by Javan Bonds
12
Into The Crypt
“I want this... to go... into this!” Randy was speaking loudly and firmly, over-enunciating every syllable. Using exaggerated motions, he showed Bob, the temporary replacement for The Tech, exactly what he wanted — using the best language helping tool since the dawn of time; Volume.
Gene had replaced the hand cannon on the Samus suit with an armored gauntlet, just like on the opposite arm. It probably came with the suit when he bought it, but Randy wouldn’t be surprised if he built it himself. Hammer had both hands, so the extra cannon was left in one of Gene’s many workshops. After searching them all Randy finally found it. Now if Bob could make it work.
Wearing his Storm Knight armor, he lifted the cannon and placed it against the wrist where his right hand used to be. The mayor asked Bob to try and attach the hand cannon onto his suit of armor. Every time he thought about it, Randy nearly chuckled. You’s always at da place you is always post to be. Becoming an amputee had to happen because he was supposed to wear this piece of armor. The Screenwriter made everything fall into place, at just the right time.
Bob looked at the mayor, then at the cannon, then back and forth from what Randy was explaining to him. With confusion in his eyes, Bob only nodded in agreement. This was typical for their working relationship. If witnessing this interaction, it would appear that Roberto “Bob” Martinez, never actually had a clue what Mayor Collins was telling him. Somehow though, he always completed the task perfectly. The mechanic’s response was the obligatory, “Si, Jefe.”
☠☠☠
Randy stood in an Excelsior Comics T-shirt, and a pair of well worn blue jeans, while his plump little friend could be heard working in the back room. Some of the classic comics on the shelves reminded him of his collection. The ones lost in... Well, let’s not think about that.
A popping, grinding, and whirring sounded through the door. The repairman was doing exactly as he was supposed to. The mayor was confident this suit of armor would look as if it were made that way when he put it on. There would be a story to tell next time he radioed the Cora. If he could remember to tell it, that is.
Bob came out the door with a smirk under his bushy mustache. Randy could only smile in kind when he looked at him. Without speaking, Bob grunted and gestured for the mayor to follow.
☠☠☠
“This looks perfect!” Randy held his arm up, displaying the artistry.
With his amateur electrical knowledge, he could reposition the wiring in the suit so the solar-powered charge would congregate at the end of the cannon. Without the expertise of The Tech, there was no way to make the cannon shoot balls of energy as it did in Metroid Prime. The device wasn't expected to be supernatural, but the blunt gauntlet could be used as an explosive Taser.
☠☠☠
“So… this is a funeral home?”
The mayor grinned morbidly at Robert Coe’s question. “Almost. It’s a nursing home. One step up, I guess.”
Barfield Nursing Home was a large complex. It was larger than Randy had previously thought. There was a gas station and a Methodist Church nearby, but the simple one-story structure was in a nondescript area along US Highway 431. Most locals had driven past Barfield on their commute to, or from Huntsville. Sadly, very few knew of its existence unless they had a relative living there. Whether or not it had been a blip on most folk’s radar, its sole purpose now would be to become scavenged by the living.
The nursing home was a one-story building made up of three wings with short, connecting halls. The complex looked like a Roman numeral three crossed in the middle. The wing in the center was longer on either end and contained the cafeteria. The food storage area in this wing was the main lure for the initial reclamation team.
South of Guntersville, salvaged territory extended much further than it did to the north. Nobody could speculate why Huntsville, the largest city in northern Alabama, would be overflowing with zombies. Birmingham was a much larger city. Albeit less than a hundred miles to the south, yet it didn’t seem to be continually spawning undead. Things are easy in some areas so they can be impossibly difficult in others. Randy smiled; The Screenwriter knew what the audience wanted.
Barfield was as far north as the scavenging team had been able to reach so far. If expansion continued at this rate, they’d be in Hampton Cove or even Huntsville by this time next month. Maybe our luck will hold out.
