Inhuman screaming from behind us alerted us of another Runner. Ship bent quickly, picked up a rock the size of a cantaloupe, and side-armed it into the nuts of the speedy son of a bitch before he could grab me. I heard crunching and my left hand involuntarily moved protectively to my balls. Ew. Ship had reminded me of Roger Clemens snapping up a weak hit and chucking it to first like it was an early inning. On target and ninety miles per hour. The runner was down with a broken something, but he still crawled after us. Even his dead buddies were faster than him now, and they staggered past.
Somewhere off to our right, a gigantic explosion shook everything. Even the dead that were chasing us paused to look in that direction. Some even moved off that way, but most were just intrigued until they remembered (if they remember) that food was in the immediate vicinity. Then they looked right back at us all hungry and motivated and shit. What a pisser. Again, for you non-New Englanders, there are exceptionally vast connotational differences between pisser and pissa. Granted when someone from my neck of the woods says either one, they sound the same, as our hard R pronunciation goes out the window prior to us leaving the womb.
Pisser = bad. Pissa = good. You kind of have to be from New England to get the nuance. And wherever you’re from, our pizza was better than yours. Don’t judge, just keep reading.
Most of the pus sacks in the area decided that the food in front of them was better than the food that might be near the explosion. Us live folk were hoping that the explosion was the diversion. Unfortunately, our first-rate strategy didn’t include the woodland zombie clan following us to our mission objective, and from the way the dead people kept materializing out of the forest, there may have been more in the woods than in the town.
We weren’t exactly surrounded, but they were converging from most directions. The sergeant’s rifle fired once, then again. Apparently, he had bagged his noise discipline as our secret was most definitely out. I caught sight of him on a little hillock, shooting back toward us. Several of the dead that were getting close fell, their craniums sufficiently ventilated. Sarge screamed at us, “Come on!”
We almost made it to him. We got so close. Ship and Kat were at the hill, but I was a good forty feet back, and I wasn’t going to make it. The zombies had encircled me other than directly to the left, where a small copse of bushes blocked my only salvation; a relatively clear path. I did the only thing I could, I crashed through the shrubs.
“Through,” is probably a misnomer here, as I got stuck fast halfway in. It was some kind of torturous thorn bush with thorns the size of brand new number two pencils. Whoever invented this type of bush (or mosquitoes, taxes, and people who talk at the theater) can blow me. They’re assholes. This bush had me mired, and I could only go back into the waiting arms of the dead. There were three that were almost on me, and Ship took out one, but the sarge missed his target and the slimy bitch grabbed me. She lost nearly the entire top half of her head to my machete, but I lost my machete in the deal as it stuck in her melon. The third thing had grabbed me too, and the fucker bit me on the back of the shoulder before I could escape. It pulled its head back, but only ripped my jacket. Oh, he got me, but it was only the jacket that tore. He chewed twice as we grappled, then spit out the offending tidbit. Must have tasted poorly.
“He’s done for,” yelled the soldier, “let’s go!” Ship and Kat didn’t move when the sarge turned to leave.
The damn critter was holding me fast, and his buddies were coming hard. He didn’t like his grip on my jacket so he was trying to adjust when I brought my forearm down on his wrists. The jacket zipper popped, and I shrugged out of my warmth, giving it to the zombie. Ship shot the dead dude that had me and I was able to make my way to my friends when it collapsed.
Sarge looked sad. “You’re bitten, son, we’ll sort that out when we get to the truck.”
I grabbed the shoulder of my shirt. “How bad is it?”
“There’s only one kind of bite, sorry.”
“We’ll talk about that when we get to the truck too,” I told him.
The four of us moved through the woods with a shitload of dead people chasing us, but the mass of them seemed to be behind now. A speedy one sprinted toward Ship, and the big guy went into a crouch and threw the infected bastard against a tree before it could do anything. Its bones were at all angles after the impact, and I heard it gurgle as we moved past. I would imagine it turned into a walker shortly after we left it.
