From the burning forest, the dead staggered and stumbled in a groaning, howling mass, flowing like the morbid waters of a grotesque river. The fire left them only one path, corralling their travel along the entrance road and toward the cabin. Both sides of the narrow dirt path and the forest surrounding them were fully ablaze. Many of the walking corpses were burning and some toppled over into the flames.
Brayden and Barry fired as quickly as they could into the grotesque, smoldering and burning horde as they appeared through the flames and smoke and moved up the winding red dirt driveway, taking out all that they could manage. A grim realization was heavy on Brayden’s mind: he knew they were only prolonging the inevitable. There were just too many of the undead to stop.
Over the groans of the undead and the barks of gunfire, he heard the distinct thump of rotary blades. Turning toward the sound, he spotted a chopper, flying erratically, coming in low over the treetops like some bizarre, injured flying insect.
“Thank God!” Brayden exclaimed.
As it got closer, Brayden recognized the DNR helicopter coming over the mountain and knew it had to be Gary flying it. “I don’t believe it. He’s coming for us. He made it out!”
The chopper wobbled toward the cabin, dipped from sight, and then reappeared over the burning treetops of huge hemlocks and tall pines. The horde of undead beneath the helicopter howled and reached for it, the wind blowing ash, burning leaves and debris around them like a tornado of fire.
“There’s something wrong with it,” Barry said.
“Come on, Gary, keep it together,” Brayden said under his breath. Then he raised the gun again as even more of the monsters made it onto the granite. “Keep shooting! Don’t let up now!”
The chopper was closer now, angled toward them through the smoke and gore of the dead. The helicopter straightened and looked as if Gary had it under control, but to Brayden’s horror, the back rotors clipped a tall burning pine tree and the chopper’s tail spun wildly. They all watched as the bird slammed into an enormous burning hemlock.
No...
The chopper fell from the sky, slammed into the horde and exploded, sending a fiery cloud mushrooming upward into the sky. For a moment, it appeared as if the undead couldn’t get around the ruined husk of the chopper, but then they reappeared through the flames, shambling past the hull of the helicopter, burning, howling and hungry for flesh. Brayden, Barry and Wanda could only stare. The hope they had felt moments before died like a withering snowflake landing on a warm window in winter. There was no way they could hold the undead off now.
A loud crack resonated from the towering, old-growth hemlock. The huge tree popped and groaned like some ancient beast and began to fall, slowly at first, then almost in a blur it slammed to the ground with a thunderous explosion of fire and bark, bounced and settled directly across the entrance road. Ragged arms and hands tried to reach over it, to no avail.
“They’re trapped!” Brayden exclaimed, staring in disbelief at the now burning horde of the undead. “They’re going to burn!”
They watched in amazement as the infected burned and charred, tripping over each other trying to escape the fire that had now closed in on them. The things didn’t just go up in flames and die; it took some time. As those hair-raising howls began to fade away, Brayden guessed their brains had finally boiled in their juices enough to kill the things for good.
Barry looked up at Brayden, a triumphant grin creeping across his dirty, ash-smeared face. Brayden felt a twinge of hope welling in his chest again. “Keep shooting!” he told the boy.
One by one, the remaining undead that had reached the granite summit began to fall as Brayden, Barry and Wanda all took aim and fired a nearly continuous volley at the shambling monsters. Nearly hanging from the roof of the cabin, Brayden finished off the stragglers that had reached the structure. He took aim as outstretched arms reached upward for him, desperate howls erupting from bellies that knew only an endless, unrelenting hunger.
Brayden, Barry and Wanda stood on the roof of the cabin gazing at the destruction that was left behind and for a long time, no one spoke. No one stirred. No one moved.
“We…we made it,” Wanda finally said, lifting the infant in her arms and kissing him on his tiny head. “We’re alive.”
