by Mark Tufo
“One minute. I see them!” BT said.
I didn’t hear the rumbling of the large vehicle approaching, but given what was happening around me and the hearing loss I was suffering, it wasn’t much of a surprise.
“What the hell are those?” Kirby asked.
I knew street sweepers weren’t common anymore, but to not know what one was, even in the panicked frenzy that I was in the midst of, I still found strange.
“Captain Talbot, you still with us?” Overland asked. I was kind of peeved that he’d sounded like he was only asking if Dunkin’ Donuts still had blueberry muffins at three in the afternoon. Sure, you wanted one, but that was pretty late in the day for them to still be around and you knew that fact. So, sure, it would be a nice surprise, but you really didn’t expect them to.
“For now,” I managed. Zombies were still snapping and clawing their way to me. but new ones seemed to be losing interest as a new food source came into play. Bodies were no longer being shifted, whether in or out.
“This is going to be noisy, Captain. I suggest you get into as safe a position as possible.”
“Talbot, he’s not full of shit. Find a way to become one with that car,” BT warned.
I didn’t know what to expect; how dangerous could it be?
“Sergeant Walde, start sweeping the area,” Overland ordered.
“Sweepers on two,” she declared. I was appreciative of the fact she went right to two.
“What the fuck?” I asked as the barrage started. It’s normal, when hearing a machine gun, to be in awe at how fast each individual bullet is being propelled. This was different; it was one, long, continuous streak of firepower. They were basically using lead hoses, shooting a single, giant stream of bullets; might as well have been lasers sweeping back and forth. Occasionally, the car would be rocked as dozens, maybe hundreds, of rounds pelted into the metal. I was trying to find a way to fit on the floorboards, suddenly angry that, at one point, I’d been forced to eat my vegetables and had grown to the point I couldn’t fit under the steering wheel. I rested my head on the seat, hoping it didn’t get cracked open like an overripe pumpkin.
I was doing all I could to meld with the car, as BT had advised, as Walde manned whatever the “street sweeper” was; at this point I was pretty sure it wasn’t a giant shoebrush spraying soapy water. I could only hope the small engine would be enough of a buffer if she put some straight into the front end. The car listed to the side as she blew through at least one of the tires. Danger-close was one thing when getting rocks lobbed at you, but when it’s a nuclear device, that changes everything. I was shouting every curse I could think of, made up a few on the fly, I figured if I went out, it was going to be with a swear. My ears were ringing so bad I didn’t even notice when the barrage had stopped.
“Zounderkite?” Stenzel asked. Apparently this had been the word that had stuck with my sergeant during my litany of cusses.
“Get moving, Captain! Your window is closing,” Overland stated. “Meet you back at the complex.” I had a window? The car groaned, sizzled, popped, clicked—all the normal things a machine does during its death throes. I sat up; an accumulated inch of shattered glass fell away from me. There was a loud thump on the hood and then I felt rough hands grab at my shoulders. It was Tommy helping me up. I was dazed and a little out of it; that tends to happen when you have thousands of rounds coming toward you. My ears were ringing and my eyes were doing their best to readjust to the light after having been clenched tightly shut. I was bleeding from at least two close calls and who knew what else. Tommy pulled me right through the front windshield like a child might their teddy from a toy box. I had about as much starch to my limbs as that plush toy.
“Overland?” I managed to ask as I did my best to stand on my own, it wasn’t great. I’d been cutting off blood flow to my legs, scrunched into my unnatural pose.
“Just took off. There’s another wave of zombies they have to deal with, gave us a few magazines for the return trip.”
Steam was venting up from the hood, had to have been over a hundred bullet holes punched through it. Tommy and I moved as quickly as I could manage to the fire escape ladder. Soon I was leaning against the wall that doubled as a barrier on the roof. Winters was field dressing my many injuries, most of them minor, where the zombie had pinched was the worst of it, in terms of pain, I didn’t check, but pretty sure it was bruised to hell. All of the squad, save Stenzel, were staying out of sight behind the three-foot-high wall to keep a lookout in case more zombies came. We hoped that “out of sight” would lead to “out of mind.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Justin told me. I grabbed his outstretched hand.