I saw the corner of one of the town’s buildings when we booked it out of the trees, across a street and into a small field. I could hear the creatures, but I could no longer see them, although I had no illusions they had given up the chase. We swung north, running for all we were worth. The other three were a good ten yards in front of me and I was running out of steam. My vision began to blur and my head was pounding. I tried to call out but I got as far as SH…before that tunnel vision hit me again, and the ground rushed up to meet me.
Ship’s Log
While I don’t share my friend’s penchant for hilarity, or his prolific use of profanity, I have read his journal and it is true and accurate to the best of his pathetic ability to pen his thoughts. Although some of his references to me personally are insensitive and full of crass nicknames, I believe his recordings have merit and should continue.
My name is Ship. My friend is unconscious, and I don’t know if he will survive. Personally, I know what a head wound is like, and his former ramblings about the pain involved are, for the most part, factual. Moreover, a state of confusion and general nausea exists when subjected to said injuries.
I will continue his journal should he succumb to the harm that was done him. I will also attempt to further tell his tale here, while he either recovers or expires. He is, as I write this, on the far right side of the fuel truck bench seat, hands zip-tied behind his back, with a bit made of an elm stick firmly tied to his mouth. The sergeant would not allow him to come with us unless he was bound so, even though both Kat and I repeatedly elucidated that my friend is immune to whatever has affected the rest of the population.
I am unable to form a hypothesis as to what will transpire should my friend perish. The fact that he appears to be insusceptible to contracting the syndrome does not necessarily denote that reanimation will not occur. We had to take steps to ensure our safety should he attempt to attack us upon rousing. It will pain me greatly to have to euthanize my comrade should the need occur.
I must admit, I am becoming unnerved by the amount of creatures in this area. I believe “zombie” is a ridiculous, Hollywood term that only serves to confuse. The true Haitian zombie, if there is such a thing, is nothing more than a human being that has been either chemically or mentally subdued to the will of another. They are not the living dead, and they do not consume the flesh of the living. To equate said individual with the creatures that are now probably the dominant species on this planet, is both irrational and nothing short of folly. This having been said, zombie is a term that the masses will understand, although I refuse to use it.
Having stated my intentions, and the current disposition of the original author of this journal, I feel it imperative to catalogue what transpired after his poorly timed loss of consciousness.
Kat noticed him stumble and faint. I was able to pick up and carry him, granted his weight is not substantial. Dainty is a word that comes to mind. I threw him over my shoulder, Kat, Sergeant Reynolds, and I running from the crowd that had come out of the woods on the west side of the road. We moved quickly, and the lack of the faster of variety of creature was a boon to us as we made our way to the truck that Sergeant Reynolds assured us was waiting for us. A lone creature stood up in the high grass immediately next to me as we rushed through the field. I swung my shoulders using my friend’s legs as a makeshift truncheon to propel the creature away from us. Other than that, the run from the field to the truck was uneventful, with no signs of the dead other than those pursuing us, and we had far outdistanced them. Once at the truck, ho
wever, things got somewhat more tense. Several dead were in the vicinity, and needed to be cleared prior to us engaging the engine on the vehicle. We destroyed four of the rotten things efficiently and quietly, using hand to hand weapons. I placed my friend on the ground next to the truck, to cover Sergeant Reynolds as he attempted to start the vehicle.
The sergeant opened the driver’s side door, a blackened hand snaking out and grabbing him by his fatigue jacket. In his haste, Reynolds hadn’t checked to see if the cab was empty and it almost led to his demise. As he already had his combat knife in his hand, he was able to dispatch the creature quickly, although his shout of surprise did not go unnoticed, and other creatures began to show from shadows and heretofore unseen corners and niches. They quite literally came out of the woodwork, and in moments we had a crowd of sixteen of them en route to our position.
