The Zombie Uprising Series: Books One Through Five

by M. A. Robbins

  The truck slowed, then stopped. Voices came from outside. Grant's was one, but she couldn't make out the words. The truck moved forward, continued for a couple of minutes, then turned and backed up, the warning beeps loud enough for her to hear them clearly.

  With the squeal of brakes, it stopped and the engine went silent. A door opened and closed. Seconds later, another truck started and pulled out, its engine noise dimming in the distance.

  The door rolled up, spilling light into the back. Jen pushed back behind a pallet.

  "What've we got today?" a deep voice asked.

  A woman's voice answered, "Same old shit, I'll bet. Steak and wine for the colonel and his civilian, and canned spaghetti for us."

  Deep Voice laughed. "Butler says we're the elite troops, but we get fed worse than the others going to the chow hall."

  Someone jumped onto the back and a banging came from that direction. Jen peeked out. A burly soldier had jammed a crowbar beneath a crate's lid and was trying to pry it up.

  "Gimme a hand, Jonesy," he said.

  A buffed up female soldier with short black hair joined him. "One, two, three."

  They pushed, and with a ripping sound, the crate lid rose on one side.

  Jonesy reached a hand in. "Holy shit, if this is what I think it is…"

  She pulled on something then removed her hand. It held a can of beer.

  "Are you kidding?" Deep Voice said. "That must've been a mistake."

  Jonesy popped the top and downed a swallow. "Mmmm."

  Deep Voice pulled another can from the crate. "This damn thing is full of them."

  Jonesy swallowed and smacked her lips. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

  Deep Voice tilted his head. "No. What?"

  She swatted him on the shoulder. "Sometimes I wonder just how dumb you can get."

  He shrugged.

  "If this crate goes to the food stores, the supply clowns will drink it all."

  "So what do we do?" Deep Voice asked.

  Jonesy rolled her eyes. "We grab a case for ourselves and go rat-hole it right now."

  Deep Voice smiled. "Good idea." He reached in and hauled out a case.

  Jonesy grabbed another one. "One for you and one for me." She slapped Deep Voice's hand as he went to get a third. "No more," she said. "They won't report a couple missing, but might if we take too many."

  The back of the truck shuddered. Jen peeked out. Deep Voice and Jonesy stood on the dock. Deep Voice picked up both cases and put one on each shoulder. "You stay here and I'll go hide them."

  "Like hell," Jonesy said. "I'm going with you. I want to know where mine is."

  "But what if someone comes by and sees us gone?"

  Jonesy strode to a door, punched numbers in a keypad, and held it open. "Then we better be quick about it."

  I need to get through that door.

  Deep Voice stepped through and Jonesy followed him, releasing the door.

  Jen dashed out of the truck and to the door. She reached out as it closed and caught the handle before the door clicked shut. She puffed her cheeks and let out a breath. Close.

  Sticking her head into the hallway, she looked right, peering down a long corridor that ended in a door with a meshed window. Jonesy had just walked through the doorway.

  Down the other direction, two doors stood on the right side of the hallway. No sign of anyone there.

  Those doors probably lead to the front of the building. Not what I'm looking for.

  She stepped into the hallway, eased the door closed with a click, and padded to the meshed doorway, where she peeked through the window at a stairway. Voices came from above and were getting closer. She slipped beneath the bottom stairs and held her breath while footsteps scuffed above her.

  The door to the hallway opened and Jonesy said, "See. Told you it'd only take a minute."

  After the door closed Jen crept to the window. Deep Voice and Jonesy disappeared through the doorway to the loading dock.

  Stepping softly, Jen climbed the first flight of stairs and then the second, where a door marked with the number two stood at the landing.

  She peeked through the mesh window and ducked back down. Soldiers walked up and down the hall, some with papers in their hands and others fully armed.

  She climbed to the third floor. Fewer soldiers there, but still too risky to try. Dammit.

  The fourth floor had multiple doors along the hallway on either side, but no soldiers in sight. Jen grasped the door handle and turned it. A soldier walked out of an office that stood five feet in front of her, and headed the opposite way down the hall.

