Enclave: A Novel of the Zombie Apocalypse

by Robert Morganbesser

  To the north, what had been 75th street, from the East river to the Hudson, was one giant moat. Ten feet wide and twelve deep, puddles from broken water mains and sewage pipes left vile, stagnant pools that zombies fell into where rats devoured them. The rats themselves were another danger. The sudden infusion of rotting meat brought them out in droves and they were dangerous to the living. Growing more feral by the day, they were known to attack humans when not gorging themselves on the living dead. Zombies would stand there looking about stupidly while droves of rats ate them alive. It wasn't uncommon for the troops in watchtowers to bet how long a zombie, covered in a grey-pink cloak of snarling rats, would survive the assault. Some troops would watch and once the zombie was nearly destroyed, give it and its rat cloak a touch of fire. There would be one less zombie and several hundreds less rats, thereby taking care of two problems at the same time.

  North of this moat as far as the Bronx/Westchester border the city looked worse than Europe after World War 2. Everything that could fly had bombed the area, leaving it flat, or in piles of rubble that once held the hopes and dreams of families long fled or killed. Most of those not fortunate enough to escape now numbered among the zombies, deadly creatures looking for another mouthful of human meat.

  Manhattan, like the other boroughs of the once great metropolis, was a lost cause. Soon it would be abandoned, the survivors retreating (if they were lucky) to one of the Enclaves, there to carry on the fight until the plague of the undead were over, or the final bell on humanity rang.

  Taylor stood in the street, strapping his helmet on. He rubbed his eyes then pulled on his gloves. The equipment the troopers wore could be a burden in the summer, but it was better than being dead. The armor was one of the few advantages soldiers had over their undead enemy. Still enough zombies could overcome it. Task done, he stalked over to the lead Bradley and glanced up at it.

  Sitting in the cupola, strapping on his helmet, was Lieutenant Esteban 'Jefe' Rivera. A young Hispanic officer born in the Bronx, he was a career man and, before the Rise, an up and coming armor officer. He was a handsome man brutally dedicated to his wife and two sons, both of whom were waiting for him in Enclave 13. He was lucky; they were in family housing at Fort Hamilton when the zombies rose and the great retreat started. He made sure they were evaced when the Enclave call went out. His wife being a nurse helped. He grinned down at Taylor and said, "Why did I know you would be part of this fucked up mission?"

  Taylor grinned back. "Who else could pull this shit off?" Rivera laughed, rich and hearty. He hated zombies with a passion, enjoyed killing them. A devout catholic, he did not buy into the ravings of some that the zombies were God's punishment for the evils of men. One night while drinking with Taylor and Chung, he held out his hands saying, "I held both of my children when they were born, fresh from my wife's womb and I thought; only God can create such beauty, would he take it away with such evil? No my friends, this is our fucked up mistake. I'm sure of it."

  While Taylor and Rivera were talking the other troops got aboard the Bradley’s (Taylor was glad to see that the Brads had TOW launchers on them) and M-113s, Nevers arrived with a worried look on his face.

  Taylor frowned. "What the fucks wrong now?"

  Nevers held a green intelligence envelope. "Remember that shit in DC, the crazy guy, Lazarus? We thought that the Lazarite stuff was bullshit; they’d dry up once he was gone? Some people saw humans walking with the zombies, not getting attacked?”

  Rivera laughed. "Bullshit rumor right?"

  Nevers shook his head and held up a photo. Rivera hopped down off the AFV and stood next to Taylor. There in a fuzzy picture, obviously taken by an aircraft, were two people. One was carrying a stick with a human skull on it, the other a rifle. Both were looking up in surprise.

  Surrounding them was a horde of living dead. The zombies held bits and pieces of flesh and bone, what looked like fresh human meat. One of the Lazarites was on his knees, holding out a fresh human arm to a group of zombies. All the creatures were eagerly reaching for it.

  Rivera felt his heart beat increase. "Jesus Christ."

  Taylor remained silent, but he stared at the photo a long while.

  Nevers bent the folder in half and stuffed it in a cargo pocket. Gently, he put a hand on each man’s shoulder. "Listen up. I'm turning over operational control to you, Rivera. Any mission imperative decisions, abandoning the mission, leaving the tracks – it’s up to you. Do you get me Lieutenant?"

