Z-Day (Book 3): A Place For War

by Humphreys, Daniel

  “Shit,” Byers snapped, rushing out of the shed. Miles and Vir followed along because one way or another it looked like their timetable had moved up.

  Lawrence was up on both hands and one knee now, whimpering as he tried to work his leg out of the hidden hole in the ground. “Done in by a fucking groundhog,” he spat, tears running down his cheeks.

  “Help me,” Byers snapped as he got his shoulders under one of the other Marine’s arms. Vir followed suit, and they heaved. Miles knelt to guide Lawrence’s boot out of the hole, and the other man yelped as the irregular shape of the hole twisted his foot to one side. Once free, they eased him onto his back, and the senior man conducted a quick inspection. He might have elicited more noise, but with his hands free, Lawrence was keeping both of them clamped over his mouth.

  “How bad?” Miles muttered.

  “Clean break, right above the ankle.”

  He tried to hide his wince. That sort of injury would have been a death sentence, early on. Now, at least, they’d scraped together some semblance of modern medicine, what had once been unsurvivable reduced to mere annoyance.

  If they could get off the island, of course.

  Byers fished through the grass until he found a fallen limb about the thickness of his thumb. Kneeling, he broke it over his knee into two sections about eighteen inches long. Softer, more subdued rustles and cracks from the woods to the south punctuated the sound of dry wood snapping.

  “Lot of company coming,” Vir said unnecessarily. He had his compact submachine gun up, but from the growing volume, Lawrence’s cries had roused a good share of the airstrip’s population.

  Miles considered the shed and the decaying house. As choices went to make a last stand, neither looked to be great ones.

  Byers jammed the ends of the branch down into Lawrence’s boot, then began lashing the free portion to his calf with a length of paracord.

  “We’re not going to make it,” Miles said to himself. Vir turned to look at him, face tight with tension, one eyebrow raised. He nodded and turned to Byers. He put a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Sergeant—”

  “I’m not leaving my man here, Matthews!”

  “I’m not asking you to, Byers. But he can’t walk on that ankle, and you can’t carry him out on your own.” He pulled his backpack off his shoulders and visualized the contents. After a moment, he decided that whether this worked or not, he wouldn’t need any of the gear inside. He called back over his shoulder. “Vir. Take this for me, will you?”

  Retreating from the woods, Vir slung Miles’ backpack over one shoulder beside his own. Miles looked him up and down. “You good?”

  Byers stared at the two of them in silence—Miles wasn’t sure if he’d picked up on the unspoken interplay between the two civilian survivors yet.

  Vir cocked his head to one side. “Why are you the bait?”

  Miles stood up and patted his chest and hips to assure himself he hadn’t lost any equipment. “Refresh my memory,” he said. “Were you around when we went Christmas shopping, that first year?”

  Vir sighed. “No, not yet. But I have heard the story many times. I’ll ask again—why are you the bait?”

  He shook his head with a smile. “It’s funny. I’ve always hated running. But at least when something’s chasing you, there’s no lack of motivation.” He nodded to Byers and Lawrence. “See you on the boat. Same plan—I’m just going for a swim.” With a start, he realized he still had the suppressor mounted on his carbine. He twisted it to unlock the quick disconnects, then handed it over to Vir. Even with the can mounted, the weapon was more than loud enough to draw attention. Without it, everything on the island would be homing in on him, at least until he ran out of ammo. After that, he’d have to improvise. Worst case scenario, I start belting out show tunes. “Do me a favor, guys. Nobody tells my wife about this.”

  October 19, 2017

  Outside of Ironton, Missouri

  Z-Day + 1

  Molly took three steps backward before rational thought overrode her instinct to flee. What are you doing?

  As though his effort to stand and cry out had exhausted his last reserves of energy, the little boy in the van sagged out of sight. The attacking creatures on the driver’s side weren’t dissuaded by his physical surrender. If anything, they redoubled their efforts. The van began to rock back and forth on its suspension.

