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

by Flowers, Thomas S.

Jelks watched the house.

  Collins watched the road.

  When they had both smoked down to the filter, Polk finally emerged from the house. She paused, glaring down at the cement walkway from the front door.

  "Everything okay?" Jelks called out to her. "Did you find that Taj guy?"

  Polk looked up and shook her head.

  Jelks nodded in confirmation. "Well, maybe he's--"

  Someone screamed nearby.

  Collins aimed his rifle in the general direction.

  Jelks and Polk both stared.

  A man was running out into his lawn from inside his house. Stumbling, twitchingly, was a woman. Both were dark skinned, if Jelks had to guess he would say both were Indian. The man tripped and rolled over on his back, still screaming, "No--please, someone help!"

  The dead woman growled and shuffled closer. She was dressed in a bathrobe, her flesh grey, and a purplish bite mark on her neck, oozing red froth on the cotton.

  "Please!" the fiftyish looking man howled again. He wore a tie that was loose around his neck. His button up was untucked, and his slacks looked scuffed as if he'd been in a fight.

  "I can't get a clear shot!" Collins barked from top the Jeep.

  The dead woman had fallen on top of the man, snarling, drooling on as she gnashed her teeth at him like some rabid animal.

  The man, her husband perhaps, kept her away, pushing her up, struggling to keep those glistening teeth from sinking into his flesh.

  "Help, please!" he yelped.

  Polk paused for only a moment, and then she ran to him.

  Jelks rushed around to the front of the Jeep, seeing if he could find an aim.

  With one hand, Polk pulled the dead woman off the man and flung her into the yard.

  Dazed for only a moment, the dead woman fought to get back to her feet like some drunken toddler learning how to walk. She hissed and moaned simultaneously. Glaring at Polk.

  Winding back, Polk lunged and impaled the woman with her spiked prosthetic.

  The dead thing gurgled, the metal pole sucked through her face, crushing her nose and cheek bones. It reached out, trying desperately to take hold of flesh.

  Polk struggled to detract her arm.

  A single gun report rang across the clear blue sky.

  The dead woman slumped backwards, sliding free from the spike, into the green grass now painted with speckles of red and blueish muck.

  Sobbing, the man struggled to stand.

  Polk offered him her hand.

  He took it, and with a grunt, stood eye to eye. "Thank you," he said, his accent only slightly, accentuating only most of the syllables he spoke. He looked down at the motionless corpse of the woman. "She was my sister, Aaradhya. I thought--when she got infected, I thought I could save her, but I'm no epidemiologist. The disease, whatever this outbreak is, it is very fast and efficient. She was bitten and succumbed no more than four hours." He stooped, kissing his hand and touching her forehead. He whispered something that sounded like a prayer. Standing next to Polk now, Jelks could not understand, and by the looks on Polk's face, he doubted she did either.

  The man stood again and offered his hand. "Doctor Reyansh Ahuja."

  Polk just looked at him.

  Jelks reached and took it. "William." He gestured at Polk, "This is Ashley."

  Polk glared at him sideways. "Polk will be fine." She offered her hand to the doctor.

  The man beamed at them both. He seemed light spirited, despite the loss of his sister. "Thank you again for coming to my aid. I will continue to pray for my sister--that her soul may find rest, but I have to admit, I was not ready to join her. So again, a thousand times, thank you."

  Jelks waved him off. "You would have done the same for us."

  Doctor Ahuja snickered. "Perhaps I would have tried and failed. I'm afraid my specialty is not in combat."

  Jelks grinned, "What is your specialty?"

  Doctor Ahuja gestured at Polk. "I'm a prosthetist, actually. What you have there is quite interesting, did you design it yourself?"

  Polk danced a bit on her feet, obviously uncomfortable with the attention on her injury. "Yes," she said quietly, "from parts of an old prosthetic when I first got out."

  Doctor Ahuja gazed at her knowingly. "I can assume some sort of service connected wound? An IED--yes, I can see the surgical positioning of your muscle and nerves."

