by Mark Tufo
Alzheimers or dementia or maybe a little bit of both was rearing its oh-so-ugly fucking head. None of us were taught to deal with this in a battlefield scenario; someone said something crazy you just shoved them on forward. I rubbed my head before I spoke.
“We’ll go down this ladder and shut the oven off,” I told her.
“You always were a sweet talker, Allan.” Carol’s hand lingered on my face. I think it’s times like this you want to start creating new words because “uncomfortable” didn’t even scratch the surface. I felt more like “zrardreth”–as prickly off the tongue as my insides were feeling.
“Yeah, Allan, come on! Help her get to the oven.” My wife wasn’t playing with me; she was playing along with her mom to get them the hell off the roof.
“We should pick a better hotel, Allan. The staff here is very rude,” she said, just loud enough to me so Tracy would know she was talking about her.
“Biddie! Get them the fuck down! I’m hearing engines.” Sanders was leaning out the driver’s side window.
“You heard that, right?” Biddeford called up.
“Carol.”
“Yes, dear?” she asked with eyes that were reserved for lovers only.
“Zrardreth. Tracy, come on–help me. We have to move.”
“Unhand me!” she said to Tracy. “This is assault and I will not stand for it.”
BT had finished his killing spree and handed the bat off to Justin as he came up to help. He didn’t even fuck around. He pushed past me, grabbed Carol and draped her over his shoulder much like he had me, maybe a little more gently. She was ineffectually beating against his back. Tracy went next and I was last. We’d no sooner pulled the ladder down when headlights swept onto the street.
Sanders shut the engine down. The zombies were grumbling and groaning, making a fair amount of noise as they slapped and slammed up against the truck. A spotlight shined on the roof of the house; from their angle on the street they would not have been able to see the impromptu exit. The light was tracking down, but was blocked by the fence before it could see us.
“They’re looking for us. Why aren’t they using the satellite?” BT asked.
“Might be a blackout time,” I told him.
“I hate Deneaux,” he said.
“Yeah, we all feel the same way,” Tracy replied.
The truck was slowly retreating down the roadway, now gathering its own zombie following. I was letting out a sigh of relief when Carol began to scream.
I looked around wildly for the zombie that had to have been eating her before she clarified.
“My broach! Who stole my broach!” This followed by a mournful wailing. I didn’t know what to do. My first inclination was to wrap my hand around her mouth but it was my mother in law. Biddeford had no such reservations as he dragged her down. Lucky thing he had gloves on because she was gnawing on his palm. Of course, the truck stopped, idled for a moment, then began backing up. This was when the screechers made their debut–a blessing and a curse. My guess was they had been called up from the bullpen when they were informed that a clutch of humans had been corralled and they were coming to force them out. Even through the brain-splitting sound the screechers made, it was easy enough to figure out that the bulkers would be next. What the screechers tried for in subtlety, the bulkers would make up for in gentle passivity.
Sanders started the truck back up. Either Knox’s men didn’t feel we were worth battling a horde to get to or thought we were already about to become chow. In any case, they took off. We pulled out of the lawn, through a few zombies, and into the night. I looked up, knowing that at some point we were going to be on camera. We needed that device, otherwise they could follow us to the ends of the earth. Maybe Etna Station could help, but maybe they wouldn’t want to. Who the fuck were we to them? Entirely too much trouble, that’s who. I could not justify bringing destruction to another base. I realize there was no way I could have known Eliza would do what she’d done, but Knox was fucking nuts and Payne was still out there, and this fuckfest was on me. These things needed to be dealt with before we asked for sanctuary. When you think “zombie apocalypse,” this running from human madmen is not what immediately springs to mind.
