Zombie War: An account of the zombie apocalypse that swept across America

by Nicholas Ryan

  The Ayatollah smiled beneath the dense bristles of his heavy beard. “It is necessary,” he said patiently. “The touch of a finger does little to cause pain, and yet those fingers together and bunched, Ahmed… become the fist of Allah.”

  MIAMI, FLORIDA.

  The man came in through the door of the convenience store wearing a brown jacket that was worn at the cuffs and frayed around the collar. He had a crop of black hair and dark sunken eyes. He went to the refrigerators along the side wall and reached for a bottle of water. When he came back to the front of the store he set the bottle down and lifted his eyes to the cashier behind the counter.

  “You are Mohsen Gheydari,” the man said.

  The attendant flinched. He had never seen the man before. He bobbed his head and smiled with polite caution.

  “And you have a family,” the stranger said ominously in stilted, faltering English.

  Mohsen froze. He felt an ice-cold chill of dread run down the length of his spine. He stared at the stranger. The man’s eyes burned with an intensity like fanaticism. Mohsen had lived in America for fifteen years. He was an American citizen with a wife at home and two sons who played soccer and attended school.

  “Yes…” he said softly.

  The strange man smiled – a flash of brilliant white teeth, made all the brighter by the dark olive of his skin.

  “I am here to remind you that you are still a son of Iran.”

  Mohsen felt his hands begin to tremble, and the blood seemed to drain away from his face. The stranger reached into his coat pocket and laid a photograph down on the counter.

  Mohsen Gheydari felt his knees buckle beneath him.

  The photograph was an image of an elderly lady and two younger women, perhaps aged in their thirties. All three of the women were on their knees. Standing on either side of them were black uniformed men, their faces concealed by balaclavas so that only their eyes and mouths could be seen. The men were holding automatic weapons to the heads of the cowering women. In the photo, Mohsen could see the old lady’s face was slick with tears of terror.

  “Your mother is not well,” the stranger said. “Nor are your two sisters, Mohsen,” the man’s voice lowered and filled with menace. “They wish you would return to Tehran to care for them, but you have made your life here, in the West. This is very bad, but still you can save them from a terrible, terrible death.”

  Mohsen stared up into the hard eyes of the stranger. He could feel himself on the verge of weeping. He licked his lips nervously and then impulsively reached out for the man’s hand.

  “Please!” he pleaded. His face was wrenched into a rictus of distress. “Do not harm them!”

  The stranger pulled his hand free of Mohsen’s grip. “They will be safe, provided you fulfill the task you have been set. Your homeland needs you.”

  Mohsen Gheydari nodded his head, a gesture of submission and defeat.

  *

  “You will hire a fast boat and you will take it offshore tomorrow night. Do you understand this?” the stranger asked.

  Mohsen jerked his head. The stranger laid a map out on the counter of the convenience store. The doors were locked, the store closed for the night.

  “You will take the boat to this point,” the man stabbed at the blue coastal waters with the tip of his finger. There you will wait. Just before dawn the following morning a freighter will meet with you. It will come from the south. Do you understand this?”

  Again, Mohsen nodded his head. The stranger looked satisfied. He folded the map and handed it to Mohsen. He left the photo on the counter.

  “Four men will disembark from the freighter. They are our Iranian brothers. You will bring them back here to Miami.”

  Mohsen frowned. “Is that all?” he asked incredulously. Somehow he had expected that much more would be demanded of him.

  “That is all,” the man said. He smiled then – a warm charming smile that sparkled in his eyes. “Do this, Mohsen, and your mother and sisters will be safe. On this, you have my word.”

  Mohsen stared at the man for a moment, then the blaze of the stranger’s eyes compelled him to look away. “Very well,” he said. “Where shall I take these men?”

  “Bring them into the city to the place where you hire the boat from… but do not speak to them, Mohsen. Do not utter a word or even look at them unless they first speak to you. It is best if you do not see their faces, or befriend them. They are soldiers of Allah.”

