“Go ahead, you fat fuck,” I muttered under my breath, and continued to grab ammo, reaching for 9mm. I was exhausted, and had no time for this shit.
The taser hit me on the side of my arm, just as I turned to put some more in the cart, and I yelled, dropping whatever was in my hands. I would have dropped my rifle, too, but that was already in a tactical sling.
I don’t know if you’ve ever been hit with a taser or a stun gun. It effing HURTS. Every muscle tensed up and I fell to the floor, smashing my nose on the counter, adding to my pain. The electricity continued to run through me, and I involuntarily screamed. She held the trigger down for what seemed like an eternity.
“WHO’S A FAT FUCK NOW, HUH?” she yelled at me, coming around the back of the counter. Then the electricity stopped, and her enormous weight crashed on top of me, driving out whatever breath I had left.
“Chief, are you OK?” came Boyd’s voice through the buzzing in my head.
“Get … her … OFF ME!” I managed to grunt. The taser was off, but my muscles still felt weak as hell. I felt him roll her to the side, and I managed to squeeze out from behind the counter on all fours. Then I threw up.
“Sarge, we gotta get out of here. Things are going to shit, people are starting to really loot stuff.”
“Take the shotguns, and let’s get back to the truck,” I answered, staggering to my feet. The woman groaned, and I kicked her as hard as I could in the leg, feeling like I was kicking blubber. I was in a seriously shitty mood now.
On our way out, we passed people grabbing all kinds of crap, not just stuff you needed to survive. We ignored them; they would be dead soon enough. Others were ransacking the food aisles, and some looked at our carts full of ammo and weapons a bit too long.
Williams, Petruncio, and Doc Raines were unloading a few more carts into the trucks, just throwing things in, and we joined them, handing over boxes of ammo.
“Nick, we gotta get to Schenectady, I gotta go get my son,” said Naomi, a look of worry on her face. I started to answer, when Opel called up to me in the turret.
“Sergeant Agostine, there’s a couple of State Troopers out here, and they look kinda pissed off,” he shouted down, and I could hear the nervousness in his voice. I came around the front end of the truck, boots crushing broken glass, and Boyd came with me. There were two troopers, dressed in the grey of the NY State Police.
“Gentlemen,” I said, before they could speak. “Unless you want this to get real ugly, real fast, I suggest you go home, get your families together, and be prepared to ride out a very long shitstorm.”
“What the hell is going on here?” asked the older one. His young partner didn’t look old enough to shave.
“It’s the goddamned Zombie Apocalypse, you moron! What the hell does it look like?” said Opel.
I ignored him, and said to the Trooper, “You’ve heard the radios and gotten the texts. Martial law has been declared, and we’ve been ordered to pull back west.”
He started to say something, but the 240 up in the turret hammered out a long burst, making all of us jump. “HERE THEY FUCKING COME!” yelled Opel, and I looked past the Trooper to see what he was shooting at.
Spilling into the parking lot, running like manic beasts, were hundreds of the infected.
Chapter 11
“What the …” the State Trooper started to exclaim, but I shoved him out of the way and crawled into the HUMVEE.
“LET’S GO!” Opel had dropped out of the turret and slid into the driver’s seat, and Doc climbed into the back. The door slammed shut, crushing my little finger, and I yelled in pain as we moved out.
The first one we hit disappeared under the front end, and I felt the thump thump of the wheels going over it. Then we were into the crowd of whatever the hell they were, tires squealing on the pavement as we chewed through them, banging off parked cars, and then we were through.
In my side view mirror, I could see the second truck following behind. Boyd was up in the turret, hammering away with his SAW, but the rounds seemed to zip through the bodies to no effect. With a BANG that I heard through the closed door, they crashed into a minivan, spilling undead all over the parking lot.
“STOP THE TRUCK!” I yelled, and Opel slammed on the brakes. I opened the door and lined up my rifle, trying to site in on their heads, but the whole thing was a giant clusterfuck of people who should be dead trying to climb back onto the truck. Boyd had drawn his pistol and was firing measured, direct shots.
The driver’s door opened and Williams tried to claw her way past three of them, and she went down in a welter of blood, screaming. I fired once, and again, and her screaming stopped abruptly.
