The Rock Island Zombie Counteractant Experiment

by Better Hero Army

  “I’m one of the four alternates. Last time there was an accident I was on this assignment for a month!”

  “Well, I can do it alone if—”

  “No one works alone on the floor,” Chavez said.

  Mason stood up and took the four hoses off the wall. “Well then, let’s go clean up. Do you want to push the cart or lug the hoses?”

  “I’m fine looking like housecleaning. Go plug in the hoses,” he said with another yawn and wave toward the door.

  Mason carried the hoses out to the bibs and dropped them. Even the roar of hundreds of moaning biters hardly registered as he knelt down to attach the hoses. He thought it strange that he was beginning to ignore them as though they were just background noise. Even with his earplugs in, he could still make out the squeaking of the cart wheels over their drone.

  “I’ll catch, you clean the first five, then we switch,” Chavez suggested. “It goes faster that way.”

  “Matty had me catching my own, then cleaning.”

  “I’m sure he did, but Matty was an asshole. Catching and cleaning yourself takes forever. Matty liked taking his time. It meant he could be down here longer. Personally, I hate it in here.”

  Blend in.

  Chavez started catching the zombies in the first cell as Mason added the spray nozzles to the hose and got out the cleaning solvents.

  “So why do we have to clean them at night like this?” Mason asked. It bothered him since he arrived, but he had never asked Matty. He hardly had the chance to get a word in edgewise with Matty. “Why not clean the cells by day when they’re at the Meat Market?”

  “They do. They clean them the minute the damned things are taken out, but there are two kinds of biters in here, you know. Those bastards there,” he said, pointing the noose toward the line of cells Mason had worked the night before, the ones that had been operated on and had been through recovery—the ones for sale. “Those ones are taken out every day. The only shit in there is what they’ve done since coming back and getting fed. These ones, though,” Chavez said, turning with the noose and driving it through the bars of a cage, catching one of the zombies. He grabbed the thing with expert precision, just like Matty. No chasing the thing or missing, or having to try twice. Just a sweep and the loop was over the back of its head, and a second later he was hauling it to the front of the cell, pinning it as he swung the restrainer down the pole where it clanged into place against the cell bars. Chavez pointed at the biter he had captured and wagged a finger at it. “These sons of bitches have been in here all goddamned day, sleeping and crapping at their leisure.”

  Chavez grabbed the next noose off the cart.

  “We can skip that group tonight,” Chavez added, pointing at the sterilized biters. “Let the day crew deal with it. You can’t tell the difference half the time anyway.”

  Half-assed work, Mason thought, but didn’t say anything. Mason was beginning to get the impression Chavez was one of the lazy ones he would have had to keep an eye on in his command over in Egypt. He wondered if Chavez was like that in Egypt too, if maybe the reason his team was compromised in an ambush was his fault. Maybe that’s why he was here. Everyone on the island that he’d met so far had something in their past that earned them some kind of punishment. Mason wondered if he was actually an inmate being deceived into thinking he was free. It would make sense, in a horribly sinister kind of way.

  “There you go,” Chavez said to the second biter, patting its head after checking the restraint. “Gentle as a kitten,” he added, and the zombie thrashed. “Whoa!” Chavez laughed, stepping back. “That one’s hungry. Let me double check the restraint before you go in there.”

  Chavez kept his distance as he tugged on the wrist straps binding the biter to the cell bars. It shook again and its moan became more of a growl, deep like a lion.

  “No, he’s good. It’s all yours.”

  Mason didn’t move right away. He stared at the two zombies restrained against the cell bars, their faces wedged against them, their pale skin pulled tight, their hazy eyes wide with rage. It reminded him of the soldier in Egypt, the one he had shot. The eyes were what haunted him, so absent of reason, so filled with malice. Mason couldn’t fathom what would drive someone to such an extreme.

  Chavez picked up a noose from the cart and stepped up next to Mason.

  “Don’t worry, man,” he said. “I’ve never had an accident and I’ve been here years.”

  “Well you know my record, don’t you?” Mason said, looking at him sidelong.

  Chavez laughed and slapped Mason on the shoulder. “You want me to do it, pussy?”

