No.
He knew wrangling would not work.
There were three of them and one of him.
It would be hard enough guiding himself, but three others? Impossible. And besides, he was too tired for cat and mouse games. He hadn't eaten in days. What remained of the rations was scarce. Water was even worse. He needed a better plan. Something to put them out of commission permanently so that he could focus on the greater objective.
Floating by him just then, a hexagon cut wrench, about a foot in length, a cubed key protruding several inches out from the end. Its primary function was for opening switchboard panels. But for his current needs, it would suffice.
Vladimir snatched the wrench.
He reached for the locking mechanism and opened the module door.
Pete, Higgins, and Popov struggled to turn as they floated randomly, bumping into each other, or against the silenced communication devices.
Breathing deep and exhaling, Vladimir measured the room, all the possible angles and outcomes of attack. The one thing he knew he didn't want was to get bit. Blood seemed to be the way this disease was transmitted--but if that was the case, how did Pete turn into one of these things, starting the entire chain of events?
Questions for another time, he chided himself.
Spotting an opening, Vladimir kicked the side of the module and floated towards Higgins. She fought to turn in the air, hungry moans escaping her dry cracked lips. Cocking his shoulder back, he brought the wrench down as hard as he could against the side of her temple. He could feel a loud crack vibrate up the handle of the wrench.
Higgins spasmed and then floated motionlessly. Black gel leaked from the new wound, weightless and pooling into large floating droplets.
"The brain, that must be it," Vladimir told himself.
Across from him, his old comrade Popov managed to kick one of the mounted computers, launching himself across the module.
Vladimir brought the wrench up.
Popov gnashed at him, reaching with hooked and desperate fingers.
He swung hard.
The cube extension of the wrench punctured the top of his friend's skull. Similar black gel oozed out and floating, pooling together in the module. Popov floated along with the mess, unaware, unmoving.
Pete was the last.
Fitting, Vladimir thought, considering the entire ordeal started with him, somehow. Bringing the wrench to bear, he pushed the questions from his mind. Breathing deep and exhaling slow.
Pete thrashed and growled and spit, wanting with everything he had to get to Vladimir, to bite him, consume his flesh.
Cocking back on the wrench, as if he was up to bat at a baseball game, Vladimir pushed off the module wall and sailed across toward Pete, swinging hard. Like Popov, he felt the vibration shuddering the wrench.
Pete spun around.
No longer thrashing.
No longer biting at the empty space around him.
Exhaling, letting his shoulders relax, Vladimir let the wrench float away. Just in case, he pushed the remains of his crew back out into the Soyuz MS-09 module. Returning, he strapped himself into one of the pilot chairs and turned on the radio relay in the command module. Someone was out there--someone who could help him get home while there was still a home to get back to.
Collins
Shoreacres,
Texas.
He didn't like the idea of coming here. And he certainly didn't want to stay. This woman was a stranger. And they had escaped from so much--gone too far to get stuck here. Hell, they were both AWOL. Too many unknowns. Now there was another stranger amongst them, this Indian doctor who claimed he had no one he'd rather be with. That he wanted to focus on his work, said work involving readings and data and what not from Polk's new arm. Sure, his sister had just died, but everybody has got somebody. She couldn't had been all he had for family.
And there was also the added danger of being so close to a large metropolis. He recalled reading a census back in 2016, something about 2.3 million people lived in Houston. Imagine, he thought, how many of those were infected? And Jelks, like a damn puppy dog. Head over heels for a girl who's not even into him, not in that way. She did have a badass arm--sure, better than the other one, no doubt about that, the spike thing she had was messed up and gave him the creeps, but this new one...like some cybernetic tech from that guy in that movie Logan or that chick in the new Mad Max flick. Maybe having her on the team wouldn't be so bad--that arm; she could come in handy, considering the damage she'd done to the wall in her sister's room, the living dead wouldn't stand a chance.
"What do you think, Chris?" Jelks was asking. "This is a safe a place as any. Let's wait it out a few days, keep an ear on the news."
