Residential Aliens - Issue 4.11

by ResAliens Press

  He called up the news. There had been a major zombie infestation in LA the day before. Something about a freeway being shutdown by it. The morning’s second lead story was about the washed-up California actor running against President Flint. Graywacke grinned wolfishly at the thought of that ham going up against Colonel Mary NMI Flint, USMC (Ret.). As the windshield said to the bug, “Splat!”

  As he rode into the detachment parking area, he did see one of the drawbacks to the President being a former Marine. The Corps was now first in line to receive all kinds of neat, new goodies—no matter how unperfected. It is a truism that Marines only appreciated things that smoke, rattle, or leak oil. With Colonel Flint in the Oval Office, now every great new idea the Army’s TARDEC came up with ended up coming to the Marine Corps before it had been idiot-proofed on soldiers. Case in point was the M1289 TMI (Transport Marine Individual) or “Timmy.” What was the problem with the old M1183E Ultra Hummer? Well, yeah, they flip over when turning at speeds greater than seven kilometers per hour. And the battery charge only lasts twenty-five kilometers between recharges. But they were “green.” Besides, he felt stupid straddling a saw horse flying through the air. On top of that, someone seemed to have forgotten that it rains in Quantico. Flying along in a shelter-half was worse than looking stupid; your lower half got soaked.

  Grumbling to himself, Graywacke dismounted and locked the bike, then climbed on the Timmy and departed in a cloud of profanity.

  ~*~

  The flight was uneventful until the last thirty seconds. With a ping, Graywacke and his mount’s vector changed from forward to straight down. He punched the Emergency Chute button remembering too late that if the Timmy’s computer had already begun the deployment sequence pushing the button caused it to reboot and start the sequence again after a twenty-five second pause. The gunnery sergeant leaned to the side to observe the speedily approaching ground. With the gyros also offline, the Timmy rolled 180 degrees to starboard. Graywacke kicked loose and fell rather than be buried in the same coffin with the wonder of technology.

  Graywacke had gotten as far as “…blessed are thou among women and…” when he hit the top of the pine, slowed, and rolled as the tree reached the end of its arc and dropped him into two meters of icy water and mud.

  As he reached almost solid ground, he noticed the newly issued utilities’ heating element was no longer working. He continued to slog forward. He knew to stop would be to invite hypothermia. He’d seen enough good Marines die from it in the fighting around Ittoqqortoormiit during the Whale Oil Campaign.

  An hour later, he stopped at the edge of Aquia Creek. The other side was only a hundred meters away, but he knew he was in no shape to swim it. He looked down at himself. He was going to be a laughingstock. The utilities’ camouflage pattern had frozen between North American Eastern Mid-Atlantic Spring Digital and Central Baluchistan Mountain Night Tigerstripes. For the most part a layer of mud covered him, drying to a raw umber.

  He tossed one idea after another over the side as he tried to come up with a way to cross the barrier. The sound of a movement behind him broke his concentration. He slowly turned his head and froze. A skunk regarded him with black, bead-like eyes. It began to stamp its forefeet, then whirled and lifted its tail.

  Afterwards, Graywacke was pretty sure he hadn’t screamed like a little girl. Finding himself on the other side of the creek, he noticed the mud caking his boots and utilities was still dry. His breathing returning to a slower rate, he gritted his teeth. Just let ’em laugh, at least the ones with fewer stripes and rockers. He turned to start the long walk, slipped, and landed face down among the bulrushes.

  Wearing a new coat of mud, he stomped away from the creek taking care to stomp very carefully. It occurred to him he must look like the hero of the book he was reading before bed, Tarzan at the Earth’s Core.

  He passed under the edge of a line of pines. He heard a buzz from above and halted. He tried to remember where he had heard that sound before. Drone! He turned and ran back to the wood’s edge just in time to see the Pinkeye drone flying into the distance. He uttered a medium-long string of Marine words, turned, and clomped back in his original direction.

  ~*~

  Captain Jack Karst frowned at the screen on the wall of the base security office. It was no secret that he didn’t buy the Rand Corporation study the Air Force had commissioned that showed distraction made multi-tasking more efficient. Frankly, he was tired of constantly being bombarded by talking heads and the emoting of denizens from the shallow end of the gene pool. It didn’t help his mood that all the military history, hard science, and farm channels had been moved up to the premium tier. And the cooking channels just made him fat. Without looking around, he snarled, “Turn something else on, Garnet. I’m tired of this zombie-zombie-zombie crap! What else is on?”

