Brutal Planet: A Zombie Novel

by Sean P. Murphy

  To be one hundred percent honest, I was nervous, needed to move, wanted out of our little smelly metal box to get some fresh air. Also, I was curious. In the back of the Winnie, you can only see out the back window. It’s covered in a heavy mesh, minus my shooting slots, but I can see just fine. Since I was in the back, everything that I saw had this look of something that had already happened. You quickly become totally disoriented and just hope the driver knows what the hell he is doing. But once outside. Fresh air. Beautiful day.

  I joined Doc and Robert from Winnie one and could see now why Roy stopped. Ahead, the road was scattered with military equipment, a couple of Hummers, and about a dozen dead Army National guardsmen. There was also a couple of hundred dead zombies mostly concentrated around the immediate area, but also scattered in the field across the road to our right. The number of dead guardsmen was just a guess, since many were torn to shreds. The whole thing looked to be some kind of improvised roadblock. Off on one side there was a sandbag structure surrounding a truck with something that looked like a Gatling gun in back. From the looks of things, they were protecting some uninteresting dirt side road.

  “Somebody made a stand, but why the hell would you put a roadblock way out here?” It was Robert.

  “Good question. What do you think is up that road?”

  “Doc, you are more than welcome to take a look, I don’t think your ride will be waiting when, or if you come back, but knock yourself out.” Robert was scanning with his binoculars.

  “Yeah, thanks, Robert. Is it me, or is this a shit load of zombies?”

  I bent over the headless corpse of a guardsman. They had done quite a job on him. His right arm was missing at the shoulder; it’s a ball and socket type joint and could be ripped free, but that would take a precise twisting technique and incredible strength. Both legs were gone at the knees, shirt ripped open, abdomen and intestines exposed. I was always incredulous when watching a movie zombie rip open someone’s belly with their bare hands, but apparently, they have found a way. As would be expected, there was a lot of blood and tissue scraps. Most of the blood was clotted, but the deeper pools still held liquid. The tissue smelled fresh and there was not much signs of scavenger activity.

  “So, Doc, about when do you think this went down?” Roy seemed agitated.

  “Maybe yesterday?”

  “Guys, I think it was late last night or early this morning. It’s past eleven now and the bodies, blood, everything looks real fresh, this scene is just going cold. But whatever happened, we have nothing to do with it and should be going.” Taking in the sights was not part of the plan and would have no good outcome.

  Robert came over and in an almost fatherly tone said, “John, you are right. We should be moving and whatever happened here really does not have anything to do with us, but you see those two guys over there? If not for them, we would be dead right now, so when Roy says stop, I stop.” He slapped me on the back. “Besides, we are a bit lost. All the traffic and roadblocks have moved us on to plan J. How’s everyone doing in number two?”

  “So far so good. I think we are all a bit shell shocked, but about as ready as can be.”

  “Don’t worry. Mary and Terrence are good people. Just make sure they follow us and stay close. Remember what I told you about shooting. Just go for the center chest and try to stay calm.”

  “Thanks, Robert.”

  I drifted away and over to Roy and Hammer. They were dressed like those guys you saw on CNN who provided non-military security to diplomats in war zones. All dressed in black; combat boots, gloves, baseball caps, flak jackets, cool sunglasses, and those smallish machine guns with scopes. Flak jackets? They definitely knew how to gown for this party. Roy was reading a map and talking to Hammer, who was intently scanning up road. I decided to give them some time. As I glanced around and absorbed the scene, the number of zombie corpses scattered across the plowed field surprised me. I didn’t count, but it had to be at least fifty. It looked like they all came from one direction and the guardsmen were ready. I didn't like the fact that there were so many zombies already out here, there had to be more. Where were they?

  Roy came sauntering over, carrying a shotgun and bandoleer loaded with shells. He handed it to me saying, “I hope you know how to use this. Should give Winnie two a little more fire power.” He stepped back and I could swear he was about to say something else when he turned and yelled, “Hey, Robert, you and me need to pow-wow with Doc. Tim, how we looking?”

