Zombie Fallout (Book 12): Dog Dayz

by Tufo, Mark

  “Gunney, get everyone deployed. Stenzel, get the civvies in the plane.”

  “Harmon, you’re with me.” I was heading back to the plane.

  She looked at me like I doubted her abilities. The rest of the squad was staring at me.

  “I need you to help me find a way to secure the dogs, make them as comfortable as possible before we start firing. I don’t want them making a run for it.”

  “Sir, I need to be with the unit,” she said as we moved.

  “And you will be. I just need your help while I move stuff around, make them a secure dog house, see if I can get them corralled. How you doing?” I asked as we made it on to the plane. I was happy to note both dogs were sleeping, curled up with my brother, as a matter of fact, although that was going to change for Holly real soon.

  “Good to go, sir.”

  “Don’t need the standard ‘oh rah’ line, Private.”

  “Better, sir.”

  “Good.” Holly was curled up on Gary’s feet and Chloe’s ass was planted firmly on his face. “Wish I could join them, except for the ass part. She lets anything go my brother is likely to be asphyxiated.” We disturbed them all as we flipped the wooden crate over that the machine gun had come in. I was happy that they both came over to investigate this new development as opposed to shying away. Threw a couple of blankets in there with some granola bars. I got down and petted them, reveling in the fact that both massive heads were in my lap. Then the action began. Holly’s ears perked up as small-arms fire began to chatter. I stood. “You watch out for your sister, okay?” The plane did a good job of muffling the sound, but nothing short of a concrete bunker was going to keep out the deafening reverberation of the fifty cal when it began to sing. Harmon was itching to get out and was by the door waiting.

  “How’s it going out there?” Gary asked. Instead of looking better, he looked worse, drawn, worn out. Good guess he was fighting an infection of some sort.

  “Could be better. I wish we were in the air.”

  “You need me?”

  “No. Try to get some rest but keep your rifle close; there’s a chance you’re going to need it.”

  “You realize that what you said is not at all conducive to getting some rest.”

  “Do the best you can.” With that, he rolled away. I noted that the back of his shirt was soaked with sweat.

  “Go,” I told Harmon, who’d seen what I had. “I’m going to close the door when I leave.” She was out quickly.

  “Lyle.” The boy was watching me, as was his father. “These dogs are going to need you; can you stay with them and make them feel better?”

  “Of course.” He smiled with relief, and pride, I think.

  “I’ll be back. Be good,” I told the dogs. “We got a bunch of people and animals that are going to be thrilled to meet you. Maybe not Patches…she’s a tough nut to crack. But all the rest for sure. And just so I can get it out of the way now, I apologize for Ben-Ben; I think he might have been dropped on his head a few times as a puppy.”

  “Mike, you know we all can hear you, right?” This was BT.

  “This is a private moment; avert your ears.” I gave each one a small kiss on the head before following Harmon out. Out of the obvious six exits, the zombies had picked the farthest one down the concourse. Didn’t make much sense; they were usually all about the shortest route between them and their meal. I was hustling to make it to the squad.

  “Winters, Stenzel, find out where else they breached.” This had Dewey written all over it. Especially since only seven zombies had come through the door. We could see hundreds through the windows, and instead of looking toward the doorways out, they were watching us. Unsettling comes to mind; they were pressed up against the glass, just looking.

  “What are they doing, sir?” Kirby asked.

  It was a hell of a good question for which I had no answer.

  “BT, light up that building.”

  “Finally, you say something worth listening to.” He pulled back on the charging handle; Tommy gave him the thumbs up regarding the ammo, and away we went. He peppered the living shit out of the brick building. At first he was shooting low, then I remembered it was a fifty cal; he was doing horrific damage. I could see zombies falling over as their legs were quite literally cut off from beneath them. He adjusted the angle up and tore through the windows and the multitude of zombies within. Fifty cals weren’t designed with humans in mind, according to the Geneva Convention. But I’d yet to see a warrior pull up a document in the midst of a full-scale battle. You use the tools at hand when it comes down to preserving your life, regardless of what the fucking rules say. Once “Thou Shalt Not Kill” is broken, doesn’t make much sense to say there are still rules.

