Enclave: A Novel of the Zombie Apocalypse

by Robert Morganbesser

  The second Lazarite, the one with the rifle, was a former Enclaver. Gene Capshaw had been a civilian, an engineer, helping to build Enclave 4 in the Rockies. He’d been part of a convoy to this Enclave that was ambushed. The Enclavers were holding their own, waiting for reinforcements, when his woman, Rina was wounded in the stomach. He still didn’t really know which side fired the shot, but he knew that Rina turned heads and her being with an ugly cuss like him raised brows. She bled out slowly, dying painfully. He couldn’t believe it, wouldn’t believe it. He was holding her body gently in his lap, stroking her face, when a soldier noticed her starting to twitch. He grabbed a pickaxe, pushed the body off Capshaw, and drove the pointed end right between her dead eyes.

  Capshaw’s mind snapped. Pulling his knife, he sliced the soldier’s throat, laughing as the man went down blood spurting from the wound. Grabbing his rifle, he jumped over the hood of a Humvee and was gone. He was fortunate that the Lazarite her encountered believed his story and protected him until he could be branded and given treated food. Capshaw was doubly fortunate; the last turncoat Fields took in died horribly, the treated food that kept them safe not working.

  The rest of the Convoy was later rescued, but half their number was lost in the battle. Since then, Capshaw, his mind warped, wanted nothing but revenge on the Enclaves. When the last Enclave was gone, he planned to kill himself with a bullet in his brain, making sure the Blessed could get at this body. That way he could rejoin Rina.

  Fields tapped Capshaw. “Let’s get out of here before we get spotted. I’ve seen enough. I have a plan.”

  Slowly and quietly, moving past the zombies that ignored them, they headed back to their hidden camp. Fields had a plan to bring this sanctuary of unbelievers down.

  05 November 2033

  Moreau's quarters

  Near Phoenix, AZ

  Lieutenant Mira Moreau climbed out of the shower and began toweling her short black hair. Her eyes were red from crying, something she hadn’t done until recently. Moreau stared at herself in the mirror, her nude body glistening with water. She hadn’t been eating right and the thinness she saw reflected that. Running a hand down her ribcage, she could see and feel every one, as if they were a bas-relief of a human torso. Angrily she toweled herself dry, and then stamped in to her bedroom. As a senior officer, she rated a private bath and a one-room assignment.

  Pulling on her underwear, she looked in her bedroom mirror. Her dark eyes, once shiny, were dull and sunken. She was still attractive (at least Tom told her so), but she didn’t see it. Slipping into a sports bra – not that her weight loss had done her breasts any good – she sat down to pull on her underwear and socks. As of late she’d been having a recurring nightmare from a mission when she’d been nearly overwhelmed by the zombies, putting her face in her hands she started to shake.

  Control, she thought. You need to stay in control! Her self-esteem, damaged by the fear that rose unbidden, hadn’t been helped when Colonel Ernest Candido had told her “if you can’t take it anymore get pregnant. We need new soldiers.”

  Moreau was glad that Neil hadn’t been present to hear that. He might have settled things with Candido violently at the moment. Neil didn’t care for the aristocratic officer and the feeling was mutual. Candido had once wondered aloud why, with Americans needing succor did they take in the waifs of other countries. Neil would never forget this.

  Moreau knew that Candido had it in for her. She had a request in to see the governor about some ideas and he was stalling her. She wanted to see more aggressive patrols as well as having the minefield repaired daily, rather than weekly. She was afraid that leaving too many gaps in it would lead to problems, like too many zombies getting too close to the walls. She knew that the walls were six feet thick at the base narrowing to four at the top, but to have zombies so close to them might be trouble. What if Lazarites crept in among them perhaps armed with explosives? Enclave troops weren’t the only ones out there scavenging.

  Moreau had been reading the action reports from Captain James Nevers of Enclave 13 on the East Coast, which got her thinking of the changes in procedures. Never’s reports amazed her when she read how 13 handled things. They ran aggressive rescues and patrols, including active hunting of Lazarites and destroying large congregations of zombies. The forces of 13 with help from the U.S.S Nimitz destroyed every town in a ten-mile radius from the Enclave. They left a swath of destruction for miles in every direction, leaving a killing field for their troops. There was no way that the Lazarites could sneak up on 13.