I went back to that Perfect Post-apocalyptic World. You are holed up in a well-stocked Sam’s club that has been made into an impregnable fortress. You have enough guns, ammo, and video games to make North Korea salivate. All of your friends and family are with you. It’s like a big fucking party; you go up to the roof in the morning, play some betting games to see who can thin the zombie horde out the most, you drink some beer and eat some beef jerky before wrapping up your day by going downstairs to have some roast chicken and potatoes, kept nice by solar powered generators. You revel in the fact that April 14th just passed and you don’t have any taxes to pay, or a boss to give you shit…no commute to stoke your ire, no rude fuck at the movie theater talking or texting during the movie. None of it. It’s like a fantasy world; all the shit of society vanishes and you’re there, alive and safe, on your own little island. But in reality, you’re always covered in muck and slime and loss. Everything else is just a fantasy, and the joke’s on us. The z-poc, in a couple of words, sucked balls. I’d watched as friends and family died all around me, unable to save them. We were always on high alert, always under threat, and seemingly always running. There was no such thing as “safe.” I figured there would be desperate people looking to take what was ours, but I guess I imagined just bringing them into the fold. Never in my wildest dreams did I consider that every evil, low life, crazy motherfucker would band together and become an army of asshats. The meek couldn’t inherit the earth because the jerks kept trying to take it from them.
We met Tommy and Travis at a safe house. I did my best to not cry–from joy–as most of my family members were reunited–and from worry–as some were still in danger. Sanders had Biddeford and Winters guarding different sides of the house as he continually paced around.
“I’m sorry about this, and thankful,” I told him. “I didn’t mean to bring this kind of shitstorm into your life.”
“You’re a Marine, right?” he asked.
“I am.”
“Marines never leave one of their own behind,” he repeated. I knew that, but I guess I kept thinking as circumstances got worse they would eventually run out on us.
“What if you find out Knox was in?” I asked.
“Oh, not that shitbird. No way he was in my beloved Corps. I would have made personally sure he washed out. Plus, he’s too stupid to have been a Marine.”
“Don’t think I’ve heard that one before,” I told him.
“Yeah. Anyone that crosses me is too stupid.”
I gave him a much-needed laugh, on my part anyway. He was deadly serious about it.
“What now?” I asked.
“We need to get that sat-track device back. We can’t scratch our ass without them knowing it, and you seem like a decent guy, Talbot, but I’d rather spend my nights with my wife and I can’t do that if they know where we’re going–and don’t apologize. I take this as a personal challenge. We needed this exercise; I think we were getting a little lackadaisical.”
I could see Winters out of the corner of my eye shaking his head. I would have laughed again, but it might have got the sergeant in trouble.
Sanders was thinking. “It stands to reason they will attack this house; they will know we’re here. The question is, how can we set something up to where we surprise them? Going to need to snatch one so we can find out where Knox is.”
“The device only has fifteen minutes every hour; we have a seventy-five percent chance of moving without them seeing us,” I said.
“You’re okay with those odds?” he asked.
“Shit, sir, those are the best odds I’ve been afforded in a good long time. And we could increase that by sending out teams at fifteen-minute intervals. One will be seen the rest won’t.”
“You weren’t an officer?”
> Now it was BT’s turn to laugh. “Of latrine duty, maybe,” he said.
“I finally come up with a plan and you’re going to give me shit about it?”
BT merely shrugged. It was a decent plan and it wasn’t. If Knox and his men saw me moving and came for us, that was great; if it was Tommy and Travis they spotted, that was bad. It would depend on what kind of response they sent and how fast the rest of us could make it there to close the loop of the trap off. And to make it more difficult, we had to have a plan of attack for four locations. Logistically, it was a nightmare. Luckily, Knox was playing it much more cautiously since we’d been bleeding him continuously. We settled on a cul-de-sac that had been reserved for doctors and lawyers. Each and every house was a McMansion, close to five thousand square feet, and I’m sure had price tags over a million each. I couldn’t even begin to comprehend what the nut on that was each month. The basis was my idea; sure, Sanders cleaned up the rough edges, but this one was my responsibility, so BT and I were the first out.
