Enclave: A Novel of the Zombie Apocalypse

by Robert Morganbesser

  At the outer gate, in a blister to each side were two double-barreled flame-throwers. These were used to keep the main road and area surrounding it clear of zombies. Recently fewer zombies were noticed near this area of the wall. Perhaps, thought one of the few scientists assigned to 9, they didn’t like standing in the ashes of their own. Or, and this was an eerie thought, perhaps they were learning.

  The flame-throwers activated and fiery tongues of red leaped out of the barrels. The zombies lurking there were inundated instantly, the intense flames burning them down to ash in no time. At the all clear signal a squad of troops with machine guns ran out of the slowly rising outer gate and proceeded to hose down any other zombies with lead.

  “Let’s roll!” Widow Maker lurched forward, followed by the rest of the convoy. Seconds after Clemens’s Bradley had cleared the outer gate, the squad ran in, and the gate was lowered, sealing the outer world off.

  The convoy was on its way.

  22 March 2033

  Supply Convoy

  On the road

  “Widow One to Orphans.” Moreau stood in the turret of her Bradley, wishing they had set out earlier. But this was the way Colonel Candido wanted it, so they left at mid-morning. The Ops Boss didn’t like his orders questioned. Still, she was hoping they wouldn’t run into any large congregations of zombies. On one other convoy, they had to batten down and call for air support. That was a bad one though and led to better measures taken for the trucks. On that mission, two of the trucks were swarmed by the zombies, the drivers killed when the trucks were tipped over. It would take a thousand zombies to tip over a Bradley, but trucks were more vulnerable.

  “Widow one to Orphans, Governor Carpenter wants us to engage any targets of opportunity, but don’t get crazy with the ammo. We only have so much and resupply might be a problem.”

  As the various vehicles checked in, Moreau looked at her map. The roads in this area were pretty clear, armed teams of combat engineers having seen to that. These brave men and women had placed minefields all about the Enclave, a sector at a time. It was a rare night when one of these devices weren’t tripped by the dead. Some of the brain boys theorized that the more of the zombies who remembered the area where others were killed, the less would be there. They seemed to have some form of rudimentary memory. This seemed logical, since the zombies usually returned to the last area they’d visited before they died.

  As they rumbled down the interstate, Moreau was saddened by familiar sights, even though they had passed them many times now. On one of the now useless electrical towers hung a man, a worker by his clothes. He must have strapped himself up there while his co-workers below were devoured. Their bones, still bearing bits of tattered cloth, were scattered about the dead tower. A few skulls, shattered by rusting tools stuck within them, lay mixed in with the long dead workers. It was likely the stranded lineman had dropped or thrown these at the creatures in a vain attempt to assist his dead co-workers. Now a desiccated hulk of a human being, the lineman thrashed at the nylon safety harness that held him there, a victim of whatever had brought the dead back to their semblance of life. Moreau felt sorry for what had been a man. How long had he hung there before he died?

  “Convoy stop.”

  As the convoy halted, Mira lifted her binoculars and looked up at the lineman. His face was a horrible mess, eyes pecked out by birds before he came back. They were now dry holes in a face that had little flesh on it. Both hands were gone, the appendages beaten against the metal tower in a futile effort to free itself and go in search of human flesh.

  Mira had been told that these things couldn’t feel pain and she knew there was a pool going on as to when this zombie would rot enough to fall to a second death. But she had seen this gruesome sight enough.

  Reaching down into the turret, she pulled up her M11. As she did, Neil opened his hatch and looked up at her. A simple nod from him made her feel good about this decision. Put another one out of its misery. Neil disagreed with the scientists. They felt that the zombies were pure instinct, killing simply because that part of their brain, the hunting part, was active. He felt that the zombies were in terrible pain at coming back and that was why they sought out human flesh. Eating it eased their pain.

  Setting the rifle on semi-auto, Mira sited in and fired a single round. The lineman’s head disintegrated in a cloud of dried out brain and bone and with a final jerk, the body hung still. Safing her weapon, she placed it back in the turret and commanded, “Let’s go.”

