The first and taller of the two Lazarites started to rise. Mistake thought Fields as he sent a bullet flying downward.
The tall Lazarite spun as the bullet punched into his forehead, just above his left eye. His skull popped like a too-warm soda brains and blood splattering out in a gruesome arc. Before the other Lazarite could think to take cover, a second shell slammed through his pelvis, cracking it and crippling him. As the blood began to flow, he whimpered, knowing what lay in store. The Blessed were already on his dead companion; one of them scooping up what was left of the warm brains. Others began pulling at the extremities, growling at each other as the dinner bell rang in whatever was left of their minds.
The wounded Lazarite pressed a hand to his wound, praying he would die before the Blessed reached him. He knew sharing his flesh was the quickest path to eternal life, but he’d seen people devoured and didn’t want to face that pain.
An easy death was not in store for him. Stumbling toward him, a zombie, formerly an attractive brunette, tripped and fell face first onto him. Face spattered with his blood, she struggled into a sitting position and straddled him. Her hands began digging at him, trying to tear past his clothing. Gasping at the stink of the angel, he drew his pistol, fear making him ignore his teachings. As the fetid creature began tearing at his wound, ripping a gobbet of flesh from him, he stuck the barrel under her chin and fired. The top of her head erupted, spraying curd-like brains and dull white bone in an arc. Her body flipped off his from the force of the shot, freeing his crippled legs. A second zombie, attracted by the noise staggered forward, neatly sidestepping the destroyed zombie’s body. Carefully the Lazarite aimed and fired, blowing a chunk of the zombie’s neck away. The zombie, its head hanging now only by its spinal cord and a bit of flesh, stumbled about, the head upside down, eyes blinking stupidly. Panicking, the acolyte rolled over and started trying to crawl away. This was a mistake as his movement attracted the attention of other zombies, all of whom began to stagger after him. Weakening from the loss of blood, he rolled over and closed his eyes. Pale and shaking, he stuffed his pistol in his mouth and fired. Unfortunately, for him, the pistol slipped in his sweaty hand. The heavy caliber slug tore through the side of his face, blowing out his right eye destroying that side of his face. Still alive, he slid into semi-consciousness. For a few seconds his body was left alone. Then another zombie, rejected from the first feast, turned. Kneeling near the twitching body, it began digging at the wound, tearing off the acolytes jaw and worrying the meat from it while it's free hand dug into the destroyed face. Stuffing pieces from it into her mouth, she chewed the bits up while ripping off what was left of his nose and good eye. She had a few moments alone before the rest of the dinner guests arrived.
On the roof, Fields turned slightly and winked at Brew. "Good call Tanya. That's two less we have to worry about."
But worry colored Brew's dark eyes. "Two down and how many more to go?"
16 November 2032
Mother of Mercy Hospital
Outside the Barricades
Chicago, Ill
Docent Linda crept into the storefront they'd been using as a headquarters and threw her rifle down, cursing. "Damn them! Damn the unbelievers!" Outside could dimly be heard the grim sounds of the feast as the two acolytes were sent to their eternal reward. Since the siege began, five of them were shot trying to approach the barricades and plant explosives. It was as if the sniper had a sixth sense, could tell when Docents or Acolytes were approaching.
Alonzo looked up from his food. "Don't lose your temper. The time that the unbelievers have is running out. Soon they will be gone."
Linda turned on him, practically frothing at the mouth. "How? How will we destroy the barricade? There are only nine of us left. Of those only one has the expertise!"
Alonzo slapped her across the mouth. The blow came unexpectedly and filled her mouth with blood. "Don't raise your voice to me, Docent. Perhaps you would like to become outcast?" Linda's eyes widened with fear. Becoming outcast was the worst fate a Lazarite could be given from their own. She would be bled, her intestines fed to the Blessed, her own hands and jaw removed, set to wander the world, unable to feed. Shaking her head submissively she said, “No, Docent.”
Alonzo stood and took her by the arm. Moving to the window, but not too close, he pointed at the barricades. She followed his finger through the rubble-strewn streets and said, "So?"
