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

by Humphreys, Daniel

  There were multiple bodies on the floor, blended and intermingled in a morass of bone and violated flesh. Two of them moved in fits and starts, reaching toward her with growing agitation as she stood in the hall entry with the light at her back.

  The body on top held the smaller ones on the bottom down, she realized. He’d been a burly, broad-chested man before his end, though death and decomposition in the sealed environment of the home had left him essentially mummified. Noisome fluids had stained the carpet black in a circle around the trio of bodies, and she got a vague whiff of rot.

  I’m glad we waited for winter. I would have blown chunks for sure a month ago.

  Without knowing the occupants of the house, there was no way to know the story of what had happened here, but the scene gave her a reasonable idea. The zombies pinned to the ground were smaller than her, not yet teenagers. She noted the puckered bite marks on the adult’s bared arms, wondering.

  Molly stepped a bit closer, staying out of reach of the juvenile zombies. As her eyes adjusted, she winced. Black trails of infection, not unlike the ones Dave had exhibited when he crossed out of the safe zone, marked the dead man’s arms, but the revolver in one hand and the gaping wound at the back of his head told her how he’d avoided his fate.

  The clicking noise repeated, and she realized it came from the pistoning teeth of the juveniles. One of them had a set of braces, the bright wires covered in bits of shredded flesh. With a shudder, she realized that without saliva to keep the kid’s mouth moist, the metal was slowly rending the inside of the thing’s mouth with every gnashing bite.

  The hair on the back of her neck stood on end.

  Her mouth went dry as she gulped air through her mouth, cringing at the hiss of her breath even as the little voice in the back of her head screamed bloody murder.

  Footprints!

  The floor behind her creaked as she lunged sideways, aiming for the living room.

  Fingers brushed at, then clasped, the back of her coat. She twisted away, launching herself forward. The recliner’s headrest slammed into her stomach, right at the ribcage, and the wind went out of her. She pulled the chair toward her even as she slid alongside it, flipping it over to serve as a temporary obstacle even as she turned back to face the hallway.

  The emaciated woman looked weak, but there was enough vitality to her undead frame for Molly to recognize that she’d been relatively young before dying—probably from the ragged wound on her left hand. A loose chunk of flesh flapped and waved as she stretched questing arms out toward Molly, jaw stretched wide.

  The combination of her panicked move out of the hallway and the impact with the chair combined to trip Molly up. Her feet came out from under her as she turned to see her attacker, her butt slamming into the carpeted floor in front of the open door. Afraid she’d lose the pistol, she clenched the muscles in her hand, and the sudden bang of the gunshot elicited a brief chirp of a scream. Then she dropped the pistol, letting it fall to the floor next to her.

  A neat hole opened in the wall across from her, well wide of anywhere it might have done some good. But the chair saved her.

  The mother or older sister slammed into the recliner and flipped onto the floor, head-first. Her head cracked into the floor, but if the thing suffered any injury from the fall, there was no way to tell. Silent and implacable, the undead woman pushed herself up onto hands and knees, scanned for her quarry, and scuttled forward.

  Molly fumbled for the gun, got a hand on it, and swung the barrel into line. Her first shot plowed a furrow through the gray flesh of the mother’s cheek, with next to no effect. The heels of her boots slipped and slid on the carpet as she fought for traction. She pushed herself across the floor in a twisted parody of a child at play. Her breath was coming in tight tortured gasps, now, and it took everything she had to focus on the white dots of the pistol’s sights. Outstretched hands seized her by the ankles as she finally, thankfully got the pistol lined up and squeezed the trigger for the third time.

  It wasn’t a perfect shot, but it was enough—the big bullet from Dave’s gun slammed into the zombie’s head above the left eyebrow and snapped her head back. She sagged to the floor instantly, a puppet with cut strings, back stained with the blackened, rotting mess from inside her skull.

  Suddenly safe, Molly curled into a fetal position, rocking back and forth on the floor next to the thing she’d killed. Trembling, she jammed her forearm against her mouth to keep from screaming as she wept.

