by Perrin Briar
Clack, clack, clack, clack, clack!
Empty. Already?
Mark tossed the rifle onto his back, letting it hang by its strap. He picked up the second rifle at his waist. He took aim and again unloaded into the undead horde.
He took furtive steps, feeling with his foot so as not to back into a wall or trip over something. This went on for what felt like a very long time, until Mark was worried they would run out of ammo before John and Eddie resumed firing. But then they stepped forward, eyes fixed on their enemy.
Mark’s ears rung, hearing dulled by the loud weapons. In his memory he saw the mawing mouths of the undead, the desperate, hungry expressions. A realization settled over him then, and he was certain it was occurring to the others too: the undead were never going to stop. No matter how many they killed, no matter how long they fought, they would keep coming. They would never get demoralized, never tire, never surrender. It was like facing a more savage version of themselves. But so long as Mark had breath in his body and bullets in his gun, he would never quit either. It was a battle of wills. And ammunition.
No fancy tactics, just a full-on frontal assault. The zombies were not sophisticated creatures. The result of a sophisticated plan could only end in failure. The nature of warfare had changed. They were no longer against an enemy as intelligent as they, where you would need to make alternative plans. You just needed to keep going.
No matter what.
Jacob was panting, sweating beside him. Mark could tell from the wrinkles in his brow that he too was thinking along the same lines. There was no stopping these monsters. Like there was no stopping Muslim extremists from blowing themselves up. Change could only come from within. But zombies had no ability to change. There was no way for them to become something else. There was no way to fill an empty shell.
Clack, clack, clack, clack!
John and Eddie’s guns were depleted. Mark was still out of breath from his first shift, but at least he had managed to reload his rifles. He put his head through a strap, held the rifle to his face, let out a breath, and rounded the rock.
Mark felt the heat coming off John’s body as he passed him. Mark’s arms were already shaking when he opened fire. He barely took his finger off the trigger as the bullets found their mark and slammed home.
He turned on the spot, finding his targets grinning at him. He blew their faces off. He let out all the hate and aggression he felt for their having killed his father, felt a rush of relief that he was able to fulfill vengeance. The rounds from his rifle slowed, dribbling to a stop as the undead ceased pushing forward.
Mark let off a few single shots as the undead dribbled to a stop, only a few crawling toward them. But the horde was gone.
There was a mound of bodies five feet high, an amalgamation of arms and legs and blood acting like cement holding them all together. No sounds were carried by the wind, no unholy groans from stricken throats, no grunts in the distance.
“We did it?” Jacob said. Then, more excited: “We did it!”
“Sh,” John said.
Not so much to be quiet, but to not jinx the moment.
“I wouldn’t get so excited if I were you,” Daoud called from the ruin’s roof.
“Are there more?” Eddie said. “How many?”
Mark scaled up the mound of bodies, elbow and knee crooks ideal footholds. He got to the top and the fragile hope he’d been fostering in his chest withered.
“Enough for another ten more rounds yet,” Daoud said.
Z-MINUS: 1 hour 8 minutes
“We should get out of here,” Eddie said. “It’s pointless dying when we don’t have to.”
“Coward,” John said.
Eddie’s face screwed up.
“You go ahead and die for no reason,” he said. “I’m going to stay alive and do something with my life.”
“Let him go,” Mark said to John. “It’s up to each of us to make our own decision.”
But John clearly didn’t approve.
“Here they come!” Daoud said.
The wall of dead began to shake as the zombies on the other side scaled over it. The first few poked their heads over the top and grinned down at them. They got a bullet from Daoud as he unloaded round after round into their skulls, like a gruesome game of whack-a-mole.
The soldiers on the ground aimed and opened fire. Eddie growled under his breath before cocking his weapon, turning, and running at the undead.
“Made your decision, ay?” John said.
“My life ain’t worth shit anyway,” Eddie said.
“Join the club,” John said.
The zombies’ bodies flopped over the wall and slid down the other side like they were surfing. Then the wall shuddered and teetered forward, leading from the top, and collapsed like a frozen wave. The undead fell with it. The soldiers mowed them down with their bullets. Then they hopped back, the blood clinging to their boots and making them stumble.
“Fall back!” Mark said.
One after the other they filed through a narrow gap in the ruined concrete wall. They dragged a piece of the wreckage over and plugged the gap.
They climbed onto the short wall and aimed again at the horde. They unloaded into them, forming a spray of red mist.
The zombies reached up for the soldiers, but their fingers were just out of reach. The soldiers edged back.
Farther along the wall, the zombies pushed and buffeted against the struts holding the remains of the facility up. The building shook. Daoud got to his knees and began to move away, his limp slowing him down.
There was a loud creaking, like an ancient ship at sea. The fibers in the struts snapped. The building fell forward.
Daoud was still inside it.
“No!” Eddie shouted. “No!”
Daoud sprayed the undead from above as he fell. His bullets had little effect. He crawled back, squeezing into a small empty space. The zombies reached for him, scrabbling for a grip.
“No!” Daoud shouted. “No!”
