Alan Dale - Death Nation's Army 01

by Dna Code Flesh

  One more victory for the New World Order.

  Looking for blood and flesh, the little dead-not dead black boy not once looked at the soldier.

  Not once.

  He was safe.

  Safe in a world like this? So oxymoronic.

  “Major?”

  A voice behind him, the soldier turned around to face one like him. An agent of this. All this. All this. A soldier.

  “Corporal Bingham.”

  The younger soldier saluted and looked down at the carnage. He didn’t blink, did not waver. They were used to this by now.

  God help us.

  “Major, we have swept the community. We believe we got them all gathered,” he looked at the bodies being devoured. Watching the scrats, even recognizing the few that just moments before owned a soul and wanted to eat anybody else’s. “Major London was instructed to stay back with one team to take one final sweep. He’s asked that you stay back. We have two other infantrymen that have already begun.”

  The major nodded. That’s all he could do. He was a soldier meant to administer this. All of this.

  The black boy still hungry, not looking at him. Not looking at the corporal.

  We are safe, remember?

  “The other four choppers are loading up,” the corporal continued. “We counted 29 insurgents. Two committed suicide before we got to them. The scrats didn’t take.” He looked at the group of fed monsters slowly begin to stand, gather themselves and scatter. “Shame.”

  The major nodded.

  Shame?

  “There weren’t that many of those things, really,” the major told him. “They should all have gotten enough…for now.”

  The corporal nodded. “Should I tell Major London you will stay back with him?”

  The major. The soldier. Nodded.

  Another salute and the corporal was gone looking left and right as he walked.

  We may be safe but we never feel at home, do we?

  The major was alone again. Only he and the shattered and torn black boy. Hungry, growling, and barely mobile. He will never stop seeking until he cannot find in time. Then his personal Hell would be over.

  I envy him.

  A soldier. An agent of this agenda. He is a major representing the interests of the New World Order.

  Oh how interesting.

  He is not a Nazi. He could never be that good of a person. He would never be able to shake the disease of his own memories.

  No.

  Never.

  He could only try to be a soldier.

  He would remain a soldier.

  He only wondered what side he would end up on.

  The black boy, not noticing the Major, growled, wobbled, and pulled himself forward. All the bodies remaining were almost picked clean of flesh. The others that stayed head-brain-intact were gone. Seeking. Searching. Feeding.

  This was a campaign against not a particular race, religion, or political stance.

  No. This was simply those who have against those who have not.

  Man had begun to cannibalize himself and only the ones with a pulse avoided using their teeth. That’s what made the scrats so useful.

  So useful.

  Walking away from the mess of blood and bone, the major moved away, rifle off his shoulder, sweep begun.

  He looked left. He glanced right. The major looked behind himself. Saw he was finally alone, if only for a moment.

  “God forgive me…”

  Looking at the little black boy the major didn’t flinch. Not once at the grotesque nature of this scene. Not once. Not once.

  I am used to this…

  “God help me…”

  God help us all…

  Helicopters in the distance, leaving, escaping the scene.

  It was obvious to their trained eye the NWO were moving on and the sickening feeling of failure swept over them.

  “Fuck!”

  She pounded the door of their reinforced black Hummer. She looked in the air, trying to see through the bars wrapped around the vehicle and across the length of the windows. They were safe inside but she knew the people they tried so hard to get to in time were not.

  No. They were dead. Dead. More dead.

  “Bridjett,” the man in the front passenger seat said to her as he gazed concerned toward the woman. “Should we proceed?”

  Bridgett Alexi. Long, raven-black hair, slender but sinewy build, and tight-set jaw, couldn’t think for a moment. Didn’t want to. All she wanted was a dream. A dream she could escape into and never return from. Her nightmares became her existence. She watched the helicopters fly away and take the souls she hoped to protect with them.

  “Shit.”

  “Bridjett,” the man wouldn’t look away. “What do we do?”

  Bridjett turned from the window, gave the man – well muscled, short, stocky, and dirty handsome – a quick silent glance and saw the eyes looking at her from the rearview mirror.

  “Keep driving Cisco,” she told the driver, the other man, taller, Latino, beautiful.

  Her lover.

  “You never know.”

  Cisco nodded.

  “Hope you are right, Bridjett,” the man in the passenger seat said to her.

  Bridjett sighed. Closed her eyes. Praying. Hoping.

  “I do too, Brick.”

  Praying.

  “I do too.”

  Her name was Bridgett Alexi. Formerly she was a barista at Star Gazer Coffee outside Chicago. Now she was a major in the Dead Nations’ Army. The DNA. A collection of left behinds who decided to play modern day saviors. Remember all those missions to save starving kids in Africa?

  Yeah? Well those missions became relief efforts geared toward saving the communities remaining in this world gone dead, undead, and destroyed. Those communities, left behind, as the elite, the powerful, continued to prosper. Those communities left behind to be the main course to the scrats.

  Pets of the Utopias.

