ZK:Falling (Zombie Killers Book 0)

by J. F. Holmes

  I shook my head in disgust. That was just going to make it worse, although I suspected the sheep in the cities would listen for a day or so, until they got hungry. I doubted this was going to be over in a week, not if we were pulling back hundreds of miles.

  As we drove, trying to avoid the more and more frantic cars passing in both directions, Boyd yelled up to me. “Hey, Sarge, what the fuck is going on? What the hell were those things? My wife said that she could see some in the street.”

  “Punishment from the Lord,” said the PFC driving, the one whose name I never got. She had her hands gripped tight on the wheel, a young black girl from the South End of Albany. Her family was on the other side of the blown bridges; it said a lot about her life that she didn’t want to go back and try to get them.

  “You might be right, Private, but usually when things fuck up like this, it’s a human hand behind it. Just keep driving. Make a left,” I ordered, and we slowed the heavy truck down to turn into my street. As we did, two of the madmen ran at us, their blazing eyes giving the driver a second’s notice. She had her window down, and one reached in, grabbed her by the chinstrap on her Kevlar, and hauled her out of the window. I heard her neck snap with a sickening POP and the truck rolled straight into a parked minivan as her body flopped lifelessly. We hit with a crunch and stopped dead, slamming me forward into the fifty cal.

  Boyd, on the passenger side, couldn’t see what was going on, but the gunner in Petruncio’s truck, SGT Opel, opened up with the 240B mounted there, sending short bursts into the two bodies as I struggled to extricate myself. One fell when his head popped like a balloon, but the other scrambled up onto the hood, howling like mad.

  I was scared. Shit scared, more than I had ever been in my life. This, this thing, had been my neighbor. I had drunk beers with him while I helped build his deck. Paul, his name was, wife, three kids, he was an accountant. I knew that he cheated on his wife, and that he did coke sometimes. Not my friend, but my neighbor, someone to shoot the shit with sometimes.

  All this went through my head as I scrabbled for my pistol. For the second time in my life, I pissed myself in fear, though I didn’t realize it until later. His face, his face was twisted up in a rage, and his teeth were broken, like he had ground them together. There was a bite mark on his face, and dried blood and snot had run out of his nose. The eyes, though, the eyes were what held me paralyzed. They glowed red, with a fierce flame that outlined the veins around the cornea. He moved in jerky, twisted motions, but powerfully, coming up onto the hood, coming closer. There was an overwhelming smell of blood and gore, and a blackened hole in his shirt, right over his heart, powder burns from a contact gunshot wound. He should have been dead, from that and from the huge chunk blown out of his ribcage by a 240 round. He should have, but he wasn’t. That damned howl, heard up close, went through me like two pieces of Styrofoam rubbing together.

  The hands grabbed me, and pulled, an inhuman power. I leaned back in the turret, shoving hard with all my might with one arm, and still pulling at the pistol with my other. God, whatever it was now, it was strong as hell, and I screamed to answer the howl, a scream of rage and frustration. The bloody face came closer and closer, and I couldn’t feel any breath. He wasn’t alive, my mind screamed, as his jaw snapped open and closed.

  “I CAN’T GET A SHOT!” screamed Boyd.

  “Just … fucking… SHOOT!” I yelled back, jamming my gloved hand onto its face, trying to shove my finger into the thing’s eye.

  The first round scored my face, a scar I have to this day, and I flinched backward. The second went in under his jaw and came out the top of his head, splattering me with blood and brains as I turned my face way. The third ripped away into the darkness.

  What had been my neighbor collapsed bonelessly and slid down the windshield. I climbed out, blood streaming down my face, grabbed my rifle, and ran for my house.

  Chapter 8

  Her car door was open, with a backpack full of supplies scattered beside it. The engine was still running, and I looked in the back. No car seat. Turning, I saw that the front door was wide open, and light was spilling out.

  I ran up the walk, tripping in my haste on a metal object on the ground. Looking down, I saw an empty magazine from Jane’s pistol in the light of the streetlamp. Spent brass was scattered in the grass, and I ran faster, heart pounding.