“Still got to get back,” BT said.
“What the hell was the ‘street sweeper?’” I asked once I thought I could hear somewhat decently again.
“You ain’t gonna believe this shit!” Kirby stated. Stenzel shouldered him. “Sir,” he added. “They had four people lined up pushing these rigs, and mounted on top was an M134 Gatling gun; they usually put those on helos. It was unreal.” Kirby was juiced up on adrenaline from the battle and what he’d witnessed.
“It was pretty spectacular,” Winters said as he tapped my arm. “All set, sir,” he said before standing.
“Must have cleaned about two hundred zombies off the street in under a minute. I have got to get me one of those,” Kirby said to no one in particular.
BT extended a hand and helped me up. I looked down at the street; indeed, the devastation was unlike anything I’d ever seen from grunt-fired bullets. The zombies were torn to shreds; the car I’d sheltered in had been reduced to scrap. Two telephone poles had been brought all the way down, a third holding on by sheer willpower. There was nothing street level that had not taken damage; sides of buildings had been ripped into, intact glass was completely extinct.
“Not sure how you survived that, sir,” Kirby said.
“Better be careful what you say. If he goes, I’m the new squad commander,” BT told him, Kirby swallowed loudly.
“Stenzel, when we get back and this mess dies down, I want you to figure out how to secure us one of those street sweepers.”
“Will do, sir.”
“Let’s get the hell out of here, and let’s all be abundantly clear: no one,” I was pointing my finger at Justin, “is going to tell my wife how close this was, got it?”
Justin nodded reluctantly.
“Can’t go the way Justin and I came; zombies are still jamming up the ladder,” Tommy said. “I have these, though.” Tommy held up a brown burlap bag, looked pretty heavy.
“Rice?” I asked.
“Three grenades,” Tommy replied.
“Twelve would have been nicer.”
“A helo extraction would be better,” BT said.
“Not after what those birds did,” I told him.
“Why don’t we just go back down to the street?” Kirby asked, pointing to the ladder I’d used to come up.
“We’d have to go around another block, and there’s no way to tell if it’s clear,” Tommy said.
“Anyone know the status of this building?” I was wondering if it was overrun with zombies. Didn’t seem likely as of yet; none were banging on the roof door, but if they hadn’t rushed out to meet the street sweepers, who could blame them for that.
“As far as we can tell, sir, they were all outside,” Stenzel said.
“Let’s see if we can find our way out of here.” I took a step; my body ached. Between trying to shove ten pounds of shit into a five-pound bag and the near-fatal hits I’d taken, my body just fucking hurt.
“Door is locked…going to be noisy getting it open,” BT said.
“Can’t be helped. Stenzel, going to need you to drill that deadbolt.”
She got on one knee and punched a hole dead center. We could hear the tinkle of metal as it struck the cement inside. BT went over, twisted the handle back and forth and shook the door until the locking components finally gave way. Kirby and
Stenzel were waiting for a rush of zombies, which, thankfully, didn’t come. BT poked his head in, but it was dark and impossible to see more than a few feet.
“I can hear movement,” he said quietly.
“Tommy, use a grenade,” I told him.
“Are you people?” he called, walking onto the landing inside. I knew the sound was going to draw every zombie from the tri-county area here, but it couldn’t be helped. Plus, maybe if we got in a jam, I could call the sweepers back so I could watch them work.
“Get ready to move,” I was telling the squad. “As soon as that detonates, we’ll be leaving.”
Tommy pulled the pin when he didn’t get a response from inside. “Fire in the hole!” he said as he dropped it down through the opening in the stairs. He rushed back outside as BT closed the door and leaned into it. The roof vibrated as the blast went off.
“Point?” Kirby asked.
