Zombie Fallout 3: The End

by Mark Tufo

  “You alright Brendon?” The sergeant asked as Brendon moved away.

  Blood flowed freely from his left hand, he had to make distance before it soaked through his shirt and onto the snow covered ground where it would stick out like a sore thumb. ‘Not funny’ he thought to himself. “Fine.” He grunted out, it sounded more like a retch but that was still fitting to the circumstances.

  Brendon got back to the truck fairly convinced that he had staunched the flow, although his shirt told a different story. The dome light in the truck was equipped with a dimmer switch for which Brendon was thankful. Mostly because it would bring less attention to himself and also it would be more difficult to see the damage done. He took two quick breaths before he could muster the courage to look. He gazed long and hard at the death sentence that awaited him. It didn’t look particularly life threatening. A half inch thick jagged semi circle of skin and muscle was ripped free. That it was a bite was not in doubt. If he so desired, he could have marked out each individual tooth groove as it had sunk deep into his hand; he chose not to.

  Brendon shut the light off. He sat there for long minutes staring out of the windshield. He was looking in the direction where the Marines were taking care of their fallen comrade and getting the HAZARD back up. His eyes saw it all. His brain registered none of it. The pain he felt at the loss of never seeing Nicole again far outweighed his life, which was now forfeit. After he had inwardly cursed out every known deity, he silently sobbed for each loss and made peace with himself. He had resolved to show the sergeant the wound. Would you feel the bullet as it punched through your skull? Or did it happen too fast? Would you be able to register the damage as the bone shards and lead projectile tore through the mind? More importantly would the Marines continue on this quest without him there? They had already lost one of their own and might be close to calling it quits especially if their guide was gone. No that was unacceptable! “I’m not a zombie yet!”

  The sergeant startled the hell out of him as he came up to the window. “You alright?”

  He could only wonder how close to the truck the sergeant was when Brendon had made his statement. “Fine.” He reiterated, doing his best to cover his hand and shirt up even though it was now pitch dark in the cab, guilt has a habit of shining bright.

  “You sure?”

  “Yep right as rain.” Brendon strained. ‘Right as rain? Who says that? If he was suspicious before you just gave him more to think about.' The sergeant walked away, he had more concerns at the moment. Sweat broke out spontaneously almost completely over his entire body. ‘Is this how it starts?’ He wanted to cry again but that would accomplish nothing, and he still had one thing left in this life to do before he died.

  Brendon got out of the truck. He was looking for Murphy. He found him by the back of the troop transport smoking a cigarette next to the now body bagged Dickens. Dark circles and a drawn look punctuated his usually affable features.

  “Hey Murph.” The medic nodded. “Hey are you bound by the Hippocratic oath or anything like that?” Brendon asked.

  “I’m a corpsman not a Doctor.” The cherry of the cigarette lit up Brendon's features. Murphy could tell Brendon was weighing the merits of telling him something or keeping it quiet. “You got the clap or something?” Murphy’s attempt at humor fell flat for both of them. It would be a while before things looked funny again.

  Brendon had made up his mind. He pulled his rag wrapped hand out of his pocket and showed Murphy.

  “Oh shit, when did that happen?” Murphy said taking a huge drag out of the cigarette.

  “I was trying to help Dickens, it didn’t go so well.”

  “Does the Sarge know?”

  “I’m still alive, what do you think?”

  “Shit.” Murphy said pulling his cap off to rub his hand through his hair. He grabbed Brendon’s hand and poured the remains of his canteen over it, washing some of the detritus away. He started rooting around in his medical emergency kit grabbing disinfectant, gauze, a needle and some thread.

  “How much time do I have?” Brendon asked as steadily as he could.

  Murphy never looked up as he kept working on the wound. “Uh cleaning out the wound and putting disinfectant on it helps.”

  “Listen Murphy I know I’m a dead man walking, I just need to know if I’m going to have enough time to help my fiancée and her family.”

  “If we get there tomorrow, yes.”

  “Is there a changeover period, will I be able to tell what’s going on?”

