Stone Soldiers 6: Armageddon Z

by C. E. Martin

  Bright green light flared where the Colonel's hand touched the mold-covered flesh of the creature's neck. Surprise showed in its one, blood-shot eye. The other eye, as well as half if its face, was covered in a fuzzy growth of mold. It snapped its jaws open and shut and clawed at Kenslir's hand, trying to free itself from his vice-like grip.

  The Colonel jerked the creature by the neck, severing the spine as bones splintered. But it still continued to snap and hiss.

  In one fluid movement, Kenslir reached back, drew a Bowie knife from a back sheath and sliced through the creature's neck, just above his hand. The head flopped off, bouncing along the floor.

  Surprisingly, the body continued to struggle against him, yet no blood poured from the cleanly-sliced stump of its neck.

  He pushed the struggling body backwards, toward the open door of the apartment. He shoved it inside, giving it a quick kick to one kneecap that splintered bone and bent the limb backwards. Then he released his grip and closed the door as the headless body fell to the floor.

  Kenslir crossed to the creature's head, which was laying on one side, regarding him evilly with its one, almost-good eye. Some blood leaked from the stump of its neck. The jaws opened and closed, snapping at him.

  The Colonel waved for the family to come up the stairs, then dug a garbage bag out of a pouch on his vest. He scooped the half-molded head up, noticing that again, where he touched the creature, green light flared. He dropped the head into the bag, the green light winking out when he broke contact with it.

  "What was that?" the father asked.

  Kenslir spun the bag shut, then tied it off. "Let's get you to the roof—helicopter's almost here."

  The family continued on quietly, entering the stairwell at the end of the hall and finally emerging out onto the rooftop. Sure enough, they could hear the approach of a helicopter.

  Kenslir pulled a long steel spike from a pocket on his vest and drove it into the door leading from the stairwell—through the door and frame, nailing it shut.

  "Who are you?"the mother asked, still holding her son's hand.

  "Are you a super hero?" the boy asked, eyes wide.

  From the street, Kenslir could hear more banshee-like screams from the reanimated. They were converging on the apartment building. He crossed to the edge of the roof and looked over. In every direction, the reanimated were sprinting toward them. Kenslir estimated there to be at least four dozen. The tactical goggles quickly counted them and confirmed the number.

  The helicopter, a twin-rotored CH-47 Chinook came in close to the rooftop, swinging around so the lowered rear ramp was just above the edge of the roof. The pilot expertly eased the huge helicopter back, the ramp just scraping the rooftop. Kenslir helped the small family quickly board. Still carrying the head in the bag, he finally boarded as well.

  Kenslir handed the bagged head to a Marine in the back of the helicopter as it lifted back into the sky and thundered away. "Take this to the CDC tent at the staging area."

  "You aren't going with us?" the Marine asked, accepting the bag. They had to yell over the roar of the rotors.

  "You can drop me off deeper in the city—there might be more survivors."

  CHAPTER NINE

  OUTBREAK, DAY 7

  Three figures clad in black drifted down from the pre-dawn sky, held aloft by wide rectangles of dark gray. Two of the men touched down slightly on the rooftop, boots crunching in the gravel as they walked to a stop and their parachutes settled down behind them. The third turned an ankle on landing and went down with a crash. Snaking out a hand he tried to catch himself on a nearby air conditioner. The unit crumpled under his superhuman strength.

  Colonel Chad Phillips frowned as he watched Victor Hornbeck's parachute drift over and cover him and the air conditioner up. Victor definitely need more jumps. He was lucky he even made it onto the roof.

  "Hey," Colonel Kenslir said, almost in Phillips' ear.

  Phillips nearly jumped out of his gray, stone skin, and whirled around suddenly. "Dammit, don't do that!"

  The two men stood for a second, regarding each other, Kenslir nearly a head taller than the gray, stone-faced man who had had just parachuted in.

  "This is bad, isn't it?" Phillips asked. Once again, he was glad he'd decided to become petrified. If he hadn't, he'd probably be one of the reanimated now—shuffling along, trying to kill as many people as he could.