☠☠☠
Part of a four-man team, with Robert behind the wheel, Randy was riding shotgun and Tarangelo and Putnam occupied the back seat. Though not main protagonists who were given power armor, the two in the back were armored as most locals as of late. Where wearing flannel, leather, denim, and any other type of thick clothing had become common. They sought to equip themselves with anything that was somewhat resistant to both tooth and nail.
Rather than be one-upped by Randy’s massive Storm Glaive, they also carried melee weapons. More than simple knives and clubs, however, Tarangelo carried a sharpened lawnmower blade over his shoulder. Putnam sported a double-sided hand axe. The blades weren’t terrifying, but they would sufficiently put down enemies at close range if need be. Knowing the twisted will of The Screenwriter, they would most likely be needed.
Also not classed with the core characters, Robert had also not been outfitted by The Tech, which was why other insignificants found him outfitted as Captain America perplexing. Eyebrows always rose when taking in the full uniform and accompanying shield.
Apparently, the previous resident of the house Robert Coe and Mortimer Lester were resettled in was a massive Marvel comics fan, particularly Captain America. In the closet of one of the bedrooms hung the iconic suit, on a shelf above it, he found the ringed shield with the star in the center.
Definitely not a show-off or a braggart, Robert chose to equip himself in the garb of every other civilian. Well, at least for the first few weeks. To be seen in such a tight-fitting suit would be embarrassing. After witnessing the usefulness of a leather outfit on more than one occasion, he finally decided to answer the call of the red, white, and blue uniform in his closet. Chrystal, his island wife, was more than happy to have her man more protected than he would otherwise be.
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Robert stepped out of the truck and walked around to meet the mayor who was standing at the front of the truck. Both of the smaller men stayed strategically close behind each of the armored men. The quartet made their way through the main doors and stopped at the front desk.
On the trip over Putnam had told a story about his grandmother who stayed here years ago. There were always birds in the common area, tweeting incessantly. It was a sound that would be very familiar to anyone who’d ever been to the rest home. Though the other three had never been here, the reminiscence of their companion had creeped them out even more. When they entered Barfield Nursing Home on the right side, there were no welcoming songbirds to greet them, and the eerie silence sent a chill up their collective spines. This place was deadly quiet.
They passed the activity center which had apparently been a nesting area for the infected. It looked to have been inactive for at least a couple of weeks. Pallets of leaves and skid marks provided evidence of the former blue residents. Somehow, the classic scent of a nursing home, industrial detergent, and urine were prevalent over all the smells frequently left by revenants.
Running their rifle lights over the occasional sign on the wall, Randy was pleased to see that the crew was moving in the direction intended when starting the journey down the darkened halls. The map displayed beside the front desk showed the facility’s cafeteria in the same wing, a few hundred yards to the rear. Trudging down these corridors one could become disoriented, but they were still heading the right way. Imagine how confusing it must have been for the elderly residents navigating a maze like this.
Captain America kicked an overturned walker out of a doorway as he passed. Not because it was necessary nor had any impact on their walk, just because he could
n’t stand for a door to remain stuck. “There is peevie poop everywhere. Why does this place still smell like a nursing home?”
Mayor Collins chuckled. “Maybe they’re keeping the floors mopped.” He immediately frowned after saying this. Peevies stayed away from disinfectants, so that didn’t make sense. It was obvious to all four of them as they seemed to slosh through the hallways, that nothing had been mopped. “Who knows? I guess it’s just another one of those unexplainable mysteries.”
☠☠☠
The cafeteria was large. Not cavernous like the typical school lunch room, but it was big enough to seat at least a hundred people. Insects and rodents must have had a field day with this place. A cooler containing tiny milk cartons had been left open. If there had been any food in the large serving pans, no hint remained. Mayor Collins was confident nothing edible would be found in this area. At least, nothing that was unsealed.