  Murphy finally looked up meeting him eye to eye. “You’ll know, there’s about a three to five minute window where the person can feel themselves slipping and then...you know what happens. What are you going to do?”

  “I’m not going to become a zombie, that’s for sure. I’m not a religious man Murphy, but do you think God will make an exception for me if I take myself out before it happens?”

  “I think he will be able to find it in his heart to absolve you of that sin. The true sin would lie in you allowing yourself to become a zombie. That is not the work of God. I am truly sorry Brendon.”

  “Yeah me too. Got an extra cigarette?” They sat in silence. Words carried no weight now.

  The sun couldn’t come up fast enough. Brendon did not sleep at all. It was to be his last sunrise and he did not want to miss it. The air had a sweetness he could not bring himself to identify. “Almost like poppies.” He said as he stretched.

  “Incoming!” Ramirez shouted from his perch atop the troop transport. “Henderson anything showing on the HAZARD?”

  “Nope, wait there it is, holy shit! Sergeant, multiple gomers heading this way.”

  “Alright vacation is over. Pack up and let’s get the hell out of here.” The sergeant yelled. His command was obeyed before it was finished being given.

  During the drive to Carol’s, Brendon fluctuated between peculiar calmness, flushed sweating and searing pain. ‘This must be what menopause feels like.’ He mused.

  Brendon’s truck shook as heavy armament was expended by the troop transport in front of him. Four zombies were reduced to ribbons of flesh on the side of the road. Brendon had a momentary pang of compassion for them and then quickly tore asunder the stray thought. He couldn’t help but wonder if that was to be his fate.

  Three hours later they were in the center of Carol’s home town, if you can call a gas station, Post Office and a Piggly Wiggly grocery store a town center. From here Brendon’s recollection of exactly where Carol’s farmstead was became increasingly foggy. This would have been an issue if not for the near continuous line of zombies that cut across the town in a northeasterly route. A few zombies turned to appraise the new ‘eats’ but none strayed from their vector.

  The sergeant halted the caravan and walked over to Brendon who had also exited his truck. “What are the odds they’re going to where we need to be?” The sergeant asked appraising Brendon. “You don’t look so good.”

  “Nerves.”

  “Oh that’s right, you have some pride swallowing to take care of.”

  ‘I hope I get the chance,’ he thought. He, however, answered the sergeant with a mere nod.

  “Is there something I need to know here son? I’ve never seen zombies act like this. They look driven. The fact that they aren’t paying us any attention at all has me flummoxed.”

  “Would you rather they were?” Brendon asked impatiently wanting this conversation to be over. The sand granules that measured his time remaining were running dangerously close to single digits in the hourglass of his life.

  “Now that’s not really the point, is it? Something is not adding up, not at all, when this is all over you and I are going to have a long talk.”

  ‘Doubt it.’ Brendon thought. Brendon thanked God that Marines are more men of action than thought. The sergeant strode away, got back into the troop transport and took a right turn no more than 15 feet in front of the traveling zombies. It was another three miles before a left turn presented itse
lf. Because of the zombies angling away, they had been lost from the line of sight for a few minutes. Another mile in a northerly route and the stain of them once again became visible.

  It was another right and then left before the sergeant once again pulled over to a stop. The zombies' final destination was now clearly in view even though it lay a full mile away.

  Henderson checked his ammo on the turret of the troop transport. Ramirez opened up the hatch on the hummer, readying his weapon also. “We can’t be going in there Sarge?” Ramirez asked bewildered at the sheer number of undead that surrounded the house. “We’re going in there.” He answered himself impassively. “I hate it sometimes when I’m right.”

  “You done jawing over there Ramirez?” The sergeant asked him.

  Ramirez rattled off a string of what can only be construed as eloquent foreign cuss words.

  “That doesn’t look like a Country Buffet on kids eat free Wednesdays son. Any chance you could be a little more forth coming on any information?”

  “I really wish I knew.” Brendon had no sooner finished the sentence and he bent over from crippling cramps. His stomach muscles nearly ripped under the strain.

