“This door is open, and you can remain on either side of it, but this is your room, and this is a place you can call home now.” He had said, and her adjustment was one filled with happiness and love. Yet her life was one she was determined to dedicate to God, and at the age of nineteen she entered the convent. She had been a Nun for 4 years now and the convent was just as much a home to her as that of her adoptive parents.
Now, she found herself in a Rhode Island assisting one of her sisters that had fallen sick after being bitten by a vagrant the previous afternoon; and the sounds in the Hallway were back.
The sounds were filled with anger and panic and getting closer, but she was also charged with helping her fellow sister. Leaving was not an option for her and the decision to remain in place was already made. However, the sounds from the hallway were bringing back a flood of memories, and she approached the door slowly.
The thoughts of looking through it reminded her of that night when she had seen Peter in the chair and the body lying next to him. Her fear and the accompanying adrenalin surge grew as the door grew closer with every step. She could hear noises coming from all directions and she felt her hand shaking as she closed her fingers around the door’s dull aluminum handle.
“For the Spirit God gave us does not make us timid, but gives us power, love and self-discipline.” She muttered softly under her breath, remembering the verse from the book of Timothy. She breathed deeply and, with a now steady hand, gripped the door handle and pressed down on it. Although the click of the door’s latch pulling back from the frame and into the door was barely audible, she felt her heart racing as the noise sounded like thunder to her. Slowly she edged the door back and a flood of memories lay before her.
The body of a nurse she had seen earlier lay face down on the ground in a pool of blood. The nurse was around the same age as Sister Mary Jude, and though she did not possess the natural beauty of the nun, she was an attractive young girl with a lively personality and a caring nature. She had exhibited many qualities in the short time they had spoken, which made Sister Mary Jude feel sure that she was a good nurse.
All of those qualities were gone now, and the crimson pools of blood that spread from her body and across the clinical tiles of the hospital floor reminded her of the night she had been forced to escape a horror she had yet to fully recover from.
Sister Mary Jude was curling a small part of her face around the door to get a better view of the corridor when the nurse’s lifeless form groaned. The sound was low and deep, a primitive grumble that was devoid of language or meaning. The noise was in a tone that Sister Mary Jude would later remember as non-human. Then the noise stopped and the nurse raised a blood covered face. Her left cheek and left eye were missing, and her teeth were clearly visible through the torn grotesque gristle of what had remained of her once pretty face.
Her jaws chomped open and closed a few times and as she did this fresh draws of red blood would ooze from the wound and pool on the tiles in a disgusting saliva-diluted mess on the floor. Without taking in a deep breath, the nurse screamed and sprang up from her prone position. Her body was still mostly covered with the uniform green, but now blood soaked, scrubs.
Yet Sister Mary Jude could clearly see that her chest was torn open and what remained of one of her breasts hung from a sliver of skin that kept it attached to her body. The Nun focused on this wound for a moment and found it more horrific than the others. It was as if the wound had done more to rob her of humanity and femininity than all of the others. The Nurse sprang forward, but Sister Mary Jude was fast in slamming the door shut into its frame. There was a dull but loud thud against the solid wooden door.
Another scream echoed in the hall, which was soon followed by what seemed like an echoing chorus of others. Like a sick and vile morning chorus. Finding the strength and courage from deep within her soul, she moved from the door and grabbed for one of the hospital chairs, jamming it under the handle. There were more dull thuds as the vile creatures slammed into the door with a steady and sickening rhythm. The solid wooden door would hold for as long as the integrity of it and the door frame held, she was sure of that, but she was not sure how long that would be.
She ran to the window and looked down, desperate to see a salvation similar to that of the dumpster shed she had seen before. But all she saw this time was what looked like a riot taking place some fifteen floors below. There was no heroic jump for safety this time. She was trapped, and although there was no longer a glow of flames to urge on her actions, the thumps and screams from the other side of the door were enough to remind her of the gravity of the situation.
Then the dull noises of the door and the somewhat muffled screams from outside where replaced by a high-pitched piercing din. The machine that had been humming quietly and feeding antibiotics to her unconscious colleague was screaming. Then a single green line came into focus. He friend’s chest stopped rising and falling.
“No.” she whispered to herself. “I don’t want to be on my own again.” she whispered again. She sought a prayer or any words of guidance she had received in her life. None came, there was only a low guttural groan filling the room as the unconscious Nun’s arms began to twitch.
Sister Mary Jude ran across the hospital room and into the bathroom, swinging the door shut. There was a crash of medical equipment as the other Nun, now undead, fell from her bed and screamed. With the safety of the locked bathroom door shielding her from her now seemingly lifeless colleague, she crawled into the corner and prayed.
Once again Sister Mary Jude sought strength in solitude and soft mumbled prayer. The beating of the creature seemed to set a pace for each word she muttered.
2
Captain Zee
Soldiers do not like the sound of a knock on the door when they are sleeping. A knock on the door and the rousing from the peaceful and sacred cocoon of sleep is never a good thing for almost everyone. Yet soldiers are conditioned to see a waking moment as a sign of something that is never really a good thing.