  "Yes sir."

  "Taylor?"

  "I didn't want to go on this fucked up mission anyhow. I'd be happy to scrub it right now."

  Nevers rare braying laugh made the men think of a hyena. In an unexpected show of emotion, he put a hand on Taylor’s shoulder. "Just come back, jerk off. I have a feeling the human race is going to need a bastard like you."

  As he clambered up onto the Bradley’s cupola, Taylor rolled his eyes. “I’m a bastard?” Taylor rolled his eyes, “If that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black!”

  Rivera’s laughter at this exchange could be heard until the roar of engines starting blotted it out.

  05 March 2032

  The Rescue Convoy

  Southbound on Fifth Avenue

  The convoy moved out just as the sun was showing over the ruined peak of a high-rise apartment building. The broken tops of burned out buildings looked like the teeth of dead giants. Taylor, slightly claustrophobic, was riding on the turret of the lead Bradley. Rivera was humming to some tune in his head as Taylor told him what was up.

  "Anyway, these eggheads were part of some think tank downtown. They thought they had time to get out, but their evac chopper crashed on the way in. They stayed in the research building, which is supposedly secure. Their security detail, not military, private, took time to lock the doors, only now they’re trapped.”

  “What happened to their security?”

  “They panicked and hightailed, never reported they’d abandoned them. Those punks could be half way to the Mississippi by now, if they aren’t dead. These people got lost in the shuffle."

  Rivera rubbed his jaw, “I hope they can hold out until we get downtown.”

  As the small convoy moved on, Rivera did a running commentary on the destruction wrought on their hometown. Rivera’s eyes were hard as he kept an eye out, making sure there were no breaches in the wire keeping the horde of zombies out. To Taylor, born in Brooklyn, Manhattan had been an exotic land, full of places to go to meet women, drink, and hang out with buddies. After joining the army at Seventeen, he rarely got back to New York. Now, he could barely look at it, ruined by the rise. Both sides of Fifth Avenue were plastered, the buildings blown down to form free fire zones. Rats, stray dogs and cats, even some animals escaped from the Central Park zoo had gone feral and preyed on anything beyond the wire. One patrol claimed to have shot a lion a week back. Caution was the watchword when out here. Sandbagged lookout posts (the worst duty in a city of horrors) were placed every ten blocks or so. In each small bunker were men and women armed with flame-throwers and heavy machine guns. Piles of burned or rotting corpses clustered on the wire opposite many of these sites. Near each bunker was a Humvee or a two and a half ton truck. Maintained with the kind of care one usually reserved for children, these vehicles were ready to go at a moments notice. If the wire went down, this was the quickest way to escape the dead. That was if the troops could get to one. Taylor knew that usually one man or woman slept in the vehicle, ready to fire up the engine at the slightest sign of danger. It was uncomfortable, but like their armor; all would take discomfort over death every time.

  "How do they know?" Wondered Rivera, echoing a question asked by those scientists who remained alive across the country. "Do they have some memory of the past, do they smell us? What keeps them after us?"

  Taylor stared out, rubbing sweat out of his eyes. His answer was one of pure pragmatism. "I don't know and I don't care. I just want the bastards to be dead again." He stared at a small group of
shambling zombies, their flesh shredded by the concertina wire they tried to force their way past. For a moment, he thought of photos from the Nazi concentration camps. Those pitiful bastards reminded him of the zombies, only they were alive. Taylor turned away as Rivera said, "Say, what do you think of this Lazarite stuff?"

  Taylor was checking his shotgun, making sure he had it fully loaded. "It’s fucked up that’s what it is. Humans walking around those fucking things, helping them. I'll tell you what, I see any fuckers helping those dead bastards I'm blowing their fucking heads off, no questions asked."

  "Amen to that brother." Rivera put a hand to his helmet, holding a finger to his lips. "We got comms with the building." Rivera closed his eyes, concentrating on listening to the slightly garbled message.

  "122A Water Street. It’s a Benton PharmCorp building.”

  Taylor rubbed his chin. “Benton, eh? I wonder what happened to that rich fuck. Think he bought his way into an Enclave?”

  “Shit,” added Chung. “He’s probably on a private island somewhere, surrounded by booze, broads, and private guards.”

