Heroes of the Undead | Book 1 | The Culling

by Meredith, Peter

  He ran from the closer group and towards the end of the tunnel, but as he did, his eyes strayed to the third rail. He would jump on it if he had to. It would be quicker. Like being struck by lightning, he thought. A zap, some sparks and then…

  “Hey! Up here.” It was Maddy, waving her arms at the zombies chasing Bryce. She was trying to distract them and was nearly losing the white blanket in the process. “Look at me!” At the invitation, some turned and the sudden change in forward momentum caused a pile up.

  Bryce took advantage of the moment. As he ran, he tossed the pipe up onto the platform and then leapt after it. He hit the edge and began to squirm and claw his way onto the cement. It was true he looked like someone with a serious handicap, but it did the trick and he managed to get away from the greedy hands.

  Maddy tried to help him; he shoved her away. “Go. I’ll catch up.” As bad as he felt, he didn’t feel as bad as Maddy looked. She seemed to have aged twenty years since their helicopter ride. She left him lying on the platform staring up at a grungy ceiling. The beasts were fighting each other to get to him, but he had time to take a couple of ragged breaths before pushing himself up. It was all the rest he could expect to get for some time.

  His bare feet padded back to where he had left his pipe and as he bent to retrieve it, he saw something among the dead that made his heart skip a beat. His demon was back. It came loping up the tracks, dodging the shamblers, and with ease, it vaulted onto the platform. Bryce couldn’t be sure, but it looked as though it had grown.

  The pipe in Bryce’s hands suddenly felt like nothing more than a stick and his arms like twigs. The demon certainly wasn’t afraid of him or the pipe. It came for him wearing a grin, showing black gums and white teeth. Bryce quailed before it and wanted to run, shrieking, but he dared not. This was no jackal. This was a lion and it knew it.

  It stalked forward, unafraid.

  Then Griff was shooting his gun, making it thunder in the tiled confines of the station. This stopped the demon and it slunk low. It was still without fear; however, it was cautious. It respected the gun and perhaps Griff as well. The demon looked past the shaking Bryce Carter at its true foe.

  And that was fine with Bryce. With its attention elsewhere, he turned and ran, chasing after the group, which was even then heading for the stairs. Only Maddy was waiting for him. She stood four steps up, waving him to hurry. For Bryce, he was flying. He had never been a sprinter, but his fear had him speeding so fast that he caught up in seconds. Only when he was on the stairs did he chance a look back.

  The demon was nowhere in sight, which was almost as unnerving as if it had been two steps behind him.

  Bryce backed up a few of the stairs before Maddy smacked him on the top of the head. “Come on!”

  Once again, they were being left behind. They trudged up the stairs to an open area where tens of thousands traversed every day. It was strangely dark and mostly empty. The dead were there, some immobile, lying in congealed blood, and some marching towards them. There were too many coming at once for Bryce and his pipe.

  Griff cleared the way with his Glock.

  The sound was outrageous and both he and Maddy flinched every time he fired. She wasn’t about to complain. Maddy knew full well the direness of their ammo situation, and as much as she wanted to blast the zombies out of their way, she knew she would only be wasting nine bullets out of ten. She stuck close to Bryce. His pipe made sense, even if he didn’t. He had always been a dweeb, a weakling, a loser, now he was…different.

  She glanced at him, thinking that he was discovering some new brave aspect of himself. Jealousy reared its head inside her. Here she was, a burden unable to defend herself. Sure, she could blame Magnus for drugging her, but the truth was, she wouldn’t have been much better off if she had never met him. And here’s Bryce guarding our backs.

  This was only partially true. Bryce wasn’t guarding their backs so much as he was too afraid to turn around. The demon haunted him. Zombies were one thing. He had seen enough movies to know what he was dealing with when it came to them, but the demon was different.

  He was still spun around when a door they were passing banged open; he might’ve screamed, though if asked he would’ve called it a “yelp.”

