Zombie Apocalypse

by Cassiday, Bryan

  “We’ve got company up ahead. They’re trapping us in a pincer’s movement.”

  “Deliberately? Can these things think?”

  “That would send a shiver down your spine.”

  Thirty feet in front of him, Halverson made out a Homeland Security officer in his uniform and a missionary woman in her late fifties who was clad in a white dress. In itself the sight of the two of them would have been fine, desirable even, except for one thing—they were the walking dead. Halverson only hoped there weren’t more of them where those two came from. He figured there were, but as yet he hadn’t spotted them.

  A white hat like a nurse’s perched on the missionary’s white hair. She was clutching a white waxed paper pail for donations to her charity. She looked like she was still trying to collect donations with her pail.

  She and the male, mustachioed Homeland Security officer were now cutting off Halverson and company’s escape route. The Homeland Security officer was packing an automatic in a leather holster that rested on his hip.

  “Do you think those things know how to use guns?” asked Rogers.

  “No,” said Halverson. “They’re all messed up. They’re uncoordinated. Even if they knew what a gun was for, they don’t have the manual dexterity to fire it.”

  “Let’s step on it, people,” Rogers told the other passengers.

  “The sooner we get past those two, the better.”

  The Homeland Security officer and the alms collector continued to hitch toward them. The officer had a broken leg, it looked like to Halverson. The way it was skewed suggested a compound fracture. Too, the officer was dragging it along behind him, not getting any purchase from it.

  Halverson fired a burst at the two ghouls. The weight of Reverend Jim on his neck and shoulder threw off his aim. The bullets slammed into the Homeland Security officer’s chest instead of its head. The force of their impact caused the ghoul to stumble back a step on its one good leg. Then the ghoul kept coming at Halverson.

  Halverson was tired of fighting these creatures. The adrenaline rush he had been attacking them on was wearing off. He had been wasting these things right and left and there still seemed to be an endless supply of them. Not only that, the vicinity reeked of death and putrescent flesh.

  In a fit of pique he blasted the Homeland Security ghoul’s head and finished the creature off. The creature toppled onto its bullet-riddled face on the floor.

  To his right and a few yards behind Halverson, Mildred leveled the barrels of her over-and-under shotgun on the alms collector then all but blew its head off with lead shot. The creature’s dead eyes rolled up into its head as its white hair flew back from its skull under the blast’s impact.

  Their escape route was clear—for the time being, decided Halverson.

  “Where to?” he asked Rogers.

  “We need to get over to the Encounter restaurant ASAP,” answered Rogers. “We can’t screw around in this place any longer.”

  “How do we get there?”

  “We have to through the parking garage to get to it. We’ll stay on this floor and cross the bridge to the garage.”

  “Why don’t we go to the bottom floor?”

  “I’ve got an idea.”

  “Lay on, Macduff.”

  “I’m sick of these things!” cried Tom, eying the horde of creatures that lurched and shambled after them.

  In frustration he fired his Sig Sauer pistol at the mob of creatures and kept firing it till he depleted another magazine.

  “Let’s keep going,” said Halverson. “That’s all we can do.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Without encountering any more zombies on their escape route to slow them down, Halverson and the others were able to keep a safe distance between them and the ghouls that trailed them. Shoring up Reverend Jim between them, Halverson and Rogers reached the concrete bridge that connected the airport with the parking garage.

  “I wish I had a silencer,” said Halverson.

  “Why?” asked Rogers.

  “Those things seem to be attracted to noise. Whenever we start shooting, it seems to draw more of them out of the woodwork.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Silencers might come in handy if we send out scouting parties.”

  “Well, we can’t silence a shotgun,” said Mildred, holding up her Mossberg.

  “Did you see any sound suppressors or silencers in the armory?” Rogers asked Halverson.

  “I wasn’t looking for them,” answered Halverson.

  “Would you know one if you saw one?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Mr. Gun Expert,” said Lemans, walking up to them. “How come you know so much about guns?”