  "Great." Polk looked away. "Take care, Doc." She turned for the Jeep.

  "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I can imagine your injury is not something you enjoy thinking about--even if you can't help but think about it, it's right there in front of you, every day, the loss of a limb is quite shattering, or so I've heard. But your amputation, Polk, it is perfect, yes--perfect!"

  Polk shook her head. "Perfect?" she scoffed.

  Sensing the tension, Jelks said, "Alright. Well, best of luck. It was good meeting you." He gestured for Polk to join him in the Jeep.

  Doctor Ahuja reached out, stepping forward to stop them. "Again, my apologies. I'm...not very good with talking with people. My sister always told me I was too blunt for most people's tastes. I'm just taken back is all. This is a very fortuitous meeting."

  "Fortuitous?"

  "Yes, I told you my specialty. My other field of study is closely related, bio-engineering. I've been working with the United States Department of Defense under the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency."

  Jelks turned and looked at him. "You worked for DARPA? Doing what, exactly?"

  The doctor gestured at Polk, "Designing advanced prosthesis for the United States military--I've spent the last six years developing prosthetics for soldiers with...shall we say severe trauma. I wanted to create something specifically for those who wanted to go back into service."

  Sighing, Jelks rested his hands on his hips. "What does that have to do with us?"

  Doctor Ahuja laughed happily. "Not with you; with her!"

  Polk stared at him, frowning, "What?"

  He clapped his hands excitedly. "I have a prototype--preliminary testing has shown great success, but of course nothing in the sense of proper field testing."

  Polk asked, "A prototype of what?"

  Doctor Ahuja answered, "An arm."

  Paul

  Winner,

  South Dakota

  From across the street on the roof of his failed mechanics business, Paul took aim with his wood camo-painted Remington 700 Long Range rifle. He adjusted slightly on the attached Leupold riflescope. He pulled back on the bolt action, chambering another .30-06 and steadied his breath. In his crosshairs, a portly woman in yoga pants and a fluffy plum sweater waddled, moaning and aimless as the others.

  Paul exhaled and squeezed the trigger.

  The gun report crackled across the dimming evening sky and through the scope the dead woman's head exploded in a mist of red.

  He lowered the rifle and watched the rest of the living dead herding together in the parking lot of the Winner Food Center. A few more traced the echoing gun shot across the street to his shop. Not that they would ever get in, he'd boarded up all the entrances, doors, windows, and exits. All that remained was the ladder that reached down from the roof into the shop itself.

  Plunging his hand into his pale red cooler, Paul fished out a can of Bud. He popped the tab and guzzled, spilling a few drops on his camo jacket. Beside the sun-bleached beer cooler, he had another cooler full of sandwiches and instant burritos and jerky and as many chips as he could manage when he'd looted the Wild West Gas station next door.

  Finishing off the can with a loud belch, he took aim with his rifle. This time he settled on someone he thought he recognized--a former pastor who told him months ago that cheating on his wife would condemn him to eternity in hell. Paul never had much faith, and he certainly didn't care much for folks telling him what to do, especially folks he always thought acted superior and patronizing when he goddamn knew most of them were doing the very same things they called everyone else out on.
r />   "Hello there, Pastor," Paul hissed through clenched teeth.

  The Pastor, seemingly lost and unaware, stumbled and shuffled with the other undead horde in the Food Center parking lot. He wore his usual black slacks and black button up. His tan skin looked paler by comparison. There was a gnarled purplish wound on his neck, swelled and infected-looking.

  "Fucking hypocrite," Paul exhaled and squeezed the trigger. He watched as the round blew out the back of the Pastor's head, dropping the dead man instantly.

  Paul fished for another beer. Popped the tab. And guzzled the crisp liquid, crushing the empty can when he was done.

  More of the living dead were stiffly walking towards his shop.

  Finishing off another beer, he leaned back in his lawn chair, glancing at the crate of ammo he'd lugged up to the roof earlier. He recalled the day's events. Waking to the sound of sirens blasting past his house out on West 1st Street. Washing away the crust of another hangover and finding his plump wife out in the living room glued to the TV. When he'd asked about breakfast, she kept on about the end of the world.