  Glass shattered somewhere in the back of the house, and a voice echoed through the sudden stillness. Dave had broken open the laundry room window, desperate to determine her safety.

  “Molly! Are you okay?”

  Her hands were shaking too much to wipe the tears from her face, so she rubbed the sleeve of her borrowed coat across her face, blinking to clear her eyes.

  Come on, kid. Get up—clock’s ticking. She stood on shaking legs and called out, “I’m fine.” Molly looked back toward the hallway and knew what she had to do before she started her search of the house.

  Unaware of their pending fate, the zombies pinned under the body of what she assumed was their father continued to gnash their teeth.

  Click click.

  Chapter Twelve

  May 21, 2026

  Approaching Genesis Cay, Caribbean Sea

  Z-Day + 3,137

  The morning dawned clear and bright, but Miles was in no mood to appreciate it. Despite Pete’s objections, the MPs accompanying the medical personnel wanted no weapons on the boat other than the sidearms each carried. He could understand that from the aspect of not wanting to give the prisoners on the island access to weaponry. And, of course, if they needed it, the Mark VI patrol boat ferrying them north at a dizzying rate of speed mounted a pair of 25mm autocannons. That still didn’t change the fact that he felt a strange sense of panic with nothing close at hand to use to defend himself.

  The fact that Tish had conned her way into the medical group traveling to the island exacerbated his feeling of panic. They’d dined with the head of St. Croix operations the night before, Admiral Joshua Kanapkey. Before Miles knew what was happening his wife had laid on enough charm that the Admiral announced not long after that “Of course you can accompany the expedition. We’d be glad to have a doctor there in the event of any severe injuries!”

  He leaned on the bow rail and tried not to frown. Normally he’d have taken a greater interest in the plethora of high-tech gadgets crammed into the bridge of the little ship, but he was too busy staring at the horizon and trying to avoid counting the ways it could all go wrong. Two MPs with sidearms, he and Tish, Pete, Guglik, Sandy, and a trio of Navy corpsmen comprised the personnel who’d be hitting the beach. At the best case, it sounded like the GenPharm staff would outnumber them four-to-one if things went sideways. And there was no telling what sort of improvised weaponry the islanders might have experimented with over the years.

  And me without so much as a knife!

  Sandy stepped up beside him and joined in the study of the horizon. Ahead, a dark blur had begun to emerge from the crystal blue expanse of the ocean. “Looks like we’re close,” the other man said.

  Miles glanced at him out of the corner of his eye but didn’t turn to look. “Getting nervous?”

  The other man laughed, but there was tension, there. “Maybe that’s the word. I half feel like I’m about to throw up.”

  Smirking, Miles said, “They’ve got pills for that.”

  “I’ve never had problems getting seasick,” Sandy shrugged. “Went on a couple cruises, back in the day. I don’t think that’s it. The best description I can come up with is the world’s most screwed up class reunion.”

  “I hear that.” Miles gave Sandy a thoughtful look before asking, “You expect any trouble out of your friends?”

  “They’re not really my friends—”

  “Coworkers, then,” Miles interrupted. “Whatever you want to call them.”

  “I don’t know.
You work with people for years, you think you know them, but do you, really? I never had an inkling that they were capable of something so horrible. Oh, there was talk about saving the planet, you know, but I always thought it more of an academic thing, the way normal people used to talk about sports.”

  “It’s a big step from composting and solar panels, to be sure.”

  “Right. They’re a bunch of nerds, so I’d say no, but time changes us.”

  Miles grimaced. “You’re not easing my concerns here, Doc. If they’ve gone full-on militant, I’d really rather not have them shooting arrows or throwing spears while my wife is around.”

  The other man laughed. “Hell, I wish Kendra were here now. She’s always been a fighter. She saved me, back in the day, even after I confessed to her what I’d done. About the only way I stayed alive was running away. Got pretty good at it.”

  Miles pointed at the island growing visible off the bow. “Can’t run away from that, Doc.”

  “I quit trying a long time ago.”