  Rivera shrugged; his answer was similar to Taylor’s moments ago. “Don’t know and don’t care. He could be in a zombies belly for all I give a shit.”

  Taylor looked at the slightly overcast sky, hoping it would not rain. Rain made things slippery and dangerous. It muffled the sounds a zombie would make, giving them an advantage.

  “So how,” asked Rivera, “are you getting inside this secure building?”

  “Well,” said Taylor, wiping sweat from his face. “Plan ‘A’ is we roll up on that loading dock and walk right in when they open it. We grab them and get the hell out of here.”

  River rolled his eyes. “Plan ‘A’ sounds too fucking easy, Hermano. So what’s plan ‘B’?”

  Taylor grinned without a hint of any humor. “I tell you plan ‘B’, you’ll shit yourself so bad these tracks will never move.”

  Rivera stared at Taylor who was peering out at the world, saying nothing. All the Lieutenant could do was wonder at just how crazy plan ‘B’ would be.

  05 March 2032

  Command Post at the gates

  The Border

  Taylor stared at the gates ahead of them. Once they went through them, they were in total zombie land. He'd been there before on search and destroy missions, blowing up and burning everything in sight. Once the zombies became so numerous and the troop loses too high, such missions went exclusively to the Air Force. Now rescue missions, when viable, were run, but downtown was pretty much left to whatever looters were stupid enough to go there. Command was glad to see them go take their chances with the zombies. Letting the zombies take care of the looters was one less problem that needed attention from a thin stretched military.

  The gates leading into downtown were two fold. The inner gate would open, allowing two vehicles entry; troops with flame-throwers would fire, blasting back whatever zombies were on the other side. Once the convoy was past them, the inner gates were closed. Only then would the outer gates be opened, allowing the convoy to leave. Taylor knew that the men and women guarding this part of the free zone were either brave or nuts, maybe both. He also knew that this would be the last convoy to go this far south. Evacuation to the outer boroughs was next; then to the Enclaves, which would be the next step in the great retreat. He kept his mouth shut though, not wanting to start any idle rumors; these people needed to stay sharp.

  Corporal Homer Zevon, the NCO in charge of this outpost, was a tough Sonuvabitch. When he heard a C/I claiming that the gear they wore would not protect them from zombies, he proved it by leaping into a pack of them armed only with two machetes. Taylor wanted to grab him for his team and kept an eye on the younger man, but so far could not get the transfer done. When the tall, unflappable soldier strode over to the Bradley, Taylor rolled his eyes.

  "Zevon! Jesus Christ! Can't you ever take a light detail, you crazy bastard?"

  Zevon laughed as they shook hands. "You're just jealous 'cause I'll make Master Sergeant first and you'll be taking orders from me." Zevon's voice went serious. "You guys must be nuts. I’d abort now. I don't think you're going to pull this one off. Where’s Chung?"

  Taylor looked around. While the other troopers dismounted to stretch their legs, Chung was nowhere. Taylor rolled his eyes. "He's probably in the crew compartment, dead asleep."

  "As usual," said Zevon. Chung’s ability to sleep was legendary among the troops. "Guess we can let him sleep for now. What the hell kind of crazy mission is this?"

  Rivera climbed down from the Bradley. "We're going in after some scientists who are trapped downtown. We need them at the Enclave, Hermano. Supposedly, they were involved in important research."

  Zevon rubbed his chin. "I don't know LT. Lately the zombies are around the gate heavier than usual. A few nights ago, we heard someone screaming. I had to practically shoot two of my people to keep them from going out."

  Taylor and Rivera exchanged looks. Rivera put a hand on Zevon's shoulder. "You heard about the Lazarites?"

  Zevon put a hand on his belt, where he had two .45 caliber pistols holstered. Replaced in the 1980’s by 9mm’s, the Rise made the weapons popular again since they’d knock just about anything down. Zevon was ambidextrous. Taylor had seen the corporal take out zombies with headshots, using either hand, while on the run. He was likely the best shot on Manhattan with small arms.

  "Sir, I've heard all kinds of crazy shit from the survivors, but this Lazarite stuff, it’s the worst." A private, coming down from the watchtower, said, "Tell him about the musician, Zev!"

  Rivera and Taylor exchanged looks.