  Lance Corporal Eileen Garnet pulled up the TV schedule on her display. “Let’s see…five documentaries on zombies, eighteen reality shows, sumo wrestling bouts on four channels—”

  “Yeah, the wife and I watched them last night,” Karst interrupted. “Gomez is going for Yokozuna Grand Master.”

  Garnet continued, “—a discussion of whether zombies should continue to be counted in Cook County elections on the news channel and an old movie, sir.”

  “What’s the movie?”

  “Uh, Oliver Stone’s ‘Sadam,’ sir.”

  The captain sighed. “Leave the zombies on.”

  Lieutenant Mitch Flowstone, Karst’s XO, bustled in. “Captain Karst, sir, something’s come up!”

  The CO looked down at his 50 kilo lieutenant. “Talk.”

  “Sir, a Pinkeye drone spotted a target in Area 14. A.I. indentifies it as a probable zombie.”

  Karst’s eyebrows flew up. “Did the Pinkeye engage it?”

  The smaller man seemed abashed. “Ah, no sir. APVs operating in the continental United States are unarmed except for those operating along the Canadian border and in Illinois. The drone lost the target after it entered some trees.”

  “What did thermal show?”

  “Sir, it’s a zombie. It ain’t got a thermal signature.”

  Karst made a face like someone mentally kicking himself. “Oh, yeah. Right.”

  Flowstone looked at him expectantly. “Orders, sir?”

  The captain’s stomach grumbled in complaint over the morning’s coffee intake—eight cups and counting. Karst appeared to be thinking furiously as he rubbed his belly. His hand stopped as his pupils went to pin points. After a moment, he rapped out, “Get on the horn to base command. Tell the duty sergeant what’s going on. Tell him to tell the colonel I suggest the base go to condition red. Call the alert platoon. I want them here yesterday. Next, notify Headquarters Marine Corps. Also, Arlington Hall. Call the tower and tell them to expect aircraft coming in from the Barracks in DC and from Camp Lejune. Oh, yeah, there may be something flying from Oceana and Cherry Point.”

  Flowstone glanced up from the screen of his Raspberry. “What about Pax River, sir?”

  Karst nodded furiously. “Yeah, yeah, them too.” He stopped and looked in all directions. “Where’s Gunny Graywacke?”

  Flowstone seemed about to pat himself down, then answered, “Sir, I’m not sure. I saw him leave on his Timmy a couple hours ago.”

  Karst barked, “Find him!”

  Flowstone turned to Garnet and barked—or rather—squeaked, “Lance! Find Gunny Graywacke!”

  The tall corporal looked down at him from her seat and rapped out a business-like, “Yes, sir.” A five beat and she asked in a small voice, “Er, sir? How?”

  Before Flowstone could scream—well—squeak at the unfortunate enlisted woman, Karst told her, “Check his chip. That’ll tell you, Lance.”

  “Yes, sir.” Garnet tapped out a sequence on her desk pad and waited as the GPS satellites interrogated the chip buried in his spine to triangulate the Gunny’s position. Her voice was hushed as she read her display. “Sir, Gunny is in Area 14.”

&nbs
p; ~*~

  While the two officers were at the armory drawing their weapons, Garnet’s phone buzzed. She answered, “Base Security, Corporal Garnet speaking.”

  The voice at the other end announced, “Eileen, this is Maggie Graywacke. Is the gunny around?”

  Garnet mentally switched to panic mode. “Uh, well, er, the thing is…he…uh…uh…”

  Maggie’s tone hardened, “Eileen, I’ve been married to the Corps long enough to know that when a young Marine starts tap-dancing like that, Sid is either in deep trouble or with another woman, which is the same thing. Now, give.”

  “Uh…uh…I…uh…”

  Her voice held the quiet of the cobra. “Eileen, dear, I run the gunny. What do you think I could do to you?”

