by Smith, S. L.
Isherwood nodded gravely. “What’re they looking like? Are their clothes shredded or torn off completely? Then, they’re probably squeezing through the cracks we left for them. Not sure how, but whatever. Murphy’s Law.”
Patrick was slow to respond. He was looking through his scope, tediously studying the groups of twos and threes staggering down the road. “Yeah,” he said pausing again. “Their clothes seem pretty messed up compared to others, but that’s not it. There’s something else.”
Isherwood cocked an eyebrow as if something occurred to him for the first time. “Patrick?” He asked hesitantly, as though not truly wanting an answer to his question. “Are they … soggy? You know, water-logged? Flesh like hanging from their necks and eye sockets?”
Patrick didn’t say anything, but he lifted his head from the scope of the .22 and nodded gravely.
“Crap,” Isherwood said shaking his head.
“Wait – what? I’m not getting it.” Justin said, absent-mindedly cranking faster on the pump.
“I guess I had thought about it, but like a lot of other crap, I didn’t want to think about it.” Isherwood rambled. “It was just something I’d read in Max Brooks’ book, back when zombies were still fiction. It seemed logical, but still far-fetched. He described swimmers getting pulled down and herds of those things roaming the ocean floor and huge groups of them just walking out of the surf on some random beach.”
“What’re you talking about, man?” Justin said, waving his free hand in frustration. “Spit it out.”
“Exactly.” Isherwood said, pointing at Justin with a touch of madness. “The River’s just spitting them out. Zombies don’t drown, but they’re stupid enough to fall into water or get sucked up in the current chasing a rat or a sea gull. It’s just like them crowding in for the static on the radio.”
“So what?” Justin said cranking on the pump like he was a berserker. “If the zombies start falling off the Audubon bridge, they just float downstream – that’s not our problem. They’d probably be almost to New Orleans before they popped back up again.”
“Justin,” Isherwood was saying with increasingly wilder eyes. “Then what’s UP-stream from us?”
Justin fell quiet, but Isherwood was still winding up. “Everything, every-thing is upstream from us. We’re sitting at the tail end of one of the biggest river systems in the world. The whole friggin’ country might be flooding this way.”
Patrick was stealing glances toward Isherwood, too, but Isherwood’s steam was short-lived. He was winding down fast, as he saw the looks his friends were giving him. “Sorry,” he said. “There’s really not that much immediately upstream from us – Alexandria, Natchez, Vicksburg, maybe. It’ll probably still be a long shot for us to starting seeing zombies washing up with Cardinals t-shirts, much less Reds or Twins or, God help us, Pirates.” Isherwood soon fell quiet, though, as the conviction in his voice was quickly draining away.
“We’ll figure this out, guys.” He said sometime later. “Even if we have to line the levees with punji sticks. We’ll figure it out. I promise. But let’s not tell the others, just yet.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: BIRNAM WOOD
Old Blue, as well as the Jeep and the Escalade, were parked in a line along the River Road. All the vehicles had been modified by now with Jerry’s help. The city maintenance shop, which Jerry and Isherwood had noticed during their first walkabout the church property, had proved extremely useful for all these modifications. Though the maintenance shed stood outside the church’s fence, Jerry had modified and extended the shed’s chain-link fence to provide a sturdy enough enclosure. The kids had started calling it Jerry’s Place.
The vehicles were all blacked out with spray paint. A turret had been cut into the roofs of both the Escalade and the Jeep. Spare tires had been wrapped all around the vehicles. The vehicles all looked now like kids swimming on the lake with inner tubes wrapped around their bellies. Jerry had installed cattle grill guards which he then modified, as well. This made the trucks resemble locomotives, but they could now slice through a swarm of zombies like Moses through the Red Sea.
The Three Amigos, a name which had by now become permanent, were standing in the bed of Old Blue looking down the River Road and the long fence which ran along the base of the levees. The levees were high man-made mounds of dirt which ran for hundreds of miles along the sides of the Mississippi River. The Audubon Bridge stood not far in the distance, maybe a mile to the south.
