Zombie D.O.A. Series Five: The Complete Series Five

by JJ Zep

  Charlie wriggled his wrists, working at the bonds that secured his hands behind his back. He and Wackjob had been tied to two tall palms overlooking the fairway. Skye had been led into one of the shacks by a couple of old women, weak but walking under her own steam. That was something, at least. If they managed to get out of here she’d be able to move without being carried. One thing was certain, he wasn’t leaving without her.

  “You getting any play on those ropes, Riley,” he asked Wackjob.

  “Working on it,” Wackjob grunted.

  “Anything?”

  “Sum bitches tie a good knot,” was all Wackjob would say.

  Charlie got back to working on his own bonds. Two hours of wriggling had done little more than chaff through his skin and leave his hands swollen and tender. Still he kept at it. By the length of the shadows, the quality of light reflecting off the lake, he figured it was late afternoon. The bonfire still blazed in the fire pit between the shacks but he had a feeling that the old-timers would soon start breaking it down to embers for cooking.

  A gaggle of filthy, half-naked children burst suddenly from the undergrowth, laughing and shouting in a game of tag. They veered left, made a dash towards Charlie and Wackjob and began circling them, whooping like an Indian war party in one of those old western movies they used to enjoy showing back at Pendleton.

  One of the kids, a boy of about twelve with dirty blond hair and piercing blue eyes, appeared to be the leader of the group. At least, he was the one the others paid heed to. Now he came to a stop in front of Charlie and brought the game to an end with a raised hand.

  The kid was scrawny and pigeon-chested, his dirty jeans rolled over at the waist and fastened with a thick belt, but still hanging from his skinny frame. His face and forearms were caked with grime, his bare chest dotted with acne. Crooked teeth studded his gums. His breath, even at a distance, was rancid.

  The kid glared at Charlie, stuck out his chest like a rooster ready for a fight. “What you looking at?” he spat.

  Behind him the other kids had gathered into a giggling huddle. “Shut the fuck up,” Rooster boy said without turning round. The giggles died down immediately.

  “I asked you a question, dipshit. What the fuck you looking at?” His hand went to his belt, and rested on the handle of a nasty looking hunting knife. Now that Charlie thought about it, all of the kids were packing blades, one even had a small hatchet shoved into his waistband.

  Rooster boy sauntered towards Charlie, drawing his knife as he did. “I’m going to ask one more time,” he said.

  Charlie held his glare and said nothing. He’d seen this kid’s type before, in adult form, spoiling for a fight with someone who couldn’t fight back. The kid was a psychopath. Anything Charlie said was likely to get him riled.

  “You ever killed a man?” the boy said. “I have. Stuck my blade between his ribs and pushed, just so.” He placed the knife against Charlie’s ribcage just below the sternum, piercing the skin. An upward thrust would drive it straight into Charlie’s heart.

  “I could kill you dead, right here.”

  “Hey! You kids!” Charlie held the kid’s glare. “Come away from there!”

  The kid turned away.

  One of the fire tenders was standing at the edge of the village, hands on hips. “Quit bothering the livestock!”

  eleven

  “Here,” Buckland said, pointing to a spot on the map. “Here and here.”

  Jojo leaned in, studying the lay of the land at the points Buckland had pointed out, all of them to the southeast of the base. He traced the forefinger of his bandaged hand along the defense line that jagged along De Luz Road then followed the creek all the was to the Santa Margarita River. The whole thing still seemed fantastic to him, a massed attack on the base by apparently organized Z’s. Who would have anticipated such a thing?

  According to the information he’d been able to piece together, Harrow had launched his assault as planned, quickly overrunning the shantytown. However, during the mopping up operation the shack dwellers had launched a counter attack. Or at least, that was what had at first been assumed, until it became clear that there were Z’s in the perimeter. Then Harrow had sent in his reserve force, together with radio trucks, and driven the Z’s back to the line Buckland was now pointing out on the map. Was the line going to hold? Buckland thought not. Jojo was inclined to agree with him.

