by Tufo, Mark
“That was fast.” BT was looking through a two-inch opening on the door. The football field was covered in zombies and more were streaming in, beginning to cover the running track that encircled the field, and some were even in the stands as if they were waiting for the festivities to start.
“Lock that. What about the other exit?” I was heading to another door. I opened it only to have three, semi-inflated, red dodge balls roll out. “Supply closet. Great.”
“I’ll check the way we came in.” Winters was gone for less than a minute. “Got close to fifty there. From the looks of it I’d say they’re circling up, checking out about a dozen used foil packs, not eating them just sniffing.”
I turned to Tommy, who was looking through his pack. “I don’t know how they fell out!”
“Shit,” was my only response; all it needed to be, really.
“There are windows in the locker rooms we can fit through.” Winters was in the doorframe.
“Anyone gauge how far we traveled to get here?”
“Fifty-one miles,” Winters said. “Why?”
“How far can base artillery travel?” I asked.
“You insane…sir? Lucky for us, about eighteen miles. No way do I want people I don’t know raining down shells that close to us.”
“Just a thought.”
“Don’t let him upset you, Talbot. At least you had one. That’s a rarity.”
“Thanks, BT. I like it better when we’re on-base, where all you assholes pretend like I’m in charge.”
We were now standing in the hallowed girl’s locker room, the beginning of many adolescent fantasies…though that ends abruptly in the face of reality. Whoever said girls were made of sugar and spice had never been in this site of stink. Adolescent boys didn’t have the market cornered on funk.
The frosted windows were high up above a row of lockers, they appeared to only be for light, as I didn’t see any hardware that would make them open. That wasn’t the biggest problem; the biggest problem was standing next to me.
“You’re not going to fit,” I told him. Our host, Eric, was the most slender of us all, and he would have to wriggle his way through. I wasn’t so sure I’d be able to get through, and the thought of my head sticking out for all to eat like a corn dog at a carnival didn’t sit so well.
“Winters, give me the phone. Haven, this is Tribulation…repeat…Haven, this is Tribulation.”
“Your call signs are getting worse,” BT pointed out unnecessarily.
“At this point, we’ll be lucky if they respond at all,” Winters said. I gave him the finger.
“Go ahead Tribulation.”
“Haven, we’ve found ourselves in a bit of a jam.” Could almost hear the sigh from the other end.
“Tribulation, birds are grounded. We can’t get you an extraction.”
“Looking for a drone strike or two.” He didn’t respond for a few minutes and when he did, he told me to hold for a second.
“What the fuck does he think I’ve been doing, jamming my thumb up my butt?”
“Lieutenant Talbot, you probably want to keep your finger off the transmit button when you’re not following protocol,” Colonel Bennington said.
“Sorry, sir.”
“What’s going on?”
“We’re stuck in a gym. No way out except through roughly seven, eight hundred zombies, sir. The majority are huddled around our beacon in the sky, in fact, striking that and only that would be optimum. Hopefully we’ll be able to do clean up at that point.”
“You safe?”
“For the moment, sir. They’re amassing bulkers to assail our position at some point. Plenty of shriekers in the midst as well.”
“And the light? Any idea who summoned the trouble?”
I was looking directly at Eric; how could I even begin to explain this.
“Sir, I’m not sure as to the who, but there’s some whys. There are some zombies in the gym; looks like some experiments were being performed. Luckily, whoever was playing doctor left some detailed instructions.”
“Anything we can use?”
“Does my answer determine if we get help or not?”
“Of course not, already authorized deployment. I’m told the ETA is fifteen minutes. Lieutenant, you’re going to want to find some cover if possible; this one is armed with four Hellfires.”
“Roger that sir. As for the notes, there’s not a bunch of hard science, but some compelling theories. Some we’re aware of, but some of the insight is new.” At the Colonel’s prompting, I spent the next five minutes going over everything Eric had told us. Bennington was a pragmatist; there was more than a decent chance that something would go south here and we’d never make it back. At least the information would survive, and that was the mission. Sure, none of us here considered ourselves disposable, but that was never the case back at HQ. Mission first, safety third.
