Enclave: A Novel of the Zombie Apocalypse

by Robert Morganbesser

  Kiley pointed men to different aisles while another soldier guided trucks up to the loading bays. Quickly they began to load each truck with a different item. Hopefully they’d be able to close the gates and return here.

  The leader of the Lazarites shook his head and groaned. Rising slowly, he looked right into the eyes of Clemens, who was scouting the area of the burning trucks to see if there were any survivors. Before the Lazarite could move, the sergeant grabbed him and rolled him over. Pulling the man’s hands behind his back, delighted in his shriek of pain, Clemens secured them with riot cuffs that he cinched cruelly. Yanking the man to his feet and spinning him around, Clemens snarled, “Fight against your own eh? We have some questions for you.”

  Lips curling back in a sneer, the Lazarite spat in Clemens’s face. This got him a cuff to the head that nearly knocked him unconscious. As Clemens moved the man toward his AFV, a zombie, burned almost beyond recognition of ever having been human staggered into their path. As it opened its cracked and blistered lips to moan, Clemens smashed it in the face with a gloved hand. It staggered back, jaw broken. Clemens drew his machete and slashed the zombie with it, splitting it from top of the head to its breastbone. Ripping the blade out, he wiped it off on the Lazarite and shoved him again. “Give me a reason to do this to you.”

  As the trucks were loaded with tools, bandages, medical alcohol and hydrogen peroxide, they pulled away to wait by the main road. The men inside the trucks stayed alert, but the enemy wasn’t coming from that direction.

  Deep inside the warehouse, zombies that had come in from the other side before the gates were closed, began to move. Alerted by the shouts of the troops and the sounds of machines, they crept toward the light. There were many of them, Guards and citizens who had remained, hoping for rescue and slowly dying from starvation and dehydration. Some had fed on others, leaving them barely a threat, but many were whole, the darkness within keeping them from finding one another before reviving. The warehouse filled nearly two square miles of land, and now those who had once flocked there in an attempt to find safety, undead and hungry, were on the prowl.

  The last four trucks were against the loading area when the first moans were heard. Kiley peered into the darkness. Raising his weapon, he shone his light toward the sounds.

  Horror was what he saw. Zombies were approaching, hundreds of them. All dried out and emaciated, moaning their bloodlust. Before Kiley could shout, one man was plucked off his High-lo, which went spinning out of control to hit a beam and fall over. The man started to scream as the zombies began to tear into him. It was hot in the warehouse and none of the men had donned their masks. One or two had removed their helmets, leaving them hanging on their belts. Kiley cursed as he keyed his mike, “Widow Maker! Zombies in the warehouse!”

  In her turret, Moreau kicked Neil in the shoulder, shouting, “Spin us around!” As O’Neil got their Brad moving, Moreau pressed a foot pedal, spinning the turret so it faced the warehouse.

  The AFV’s began to move, to come to the assistance of their fellows in the warehouse but for some it was too late.

  Kiley got his mask up just as a zombie swiped at his face. Firing his auto shotgun he blew the zombie in half, its lower legs falling in different directions, its torso blasted back ten feet, intestines full of maggots trailing out of it. Several of his men were down, being pummeled by the creatures; who, weakened from their entrapment, were unable to tear or rip through the uniforms. One man panicked and fumbling with a grenade pulled the pin and lost it. The weapon exploded, killing him instantly as well as cooking off his other grenades. This destroyed several zombies, the shockwave from the explosion knocking Kiley down.

  “Phalanx!” He shouted into the comset. “Phalanx!” The troops reacted, backing away from the zombies, forming a wall of steel. Several men weren’t there, Kiley noticed. He hoped they could hold out long enough to be pulled from the zombies, but when he heard the muffled screams, he knew they were lost.

  “Move the goddamn trucks! We’re getting the fuck off this ramp!”

