Zombie Fallout (Book 13): The Perfect Betrayal
Page 7
“I can’t believe this was my idea,” I said. BT and Tommy were covered in gore and sweat from their macabre work. This was going to be one more strike against my humanity. Not sure how many I had left, but it felt like I was nearing the end. I took a deep breath and grabbed a lower leg. “Fucking gross,” I said as I wrapped the limb around my own as best I could. Tommy came over and securely duct-taped me and the extra leg together.
“Mike, tell me there’s another way.” BT looked as green as the clothes he was wearing. If I looked in a mirror, I’m sure I’d have had the same hue, and it had nothing to do with the shadows that were creeping in, both outside…and from within.
“Your turn,” I told him. We’d need a fourth zombie to give him maximum coverage, but it was the best we could do with what we had.
This was a half hour of my life I was going to do the best I could to erase from the annals of my memory. We were sufficiently covered in the body parts and organs of the dead. We were, essentially, meat bags.
“I wonder if this is what a turducken feels like?” Tommy, who was nearly indefatigable, was suffering just like the rest of us.
“Now what?” BT was as stiff as a board, unwilling to move and have the friction of a decaying, false body slide against his. Come to think of it, we all looked like we could play trees in a grade-school play. “Do we light these things and then try to hide in their masses?”
“Not that simple. The smoke bomb, if it works, is fairly effective, but the idea it’s going to conceal us completely is not likely.”
“If it works?”
There was a piece of something unidentifiable brushing up against my lip. I wanted to scrape it away, but that entailed moving, and that had its own horrors associated with it.
“I watched a YouTube video, like, seven years ago…I never really tried it out.”
“Please tell me we’re not wearing zombie suits for nothing.”
“When it’s dark and the fog rolls in and the zombies start breaking in, we’re going to light all of these and wait.”
“Wait for what?” There was a pleading in BT’s eyes.
“We’re going to wait for them to come in, then we’re going to meander through the crowd and out.” I was blowing at the piece of detritus that kept slapping against my upper lip. That only made it worse.
“This is not one of your better ideas,” BT said.
“I’m sorry. I am,” I told them both. We all looked like stiff scarecrows with sticks jammed where they shouldn’t be. Funny how quickly it had seemed the sun was setting previously; now it was like it was glued into position, holding firmly to its rightful spot in the sky. Seconds were drawn out as we watched the retreat of light on the floor. I wooden-leg walked to the window as twilight took hold, and as if on cue, the fog began its push, like we were on the set of a horror movie and we had a strict filming schedule.
It might have been four days later or twenty minutes; my sense of time vanished when the first of the windows was shattered.
“They’re here,” I said needlessly. Now at least I knew where Justin got it from. We were all holding a few smoke bombs.
“When?” BT’s teeth were gritted.
“Soon.” My hands were shaking. My senses, my nerves, they were exposed. Raw. Felt like I was dragging the stripped leads of a plugged-in cord across my skin, leaving blackened singe marks wherever it touched. The smell alone would have been horrendous, then you added the slick, sticky feeling of leaking guts and blood soaking through our uniforms…. Not getting a section 8 after this would be a minor miracle. Another window broke out behind us; I didn’t even bother turning. My neck was tacked with whatever I’d draped over my head, so, to do so would have entailed breaking that contact and having it reestablish itself, and I just wasn’t up for that. Hands smashed through multiple places; this was followed by faces peering in. My fear, now that we’d been spotted, was they would see the ruse for what it was. The question was, would they understand it? My guess was the brains of their outfit was not present on this initial assault, so he wouldn’t be able to relay his discovery of our ploy to the troops.
“Now,” I said as I watched the first of the zombies trying to crawl through.
“Is this toxic?” BT asked as he got it lit and placed it on the floor, hurriedly getting another one going.
I honestly didn’t know. Of the few videos I’d watched, they’d all been lit outside. I couldn’t imagine it was particularly good for you to inhale stump remover, but the same could be said about being consumed by a zombie.
There was a moment of fear as BT’s first smoke bomb only produced a thin filament of smoke, not much thicker than a human hair. At that pace, we’d need a couple thousand of the things. Then it caught, and a giant plume of concealment erupted from the makeshift bomb. I’d been so fixated on the incendiary on the floor I’d not put mine down, not until it, too, geysered out a torrent of smoke. Within a few moments, the entire room we were in was flooded in a thick cloud. Then the choking coughs began.
“Get low,” I said through the tears in my eyes and the scrape of my throat.
There were zombies in the room with us. One had knocked against my shoulder, another nearly stepping on my hand as I was down on my haunches attempting an awkward duck walk. BT had reached out and grabbed my shoulder. I looked back, he had his shirt up over his mouth and nose; his eyes were red and tearing. I had to hope none of us passed out from the gassing. I was pretty sure we could fool them for the short term, but if we were knocked-out on the floor when everything cleared out, we’d be floor food, and something gave me the impression that zombies didn’t care much about the five-second rule.
