Zombie Killers (Book 0): Falling

by John F. Holmes

  Putting my boots back on, but leaving my socks in the tub with my uniform, I walked naked through the house, carrying my holstered pistol. I was feeling fainter and fainter, but I made myself eat a can of cold Spaghettios and drink as much water as I could, refilling my camel back in the process. Then I raided the bedroom, finding some old dress pants that were way too big for me, and a t-shirt, again way too big.

  The stairs to the attic dropped down, and I painfully lifted my pack, the shotgun, some pillows from the couch, and a blanket into the attic space. Fortunately, there was some plywood across the joists, and I made a type of bed out of the couch pillows, then pulled the spring loaded stairs up after me.

  My leg was on fire, and I lay on my side in the utter darkness, wondering why the hell I shouldn’t just stay up here until I died. As I lay there, tears started to come, and I sobbed quietly, missing my wife and my daughter desperately, until I passed into something more like a coma than sleep.

  Part III

  October, ZA + 3 months

  Chapter 18

  “Liberty Bastion, this is Valkyrie Six-Niner, returning to airfield with three crew and cargo from Glens Falls Armory, time now, over.”

  “Roger, Valkyrie Six-Niner, skies clear, estimated winds from the west 30 knots at angles three, over.”

  Captain Alex McHale did a quick mental calculation. A thirty-knot headwind would affect their flying time, but not much. Still within adequate fuel capacity.

  “This is Valkyrie, roger, thirty-knots headwind, ETA about,” and he glanced at his clipboard, “seventeen hundred. Save me a cold beer, over.”

  The tower control from FOB Seneca answered with a “Roger that. Too bad there’s no fraternization. Be advised, Valkyrie Three-Two took ground fire from the Herkimer area, one WIA.”

  “Understood, at least we’re done flying through the ash clouds for now. Valkyrie Six-Niner out.”

  Beside him in the co-pilot seat, LT JG Chris Roby, late of the U.S.S. Anzio, and currently assigned to Task Force Liberty, gave him a thumbs up and said, “She sounds hot as hell, you should go for it. She’s almost daring you with that fraternization crack.”

  “Probably voice of an angel and body of a potato. Plus, last thing I need is that dipshit MacDonald getting on my ass.”

  Beside them, a figure banged on the glass, and McHale slid the window open. Staff Sergeant Winters stood there, stripped down to his t-shirt, sweating from hauling boxes aboard the Blackhawk.

  “Sir, you’re all loaded up. We’ve got the armory secure for the night, and it’s going to take us a couple more hours to either cut through the arms room doors, or blow through the cinder block. You’re going to want your bird out of here before we do that.”

  The pilot acknowledged and answered, “On our way, Sergeant. We’ll be back for the weapons at first light, and then we’ll take you guys out in the afternoon. Stay safe!”

  Snapping a quick salute, the veteran NCO reflexively duck walked away as the engines whined with increasing power. As the helo rose, leaves, trash, and a coating of ash engulfed them, as they lifted clear of the roof of the Glens Falls armory. Then they spun left and set out on a steady climb to the southwest.

  Their route would take them downriver, following the Hudson, avoiding the partially melted down reactor at Milton, and then turn west along the Mohawk. On board were several precious cases of MREs, and even more important, every scrap of winter clothing they could scrounge out of the wall lockers of the vanished troops. Winter was coming, and it looked to be a brutal one. The skies overhead were still slightly grey from the cities burning, and McHale hated to think of how many rads they had been exposed to from the nukes that had gone off in LA, Reno, Boston, and the Gulf of Mexico. Never mind the dipshit Chinese and Russians. He hoped they were choking on it.

  The landscape they passed over looked beautiful, the October leaves changing as they always had. Various hues of gold and red made for a picture-perfect flight, if you didn’t look too hard for evidence of human activity. The highways were deserted, and outside of Saratoga, they saw a roadblock with thousands of bones bleaching in the sun, piled high in front of empty military vehicles. Abandoned cars stretched for miles to the south, their dust covered windshields dully reflecting the sunlight.