  “JANE!” I yelled, hoping to not get shot. There was no answer, and I charged in the door, rifle raised to my shoulder, and tripped over the body on the floor. There was more brass, another empty magazine, and bullet holes in the wall, as well as another corpse laid out flat in the hallway.

  All this happened in slow motion, and my vision tunneled as I put out my hand to stop my fall. I landed hard, and felt pain shoot up my arm, and the air was driven out of me by my magazines punching into my chest through my vest.

  Struggling up to one knee, I took in the scene. Her pistol sat on the floor by the kitchen, empty, slide locked back. The shotgun was in the hallway, blood smeared across the barrel. The corpse in the hallway had its head shattered, an old man with greying hair, mixed with black blood.

  “JANE!” I screamed, chest pounding in fear. On the wall of the hallway that lead to our bedrooms was a single, bloody partial hand print that trailed along at head height, into the darkness of the back area of the house. I heard a sound, and called out, more softly, ignoring the sounds from outside.

  She came slowly forward, emerging out of the dark, eyes closed. Blood smeared her mouth, and she was missing the tip of her trigger finger. My beautiful wife, who had healed me and helped make me whole after the wars.

  “Jane… oh no, Jane, no, no, no…” I tried to raise my rifle, but my whole body felt numb, and my arms didn’t seem to want to work.

  I’m going to tell you something I haven’t told anyone, even Brit. I’ve kept it hidden these ten years, because the memory of it has been too hard to deal with. Something that recently came up, before our scouting mission to Florida. They’re in there. Somewhere. They aren’t dead. Somewhere, deep inside, something remains of their mind, though I’m sure it’s a place called hell. I’ve known it ever since that night.

  My wife reached out her hand, the one with the missing finger, and hissed softly “Niiiiicccccccckkkkkkk….” and slowly opened her eyes. They were blood red and had that glow, and even as she said my name, it rose up into a howling scream that I came to know so well. I stood paralyzed, unable to move as she swayed towards me, getting closer and closer.

  Then I saw what was in her other hand. A small arm, the fingers still grasped tightly in hers, with tendons and muscle hanging off of it. Blood dripped onto the wooden floor, our baby daughter’s blood.

  She came even closer, and I could see that her teeth were jagged and split. I learned later that when you got infected, your jaws clenched so hard that your teeth shattered. It made for a good way to rip meat off bones, too.

  Her face was inches from mine, and I still couldn’t move. Then a sound from outside woke me, a gunshot followed by a scream. I swung the rifle up as hard as I could at her head, and hit her with the barrel, driving her to the floor. She, it, started to rise and come at me again, and I flipped it around and smashed the stock into that beautiful face. Again, and again, and again, the plastic shattering as I hammered it down on her, until the light went out of her eyes.

  Then I sat down on the floor, oblivious to the chaos happening outside, and cried, for what seemed forever. Sobbed until snot ran down my face and mixed with the blood. I put my hands to my head and banged my helmet back against the wall.

  I think, at that moment, I went mad. I don’t remember what I did in the next few minutes, only that I found myself at the door. My rifle hung from its sling, Jane’s blood all over it, cracked and unusable. The spring buffer had come out the back. Without looking back, I unslung it and drew my pistol.

  The barrel felt cold in my mouth, and I could taste the residue of powder from earlier in the day. I angled it up,
into the roof of my mouth, and thumbed back the hammer. A little bit of pressure, just move my finger. It lay on the side of the pistol, outside the trigger guard, and I couldn’t move it.

  Soldier, soldier, soldier, what was your oath? Protect and defend. Protect. I had failed. Then I heard her voice, what she had said to me when we were dating and I was still overseas.

  “Just stay alive, promise me you will stay alive.” She had made me swear, that no matter what happened in life, I would stay alive. And, way back in my mind, my lost faith told me that it was an unforgivable sin. Bitter tears rolled down my face, and I felt more anguish in my soul than ever before in my life. I pulled the pistol out and, turning my back on the chaos that was growing outside my front door, started back to bury my wife and daughter.

  Outside, the machine gun opened up, and I realized I didn’t have time. I couldn’t even get close to where she was, lying there. Instead, I went out the back door and grabbed a can of gas from the garage. Coming back into the kitchen, I spread it all over the hardwood floors I had spent hours sanding and refinishing. Then I went into the basement and grabbed as much ammo as I could carry, my Colt 1911, and Jane’s scoped .22 Marlin.

