Planet of the Dead (Book 2): War For The Planet of The Dead

by Flowers, Thomas S.

  "Did you find what you were looking for?" Karen asked, not waiting for whatever Polk had planned to say. Her tone was unemotional, uninterested. Her inquiry was nothing more than an actress playing a part.

  Polk exhaled. They'd had similar arguments, in the first few weeks of the outbreak or whatever was going on that turned infected people into walking, decaying nasty things that consumed any living creature in front of it.

  What was the point? Karen had said then. Jonny was dead, there was no bringing him back.

  "I just want answers," Polk said, feeling like this was a bit rehearsed.

  "What answers?" Karen breathed. She was sitting at her vanity, though it had been at least a week since she last brushed her hair or attempted some semblance of a bath.

  "Why my best friend is dead. Why some asshole let it happen," Polk growled. She felt tired. It had been a very long day in terms of the limited number of calories they had restricted themselves to, or Polk had restricted them to. Survival meant being smart. And trips to the store were dangerous and so they were seldom made. The episode with the Chevy and those drunk assholes was a prime example of the dangers outside the house.

  Karen glanced at her. "Why? Does it really even matter anymore?" She stood and started for the door.

  Polk looked at her dirty boots. Too tired to argue, but worried for Karen even more. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry Jonny's gone. I'm sorry--I can't stop. I need to know, I need to do something..."

  Karen reached for the door, "Do whatever you think is best," and with that she shut it.

  Starting at the closed door, Karen huffed, bit her lip, and turned away. Resting her AR15 against the wall by the stairs, she went down into the foyer. Stopping at the front door, she tested the boards and took a peek out the peephole. More of those nasties were out there, walking past the house across the lawn, no doubt drawn by the gunshots from before and the horn of that damn Chevy.

  Satisfied the dead weren't interested in 1017, Polk went into the kitchen and started for the coffee pot. The one blessed thing they had plenty in stock, thanks mostly to the neighbor across the street, some man she had never formally met who was in his late forties with long stringy hair. He wore a lot of gold jewelry and seemed to favor jean cutoff shorts. She'd gone looting, noticing him one day aimlessly pushing a mower in their lawn. Inside, they had a case of various coffee cans.

  The red light was still on the coffee maker, which meant Karen must have made a pot. The pot itself was full which also meant she forgot about it. Polk poured herself a cup and palmed one of the Camels she'd helped herself to at the Shell. Using one of the lit candles, she puffed and blew smoke. She sat on one of the stools, the very same one Jonny had sat at eating breakfast the day he died.

  "Fuck!" Polk hissed through smoke.

  "Why am I obsessing over this? He's dead; I'm not."

  She took a sip of coffee.

  "For that very reason. I'm alive; he's not. And that's not right."

  She puffed on her cigarette.

  "But Karen--she's getting worse. Distant. Cold. Disinterested."

  She took another sip.

  "Yeah. And I'm a picture of perfect fucking health, talking to myself in the dark." Polk laughed. With her Camel pinched between her teeth, she exhaled smoke and reached to unlatch the prosthetic from her shoulder. Sighing with relief from the pressure and the coolness on her stump, she set the makeshift spike on the counter. Outside, she could hear a few of those nasties moaning, thumping themselves against the brick and windows. She would need to go take care of them before they drew a crowd. But for now, she rested and enjoyed her cup of coffee and cigarette.

  Specialist Romero

  Baghdad, Iraq

  One hundred meters from their convoy, bodies exploded in a mist of muddy crimson and yellowish brown. Limbs, torsos, heads shredded from the bone. Fleshy muck plodded down on the streets and vehicles that blocked the road. Remnants of civilians, men, women and children--long dead before the 50-cal gave them a final repose. Somehow still alive. The stink of sulfur overpowered the stench of rotting meat. The thundering went on and on. The dark steel barrel of Romero's 50-cal glowed red. And still he kept his thumbs on the butterfly-looking trigger. Casings spewed from the ejector assembly, piling along the turret, and falling into the sand painted Humvee.

  "Let's roll!" Staff Sergeant Quinata yelled, hammering a closed gloved fist on the radio mount, legs bouncing in his seat. "Come on, Billings--fucking plow through these motherfuckers, I don't give a shit."