  Moreau wanted this Enclave to be like that. Other than supply runs, their leadership had grown complacent, lazy even. They hadn’t mounted a rescue mission for months, leaving survivors to the mercy of the zombies and the Lazarites. She felt this was Candido’s fault. He kept a tight hold on the junior officers and the new Governor, who listened to the man a bit too much. Whenever anyone at a staff meeting would make a suggestion, Candido shot it down with his usual arguments, “Our Enclave is understaffed for such operations,” or “we don’t have the resources yet. Perhaps in the future.”

  Moreau started to tear up again. She missed Arnold Carpenter, who’d died suddenly in his sleep. The new one, a former state senator, was an undeceive man, barely able to make his mind up about anything. The military existed to serve the people, and in this area, as far as she was concerned, they were failing miserably. Perhaps she could get a transfer to another Enclave. They were rare but not unheard of. Candido would probably be glad to have her gone.

  A knock at the door brought her back to reality. Pulling on her pants and shirt, she said, “Come in.”

  Tom Neil entered. His presence, usually a calming one on Mira, brought a slight smile to her lips. Neil hung his M11A (he never went anywhere without it) by the door, removed his vest and sat next to her.

  “Strewth! I can’t imagine anything more bloody boring than standing watch. I didn’t like it when I was a rookie and I don’t like it now!’

  Mira sniffed the air. “You’ve been smoking!” Her voice held a scolding tone. People who developed cancer were a low priority to keep alive, the medicines necessary not that available if at all. Mira wouldn’t be surprised if Enclave 13 had them. That Enclave seemed to be on the ball.

  “Just one,” protested Neil. “I came to see if you wanted to hoist a pint to lost comrades and all.”

  Mira took one of his callused hands in hers. “Tom, if I transferred out of this Enclave, would you come?”

  “Not without taking me clothes off first,” he joked. “Sure. Where would we go? Enclave 4? I’ve always fancied a look at the Rockies.”

  Mira shoved him playfully. “That’s not what I meant. Do all Englishmen have their minds in the gutter?”

  Tom looked innocent, “My minds not in the gutter, it’s in your drawers, but only sometime. Where would you transfer too?”

  Moreau pulled a map off the small table next to her bed. “I was thinking about Enclave 13. It’s one of the ones back east.”

  Tom peered at the map. “Ah, that one’s closer to home than this one. Wouldn’t be bad. Why? Fed up with Candido? Can’t run from your problems love,” Tom sat back, his eyes shadowed. “We non-comms have a way of handling things you know.” Tom’s voice trailed off.

  Mira came around and took his face in her hands. “You’re right, you crazy Londoner. But I don’t want to handle things that way and I won’t run away. I’ll do my duty. Now let’s go get that pint.”

  05 November 2033

  Highway near Enclave 9

  Near Phoenix, AZ

  Sergeant Sheila Molloy sat inside the cupola of her M-113 as it rumbled down the lonely road followed by eight trucks and another M-113. They’d gone out a day before from Enclave 9 to investigate a small town that hadn’t been touched. Oddly enough, the mission went without a hitch. While there were signs that there had been a large battle nearby, all the evidence was old and there were barely fifty zombies in the town itself. They found no signs of Laza
rites. Intell said they were more spread out in the Southwest than back east. But Molloy, like any experienced soldier, took anything Intell said with a grain of salt. Mission nearly completed, all she wanted was to get back to the Enclave, give her report, shower, and go to bed. Hopefully when she got back, Willie would be off duty and they could spend a little time together. Unlike the past, fraternization between Officers and Enlisted was ignored. Morale in these days was more important than an archaic rule.

  Molloy was one of the lucky ones in the convoy; the crossbow bolt that slammed in to her face, striking between her green eyes killed her instantly, assuring that she would never come back. Her lifeless body, eyes still open, flopped forward in the cupola, slumping over the .50 caliber machine gun there. The bolt would have pierced her entire skull had she not been wearing her helmet.

