Strahan stared at the twitching, headless corpse. "What happened?"
Vincent turned to her as Dunbar examined the corpse, noting the letter opener near one hand. It was long enough to give a decent wound, perhaps even kill if stuck in an eye.
Strahan felt mesmerized by the sergeants pale blue eyes. In a quiet voice he said, "The Doctor tried to attack me. Seal this room. I'll inform the Captain."
Before either soldier could say a word, Vincent was gone, leaving them with the corpse of Doctor Anita Jameson, who was no longer part of the new world.
15 November 2032
Mother of Mercy Hospital
Outside the barricade
Chicago, Ill
The dead were now three deep against the barricade. They were all sorts young, old, black, white, Hispanic, Asian. Tall, short, some had all their limbs and most of their body untouched; others were grotesque shadows of the humans they had been. All shared one thing; hunger for the flesh of the living. During the first six months of the dead rising, samples were caught and scientists tried to learn why they had this bizarre need. Other scientists tried using animal flesh, then staked out live cows and sheep, but it was all for naught. The zombies ignored it. Nothing else would do. Eventually, cadavers were used to try to lure the creatures into areas where they could be destroyed en masse, but they simply walked by the dead meat. If it wasn’t fresh, warm human, they simply weren’t interested.
Defeated in these efforts, some scientists gave up, changed direction, turning their minds to better ways to destroy the creatures. Better armaments, stronger and lighter armor for the men and women who went among them to salvage what the Enclaves needed, were created. A small percentage of them were still tasked to experimenting on the zombies, to see if they could discover a way to stop what was bringing them back.
There were other enemies for humanity. Scavengers who fought anyone and anything, private armies of men and women who wanted their ideals to survive the holocaust of the living dead. But these, barely organized, quickly fell before the might of the zombies, becoming in the end, new recruits to the ranks of the living dead.
The worst enemies of the Enclaves were a radical band of humans who had revealed their true natures in the early days of the dead rising. Members of the Order of Lazarus, worshippers of death, believing that this was the resurrection long foretold and that the Dead were Blessed, come to take all to heaven, they were just called Lazarites by the Enclavers. Before the rise, the Order of Lazarus had seemed to be a benign organization, feeding and clothing the poor, running charities. When the dead rose, their true colors were revealed. Now they led – but the Enclavers had yet to discover how – the dead, walking freely among them. With the evacuations to the Enclaves a priority, finding out why they were able to do this was on a back burner. A bitter enmity existed between those who would save humanity and those who would bring it down. The last thing an Enclaver wanted was to be caught by the Lazarites. So far no Lazarite has been taken alive long enough to interrogate completely. So while humanity struggled to survive, the two remaining factions that were organized fought one another for supremacy of the post-apocalyptic world.
"See?" Whispered the acolyte; pointing at the blockaded end of the street. On top of one of the trailers stood an armed and armored soldier, peeing onto the dead, who looked up stupidly catching the warm liquid in their faces and mouths. One reached up at the annoying liquid, waving its handless arms as if warding off an annoying fly.
Docent Alonzo stared at the unholy man who finished his task and clambered down. Alonzo felt the cool steel of his rifles barrel and thought about shooting the next unbeliever to show himself. But they had radios and might be able to call in an air strike. The Lazarites were able to walk among the dead, but the aircraft of the unbelievers evened the odds considerably. All the Lazarites, even those able to loot stinger missiles from armories, lived in fear of encountering Enclave airpower. Better to keep leading the Blessed here, to surround them and then attack. Backing away, wary of snipers, he led the acolyte down the street where they ducked into a basement storefront. Lying nearby were two Blessed that were crippled, their legs torn off by whatever accident killed them. Alonzo pitied them; they would never feed and so were useless to all. Motioning to another Docent, Alonzo pointed at the two cripples. With a nod, the other removed a large hammer from his belt and stalked over. As the thick faced, heavy browed Alonzo entered his hideout, he could hear the Blessed skulls crack like giant walnuts. There were rules about dealing with the Blessed. Usually they weren’t to be touched, but at times like this, they could be dispatched to heaven.
