The Zombie Letters

by Shoemate, Billie

  Christian Wayne Garner wasn’t a bad guy . . . he was actually quite loving and thoughtful sometimes. He had effectively brainwashed her into never leaving his sight. Drunken, tearful apologies became hour-long verbal lessons on how a husband should be treated. Even that quickly turned into promising her he’d go sober. It created a truly sober man, but terribly mean at times. There was something deep inside of her that still loved him, even though they married at only twenty-one years of age. Mom and Daddy never suspected a thing. They still didn’t. They probably just enjoyed the fact that their shy little daughter got hooked up with a doctor. She was hardly allowed to visit them anymore, at least until the shiner on her left eye healed just a tad bit more. Enough to cover up with some foundation, anyway. It was nearly gone now. The swelling was nonexistent and the yellowish patch under her right eye was returning to normal.

  “You think they’ll be able to stop it?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said in a hushed tone . . . his eyes glued to the small stereo like he was watching a football game. “I don’t wanna alarm you, sweetheart, but I don’t think we are very safe here. I mean, we’re in a basement. My dad built this bomb shelter down here completely separated from the house upstairs, but we only have one week’s worth of food left. At night, I can hear them walking around the house upstairs. Thank Christ Dad was so damn paranoid and built this thing. Those things are trying to get in. I think they will, eventually. We’re sardines, Ana. Fucking sardines with nothing more civilized than a battery-powered radio.”

  “Where would we go and how . . .”

  “Let me figure that out. You just don’t worry about that. I’ll figure something out. All I know is that we can’t stay here.”

  III

  In a matter of two days, LYNN003 had spread from Des Moines, Washington DC to Maine and down as far as Georgia. It even went as far west as Oklahoma and parts of Texas. By June, every state in the union was showing signs of contamination. Before the television stations stopped broadcasting to people who still had power, one could turn it on at any time and see footage of entire outposts of civilians and military force decimated. People in the thousands were unable to escape major cities. The cars were blocking every exit out of every interstate, so most attempted to flee on foot. Those who were lucky enough to own private aircraft managed to leave some of the smaller cities. All of the planes attempting to leave the country were shot down by the dwindling military without as much as a warning. Some planes landed in Zurich, England, Switzerland, Australia, Italy and New Zealand. Thousands of planes, even some commercial aircraft, were leaving. Some pilots, crew and passengers were executed mid-air or their planes destroyed as soon as they landed. By the end of June, Lynn spread to every country in the world, regardless of quarantine procedures enacted by various governments. They all looked to the source for help . . . some kind of assistance. America’s phone was busy. Or, they simply weren’t answering.

  On June 30th, a survey aircraft sent out of Loc-Nor, China observed large, dark masses moving across the ocean floor. Many explanations were given during the first few British, Chinese and French bombing missions intended to contain the breakout. When millions of the dead emerged from the sea on every coast that man could lay eye on, it was too late. The extreme nature of mitochondrial re-growth prevented the tremendous pressure of the ocean from affecting the dead that had spread to parts of Mexico, Canada and South America within days. It was theorized that the mass migrations were caused by dwindling food sources, due to the human protein that fuelled LYNN003. They weren’t migrating like those early researchers thought. They were simply spreading. It was observed by most in areas in which sustenance was scarce; the dead would appear sluggish and less agile . . . but still overpowering. At a train station in Charlevoix, Michigan, a news cameraman filmed footage of a group of the dead ripping parts off of weaker and less mobile members of their kind. This was happening as most animals would pick off a sickly member of their herd. By the time the bombing missions were in effect, the infected were seen walking out of the ocean itself like a plague . . . overtaking entire countries one by one. All over the world, panic and decimation occurred in the streets like war.

  After that, things progressed quickly.

  On July 15th, 2015, the United States of America had fallen.

  July 22nd. Great Britain declared a state of emergency.

  August 4th. The first sign of outbreak was reported in Greenland. A fifteen-year-old boy named Jon Cho ran through a quarantine area with a homemade bomb strapped to his chest. He had collected some infected blood and drank it as he ran into a quarantine area. Military immediately opened fire on him, but he still made it through the gate. The exposure to the scattered bodily fluids in the small, enclosed area infected seventeen people. Not long after that, the entire population was infected or dead.

  August 8th. China’s and India’s quarantine facilities and above-ground bunkers were overrun. It was also on this date that the living dead had spread to every country in the world.

  CHAPTER 7

  I

  “I’ve just spoken to a Chinese Commander with their Air Force. Their last line of defense has been breached. Those . . . whatever you want to call them, took over the compound. We are getting reports from Russia, Great Britain, France and some of our embassies in the Middle East. They cannot kill them. They are overpowering everything tossed at them. Those fucking things have torn apart entire bases.”

  General William Teel nodded and turned to face the Vice President, who had just inherited a country in flames. “Mr. President, I . . .”

  “Don’t call me that, Teel. It makes me feel ill.”