  Rows of the fuckers were being hewn down as midsections exploded, lending credence to the term “chest cavity.” Heads dissolved under the assault; one moment there was a body capper, the next just a fine mist as it became an aerosol spray. The heavy gun drowned out all noise. The rest of us were standing there watching the weapon do its damage, and I, for one, was thrilled at the level of destruction it was imposing upon them. If they were human, there would be a part of me that felt pity, but the zombies? Yeah, fuck them.

  BT was screaming something, his powerful arms absorbing the recoil of the heavy gun as he fired. “Get some!” he let out just as the last of the rounds came up and through the rifle. “I have got to get me one of these!” He turned to help Tommy load up the new box.

  “Hold up, BT, I don’t want to use everything in the first five minutes. Grimm and Springer, go check out the far side. Stenzel, Kirby, south.” I pointed where I wanted them to go because, I thought it was south, but only because of the way we were oriented. “Winters, Harmon.” I pointed.

  “On it,” they replied.

  We had eyes on all avenues of approach. My asshat of a stomach told me I was missing something. I felt like a zombie was outsmarting me; in fact, I was fairly certain about it. How bad was that going to look if the brainless ones pulled an end around? Maybe that would save me, you know, once they realized there was nothing to eat here. Yeah, I know it’s been done; didn’t stop it from going through my head.

  “Dewey, what the fuck are you up to?” I was looking around. The zombies that had survived the barbaric slaughtering in the airport were once again at the windows now that there was no glass, hardly any framing, and even the structure itself had suffered a lot of damage.

  “You might be wrong, Talbot. I think the zombies are getting stupider.” BT had a grin on his face as he fingered the butterfly trigger.

  “You think so? Because right now, where is all our attention directed?” I responded. He didn’t like that answer.

  As if to drive the point home even further, all of my scout teams reported in saying they had spotted zombies. We were in the open of, basically, a giant field. Sure, an airfield, but a field nonetheless–it was an indefensible position.

  “Sir, they’re running.” Stenzel sounded concerned.

  “Eastman.”

  “I heard. Nothing I can do about it.”

  “Pull back! Everyone pull back to the plane.” That got a reaction from the zombies we were watching, like they had been waiting for this very moment. They began to flood out of all six exit doors. BT looked over. I nodded. If we didn’t try to hold them back now, it would be a footrace to the plane.

  BT looked grim and determined as he fired. Tommy didn’t know whether to watch and make sure the clipped-together rounds fed through smoothly, or fire his own weapon.

  “I’ve got this!” BT had to roar to be heard.

  “I’m here now!” James M. Lemon shouted; he was holding a revolver like his gun was the key to getting us out of here.

  So there we were, the four of us, doing our best to stem the tide. Unfortunately, it was high tide and we were using a tiny plastic pail to keep the water away from the sand castle we’d spent all day building. Unlike BT’s first barrage, he was keeping it to much more
controlled bursts; by himself, he was keeping three of the exit points free from the enemy. It was up to Tommy, James and myself to work on the other three.

  “So many,” I breathed out. I was torn between emptying magazines at an unsustainable rate or measuring my shots for maximum effectiveness. I am a good shot; I qualified as an expert on numerous occasions when I was younger, in the Corps, and even at my most recent range qualification. What I wasn’t, was fast. I measured my shots. I generally applied slow, even pressure as I sighted-in the rifle; expelling a bullet would almost come as a surprise. Then I would acquire another target and do the same routine. Effective, yes; deadly, even, more so, perhaps, just not rapid. There were a few in my squad that made me look like a geriatric ex-acrobat attempting to do standing somersaults. Stenzel, I was convinced was a descendant of Annie Oakley. She could shoot bullseyes at a rate of three to my one. The point I’m making is we weren’t going to be able to hold this position much longer, no matter how many bodies we piled up on that tarmac.

