery face. The colonel stumbled back several feet, clutching his bleeding mouth. “Tell the goddamned comm station to order them out of there!” Drake screamed.

  Tarte wiped blood off his split lip and smiled at him. His teeth were a ghoulish red from the bleeding, which made his smile seem all the more demented to Drake. “Sorry, Captain, but I can’t do that.”

  Drake’s other fist crashed into Tarte’s face. This time, the colonel lost his balance and fell to the floor.

  Again, Tarte smiled through bloodied teeth. “See for yourself. It’s too late.”

  Drake watched the massive monitor in the front of the room for several moments. The images it displayed made him realize Tarte was right. Rhodes’ men were in a desperate struggle battling a vastly larg
er zombie force that flanked them on both sides.

  Drake lowered his rifle and pushed one of the dead operators out of his chair. He slumped into the seat and rested his gun across his lap. Tarte brushed himself off and sat opposite him in a chair several meters from him. He released a half-dozen long, deep, gurgling coughs and spat a cup full of blood and snot on the floor.

  Then Drake spoke with considerable melancholy. “I don’t understand this. Why send your own men to their deaths? Why send me and Dagos on the same mission?”

  Tarte spat blood on the floor again and wiped his mouth, then said, “You may consider this to be some kind of megalomaniacal plan of mine to dominate whatever remains of this planet, but I assure you, I did not do this for selfish reasons.”

  Drake fired back, “Oh, really? Training deaders and ordering them to kill your own people isn’t selfish? What the fuck is wrong with you? It’s obvious you’re sick with the cancer. You want to take the rest of us with you to the grave?”

  “My illness is irrelevant. It’s the order of things. Look, Captain, if you think I’m in control of all the deaders we’re fighting, you’re wrong. Truth is, we don’t know who’s controlling them or even if they are being controlled by someone dead or alive. I simply had my own little camp.”

  “Little?” Drake responded incredulously. “How did you get a vampire and a madman on your side?”

  “Vlad and I have known one another for many years. He is a valuable asset. Harbinger, as I’m sure you ascertained, was a madman, but he was brilliant in training the dead. Each had their reasons for joining me. Vlad wanted to control the deaders and preserve humanity. Harbinger wanted to conquer. I wanted us put out of our misery.”

  “Put us out of our misery? Why?” asked Drake.

  “Here are some frightening statistics. The male population has dropped nearly sixty percent over the last decade alone. The birth rate is less than one child per woman, way below replacement levels. The council may soon begin drafting women to fight this lost war. Even the wealthy snobs may send their sons and daughters to people like me so they can die fighting an invincible army of the dead.”

  “What does any of that have to do with you being a mass murderer and a traitor?”

  The colonel stood up and considered his response. He stared into Drake’s raging eyes and realized any explanation would be futile. Still, he felt he owed his best soldier an honest response. “By your definition, I suppose I am a murderer, but not by mine.”

  Drake pointed to the monitor, which showed Rhodes’ men getting overwhelmed by deaders and yelled, “By any definition, you’re a fucking murderer!”

  Tarte smiled at him, although his eyes clearly revealed his annoyance with Drake. Then he continued, “Let me share a story with you about my grandfather.”

  “Yes,” Drake interrupted sarcastically. “Please do.”

  “He fought in the wars,” Tarte continued. “Just as you and I have. He retired from active duty at the age of fifty-three. Months later, he had a devastating stroke and slipped into a coma. His brain was gone. He was thus little more than a vegetable. I watched with horror day in and day out as he lay there with machines keeping him alive. Finally, I realized the inhumanity of the situation. Against the wishes of my parents, I pulled the plug, so to speak. Do you see what I’m saying?”

  “Yeah. You fucking murdered your grandpa. So what?”

  “I never took you for a sentimentalist, Captain. You did the very same thing to your mother when you were a child.”

  Drake frowned and looked at the floor. Images and feelings exploded in him. He saw his mother on her deathbed, while a young Drake watched her labored breathing. Flowers surrounded her dying body and the odor disgusted him. Flowers ever since smelt like death to him. He placed a pillow across his mother’s face and held it there. When she passed, he crushed her skull with a hammer to prevent her from turning. It was a memory he tried to never think about, but Tarte brought it roaring back to life.

  Drake tilted his head back up and saw Tarte was still speaking to him. He didn’t hear anything. All he could think of was his mother and what he did. He knew Tarte’s distractions mustn’t take his focus off the present. He had a job to do. He shook his head when he heard Tarte mention how he read his file, knew about his mother’s death and his involvement, his tough and troubled life as a child, his failures in school, and his tendency to punch first and ask questions later.

