When the Future Ended (The Zombie Terror War Series Book 1)

by David Spell

  A month later, their food was almost exhausted again and the number of infected had only seemed to increase. The two friends sat on Israel’s battered sofa, trying to talk themselves into making another foray out to find some more food. Carlos was almost out of ammunition for his 9mm Taurus pistol, however, having had to shoot zombies each time they had gone out. The remaining seven bullets would not last long if they were attacked.

  A full size brown Ford Econoline van suddenly roared into the parking lot and four of Carlos’ friends jumped out, shooting the group of loitering Zs, and calling out for their amigo. The gang member welcomed them inside, introducing them to Israel as fellow Brownside Locos members. The guests excitedly told the two men of the arrival of the cartel in Atlanta and how they were setting up shop in Buckhead, just ten miles down the road.

  “Come on, Boxer! You come with us. They need soldiers and they’ve got it all. Food, women, guns. Man, we’re going to take over this city.”

  A chubby gang member introduced as ‘Gordo’ looked disdainfully at Israel. Ramirez wondered how the man could still live up to that nickname, with food so hard to come by these days.

  “What about him?” the hefty Mexican asked, nodding toward Israel. “He don’t look like much of a soldier.”

  The apparent leader of the group, a tough looking, mustachioed with a large scar down his cheek spoke up. His street name, not surprisingly, was ‘Scarface.’

  “The cartel hombre we talked to said they need people to do other things besides fight. They’ve already taken over an entire city block and they need a lot of people to work.”

  Israel and Carlos packed up a few clothes and the six men rushed out to the parking lot. Ramirez did not want to abandon his car and dove behind the steering wheel as Boxer joined his friends in their stolen van. Quintero had given them the mission of tracking down and recruiting other soldiers. Carlos’ apartment had been their first and only stop. No one wanted to chance getting overrun by the flesh-eating creatures so they decided to head back to the cartel occupied area of Atlanta with their two newest recruits.

  For the past two months, Israel had worked hard to keep the machinery working and to keep a low profile, trying to to stay out of sight as much as possible. The electrical grid was still down and only a few of the captured locations had generators. He was in the middle of adding more diesel fuel to the two units in the basement of the big apartment building when Jorge had sent for him. This wasn’t unusual; the deputy cartel leader had often called for him to give him various assignments over the last eight weeks.

  What was unusual about this request, however, was that the escorting cartel soldier pushed the fiftieth floor button inside the elevator. That was where the big boss, Antonio Corona, lived. Ramirez had only met Tony the Tiger a few times so he was understandably nervous as to what this meeting might mean. His escort knocked on the door, which was quickly opened by Quintero. He dismissed the soldier, ushering Israel inside the plush apartment.

  “Our maintenance man!” the pudgy gang leader greeted him with a smile.

  “Hola, señor,” Israel answered timidly, his brown eyes looking down, waiting for further instructions.

  “Please come in and sit with us,” Antonio gestured towards the two large, expensive black leather couches.

  Jorge seated himself on the couch with his boss. After a moment’s hesitation, Ramirez sat on the other sofa, on the edge of his seat, across from the other two men. That was when he noticed the black leather computer bag and the black padded nylon bag, laying on the coffee table between him and his bosses. Those are the ones I picked up on that parking deck at the CDC, he realized.

  “I see that you recognize those,” Corona said, motioning to the objects on the table.

  “Si, señor.”

  “What can you tell me about them? I’m very curious to hear what you have to say.”

  Israel knew that he was a terrible liar, so he didn’t even try. He told them exactly what had happened and how he’d planned on giving the bags back when the CDC had reopened. But, of course, he hadn’t gone back to work and it didn’t look like he would any time soon. Both Tony the Tiger and Jorge sensed that the simple man in front of them was telling the truth.

  “And what about the ten vials in the padded bag? Do you have any idea what’s in them, or what the writing on them means, Israel?” Corona queried.