  “No, I’ve got it,” Mason told him and walked up to the cell door card reader. He swiped his card and heard the buzzing. The moaning throughout the cell block redoubled, the Pavlovian response to the sound of freedom or feeding, or something Mason hadn’t yet figured out. A door was a door to these things and it could have meant all of that and none of it. Mason stuffed his card into his cargo pocket as he pulled the cell door open.

  Mason began hosing out the feces on the ground, dragging the hose all the way into the cell so he could spray at it and push it along the cinderblock wall. Normal prisons had beds and plumbing and a toilet, but not here. The pallet was six feet long by six feet wide and had a pile of blankets that the zombies somehow turned into a nest-like roost. Mason put down the hose and dragged out the blankets to replace them.

  Chavez had noosed the first of three biters in the next cell and was coming back for another noose pole and restraining bar. Mason threw the old blankets to the ground and grabbed three new folded ones from the cart.

  “You know, you can just leave the bedding too,” Chavez said as he followed Mason to the cell door. The aggressive biter snarled and shook at his restraints again and Chavez stopped, letting Mason walk through the cell alone. “We’re not the Hilton,” Chavez said and started for the other cell.

  Mason turned his back on Chavez. Doing the job right didn’t take that much more effort. As his father would have said, it takes more effort avoiding work. It made Chavez’s laziness even more irritating.

  There was a sudden and loud clank behind him. Mason tensed, nearly jumping in fright. Then he took a deep breath and said “funny” over his shoulder as he turned, expecting to see Chavez laughing and asking something like “jittery?” as he dragged a noose pole along a cell bar, clanking it once just for effect.

  Mason’s heart clenched tight like a fist. A gaunt face stared at him, plump eyes bulging with need. The noose stretched the loose skin around its neck toward the pole raking through the cell bars as the zombie lurched one more step closer. Mason’s surprise and disbelief shed at the sight of the unlatched restraint. It still trapped one of the zombie’s arms against its chest, latched to the turned pole. The other arm was free.

  The blankets in Mason’s arms fell to the ground. The hand latched onto Mason’s shoulder. Mason threw his left arm in the air to knock it free, but the biter’s cold, boney fingers held as though stitched to his shirt. Mason reached his other hand for his pistol too late. The biter took one more step and pulled at Mason. Decaying breath moaned over him, a soupy blend of rotten fish and curdled milk assailing Mason through its bared teeth that seemed determined to find flesh. Mason tried to step back but his foot caught on the lip of the bed pallet.

  The zombie pushed forward and they both plummeted to the pallet. Mason wedged his arms between them a split second before striking the ground. The impact jarred his senses. The zombie’s body sagged over Mason with the unwieldiness of an enormous sack of flour. The zombie’s head gave a hollow whack against Mason’s forehead before bouncing off. Mason’s arms were the only thing keeping its teeth at bay. He drove the zombie up to elbow’s length, leaving it perched above him, dripping its saliva and hissing.

  Mason turned his head. The biter let go of Mason’s shoulder and instead grabbed the back of his neck, pulling itself closer. With the zombie’s weight over him he couldn’t reach his pis
tol. Mason kicked his legs to turn his lower body sideways.

  “Help!” Mason yelled between his struggling grunts.

  The zombie pitched slightly to Mason’s left. Mason’s forearm slipped across its chest. In a second it would slide off him, he realized. He extended his forearm to help it along, rolling to his right and pushing the thing away. It fell on its side, its hand still hooked to Mason’s neck.

  “Hang on a second,” Mason thought he heard Chavez calling, his tone one of annoyance.

  Mason started to roll. The biter’s hand slid from Mason’s neck. Mason pushed against the biter’s chest with his left arm to lift himself free. The biter grabbed his wrist with its other hand. Instead of turning and rolling away from the biter, it yanked Mason back like a dog on the end of a leash.

  The bite landed square on Mason’s upper arm, digging into the exposed flesh of the bicep.