  Her feet thrashing from her death throes, caught the driver in the side of his head. With an exclamation of “Fuck; Sarge, what’s with that?” He halted the vehicle, stopping the entire convoy. Next to him, a Sergeant, an old timer, noticed how limp Molloy had gone. Cursing, he shoved the surprised soldier aside and, grunting, shoved Molloy’s body up and out of the vehicle. Breathing hard the sergeant reached up and pulled the hatch shut. Even as he accomplished this, a tear gas grenade bounced off the hatch, where it ricocheted away to explode harmlessly off the road.

  The driver spun, shouting, “What the fuck did you do that for?”

  “She was dead, asshole!”

  In the cupola of the rear most M-113, a similar action was taking place. In this case, the officer in charge, feeling safe, had removed his helmet to feel the evening breeze. The crossbow bolt hit him in one ear, pierced his skull coming out behind the other. His hands shot up and he slumped down into the vehicle, falling on the driver who, startled, steered the boxy vehicle onto the road’s shoulder and stopped. One of the soldiers, seeing the blood dripping down from the dead lieutenant, tried to pull the officer’s corpse down, shouting “Shut the fucking hatch!” As the driver struggled to clear the body from the hatchway, a tear gas grenade came tumbling in. The sleepy men and women started gagging. Before they could get their masks on, the gas, confined to such a small space, quickly overwhelmed them.

  In a camouflaged pit off the road, Capshaw and Fields directed the assault. Others with crossbows killed the driver of the first two and last two trucks. Those in the middle began to worry, trying to talk to anyone on their comms. But with everyone trying to talk at once, no one knew what was going on. Now the creeping hordes of zombies, urged forward by the Lazarites, came on.

  In the cab of the fourth truck, Private Andy Yost woke as the truck stopped. “We back?” he asked. Getting no answer, he tapped the driver who slumped forward, his neck pierced by an arrow, blood staining his shirt. Before Yost could grab for his weapon, the door to the truck was yanked open. A pair of Lazarites dragged him out and threw him to the zombies. Yost had time for one horrified scream before the zombies were on him. Since he’d been in the cab and felt safe, he’d removed most of his armor. Before he could wish he hadn’t, the zombies were peeling his face off his body. Jagged nails tore into him, tearing his uniform to shreds as the zombies fought to see who got the most of his flesh. Yost screamed until the zombies tore his throat out then he gurgled until he’d lost so much blood that his heart finally stopped. He had no chance to reanimate, since a passing Lazarite cracked his skull with a rifle butt allowing the zombies access to his hard to reach brains. Zombies were weak and invariably, while eating all the meat off a head, usually couldn’t summon the strength to crack a skull.

  Yost’s screams alerted the rest of the trucks that trouble was afoot. At first, some soldiers thought the convoy had stopped due to a mechanical problem. That was until one woman looked out a window and saw the zombies and Lazarites approaching. Grabbing her shotgun, she pointed it and without lowering the window, fired a round that decapitated a Lazarite. As soon as the Lazarites body toppled off the road, the zombies were on it, shredding it to bits, fighting over the juicier parts.

  From all the trucks gunfire erupted, but the battle was one-sided. There were too many zombies. Had they not been directed by the Lazarites who led them on with pieces of flesh cut from captives, the troops might have fought their way out. As it was, they took a toll among their enemies, but one by one the troops (there were six soldiers to a truck, two in the cab; four in the bed) were overwhelmed and taken down. The lucky ones were devoured right there, the unlucky ones were taken alive. This was the fate of the four soldiers in the last M-113. Pulling the dead officers corpse out and tossing it to the zombies, the Lazarites threw a second tear gas grenade into the vehicle. In a panic, unable to find their masks, the troops dropped the rear hatch to try to escape. As they staggered out, they were overwhelmed by the waiting Lazarites, clubbed into unconsciousness, tied and thrown back into the vehicle. Once this was done, a Lazarite in a gasmask dropped in and shut the engine off. No sense wasting precious fuel.

  At the first M113, Molloy, beyond pain was being pulled apart like a chicken dinner. One zombie staggered away holding her head by the arrow that was in it, casually chewing off her features. Her eyes were sucked out and her nose and lips chewed off when another zombie decided it wanted a taste. In the fight, the head was dropped where it rolled off into the bushes along the road, lost to the battling creatures.