  Garnet felt sweat form on her forehead and trickle down her sides. “Well, ma’am, we sort of misplaced the gunny…um…”

  The voice from the receiver became even quieter. “You misplaced a hundred kilo Marine Corps gunnery sergeant? How?”

  All 2.04 meters of the lance corporal blanched. She swallowed, quickly crossed herself, and shakily answered, “Ma’am, the gunny went out to Area 14.”

  “So?”

  “He ain’t come back yet.”

  “Again, so?”

  Garnet took a deep breath. “The base is under zombie alert. One was spotted in Area 14.”

  There was silence on the other end for a three beat. When she spoke, all menace was gone from Maggie’s voice. “I see. Thank you, Eileen.” She paused, then continued, “And Eileen?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “If anyone should ask me how I found out, I don’t see that they have ‘a need to know.’”

  ~*~

  Graywacke knew he was approaching a fire trail. He stopped and listened. Was that the whine of a vehicle engine? He started to trot in that direction. As he broke through some brush, he saw an M1183E Ultra Hummer with two Marines in full combat gear. He opened his mouth to call to them, but the driver mashed the pedal and the vehicle sped away, its electric motor making a high whine. The sergeant in him noted the gunner appeared to be having trouble unlocking the machinegun’s mount.

  Private Jamal Arete looked down at the single-rocker driving. “Sergeant? What do we tell the old man?”

  Arlee Kamm returned the look as he answered, “The simple truth. He’s going to find out somehow. Officers always seem to know when you’re blowing smoke. And there’ll be a lot less pain if we just own up.”

  Back on the side of the fire trail, Graywacke watched the Ultra Hummer disappear with disbelief. Hadn’t they seen me? Man, this is as bad as that book! All the characters almost meeting and then just missing each other. Just wait ’til I get to the office. Those clowns are going to have their heads out the next time they’re out here on a field problem!

  ~*~

  Karst glanced up as the two Marines approached. “What’s the word, men?”

  Kamm led off, “Sir, we sighted the target about three klicks east of here.”

  The captain gestured at the map panel on the side of the command Hummer. “Show me.”

  “Yes, sir.” Kamm plugged his datalink into the panel and a dot of light with coordinates appeared on the display.

  Flowstone asked, “Did you engage the zombie?”

  The sergeant’s mahogany features darkened as he blushed. “No, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  Kamm’s jaw hardened. “My fault, sir.”

  Karst crossed his arms. “How so, Sergeant?”

  “We had the power to the gun mount switched off to save juice so we could get back to the motor pool without stopping to recharge. Arete couldn’t get the gun unlocked manually, sir.”

  Flowstone jumped back in. “How was it your fault instead of Private Arete’s?”

  The sergeant’s jaw tightened more. “Sir, I was in command.”

  Karst broke in thoughtfully, “Probably just as well.”

  The lieutenant’s eyebrows rose. “Sir?”

  “According to the rules of engagement, we’re supposed to call on the zombie to surrender.”

  The other three looked at him in amazement. Kamm forgot himself enough to let slip, “Surrender? They ain’t got enough working brain left to talk, much less surrender!”

  The CO smiled sourly. “Yes, well, we’re suppose to give them the chance to surrender. Part of DoD’s ‘Kindness Offensive.’”

  The sergeant snarled under his breath, “‘Offensive’ all right.”

  Karst looked at Kamm mildly. “Problem, Sergeant?”

  “Sorry, sir.” He shook his head. “It’s just…just I wish we could just blow things away like we used to, sir.”

  The other raised an eyebrow. “And when was that, Sergeant?”

  After a moment Kamm grinned. “I guess about the time my grand-daddy went through Paris Island, sir.”

  The captain chuckled. “That’s okay, Sergeant, everybody says it was better in the old Corps. Personally, I think we were shooting people from fighting tops then.” He inspected the location of the red dot. “Hmm, right next to Puller’s Swale.”

  Arete asked, “Puller’s Swale, sir?”

  Karst grinned. “Yep, Private. That’s where a butter bar named Chesty Puller managed to lose a model T while showing a sweet young thing a good time back in 1919.”

  “Lost it, sir?”

  The CO laughed. “Completely out of sight. Couldn’t even find it thirty years later with a mine detector. Which goes to show, even you might grow up to be a lieutenant general, Private Arete.” He touched the screen. The dot turned from red to blue. “What the—Hey, Garnet, come here a minute.”

