Aliens Versus
Zombies
¤
Mark Terence Chapman
Other than for review purposes, no portion of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any print or electronic form without written permission.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance between persons living and dead, establishments, events, or location is entirely coincidental.
Trademarked names used herein are the properties of their respective owners.
Empty Sea Intergalactic Enterprises by arrangement with the author.
First edition, published July 2015
Please help keep authors writing. Do not copy or reproduce this book.
Cover Artist: Adam Pizurny
The author gratefully acknowledges the following beta readers, in alphabetical order, for their help in making this book as good as it is:
Carol Sumilas Boshears
Barbara Merritt Chapman
Jeff Ganaposki
Charles Marshall
Betty McIntyre
Michelle Amarok Snyder
Susan C. Wiederhold
For more information about the author and his other books, please visit:
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Aliens Versus Zombies
Copyright © 2015 by Mark Terence Chapman
ASIN: B00Y98TDUC
All Rights Reserved
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To my wonderful wife of almost 28 years, Barbara, for enabling my writing habit and putting up with me for more than 30 years.
Table of Contents
Chapter Zero
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Epilogue
Did You Enjoy this Book?
About the Author
Free Chapter from My Other Car is a Spaceship
Further Acknowledgments
Chapter Zero
May 2034.
He had no name. He simply was.
Once a mechanic, he was now but a part of The Pack. His filthy, bloody, torn coveralls had a patch on the chest that read Jay. A tattoo of an anchor peeked out of a rip in the right sleeve.
Movement across the street caught his eye. Jay shrieked and grunted, then pointed. The others in The Pack understood the meaning.
Food!
Another pack had entered their territory. He knew they were not of The Pack. Their cries and hoots were different.
Once, food had been plentiful, but as the easier food was caught and eaten—the two- and four-legged ones, the flying ones—food got scarcer, until the packs began to starve. They soon eyed one another. The hunger gnawing at them was incessant. It had to be quenched.
Now The Pack, twenty-three strong, gave chase. Some raced left, some right, and some straight ahead. They would leave few openings through which the prey could escape. Ahead, three more members of The Pack waited for the prey to be driven toward them.
They closed the trap. The Pack pounced on the seven interlopers. Bloodstained teeth ripped into flesh, tore open arteries, cracked bones.
Eat!
This food fought back with ferocity. Two of The Pack died along with the interlopers.
That made nine foods to eat.
The Pack slept with full bellies that night.
Happy.
* * * *
The end of the world had begun with a neither a bang nor a whimper, but with pain.
March 23, 2033 began like so many other days, with Lao Tse reaching for a sack of rice to throw onto the back of his cart.
“Ow!”
He yanked his hand back and sucked the drop of blood from the back of his finger.
“Damn it!” Must have been a thorn, or a sharp twig.
The wild gerbil that nipped him darted unseen into the nearby reeds. The wound didn’t hurt much after a few minutes, so Lao Tse thought no more of it.
Two days later, he was in a marketplace outside Lhasa, Tibet, to sell his crop. After negotiating a fair price for two bags of rice, he sipped the butter tea he’d brought with him to soothe his sore throat. The traditional thick tea, made with yak butter, milk, and salt, and fermented overnight, helped a little.
He developed a headache during lunch. Mild at first, it worsened as the day progressed. So did his sore throat. At 3:07 pm, he began coughing intermittently. By 4:00, he coughed almost nonstop and his head throbbed to the rhythm of his pulse. Lao decided to call it a day, but not before he had transmitted this new mutation of the Tibetan Hemorrhagic Fever virus to several other merchants.
“Spring colds. They’re always the worst,” he said later to his daughter, Mei. “I’m going to bed. I’m sure a good night’s sleep is all I need.”
By the next day, his symptoms had progressed to vomiting, abdominal pain, diarrhea, and fever.
“Daddy,” Mei insisted, “you have to go to the hospital!”
“No, no, I’ll be fine. I just need to rest a little more.”
“You’re not fine! Look at you. You’re feverish, sweating, your eyes are bloodshot, and your hands are clammy. No more arguments—we’re going. Get your clothes on.”
“No, really, I’m fi—” A prolonged coughing fit cut off the rest of the sentence. When he finished, it took him several minutes to catch his breath. “Maybe you’re right,” he finally conceded. “I’m having trouble breathing.” He wheezed as he spoke.