  Kenslir nodded, looking past Phillips as the newest stone soldier, Jacobson, was helping Victor get out from under his parachute. "Let's just hope we find some answers here."

  Phillips handed over a backpack he had worn strapped to his chest on the ride down. "Here—I figured you might need a reload."

  Kenslir took the backpack and slipped it on, hearing the telltale rattling of the UMP magazines he knew were inside. He'd discarded his own backpack some time before—using up nearly all of the ammunition he'd brought along for this mission. He guessed from the weight there were at least thirty magazines crammed into the bag. That was a lot better than the six he was down to on his leg carrier.

  Once the new arrivals had their parachutes stowed, Phillips, Victor and Jacobson checked their silenced M4 rifles and gave a thumbs up. Each of the stone men were dressed like Kenslir—all in black, with combat vests and belt pouches bulging with ammunition and gear.

  The four men lined up outside a door leading down into the mall-like building they had parachuted onto. As always, Kenslir used his superhuman strength to effortlessly twist off the locked handle. He swung the door inwards with one hand, his other aiming his silenced UMP down the stairs leading to the upper level of the convention center.

  >>>WE'RE HUNTING CLUES, NOT CLEANING UP, GENTLEMEN<<< he cybernetically typed into the Tactical Targeting Visor he wore. Unlike the stone soldiers, his skin could conduct electrical impulses into the pickups built into the tactical goggles. It allowed him a hands-free, cybernetic control of the device.

  With careful precision, the men filed down the stairs, alert to any sign of danger. Directly behind Kenslir was Victor Hornbeck, followed by Isaac Jacobson, with Colonel Phillips bringing up the rear.

  At the bottom of the stairs, they passed through another door, out into the upper level of the convention center. It was a surreal scene—the chaotic aftermath of a disaster, sprinkled with Christmas magic.

  This weekend was supposed to have been a Christmas show at the convention center. An event marked with vendors and attractions crammed into the huge center to kick off the Christmas season in grand fashion. When the outbreak began in St. Louis, the event organizers had pressed on, hoping it would pass. Tables were put out, booths set up. But by the weekend, five days into the outbreak, there was no one left in the city to come.

  Kenslir waved a hand to the right. "Chad, you and Isaac hit the security office. Vic and I will head into the stadium. Comms are open."

  On each soldier's head up display, way points and illuminated path markers appeared, showing the way to their destinations in their augmented view of reality. The soldiers all nodded, and headed off.

  ***

  So far, the convention center had turned out to be deserted. Plastic elves and reindeer were in abundance, but there was no sign of human or undead. That changed when Kenslir and his young subordinate crossed over from the convention center into the adjoining football stadium.

  The stadium was mostly empty, its sixty-thousand visitors had gone home a week ago, taking the fungal plague with them to St. Louis, Chicago and points beyond. But the huge Dome employed a massive staff to keep it running. And they all appeared to be gathered on the main field.

  Kenslir waited a second as the computers back in Florida monitored his video feed and quickly counted the still creatures on the field. The count was just over fifty. Fifty mold-covered, shriveled corpses standing in a group, eerily quiet. Waiting.

  Kenslir held up a hand, to keep Victor back.

  >>>THEY CAN'T SEE ME. HOLD BACK. I'M GOING TO SEE WHAT THEY'RE UP TO<<<


  Victor nodded, crouching down just inside the stadium, behind a row of nearby seats, his rifle at the ready. As he watched the Colonel make his way down to the field, he reached out and pressed a stone hand to the nearest seat.

  The psychic impressions washed over him in waves—residue from the countless people that had come to sporting events in the stadium, filled with strong emotions that remained long after they departed.

  Victor concentrated on the latest images and feelings. From the post-Thanksgiving game on November 24th.

  Reality shifted for the petrified psychic. He was seeing the stadium through someone else's eyes now—looking out from the stands as the home team took the field. The Dome was packed for the game against the Bears, with cheering fans from both teams filling the seats with thundering applause and cheers.