“Excuse me—not to interrupt,” Eric asked, once I had my thumb off the button and we had a pause, “but am I to understand you’re calling in an airstrike here?”
“Not here specifically, where the light is.”
“I’m not sure the distance is sufficient.”
“Well, maybe you should have thought of that before you set-up your little Frankenstein shop here. Don’t worry too much; the drone operators are pretty good at their job.” I told him.
“Sir, is it Andres or Verdan at the helm tonight?” Winters asked.
“Shit.”
“What’s shit?” BT asked.
“Verdan is my neighbor. Henry, for some reason, can’t stand him or more likely his mode of transportation, keeps pissing on his motorcycle and has dropped a few deuces around it as well. Verdan has come into work a couple of times with Henry’s offal peppered all over. The guy is actually pretty cool; I think it’s that the machine is so loud it’s disturbed some of Henry’s naps.”
“Your dog is tired after his naps, man, and because one of his siestas is disturbed, we now have to worry about getting pelted by Hellfires.”
“I mostly smoothed it over.”
“Sorry LT,” Winters said. “I was there for one of your smoothing over sessions, smearing it further into his uniform with a wet paper towel doesn’t count as damage control.”
“It’s the thought that counts, right?” I was looking for anything.
“Yeah, I’m sure that was exactly what he was thinking all day as he took whiffs of Henry’s refuse,” BT said.
“Well, if Henry dislikes Verdan now, what do you think the big dog will do if he offs his food delivery system?” I asked.
“That’s a good point. I could see that dog dismantling his bike with that maw of his. Fuck, I do like when you make sense every now and again.” BT clapped me hard enough on the shoulder I nearly pitched over.
“You realize that shit hurts, right?”
“Every time brother, every time. I consider it recompense for all the crap I have to go through with you.”
“Alright people. We have five minutes. Gary, come on, I want everyone in the weight room.”
I was keeping an eye on my brother as he crossed the gym floor, his gaze was down on his ancient walkman, as he must have been fast-forwarding through a song. I have tried repeatedly to get him to switch to a more updated mode of playing music, but he wouldn’t hear of it, said the cassettes added character to the songs. He didn’t care in the least that most music made from 2002 forward was not available in that format. He just said anything worth listening to came out between 1975 and 1989. Strangely specific span, but ultimately his call. Not sure if an mp3 player would have saved him anyway.
I called out to him just as his left foot came down in a wide smear of clear spinal fluid that had leaked out from one of the zombies. He slid for a good two feet before his balance was ultimately lost and he slammed down hard on his ass. He was more upset he had smashed his Walkman than that he had bruised his ass or that he was covered in goo. I had gone over to help him when the doors he had just left w
ere slammed up against. Instantly I knew the sound for what it was: bulkers wanted in. The doors opened outward, but even a single bulker was completely capable of bashing the steel frame out of the cinderblock and concrete, given time-say, less than we had remaining before the drone strike. The weight room door was another steel door, but it might make the difference. I didn’t like there wasn’t any alternate way out once we shuttered ourselves in there, but if there was enough of a horde, I didn’t see a choice.
We stood in a loose circle by the door, watching on the far side as those doors rattled. We bet on whether they would hold before the drone strike hit. Being from Boston, I knew better. They were going to give a good full minute before.
“You owe me a case,” I told BT as the doors burst open.