  When I came back upstairs, Williams was there, standing in the doorway, her face ashen. “Nick, we gotta go! There’s more of those things out there, and the whole neighborhood is going crazy!”

  I looked back one more time, and took the lighter I had grabbed from the grill in the back. “Go back to the truck, Naomi. I’ll be along in a minute.” She fled out the door, and I said a silent prayer for my family. Then I took the gas can, laid a trail to the front door, and lit it. The flames raced across the floor, and I threw the gas can after them.

  Outside, the flames backlit me as I raced for the waiting HUMVEE, trying not to think at all.

  Chapter 9

  The scene played over and over in my mind, and I squeezed my eyes shut. No, I told myself over and over. Maybe I had hallucinated it. The stress and lack of sleep were getting to me. She had gone north. I said it over and over to myself. They were safe. She had gone north.

  When I opened my eyes, we had gone several miles down the road, and it was as if nothing had happened. A few people were out loading their cars in the growing light, and others looked as if they were going to work. There wasn’t any panic that I could see.

  She had to be alive. I said it over and over. I must have been asleep. I knew, somewhere in my mind, that I could ask any of the guys if we had just been to my house, but I think, at that point, I was not right in the head, so I didn’t.

  “Sergeant Agostine, are you OK?” asked Doc Raines.

  “Yeah,” I answered, voice dull. I couldn’t think. I felt like I had when an IED had gone off next to my truck in Afghanistan. Fuzzy, and I wasn’t sure what was going on. I was exhausted. Think, what’s the mission? When you can’t think, boil it down to the basics. What’s the mission?

  Get west, with all combat power. OK, we could do that. But not as we were now.

  “Boyd, take a right.” We had come to Route 9, and to get to William’s house, we would have to cross over and head west. Naomi started to object, but I think she saw the hard look in my eyes. We were going to survive, and carry out our mission, no matter what.

  “Boyd, take us up to the Walmart up on Rt. 146. We need more stuff.”

  He didn’t question me, just turned hard right and sped up. I looked behind to see the other truck following. Good. Right then, everyone’s phone lit up at the same time. I unlocked mine and read another text message.

  “ALL PRIOR SERVICE MILITARY PERSONNEL REPORT TO LOCAL USAR AND STATE NG ARMORIES WITH PERSONAL WEAPONS. MARITAL LAW IS IN EFFECT IN THE CONTINENTAL UNITED STATES. ALL PRIOR SERVICE PERSONNEL UNDER AGED 50 ARE RECALLED TO ACTIVE DUTY.”

  Shit was hitting the fan. If there wasn’t panic now, there would be soon. Even as I closed my phone, a flight of Blackhawks clattered overhead, heading south. I grabbed the mic from the doghouse and keyed it.

  “Any military unit this net, this is separate element, HHC Forty Second ID. We are two vics heading towards rally point at Rotterdam Bridges.” I handed the mic back to Rodriguez and told him to repeat as often as possible, and to give our route.

  We pulled into the parking lot of Walmart, and I directed the two trucks to pull over to an unoccupied section. There were already a few dozen cars in the lot, despite the early hour, and a crowd of people going in and out. I got out and motioned for everyone to dismount. When they did, I took a knee and tried to collect my thoughts for a minute, the guys staring at me expectantly.

  “Listen to me. You all saw what happened at the bridge, and you know our orders. In an hour or two, when America wakes up, this is going to turn into an ultimate shit storm. If there is to be ANY hope of the country surviving this, I’m pretty sure a lot of it will have to be written off. Our priority is to see that we survive as a viable force to make that happen. Do you understand?” I looked each one in the eye until I got a nod or an answer of yes.

  “I’m going to ask you to do some things which you might not like. That’s fine. I’m not going to like them either, but in my judgement, it’s what we’re going to have to do. Right now we’re low on ammo, and we are going to need food and other supplies to get through this. Hopefully we’ll meet up with organized military forces west of here, if not at Rotterdam, then someplace else a little further down, maybe Amsterdam. Maybe not until Seneca, if even that.” I paused to let that sink in, then continued. “If anyone can’t do whatever I ask, including shooting and killing civilians, let me know right now.”