  *

  The four men came down the side of the freighter’s rusted hull, swinging from a rope ladder as the ship rolled gently in the offshore swell. Mohsen conned the speedboat closer. The water foamed white as the big outboard engines growled. One by one the men leaped aboard the boat. The last man had a canvas bag slung over his shoulders. When all the men were safely aboard, Mohsen opened the throttles and the speedboat lifted up onto its plane and dashed away into the dawn.

  “Slow down,” the Instructor from the desert camp growled. “Bring no attention to us.”

  Mohsen obeyed. He stood at the wheel of the boat, his legs braced against the rolling ocean swells and nudged the lever to ease power to the engines. The sleek hull dropped back down into the rolling crests and the Instructor grunted.

  Mohsen was trembling. He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead. He recalled the stranger’s warning in the convenience store the night before, and the photo of his mother and sisters was in his shirt pocket as a reminder. He would do nothing to jeopardize their lives.

  The sun came up, spilling orange and golden light across the ocean. Gulls wheeled overhead, and the gentle breeze carried the smell of salt and a fine mist of spray. The hours went by with slow certainty until a haze of brown smog stretched like a scar across the far horizon. Mohsen pointed. “Miami,” he said.

  He heard the sound of footsteps close behind him. He could sense the presence of one of the men standing nearby. “What time is it?” a voice growled. It was the same man who had snapped at him to slow the boat as the freighter had sailed away to the north.

  Mohsen held up his arm, turned his wrist. “It is ten-thirty,” he said. The man checked his own wristwatch and grunted. The other three martyrs synchronized their watches to Miami time.

  “How long until we reach the city?”

  “Perhaps another hour, but I can go much faster if it is imperative.”

  “No,” the man said. “There is time. Draw no attention to us.”

  The four men were dressed in dirty, faded denim jeans and khaki colored shirts that were grimy from their passage aboard the ship. The instructor opened the bag and handed fresh clothes to the other men. Quickly they changed into clean, casual clothes.

  The staggered skyline of Miami seemed to rise from out of the ocean, made glittering and mirror-like by the brightness of the sun. The four martyrs stared in awe. “Behold the Great Satan,” the Instructor said, his voice hushed yet quavering with the fervor of a zealot. “Here is the beast we have come to slay.”

  *

  When the details of the city were clear, and they could see the arch of a bridge that seemed to span two peninsulas of land, the Instructor made his way forward and stood at the bow of the boat. He narrowed his eyes, studying the coastline with the gaze of a predator. He could see the mouth of the harbor, sparkling blue beneath the bridge, and beyond it the clutter of gleaming buildings that seemed to cling to the narrow strips of sand.

  “Is that where we go to?” he pointed at the channel.

  “Yes,” Mohsen said. “I have chartered the boat from a company inside the harbor.”

  The Instructor nodded. He stepped back a pace, then whipped his muscled forearm around Mohsen Gheydari’s throat. The man cried out in a shriek of white fear. The Instructor pulled the man off balance so that his back was arched and his chest swelled tight against his shirt. Then, from within the pocket of his jeans, the Instructor produced a knife. He plunged the blade into Mohsen’s heart, burying the weapon to the hilt. He held the man upright until hi
s shirt was soaked with blood, and then he heaved the body over the side of the boat.

  *

  The four men abandoned the speedboat at the edge of a marina and disappeared into the crowds of weekend tourists who had come to the waterfront to shop and eat. They walked in a tight knot, their faces rigid, their bodies tight with tension. The noise of the city was an assault on their ears. The crowds were thick throngs pushing and rushing for no apparent reason. The streets were filled with cars and trucks. The Instructor stepped to the side of a busy road and threw out his hand urgently.

  A taxi pulled across a lane of traffic and jerked to a halt.

  The Instructor leaned through the open passenger-side window of the vehicle. The driver was a plump man with no hair on his head, and fat meaty arms. He was grossly overweight. The interior of the vehicle smelled of greasy food and stale sweat. The Instructor smiled.

  “Excuse me,” he said in broken awkward English. “We would like to go here.” In his hand was a piece of paper that had been cut from a magazine. The paper was crumpled. The Instructor smoothed it out and smiled warmly again.

