Enclave: A Novel of the Zombie Apocalypse

by Robert Morganbesser

  Gorman, from Texas, had been born into a family with a military tradition dating back to the War of 1812. He took his oath seriously and knew now that he was going to die. Sucking up a bit of moisture, he hawked it onto Fields face and said, “Fuck you, scumbag.”

  Fields wiped the spittle off his face and smiled. “I’m not the one who’s going to be fucked, Lieutenant Gorman.” Fields jingled the dog tags he’d taken from the man. “You will be fed to the Blessed. Or perhaps one of your men?”

  But it was a woman they brought out. Bruised face, nude, shorthaired, Pvt. Corinne DeLeon was still defiant. As they dragged her into the circle of light, she kicked one guard in the leg sideways, shattering his knee. With a howl, he fell sideways, crippled. The other Lazarites turned on DeLeon and began beating her. As fists battered her, she fell to the ground and attempted to roll into a ball. All this accomplished was to enrage her attackers further, who began to kick her viciously. As she fell unconscious, Gorman could hear her ribs snap under the assault.

  Fields smiled, “Tenderizing the meat.” He raised a hand and said gently, “Stop.”

  The men stopped as others wheeled forward what looked like a wooden version of a hospital gurney. Fields looked up at Gorman. “I assure you, she’ll be awake for her end.”

  DeLeon’s unconscious form placed on the evil looking device, her arms stretched upright and nails were driven through her wrists pinning her to the thick wood. Capshaw came forward with a wicked knife and carefully sliced along her arms and legs. Last, he cut a neat line just beneath her stomach. This done, she was awakened with a bucket of water and her protecting shield of Lazarites moved aside.

  Gorman blinked. He knew the man who was doing the cutting! “Capshaw! You fucking bastard! You Sonuvabitch!” Gorman thrashed at his bonds, succeeding only in swinging his body a bit. Capshaw looked over one shoulder and grinned. It was a hideous travesty of a smile that would never crease a sane person’s face.

  Gorman could only watch helplessly as the first zombie approached her. It touched her stomach, which twitched and jumped. DeLeon’s eyes were wide with fright and her mouth moved soundlessly. The zombie raised its fingers to its mouth and greedily sucked the blood off them. Then it growled and jammed a hand into the incision on DeLeon’s stomach. DeLeon screamed a soul-shattering shriek that echoed through the woods. She kept screaming as blood drooled out of her mouth, her intestines slowly pulled out of the hole in her torso. Other zombies approached and dug their fingers into her breasts, tearing the delicate flesh, poking their filth-encrusted fingers into her lungs, which, mercifully, killed her. Gorman swung there helplessly while she was pulled apart and eaten. His grip on sanity was fading. How the fuck could one human do this to another? It was insane! It took the zombies nearly an hour to finish. Finally, there was only a bloodstain and a few snippets of hair left to prove she ever existed.

  Fields came forward. “I want information. What is your radio sign?”

  Gorman couldn’t spit, but he could talk. “It was go fuck yourself, you sick prick!” Gorman’s wrists had started to bleed and he could feel himself slipping through the ropes.

  Fields face went dark. “Foul language is not acceptable. Well, I have other prisoners. No more women unfortunately, but perhaps the young man next. Capshaw doesn’t care who he has, man or woman, eh Capshaw?”

  Capshaw smiled up at Gorman though his filth matted beard and grinned. “No, Fields. One hole is a good as another. Maybe you should give Gorman to me.”

  Gorman’s eyes opened wide. “Capshaw! How can you help this fucking lunatic? How?”

  Capshaw grinned again and put a hand on his belt. Gorman’s eyes widened as he saw the scalps hanging there. Fields put a hand on his second’s shoulder. “Go get another one.”

  Gorman was barely holding onto his sanity. He could feel the ropes slipping around his hands. Moving his hips, he set himself swinging. Fields looked up in amazement and then saw the blood on the man’s wrists. “Lower him! Now! Some of you guard him!”