  She thought she heard a sob from inside the vehicle, but it was hard to be certain.

  “I’m just a kid,” Molly said, and the hollow sound of her voice made her shudder. “Why me?”

  Cracking glass and creaking shocks punctuated the subdued whisper of the wind, but no answer was forthcoming. She swallowed.

  “Because there’s no one else,” she told herself. “Yeah, nobody will know if you walk away, but I’ll know, won’t I?”

  The activity on the other side of the car had reached a fever pitch, and she was certain now that she heard the keening cry of the little boy. She dashed forward, hoping like hell that the suspected invisible barrier was not only real but stayed where it was.

  She pressed her hands up against the rear passenger window and brought her mouth close to the opening. “Hang on, little guy. Stay where you are.”

  Molly half-expected the door to be locked, but to her shock, when the handle pulled out it slid open with ease. The little guy was either too weak to open it from the inside, or the van’s owner had engaged the child locks. The latter was most likely, she guessed, but she didn’t waste time checking. The little boy blinked at her through bleary eyes, then reached out to her. Wincing at being so close to the ‘monssers’ on the other side with nothing more than cracking glass to hold them at bay, she forced her upper body inside of the minivan and pulled the kid into an embrace. His entire body was damp with sweat, and his diaper sagged, overflowing and reeking of a foulness that made her want to gag. He was weak, but there was a desperate strength in the clutch of his limbs. Relief crested in her as she backed away, pulling him to safety on her side of the bridge.

  Opening the door revealed the sea of litter on the floor of the minivan. She grimaced as she saw the overstuffed diaper bag sitting in the footwell behind the driver’s seat. She’d used sports and school as an excuse to avoid too much of the old standby job of babysitting, but she’d done enough of it to know that taking care of a toddler was a damn sight easier if you had their stuff.

  Kneeling, she peeled chubby arms away from around her neck and plopped the little guy down on the ground. “Wait right here,” she said. “Don’t move.”

  He stuck a thumb in his mouth and regarded her with a serious expression that seemed to say, You got it, sister. I ain’t goin’ anywhere.

  Molly turned back to the minivan. A couple of the zombies, stymied by others in front of them, had drifted around the hood. One tried to walk past, but it kept bouncing back from the invisible barrier as though hitting something tangible. If not for the blood and missing chunks of flesh from its arms and neck, she’d have called it the best mime act she’d ever seen.

  She put her knee on the bottom edge of the door opening and stretched out. Centrifugal force from the accident must have pushed the bag out of position—it lay all the way against the door on the opposite side.

  “Shit,” she hissed under her breath, forcing herself not to look back at the kid. Being a good example to someone younger than herself didn’t seem a very high priority at the moment. If surviving a car accident and an ensuing zombie attack over who knew how many hours hadn’t scarred him for life, a few curse words here and there weren’t liable to do any harm.

  Molly scooted in a bit further. Her outstretched fingers brushed the strap of the diaper bag. Forget this. You can find diapers anywhere. Her eyes flickered up and stared at the pair of zombies scratching at the opposite window. “I’m thinking a trip to the dollar store is out of the question, kid.” She gritted her teeth and told herself, “Get the pack.”

  She leaned in, reaching one last time�
��got it! She hooked the strap, holding on for dear life, and pulled. The bag refused to move at first, jammed in, but it slid out as she withdrew.

  Chunks of glass burst inward, pelting her and the top of the diaper bag. Molly let out an involuntary shriek as the zombies surged into the minivan. Bloodstained fingers brushed the back of her hand and scrabbled at her prize, but she held on with every ounce of her strength and kept pulling. She won out, but one of the zombies went along for the ride with her. Toppling back onto her butt, Molly let go of the pack and braced herself with her palms to get back on her feet.

  Her instinct to run, though, was unnecessary. She’d pulled the zombie over the broken sill of the rear driver’s side window and across the bucket seats so that its head and shoulders stuck out of the open door. For a moment, terror consumed her as she waited for the thing to continue coming at her. Its reaction after crossing the barrier was not to attack but to cringe and retreat. Its upper body shook as though in the hold of some seizure. Before it could fall back across the border, it sagged in front of the seats and stopped moving.