  Both men watched silently as the island loomed ahead. The sheer cliffs on the south side rose from a jagged forest of stone jutting from the water. The surf crashing through the varied outcroppings splashed water into the air, and the foam riding atop the waves swirled around in chaotic patterns. Miles shuddered, just a bit, watching. This was the last place to try and come ashore—the surf would slam you against the rocks. At the top of the cliff, Miles could make out the square and even edges of man-made construction, though vines wreathed the entire shape.

  The pitch of the patrol boat’s engine changed, and they eased around the rocky side of the island. As they drew closer and the angle changed, he was more easily able to make out the buildings on top of the cliff, and the sheer scale of them took his breath away.

  Multiple, offset roofs capped wings and elegant balconies. Despite the variation, as far as he could tell it was all one building, which he supposed meant it qualified as a mansion of some sort. Even sun-faded and draped with overgrowth, the opulence was obvious. Something did seem off, though, and as the boat completed its turn and headed for a rounded cove on the eastern side of the island, it hit him—the lushly-constructed home had no intact windows. Each opening was a black square set in a stucco frame, though broken shards of glass glinted in the sunlight here and there.

  Miles pointed out the windows. “Think someone threw a tantrum?”

  “Not exactly,” a third voice said. He and Sandy turned as Pete eased his way onto the bow from one of the narrow side passages running on either side of the bridge. “After fleet discovered the island, they went through and confiscated anything of use. The GenPharm people had a pretty advanced setup. Solar panels, tidal generators, desalination equipment, the works.” He grinned maliciously. “We took away their toys and sent them to their rooms. There was a pretty major bunker complex down inside the island, labs, storage rooms, that sort of thing. Fleet cleaned it out, hauled it away, and imploded it.”

  Miles whistled. “And the windows?”

  Pete shrugged. “I guess they figured that if GenPharm wanted to roll back the clock on civilization, they should roll it all the way back. From what I understand the mansion is inhabitable—but it’s hard to find your way around inside without electric lights. The survivors live in huts.”

  With a curse, Sandy muttered, “That’s barbaric.”

  “Maybe. And yet here I stand, finding myself not giving a shit.”

  Miles watched the other man’s face for a reaction, but he didn’t get much. Face blank, Sandy hesitated, then shrugged. “Fair enough. What’s the plan?”

  “Follow me. We’re taking a small boat to the beach. We’ll split up into teams of two from there—the medical team will circulate through the village while the rest of us conduct the interrogation of your ex. One MP for security for each team.”

  “That going to be enough?” Miles wondered.

  Pete made a face. “It should be. I don’t like it, but orders are orders. If the islanders try something, we retreat to the boat.”

  Miles snorted. “You’re getting soft in your old age. A couple of years ago you would have burnt the place down if someone forced you to disarm.”

  His uncle winked. “Well, we all have to grow up sometime.”

  The small boat bobbing in the water at the stern was smaller than the RHIB he’d taken to Kellys Island. On the bright side, the water of the Caribbean was as clear as crystal, allaying any concerns about zombies bobbing around underwater. He delicately stepped in and sat next to Tish. She clutched a medical bag in her hands, the strap over her shoulder.

  “I’ve heard we should relax,” Miles murmured. “But I’m a little tense, myself.”

  She managed a weak smile. “Is it this bad, every time?”

  “Oh, this is way better than my last two field trips,” he joked. “Baby steps.”

  “I’m ready for this to be over.”

  He didn’t have to ask what this was. Her tone made it clear that she was talking about their larger situation rather than this particular one. “We’re creeping up on normalcy, I hope.”

  “Baby steps, again?”

  “Maybe just a little.”

  They’d anchored the patrol boat close enough to the beach that their ride on the inflatable was over as quickly as it’d begun. The Navy helmsman took it all the way through the shallows and up onto the beach before running out of steam. The group piled out, and Miles joined the MPs when they hauled on the lines to get their ride back into deep enough water for the boat to reverse course.