  “How many civilian survivors we got?” he asked now.

  “From the shantytown? A few hundred, women and children mainly. About fifteen hundred more from the base.”

  “We need to get them out of here. If those things break through, and in the numbers we’re talking about, they’ll chew right through us.”

  “Not that I’m arguing with you Joe, but where? Where are we going to move them to that will be safe?”

  “Here,” Jojo said, stabbing at the map.

  Buckland leaned in, furrowed his brow. “Oceanside? I don’t understand. We evacuated two months ago, the town’s not even fortified anymore.”

  “True,” Jojo said, “but we’ve still got launches in the marina, plus the fishing fleet. Let’s get as many people offshore as we can. Let’s get them to Catalina.”

  Buckland looked at Jojo, looked down at the map, traced a possible route, mouthing to himself. “Okay mate,” he said eventually. “I can buy that, but Oceanside means heading south, directly towards the Z’s.”

  “Not directly,” Jojo said. “Harrow’s holding southeast, you’ll be heading west, picking up Las Pulgas Canyon then turning south once you hit the I-5 and hugging the coast all the way into Oceanside.”

  “Still a risk if the Z’s break the line and push west. We’ll be driving right into them.”

  Buckland was right, of course. But there weren’t a whole lot of other options. “It’s what we’ve got, Col. We could head north and try to outrun them but we’ll be out of gas and on foot before we hit San Bernardino. Besides we’d be heading straight into Z central and who’s to say whoever or whatever is controlling these things won’t bring others into play. No, I figure we head south and just pray that our old friend Harrow does something right for once and holds the line long enough for us to make our break.”

  Buckland let out a dry chuckle.

  “I say something funny?”

  “No, mate. Just that you keep mentioning Harrow. Harrow and Grunewald lit out of here like their asses were on fire the moment the shit went down. Last seen heading north in that stretch Caddie of his.”

  twelve

  The mindless bass-and-drum beat had been droning on for over an hour. At the fire, demon shapes danced and writhed against a backdrop of flame. Some of the Eaters were half-naked and blood smeared, others dressed in eclectic ensembles that incorporated items crafted from pale leather. Necklaces of desiccated human ears were popular, as were chokers that appeared to comprise both human and animal teeth. To one side, barely concealed in shadow, a couple writhed in the dirt in animalistic sex. Just yards away, a toddler worked at a bone that looked like a femur. A group of boys no older than ten were engaged in a game of soccer, with what looked like a battered human head as the ball. Then there were the roasting pits and Charlie allowed his gaze to rest there just long enough to see the metal spits, two of them, side by side. Giblets of uncertain origin sizzled away in an array of large pans set at the edge of the fire. The smell was horrendous, the reek of backed up toilets and spoiled offal. All of it reminded Charlie of a picture he’d once seen in an art book, a vision of hell by an artist named Bosch.

  He and Wackjob had been brought into the village just after nightfall. A contingent of women and older children had arrived, led by one of the old-timers who had earlier been tending the fire. Charlie had spotted the Rooster boy, armed like all of the others with a long bamboo pike. The group had surrounded him and Wackjob, deadly points directed inward.

  “Them spears is tipped with puffer fish venom,” the old-timer had chuckled. “Seen a man go that way once
. I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  Charlie wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth, but venom or not, there was no way of escaping the cordon of razor sharp points that herded them across the fairway and into the village. There they’d been tethered to a couple of posts, a garrote looped around each of their necks for good measure. Goliath and his crew were nowhere to be seen and Charlie had hoped that the chance to escape might come before they returned to the village. It hadn’t. If anything they were more securely bound now than before.

  “Jesus! Kill me and eat me now to spare my ears from this cruelty,” Wackjob spat. “Ain’t these goddamn savages ever heard of Johnny Cash?”

  Despite their desperate situation, or perhaps because of it, Charlie felt crazy laughter bubbling to the surface. He choked it back. Now was not the time to flip out. He had to stay calm and wait. A chance would come. He had to believe that. When it did, he had to be ready.