  “No, Jefe,” he shook his head, “but I think maybe the lady who dropped them was working on the zombie virus. She always wore a white coat and was some kind of scientist.”

  Upon being dismissed, Israel returned to the basement to complete his task, his mind on the meeting with the cartel leaders, wondering what it all meant. After finishing up, he climbed the stairs to the lobby as the elevator doors opened. Seven men exited: Tony the Tiger, Jorge, four soldiers, and a young, small-framed black man, his wrists secured behind him with handcuffs, a blindfold over his eyes. Jorge was carrying the nylon bag, the one that contained the ten glass vials of liquid. An uneasiness settled upon Ramirez as the men descended the outside stairs and turned right, stopping a few feet down the sidewalk in front of the Peachtree Summit.

  Israel watched through a window in the lobby as a soldier unlocked one of the handcuffs on the prisoner and attached it to a rail of the tall fence that ran around the high-rise building. The young man reached up and pulled off the blindfold, a questioning look on his face. Jorge sat the bag down, pulled on a pair of rubber gloves, and withdrew a syringe from his pocket.

  The deputy cartel leader reached into the satchel, withdrawing a random test tube. He inserted the needle of the syringe, pulling back the plunger, loading it. The prisoner saw what was about to happen and backed up against the fence, screaming at the men. Antonio stood off to the side, watching, letting Jorge handle this. The big boss held a gold-plated pistol just in case things got out of hand. Several other armed gang members had gathered outside to watch the spectacle.

  Quintero issued several commands that Ramirez couldn’t hear. Three of the cartel soldiers grabbed the man, restraining him, while the fourth pulled out a knife and slashed the sleeve of the prisoner’s shirt open exposing his upper arm. The prisoner tried to pull away but was no match for the three cartel soldiers holding him in place. Without hesitation, Jorge stepped over and jabbed the man with the syringe and then quickly backed away. Jorge’s men let go of the prisoner and jumped out of his reach.

  After recapping the needle, Quintero carefully removed the rubber gloves, dropping them to the sidewalk. The now infected black man screamed at, pleaded with, and cursed his captors for three full minutes. As the bio-terror virus did its work, the young man’s heart rate began to slow and his breathing became labored. He was sweating profusely, his body trying in vain to stop the inevitable.

  Six minutes after getting injected, the prisoner lost consciousness, falling backwards, coming to rest against the base of the fence. Two minutes later he appeared to be dead. None of the Mexicans were going to get close enough to verify that fact, but Antonio and Jorge nodded at each other, clearly impressed. Corona’s four bodyguards took another step backwards, anticipating what was about to happen, each of them drawing their own pistols.

  Israel felt the hot tears running down his cheeks. It’s my fault! If I hadn’t picked up those bags, if I hadn’t come here, this wouldn’t have happened. I’m going to Hell, he thought, still unable to pull his eyes away from the scene in front of him.

  Suddenly, infected man’s eyes popped open, bloodshot and glazed over, a deep guttural growl sounding from inside of him, his teeth snapping together. The large group of spectators around him smelled like food and he lunged for them. One of his arms was handcuffed to the fence, however, and he was jerked backwards.

  The new zombie leapt forward again, snarling loudly at the people just out of his reach. He was again stopped violently by the handcuff, this time popping his shoulder out of joint. The dead but infected body didn’t feel any pain, however, continuing to throw h
imself forward towards his meal.

  A gunshot silenced the zombie’s growls, blood spurting from the side of his head. Tony the Tiger watched the corpse collapse to the pavement, making sure that it was really dead. After staring at the body for a full minute, Corona slid the pistol back into his waistline.

  Antonio looked at his subordinates and smiled broadly, clapping his hands together. “Excelente, amigos! That’s amazing! He’d have kept coming until he ripped his arm off. This was a brilliant idea, Jorge. We control the zombie virus now and you and I will discuss the best way to deploy it. Have some men dispose of the body. Make sure they are careful not to get any blood on them.”

