Zombie Apocalypse

by Cassiday, Bryan

  Frantically, Mildred squeezed off another shot at the creature’s oncoming head, which burst like a melon, splattering the stairs with gouts of oozing brains and spalls of skull. The ghoul fell at her feet and crashed into her shin, its head atomized.

  At Mildred’s side Rosie fired two shots of her own into what was left of the ghoul’s head for good measure.

  “Let’s get a move on it!” yelled Rogers from below.

  Everybody in the group of passengers picked up his pace.

  “I just had a scary thought,” Ray told Halverson as they fled down the stairs, taking care not to trip on any of the stiffs carpeting the treads.

  “Only one?” said Halverson.

  Ray smiled with half his mouth. “What if these things weren’t really dead when we first came in?”

  “Like they were pretending to be dead?” said Foster, overhearing him. “Setting a trap for us so they could attack us from two fronts?”

  “You mean those things can think?” asked Tom, wide-eyed.

  “I hope you’re wrong, Ray,” said Halverson.

  “That gives our nightmare a whole new dimension, if it’s true,” Tom sighed.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Halverson and the others in his crew reached the first floor soon after Rogers. They bucketed after Rogers through the lobby.

  Rogers reached the plate-glass door first. He held it open for the rest.

  Halverson strode out into the smog. If anything, the smog was denser than before. They were lucky if they could see five feet ahead of them, Halverson decided.

  As he entered the smog on the tarmac, he twigged a hand grope out of the smog toward him. For the thickness of the smog the only part of the body he could make out was the hand. Halverson fired his MP7 in the direction of the creature’s head estimating its whereabouts in relationship to its arm. Halverson didn’t know if his bullets struck home.

  He bolted away from the creature.

  “There are more of those things in the smog!” Halverson cautioned the others.

  “That’s all we need,” said Tom, his face clouded.

  “I’m sick of those ugly fucked-up things,” chipped in Foster.

  “No wonder the other passengers were screaming when we left the plane,” said Ray.

  Tom nodded. “The stragglers were getting picked off one by one by the ghouls in the smog.”

  Halverson heard Rogers call out, “We have to get back to the terminal on the double!”

  Halverson could barely distinguish Rogers’s figure in the smog.

  Halverson and the others jogged after Rogers. Knowing more creatures lurked in the smog, nobody wanted to become separated from the group and end up as a main course on a ghoul’s bill of fare.

  A young natural blonde with her hair done up on top of her head lunged out of the smog at Halverson.

  He bounded back away from her, clubbing at her clawing hand with the steel muzzle of his MP7 in the same motion.

  Before her transformation she would have been considered beautiful, what with her pert button nose and voluptuous, bee-stung lips.

  But now she was one of the undead. Her button nose was broken and mashed like a blob of putty on her face. Her once-pink lips were now ashen grey, chapped, and split. Her hairdo was gone. In its place a straggly mess of disheveled strands of hair hung down the sides of her head like a curtain of bodiless, limp blonde threads.

  Was this how the world was going to end? wondered Halverson. Would throngs of brutish beasts inherit the earth? Was this ghoul the shape of things to come?

  He didn’t have time to ponder it. The ghoul groped for him again. This time she all but grabbed his arm. He didn’t want one of those things to touch him. He had no idea if their mere touch was contagious and he didn’t want to find out the hard way.

  He made out her face, now evanescent in the smog, and squeezed off a burst at her off-white eyes that had once been blue. She staggered to her right just as he was letting loose his burst, throwing off his aim. His bullets went wide to her left.

  She came at him again, this time from lower down on account of her stumbling. He fired another burst into her head. It would have been a direct hit at this point-blank range if she had been a stationary target. But she was moving, which eliminated the gimme shot.

  In the end it didn’t matter. Enough of Halverson’s rounds hit home and tore into the ghoul’s forehead to groove the brain and kill the ghoul once and for all.

  “How can they keep finding us in this smog?” asked Tom. “Can they see through it?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Halverson. “I don’t see why their messed-up eyes should see any better than ours.”

  “I bet it’s the noise we’re making with all our shooting that draws them,” said Ray.

  Halverson agreed. “We’ve got to keep moving. They’ll be attracted to this area now because of my gun reports.”

  “Come on,” said Rogers, up ahead. “We got to get out of this smog. The terminal should be near.”

  “Don’t anyone shoot unless you absolutely have to,” said Ray. “Or those things’ll be swarming all over us like flies on shit.”

  “And hold your voices down,” said Halverson in a stage whisper.

  Rogers waved his arm at them, urging them to follow him lickety-split.

  The eight of them stole through the smog. They tried their level best to go as fast as they could without tripping or bumping into something in the low visibility.

  Absently, Halverson wondered if the night-vision goggles strapped around his neck would enable him to spot the creatures at a distance in the smog. He doubted it. In any case, he could not spare the time to try the goggles out.

  Even thermal vision goggles would be of no help in this situation, he decided. For them to work there needed to be a source of heat for them to locate. Those ghouls were already dead. He doubted anything dead could generate heat.