  A flurry of movement attracted his eye to the other side of the fire where a group of Eaters was manhandling something from one of the shacks. Charlie saw what it was, a large cube of dark timber, apparently heavy. A trio of scrawny women dragged the butcher’s block around the edge of the fire and set it up in front of where Charlie and Wackjob were tethered. Then a couple of kids laid out an array of cutlery on the block, a machete, a cleaver, a large meat-fork, an array of nasty-looking knives.

  The music suddenly fell silent. The Eaters, whatever they’d been doing earlier, stopped and formed themselves as if by magic into a tight half circle. Firelight reflected off their faces. The only sound was the crackle and spit of the fire, the sizzle of the pans. One of the old men stepped forward, inspected the arrangement of knives and selected one. He ran the pad of his thumb along the blade and gave a dissatisfied grunt. Then he reached for a grindstone and began running the knife along it in a series of practiced sweeps.

  thirteen

  Jojo made his way through the milling crowds, hobbling only slightly. His leg had been stitched and bandaged, his blistered hand smothered in anti-septic cream and wrapped in gauze. A few aspirin had taken the edge off the pain. He’d declined anything stronger. There was work to be done. He needed to keep his wits about him.

  In the hours since he’d given the order to evacuate the camp, the place had been alive with activity. Buckland, despite his initial reticence, had quickly sprung into action, somehow pulling together a company of men, sorting them into teams, sending some to roundup survivors, others to track down serviceable vehicles, still others to load up supplies. Now, hours later, a ragtag fleet of military and civilian vehicles was lined up on Pendleton’s main drag in the moonlight, the evacuees waiting impatiently for the order to board.

  Jojo waited for a couple of military transports to trundle past, then crossed the road to the HQ building and picked up the path that led around the side. The main building was in darkness, but Jojo knew the way to the Signals Bunker well enough. He hit a left, walked a few paces to the recessed double doors and pushed through.

  Jojo toggled the light switch at the top of the stairs and got nothing. He’d more or less expected that, but no bother, the radio sets would still have battery power, and the lights from the power dials would give him enough illumination for what he needed to do.

  He shuffled towards the wall and placed his hand against it for guidance. Then he began descending the stairs to the darkened pit of the signals floor. By the time he reached the first landing he could make out the faint glow from the sets. Good. They were still running. That was a start.

  Would he get through, though? On the previous occasions he’d been down here today he’d got nothing but static. Still, he had to try one more time, to get a message to his family in Big Bear Lake, to let them know what was going on down here, to warn them of the threat that might be coming their way. He also needed to speak to Charlie. The Z’s had sprung up out of the southeast. Had they passed through El Centro? Jojo wasn’t sure, but it seemed likely. He needed to know that his brother was safe.

  With the faint light from the radios now guiding him, Jojo arrived at the foot of the stairs. The sets were arranged on three long workbenches, arrayed in groupings of four. He dropped into a chair in front of the nearest radio, twisted the dial and lifted the handset.

  “Big Bear, Big Bear, this is Center over.”

  Nothing.

  “Big Bear, can you hear me? This is Center, over.”

  Nothing.

  Jojo tweaked the dial, tried another channel. This time all he got was the hiss and burp of a bad connection.

  He tried Charlie. “Listening Post Zero, this is Center, over.”

  Silence, followed by a faint, rising swell.

  “Listening Post Zero, this is –”

  “This is Listening Post Zero, over.”

  At first Jojo was too stunned to respond. He hadn’t in truth expected to get through to El Centro, had been certain that the comms, as they were to every location he’d tried, would be down. “Who’s this?” he blurted.

  “This is Corporal Galvin. Who’s this?”

  “This is Major Joseph Collins. Where are you broadcasting from Galvin? Are you in El Centro? Is my brother there with you?”

  The line suddenly went dead then came back with a blast of radio interference that sounded like eggs being nuked on a griddle.