  Billings, a short-cut blonde, gripped the steering wheel and roared the Humvee's V8 turbo diesel engine, punching the up-armored truck down the street. She gritted her teeth, jarring as they collided with orange and white sedans with Arabic writing that were blocking what was affectionately referred to as Mosul Road.

  Romero shifted his turret sideways to see if the others made it through. Glancing up, he squeezed on his 50-gal, firing down the alleys and roads that joined to the main road as they drove by. Hundreds. Thousands of the living dead--whatever they were, fucked up and rotting and refusing to go down outside of a direct headshot or being ripped to shreds by high caliber rounds.

  He could hear the guns from the other trucks thumping, a near constant drone against the siege of rotting corpses that just wouldn't stop coming.

  What remained of Bab al-Baghdad Gate loom ahead of them.

  Romero spun the turret back around.

  He pushed down on the butterfly trigger.

  50-cal rounds peppered the ancient sand wall, giving the final ruination what decades of near constant war hadn't already ruined. Chunks of brick and stone crumbled to the bushes below.

  "What the fuck are you doing?" Quinata shouted above the pounding of the machine gun. "Save your ammo!"

  Romero left off. "Roger that, Sergeant."

  Quinata leaned over, messing with the radio. He clicked the mike, "Seven-Delta, this is Seven-Alpha, over."

  Static.

  "Seven-Delta, this is Seven-Alpha, over?"

  More static and broken voices.

  "Romero is Delta still back there?" he called up.

  Turning around, Romero stood on the tips of his boots to see over the armored paneling of the turret. "Shit!" he yelled.

  "What was that?"

  "Delta is stopped, Sergeant."

  "Seven-Delta, this is Seven-Alpha, why the fuck did you stop, over?" Quinata called over the radio.

  More static mixed with broken screams.

  "Sergeant, they're crawling over the top--shit they're crawling through the turret!" Romero yelled.

  "Seven-Delta?"

  Nothing.

  "Should I stop?" Billings asked, glancing over at Quinata, slowing down.

  Quinata seemed to be thinking.

  "Sergeant?"

  "Are they moving at all?"

  Romero squinted against the afternoon sun. "No, Sergeant--all I can see is...damn, those dead fucks are all inside Johnson's Humvee."

  "You want to turn around?" Billings asked again.

  "No."

  "Sergeant?"

  "Keep going."

  "Roger."

  "Seven-Charley, this is Seven-Alpha, over."

  "Go ahead, Alpha."

  "You've got rear, Charley."

  "Yeah, I figured--Johnson's team, I can't believe they're--God help us, we've got rear, over."

  Romero watched as the other Humvees closed in ranks a little tighter. Leaving less room for bodies to stumble out in front of them. And the ones that did were sucked under the large treaded wheels. Balad was only an hour north, but he wondered if they could make it, they hardly made it out of the heart of Baghdad. Hell, they hardly made it out of Camp Victory. Most of the checkpoints had been overrun with those...things. There would be more villages along the way. And they were already one team down. Sergeant Johnson, Jackson, and Garcia--dead or worse, chow for those miserable fucking ghouls.

  How did this happen?

  At first, Rom
ero thought it had something to do with chemical warfare. Maybe Al-Qaeda got hold of some nasty canisters and lobbed them over the barbwire. Like that history story about them white Americans giving the Indians pox-infected blankets at the Siege of Fort Pitt. Instead, here the ragheads tossed bodies. Kind of a messed-up way to go about an attack, yet not outside the field of reasonability--these assholes sent mothers strapped with bombs, strolling into checkpoints. But these bodies weren't just dead, they were the living fucking dead. No one knew what to do. Especially when their own started dying and coming back. And that nasty sickness spread like wildfire.

  When the outbreak penetrated his own Company--most of the 89th Military Police Brigade was spread out across Iraq. Of the platoons that were on base, as far as Romero knew, only his squad got out alive.

  Maybe there were others.

  If there were, no one was answering the radio.

  Several Blackhawks roared overhead, machine guns rattling off in spurts, showering the outskirts of Baghdad in 7.62 mm rounds. Romero watched as they flew off to the east of the city. Where were they heading? Picking up some top-wig officer or important politician, getting them out of the Green Zone? Good luck to them. The Green Zone, as far as he'd heard over the chatter on the radio, was a hotbed of activity.