Huge columns of smoke wafted in the breeze and cleared away in dissipating sheets, presenting a clear view of the devastated mountainside. Charred skeletons of pines still smoldered, but the blaze had all but died away now that it had run out of fuel. Gone were the tall pines, white oaks and hemlocks. No more were the rhododendrons and laurel. Left in their wake were only soot, ash and charred corpses.
Helicopters hovered around the circumference of Glassy Mountain. As he watched the military choppers buzz around the mountain, the reality of their losses weighed heavily on Brayden, and anger began to swell inside him. He wondered how many poor souls had died, eaten alive by the infected, or burned by the fire the government had allowed to grow and engulf the mountain.
“They left us for dead, the sons of bitches,” he muttered.
“But we’re alive, Brayden. That’s all that matters now, and it’s all because of you,” Wanda said, and then she leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You didn’t have to pick us up, me and Barry, but you did. Thank you.”
Brayden felt his cheeks redden and looked away again at the smoldering mountainside. A large black helicopter had ascended the mountain and turned in their direction, its rotary blades thumping loudly over the charred, smoldering landscape.
“It looks like they’re coming for us,” Wanda said.
Smoke swirled in great spiraling waves as the chopper topped the granite outcropping and hovered over them. Brayden waved both arms, signaling to the chopper they were alive and unharmed. Uninfected.
A group of crows picking at the remains of a burnt corpse flew off into the sky, cawing loudly, their cries echoing across the smoldering vista of Glassy Mountain. As Brayden watched the crows disappear over the horizon, he felt in his soul that he had let his platoon down that day in Afghanistan, but today, he had done the right thing. He’d disregarded his own wellbeing and had saved lives. He knew somehow that the nightmare of war would finally let him be.
Now, he thought, I can rest at ease.
The End
Read on for a free sample of Bleeding Kansas: A Zombie Novel
1.
This is it, the day we’ve been looking forward to for so long, and it’s not starting well. Claire wakes up feverish and phlegmy, too sick to drive me to the airport. There’s not much to say but sorry, hope you feel better, before she crawls back into bed.
The next thing I know I‘m loading my luggage into the trunk of the cab because it turns out the cab driver should have called in sick himself. “Hey, sorry, man, you know how it goes!” he says. “Ya don’t work, ya don’t get paid!”
“Tell me about it,” I say, settling into my seat.
“Airport, huh?” The cabbie sneezes wetly, brings his hand up after the fact. “Where ya headed?”
“Kansas City.”
“Kansas City! Kansas City, here I—!” God help me, he’s trying to sing that old song but a burst of coughing cuts him short. I pull a handkerchief from my pocket and cover my nose and mouth.
He composes himself, sniffs loudly. “So what’s out there?”
“Job interview.”
“Yeah? All the way out there? I hope they’re paying for it!”
“Oh yeah.”
“Must be nice! Wish I could get a gig like that!”
“Me, too.”
“Ha! I hear ya! So whatcha been doin’ all this time?”
“Unemployed.”
“Oh. Nowhere?”
I have to wait for him to finish his latest coughing fit before I can answer. “Pretty much.”
“You don’t seem all that enthusiastic about this.”
“Lot on my mind.”
“Oh.” A short, barking cough, followed by a long, gurglin
g wheeze. “Yeah. It’s tough out there.”
“Yeah.”
“So how long you been outta work?”
“Long enough.” Four years, but who’s counting?
“Me, I got to work, know what I’m sayin’? I’d go crazy stayin’ at h—!“ The driver explodes into another round of coughing, his entire body bucking and convulsing behind the wheel. It’s all he can do to keep his eyes open to see the road.
After a terrifying stretch of seconds in which I wonder if he’s going to run the red light we screech to a halt, the taxi’s rear swerving with the force—“Here, you want a piece of none-of-your business to chew on?” I say. “If I don’t make this flight my house goes into foreclosure and my family is homeless as of next month! If you can’t make it to the airport, I need someone who can!”
“Whoa, man, it’s okay, it’s okay! I got this!”
“Can you do it without interrogating me like some nosy old biddy? Can you keep fucking quiet?”
“Hey, what’s with the language? I’m just making conversation!”