  Overhead, the scoreboards flashed and pulsed, displaying images of the field. Then the roof of the dome itself seemed to explode, raining down confetti and glitter and fireworks. The scoreboards flashed with the name of the game's sponsor: Gr33ng34r.

  Victor shook off the vision and pulled his hand back, returning his consciousness to reality. "Colonel, I think it was air delivered—from the roof."

  Down on the field, Kenslir frowned.

  >>>QUIET.<<<

  He crept closer to the swaying zombies, moving with quiet stealth born of decades of practice. The eye sockets of the green and yellow creatures were sunken in now, and the monsters relied on a sixth sense to sense the world around them. A sense that could not detect the Colonel thanks to his born ability to resist the supernatural and paranormal. He was an unseen ghost among the undead.

  These zombies were some of the most far-gone he'd yet seen in the city. Their flesh was shriveled and drawn up like raisins, the clothes they'd worn in life hanging loosely on their frames. Nearly all the moisture in their cells, all the blood in their veins, had been used by the fungal mass compacted under skin that was drawn tight like thin leather.

  The creatures could barely stand, their muscles withering away with every passing second. They couldn't last much longer in this state. Soon the contaminated flesh would fail from lack of water and the creatures would collapse to the ground—their fungal guts breaking out and turning into misshapen masses that would release thousands and thousands more spores every day.

  Until then, though, they appeared to be waiting. Kenslir couldn't figure out what for. Or why they were waiting together. Every one of the Stage Threes he'd seen so far had been scattered around the city, somehow empathically linked to the Stage Twos that roamed around like foot soldiers.

  The Colonel moved deeper into the silent mob, carefully weaving between them, avoiding any contact and making no sound. At last, he reached the center, and was shocked by what he saw.

  "It's a trap!" Kenslir yelled.

  ***

  The convention center was eerily quiet. The echoes of their boots on the tiled floors seemed to carry much further than Chad Phillips could ever remember having happened before. Worse, the oversized snowflakes hanging from the ceilings and the Christmas trees every few feet were flooding him with memories.

  Phillips had served his country a long time as a man of flesh and blood. Then he'd retired and had a family. Christmas had always been a favorite part of the Colonel's family time. Helping orphans and the poor, even dressing as Santa and Mrs. Claus, Philips and his wife had been dedicated to the holiday.

  But Mrs. Phillips had died nearly twenty years ago. Now the holidays were a mix of nostalgia and sadness for the petrified man. Even with his heart turned to stone, he still felt pangs of emotion.

  It was a distraction he had to push aside and concentrate on the mission.

  "Here," Isaac Jacobson said, nodding at the door to the security offices. The young SEAL had proven himself to be skilled, and quietly followed orders unlike some of the other new stone soldiers. But Phillips still didn't really know that much about him.

  "Wait!" Phillips hissed as Jacobson reached for the door knob into the office. Something didn't feel right.

  Phillips had been on many missions in his career. He had learned to trust his instincts. And even petrified, his gut was telling him something was wrong.

  Phillips turned and looked up and down the long, tiled hallway of the first floor again. They'd crept along it to reach the security office, noticing nothing but Christmas decorations.

  He couldn't put his finger on it, but something definitely wasn't right.

  Phillips moved beside the door, then suddenly drive his fist through the wall at eye level.

  Plaster and concrete parted before his stone knuckles, and the stone Colonel quickly pulled his hand free. He pressed his face against the fist-sized hole and looked inside, then whistled.

  "It's wired!"

  Inside the small office were barrels of what he guessed were fuel, grenades and claymore mines duct taped to them. There was enough explosives to level a large part of the building.

  Phillips didn't get long to study the trap through his improvised peephole, though. In the stillness of the hallway, there now came scraping noises. From all around them.

  Jacobson and Phillips turned and looked around them, and saw doors opening.

  Every single doorway, from maintenance closets, to the entrances to the large exhibitor halls were pushing open—moved by hands turned green and yellow.

  The undead came slowly shuffling out from these doorways—dozens and dozens. With maybe hundreds more behind them.

  Phillips knew the monsters were no threat to him and Jacobson. The stone men could not be infected. Nor did the slowly-moving, atrophied husks of humanity possess the strength to even scratch their stone bodies.