  “No zombies so far, Roy.” He lowered his binoculars and leaned down. “It’s the people that bother me.”

  “Keep me posted. You still with us, Paul, or is Judgment Day boring for you?”

  “Wouldn’t miss this for the world, Boss.”

  “Very nicely put.”

  Roy walked over to Winnie One and I just stood there, arms outstretched, holding a cool shotgun and a full bandoleer. This could work. I draped the ammo over my shoulder and looked the shotgun over. Yeah, I could tell it was a shotgun, but in no way the kind I grew up with. There was no wood, just black matte plastic, a stock and pistol grip, way shorter than I remembered, and a cool looking scope. Maybe this was Roy’s way of showing approval; that it was okay with him that I was with Elizabeth, and that if I had the balls to leave the Winnie, I might be able to handle something other than the Ruger. Or it could be that he knew Winnie Two was a bit light when it came to fire power. While Roy and Doc spoke with Terrence, Robert gave me a quick tutorial of the weapon.

  “You ever shoot one of these?”

  “A few times, but just skeet. Nothing like this one.” I handed it to him.

  “Same concept.” He tried to look at me, but was distracted by the cars and people on the road.

  “Robert?”

  “Alright, it's only partially loaded.” He started to examine it closely. “Maybe three rounds left.” It only took him a minute to give the seal of approval.

  “Okay, nine shots fully loaded, safety is here. You chamber rounds by pump action, like this, nice and smooth. Now, when you fire, hold it tight to the shoulder, as it will kick. If you don’t hold it tight or try to play cowboy, you might be looking at bruised or broken ribs, maybe a dislocated shoulder.”

  We both kneeled down on one knee and he ejected some shells and quickly demonstrated how to load. I loaded exactly three shells. “You might want to practice this some. Look, the Winnies are tight, so watch the recoil and make damn sure the barrel is out the window when you pull the trigger. Got it?”

  “Roger that, practice and keep my shit together.”

  He ignored my comment. “Outside, a one knee stance like this will give you a more stable platform and better accuracy. From what I see, you have a mix of ammo and none of it is for bird hunting.” He stood and started back to his vehicle, stopped, and turned.

  “Just remember to have that safety on at all times when not in use. Oh, and when things do get interesting, count your shots!”

  You know how you are about to say something that you realize is stupid, and you want to stop but the brain has sent the signal, and you go ahead because maybe it would be funny? Yup.

  “Hey, Robert, are things going to get interesting?” He looked at me with a totally blank face, glanced around, stared back, shook his head, turned, and went inside his Winnie.

  When I stood and turned to go back to number two, I froze. For the first time, I was seeing our caravan all lined up and out in the open. It was a sight to behold. The vehicles fit that post-apocalyptic heavy metal vibe to a T. Most of the Winnies’ modifications had taken place on the outside, with a quilt-work of metal diamond plate reinforcement and steel grills; looking very impressive, very dangerous. All we lacked were Mohawk haircuts and chain mail.

  A crowd had started to gather on the opposite side of the road. They were quiet, almost polite. I tried not to look, but did. Men, women and children; confused, terrified, tired…lost. I cannot save these people. I turned my back, went into the Winnebago, and closed the do
or.

  “Show’s over.” It was Mary, “Let’s get back to our assigned positions.” Terrence had kept her idling.

  “I’m with you, Mary, let’s get the fuck going!”

  “You okay, John?”

  “I’m alright, Liz.” I mouthed the words, ‘I love you,’ and went to my position.

  It took a few tense minutes and a blast from Paul’s machine gun to get us all on the same page and moving. We passed the carnage of the roadblock in silence. It seemed like bodies and parts were everywhere. It was then I realized a lot of the ‘zombies’ were partially dressed and appeared to be wearing military uniforms. We started so slow that I could clearly see a guardsman, maybe ten feet away, on his back with his left arm missing and dark dried blood over half of his uniform (well not really a uniform since he had no pants). The blood had desiccated, leaving his tattered left sleeve sticking out at a crazy angle. I focused on his head wound. No dried blood. Everything looked relatively fresh. These were both terminal wounds that had occurred at different times. What the hell had gone on here? As we drove away, I got a better view. The distribution and orientation of the guards’ bodies was one of defense. The barricade was not intended to stop us from going up the side road, just the opposite.