  He glanced out into the bay and noticed that the covers were off the turret-mounted cannons. The dark circles of each bore shifted slowly back and forth as the turret scanned the area beyond the beach.

  I hope they shoot straight, because that’s one hell of a big round.

  The MPs took point, leading the expedition up the beach a bit before cutting inward to the island. The sun-faded staircase cutting up the hill toward the crest of the island looked shabby. Despite the poor appearance, the structure felt solid as a rock beneath Miles’ boots as he followed the line of people headed up.

  As the island plateaued, a man in ragged clothes stood waiting at the top of the stair. Nervous, he rubbed his hands together as though he wasn’t quite sure what to do with them.

  “You’re early,” he commented, nodding in recognition to one of the MPs. He scanned the faces of the rest, frowning a bit when he saw Miles and Tish. He extended a hand toward Miles, ready to shake. “I don’t know some of—” Their greeter’s face was too well-tanned to turn white with shock, but the way his eyes widened and his jaw dropped made that emotion evident. “Doc—Doctor Scopulis?”

  Sandy stepped forward and grabbed the outstretched hand. “Howdy, Gerald. Long time no see.” He yanked on the other man’s arm, bowing him over, even as he brought his knee up in a short, brutal motion. Gerald’s face met Sandy’s kneecap, and he bellowed in agony as he fell onto his buttocks, blood streaming from both nostrils.

  May 21, 2026

  Genesis Cay, Caribbean Sea

  Z-Day + 3,137

  The crunch of Gerald Dickinson’s nose against Sandy’s knee was one of the most satisfying sensations he’d had in a long time. The other man cried out as he hit the ground. The exclamations of the crew around him blurred into a sudden explosion of noise.

  “Quiet!” Pete barked, cutting off the shouting. Motion drew Sandy’s eyes deeper into the island. Rough-looking lean-tos dotted the cleared area behind the rundown house. The smoke from a half-dozen fires trailed lazily into the air. Curious figures peeked out from behind cover as though wondering what the sudden hubbub was about. The major wheeled on Sandy and jabbed a finger into his chest. “What the hell was all that about, Doc?”

  He took a deep breath and tried to resist the urge to snap back. Finally, he nodded toward Gerald and said, “That’s the guy who got me and my girlfriend into this mess, back in the day. He was one of Melanie’s professors before GenP
harm recruited him.”

  Dickinson scrubbed a ragged sleeve across his bottom lip, leaving a streak of blood as he pushed himself to his feet. “Impulsive displays of emotion? A prime example of why we never bothered to recruit you, Doctor Scopulis.”

  Pete turned and stared daggers at the islander. “Shut the fuck up, or you’ll think that was a love tap.”

  One of the MPs shifted. “Uh, Major—”

  “Stow it, Sergeant. I had a long talk with General Vincent about levels of discretion before I agreed to come down here.” He fixed the bloody-nosed islander with a fierce glare and said, “I am not in the mood to have my patience tested, Professor. You will go and bring Melanie…”

  “Hackney,” Sandy supplied helpfully.

  “What he said, to the interrogation room. Move along, now.” He made a shooing motion with one hand, and Gerald scampered away, heading into the cluster of buildings. Pete turned back to Sandy, and his voice softened a bit. “Doc, I need you to relax, just a bit. Your presence should be enough to get them off balance, but if you start smacking people around, they’re going to lock up. I want them fumbling for equilibrium.”

  “Got it,” Sandy said. “I just—he’s probably a low-level cog, but he was an important one to me.” Part of him couldn’t help but wonder—would Guidestone have been successful if he’d somehow convinced Melanie not to go? If he’d stayed away, himself? Some part of him considered a life without his wife and son, but another part couldn’t help but think that it was damn hard to weigh your family against the deaths of billions of people. He hadn’t been the top scientist on the project, but he’d been a contributor. It was pointless to consider what might have been. That fact was more easily realized with a cool head than the intense emotions that rushed through him at the sight of Gerald.

  “Understood.” Pete turned back to the MPs. “Okay, medical team, do your thing. Let’s get this done.”