by JE Gurley
The office had a working toilet, for which she was grateful, but now she was afraid of the water for drinking. What if it was contaminated? From now on, both she and Tomas would drink only bottled water. A two-day-old copy of the El Nuevo Herald, a Spanish-language newspaper, did little to explain what was happening. The headlines decried ‘Los Ultimas Dias’, the Last Days. One article devoted two paragraphs to quotes from the Public Health Service stating that an ‘unknown’ disease was spreading through the city and that officials were concerned. A quick scan of the articles revealed that people all over the country were going insane with Miami being at the center of it all. The police could not stop the crazy ones, so the army had arrived and declared Martial Law. There was a six p.m. curfew and people were advised to stay indoors. There was no mention of where to go or when help might arrive.
Twice she heard more gunfire and occasionally a passing vehicle. She napped, fed and changed Tomas with one of the few remaining diapers, and waited. The light slowly faded from the tiny barred window high on the office wall and the room darkened. She found a flashlight but sat in the dark, alternately crying and praying. A noise from inside the store startled her. Was it one of the creatures or someone seeking shelter as she had? The person stopped outside the office door as she held her breath. From the sniffing and loud, gasping breathing, she assumed it was one of the creatures. After a few moments, it moved on. Breaking glass and overturned shelves marked the creature’s path through the store and back outside.
Several times people or creatures passed down the alley beyond the office but didn’t stop. Once, deep into the night, she heard a woman screaming nearby. The scream ended abruptly. This, more than anything else, brought the reality of the situation home to her. People were dying, maybe thousands of people. Things would not get better any time soon. In fact, they could become much worse. She could not depend on the kindness of others or wait for her husband’s return. Her child’s safety was her responsibility. If she and Tomas were to survive, she would have to find a means to defend herself.
She searched the office and found the storeowner’s revolver and a box of .25 caliber ammunition hidden in the bottom of a drawer. She had never fired a gun, but if the same rage she had felt while killing the creature with the baseball bat overcame her, she knew she could use one. The small pistol felt heavy in her hand as she held it out experimentally, closing one eye to sight down the barrel as she had seen in the movies. The pistol had a safety catch on the side. She removed the bullets for safety and tested it, to determine which position locked the pistol and which allowed her to shoot. Then she reloaded it and laid it on the desk in front of her.
Now, she was ready.
8
July 5, MIA, Miami, FL –
Freshly showered, shaved, and dressed in a set of new skivvies and borrowed army fatigues slightly too large for his lean frame, Kyle felt like a new man. He hand-washed his shirt, underwear, socks and pants in the sink, and hung them over the shower curtain bar to dry. He appreciated the use of the uniform, but he had been a cop too long to be mistaken for military. Ginson had informed him that the hotel gift shop might have clothing to fit him. If not, he could check out one of the duty free shops in the airport.
Chow was served buffet style with a long row of chafing dishes brimming with fried chicken, baked fish in a lemon butter sauce, two kinds of potatoes, steamed vegetables, a roast beef carving station, and trays of deserts. He was amused to see soldiers pulling down their masks just long enough to shovel food into their mouths, and then replace them. The general’s warning had quickly spread throughout the ranks. Kyle was hungry, but eager to return to the hangar. Ginson had advised him that he was leaving at 1900 hours sharp. He checked his watch – 6:30, 1830 hours in Military time. He didn’t have time for a sit-down meal. Picking up two slices of rye from a stack of bread, he had the chef carve off a thick piece of medium rare beef. He spread a combination of horseradish and mayonnaise on the bread, added lettuce, slices of tomato, and wrapped it to go.
He arrived at the dock, but instead of loading the Humvee for the return trip, Ginson and his men were performing a weapons check.
“What’s up?”
“Trouble,” Ginson growled. “A mob broke through the perimeter headed for the parking garage.”
“How many?”
Ginson shrugged. “Thirty or forty. Enough to be a problem.”
Kyle didn’t want any part of a gun battle with fungus heads. He wanted to return to the hangar and Marli, but Ginson needed help. He sighed; unslung the shotgun he had been carrying around, and pumped it to load a shell in the chamber. “I’ll help.”