Inside what had once been a small bookstore, a fire of the unneeded books was kept burning. Ancient wisdom? Hah, Alonzo laughed to himself. All that they knew from the past was worthless now that the Blessed had come. As he sat at the previous owner’s desk opening a can of food, he stared at his fellows.
"The Enclavers have the street well blocked off and are keeping watch. We’ll need explosives."
Docent Linda looked up from her can of ravioli. "I can get them here quickly. What is your plan?"
Alonzo chewed his food and sat back. "Simple. We shall use the Blessed to get close, set explosives and then the Blessed will be let in. The unbelievers shall all die."
Linda's sauce stained lips curled into a smile. "And if we take prisoners?"
Alonzo nodded. "The proper sacrifices shall be made."
15 November 2032
Mother of Mercy Hospital
Outside the barricade
Chicago, Ill
Jones stood over Jameson's corpse. It wasn't a pretty sight. A pool of blood had gathered where her head had been and stained her white lab coat. Small tendrils of flesh hung off the leaking stump. Behind him, blocked from the view was Helen Feeney, the chief nurse. She hadn't liked Jameson, but she understood the way the woman had thought. Jameson wasn’t the first person, intelligent or not, who couldn’t deal with the reality of the dead. Now she was gone and so were the last of the patients. Had this been the right thing to do?
Jones glanced down at the letter opener. Almost ten inches long, shaped like an ancient broadsword, it could have done some damage to an unarmored trooper, but Vincent was in full armor except for his gasmask. He could have put her down without shooting her. Sighing, Jones was beginning to think that he was going to have to deal with the sergeant. Perhaps in the same way. It wouldn’t be the first time a trooper cracked under the pressure and became more dangerous to his own than the enemy.
"Sergeant."
Vincent appeared in the doorway, his usual calm look on his face. Jones felt an urge for one moment to slap that look off his face, but resisted. "There was no other way for you to subdue her?"
Vincent's face remained innocent. "I was caught off guard sir. If she hadn't been so close, I might have butt stroked her and restrained her.”
“Off guard?”
“I'm tired, Captain. We all are. I feel shot."
Feeney snorted at this. "You’re tired? Please, Sergeant. You stalk around here like a cat! When I came to see what happened, you spun so fast, I was afraid I'd get shot."
Vincent stared at her and then shrugged. "Believe what you want, Nurse Feeney. I say I'm tired."
Jones ushered both of them out of the office and closed the door. "We're going to be stuck here at least another two days before the birds can come back. I don't want you people at each other’s throats. Miss Feeney, I'd like you to make sure your people are ready to go at a moment's notice, the equipment that's being salvaged is already in cargo nets on the roof. That'll be gone tonight. Two Skycranes are coming for it. I can get four people out with them. Anybody you'd like. The rest of us stay until final evac."
Feeney nodded. "I'll let you know in an hour captain." Turning she walked away, Vincent and Jones eyes following her. She was an attractive woman. Petite, but strong, it was obvious she worked out. It was also obvious that she didn't believe Vincent's story.
Neither did Jones.
"Tell me the truth Roger, what happened here?"
Vincent knew better than to lie now. He'd seen Jones in action. On a prior mission, while in the middle of a battle with the dead, one man had gone unhinged and endangered them all. Without a moment’s hesitation, Jones had put his own weapon against the eyepiece of the man's gasmask and blown his brains out. There was no room in the present for the unstable.
"She was a liability sir. She was insistent that the infirm were coming with us. She wouldn't listen to reason, now she doesn't have to."
"Goddamn it, Vincent! We can't just go around executing everyone who disagrees with our orders! You should have confined her, even if it meant cuffs."
Vincent's face narrowed. "Sir, I don't think it would have been wise to bring her to the Enclave. She was unstable."
Jones wiped his face, wishing he were somewhere else or could wake up from this fucking nightmare. This was getting to be too much. He needed some serious down time.
"All right, Roger. Go get some rest. I'll wake you when I need to be relieved."