  When Tony the Tiger and his four guards disappeared back inside their headquarters, Israel made his move, deciding that he had to escape and tell someone what was happening here. He had an idea that just might work. He doubted that God would answer his prayers, but maybe, if God was still listening to his mother’s prayers, his plan might succeed.

  North of Buckhead, Atlanta, Wednesday, 1400 hours

  Lieutenant Colonel Kevin Clark was riding shotgun in the lead humvee. This was the furthest south that he had taken any of his patrols and he was nervous. Corporal Corey Whitmer stood behind the colonel, manning the Browning M2 .50 caliber machine gun as the driver, Private Joe Ellison, led the three vehicle convoy down Peachtree Road towards their destination in the community of Brookhaven, between Chamblee and Buckhead.

  The National Guard vehicles were all heavily armed. Besides the .50 cal in the colonel’s vehicle, the middle hummer carried an MK 19 grenade launcher and the rear vehicle packed a light machine gun, the M249. Three soldiers rode in each hummer.

  All the troops scanned the surrounding businesses and terrain, looking for threats. In the lead vehicle, the muzzle of Clark’s M4 rifle rested against the open window frame, the muzzle pointing outwards. Private Ellison’s M-16 sat next to him, pointing towards the floor of the vehicle, but his 9mm Beretta Model 92 pistol was out of the holster, wedged under his right leg where he could grab it. The colonel alternated between looking out the window and glancing at the GPS unit mounted on the dash.

  “How much farther, Boss?” Thompson asked.

  “We take a right in about half a mile. The house is on that street.”

  “Roger that.”

  The National Guard troops had been released into the fight against the zombies weeks after the last major attacks in Atlanta, Washington, D.C., and New York City. The President had hoped that federal and local police would have been able to stem the tide of the thousands of infected who took over and subsequently poured out of those three key East Coast cities. Law enforcement had put up a valiant fight but there were just too many zombies and not enough police.

  When the guard troops were finally allowed into the conflict, they found themselves unprepared, resulting in the devastation of dozens of units from both zombie and gang attacks. Clark and his soldiers had come into contact with many of their brothers and sisters in uniform who had been infected and turned into zombies, often with tears in their eyes as they pulled the trigger to put them down.

  Kevin Clark was not your typical National Guard officer, having risen to the rank of major in the regular army as an Airborne Ranger. As he was contemplating retirement after twenty years of service, he was offered a new commission, this one as a lieutenant colonel, if he would come to work as one of the commanders of the Georgia National Guard.

  Even though Clark had been looking forward to retirement and spending more time with his wife, he knew that he had to take this position. As former member of the elite Ranger Battalion, Kevin felt an obligation to pass along the knowledge that he had gained during his many deployments to the citizen-soldiers serving under him. Being a part of the guard allowed him to sleep in his own bed at night, but it also provided him with the opportunity to impart his training and skills to the part-time warriors that he was responsible for.

  Ironically, the colonel and Mrs. Clark had seen the zombie virus first-hand months earlier when it was released on the University of Georgia campus. Both of the Clarks were UGA alumni and tried to attend at least one football game a season. Just minutes before the kickoff of the home opener, infected people inside the packed Sanford Stadium began attacking anyone they could get their hands on. Kevin found out later that one of the terrorists had had a job in a stadium concession booth, using his position to infect pizzas with the bio-terror chemical. Within minutes of purchasing and consuming the tainted pizza, the fans had collapsed and died. Moments later, however, their bodies were awakened as flesh-eating zombies.

  Three infected band members had gotten into the stands below where the Clarks were seated, attacking fans and creating a panicked rush to get out of the stadium. Kevin grabbed his wife’s hand, rushing up the stairs from their lower level seats. A growling, infected woman lunged down the stairs towards them, blood covering her face and the front of her Bulldogs jersey. The former Ranger sidestepped the zombie, kicking her in the butt as she went by, sending her flying down the concrete steps, conveniently tripping up one of the zombie band members who had just started running up the stairs.