  As the trucks pulled out, the soldiers turned and ran, jumping off the ramp, leaving the zombies, slowed by their long fast, behind. Two men weren’t so lucky. One went to turn and slipped in intestine, falling back into the arms of the waiting zombies. There were too many for equipment to defeat. Pulling and tugging as she screamed, they twisted at her limbs, breaking them. As the zombies engaged in a bizarre tug of war, one of her arms was torn free bathing them in gouts of blood. One of the creatures put its mouth to her neck and chewing ferociously, tore the soft flesh apart. The trooper thrashed one final time before blood loss killed her. As she stopped fighting, more zombies joined the feast, ripping her to shreds, their teeth clacking noisily on her blood stained gear, which they dropped aside with an air of distaste.

  The second soldier cursed and thrashed to no avail, the weight of the zombies held him down. He heard Lang's screams and cursed. Freeing one hand, he pulled his pistol and began blowing holes in the creatures. As they fell back, holes blown in them, he got enough leverage to get up and run for it. Jumping off the loading dock, he ran for the nearest truck, panic in his eyes. With a leap worthy of an Olympian, even weighed down by his equipment, he made it to the tailgate of a departing truck. He hung there a second; breathing in short gasps, and then pulled himself over and into the escaping vehicle.

  Moreau was taking head counts as the men ran into the Bradley’s. At least twelve weren’t making the trip back. With the Lazarites in the area, she didn’t want to leave the warehouse open, so there was only one thing to do. Destroy it.

  Zombies who hadn’t made it to the various feasts began to stumble toward the loading ramp. Uncoordinated, they tumbled off, some landed haphazardly, breaking bones and, in a few cases, bursting from the gasses within them. Slowly they lurched to their feet and staggered toward the AFV’s. Moreau keyed her mike. “All Orphans; open fire, HE on the warehouse. Target the warehouse!”

  With a roar of cannon, the 25mm opened up on the advancing horde of zombies as well as the richly filled warehouse. Moreau hadn’t wanted to do this, but there were other places waiting for them.

  Keying her mike, she said, “Skull Flight, Widow Maker.”

  “Skull Flight.”

  “Any ordnance left?”

  “Some MK-50’s and nape; target?”

  “The warehouse. The enemy has it, we’re done here.”

  “Then get the hell out of dodge, Lieutenant!”

  Moreau didn’t need to be told twice. Tapping Neil with her toe, he put the vehicle in gear and peeled out. The other Bradley’s followed the trucks already on the road. As soon as the knocked down fence was cleared, Skull flight peeled off and dropped their ordnance. The entire building shook as the zombies, the remnants of their meals and the building itself was blown from the face of the earth. A huge fireball erupted skyward as combustible chemicals went up.

  Moreau never looked back.

  24 March 2033

  Supply Convoy

  Warehouse Area

  They pulled into another kraal that night. Clemens brought his prisoner before Moreau.

  “Why do you do it?

  The man, bald and ugly, with several scars across his torso (his shirt was torn from him), as well as the hated Red Diamond of the Lazarites tattooed over his heart, sneered, “Do what?”

  “Fight us to help them!” Moreau was losing her patience.

  “They are Gods Blessed. We help them so we can ascend to heaven. They are the next rulers of earth.”

  Kiley, also present at the interrogation, slapped the man across the head. “They’re fucking dead, asshole! They’re nothing but fucking walking corpses!”

  The man smiled beatifically. “Is it not said that the dead will return to herald the end?”

  Moreau almost shot him right there. “So you’re serving God? And the dead are his Blessed? Will you become an angel?”

  He smiled again, “Of course.”

  Moreau wh
ipped out her pistol, “even if I blow your head off?”

  Now he looked panicked. Sweat began to grow on his forehead. “Do what you will. We will be victorious.”

  Clemens leaned over to whisper to Moreau, who smiled.

  She leaned close. “You won’t be there to see it.”

  Dawn saw them on their way back to Enclave 9. As Moreau's AFV, now tail end Charlie moved off, she looked up at the silver tower that had once carried electricity. There, twelve feet above the ground, wires around his wrists, legs and torso, hung the Lazarite. He might become an angel, but he would never feed. The I.V. bag Clemens had placed in his arm would see he lasted a long time. The Lieutenant didn’t know it, but she was enforcing a law that all the Lazarites feared, to be kept from reviving, to feed. She left this man to die and revive, but never have his share of flesh, never to join the Blessed. If she had known, Mira wouldn’t have cared. To her, this maniac was just another danger to the people she’d sworn to defend.