Alonzo smiled nastily. "Right in front of the red trailer. A sewer hatch. We will go beneath the vision of the unbelievers. They will fall."
17 November 2032
Mother of Mercy Hospital
Outside the Barricades
Chicago, Ill
Jones had just finished his MRE and decided to check the perimeter when he heard the noise. Stopping, he brought his weapon up and stalked silently toward the hospitals entrance. The glass doors remained jammed open when the power failed, the gears that powered them, like the eyes, without power. Pausing, Jones turned his head slowly to the left, then the right. The noises were coming from the storeroom to his right. Cautiously he slid across the dirty linoleum. There could be zombies in there; they hadn't had time to check every part of the hospital. Some parts were sealed off by the security people they had relieved. Jones decided to leave those sections alone. Had he made a mistake? It was even possible the zombie had been in there for a while but hadn't made noise. When there were no unnatural noises to attract them, zombies remained silent as a spider in its web, waiting with their unnatural patience for prey to reveal itself.
Holding his weapon one-handed, Jones noticed that the door opened inwards. Stepping back, he activated his mike, "Jones to crew. I think we might have a hostile in the walls. Who’s nearest to the entrance?"
A gruff voice answered, "Blackford here. I can be there in a minute."
Jones had confidence in his Stoner. He'd taken out twenty zombies in a pop with it, so whatever was in there wasn't going to be too much of a threat. Still, it didn’t hurt to have some backup. "Come on then, and listen for any fire."
With a shuddering crash, Jones kicked the door in, weapon ready to fire. What he saw instead of zombies angered him. Helen Feeney lay on the floor, blouse torn open; breasts bruised and clawed. Her underwear, shredded and bloody, hung in tatters between her legs. Standing over her, fixing his pants was Roger Vincent.
He turned; the same cool, sardonic look on his face as when he'd killed Doctor Jameson. He was lucky again. Jones only smashed him in the face with his stock, knocking him unconscious. As Vincent bounced off the wall, Blackford arrived. A tall man with pale skin, his eyes narrowed as he stared at the unconscious Vincent. Jones turned to him. "Stay with Nurse Feeney until Jessie gets here."
Blackford brought his M11 to port arms. "Yes sir. What will you do?"
"Just watch." Grabbing Vincent by the collar, Jones dragged him out of the room and out into the hospital courtyard. The five perimeter guards, standing near the trailers watched as he tore the pistol from Vincent's belt and threw it across the courtyard. Then he slapped Vincent into consciousness.
Vincent awoke slowly, trying to figure out what to do. Before he could think about his pistol, Jones knelt and hissed, "I took your weapons, Sergeant. Do you know what the penalty for rape is under martial law?"
Vincent paled, his bravado leaving him. As Jones jerked the man to his feet, he could feel his knife, a folding blade he wore in a sheath along his arm, still in place.
Jones shoved him, forcing his subordinate to pinwheel his arms to keep from falling. But Vincent had great balance. "Come on," he pleaded. "Feeney asked me for it."
That was the wrong thing to say. Eyes furiously cold, Jones started to raise the Stoner. Vincent took his cue and flipping the blade out, lunged at Jones stabbing him high in the shoulder, going in at an angle to the vest. With a roar of anger and pain, Jones shoved Vincent back and triggered his weapon, sending slugs tearing into Vincent's legs, destroying them. Vincent fell back in pain so intense
he couldn't even scream. His ankles and knees shattered he fell to the ground barely able to writhe.
Jones stepped back, ready to deliver the final shot when the middle trailer exploded. A wave of heat and debris spread out from the initial point of the explosion, knocking Jones down. Of the five perimeter guards, three were annihilated, the explosion blowing them to bits. Ordonez was blown high into the air where he cart wheeled to the ground, landing on his helmeted skull with a sickening crunch as his neck and back broke. The last was blown off his feet, but was only dazed. Rising groggily to his feet, he stopped to fumble with his mask and was grabbed and pulled down by the coming horde. He never even had a chance to scream.
"Come on, sir!" Corporal Blackford ran from the vestibule, pulling the wounded captain to his feet. "We've gotta get out of here!" Half dragging the captain into the hospitals entrance, he was bellowing into his mike that the first floor had to be abandoned.
