Planet of the Dead (Book 3): Escape From The Planet of The Dead

by Flowers, Thomas S.

  A cold hush filled the room.

  “No—that cant be,” Rusk whispered.

  “What was that, sir?”

  “Can we get closer?”

  “No, sir.”

  Silence.

  Rusk glared at the large screens. Taking in the slow-moving formation. He knew what it was but didn’t want to believe. How could he? What he was seeing was pure insanity.

  “Captain Morton, a word, please,” Rusk called and turned to leave the room.

  “Yes, sir.” Morton ascended the steps to tier three and followed Rusk out to the hallway.

  Looking back and forth before responding, Rusk kept his voice low. “I need you to send out a scout. Someone we can trust to get the job done. Quick. Quiet. And efficient.”

  Morton seemed to think for a moment and then half smiled. “I think I know the man for the job, sir.”

  Rusk nodded in approval. “Good. Tell him to haul ass and report back ASAP. If that,” he gestured to the room, “is what I think it is...well, we’re going to be in a world of shit.”

  ***

  Rusk paced the balcony along the third tier in the communications room. He rubbed his grey beard as he glanced every now and then at the large screens—specifically at the large black mass slowly inching south. Captain Morton and the other officers and sergeants assigned to comms had been monitoring the progress of the scout team.

  “7-Charley, this is Base Command, what’s your status, over?” Captain Morton called through his headset. On one of the large screens, satellite imagery had closed in on a section of I-35, just above Lorena, about fifteen miles shy of Waco.

  Morton paused and then said, “Say again, over?”

  Rusk stepped down onto tier two and stood beside Morton. “Put the transmission on loudspeaker,” he ordered.

  One of the comms officers nodded and flipped a switch. Suddenly, the overhead speakers were filled with static. And gunfire. The familiar, thunderous rattle of the 50-cal machine gun.

  “Sergeant Maberry, this is General Rusk—give me a sitrep, over.”

  Static still.

  And then a voice crackling between the gunfire.

  “Yes sir—we’ve made contact with the infected. Pushed back ten clicks south of Lorena. Too many...this route is clogged with them. We’re on an overpass. Visibility is low—heavy snow coming down, over.” Maberry shouted through the speakers as if he couldn’t hear himself speak.

  Rusk stared at the screen showing the current aerial view. The mass was closing in on the overpass, stretching out as far east as Nacogdoches and as far west as Abilene. “What can you see, Sergeant?”

  Static and bursts of gunfire blazed through the speakers.

  “Watch the entrance ramp,” Maberry yelled at someone on his team, still keying the mike.

  “7-Charley—do you copy?”

  Gunfire, now small arms.

  “Base Command—shit, Burner, get that 50-cal on our flank, those nasties are coming up on our six.”

  “Sergeant Maberry, do you copy?”

  Static.

  And then, “The dead—they’re everywhere. Jesus fucking Christ, they’re everywhere....” Maberry yelled.

  Rusk—everyone in the comms room—gazed up at the screen, watching as the black mass flooded over 7-Charley’s position—over Maberry’s position.

  Again, static screeched through the speakers intermixed with gunfire.

  Rusk watched the screen knowing now his worst fears were true. He turned to Captain Morton, “Can we get them extracted?”

  Morton shook his head. “There wouldn’t be enough time. Not in this weather...”

  “Too risky, right” Rusk said. He turned away and keyed his mike for the radio. “Sergeant—I need you to get your team out of there. Disengage, do you copy?”

  Static still.

  “7-Charley?”

  “Copy...we’re...”

  More static, intermixed with gunfire. Shouting. And screaming.

  And then nothing but dead air.

  “7-Charley?”

  Nothing.

  “Sergeant Maberry?”

  Still nothing.

  “SHIT!” Captain Morton yelled, ripping his headset off and throwing it on the floor. “What the hell just happened?”

  Rusk took him by the shoulders. “Get yourself together, Captain. We’ve got to prepare. An army is coming—sooner than we think.”

  “What army?” Morton wheezed, struggling to understand.

