by JE Gurley
“Planning on shooting somebody?” Anson asked as he noticed Marino’s tight grip on the AK.
“Just being safe,” Marino replied.
“Well, just don’t shoot me in the ass,” Anson warned.
Back outside, Marino noticed the door to the garage open and a light was shining inside. He pointed it out to Anson. Cautiously they approached the metal building. Peering in from the door, Marino saw an electric torch on a workbench, casting a feeble glow across one end of the cavernous room. Another corpse sat on the floor with its back against the workbench. Marino walked over to it, leaned over, and examined the body closely. A ragged wound in the chest that bisected the heart appeared to be the cause of death. An electric jigsaw lay on the floor beside the body. Frozen blood stained the blade and the floor around it.
“It looks as if he used the jigsaw on himself,” Marino observed. “Did he go mad and commit suicide?”
As he stared at the corpse, the eyes popped opened. Marino jumped back in fright as the body tried to rise, reaching out for him with one arm. The other lay frozen to the floor in a puddle of blood.
“He’s not dead!” he yelled.
Anson stood above the man, staring down at him, his face emotionless. “Of course he is,” he said. “His heart is sliced in half.”
“But, but . . .” Marino could not understand what was happening.
Anson yanked the Ak-47 from Marino’s trembling hands and shot the man in the leg. Oblivious to the wound, the man remained intent on reaching him or Marino. “See. He feels nothing.” Anson prodded the open wound in the man’s chest with the barrel of the rifle. “He’s not even breathing.”
Marino looked closer and saw that Anson was correct. “How?”
Anson shot the moving corpse in the head. Congealed blood and brains splattered the workbench. The corpse fell over and lay still. There was none of the steam rising from the wound, as one would have expected from a freshly dead body.
“He was a zombie.”
“A zombie?” Marino almost choked on his words. “Are you joking?” He was a little startled at his friend’s macabre sense of humor. “Where do you think we are, Haiti?”
Anson turned to him scowling. “Do I look like I’m joking? You saw those men in there. Something ripped them to pieces and ate parts of them. You saw the teeth marks. What do you think caused them?”
“An animal?” Marino ventured.
“Here? What animal do you think it was? A mad penguin? No, I don’t know what’s going on, but I know what I see. Zombies killed and ate these dead men, and like this one, slowly froze to death. We have to get to Casey as quickly as possible. We’ll take one of the Russian tractors. It’s got living quarters and we don’t know what we’ll find once we reach the coast.”
Marino nodded, his eyes still drawn to the now most certainly dead zombie. He backed out of the garage.
The Russian Kharkovchanka tractor was over four meters wide and ten meters long. Powered by a 520 horsepower V-12 diesel engine, its long tracked wheels provided traction and stability for travel over snow and ice. Compartmentalized into kitchen, bath, sleeping quarters and driver’s cabin, it was a travelling Winnebago with all the comforts of home, a decided step up from their cramped Sno-Cat. Marino was especially fond of the heater. He was able to strip down to the comfort of his inner garments and cook a hot meal on the stove while Anson drove.
“I hope you like potato soup and some kind of beef,” he called out to Anson. “The cupboard is full of it.”
Anson had been especially reticent since leaving the Russian base. Marino had left him alone in his reverie. “Is it hot?” he asked.
“Yes, steaming,” Marino answered.
“Put my soup in a mug and I’ll drink it while I drive.”
Marino handed him the mug and a slice of beef folded into a chunk of black bread. “You didn’t seem surprised about the zombies. What’s up with that?”
Anson didn’t take his eyes from the track they followed, but Marino could see his partner’s haunted eyes reflected in the windscreen.
“A couple of years ago, I heard a rumor about the walking dead while I was in Brisbane. Some American nuclear sub had made a Mayday call and an Australian destroyer, the HMS Vendetta, deployed to intercept it. A sailor on the destroyer claimed the crew of the Yank sub was dead, but still moved; attacking the destroyer’s boarding party. They sank the sub with their guns and escaped, but later the destroyer crew began to get sick and die. Hours after dying, they awoke as zombies.