  The taxi driver frowned. He reached across the passenger seat and took the clipping. He looked at the four men speculatively. “That won’t be cheap,” he said.

  The Instructor dug a fist into his pocket and offered a wad of American money. He had a thousand dollars in new fifty-dollar bills. The taxi driver peeled off four of the notes and tucked them into his shirt pocket.

  The four men climbed into the taxi and the car sped away from the curb.

  “Sun Life Stadium it is,” the driver said.

  It was 1pm, Sunday afternoon.

  *

  The men had seen sports stadiums in Iran, but nothing to match the sheer grandeur of the structure that seemed to fill the windshield of the taxi as the vehicle entered the vast parking lot. The four men peered out through the windows in hushed wonder. There were thousands of cars – more cars than any of them had seen in their lives.

  The taxi lurched to a halt and the driver jabbed a pudgy finger through his window. “That’s the entrance,” he said. “Just follow the crowds.”

  The men got out of the taxi and the vehicle sped away in a belch of grey exhaust, riding low on its springs and swaying like a boat as it disappeared from sight. The Instructor glanced at the three other men gathered close to him. “Remember why we are here,” he sounded the warning. “We are martyrs for the great cause. Do not fail your families or your country.”

  *

  There were thousands of people, the Instructor saw, dressed in green and orange. Many of the people were sitting in their seats waving giant orange fingers that seemed to be made of foam. The noise of the crowd made his head pound so that he longed for the vast emptiness and solitude of the desert. He found a seat beside several young women. They were sleek and glossy with the exuberance and confidence of youth. Their bodies were tanned brown and they wore shamefully skimpy clothes. They screamed at something that suddenly happened on the sports field but the Instructor did not bother to look. Instead he watched the young women from the corner of his eye. They leaped from their seats and hugged each other. They were laughing. One of the women peeled off the bright colored t-shirt she was wearing so that everyone around her could see her bra. The Instructor turned away. He felt a flush of dark color burn his cheeks. He heard the women giggle gleefully and wondered if they were taunting him.

  “Godless whores,” he hissed under his breath. He felt his temper begin to flare, but he suppressed it. He clenched his fists tightly and searched the sea of faces for the other three martyrs. He could not see them, but he knew they would be ready. The Instructor glanced down at his watch…

  *

  At third down and eleven on the forty yard line, everyone in Sun Life Stadium seemed to sense the Miami Dolphins were about to call a passing play. An anxious hush descended upon the vast crowd.

  The quarterback took the snap and rolled out to his left. Downfield the wide receiver suddenly jinked off his right foot and burst away from his cover, running fast towards the Packers end zone. The quarterback threw the pass and the ball sailed on a perfect arc through the air.

  Seventy-six thousand fans rose to their feet, following the trajectory of the spiraling ball and holding their breath.

  The hands of the Instructor’s wristwatch ticked over to one fifty-nine pm.

  He rose calmly from his seat and reached into the pocket of his jeans. In his hand was a small leather case. He unzipped the opening. Inside was a small syringe and the vial of virus the Russian scientist had given him at the desert training camp.

  The Instructor filled the syringe and glanced at the clock. He began to count down the seconds. His hands began to shake.

  “Allah be praised.”

  The Instructor felt the prick of the needle pierce his skin, and his vision began to blur. He heard the crowd cry out in a sudden roar of wild excitement followed by a thunder of applause that seemed to roll around the stadium like a great wave of sound.

  It was two o’clock.

  *

  Sun Life Stadium was the perfect killing ground – a vast press of bodies confined by seats and choke points at the entrance gates.

  That was the Instructor’s last thought as he fell back in his seat, suddenly dead.

  No one noticed.

  Two minutes later he got to his feet.

  It was the instant that America was changed forever.

