I Zombie I [Omnibus Edition]

by Jack Wallen

  “Morgan, you have to send them in now, before the cargo planes take off.”

  “What planes?” Morgan stood and faced me. “Bethany, what are you talking about?”

  The second Morgan and Josh were up to speed she wasted no time getting the leader of the troops on the phone to inform him of the new plan. Although their primary goal was the same, in the act of recovering Jacob they were to prevent the undead Luftwaffe from taking off.

  Morgan hung up and pocketed her phone.

  “All we can do now is wait.”

  I shook my head. “No, that’s not all we can do. You forget who you’re talking to.” I turned and got Jamal’s attention.

  “I know that look, B; you’re up to no damn good.”

  “Oh, what I am up to is so damn good. Follow me, Jamal.”

  We returned to my laptop in the Sunday School room. I sat down and gently placed my fingers on the keyboard. With my eyes closed, my lungs slowly drew in a deep breath and released it.

  “Garbage in—”

  “—garbage out.” Jamal completed my thought.

  “Remember how we defeated that punk ass robot team from MIT our senior year?”

  The grin on Jamal’s face nearly blinded me.

  “That’s right, darling face, I am going to go ID4 on their ass.”

  “There was no logic in that film. How was it possible they could write a virus for a completely unknown technology from an unknown planet?” Jamal shook his head as he spoke. “It was brilliant though.”

  We both shared a love for implausible science fiction. In fact, the farther from reality the better.

  “I still have a copy of that virus tucked away on one of my servers. I can backtrack the communications, locate an IP address, break into a machine, and let that baby loose on their network. Hopefully, it’ll wreak enough havoc to at least postpone the takeoff of the zombie drop-ships. If it doesn’t stop this, it’ll slow them down later. One way or another, this baby will cripple their IP communication.”

  Jamal’s smile softened from manic to warm.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I can’t imagine a moment in which I could love you any more than I do now.”

  “Oh, Jamal, always the romantic.”

  “I can’t help it. When you talk nerdy it fills my heart with pride and—”

  “Lust?”

  Jamal blinked nervously. “Must you always ruin the moment?”

  I winked at Jamal. “You’re such a girl, Jamal.”

  “And you love me just the same.”

  “I do.”

  And I did…without question or reservation.

  “Okay, I have the virus and the IP address. Now it’s just a matter of running a port scan and…well, hello port 22.”

  Jamal cozied up behind me and glanced over my shoulder. “Secure shell? Seriously? Did they leave root access open?”

  I nodded. It took me less than thirty seconds to break into their network and unleash the beast. I closed the lid on the laptop.

  “All we have to do now is hope the virus cripples their systems before it’s too late.”

  Jamal leaned down and kissed me on the forehead. “Even if that fails, our plan B isn’t so bad.”

  “The Zombie Response Team.”

  He was right. It wasn’t often your backup plan was a nationwide organization dedicated to surviving the apocalypse.

  “It’s late, Bethany. We have a long day ahead of us.”

  The hint slapped me across the face like a brick-filled purse. I was exhausted. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept. My pew beckoned.

  “We have to find beds,” I said, as I stood. “Church benches were one of the many reasons I never put much stock in organized religion.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  I tossed a look Jamal’s way. “How can you have faith in an organization that insists on making its attendees miserable to keep them from falling asleep? That’s why those pews are so damned uncomfortable.”

  “You’re talking nonsense, Bethany.”

  My breath fell slumber-deep even before my head hit the folded up cloth of a pillow.

  *

  The symphony. Familiar. Comforting. Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings hung in the air like a beautiful and tragic blanket of snow. The conductor swayed in a slow ballet as he led the orchestra through the melancholic progression of perfectly composed music. It had always been a favorite piece of mine; something so gut-wrenching and lovely, a juxtaposition of life and death. The depth of the bass line vibrated my gut and the melody tugged at my heart.

  Something in my distant memory begged me to recall a similar moment, one with an audience and Jacob Plummer…a dance, a nightmare. This time, however, I was alone in the audience, so no matter if the music called the devil forth, nothing could reach me.

  The orchestra swelled the final note of the first movement. As the conductor waved the musicians to silence, the echo of the fermata rang into the past and begged for the future. I awaited the graceful beginning to the second movement—a collection of sorrow-filled chords that would bring anyone in the right mood to their knees.

  As the first two chords rang out, the vibrato of the strings seemed out of place—too prominent, exaggerated. When the second chord progression was given life, the vibrato from the instruments evolved into something far too familiar.

  The Obliterator.

  As each passing tone was given life, the oscillation and pitch presented itself with more and more ferocity. With an agonizing screech, the zombie-slaying sound transferred itself from the wood of the instruments to the bone of my skull. Every sound was overtaken by that of the Obliterator. No longer could the wondrous music be heard—there was no Barber, there was only Zuul. When I attempted to scream, a hand forced its way out of my mouth. The skin on the hand was pale, with bluish veins ribboned beneath the thin flesh. My lungs made another attempt at screaming, only to force the arm father from my gullet.

