Forcing my breathing to remain slow and steady, I drag myself toward the closest wall, my nerves singing a song of agony every inch of the way. When I finally make it to the wall, I manage to prop my rifle against it and lever my body to a standing position.
Sliding carefully along the wall, I reach the front door. Looking outside, I confirm that the street is still clear. I rub the sweat out of my eyes and look again.
The Black Hawk will return for us when we don’t check in after an hour, but the only way they’ll find me is if I am in plain sight. There is no way in hell the captain would authorize another rescue mission—there aren’t enough of us left in Delta Company to swing that. But they’ll do a fly-over.
The summer air is hot and muggy, even though the sun is already dipping toward the western horizon. As I scan the street, I hear something out there. It’s that low, haunted moaning for which stiffs are famous.
We’d cleared this area out almost a week ago. We rode through with bullhorns and told everyone where the Safe Zone was. We had a couple of school busses and took anyone who wanted to hop aboard, but it’s not like we had the resources to do a house-to-house search for anyone who elected to stick things out in their homes. So, chances were, there had been plenty more than the people in the apartment where my team got slaughtered who’d decided to hide their infected family members. While I was glad to be out of that particular hellhole, I needed to find a place to hide until the chopper came.
I eye an alleyway across the street situated between a couple of boutiques. There are some overflowing trash cans near the back, but otherwise it’s clear. I start dragging my gimp-ass toward it, and brush my hand across the sidearm at my hip. Since I’m using my rifle as a crutch, I’ll need another weapon at the ready if any of those rancid meat-bags show themselves.
By the time I complete the arduous journey to the trash cans, I am so weak I collapse on top of them, pulling them down as I fall to the ground. It makes quite a racket, but at this point, I no longer care.
I prop myself up against the back wall behind the two cans and wallow in my newfound kingdom of filth as I try to catch my breath. I can’t ignore the pulsating agony of my broken leg anymore, but I’m not sure there’s much I can do about it. I try to look on the bright side: at least the bone hasn’t punctured the skin, which means I’m probably not gonna bleed out.
I sift through the piles of refuse surrounding me and find an old sheet that smells like melon rinds and baby vomit. Ignoring the stench, I wrap it around my body. The rank smell of the trash should cover my B.O., which tends to bring the DICs running.
My plan is simple: when the Black Hawk arrives, I’ll fire off a couple of rounds, and they’ll figure out where I am and come get me.
I drift in and out of a fitful sleep as the sounds of moaning and howling increase on the street. I wake in a panic several times, worried I’d missed the Black Hawk. I’m not sure whether what I’m seeing now is real or a creation of my pain-drenched nightmares.
A sizeable group of rotting figures stand near the entrance of the alley. I can’t see much from my vantage point, just a narrow strip of the apartment complex across the street, a car or two parked on the road, and the shifting shadows of bodies wandering past the alley.
I track them with my M16, letting the muzzle peek out from beneath the ratty sheet, but none of the DICs take any interest in the alley. My blood chills at the sound of the occasional scream, but most of the noises I hear come from the throats of stinking corpses.
Over the next few hours, I fight to remain awake, to watch the parade of bodies wandering past my field of vision. I drift off several times though; the pain of my broken leg or simple exhaustion overwhelming me. Even in my hazy state, I realize the ghouls are on the move, and they are all headed in the same direction. The only word I can think of to describe it is migration. They are moving out from the city to the east, toward the Safe Zone.
Finally, I realize that the Black Hawk isn’t coming back for me. They don’t run missions in areas that are overrun with stiffs. I’m going to die here, alone in this god-forsaken alley.
I slip my pistol into my mouth a couple of times during the night. I even wrap my lips around the muzzle and brush my fingers against the trigger, but I’m not really ready to check out. The metallic taste is oddly comforting. It reminds me that, despite everything, I still have a say over what happens to me. I still have a choice, and none of those damn rotters can say a thing about it.