Tommy brushed up against me and pointed toward where I figured the door was; it was slightly clearer where the smoke and fog were getting acquainted in a swirling, dancing manner, twirling in and around each other like serpentine lovers. A press of zombies were forcing themselves in; this I could tell by the number of legs and feet I was staring at. I tapped BT and pointed to the wall we needed to get up against. I was now getting bumped around like a kid in a mosh pit—not that I’m advocating that one should be in that trench of trouble, that was just what it felt like.
By this point, the bombs had burned off all of their contents, but they’d admirably done what I’d asked of them. We were nearly invisible. If I’d dared to reach out with my hand, I could have touched the lip of the door. BT was right behind me, and Tommy was bringing up the rear. Why I got the picture of the human centipede running around in my head, I’ll never know. It wasn’t like I lacked for disturbing imagery straight in front of me. The jostling of bodies, the sting in my eyes, throat and nose, add to that the incredibly disgusting feeling of the zombie skin rubbing on me and I was ready to go—thrumming with the desire, actually. I didn’t just have to go, I needed to. I was on the edge. If we didn’t move now, I was afraid I would just jump up and start madly stripping away my zombie suit, screaming like a banshee. I was that close to going mad. To stepping off the ledge and not giving two flying fucks about it, pun intended. And the last time I looked at BT, it seemed a race to see who got there first.
I’m going to give this some context that, at least, scratches the surface, for those of you safe and secure in your bunkers. Let’s say you are a shy and awkward fifteen-year-old and you are in front of the crush of your dreams, stammering your way through some babbling speech, and at just that moment, your nose randomly decides to run. You don’t have a cold, not having an allergy attack that you're aware of; it just has decided at that fucking unfathomable moment to let slide a movement of mucus. A slight tickle hits the pale hairs just beneath your nostril. The need, the almighty urgency to wipe your sleeve across your nose while simultaneously sucking through the back of your throat…that offending fucking phlegm is all-consuming. But you can’t. You just can’t. To do so in this situation would be crippling to what little self-esteem you still possess, and to any chance, albeit small, that you may have with your dream date.
I was a moment from standing and ambling through the door, when a zombie tripped over the threshold, his head slamming off the floor. He’d been packed so tightly with his cohorts, he’d not been able to use his hands to brace the fall. A tooth fell loose and rolled to a stop midway between us. He looked to the now missing part of his anatomy and then to me. His milky white eyes registered surprise; his eyelids raised. He knew. I thrust my knife, hoping to go silently into his eye and stir his brain around. Hit the cheek instead as he shifted to avoid my blade. The entire side of his face peeled up as I drove in; the tip of my blade must have lodged into bone as my arm swung back and forth like I was playing tug of war with Henry over a stick.
“Why aren’t you moving?” BT asked through the comm set.
“Company,” I grunted as I fought to end the zombie before he ratted us out. The zombie was doing his best to get his hands out in front of him or bite the hand that tried to kill him, but he was constantly being trampled, his body absorbing the blows like a speedbump. I was finally thrown a bone as another zombie stepped right on the head of its brethren, pushing him into the floor. The jerky movement freed my knife, and with his head firmly planted to the ground, I shoved that knife hilt-deep directly into his eye socket. Half of his eyeball fell to the floor in a viscous puddle of whatever dissected eyeballs become; the other half just ruptured. The zombie shuddered, but that could have been from him serving as a doormat to the masses.
“Time to go,” I said as softly as I could. I was standing slowly; fast movements would attract attention, and I didn’t think I’d be able to knife fight my way out of this feeding frenzy.
I was nearly three-quarters standing; not a crouch, more like the hunched-over walk of that awkward teen I was talking about earlier. A wayward zombie knee struck my calf, and I heard the tape around my lower leg tear. I couldn’t see if it had completely given. And really, what would it matter? Not like I could do anything about it. When times were normal-ish, I hated crowds. Wanted nothing to do with them. The press of so many people and the inability to get anywhere fast was not something I looked forward to; in fact, I actively avoided the situation whenever possible. I tolerated it for Widespread Panic concerts, but as for movies, shopping, or anything else where more than twenty people amassed, I was a hard No. And now I was being herded with a throng of murderous zombies. I took a tentative half-step for the door. There would be no “pardon me, sirs,” no smiling “shall we dance?”, no courteous side-steps, no brief eye contact made to alert the person coming your way of your intended direction. There was not going to be an inch given; every bit of ground I got, I was going to have to fight for.
I wasn’t so much picking my feet up as I was sliding them forward to establish position. With each shuffle I pressed forward, the more incidental contact was made. How long could my custom mutton costume hold up? I felt a cool breeze pass over the lower part of my leg as it got closer to the doorway. This was good and bad; good because I was close to out, but bad because that meant part of my leg was exposed. My boot got stepped on half a dozen times. I wanted to start throwing punches, shove them roughly away; instead, I pressed as close to the door jamb as I could. Zombies were still streaming in; none asked why I was leaving the buffet early—probably happy because it meant more food for them. Fat bastards, always looking out for themselves. Most likely the same fuckers that take all the crab legs when the hostess finally gets them out onto the serving platter at the Golden Corral. I get that; you paid to eat, just like everyone else. But to pop eight pounds of crab legs onto your dish while there’s a line of people behind you wanting some of that buttery goodness…well, at that point, just start wearing a dickhead shirt around. No reason not to let everyone around you know in advance exactly what kind of person you are. Take your fair share, asshat. You know who you are, but I guarantee you don’t even care.