  Halverson ignored Lemans. It was easy to do, decided Halverson. He didn’t like the guy in the first place.

  Rogers looked behind them. He saw that none of the creatures were in sight. He faced Halverson. “Want to check it out now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You got five minutes. We’re gonna man this fire door to the stairs. As soon as those things come into sight, we’ll blast them. When you hear us shooting, get your ass back here.”

  Halverson made to back out from under Reverend Jim’s arm.

  “I’ll take him,” said Foster, coming up. “I liked his speech to the dumb ass zombies.”

  “Thanks,” said Halverson.

  Foster took the place of Halverson and Rogers holding up Reverend Jim.

  Lemans confronted Rogers. “What’s your plan?”

  Rogers glared at him. “We’re gonna lock the door behind us and keep those suckers off the bridge while we cross it to the parking lot.”

  “How?” Lemans scoffed. “You don’t have a key.”

  “You’ll see.” Scoping out his watch Rogers told Halverson, “You’ve got five minutes from now.”

  Halverson threw a cursory glance at his watch. He made a mental note of the time.

  MP7 at the ready, Halverson bolted down the stairwell. He emerged on the ground floor.

  He did a quick 180 surveillance of the area. Satisfied there were no creatures in sight, he belted toward the Homeland Security Office.

  As he entered it he picked up movement to his right. He wheeled around in that direction. He cursed. One of the ghouls was stumbling near the desk and roaming around the office. It picked its nose. It was a hulking black ghoul at least six foot five with a large, partially bald head. It was wearing an olive green towing company’s uniform that had the company name 2 EZ Tow stitched in red thread across the top of its breast pocket. As soon as the creature spotted Halverson it staggered toward him, its jaws agape.

  Halverson was about to fire a burst at it when he had second thoughts. The gunfire, he suspected, would attract more ghouls. He withdrew his Sig Sauer automatic from his waistband. He held the muzzle and started to club the creature’s skull with the butt. The creature had five inches on him and it was difficult for Halverson to land a telling blow from his lower height. The creature also had a thick skull, Halverson soon found out.

  The giant ghoul kept trying to bite Halverson’s hand as he clubbed the ghoul’s head. Halverson retreated. This wasn’t going to work, he decided. He needed another weapon. The creature lurched after him. Halverson scooted around to the back of the metal desk.

  Halverson scanned the room for a weapon. Not seeing any, he jerked open the desk’s top drawer. A steel letter opener the better part of a foot long caught his eye. Halverson snagged the letter opener.

  The towering creature lunged toward him. At that moment, Halverson pricked up his ears as he heard gunfire erupt on the top floor.

  Halverson thrust the letter opener into the giant ghoul’s misty brown left eye. He drove the letter opener’s blade deep into the creature’s brain. The creature reeled backward. It fell. Its back hit the floor with a loud thud.

  At the sound of the gunfire Halverson knew he had no time to spare. He sprang into the armory. He searched the barren shelves with his fli
tting eyes. He checked under the bottom shelves. He noticed a cardboard box wedged under the bottom shelf to his right.

  Gunfire erupted upstairs again, more insistent now as if urging him to hurry back to Rogers and the group.

  He read the words on the box: Brugger & Thomet. He almost jumped for joy. He knew this box contained what he was looking for. Brugger & Thomet was the Swiss company that manufactured sound suppressors for the H&K MP7.

  He knew without looking at his watch that his five minutes were up. He reached the box in two strides. He slid it out from under the shelf. He opened the top of the box. It held half a dozen Rotex-II sound suppressors specially designed for the MP7. They were about nine inches long and less than an inch in diameter.

  He was so loaded down with military hardware that he didn’t know how he was going to carry the suppressors with him. He discovered that the empty magazine slots on his bandolier could hold two suppressors apiece. In this manner he was able to take all six suppressors with him.