“Just get me to the airport! I’m running late as it is!”
“Jeez, mister, I said okay!”
The light changes and we roll. I’m embarrassed for letting the f-bomb slip. Professional class people don’t do that in front of their lessers. My problem as an old-fashioned working stiff is that, as much as most people annoy me, I don’t think of them as my lessers.
I take some satisfaction that the cabbie is keeping quiet, which, in turn, has eased his coughing. Still, I keep the handkerchief pressed to my face until he pulls up to the white zone at the airport. He pops the trunk and I step out into the blessedly germ-free air to grab my luggage.
I don’t know what the tip scale is for cab drivers. I can barely afford to pay him, let alone tip. I give him 15 percent. It’s more than this Chatty Cathy by way of Typhoid Mary deserves. Maybe I’ll get more than I deserve.
“We good?” I ask the driver before I walk away.
“Look, good luck,” he says. “I know you must be nervous.”
“Yeah. Try and get well.”
I’d like to think that’s the end of it but I’m running a gauntlet of sneezing, coughing people all the way to the fat lady at the ticket counter. She got a red Hitler mustache of raw skin under her nose from wiping at it with her third wad of tissue.
I wish I had some tongs or latex gloves with which to take my boarding pass. For God’s sake, I can’t afford to get sick, not for the best chance for gainful employment I’ve had in years! It’s probably a matter of time, though. Turning away from the counter every other person I see is suffering from some degree of the “Mayday Malaise.”
That’s how the logo reads behind cable news queen Stefani Dunham on TVs all over the airport. “Now this is a different kind of cold bug,” she says. “Aside from the fact that one out of three people come down with it, you can actually sort of function through it! Of course, some are saying it’s because Americans with jobs are afraid to miss work for any reason, given the economic situation.” Our head cheerleader-cum-broadcast journalist makes a face to let us know what she thinks of some people.
“Whatever the case, doctors say it’s an aerosol virus, which means it’s all up in your air!” The shot cuts to a gray-haired eminence mumbling authoritatively in a plush office. Back to Stefani: “And we’re not immune here!” She coughs theatrically into a handkerchief. “All this and a runny nose! A big shout-out to my make-up people here in the News Center for keeping me presentable! Hey, we carry on, what can you do?”
With my Irish luck, that’s the strain I won’t be getting. Claire struggled to make it to the bathroom and that poor dumb cabbie I rode in with was barely functional. I call my contact at the company in Kansas City. Giselle finally picks up. “Mr. Grace! To what do we owe the honor? Aren’t you still in Colorado Springs? You’re at the airport, right?”
“Yeah, I’m right here at the gate. I just wanted to make sure the interview was still on.”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“That cold that’s going around. Everybody’s sick!”
Giselle laughs. “Oh, that! We’ve had a few people call in, but that’s not enough to stop us. You’re not sick, are you?”
“Oh, no, no! I’m fine! I was…concerned.”
“Well, give me a call when you make it to KC. Hopefully you can get here before Rob leaves for the golf course. You play golf?”
“It’s been a while,” I lie. “If nothing else, I’d make him look good.” I despise golf and the kind of people who play it. But this is the world I’m trying to bluff my way into. From out of the slave market and into the world of the Professionally Overpaid.
“Sounds to me like you’ll all get along. Again, give me a call when you land.”
“Will do. Thanks, Giselle.”
“Don’t get sick!”
Right. If my wife didn’t give it to me, if the cab driver didn’t give it to me, if the lady at the counter didn’t give it to me, if half the people at the airport didn’t give it to me—now I’m ducking into a narrow aluminum tube, settling in to breathe recycled air people have been coughing and sneezing into since last week.
We’re getting fresh germs all the time, too. Barely half the seats on the plane are filled but half of those people are sick. The flight attendants sit at their seats along the fore and aft bulkheads and scowl at us over their surgical masks.
If I can just stay well for 24 more hours. Twenty-four hours. Lord, that’s all I ask.