  Totally fubar.

  His squad's situation didn't fair that much better.

  It wasn't just the walking corpses they had to worry about, but also the typical bullshit. He'd waved off several cars, families mostly, all trying to get away from the city. The ones that didn't move out of the convoys path, Billings rammed out of the way. On a few of those, Romero heard one of the other gunners blowing some steam with small arms fire. It was most likely Pedro Solis, that guy was a firecracker. For the best, really. The sickness wasn't isolated to just the city, this shit was everywhere. The safest place was away. With Camp Victory turning into a shit show, the next best option was Balad Air Base. Assuming of course, they weren't all dead too.

  "Double Duece, this is Griffin Seven-Alpha, over." Quinata started in on the radio again, playing around with the digital frequencies. Static fizzled through the headset.

  "Double Duece, this is Griffin Seven-Alpha, over."

  Still nothing.

  "Maybe we're still too far out?" Romero suggested.

  "Yeah. Maybe," Quinata said. "What do you see up there?"

  "The world's largest parking lot."

  "Quit fucking bullshitting."

  "Roger, Sergeant. That gas station near Route Pluto is coming up, looks like they're full--HOLY SHIT!" Romero yelped, flinching against the heat wave.

  Ballooning into the sky, giant red and orange licking tongues of flame. Several cars, all the people surrounding the station, were swallowed in the blast. Shards of twisted metal rained down near them.

  "Slow down," Quinata ordered.

  Billings let off the accelerator.

  Women in hijabs and abaayas ran screaming into the ground around the road. Burning flames eating away fabric and flesh. Men in what used to be western-style clothing, urbanized pants and shirts rolled around, struggling to rid themselves of the inferno. Children, skin crusted with dark soot, bubbling puss between open cracks.

  They passed slowly without stopping.

  And as they continued, Romero couldn't get the sounds of the dying out of his head.

  ***

  "Double Deuce, this is Griffin Seven-Alpha, over."

  Crackling voices sputtered over the com.

  "Double Deuce, this is Griffin Seven-Alpha, over." Quinata held the handheld close to his ear, his grip tight and shaky.

  They had passed Taji forty minutes ago, and just crossed over Forat where an outdoor mall sat lifeless, but night was falling, and no one wanted to be outside the wire after dark.

  Over the radio, still the same crackling voices.

  "Double Deuce, Balad Air Base, this is Griffin--" Quinata stopped.

  Romero could see why.

  Even a mile out, they could see the glowing lights of Balad.

  Bright burning flames and tracer rounds zipped across the darkening sky, followed by the unmistakable sounds of gunfire rattling. Shouts and screams intermixed. And far off, as far as the fading sun would let them see, dozens of C-17s and Boeings were taking off the ground amongst the blaze.

  Slipping off his goggles, Romero patted his pocket for a smoke.

  It really was everywhere--whatever this outbreak was.

  Operation Get-the-fuck-out-of-the-sandbox was fucked.

  "Seven-Alpha, Seven-Bravo, over," came Sergeant Martin's voice over the radio.

  Quinata hesitated, and then more out of instinct answered.

  "Go ahead Seven-Bravo."

  "What do you want to do, over?"

  Romero exhaled smoke from his cigarette, gazing out at the base as they crept along the Tigris River. The diesel engines rumbling.

  "Seven-Alpha, did you copy, over?"

  "Seven-Alpha?"

  "Seven-Alpha, this is Charley, com check, over."

  Romero blew smoke out his nose, glancing down into the Humvee from the turret. He nudged Quinata with his boot. "Sergeant, you okay?"

  Sergeant Quinata looked up at him, his expression hidden mostly by his Kevlar helmet and black Oakley ballistic glasses.

  "How much ammo you got?" he asked.

  Romero frowned, checking his clips. "Four 5.56 mm magazines, two 9mm clips, and one box of 50-cal ammo," he reported.

  Quinata shook his head, tapping the handheld against his helmet. "Just one box of 50-cal rounds?" he whispered.

  "Seven-Charley, this is Seven-Alpha, ammo check, over."