  Beneath the flesh and meat of my body, something stirred. Once the shoulder appeared from out of my mouth, my right arm completely deflated. The sack of useless skin hung at my side.

  Another scream, another arm, another useless bag of flesh.

  When the zombie pulled itself upright from my mouth, what was left of me collapsed to a cold, wet pile on the floor.

  chapter 27 | everything but the baby

  The mobile Zombie Response Team unit finally came to a stop. José Diaz had his unit in place, ready to attack. When the signal came in from Morgan, he sent a single command to all teams, via an encrypted RF signal:

  Go.

  The plan was simple—three teams were in charge of locating the “package” and exiting immediately. The fourth team, led by Martine Keller, had one very specific task—stop the launch of the drop-ships at all costs. Before the Mengele Virus took control of the world, Keller was a member of the Marine Corps Force Recon. She was Special Forces to the core—vicious and ready to eat the Zero Day Collective for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and high tea. Her team consisted of five men, each of them lunatic at heart.

  “Keller to Diaz.” Martine’s voice was a whisper through her radio. “We’re entering the central car now.”

  It was the center of the mobile HQ that all communications were broadcast. Diaz made the call—enter the central car and disable all comm channels after forcing the order for the drop-ship pilots to stand down.

  Keller did “force” well. She relished the idea of using “any means necessary” to stop the ZDC mission.

  The car door slid open effortlessly—a strange feat, considering the weight of the metal. As the door opened, a beam of light cut through the darkness of night. Keller took in her squad, each man nodding his readiness, before she turned to assess the situation within the car.

  “Two men,” she said softly, “each manning a communications console. We have their backs. Once we enter, fan out and approach. Jordan, you take the target at three o’clock. Snake, your target is at ten
. I want you both on your man simultaneously. No surprises; stick to the book.”

  Keller was again greeted by nods before she did a silent countdown. As soon as she gave the signal, the team slipped through the door and silently made their way across the room. The men at the comm station were completely unaware of the approaching killing machines.

  It took less than a minute for the team to lock into place. All eyes were on Keller. She focused in on the men at the stations. There was no indication either man suspected what was about to go down.

  Keller nodded.

  Jordan and Snake both stood and, like a ballet of death, wrapped their arms around the necks of the men…

  …only to find they were mannequins.

  “Fuck!” Jordan shouted. He ripped the head from the plastic shoulders of the dummy and turned to Keller. Before the team could react, the exit slammed shut and released the hiss of a seal.

  Keller pulled out her radio to warn José of the trap. Before she could press the call button, a strange clacking sound echoed off the metal walls. Without warning, the screech of a heavy steel door groaned against the raging roar of a small group of Boners.

  “Fuck,” Jordan repeated himself.

  The team drew their weapons and waited for Keller to signal.

  “Fire,” Keller shouted.

  Bullets glanced off the exoskeletons of the Boners, sending puffs of bone dust billowing into the surrounding air.

  “Aim for the heads.” Keller’s voice rose above the shots.

  Finally, Jordan struck gold and dropped one of the Boners. When the armored zombie hit the metal floor, the whole car shook.

  Another sound joined the party from hell—this time a wall-rattling scream.

  “Son of a bitch,” Snake growled. “Could this get any more fucked?”

  A small horde of Screamers rushed onto the scene.

  “There’s your answer, Snake,” replied Jann Wildress.

  The soldiers backed into one another, forming a tight circle.

  “We keep firing until they’re all dropped.” Keller spoke calmly.

  One by one, the spent ammunition bounced onto the ground. The bullets did their best to dent and crack the armor of the Boners, yet still they came. The Screamers were another issue altogether. At first it seemed as if luck would shine down on the group as the Screamers threatened the Boners. It was a quick undead pissing match with both coming out on top. Shortly after the hollow threats had been made, however, both Screamer and Boner alike turned on Keller and company.

  “Son of a bitch,” Keller whispered. “I don’t like these odds one fucking bit.”

  “Why aren’t we still firing?” Jordan questioned, and was answered by the resurrected sound of gunfire.

  The team managed to take down all of the Screamers before they could reach the center of the train car. The Boners, on the other hand, were a different story altogether. The margin for error when shooting the armored zombies centered on a tiny slit in the exoskeleton near and above the eyes. It was the only weakness.

  Only one member of the team held sharpshooter status.

  “Jordan,” Keller barked, “see if you can get a better shot up high.”

  “Sir, yes, sir.”

  Like a spider, Jordan scrambled up a pile of crates that took him over halfway up the wall. As soon as he found his footing, he wrapped the strap of his rifle around his arm, took in a deep breath, and steadied the sights of the weapon.

  Breathe.

  Breathe.

  Shoot.

  One of the Boners dropped, a spray of rot pluming from its face.

  Breathe.

  Breathe.

  Shoot.

  Miss.

  “Fuck!” Jordan shouted, before readying himself to fire again.

  Breathe.

  Breathe.

  One of the Boners was on Snake, its gray fingers cupping the soldier’s head. An inhuman scream issued from the soldier’s mouth as the Boner clamped down on Snake’s head with every ounce of force the creature had.