  Halverson could make out the terminal up ahead. Rogers was at the plate-glass door waiting for him and the others.

  Rogers opened the door. What was left of their original outfit entered the ground floor of the terminal.

  Rogers locked the door behind them. “They should have locked this after we left earlier.”

  “Then how would we have got back in?” asked Tom, bringing up the rear.

  “They should have posted a guard at the door. That’s what we’ll do, once we get back to the main group. We got to secure this terminal while we decide what to do next.”

  Rogers led the way back to the baggage carousel concourse.

  As they were leaving, a sixtysomething male ghoul wearing a New York Yankees navy blue baseball cap bumped into the plate-glass door. Frustrated that it could not pass beyond the door, it began slamming its hands against the glass. It wasn’t long before more ghouls joined him. Grimacing and baring their teeth, they assaulted the door pounding on it with their open hands.

  “Is that glass gonna hold them?” asked Tom, a worried expression creasing his face.

  “It should,” answered Rogers. “That glass is thick.”

  “Their nervous systems must be messed up,” said Ray, observing the clumsy ghouls pounding on the door. “Look how they move.”

  “They look spastic. They don’t seem to have much control of their limbs.”

  “I don’t think that glass is gonna hold,” said Tom, enthralled by the ghouls.

  “It depends on how many of them are out there,” said Halverson. “If there are a lot of them, they could break down the door by sheer weight of numbers.”

  Rogers scanned the surrounding area. “I don’t see anything around here we can use to brace the door.”

  “What about luggage from the baggage carousel inside?” suggested Tom.

  Rogers shrugged. “Better than nothing.”

  “Once they get through that door, nothing’ll hold them back,” said Halverson.

  “Anything that’ll slow them down will help us. Let’s get back to the others.”

&
nbsp; The eight of them strode down the wide corridor to the baggage carousels, which were at the end of the corridor and to their left.

  “I’m not feeling so good,” said Albert. He clutched his wounded arm.

  Indeed, from where Halverson stood, Albert’s face appeared a pale, sickly shade of green.

  “We’ll get some first aid for that wound,” said Rogers.

  “I need to sit down,” said Albert.

  “You can sit down on the baggage carousel.”

  Gary was standing at the carousels ready to greet the group.

  When he spotted Rogers he said, “The prodigal son returns.”

  A look of disgust washed over Rogers’s rough-hewn face. He said nothing.

  Gary watched the eight of them approach. He looked over their heads, waiting for the rest of them to round the corner. He waited in vain.

  “Do I dare ask what happened?” he asked Rogers, his voice edged with misgivings.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “This place is surrounded by some kind of flesh-eating ghouls,” said Rogers.

  No sooner were the words out of his mouth than they were met with an incredulous stare from Gary. “What? What are you talking about?”

  “I need to rest,” said Albert.

  He sidled toward the nearest baggage carousel. He sat down on it then lay back on its canted aluminum surface.

  “There are hundreds, maybe thousands of them out there,” Tom told Gary. “They’re hiding in the smog on the airstrip.”

  “And they’re trying to break into the terminal this very minute,” said Halverson.

  “We don’t have any time to waste,” said Rogers. “Right now we need men to carry luggage to the door and blockade it while we figure out our next move.”

  “The bigger the better,” said Ray. “Little bags won’t stop those things.”

  Ray, Foster, Tom, and some of the other men grabbed suitcases from the baggage carousel and lugged them to the terminal door.

  “I don’t see how we can stay here,” Halverson told Rogers.

  “I don’t either,” agreed Rogers. “It’s impossible to secure this area. It’s too big. There are too many entrances where those things can enter. We got to find some place smaller that we can secure and defend.”

  “Why don’t we just get the hell out of here and drive to somewhere safe?” said Gary.

  “We do need transportation,” conceded Halverson.

  “First thing we need is food, shelter, and guns,” said Rogers.

  “You have a bunker mentality,” said Gary.

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “You sound like we’re under siege.”

  Rogers stared at Gary. “Until we know what’s going on here, we have to act like we are. This airport is swarming with those creatures.”

  “Then let’s pile into some cars and scram.”

  “What cars? Where do you see cars?”

  “There must be some out in the parking lots. We just can’t see them because of the smog.”

  “We’ll check after we’ve secured the terminal. We have to make sure we have a safe haven before we do anything else.”

  “We can’t go out through the sliding doors to the parking garages anyway,” said Halverson.

  “Why not?” asked Gary, turning toward the sliding plate-glass doors that led to ground transportation according to the sign posted above them.

  “The power’s out. They won’t work.”

  “We pry them open.”

  “If we pry them open, how are we gonna shut them to keep those creatures out?”

  Gary cast around the sidewalk and the street that skirted the frontage of the terminal. “I don’t see any creatures out there.”

  “They may not be there now, but they could show up any second.”

  “How do you know so much about everything?”

  Gary’s contentious personality was starting to grate on Halverson’s nerves.

  “I’m helping out with the luggage,” was all Halverson said.

  Halverson angled for the baggage carousel and glommed onto a heavy olive green suitcase. He hauled the luggage to the plate-glass door from which he and the others had just entered.