  As the convoy started rolling again, birds, previously afraid of the zombie’s motion, set upon it and began to feed. In moments, there was a virtual cloud of them, all squawking and pecking, each trying for a bit of dried flesh.

  On Mira’s private line, Davies was complaining. “Ah, Lieutenant, why’d you do that? I had ten PX credits in the pool and I know that sonuvabitch was gonna fall soon.”

  “Because I was tired of watching it every time we drove by! Want some extra duty when we get back from the mission?”

  “No ma’am. Point taken.”

  There were other more horrible sights to be seen on the road. A burned out school bus, the short kind, lay on its side, blackened and scattered bones giving mute testimony to the gruesome feast held there. A car full of mummified corpses, each of them with a dry, neat hole in its head, the drivers side window, spider-webbed with cracks, splattered with a now brown stain where the last passenger took their own life. What happened here was horrible. Out of gas, surrounded by zombies, the driver, possibly the husband and father of the others, unable to contact the Enclave, finally decided death was best for all. The people staffing the radio room told many similar, horrible stories.

  Another grim sight was of five SUV’s, circled like a wagon train, bones scattered about where the final defenders were overwhelmed by the zombies. Bright casings of spent ammo surrounded the area as well as the dried out corpses of Zombies. This small group was trying to reach the Enclave when not wanting to be gunned down by nervous sentries (it had happened) they’d stopped for the night. Unfortunately, they didn’t have radios, so when the zombies rose up out of the dark, all they could do was wage a desperate battle and fire off flares. By the time the reaction force arrived, there were only two survivors, both children locked in a vehicle. The troopers took a terrible toll on the zombies. Guilt swept over the response team. They hadn't saved one person so in their eyes the mission was a failure. One of the children, a teenage girl killed herself a week later, throwing herself off the wall. Before her corpse could be retrieved for cremation, she had revived and the troops destroyed her. While they performed their grim task, other zombies arrived, attracted by the scent of her blood. Some, attempting to get through the minefield, destroyed themselves in their quest for flesh.

  Moreau glanced down at her map. They were five miles from the Enclave, time to take a side road. The map read that it was clear and zombies in the area were light. She started to laugh. It was like a weather report. Today’s weather – slightly sunny, low humidity, chance of zombies, thirty-five percent. When she shared the joke, the commlines filled with rare laughter.

  In the last Bradley, Clemens was enjoying the heat of the coming day. It reminded him of Alabama, but the heat wasn’t as moist. With twelve brothers and sisters, there wasn’t much to share at home, so, like many southerners he enlisted in the Army. He’d served with distinction, but was ready to move on with his life when the rise began. He’d been offered a security position with Benton, a job that would never be filled. Clemens carried a deep hatred for the zombies and the Lazarites, a hate that not even destroying hundreds of either one could quench.

  Clemens was looking backwards when the bullet ricocheted off his turret. Dropping swiftly, he slid down into the Brad’s turret yanking the hatch down behind him. Not a moment too soon as a fusillade of bullets cracked off the turret.

  “Orphan six-one to Widow Leader!” Clemens used his call sign. The Bradley’s were Orphan 1 through 6, the trucks seven thro
ugh eighteen. Six was his Bradley.

  “Six-1. Widow Leader. Sitrep?” Moreau’s voice was cool as ever.

  “We’re under fire from the ranch.”

  22 March 2033

  Supply Convoy

  Farmhouse

  Mira reacted instantly. How could this happen? Convoys had passed this area many times before without any incidents. Mira shook her head, no time to ask silly questions now! Tapping Neil on the shoulder with her foot, he spun the vehicle while she gave orders.

  “Orphan two, follow my lead. Orphan six, engage the house. Orphans 3, 4 and 5, continue down the road. Protect the trucks! We’ll catch up!”

  As the various vehicles moved away, Mira’s foot tapped Davies on the shoulder. He activated the chain gun and selected AP rounds. As the gun began to hum, Mira dropped down into her turret and sealed the hatch. Again, she thought about the many times they’d been past this place and nothing like this had ever happened. With the cattle long gone to various Enclaves or wandered off and the ranch house a wreck there was nothing left to fight over. If the shooters were crazy enough to try to live there, to raise cattle or crops, they’d likely get the Enclave’s blessing – if they survived.