  "What the fuck are you talking about, woman?" he'd asked.

  "The news, Paul--they're saying there's been some sort of outbreak," she'd squeaked.

  And sure enough, she was right. Standing behind her watching the news, Paul learned in just five minutes that the President had been killed, some new asshole had been sworn in, an outbreak was spreading throughout the States that seemed to cause the dead to come back to life and attack the living, and now they were talking about using nukes on largely populated areas.

  "What are we going to do, Paul? They're saying we have to hand over our dead to local authorities, what does that even mean? Talking like the dead has come back to life or something wicked. Lord have mercy, it sure feels like this is the end of the world or something." She'd kept squawking and squawking.

  "Paul, what are we gonna do?"

  What are we gonna do?

  Right.

  And right then he'd decided.

  He turned around and marched back to his bedroom while his fat tub-of-lard missus kept to the tube. He pulled out his gun box and retrieved his black painted Smith & Wesson 9mm. He checked to make sure it was loaded and marched right back out into the living room.

  "What are we gonna do?" she had said again.

  It would be the last she would ever say.

  He aimed the barrel at the back of her head and pulled the trigger.

  She'd spasmed like a fish out of water for a moment or two, letting out an exhaled groan, before sliding out of her recliner and toppling on the floor. Blood pooling around her ballooned skull. He'd waited for a moment or two to see if she would come back to life--but according to some egghead on the TV, if you destroy the brain people won't come back.

  Paul could still recall the feeling vividly, despite the amount of booze he'd consumed. He stood there and let out a great sigh of relief, the biggest erection he'd ever had growing against his pajama leg. For the first time in a long time, not since he had that short-lived fling with a whore out on South Country Road, he was finally happy. If this was truly the end of the world, he was going to enjoy every moment. And if it wasn't, well--he'd tell the police his beloved wife had been infected and he had to give her mercy. They'd understand.

  Not that he'd have to explain anything.

  He didn't have no kids.

  And the police? Nobody ever come by to investigate the gunshot.

  Nobody came by at all.

  The entire town seemed to have lost their collective shit overnight, and throughout the remainder of the day had evacuated as quickly as possible. Talk of safety up north. Talk of hiding out west at Black Hills National Forest--going completely off grid and away from any possible fallout.

  Those who stayed in Winner died--all but for Paul.

  He was alone.

  Oh, so very alone.

  Diving into the beer cooler, Paul fished out another Bud. With his thumb readied to pop the tab, he glanced across the street.

  "Oh shit," he cooed, almost singing.

  He lifted his Remington and took aim, gazing through the riflescope at the biggest breasted woman he'd ever laid eyes on. She stood at about five foot five with blonde hair that looked matted and unwashed, falling over her purple faux fur coat. She was about the best-looking piece of ass he'd seen all week.

  One of the pros from South Country Road, he wagered, one he'd not yet seen, until today. Shame he couldn't have stumbled upon her when she was still alive and not--one of the infected.

  Paul let the scope drop, he frowned, his thinking flooded with beer and loneliness.

  Looking at her again through the scope, he bit his lip.

  I wonder how the infection spreads? Bites, bodily fluids--like most things that can cause your piss to burn. Them eggheads never said if this was a sexually transmitted sort of thing. If I wore a rubber...

  He thought to where he put his stash of Trojans and remembered. In the bottom drawer of his desk, underneath a stack of Fish & Wildlife Magazine.

  ...but she's dead--undead, whatever those things are. Isn't that necrophilia?

  Chugging his beer, Paul tossed it over the side of the roof, listening to it clank on the cement below. He looked through the scope again and said, "Fuck it."

  And then he began plotting how he was going to lure the big breasted dead woman into his shop without accidentally bringing in the others and without accidentally getting bit. And not only that, but how was he going to lure her in and control her enough to get a piece of ass? And if it all worked, wouldn't her pussy be--if she was in-fact the living dead--all cold and stiff and dry?

