by Allen Gamboa
"Just relax, buddy. I got ya." Jefferson glanced around for any deaders, saw none, then slung his rifle and swiftly picked up the smaller man in a fireman's carry. Jefferson had been a volunteer firefighter in the small town of Gold Beach, Oregon before the outbreak. He’d worked a fishing boat to pay the bills, but firefighting was what he loved. Most of that job had entailed helping victims of car wrecks on the 101. He’d seen a lot of death on that job, but nothing the likes of the carnage the undead rising had brought.
"T-thhannkss …" Lucas' voice trailed off. Jefferson easily hauled his teammate over to the Pit Bull and jerked open the side door. He quickly rolled the injured man inside, pushing his legs away from the doorway. Jefferson grabbed a blanket from under a seat, wiped his bloody hands on it, then wrapped it around the wounded man. The Marine threw a quick glance over to the cab of the Pit Bull.
"Clarke, I have Lucas back here!" he shouted. "He’s wounded, but I have him wrapped up real good."
"Okay, mate," the driver shouted back, eyes still fixed on the besieged Humvee. "I’ll take care of him!"
"Take a rest, Luke. I’ll be right back." He shut the truck’s door behind him. Looking around, Jefferson unslung his mini-14 and rejoined the attempt to save the major and the others.
***
More hands and heads were starting to squeeze their way into the wrecked vehicle. Zagers continued to try and clog the opening in the back of the Hummer with every deader corpse he shot, but even that was starting to fail. More of the hungry undead were prying their way inside the cramped quarters looking for flesh. The three soldiers' ears were all ringing from Wolf's frequent gun shots which, thankfully, dulled the ghastly moans of the deaders outside. Sweating profusely, Hale wiped the stinging fluid from his eyes and continued smashing the countless hands that grabbed at him with the black blood-smeared metal case. His arms and shoulders burned as they grew tired at the almost non-stop fighting.
The major still had hope that the others would soon rescue them. Hope was what often kept Hale going. When the first undead outbreak had occurred, he’d been a sergeant with the 441 heavy weather rescue wing. A few of the big cities had fallen, and things had started to look grim. Hale volunteered for a combined Army and Air Force unit whose job it was to deliver the anti-virus and its creators to Cheyenne Mountain, where the U.S government had been relocated. It was an urgent mission filled with thousands and thousands of deaders, crazy survivalists, and bloodthirsty gangs. Dangerous at best. Suicidal at worst. Throughout the whole horrible ordeal, he had held onto the hope that things would get better, and they did. Despite the loss of his wife and two daughters and the loss of eighty percent of the unit, they had delivered the anti-virus and hastily turned the near apocalypse around.
"Major!"
Hale stopped smashing the case on a pair of cold, reaching hands long enough to look behind him. Zoe West lay on her back, kicking at several pairs of arms that were now trying to pull her through a new opening in the driver's side door. Hale tucked the case in next to him, grabbed West by the shoulders, and tried to force her back inside. Straining, the major grunted as he held tightly to the flailing Aussie soldier. He couldn’t hold on much longer. Too many deaders had a grip on her legs. Hale looked over to the German for help, but Zagers had his hands full with the undead trying to get in on both sides of the rear of the Hummer. Heads were popping through the opening, snapping at Zoe’s legs. Behind him, Hale heard the horrible sound of the dead shredding the remains of the passenger side door with their torn, ripped hands. Still holding Zoe, he glanced over his shoulder to see two of the flesh eaters slither inside. Moving at a speed his tired mind couldn’t fathom, they clawed at his back and neck.
"Shit!" Hale still held onto West while trying to move away from the ravenous dead. He angrily batted them away with his right arm, but they continued to grab and bite at him. One gripped his harness and pulled him straight down to the roof of the Hummer. He had to let go of West so they wouldn’t be on her too. Cursing, he tried to reach for his .45, but the assault by the deaders was too much. Another one slithered in behind them.
West kicked madly at the gripping hands, trying to break free. Yelling curses she’d never even heard before, she forcefully countered the deaders' attempts to drag her out of the vehicle. Her thighs were aching as she furiously moved her legs away from the mob of voracious flesh eaters. She tried in vain to help the major, but she just had too much to handle on her own.