  He bucketed out of the armory, through the office, and into the baggage claim area, just in time to see two creatures streeling in his direction.

  A scraggy creature with a black van dyke and a bigger creature with a flaxen shaving-brush mustache did their spastic zombie march toward him. The latter wore a navy blue nylon jacket and its pale blue eyes seemed fixated on something, but Halverson didn’t know what.

  He could not make out anything directly in the creature’s path that would arouse the creature’s interest. Maybe the thing was just fixated on moving, decided Halverson. Who knew what motivated these things? Other than flesh, that was.

  Halverson wasn’t sure the two had seen him. In any case, he knew he could beat them to the stairwell.

  It sounded like all hell was breaking loose upstairs.

  Halverson bolted into the stairwell and climbed the steps two at a time back to Rogers.

  Reaching the landing of the second floor, Halverson decided he was right.

  It was a scene out of hell.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It was a flat-out brawl in front of the doorway that led from the second floor to the bridge to the garage. The air reeked of sweat and cordite.

  Rogers and Ray the sky marshal were holding off throngs of the ghouls with their blazing submachine guns.

  Halverson waded into the donnybrook in short order. He unleashed a burst from his MP7 into the wriggling, staggering zombies that were bearing down on Rogers and Ray in what seemed like a single squirming mass of starving creatures.

  “What?” said Rogers. “Did you stop for lunch?”

  “I met up with one of those things downstairs,” said Halverson.

  “Fall back,” Rogers said. He motioned with his hand for Ray to retreat to the concrete bridge.

  Ray got the message and began walking backward, still firing his short-barreled M4 rifle at full auto.

  As soon as one ghoul got plugged and dropped dead, another one behind it stumbled over it and took its place in the assault. Ghouls that were shot but had not died continued to wriggle forward under the trampling feet of their fellow ghouls.

  “Let’s trade guns,” Rogers told Halverson.

  “Why?” asked Halverson.

  “Your barrel isn’t hot. Mine’s too hot to handle.”

  Rogers fired off another burst at the army of ghouls creeping inevitably forward either on their feet, on their bellies, or on their hands and knees. It made no difference to the creatures how they moved. With the scent of human flesh in their nostrils, only their own deaths would stop them in their tracks.

  “Then don’t handle it,” said Halverson.

  “You don’t understand.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Do you want to do it?”

  “Do what?” Halverson eyed Rogers in puzzlement.

  “Extend the stock in your MP7.”

  Puzzled, Halverson followed Rogers’s instructions.

  “OK,” Rogers went on. “After we go through the doorway to the bridge, wedge your MP7’s stock between the crash bar and the door. Then grab the barrel and break the crash bar off.”

  “I got a better idea,” said Halverson.

  He darted back to the bridge. He clapped eyes on Mildred. He raced up to her.

  “Could I borrow your Mossberg?” he asked.

  “As long as you give it back.”

  “No problem.”

  He slung his MP7 over his shoulder. He seized the shotgun. He barreled back to Rogers.

  “I’ll use this,” said Halverson, displaying the shotgun.

  Rogers nodded his approval. “After you break the crash bar, close the door behind us to keep those things from following us.”

  “You got it.”

  Purdy, Rogers, and Halverson backed through the doorway, continuing to spray bullets at the undulating mass of ghouls.

  Bringing up the rear Halverson flicked the Mossberg’s safety on, inserted the two barrels between the metal crash bar and the fire door, and clutched the shotgun’s stock.

  He wrenched the stock down and toward him, applying pressure to the crash bar. The crash bar did not give.

  He saw the mob of ghouls approaching like a juggernaut. There was nothing for it. He would have to try again.

  He grabbed the stock and yanked it again. The crash bar did not give.

  In a fit of pique, he grasped the stock and yanked it with all his might.

  The crash bar broke free from the door and dangled askew on the door. He left the handle there. It didn’t matter. In its current condition the handle was useless.

  Halverson edged behind the door. He slammed it shut in the zombies’ faces.