Each time I let the gun drop to my side, I begin to pray. Not to God, who seems far too removed from this hell, but to Elgin, Sarge, and Pat, against whom I’d sinned. I ask them to forgive me for abandoning them. All that stuff about not leaving a man behind is apparently bullshit when you freeze up and watch your friends getting torn to pieces. I’d failed them.
I sleep for a few hours in a delirious, feverish state. I keep dreaming that the undead are calling to me. Their sad wailing turns into words I can understand. My parents are out there. So are my sister and my best friend, Jake Hughes. They ask me to join them, to sacrifice myself so I can become one of them. The pain will be quick, and then all I’ll have to worry about is the hunger.
At least I think it’s a dream.
I wake at dawn. The sun splashes across the lip of the alley and creeps to where I sit, drenching me and the filth that surrounds me. Almost immediately, I realize something is different.
They’re gone.
I sit and wait, the fever dreams of the night before fading in my memory as the mouth of the alley remains empty of befouled flesh. I cackle like some lunatic as tears roll down my face. I survived the night, though my leg has grown numb. I know that unless I scratch and crawl my way out of the alley, I will die where I sit. I won’t turn into one of those things; I’ll starve to death instead or, more likely, die from dehydration. No one is coming for me. In a few days, all that will be left of me is a ragged pile of bones for the birds to pick over.
But birds aren’t the only scavengers out here.
When the two figures peeked down the alley, my first thought was that they’re straggling stiffs lagging behind the big crowd, but as they stare at the garbage cans and shrug at one another, I realize they are alive. They must have heard me laughing and decided to check it out. When they begin walking down the alley, I carefully poke the muzzle of my M16 out over a trash can and point it at them.
I hate scavengers. Everyone in the Guard does. They’re like flies buzzing around a corpse, gnawing at the bones after the predator get its fill of meat. They take whatever they can find, even off of corpses if necessary. Food, clothing, weapons; it’s all fair game. The undead might be disgusting monsters, but in my opinion, scavengers are far worse. We are authorized to shoot them on sight, but just like the roaches they are, they stick to the shadows and steer clear of anyone who might be a threat to their parasitic way of life.
“Turn around and walk on out of here.”
The fat one, who looks like an extra from Deliverance, almost drops his double-barreled shotgun when he hears my voice. For a moment, I think he might shoot himself in the foot the way he fumbles with it.
The other one bothers me more, despite the fact that his only weapon is a blood-drenched crowbar. He is tall and lean and has the look of a pretty-boy politician. He is too well-groomed for the apocalypse, and his eyes sparkle in the sunlight as if he’s lovin’ life. He raises his hands over his head as he backs up, repeating in a calm voice, “Take it easy, it’s cool, it’s cool.” His eyes never leave mine, even though I am certain he can’t see them through the shadowy recesses of the sheet still covering me. There is something cold and calculating about the look in his eyes that unnerves me.
They disappear around the corner and I relax slightly, though I don’t let my guard down. They might take off in search of easier pickings, or they might decide to bring some friends and have a little ‘fuck with the wounded soldier’ party.
“Are you sitting in that pile of trash for any
particular reason?”
The words echo down the alley, and I know immediately who’d spoken them. The one I’d already dubbed Slick in my mind. He sounds confident, in charge. He also sounds like he didn’t just ask the question to pass the time. He wants to gauge how much of a legitimate threat I am to him.
“Come on! Are you hiding back there, or did you get bit or something?” Now it’s the fat one speaking. He sounds as dopey as he looks.
“We’ve got food if you want some…some booze. Maybe we could join forces. Ya know, help each other out.”
I’m starving and parched, but I’m not about to give Deliverance Boy or Slick any hints about my condition, so I keep my mouth shut.
“That looked like an M16 you had there. You a soldier…or did you take it off a dead one?”
I am surprised Slick had seen enough of the rifle to know what it was. He’s got sharp eyes.