They sat together at a table in the downstairs living room. Smoke hung in a thick haze above them, lit by the dim yellow glow of several candles. Everyone but Doctor Ahuja had a cigarette. At the center of the table, a map of Texas and a map of the United States lay unfolded. With the power out, using Google Maps was not an option. They were lucky enough to have found these in what used to be Jonny's junk closet. A half empty bottle of Jack Daniels sat on the state of Florida and Polk gazed at it uninterestedly, her thoughts obviously muddied by the booze and the recent death of her friend.
"What ever happened to getting a boat and finding ourselves an island?" Collins asked, taking a long drag and exhaling.
Jelks shrugged. "I'm still fine with that, so long as we can find someone who can sail a boat. But in the meantime, we can take out time, plan it out right."
"Plenty of motorboats around this area," Collins quipped, his voice low.
"And what happens when we run out of fuel?" Jelks asked.
Collins dropped his cigarette into an empty soda can. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. "We wouldn't need much, enough to take off and circle around Galveston. There has to someplace out there that's safe."
Doctor Ahuja coughed. He finished off the last sip of his glass of whiskey.
"Got something to say?" Collins was growing tired of all these delays. The longer they procrastinated, the more risk they took becoming one of the infected. How the disease started was unknown--and he didn't care, how it spread was obvious enough for him. And there were worse things than the turned. When forced into a life or death situation where certainty and comfort is no longer offered in a drive thru or in the latest designer jeans, people can get nasty all on their own. "Sticking around here ain't smart," he added.
The doctor exhaled loudly, tired or bored, no one could tell. "I'm just saying, I don't see why the big urgency. Whatever is going on, this outbreak will eventually be contained. I have no doubt the government has a contingency plan for just this sort of thing."
Collins nearly spit, choking on the smoke.
Ahuja looked at him, clearly annoyed. "The notion of a Federal Civil Defense has been around since the beginning of the Nation, or thereabouts. FEMA's expertise is in more than hurricanes or tornados. Their roots started with how to handle situations that are, shall we say, apocalyptic in nature. As I said earlier, if staying here is not an option we could always go to Fort Hood."
Collins lit another cigarette and blew smoke across the table. "You want to head north to Hood, by all means, don't let us stop you. But don't you think for one second the government has any clue what it's doing. You saw the same broadcast we did. What happened in Washington DC today was just the start."
The doctor waved the smoke away from his face. He coughed softly. "How do we even know that was real? That could have been someone's poor film school attempt at a joke."
"A joke? The joke, doctor, is denying things have gotten too bad to stop." Collins took the bottle and refilled his coffee mug with liquor. He took a sip and grimaced. "Now I pray that isn't the case--but until we know, I say we find somewhere safe to wait out the storm. And the only safe place is one free of the living dead."
Doctor Ahuja frowned, looking into the palms of his hands. He said n
othing more on the subject of escape. Instead, he glanced at Polk and said, "All the same, I'd like to stick around. Your arm is unique. I'd like to collect as much data as possible--see how it performs in the field--see how you adapt as well. Perhaps, assuming the world doesn't in fact go to shit, I could replicate the process. I imagine when this is all over, there will be a great many people in need of my services."
Polk didn't look at him. She swallowed half a cup of whiskey and poured herself a fifth. "You want your prosthetic back when this is all said and done, doc?"
Ahuja almost laughed. "Not at all--I don't even think that is possible."
At this, she looked at him. "What do you mean?"
Ahuja cocked his head, confused. "The synergy was permanent; didn't I mention this before? The Nano counterparts cannot be recalled."
Polk looked at her bionic arm, leaning slightly in her chair. "No. You didn't. Are you telling me this thing won't come off?"
The doctor shook his head. "No, nothing short of surgery."
She killed her cup. "Great."
Silence crept between them all.
Collins finished his smoke. "So?"
Jelks started to say something when an alarm started blaring from outside in great wooing sounds, twenty times worse than a car alarm. Over and over. "What the hell is that?" he shouted above the racket, covering his ears.
