by JE Gurley
Ginson concentrated their fire on the creatures above the survivors in the stands and clambering over the fence. The frightened civilians saw the muzzle flashes and heard the shots but couldn’t see who was firing. After they had cleared a space around the bullpen, the rescuers entered the bullpen and began pushing the startled survivors toward the rear entrance. The survivors were understandably reluctant to leave the relative safety of their enclosure.
Ginson didn’t give them time to argue. He kicked open the door with his foot and yelled, “Into the stadium.” He grabbed the woman nearest him and shoved her bodily through the door. “Now!” he screamed at the others.
Either the timber of his voice or the frenzied sounds of zombies tearing at the fence broke the survivors’ reluctance. They fought each other to escape the confines of the bullpen. The soldiers followed last, killing as many zombies as they could before evacuating the bullpen. As Kyle raced for the door, he glanced up toward the Legends Suites above home plate. A light blinked several times from one of the suites. He stopped long enough to check his cell phone but got no signal. At least Rita’s still alive, he thought. He reached the door just as a section of fence collapsed into the bullpen, showering it with zombies. Walters slammed the door behind him, and then fired a burst through the door as it shuddered inward under the weight of pursuing zombies.
Ginson and half the men led the group of survivors down the corridor, while Walters, Kyle, and the rest of them piled anything they could find against the door to barricade it against pursuing zombies.
“It won’t hold long,” Walters warned. He produced a Claymore mine from a bag strapped to his belt and smiled. “Maybe this will even the odds.” He quickly wired it to a fire extinguisher attached to the wall and strung a tripwire across the corridor about waist high, being very careful as he attached the wire to the pin of the Claymore. “There! That ought to slow them down. I wish I could see the look on their zombie faces when this baby blows.”
The three-and-a half-pound device contained seven-hundred, one-eighth-inch steel balls, shooting them out in a sixty-degree arc at a muzzle velocity of almost four-thousand feet per second when detonated. Kyle had no doubt the device would play havoc with the leading edge of the zombies, but their immunity from pain and single-minded pursuit of anything living would hardly deter the others. “If we don’t move, you’ll get that chance,” he said.
They caught up with the others waiting for them down the corridor.
“We have two choices,” Ginson said. “We can go up and around back to the vehicles, or we can stay on the first level and fight our way through.”
“Cutting across the field is a definite no,” Walters chimed in.
“Rita is upstairs in the Legends Suites,” Kyle reminded Ginson.
“Upstairs it is then, but we have to get these people out of here first. I saw two trucks out back. We’ll use those.” A look of sympathy crossed Ginson’s face. “Look. If she’s locked in, she should be safe for a short while longer. We’ll get her out. I promise.”
Kyle was eager to rescue Rita and fulfill his promise to her, but he couldn’t dispute Ginson’s logic. He glanced at the people gathered around them: children, some babes in arms; men and women of all ages. The only thing they had in common other than their white coveralls, some blood spattered, was the look of utter devastation on their frightened faces. In one short day, they had survived a zombie outbreak from within their midst and a near massacre by zombies from outside the stadium. Now they were in more danger. Most had been pushed to the brink of exhaustion, stumbling along blindly in the dark like automatons, propelled by fear. In the darkness, they couldn’t see their surroundings, placing their trust in the soldiers helping them, even though soldiers had killed as many of them as the zombies.
Reluctantly, Kyle agreed. The survivors’ safety had to come first. “Okay, but as soon as they’re loaded and out of here, I’m going back for Rita.”
“I’ll come with you.”
Through his Infrared lenses, Kyle could see his surroundings well enough to manage, but the civilians were blind. They huddled together with their arms extended, feeling their way along the wall.
“Why not use the flashlights so they can see where they’re going?” he asked.
“Yes, please,” a woman cried out. “I can’t see.” Several others agreed.
“No,” Ginson said firmly, cutting off their protests. “Flashlights won’t give us enough light to see trouble coming. The goggles will.”