  Fields orders were too late. Gorman slipped through the ropes, falling right into the fire below him. As the flesh on his stumps started to crisp, the Lieutenant shouted, “Dinner time!” Rolling out of the flames, he started to laugh, his sanity gone as the zombies, edged on by the rich coppery smell of blood, shoved past the Lazarites and tore into him.

  By the time the Lazarites had driven the Blessed off, Gorman was half-eaten and reactivating. Half his face was chewed off. One eye, filled with the insanity of his last moments of life, glistened dully within torn flesh. While the average Lazarite couldn’t bring himself to kill an angel, Capshaw wasn’t average. Raising a booted foot he cracked Gorman’s skull, the remaining eye popping out; then, releasing his anger, he stamped the head until it was unrecognizable as ever having been human.

  Fields looked down at the remains. “It’s dangerous, but we’ll have to use our contact. Give the others to the Blessed. We don’t need them any longer.”

  Capshaw nodded. “Can I show them some attention first?”

  Fields nodded.

  Within hours, they had their answer. The doom of the Enclave would soon be complete.

  07 November 2033

  Inside Enclave 9

  Near Phoenix, AZ

  Just after midnight…

  Colonel Ernest Candido was a handsome man, a regular lady-killer. Born of a Spanish father and Italian mother, he was brought up not to think that he was above the rest of humanity, but to believe it. His father’s machismo ideas of self and wealth above all other things were fed to Candido since he was a boy, his gentle mother’s ideas of love and friendship ignored.

  Candido went to the right schools from childhood. All wealthy preparatory schools before accepted to VMI. He wanted a military academy, but his father made too many enemies in Washington DC and even the money he foisted on congressmen couldn’t buy his son entry to one of the elite schools.

  So Candido made it his purpose to graduate from VMI number one in his class (which he did) and then to shine over all those he would meet from the Point. He almost accomplished this until a sex scandal with a female officer stopped his career dead. For five years before the dead rose, he’d been a full colonel. He watched jealously while men he felt weren’t good enough to clean his boots with their tongues, rose through the ranks to get their stars.

  Still, Candido did not complain (publicly), nor did he take things out on his beautiful wife Francesca (again, not publicly). But the prostitutes that dealt themselves near any military base quickly learned to avoid the man, who would beat them during sex while he screamed of the unfairness of it all.

  Then one day, in the early days of the crisis, when it seemed that things were controllable, that the dead, disorganized shambling shadows of humanity could be beaten back, Candido met a man. He was small with a shaven head and shiny dark eyes. He had a tattoo on his forehead of a Red diamond. At first Candido thought the man another religious fanatic, one of the odd sects that had popped up like weeds in the new century. But this man generated energy, real power to command people, the kind of power Candido wished he possessed.

  The man spoke to Candido in a syrupy, slick voice, speaking of God’s will. Candido had a genuine epiphany. He had seen the future and it was with the Lazarites not those fighting to save the old world. He saw that he could have the power he’d always sought, even more than that, the power over life and death! Candido went, in civilian clothes, to a meeting with the man. There he accepted a small cake, “This will grant you protection from the Blessed, and allow you to assist them.” He was also given a radio frequency. Candido wanted to be marked with the diamond, to show his allegiance to the man who had captured his mind, but the leader of the western Lazarites, who would give no name, had denied him this privilege. “One day, I feel,” the Leader said, touching Candido’s face, “you will be of great importance to the order.”

  It wasn’t long before Candido was assigned to Enclave 9.

  Stalking do
wn the corridor near the hydraulic pumps, he made a short left and entering a combination on the pad next to the door, entered the room where the life-unit computer sat. He stared at the unit while thoughtfully rubbing his right forearm, where his chip was implanted. Left alone during the night, Candido turned off the room’s emergency alarm, and then deactivated the computer itself. It was time to begin his work of sabotage, which would certainly require murder. With the life unit computer down, no one would be alerted to any deaths. Watching as the computer shut down, he opened several of the panels on it and destroyed the valuable circuit boards. By the time anyone knew the unit was disabled, the Enclave would be under new ownership. Grinning he slipped out of the room, letting the door lock behind him.