On the roof, Fields threw off his sheet and stared down as his comm unit flared to life. "Spirit Flight to Deadheads; Do you read?"
Fields nodded at Brew who activated all the radio-controlled booby traps she'd planted.
"Spirit flight, this is Deadhead Actual,” Jones, gasped back as pain flooded his body. “We read you! How fast can you get here? We've got a breach in the perimeter!"
The pilot’s voice had a different tone now. "How bad a breach? Any Lazarites present?"
Brew broke in on the freq. "It's bad. We can't contain it. We need immediate evac. How many birds?"
"I won't say that over the air, Deadhead Actual. Is the roof secure?"
Brew jumped as Fields, who'd taken the suppressor off, fired his rifle. Far below them, another Acolyte went to heaven; a hole is his chest large enough to see daylight through giving the zombies easy access.
"Roof is secure. How long until evac?"
"We'll be there in fifteen."
Jones grimaced as blood flowed out of his wound in his shoulder. Eyes filled with worry, Strahan said, “I can’t remove the knife, sir. You’d bleed to death in no time. We need to evac you, get you to proper medical help.”
Jones nodded. “Do what you can, Jessie.”
Packing the area around the wound with field dressings, she bandaged it tight. But Jones could feel the sticky flow of the blood and knew he didn't have long.
"This is an order, Blackford."
The corporal was peering out at the open hospital doors, watching the zombies creep forward. "Yes, sir."
"Get everyone upstairs. Blow the stairwell. You heard the choppers, they're coming. Just get going."
"What about you sir?"
Jones, grimacing with pain, crouched behind his barrier, setting the Stoner on top of it. "I'm staying. I'll keep them off as long as I can. I'll be lucky if I can even fire this without bleeding out." As he spoke, Jones took a small, square box from his pocket and pulled the antenna out with his teeth. "Don't worry, Blackie. They won't get me." Jones trusted Brusky, but he’d taken the control for the satchel charge in the basement.
Blackford could feel tears forming in the corners of his eyes. "Sir…"
A scream got their attention. Outside the zombies had reached Vincent and were pulling him apart. They were twisting his bullet-riddled legs and tearing them from him. It made Blackford think of two people wrestling over a wishbone. He was screaming and thrashing, attracting more zombies. Across from him, the other dead trooper was also on the zombies menu.
Jones voice was iron. "Go!"
Blackford grabbed Strahan, who'd already sent Feeney and her people upstairs, and shoved her toward the stairwell. Jones lay quietly behind a small barricade made of an overturned couch and some chairs.
"Blackie, tell me when the last chopper has lifted. I'll try and hold them off until then."
Nodding, Blackford sped up the stairs behind Strahan.
17 November 2032
Mother of Mercy Hospital
Outside the Barricades
Chicago, Ill
Jones steadied the Stoner, aiming it at the door. In great pain, he had his three other drums ready, although he wasn't sure he'd be able to load them. Over the moaning of the zombies, he could hear the choppers, the thick heavy beat of their rotors loud even five stories down.
On the roof, Brew was motioning the remaining civilians into the first chopper, an ancient C-47 Chinook. The oldest choppers in the Enclave inventory, many of these banana shaped workhorses were literally pulled out of scrap yards and pressed back into service. Circling high behind it at a safe distance waited two CH-57s, commonly known as the 'Jolly Green Giant'. The officer in charge of the flight had sent in the slowest, most vulnerable chopper first. A hard decision, it was the right one. As a battered Feeney began to clamber on board, the crew chief waved her off. "We've got to travel light. You'll have to get on the next chopper."
Feeney stepped back and the bird began to lift. As it did, Fields was prone, his barrel poking over the side of the roof. This was when a helo was at its most vulnerable. The engines began to strain and the bird went up and started to move off when something went wrong. No one would ever know what caused the problem, age or a worn part. It swung out over the courtyard where the zombies were looking for more flesh and one of the rear rotor blades cracked. Breaking off from the shaft, it spun away, hitting the front prop. With a scream of metal, the entire rotor assembly came free and the chopper plunged straight down.