  “No!” he screamed and rolled toward the zombie to keep it from ripping the flesh with its teeth. The pain seared the length of his arm. With his other arm he grabbed the thing by the back of its head and pulled it closer, jamming its face into his arm, driving its nose flat. He knew he couldn’t wrench the thing off without tearing loose a hole in his arm. He knew that it wouldn’t be able to bite through if he could push against its mouth. He also knew he wanted to kill the thing by ripping its head off and beating the skull on the ground until he, himself, died.

  He’d been bitten.

  He pulled harder, crushing the biter’s head in a hug as he continued to roll over on top of it. He felt the teeth gnashing the muscle and bone of his arm and the pain shot through him like bullets.

  Mason let go of the head once his weight was over it and he hastily reached for his pistol. The biter tried to thrash free. The sudden tearing in Mason’s arm caused him to cry out in pain. The biter’s eyes were still wide with rage as it began to reach a hand to Mason’s neck. Whether it meant to push him off or pull him closer, it didn’t matter. The rage was still within those eyes, the rage of a man no longer capable of rational behavior, no longer able to think beyond wild necessity. Mason stuffed the barrel of his pistol into the eye socket of the biter.

  In Egypt, Lieutenant Mason Jones closed his eyes when he pulled the trigger on his fellow soldier. He had already taken aim. He already knew where the bullet would strike. There was no need to watch the young man die.

  “Go to hell,” Mason snarled as he stared wide-eyed with hate at his victim now.

  Blam!

  Seventeen

  Mason felt the jaw slacken against his arm. His weight sank over the zombie as it went completely limp beneath him. Its arm thumped onto the pallet. When the pistol went off, blood burst out the back of the biter’s head like a water balloon hitting the ground. Small bits of brain and skin and bone lay randomly scattered around the exit wound. Its remaining eye slowly lost its fierceness as the eyelid sagged with the rest of its body.

  “What the fuck?” Chavez shouted from the cell door. “What the fuck happened? Are you all right, man?”

  Mason turned his shoulder to pry his arm free of the teeth. He pushed the jaw open wider to slip his skin out of the dead biter’s top teeth. Pain erupted again like a red hot coal being pushed through his skin. He let out another cry of pain as blood oozed out of the wound and into the biter’s open mouth.

  “Holy shit,” Chavez said as he knelt down next to Mason. “Hold on, man, I’ll call for help.” In a second Chavez was gone.

  Mason slid the rest of his wounded arm out of the biter’s mouth and rolled onto his back, dropping his pistol onto his chest. He put a hand over the wound and felt the sting of it over the slick heat. He felt light headed, not from the wound so much as the adrenaline and the sudden realization that he was a dead man.

  No wonder Matty pulled the trigger.

  He picked up the pistol off his chest and sat up. He looked at the biter sprawled out on the pallet beside him and aimed the pistol at its head again. Blam!

  The biter’s head knocked sideways as another bullet ripped through it.

  Mason fell backwards over the dead biter, leaning his head on the biter’s chest. Keep your head elevated to prevent going into shock, he told himself. He brought his knees up and used one to take aim on the other biter in the cell. Blam! Blam! Two rounds struck the back of its head, splattering blood and gore onto the wall and out onto the floor in front of the cell. The biter sagged in its restraints, but didn’t fall. Mason wanted to kill more of them. He aimed at one of the contained biters across the cell block. It leaned against its bars, arms reaching desperately toward the bloody dead. It could smell the fresh kill, but its wild eyes were empty of understanding. It hungered. Mason hungered too, for revenge.

  He dropped the pistol onto his stomach. He was already one of them. The anguishing thought hovered over him, pressing on his chest. He struggled to breathe, to control his anger. The pain in his arm reminded him where he was. He put his hand over the wound to staunch the blood loss.

  Chavez ran into view, sliding to a halt in front of the open door, staring wide-eyed at the two dead biters and Mason.

  “Someone’s on the way,” Chavez said. “I called for medevac.”

  “Inhibitors,” Mason groaned. The pain on his arm was still like fire, pulsing with each beat of his heart.

  “They’ll bring them,” Chavez said.

  “Get the first aid kit. I need a compress and bandages.”

  “On it,” Chavez said and started to leave. He stopped suddenly and came into the cell to kneel beside Mason. “Look, I’m—” He shook his head. “I can’t let you keep this,” he said, taking Mason’s pistol. Mason reached toward Chavez, but he was already standing and stepping back. “I’m sorry, man.”