  He heard one of the ghouls pulling the broken crash bar off the door. The door didn’t budge.

  “That should buy us some time,” said Rogers.

  “It’s not gonna hold forever,” said Halverson. “The sheer weight of those things against it will break the door down sooner or later.”

  “Then let’s shake a leg.”

  Halverson returned the shotgun to Mildred.

  “Your shots might hook a little now,” he joked.

  Mildred looked puzzled. She accepted the shotgun.

  Foster was holding Reverend Jim up by himself.

  Rogers went over to Foster and helped him carry Reverend Jim across the bridge to the garage.

  “Maybe there are some cars in that parking lot we can use,” said Lemans as they neared the garage.

  “We’ll check later,” said Rogers. “Those things might break through that door any minute. We need to get over to the restaurant and secure it before we do anything else.”

  “But what if there are cars in there with keys? We could drive out of here right now and escape.”

  “We don’t have time.”

  Lemans shook his head. “You’re crazy. You’re acting like this is some kind of war.”

  “It is a war.”

  “Let’s just get out of this airport. Then we’ll be safe.”

  “How do you know that?” asked Halverson. “How do you know what it’s like outside of the airport?”

  “It’s probably normal.” Lemans balled his fists and shook them. “We got stuck in this plague-infested area. That’s all. Once we’re out of here, we’re home free.”

  “It’s not normal,” said Tom. “We heard on the TV news that there’s been a plague outbreak in Los Angeles.”

  Lemans cut his eyes toward Tom. “When did you hear that?”

  “Not long ago.”

  Lemans shrugged it off. “I can’t believe the whole city’s like this. That’s utterly ridiculous. It can’t all be this bad.”

  “Let’s figure it out after we’re in the restaurant,” said Rogers.

  Halverson and the others entered the garage. They headed through it toward the other side.

  “There’s a car,” said Lemans. He pointed at a silver SUV parked at the far left end of the garage. “What did I tell you?”

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p; “We’ll check it later,” said Rogers.

  He continued making for the restaurant.

  Lemans hived off from the rest of them and jogged toward the SUV.

  “Hey!” Tom called after him.

  Lemans waved back at them. “See you later.”

  The statuesque blonde who had sided with him earlier took off after him again. “Wait for me.”

  She clattered in her black high heels after him.

  Lemans gestured for her to follow, but he didn’t slow his gait.

  Frustrated with her lack of progress, she stopped, removed her shoes, and, one shoe in each hand, dashed after him.

  “Want me to bring him back?” Tom asked Rogers.

  “Don’t waste your time,” answered Rogers.

  Halverson, Rogers, and the rest continued to make a beeline for the stairwell on the opposite side of the garage.

  A large ghoul at least six foot three and one about seven inches shorter shuffled out of that very stairwell.

  “Not again,” said Tom.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Halverson sized up the two ghouls.

  The big one had large black dominating eyes, close-cropped brown hair, and a round face pitted with a sprinkling of acne scars on its clean-shaven face. It looked to Halverson like the ghoul was pushing thirty. Glasses with clear plastic, pink-tinted frames perched on its nose. One of the bows was missing from the glasses. The ghoul wore a white button-down shirt and charcoal grey trousers.

  In its previous life it must have projected the aura of a no-nonsense, hard-nosed boss who reveled in making his employees quiver with fear at the mere sight of him.

  Now the ghoul’s domineering black eyes were clouded over and lacked focus as the ghoul walked like a stumblebum.

  The ghoul’s cohort was a bald Korean in his early thirties, Halverson figured. It wore a white T-shirt torn over the stomach, tight khaki shorts, and black high-top sneakers. The ghoul had a goofy look on its face even when it was grimacing and snarling.

  “I hope there aren’t any more where they came from,” said Rogers.

  Halverson screwed a sound suppressor onto his MP7’s muzzle. If there were any more ghouls in the area, he didn’t want to alert them and bring them here.