“Opel on the gun, Doc you drive! BOYD, RUN FOR IT!”
He cursed, threw his empty pistol at a man missing one arm who had climbed up on the hood, and hauled himself out of the turret. Three steps, and he was off the hood and running as fast as he could towards us.
At the same time, the passenger door opened, and Petruncio took off running towards us too. Opel started firing with the 240, riddling the truck and the undead around it with heavy 7.62 rounds, but he only got off a few shots before yelling, “I’M OUT!”
Boyd suddenly tripped and rolled, coming back up immediately, but limping. Behind him came two of the undead, and I fired a burst, then flipped my selector to single shot and tried to hit them in the head. One down, but the second grabbed Boyd’s arm and bit down hard, through his uniform. He screamed and ripped his arm away, and Opel fired a shotgun blast that took off the thing’s head at the neck.
I ran forward and grabbed Boyd, even as Petruncio seized him by his body armor harness and dragged him forward. We hustled him into the back seat, and P shoved in next to him as I jumped into the passenger seat. The truck tore out of the parking lot, jumping the curb and swerving out onto Route 9, almost crashing into cars coming the other way. In the rearview, I could see utter chaos, with the Troopers firing their pistols into the ever-growing crowd of undead. Then they disappeared from sight. We drove a mile north before I told him to pull over.
“Doc, switch with Sergeant Petruncio. Boyd got bitten by one of those things, check out his arm.” He did, pulling into a Dunkin Donuts parking lot, and they quickly swapped seats.
“Hey Nick, I need some coffee,” said Petruncio, and he pulled over to the drive through. I think he must have been in shock after his close call, but I was too tired to pay attention to it, thinking of Naomi going down under the crowd of whatever the hell they were, and the agonized look on her face as I shot her.
“Welcome to Dunkin Donuts, how can I help you?” crackled the speaker.
“Uh, yeah, I need five coffees, black, a bottle of milk, a shitload of sugar packets, and a half dozen assorted donuts,” said Petruncio, over the rumbling of the diesel.
“That’ll be $21.28,” the woman answered back. “First window, please.”
“P, what the hell is wrong with you? The world is falling apart, and we gotta get the hell out of here!” exclaimed Opel from the turret.
“Hey, soldiers run on coffee, and Sergeant A didn’t say no.”
I shook my head to clear it. Coffee sounded good. I seemed to be in some kind of fog. “Just keep your eye out, Opel. Doc, how is Boyd?” I asked, turning around in my seat to look as I heard a grunt behind me.
The two were locked in silent struggle, Doc Raines using both of his hands to keep Boyd’s gnashing teeth away from his face. Then he screamed as those teeth clamped down on his fingers, biting them off cleanly.
“HOLY SHIT!” yelled Petruncio, and he tried to swing his rifle around. I leaned back in my seat, and struggled to lift my own weapon. Opel squatted down in the turret, took one look, flipped the shotgun upside down, pressed the barrel to Boyd’s face, just under his helmet, and pulled the trigger.
The sound was deafening in the closed confines of the truck, making my ears ring. I could see Doc Raines screaming, but I couldn’t hear him. In one motion, he jammed his hand under
his armpit, then pulled his own pistol from his leg holster with his good hand. Eyes closed, he used his thumb to cock the hammer, and, even as Petruncio reached for him, jammed the gun under his chin and fired.
We sat there, stunned, as my hearing slowly returned. Then I opened my door, got out, and threw up for the second time today, spitting out bile.
I felt hands helping me up, and I struggled to throw them off, yelling incoherently. Then Petruncio slapped me, hard, across the face.
“SERGEANT AGOSTINE! GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER OR WERE ALL GOING TO DIE!” he yelled at me. I looked at him, and I could see the fear in his eyes.
“We’re all going to die, P,” I said quietly. “I don’t care.”
“Goddammit, Nick, I don’t know what the fuck is going on! What do we do?”
I looked over to where Opel was cautiously dragging Boyd’s body out with one hand, the shotgun cradled in his free hand, finger on the trigger. He needn’t have bothered, most of the soldier’s head was missing.
