Since The Sirens Box Set | Books 1-7

by Isherwood, E. E.

  “OK, Liam, I'm going to park us just beyond that one on the left. Since the doors are already open in the back, we can practically jump right onto their ramp.” She was gracious enough not to mention they might be shot on sight as a threat to the Marines guarding the planes.

  There were so many things going on at once Liam could hardly keep up. A Scout in the back shouted a warning that the infected now poured through the ballpark gate—they were following the MRAP like hungry Piranha to a ham hock. Phil said he saw people in the stands surging for the aircraft too. Ahead, the Marines holding back the crowd turned uncertainly as they had threats in every direction. Getting surrounded wasn't what it used to be...

  Liam thought, “At least no one is shooting,” just as a shot rang out.

  The ballpark exploded in gunfire.

  In the rear of his truck, men and boys shot at the zombies as they approached. Mel had swerved right as she drove into the stadium, but many of the zombies made a z-line for the noisy Ospreys rather than follow her. The MRAP and the fastest zombies arrived at the first base Osprey at almost the same time. The Marines defended their patch of dirt, but diluted themselves to absurdity in the face of so many hostiles.

  “What do we do now?” Liam asked the crew cabin.

  Mel turned off the engine and looked to him with a grim smile and a raised eyebrow. “We pray.”

  He took that as his cue to backtrack to Grandma and get her out the rear door along with everyone else. He hunched over as he made his way to her. The men and Scouts needed no invitation; they charged out the back. The four of them formed a loose firing line just behind the truck so they could shoot the incoming zombies. They looked tiny in the face of the ever growing crowd of infected coming through the broken rear gate of the ballpark.

  We did this. Phil warned us. We brought down this sanctuary.

  There's always someone around who ruins it for everyone else or for themselves. Liam assigned the name that guy to the bumbling character from all the zombie books he'd read over the years.

  That guy who bungles holding a key to get him into his sanctuary.

  That guy who shoots so many zombies he creates a stack of them, allowing them to walk onto his otherwise safe railway car.

  That guy who needlessly brags to CDC employees that his Grandma is 104 so they spend the next week hunting her down.

  The examples were legion, yet the three he'd just imagined were from his own experience in the Zombie Apocalypse to date.

  Yep, that's all me. My streak continues.

  Liam watched the handful of Scouts and men outside and recognized he had to move fast. He grabbed Grandma's arm, thankful that for once she didn't argue with him. She had a penchant for asking him to leave her behind and save himself, but she likely had heard Liam demur so many times she knew not to ask again.

  The gunfire outside was incessant. When he and Victoria had Grandma on the dirt, he could see the fighting was more serious than he'd imagined. The crowd of civilians converged on the thin line of—at best, a dozen—Marines, and weren't stopping, even in the face of gunfire. In fact, they were firing back. Several of the Marines fell as he guided Grandma to the Osprey. There was no one standing on the ramp so they just kept going. Several of the people they rescued from the TV station had jumped off the roof and ran in. They moved with grim determination as far into the plane as they could, as if nothing was going to stop them from reaching safety. He doubted even the Marines could dislodge them.

  He put Grandma on one of the jump seats near the middle of the plane and motioned for Victoria to strap her in. Someone in charge had to be on the plane. He walked by the eight or ten men and women who had taken refuge in the leading seats and stepped from the cargo area into the cockpit. Two Marine aviators sat in front of a dizzying array of buttons, switches, and display panels. The man on the right had a pistol pointed at his chest.

  “I'm unarmed!” he shouted.

  “What do you want? How'd you get on board?”

  Liam thought it was obvious. “Your door was wide open,” is what he could have said. Now wasn't the time for jokes. Instead, he played his only card in this rigged poker game called the Apocalypse.

  “I'm here to see Colonel Brandyweis. He's the commander of 2nd Marines...or something.” He'd met the colonel, but he couldn't recall the man's unit. He was only half-sure of his rank. He continued, talking fast. “I'm here with some Boy Scouts and my elderly grandmother. The colonel was looking for her.” That was mostly true.