On guard duty, a soldier will hear the knocking on a door, followed by the low hum of those dammed florescent tubes coming to life. A hive of activity is almost always an immediate start to a morning. Training dictates that the second a soldier’s eyes are open he is on the job, but the ache in a soldiers shins, the weight of his boots and that dammed itch that seems to accompany every guard room in the world combine to make this aspect of the job a fucking chore.
A combination of uniform fabric, sweat caused by plastic covered mattresses and the tightness that comes with slept-in clothes makes the skin irritable. The soreness of a BDU collar on the bare neck and the grip of boot laces just add to the discomfort. This is one experience that starts with a knock on a door.
In basic training, that first morning, the crisp white issue sheets and the rough blankets are the sign of things to come. That first night’s troubled and concerned sleep is fueled by the anticipation and excitement of having joined a service. That first night’s sleep is usually a restless one. But as thoughts of home drift into the mind, and the sounds of sleeping strangers, who will become friends for life, fill the room, sleep finally comes.
As that first night of sleep embraces you, and the night falls silent to the dreams in your head, a knocking begins. The air is filled with shouts and the stamping of a drill Sargent’s feet on the shiny barrack room floors. For the next several months, every morning will be filled with this same routine. This also starts with a knocking.
All bad news starts with a knocking on the door. Tardiness’s caused by sleeping in is usually made clear with a loud banging on a door and followed by a Non-commissioned officer questioning your parents marital status at the time of birth and your level on the Autism Spectrum.
Yet all of these knocks pale to the knocking that comes with sirens or mortar alarms. Like the “knocking” of incoming fire and the almost sudden repetitive thump of small arms ordinance being returned to an unseen enemy. The confusion of those first few
seconds where most your men, barely out of school, are suddenly charged with the responsibility of serving with brothers in combat.
The soldier will never forget his seemingly impossible attempt to focus sleepy eyes onto a weapon sight in those first seconds or his almost dizzy experience of being awoken in a war or, for that matter, the surge of adrenalin as the body screams the dangerous gravity of your situation.
Soldiers do not like being awoken suddenly for so many reasons it is hard to pin them down to a single trigger of the annoyance they feel when a knock at the door rouses them. However, the response is usually immediate.
“Yes?” he called to the unseen culprit that had awoken him.
“Captain Timothy. Sorry to wake you.” That added insult to injury. There has never been an enlisted man that has been sorry to wake up an officer loudly. “The CO wants everyone at HQ SAP.” The unseen enlisted man finished his response and was gone. The Officer swung his legs from his bunk and stood up, feeling the early spring chill immediately on his bare legs and arms.
Reaching for the half empty glass of bourbon, he drank it back quickly and then walked into his bathroom area and replaced the alcohol with a mouthful of Listerine.
Only once he had rinsed his mouth did he show any interest in the time. It was before four AM, or as the enlisted men would call it “Oh fuck hundred”.
He looked at his face in the mirror once more and saw that he was no longer the twenty two year old graduate of The United States Army Military Academy West Point he was a thirty five year old captain who had blown his career early and was hiding a drinking problem.
He scratched at his five o’clock shadow and yawned deeply before rubbing his blood shot eyes.
“Embrace the suck.” He mumbled to himself and began to fill the sink with water.
Fort Lee, in Virginia sits slightly North of the town of Princes Green and alongside Interstate two ninety five. The Fort itself straddles Route Thirty. And despite many of the buildings holding true to the colonial architecture that is symbolic of Virginia, its main feature is the gigantic seven main barracks. The building is a seven story sandwich of three red brick floors and two lower and upper cream colored floors that give the appearance that it could easily be constructed from Lego bricks. Outside of the Military, the base is not particularly well known in comparison to the Forts of Benning, Drum and Bragg. However, Fort Lee does house a vital part of the US Military. The Combined Arms Support Command Center, or CASCOM.
CASCOM is responsible for the education and training of Officers. In the acronym and abbreviation filled world of the Military, CASCOM provides great training resources such as SHARP, or Sexual Harassment/Assault Response and Protection, and the ACE ‘Ask, Care, Escort” Suicide Prevention Program. However, CASCOM also houses THE Army Logistics University, a state of the art training center for leaders to learn the use of logistical support. It is this center that helps keep the United States Army moving in a time of War. It was also the very bane of Captain James R “Captain Zee” Timothy, USA’s life.
Normally, the daily routine of life on the Fort Lee campus was slow and dull. It was essentially a school and there was little in the way of action. Timothy was more than aware of the unusual act of being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night, but there were also other activities going on that were more than unusual.
There was none of the hum-drum of the infantry and armor Forts that always seemed to be in a state of preparation, or gearing up for the next tour of duty in the Middle East. Yet as Captain Timothy made is way to the Head Quarters building, there was a definite hive of activity in progress. Soldiers were running towards trucks and hastily waiting outside of the armory to draw weapons. Many where in their full “battle-Rattle” and the complaint level was very high, this was a good sign in the Army. Soldiers live in a state of complaint, it is a coping mechanism. When a soldier stops complaining, there is real reason for concern.