  Silence for a moment, and then "Roger that, Seven-Alpha, we're green. Over."

  "Seven-Charly, roger--take point, over."

  Silence.

  "Did you copy, over?"

  Nothing.

  "Seven-Charley, this is--oh fuck this. Fulp, we're going to punch through the main gate, doesn't look like anyone's alive there anyhow. We're low on ammo. I need you to take lead, got that?"

  Silence still, and then, "Why? What's the point? All the rides outta here look like they're gone, Sergeant."

  Quinata took off his ballistic glasses, setting them on the radio mount. Unsnapping his Kevlar helmet, he pulled it off and looked inside the inner webbing at a picture of his wife and two girls back home. Looking at them, he said, "I don't even know if they're alive--if this outbreak is worldwide or contained in-country..."

  Romero took a long drag, thinking about his own loved ones back home, a girlfriend, his parents, his dog Coco. He exhaled and said, "We have to try, don't we?"

  Quinata glanced up at him through the turret and then he pressed the radio handset, "We don't know if that was all the birds. There could be other rides--but we won't know unless we get there, roger?"

  Crackling.

  "Fulp? Martin?"

  "Roger, Sergeant--let's see about getting us a ride home," came Sergeant Fulp.

  A moment later, Charley pulled around and took lead. Billings gunned the diesel and pulled behind them with Bravo in the rear. Romero watched as Solis thundered on the 50-cal, shredding the staggering corpses that blocked the way, too dead or too stupid to figure out how to maneuver around the gate.

  Within seconds, they were past what remained of the main checkpoint. Romero flicked away his cigarette, trying not to look at the carcasses of the security detail, those shredded along with the undead by Solis's 50-cal, tangled in barbed wire, stomachs opened. Some had been turned, moaning and reaching out with frantic famished hands, ACUs ripped and bloodied. Eyes vacant. And mostly preoccupied, consuming the soupy remains and chucks of raw flesh. Uncaring; unaware that what they were doing was wrong.

  "These fucking things," Romero hissed, aiming his M4 rifles and squeezing off a round. The bullet impacted the head of one of the dead soldiers munching on a severed uniformed arm.

  "Save your ammo," Staff Sergeant Quinata yelled.

  Romero spit--not sorry f
or ending the dead thing's life.

  A mile into the camp, they passed trailer park after trailer park, each sectioned off with tall concrete barriers designed to thwart mortal impacts from turning the four-man barrack rooms into swiss cheese. Doors were ajar. Gear abandoned. Trash cans toppled over in the gravel. Those still around sauntered as if wounded or drunk, herding together towards what looked like a chow hall.

  Realizing what was happening, Romero ducked down and fished his last remaining box of 50-cal rounds. He popped the top and fed the belt into the receiver. Slapping down the lid, he pulled back on the slide handle--locked and loaded.

  He aimed, leaning back, ready to eviscerate the hording dead charging toward the chow hall. Who was inside? He didn't know. He prayed they would keep low--whoever survived inside.

  Poising his thumbs over the butterfly shaped trigger--he stopped.

  Staff Sergeant Quinata tapped his leg.

  Romero glanced down, confused.

  "Save your ammo, Romero," the staff sergeant ordered.

  "But Sergeant?"

  Quinata glanced at the chow hall and the dead that began falling against the large tent, tripping over the sandbag covered cords, some stumbling towards the wood door entrance.

  "They'll be fine--whoever is in there," he said without looking back up at Romero.

  "We should help!"

  "We need to help ourselves, Specialist."

  "Yeah. Roger, that," Romero whispered, leaning back in the turret as they continued farther into camp. Gazing out at the once near immaculate campus now turned to shit, he couldn't help but shake his head. He'd only been to Balad a few times. On his first deployment, the base didn't look much different than it did now. But with each passing year, the Air Force poured in some of their budget to fix the place up. Adding PXs and fast food restaurants in reconditioned trailers. There was even a Burger King. Sales reps sold Harley Davidson's with all the other kiosks where soldiers returning home could stop by their nearest dealership and drive out with a brand new Fatboy. Locals worked temporary jobs cleaning the dust covered roads and sucking turds out of porta-johns. Some of those same workers now limped around, splattered in gore and groaning in a deadpan whisper.