  The co-pilot looked at him for a long moment, then lowered his weapon.

  “The lieutenant colonel isn't here. Go back and take a seat and I'll contact him. If you're lying, I'll throw you off myself. Clear?”

  Liam had seen enough war movies to know the proper response: “Crystal, sir.” He thought about throwing him a salute, but opted for restraint. He trotted back to the large cargo hold. Grandma and Victoria were secure and belted, but the other men and boys were still at the bottom of the ramp, firing and reloading as fast as they could.

  He proceeded to the top of the ramp, and squatted down so he could see through the side gap in the bay door. Hundreds of infected plodded on the green turf, walking and speed-walking toward the planes. On the other side, Marines were falling back to the planes, downing civilians who were doing their best to get themselves shot. Liam recognized the desperation in their eyes.

  The Marines were doomed if they didn't fight back. Opportunities for cooperation, and survival, had passed. The civilians would overrun the plane and make it so overburdened it wouldn't be able to take off. That's how the story ends...

  He was in the process of turning around to go back to Grandma when something caught his attention on the top of the MRAP. A child was still alive up there, but wasn't coming down.

  “Ugh, that just figures,” he thought. Once he saw the person, he couldn't look away. He judged his chances, ignored them, and ran toward danger. It reminded him of “rescuing” that travel Bible for Victoria, but that was different. That was something he did to impress a girl. Now he was only thinking of saving a life.

  Victoria screamed his name behind him, overpowering the engine noise, but he couldn't listen to her. He plowed through the small cordon of rifle-wielding Boy Scouts, unaware until it was much too late he didn't inform them he was coming through. He waited to be shot in the back, but was pleasantly surprised when he wasn't.

  He judged his distance, speed, and destination and timed his jump perfectly. Getting on top of his MRAP wasn't that difficult because the thing had numerous appendages, grills, and guards on the side which facilitated his climb. He mounted the rig just in front of the driver's side door, pulled himself onto the top part of the hood—away from all the blood—then hopped over the windshield to the somewhat flat surface on top. He got around the automated chaingun, disheartened by all the blood—that was from survivors hurting each other to get their ride on his truck. He took two seconds to see the crowds on both sides of him eating away the Marines by sheer force of numbers. He didn't have long.

  It wasn't child, but she was a very small older teenaged black girl. She was prone on the metal surface. Her white blouse carried the typical apocalyptic grime of someone who had worn it for too long. Her long black slacks were shredded below the knees and similarly filthy. Her exposed lower legs were lacerated with what looked like a thousand scratches. Her arms were also smeared with blood from numerous injuries. When he bent down to let her know he was there, she turned her face toward him and it too was blood-strewn. But she was alive.

  He said nothing, but grabbed her hand and pulled her from the deck. She let him lead her, though she was in a daze. The smell of gunfire was powerful. Clouds of it were everywhere below him, adding to his own wooziness within the chaos.

  Still saying nothing, he pulled her forward, and motioned where he wanted her to go. She gave a weak smile and drug herself toward him as he stood on the hood and beckoned her.

  “That's right. Just follow me
down. We're going to get on the plane.”

  She looked terrified. A perfectly natural emotion given what she'd just been through. He corrected himself. She was still going through it. He took another look around, felt the crush of time, but knew he couldn't show it to her.

  He tried to convey hope instead. “The Marines are here to save us.”

  A thousand thoughts swirled through his head. His mind landed on a sour one. He expected her to respond with, “And who will save the Marines?” but she remained quiet.

  He held her hand as she shimmied down the windshield, and he turned to put his foot on the fender so he could step there. He let himself get distracted by the action below and he slipped on the blood covering the lower half of the hood.

  His vision accelerated as he spun.

  He became aware of himself sometime later. He opened his eyes while lying in the dirt. Victoria was in his field of vision, running to him. Another woman ran the other way. He recognized her from somewhere.