“I’ve got this; I’m the reason we’re in this mess,” I said.
“Umm, Dad, it’s my fault,” Justin said.
“Where do you think you came from?” I told him as I headed for the door. “If not for some smooth moves from me…”
“Way to traumatize the kid,” BT said as he followed.
“They’re all going to need therapy; might as well make it worthwhile.” The stairwell was completely dust-choked. What had been dark previously, was now shrouded in a dense concrete fog. I couldn’t hear or see anything—not two of the greatest attributes to have when you’re in a combat zone. I made it down one flight of stairs, still nothing. I had my light on, but it was equivalent to using high beams during a heavy case of ocean fog; couldn’t see much of anything beyond the front of the light, and everything was illuminated in a bright halo, obscuring my sight to the point I debated turning it off. I poked my head through the door on the landing to make sure there were no zombies on that floor. I was happy to take a breath of something that did not smell like wet concrete.
“Everyone with me?” I asked.
“I’m bringing up the rear, we’ve got everyone,” BT said.
All I could see behind me were blobs of refracted light. My footfalls seemed louder than normal in the narrow stairwell as I was crunching down on grenade fallout. Halfway down the next set of stairs was a zombie, very much alive, though his mid and lower sections had been punctured and shredded by shrapnel, the damage enough that it could no longer walk or use its arms, though that did little to prevent him from trying to get at me.
“Got a wiggler here, on the left by the railing. Stay clear, should be fine.” At the next landing were body parts, and I paused; it looked like this particular zombie had tried to save his friend by jumping on it. Or maybe he had flashbacks to his high school baseball days and dove to catch it like a dropping fly ball; either way, his head was a mass of pulp. I’d been so mesmerized by the train wreck of a body I’d not noticed the door opening. It was only the resultant sliver of light poking through that got my attention.
“Movement,” I said as I brought my rifle up to the area, though, as of yet, I could not tell what I was dealing with. “Identify yourself quickly!” The quarters were entirely too tight to wait long for a response. Even in this most extreme of situations, not being able to see what I was shooting at was causing me to hesitate. Odds were vastly in favor of this being a zombie, but there was always a chance it was a scared kid or an injured person, disoriented, unable to speak or, just for shits and giggles, it could even be a mute or a very dedicated mime. It would end up being a justified shooting because of the situation, but it wasn’t the legal system I was concerned with it, it was my tenuous hold on sanity.
“Now, fucker, I need you to say something, now!”
“Mike, what do you have?” BT asked.
“Zombie!” Kirby said, I heard and saw what I figured was his muzzle flash. The thing about it was, it was nowhere near me but rather the way we’d come. I turned in time to see a ghastly, ghostly figure loom out of the dark. Her mouth twisted into a mask of hatred and need. Her outstretched hand knocked my barrel away. The round I fired in haste careened off the concrete wall, the high whine of a ricochet trailing off as more shots were being fired. I wanted us out of this trap pronto. “Move!” I went to the door and pressed up against it, holding it closed, knowing full well there were zombies on the other side looking to gain entry.
Someone went down in a heap as they stepped onto bloody mixed parts. There were shuffled movements, lots of swears, then down the rest of the squad and Justin went. I had a death grip on the handle as something incredibly strong was trying to turn it and force me out of the way.
“Kirby, let’s go!” BT ordered.
“They’re streaming out of the third floor!” he shouted back.
Sneaky bastards, this I was thinking. Either they’d been hiding when I looked or they just weren’t in position yet. I was hoping for the former but suspected the latter. It made sense they would be coming up from the ground floor as well; if you’re going to lay a spider web, you might as well cover every avenue.
A trio of rifle shots came from the floor below me; what I feared seemed to be happening. I’d just got out of the fucking frying pan…how in hell I’d managed to flop right back into it was paralyzing my thought process. I was still awed at how fast this day had turned to shit and would not switch. There was a heavy thud against the door I was leaning on, even over the din around me I could hear the mechanisms within the lock being stressed to their limit as the beast on the other side did its best to wrench it open. With the bottom and third-floor doors standing wide, we now had some light. The dust had settled, but that was quickly filling back up with gun smoke. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough to hide the nightmares all around us.