  Gunshots rang out from both inside and outside the stadium as campus police officers confronted the rapidly increasing groups of Zs. The zombie virus had also been released inside the Tate Student Center, located just across the street from the stadium, sending many more infected into the surrounding streets, where over ninety thousand people had gathered for the game.

  When the Clarks got to the landing where the exits were located, Kevin realized that they were trapped. Everywhere he looked, the infected were attacking people. How does this thing spread so fast? he wondered.

  A young, African-American policewoman was leading a group of people towards a women’s restroom, her pistol out but pointed at the ground. Kevin took his wife’s arm, quickly falling in with the group of survivors. Clark was unarmed and he figured their chances would be much better being with an armed police officer. Officer Grace Cunningham had protected the twenty-seven survivors by keeping them locked safely in the restroom for several hours.

  After Cunningham discovered that Clark was a military man, she gave him her backup pistol and asked him to help her lead the big group to safety. Officer Cunningham’s dispatcher had eventually directed her to take the survivors to meet up with CDC officers who were already in the fight on campus and who would escort the group to an extraction point. The police officer and the soldier killed multiple zombies, but they had managed to get to the federal officers, led by Chuck McCain. The CDC team got the entire band of survivors safely across campus where a Department of Homeland Security helicopter had flown them all away from the infected campus.

  For the last three months, Colonel Clark and his group of twelve other National Guard soldiers had acted as an independent force, eliminating zombies, and in several cases, taking out gangs of human predators, as well. The first thing that he had done was to establish a safe location in which his soldiers could bring their loved ones. Corporal Whitmer had actually been the one to suggest the location to the colonel. Corey’s parents ran a Methodist retreat center on the Chattahoochee River, north of Atlanta.

  The Wesleyan Center for Solitude had been a place for pastors and Christian leaders to get away and disconnect before the terrorist attacks that had brought the east coast to its knees. Now the center was home to the National Guard troops and their families. It was a secluded and a safe location. Whenever a patrol was sent out, three of the soldiers stayed behind with their fourth armed humvee, providing security for their families.

  With no clear chain-of-command and with the communications grid down, Colonel Clark had done what any good Ranger officer would do: improvise, adapt, and overcome. He had gathered the remnants of three squads of troopers together, placing them under his command. After helping his soldiers get their families to the Center for Solitude, he decided that eliminating the infected would be their primary mission, understanding that
the zombies would have to be destroyed before there could be any chance of society returning to normal. Clark estimated that his men and women had killed over two thousand Zs.

  The National Guard troops had also been involved in several firefights with criminal gangs. Thankfully, only one soldier had been wounded and it had been minor. They had killed thirty-seven criminals. They took no prisoners, per the colonel’s orders. He’d made it clear to his soldiers that he would accept full responsibility for his orders if they were questioned later. The soldiers had no facility in which to keep prisoners and no medical staff to look after those criminals whom they had wounded.

  The colonel was proud of his warriors. They had stepped up and were committed to doing their duty to the best of their ability. He and his non-commissioned officers had set the bar high even before the zombie virus had been unleashed and his remaining National Guard troops were some of the best trained in America. Now, Clark was the only Georgia National Guard officer who was still alive, at least as far as he knew. The last three months of fighting had forged his team into some of the finest soldiers whom the colonel had ever commanded.

  Today’s mission was a strange one. It had started when he’d received a call on his satellite phone. It had laid silent for months, but had beeped yesterday afternoon with an incoming call. Someone identifying himself as the Director of Operations for the CIA, a retired Navy admiral, had somehow gotten Clark’s name and satellite phone number and had dialed him up, asking (not ordering, Clark had noted) for him and his soldiers to check an address in Brookhaven for items that were important to the bio-terror virus research.