  Rogers followed suit.

  Approaching the door Halverson noted that the luggage piled in front of it rose five-odd feet into the air. He could see the ghouls outside scratching, slapping, and punching the door trying to get in. Their numbers had increased at least tenfold. The creatures were staggering and climbing all over themselves in their frenetic attempts to get through the locked door. Their putrescent faces grimaced in frustration.

  Halverson lifted his suitcase onto the top of the heap.

  “This stack ain’t gonna hold them if they manage to break through that glass,” said Ray, watching the ghouls congregating in front of the door.

  “We’re only trying to buy time,” said Halverson.

  “Hey, look what I found,” said Tom.

  He pulled a twenty-inch portable TV out of the suitcase he had set on the floor.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “What good is it?” said Ray, gazing at the TV set. “There’s no power.”

  “If only we could find out what happened here at LAX,” said Rogers. “We need to know what’s going on outside so we know what we’re dealing with.”

  “There’s no cord on this TV,” said Tom. “It must be battery powered.”

  “Don’t waste your time with that thing,” said Ray. “The cord’s probably in the suitcase somewhere.”

  Tom set the TV down on the linoleum floor. He looked around for the on/off button. He pressed it. The TV’s LCD screen crackled to life.

  “No way,” said Ray.

  All Tom got was static.

  “Pull out the rabbit ears,” said Halverson.

  Tom located them and did so. All he got was static.

  “Turn the channel,” said Foster.

  Tom turned the dial. More static filled the screen.

  “Aren’t any of the network stations broadcasting?” asked Ray, puzzled.

  Tom kept turning the channels.

  At last he found a picture. Ray and Foster cheered.

  It was pretty decent reception, considering it was a battery-powered TV equipped with rabbit ears, decided Halverson. Except the picture scrambled and cut out every once in a while.

  “Now we’re talking,” said Tom.

  A handsome newscaster with perfectly coiffed dirty blond hair was sitting behind a desk speaking as he read papers on his desk. Words in white text were crawling along the bottom of the TV screen. Halverson found them difficult to read because the TV image kept flickering out.

  “There is no cause for panic,” said the newscaster. “Outbreaks of plague have been reported in greater Los Angeles. We’re getting numerous reports of Angelenos becoming infected with plague. These plague victims are to be avoided at all costs. Infected victims are highly, I repeat highly, contagious. According to many reports, victims are displaying rabieslike symptoms. They are viciously attacking everyone in sight, trying to eat them.” The newscaster stared at the camera, incredulous. “That’s what it says here. Plague victims are trying to eat living, healthy people. The victims don’t eat each other. They only eat the living. Not to worry. Everything is under control. Authorities are dealing with the problem on the spot. They assure us they will have the plague victims quarantined within a few hours. There is no cause for alarm.”

  “No cause for alarm,” Ray scoffed. “Has he seen all those things out there?”

  He gestured at the ghouls massing around the terminal’s door.

  “Talking heads,” said Foster. “What do they know?”

  “We are getting reports of a multitude of fires burning out of control all over LA,” the newscaster went on.

  “That explains all the smog,” said Rogers.

  “He just said everything is under control and now he says the fires are out of control,” said Tom. “Make up your mind,” he told the
announcer.

  “There are reports of numerous traffic delays,” said the newscaster. “Please drive carefully.”

  “These outbreaks must have started while we were en route to LA,” said Halverson.

  Rogers nodded. “I didn’t hear anything about this when we left DC.”

  “If at all possible, stay indoors,” said the newscaster. “Keep your doors locked. Do not open your doors for people you don’t know. Authorities are in the process of setting up an emergency shelter for people who have lost their homes to the fire.” The newscaster clutched the earbud in his ear. Listening, he screwed up his face. “We’re getting more reports of fires breaking out all over Los Angeles.” He listened intently to his earbud. “They’re saying . . . they’re saying now”—he shook his head in disbelief—“. . . they’re saying when you see one of these infected victims, shoot to kill. Not only are these victims contagious, they will stop at nothing to attack and devour everyone they see.”

  “They got that right,” said Foster. “The only good one of those things is a dead one.”

  The newscaster was still pressing the earbud to his ear. “According to authorities, these plague victims are actually dead. They can move, but they are dead. They are the living dead. I know this sounds fantastic. I’m having trouble believing it myself . . . Somehow these plague victims are actually dead and their brains have become reanimated. Their brains are telling these victims to do one thing—to eat living human beings.”

  “Eat this,” said Foster.

  “There is no need to panic.”

  “There he goes again. Who’s he trying to kid?”

  “These reanimated corpses have difficulty moving. They are very slow and ungainly. Authorities are in control. They are tracking down the creatures easily and destroying them. The only problem is the creatures are multiplying at lightning speed.”

  “Don’t panic, though,” mocked Foster. “Everything’s under control.”

  “And I’m the king of Peru,” said Tom.

  “Thousands of people are without power,” went on the newscaster. “Authorities are now saying it is best to evacuate if you live in Los Angeles proper due to widespread fire and power outages. We are getting reports of roving bands of looters in downtown LA.”