“It’s mine, hotshot. And unless you’re interested in getting an idea of how good I am with it, I suggest you and your buddy get the fuck out of here.”
“Well now, that’s not very civilized of you, officer. We’re just two innocent men trying to survive after you soldiers decided to abandon us and let these monsters take over the city. There’s no reason to get nasty,” Slick says.
“It’s Private, you douche-bag, and all you two are is a couple of scavenging scumbags picking over the bones of the dead. You make me sick.” My frustration over how badly I had fucked up in the apartment is replaced by indignant rage.
“If the two of you don’t get out of here right fucking now, I’m going to blow your spoiled brains out the back of your heads and feed you piece by piece to the stiffs. Do I make myself clear?”
The silence following my growling rant stretches out long enough for me to believe that the terrible twosome have voted to bug out before I backed up my threat.
I think I’ve sweated every last drop of moisture out of my body, and I can feel my stomach starting to claw and tear at me, demanding food. It’s a dull pain, not nearly as acute as the pain in my leg, but I think those two parts of my body have come to some sort of agreement and have decided to join forces and kick the shit out of me.
“Give us your rifle and we’ll leave you be.”
Shit. Slick and his buddy are still down there.
“Just give us the rifle, boy. It’s not like you need it anymore. You’re as good as dead.”
I open my mouth to offer a retort, but nothing comes out. They know the truth because I hadn’t made good on my threat to go out there and kill them. I’m stuck at the ass end of this alley.
“Pri-i-ivate. Oh, Pri-i-ivate.” Deliverance gives a snic-ker to match his falsetto. As silly as the mocking tone sounds, it sends a shiver down my spine.
“Now look, private,” Slick says after hushing his companion for my benefit. “We know you’re not just sitting in that pile of trash because you like the smell. If you’re bitten or injured, perhaps we can offer you some assistance. Maybe … maybe you can be of assistance to us as well.”
Slick pauses for a moment. I squint down the alley and spot his shadow. He is on the left side, hiding just out of sight behind the brick wall. His shadow grows larger, as if he is leaning in to take a peek at me.
“You saw the weapons we have. My good friend Frank and I aren’t going last much longer with only a shotgun and a crowbar. But if you and your M16 joined us, we’d feel a lot better about our chances.”
I watch Slick’s shadow dance on the ground. I don’t see Frank’s; he must be on the opposite side of the alley from Slick.
“So which is it? Do you want me to give up my rifle or do you want me to join up with you guys? I think you need to make up your mind.”
I try to keep my voice confident and steady. I take aim at where I estimate Slick’s head will pop out if he peers around the corner. All I need is one little peek.
“Look, if you don’t want to come with us, that’s cool. We can give you food and water in trade for the M16. Food’s more valuable than weapons these days, anyway. I assume you have a sidearm? That should allow you to…to do whatever you feel is necessary based on your current condition.”
I see Slick’s shadow lengthen, and I pull the trigger. A three-round burst kicks up puffs of brick dust from the alley wall, and the shadow disappeared. I know right away that I missed him.
“Fuck you! Come and get it if you pricks want it that bad.”
There is dead silence for a few moments. I wonder if I’ve passed out again; it’s getting harder to tell.
“Well, I guess you’ve decided not to play nice, Private. But given your condition, I’m inclined to forgive your lapse in judgment. All we want is the rifle. Just toss it and any extra clips you have down the alley, and we’ll leave you in peace.”
I let the rifle do my talking this time, letting off a couple more bursts at both sides of the alley. I am as good as dead, but there’s no way in hell I am gonna let these bastards win.
The distinctive wap-wap-wap of the Black Hawk’s rotors interrupts our little standoff. I squint up toward the sun and shield my eyes, hoping to see the outline of the bird. They’ve finally come for me. I’m too tired to feel euphoria…or much of anything. Those two sons of bitches prob-ably hauled ass out of there the instant they heard the chopper, which was fine by me. After I get myself healed up back at camp, I’m gonna rotate back to this part of the world and put a serious hurting on those boys.