  The Army pilot had firsthand experience with the chaos that had enveloped the country, being a participant in the evacuation of Manhattan, but his Navy counterpart had spent that time at sea. The Anzio, like most oil powered Navy ships, was tied up at a pier in Bremerton or Seattle, hurting for lack of fuel. Pilots like him were farmed out all over the remains of the Armed Forces; they were in short supply.

  “Maybe when we get rotated back to Seattle, I’ll find a girl who wants a ride in a Blackha-” Roby’s words were interrupted by a vibration that he felt in his hands as they gripped the controls, through the cyclic at his feet, and into his very being. Experienced pilots subconsciously followed every buzz and ping that their birds made.

  “Yeah, I felt it too,” said McHale, calmly. “I’m getting warning lights on engine temperature.” He banged his fist on a dial on the dash, but it steadily crept upwards.

  “Anders,” he said over the intercom, “can you see what...”

  A loud BANG sounded from overhead, and the entire airframe lurched, the vibration changing into a high-pitched whining noise, and the controls started to shudder.

  “BASTION, BASTION, THIS IS VALKYRIE SIX-NINER WE ARE DECLARING AN INFLIGHT EMERGENCY, ENGINE FAILURE, GOING DOWN, VICINITY OF,” and Roby looked out the side window, trying to identify landmarks while slapping engine cut off levers. “VICINITY OF MECHANICVILLE.”

  “Roger, Valkyrie Six-Niner, landing vicinity Mechanicville, Valkyrie seven-three is inbound from Kingston, will reroute over your position. Keep us advised of status, over.”

  Neither Roby nor McHale answered, fighting for control of the aircraft. “Not. Fucking. Again!” shouted McHale over his struggle. The aircraft tilted downward as he sought to bring airflow over the still turning rotors, attempting to auto rotate down from three thousand feet. The G forces lifted them out of their seats and strained at their harnesses as the craft sped downwards, and the crew chief, who had failed to snap her safety line in, was thrown out the side door, to impact with the tail rotor in a splash of blood.

  The ground rushed up at them, McHale aiming for a broad street with fewer cars rusting away. Not enough time or distance to get to an open field. Several figures wandered around the street, undead doing their mindless search for living food.

  At the last second, the veteran pilot hauled back on the stick, and the craft flared slightly, leveling out. They hit hard, smashing the landing gear and starting to skid down the street. The main rotor hit the side of a building, and shattered, the composite flying like shrapnel and cutting down several of the undead. With a series of thunderous explosions, the blades continued to impact on the street as the aircraft tilted over, disintegrating.

  With a final crunch, the craft hit the side of a building and came to a stop, tail rotor still spinning, and clouds of concrete dust rose over the crash site. Then the sounds stopped, to be replaced by a deafening silence.

  The howls started a few minutes later, smelling fresh meat.

  Chapter 18

  I watched the Blackhawk go down through binocs, following as it went into a steep glide, and then it disappeared behind some buildings in Mechanicville. I head the BANG as it hit from over a mile away.

  My heart beat wildly; it was the first sign of civilization I had seen in months. With a start, I looked myself over. Shaky hands shrunk with starvation, dirty jeans, the remains of my uniform top under my plate carrier, wild growth of beard. I didn’t look anything like the soldier I had once been, and I wasn’t. I was a savage now, doing whatever needed to be done to survive. I had robbed houses, killed other men for their food and weapons, often without them being aware of me until my bat came crashing down on their head. Along the way I had been ruthlessly exterminating eve
ry undead I had come across.

  It would take me a while to get there; exhaustion and starvation made riding the mountain bike a chore. Ordinarily I just used it to carry supplies to and from the house, pushing it by way of an extendable pole tied to the handlebar. I had fallen off once, hitting an unseen pothole, and the thought of getting injured in my emaciated state scared the crap out of me.

  The food had disappeared after the first month. Most stores had been looted right away, and a lot of them had burned. People had stayed in their houses, hiding from the undead, until they had eaten every last thing they had, and then set out in their cars or on foot. Most had died, falling victim to armed gangs or packs of undead. The corn planted in the fields had ripened, and then rotted with no one to harvest it, and the ash filled rains choking it. Last time I had eaten had been a week ago, a squirrel I had nailed with my air rifle, and our fishing lines stayed empty.