“I had a mate on the destroyer, a medical officer. He told me only thirty-five men survived. The authorities clamped down on the rumors and threatened the crew with court marshal if they spoke out. The story, with a little urging from on high, fell out of the press and was forgotten, but I always wondered how much of it was true.”
Marino’s guts rumbled. “This is the gospel truth?”
Anson nodded.
“My God! The Navy Department told us that the sub was lost at sea with all hands. No wreckage was ever located.”
“Your government would say that, wouldn’t they? Just another one of their black ops gone awry.”
Marino started to offer up a defense for his country, but stopped himself. He often felt the same way about the government as Anson did. He had no doubt that they were capable of lying to the American public.
“But it didn’t end there?” he ventured.
Anson nodded and answered, “I had assumed it had, but I guess I was wrong.”
“What do you think we’ll find at Casey?”
Anson hesitated before answering. “More of the same, I’m afraid, but maybe we can find a way off the continent.”
“To Australia?” Marino wondered about the US. Were zombies wandering the streets of Tucson?
“There or New Zealand,” Anson continued. “If we can find an airplane, I can pilot well enough to get us there. One thing you should be aware of; I’ve only flown small planes. We’ll need a big one with lots of range and large fuel tanks. Landing will be dicey, but I figure it’s better than sitting here on this block of ice waiting for help that might not come.”
“What about the helicopter back at Vostok?” Marino suggested.
“That big bloody Kamov Ka-27 Helix?” Anson hissed. “I don’t know anything about helicopters, especially Russian military behemoths like that one. No, mate, if I’m going to die, it won’t be falling out of the sky in a helicopter.”
Marino could not see the difference between crashing in a helicopter and an airplane, but he didn’t bother to point this out to Anson. He was not the one going to fly it. Anson was, so his choice ruled.
Casey was almost 1400 kilometers from Vostok. At 60 kph, it would take them about twenty-four hours to reach the base. As the terrain grew more rugged, they would have to reduce speed to 40 kph. That would add another 8-10 hours. The Russian Kharkovchanka was much more comfortable than the smaller Sno-Cat and rode smoother. Marino crawled into a bunk and let the gentle swaying of the vehicle lull him to sleep. He awoke four hours later and relieved Anson at the controls. He tried the radio several times, but picked up nothing but static. He tried not to let his mind dwell on what they might find when they arrived at Casey, but it was difficult. What if the zombie plague had spread across the whole of Antarctica? No place would be safe. The ominous silence of the bases lent credence to his fears. Casey would be minimally staffed. Most of those not hardy enough to endure the winter weather had returned home. It took a special breed of people, like Anson, to remain through an Antarctic winter when the nights were long and the days short.
Like most, Marino had come to Antarctica for the one season of research with the Aussies as a learning experience for his own studies on Saharan dust dispersion in the Arctic. The Antarctic was an excellent place to train for working on ice; better accommodations, more experienced personnel to learn from and a great way to acclimate himself to the more frigid Antarctic temperatures. Because of the higher elevations of th
e Antarctic Ice Shield at almost three kilometers and Circumpolar Current of the Southern Ocean, Antarctica remained far colder much of the year, than the Arctic surrounded by the warmer waters of the Arctic Sea. He was due to return to Tucson in two weeks. Now, he had his doubts that he would meet his schedule.
Ahead, just at the edge of the headlights, a glint of reflection caught Marino’s attention. As he slowed, he saw that it was a snowmobile, tipped over on its side. He wondered why a snowmobile would be so far out onto the ice. He yelled into the back to awaken Anson. Anson came up front wearing his full outside gear and carried a second AK-47 cradled in his arms. Marino hadn’t seen his friend take the rifle, but applauded his foresight.
“I it saw through the side window,” he said. “If it’s from Casey, it’s at the extreme range of its limit.”
“Can there be anyone alive?” Marino asked.
Anson scratched his chin. “Maybe.” He started for the door, but Marino stopped him.
“Be careful.”