  “Getting low!” BT’s rounds were cutting zombies in two, crippled, broken, bodies flopped around on the ground like beached fish. This one would get cataloged with the rest of the disturbing imagery I now carried around with me. When the teeth-rattling percussions finally subsided, I told BT to make a run for it.

  “I’ve still got rounds.” He meant for his other rifle.

  “Can’t afford to lose the M2. There are more cases of ammo on the plane. Get back and set up. We’ll cover you.”

  He looked to the zombies beginning to swarm, nodded at me, and picked up the weapon and the tripod like it was a toy gun and not a hundred plus pounds of deadly metal. BT hadn’t made it more than twenty-five yards before I called it a rout. We couldn’t hold them back.

  “Gotta go!” I yelled at Tommy and James.

  “Gary! Need you to drag a fifty cal box out!”

  “Got it,” he replied, but by the tone of his voice, I was having serious reservations he would be able to perform the task. Rifle fire came from every direction. The attack appeared coordinated.

  “Lieutenant, you need to stall them,” Eastman warned.

  “I’d take them out for drinks, Major, but they don’t seem the type or more importantly my type,” I huffed as Tommy and I ran.

  I could see Gary dragging the box off the plane just as BT stashed the tripod under a wing. He went and manhandled the box and had made it back to the machine gun as Tommy and I pulled up.

  I was going to yell at a swaying Gary to get back on the plane, but this was an all hands on deck call. We stopped them here or we didn’t. Sure, we could seek refuge on the plane, but what good was that going to do? We couldn’t take off and if we could have, we’d face another problem. Even if Eastman somehow pulled a miracle out of his ass, I’m pretty sure he would balk at the thought of trying to take off with an army of the undead parked in front of his plane. The rest of the squad was making it back, some with zombies following close on their heels, others with a much larger cushion. Again, didn’t matter much.

  “Talbot! Are you going to be able to hold them back?” Eastman was peering around the tail of the plane so he could see me directly, and especially to better spot any signs of bullshittery on my part.

  We had plenty of rounds, thanks to the plane. What we lacked were the number of people to shoot said rounds and a proper defensive position.

  “I can’t promise anything past ten minutes.” Even that I felt was pushing it by four or five minutes. Without any direction from me, we had roughly spread out evenly around the plane, including Gary, who had flushed cheeks and drawn eyes. The situation was so serious, even his ridiculously colored wardrobe could not elicit a smile from me.

  “How long are we holding?” BT asked.

  What was the right answer? If we were overrun, we were dead. If we were forced into the plane, we were dead–only at a later point. No, the play was to hold out as long as possible and get on the plane. We had long-range communications now; the bigger question was would Bennington spare any resources to get us back? I felt fairly confident he would. Not so much me and my crew–he’d already written us off–but trained pilots? He couldn’t leave them by the side of the road. Rounding out the second spot would be the recovery of the plane, and thirdly, if it was possible and didn’t endanger any other personnel or equipment, we’d be allowed on.

  “They get within twenty yards, give a shout out and we collapse into the plane. Drag the major and his crew with you if need be.”

  Our side began the festivities first, the rest followed quickly enough. BT and the M2 were doing exactly what they were designed for. My shots would be superfluous at this point; I figured it was as good a time as any to grab what ended up being the last box of 50 cal ammo. BT spared a glance at me.

  He yelled, “Where the fuck are you going?”

  “Donuts!”

  He turned back to the business at hand. Ask a crazy person a question, you’re bound to get a crazy answer; as far as I can tell, it was his fault. Got on the plane; Holly was standing next to Chloe. Her legs were shaking; the plane was vibrating from the percussions outside, and this had awakened Chloe. She was looking around, and looked scared herself, as she was taking cues from the other. Lyle was doing his best not to show how afraid he was.

  “I hope I did the right thing taking you with me…looked like you two had it all figured out.” Both pups were okay with my quick approach; Holly shied away slightly but still let me stroke her side. Chloe licked my hand. “I’ll get you two to safety; I promise.” I grabbed the box and headed back out.