Strahan was looking right into the teary-eyed faces of the rescued staff when the chopper went plummeting down. It smashed into the ground, crushing several zombies and cracked open. Miraculously, the fuel did not ignite. Bare moments after the sound of the crash, the moans, and cries of the trapped and wounded survivors began to filter upwards.
Blackford made the only decision he could. "Get the other birds in here! Immediate Evac! People; dump anything we don't need but weapons. Armor, helmets, everything. I want this chopper light!" With a clatter of noise, helmets, gasmasks, and other now extraneous gear began hitting the roof. Blackford began ushering his people onboard.
Three soldiers, Benning, Traylor, and Seals exchanged glances and headed for the stairwell. As they opened the door, a wave of heat and noise drove them back. Brew, as ordered, had blown the stairs, ending any threat from that direction. Benning turned and cursed, "You motherfucker! What about those people?"
Blackford kept his voice still as he said, "They're dead already."
Inside the chopper, the civilians lay scattered about, most with broken bones and backs, as the zombies approached. One soldier who'd survived uninjured tore his M-60 from its bungee cord and opened up, spraying the zombies down. The bullets blew the walking corpses apart, throwing arms, legs, eyes, heads and bits of clothing everywhere. Seeing an opening, the soldier grabbed an extra belt and high-tailed it for the hospital. Evading the grasp of two zombies, he pounded into the entranceway and stopped. Smoke was spiraling out of the stairwell.
Jones who'd been surprised to see the chopper come smashing down, called out weakly, "The stairs are blown, no way up."
The soldier stood there exchanging looks with the wounded man. After a moment, he turned to look at the zombies surrounding the chopper. Screams were coming from it now and blood could be seen on some of the windows. Dropping the M-60, he began to weep. Then, removing his helmet, he tossed it away, slipped his pistol from its holster, stuck the barrel in his mouth, and fired. The blast lifted him off his feet as his brains decorated the ceiling and wall behind him. With a thud, his lifeless corpse collapsed to the ground.
Jones, in a position to do nothing, merely stared, trying to stay calm so as not to lose any more blood. Soon enough the zombies and their Lazarite allies would be coming through that door.
Blackford helped Feeney onto the CH-57. As the ramp slid up, Feeney said, "What are they doing?"
Blackford spun in time to see Benning, Traylor and Seals drop over the side of the roof. Using rappelling gear, they were going to try to help the civilians. Blac
kford shook his head and whispered, "Good luck."
Then he saw Strahan. She was standing near the edge of the roof, nude, the wind blowing her hair like some mad vision of Botticelli’s. Her equipment and gear lay at her feet. Slowly she stepped up onto the roof's edge. Blackford shouted, "Jessie! NO!"
But it was too late. She fell backwards off the roof, in an insane parody of an Olympic dive, and was gone.
Strahan fell swiftly, landing on a mass of zombies. For a moment, she was balanced there, like a spectator at some mad concert. Slowly the zombies pulled her down, their dirty fingers marring her flesh as they twisted bits of it off, others pulling her arms to their greedy mouths, another biting into her mid-section, its teeth chewing down into her stomach. Strahan didn't shout or cry out or scream. She simply disappeared into the mass of zombies as if she never existed.
Blackford stared down from the roof. In a rage, he began pulling the hand grenades from his pouch, pulling the pins and throwing them down. As the first frag went off, it exploded in a bright flash, sending bits of hot metal out in an arc. One Lazarite, too close to the explosion took a face full of shrapnel. Screaming in pain, the copper smell of blood from his destroyed face wafting up on the air, he was swiftly covered in zombies and torn to shreds.
On the roof, Blackford threw the rest of his grenades, and gave the zombies the finger. He would be glad to get out of here.
The courtyard was a scene out of Dante. The zombies had the chopper surrounded and were having a time of it. Some were staggering away from the cracked machine, spoils of their victory being raised to their mouths. One, encumbered by lengths of intestines held in his hands, kept tripping over the ends. An old woman held a head, the mouth still open in a grimace of pain, another zombie held part of an arm.
Enclave: A Novel of the Zombie Apocalypse Page 30