Mei had to help him dress, and then she rushed him to the nearest emergency room in Lhasa. Before leaving home, he infected Mei, his wife, Pema, and their young son, Tenzin. “Rushed,” in this case, meant a seventy minute drive through rough terrain on bad roads in their ancient Toyota Land Cruiser. Tibet in March, meant snow on many of the roads, and pockets of ice, especially in the shaded areas.
Mei had received her driver’s license only the month before. She’d never had to drive all the way to Lhasa before and she vacillated between the urge to hurry and the need to be careful.
Ten minutes into the trip, the SUV skidded on a slick spot.
“Kyakpa!” she swore. She was sure they were going off the road. Then the Land Cruiser’s tires found traction.
Shaken, she took a deep, calming breath and let it out.
That settled it: she was going to drive slower. Better to take a few minutes longer than not get there at all.
Upon arrival at the Lhasa People’s Hospital, they were directed to “Hav
e a seat over there and fill out this form,” by the admitting nurse.
Mei was close to panic. “But, my father is very sick. He needs someone to look at him right away!”
The nurse took a quick glance at Lao Tse, before smiling. “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. Probably just a mild case of the flu. Your father should be fine in a few days.”
In the twenty-two minutes before he was examined—coughing and sneezing the entire time—he infected eleven people in the waiting room. All received treatment for the injuries or illnesses that had brought them there and then left the hospital before they became symptomatic.
Lao’s condition worsened and he passed out during the examination.
“Nurse!” the doctor called out. “Admit this man for observation.”
The doctor ordered intravenous electrolytes, and Tylenol to break the fever. However, by morning Lao’s temperature had risen to 106ºF; an ice bath did nothing to help and he began bleeding from his eyes, nose, ears, and rectum.
By the time doctors diagnosed hemorrhagic fever and quarantined the hospital, Lao had already infected two doctors, three nurses and an orderly. Fortunately, the doctors and nurses were still at the hospital when the quarantine occurred. However, the orderly had the next two days off and came down with “flu” symptoms while at home and spread the contagion further before seeking treatment.
As soon as new patients began to arrive with hemorrhagic fever symptoms, the hospital contacted the government, which immediately locked down the city and alerted the World Health Organization (WHO).
It was already too late. The merchants Lao Tse had infected days earlier in turn infected others in his village and surrounding ones. Several had traveled to other towns and spread the contagion further.
Lao Tse, Patient Zero, died three days later.
* * * *
CNN headline, April 2, 2033:
“Hemorrhagic Fever virus believed to have originated in Tibet; spread to China.”
CNN Headline News, April 4, 2033:
“Tibetan virus escapes China; thousands infected throughout East Asia. WHO warns neighboring countries to take precautions.”
Der Spiegel International (English), April 10, 2033:
“Germany closes borders to travelers from East Asia.”
USA Today, April 14, 2033:
“Virus immune to vaccines”
New York Times, April 17, 2033:
“CDC: ‘Not Enough Time’”
Paris Match headline (translated), April 25, 2033:
“112 MILLION BELIEVED INFECTED”
Chicago Tribune, April 26, 2033:
“President McKinnon dead! Marshal Law declared!”
The Kyoto Shimbun (English), May 1, 2033:
“Plague Reported in Every Country”
Daily Record and Sunday Mail (Scotland), May 2, 2033:
“Parliament Abandoned; UK in Crisis”
Pravda headline (English), May 14, 2033:
“Estimated 1 billion dead”
Sydney Morning Herald June 29, 2033:
“2.5 billion believed dead”
Los Angeles Times, July 4, 2033.
“Independence Day celebrations cancelled”
The Rio Times (English), July 17, 2033:
“Brazil Government Collapses”
Times of London, August 23, 2033:
“6 Bn Dead. Will Anyone Survive?”
miamiherald.com feature article, September 19, 2033:
Humanity’s end?
By Roger Cseh
Staff Reporter
Miami is a ghost town. Few people remain. I am writing this record for posterity, should anyone survive to read it.
This pandemic is like nothing mankind has ever experienced. Beginning in the 14th century, the Black Death took over a century to kill an estimated seventy-five million victims, a third of Europe’s population. This time, however, approximately eighty-two percent of the human race—more than eight billion people—died within the first six months.
Death from this plague is most unpleasant. The victims bleed from every orifice and scream in pain as necrotic tissue rots on the bone.
Of the eighteen percent of humanity currently living, nearly all suffered through lesser symptoms, including intense fever that resulted in major brain trauma. Scientists say the damage occurs primarily to the frontal lobe—the part of the brain that controls the higher brain functions—and especially the cerebral cortex.