“Bulker!” Kirby and I said at the same time. The lumbering monster looked back and forth between Kirby, who was halfway up the stairs, and me, holding his brethren back, then he launched. Didn’t need to aim when you had the barn door charging at you. Kirby had turned and was sprinting downward. I waited the fraction of a second until he passed before I decided that moving would be in my best interest, too, if I didn’t want to become a stain on the wall. As I quickly followed Kirby, there was the crash of the door I’d been holding closed; must have been a big surprise for the zombie or zombies that came into the stairwell as the bulker slammed into them, reducing them to a compost pile. The stairs reverberated from the impact, and my foot slipped off the step I’d been about to come down on. My leg shot out, and I landed hard on my ass; pretty sure I knocked a filling or two free.
“Motherfucker!” I shouted as my tailbone exploded in pain.
“Come on, sir!” Kirby helped me up as the bulker extracted himself from the mess of his own making. I could hardly grasp the speed at which something so big was moving, like the first time you see an offensive lineman charging downfield with 4.3 speed. He was coming down the top step just as I got my feet under me.
“Go!” I urged Kirby.
BT was ushering us onto the first floor as opposed to outside; I didn’t question him on his exit strategy. Kirby and I were through the door at the same moment the bulker forced our door shut. The door hit my heel and I was once again sent sprawling. I saw the handle jiggle as I was getting up—I raced to grab it and keep whatever was on the stairwell there. I wanted to give everyone else as much of a lead as I could before I let go.
“Not again, Mike,” BT beseeched.
“Just a few feet further,” I told him. “Kirby, what the hell are you doing?” He was down and behind me. “Go catch up with everyone else.”
“Leaving a surprise,” he told me.
The first thing I could think of was he was going to take a deuce right there and laugh his ass off when a zombie slipped and fell in it. Seriously, that’s my first-grade mentality. I would have been infinitely happier if that had been the case. I caught sight of a precariously balanced tile atop a pin-pulled grenade.
“What the fuck, Corporal?” I asked. Now not so sure hold
ing the twisting handle should be my primary concern. “Who gave you a grenade?”
“Appropriated.”
“We don’t appropriate from our own. Put that pin back in!” The tile was rocking back and forth as the bulker on the other side was stomping around like a fat, angry hulk.
He started looking around and patting his body down. Had a confused expression when he looked at me. “I think I dropped it!”
The tile took that very moment in time to decide it wanted to be back, flush on the floor. The grenade rolled lazily to the side, as the tile fell noiselessly. Calculations popped up into my head: the distance an average male could run forty yards…five and half seconds, give or take a half-second. Effective kill range of a fragmentation grenade…roughly forty-five feet. Delay of fuse until detonation…used to be three seconds, but some close calls had pushed it back to four…. Even before I came up with an answer, I’d grabbed Kirby’s shoulder and was dragging him and running as fast as I could; calculations be damned, we needed distance. He was scrabbling to get up and then run with me. Sometimes four seconds can feel like an eternity, other times it happens so fast you’re unaware that time was even being measured. This fell somewhere in the middle.
At one second, I’d gripped Kirby and was pulling up, and the door handle broke to the ground. At two, we were orientated in the right direction (though he was still more under my power than his own), the second-floor door had completely opened, and the entirety of the frame was taken by the looming outline of an enormous bulker. By three, Kirby had his feet underneath him and we were underway; the bulker, in the meantime, had pressed through and locked on to his quarry. At four, we most assuredly did not have the “bad guy walking away from an explosion in the distance coolness swagger” going on, but the bulker did us a solid as he passed over the grenade and took the brunt of the blast in his baby-making region. Five seconds and Kirby, slightly behind and to the right of me, was coated in a liberal amount of viscera from the explosion.