We headed out on foot as fast as we could, knowing that if the timing was fucked up it could potentially give Knox enough time to watch where we went and then see another team leaving our headquarters. We just had to hope that luck was more on our side than his, considering I was using my family as bait. Yeah, that was sitting wonderfully in my gut, wriggling around like a fat, wet mass of live maggots. Once all the fire teams got into position, it was Tracy’s job to pretend to take her sweet ass time loading up the animals, the kids and Carol, and bring them to a central house, a nice easy trail of breadcrumbs. It was an hour and a half later when we were all in position, and still nothing happened.
“He’s not biting,” I said to BT as I looked out the window.
“He will; he can’t not do it.”
“How are you so sure?” I turned to look at him.
“He’s insane. He can’t not do it.”
“Have a lot of experience with insanity, do you?” I asked.
He just kept looking at me. “Oh, by now you could say I was an expert.”
“Fuck you.” I turned back to the window when I heard the high whine of props. “Drone.”
“Like I was saying.”
I gave him the finger off to the side, not taking my gaze from the window as I tried to find the small flying machine.
“That’s helpful,” I said as I moved back.
“What’s going on?” BT didn’t want to come over and potentially get caught looking.
“It’s literally in the middle of the road, doing a slow spin, surveying the area. So, they know we’re here, we know they know we’re here, but they’re not really telling us which house they suspect we’re in.”
“Do you think they got our little ploy figured out?” he asked.
Sanders must have been thinking the same thing because a single shot was fired from his location. The drone spun wildly as one of the props was sheared off. I’d like to say it crashed hard and there was a concussive fireball, but it more or less came down gently. Whoever was at the controls wasn’t quite ready to let their toy go, as they tried to make it rise with three props. It struggled to lift, but did not have the proper thrust. Finally, it stopped. Either the battery gave out, or the operator realized the futility. After ten minutes of no trucks driving up with dozens of men spilling out, I was feeling worse for it. I know, strange reaction. Who actually wants to get into a firefight? But that was what we’d been planning for; when the enemy does something different, that’s when you have to start watching your ass. The unexpected is always a bitch because by definition, you’re not ready for it.
We’d come to the decision to pick these particular houses for a variety of reasons: proximity to where we’d been and how close to each other were the most obvious. Also, that the approach from behind was impractical. However, it wasn’t impassable. Let’s face it, the super rich don’t really like rubbing elbows with the masses; maybe they’re afraid they’ll catch middle-class syndrome or a poor people virus. So, these houses had a small patch of woods behind them with a thick ribbon of swampy wetlands, a kind of moat, you might say. Not much more than a shallow bog, but it would keep most casual walkers or hikers, their dogs, and maybe even thieves from coming that way. I mean, not even us poor folk want to walk around in wet shoes. Sure, the mosquitoes must be brutal during the summer, but it’s better than dealing with “those” people.
“They’re coming from the back,” I said, heading for the door that led out to the yard. I knew it without having one shred of factual intel.
“Mike, you, of all people, should know we can’t leave our post.”
I stopped for a handful of heartbeats. “I’m thinking you’ve been around Sanders for a little too long, buddy. I was in the Marines and then I left because I have a serious hang-up regarding authority. And that’s our family in that house across the street. What if I’m right and we’re waiting here manning our post?”
“But Mike, you never see the other side of the coin. What if you’re wrong?”
“There’s another side?” I was already halfway through the door.
As I was running, I glanced at the house on our left; Winters was at the window. He was pointing vigorously and must have been asking Sanders what the fuck I was doing. I pointed to the back, he was trying to figure out what I was looking at, but I couldn’t see anything wrong, so it was safe to say he couldn’t either. The yard was decent sized, but not Texas ranch-sized. There was only about an acre of overgrown lawn before we crossed into a small patch of woods. According to Sanders, it was another hundred yards to the protected wetlands. I got us in deep enough we were covered from the rear by some trees before I stopped and sought total cover.
“Mike, what the fuck are we doing out here? If you had to take a piss you should have just used the toilet,” BT said.
“You fucking nuts? How long you think it’s been since that thing was cleaned? I’m not lifting that lid to see an eight-month-old turd growing all sorts of fungal spores.”
“Fungal spores?”