  Bridgett was far from elite. She had been a 24-year-old barista, junior college dropout, who had no boyfriend, despite being considered damned gorgeous. She was now left in the world turned inside out, left to kill rotting cannibals and avoid bullets from the other side.

  She performed well in school and could have been something. Anything she put her mind to was hers for the taking. But, of course the New World Order made sure her hopes of turning around a stagnant life would die for good. Ironically, she was now someone important, someone key to this war between two worldwide armies.

  Bridjett found her place in a world that was running out of places.

  Not a day went by when she didn’t think of her old place, the last place she called home.

  I still hate him, but I wonder if he is still out there.

  The hummer turned down the littered road, full of rot and trash as they closed in on The Heavenly Gates. Locked and loaded, Cisco, Bridjett, Brick, and their other passenger, Corrine, narrowed their focus, heads on swivels waiting for any type of attack from the dead or the living and anything else in between.

  Behind them was another hummer stylized as theirs was with the only difference being it held only two – Tito and Tyra – masters with guns and excellence in dishing out supplies. The trail hummer carried the needed relief supplies for the folks at the gated community that called them on the Underwave just a few days ago.

  Response times to calls for replenishment took a few days to answer, especially with more DNA headquarters being overrun by the NWO or the scrats.

  Bridjett’s unit was located in the rural, barren wasteland surrounding the former Pontiac Correctional Center. So this was a decent hike for this mission. They stopped at two other locations along the way, without a hitch. Both camps were more so off the grid and out of the eyes of the NWO. At least for now.

  The Heavenly Gates had gone to Hell. All four of the soldiers in this vehicle saw the gates swung wide open and from a distance the shapes of bodies dead and revived could be seen shambling around.

>   Or eating.

  Bridjett closed her eyes and suppressed the growing rage inside her. The DNA had been in this for almost five years and their numbers dwindled. When the scrats got loose, the war broke open, and the NWO easily set the tone for the world in its current form. Many of those left to their own devices forged ahead in the creation of the DNA. They would create mobilized, small units, bunkered in, and their sole purpose would be to seek out weapons, food, clothes, and other supplies for those communities left with more young and old or those unwilling or unable to fight. Each DNA station would keep their numbers low as to allow for the spread of soldiers around the globe. The idea started with Gale Norway. Norway created the Underwave communication system – think of shortwave on steroids – based on signals encoded with passwords to be undetected by the NWO.

  Or so we hoped…

  Norway encouraged the numbers of people left behind, those considered not worthy of being a resident of the Utopias, to gather their strongest, best mentally conditioned, to join forces, and provide the weaker people with an armed force they could count on. “Let those find safe havens behind walls that separate them from the scrats. Let them feel some comfort in their rightful position of immobility. The less of us out there roaming, the less food there is available to those monsters. If we stay away long enough, ultimately they will die! Then, we can join hands and fight the NWO as one nation of one people! It is the Dead Nations’ Army who is to sustain those until then. We will feed, clothe, and arm them! We will prevail.”

  That was five years ago. Norway, according to reports, had gotten eaten by a band of scrats, fed to them by an NWO battalion.

  Fucking, NWO!

  The DNA, which originally aimed to have at least one unit in the north and south of every state, province, and republic around the world, was slowly dying out. Either by bullet or bite or simple attrition, the soldiers were losing their fight while the enemy continued to thrive in communities perpetuating their stability and ability to stay away from the fray.

  While they feed us to the scrats…

  The scrats.

  The NWO’s pets and first line of keeping the DNA away from starting an all-out war with the true enemy.

  The people who started all this…even if it was by accident.

  Bridgett gripped her AK-47 a bit tighter as the Hummer closed in on the gated community, edging yards from the entrance. As long as food remained for the scrats, their approach remained unnoticed, at least for a few more minutes.

  “Cisco,” Bridjett said. “Call the other unit. Tell them to turn around and head home.”

  “You sure?”

  Looking out the window, Bridjett couldn’t have been any more sure.

  “There will be nothing left to save.”

  She saw Cisco nod in the rearview mirror and make the call.

  Moments later, Bridjett turned to look behind their vehicle and saw the other Hummer slow and begin a U-turn to head back to their base.

  The flight of the NWO helicopters continued further into the distance, but Bridjett was certain a cleanup crew was still on site. They tended to make sure all scrats were fed and happy, and the people were dead and digested.

  I wonder if he’s still out there…

  Bridjett checked to make sure her jet black hair was pulled tight behind her head and felt for her belt making sure her combat knife, extra magazines and radio were intact. In minutes they would be on foot and checking for survivors if in the unlikely event someone survived this particular feeding session.

  She looked up and saw Cisco’s concerned eyes looking at her in the rearview mirror. There was no fake smile, no twinkle in her eyes for the man she knew she loved. Her expression remained hard, focused, and of course a little bit scared.

  “You are cute when you are mad,” Cisco announced softly with little fanfare. Neither he nor Bridjett believed anyone knew they were having sex with each other for months now. When the world is coming to an end, with scrats standing outside your base hoping to eat you alive, many decided to not worry about the sex lives of fellow soldiers.