  Jen released the handle and ducked. Pulse pounding in her ears, she peeked through the window. The soldier disappeared out the door at the other end of the hall. She got a flash of another stairway before the door closed.

  Clasping her hand to her chest, she willed her heart to slow down. She looked down to see she'd gripped her axe's handle involuntarily.

  She snuck up the stairs to the fifth floor, where a metal door with no windows greeted her. A keypad lay on the wall to the side.

  This would be the place that Cartwright's asset couldn't penetrate. Definitely something going on in there.

  "Looks like it's door number four," she said.

  Jen crept down the stairs to the fourth floor. She watched through the window for a minute and detected no one. Voices came from below her on the stairs.

  Shit.

  Cracking the door open, she slipped inside the hallway.

  The top of a head appeared down the stairs. Mouth dry, she ducked and hurried to the first office but the knob wouldn't turn. Dammit.

  She rushed to the next door across the hall, and it, too, was locked. Voices from the stairs grew louder, and Jen's mouth went dry. The third door open easily and she ducked into the darkened room, closing the door behind her with a clunk that sounded like a gunshot. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she waited in the dark.

  The voices approached and stopped in front of the door. A drop of sweat ran down her cheek. Don't come in here. Don't come in here.

  "Colonel Butler wants that report by the end of the day," a man's voice with the hint of a Boston accent said.

  Another voice grunted and a door across the hall squeaked. "Yeah, yeah. I know the drill."

  The door closed and one set of footsteps echoed down the hall. Another door opened and closed, and then there was silence.

  Jen fumbled along the wall and flipped a switch. The sudden light blinded her and she squinted.

  When her eyes adjusted, she took inventory of the room. Shelves laden with cleaning supplies lined one wall. A mop and bucket stood next to a sink, and several sizes of brooms lay stacked in a corner.

  Her mind searched for a way to the fifth floor. A pair of janitor overalls hung from a hook. I could dress as a janitor and fake my way in.

  She scoffed. Stupid. How would I get past a keypad?

  A clock on the wall showed she'd already been inside for almost twenty minutes. Mark and Zeke would be wondering what she'd found.

  Maybe I should just find a way out and get to Atlanta.

  Rubbing her shoulder, she tipped her head back to stretch her neck muscles and her attention settled on a large ventilation grate on the wall.

  Bingo.

  18

  The step stool squeaked and tilted to one side as Jen balanced herself on the top step. She caught her breath and put a hand against the wall to steady herself.

  Don't tell me after all this I'm going to get taken out by a shitty piece of janitorial equipment.

  She pulled the screwdriver she'd found in a toolbox from her pocket and removed the four screws holding the cover on. Holding the screwdriver between her teeth, she used both hands to pry the cover off the wall. A dusty breeze hit her in the face and she turned her head to sneeze.

  Her flashlight beam showed dust bunnies as big as rats in the shaft. Great thought, Jen. Thanks.

  The shaft went left and right. To the
left there were other openings farther down until the light could reach no more. To the right, it went several feet until it met a vertical shaft.

  Jen laid the flashlight in the vent and tried to jiggle the vent. Three feet by three feet, it was made of thick metal and didn't move.

  Satisfied, she clicked the flashlight off, stuck it in her belt, and climbed down the ladder.

  A door opened and closed nearby. Jen readied her axe and stood to the side of the door. Footsteps clicked on the tile past her door. Another door opened and closed, and there was silence.

  She considered locking the door, but it might draw suspicion. She had to find a way to avoid alarm while she was in the vent. Her eyes roved over the contents of the room and settled on a plastic placard leaning against the mop bucket. It said "Caution Wet Floor." She smiled.

  Two minutes later, she'd taped a piece of paper underneath the vent opening that said "Vent Repairs in Progress by Order of Colonel Butler." Butler had the soldiers so cowed they wouldn't dare to question him on it.