On the other side of the truck, I could hear the drive through speaker, asking if everything was all right. Behind the truck was a BMW, and even as I looked over, the driver leaned on the horn. The passenger window slid smoothly down, and some guy in a suit yelled at us to stop jerking off and move forward. Because of the angle I guess he didn’t see Boyd’s body lying on the ground.
My brain was having a hard time with the reality of an apocalypse a mile away, and this asshole yelling at me so he could get his chai latte whatever the hell. I raised my rifle and fired a burst into the dickhead’s engine compartment. I hope he pissed himself.
“Get back in the truck, I’ll get Doc’s body out. Get the coffee and let’s get the hell out of here.”
Chapter 12
We drove westward, down a deserted road. Normally this time of day people would be going to work, heading east to catch the Northway down to Albany. Now, for almost five miles, it was deserted.
Coming up on Route 50, we save why. A squad of Air Force MP’s were blocking the intersection, stopping all traffic and turning them around. I told Petruncio to pull up next to the grey painted HUMVEE, and I leaned out the window to talk to their Sergeant. He ignored me, talking rapidly into a mic clipped to his vest.
I jumped as the .50 on the truck next to me opened up, riddling an SUV that had been too slow to turn around. Looking up, I saw that the kid manning the gun had tears streaming down her face, and her jaw was set in a rictus of agony.
“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON!” I yelled to the squad leader, trying to get his attention.
He dropped the mic and yelled back, “WE’RE PULLING OUT!” Even as he said it, a C-130 roared overhead, the orange painted tail of the 109th Air Wing standing out bold in the morning sun. The runway for Stratton Air National Guard Base was a half mile south of us in Scotia.
Coming over to me, he asked, “Got any ammo? We’re almost out.”
I shook my head in the negative, and asked, “Have you seen them yet?”
The look on his face told me the answer. He had. “We’re holding the road while they fly our families out, taking them west, I don’t know where.” I had nothing to say to him, and I didn’t even register the .50 firing again. The crowds were getting desperate.
“We’re heading towards Rotterdam Junction, trying to link up with our higher. Come with us,” I asked.
“No way!” he answered. “There’s still a few birds loading. We gotta hold.”
I shook my head, knowing it was futile. “You’re going to get overrun. Soon as some of those undead show up, it’s going to turn into a shitshow!” Another four-engine monster zoomed overhead, drowning out any spoken answer.
When it had passed, the man reached over and shook my hand. “You Army dipshits get going and regroup, and come back here some day and kick some ass!” Then he stepped back and saluted, and turned. The last I saw of him, he had climbed up on the hood of the truck, and was firing eastward, back the way we had come. The female airman had the same grimace on her face as she held the butterfly trigger down on the big machine gun, massacring the civilians caught between her hammer and the anvil of the undead.
We travelled another two miles westward, and I told Petruncio to pull over. When he did, I slammed open the door, fell into the ditch, and threw up, spilling acidic coffee on the ground. Then I sat back and started crying, weeping uncontrollably.
Neither Opel nor Petruncio said anything. Just let me work it out. I don’t know what happened to either of them, they were good, decent men, and damn good soldiers. I tried, years later, to find out, but “records incomplete”. I hope that they’re out there, somewhere.
The rally point was another ten miles, and we had to go overland for a big part of it, through people’s backyards and across front lawns. Traffic was piling up, all headed westward. Where they thought they were going, I didn’t know, but it was fight or flight time, and most modern Americans had had the fight bred out of them. Still, there were altercations, people screaming and yelling, trying to move crashed cars, helping each other in places.
We saw the Traffic Control Point up ahead, and there was some serious firepower. Three up-armored HUMVEES, and a Stryker. Where the hell they had gotten the wheeled armor I had no idea, but it looked comforting. Traffic was moving slowly, each vehicle being stopped, emptied and searched before being allowed to proceed.
There was a big sign on the right, directing military traffic that way. We followed it in, and a squad of MPs directed us to dismount. I got out, and was met by an MP Warrant Officer.
“Hey Chief, SFC Agostine, HHC 42nd ID, where do you want us?”