An undead with a gold ‘Kiss Me’ medallion secured a hold and pulled Daoud’s leg out. The zombies fell upon it, tearing through the fabric and flesh. The zombies pulled Daoud free from his hiding place and gorged on him.
“Daoud…” Eddie said.
John rested his hand on Eddie’s shoulder, keeping him in place, from doing anything stupid. Mark and Jacob reloaded their weapons, preparing for the next assault.
The wall shook under the combined pressure and weight of zombies. The weaker undead at the front were crushed underfoot, giving those behind the extra height they needed to scrabble for the remaining soldiers’ legs.
Mark and his team hopped down onto the other side.
“What I wouldn’t give for an airstrike right now,” John said.
“Or a nice M1 Abrams,” Eddie said.
Fine dust drifted down from a crack in the wall. The momentous weight of the undead became too much and the wall tilted over. A thick wave of dust rose, temporarily hiding the undead from view.
Z-MINUS: 39 minutes
“Jacob,” Mark said. “It’s time.”
“But we’re still holding them back,” Jacob said. “I can’t leave now!”
“It’s time,” Mark said.
Mark’s voice was tired, exhausted, his face pale and drawn. He looked half dead. He probably was.
“When this is all over, find Tabitha and tell her I love her,” Mark said. “Tell her I did everything I could to protect her. Can you do that?”
Jacob nodded, embarrassed by the childish tears that spilled down his face. He wiped his eyes.
“I don’t want to go,” Jacob said. “We’re brothers.”
“You gave your word,” Mark said. “A man always keeps his word.”
John stepped forward.
“Tell Katie… Tell her I’m sorry,” he said. “And tell Joanie I’m sorry I’ll miss all her birthdays.”
John thumbed a tear from his eyes.
“Eddie?” Jacob said.
The drone of the undead began as a solo and grew to a cacophonous roar.
“It’s time,” Mark said.
Jacob’s teammates turned to face the dust cloud that was already beginning to settle.
The undead emerged out of the dust like shadows. His brothers had no chance of keeping them back. The horde would sweep them up and force them back, back, back, until they were incapable of retreating or fighting any longer. But still they fought, their angry fiery expressions illuminated by the flash of their gun muzzles.
Jacob had a powerful impulse to join his brothers in their final hurrah, to help hold back the tide just a moment longer, willfully sacrificing his own life to be amongst his friends in death. But he’d made a promise, and it was one he felt unable to break.
He turned and walked away, building to a trot, the sound of the gunfire and the groaning of the undead army nipping at his heels and his heart, as he knew in no uncertain terms he was abandoning his friends.
Z-MINUS: 32 minutes
Their guns had clicked empty. They were reduced to swinging them as clubs. The soldiers’ movements were slow and drawn, every exertion draining them. Occasionally an explosion boomed from the other side of the wall, but it only served as a reminder of more undead ready to fall upon them. Soon, the undead would overpower them and they would be able to put up little resistance. Mark’s child would grow up with a missing father figure after all, every bit as much as Mark himself had. He hoped the baby would at least grow to understand why he had done what he did.
“It’s been an honor to serve with you lads,” Mark said.
“And with you,” John said, smiling at him.
Mark had never had a big brother, but if he did, John was what he imagined he would be like.
Mark put a bloody hand on Eddie’s shoulder.
“We might not have always gotten on,” he said. “But it was an honor to fight by your side.”
“Leave over, will you?” Eddie said. “Tell me in heaven, if we ever make it that far.”
The soldiers raised their weapons, shared a weak smile, and roared as they ran into the enveloping arms of the putrid horde army.
Z-MINUS: 8 minutes
The gunfire didn’t last long. It began as a loud roar, and then fell silent. Just when he thought it was over, there was a pop, like a single party popper.
And then silence.
Jacob came to a stop, turning to look back the way he had come. He couldn’t see much through the trees and the dense foliage. The least he could do was retrieve their bodies, wrestle them from the zombies before they could claim them as their own, but he knew he would be too late. A shudder wracked his body. He never should have left them. His cowardice would haunt him forever. He should have stopped right then, should have fought the undead, should have let himself fall to their clawed hands…
But for one thing.
But for the promise he’d made to Mark. The red paintball felt heavy in his pocket. It contained the bodies of his fallen comrades.
He would get word to the city, warn them of a terror coming their way. He would help save thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, of lives, and it would have all been thanks to his brave friends’ sacrifice. Maybe they’d build a monument to them, or name a day after them. They wouldn’t be forgotten. No, Jacob would make sure of that. They would be remembered.
It was a full thirty minutes before Jacob finally stopped to rest. It was dark and he feared he would trip over and break his leg. But he had to keep going. Even if he slowed down, he had to keep moving. If he stopped, the undead would creep up on him in the night, and the warning he carried would die with him.
He clambered up a tall hillock, feeling his way with his hands. He pulled himself up, and looked over the side.
In the darkness, it took a moment to realize what he was looking at.