  “Galvin?”

  “Yes sir?”

  “Say again. I missed your last.”

  “I said no, sir. We ain’t in El Centro. The town got overrun by Z’s. We were headed north, drew some friendly fire along I-15. Humvee took a hit. We’ve got casualties, Major. We’re on foot in the middle of a shit storm out here.”

  Jojo felt an icicle of fear creep up his spine. “My brother…Charlie… Lieutenant Collins, is he with you?”

  “That’s a negative, Major. Lieutenant Collins stayed behind to evacuate some civvies. He sent us ahead. I don’t know if he got out or not.”

  Jojo allowed that particular piece of intelligence to sink in. If Charlie had evacuated his men before going to the aid of the civilians it could mean only one thing – that he feared he might not be able to get the civilians out in time. It would be just like Charlie to stay behind, putting his life on the line in pursuit of some lost cause.

  “Major Collins?”

  “I’m here Galvin,” Jojo said, his voice flat in his own ears. An idea suddenly occurred to him. “What’s your location? How come I was able to get through to you?”

  “We’re on the base, about a mile out from you, but I’m not sure we’re going to make it, Major. We’ve got Z’s on our ass. Repeat, we’ve got Z’s on our –”

  Every radio set in the bunker suddenly went dead, throwing the room into blackness.

  “Galvin!” Jojo shouted into the handset. “Galvin, you there?”

  His own voice echoing off the walls was the only reply.

  fourteen

  The old man finished running the knife along the grindstone, tested it against his thumb and this time gave a contented nod. He turned his attention to Wackjob, then to Charlie, sizing up each as though they were sides of beef that needed carving. Evidently, he found Wackjob the more appealing of the two because he stepped in that direction, the knife held against his chest two-handed, like he was some pagan priest, about to perform a ritual sacrifice.

  Charlie struggled against his bonds but it was useless, even the slightest movement drew the garrote tighter around his throat. He strained his head to the left so that he could get a view of Wackjob, tried to call out to his friend but found that his voice wouldn’t respond. The old-timer was standing in front of Wackjob, within touching distance, his eyes fixed on Wackjob’s face.

  “Come on, old man,” Wackjob growled. “I’m good with the Lord. You do your thing. Make it quick.”

  The old man nodded, stepped forward, raised the knife and snipped the buttons one by one from Wackjob’s shirt. Then he parted the shirt, exposing Wackjob’s muscled torso.

  Charlie let out
a strangled cry, thrashed his head left and right, yanked at the ropes holding his hands.

  “That’s okay, boss.” Wackjob’s voice was calm. “I’m ready.”

  The old man reversed the knife, the blade now pointing up. He placed the tip against Wackjob’s chest, at the point just below the sternum. “I do you quick,” he whispered, a tremor in his voice.

  A rattle of 50-mil gunfire perforated the night, causing the Eaters to duck instinctively, eliciting a gasp from them. Another burst of gunfire, small arms this time. Charlie saw tracer arc across the lake, and heard the sound of engines revving. Headlights appeared, bucking wildly as the vehicles raced across uneven ground. For a moment Charlie thought that they were going to crash right through the village but then they came skidding to a halt in an expulsion of dust and diesel fumes. Engines were cut, doors slammed, voices raised in whoops of triumph. Charlie could make out the distinctive sloping rear of a Humvee, the chrome roll bar of one of the pickups. Everything else was obscured from view by the shacks.

  “No! Don’t do this!” a panicked voice yelled. “Let’s talk about this!”

  “Sure,” Goliath’s half amused voice came back. “Let’s talk over dinner.”

  A babble of excited cries erupted from the Eaters. They turned and rushed from the fireside to greet the new arrivals. Charlie and Wackjob were suddenly alone. Even the old man who’d been about to plunge the knife into Wackjob’s chest had wandered off and now stood some thirty feet away, staring into the dark.

  “Riley,” Charlie whispered. You okay?”