“It looks like a Christo art installation,” Isherwood said, piercing the quiet that had fallen on the three.
“A what?” Justin asked, distractedly.
“Just some super ultra-modern artist. He had this huge, like, environmental art works. Like Running Fence, which was just a long line – miles long – of white sheets stretching along the California coast. Or he’d have a never-ending line of flags standing in the desert or something. This just reminds me of that.”
“I’d rather it remind you of a brilliant battle plan of Patton’s or something.” Patrick said. “Christo was weird.”
They were staring in horror at the long fence line straddling the base of the levee for miles and miles into the distance. It was barbed wire, as cattle once grazed up and down the levees. The barbed wire looked, as Isherwood had described, as though someone had come and hung thousands of ragged flags along the fence. The tatters of clothing left hanging on the fence were all different colors, but mostly dark red.
“This is the worst section of fence we’ve yet seen,” Justin said, still staring. They had been driving along and surveying the twenty or so miles of the River Road that stood along the backside of St. Maryville, from one end of False River to the other.
“Yeah,” Isherwood nodded. “Right here, this is a bend in the river. The current probably does something weird in all the turbulence and flushes them up onto the banks. Who knows?”
“Ok, sure.” Patrick said, looking around into the open farmland and pastures beyond the fence on the opposite side of the road. The open land ended in thick woods about three hundred yards from the road. “But where did they all go? Why are they climbing up the levees and why aren’t they here? Where the heck did they go?”
Both Justin and Isherwood just shrugged. “I don’t know,” Isherwood finally said. “But if there gets to be too many of them, we’re gonna have to do our zombie conga line all over again.”
“But probably not over the bridge again,” Justin said.
“No, you’re right.” Isherwood agreed, “but we still need to seal up the gaps on either side of False River.”
Patrick sighed. “Unless your whole concept of the Mississippi and False River being natural barriers is disproven now.”
“Man, there was a time when I would’ve flown off the handle for that, for you accusing me of being wrong. Times sure have changed, though. There’s that at least. I hate it, Patrick, but you’re probably right. Even if I’m not completely wrong, the plan just might not be as practical or as profitable as before.”
“Hell, holy hell!” Patrick suddenly cried out. “Look! Birnam Wood comes now to high Dunsinane.”
“Oh God,” Isherwood said. For a moment he just closed his eyes, trying to check out. He couldn’t do it. “Come on, Justin. Let’s get in our own vehicles, so they’ll have to swarm all of us. In fact, let’s spread out a bit if we can. That fence will give us some time. This must’ve been what Cemetery Ridge felt like when Pickett’s grey soldiers starting marching out of the woods.”
“Dang.” Justin said, “Just dang.”
As they watched sidelong, running back to their cars, it seemed like a near solid line of zombies was emerging from the woods three hundred yards in front of them, on the opposite side of the road from the levee. There were hundreds and more still were emerging. The men had clearly been sighted because they could hear the first stirrings of moaning. It chilled them down to the soles of their feet. It was guttural and primitive, but with terrible vestiges of humanity. The
sound was echoing through the woods. They were calling to each other. Wave upon wave of the sound began receding backward, deeper and deeper into the woods. There was no telling how many had been drawn over the levee and into the woods. Flocks of birds started erupting here and there from the treetops, like something massive was tearing through the woods.
Justin and Isherwood soon emerged from the hatches newly cut into the rooves of their SUVs. Isherwood was signaling the church on the radio, giving them their location and describing the situation. “Whatever you do, please do not leave the church to try and rescue us.” He repeated. “Stay put, we’ll be fine.” He wanted to tell them to give a message to Sara and his kids, to tell them he loved them, but he knew it would cause panic.
“Guys,” Justin called to the Patrick ahead of him in Old Blue and Isherwood behind him in the Jeep. “Angle your vehicles towards the fence, or else they tip us right over. You gotta paddle into the wave!”
They were soon in position. The first wave was still a hundred yards away, while the main body was still two hundred yards off.