  Clemens stared through his periscope. Mira was right. He could see flashes now as the firing continued. Tapping his driver on the right shoulder, the AFV veered right. Clemens spoke on his private channel to his gunner, Sgt. Dave Loury. “Loury, take out that window and whatever is in it.”

  With a staccato roar, like a zipper being pulled at the speed of sound, the chain gun roared. Gyro stabilized, the 25mm could be fired while the AFV was in motion. Clemens watched with satisfaction as the area around the window simply disappeared in a cloud of smoke.

  A moment later, the other two AFV’s joined in; the walls collapsed revealing the kitchen and a living room area. Clemens couldn’t see the gunner, but the person doing the shooting was probably hamburger by now.

  “Cease firing. Cease Firing.” Moreau’s voice came over the headsets. From a bullhorn on the outside of her vehicle, Moreau announced, “Attention inside the building. This is Lieutenant Moreau, Enclave 9. Surrender now.”

  There was no answer. Taking a chance, Clemens popped his hatch and peered out. He could see the bloodstains where the shooter had been and a shattered rifle. Keying his radio he said, “Widow Leader, Six-One, I don’t see anything moving.”

  “Orphan Two-One, send in your squad, we’ll cover.”

  The Bradley’s each carried six troops in their rear compartment. Swiftly the hatch went down and the troopers jumped out. As soon as the last troop was out, the hatch was raised. No one wanted some stray zombie to come wandering in, looking to help themselves to a snack. The troopers spread out in a skirmish line to make things harder for any remaining enemy.

  Sgt. Frank Kiley cradled his auto shotgun. For close work, it was one of the best weapons ever invented. With a magazine that held twenty rounds, it could annihilate any flesh, living or dead. Slowly he and his men approached the house. Once close to it, they tossed in some stun grenades. Their bright flash and sound would disorient even zombies. As soon as the noise abated, they entered the house over broken wood and furniture. One of the privates found what was left of their assailant. “Sarge, here’s the shooter.”

  The man’s torso was blown apart by the rounds. His head had rolled into a corner where the eyes were already open and flickering. One arm was in an ash-filled fireplace, his legs were pulp.

  Kiley stepped over to the head and booted it off a wall as if it was a soccer ball, “Mother fucker.”

  “SARGE!”

  A panicked voice yelled from the kitchen. All the men dashed in weapons ready. Entering the large dusty room in a rush, another soldier was fighting with a wild haired woman. That she was alive was clear from her shouting and screaming, that she was mad was evident from the butcher knife she was swinging at the soldier. The blood red diamond tattooed on her face sealed her fate. One of the others fired off a round, blowing out the woman’s knee, and nearly taking off her lower leg.

  As she fell to the ground, she cursed and screamed, “I’ll be back! I’ll be Blessed!” Before any of them could move, she drew the knife, which, even suffering from such a terrible wound, she hadn’t dropped, across her throat. Hot blood shot out of the wound, splattering the nearest man’s boots, making him jump back. With a gurgling noise, she muttered, “Blessed!”

  Kiley stepped over to her and set his weapon on single shot, “Won’t be in this lifetime.” Pulling the trigger, he atomized the woman’s head, leaving bits of bone driven into the wooden floor from the force of the blast.

  One of the privates moved through the kitchen to the back of the house. Once again, the shout of “SARGE!” erupted on everyone’s headsets.

  “Jesus Christ, what is it now?” Kiley stomped out onto the porch and stopped. There in a corral were at least two hundred zombies. Eyes wide, Kiley keyed his mike. “Lieutenant Moreau, we need one of the Brad’s and we need it now!”