Cautiously, the group crept in the direction of the food line leading to the kitchen. From the entrance, the classic queue line was to the left. This was basically the back of the room, since the exterior wall, complete with picture windows, was on the opposite side of the lunch room and the food was served was to the right of the entrance. Besides the area immediately surrounding the windows, the cafeteria was gloomy but seemed free of any recent droppings. Peevies weren’t likely to be in such a sprawling enclosure, but “likely” didn’t really mean anything anymore. The zombies were known to adapt.
As the group was about halfway across the large room, they began hearing shuffling, scuttling, occasional squishing, and then finally the doors closing behind them. Immediately, Randy could see no other exits from the room. Though the doors probably weren’t locked, exiting from them would be next to impossible. Dozens of sets of biting teeth now stood between them, and salvation. Flashes of yellow eyes could be seen in the musky enclosure. Trapped! The peevies were adapting, evolving and becoming more than simple animals. A dangerous game was being played.
Something that sounded like a laugh, not coming from a living human, echoed throughout the room. The monsters were eager for the battle to come. Randy unsheathed his Glaive. Robert stood ready with his round shield, flexing his fingers in anticipation. Tarangelo stood ready with his lawnmower blade. Putnam clapped the shaft of his axe into his free hand. They knew there was no point in bothering with firearms. Combat would become tediously close in the span of just a few heartbeats
With these blue demons, every move made in combat was close. The entire group of ghouls seemed to take a collective breath, and then draw back. As a single unit, they clashed with the grossly outnumbered survivors; throwing bare skin against razor-sharp steel, clearly driven insane by hunger.
Slamming his makeshift sword into yellow-eyed nudist after shit covered cannibal, Tarangelo was thankful for the bandanna and safety goggles. Holding firmly to his blade, the ridiculous amount of blood nearly drenching him didn’t noticeably affect his grip. As he stepped forward to wrench the steel from the nearly dismembered shoulder of a falling monster, his foot shot out from under him when he planted it in a pool of infected blood.
Even before his back hit the floor, he screamed in terror. “Putnam!”
Putnam had just cleaved another reanimated corpse nearly in two, below the ribs. Sloppy organs and every type of body fluid imaginable had been spilled by his axe. The undead were meeting their true ends in droves due to his improvised tool.
After taking an enemy to the cold tile, its cranium nearly exploded under the forceful swing of his heavy blade, he turned quickly, he springing to help his downed comrade. “I’m coming, buddy!” He might not have been in such a hurry to come to his friend’s aid if he could see the swimming pool worth of blood on the floor surrounding Tarangelo.
Putnam came to his compatriots’ side at full tilt. Planting his feet wasn’t possible in gallons of slick crimson. The survivor continued forward toppling onto his downed friend. In his panic, he held his axe in front of him, strangely at a ninety-degree angle, the blade facing outwards. Tripping over his brother in arms, the sharpened head of the wood cutting tool came down squarely on Tarangelo’s chin and neck, under Putnam’s full weight.
Tarangelo didn’t even have time to scream. His trachea, larynx, carotid, jugular, though there was no naming them all, had been ruptured. The blade sliced from just below his nose down to where it impacted the sternum. Though still alive for the moment, the now dying man could do nothing but flail and gurgle. Arterial blood jetted from his gashed throat. Putnam understood he had just slaughtered his friend, involuntarily.
Luckily, the other side of the tool's sharpened head impacted against Putnam’s heavy Carhartt jacket, never breaking through. Well, the accidental murderer didn’t see it as very lucky. Blinded with hatred for himself and the naked monsters all around him, he threw himself up with a crazed roar. It was still unbelievable; he just ended the life of another human by mistake.
Filthy blunatics continued to rush at the crying, screaming man. Furiously, Putnam brought his weapon back and forth, destroying or at least dropping several of his enemies. When there were no more immediately in arms reach, he dropped his blade and pulled the pistol from his hip.
“This is for Tarangelo!” He screamed as he relentlessly squeezed the trigger.
Two empty magazines clattered to the floor. For the next magazine, Putnam put nine bullets into just as many of the evil creatures. Then, turning back to the wet body of his dead friend, he said something unintelligible.