16 November 2032
Mother of Mercy Hospital
Out Front
Chicago, Ill
The two Skycranes came in on time and schedule. Waiting for them in cargo nets were: portable x-ray machines, cases of antibiotics, syringes, bandages and more. Most of it was easily transportable from the hospitals storage areas. Jones stood there with five troopers as the nets were hooked on and the valuable cargo lifted away. Four of the troopers carried parachute flares in case, as was usual, the Lazarites were nearby. Not all the Lazarites had stingers or an equivalent type of missile, but enough did to make the Enclavers cautious. The Enclaves were trying to either salvage or destroy what they couldn’t retrieve, but there were only so many troops left to do the varied jobs. Jones wasn't the type to take chances. He looked up at the second of the two choppers and caught a quick wave from one of the nurses who was being evacuated. Feeney had picked the four youngest to go, leaving her with a staff of twelve. Her patients were quietly decomposing corpses, the morgue empty. Jones thought about moving the patient’s corpses down there, but decided against it. That kind of busy work might get his troops minds wandering, a dangerous thing considering their current position. Why expend the effort when the bodies weren’t going anywhere? The thirty-two men and women who remained hoped they would survive long enough to be evacuated.
Below them in the area behind the barricade, Private Wilson Crockett, who thought it was funny to piss on the zombies, appeared on top of one of the trailers again. Below him, Corporal Alicia Lexington, cradling her weapon like it was a rosary, called up, "I wouldn't keep doing that if I were you!"
Crockett gave her the finger. "I gotta amuse myself somehow don't I?"
Walking toward the edge of the trailer, he slung his weapon and started to pee. As the fluid ran out over the upturned faces of the zombies, he laughed.
Right until the grappling hook came flying up from below. One of the prongs caught around his leg and he was pulled off his feet. He screamed as two acolytes, hidden amid the dead, tugged him off the roof of the trailer. The two Lazarites had taken all night to creep within throwing distance. They thought they’d have to lurk there longer, but the foolish Enclaver had given them a gift.
Crockett slammed into the ground, landing badly, his leg snapping at the thigh. He wouldn't feel his death. The pain and shock of the injury was so great, he passed out. As his conscious faded, the zombies, assisted by the acolytes, were on him. One zombie dug its way into his leg where white bone was poking through his rip stop pants. Grasping the hard piece of bone the zombie ripped the flesh further, rewarded with a spray of rich, warm arterial blood. Others gathered around the body and began digging into it. The soft tearing sounds and the slurping noises the dead made brought a grin to the Lazarites faces. Quickly the two acolytes unsnapped his web gear and helmet, careful not to be touched by his blood, allowing the Blessed free access to the dying man.
It was as the zombies began tearing into his chest that Crockett woke and screamed out his pain and terror.
Lexington had time to blink once as Crockett disappeared. Activating her radio she called out, "I've got a situation down here! Crockett's over the wall!" Without waiting for an answer, she headed back to the top of the trailer, then lay down and crawled to the edge, a grenade in one hand. Peering over, she barely had time to see Crockett’s dismembered, decapitated body before one of the acolytes fired his captured weapon up at her. The bullet glanced off the side of her helmet, forcing her back. Angry at Crockett’s stupidity, she pulled the pin on a grenade and tossed it out and away. The small orb plummeted down; landing next to Crockett’s eviscerated body. It erupted destroying what was left of her fellow and crippling the two acolytes who, once bleeding were fair game for the zombies. One screamed in terror and pain as, legs shattered, he was pulled apart by the zombies who fell on them instantly. The other, filled with metal and plastic shards from the wrecked M11 prayed aloud. He continued praying until a zombie, in a horrible parody of a kiss, bit his lips off, and then sucked his tongue from his mouth. Eyes fluttering before they were plucked out and eaten, he was realizing his dream, he would go to heaven. On the trailers roof, dazed by the ricochet Lexington rolled onto her back, hot tears filling her eyes. She lay there weeping until Vincent and Jones arrived to pull her off and warn everyone else not to go up top.
One casualty when they had at least another day until evacuation was one too many.