“Y’all know how I hate wasting bullets,” Isherwood called out as he went to stand along the fence line with a Bowie knife in either hand. “I’ll take care of this first wave. Y’all start working on the bigger group behind them.”
“You got it, buddy.” Justin called out. Patrick chose to answer with bullets, waiting until the next group had advanced to around seventy-five yards.
Ten or so hit the fence at once. Isherwood dispatched the first five or so quickly, since they were right on him. The other half were about ten yards further down the fence. By the time he had run down to them, only one had been able to spill over the fence. Isherwood stabbed this one while its skull was still stuck in the mud of the ditch. The rest were busy relieving themselves of whatever bowels they had left after the first two times they had slogged over the barbed wire. Isherwood tried not to look down at the wings of flesh that still flapped down from their rib cages immodestly shielding the empty caverns where once sagged the zombie’s bloated bellies. “Hell,” he yelled. “I just saw straight down into that thing’s pelvis.”
“Pervert!” Justin yelled back, after blowing off the back of a skull from eighty yards.
Isherwood stole a glance every ten seconds or so towards the main group of zombies. He was also trying to figure out how deep this group was still emerging from the forest. From his angle on the ground, he couldn’t tell. “They still coming out of the woods? How’s it looking?” He called back to Justin and Patrick.
“Dude, you don’t want to know.” Patrick replied, as he was reloading.
“We’re starting to build a nice little mound of bodies at about seventy-five yards, though.” Justin added. “Dead heads keep tripping over themselves.”
“Nice, man.” Isherwood called back without turning from the fence. He hit three in a row without having any issues getting the blade back out of the skull. The bone was soft from being submerged, so long.
“Just call me ‘Z-wall Jackson’.” Justin said, laughing at himself.
Patrick called out from behind Isherwood. “Get a look at this fella. My side, maybe ten yards in. Ever seen something like that? Shoot.” Isherwood pulled himself from the fence to get a look at what Patrick was pointing at. He took the chance to wipe his face. At about ninety yards, they saw a zombie whose torso was bending at a grisly angle. Most of its right side was missing. It looked like he had been clipped by a giant hole puncher.
“Bet it was one of those Mississippi bull sharks.” Patrick yelled over the sound of gunfire.
“Or one big-arse catfish,” Justin called back.
“Crap,” Isherwood said as he lunged ten yards north along the fence. There were eight zombies about to fall forward over the top wire of the fence. He was yelled at them, “Come on you filthy, zed heads, drag yourselves along that fence.” He was hoping the zombies would snag an exposed rib or sheet of flesh along the wire as they dragged themselves against it. He was playing a dangerous game, though. He knew the wire would eventually snap if enough bodies leaned against it or on top of it. If the fence lines did snap, the steep-sided ditch still stood between them and the advancing hoard.
He succeeded in stalling the eight zombies long enough to stab through the sides of their skulls. It would be much longer, he noticed, until the top line of barbed wire was perfectly smooth. Gore, filth, and entrails were slowly coating it, rendering the barbs useless.
Justin and Patrick had thinned the main body of zombies significantly, so that the main body appeared for a moment to be retreating. The pace of the zombies throwing themselves against the fence was still slowly increasing, however. For now, Isherwood was keeping pace, walking up and down the line delivering death as at Hell’s own communion rail.
He thanked God that his clothes – his sleeves, gloves, and even a face mask were all Army issue now – were holding up. The zombies, even the falling ones, were still grabbing at him and scratching. It wasn’t just gnarled fingernails. Most of the zombies lacked the flesh at the fingertips altogether. It was the sharp tips of bones protruding from the ends of their fingers that dug the deepest.
“Ding!” Isherwood called out. He had just finished a long run of zombies, tapping their skulls with his knife like a long line of typewriter keys. “How’s the ammo supply?” Isherwood called back to Justin and Patrick.
“I’ve got another 500 rounds. I could do this all night.” Justin said leaning over the butt of his rifle. “Just found a comfortable position, too.”
“Yeah, I’ve got a little less.” Patrick answered. “But that’s not even counting the automatic rifles we’ve got stashed away.”