It’s a mercifully short flight. Eventually, I find myself in another TB ward of an airport, squinting through clouds of aerosolized phlegm to get to my luggage. I call Giselle. “Welcome to KC!” she says. “You know how to find us, right?” she says.
“Oh yeah. See you soon!”
At the rental car kiosk I check my pockets for the directions I’d printed from the Internet. “Uh, hey,” I ask the guy behind the counter. “Can I get some directions printed up here? I left mine at home.”
“What do you need those for?”
“To find my way to my job interview.”
He’s looking at me vaguely horrified, like I just pissed myself.
“Your vehicle has GPS.”
“Oh.”
“Man, really?”
Walking out to my vehicle, I have to work the keychain remote several times just to be sure this magnificent black luxury SUV is really mine. The new car smell is intoxicating. Nothing is slammed; the rear hatch closes with the touch of a button. I walk around to climb into the cab. Can’t slam this door, either. It’s like burping a Tupperware lid.
I turn the key and the air conditioning blows on full. The radio plays symphonic music in full-immersive surround sound and none of this seems a strain on anything. I turn down the music and give myself a minute to familiarize myself with the GPS. Not that I need a whole minute. It works on voice command.
The traffic is light on the way into downtown, allowing me to work on my breathing and concentration. I screwed up in my first call to Giselle. The rental car clerk’s attitude towards me was also telling. Going all the way back to the cab driver, if he spoke with such annoying familiarity to me it’s because I didn’t give him the proper nonverbal cues telling him not to.
I can’t afford to be friendly. I can’t show surprise every time I come across some delightful, if appallingly expensive toy the Courtesan Class takes for granted like hot and cold running water. If it’s apparent to anyone at the company that I’m Not of Their Tribe—say, someone who’s been driving the same car for ten years, doesn’t own a smartphone, etc.—they’ll throw me right back into the stagnant, dying pond I come from. One does not get a seat at the Kool Kids table out of kindness, or even ability. It’s because you’re already a Kool Kid and that seat has belonged to you since before you were born.
With that in mind I step out of the elevator and stroll across the sumptuous lobby like I own it. I’ve never met Giselle but I know her on sight: a
meticulously groomed McMansionland beauty working the Hot Librarian look in her horn-rimmed glasses and a navy blue power suit worth two or more of my mortgage payments.
She blesses me with a cinematically white, straight-toothed smile: “Thank God, something’s going right today!”
“That’s what I’m here for,” I say, dry as a bossman’s martini.
“First, I need to apologize. I thought Rob was going to be here today, but—guess what!”
I raise an eyebrow: this had better be good.
“In the four hours since we spoke this morning we’ve had people going home right and left. Rob sometimes doesn’t get here until ten so I imagined he’d at least be here to welcome you to the city. He ended up calling in.”
“Given how I left my wife this morning, I can tell you, if you’re sick, you’re really sick. And I know what I saw in both airports on my way here.”
“Yes, sir, and I do apologize! I honestly didn’t see this coming! We’ve got so many people here working through their sniffles just fine. Anyway, it seems there may be some…consequence to this.”
“Yes?”
“Assuming Rob’s among the group of the Really Sick we’ll have to postpone the interview.”
“How long are you willing to put me up here?”
“How long are you willing to stay?”
“I came to talk to Rob. If it’s not too much of a problem, I’ll wait.”
“Even with your wife sick back home?”
“My teenage children can take care of her.”
Giselle puts an envelope on the counter. “There’s a voucher in there for a really good steakhouse in the Power and Light District. Should be enough in there for breakfast and lunch tomorrow at any number of places close to your hotel. Call me in the morning before checkout. Either I’ll have another envelope or a plane ticket.”
I smile tightly as I slip the envelope into my inside jacket pocket.
“I hope you don’t mind eating out so much!”
“Not at all. Thanks, Giselle.”
“Okay. We’ll talk to you tomorrow, then.”
Dead Ascent (The Zombie Apocalypse Book 1) Page 10