Marino watched Anson search around the overturned snowmobile. Then Anson headed away from the snowmobile into the darkness. A few minutes later, Marino heard a short burst from the AK, three quick shots. He was donning his parka when Anson reappeared and came back inside.
“What happened?” Marino asked almost breathless.
Anson’s face was grim as he answered. “It was Billings from Casey, Tom Billings. He had turned and was just lying there freezing. I shot him.” He looked at Marino as if challenging his decision. “He must have been bitten and tried to make Vostok on the snowmobile, an impossible task. He turned into a zombie along the trail and crashed.”
“I’m sorry.” Marino knew Billings, an affable mechanic from Adelaide. He remembered the zombie at Vostok and was glad he had not seen him.
Anson nodded. “I’ll drive a while. I can’t sleep anyway.”
Marino started to argue but thought better of it when he saw the guilt on Anson’s face.
“You had no other choice,” he said.
“It didn’t make pulling the trigger any easier. I’ve eaten dinner with his wife and two kids.” Anson took the driver’s seat and started the Kharkovchanka. Marino went into the back and sat down, staring off into the darkness as the big rig sped into the long night.
6
Aug. 28, 2013 Coober Pedy, Australia
Alex Nelson prowled through the deserted, ransacked market, his only light from the electric torch he carried. The only bodies he saw were long dead, three or four weeks. The smell was horrendous. He tried to ignore the long smears of blood on the tile floor, wondering if Bill Saxby, the owner, had left one of them. Saxby had been a retired factory worker from Perth. He had moved to Coober Pedy and opened a small convenience mart just have people to talk to. He was friendly and always had a story to tell. Alex wondered what Saxby would have to say about this plague of zombies.
Several display racks were overturned and the floor littered with crushed tins, boxes and rotten vegetables. Earlier waves of looters had cleared most of the foodstuffs from the shelves, but Alex managed to find two cases of bottled water, six tins of soup, three tins of sterno and a bag of potato crisps. He carried these to the jeep and went back inside for more. He ignored the piles of worthless cash strewn across the floor. As an opal miner, he had never had much cash and needed none now. In a storeroom, he found a case of toilet paper, a royal find, and a first-aid kit to add to his growing hoard of medical supplies. There were no more doctors if he fell ill or injured himself. Satisfied he would find nothing else useful, he returned to his jeep. Two men were standing beside it, illuminated by the pale moon.
One of the men, tall, thin with a scraggly beard, and unkempt red hair beneath a grimy straw cowboy hat, stood at the rear of the jeep. A Smith and Wesson .357 pistol handle protruded from the waist of his trousers. Alex suspected its original owner had been a Coober Pedy policeman. The second one, shorter, pot bellied and bald, stood on the driver’s side. He held a pump shotgun loosely in his hands. Both weapons had probably come from a police patrol car. The two had the look of troublemakers, and Alex immediately assumed that the pair was two of the three low-lifes of which he had seen signs, and hoped he only had these two to deal with.
“G’day, mate,” the bald one said. “Nice haul you made.” His gaunt companion chuckled.
Alex nodded. “Pickins are slim.”
“Me and Ernie’s been beddin’ down the street a ways. You holed up nearby?”
“Close enough, I suppose.”
“How about a ride?” he asked, smiling. “Our lorry ran out of petrol.” Alex noticed the way the man’s eyes strayed to the two containers of spare petrol in the back of the Jeep. He also noticed the sneer on the face of his skinny friend.
“Sure. Drop your shotgun in the back and hop in.”
The bald man dropped his smile instead and gripped his rifle tighter. “I think I’ll hold onto it.”
Alex hesitated, and then said, “Suit yourself.” As he took a step toward the jeep, the skinny one at the rear of the jeep reached for his pistol. Alex swung his rifle up and shot him square in the chest. As he fell, Alex swung back to the bald man, who had his shotgun leveled, but not quite pointing at Alex. He stopped as Alex’s rifle centered on his chest.
“Whoa, mate! No call for that. Me and Ernie meant no harm.”
“I’ve seen what you and your friends have done around here,” Alex said coldly. “I tried to stay out of your way. Now, drop the shotgun now and walk away from here.”