“It’s your funeral. A squad from Fox Company is supposed to meet us there.”
“Bunch of pansy-assed slackers,” Walters growled.
Ginson spun on his heel and snapped, “Can that shit.”
“Sorry,” Walters answered, and then shrugged. “Must be my medication.”
Ginson scowled at Walters, and then turned back to Kyle. “Glad to have you along.”
Kyle nodded.
They double-timed it across the sky bridge to the Skytrain station. The morning was overcast and gloomy, setting the mood for the coming battle. The thirty or forty people Ginson had mentioned looked more like a hundred to Kyle, as he caught sight of the crowd rushing down 21st Street through the underpass of Perimeter Road, filling it from side to side, and surging forward like a wall of angry human flesh. Bursts of gunfire rang out from behind the crowd, indicating that some survivors from the forward guard posts were still active, but their fire did little to slow the mob. The men from Fox Company crossed the short term parking area beneath the Skytrain station moving directly along the tracks toward the oncoming crowd. They were far too few to be effective in a frontal assault, but seemed oblivious to the danger they faced.
“There’re barely a dozen of them,” Kyle said, “they’ll be slaughtered.”
“Not if we get those things in a cross fire,” Ginson replied. “Come on.”
They raced down the length of the North Parking garage, better known as Dolphin Parking, and took up positions along the third level southern wall facing the long term parking area. The crowd spread out as it poured through the underpass, but the majority, noticing the soldiers, aimed directly for the terminal. An Apache gunship thundered overhead, flying just above rooftop level. Its guns raked the crowd with a hail of 30 mm bullets, but it couldn’t maneuver in the narrow space between parking garages, or fire into the leading edge of the crowd for fear of hitting the men of Fox Company. Several zombies fell to the withering fire, but most made it through unscathed.
“Open fire!” Ginson yelled.
Immediately, a barrage of M4s, M16s, and the M-249 SAW Walters carried, tattered the leading edges of the crowd, as C Company joined in, pouring a lethal wall of lead into the fungus heads. Walters held the heavy SAW in one hand, sweeping it back and forth across the crowd. The recoil must have played hell with Walters injured shoulder, but he fired it with a grim determination and deadly accuracy. Creatures fell by the dozen, but the crowd didn’t slow as their lust for killing drove them to leap the bodies of the fallen. Grenades from Fox Company exploded, tossing broken bodies like chaff in the wind, but still the crowd surged forward, diminished in size but not in rage. An M113 armored personnel carrier rolled up behind the crowd and got in its licks with its .50 caliber machine gun. A dozen or so creatures pounded uselessly on its metal sides, but fell beneath its tracks as the APC lumbered after a small breakaway group continuing to spew death around it.
As Kyle had direly predicted, the squad from Fox Company, though it fought valiantly, was no match for the superior numbers or the fungus-driven rage of the unheeding mob of the infected. They vanished beneath a sea of corrupted flesh.
“They’re going to reach the terminal,” one of Ginson’s men shouted.
“We’ve got our own problem,” Riley said, pointing to a dozen or so fungus heads racing up the ramp toward
them.
Kyle quickly reloaded the shotgun and pointed it at the zombies. One of the infected men looked as if he were wearing a mask. As the creature got closer, Kyle realized with a sickening feeling that it was not a mask. Ropes of slimy growth draped over the man’s face, covering his eyes and ears. Smaller tendrils sprouted from open wounds on his arms and chest. The fungus was literally eating him alive from the inside out. With mounting disgust, he fired. The man’s chest opened up. Blood and globs of fungus poured out as he fell to the pavement. His moment of satisfaction passed quickly as more creatures followed the dead man.