  “Murphy!” The sergeant yelled in alarm.

  “Fine, I’m fine.” Brendon whistled through his teeth. Placing his hand on the sergeant’s arm to stop him from summoning help.

  It was then the sergeant noted the bandage. “What’s this?” He asked suspiciously. “You didn’t have this yesterday.” The sergeant stepped back, fingering his holster.

  Murphy rushed up and quickly accessed the situation that was quickly turning from bad to worse. Murphy had seen enough victims turn to zombies to realize that Brendon was close to joining the ranks of the enemy. His skin was taking on a gray pallor. Severe stomach cramping would immediately be followed by whole body spasms and then death. The body's last gasp so to speak.

  Brendon was able to get himself under control and stand without a noticeable stoop. “I’m fine.” He slurred. “Let’s go.” Claws of stinging stitches tore out from his stomach and spread throughout his body. It took every fiber of his being to stand and endure under the scrutinous stare of the sergeant. Murphy placed himself between the sergeant and Brendon. Somewhat to hide the pain the kid was going through but mostly to keep the sergeant from just outright shooting him. “We’ve got to go now.” Brendon whispered. The strain of the words clearly evident.

  “I think it’s rabies.” Murphy told the sergeant. “The sooner we can get him back to base the sooner I can get him treatment,” although that was a lie. Once symptoms of rabies showed, treating it was far too late. Murphy could only hope that the sergeant didn’t know this.

  The sergeant thankfully stopped touching the hilt of his gun. “You stay here kid, we’ll get your future in-laws and then we’ll get you all back to Custer.”

  “I’m going.” Brendon said defiantly.

  “Don’t push it.” Murphy whispered.

  “This is it for me Murph, I just want one more chance to see her.”

  “Sarge, I can give him a heavy dose of antibiotics right now, it will get him through the next few hours.” Also a lie.

  “Have it your way kid.” The sergeant got back in the transport and strapped himself in.

  Murphy proceeded to give Brendon a mild sedative. “This will help a little with the cramping.”

  “Thank you for everything Murphy. I’ll put a good word in for you when I get to where I’m going.”

  “I’d appreciate that.” Murphy replied, and that was not a lie.

  “What’s the plan?” Henderson asked leaning down from his gunner’s position.

  “Guns blazing, I suppose.” The sergeant answered.

  ‘I was hoping for something a little more concrete.’ Henderson mumbled to himself once again checking that his weapon was fully ready to fire.

  Murphy got into the passenger seat.

  “Rabies my ass, Murphy. That kid’s dying." The sergeant said. "We all watched what happened to Greenfield after he was bit.”

  “I know Sarge, he just wants to see his girl one more time.”

  “Well let’s not disappoint him.”

  Henderson cussed as his head smacked against the machine gun's breech due to the unprepared for acceleration.

  “The house is on fire!” Henderson yelled down.

  “Do you think I’m driving blind.” The sergeant replied. “You’d better start cutting us a path or this is gonna be a bumpy ride.”

  The Browning M2 .50 Caliber roared to life as it dealt ever-lasting death. The full-throated scream of the bullets as they emerged from the barrel brought a certain sense of satisfaction to the Sergeant as he slammed the troop transport into the outskirts of the zombies.

  “Fucking gomers.” He said grimly.

  Murphy had grabbed every available handhold as the transport lurched from side to side under the assault, his ears almost bleeding from the noise of the small cannon above him. “Should have joined the Air Force.” He said, not for the first time nor the last.

  Various pieces of zombie appendages slammed against the reinforced battle windshield. “Hope you topped off the windshield wiper fluid.” The sergeant needled a green tinged Murphy.

  Time had slowed for Murphy. He watched a piece of hot brass as it lazily floated down and stuck to an eyeball of a middle aged zombie woman. The contact of the hot metal made her eye explode sending viscous fluid shooting out dislodging the offending ejecta. Murphy could not figure out how the sergeant even knew where he was going. Gore and blood covered every available port. It was like they were traveling within the innards of some giant beast of mythical proportions.