  Even as Kiley said this, the zombies stuck their fingers (those that still had them) through the slats and started shaking the slatted wood of the corral. The sight of a meal waiting for them was too much for the creatures and they began to press against the fence. The walls began to bow out as more and more of the undead creatures, some beginning to moan, threw their furious weight against the obstruction. Kiley began to back away, but not before he noticed a pile of heads in one corner and a neatly dismembered corpse. Where did the victims come from? And how the hell did they gather them up like this without being eaten? Riley would never get any answers. But if he had, his blood would have frozen in his veins. The bodies the zombies were fed were Lazarite volunteers. Each night they drew straws for the ‘honor’ of feeding the Blessed. The two the troopers fought with were the last of their group.

  With a splintering of wood, the wall collapsed. All trace of Kiley's professionalism left him as he slapped his gasmask into place and shouted, “RUN!”

  Without hesitation, the troops spun and fled back to the safety of the Brads. One of the privates, fumbling with his mask, tripped in a hole in the rotting planks of the kitchen floor. With a wet snapping sound, his ankle broke and he fell, mask spilling from his fingers. Before the others could even think of grabbing him, the zombies were on him. Dirty fingers, tipped with broken, filth encrusted nails tore into his face and throat. His screams echoed over the comm net as the zombies tore his helmet from his head. Then they began tearing chunks out of his scalp, greedily stuffing their mouths full. With strength in numbers, the zombie’s cracked his face bones apart, pulling out his tongue and greedily gulping it down. Unable to tear his uniform at first, they ripped his head from his shoulders and dug down into his chest cavity though this handy hole. His feet were still thumping as they finally shredded his uniform, allowing them to crack his chest and pull his warm innards out. Taken up with this feast, the zombies ignored their escaping prey. Kiley turned at the hole the AFV had blown in the wall and quickly tossed two HE grenades behind at the feasting creatures. One of the weapons bounced into a group of the zombies and erupted, blasting several off their feet. The other landed near the crazy woman’s body, blowing it into neat, zombie-sized chunks.

  Clemens’s AFV spun around the side of the farmhouse and stopped. He and everyone else heard the Privates screams. Popping up through the hatch, he saw the grenades explode, as well as a glimpse of the zombies enjoying their feast.

  Clemens tapped his driver, Private J.J. Diamond, on the shoulder. “Take us in a little closer," he tapped Loury on the shoulder. "Then waste those bastards!”

  The noise of the vehicle caused those zombies not in on the feast to look up. It would be the last thing they ever did as the chain-guns anti-personnel rounds tore into them. With a shrill shriek, the large darts ripped the zombies apart. Heads, arms, and legs flew everywhere as the gun ran back and forth. Chests disappeared into pink and grey clouds of gore. Within minutes the crowd of zombies w
ere gone, the entire ravenous assembly destroyed.

  Mira’s AFV pulled up alongside. She nodded at his handiwork. “I’ve called in an air strike on this place. Gunships will be here in a couple,” she called out over the noise of the engines.

  Clemens looked at the carnage. “What the hell do you think happened here?”

  Mira shook her head. “I don’t know, but it’s probably going to mean problems for us. Let’s get rolling.”

  23 March 2033

  Supply Convoy

  Campsite

  Moreau glanced down at her watch and made a decision. The ambush had cost them precious time and she didn’t want to approach the warehouse at night, so seeing an area suitable for stopping, she activated her comm circuit. “All Orphans, prepare to kraal. Repeat prepare to kraal.”

  Orphans 7 and 8 peeled out of formation while the convoy stopped. The Sergeant in charge of Orphan 7 pulled his truck up next to Mira’s Bradley. “Where we gonna set up ma’am?”

  Moreau smiled at Richards. His hair was flecked with grey and a series of scars, long healed wounds from mortar fire in the Middle East, streaked down the lower left of his face to disappear under his collar. Moreau had seen him with his shirt off. If the scars from the wounds could each be tattooed a different color, his neck and back would look like a road map. He was an older veteran, one of the men who’d served in the second Gulf War, among other conflicts. Offered an officer’s bars many times, he laughed and said, “Who’d train the officers then?” Moreau was fond of Rick Richards, who’d served with her father. He was the person she looked for after she’d destroyed the shambling thing that had once been Jerry Moreau.