These victims don’t die, yet they also are no longer quite human. Instead, they become ravening feral hordes, hunting for living things to eat: snakes raccoons, people—it doesn’t matter. As long as it has a heartbeat, these “zombies”—for want of a better term—pursue and eat it. However they are not the shuffling, undead automatons of horror fiction. They are something else entirely. They are living, breathing creatures, cunning and fast—too fast.
The estimated remaining eight-tenths of one percent of humanity—fewer than eight million individuals worldwide—seem to be immune to the virus. However, with the collapse of all governments and military we stand little chance of surviving long-term against well over a billion zombies.
This will be the final issue of The Miami Herald. I plan to “run for the hills” as soon as I put this brief issue to bed.
God help us all.
* * * *
On May 19, 2034, fourteen months after the plague struck, a Drahtch invasion fleet arrived in Earth orbit with more than twenty thousand armed ships, two million ground troops, and a half-million colonists.
Chapter One
Battle Commander FronCar snapped to attention. “Your orders, sir!”
A lesser Drahtch soldier would have been unable to maintain the absolutely motionless pose he held for several long seconds before his superior spoke. FronCar’s golden skin glinted in the filtered yellow sunlight streaming in through the massive viewport to his left.
“At ease, Commander.” Viceroy CresNal, supreme military authority of the massive fleet of Drahtch ships, shifted in his command chair. “What do you make of what you see below?” His dark bronze coloration attested to his great age.
FronCar relaxed slightly, then turned and looked at the deep blue, green, and brown planet below. White fluffy clouds scudded across the large eastern continent; the northern polar ice cap reflected the sunlight; the western land masses were nearly invisible in the dark. The seas were enormous, much larger and deeper than the shallow blue-green seas of the Drahtch homeworld.
To the right of the viewport in the Fleet Control Room, the battle status screen remained dark. To the left, the threat assessment screen showed negative across the board. Between CresNal’s command chair—or throne, as FronCar thought of it—and the viewport sat dozens of people. There were military strategists, analysts, tacticians, senior pilots, troop commanders, and all the other people required to stage an invasion.
“Your Excellency? I see nothing special. No orbital defenses, no surface-to-space missiles approaching, no energy weapons powering up. Everything is quiet.”
“Exactly. We have been transmitting demands for the planetary governments to surrender or be destroyed for a day now, and they have made no attempts to attack us, or even reply. From the long-term reconnaissance of this planet before we left our system, we know the indigenes were beginning to explore their solar system and had missile systems capable of reaching orbit. Surely they have made progress in those areas during the eighteen years since we left. So why haven’t they attempted to attack us?”
FronCar shrugged. “Perhaps they saw the futility of any such action.”
“Why would they? They know nothing of us.”
“They must have high-powered telescopes on the planet, or orbital ones. They can see that our ships are far beyond anything they have. Perhaps they don’t have the will to fight.”
“I doubt that, Commander. From our observations, we know they’re a warlike race. I can’t imagine they wouldn’t at least try to mount an attack, o
r attempt to negotiate a peaceful resolution. Besides, look again at the planet. There are billions of people living there, so why are there so few lights? The scans show relatively few operating energy sources and almost no transmissions on radio or microwave frequencies.”
FronCar frowned and pursed his lips in thought. “You raise some excellent points, sir. Perhaps an on-site inspection is in order.”
Viceroy CresNal smiled. “My thoughts exactly. Send a flight of attack ships in for a low-altitude flyover of some of the major cities and stream the footage to the viewscreen. Have them use due caution, in case the indigenes are planning something. Let’s see what they’re up to.”
* * * *
A high-speed, high-altitude flight over what appeared to be a military base—judging by the shape and size of the aircraft and ground vehicles and the primitive camouflage coloring—was encouraging. There were people walking around, but no indication of a heightened threat posture. A similar pass over two cities likewise showed no indication of active offensive or defensive measures.
“Attack flight leader to Control.”
“Control to Leader. What’s your status?”
“All go. These people seem to have no idea that we’re here over their planet. Or don’t care. They’re practically begging to be invaded. Their cities don’t even appear to be defended. Request permission to begin mission phase two.”
“Acknowledged, Leader. You are cleared for a low-speed close-observation pass.”
“Acknowledged. Beginning observation pass.”
The flight of three attack ships swung back around. The craft couldn’t hover, but they were capable of traveling at relatively slow speeds. The ships were arranged with the flight leader taking point at low-left, another at medium-right, and the third at high-center providing cover for the other two. Their firing cam images appeared on the darkened viewport-turned-viewscreen of the command ship in orbit as they flew over a major thoroughfare.
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