  “Well, shit, let’s go see what we can loot!” exclaimed Stillson. I glanced over at the baldheaded ex-con. He looked back at me, the permanent sneer etched on his face. “What are we waiting for, soldier boy?” God, how I despised this scumbag.

  His squeeze, as he called her, cackled. Suzy, I didn’t know her last name and didn’t care, grinned, showing her meth damaged teeth. Amazingly, that was one thing that she never seemed to run out of.

  “Cause, Zs’re gonna be all over that shit,” said Hines. The ex-police officer formed the last member of our team, if you could call it that. More like a mutual survival pact between people who hated each other, but feared the undead more. If I could go to sleep in a secure place each night and not worry about being bitten, I’d have cut them loose long ago. The feeling was mutual, I’m sure. Even Hines, whom I had expected to be a decent guy, had turned out to be a dirty cop even before the ZA. Kicked off the Union Springs PD for shaking down shop owners and robbing drug dealers, and he bragged about it. Still, he was good with a gun. So was Stillson, though ammo had run short, and we were down to bats and knives for the most part.

  “Hines is right, but, we have to get there. Might be survivors,” I answered.

  Stillson hooted. “Fucking A, fresh meat!”

  I rested my hand on the butt of the .380 where it was stuck in my belt. There were still three rounds, and six for the shotgun, but that was it. I had more guns, and ammo for them, hidden in the house behind a false wall, but I couldn’t get to them easily without alerting my ‘companions’.

  “We discussed it, but I didn’t agree to it,” I said coldly, meaning eating human flesh. The subject kept coming up with more and more frequency over the past week, as our final food supplies had disappeared.

  “Yeah, well I ain’t gonna starve to death,” said Suzy, but I could see she was well on her way there already. Her collar bones made her t-shirt look like it was on a coat hanger, and her fake breasts looked even more ridiculous on her emaciated body.

  “Shut up, bitch, no one asked you, and them teeth ain’t gonna be able to chew meat either,” answered Stillson, lightly backhanding her across the face. She gave that beaten dog look, and said nothing else.

  “I’m going now,” I said, mounting the bike. As I did, my stomach growled; I took a sip of water to calm it down, and started weakly peddling south. The rest joined me, not wanting to miss any chance of getting their own loot. Before we arrived at the site, I heard gunshots. Pop pop pop of disciplined shooting, small caliber. Two weapons, I thought. Survivors. Something long dead inside of me started to waken, and I pedaled faster, reaching into my pocket for my last pack of skittles and pouring them into my mouth.

  “Hey, motherfucker, you been holding out on us!’ yelled Stillson, but I ignored him. The crash was a few hundred meters further, and a block up. The gunfire increased, down to one weapon now. I pulled up to the corner, adrenaline pumping and winded from the bike ride, and snuck a quick peek.

  The helo had come to rest up against the side of a building, and there was one man sitting on the side of the wreck, taking single shots with an MP-5. Under him, where the other pilot would be, there was a puddle of blood leaking from the shattered airframe.

  Even as I watched, the pilot fired his weapon dry, and instead of ditching it, let it hand on a sling, coolly drawing his side arm and shooting into the crowd of undead. He was screwed, though. There were about ten of them, and, unless they stood still for him to shoot, he didn’t have a chance.

  I could wait. The undead wanted the pilot, and whoever else was still alive in the wreck. We could wait, and go in tonight and loot. There had to be emergency supplies in there, some food somewhere, and maybe ammo. Turning, I looked back at my companions, and they stared at me.

  “I’m going after him,” I said, and dropped the bike, unslinging the air rifle. It was a target version, powered by Co2, that I had found, ignored, in a Dick’s Sporting Goods. It had a higher muzzle velocity than a .45 caliber pistol, but not the mass. Still, a good head shot will take down the undead, or a rat or squirrel, quietly, and I had thousands of pellets for it. Just nothing to shoot.

  Taking a good kneeling shooting position, I aimed carefully and THWACK, hit one in the neck. It didn’t notice, and kept trying to climb the wreckage. Another round, and it fell backwards.

  “HEY!” shouted Stillson, and he grabbed my shoulder, throwing off my aim. “We’re gonna wait here, and that’s that!”

  “If we wait, those Zs are going to be there for three days, and who knows what else is going to show up?” said Hines, backing me up for some reason.