  No one noticed since Tessa shrieked as though she were being tortured. The poor girl was a mess. Her nerves were frayed and she couldn’t seem to stop shivering like an inbred poodle.

  It wasn’t zombies that charged from the door, it was people: a black man of thirty or so in a stained, green uniform, and an elderly white couple who wore matching Statue of Liberty t-shirts under snug woolen coats. The three gave off an eye-watering bleach smell as they rushed out.

  “Don’t shoot!” the younger man cried. He held a broom in one hand and had the other hand raised. His name was Jayson Lantz, and he knew a cop when he saw one.

  Griff lowered the gun, slipping his finger from the trigger. It wasn’t something he’d admit, but he had nearly plugged Jayson square in the forehead. He didn’t know what to make of the three. It was dark and he couldn’t make out their eyes but he didn’t think they were infected.

  That was the only good thing he could say about them. Jayson appeared to be exactly what he was: a custodian with a bit of a growing pudge and nerves that were already shot, even though he’d done nothing but hide for the last eight hours. The old couple: Mr. and Mrs. Harriman were worse. They were newly retired tourists from middle America who had lived a soft but frugal life, and had picked the wrong time to crack open their piggy bank for a trip they’d been dreaming of for thirty years.

  “Take us with you,” Mrs. Harriman begged.

  Griff hesitated, wanting to suggest they get back in the closet and that he’d send help when he could. Then he remembered Janine, wallowing in her own blood a fruit bowl sized hole in her guts. No one was going to come back for the old couple.

  Victoria surprised Griff. “Let them come. The more the merrier. There’s safety in numbers, right?” She even reached a hand to Mrs. Harriman and pulled her from the closet. Victoria had her reasons for inviting them along and they weren’t altruistic. It was clear, someone was going to die, and soon. They’d had near miss after near miss and their luck couldn’t hold out forever.

  She had figured the cow would be the first to die, of a heart attack if nothing else, and she hadn’t cared. But the FBI agent cared. He was the real deal, and if he thought Maddy was worth risking his life for, maybe others would as well. Victoria had the image of a black helicopter landing on a building downtown burned into her mind—she and her family were going to be on it.

  Griff darted into the closet where there were more mops and brooms. The city bought new ones on a weekly basis, but after a single pass around the station, they were too disgusting for words.

  Victoria accepted hers with a grimace. Maddy leaned on her mop like an unlikely fantasy wizard. Mr. Harriman brandished his like a spear; his knuckles stood up like white peaks on a spotted plain.

  “These are just for the moment,” Griff said, speaking over his shoulder. He was already on the move, heading for the glowing exit sign. As much as he wanted to drill them in the use of their makeshift weapons, there was no time. They would have to deal.

  When the group emerged into a pre-dawn twilight, the city was being swept by yet another wave of newly turned zombies. At midnight there had been eight-hundred thousand zombies roaming the streets. The number was up over 1.2 million now. Another two million were straight up dead, and a like number had “escaped.”

  Escaping didn’t mean they were safe, not by a long shot. Across the Hudson, Hoboken was a giant bonfire, and the highways west through New Jersey were even more jam-packed than the streets of New York. To the east, Long Island had become a death trap for its seven and half million people. Ferries had stopped running hours before and marinas were being overrun by the richest refugees in the history of mankind. The 1% proved just as feral as the rest of humanity.

  Even with zom
bies crawling up the stairs after the group, Griff paused at the entrance to the subway station. They were on the corner of 14th Street and Broadway. Across the packed street was an open park of sorts. People and probably zombies were running. There were screams nearby; some loud and fresh, some muffled. There were gunshots, but no car horns. As a city, the time for honking was over.

  “Which way’s south?”

  It took Victoria a second to orient herself, but before she could answer, Jayson pushed past her and pointed. “This here’s Broadway. It goes all the way to the Staten Island Ferry, which it ain’t runnin’ no how. You ain’t from New York?” It was disappointing. Some nobody cop from some nowhere state wasn’t going to be of much use.

  “We’re with the FBI,” Victoria said.