  “The living dead, Captain.” Rusk released his grip on Morton and pointed to the screen—at the black mass still moving steadily south, spread as far as five hundred miles wide and deep.

  Morton gasped, realization dawning.

  Rusk nodded, he too had thought, or had wanted to believe, the mass picked up by the satellite imagery had been nothing more than some sort of weather anomaly or something as simple as a data or encryption error or smudge on the lens.

  No.

  He knew better; they all knew better.

  “There has to be thousands; no, millions of them,” Morton whispered.

  “And then some,” Rusk added.

  “What are we going to do?” Morton asked, almost begging. His eyes wide and skin pale.

  Rusk looked back at the screen. “Pull up an aerial image of Fort Hood,” he ordered to the comms officers. A moment later the screen transitioned.

  “What are we going to do, sir?” Morton pressed. “We can’t fight off that many!”

  Rusk glanced at him and said, matter-of-factly, “We can sure as hell try, Captain. We setup barricades. Get those Blackhawks in the air. Assemble ground forces. Tanks. 50-Cals. We have the arsenal. We can hold them back.”

  Morton looked back at the screen. He swallowed hard at the sight of the black masses inching closer around Fort Hood, darkening the entire top edges of the screen.

  “Sir,” he started.

  Rusk turned away from the screens and the comms center and stood inches from Morton’s face. His cold, blue eyes narrowed on his quickening officer.

  “You get your shit on straight, do you copy? Because in this war we fight, down to every last man, woman and child—whatever it takes. I’m not giving up on this paradise and neither are you,” Rusk growled, keeping his voice low.

  He waited for a moment. Morton seemingly on the verge of tears.

  “Do you copy, Captain?” he asked again.

  Morton blinked and nodded, trembling all over. “Yes, sir.”

  Romero

  North Sea,

  Viking Cruise Ship

  “Salmiakki-ish...” Romero read from a bottle.

  “What the heck is that?” Morsett set his M4 on the bar, snickering.

  “Some kind of vodka, I think.” Romero glanced down the bar to the new guy, “Hey, buddy,” he said, gesturing with the bottle, “drink?”

  The bearded Swede grinned and moved down the bar. “Sure,” he said, “why not.”

  Smiling, Romero poured three glasses. Raising his, he said, “To the end of the world.” The others saluted and threw back the dark brown liquor, each slamming theirs back on the bar.

  Romero poured another round. Glancing at the Swede, he asked, “So, Elias isn’t it? What’s your story? How did you end up here?”

  Elias took a sip from his drink. “Nothing special. My friend Hadden and I have been surviving in the Dalarna forests in our home country. We had to keep on the move. The dead were everywhere throughout the woods. Hundreds of herds. Nowhere was safe. We eventually came to Helsinki and spotted this big boat, figured like you Americans did, that it would be a safe place.”

  Romero glanced at Morsett and then took a drink from his glass. Grimacing against the burning sensation as it eased down his throat and settled in his gut. “Yeah, we kinda lucked out with this tugboat, don’t you think? Fully fueled. Minimal dead onboard.”

  Elias shrugged, finishing his drink. “Fortunate, yes. There is no such thing as lucky, not anymore. And besides, we’re still clear
ing the rooms, aren’t we?”

  Romero threw his hands up in surrender. “Just taking a break—Viking’s are big ships, man. Got to stay hydrated.”

  Laughing, Elias asked, “Okay, American. What’s your story? How did you end up here?”

  Romero poured himself another glass, offered it to both Elias and Morsett—both turned him down. He shrugged and took a delicate sip from his glass and said, “Well, that’s a long story. Needless to say, we’re not from around here.”

  Elias pressed, “Yeah, but how did you end up here? I don’t know of any American bases near Helsinki.”

  Romero finished his glass. “We flew. C-130, last flight out of Bagdad. Made it as far as Kyiv. The dead were all over that airfield. Lost most of everyone there, including Billings—one of our own. Sergeant Q got us out of there, and we traveled north. Figured if flying home wasn’t an option then we ought to find us a boat. Martin, you met him, the red-haired hard ass, he’d been to Helsinki before when he was stationed in Germany. Said it was a safe bet on finding a vessel large enough to make it across the Atlantic.”