  The crack of bone was the only split-second warning before Snake’s skull gave up the ghost and sprayed blood and gray matter over the floor.

  The Boner dropped the limp body and released a wall-thumping roar as the other living-dead juggernauts rushed the soldiers. Before another shot was fired, every member of the team but one had bled out—skulls crushed, necks snapped, life drained.

  Keller crouched beneath the communication console, between the legs of one of the mannequins. It took every ounce of control she could muster to calm her breathing and staunch the flow of tears. Cowardice was a foreign concept to her; yet here she was, weeping like the little girl she hadn’t known for over twenty years.

  Eventually, the clacking sounds of the Boners departing brought her some comfort. When she finally stood, death surrounded her. The sight and the smell of blood, organs, and flesh assaulted her until a steady stream of vomit rose from her throat and spattered the ground in a chunky Jackson Pollock tribute.

  “Mayday,” Keller whispered into her radio. “My team is down. It’s just me now.”

  “Keller, it’s up to you, then.” José spoke efficiently. “Stop those drop-ships at all costs.”

  She returned her radio to its holster and turned her attention to the communication console.

  A keyboard and computer screen stood sentinel over the console. On the display was an overlay map with three blips moving slowly.

  “Shit,” Keller whispered, and clumsily fished her radio from its holster.

  “José, it’s Keller.”

  Silence.

  “José, where in the hell are you?”

  “José here. What’s going on?”

  “We’re too late. The planes are in flight.”

  “Stop them.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t care.” José‘s voice took an angry turn. “Just stop those planes.”

  The radio went silent. Keller pulled the chair from the desk and flung the mannequin to the floor. Before taking the seat, she tossed nervous glances over her shoulders. The room was clear.

  “Damn it,” Keller spat, as she took in the console.

  She tapped a few keys on the keyboard. For a second the screen responded and then went black. After a pause, the screen filled with a warning, “Mess with the best, die like the rest,” and then went black for good.

  “Romero One to command.” The voice crackled from a small handheld receiver.

  Without hesitation, Keller snatched up the receiver and pressed the call button.

  “Romero One, this is command.”

  “We’re on schedule. Drop should happen as planned.”

  Keller’s mind raced around every possible option until only one solution survived the maddening vortex.

  “Romero One, this is command. I have orders for you to return to base. The mission has been postponed.”

  Silence.

  Keller stared wide-eyed at the receiver, waiting for a reply.

  “Bravo one hotel three six tango charlie niner niner Echo.”

  Silence.

  “Command,” the static-filled voice returned. “I need your authorization code.”

  “Fuck!” Keller smacked her palm to her forehead. Her eyes darted about the console in search of anything resembling an authorization code.

  “Command, we cannot comply with the order without verification.”

  Keller continued her search across the station. She came up with nothing.

  “Command, this is Romero One. Order to return denied. All ships continuing to drop-off zone. Romero One out.”

  The radio faded to a final silence. Keller was tempted to reopen the lines of communication to make one more attempt at the order to return. Instead she grabbed her own radio.

  “José, it’s Keller. I’ve failed. Repeat, I’ve failed.”

  Keller was met with yet another, more frightening, silence.

  *

  Where Keller’s team had an exact locat
ion of the communication hub, José‘s team went in blind. There was no way to pinpoint the coordinates of an untagged baby. To make matters worse, this wasn’t just any baby, so avoiding security was sure to be an impossible feat.

  The team entered through the kitchen car. The smell of a hot meal nearly knocked them to their knees. José glanced around at his men, lifting an eyebrow to ensure they understood the mission took precedence over growling stomachs.

  Skinny Marks took in a great suck of breath and closed his eyes against the delicious smell. José slapped the young man’s forehead hard enough to knock it into a stainless serving cart. Skinny rolled his eyes and shook his head. José pointed; the men moved on.

  “How are we going to know where to look?”

  The voice was that of Shane McDouglass, a displaced Scot who refused to give up his kilt and fought like Highlander meets Braveheart.

  “Listen,” José whispered.

  “For what?” McDouglass raised his voice a bit too high.

  José glared and gestured for silence. Finally, he nodded forward. The men turned their stealth up and silently made their way out of the kitchen and into a hallway.

  There were no signs of anything out of the ordinary. José looked around desperately and suppressed a sigh of frustration. The last thing he needed was for his men to see doubt cross his face. Instead, the leader pointed forward. The men moved on.

  The hall came to a T-intersection. Every man turned his head back to command. José complied and pointed to the right. There was no logic to the decision—he merely had to keep his men moving.

  The new route led them into a storage bay. Tucked inside the room was something to fill nearly every possible need. Food, medicine, technology…anything and everything to keep a small army alive and kicking. The first thought to pop into José’s mind was a quote from his favorite song: In the final seconds, who’s gonna save you. He knew the answer: the smallest army of one.

  There was no baby.

  The room was a dead end. José wasted no time in getting his men out of the room and back down the corridor. At the T, the men continued forward. As the team neared the end of the hall, the air was assaulted with screams and roars.