  Jayson cast a sidelong look at Maddy with her dirty white blanket. She had it knotted around her throat like it was a cape. Nut job, he thought, or retard. Bryce, twitchy and fearful, didn’t look much better. But they had guns and all he had was a mop.

  “Sure, FBI, right.” He didn’t care as long as they got him out of there. “Where are we going? Huh? We gotta get outta Manhattan, you know what I’m saying? And south ain’t…”

  He jumped as the sky suddenly roared. Six F15 fighter/bombers shot overhead, invisible despite being just a little over a thousand feet up. Their pilots had their guidance receivers up and running, and had for the last ten minutes. They should’ve dropped their payload before they crossed above the island, but what was being asked of the flight leader cut against everything he had joined the Air Force for.

  Thirty years old and he was being asked to kill who knew how many innocent men, women and children.

  “Target is cleared hot,” the young captain said into his radio. He received five reluctant “Affirmatives.”

  The captain let out a long breath before finally saying, “Release. Release.” He had never rippled off munitions with less enthusiasm.

  His Eagle suddenly felt light and nimble as the 2,000-pound laser-guided bombs dropped away. Keeping his target designator fixed, he banked his flight of jets in a gentle arc. None of the pilots took their eyes from the target. The George Washington Bridge looked ghostly grey. The cars packed across it were barely visible.

  How many thousands of people were stranded on it, desperate to get across? How many innocent people were about to die all for a mission that seemed hours too late? The very eastern part of New Jersey was already swarming with the dead, and yet it was cut off from the rest of the country by the broad Hackensack River.

  Already fifteen bridges across it were being targeted. To keep the northern part of Jersey from being flooded with the dead, the George Washington Bridge was next on the list.

  The captain’s chest began to tighten. “It could be worse,” he muttered, trying to reassure himself. The governor of California had ordered what amounted to carpet bombing every street, road, highway, and driveway that led to or from L.A. The footage was sickening. In the captain’s eyes, it was straight-up murder.

  A blinding flash of light made him jerk and his Eagle bucked. His bird was spirited that way…or he was just a poor pilot. He felt like a terrible one as he watched the bombs striking the center of the bridge in quick succession; wham, wham, wham! The tons of high-explosives hit within seconds of each other, creating a multiplying effect that shivered the entire structure.

  The top deck of the bridge absorbed the first eight Paveway bunker-busting bombs and was in the process of disintegrating when the following four passed through the upheaval in the blink of an eye. They buried themselves five feet deep into the surface of the bridge before detonating, causing the reinforced concrete to ripple like water.

  Although the upper deck of the bridge had a gaping hole taking up most of its width, the second deck was not wholly destroyed by the explosions.

  As the young captain watched, the entire thing shook and twisted as the ripple washed completely down its length. Like a wave in still water, the ripple rebounded and came back, smaller, weaker.

  When the dust settled, the bridge still stood. And the dead streamed across.

  Chapter 17

  Seconds after the jets roared overhead there were brilliant flashes of light from the northwest. These were followed up a second later by the echoing thunder of the explosions. It was like a great hammer the size of a building was striking the earth’s crust. The echoes were still bouncing back and forth when a hot gust of wind blew down the street and washed over them.

  Jayson, who had lived most of his life in Harlem, knew what had been hit by the jets. And he knew the repercussions.

  “They’re trapping us,” he whispered.

  “Us?” Bryce asked. “Like us, us? Why would they do that?”

  Griff was staring toward the glow. He remembered seeing the bridge across the Hudson on the flight in from Boston. He thought it strange that there was only the one for such a large city. And now it was gone. They were being trapped. A shiver ran up his spine at the idea, and he turned to look at Bryce and Maddy.

  It occurred to him that the two were now his only real hope of getting off the island, but would anyone really believe that these two knew anything of importance? Not looking like that. They looked mad.

  “We need to get you two dressed,” he said. As if they had forgotten that they were in the filthy remains of hospital gowns, they looked down at themselves.