  The tall, lanky lance corporal came around from the other side of the vehicle. “Sir?”

  “Gunny Graywacke should show up as a blue dot, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Karst spoke musingly, “I just tried to check the gunny’s position. This thing says he should be right on top of the target.” He looked at the two enlisted men. “Did either of you see Gunny Graywacke?”

  Both looked at each other in confusion. Kamm shook his head and answered, “No, sir, we only saw the zombie.”

  The captain paled and said slowly and softly, “Gunny and the zombie are in the same place, but you saw only the zombie…which means…Gunny must be inside the zombie…”

  As they stared at one another in horror, Kamm shook his head and said to no one in particular, “Man-oh-man. I would’ve expected Gunny to eat the zombie.”

  Garnet distractedly offered a canteen cup of coffee to Karst, who took it just as distractedly.

  Just on the other side of a brush windrow, Graywacke smelled one of the reasons for life—coffee! He broke into a tired shamble in the direction the breeze blew from. Somewhere out there was caffeine!

  He tore through the briars, holly, and honeysuckle. The Marines clustered around the vehicles froze for an instant, then combat honed reflexes took charge.

  Arete seemed to fly up to his machinegun. He grabbed the handles, jerked them to line up the target, and, having forgotten to unlock the mount, nearly threw himself off the top of the M1183E.

  Kamm knew an instant of panic as he forgot whether he’d left his M19 in the vehicle. His hand bumped the butt of the assault weapon hanging from his shoulder and he was a Marine again.

  Karst dumped scalding coffee down his front as he grabbed for his sidearm, while Flowstone leaped into the command Hummer to call in an airstrike.

  Garnet lifted her machine pistol, took aim, squinted at the approaching creature, and called out, “Don’t shoot! Don’t Shoot! That’s Gunny!”

  The captain, pistol half-drawn, whirled. “What? How do you know?”

  Garnet lowered her weapon to her side. “Sir, I’ve seen that walk a zillion times. That’s Gunny’s walk.”

  Karst glanced at the figure, then back at the lance corporal. “What do you mean, Garnet?”

  “Sir, he always walks like a bulldog with something stuck up his—like a bull
dog, sir,” she finished lamely.

  Kamm, holding a bead on the target, asked, “How can we be sure, sir?”

  The watchers looked at each other. Karst suddenly brightened. He shoved his sidearm back in its holster, grabbed the empty cup from the ground, ran around to the other side of the command Hummer, poured coffee in the cup, and held it aloft. “Hey, Gunny, coffee’s up!” The figure broke into a kilometer eating run.

  Graywacke took a deep draught, not caring about the third degree burns to his tongue. “Sir, there are still possibilities for this stinkin’ day.”

  ~*~

  Maggie Graywacke handed her husband a Dr. Pepper as he lay in his recliner. “Hard day at the salt mines, Hon?”

  He took a sip and flashed her a grin before returning his attention to the sumo wrestlers. “About what you’d expect for an organization that got started in a bar.”

  Copyright 2010 by Walt Staples

  Walt Staples spent far too many years thinking the unthinkable for a living. He maintains this has had no effect on him though he admits to a predilection for collecting odd people and an inordinate thirst for Dr. Pepper. While his physical position is generally indeterminable, his heart is firmly located at 38.9 N, 78.2 W. He is a member of a number of organizations which shall remain nameless with the exception of the Catholic Writers’ Guild and the Lost Genre Guild – both of whose blackmail payments are in arrears. He also wastes everyone’s time at his blog, Variable Credence.

  Note from the author: This story is set in the universe of Neeta Lyffe, Zombie Exterminator, created by Karina Fabian and published here with her permission. Who’d have thought zombies would become just another annoyance to be handled by government regulations and commercial enterprises? Check out the answer in Karina’s new novel at KarinaFabian.com.

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  Thank you for reading this issue of Residential Aliens. This compilation is copyrighted 2010 by ResAliens Press; individual stories copyrighted by their authors. Opinions expressed within this issue do not necessarily reflect those of the authors or the publisher. Each story is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this issue are either fictitious or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the publisher, except in brief quotations in printed or online reviews.