  Stillson thought about that, then shrugged. He was as hungry as I was. He turned to Suzy and said, “Watch our shit.”

  The three of us advanced on the undead; there were about eight left. I had the shotgun out; it was time to shit or get off the pot, as my Irish grandmother used to say. I was starving, and didn’t think that I would make it another week. Certainly not through the winter.

  The pilot had his back to us; his weapon was empty, and he was using the stock of the MP-5 to hammer down at the undead clawing at him. My first shot, carefully aimed from the shoulder, took off the rearmost’s head, a hideously fat woman, decayed flesh splitting her pants suit.

  As one, they turned to face us, and charged, howling that scream. I fired as fast as I could, but only took down one more, despite emptying the shotgun. Beside me, Hines fired four times, his 9mm Glock taking down another, and then he was empty too. Stillson had no firearm, just a length of rebar. We stood and waited to meet the rush.

  The barrel of the shotgun actually bent on its skull, I hit the thing coming at me so hard. My backswing, which glanced off another creature’s shoulders, cracked the stock, and then it was on me, taking me down to the ground, biting and trying to get at my throat. I hunched my shoulders, raising the collar of the leather jacket to protect my neck, and rolled to get my weight on top of it, shoving the arm of my jacket into its mouth, and proceeded to hammer its head into the concrete. When I stood, the rest were down. Stillson was screaming as he hammered the last one’s head into jello.

  I was shaking badly, from sugar rush, adrenaline, and starvation, and slowly made my way over to where the pilot was trying to pull apart the shattered Plexiglas to get at whoever was trapped inside.

  “Captain,” I said as I came up, seeing his rank, “we have to go. The Zs are going to be here, a lot of them, and quickly.” He ignored me, so I ignored him, trying to see what we could access in the wreck. I managed to crawl under the floor, and found one precious MRE jammed in a corner. There was also a smashed M249 that had been pintle mounted. I grabbed at the belt of 5.56, twisted, and broke it apart at the feed tray; most came down in my hands, and I pulled the rest out of the cartridge box. Once they were individually broken apart and reloaded, they would fit in an M-4 I had stashed away under my bed, or they could be traded with other scavengers.

  The pilot was still trying to get his trapped crewman out, and I heard more howls in the distance. Hines and Stillson stood there, watching him. “We gotta go,” I imp
lored him again.

  “The hell we do! My copilot is in there. We’re not going anywhere!”

  I bent over to look, and there was another man in there, face bloody. Even as I watched, he motioned me closer and said thickly, “Can’t feel my legs. Think my back is broken.” His pistol was in front of him, lying on the dash.

  We looked at each other for a bit, then I stood up. “With all due respect, Captain,” the sarcasm heavy in my bitter voice, “your friend is toast. It’s time to go.”

  “Search and Rescue will be here in two hours. He can make it till then!”

  “Alex,” came the slurred voice from inside the cockpit, “get the hell out of here.” Then there was the bark of a pistol shot.

  “NO!” yelled the pilot, whose nametag read McHALE, and he lunged past me. I tried to grab him, but Hines hit him with that damn police Taser he always carried, and the man collapsed on the ground, grunting.

  “Pick him up!” ordered the ex-cop. “I’m tired of being hungry, and he’s fresh.”

  “Damn straight, that’s meat right there!” exclaimed Stillson. I stood there for a second, unsure what to do. They were going to kill him and cut him up for food right in front of me.

  McHale grunted, the Taser having expended its charge, and tried to get to his feet. Stillson kicked him, and drew his skinning knife, and I shot the man through the back of the head with the .380. Hines was quick on the draw, pulling a holdout gun from under his shirt, and my second round caught him in the shoulder. His return shot whistled past my ear, and I fired again, catching him in the throat. Bright red arterial blood sprayed out, and he fired the small revolver again into the ground, then fell over, feet drumming on the concrete.

  I helped McHale up, getting my arm under him, and I started dragging him towards our bikes. Halfway across the street he got his legs under him, and started limping forward. We made it to the corner, and I found my bike with the tires slashed, and Suzy gone. I guess she had seen what happened; I was lucky Stillson hadn’t let her have a gun.