  The smell of fire began to overtake the smell of zombies. ‘Must be getting close.’ Murphy thought. He felt the lunge of the transport as the sergeant decided that more speed was needed.

  Brendon was having severe difficulty controlling his extremities. Tremors coursed through him; compounding the difficulty was the uneven ground caused by zombie bodies that he was traversing over. “Too late, too late, too late,” became his mantra. His legs were spasming just as the truck ahead of him sped up. Brendon had to will his leg to his bidding before he fell behind and without the grace of a machine gun hacking a trail he would be cut off quickly.

  He scooted down on the seat, the movement forcing his leg down onto the accelerator. Control came back slowly and with difficulty. He was able to press the brake on his own as he pulled up to what little remained of Carol’s house.

  “All aboard!” He said as he spotted, Mike, BT and Jen. His heart lifted at the sight of them.

  “Glad to see you boy!” BT shouted from the truck bed. Brendon agreed.

  Brendon heard some commotion in the back, but cognitive functioning was becoming increasingly hard to do. “I’m me!” He yelled.

  “Yes and soon you will be mine.” A cold voice burrowed out of the depths of his mind.

  “NICOLE!” He screamed, his second to last sane thought. The last being when he shoved the Walther 9mm under his jaw and double tapped his disease addled brain.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN - JOURNAL ENTRY 5 -

  “You’re Catholic right?” BT asked me.

  I was hesitant to answer, religious conversations rarely go well, most in fact end in Holy Wars. Don’t believe me? If there are still any left, find a Muslim and ask him or her what they think of Christianity. That will be a short conversation revolving around the blade of a knife being inserted into various parts of your being.

  “Yeah why?” I answered reluctantly.

  “That’s the religion where you go up to the Priest and get wine and bread right?”

  “Where are you going with this?”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “Yes, the congregation receives the Eucharist, the representation of the Body and Blood of Christ.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “You just needed a semantics lesson then?”

  “Not really, but I did
wonder something.” He paused. I didn’t prod he was up to something I could tell by the way he was smiling at me, like a jungle cat getting ready to pounce. He was looking at me waiting for a reply. Apparently it would be funnier if I prompted him.

  “Fine BT, what are you wondering?” The words practically oozed scorn, he didn’t care.

  “How did you do it?”

  I instantly knew what he was talking about, but I’d be damned if I was going to let him corner me that quick. “BT I’m tired and I’m in pain, I just want to go to sleep.”

  “Bullshit!” He said sitting up. “You know what I’m talking about, spill it.”

  “Is this really necessary?”

  “I don’t have anything better going on right now. Not unless they’re hiding Naomi Campbell somewhere on this base.”

  “I figured you for more of a Halle Berry type.”

  “Don’t change the subject, but yeah she’s third.”

  “Who the hell is second?”

  “Man, don’t laugh, I’ve got this thing for…oh, you sneaky bastard you almost got me.”

  “I tried. Alright if you must know I bought a carton of Eucharist wafers and had them blessed. I used to bring my own to church along with a thermos of grape juice, I hate wine.”

  BT would have rolled out of his bed if his leg wasn’t in suspension.

  “Have you ever been to a Catholic mass? Its friggen disgusting.” I said starting my defense. “First they make you shake hands with all your neighbors. There’s Kenny, the eleven year old that has had his finger shoved up his nose the entire time. There’s old man Baker, who smells like 4 day old meatloaf left on the curb during a heat wave. Then there’s Mrs. Porter with her infant and she just changed a dirty diaper without using wipes. Yeah real effen sanitary!” My voice was rising with the increase of potential germs. “So then we get through that particularly nasty infectious test tube archaic trait and move right along to sipping wine out of a golden chalice that the entire mass has put their cracked, canker laced lips on not to mention those with cold sores.” I was shuddering. “Then the priest hands you a wafer that he had clutched between his thumb and forefinger, but what’s worse than that is he’s been doing that to everyone else also and they have had the chance to breathe all their germs on those two fingers as he placed the wafer on their tongues.”