  Mason didn’t have the strength left in him to fight Chavez over it, nor did he think it mattered. Matty had killed himself thinking there was no way out. Mason had other ideas. They cured Mike. Maybe if they got to him fast enough they could cure him before he turned.

  Chavez was quick in coming back, kneeling beside Mason with the first aid kit. Mason took three compresses and held them over the wound. The sting was worse than any wound he had ever sustained before, although this was probably the worst trauma he had ever had, too. Chavez rolled a bandage around his arm as tight as he could. Mason sucked in a hiss of pain, but Chavez didn’t stop.

  The buzzing of the door and the redoubling of the moaning all around them announced someone had arrived. Chavez hastily taped the bandage.

  “Hang on,” Chavez said and went to the cell door. He stopped and held out a hand to wave as he looked down the cell block. “Are you alone?” Chavez yelled in anger.

  “I’m on patrol,” another voice called back defensively. “I was on sub-floor two when I got the call.”

  “Where’s the medic?”

  “It’s fucking two in the morning,” the voice replied irritably. The voice had a body that came into view of the cell, a soldier wearing black body armor. He looked in at Mason and assessed the dead biters. “Holy fucking shit,” the soldier said. “What the hell happened?”

  “We need the lab medic on duty,” Chavez said.

  “It’s two in the morning. Ain’t nobody in the lab!”

  “There’s always someone in the lab. Go down there and get them!”

  “I don’t have access,” the soldier complained.

  “I’ll go. You stay here with him. Don’t let him have a gun.”

  “Did he do this?” the soldier asked Chavez. “Did you do all this shit?” he asked Mason, pointing between the two biters. Mason nodded wearily. “Yeah, your gun privileges need to be revoked, man.”

  “Cut the shit, Johnson. He’s been bit,” Chavez growled, which sobered the soldier and made him step back from the cell bars. Chavez looked in on Mason. “I’ll be right back. They’re just downstairs.”

  Mason nodded, but didn’t think anyone was down there. Why would they be? It was two in the morning, just like Johnson said. Chavez ran off anyway
and Mason listened as the door hissed and clacked and the moaning all around them rose in volume again.

  Johnson didn’t say anything once they were alone. He stood outside the cell, worriedly looking in at Mason from time to time, looking both ways up and down the cell block nervously the rest of the time. Now that Mason had a tight bandage over the wound, the fiery sting gave way to dull throbbing that pushed small needles of pain up and down his arm with each pulse of his heart. Mason imagined small shards of glass being forced through his veins. That would have been tolerable except that the fire of it left him numb where it had already torn through. He couldn’t feel part of his arm anymore and that concerned him.

  Mason didn’t like waiting. It was the military way, but in the line of fire or when a man was down, soldiers always took action. It was part of their training. Mason sat up abruptly. His heart rate was normal. He had avoided going into shock. His blood loss was controlled. He should have gone with Chavez.

  “Hey, man,” Johnson said, holding a hand up. “You should just chill out.”

  Mason moved his hurt arm with his other hand, lifting it gingerly to get it out of the way so he could stand up. The moment it moved, though, the pain flared up again. He sucked in his breath through clenched teeth, closing his eyes to wait out the pain. His heart pounded harder and it felt as though he could hear each beat. He dug the foam plugs out of his ears and threw them to the ground, hoping the moaning around him would help drown out the sound. Hearing his own heart like that made him think he was too close to death.

  Mason tried to stand. Blood rushed to his head and it felt as though he were on a ship tipped sideways. He kept thinking to correct himself by leaning, but each time he did it seemed the boat switched angles and he had to correct himself again.

  “You’re looking really pale, man,” Johnson told him from outside the cell. “Just sit back down before you fall down, OK?”

  Mason started to agree with Johnson when he saw black spots filling the ring of his vision. He fell back to a sitting position and tried to control the blackness. It wasn’t shock. He knew that much. This meant he was about to faint. He took deep breaths to counter the effects, ignoring the pain clawing its way down his forearm toward his hand.