  Folding his hands together and resting them on the bar, Elias said, “Good you came north. We’ve heard that Germany and Russia have become nuclear wastelands. Radiation would have killed you. Whose genius idea was it to use nuclear weapons, yeah?”

  Romero shrugged. He looked at the bottle, considering another drink. Then thought better of it—best not get tipsy now. Save it for later when the rooms on all decks had been cleared.

  “So, I have to ask,” Elias started. “What’s with the Russian? Your Sergeant Q called him a cosmonaut?”

  Laughing, Romero said, “Ah, Vlad—yeah...”

  Morsett stood from his chair, stretching his arms across his chest. His cheeks were blood red, flushed against his otherwise pale skin. “That guy is one tough SOB,” he said.

  “For real,” agreed Romero. He looked at Elias who seemed lost in the conversation. “We were traveling north, like I said, and came to this town...” he frowned, trying to recall the name. “Asintorf-something,” he shrugged. “Whatever, well we got into this trouble at a shitty little Buda grocery store. We needed supplies, but the place was swarming with those nasties—”

  “Some had boils and pus leaking all over as if they were sick or something,” Morsett interrupted, making a puke face.

  “Yeah, man. Like I said, nasties. Anyway, I don’t know where all these fuckers were coming from, but it didn’t look good for us,” Romero continued. “All of a sudden we hear this big fucking gun ripping open outside and we take a glance out the window. And here’s this big ass dude pressed in some white and orange suit with patches that look a lot like something you’d see at NASA. He’s just going to town on these dead assholes, cutting them in two.” He made a machine gun gesture with his hands. “And when his ammo ran dry, he jumped down and started in on them with a fucking baseball bat. I’ve never seen anything like that.”

  Elias was nodding during the story. When Romero paused, he asked, “So...did he tell you he was a cosmonaut?”

  “Yeah, when everything was said and done, we all exchanged pleasantries. His English is a little rough, but better than nothing,” Romero answered. “He said he was on the International Space Station—he’d been up there for months. His entire crew died and became one of those nasties—”

  “Wait. How did they become infected up there?” Elias interrupted.

  “I don’t know. Maybe the virus or whatever caused this isn’t really a virus,” Romero said, his voice low. He recalled his grandfather.

  “What do you mean?” Elias asked.

  “Something my grandfather used to say. His papa practiced Macumba—he was a voodoo priest in Trinidad. He used to tell us stories at bedtime. He said once, ‘When there’s no more room in hell, the dead will walk the earth.’ I always thought he was just trying to scare us, you know. I guess maybe he knew what he was talking about.”

  Morsett smirked. “Bullshit. Look, I doubt anybody knows how this shit works, but perhaps this virus or whatever, maybe we’re already infected, right? That would explain Vlad’s crewmen turning into munchers—or at least some of them. Anybody who dies, turns. Regardless if they were bitten or not.” He paused, as if thinking through what he’d just said.

  “And what about when someone bites you? People fry from fever and turn. Why aren’t we all doing that if everyone is infected?” Romero scoffed.

  Morsett rolled his eyes. “I don’t know, man. But its better then your ‘no more room in hell’ bullshit.”

  Shaking his head, Romero picked his rifle off the bar top. He checked the magazine and looked back at Elias. “Anyways—dude was starving up there and decided to try and make it back to earth, you dig? Take his chances. I’m glad he did. Saved our asses more than once.”

  “Fucking A,” Morsett agreed with an amen.

  Elias exhaled deeply. “Some adventure.”

  Romero curved the corner of his lips into a sly smile. “And the fun is just beginning. You ready to clear the rest of these decks?

  ***

  Starting from the top of the ship they worked their way down through each deck, from the open sports area with the rotting volleyball nets and ice-slick basketball courts, to the interior stateroom’s and explorer’s lounge on the eighth. On the seventh level, they paused for drinks at the Pool Bar beside the Wintergarden, whose plants had wilted and died adding to the already stagnant mildew stink.

  “What deck are we on now?” Romero asked, watching their rear, scanning both above and below on the staircase.