  The zombie lunged for a young blonde woman close beside it. The girl was in her twenties. She was swinging her t-shirt above her head and bouncing up and down in the narrow space between the seats. She was wearing a black bra. Her skin was honey brown, gilded by the Miami sun. The zombie grabbed her by the arm and the girl screamed. The zombie reefed the woman off balance, and as she turned her face and saw the hideous thing that held her, it lunged and tore at her nose and eyes. Flesh ripped, blood gushed. The girl thrashed and kicked. Blood sprayed high into the air and spattered like rain across the shoulders of the people nearby. The girl screamed again. The zombie had spat out her nose and had its hands tangled in the hair at the back of the girl’s head, holding her still while it bit at her eyes and the soft flesh of her cheek. The girl fell to the ground, her body awash with blood.

  The zombie roared. It was a high-pitched snarling sound. Blood spilled down its chin. It turned its head, saw another woman. This one was older. She was standing beside two young children. The zombie hurled itself at the woman and she went crashing backwards to the hard concrete. The zombie tore at her chest with its clawed fingers. The woman’s heels tapped spasmodically on the ground as the ghoul dug into her flesh and tried to tear out her heart.

  People started to scream. A man stepped forward and grabbed the ghoul by the shoulders. The zombie turned and snarled at the man. He tried to back away but it was too late. The zombie dropped down onto its haunches and then lunged to attack. The guy went over backwards, tripping over a chair and crashing into other spectators. He was crying out in fear. Around him other people began to move away in panic. The zombie retched up fresh blood. Its eyes were red and crazed. It sank its teeth into the man’s arm and tore away shreds of flesh until the bone was exposed.

  The screams became louder. A ripple of frantic movement seemed to spread out through the vast crowd, as if rocks had been thrown into a calm lake. The ripples reached out and eventually collided, just as the panicked people did in the stadium. Suddenly the sound of cheers became the high keening wail of terror. People were crushed as they clawed and fought their way towards the exits. Children were left behind or lost by their parents. The weak and elderly were trampled. White panic spread within the stadium until the sound of their collective voices was a wail of mortal fear and horror.

  The zombies raged through the dense press of bodies, and it was a slaughter.

  A white-shirted security guard came running into the stands with his weapon drawn. The crowd swirled past him, running in sheer panic. They were
screaming. The guard saw a young blonde woman stagger towards him. She was wearing just a black bra and tiny white shorts. She was drenched in blood and half her face had been ravaged. Soft flaps of flesh hung from her cheek.

  “Jesus!” the guard gasped. He took a step towards the woman. She tilted her head to the side at an impossible angle and her tongue slithered from the ruined lips. She licked at the air as if tasting it. The guard froze, and then took an uncertain step backwards. A big heavy-set man wearing a Miami Dolphins jersey went lumbering past, knocking himself and the guard off balance. The gun went off and the sound was deafening. Then the zombie woman flung herself at the two men, slashing with her clawed fingers and tearing at flesh. The guard screeched. He fired blindly, hitting the zombie in the chest. The bullet tore through her body, punching a neat hole just above her breast. Brown slime oozed from the wound. The zombie threw back her head and her blood-soaked hair flailed. She howled and then went berserk.

  Around Sun Life Stadium the wails of fear rose to a crescendo. The crowd at the turnstiles was frantic. They were pressed so tightly together that children caught between the bodies suffocated, and a man died of a heart attack. There was no room for him to even fall. He died standing up. Glass windows shattered. The concrete ground became slippery with blood. The undead stalked towards the exits and ripped a swathe of blood and horror through all those who were unable to escape.

  In the vast parking lot a heavily pregnant woman wearing an over-sized Green Bay Packers jersey ran screaming, clutching at her stomach. Her face was painted in gaudy colors but not even that could mask the terror on her face. She wailed and sobbed as she ran. She reached a concrete barrier and stole a terrified look over her shoulder. One of the undead was running after her. It had been a man. Now it was a terrifying apparition of horror. One of its arms was missing, but it ran as though compelled by mindless fury. It hunted the woman. She cried out and pushed herself away from the barrier, trying to escape in the maze of parked cars. An SUV reversed in a juddering screech of smoking rubber. The vehicle knocked the pregnant woman to the ground and the zombie pounced on her. It tore her neck open and then perched astride her chest, feasting on her soft flesh. The woman shrieked until she died.