  The second zombie had no such problem. It and one of the others that had tried to creep around the front of the van had pushed themselves inside the broken window. They’d cut themselves horribly in the process, but the same effect that kept them from moving in the open was very much in effect inside of the van. They gnashed silent teeth and reached for her with beckoning arms, but came no closer.

  Shuddering, Molly stood and closed the passenger sliding door. “Just in case,” she commented as she turned to the little guy. He hadn’t moved from where she’d placed him, and a sudden exhaustion gripped her. Dragging the diaper bag along, she fell to the road next to him. It took several deep, shuddering breaths before she felt composed enough to sit up.

  “Let’s get you cleaned up, champ,” she murmured as she unzipped the bag and lined its contents up on the road. “If you had a blanket or teddy bear in the van, you’re plum out of luck.”

  The little boy endured Molly’s slow administrations in silence. She stripped his sodden and stained clothing and tossed it to the side of the road. There were several other outfits in the bag, and it was heavy enough as it was. A bit of searching found a folding changing pad that zipped up into a compact package. As she opened it up, he lay down on it before she could urge him to do so.

  “I guess you’ve done that a time or two.” Molly stripped off the diaper and winced. Dried poop the color of avocado smeared his butt and the backs of his legs. It took her half a package of baby wipes to clean it off, leaving the clean skin an angry red. The diaper change elicited his first major verbal reaction since the rescue, and she didn’t begrudge him the tears or whining one bit.

  “I know, buddy. You’ll feel better clean—trust me.”

  “Ouchie,” he sobbed. There was half a tube of ointment in one section of the bag, and she caked it on the inflamed areas. He tried to pull away at first, but as soon as he realized that the cream wasn’t as painful as the wipes on raw skin, he relaxed again.

  She used more wipes to clean the sweat from his body and face as best she could. The day was growing warm, but it still had to be much more comfortable than the interior of a car.

  With clean clothes and a scrubbed face, the kid looked to be in better condition than she felt. When her stomach growled, a ghost of a smile crossed his face, and he patted his belly. “Eat?”

  She’d dumped the diaper bag in the road, and found no food. Molly cast a dubious look at the minivan and tried not to shiver. No way was she diving back in there, barrier or not. “We’ll find something,” she promised, then started collecting everything.

  She had most of the contents of the diaper bag stowed away before she realized that the kid didn’t have any shoes.

  Chapter Five

  March 20, 2026

  Kelleys Island, Ohio

  Z-Day + 3,075

  There was a strange joy in not having to worry about noise discipline.

  Miles left the overgrown yard at a slow jog as Vir and Byers hauled Lawrence northward between them. Their combined speed was something less than that of an uninjured man. It might have been enough to outrun a normal infected, but there was no way to tell if any of the faster, smarter, weapon-using types were on the ground.

  As soon as his boots hit the pavement, Miles raised the barrel of his carbine into the air and cranked off half-a-dozen precious rounds. Once he exhausted the supply of magazines in his vest, he’d be down to his pistol. He’d carried extra rifle rounds in his backpack, but thus far he hadn’t seen anywhere he might hole up to take the time to reload even if he still had it. For better or worse, what he carried would have to do.

  The reaction from the unseen zombies moving through the woods was difficult to discern at first, but as he got closer to the runway, a pair of figures hobbled out of the underbrush. He’d been conserving his stamina up to this point. The pounding of his heart was more from fear than actual exertion. Even so, when he paused and took aim, he missed his first pair of shots before nailing the closest zombie in the head. The emaciated figure must have been a mechanic of some sort, before—he wore sun-faded and threadbare blue Dickey’s and a pinstriped short-sleeve shirt with the name ‘Earl’ embroidered over one breast pocket.

  “Goodbye, Earl,” Miles muttered under his breath. He started to line up a shot on the next target, then reminded himself that he wasn’t here to play one-man army. There were ways of clearing the island that didn’t involve putting his ass in a bear trap.