  A few moments later, the Colonel entered the hydraulics control room and stood listening to the pumps that moved the great gates up and down. Casually as he walked around, ignored by the staff of enlisted men and civilians (five were on duty at all times) he checked the emergency valves. The gates rose up, the hydraulics powered by electric pumps (fed by solar cells, an abundant energy source in sun-drenched Arizona), but could be dropped in an emergency by simply turning four valves. There were two sets, one in the walls near the guard post inside the doors, the others in this room. As Candido moved around, he had to fight not to grin. He’d already taken care of the guard post valves. They could be turned and turned, but nothing would happen. Since he was in charge of maintenance this simple act of sabotage was easily accomplished. Now he would make sure that once the gates were open, they would remain that way.

  Candido smiled at one of the women operating the pump monitor. He had her and thought she could be recruited, but with her entire family butchered by the Lazarites, it would never be. Her hatred for them could never be overcome. It was too bad, he thought. She was quite an energetic lover.

  The commlink in Candido’s ear buzzed once. Activating it he said, “Candido here.”

  “Sir, this is Corporal Mustafa at the main gate. We’ve got vehicles approaching. It could be the convoy sir. Should I order an alert?”

  Candido felt his heart beat increase. Standing so his body blocked his motions, he withdrew a pistol with an ugly silencer on it.

  “No Corporal, I’ll be right up. Do nothing until I get there.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Mustafa was a good man Candido grinned. He was almost going to regret killing him. Turning, Candido stuck the barrel of his pistol into the back of his one-time lover’s head and blew her brains and face all over her monitoring station. Then, while the others were fumbling about, trying to get to the weapons rack, he murdered all of them. As their bodies slumped to the floor, he reloaded his pistol and carefully put bullets through their brains. This lower class scum didn’t deserve to enter heaven, he thought.

  Before he left the room, Candido placed an explosive charge on the pumps insuring that once those doors went up, they weren’t coming down again.

  Smiling to himself, he headed for the Governors quarters.

  07 November 2033

  Inside Enclave 9

  Near Phoenix, AZ

  Moreau sat in the mess hall with Neil, both of them eating beefalo sandwiches. The Enclave had a small herd of the beasts. On nights when beefalo was on the menu, more than the usual number of people showed up to eat. It was a welcome change from canned food or MRE’s.

  Neil was glad some color had come back to Moreau’s face. She was eating with gusto and a while ago, wore him out in a brief session of lovemaking. He could see she was getting some of her old fire back, but he was still worried. The recurring nightmare was really rattling her. Even in the Enclave, she wore at least part of her armor and insisted that he did as well. Both were wearing their vests, the other bits of equipment back in their quarters. He was about to say something when Lieutenant Willie Clemens sat down heavily at the table.

  Willie was a handsome, slender black man originally from Oakland, California. A mustang, he had risen up through the ranks in the last years before the dead rose and was now a senior Lieutenant. He was expecting to make Captain, but since he wouldn’t kiss Candido’s ass, in fact actively despised the man, probably wouldn’t.

  “What’s wrong, mate?” Neil asked, thinking about having a cig.

  Clemens face was slightly distraught. “The Convoy’s overdue. Molloy is out with them. Last message they sent was that things were fine, no Lazarites in the town, almost no zombies.”

  Moreau stopped chewing, swallowed, and said, “Maybe they’ve had some mechanical failures? Some of those trucks really suck, you know. It’s not like Ford or Chrysler is out there waiting to handle any repairs. We have to make do with what we have.”

  Clemens nodded. Like most of the Enclavers, who carried one (or more) weapons, he had his shotgun with him. Clemens was rumored to sleep with it when he wasn’t with Molloy. He was one of the best soldiers in the Enclave, dedicated and dangerous to the enemy. Still, when praised, all Clemens would talk about was his old Sergeant, Joe Taylor. Taylor’s name constantly popped up in situation reports from Enclave 13. Clemens was under Taylor’s wing when both were in the Gulf and he felt it was the grizzled Sergeant who helped him become the man he was today. He’d noticed Taylor’s name more than once in the action reports that he and Moreau read. At night when he prayed, Taylor’s name was at the top of those he asked for the protection of the Lord.