Kyle wasn’t sure the advantage was worth it, but it was Ginson’s show, not his. They moved up the frozen escalator as quietly as possible, but the scuffing of eight pairs of boots and the soft tread of fifty pairs of cloth shoes stumbling along in the dark echoed loudly in the enclosed space, announcing their presence to anyone ahead of them. Kyle grabbed one man’s arm to keep him from falling headlong down the escalator as the man tripped over someone’s leg. Behind them, the sounds of the bullpen door being forced urged them to increase their near frantic pace. Seconds later, the Claymore exploded, rattling the pipes overhead and shaking the building’s walls. Several windows shattered. One of the women screamed in panic and bolted ahead of the group. She couldn’t see where she was going, but her fear drove her blindly onward. One of Ginson’s men switched on a flashlight. The sudden flare of light overwhelmed Kyle’s night vision goggles, momentarily blinding him.
“Turn that damn thing off,” Ginson growled.
“But the woman,” the soldier protested.
“Leave her. I won’t lose any more men for stragglers.”
Kyle stared at Ginson, but Ginson turned away and kept walking. Was the loss of so many men affecting his decisions? No, Kyle thought. Ginson is a better man than that. Sometimes it was necessary to save as many lives as possible. Pursuing one woman could cost all their lives.
The soldiers redoubled their efforts and herded the survivors along like cattle, trying to keep them moving forward. A blast of hot air swept up the escalator bringing with it the scent of cordite and scorched flesh. The shotgun spray of tiny pellets would have killed the first wave of zombies, but would not slow the remainder.
Kyle caught a blur of movement ahead of them. At first, he thought it was the woman returning, but the solitary figure quickly morphed into several. Zombies! He tensed and raised the shotgun. He relaxed as a small spot of light played along the floor and wall, a penlight. The shadowy mass morphed into a group of five soldiers. One of the survivors saw the light and yelled. The soldier aimed his rifle down the corridor and played the light over the group of survivors. The intense beam blinded Kyle for the second time. He ripped off his goggles.
“Don’t shoot,” Kyle shouted as he rubbed his watering eyes. “We’re not zombies.”
The soldier relaxed. “Who the hell are you?”
“Sergeant Todd Ginson, Charlie Company. We have a group of survivors with us.”
The soldier reached behind him and pulled a frightened woman forward by her arm. “Is this one of your stragglers?”
A sense of relief swept over Kyle as he saw that it was the lost woman.
“It’s good to see you guys. We were trying to reach the field,” the soldier explained. “I must have taken a wrong turn. We’ve been wandering these corridors for half an hour. I heard an explosion. Is it over?”
“Yeah, it’s over, soldier,” Ginson said. “There’s no need to continue. These people are all that’s left, except maybe for a few more stragglers like you. We need to get these people out of here.”
The soldier looked stricken. “They’re gone? All of them?”
“All of them. Now, snap out of it and turn off that damn flashlight. Do you know the way to the east parking lot?”
“We’re lost, Sergeant. I don’t even know where I am.”
“Okay, we’ll find it together. Get in the middle. We’ll lead the way with the IR gear.”
In the dark, the corridor seemed endless. It would be easy to miss a doorway or an
exit or bypass a side corridor. The delay with the second group of soldiers had cost them their advantage. As the noise of pursuit behind them grew louder, panic increased proportionately. They would never make the exit before the zombies caught up. Ginson halted them.
“I need volunteers.”
Walters stepped forward with a grin. “I’m up for it.”
“Maybe you’d better ask what you’re volunteering for.”
“Hell, if it’s killing zombies, I’m in.”
Ginson ignored Walters’ bravado. “I need four men to provide cover for the rest of us. We’ll never make it with those things on our ass.”
“I’m your huckleberry,” Walters insisted.
The Tombstone movie reference brought a smile to Ginson’s otherwise stolid face. No one else seemed eager to volunteer.
“I’ll stay.”
