Enclave: A Novel of the Zombie Apocalypse

by Robert Morganbesser

  Diggs turned to the field table. On it were the series of switches that would send electric current to the charges of C-4 that combat engineers had placed in strategic areas about the bridge. A good forty feet of it would collapse; hopefully the rest wouldn’t follow it in, so that at some future time the bridge might be repaired. Diggs spat on the floor as he thought of that. Would anyone survive to see this happen? He doubted it. Even the Enclaves (none of which he had seen yet) didn’t give him hope. He was a dark hearted man in a rapidly fading world. He just wanted to take as many of the enemy with him when it was his time to die.

  As he put his hand on the switch, he activated his mike. His voice boomed out from various speakers, “FIRE IN THE HOLE!”

  Parts of the bridge roadway flew up into the air, propelled by the explosives. Zombies were sent flying up as if out of a cannon, bits, and pieces of them spreading out in a macabre aerial display.

  Great holes appeared on the upper and lower levels. Some of the zombies, who showed little to no intelligence, staggered forward to fall through the holes to their destruction in the waters below.

  Diggs was impressed. The engineers did their work well. A huge section of the middle of the bridge was gone. Nothing was getting across anytime soon. Now it was time to move onto the next problem.

  11 February 2032

  Command Post Evac Center

  Washington Square Park

  Diggs chewed the end of the cigar in his mouth and stared out at the park where he’d once courted his wife. The arch with Washington was defaced by vandals; the head of the great general bore a hole between the eyes, painted a garish red. On the statue was spray-painted: “DO THIS TO ALL THE DEAD.” The fountain, formerly the center point of the park, was a sandbagged machine gun nest; all the trees were blown down to make room for helicopters. Turning slightly, Diggs stared up Fifth Avenue. Both sides of it were barbed wired off, making a secure corridor up to the main command post for Manhattan at 63rd street. Refugees were huddled in tents, awaiting the helicopters, both “Jolly Green Giants” and “Skycranes,” that would take them to their new lives inside various Enclaves.

  Diggs sighed. He was watching his civilization come down around his ears and no one knew why. The numbers of the dead were growing and yet the scientists made no real progress. The ranks of the dead, ranks that included his wife, continued to grow. Diggs prayed she was lucky enough to kill herself when the Park Slope area of Brooklyn was overrun. He had been desperate to relieve it, to save the people there, but the numbers of zombies were too much for the force available. Perhaps she was permanently killed in one of the air strikes he’d ordered. He hoped so. Sometimes Diggs wondered why he didn’t eat a bullet like so many of his fellows. He felt he was living on borrowed time, that all of them were. With a sigh, he pulled on his helmet and made sure his gasmask was handy. So far, flamethrowers and heavy machine guns kept the dead at bay, but there was always a chance of a breakthrough. Most of the troops made him think of knights of old, since they all wore some kind of armor. Shin, knee, elbow, and forearm guards were standard. Some troops wore butchers chain mail gloves under their regular ones. Many troopers were saved by these precautions when swarmed by the zombies. If their fellows were on the ball, these simple precautions could save a trooper’s life.

  There were times when Digg’s wondered why anyone bothered.

  “Colonel!” Diggs headset buzzed with an excited voice.

  “What is it, Miklos?”

  Miklos breathless with excitement replied, “Sir we got a radio intercept from GI, you want to hear this sir.”

  Entering the radio tent, Diggs turned his personal comms off. “What’s so important about those traitors on GI, Captain?”

  Miklos hit a button and the speakers were filled with a frantic voice. “If anyone out there can hear us, we’re captives on Governor’s Island. We’re not part of the mutiny, I swear we’re…” There was a burst of static; then the voice picked up again. “We’re being held against our…” From the background came a fusillade of shots, then screams.

  “That’s it,” said Miklos. “Looks like not all the civilians were in on it.”

  Diggs frowned and asked her to play it again. After that, he took a deep breath and said, “Get command. We’re going to have to up our timetable for taking Governor’s Island back.”