Standing, Collins went to the window and peered out between the blankets and boards, but all he could see was darkness. Not even the street lamps were on.
"Chemical alarm," Polk said, "they normally go off around noon--testing the system. But the chemical plants aren't over here, they're on the other side of 146."
"And it's not noon," said Jelks. "Is there an alarm here in town?"
Polk shrugged. "I have no idea. I've never heard it go off before, not this loud at least."
They waited for a while, wondering if it would ever stop. The constant blaring of the alarm seemed to go on forever.
Wooooop.
Wooooop.
Wooooop.
"We might want to think about shutting that damn thing off," Collins said, still trying to look through the boards. "Or get the hell outta Dodge while we still can."
"It'll turn off eventually, right?" Jelks said, standing now, fidgety with the constant thunderous droning. They all were, even Doctor Ahuja looked uncomfortable with the sound. "And hopefully soon," he added.
"And what if it doesn't? That sound--" Collins started.
"...will draw the dead. They'll follow the sound, any of those nasties within at least several miles," Polk finished, she stood, teetering a little and then finding her balance.
"Sounds like its coming from behind the house," Collins reported, turning his head sideways, placing the location of the blaring, tracing the rattling echo.
Jelks picked up his rifle from against the wall in the kitchen. "Let's shut it down before it draws any more than it already has," he said, checking the magazine and chambering a 5.56 mm round.
Collins mirrored his movements.
Polk didn't bother with the AR15, it was still upstairs with Karen's body. But she checked her sidearm, Jonny's pistol.
"Doc, you stay put, okay?" Jelks said as he made his way to the back door.
Doctor Ahuja was already standing. "If it's all the same with you, I'd like to come--research, you understand?"
Jelks looked to Polk.
Polk shrugged, shouldering a baseball bat she'd pulled out of Jonny's junk closet.
"We can't protect you out there. Our priority right now is shutting down the siren." Jelks moved out of the way. Polk, using her bionic arm, gripped the boards and plucked them easily from the door.
The doctor seemed pleased with the show of strength. "Understood," he whispered.
They started outside, Polk taking lead. Jelks behind her.
Collins stopped at the door. "I want you to know, Doc, that if my arm ever gets injured, I want one of those!" And then he went out with the others.
The doctor shut the door and whatever faint light the glow of the candles offered was snuffed out. The moon high above shined down, casting everything in tall shadows. The blaring siren was never ceasing. Over and over.
Wooooop.
Wooooop.
Wooooop.
Polk lead them quickly through the back yard. With each foot, the sound seemed to get louder and louder. At the fence, they climbed over. Hunched in the dark, scanning, shapes moved ahead of them. And past the neighbor's house, on a telephone pole, through bullhorns the constant blaring was echoing the loudest.
"That must be it," Jelks shouted, gesturing across the way.
"Can you shoot it out from here?" Collins yelled.
Jelks shook his head. "Too dark. We need to get closer."
Polk heard them and guided the squad to the side of the neighbor's house. One of the undead was there, waiting almost. She saw him--in the dark it was hard to tell how horrid it looked, the smell was horrible enough. She pivoted and swung the bat.
Collins flinched, the crack of the bat crushing the dead man's skull sent a chill down his spine. That is a woman you do not want to fuck with, he thought.
Closer now, Jelks aimed his M4, extending the butt stock. His breathing evened out and, on an exhale, he squeezed the trigger. The gunshot vibrated the night. And a second later, electric sparks shot from the bullhorn box and the deafening siren ceased.
"Nice shot, Will," Collins said, slapping Jelks on the back.
"Thanks," he said, "I was--"
"Quiet!" Doctor Ahuja snapped. "Listen!" he whispered hotly.
They stayed motionless and silent. Each listening to the wind, and what was carried on it. A muffling droning of some sort. Like a deep cry. Not one or two or three, but thousands.
"What the hell is that?" Polk asked.