Reynolds discarded the body and climbed into the vehicle. There was a moment of overwrought confusion when the keys that had previously been left by the Sergeant’s team behind the driver’s visor were not where they should have been. The creature must have crawled in the truck while alive, and succumbed to a bite or scratch only to reanimate and knock the keys to the floor. Reynolds jammed the key into the ignition, at which point the truck refused to start. It did not sound like a dead battery to me, but more as if the ignition coil was cold, so I remained as calm as I could until the vehicle started on the third attempt.
Kat and I were forced to fire on the numerous dead that rounded both sides of the truck at once, compromising our stealth. I picked up the lifeless frame of my friend and attempted to pass him to Reynolds, who outright refused to let him in the cab. Kat’s fire was becoming sustained as she screamed for us to hurry, and still the soldier rejected us. He passed me two white zip ties and told me to bind my friend or we could all stay here. I complied, but Reynolds slammed his door and pointed to the other side. I moved quickly to the other side of the truck, and was again intimidated by the sheer numbers of creatures that were headed for us from across the field and significantly closer. There were dozens, perhaps a hundred or more.
Several corpses were strewn about thanks to Kat’s handiwork with her rifle, but this same action was what was drawing the creatures to us. Kat climbed into the vehicle and I unceremoniously tossed the dead weight in after her, then clambered in myself. None too soon either, as a slap on the side of the fuel truck announced the arrival of the vanguard of the dead.
We began to move forward, and the sergeant passed me a stick, demanding that I tie it in our unconscious friend’s mouth to ensure he couldn’t bite us should he reanimate. When we drove a quarter of mile back towards town, I switched positions with my friend in order to have him closest to the door for quick ejection should the worst come to pass. It was cramped in the cab, as the bench seat was made to accommodate three, and there were four of us, and as my comrade constantly states, I am not small.
No, I would not depart with my friend infected; I would get out and destroy the creature he would become.
The truck moved quickly, moving us back toward the small town of Arlo. Several dead remained in the street, but for the most part they had moved on, the distraction provided by Reynolds’ team proving adequate. As we drove through the town, signs of devastation were ever present; smashed store fronts, broken glass, bloodstains, skeletal remains.
One of the creatures lurching toward the fuel truck wore bloodstained and shredded ACUs. Reynolds slowed the vehicle as the thing came at us from the side. It slapped its hands against the door panel and Reynolds sighed, “Foster.” This had been one of the men sent to create our diversion. The sergeant nodded, and we drove forward another fifty meters before the truck stopped. “One second,” Reynolds said over his shoulder as he jumped to the street. One report was heard, and he was back in the truck forthwith.
“What were you doing?” Kat demanded somewhat harshly.
The soldier’s reply was equally as severe, “Don’t worry about it.”
I scribbled in my book, telling Kat that Reynolds had undoubtedly destroyed his former squad mate, unwilling to leave him as a wandering infected. She nodded appreciatively, respecting the man’s decision.
Returning to our original position, the other two soldiers had failed to make the rendezvous. Our new companion looked nervous as he scanned the area with his binoculars. Several undead were making their way from the town up the street toward us. They would reach us within a half hour or so.
“We’ll give ‘em ten minutes. No more. I want to get to the plane and fuel it before dark.”
We waited the ten minutes, several undead coming from our western flank as well as from the town. We destroyed them as they came. I needed to make a tactical decision as to our vehicles. We had three vehicles, the Humvee, the fuel truck, and the pickup that we liberated from the compound. We would abandon the pickup. With Reynolds driving the Humvee, I would drive the fuel truck with Kat, who could minister to our cataleptic comrade. Truth be told, I wanted her to watch him closely, as his breathing had become labored, and when I checked his pulse it seemed weak. She could eliminate him should he turn, or at least keep him restrained while I pulled over to euthanize him.
I would not leave him to infect anyone else, and I would not leave him in that state.
These preparations were all for naught, as I heard muffled noises from our zip-tied, seat belted partner. Human noises. The bit in his mouth must have been causing him extreme discomfort as well as it being exceptionally humiliating. I smiled in spite of myself.