  Changing course, he angled around the second forest zombie. It reached out for him, missed, and toppled to the pavement. Every hard-earned survival instinct screamed at him to pause to put it out of the fight—never leave an infected at your back—but he ignored the impulse and kept moving.

  More zombies burst out of the undergrowth, pivoting toward him as they pushed their way through the snarled mess of foliage. For once, Miles was grateful for the wild growth of a world without lawn mowers. As hard it was for the survivors to hack through and search for hidden dangers, it was that much more an obstacle for the clumsier infected.

  As he crossed the edge of the wooded area and jogged out onto the runway tarmac, the danger behind him became much less pressing.

  Miles had never cared much for football. In high school, he’d been a basketball guard with more grit and hustle than actual talent. He hadn’t had an issue scrapping against players bigger than him for loose balls, but the comparative free-for-all of the gridiron struck him as ridiculous in comparison.

  The downside to his disdainful avoidance of the sport was the fact that the wedge of infected heading his way looked like nothing less than a kick coverage team coming to cream the punt returner. The worst part about that was they could care less about an oval-shaped ball—this crew was out for blood. And flesh.

  He did have one advantage they didn’t. Miles could pivot, and he did so as soon as he saw the wall of corrupted flesh headed his way. One moment he was heading right at the horde, the next, he cornered and started running perpendicular to his previous direction of travel.

  The results might have been laughable if the situation wasn’t so serious. The crowd of zombies tried to turn in response. Many of them toppled over, their ruined forms too far gone for such exertions. This, in turn, tripped up other, more intact specimens. The fallout of Miles’ maneuver rippled across the zombie formation, and a good number of them were out of the hunt, if only for the moment. The one advantage the horde always had over the human survivors was their complete ignorance of the concept of giving up. Those unable to climb back to their feet crawled on, intent on Miles’ sprinting form.

  He ducked between two of the hangars. A trio of zombies stumbled his way from the opposite end of the gap. The alley created by the building formation was broad, around the width of a two-lane highway. The tight cluster the three formed gave him plenty to work with. He planted and went left, hugging that side. Like clockwork, the zombies aped his movem
ent. The hardest part was riding it out, and even then, he almost cut things too close. Rather than shoot, he reversed his rifle and slammed the collapsible stock of his carbine into the temple of the closest in line. The zombie’s Air Force ABU’s were pristine other than the streaks of dried blood running down its front and the gaping hole on its left cheek that revealed gray-swathed teeth.

  Air Force zulu toppled back, taking out the middle of his two partners. The third, a housewife in the tattered remnants of a nightgown, somehow managed to avoid getting tangled up in the pile. She lurched at Miles, teeth snapping.

  He flipped his carbine around on the backswing and pulled the trigger as soon as he had the barrel lined up. At point-blank range, the subsonic .308-caliber round blew her head into pieces. Shards of bone and bits of rotten, nano-infested brain sprayed the outer hanger wall. The neat hole the bullet punched in the side of the building along the way through was an exclamation point in the center of the mess. Miles tried not to wince. Byers was going to be pissed if he’d hit anything critical.

  He kept going, leaving the fallen two behind as they tried to regain their footing. On the opposite end, the leading edge of the horde met the gap and began filtering in.

  His hope when he’d made the turn was that most of the horde would try and take the obvious path and cluster into the hangar gap. It had been a snap decision, but it seemed to have paid off.

  Moving clear of the alley, Miles checked either side before drawing to a stop and turning. A line of stragglers headed his way from the wooded area to the south, but they were still a good hundred yards off. For the moment, he needed to make some noise and paint the target on his back again, and hopefully, that wouldn’t take too long at all.

  The leaders of the pack had filled the first third of the alley when Miles opened up. He wasn’t going for pure accuracy, but he was happy to see that he managed a few head hits as he settled into a smooth, comfortable rhythm of squeeze, breathe, aim, and repeat.