Kyle looked around to see who was speaking, only to realize that it was him. He took a deep breath. “I’ll stay with Walters, but I want a flashlight.” He removed his goggles and handed them to another soldier. “To hell with these things.”
Ginson stared at him a moment before nodding. Two others spoke up, one of Ginson’s men and the soldier from the second group.
“Okay, pass your IR gear to someone else.” Ginson handed Kyle a flashlight. “We’ll wait for you at the exit.”
“Don’t wait for us. Get these people to the airport. Leave us the Humvee. We’ll be along later, after I find Rita.”
Ginson held out his hand. “Good luck, Bane.”
Kyle took Ginson’s hand and pumped it several times, hoping it wouldn’t be the last time he would see Ginson.
The pursuing zombies caught up with them only a few minutes after Ginson’s group had departed. This time, four flashlights illuminated the corridor before them. Kyle felt better at being able to see his opponent without the hindrance of a ghostly green glow. The four of them took up positions on each side of a cross corridor. Kyle cowered behind a large garbage can. It stank of rotting hot dogs and nacho cheese and the buzzing of flies sounded like the murmurs of a distant crowd. Over it, the soft thumping of many feet grew nearer. They waited until the mass of zombies was only twenty yards away before opening fire. The noise was deafening. The M-249 SAW spewed a death blizzard of 5.56 mm bullets into the center of the zombie assault, while two M16s and Kyle’s Beneli 12-gauge licked the edges. Walters handled the heavy twenty-two pound machinegun like a paint brush, adding daubs of red and crimson to the living mosaic of undead flesh. He held the SAW tucked under one arm while feeding a belt of ammo into it with the other. The horde advanced in spite of the withering fire, the zombies behind crushing the dying beneath them as they plunged unheeding into the deadly hail of fire. Each time the defenders reloaded, the zombies gained a few feet. Kyle reached into his pocket and pulled out his last four shells. He loaded the shotgun and aimed at the nearest creature. Its chest exploded as the 12-gauge tore a hole the size of a man’s fist through it.
The SAW went silent. Walters cursed and dropped the empty ammo belt. One of the soldiers tossed him an M16 clip. He jammed it into the weapon and resumed firing. It sputtered death a few times before it suddenly went silent again. Walters banged it against the wall as a look of horror crossed his face.
“Jammed.”
The M-249, designed to use belt ammunition at a high cycle rate, sometimes jammed when a standard STANAG M16 ammo clip was used. It was Walters’ bad luck that it happened now. He looked lost without his weapon. Kyle tossed him his Glock, and then an extra clip.
“Here.”
Walters smiled at his new toy. He dropped the useless SAW at his feet and started firing. The four of them continued pouring a stream of bullets into the creatures, but the time spent reloading allowed the creatures to edge within a few yards of them. Kyle picked his targets carefully with his remaining three shots. Then, his weapon, too, was silent.
Realizing that they were going to be overwhelmed, Walters yelled, “Duck.” He pulled the pins on two grenades and lobbed them both down the corridor. Kyle pulled himself into a ball and hugged the floor behind the garbage can hoping the thin metal would provide sufficient cover. The twin explosions thundered in his ears even though he had cupped his hands over them. The trash can rang out as shrapnel peppered it, but none penetrated. The blasts showered the floor and ceiling with blood and gore. A wall of flame swept by only inches away from Kyle’s face, singeing the hair on the back of his hands. He peeked around the corner to witness a scene of carnage and chaos. Shattered and smoldering zombies lay everywhere. The remaining zombies, deafened by the explosion and deprived of their sense of smell by the smoke, stumbled around blindly.
“Switch off the flashlights,” Kyle warned, fearing the creatures would home in on the light.
Without the light of the flashlights to guide them or the smell of their prey to follow, the zombies acted as if a switch had been cut off. They stood immobile in the corridor moaning. Walters and the other soldier slipped across the corridor to join Kyle. In his hands was the useless M-249. He handed Kyle the Glock.
“Now’s a good time to get the hell out of here,” he whispered in Kyle’s ear.