The sound of the chopper is distorted by the high walls of the alley. I have no idea which direction it’s coming from. One second it sounds like it’s hovering directly overhead, the next like it is waiting for me out on the street.
“Private! This is your last chance. I’m a reasonable man, but I grow impatient with your games. Give me the weapon and we walk away. If you choose not to, I will make you regret your decision.”
Goddammit! The Black Hawk hadn’t scared them off.
I slowly shake my head. Is it the Hawk? Now I’m not quite so sure. Now it just sounded like some engine … maybe a car, or perhaps a truck.
I keep shaking my head as the anger boils up inside me again.
“Jesus-fucking-Christ! I told you to go fuck yourselves and you just don’t get it. You can keep pissing and moaning at me all you want. I don’t give a rat’s ass about you or your retarded, hillbilly-fuck of a friend. So why don’t the two of you go gang rape some sheep and leave me the hell alone!”
As soon as I finish my rant, I start giggling uncontrollably. What I’d said wasn’t too bad for an out-of-commission soldier stuck in some alley while two morons sit picking their asses and whining about wanting my rifle. I mean, what the hell are they gonna do anyway? Bore me to death with their empty threats?
The noise of the engine grows louder, and now there is something else to it. Something I’ve heard before. There is a keening sound, like the wail of some lost and lonely creature. It is muffled, but getting closer.
A shadow blocks out the sun at the entrance of the alley. The mouth of the alley isn’t very wide. It wasn’t built to allow a truck or even a compact car to back down it. So the cargo van slams into the bricks on both sides of the gap as it backs up. The glass on the back window shattered from the collision.
My giggles start up again. Are these guys really that stupid? Did they actually think the truck was going to fit? But my convulsions of hilarity die down when I begin to understand what they really had in mind.
The keening grows louder, filling the alley with echoing grief. There is a wire mesh where the window had been, and several fingers, some of them stripped of flesh, poke and pull at it.
“No.”
The wire starts to bend as more hands bash and scratch at it. The doors rattle as numerous bodies and feet slam against them. I think I see metal start to buckle.
I have no idea how many stiffs are inside the van. I see several faces beyond the wire mesh and more than a few pressed against it as the truck rocks back and forth.
I
notice the placard beneath the window. It reads “FD Locksmiths: For Home and Business.”
These fuckers are carting the living dead around in their work van? Oh Lord! What has the world come to?
I laugh out loud. It isn’t maniacal giggling this time, but a full-throated laugh. They’ve invented the first undead delivery service. ‘Your stiff delivered within thirty minutes or the next one is free!’
I laugh until I cry. I raise my pistol to my head again and stare down the dark barrel. I imagine the bullet traveling at several hundred miles an hour as it burrows through the soft tissue of my brain and wonder if there would be any sensation that went along with it.
When the doors on the van break open and at least ten rotters come tumbling out, I lower the gun and stare at them. Several of the corpses try to get back on their feet, but the rest stay on the ground and crawl toward me.
I wonder how much pain I will have to endure if I let them tear me apart and consume me. Will there be enough of me left to come back? Will I be able to walk again if I do? Hell, it probably won’t take much for them to finish me off. I’m pretty close to done.
I consider picking up the rifle and seeing how many of them I can take out before the rest fall on me, but my hands are too shaky to land head shots. I could squeeze the trigger and hope, but that seems like a pretty dumb idea to pin my hopes on.
They’re just a few steps away, but I’m calm. My hands are shaking, but I know what to do. It feels good, still having a choice.
I slip the Beretta into my mouth and think about my family and buddies. Maybe I’ll see them soon and can ask them to forgive me. Somehow, I think they just might.
I can feel those cold, rancid fingers on me as I wrestle with the trigger.
Eye Witness: Zombie Page 4