  Moreau knew command wouldn’t be happy. They wanted prisoners. Her people wanted some vengeance. Command would get a prisoner another time.

  Keying her mike, Moreau forgot him instantly. She and the other Enclavers had better things to think about. Tapping Neil with her toe, she said, “Let’s go. I want to be home before dark.”

  No one in the convoy paid the slightest attention to the Lazarites screams.

  Chapter 14 - Lazarites

  12 September 2033

  Unnamed town

  The Ohio/Pennsylvania Border

  The smell of burning wood carried across the small field, the smoke from it temporarily obscuring a ruined palisade that had protected part of a small town. Beneath the stench of the wood was the scent of burning flesh, a sickly sweet smell that hung close to the ground and filled ones nostrils with the smell of victory for some and death for others.

  The small town on the Pennsylvania-Ohio border had held out longer than any previous stronghold of unbelievers. Even when the Blessed were assembled outside the walls and the captives put up on racks, their stomachs sliced open so the Blessed could grasp their intestines and eat; the defenders held out. Even as the dying captives screamed for mercy, for death, for anything those behind the walls still resisted. Unbelievers with rifles, who couldn’t take the cries any longer, finally shot their tortured friends, freeing them from their pain. They’d also taken a measure of revenge by shooting at any exposed Docents or acolytes, having learned that once they bled the Blessed would take them as well. More than one Lazarite went down before the unbelievers, but it only further fueled the rage of the others.

  Finally the end came, the unbelievers fell, their wall burned down by those faithful unafraid to die, for they knew that dying in the service of their beliefs would usher them to heaven, to sit at the feet of God.

  Now it was time to take the survivors and give them to the Blessed.

  Even through the dirt and sweat that caked her face, the woman was beautiful. Her dark eyes shone with fanaticism as she surveyed the battleground before her. The leadership of this cell of the Order of Lazarus had fallen to her after a large caliber bullet shattered her predecessor’s shoulder, nearly tearing his left arm out of its socket. She fell down at the sound of the rifle, trying to burrow into the earth before rolling onto her back, trembling with fear. Thursby, the leader of the cell was gasping out his life, his arm hanging from a tendril of muscle. She couldn’t make out his words, just the insane smile as he lay there dying. He hadn’t been on his back for more than a moment when the Blessed were upon him, rending his flesh from his bones, sending him to his rightful reward.

  Veronica rose then and strode back to her fellows. Lazarites, armed with rifles taken from a local police station months before, guarded their supply trucks. It wouldn’t be long before the trucks had to be abandoned for lack of fuel. Even with fuel, these were dangerous to use, a moving target for any Enclave aircraft. Better to carry everything or use animals than be sent down death’s road by an unexpected visit from the enemy.

  She strode before them; pushing her way past a group of Blessed huddled over another dead Lazarite, this one’s head reanimated, the body beyond use. Lifting the head, she carried it by the hair, teeth snapping at her, to a pile of others. Sometimes the Blessed started with the heads, other times with the softer areas. The heads that reanimated would be left to the whims of nature. While some cells might destroy them, Veronica’s group held to a more strict interpretation of their ideals.

  “Thursby has gone on. I am in charge now.” The only Lazarite to challenge Veronica found himself nailed to a tree, hands chopped off, lower jaw removed. He was left there, high enough so that the Blessed couldn’t free him, bleeding slowly so that he revived he would be unable to leave until he rotted off, a dead thing in all ways. Since then, her word was undisputed. It was Veronica who figured out how to bring down the unbelievers wall.

  “Take two barrels of oil. I want them opened and rolled against that wall, then set afire. It’s time for the unbelievers to see our true strength! Then they will pay the price for their resistance!”