  “Victoria, sweet Victoria,” he thought. “Are we going for a plane ride?”

  A zombie jumped into his field of view. It ran up the ramp, but was shot by a soldier at the top.

  “Not a soldier. That's a U.S. Marine,” he heard from deep in his memories.

  Screams everywhere. Some Boy Scouts turned and ran into the plane. One looked back at him with terror in his eyes.

  “How nice to have them here,” he thought.

  “I wonder what game they're playing?” His mind was adrift.

  He next became aware of himself sitting in one of the Osprey's seats. More gunfire. A deep hum of an engine. He was surrounded by many desperate-looking people. “Wow, they look like they're late for work,” he joked with himself.

  The already whining engines pitched faster. The plane lurched.

  From his left, he heard a swell of gunfire and watched with placid calmness as the Marines shot everyone they could from the ramp of their plane. Most were blood-covered zombies. Some weren't. The noise was deafening, but Liam wasn't bothered.

  “EVERYONE GET DOWN!” shouted one of the Marines over the roar of the accelerating engines. Most complied. He physically encouraged the few holdouts.

  With everyone off their feet, Liam had a clear view of the other Osprey. It still had its ramp open too, but no one was shooting, and a massive crowd tried to get in from the infield side of the baseball diamond. Another group was on the outfield side of the ramp and they pressed in too.

  Isn't this nice. I love coming to the ballpark with Dad.

  In slow motion, the other Osprey lifted off, ramp open and all, and tilted dangerously to the left. People clung to the ramp even as it lifted several feet above the crowd. It was too much.

  The Osprey continued to tilt and move forward at the same time. It snapped the wires behind third base and tried to correct itself, but it was too unwieldy. It drifted into the lowest seats, and seemed to settle itself onto the incline filled with terrorized and fleeing people. Liam waited for an explosion that never came.

  “Nothing is ever like the movies,” he complained.

  The Marines continued to shoot both the living and the dead at the end of his bird's ramp. It began to close. Before it got too high, Liam had the misfortune to see a man throw his tiny daughter in the air toward the Marines, only to have her pulled down by an incredibly lucky zombie who had his arm above his head as he too reached for the ramp.

  “He whiffed it,” was his in-game analysis. “I feel ya' buddy.”

  The whole plane rattled maniacally, then seemed to settle as it rose. In sixty seconds, Liam appreciated they were alive, and hovering. His head cleared, though his confused ramblings were gradually replaced by a similarly disconcerting din of screaming, shouting, and wailing from inside the now-cramped cargo hold.

  A grim-faced Marine covered in red blotches on his gray camo walked by. He looked at everyone in the seats as he picked his way through those sitting on the floor. Liam couldn't read his face, but thought he saw anger in his eyes.

  He turned to Victoria in the seat to his right and was surprised to see the shock on her face as she looked at him.

  “Liam! You fell and hit your head!”

  “I fell and hit my head?” he mouthed back.

  She nodded vigorously.

  “Just rest!” she screamed.

  “I lost my shirt,” he said with less enthusiasm. But she was no longer looking at him.

  He reclined his head on the seat. The Marines shouted at the civilians. The civilians shouted at the Marines and each other. Children—many parentless—wailed relentlessly, as was their right. No one showed the least inclination to heed to sanity.

  He leaned forward and over to Grandma. “Hey Grandma, you forgot your cane. You want me to turn the plane around to go get it?” He smiled as he said it, unsure if she even heard him. Ignoring the shaking hand, he used two fingers to wipe at the blood dripping into his eye, then he crushed himself into the back of his seat to steady his body. He'd said it as a joke. He forgot her cane back when they first left her house. He turned around to retrieve it for her; it was among the first of their many trials together. At the time, he had no idea how many adventures they'd have together. Now he was safe inside a military plane, above a city filled with zombies, while thousands of abandoned survivors below cursed him for being so damned lucky.

  Grandma smiled, though her eyes were closed—like she had a fear of flying. He let it go.