  The rest of her body was torn to bits; zombies crouched around it, sucking the meat off the bones like partygoers at a bizarre picnic. Molloy was lucky she died quickly. Screams tore through the night as various soldiers, trying to escape were caught by the zombies and ripped to shreds. Limbs scattered the tarmac as the Enclavers met their worst fear, to be caught and eaten. Blood stained the dark road as arms were pulled from sockets, legs were bitten into, and intestines pulled out and played with like some obscene flesh toy.

  But the first M-113 was impervious to harm. Buttoned up, it was beyond the weapons that the Lazarites carried its crew safe from the zombies. But it still had a weakness, the treads. Under Fields command, a team of Lazarites approached from the side (unlike the Bradley’s, there were no firing ports) and broke one tread with crowbars. Hearing the noise of tools, the driver tried to move the vehicle. This caused the broken tread to whip off, breaking the legs of two surprised Lazarites. The vehicle moved a few feet before bogging down in gravel and dirt. The men and women inside were trapped.

  The two Lazarites were left for the zombies, their slowness showing them as unfit to assist the Blessed. One didn’t even scream, just closed his eyes, and welcomed the rapture of being devoured. The other screamed until the zombies tore his head from his shoulders and tore his body to bits.

  Inside the M-113, the sergeant who’d closed the hatch looked around. His small flashlight illuminated the faces of the frightened men and women. Their APC was loaded with ammo and explosives, all taken from the town. The Sergeant looked at each of them, tears blurring his vision and slowly he removed a grenade from his vest.

  “We’ve got two choices here. We can surrender and open that door, or...” His eyes went to the grenade.

  Before anyone could say anything, one of the soldiers, a boyish looking woman, said, “Fuck surrendering!” With a quick movement, she yanked the pin…

  The Lazarites were approaching the APC, dragging an acetylene torch they’d pulled out of one of the trucks. As they started the flame, there was a blinding explosion and the APC and everything within ten feet of it, was obliterated. 100 feet down the road, zombies and Lazarites were knocked off their feet and the fireball from the explosion went 200 feet up in the air.

  Capshaw grabbed one of the nearer Lazarites. “Get that fire out now, or you’ll all be killed and nailed to a wall! You’ll never know salvation!”

  The Lazarites ran toward the fire, carrying blankets and extinguishers from the trucks, anything that would put out the blaze. Fortunately, for them, Enclave 9 rarely ran its helicopters at night. Some of the Lazarites thought they were lucky.<
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  But it wasn’t really luck; Fields thought as he watched the fire die and listened to the Blessed feed. Their information was good as usual. Their agent in the Enclave had come through again.

  Soon, he thought. Soon the walls of the unbelievers would crumble with the righteous vengeance of the Lord!

  06 November 2033

  On the highway

  Near Phoenix, AZ

  Lieutenant Carl Gorman woke to an agonizing pain in his wrists. Blinking at the bright light of fires beneath him, he looked up. His wrists were tied together, crossed and he was hanging from a scaffold of some kind.

  Pain wracking his body he looked down to horror. From the knee down his legs were gone, the wounds cauterized. Seeing this he now felt waves of pain emanating from the wounds. Nearby, guarded by Lazarites sat and stood several zombies, chewing on what was left of his lower legs. Most of the flesh was gone. One zombie was sucking at the end of a femur, trying to get all the marrow out. Goosebumps rose on his skin as he realized he was naked.

  “Awake?” A calm voice, not unlike that of a teacher or priest, called up to him. “Good. We have to talk.”

  Gorman glared down at the Lazarite. The man addressing him was tall and nondescript looking, his hair worn in a long ponytail. On his forehead was the diamond brand of the Lazarites. The skin was raised where hot metal had seared the flesh, the area within the raised tissue tattooed a vibrant scarlet. Around him, unable to join in the feast, Gorman’s legs were providing, were several other zombies. Some had their hands raised, trying to reach him. Gorman tried to hide the shiver of fear but failed. If the Lazarite noticed, he didn’t show it.