  The carnival crawled along, maybe hitting the 10 MPH barrier every now and then. I didn’t look anyone who was along the road in the eye, just searched for threats, whatever that means. After about forty-five minutes, we stopped.

  “Folks,” Mary turned from the passenger seat to face us, “it looks like our free spirited time on the Autobahn is over, a major traffic jam ahead, miles long.” She went back to the radio and I couldn’t really hear what was going on. In a five minute conversation, the only words that got to me was her raspy voice shouting, “We could be fucked!”

  The highway was probably made in the fifties and now held the honor of being a ‘Scenic Byway.’ Two lanes, both clogged, everyone heading in the same direction. Where were these people going? Did they all have boats? Will our boats be there? We had a plan and now I don’t even know where we are going. Mary spent her time talking on the radio and to Terrence. The rest of us were just quiet and glued to our posts.

  “Hey, Bad Boy,” it was Liz, “here’s some water. Nice shotgun. I guess pilfering the dead must be in vogue these days?”

  “Thanks, it’s a wedding gift from your ex.”

  “In your dreams, sweetie.”

  The coast looked clear, so I checked the safety, ejected a few shells, and practiced loading. God, did I love this woman!

  The guy in the car to the left of me was alone in a small red BMW convertible with the top up. He had a hunting rifle across his lap aimed at the driver’s side window. Like all of us, he looked desperate to get moving and pounded his steering wheel, while talking/shouting to himself. He never looked right at our convoy, but I could tell he knew we were there. As I watched, he was suddenly startled by something off to his left and hastily tried to change directions of the rifle, but the car was too small. To do this, he would have to get out. I was pretty sure I knew what got his attention and was wondering what his decision would be when a loud thump rocked the Winnie.

  Through the screen, I could see a bald obese man dressed in a pair of khaki farmer Johns, wobbling from side to side like one of those old Weeble toys. He was a big boy, six foot plus and easily three hundred. His right ear was missing, dried blood caked his entire right side and his skin was an oily, grayish white, just like the others. It seemed to me he was not concentrating on the people inside. The vehicle itself fascinated him. He would whack us, step back, look, then step forward and hit us again. He was quickly making his way to the back, too close for Paul to get him. So, now it’s John Time!

  “I’ll get him,” I casually yelled. The zombie kept pounding and moving closer and closer to my position. I was ready, sure of my stance and barrel position. Then...shit, the safety’s on! Looking over to flip it off, I stuck the shotgun too far out and the big guy grabbed the barrel. I was totally caught off guard and he was way stronger than I would have guessed. Would have guessed? Would have guessed? The dude significantly moved the Winnebago every time he hit the damn thing. I prayed that as we struggled, he would move in front of the barrel and I could get off a shot, but he stayed to one side, moving it back and forth, trying to pull it from my hands. I felt someone next to me, and then a loud bang. It was Liz. She had two pistols, both dark and modern looking. She had blown the top of farm boy’s head off. He fell against the Winnie, holding the barrel to the very end.

  “Thanks, Liz.” Still in a bit of a daze and now half deaf, “How did he know to grab the barrel?” I really wasn’t asking her, just talking to myself.

  “More than likely, it was the movement. That was incredible, guys.” It was Leslie who had been filming the whole thing.

  “Hey, John, next time you go for a little walk, will you take a camera with you?”

  “Leslie, let me think about that. Ah...no. But you can join me and I will cover you, as best I can.” Was she fucking crazy? Carry a camera? I think I will just stay away and let her do her own thing.