  Clemens rose. “I think I’m gonna go to the radio room and see if any messages came in.”

  Moreau finished her meal. “Wait, we’ll go with you. I’d like to know what’s up too.”

  Candido left the radio room. At this time of night, there were only two people on duty. His pistol had chuffed again and their brains were blown out onto the gray walls. Setting a charge to take care of the communications equipment, he headed up to the first guard post. His orders of relaxed vigilance at night, relying on the minefield (which, with the press of a button, his approaching allies had a path through) were paying off.

  Mustafa was the first to go. He smiled at Candido right up until the Colonel fired; blowing the young man's white teeth out through the back of his head.

  Moving swiftly, Candido deactivated the alarm on the gates and peered out. The convoy, one APC, and six trucks were closing on the entrance. It was followed by hundreds of zombies. They were following the last truck, from which hung the last two of the convoy’s soldiers. Blinded and mutilated, they moaned their pain, giving the zombies a reason to follow. Pressing a switch, Candido deactivated the searchlights. Opening the panel, he tore out the wires, leaving the lights useless. Moving down the stairs, Candido shot a man outside the door to the inner guardhouse through the throat, then between the eyes. Opening the door with a grin, his next slaughter began.

  Moreau smelt something odd as they approached the radio room. “Do you smell that?” she asked. Neil and Clemens sniffed the air then Clemens said, “Smells like gunpowder!” Moving ahead of the other two, he tried the door.

  “Either of you know the combination?”

  Both shook their heads.

  “I’ll use the master key, then.” Raising his weapon, Clemens blew the locking mechanism off.

  Moreau and Neil forced their way in behind him. The scene was one out of a charnel house. The operators were both dead, their heads blown open and an explosive, quietly ticking down, sat on the console.

  Moving quickly, Moreau grabbed the simple device and flipped the switch, deactivating it. Neil wiped sweat off his face as he took his helmet off his belt and buckled it on. “This is bloody lovely. Why would someone kill the radio operators?” Then it hit him. “You said the convoy was late?”

  Clemens nodded. “By nearly ten hours. Why?”

  Moreau lifted the radio headset. “This is still working.” Lifting it to her ear, she hit a switch putting it on external speaker. There was some noise, then a voice, a voice they all well knew.

  “The gate is open. Come and bring the unbelievers down!”

  C
lemens eyes went wide. “It's Candido! That fucking lunatic is going to let the Lazarites in!”

  Now it all added up to Moreau. Candido had to have planned this for a long while. Stopping aggressive patrols; letting people slack at night. “We’re fucked,” said Neil.

  Clemens turned to the wall and yanked the handle on the alarm that hung there. Nothing happened; Candido had shut that off as well.

  “Not yet,” answered Moreau. “I’m going to call Enclave 2. They can have air support here in twenty minutes. Maybe we can stop this!”

  As Moreau got on the radio, Neil grabbed Clemens. “Grab whatever you can! We need to stop them at the gates!”

  07 November 2033

  Inside/Outside Enclave 9

  Near Phoenix, AZ

  It was already too late. Led by Fields and Capshaw, the Lazarites were in. Once they were under the gates, dynamite was used to damage the tracking, now, even if Candido’s plan failed, the gates couldn’t come down. The APC rumbled past the Lazarite soldiers and zombies to enter the vehicle parking area. There they gunned down the various mechanics working late and set about taking what they wanted. The slaughter had begun.

  Clemens came into the ready room. “All right, listen up! Candido’s a traitor! The Lazarites are outside the walls! We have to stop them!”

  For a few moments, the fifty or so men and women just stared at him. Clemens ratcheted his shotgun. “Let’s move it! I’m not fucking around here!” With a shuffle of feet and cursing, the troopers grabbed their gear and created a logjam as they tried to exit together.