He let his rifle express how angry he was. He’d opted for the heavier rounded 300 Blackout which worked considerably better than the 5.56 rounds the rest of us were firing. Still would’ve felt a ton better if he was hefting a fifty cal. BT knew better than to go for the armor-plated head, instead opting for the only real soft spot on the beast: the knees. The floor was bouncing up and down as three of the over-sized zombies lumbered toward us; though in no way does that imply that they were slow. The first bulker through the door thumped down to the ground once its right leg was infused with enough holes that it could no longer support the weight it was designed for. If you are an American football fan and happened to have had the displeasure of watching the end of Joe Theismann’s career, you’ll know what I saw. If not…the bulker’s leg bent outward at a ninety-degree angle to the rest of his body. The echo of his head reverberating off the floor was immediately drowned out as his brothers passed him by.
“Inside, let’s go!” As far as I was concerned, the main part of the gym was yielded ground. Eric stood next to me; his sword was out. As far as I was concerned, he had balls of steel if he was going to face a bulker with a bladed weapon. Not sure if he was technically an ally yet, but, enemy of my enemy and all that. Winters pulled the door shut and threw the bolt, stepping back just as the first of the bulkers slammed into it. Didn’t bode well when three of the drop-ceiling panels fell free, one breaking over Gary’s head and coating him in a fine white powder.
“Is this asbestos?” he yelled out, dancing around as if fire ants had crawled into his underwear. He was in far greater danger of knocking himself out running into a weight stack than he was of getting a lung disease.
“It’s alright, man.” BT was wiping the stuff off. “You’re fine, just a regular panel, polystyrene, just polystyrene.”
“How bad is it? Tell me!” Gary pleaded.
BT looked at me as if to ask how deep the crazy ran through the Talbots. He should already know; he was dating my sister. “It’s a resin, a foam or something, it’s fine.” BT finally got my brother somewhat under control.
“Mr. T, the drone is here.” Tommy had his head cocked to the side. I couldn’t hear anything past the shuffling of feet and the pounding at the door. Only way I could have missed the missile strike, though, was if I was in a coma. The explosion was deafening, and if the ceiling tiles were old and indeed made from asbestos, we were screwed, as nearly all the rest of them came down. Looked like we’d been in a baby powder factory after an industrial accident. The drone swung by overhead and fired another missile. I was going to wait until it dropped its entire payload before I committed to a course of action.
The missiles would rip giant holes in the carpet of zombies, but then any of them that had yet to join the party would be coming to investigate. We had an escape window we needed to hit.
“What the hell is taking so long?” I asked when we didn’t hear any more explosions.
“Hear that?” This from BT.
Just on the outer range, I could hear a high-pitched whine.
“Get down, get down!” Winters yelled. “Drone engine is failing!”
I think he finished the sentence, tough to tell as the machine blasted into the gym. I, along with everyone else, was tossed around like kids in the back of a pickup. Heavy steel weights were tumbled in the mix; if we did get home, we were going to be dealing with multiple contusions.
“Verdan fucking hates you, man,” BT grunted as he stood, helping me up.
Thankfully, the relentless assault on the door had stopped, but we had other problems; smoke was beginning to creep in around the frame.
“The door…BT, get it open. I’ll cover you.” Zombies are one thing, but there was no way I was going to die by asphyxiation.
He grabbed the handle. “It’s warm.” He tried to push it open, then he placed his shoulder against it. “Not moving.” He had his full weight and considerable muscle attempting to do so.
“Tommy, help him.” I was worried that when it opened they would spill out onto the floor and be completely vulnerable. The smoke inside was beginning to thicken up.
“Wedged, Talbot.” BT was using all of his considerable resources to try.
“Stand back! I’ll shoot it.” Gary was aiming his rifle.
“Yeah, hold a sec on that idea. It’s wedged in the frame.”
“Stand back,” Eric said. “Shield your eyes.”
“What the fuck?” BT asked.
“I’m not going to ask you to trust me,” Eric replied, placing the point of a big-ass sword against the door, “but just chant ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend,’ and you’ll feel better. I’m not going to be ripped apart by zombie hordes if I can avoid it, and I’m pretty sure I can. Being a decent sort, I’ll also bring you with me as we leave. Can’t ask for a deal more fair than that.” His eyes narrowed and something totally weird happened. The sword was a big monster of a blade, thoroughly medieval, with an ornate pommel in the shape of a dragon’s head with tiny jewels for eyes. I swear to God, despite the obvious risk I take in doing so, the damned thing winked at me.