  “Sorry, sir. Sir . . . I think it is time to gather the bombers. I understand that nuclear weapons are never an easy decision to make. I just suggest . . .”

  “And it isn’t going to be a decision we make,” the Vice President said, interrupting the General. “I will not add the destruction of the planet itself to the list of problems we have. I asked for an elegant and permanent solution and all you can come up with is Armageddon. No. I will not bomb the remaining populace left and poison the rest. Are you aware that the facilities housing our over five-thousand warheads in Washington, North Dakota, Montana, Nevada, Wyoming and Missouri are overrun? Even if we could get to them? This thing has spread globally. What did you think you were going to come in here and convince me of? Hiroshima every person on earth?”

  “Allow me to interject,” a young voice said somewhere behind them. He was military; none other than Staff Sergeant Alexander Powers. He nervously saluted the new Commander in Chief.

  The General glared at him over his bifocals as if he were an insect. “Powers, I think this can be better handled in my office at a later time.”

  “Teel?” the President said, his frustration growing. The General continued to speak as if he did not hear anything.

  “I will speak to you about your suggestion in good time. Follow the proper channels and submit a suggestion in . . .”

  “TEEL!” The Commander in Chief shouted. Teel stopped, lowering his eyes to the floor. “Tell us, young man.”

  “Well, sir,” he said, clearing his throat. General William Teel glanced at him, his face red. Powers swallowed hard and spoke. “Have we received any word from Locke Research Facility?”

  “That’s an odd question, Alex. Why do you ask?”

  “Those men created this thing. They must know how to stop it, sir.”

  Teel opened his mouth to speak, but the newly-appointed President shot him a look that reminded Alexander of the way his father looked at him when he acted up in the car as a child. With the General back in his place, the President spoke again. “We have not received any communication from them and I don’t want to place any kind of stock in the hope that there ever will be. We have teams in this building that are working through Doctor Winters’ very detailed records, as well as all lab results.”

  “But wouldn’t it be better if we go after at
least one of the employees at Locke? Send one team, sir. Just one team. It’s worth checking to see if any of them are still alive.”

  “Staff Sergeant, Darin Miles and Nathaniel Winters worked mostly to themselves. Their employees were nearly hired hands. They, my people here I mean, are capable I think . . . but perhaps you are right. I’ll send a unit down to Locke to search for Darin Miles or any of his crew. If none of them are found, I want that lab gutted. Even down to the paperclips. After that, burn it to the ground.”

  “I’ll make the order, sir,” Teel said in a sheepish voice.

  “Not so fast, General,” the President said. “Alex here had an idea. One that I think merits stretching our resources a bit. If Doctor Miles is alive or Winters is hiding from us at Locke, some kind of an antidote had to have been made in that lab. I would prefer your team to bring back both. If you had to pick one or the other, bring the doctor. Oh . . . one more thing.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You’re not sending any order.”

  The General’s face changed. He looked immediately hurt and confused. “Excuse me, sir?”

  “Suit up, Teel,” America’s new leader said, pointing to Alexander. “You’re going with him. And before you say a word . . . yes, you have to. You are personally responsible for my newly-promoted Sergeant Major Alexander Powers. If my new Sergeant Major doesn’t come back in one piece, you may just as well stay away from me, General. If you harm or allow harm to one hair on his head, I will make sure you avoid a court-martial entirely. I’ll have you before a firing squad.”

  “Yes, sir . . .” Teel said with a hesitant salute.

  “That’s Mr. President to you.”

  II

  Alvin French could hear the explosion in the town below. The power went out quickly. No matter. Just a quick jot outside and he was airborne. Neil Alvarez called before the lines went down and told him not to leave the country. Every border, including America’s were shooting planes down that wandered too closely to now forbidden airspace. Even the bombers that India launched were shot down over the Atlantic. An order straight from the brass, supposedly. Everything is a supposedly now.

  “I’ll just buzz around in the sky until those things starve to death. I don’t care. Land only when I have to refuel . . . land in places that you need oxygen and snow shoes to get to,” Alvin said to himself. He looked outside to the plane he bought last year. That God he did. Not a lot of guys in Los Angeles had their own runway, but Alvin did. A 2004 Cessna 350 he got from a private seller in Norfolk, Virginia was out there, not too far from the house. For a time, that model was the fastest fixed-gear single engine plane in the world. It was sitting outside the house . . . idling. The propeller off the front of the beautiful blue and white plane was just now kicking up. Occasionally, one of those walkers would wander too close to the propeller and lose an arm. He would have laughed if they weren’t all over the grounds. And already dead. The sound of the plane brought those creatures around. They were wandering pretty close to the house when Alvin strapped on his backpack and saddled the revolver to his side.

  SHHHHHH CLANK! Another one stepped in front of the propeller as if it didn’t know what the hell it was. The thing’s head was lopped off and went sailing into the valley below. There was nothing left down there but a bunch of destroyed homes and abandoned cars. The sight of that dead person getting his head launched into the sky would have been comical to look at, but Alvin didn’t feel much like laughing. The way of life that created this young and well-off bachelor was dead now. He couldn’t be silent for long in even this mansion. They’d get in eventually. The fucking house was ninety percent windows.