  There was a silence, and then Opel spoke. “Sarge, I can’t. I’m a police officer. I can’t do it.”

  “I understand,” I answered. “There’s a Saratoga County Sherriff’s substation on the other side of 146. I’m sure they can use your help. Take as much ammo as you need, and Godspeed.”

  He looked at me hard and long, then shook his head. “I’ll stay. Just make sure it’s necessary.”

  “I will. I’m not saying we’re going to be mowing down people, but look at them,” I answered, and gestured to the entrance of the store, just as a crash sounded. Someone had thrown a shopping cart through the front door, and people started pouring in.

  “That’s it then, no more questions. Sergeant P, take your truck and clear those people away from the entrance. Give them a warning burst over their heads. Combat lock your vehicles, engines running. Leave enough space between vehicles to get through. I’ll go after ammo with Opel, Petruncio, you go after food and water with Williams. Non-perishables. Doc, hit the pharmacy and get what you need. Sergeant Boyd, you’re in charge out here. Stay on the gun and shoot if you have to. Any questions?”

  There were none. I think they were in shock, too. It was all moving so fast. “OK then. Mount up, and be careful, but don’t take any risks.”

  The next minute was pure mayhem.

  Chapter 10

  Taking the driver’s seat of the first truck, I stomped on the gas, hitting the horn. Nobody moved; they were in a panic trying to get into the store, not out of our way.

  “Corporal, give ‘em a burst overhead!” I yelled, and a half dozen rounds crashed into the Walmart sign. The crowd fled screaming, diving to the pavement or hiding behind parked cars. I stopped it hard, and I felt Opel turn his gun to face the parking lot. Slamming the lock down on my door, I struggled to climb across the transmission and out the door that SPC Boyd had left open for me. He was crouched, nervously sweeping his rifle back and forth at a bunch of terrified civilians.

  I clapped him on the back and we ran forward, passing the cowering people, mostly men. “Grab that shopping cart!” I told him, snagging one for myself, and we rolled into the store, followed by Petruncio, Doc Raines, limping on his bloody leg, and Sergeant Williams. Knowing the store, I split left, heading for the sporting goods counters.

  “GET OUT OF THE FUCKING WAY!” yelled Boyd, keeping his weapon nestled on his shoulder, and pushing the ca
rt with the other. If someone didn’t move fast enough, he raised it to point at them.

  The store itself was a weird mix of normal and fear. The people working inside didn’t know what was going on, and the awful florescent lights seemed to kill your soul. Some of the ones who had gotten in before our trucks blocked the entrance were pulling all kinds of stuff off the shelves, and many people were walking around yammering into cell phones. The cashiers, only two or three this early in the morning, were still ringing people up.

  Getting to the sporting goods section, I hopped the counter and used the barrel of my rifle to smash at the glass doors on the ammo cabinet. They didn’t break, so I fired a round into the top of the panel, and a huge crack ran down the plexiglass. I started handing cartons of .223 to Opel; there were about twenty or so boxes, maybe a thousand rounds. “Shit,” I muttered, “not nearly enough.” Then again, you never had enough.

  “Boyd, go get a bolt cutter from hardware. I want a couple of these shotguns.”

  He nodded and took off, and I started grabbing all the 12 gauge shells I could find, thinking about what I had seen at the bridges. Then there was a tap on my shoulder.

  “Excuse me, what do you think you’re doing?” said a gravelly voice.

  I turned to see a huge, late middle aged woman staring at me, arms crossed over a gigantic, sagging bosom. Her look could have frozen Lake Ontario; on her blue vest was a name tag that read “Darla”, and underneath that, “STORE SECURITY”.

  “In case you haven’t heard, um, Darla, martial law has been declared, and I’m a soldier. So I’m taking all your ammo and some of your guns.”

  “Oh no you’re not, not without paying for it. I don’t give a shit WHO you work for or what kind of emergency this is. Don’t make me apprehend you” She reached down for something that hung from a belt hidden by her fat rolls.