  The ballpark, home to so many friendly competitions over the years, was now witness to the ultimate struggle between the diminishing number of healthy humans and the increasing number of infected. He saw it as a microcosm of what was happening in the whole city, the whole country, and the whole world.

  “Ms. Bunting would be so happy to know I remembered what a microcosm is.” He giggled to himself as his head swooned. His science teacher was probably de—

  “No! She made it. They all made it,” he thought. “Everyone I ever knew made it to safety, until I'm proven wrong.” He didn't want to go crazy thinking of all the people who potentially didn't make it. Someone had to make it.

  Somehow, he won the lottery again and was one of the survivors.

  He agreed with those below: at that moment, he really was the luckiest boy in the world.

  Chapter 2: Grandma Dreams of Blue

  While riding in the back of the MRAP, Marty felt light-headed as energy surged in her head and throughout her body. The incidents increased over the past few months, but they usually happened when she was waking up from a bad dream. It had become more pronounced as she dreamed of Al these past weeks, but this “jolt” felt stronger than ever before. And she hadn't dreamed yet.

  She still had all her memories of Al and what he told her a short time ago about the mundane nature of all the “miracles” she'd witnessed. Her faith in God was unwavering, but her faith in miracles and Al's role as an angel had been dowsed as sure as her swim in the muddy Mississippi today. The notion she could hear the thoughts of the kids, or could control any zombies was just... She put two and two together now: Al wasn't real. Couldn't be. He was part of the breakdown of her mind under all the stress. Maybe an aneurism was responsible for her mental issues…

  Or the infection they put in my veins.

  The rocking in the back of the big truck was lulling her to sleep. Her last thought was that she was so glad Victoria had allowed her to rest her head on her shoulder. She'd nap, just for a little while…

  She recognized the girl as she entered her dream.

  2

  The girl came back to life, or it felt like it anyway. Air rushed into her chest. She sucked in the stench of death, and was tempted to cough it back out. But not yet.

  “Am I safe?” she wondered.

  Her eyes were open, but the darkness was absolute. Her imagination placed her inside a shipping container, or an old walk-in freezer, or maybe on top of her Catholic school church altar. Those were places constructed from her memories, though
she'd never woken up in or on any of them.

  Careful to listen for clues, her body remained rigid—willing itself not to give away its master.

  “Scare much?” She tried to recall the time before, but drew a blank. Only her long-term memories were intact. “My name is...Azure, but I go by Blue now. I came here... Then the zombies...” She lamented her memory failed her on the most important questions.

  What she did know was that zombies ruled the darkness. It was time for action.

  Below her, something was wet. Viscous.

  “Why blood? Why can't I wake up in ice cream or ketchup? That way I'd know this was all fake.”

  Sitting up was difficult in the confined space. Things were stacked on her feet and legs. Bodies. Not one. Not two. Many. She felt the tangled hair wrapped around one hand. She slid herself from underneath the dead weight and got into a crouching position.

  “I bet I'm covered in blood.”

  Her ears were attuned to the dark. The muffled silence indicated an interior room, but she also detected a wisp of distant gunfire.

  Testing her body, she rose and made contact with an object leaning against the nearby wall. It slid and rattled to the floor with a muffled clang. The sound was unfortunate, but oddly comforting. She reached down and lifted the cold combat shotgun. She ran her hand along the stock, taking note of the shells affixed to the side. She came up with six plus whatever's in the barrel.

  “Someone was very thoughtful to leave this with me,” she thought.

  Feeling the front of her shirt, it was covered in the red stuff. She just knew it. Her pants were similarly smeared. The only question now was whether any part of her was free of it. She tried to wipe her hands clean when she heard a sound she recognized—the stutter-shuffle of zombies.

  “No. Not happening.” Her brain tried to establish an action plan. Fighting zombies in the dark was lose-lose. That she ended up in this room under a bunch of bodies proved that.

  Crouching, she searched the corpses near her feet for a flashlight, lighter, or pack of matches. Surely one of the dead had been a smoker.