An involuntary chuckle rumbled in the back of his throat. He burst out laughing, thumping the earth with his fist. His motions slowed and became softer as his laughter turned to tears. He wept.
Z-MINUS: 0
Jacob opened his eyes to look at the view again, and saw from this vantage-point the city of Charlotte. There was no mistaking it, no mistaking the glimmering lights of the tall buildings, no mistaking the helicopters that streamed beams of light from powerful lamps, no mistaking the giant fires that had consumed half the city, no mistaking the flickering flash of gunfire from a dozen locations.
There was no mistaking the end of the world.
Jacob barked with laughter, with madness, and howled into the night at all the lost lives. All would be forgotten, none would be remembered. There would be no one left to mourn them, for they would all be dead.
Z-MINUS V
4.03 am
Dr. Emanuel Phillips’ expensive black rubber-soled shoes squeaked on the shiny white terrazzo floor. One shoe dragged behind the other, the leg lame and unresponsive. His white doctor’s coat flapped behind him, torn along the hem. He struggled to catch himself with each hop forward.
His lame leg twisted. He tripped. His long face struck the floor, knocking a tooth loose. He panted, his hot breath steaming up the terrazzo. He looked up at the door ahead, his long straggling hair framing either cheek. So close.
His fingers curled around the vial of blood in his hand. Scrawled on its label was the name ‘Scott, Margaret’. She had been one of the most powerful and rich people in the city. Had been. She had since been relegated to the past tense.
Every time Dr. Phillips saw her she’d worn a gold turtle pendant encrusted with jewels on her dress’s lapel. She had insisted on attaching it to her gown whenever forced to wear one. Dr. Phillips never found out the story behind it.
Margaret had belonged to the Scotts clan, a rich and powerful New York family, number one in the social rankings. Their exploits were often splashed across the newspaper society pages, challenging even Hollywood celebrities for coverage.
People looked up to them, in awe, believing them to be something more than human, as if their DNA was encoded with a special success formula. And the truth was they were different. But not like everyone assumed. They were on the other side of the scales. They were less than human.
Inhuman howls echoed up the corridor. Dr. Phillips cast a fretful look over his shoulder and shuddered. They’re getting closer. He climbed to his feet and loped forward.
The previous evening, Margaret Scott had come in complaining of a headache. She often did. Dr. Phillips went through the motions. Margaret Scott was the type to go to hospital if she felt even only a slight pain, thinking it was a tumor. There would be no “pleases” or “thank yous.” The situation was understood by both parties. She paid – and paid a great deal – for the very best service money could buy, even if that service never amounted to anything. Pleasantries were not included.
People in the Scott family’s position were always the most likely to be hypochondriacs. They had everything, and wanted to remain on top, stretching out their meaningless lives for as long as possible. They had too much money, more than they could ever hope to spend.
They were meant to be philanthropists, champions of a better world, but the Scotts only ever made contributions to divert attention from an embarrassing event caused by a Scott family member.
Like the Scott hospital wing. It had been revealed with much pomp and flashing cameras, but it was really to disguise the unsavory acts of a distant relation during his time as a Catholic minister. An army of PR personnel kept their image pristine. Woe betide anyone who got on the Scott’s bad side.
Unfortunately for Dr. Phillips, today he was that person.
Dr. Phillips began as he always did when Margaret came in with an ‘illness’ – by giving her a bunch of meaningless tests, and then taking her to a private room to relax while they processed her results.
Dr. Phillips barely gave the scans a glanc
e – there was never anything wrong with the woman – and was about to set them aside when something caught his eye. He was surprised to find there actually was something wrong with Margaret Scott.
A cold sweat had broken across Dr. Phillips’ brow. His hands shook and turned slick with sweat. Was this the day he’d been dreading for the past twenty years? The day when she actually had something wrong with her? Something he couldn’t resolve? Something terminal?
If she died, his name would be splashed across the papers, alongside a picture of Margaret Scott’s coffin. Maybe they’d even print a photo of him beside it, smiling inanely at the camera, only now it would look like an evil smirk, as if he’d planned all along on letting one of the stars of the New York social scene die.
Over the years, the business he’d received from treating a Scott was substantial. He would casually mention to a potential new customer that he treated a Scott, and it was all he needed to get them to sign on the dotted line.
Dr. Phillips worked for a private New York hospital. Connected to it was the Biology Research Institute, for the study of various diseases and development of new modern technology. It was the door to the research center he was heading to now. It was big and thick.
He’d peered at the results, his mind blank. There were a million things that could have caused Margaret’s symptoms. A cold, a flu, anything. She had certainly caught something. A virus, perhaps. And there were hundreds, thousands, of varieties it could be. They had no choice but to wait for more symptoms to present themselves.
Dr. Phillips had grimaced. Margaret Scott was not going to like that. Perhaps if he could identify where she might have caught it he could ascertain what she had. Was there a recent outbreak of something in the area? He shook his head. He wasn’t aware of anything.
Margaret Scott was often hobnobbing with the cream of society, with explorers and travelers and other high achievers. She had never caught anything from them before. So where had she gotten this virus?