They crawled down the corridor on their hands and knees until Walters deemed it safe to switch on the flashlights. Then they ran. On the walkway ramp outside the stadium, the rain was blowing in sheets. It was warm but it felt good on Kyle’s skin. He hoped the rain put out some of the fires plaguing the city. In their haste, they almost passed the broad stairway leading to the ground. Kyle came up short when he glanced down. Below them, hundreds of zombies made the concourse impassable. They thronged the entrance to the building and prowled the outskirts.
“What the hell …” Kyle mumbled. “We’ll have to find another way.”
As he stood staring at the mass of zombies trying to decide their next move, a bright light flared around the corner of the building, quickly followed by a second. The zombies noticed the light and ran in that direction leaving the concourse clear. A lone figure appeared from behind one of the letters from the old Orange Bowl buried in the walkway as a memento. Kyle shone the flashlight on Ginson.
“I thought you had left already.”
“I sent them on their way. I came back to help you find Rita.” He pointed to a nearby jeep. To the two soldiers, he said, “Get back to the airport. You’ve done enough for one night.”
“What about me?” Walters asked as he watched the two men eagerly comply with Ginson’s order.
“You’re a corporal now. It’s time to earn your pay. You’re coming with Bane and me.”
Walters held out the SAW. “But my baby’s dead.”
Ginson pointed to three M16s and a bag of ammo clips lying on the ground beside the letter ‘R’ behind which he had been hiding. Walters smiled and handed the SAW to the two soldiers. “Take care of my baby,” he warned, “I want it back when I come home.”
“Walters and I can handle this alone,” Kyle told Ginson. He pointed to the fresh blood staining Ginson’s uniform. “You’re leaking.”
“What, this scratch? It’s nothing. I stuck a Band-Aid on it. I’m good to go.”
Kyle decided he would never win an argument with the obstinate sergeant and simply nodded. “Let’s go find Rita.”
Ginson tugged on his sleeve.
Kyle was frustrated by Ginson’s delay. Rita needed him. “What is it?” he demanded.
“I radioed in a report to General Willows. He’s ordered a missile strike on the stadium for 2000 hours. That’s in about forty-five minutes.”
Kyle shook his head. “More good news.” He placed the Beneli empty shotgun in the jeep and picked up the one of the M16s. He pulled back the charging bolt, saw that the weapon was empty, slid in a fresh clip, and flicked off the safety. “Then we’d better hurry.”
16
June 7, Marlins Park, Miami, FL –
Benoit’s condition was steadily worsening. At first, the sedatives had eased his pain, but now he was pa
le, and his skin was cold and clammy. His pulse was weak and erratic. Her medical expertise was limited to children’s colds, but Rita feared that the loss of blood had exacerbated a bad heart. She forced water down his throat to try to revive him. Benoit might have helped her determine his condition, but his moments of lucidity had become less frequent.
Benoit had been right about one thing. The siren and the shots drew zombies from all the surrounding neighborhoods. The few remaining soldiers, forced to fight in the dark, were quickly overwhelmed. One group took refuge in the Marlins dugout, while a second group fought bravely as they guided the few remaining survivors into the left field bullpen and secured its top with sections of chain link fence. Their battle lasted less than half an hour as zombies reached the stands and attacked them from all sides. The soldiers disappeared beneath a sea of bodies. The zombies then focused their attention on the hapless survivors now huddled in fear in the bullpen. Rita knew the fence would not hold long under the creatures’ determined onslaught.
The creatures now roamed the stadium freely seeking out stragglers. Scattered shots and screams grew near, but then faded as time passed. She waited beside the door with only a chair as a weapon. The sounds of gunfire below diminished until only a handful of soldiers remained. The sound of renewed firing near the bullpen drew her attention. Hoping that Detective Bane had arrived, she tried the cell phone again, but got no signal. She signaled with the flashlight hoping someone, if not the detective, would notice it. She waited for an acknowledgement, but none came. However, the survivors disappeared into the stadium away from the creatures.