I instinctively looked to Tommy. Even he seemed out of his element with this one.
“I’m getting something but it’s garbled, kind of like distorted images I might see at the bottom of a dirty pool,” Tommy said. I honestly didn’t know what he was even referencing. Later, I would find out more about Bronze, the statue, the psychic link, and the possessed truck, but at the moment I was close to flying blind. This stuff is beyond my capability to make up, and there was no way I was ever going to tell anyone about it when I was debriefed. And if any of those with me mentioned this, I would, as their superior officer, recommend that they go through a few days of a psych eval.
I backed up as I watched the edge of the blade begin to glow, then I got closer, making sure it wasn’t a trick of my eyes. It wasn’t. The light grew brighter as the whole length of the blade caught fire then narrowed, focusing down to a star-hot line of fire along the edge. He pushed it through the door while everyone shielded their eyes. The damn thing cut through the steel fire door like a plasma torch.
“Any chance I could get one of those?” I asked him.
“I don’t have a spare dragon,” was the cryptic answer, “and you might want to step away.”
“Can I try it?”
He turned his head, lifted his visor and looked at me. In the searing light from the blade, his face seemed different, especially the eyes. They didn’t look like human eyes. There was something deep and dark and terrible in them, something ruthless and savage. Even so, maybe there was also something a little sad. I backed up a step. I moved farther back when he returned to the task at hand.
“That’s like a tiny acetylene torch, right?” BT asked me.
“Where? In the hilt? It would already be exhausted,” I whispered.
“I know you hate the concept, but it is quite definitely magic,” Eric seemed slightly perturbed. “It’s got a dragon spirit inside of it, and you’d better get used to the idea of spirits inside things, because they’re going to save our collective asses.”
I wanted to tell him “bullshit,” but how do I tell someone that while they’re cutting through a steel fire door wit
h the edge of a burning sword?
“A dragon?” Winters looked distraught at the thought. “Lieutenant, what did you get us into?”
“I really don’t think this can be laid at my feet.”
“Come on man,” BT started. “I guarantee that any other team came out on this bullshit run, they wouldn’t have encountered any of this weird shit. There’d be, like, a discarded flashlight in the middle of the field and one old toothless zombie gnawing on it. Eric here would be a scarecrow in a cornfield.”
“Hey!” Eric called, not stopping in his slicing. He wore two swords, the other one was more like a cavalry saber. What the hell did he need it for when the greatsword was a cutting torch?
“Sorry. I’m just saying, Talbot, you’re like a magnet for this type of shit. One of those special rare-earth magnets but instead of metal, you attract crazy–a fucking super-conductor for insanity. Why do I decide to stay with the guy that’s a few cushions shy of a couch?”
“What?”
“No insulation in the attic,” he continued, nudging Gary. “Probably put your shoes on before your pants, you crazy bastard.”
I think he would have gone on until we all choked to death on smoke, luckily, Eric spoke.
“The door will go with a good kick,” he said as the light and fire died around the blade. “Are we going to pick on Talbot some more or run like hell?”
BT nodded, we all raised our rifles.
“I’ll rush the door and take it out. Bronze is waiting for us.”
“The statue? The statue is waiting? How fast does it go? Can we all fit on it? It’s a statue of a horse, right?” Gary wanted to know; hell, I wanted to know.
“Not exactly how it works. Just pile in and we’ll sort it all out later, okay?”
Eric pushed the cut-out door over. The two bulkers that had been trying to force themselves into the gymnasium were running around the gym ablaze, could hear the vast fat stores sizzling as they did so. Occasionally, large droplets would fall from them and continue to burn.
“Well, that’s fucking gross. Don’t shoot them; let’s try to get out of here without making any more noise,” I said.