Dropping to his knees, put the muzzle in his mouth and pulled the trigger. As grey matter erupted from Putnam's skull his brain and the harder calcium shell were also vaporized. His body fell twitching to the floor beside his dead friend.
Robert was close enough to hear Putnam beg Tarangelo’s, God, and his own mother’s forgiveness before he blew the back of his skull off. It made the survivor feel completely helpless. Close enough to witness another’s end, but unable to make any kind of move to stop it. While the two humans met their collective demise, he was dealing with his own swath of blue, crazed killers.
Wearing a set of razored, brass knuckles named The Devil’s Pizza Cutters; he used his fists to pulverize his enemies. Peevies charged and received slices to their blue skin, or cracked skulls and bones. Quite a few shattered teeth lay in the blood, pooling around him. A stainless steel skull rested on the inside of the grip that was itself stylized as a spine. Wrapping one's hand around the brass and stainless steel structure added an immense weight. When combined the other end; a collection of sharpened brass spikes used to punch through craniums and poke out yellow eyes.
Leather, spandex, space-age polymer, whatever type of miracle fabric this suit was made from was absolutely impenetrable to the teeth of the former humans. Though he would still be battered and bruised considering they had bitten him dozens of times. True to its natural protection, none of the bites had broken through to the skin. The only thing the zombies were successful in doing was shattering their teeth or pulling them out.
Trying to wrap his mind around what had been thus far a fifty percent loss for his own side, he was thankful their fellow living had taken out the numbers of infected they had. At least a third of the mass of undead now lay on the floor, dead or dying. Only a few thousand more to go and we could take home a few cans of beans! Damn Apocalypse!
☠☠☠
Mayor Collins swept his Storm Glaive in a half circle to his front, disemboweling more than one blunatic. Bile, blood, and shit must have been ankle-deep in the immediate area. The ghouls drew closer, no matter the amount he dropped into reeking piles. When an animal was able to reach him, the only satisfaction he got was from their chipped teeth and bent nails.
Finally, combat became so close that his massive Warmachine steel became a hindrance. Slashing revenants with a combat knife, he used the Un-charged cannon to beat back his enemies. Even when not charged, the arm-mounted cannon was an effective deterrent to those who wished not to taste his close
quarter blade.
Thrusting his now solid, steel nub into any part of a completely unclothed body, delivered satisfying crunches and yelps. Bones broke, organs were ruptured, and splashes of diarrhea spurted from rectums with each forceful punch. These punches were basically stabs with a large demolition hammer being wielded as a close combat weapon.
Captain America slammed his free set of bladed knuckles up through the chin and into the soft palate of a peevie. It dropped when another cannibal nudist came at him from the side. Before it could even bother uselessly sinking its teeth into his suit, he brought his forearm up and slashed across its throat with the edge of the shield.
Arterial blood geysered from the gaping wound. Tubes jetted from the throat, clearly severed. The animal reached for its throat, attempting to stem the enormous amount of blood loss. Only The Screenwriter could know if a lack of oxygen or blood loss would be its final death knell. The shield didn’t help much when it came back around on the counter swing and slammed into the solar plexus — dropping the peevie immediately.
The mayor of Guntersville shoved his knife between the top ribs on the left side of one of the emaciated monsters. As it ripped inwards, blood pumped from the laceration and lungs sliced as the serrated steel impacted the sternum. He pulled away and stiff-armed the beasts with the canon at the center of the throat.
There was a pop as the creature's Adam’s apple flattened. Just as a going away present, he slammed his metal boot into the genitals of the former human. Almost like being trapped in a vice, the scrotum and deflating penis exploded under pressure. Falling back, the animal would surely die a painful death while holding its crotch.
The blue headcount now would hardly take up both hands for each of the humans if they counted on their fingers. Randy could see that “human” would be the winning team today. He wanted to make the day, worth remembering.