  She secured her axe on her back. If she was going to be sliding around on her stomach, she didn't want that thing scratching the vent and bringing unwanted attention. She climbed the ladder and pulled herself into the vent, sliding to the right. Once she was fully in, she took out her flashlight and shined it toward the vertical shaft.

  It only took a minute to reach it. She pointed the beam down and saw where it split off into the next two floors below her.

  She rolled onto her back to look up and regretted it when the axe dug into her back. Shit. No good place for that thing.

  Gritting her teeth, she pointed the light upward. The opening for the next floor lay twelve feet away.

  Jen slid her upper body into the shaft and grabbed onto a two-inch outcropping where two sections of vents were fastened together. Not going to be easy.

  She pulled her upper body up while sliding her lower extremities farther out. Her fingers burned with the effort. Worse still, they became slick with sweat. Raising herself again, she grasped the next outcropping with one hand, then repeated the process.

  Only her feet remained in the horizontal vent. She strained to pull them out. They slid slowly and stopped. Her breath came in short gasps.

  One, two, three. Pull.

  Her feet slipped out and banged the side of the shaft. Jen's slick fingers lost their grip and she fell, feet first down the shaft, her hands desperately clutching for something, anything to hold on to.

  She spread her legs, her feet hit an outcropping, and she stopped with a bang that echoed through the vents. She thrust her arms up and grabbed an outcropping above her.

  Jen's head drooped forward and sweat ran down her face. Too close to quit. Come on, finish this shit.

  She wiped first one hand, then the other on her shirt, then reached for the next outcropping. Moving slowly, but methodically, she climbed her way back up to the horizontal vent she'd come from. She stopped and listened, but there was no shouting, no signs of pursuit.

  Gulping air, she continued upward, arriving at the fifth-floor vent a few minutes later. She pulled herself inside and collapsed, her heart racing and muscles burning.

  On her elbows and knees, she inched toward the first vent opening and stopped at the grate. Bile spilled into the back of her throat. The smell. The graveyard smell.

  It was dark as pitch, but Jen sensed something moving just beneath the vent, and she leaned back from the grate. They're keeping zombies up here? For what?

  Another movement came from across the room, along with the clinking of chains.

  Jen crawled to the next vent opening and the death smell faded. Unlike the previous room, this one—an office with a cluttered desk—was well lit. A computer on the desk was on and had a document displayed, but Jen couldn't read it from her position. Several stocked bookshelves ran along one wall.

  Voices came from farther down the vent. She crawled closer to it and froze when Butler said, "You better have made progress."

  She slid up to the vent opening. The room was a cross between a lab and a surgery. Computers, beakers, and other instruments lined counters against the walls, while an operating table stood in the middle of the room. Strapped to that table lay a soldier, the top of his skull removed and wires running to some type of probes inserted into his brain. His eyes were open, but he showed no signs of life.

  Jen squinted to get a good look. Yellow eyes.

  The wires ran to a machine on the counter, and Morgan stood next to it, adjusting a slider.

  Butler towered next to him, his hands on his hips. "We're out of time, Doctor. My superiors are asking too many questions."

  Dr. Morgan didn't reply and continued working the controls.

  Butler's face reddened. "Doctor," he yelled.

  Morgan looked up at Butler and blinked as if coming out of a dream. "What is it, Colonel?"

  Butler clenched his fists, but answered calmly. "I need to know when you expect a successful test."

  Morgan removed his small, round wire-framed glasses and blew on them before replacing them. "Science doesn't run on timelines, Colonel." Butler scowled, and Morgan raised a hand. "But in this case, I've made some headway.

  "As you recall, my plan was to control the undead electronically. Watch Corporal Stennings there on the table."

  Holy shit. Dr. Frankenstein stuff.

  Morgan turned a dial. The zombie soldier didn't move. Butler grunted and his jaw clenched.

  Morgan adjusted a slider, then said, "I think we have it now." He turned the dial again.

  The zombie kicked a leg out.

  Butler grinned. "What else can he do?"

  Morgan stretched his back. "That's it so far."