  “Okay . . .” he said to the now empty home. Taking one glance back at all he’d earned in his life, he strapped his backpack tighter over his chest and grabbed one of the bombs he made. He’d also found a shitload of grenades in the back room of the surplus store on Ambrose. Alvin knew that the old man was stashing illegal shit. In fact, the proprietor told him once.

  You need anything extra, Al . . . you come to me. You are good people.

  The Army Surplus store was already looted when Alvin got there. No one paid any mind to the loose tile in the stockroom that Pops told him about. Pops must have really liked the young and well-groomed internet tycoon. Funny . . . they were from such different worlds. Who would have thought? No one ever visited Pops and his shop was always a bit cavernous for the likes of bright, glitzy Los Angeles. Alvin liked it there because ever since he hit it big, he liked to collect military-issued knives and handguns. Just a hobby. He had pretty much depleted Pop’s catalogue years ago. There was really no need to go back. But . . . the old man was lonely. Mad as a fucking hatter, but Alvin genuinely liked the guy. Pops smelled horrendous, smoked constantly and talked for hours, but he reminded Alvin of his grandfather. The two men would spend hours together, having beers in the back and watching whatever game was playing. Those were good times.

  Pops came back . . . just like the others. Must have been bitten by one of them. Alvin didn’t want to do what he did, but he released his friend from his suffering and took the secret stash that the old man had been hiding for a rainy day.

  It was sure fucking rainy now.

  The two grenades Alvin found were in each hand. He made sure and kept his forefingers looped through the small metal pins. Only Pops and God knew how old those things were . . . if they would blow up in Alvin’s face instead of five seconds after releasing the spoon like they are supposed to. Alvin adjusted the large back window as quietly as he could. Just about one-hundred feet to the plane. Taking a deep breath, he released the pin on the grenade to his left and let the spoon go. He tossed it away from the house and down the steep cliff. “I sure hope they’ll hear that over the sound of the . . .” The explosion was louder than he’d thought. Even at that distance, his ears were ringing. Out of the gathered crowd around the tall, grassy hill on which his home sat, a good number of the dead quickly turned their heads and actually sprinted down the hill. The ones that appeared more rotten and less held-together simply turned and walked. They seemed to Alvin French that they at least had an awareness of their own physical state. Either that . . . or they operated on the most primal of instinct. They were less human now. They were animals.

  The thick crowd thinned out a bit as Alvin placed one foot out of the sliding French door. He tossed another grenade off to the other side of the hill . . . about fifty yards away from the other one. More followed the boom. A volcano of dirt, twigs and mud sailed into the sky like a geyser. Steadying the uncomfortable assault rifle’s strap over his shoulder, he cocked it and ran out of the house and toward the plane. A few were still wandering aimlessly all around his path, but with a little luck, he would be a bird soon enough. He had fired M-16’s before. They bucked like a bitch for a guy with a vegetarian’s frame. It was lightweight enough, thank God. It would be terrible if he had to lug something heavy all the way there.

  Alvin tore out of the house and into the approaching midday sun. One of the walkers at the corner of the house looked right at him and stepped into his path. Alvin ran around it, shooting the M-16 sideways, mindful not to shoot directly in front of himself and end up hitting the plane. The bullets sliced through the creature’s head, knocking it to the ground with a wet groan. He made a beeline to the plane, spraying fire at both sides of him. He could see out of his peripheral vision that the infected at the bottom of the hill had spotted him and were now running up with arms outstretched . . . looking nearly insane from the insatiable hunger burning inside of them. The scattered remnants of their horde were easy to dispatch as he ran around the tail, making an all-out sprint to the cockpit door. Alvin threw himself inside, spraying more ammo before tossing the gun into the tarmac of the runway. It was too cumbersome to fiddle with in the small, 4-person plane. Plus, he had another one in the back seat. He placed it there last night, when it was still dark and all the infected were preoccupied with the city below.

  The run
way was clear. For now. The horrible things had nearly crested the hill as Alvin popped it in gear and careened down the runway, hitting two strays with the propeller. He leaned his head out the window and screamed . . . a tearful and bittersweet release in honor of his life intact, but the life he had behind him now. Soon enough, the small Cessna was over Los Angeles. Alvin told himself not to look down into the city below, but he did.

  Los Angeles looked like someone had declared war on it. From the safety on-high, he could see an absolutely countless group of the dead chasing one man on foot. He frantically looked behind him . . . his face wide open in terror of certain painful death. The runners were gaining on him. Cars lay scattered about . . . matchbox cars on a child’s floor. The panicked man ran through the thicket of abandoned automobiles. They were merely pillars in a tomb now. That’s all everything was. The pilot in the sky felt a deep sadness pass over his heart as the running man fell. The insurmountable horde closed in on him before he could get up.