Kat pointed her pistol at his forehead and asked him her name. We both heard only one syllable, but it sounded like Gah. A familiar sound indeed. She asked him a series of questions anyway, to which he could nod. Finally, she undid his bit, and he immediately began to rant about his treatment. The last thing he said before he huffed and fell silent was: “Why did you ask me so many stupid questions before you pulled that damn stick out of my mouth?!?”
“Oh I knew you were human the second you opened your eyes,” Kat told him. “I was just playin.’”
Repercussions and Loss
Son of a BITCH! I am NOT dainty! I do not faint, I pass the F out! I am a large, muscular individual. I was in PRISON for Christ’s sake. Dainty people don’t spend time in prison, and no, I was nobody’s bitch.
That big, arrogant, goat cheese-gobbling, shitbird should keep his Andre the Giant-sized mouth shut! I know he didn’t actually say anything (HE FUCKING CAN’T), he wrote it, but the sentiment is still the same.
He has stones calling me dainty. I mean, Jesus, the guy would look down on Shaq. He’s bigger than a God damn great white shark. EVERYBODY is smaller than him. He has balls calling me insensitive too, after what HE wrote in MY book! If it wasn’t important, I would cross that shit out. What is it called? Redacted? Yeah, as soon as I get around to it, I’m gonna redact the shit out of his totally unnecessary comments. Fucks up the flow.
He thinks he’s got a stinkeye? Just wait. Prick can’t talk, so all he has is his stupid looks. No, wait, that came out wrong. I don’t think he’s pretty, he has all those awful looks he gives me. Reproach, disappointment, anger. You get it. He’s not my dad, I’m older than he is.
I’m still thinking of a way to exact revenge. Maybe I’ll steal his precious notebook so he can just shut the F up all the time. Let’s also not forget that I ran into a burning building to get the notebook.
Maybe I’ll just keep mentioning how wonderful his voice is. Ha!
Dick.
So they kept me zip tied until we got to the airfield. I thought that was unfair. Kat was all smiles and she and Ship had a big old guffaw. Except his was silent. It was ridiculous seeing him shake. That’s how he laughs. Fucker doesn’t make a sound, he just shakes. HEAR THAT SHIP YOU BIG BASTID?? YOU LOOK STUPID WHEN YOU LAUGH!
Teach him to read my shit. Zombie fucking apocalypse and the one and only time the prick laughs is at me when I’m tied up on the bench seat of a fuel truck.
So when they were done laughing, the army guy pulls a gun and points it at me. “He’s bitten,” is all the prick says. Not my best day. Kat steps between us and folds her arms so now the gun is pointed directly at her, now I’m a little antsy.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, calm down, Sarge, I’m immune.”
“Nobody’s immune. I’ve seen a thousand people killed by bites or scratches. They all died. Every one.” His weapon was still pointed at Kat, and I could see Ship inching the nose of his rifle up.
“I’m going to pull my pant leg up, then I’m going to pull my shirt down. You’ll see the bites that I got before today have healed.”
He kept his gun on us and I gently nudged Kat to the side. I showed him the one on my collar bone, and he didn’t seem impressed. The one on my leg though, there was no denying it was a bite.
“That’s not possible,” he said in whisper, then his head whipped up. “The spook! That’s why Lynch wants you!”
I let my pant leg fall and looked smug. “And they say you’re just a grunt.”
I was starting not to feel so good. If the past was any indication of what was to come, I was in for a rough night. When I had been bitten before, I got very sick. Hopefully neither Ship, nor the sarge would euthanize me (Sasquatch prick!) after I passed out. As I vehemently stated above, I do not faint.
“Let me see the wound,” demanded Reynolds.
I unbuttoned the top two buttons on my shirt and he had a look. “It isn’t bad. Semi-circle bite pattern with broken skin and some blood. On anyone else this would mean death.”
Chaos Theory: A Zombie Novel Page 11