He scowled at me, and asked brusquely, “Where are you coming from?”
“Our detachment got overrun at the Route 4 bridge, we’re all that’s left.”
His look didn’t get any warmer. “Overrun by what?”
Petruncio stepped in and said, “By the fucking undead, Chief! What the hell do you think?”
“Another goddamn bullshit story. Deserters!” He motioned to the MP squad and they raised their rifles at us.
“WHOA! Just hold on a second there!” yelled Opel.
I stepped forward, standing between them and my two soldiers. “Chief, I don’t know what the hell you think is going on here, but these two were following my orders. You’re going to have a fight on your hands soon, and you’re going to need every gun you’ve got. I’ll answer for my actions as their boss.”
He thought for a minute, then motioned for one of the MPs to cuff me, and told Boyd and Petruncio to move out. I nodded, and they both stepped back, looking pissed. I handed over my rifle, and then my pistol, and felt the cold steel cuffs snap around my wrists.
“Take him to see Major MacDonald,” growled the Chief, and the MP yanked my arms, pushing me towards the command tent.
Chapter 13
Inside, the tent was a beehive of activity, men yelling and radios crackling orders. The MP shoved me down on a camp chair, and left me there, heading back out.
Outside, there was a round of cracking explosions, and screams. It had been a five-round burst from a medium machine gun, one of the M240Bs mounted on a HUMVEE. It sent the entire command tent into a panic, with some yelling to “GET DOWN!” while others ran out.
One Major, who seemed to be in charge, ran past me, clawing at his pistol. He pulled it out, and in doing so, fired a round directly into the floor. I sat and watched him fumble with it and put it back in his leg holster, hammer cocked back and still off safe, and my heart sank. If this was what our defense was going to be like, we were truly screwed.
He came back in a few minutes later, barking orders, then he noticed me sitting on the chair. “First Sergeant Jackson!” he yelled, and a man came over from another part of the tent.
“Yessir!” he said, and executed a perfect salute. A salute inside a tent? Dipshits.
“Jackson, another deserter. Take him out and hang him.”
My mouth fell open, and I spluttered. “What th
e hell do you mean, hang me? What the fuck!”
“I’ll have no cowards in my command, Sergeant. You’ll be an example to stiffen the troops’ morale. Our country is facing the greatest crisis ever, and we’ll need stalwart men to see us through. Not panicked COWARDS!” he yelled, spittle flying from his mouth. This guy was seriously losing his shit.
“I didn’t RUN!” I yelled back at him. “Our CO left messages to meet here!”
Jackson leaned forward and said, “We didn’t get any radio traffic about that, and we ain’t seen anyone from the 42nd command. Probably cut and ran, too.”
“Take him out and hang him from the telephone pole by the river. Make sure he’s high enough for the troops to see, along with the others.”
“WAIT A MIN-” I started to yell, but someone grabbed me from behind and shoved a rag in my mouth. I struggled hard, lashing out with my boots, but a big MP came in and clubbed me on the side of the neck, and I saw stars, falling to my knees.
They grabbed me by my arms and dragged me out through the back of the tent, and out towards the river bank. A string of telephone poles ran along the river, and from them swung the bodies of three men and a woman, all in uniform. I saw one I knew, a Captain from Division HQ. Their faces were swollen, tongues and eyes popping out. No broken neck for them; they had been hauled up to strangle and dance. Around each neck hung a cardboard sign, cut from an MRE box, with the word DESERTER written on it in sharpie.
I saw her then. My wife. She stood in front of me, looking like I had left her last night. That is, I think I saw her. I don’t know. Maybe it was my mind, refusing to believe what was about to happen. I had been a soldier all my adult life, served my country, been wounded twice, once by a bullet and another time by mortar shrapnel. And now my country was going to hang me. “Live!” she said, and I answered.
“Baby, I’m so tired,” I tried to say to her, but the rag muffled my words.
I shook my head and she disappeared, and a rage grew inside me. A hatred, for incompetent assholes and what was happening all around me. I stood straighter; there was no way I was going to beg, and if it meant that I was going to see my wife and child, so be it.
Zombie Killers (Book 0): Falling Page 5