  Drake heard enough and told Tarte to shut up. Tarte chuckled quietly, sat down, and continued, “You and Dagos would’ve figured it out sooner or later, especially with some of the deaders speaking our tongue. So I had to take care of things. You both survived several recent mass attacks, and the ambush of your depleted platoon a week ago. So why not a suicide mission?”

  “You set up my men?”

  “I had to. You’re a good warrior—my best in fact. I imagined that a gifted killer such as you might even deal a blow against Vlad and Harbinger and thus eliminate the competition to full control of the dead. It appears you have. If you had not, nothing would change. You and Dagos would die glorious deaths in battle, and I would send the men on a ‘rescue mission’ after you two.”

  “Why not just have the vampires kill us?”

  Tarte appeared shocked and said, “I’m not a murderer. I would never assassinate one of my men. Well, at least not someone I respect, like you. I wanted you to die doing what you do. To that end, I had Vlad guide you to your destination. Besides, I knew Vlad concealed his association with the training camp even from his own kind. He couldn’t be certain the other vampires would agree in slaughtering you and your troopers.”

  “You’ve gone insane being out here all these years.”

  Tarte continued as if Drake had said nothing. “Quite a pity the vampires met their end, but how could such an alliance last between the undead and its food? I’d like to think that I am responsible for much of your…”

  Finally, Tarte silenced himself when he saw Drake was lunging toward him with his rifle butt high over his head. He jumped out of his chair in a fruitless attempt to avoid the blow against his jaw. The older man tumbled to the floor, coughing, wheezing, and spitting out blood and teeth.

  Drake towered over his longtime commander. Then he glanced at the monitor and saw that half of Rhodes’ men were gone.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Lara sucked on Murphy’s tongue as she pushed her hand down his pants to grab his swollen penis. He moaned in excitement. Then, with her other hand, she felt for Murphy’s knife and pulled it quietly out of its sheath. Murphy was too enthralled with sexual excitement to notice.

  She stopped kissing him. When he tried to lean in for another kiss, he felt something cold and sharp press against his neck. He opened his eyes.

  “What are you doing?” he asked her.

  “Leaving.”

  “I can’t let you do that.”

  “Yeah, and how are you going to stop me?” She let go of his penis. “I can slice your fucking throat before you make the slightest move.”

  “You won’t get far in the base.”

  “I’ll get farther than staying in here with you.”

  The pressure of the knife against his throat eased. A small sliver of blood trickled down his neck. He became angry.

  “You’re an idiot if you leave. A trooper’ll spot you right away and they’ll arrest you. There aren’t women here.”

  “There isn’t much of anyone here right now.”

  She stepped back and knelt down with the knife pointing at Murphy to pick up his assault rifle. When she found it, she glanced down for a moment, and Murphy seized on that to kick the knife out of her hand and tackle her. They wrestled for several moments before he pinned her to the ground and then straddled her. A lecherous grin etched across his face and he said, “You’re not going anywhere.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Brain matter, bone chips, and blood splattered on Rhodes’ face from a round one of his men took in the head.
Rhodes barely registered the gore on his face. His men were dying all around him from the deaders. That was all that mattered to him.

  A zombie jumped from above him and Rhodes reacted instantly by shooting it in the head as the creature descended on him. Things were getting increasingly out of control. The deaders were not only pouring fire on them from the rubble, flanking them on either side in this valley of death, but they were also increasingly descending upon them for close-quarter attacks.

  Rhodes’ men were losing confidence as well. The smoke, the confusion, the screams, and the chaos of the valley led to friendly fire and panic in some of the ranks. Rhodes communicated as best he could with his subordinates to keep things in a semblance of order.

  However, he wasn’t sure how long he could hold them together. There was only one choice. “Steiner!” Rhodes screamed into his walkie-talkie. “Steiner!”

  “Yes, sir.” His voice was garbled and full of static. “Orders?”

  “Yes. We’re retreating.”

  Two of Rhodes’ men raced toward him, hollering they’re all going to die. One of them was missing an arm, and both of them were missing their sanity. He pulled out his pistol and shot them dead. The last thing he wanted was his own men to cause a panic. The retreat must be orderly, he told himself.

  He felt a burning pain in his stomach. Next, his consciousness slipped, and he collapsed to the ground in front of several of his men. A young private quickly grabbed him and saw he was gut shot. The young man heard a voice yelling in the walkie-talkie next to Rhodes’ dying body.

  “Sir? Sir! Are you there?” Steiner’s staticky voice screamed. “We’re blocked in both directions! What are your orders, sir?”

  The private lifted the walkie-talkie to respond, and depressed the button to talk just as a zombie pounced on him and tore into his jugular. Blood spurted out the young private’s neck and bathed the black walkie-talkie, smothering Steiner’s terrified voice.