  13 February 2032

  Observation Post

  Lower Manhattan

  Sergeant Kyle Bowman of the 22nd SADT, Search and Destroy Team of the Unified Forces of the U.S. Military, (even with civilization collapsing, the military loved its acronyms), stared at the Governor’s Island Ferry building. Inside a ‘safe zone’, in this case an office building that once housed a bank. The building, surrounded with barbed wire and mines was about a block walk from the ferry building. Anyone foolish enough to attempt it wouldn’t make ten it feet before the dead would be rendered to bones. The outside of the ferry building was barricaded with sandbags and barbed wire, the inside defended by armed Coast Guardsmen. Before 9/11, Governor’s Island was a Coast Guard base, in fact, ran all the harbor traffic for NYC. After 9/11, the island was awarded to New York City by the Federal government. For years, it lay unused. When the dead rose, the island, easily defended, was quickly reactivated as an evac point. The recent mutiny erupted when civilians, scheduled for relocation, rioted, not wanting to leave the safety of the island. They murdered quite a few of the military personnel before the rest escaped in the small boats and the only ferry. The one time a chopper tried to land a negotiating team there, they’d blown it out of the sky with captured ordnance. Now the civilians were trapped there, helicopter patrols making sure that none of them escaped on rafts built from scrap. Early in the mutiny, a few tried, only to be blasted to oblivion. If they wanted to be troublemakers during this new war; then they’d be treated as such. If one wasn’t part of the solution, they were part of the problem. Such behavior in today’s clime was unacceptable.

  As of late, there were no radio messages from the island. When a second helicopter attempted a flyby, it was shot at, the crew lucky to escape when it crashed into NY harbor. That was a month ago. Since then the military command of the Greater New York area was too busy with zombies and Lazarites to think about the traitors on the island. Now it was quite possible that without food that the inhabitants of the island – mostly refugees from Manhattan – had turned upon one another. Originally, Bowman didn’t care, but now with word that not all the civilians were in on the mutiny. Well, that changed things. All he wanted to do was kill the zombies near the ferry building and link up with the Coasties inside it.

  There were hundreds of zombies surrounding the building, but Bowman had an idea. They could run a flanking movement from the Staten Island Ferry building. Choppers could land the assault force on the roof; they’d make their way down and hit the zombies from the side while the choppers buzzed the morons, distracting them. Bowman nodded, sounded like a good plan to him.

  Five hours later…

  Bowman snarled back at the zombies who’d cut him off from the assault force. Two of his people were down; he could hear their screams as the dead tore them to bits. He’d dropped his rifle outside the maintenance room where he was forced to take refuge. Leaning against the heavy steel door that, luckily for him, hadn’t been locked, he wanted to remove his mask and wipe his eyes, but knew that if he did and the zombies got in, he was dead. Being sealed up in his armor would give him a fighting chance. Sweating heavily under his Kevlar and uniform, he looked around the room. It was a Cul de Sac. Other than parading himself through the waiting zombies, he was trapped, no way to escape.

  “Sarge!” His headset burst into life. “Sarge, are you alive?”

  It was Corporal Janey Bryce. She was a grenadier as well as his second hand ‘man’. Tough as nails, she was worth any five other non-coms he’d ever met. Her petite stature belied her heart, which had the ferocity of a lion. An orphan, she’d found a home in the army and made sure anyone who�
�d fuck with her family paid the price. If the dead hadn’t risen she might have been stuck in some dead end job, but job openings were plenty due to the high casualty rate, she became one of the first women to lead in combat, and paid the army back in large dividends.

  “Bryce, I’m ok. But Mendoza and Cowlings are down.”

  “I know; I heard the screams.”

  “What’s going on with the rest of the unit?”

  “We’re holding our own out here, reinforcements and gunships are on the way. I have a team, where are you?”

  Bowman took a deep breath. “I’m in a maintenance room near the ferry slip. I lost my rifle, all I have is a .45 and three mags. A couple of HE grenades, but we want this area as useable as possible, so I don’t want to use ‘em except as a last resort.” Both knew what that meant, pull the pins on the grenades, take his own life and as many zombies with him as he could. “There are about 100 zombies outside the door waiting to invite me to lunch. Forget about me. Link up with the Coasties; then come back.”