  “Cute? Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  Bridjett looked back out the window as the Hummer bumped up and down as they entered the gateway of the community, and she assumed it was a body being used as a welcome mat.

  “Well, fuck cute, and get ready or you’ll get dead.”

  Cisco’s smile slipped into non-existence and he looked in front of him. Bridjett could make out a half dozen or so scrats rummaging around trying to find scraps from whatever bodies had been brain-body separated and stayed dead. There was no doubt there would be many more roaming through the homes searching for more meat.

  She suddenly found herself stifling a chuckle.

  “What’s the funny?” Brick asked.

  Not turning to her fellow soldier – a strong, good looking, sandy blonde, man in his late 20s who said little but fought plenty – Bridjett gave it a moment before going on. Her eyes looking in all directions.

  “You guys know why they are called scrats, right?”

  Corrine and Brick turned to look at her waiting; Cisco’s eyes were back looking up and into the rearview mirror.

  “Because they turned us into scraps?” Brick guessed.

  Bridjett scoffed as the Hummer finally pulled to a stop about 30 yards from the entrance and a decent distance from the nearest monster. They’d soon realize they were there and would be glad to welcome the new meat to the party and all four soldiers tensed.

  “After being saturated with George Romero and Resident Evil movies and the entire fucking rotten knock offs, people couldn’t believe they the entire world had been cast in a real zombie flick,” Bridjett started. “The word is some Australian started calling them that. Of course that makes sense, eh? Who wants to admit they are real zombies out there. Real monsters. So we called them scrats.”

  “Word,” Brick agreed.

  The four took a moment to collect their thoughts. Cisco looked to the left of the Hummer and his eyes widened as he saw a lady scrat, half naked, start to stumble toward the vehicle, curious as to its contents. As she walked, the gouged hole in her face would see bits of loose flesh, wiggle and fall to the ground with each plodding step…

  Brick engaged his weapon and the noise jolted all four out of their own respective moments of silence.

  Bridjett’s free hand reached for the door handle, gun at the ready.

  “And….action….,” she mused and all four doors opened in unison as they entered another suburb of Hell…

  Except this was no movie, no sequel.

  This was, truly, their world now…

  Two majors, men of service, soldiers for the people. Well only certain types of people.

  The man, the major with a conscience, knew what the real story was. He worked for the haves , that small percentage of those lucky enough to be considered the elite. Yes, the haves. The rest of the world? The rest?

  Let’s call them the have deads.

  “Major.”

  It was London. The two continued their sweep and just turned down another street bereft of life and only littered with animated rot. Their sweep was a waste of time and the four men left behind to follow orders all knew this. But, their duty was simple even if it was redundant.

  Kill the survivors and feed the scrats.

  “Yes, major?” He addressed London.

  “If I may say, this gang bang is proceeding way too slowly and I’d like to haul ass back to Utopia One,” London told him. “Got a nice piece of Rothschild ass…”

  Richest family in Utopia One…

  “…waiting for me and a date at Luigi’s.”

  “Point, major?”

  London spit and trained his eyes forward, away from his, searching.

  “The residents appear dusted and so far no sign of DNA…”

  Thank God…

  “Let’s expedite this and split. I’ll stay down this road, why don’t you take the cul-de-sac over yonder,”
London pointed just to his right, the east.

  The major followed his finger and saw where London meant.

  “Fine,” the major agreed. “Let’s meet at the chopper in ten.”

  London nodded, spit again, and made way down the short, residential street, full of stink and decay.

  The major watched him go for a moment before training his eye toward his new destination.

  He knew this was all wrong and things had to change, if not for humanity, but for himself if anything.

  For her too. For Cheese.

  Sighing at the thought of the second most important woman he ever knew, the major, still so young, with a life ahead of him under the protective cocoon of Utopia and never felt so empty.

  Of course watching a boy with cerebral palsy getting ripped into a dozen pieces by scrats with skin resembling winter leaves can do that to you…

  Once again he looked over toward London who stalked down the street he just left, with the same sense of dreaded, killing, purpose. Sure we got paid well to do this job, but did anyone have to like it? Revel in it? Cum because of it?

  Stop your bitching. You chose this side. You could easily jump ship and get over to the only good side in this fight.

  Easily?

  When one believes he is playing for a winning side with no chance of losing it isn’t so easy to just turn tail and say to oneself that tearing up a winning lottery ticket is the right way to go.

  Not unless one wanted to increase their chances of become an entrée or a dessert to a horde of cannibals.

  The major knew the two options that could change everything and one involved putting a gun in his mouth and pulling the trigger.

  The other?

  I’d be putting a gun to my anyway.

  But at least he could live with himself.

  So while the major lived while day dreaming of living with himself he went on in his search for the dead or soon to be fed.

  Then he heard the report of gun fire. It didn’t have the same ferocity of the NWO.

  Ah, the so-called enemy may be here.

  He looked down the street where he left London and saw in the distance his partner in arms looking in his direction to attempt to make eye contact. His opposite major gave him a thumbs-up and pointed back in the direction of the entrance.