  "The musician?" They asked in unison.

  Zevon licked his lips, sweat running down his face. "Every night, just after sundown, we hear a flute. It's beautiful. Sometimes Mozart, sometimes Beethoven; some other shit I can’t name. I sent a request for a sniper to see if we could get this bastard. He’s really spooking some of the troops. Before this stopped being a Civvie evac point, when they were waiting for pick up… forget it. I had to have my medic pop a few. They were going bug nuts!"

  A soldier with a long case strapped to his back came around one of the troop carriers. "Who's Corporal Zevon?"

  "That would be me."

  The trooper put out a hand. "Corporal Tyler Huston. "I'm here to cancel your musician’s concerts."

  Rivera frowned. "I thought you were part of the rescue team, amigo."

  "I'm part of that too, LT. But the brass decided to kill two birds with one… bullet." Houston grinned broadly.

  Zevon held out a hand. "Man, I heard of you. Didn't you cap a dude holding a little girl hostage down in Benning before this shit hit?"

  Huston nodded. "Yeah that scumbag never knew what hit him; dropped him at six hundred yards with a headshot. Fucker hit the ground still looking surprised."

  Taylor nodded. "I remember that. The guy went berserk; shot the range sergeant and grabbed a little girl near the exchange."

  Rivera slapped his head. "Holy shit! I remember that day. I was on leave and was at the base for beer and chips. How the hell did you hit that bastard, Huston?"

  "Carefully LT; very carefully." Huston held up his hands and made a frame with them. "He was all crouched over and holding that little girl close. I waited until she got a little tired and dropped her head, then I dropped him. Put a slug through his right ear, came out the top of his head, so I'm pretty sure he isn't walking around."

  Rivera whistled. "Well, we’ve got tonight to see about the musician. Tomorrow we'll see about the rescue. I don’t want to head downtown in the dark."

  Taylor and Zevon stared at Huston who was pulling a long rifle out of its case. "Remington M40A5," he said. "Personally tinkered it up myself." Opening another pouch, he removed a scope. "Starlite scope, boys. If I can see the musician, tonight will be his last show."

  05 March 2032

  Watchtower One

  The Border

  Huston lay under a
blanket as night fell. His rifle was resting on its bipod, the covers on the scope in place. Next to him, holding a pair of light sensitive binoculars was Taylor. Both lay quiet, barely paying attention to the mutterings and growls of the zombies tirelessly trying to reach the humans within. Both men, like most of the military since before the zombie plague began, were fatalists. They knew that their luck would eventually run out. Taylor had already gotten out of scrapes that would (and had) caused the average soldier to eat a bullet. He continued doing his job, driven by his own code. He couldn't stand to think that these shambling, rotting pieces of shit were going to win. In the beginning of the war, Taylor kept track of how many zombies he killed. Upon reaching a thousand, he stopped. Their numbers were not endless he knew that. Now that the Enclaves were up, potential recruits into the zombie ranks were thinning. The zombies themselves were prey to all kinds of vermin; roaches and maggots crawling on and in their dead flesh; rats or stray dogs and cats brought them down. The weather played havoc on them as well. This past winter had been one of the best for saving people. Early in December, a ferocious blizzard struck the city, leaving twenty-seven inches of snow in its wake. With no Sanitation department to plow and salt, the snow stayed until mid February, before spring came early. Taylor remembered how easy it was to kill the zombies, who had no strength to free themselves from the enormous drifts. The rescue teams reached all time highs for bringing people in. The men had some fun as well. If destroying zombies in odd ways could be called fun. One woman had a baseball bat loaded with a length of lead. She called what she did zombie baseball. Taylor couldn't remember her name; so many soldiers had died during the Rise. She'd disappeared one night in a drunken haze - but the woman had loved the sound the cracking of a zombie's skull made. Others went around armed with any flammable liquid they could find, spraying the zombies then lighting them up, watching them burn through the night. One civilian who thought this practice cruel was lucky to get away with just a few bruises. If Taylor hadn’t been there, the stupid bastard might have been a bonfire as well. People like that, who couldn’t put the niceties of civilization behind them, at least for now, were sure not to survive this crisis. There was no room for most of the pre-zombie morals and ethics. Survival was the ultimate goal now.