Unimaginable zombie parts were being compressed against me, squelching as they protested the rough handling, the meat I was wearing was being tenderized and was leaking, some squirting up and onto the bottom of my neck and beard, the rest traveling downward and thoroughly soaking my unmentionables in a bath of human stew and goo. If I could have pulled off a cock and nut pucker, I would have been all on-board. I was halfway through when there was another push to get in. I was terrified I was going to be swept back under like a child in the grip of a riptide. I clung to that doorjamb like my life depended on it because my sanity surely did. BT had my upper arm in a hold I thought might grind my humerus into chalk. It was a good thing he did, too, because he was the stabilizing factor in the forces being exerted on me. I’d like to think he was doing this for me, but my guess was it was as much or more for him. Same outcome, though, so it all worked out.
More tape was ripping and my zombie sternum-armor fell; it was carried into the cabin on the legs of the zombie being pushed through. That one knew something was up. He turned to look at me but could not swim back against the tide. I was getting battered like fried chicken at Popeye’s. Knee, elbows, heads, torsos…they were all pummeling me in their relentless need to press forward. I was on the verge of screaming for them to get the fuck out of my way. If I opened my mouth to say anything, odds were high only drool would come out and god knows what would go in. My vision was tunneling as my mind started collapsing in on itself; that’s the best way I can explain it. Like I had hit my max for delirium, and much like the human body will pull blood flow from extremities to protect the core during times of great cold, my mind was shutting down in an effort to hold onto the fine spiderweb fragility of normalcy.
Like a cork being slowly pried loose from a robust champagne, I was forced through and sent stumbling down the steps, BT close on my heels. Slabs of meat hung from me at odd angles as I blindly lurched away from the ranger station. I’d like to say I had the presence of mind to notice if BT and Tommy were with me, but I was a drowning man in a sea of misery. All I could think to do was to keep kicking with my legs to get to a safe shore or till I could touch the bottom. I could not help others if I could not help myself. Kind of like those stupid oxygen masks on planes. Though, if those things come down, it’s safe to assume you’re fucked. Odds of surviving a plane crash are only slightly better than the odds of that drunken one-night stand working out, and that he or she isn’t some thieving psychopath hell-bent on making you pay for your poor choices. Not that I’d know; just something I read. Stupid Jessica; that was my favorite hoodie.
Zombies were streaming by me, but we paid no attention to each other. This could have been like any other day on a crowded New York street, passers-by keeping their head straight and eyes forward. I was blindly stumbling through the woods now. I heard steps behind me, didn’t know if they were zombies moving away, pursuing, or my squad mates following. I’ve danced around the ledge a few times, but on this particular occasion, one foot remained hovering in the air while the other was on crumbling ground. I was ripping pieces of flesh free from my body; to an outside observer, I’m sure this would have been pretty disturbing. Didn’t care; I had enough nightmare to share. Plenty, in fact. When I had peeled away most of the macabre costume and was somewhat certain I’d passed by the majority of zombies, I fell to my hands and knees. I was sucking in great intakes of air, doing my best to stave off unconsciousness, or worse. I was almost pitched over to the side as BT’s knee brushed my ribcage. He stopped another ten yards away and was leaning heavily against a tree, head bowed. I couldn’t even manage to ask him if he’d seen Tommy.
Hands roughly wrapped around my underarm and forced me to stand, whether I wanted to or even could. “Come on, Mr. T. We need to go.” I guess that question was answered. I vaguely recall swerving toward BT and Tommy hooking his other arm around the b
ig man. The rest of the night was a blur. Trees went by; oftentimes I was lashed by a branch, torn at by some thorns…can’t say I cared. I was moving where I was directed to go. Tommy knew BT and I were barely afloat, and he made sure to keep us moving. Without the boy, I think it’s fair to say I would have died on the forest floor no more than a couple hundred yards from the building. Either the zombies would have found me and picked me clean, or I would have lost my mind permanently. Dead, or dead inside—one infinitely worse than the other.
We walked through the night. We walked as the fog thickened, we walked as it finally began to break up, we walked as the sun began to come up over the horizon, we walked as the thick, heavy gray clouds formed, we walked as the rain poured down over us washing away the stain of the previous night. By the time we stopped, I was panting like a tired old dog in pain. At some point, Tommy had removed the tape and body parts from myself and BT; it must have been while we were moving, but for the life of me, I couldn’t recall. The realization that I had been in a waking dream was prevalent. I had been cognizant enough to move, and more or less avoid obstacles, but I in no way had been truly aware of my surroundings.
I wanted to fall to the ground and curl up into a fetal position. My legs ached; a deep throb through them both caused them to shake uncontrollably. I could no more control it than I could the beating of my heart.
3
Corporal Stenzel
Kirby had been walking around the Hummers when he heard his corporal talking to the lieutenant. “When are we going in?” he asked as he checked his vest and the comfort of the six, full magazines tucked into various pouches.
“He wants us to hold our position and wait until they call,” she replied.