  Butler's eyebrows rose. "Are you fucking kidding? You made a dead man's leg move? I did that with a frog in high school."

  Morgan frowned. "Of course, the results of electronic control hasn't been what I'd hoped."

  "So what's Plan B?"

  Morgan put a finger up. "I've found a way for you to start controlling the zombies today. Soon, you'll have your own army and no one will be able to stop you from marching on Washington."

  19

  Jen squinted. Butler controlling zombies? His own army? Against Washington? This shit can't be real.

  Morgan adjusted his glasses. "Do you remember the recording you provided me of the conversation between Dr. Cartwright and those refugees from Anchorage?"

  Jen clenched her fists. They taped us?

  Butler nodded. "Wish I'd started tapping their conversations sooner. So far, we only have their call from yesterday, and even then, only the first twenty minutes. My comm folks are new at that, but have assured me the tap won't drop again."

  "I gleaned some interesting information from them," Morgan said. "A case in point is what they called leader zombies. These are humans that die without being bitten first. When they're reanimated they have the ability to communicate with, and control, zombies who were created from being bitten, which are called drones."

  "Nice science lesson," Butler said. "What does that mean to me?"

  Morgan stepped past Butler and pulled back a drape at the end of the room. Behind a large window, three zombies were chained to the wall. They strained uselessly to attack Morgan, their yellow eyes gleaming.

  "Another demonstration," Morgan said. "I trust you recognize the zombie in the middle."

  The zombie he pointed to wore military BDUs with several bullet holes in the chest. Jen couldn't make out his name tape because of a bloodstain.

  Butler sauntered over to the window. "Captain Beal. You're looking a little worn." He chuckled at his own joke.

  "Observe." Morgan pointed at Beal's head, where a bulky plastic helmet was strapped.

  Morgan picked up a microphone and turned it on. "Captain Beal."

  Beal went apeshit, flinging himself against his chains.

  "Captain Beal," Morgan repeated. "Sit on the floor."

  The zombie captain continued to flail agai
nst his restraints.

  Morgan took a small device from his pocket. Black, with a red button, it fit snugly in his hand. He pressed the button.

  Captain Beal's back arched and his arms flung out, fingers splayed. A mournful moan came from deep in his chest.

  Morgan released the button, and Beal came out of his convulsions. Morgan spoke into the mic. "Captain Beal. Sit on the floor."

  Chains rattling, the zombie captain lowered himself to the floor.

  No freaking way.

  The other two zombies, both with various chunks of flesh missing from their bodies, continued to lunge at the windows.

  Butler clapped Morgan on the shoulder. "Now you're talking. Screw the fancy wires and shit. Discipline has always worked for me." He frowned. "How many of those helmets do you have and how do we control them from a distance? We'd need a couple million of them."

  Morgan's face broke into a Cheshire grin. "We only have the one helmet at this time, but more can be manufactured within the week."

  "One?" Butler yelled. "How many can we have within a week?"

  "Thirty to fifty."

  "What the fuck, Morgan? How the hell does that help me now?"

  Morgan pushed his glasses up. "These helmets are fairly complex. It has a speaker, GPS tracker, and the circuitry to send a powerful localized EMP pulse into the zombie's brain."

  Butler stepped nose-to-nose with Morgan. "I don't want a fucking science lesson. I want results, and I want them now."

  Morgan calmly stared back at Butler. "If you'll step aside, I'll demonstrate."

  Butler backed away, his face a bright crimson.

  I've got a feeling I'm not going to like this.

  "As I reported," Morgan said, "the EMP signal is what causes the zombie to feel pain. In fact, it's the only thing I've found that will do so. And the beauty of it is that it has to be powerful and concentrated, so the Pentagon can't just set up a huge EMP pulse to stop your army."

  "Results, Doctor. Now."

  Morgan sighed. "Observe. Remember, Captain Beal is a leader." He spoke into the microphone. "Captain Beal, tell your two zombie friends to sit."

  Beal sat still, his yellow eyes searching the floor in front of him.