  “Fifth,” whispered Morsett. He peeked through the stairwell door. “Can’t you count?”

  Romero made a face. Morsett was a good enough guy, but he wasn’t shy about busting your balls if the opportunity presented itself. He couldn’t get too mad at the guy, though. They had been through hell and back together. They, Q, Martin, Morsett and himself were all that were left from their squad. Solis, Fulp, Garcia, Billings, Johnson—were gone.

  “I can’t count how many times I banged your girl, bro,” Romero quipped.

  “You and everyone else, pog,” Morsett retorted. “Looks clear.”

  “Yeah, no shit. We’re clearing the rooms, fucker,” Romero said, squeezing past him and Elias and walking out into the hallway of deck five.

  “Jesus, Romero!” Morsett complained.

  “What, man?”

  “What? We don’t know if this level is clear or not. Let’s take it slow.”

  “Slow? Dude—I want to be done with this. We still got 4 other levels to check. I’d like to be done before sundown. Maybe help ourselves to some more of those drinks, huh? What do you say?” Romero smiled and turned and started down the hall.

  Morsett just shook his head and followed.

  Elias too.

  “Like before, right? Start at the end and work our way down and back around the other side?” Romero called out, not bothering to keep his voice low, his rifle swinging loose on the lanyard connected to his tactical vest.

  They stopped in front of Suite 5108, a mid-size cabin on the stern of the ship.

  Morsett stepped forward with the master key card and swiped it through the slot. A green light blinked, and the door bolt released. He glanced over his shoulder to see if the others were ready.

  Romero wiped sweat beading along his forehead. Steadying his rifle, he nodded, lips twitching in a grin.

  “I’ll keep watch,” whispered Elias.

  “Just me and you, baby. Come on!” Romero danced on his feet.

  Morsett shook his head.

  Opening the door, they moved through a narrow foyer into a whitewashed sitting area filled with plush looking sofas and lounge chairs. A large, glass sliding door covered most of the back wall. Outside the sun was obscured by thick dark grey clouds. Ice pelted against the glass.

  Hooking a sharp left, Morsett yelled, “Bathroom clear.”

  Following the layout of the suite, Romero scanned the rest of the liv
ing room and started for the bedroom. He froze at the door. Gagging he covered his mouth and nose.

  “Fuck!” he coughed, tasting the thick odor of decay. Romero clicked on his surefire. The bright white beam cast into the gloom, resting on a hideous shape on the bed. What had once been a woman, mid age, perhaps fifty-something, lay prone in a sparkling, purple shoulder top dress. She wore fine heels of similar color and pearl-white jewelry in her ears and neck. What remained of her hair had wilted and shed in thick strands on the pillow where her head rested. Her skin was bluish-green and swollen as if she’d been floating in the water for months. Still clutched in her hand, a double action revolver—a Ruger snub nose by the shape, or so Romero guessed. Turning his light on the wall he found the black gummy remnants of the woman’s brains painted on the headboard.

  “What going—” Morsett rushed to the bedroom. He halted and spun away. “Jesus—what the shit?”

  Romero followed him back into the living room. “Yeah. I’d say we’re clear here.”

  “Did she turn?” he asked, spitting on the floor as if he could remove the tangy, putrid taste of decomposition.

  Shaking his head, Romero said, “Nah, man. She offed herself. A little snub nose pistol was still in her hand and everything.”

  “Did you grab it?”

  “What?”

  “The gun. Did you get the gun?”

  “What the fuck would I do that for?”

  “Could be useful, never know.”

  “Hey man, you want it, be my guest.”

  Morsett glanced at the bedroom and started for the hallway leading back out of the suite. He gulped deep lungfuls of air.

  Romero followed, spitting whatever taste he could rid himself of.

  “What happened?” Elias asked, looking concerned.

  Romero hitched his thumb to the still open suite. “Dead lady,” he wheezed.

  “Dead dead?” he asked. “Or undead?”

  “Dead dead.”

  Giving one final shudder, Morsett stood in front of the next cabin. The number 5106 was stenciled on the door. He slid the master key card through the electronic reader. The lock clicked and the door creaked open.