A squad of soldiers was hastily falling in to formation on the parade-ground and a First Sergeant was yelling orders back and forth. He stopped to salute Timothy as he approached.
“What gives Top?” he asked as he returned the Sergeant’s salute.
“Seems like the country went to shit late last night Sir” the First Sergeant replied “Riots in almost every city. A briefing is supposed to happen shortly.”
“Better hurry up and wait then Top.” Said the officer, and headed out towards Headquarters.
As he entered it seemed as if every TV set on the fort had been set up in the briefing room. Every one of the sets, each filled with looping footage of riots in Philadelphia, DC, New York, Boston, Chicago and Los Angeles, rolled from one network to the next.
“Timothy! It’s so nice of you to join the fucking party!” The colonel was not the kind of man to raise his voice, and despite thirty years in uniform, was not one to curse either, but it was obvious the Old Man was pissed. Timothy pulled to the position of attention and saluted smartly, the response was a surprise.
“Knock that shit off and get in here.” The Colonel retorted and stormed into his office.
“Ok Sir, I will bite, what’s going on?” asked Timothy as he went into the office and was followed by the Executive Officer and several other men in suits.
“Are you sober?” asked the Colonel, barking the words more than pronouncing them.
“Sir?” he replied, suddenly taken back, he thought he had been hiding it well.
“Son, the one thing about a drunk is that when they think they are being smart, they are actually shit faced, so don’t fuck with me Timothy, when was the last time you had a drink.” The Colonel was obviously in no mood for bullshit.
“Finished one about twenty minutes ago, I had a few too many last night.” He replied honestly, but not absolutely truthfully, he had gone through a fifth of Wild Turkey.
“God damn, Timothy. You are one dumb son of a bitch! as soon as you get back you are going into rehab or giving me your commission, do you understand?”
“Yes Sir.” He replied. “Isn’t this all a bit of an elaborate show Sir?” “And when you say ‘back’ Sir, where do you mean from exactly?”
“Did you write this?” said one of the suits as he threw a manila folder onto the desk, Timothy’s name was on the front, so dumb question one was out of the way. When he saw the title, he was suddenly sickened. The title read in bold letters “US Army Response Recommendations in event of a Zombie Outbreak.”
The paper had effectively ended Timothy’s career aspirations.
“Back from where Sir?” he asked, ignoring the suit.
“The White House” The suit replied before the Colonel could respond.
“Son, it seems as though your little prank eleven years ago got someone’s attention.” The Colonel responded and fell back into his chair, the look on his face would be easily read as concern and disgust in one, but anyone who knew him better would have recognized it as fear and disbelief. Suits from the White House do not simply turn up in the middle of the night as a prank. This was serious.
Big Vern
Big Vern did not get his name by accident. He was a monster of a man. He weighed in at around three hundred and twenty pounds last time he had bothered to step on a scale, which was about the time Obama had left office. However, it was not just Big Vern’s weight and beer gut that had earned him the name. He was an imposing man of six feet four inches. There were a lot of men that had found themselves on the wrong side of this man, and regretted it. As a minder to most of his bosses’ stable of girls, most of his victims had been johns that had gotten too close to one of the girls, or refused to bring them back on time. He was not one to waste a client though, so he usually left the face alone and chose to break the occasional arm or maybe just a few fingers if it was a long standing client. Other times, when he was working at the club, he would just rough up a few of the rowdy clients. At other times he might quell the usual bachelor party noise, or correct a frat house party guest from Penn State that
did not obey the no-touching rule.
Big Vern was a fighter. He was a good fighter, and he did not lose, which is why Big Vern was having a little trouble processing why he had been knocked to the ground by a man a hundred and thirty pounds lighter, ten years older and eight inches shorter before he had gotten a single punch off.
“You hit me with your fucking face!” he yelled at the smaller man, clutching his bloody and obviously broken nose. “I will fucking kill you”
“That’s not much of a threat coming from a fat bastard sprawled on the floor now is it?” The man replied and sent an expertly aimed kick into Big Vern’s testicles.
The man pulled out a pistol and shot him once through the knee cap as an encore to the physical victory he had just achieved.
“So let’s cut the Shite” the intruder to Big Vern’s Trailer added calmly. Pulling a chair out from a table the intruder sat down in front of the wounded man.
“Now,” he said with an authority that made it clear he was in charge of this conversation. “Stop your screaming. It’ll only make people see what a pussy you are when you meet some real opposition.”
“You shot me, you Irish bastard!” Big Vern was torn between clutching at his shattered knee or his nose while squirming around on the floor.
“I am sorry, but I was not aware that they gave prizes for stating the fucking obvious in American schools. I thought that was reserved for the Sassenachs.” He pulled the trigger again and shot Big Vern through the other knee cap to the sound of a child like scream from the larger man. “That’s for saying I am Irish.”
Zombie Outbreak Z1O5 (Book 2): Zed Dawn Page 6