"Zagers!" she cried out. The only reply from the rear of the Humvee was the horrifying moans of the undead. West continued to use her rifle butt to bash at the deader hands and faces as the door slowly began to give way. Suddenly, the door was ripped from the frame, and West was forcefully pulled out of the wreckage. The violent motion threw West flat on her back, almost knocking the wind out of her and causing the Australian to nearly lose her mini-14. West quickly looked back to see Hale rolling around with three deaders viciously tearing at him.
"Major!" she screamed as she was dragged from the Humvee. Trying to sit up, West raised her rifle, intending to take as many of the dead with her as she could.
Cursing, West tried to sit up and draw a bead on the monsters grabbing her legs.
"Zoe!" Newman shouted. "Zoe!"
"Alby?" Zoe sighed deeply, almost dropping her weapon. Newman and Jefferson had a grip on her ripped pant legs. The big Aussie was holding up a hand to stop her from shooting them. The two big sergeants had been able to pull the door free once they had eradicated the surrounding deaders. Piles of freshly re-killed deaders lay all about, thick puddles of black blood covered the saw grass. Overcome by exhaustion, Zoe pointed back to the Hummer. "Help the major and Zagers." She swallowed.
"Washington, take care of her!" Alby shouted. "Jefferson, follow me!" He drew his pistol and Jefferson followed suit. Gun first, Newman peered into the open doorway. Inside, he saw Hale tiredly struggling with five deaders. One of them was the German, Zagers.
"Headshots!" Newman said angrily and fired. Both men were careful with the placements of their shots, not wanting to accidently hit the major in the cramped interior. Two of the deaders' heads exploded, spraying black blood and gray brain matter all over the others. Alby fired again, hitting a third in the forehead, dropping it on top of Hale. The Zagers deader turned to face the open doorway and, growling, ferociously leaped at the two soldiers. The giant German cannibal was an unnerving sight, but both men held their ground and blasted his head into oblivion. Headless, Zagers collapsed half in and half out of the Hummer.
"Sorry, mate," Newman said, scrambling over Zagers' body and into the wreckage to get to the major. Pistol up, he was confronted with Hale crushing the last deader's head to mush with the biologic case. The officer continued to smash the deader's head into a fine, black juice, swearing the whole time.
"Major, Major!" Newman reached in and grabbed one of Hale’s blood-covered arms. "Major, it’s me, Newman!”
"Fuck!" Hale set the case down and slumped against the broken Humvee's door. "Alby … I’m pretty fucking chewed up." He spit up some blood onto his harness. The Aussie noticed his arms and neck had some pretty terrible bites taken out of them. "Here." He slowly handed the blood-stained case over to Newman. "Take it …"
"Major?" He grabbed the case from the officer. Hale smiled weakly.
"Get to the plane, and get the fuck off the island." He spit up some more blood. "Take my SAT phone … right pocket … leg …" He wavered. "Some fucking cakewalk. Sorry …" His eyes rolled up in the back of his head, and he fell forward onto a deader corpse.
"Major!" Newman quickly handed the case back to Jefferson then pulled Hale’s lifeless body out of the Humvee. Jefferson set the case down and helped the sergeant place the major gently on the ground. Outside, Washington was busy jamming an auto-injector into Zoe’s left thigh. West grimaced at the president's less than gentle jab.
"Sorry," Washington said, then saw them pulling out Hale. "Shit!"
"What?" Zoe looked over
her shoulder. "Aw, no. no, no!"
Newman swiftly pulled open the major's tactical vest. Hale was now covered head to toe in his own blood. Alby and Jefferson urgently started CPR on their commander. Wickham, Gonzo, and Cord had climbed down off the roof of the Pit Bull and hurried over to where Newman and the others were.
"Zoe?" Wickham asked as he approached the rest of the team. West looked up sadly and just shook her head.
"No way," Cord said under his breath. The younger soldier dropped to a knee, not able to wrap his mind around the loss of their leader. Gonzales, the medic, squatted down next to the two men, who were feverishly working on reviving Hale. He tapped Newman hard on the shoulder.
"He's gone," Gonzo said. "Alby …"
"No!" Newman continued pumping on the major’s chest, sweat dripping off his bloody face. Gonzo grabbed the platoon sergeant's hands.
"He's dead, Alby! There’s nothing more you can do."
"Fuck!" Newman stopped and slouched down on his haunches. "Fuck!"