  Then he remembered. I own a maintenance shop, I've got plenty of lube laying around, but first things first. Paul looked around through his scope. How do I get her to come this way without drawing the whole damn herd?

  There were only a few of the dead walking slowly around her.

  He locked in a round and squeezed the trigger.

  A walking corpse, some man Paul thought might have been the bartender at that Mexican joint down the road called EL Tapatio, dropped following a mist of red bursting from his exploded head.

  He chambered another round with the bolt action and aimed at a woman, a much less attractive woman missing her left arm. Blood no longer dripped from the gnarled frayed stump, it looked pastier than anything else. Paul squeezed the trigger and she dropped.

  Again, and again, he chambered a round and took aim.

  Body after body fell to the ground around his prize.

  Soon the big breasted dead woman stood mostly alone.

  She turned, wobbling slightly, and started for his shop--most likely drawn from the sounds of gunshots. Paul gave a loud woot and took aim at two living corpses that were trailing a little way behind her, just to be sure.

  Laying down the rifle, he stood and went to the ledge.

  Her movements were stiff, but the closer she got, the better looking she seemed. Smiling, Paul ran to the ladder and climbed down into the second-floor balcony of the shop. He could see her, pressing herself against the door, knowing somehow other than the sound from the rifle that he was inside.

  "I'm coming, m'dear," Paul called, nearly taking the steps down to the first floor two at a time. He hadn't been this excited since he'd shot his good for nothing wife. Turning to his office, he double checked the bottom drawer. Finding the condoms, he set them on the desk. Taking off his camo jacket, he wondered how he could restrain her or how intercourse with a living dead woman could work.

  The rubber will take care of the bodily fluids, but if she scratches or bites me, that's game over. Shit--how am I...

  And then he remembered one of his girlfriends from school--a moment in time he reserved in his spank bank on lonely nights he couldn't find or afford whores and the misses wasn't putting out. This particular girlfriend had gotten drunk at a party. So drunk in fact Paul found little difficulty getting what he wanted that night. To keep her fr
om vomiting on him, he turned her around and took her from behind.

  Beaming even brighter, Paul searched around for what he could use to bind her. He pulled his desk chair around to the front. Walking out into the shop, he picked up a wad of towels, duct tape, some pipe from the spare parts bin, orange extension cord, a grease gun, and took them back into his office. He placed them on the desk and went to the front shop door. He could see her still there, pressing her dead face against the square glass.

  With a crowbar, he loosened the boards.

  Swallowing, holding his breath, Paul unlocked the locks and opened the door.

  Her hollow moans came first, and then the large breasted dead woman came shuffling in, gaining speed when she spotted him, almost growling.

  "Hey there, baby, come on in, easy now, easy," Paul cooed as he walked backwards, glancing over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't going to trip on anything.

  The dead woman reached out for him, stumbling over a shop vac.

  "Easy now."

  She moaned, sounding almost annoyed to work so hard for her food.

  "This way, just a little farther."

  Paul stepped into his office.

  She followed.

  He stopped at his desk and waited for the right moment.

  Closer.

  Closer.

  She lunged out for him.

  Sidestepping, Paul pivoted and shoved the dead woman into the chair. She nearly tumbled out of it, but he threw his weight into her and kept her steady. Quickly, he snatched the duct tape and bound her legs. He then bound her hands and then roped in the extension cord, tethering it across his desk to the tall filing cabinet he used for billing and invoices and secret stashes of porno mags.

  The dead woman thrashed, trying to move her head around to bite him. Up close, he could see where she had been infected. A bite mark on her thigh. It looked swollen and dark. The puss that had leaked out now crusted. Her skin was freezing and nearly blue. But at least she didn't smell as bad as he imagined a dead woman would smell.

  Feeling his excitement growing, Paul squeezed grease from the gun into the palm of his hand. Pulling up on the dead woman's short skirt, he pressed two fingers into her pale cold pussy.