"Fuck this sneaking around bullshit, let me take a look." Without hesitating, Collins, keeping low, trotted out toward the road in front of the neighbor's dormant house. He stopped, turned right and nearly fell to his knees. "Shit!" he hissed between his teeth.
Without further debate, they each joined Collins out on the side of Shoreacres Boulevard. They stood next to him, mouth ajar. Down the road, coming through the entrance of Shoreacres, a sea of dark shapes--more than they could count, thousands of moaning voices, shambling in quick procession, blotting out the horizon.
"Anyone up for leaving now?" Collins whispered, not intending the sarcasm in his tone.
"Let's head back, grab as many supplies as we can, and get the fuck out of here," Jelks ordered.
No one protested.
They turned to leave and stopped.
Blocking the way was another group of undead, not nearly as large as the herd heading their way from the main road, but enough to give pause. More and more coming from every angle.
Glancing around, backing up, Polk gripped the bat, and without being able to help herself, like when you see something blue and mention the color, she uttered, "We're surrounded!"
Christy Stokes
Miami,
Florida.
In the northern edges of Miami, Wynwood is one of the city's most happening districts. Wynwood Walls is a must-see outdoor museum showcasing large-scale works by some of the world's best-known street artists. The surrounding streets have converted warehouses housing craft breweries, such as Boxelder Craft Beer Market, Concrete Beach Brewery, KUSH, and of course the Wynwood Brewing Company. Not to mention funky art galleries. Plenty of places for kids to snap selfies.
Every night, hip young crowds frequent the neighborhood's chic clothing boutiques, stylish bistros, and late-night bars. Wynwood is; was the place to be. But at the moment, Christy Stokes didn't give a rat's ass about any of that. All she wanted was her fix. When she was a teen, beer and whiskey were what cured all that ailed. When she dropped out of college in her twenties, it was about rolling with ecstasy, X, happy pills, whatever the kids called it. And then there was Colombian nose candy, a popular drug of
choice in the city, but cocaine got to be too expensive, and when her folks cut her out of their lives, she gravitated to meth. After several arrests for prostitution and possession, somehow surviving into her early thirties, living out on the street, teeth yellowed and falling out, Smack was all she cared about.
On any normal night, she'd wait for the bars to close out in Wynwood. Find someone too drunk to care, give him a handjob, blow him, whatever it took to earn some green, and then she'd go out and find Vinnie. And she needed Vinnie because Vinnie had the best shit she'd ever shot up her abscess and track scarred white trash arms.
"Where you at little girl!" Vinnie shouted, his voice vibrated with the gangster slang he worked so hard at, so as to conceal his Tallahassee accent.
"Come on, man--too many of them out here," T-Money whined. He stood looking around nervously, his tan Cuban-American skin glistening with sweat.
"Seriously, bro. This isn't safe. Can't you just let that bitch go?" Diamond called. She aimed her pistol with a trembling hand at a man down the street stumbling with wide arms toward them. The chains on her patched jean vest rattled. Her teeth chattered. Sweat dripped from her black fro.
A shotgun blast went off, followed by a wet thud as one of the living dead fell to the ground. Where its head used to be now only red, muddy pulp and chunks of bone.
Vinnie cocked back on the shotgun he was carrying. "No, I ain't letting that bitch go--she stole some good H, and I have a feeling this shit is about to get scarce, you feel me?"
Christy peeked out the vent in the port-a-john on Fifth Street. Next door, half the building was still under construction. Some new brewery no one would ever get to enjoy. Trembling, she touched the pooch in her tattered jean shirt pocket. Feeling marginally satisfied that at least she still had the heroin, if she could just escape unharmed, cook the shit in her spoon and shoot up with that needle that was precariously close to being unusable. She closed her eyes and tried to calm her breathing, imagining the tentative high that awaited her. She exhaled and regretted breathing at all. The john stunk of weeks-old feces.
Planet of the Dead (Book 2): War For The Planet of The Dead Page 12