"Watch the trail," Wickham told Cord. "Washington, cover our arses." Wickham slowly looked down at Newman and rested a hand on his shoulder. "Alby, was nuthin' ya could'a done," he said quietly. "We gotta move, or we're all going to die here."
Newman nodded and stood up. He handed the blood-spattered SAT phone to Wickham and wiped his face with the back of his hand. "I'll do it," he said, not looking at any of the others. The lieutenant nodded as he shoved the phone into his vest.
"Do it," he said quietly and turned away. Gonzo was still squatting by Jefferson. He held the major’s ID and wallet. Without a word, he passed them to Jefferson. The former Marine gave a quick nod and placed them in a leg pocket. Both men then stood up and turned away from the body of their commander.
"Sorry, sir," Newman said, drawing his .45. That single shot seemed to echo throughout the island. He reholstered the handgun. "We better go."
"I think so," Cord said. "We’ve got more deaders headed down the trail!" The seven remaining soldiers looked back up the trail to see another deader horde start to stumble and fall their way.
"Aye!" West said wearily as Washington helped to her feet. "This day ever gonna end?"
"Eventually," Jefferson said, grabbing West under the right arm and helping her towards the Pit Bull.
The group quickly made their way over to the big vehicle. While the others went to the right of the Pit Bull, Wickham climbed into the passenger side of the cab. He shut his door, locked it, and fastened his seat belt. The lieutenant looked over to the driver's side for Clarke, but found it empty.
“Clarke!” Wickham shouted, annoyed. “Get your ass up here. We have to leave now!” Nothing but some heavy breathing. Shaking his head, he undid his seat belt and swung his legs around to stand up. A bloody hand slithered from the rear of the truck and grabbed him by the hair. Surprised, Wickham tried to pull away, but another big hand gripped the right side of his head and jerked him down to the floor, wedging him in between the seats. The lieutenant swung blindly at his attacker, striking him without any effect. The deader dropped its heavy weight upon his back, snapping vertebrae and ribs. Wickham screamed in pain, breathing now becoming unbearable. Just when he thought he’d reached his tolerance for pain, he felt the horrible teeth on his neck. More ragged screams followed.
***
"Finally!" Cord said, relieved, as he grabbed the handle on the Pit Bull's side door. Washington stood to his right with West, Jefferson, and Newman behind him. The young soldier anxiously yanked the door open and hastily turned to face the others, giving a little bow. "Ladies first."
"Cord!" was all Jefferson could get out as a deader, Lucas, sprang from the inside of the vehicle and jumped right onto Cord's back, sending them both to the ground. One was moaning and growling; the other was screaming. Cord rolled around on the grass, trying to throw the undead soldier off him. Before any of the others could react, West drew Washington's K-Bar from his belt, stepped forward, and rammed it into Lucas' ear. She twisted it around until the deader fell over onto the ground next to the screaming Cord. West wiped the knife on her torn pant leg and handed it back to Washington.
"T-thanks …" the former MP said, just staring at her in awe.
"Good job, Zoe," Alby said, stepping past them. Cord still lay on the ground screaming. West knelt down and shook him hard.
"Cord! Cord!" she shouted. "Ruck up, mate!" The younger soldier stopped screaming and looked up at the others, wild-eyed.
"I’m okay. I’m okay!" He shivered. "Not bit … not bit," he said, almost in a whisper.
"Good for ya." West turned to where Lucas lay on his stomach. "Sorry, Luke," she said, quickly reaching under his chest and finding his ID.
"Come on!" Washington said and lifted Cord to his feet.
"They’re coming!" Jefferson warned, helping the others into the truck. At least a dozen deaders had made it over to where the Humvee lay. Once the team was all inside, Jefferson shut the door and locked it. "Time to go."
"Clarke, get us the fuck to the airfield," Newman said, making his way to the cab. He could see the driver’s seat was empty. Looking to the right, he saw the two figures between the seats. One lay on the floor, jammed in between the seats; the other figure sat on top of it, chewing on something in its hands. The sergeant moved cautiously forward, careful not to draw attention to himself. When he got near enough, he could hear the horrific chewing and slurping sounds. He took another step, and there was a faint squishing sound. The Aussie looked down at his feet to see himself standing in an inch-deep puddle of blood. The coppery smell was almost overpowering. Newman slowly drew out his big tactical blade and took a deep breath. Stepping closer, he raised the knife and started to swing when the deader stared back at him. Dead eyes and a blood-splashed face met his stare. Newman could also see what was in Clarke's stained hands. It was Wickham's severed head. Pushing down the urge to throw up, Newman struck. He drove the knife hard into Clarke's thick skull and moved it around, scrambling the dead Aussie's brains. The Clarke thing groaned, let go of Wickham's head, then fell across the passenger seat, smacking its face against the window. Black blood splattered the glass.