  “Fuck that.” He could tell by Bryce’s voice that she was going to ignore that order. “How the hell did intell not know this fucking place was swarming with zombies?”

  Brandon wanted to rub his eyes. “Ah, you know how it is. Those morons couldn’t tell they had two cheeks on their ass without a report. They screwed up, it happens. Infrared isn’t much good when the enemy isn’t warm.”

  Bryce replied, “No excuse for incompetence. Sarge, listen for shots and for me to tell you it’s safe, all right? We’re coming to get you.” Before he could protest, the radio went dead.

  Bowman looked around the room. There were a series of pipe wrenches, but they were too cumbersome to swing in close quarters. Opening a cabinet, he saw something he could use. Two short handled mallets. Leather straps hung off them, making him think of Thor’s hammer from back when he was a comic book reading kid. The handles were stout, probably oak. Taking them off their pegs, he hefted them. The heads were about five pounds each, the handles felt good in his grip. Turning away from the cabinet, he gave the hammers a practice swing. He grinned under his mask. Now he felt he had a chance as long as he didn’t fall down and get swarmed.

  “Bryce, Bowman here.”

  “I’m a little busy Sarge, we’re about to assault the building again. Reinforcements are here and taking care of outside, so we’re coming in.”

  “OK, listen tell the guys to keep an eye out for me, eh? I’ve got a weapon and I’m going to get my rifle back, if one of those morons hasn’t picked it up.” Zombies were always picking things up, making some brainiacs think that they could use tools, but it was just a reflexive action, no real understanding of what they were doing. If those fuckers ever did remember how to use anything, the living would be in for a world of hurt.

  “What kind of weapon?” Curiosity tinged Bryce’s voice.

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Just don’t shoot me, all right?”

  “Roger that.”

  13 February 2032

  Staten Island Ferry Building

  Lower Manhattan

  Bryce had a hand picked team of ten men and women. Three carried flamethrowers, the rest had different versions of the standard assault rifle. It was some pretty potent firepower, but when dealing with zombies, she believed in overkill.

  Crouching behind a pushed over and burned out city bus, she raised one hand in a fist. Weapons were cocked and feet shuffled into position for firing. To their left, a helicopter gunship was hosing down the zombies outside the Governor’s Island ferry building. The creatures staggered under the heavy shells as they were torn to bits from above. The moronic things staggered about, moaning and waving their arms (those that had them) as they were further crippled and destroyed. It would have been comical if it weren’t so tragic. Here a zombie that held an undead baby in one arm disappeared as a minigun blew her to bits, there a zombie in a tattered priest’s frock, teeth clogged with decaying flesh had its legs blown off. The troops had learned to ignore such sights. It was either that or go mad. These weren’t people anymore; they were the enemy, plain and simple. Waiting in the wings were more soldiers with an M-113, the long serving box-like troop carrier. Attached to the back of it was a spool of concertina wire so that more of the area could be blocked off, at least temporarily any other zombie incursions. Once this task was completed, stronger barricades would be dropped in.

  “Let’s go!” Bryce hissed into her radio, resisting the urge to shout. The men and women moved out, the ‘throwers laying down a sheet of flame to protect their flanks, the grenadiers firing off flechette rounds from the 40mm grenade launchers nestled under the barrels of the M11’s. The flechettes tore into the zombies, blowing them into gruesome mists of pink and green, the bile that was stored in their innards spreading out in bizarre images like a Pollock painting.

  Even as the zombies crowding into the stairwell and slip areas were turning to get a meal, the soldiers were destroying them by the tens. Even though they outnumbered the troops, the dead were no match for modern weaponry when properly applied.