The first five creatures fell quickly, but the remainder became wary and spread out. The battle soon disintegrated into a hand-to-hand melee. Three of the creatures slammed one of the soldiers to the concrete and ripped at him with claws and teeth. His screams echoed through the garage. Ginson slammed his rifle butt into one of the creature’s head until it collapsed, but then he was forced to fend off his own attacker. Kyle fired until the shotgun was empty, and then took out his Glock. When the infected zombies got too close for his Glock, he used his knife and hacked at anything that moved – arms, torsos, and faces. His hand and face were soon covered in blood and gore, making seeing difficult and maintaining his grip on the knife hazardous. He struck blindly, fending off the creatures with his free hand and kicking at them with his legs. One creature got through his flurry of blows and shoved him backwards. He slipped in a pool of blood and tottered over the edge of the garage wall, staring backwards at the ground three floors below. As he struggled to right himself, the zombie tumbled over after him, almost taking him with it, its head a ragged wound. He felt a hand gripping his shoulder, pulling him up, and he looked into Ginson’s smiling face.
“Don’t leave yet. The party’s not over.”
Two of Ginson’s men were down now, Futterman and another whose name he didn’t know. The two remaining creatures stood a few yards away, snarling their anger but wary. Walters lifted his SAW and made short work of them, grinning as he held down the trigger.
Ginson looked at his two casualties. “God damn it! This is getting us nowhere. We can’t kill them all and we can’t keep losing men.”
“Marli and her group will come up with something.”
As he spoke, he worried that Marli might be in danger, though the hangar was sealed tight and Ginson had left two of his men on guard. He didn’t have time to dwell on her safety. They still had to stop the zombies.
The Apache helicopter made another pass as the zombies rushed across the short term parking area, risking crashing into one of the sky bridges. Bodies piled up. Less than twenty zombies remained, but they smashed down the glass doors and poured into the terminal. Isolated, sporadic gunfire from inside the building did little to impede them. The military had been caught off guard by the large number of fungus head zombies and had failed to mount a proper defense.
“We’ve got to go help,” Ginson said. He took one last glance at his two fallen men, swore under his breath, and led his remaining men back to the terminal.
The zombies had left a wake of destruction as they spread out through the terminal, overpowering the few scattered defenders, overturning tables and chairs, smashing mirrors and reflective surfaces, as if images of themselves were abhorrent to them. And there were bodies. Kyle counted over a dozen bodies, most of them unarmed soldiers.
“Where is everyone?” Walters complained as he peered down the empty corridor.
As Kyle wondered the same thing, shots rang out somewhere ahead of them.
“At least someone’s fighting,” Ginson commented. “Let’s go get in on the action.”
As they headed deeper into the terminal, Kyle spotted movement within the shadows of an opened door. The figure disappeared so quickly he thought he might have imagined it. He mentioned it to Ginson.
“Mmm. Riley, go with Bane and check it out. We don’t want any bad guys sneaking up on us.”
The door led into a darkened service corridor paralleling the terminal concourse. Kyle searched for a light switch, found it, but the lights did not function.
“The power’s off,” he groaned. Hunting for bad guys in the dark was a worst-case scenario.
“That’s the army for you,” Riley groaned, “trying to save a buck. Like they’re paying the friggin’ power bill.”
Kyle switched on his flashlight and swept the darkened corridor with its feeble beam. Doors lined the corridor, several of them yawning open and uninviting in the gloom. The entire scenario reminded him of a video game he had once played with the twelve-year-old son of a woman he had dated – Doom. He had sucked at Doom. The kid had kicked his ass. He hoped there were no mutants. He and Riley didn’t bother with the closed doors. As far as Kyle knew, fungus heads hadn’t yet learned to open doors. However, each opened doorway would have to be checked out. The first was a supply closet. Riley, in his nervousness, almost shot a rack of mops when he brushed into them and they fell over him. His sharp chuckle didn’t fool Kyle. Riley was as frightened as he was.
The second room was a break room. It too was empty. Kyle was beginning to think he had imagined seeing a figure in the darkness, but he didn’t let down his guard. His instincts were kicking into full gear, telling him to watch his ass. As they approached a third open doorway, Kyle motioned Riley to be quiet and take the point. He leveled his shotgun at the open doorway to cover him, as Riley took a deep breath and stepped inside, hugging the right side wall. Kyle followed quickly, taking the left side. Riley’s flashlight revealed three zombies, a male and two females at the far end of an office. The male wore a policeman’s uniform covered in blood. One overweight female, about forty years old, wore gray sweat pants and a too mall t-shirt. The second woman, a young girl, wore white panties and no bra. Her young breasts were full and pert, but any carnal thoughts he might have had at her state of undress were quickly dispelled by the look of pure animal rage on her face and the splotches of blood on her chest. While Riley stared at the bare-breasted teen, the older woman snarled and raced across the room at him. Riley ripped his gaze from the girl and fired his M4, almost cutting her in half as a stream of bullets ripped across her midsection. Kyle shot the policeman, feeling a little guilty about killing a fellow officer.