  Without questioning, the acolytes, the lowest rank within the Order, moved to do her bidding. It was with grim anticipation that Veronica watched as they rolled the barrels forward. Another group of Lazarites, led by two Docents, the next level up, lay down covering fire, keeping the defenders of the town from firing on the assault force. The oil, siphoned out of various homes, gurgled out of the open bungs to pool in front of the wall. As soon as they were close enough, one acolyte lit a road flare and thrust it into the puddle of oil. With a snapping noise, the oil and the acolyte went up in flames. Screaming hideously as his flesh was blistered by the heat; the dying man strode out of the flames and into the Blessed. Several burst into flames while others recoiled. One of the Docents shot the man, ending his pain, which made no difference to Veronica. He would revive and know the glory of heaven. Veronica had already forgotten him. Her plan was bearing fruit; the walls were burning.

  As the defenders tried to put out the fire, Lazarites shot them off the wall, some fell outside its protection, the Blessed taking little time to grab them and begin feasting. The thin screams of the wounded filled the air as the flames grew higher, sending sooty clouds skyward. Veronica cast a nervous glance upwards. If they didn’t breach the walls by dawn, they would have to fall back. If the townspeople had a radio, Enclavers could be on the way. Sadly, Veronica’s group had no way to deal with their damned aircraft, at least not yet.

  With a cracking of timbers, a section of the wall collapsed. Dirt spilled out from behind it, extinguishing part of the flames. So, thought Veronica. They have two walls with dirt between. No matter. Raising a large black kerchief with a red diamond on it, the symbol of their belief, she waved it.

  The road that led to the wall was on a slight incline. At the top of it, sat an old armored car, taken from outside a nearby bank. Some had questioned Thursby taking it, since the heavy vehicle used so much fuel. But now that vehicle was going to give them the edge they needed in cracking the wall and getting at the unbelievers. At the signal, the driver started it, blue clouds of smoke erupting from the exhaust. Slowly it began to move, and then as it came down the incline, began to pick up speed. With a roar, the vehicle sped down the road and smashed into the fire-damaged wall. With a final cracking of timbers, the wall, inner and outer, gave way, the armored car shooting through the wall and into the town. That the driver was killed, skull smashed against the bulletproof windshield, brains splattered across the cab, meant nothing to Veronica. All that did was bringing down the unbelievers.

  “NOW! ATTACK! FOR THE GLORY OF HEAVEN!” Veronica's clear voice (she had been a novice opera singer when civilization collapsed) rang out over the field.

  Dark eyes glittering she watched her people jump over smoking timbers, stumbled after by the Blessed. This town was almost done. All that was left was the ritual of the captives.

  There were twenty survivors, men, and wome
n, young and old, all being kept away from the Blessed, who were being kept outside the walls. Veronica threw the hood of her parka back – fall had turned cold early this year and, imperious as Caesar, looked down at them.

  Some of the survivors stared back defiantly; others were blubbering, mucus mixed with tears running down their dirt-encrusted faces. Others were just glancing around, as if looking for a way to escape. Veronica smiled beatifically at them - more human fodder for the Blessed. How had she ever existed before the Order gave her such a purpose for living?

  Veronica was a secretary for a law firm while pursuing her opera career, when she first attended an Order meeting. In the beginning, she’d been appalled when the message of life through death was put before her. But then the dead began to rise and Lazarus, the leader of the Order, walked among them, showing that any who were faithful to his ideals could help bring the resurrection to its finale.

  Veronica was one of Lazarus harem in the early days. Her loyalty was unquestioned; she’d even sacrificed her own brother – a police officer and unbeliever – to the Blessed. She still remembered how his flesh had quivered as she made the ritual slice across his abdomen, allowing the Blessed easy access. Goose pimples rose on her olive skin as she thought of the orgy of feeding that would go on here tonight! Lazarus told her the secret, known only to High Docents, of how they walked among the Blessed. The simple little pill that gave them immunity, allowed them to walk unharmed through the apocalypse. The rank and file of the Order never knew that when they had their first meal, one of their sacred ideals, they were given a dose that gave them the same freedom. This way they could be interrogated by the unbelievers until the sun fell from the sky, unless they caught one of the High Docents, the secret would never be revealed.

  But first, Veronica thought, looking over the survivors, recruits. Some of these people might be open to the way and would be given the chance to become believers. Lazarus ideas were clear. Those who wished a chance at a new life should be given such. This was one of the tenets of their belief.