  People, real people, were running in various directions. An older woman, somewhere past 70 and not real, came into view, probably attracted by the commotion with the big guy. She was not as fast as the others were, stumbling around dressed in a light blue nightgown with muddy, but I assume, matching slippers. It was difficult to tell where she was wounded, since there were large dark spots everywhere. I knew it was light blue, because she held both arms up like she was surrendering, and her underarms were not stained. I have no clue why her arms were up; maybe the position she was in when she died? Some bizarre form of rigor mortis? I eventually settled on the ‘maybe she just liked them that way’ theory. I had freed the barrel from the big, now really dead guy’s hands, clicked the safety off, positioned myself, and waited a couple of seconds for her to get closer. I had never used a scope and it was cool, gave me a sense that I knew what I was doing. Maybe she was a real person. Maybe she was just hurt and wanted some help. The way we look, I wouldn’t come close to our little cavalcade without surrendering. Then I focused on her face. It wasn’t pain, anger, or confusion, but pure fury. I fired. A huge section of her left side just vanished in a spray of gore. I had aimed for the head. She didn’t fall, but made a complete counterclockwise pirouette and just stood there. She lowered her arms and folded them across her chest. It was almost like she was thinking of what to do, or maybe scolding me. This gave me a chance to line up a better shot, calm down, control my breathing, and slowly pull the trigger. Her head just seemed to explode and she crumpled to the ground. Very simple and just like in the movies. Yes! My first official zombie kill. Of course, it probably had been somebody's grandma, but a kill was a kill.

  More zombies were already moving towards us. Paul was firing away, although from the sounds of his stochastic bursts, he was obviously taking his time and conserving ammo. Shots were coming from other vehicles. Mary had the radio turned up and I could clearly hear Roy.

  “I want fire to protect our convoy only! We have to conserve ammo,” Mary yelled. It was a cold-hearted order, but the appropriate one. Jane, Liz, and Norm, were blasting away and the cabin started to fill with gun smoke. I didn't have any targets in my zone, just more and more cars and people.

  Directly behind us was an old forest green station wagon, the kind with the fake wooden panels on the sides, a luggage rack on top, and a seat in the back so you can ride going backwards. As a kid, I used to love traveling like that. The car was crammed full of people, adults and children. They were screaming and crying. Two zombies were on the passenger side, both thin shirtless young males, naked with shaved heads. The only thing they had on was a bright yellow bracelet on each right wrist. They could have been brothers, maybe they were. One was furiously banging away at the rear passenger window, huge windmill strikes that made the whole car shudder. The other just stood there with this face of fury and confusion.
His arms were just hanging limply at his side. Several open wounds on his back probably indicated bilateral disruption to the brachial plexus, surgery. The nerves to his arms had been damaged and he could no longer use them.

  The wagon was boxed in and they were trapped, eventually, the undead would get what they wanted. I pulled out the Ruger and lined up a shot on the active one. I was afraid the shotgun would do more harm than good. My first round hit the zombie in the neck, which made him turn his attention to me, and freeze, perfect, since he was only fifteen feet away. My next one was through the right eye, although I was aiming for his forehead. Now I had two. The other one didn't know what to do. Its arms flopped about as he rapidly turned from me to the station wagon and back again. It was like the zombie’s brain was caught in this loop and couldn’t decide who to attack next.

  “We have got to get out of here, now!”

  It was Mary. She sounded pissed, and she was right. As time passed, not only did more of the undead show up, so did more vehicles. They were trying to pass and getting stuck on either side of us. Everyone gave us a wide berth.

  Things were going downhill fast, and if we don’t move soon, we would become trapped. Mary was on the radio but I couldn't make out what was being said over the gunfire and general commotion. The Winnie suddenly jerked backwards and slammed into the station wagon, and I was thrown against the rear window. The flapping zombie was crushed and disappeared from view. I made eye contact with the driver. He was a portly, middle-aged man. I assumed the woman in the passenger seat was his wife. He leaned forward and stared at me through the cracked windshield, his eyes full of anger, confusion, and fear. The driver side window had shattered from the impact. Then Terrance hit the gas and pushed them backwards till they hit the car behind them. Now steam was venting from their engine. It was never our intent to kill them, but we did.