16 November 2032
Mother of Mercy Hospital
Sniper Team
Chicago, Ill
The Lazarites plan to blast through the barricade started off badly. Deadly badly. On the roof of one of the wings of the Hospital, lying prone, covered with a dark sheet, lay two soldiers, Specialist 5 Ron 'One Shot' Fields, and his spotter, Tanya 'Brew' Brusky. Fields had a Remington M40A5, a rifle that was rebuilt during the recent Gulf interventions to exact specifications by the U.S. Marines. It had also been adopted by the Army. The current version had a fiberglass stock and was semi-auto, allowing the shooter to fire a round and get right back on target. Setting his rifles bipod, Fields occasionally amused himself by taking out zombies that appeared to be too curious. Like in a war with the living, the idea was simple. Shoot the officers or anyone who looked smart. That usually slowed down the others. A foot long silencer on the weapon (Fields had two more in his pack, the copper baffles inside the huge tube didn't last long) made it difficult for anyone to pinpoint where he was. After that he'd just keep shooting, moving from spot to spot, making the Lazarites and anyone or thing else out there regret they'd fucked with the Deadheads.
Next to him, Brusky held a large pair of binoculars she used to spot for him. On their last mission, he and she had racked up a body count of twelve Lazarites. Among other kills, Fields had amused himself by blowing one Lazarites leg off then watching as the zombies ripped him to shreds. The disappointing thing was that some of his victims sounded happy about it. Others hadn't and their screams were like music to him. Fields came from a large family in Alabama, but so far, not one of them was reported to be at an Enclave. A friend of his had secretly shown him Intel photos of the area his father farmed. The home he had grown up in was a burnt out wreck, loads of zombies stalking through the fields his family farmed since before the Civil War. Five brothers and four sisters; gone. Fields was sure of it. So he took his anger on the enemy.
Brusky; was a good soldier. She had joined up to get out of Chicago and see the world, now she was back, killing zombies, and trying to see that her civilization survived. A master with explosives, she'd left a few surprises around the perimeter for the Lazarites and the zombies. A pretty if severe looking woman, she, and Fields occasionally comforted each other, never getting too close. In their line of business, unless she decided to have a child, which would remove her from the duty roster, death was always close.
Fields watched with amusement as Bre
w ransacked the janitor’s room in the hospital. She'd run through it like a kid in a candy store gathering all kinds of flammable liquids, boxes of nails and screws. She grabbed anything she thought would cripple or kill the enemy. Brew combined all these components into booby-traps secreted about the hospital's entrances and exits. Like Captain Jones, Brew believed in being prepared. She'd even put a satchel charge on the large propane tank in the basement. It could be detonated remotely or on the spot. Fields didn't like the thought of two pounds of plastique sitting on top of that giant tank of propane, but if he had to go, he'd rather go clean.
"What's that?" He heard Brew mutter. Then she tapped him with a foot, "You watching?"
"Where?"
"Left of the blue trailer, about one hundred and fifty yards down the street. Near the mailbox. Not moving like zombies."
Fields wrapped his left hand around the front of the rifle while his right hand held the grip. With a sharp click, he flicked off the safety. Following Brew's directions, he spotted them. Two dirty faced humans, dressed in dark clothes carrying rifles. One rifle looked like it would explode if fired. Both were carrying satchels.
Fields keyed his mike. "Eagle to Eyes."
The various troopers keeping watch on the barricades all responded, "Eyes 1, five by five." And so on until all five sentries had checked in.
"Eagle is about to pounce on some unwanted tourists. Don't freak if you hear some screaming."
Sergeant Vincent's cold voice broke in. "Do what you have to Eagle."
Fields cursed to himself. Didn't Vincent ever sleep or was he living on speed? Fields and quite a few others felt that the sergeant, who had a quick trigger finger, should be retired from the field for a while. When they heard about Jameson, none of them believed his story about her attacking him. That kind of thing should have gained him a rest, but as long as he got results, no one would look to remove him. There were few enough troops to spare for field duty so no one was going to question a few dead civilians who might be trouble later. Not everyone who made it to an Enclave was stable. Better to find out who was a danger, if possible, before then.
Enclave: A Novel of the Zombie Apocalypse Page 29