“I’m about to switch to my pistol.” Isherwood advised them. “These things are starting to mound up against the fence. I can see it starting to lean. Any end in sight?”
“From the trees directly ahead of us, yeah,” Patrick answered. “But the arrow point is starting to broaden at the base. Know what I mean?”
“No real end in sight, then?” Isherwood asked rhetorically. “Well, we better pack it in before the fence gives way. But first, how about y’all get down here and we go full auto for a bit. What d’you say?”
“I say that sounds excellent,” Justin said, before the words had even escaped Isherwood’s mouth. He was already standing beside Isherwood. “May I?” he said stepping in front of Isherwood.
“Be my guest.” Isherwood said, stepping back and taking the opportunity to catch his breath. He noticed that Justin was leveling the same AR-15 rifle he had brandished the day they reunited on Major Parkway. He had a second one slung across his back. “Been waiting for this, have you?”
“Hells yeah,” he said. Despite the difficulty aiming the automatic weapon, Justin was mowing down the zombies, head shot after head shot after head shot.
“That’s not even fair,” Isherwood said as Justin slammed in a fresh magazine. “You’ve got a second semi-circular mound forming up perfectly, too. The fence will be just fine.” He called up to Patrick, who was still working on building up the first mound at seventy-five yards. “Hey, any sign of Z’s coming down the road?”
“Hot dog!” Patrick called out, as he suddenly redirected his rifle to the few zombies ambling up the boulevard. “Got ‘em. You may return to your affairs.”
“Be right back,” Isherwood said, as he left Justin and crossed the ditch back to his Jeep. With just his pistols, he was having trouble with accuracy at the new range Justin had established with the AR. He re-holstered his 9mm’s – he had upgraded to a pair of them – and grabbed a pair of A4s from the gun racks they had installed inside the back of the Jeep.
“I’ll get this half, brother.” Isherwood called over to Justin as he was re-crossing the ditch. “We may be able to finish this fight after all, now that the new mound is keeping them off the fence.” Isherwood was beginning to think that the mounds they were building could be the beginning of a long line of grisly fortifications, built out of
the enemy, itself.
“Ah yeah, man.” Justin said, finishing off another mag. “This is just pure stress-relief now. Let’s wait until either the sun sets behind the wall of the dead or else we blot out of the sun itself.”
They didn’t quite make it to sundown, as Justin had hoped. When the flow of zombies finally diminished to a trickle, Patrick had nearly run out of ammunition for his .22 rifle. If he had not had a second .22, the first would have burned through his gloved hands long before the end. Altogether, Patrick reckoned he had shot nearly 600 zombies. Patrick’s mound stretched out a radius of about seventy or eighty yards, sweeping the full one hundred eighty degrees from north to south. The mound Justin had started and Isherwood had contributed to swept out the same arc at twenty yards. The two lines of semi-circles were nearly perfectly concentric.
“Wow, that Christo guy’s got nothing on us.” Justin was laughing. He was standing at the back of the Escalade re-filling his emptied magazines and admiring their handiwork. “Better radio the church, or they’ll think we’re goners.”
Isherwood was soon on the radio, thankful for Justin’s reminder. He was kicked himself for not remembering to check in. “This is Isherwood, over.” There was no return transmission. Just silence. “Isherwood, over,” he repeated. He didn’t wait for another round of silence.
“Guys, let’s move.” He called out his window as he passed the Escalade and then Old Blue. “There’s no answer on the radio.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: BOXED-OFF
The three vehicles led by Old Blue immediately started honking when they pulled within sight of St. Mary’s. As they came down Main Street from the east, fresh from fighting the “River Dead” as they would later be called, they immediately saw that trouble was brewing. They had been unable to hear the moans over the sound of the engines. Old Blue stopped in the center of the intersection of Main and New Roads Streets. The one stoplight in what amounted to downtown St. Maryville was hanging just above their heads. Isherwood passed up Justin in the Escalade and pulled alongside of Old Blue. Taking the cue, Justin pulled up along the right side of Old Blue. This created an instant barricade across most of Main Street.