"What the …?" Jefferson said from behind the platoon sergeant. He stepped back, gagging. "Damn! Both?"
"Yeah." Newman picked the dead sergeant's ID out of his vest and then reached over Clarke's body and opened the passenger door. He shoved the soldier's corpse outside with the knife still jammed in its skull. He grabbed up what was left of the lieutenant's head and angrily tossed it outside. Jefferson was already down beside Wickham's remains, grabbing his ID and the SAT phone. Without a word between them, they both hoisted the body up and rolled it out of the vehicle. Closing the door, Newman threw the Pit Bull in reverse and started to back up it. A least a dozen of the undead were now starting to stumble towards them.
"What the hell happened, brother?" Washington asked as he approached the cab of the Pit Bull. He balanced himself with one hand and held a couple of water bottles in the other, trying not to step in the big puddle of Wickham's blood. Washington glanced around the sanguine-splattered cab. Jefferson sat in the passenger's seat, watching intently out the gore-speckled windshield as the tactical vehicle turned around. "Jeff?" Washington asked again with concern.
"Ah, thanks, Wash." Jefferson looked up at Washington, suddenly taking notice of him. He took the water bottles from the other soldier and dropped one into his lap then popped the top off the other. With the open bottle, he took a long pull then wiped his lips and splashed it all over the dirty windshield. Jefferson glanced around for something, found a torn piece of some kind of fabric, and used it to wipe Wickham's blood from the inside of the glass but only succeeded in moving the blood around, making a dirty, red smear. Jefferson said something under his breath and threw more water on it.
"Jeff! Jeff!" Washington grabbed his shoulder. "Brother …"
"Fuck, Wash!" Jefferson dropped the water bottle into his lap next to the other. It landed between his leg
s, splashing a little bit. The former Marine shook his head and placed his face in his hands. "It was my fault," he said through his fingers. "I put Lucas in the back. I should have watched him!"
"You shot him up, right?" Washington asked.
"Yeah, yeah I did. I … I … just didn’t know he was dying. I thought I had him patched up …"
"Mate." Newman steered with his left hand and reached in between Jefferson's legs with his right and grabbed the unopened water bottle. "Not your fault. Sometimes that anti-virus just doesn’t work. That goes right along with this big cluster fuck! Gotta get your head right, Jeff, ‘cause we ain’t home yet."
"I should have …"
"Should have what?" Newman dropped the bottle between his legs and twisted off the top. "It was a battle, mate. We had fast choices to make." He took a deep drink of water and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He noticed the blood splatters on his forearm and sighed heavily. "Don’t beat yourself up, Jeff. We need all hands now."
Jefferson nodded absently in agreement. He took a swallow from the near-empty water bottle and looked back at Washington, who still rested a hand on his shoulder.
"I’m alright Wash," he said, wiping something off his face. "I’m alright."
"Good, brother." Washington pounded him on the shoulder. "We got this."
"Speaking of got this," Newman threw a quick glance at Washington, "we get the case?"
"Yeah, Zoe’s sitting on it."
"Good, at least we have that."
"Yeah." Jefferson finished off the water bottle. "At least we got that."
CHAPTER 55: NOTHING'S GONNA BREAK MY STRIDE
The hum of the Skil saw was soothing music to Mister Black's ears. It made a cut with such a beautiful precision. The blade snagged a bit, and a small splash of red spattered his safety glasses. Annoyed, Black wiped the fluid with a gloved hand and set the saw down on an aluminum tray that was full of an assortment of other dangerous tools. He looked down and waved his index finger back and forth at the bundle on the table. "Tsk, tsk!" Black smiled through the mask that covered his nose and mouth and reached for a ballpeen hammer that was resting next to the crimson-coated Skil saw. Hefting it with his right hand, he gently tapped it in the palm of his gloved left hand. The Muzak version of Matthew Wilder's “Break My Stride” was playing through the elaborate sound system in his basement. Mister Black found himself humming along as he tapped the hammer in time. Just then, the phone in his slacks pocket vibrated.