  “Michael?” Jason asked worriedly.

  I gave him a thumbs up, which was worlds better than dragging it across my throat.

  “Where the fuck are the donuts?” BT asked when I started prepping the ammunition.

  “Huh?” I had forgotten entirely about my less than witty quip.

  “Just like you to go and eat all the motherfucking donuts!”

  He seemed to be getting pissed off about the imaginary fried dough. He was more than three quarters through his stash and was keeping our side at bay all by himself–couldn’t say the same about everywhere else. The ten minutes I’d promised was in severe jeopardy.

  “Can’t stop them, sir!” Winters shouted, partly to be heard, but a fair portion was fright. There was a complete three-sixty of zombies barreling down on us. Hundreds, bordering on thousands, of zombies were fixated on this one little spot and we were at the epicenter.

  “Eastman, inside now!”

  “Need more…time.” He was breathless.

  “Grimm, Harmon, get them inside now! Don’t care if you have to shoot them and drag their bodies!”

  There was shouting as a couple of privates ordered some officers around; I didn’t have time to interject.

  “Rose, help the gunney with the M2 and the ammo! Tommy, Winters, stay with me by the door. Everyone else get your asses on that plane now!” I could feel minuscule tears ripping through my vocal cords as I made sure, even without the headsets, that I could not be ignored.

  Eastman glowered at me as Harmon roughly shoved him up the steps. “Yeah, sorry I saved your ass” was going to be my argument when he laid into me. I imagined an aerial view of this would be even more frightening. I tapped Winters on the shoulder and thrust with my chin that he needed to go. Tommy was next. Stenzel was at the top, giving us a few extra seconds as she picked off the closest ones. A hand swept past my face as I ran into Tommy. He was pointing at James Motherfucking Lemon, who had not heeded my order.

  “I’ve got this!” He was smiling broadly as he loaded rounds into his pistol.

  “You are absolutely shitting me,” I said as I was going to go back down the steps. Tommy held me fast and shook his head. James barely got his hand up in time as the first of the zombies descended upon him. I’m not sure what he considered fun in the normal world; maybe parachute-less free falling or telling a card-carrying feminist to fetch him a beer? Both were equally dang
erous in my book.

  He was grinning from ear to ear, his white teeth shining between his heavy beard and mustache. “Fuck!” He shot. “You!” He fired again. He repeated this small mantra four more times until he was out of bullets. He never screamed out once as those zombies tore into him. He turned his head to look at us, then let it fall back so he was looking up into the sky. “Finally!” he yelled as he was buried in a pile of zombies. He had indeed given us the time we needed to get aboard, but at an awful price. Though, he had seemed more than willing to pay it.

  We pulled the stairs up, all of us looking around at each other. I, for one, was breathing heavy. I looked up to the cockpit. Eastman was in his seat, hitting buttons and getting the plane ready to go.

  “Get everything secured,” I said to no one in particular. “We good to go?” I asked as I went up to the pilot.

  “Not even close,” he responded.

  “Um.”

  “Relax. I’m not putting her up in the air, but we need to move. Enough of those zombies crowd around into the landing gear and it won’t matter what I do to the tail; we’ll never leave here.”

  Major Jackson was speaking into the radio set. “Etna this is Raven. We are down and surrounded, need an extraction. Please advise.”

  Nothing. If Etna was adhering to radio silence, they were doing an admirable job.

  “Comm down again?” I asked.

  “Got a feeling, Lieutenant, we have received all the help we’re going to get.”

  “That’s bullshit. I know my kind are a dime a dozen, but you guys, the civilians…”

  “You should check on your people,” Eastman said, dismissing me without ordering me.

  He motioned for Major Jackson to shut the door from the cockpit to the transport area.

  “What’s going on?” BT had taken off his headgear, as had I. “We taking off?”

  I shook my head and was about to bring him farther back in the plane where we could talk without others hearing; that was right up until Tommy spoke.

  “Bulkers!” he warned.