“Sure thing, mate.”
The shotgun dipped as if he meant to drop it on the ground, then shot up again as he tried to draw a bead on Alex. Alex had anticipated just such a move and fired first. The .338 tore through the bald man’s throat almost severing his head. A geyser of blood spewed blood across the hood of the Jeep. He fell gasping, a look of surprise on his bloody face, clutching uselessly at his ruined throat. As Alex watched, the fat man died.
Alex took a deep breath and released it slowly. He had killed men before, in Afghanistan, but these two were different. They looked like him. He might even have drunk a beer with them before; he couldn’t remember. It was more difficult to define them as the enemy, although he knew either one would have gladly killed him without such qualms. Oddly, he felt no guilt over or remorse for killing them, no more than when he put down a zombie. They deserved death if any of the thirty-five hundred inhabitants of Coober Pedy did. They were the worst kind of predators, preying on the living. In Alex’s opinion, they were the lowest, vilest form of life. Still, they had been human, maybe two of the last of their kind. He muttered a quick prayer over their bodies, picked up the bald one’s shotgun, an old Remington 870 pump-action, tossed it in the back and cranked the jeep. As usual, the sound of the shots had brought zombies to investigate. Several were already shuffling toward the fresh meat he had provided for them. He wished them a hearty meal. Scum such as the two predators he had just killed deserved little consideration. In many ways, he preferred the zombies to them. At least, the zombies had no choice in the matter. They killed to eat.
Still high on adrenalin from the close encounter and driving a little too fast, he didn’t notice the girl as she stepped into the road right in front of him. He slammed on the brakes, swerved the jeep, and went into a tailspin in the loose gravel shoulder, almost rolling the jeep. He stopped and looked back. The girl was lying beside the road. Cursing under his breath, he picked up his rifle and walked back to her to put her out of her misery.
He aimed the rifle at her head and slowly squeezed the trigger. She looked up at him.
“Help me,” she moaned.
He held the rifle on her with one hand, rolled her over roughly and examined her for bite marks. She realized what he was doing and did not resist.
“No bites,” she whispered through parched lips. “Thirsty.”
He observed her blistered face; then saw her cut and bloody feet protruding from a pair of ragged sneakers and realized she
had walked out of the desert. He rushed back to the jeep, grabbed his canteen and, holding her head up, and dribbled water down her throat.
“Not too much or you’ll puke it back up,” he warned, as she grabbed frantically for the canteen. As she drank, he looked her over. She was about twenty, short brown hair, brown eyes and somewhat thin, but that could be from starvation. Beneath the dirt and blisters, she had sun coppered skin, tough but not leathery, as if she spent a lot of time outdoors.
“Where are you from?”
“My father and I have a house out in the desert about twenty miles out. Underground. We holed up when the troubles came, but we ran out of food and water. We tried to make it here on foot. My father had a bad heart so he didn’t make it. I buried him out there.” She broke down and began dry sobbing. Her body no longer contained the moisture for tears.
“We’re too exposed here. I’ll take you to my place until you recover. Wait here. I’ll fetch the jeep.”
He pulled the jeep up beside her. She was sitting up. He helped her into the passenger seat. She swooned as soon as she was in the jeep. He managed to get her up the rope lift, into the second story window and onto his cot without awakening her. He sat and stared at her for a while. He was eager for company, but did not want the responsibility of another mouth to feed. He had always been a loner and had few social skills, but he knew he could not turn her away.
Alex filled a pan with soapy water and scrubbed her face, arms, feet and legs. Her feet were in especially horrid condition, both blistered and bearing deep lacerations. He wondered how she had managed to walk on them at all. She was still dead to the world and did not move as he cleansed her wounds. He looked at her lying there, with her small breasts pushing at her once blue, but now filthy ragged top, and fought down a twinge of lust, followed by shame. He pushed it aside and set down the pan of water and washcloth. She could attend to the rest later, after she recovered. He was shocked to see that she was rather pretty beneath the dirt and grime. Gently, he rubbed some aloe gel on her blisters, and antiseptic ointment on her cuts.