  Inside the maintenance room, Bowman waited patiently. As the scrabbling at the door lessened, he took a breath and threw the door open. A zombie stood there with its back to him. Dressed in a now tattered business suit, still clutching the handle of a long gone briefcase, the creature stood there growling. Bowman brought one of the mallets down on top of its head. With a cracking squishing noise, the top of the skull collapsed downward destroying the brain killing the zombie. In a frenzy of action, Bowman moved into a small group of five, hammers flying. One zombie, once a pretty woman, likely a secretary had her face smashed in from the side, she fell over sideways, destroyed for good. A second brought up its arms to reach out, only to have them smashed like kindling wood. A backswing tore off the zombie’s jaw, knocking it down where it thrashed to get up. Bowman stomped its knees with his heavy boots, breaking them, leaving it helpless on the ground.

  The remaining three, snarling at the sight of food moved in. One was dragging a broken leg and one arm was gone. Since it was the least troublesome, Bowman shifted sideways toward the two more mobile creatures. One had once been a cop. It still had most of its uniform and a pistol belt with an empty holster. A cavern yawned in its chest where intestines and lungs sat. The other was a teenager in a tattered Ramones shirt; marks of addiction clear up its partially chewed arms.

  Bowman lashed out at the former cop, bringing a hammer from each side along its head, pulping the skull and face. Dried gore that had been brains spattered out and the zombie collapsed. Ramone then moved in with a lurch. Bowman sidestepped and swung one hammer in an uppercut, hitting it squarely in the chin. The zombie’s head snapped back, the neck breaking, leaving the creature looking at an upside down world. The crippled creature staggered about, arms grasping at air. Bowman tripped it and then stomped it’s skull into paste.

  The last crippled zombie had something caught on its good foot. Bowman glanced down…

  …It was his rifle! Grinning under his mask, Bowman smashed the creature in the chest, crushing its breastbone, knocking it down. Kneeling quickly as four more creatures came in his direction, he pulled the sling from around the zombie’s foot.

  “Thanks,” he said, smashing its face into the back of its skull, ending its pathetic existence. Checking his weapon, he saw that the suppressor was bent beyond use. With the zombies so close, he had no time to get out an Allen wrench and remove it. Slinging the weapon, he was starting toward the oncoming zombies when they were shredded by rifle fire. As they toppled over, Bryce came running in. Skidding to a halt, she stared at Bowman who was covered in gore from hand to elbow, the hammers dripping with bits of brains and flesh.

  “Did you really need our help?” Bryce’s voice was almost scolding in tone.

  The rest of the battle went well. The zombies were scattered and destroyed as fast as they could be found, the corpses piled near the access road to the Battery tunnel and burned. Burning
them destroyed whatever diseases their filthy, decrepit bodies were carrying. All of the troopers were inoculated with “Zombicillin,” a new anti-viral, but none of them wanted to test it. It was discovered quite early that when a human received any injury from a zombie, no matter how slight, the result was the same: a massive infection, killing the victim who would then revive to swell the ranks of the undead enemy.

  No one wanted to go out that way.

  15 February 2032

  Command Post

  Lower Manhattan

  Colonel Diggs stood before the assembled men and women of his various units. The 22nd SADT went through a rough time at the Ferry terminals, losing five troopers. Diggs hated getting the casualty reports, but for some reason he could deal with it better when the zombies were responsible. When other humans fought the military, he took it much harder. Even with civilization collapsing around their ears, some people thought only of themselves. Crown Heights in Brooklyn bore the results that fighting against your own resulted in. Diggs ordered the area flattened by air strikes when his troops were fired on. The people who remained had barricaded their streets and refused to move. They didn’t care that the government was spending valuable resources and lives to try to save them, it was their neighborhood, and no one, troops or zombies would force them out. Didn’t these idiots realize that there was no safety in the cities? For those who could get into one, the Enclaves were the safest place left. When the airstrikes brought little to no relief from civilian attacks, Diggs ordered his troops out of the area, leaving the civilians to their own devices. There was no time to fight zombies, Lazarites, and stubborn civilians. A week later, in a helicopter flyby, the area was abandoned, many of the homes burned to the ground. Diggs felt no remorse, he gave those people a chance, and they had spurned it.