  But these undead had a little something extra. They were armed. And any mental questions of what they could be up to vanished when the first of the moldy beasts raised a machine gun and began firing.

  The National Guard had come to St. Louis early on in the outbreak. They'd raced into the city to fight what they thought were just strangely large mobs of rioters. Instead, they'd suffered tremendous casualties. The surviving forces had quickly retreated—leaving behind fallen comrades with plenty of weapons and gear.

  As the first hail of bullets slashed harmlessly against Phillips, the convention center shook violently. Somewhere nearby, something big had just exploded.

  CHAPTER TEN

  In the split second before it detonated, Mark Kenslir was able to register what kind of bomb the monsters had been concealing with their bodies. It was a hastily constructed device, made from three 55-Gallon drums, around which were taped a dozen Claymore antipersonnel mines. No doubt brought into the city by an overzealous National Guard that was no match for the undead.

  The explosives erupted with earth-shaking force, throwing out fire and small ball bearings in every direction. Kenslir and the fifty-odd zombies near it were blown off their feet.

  High in the stands, Victor Hornbeck was completely taken by surprise. He flinched reflexively as the stadium shook and shrapnel went into the stands. After a moment of stunned surprise, he leapt to his feet as a fire ball rose up into the air, churning and turning to black smoke.

  He was already running down the stands, toward the field when the smoke cleared. He saw the huge crater in the center of the field, and the black scorch marks from the blast radiating out around it. Burning pieces of the undead were scattered everywhere—some having been blown up into the stands.

  A lone figure lay on the field, hurled a dozen feet back. Colonel Kenslir, his body now charred all black, like his torn clothing.

  By the time Victor reached him, the Colonel was starting to sit up.

  "Sir?!" Victor said excitedly, not knowing what to do. Kenslir's face was torn and blackened, his teeth showing through on one side. His uniform had remained mostly intact, with the exception of great rips and holes here and there—evidence of projectiles from the blast tearing into him. His tactical goggles were gone—no doubt blown to pieces.

 
; Kenslir held up a finger, indicating Victor needed to wait a moment. He pointed to his ears. His ear drums had been blown out by the blast that should have torn him limb from limb.

  Kenslir put hand down on the ground and pushed off, rising slowly. Victor could see the gray stone of the Colonel's hand was turning flesh tone again as his many curses worked to repair the brutal damage of the explosion.

  "Got any water on you?" Kenslir croaked, his voice raspy.

  An ALERT warning flashed across Victor's field of view, and a square panel sprang up in the air, showing the concerned face of Major Campbell in Florida.

  "Phillips and Jacobson are under attack!" the Major snapped. "I've got air support on the way!"

  "Yes, sir," Victor said.

  "Zeus and Jacob are in trouble," Victor said, helping the Colonel.

  Kenslir was already limping toward the stands. Even with his curses working, he looked to be pretty badly injured. The stone of his face hadn't even closed up around his exposed teeth yet.

  "Well, let's go help," Kenslir said. Then he seemed to notice something off to the side.

  Kenslir shook off Victor's help and limped over to a metal canister laying on the ground. It wasn't marred by the blast. It was long, several feet, and made of shiny aluminum. One end was open.

  When the Colonel touched the canister with his hand, a green glow was visible. Stamped on the side of the canister was one word: Gr33ng34r.

  "What is that?" Victor asked.

  Kenslir looked up at the roof of the dome. "I think the blast knocked it loose." He sniffed at the open end of the tube.

  "Spores."

  ***

  The undead were concentrating their combined fire on the two stone soldiers with little effect. Even peppered with thousands of high-velocity bullets, the petrified men were unharmed. That was the point of the petrification, after all—to create more durable soldiers.

  Similarly, Phillips and Jacobson found their return fire equally ineffective. Their carefully placed shots split mold-filled heads—sending out sprays of yellow spores into the air. But despite the tops of their heads removed by the precision shots, the reanimated dead continued to return fire, unphased. They didn't need brains or eyes.