Using the cop for cover, the young girl nimbly leaped upon a desk and sprung at Riley, before either of them could fire. Riley’s punch to her face bloodied her nose but otherwise didn’t faze her. The two fell to the floor struggling. The flashlight rolled across the floor, adding a surreal light to the fight as Riley used his rifle to push her away from his face. She was too close to Riley for Kyle to use the shotgun. He laid it on a desk, grabbed the girl by the arm, and swung her off Riley. She spun across the floor, but recovered quickly and now focused her attention on him, and she was between him and the shotgun. He pulled his Glock, pointed it between her eyes, and pulled the trigger. It clicked empty.
“Shit,” he moaned.
The girl lunged at him before he could reach his knife. He outweighed her, but she was strong, agile, and propelled by her fungus-born rage. She forced him backwards into the hallway, growling as her mouth sought his neck. Forgetting nicety, he grabbed her by the throat and smashed her head against the wall. It took several blows before her skull split open and she finally stopped moving. He released her and she slid to the floor, leaving a smear of blood and brains on the wall. Reflected in the light of the flashlight, her lifeless eyes continued to stare at him hungrily.
He had no time to rest. From the darkness of the hallway, another zombie rushed at him. Like the one in the garage, this one had no discernible face, just a mass of purplish growth sprouting from his eyes, nose, and ears. Can he even see me? Kyle thought. See him or not, the creature sensed that he was there and came unwavering in Kyle’s direction. Kyle pulled his knife and braced himself to face it. When it was almost upon him, the creature’s head was suddenly backlit by a flashlight beam; then exploded. Its lifeless body fell to the tiled floor and
slid several feet before coming to a rest beside the girl’s body. Ginson stood twenty yards down the hallway, his rifle pointed toward Kyle.
“Thanks,” Kyle said.
“Don’t mention it,” Ginson said, lowering his rifle. “I was following him. Ugly bastard.”
Kyle had to agree.
Riley stuck his head out the door and stared at the young girl, blood pooling around her battered head. “Hey, Sarge. This naked chick threw herself at me. It was great. Almost like sex.”
“I’m not a sergeant yet,” Ginson reminded him. “She must have been really brain dead to go for you.”
“She is now,” he snorted.
Kyle nodded his head at the fallen zombie. “Is this the last of them?” Kyle asked.
Ginson shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
* * *
Two hours later, the remaining zombies were finally eliminated. Ginson’s squad suffered no more deaths, but others had not been so lucky. The zombies had poured into the dining room, catching unarmed soldiers unaware. A total of thirty-one men had died during the attack. Such a fiasco lowered morale. Delays in communication and a lack of preparedness had cost lives. Kyle imagined the general would have a few words to say about that. The infected bodies were unceremoniously dragged into a pile in the long term parking area, doused with aviation fuel, and burned. The dead soldiers were treated with a little more respect. They were placed in body bags and loaded onto one of the Globemasters, their final destination a mystery.
It was after midnight before Kyle finally reached the hangar, exhausted and hungry. His sandwich had disappeared during the melee. He was pleased to see two of Ginson’s men patrolling the building. He entered the decontamination tent, stripped naked, and dropped his clothes in a hopper. A suited technician sprayed him with foam, and then water. He suffered the indignity of the process in silence. He yanked off his blood-soaked mask and tossed it into a sealed container. It felt good to remove it. The acrid odor of disinfectant assaulted his nose. The technician provided him with a towel to dry off and a one-piece jumper like the one he had worn in quarantine. He eyed the nondescript clothing with disgust. If he was going to go through this every time, he would need more clothes.