  “We don’t have time for that,” Victoria said. Amazingly, she punctuated the sentence with the snap of her fingers in his face. “We need to get downtown before the sun rises. Think about what this is going to be like when they can see us. You ever think about that?”

  A check of his watch showed it was after five. They weren’t going to make it before the sun was up, especially if the two remained shoeless. “Clothes first. If you’re worried about the sun, you are free to leave.”

  “What kind of FBI officer would leave a mom and daughter?” Victoria replied in a huff.

  Griff rolled his eyes but before he could say anything, Jayson pointed east. “There’s a shop you can get some clothes at right down here. You never did say what’s downtown.”

  “An FBI field office,” he answered as he started down along 14th Street, mop in one hand, his Glock in the other. There was no reason to tell them to keep together. They were bunched like sheep, stepping on each other’s toes. “We should be safe there.”

  Ahead was something of a mega boutique, but they had to pass a combination pharmacy and grocery store before reaching it. The building’s windows were smashed in, showing the place had been ransacked, looted and partially burned. It was larger than it appeared from the outside, large enough to have its own deli section.

  Bryce stared in, and at the sight of the food thrown about, he felt a change come over him. It wasn’t a normal human feeling, but at the same time, he didn’t think it was zombie either. He went weak, weaker than before. His thin muscles began to quiver and he found himself heading through the glass, stumbling, barely able to hold himself up.

  Most of the shelves were empty. It didn’t matter. There was a pre-made sandwich that someone had kicked down an aisle. He could smell the ham through the cellophane. In seconds, he was tearing into it, while his name was called behind him—the voice sounded as if it was coming from down the block.

  He had it half gobbled down before Griff had him by the elbow and turned him sharply about. “What the hell?” the agent grumbled. “We really don’t have time for this.”

  “Starving,” Bryce said around a mouthful. “What about her?”

  Maddy had followed them inside and was guzzling water from a clear plastic bottle. In a blink she’d downed a quart and was reaching for more. She had sweated out a gallon of water, maybe more. She didn’t know she’d been that thirsty until she caught sight of the bottles.

  Behind her, the others were creeping into the store. They were all in stages of thirst and hunger, and that included Griff, who realized there was no use fighting all of t
hem, and went to find something to eat as well.

  Bryce grabbed a handcart and hurried for the deli where he ate as he shopped. He craved meat and the sandwich he made himself was of heroic proportions. When he went to wash it down, he didn’t want water, he wanted straight milk. “I’ve always hated milk,” he remarked to Mr. Harriman, who was picking over the remains of the store with an eye to survival. In his cart were vitamins, medicine, a first aid kit, canned goods, and a large knife.

  This was smart and Bryce wondered why he hadn’t thought about doing the same thing. He went in search of a backpack. He found one covered with Spiderman images of various sizes. Next to the rack was an entire display of soft, fuzzy socks in bright neon colors. All thoughts of prepping for survival went out the window.

  “Oh yeah! Maddy! Maddy, get over here.”

  By the time she hobbled over, he was already slipping on a pair. “Oh my God,” he moaned, sounding like he was starring in his own erotic video.

  Maddy tried to hold back, but made the same bedroom noises when she put on the socks. Griff watched with a tired, depressed look. The two were regressing. “They’ll have shoes in the other store. And socks. We can be there in a minute.”

  There was no use talking to them. They wouldn’t stand until they had fit pair after pair over their feet.

  With his stomach full, a pack filled with food and an inch of soft padding on his feet, Bryce felt like a new man. He looked like an idiot, but he was sure that would be fixed quickly.

  Everyone had grabbed backpacks. The Harrimans’ were heavy and rattled with pills. Jayson’s clanked with bottles; he had discovered the small wine stock. Victoria and Maddy’s were light, holding just enough food and water to see them through the day.

  Only Griff didn’t have one. He didn’t see the point. Food wasn’t their immediate problem and nor was it really a secondary one just yet. Stopping Daniel Magnus was paramount. Everything else took a backseat to that goal.