“Nature channel. Watch it sometime; it’s a little more informative than Australian Rules football.”
“Don’t go there, man.”
I placed my finger near my mouth then pointed. Three heavily armed and camouflaged men were off to our side, cautiously approaching.
“Fuck. I hate when you’re right. Makes you damn near insufferable,” he’d said so close to my ear I thought he might just come in all the way and blow me a kiss. I mean, what was I going to be able to do to stop him? Instead, he low-crawled to a tree next to mine, but we’re talking BT, so it was almost like he was standing upright, like us normal-sized humans.
“Want a strobe light?” I asked caustically, meaning he’d have a harder time being less inconspicuous.
We each had suppressors on our weapons, thanks to Sanders, but a shot would still sound like two pieces of wood slapping together. Might not be heard from too far out thanks to all the brush where we were, but these three guys would most definitely hear it. That wasn’t a huge problem because two of them would either be incapacitated or dead. Disarming the third and hoping there weren’t more behind them was the problem. We would be forced to fire soon as they were abreast of us, and unless they were wearing blinders, we’d be seen. I had a chest shot all lined up, had a few pounds of pressure on the trigger, when BT quietly said: “Mike.”
I knew what that meant. We had company. “How many,” I said, not taking my sights off my target, though I had eased up on the trigger.
“Four,” was his reply.
It was seven on two, and we could make it five on two soon enough, but then our element of surprise was shot, so to speak, and they had bigger, faster weapons.
“Pick a target,” I told him.
“We’re going for this?” He wasn’t a fan.
“No choice now.” Probably liked that answer less, though he said nothing. What was happening was right in front of us, couldn’t ignore it; couldn’t just pay it no
attention and hope it would go away. We were deep in it now. “Concentrate on the right.” My reasoning here was that if we took those three out, we’d have an avenue to run if we needed to.
“I have the one farthest away,” I told him. Wasn’t more than twenty-five yards; at this point, could have thrown a rock and hit them. BT’s rifle cracked a fraction of a second before mine; it was so nearly simultaneous that my victim hadn’t even had a chance to react to seeing the man he was with go down. The third one was winged by one of us. He went down fast, but not because of a fatal shot–that was something he was trying to avoid. It was only another moment before BT and I were hugging the ground. The trees around us were catching hellacious and sustained machine gun fire. Even if we weren’t directly hit, we would soon be in danger of the falling trees.
Ever watch the movie Predator, with Arnold? There’s a scene in the beginning when they know they’re being hunted and all of these mercenaries line up with this incredible weaponry and they are just blasting the living shit out of all the fauna–trees are exploding, branches are falling, leaves are disintegrating. As a guy, it is truly a monumental movie scene to watch. When you’re living it on the receiving end, well it sucks, and it sucks big time.
“Brilliant fucking idea, Talbot!” BT shouted. I could barely hear him over the expulsion of so many high-speed projectiles. The lone man on our right wasn’t firing and he wasn’t moving; there was no way yet to know if he was out of the fight, could be just lying low until we walked into his sight of fire. Not like we could get there, anyway. The four on the other side were keeping us pinned with superior firepower, and not only that; they were tactically leap-frogging closer to us and there wasn’t a fucking thing we could do about it for fear of having our heads riddled with bullets.
I had to think at some point they would run low on ammo, but this was not something we could count on. They’d be on us in a minute or two at best.
“I’m sorry,” I told BT.
“Not yet man, not yet.” He pointed behind us and to the left, the Marines were coming–well, one marine, anyway. Winters must have followed us. He was low-crawling into position, making sure that every shot he fired counted. I’ll take one Marine over four mercs, any day. Even through the blistering sounds of the heavy 7.62 rounds obliterating everything in their path, we heard Winters, who had a Barrett M99 fifty caliber. I’d never shot one, personally. Seemed too much like overkill. Yeah, that was until I felt, not just heard, the percussion as he sent that monster bullet down range. His target didn’t just fall down, it was lifted and blown backward. If it hadn’t been for a tree behind him, he may still have been going, like a leaf taken hold by a gale.