by Thomas North
"What now?" Jack asked, still reeling from the news he'd received just a few minutes before. He looked around the vehicle.
"We drive," Brent said. "Find some place safe."
"Is there anywhere safe?" Jack asked.
"I don't know," Brent replied, taking the SUV down the long driveway and back onto the road. "I don't know."
FREE PREVIEW: A CASE OF THE MONDAYS
Thomas North
Coming Fall 2012
Monday, October 1st
PRIVATE FIRST CLASS Anthony “Tony” Capini stared down the sights of his Squad Automatic Weapon – abbreviated SAW by the troops – at the row of zombies staggering toward the base. He trained the weapon on each one, focusing his shot, his finger resting on the trigger guard ready to cut into the creatures one by one.
But he didn’t fire. They had clear instructions: only expend ammunition when the zombies were close enough to take down. Permanently. They weren’t close enough yet. Besides, there were only a half dozen of them, not enough to justify using the machine gun, as heartening as it was to see the creatures cut to pieces before being put out of their misery.
“That’s four today in flannel,” came the voice from beside him. Capini squinted, and through the freezing cold rain, saw the red and black checkered flannel shirt on the zombie. He looked to Specialist Matthews, the other soldier sitting with him behind the row of stacked sandbags, and laughed.
“Things must’ve broken into Robins’ house,” Capini replied with a grin, motioning toward one of the two troops behind the sandbags on the other side of the main road. The soldier grinned back and flipped him the bird, his middle finger enclosed in the soaked black leather of his glove.
Capini’s grin vanished when he turned his head back to the front of the base. The group of six zombies had grown by a dozen or more in the few moments they were horsing around, and more of the creatures, their clothes soaked and hanging off of their rotting bodies, were appearing from around the corner of the Mobil station across the street and from the drive-thru at the McDonald’s next to it. The growing army of pallid, walking corpses staggered toward the base with singular focus.
“Shit man, where do these things keep coming from?” Capini said, peering down the sights of the SAW again, this time planting his finger on the trigger. “I didn’t even think there were this many people in Vermont.”
“Go ahead,” Specialist Matthews told him.
Capini squeezed the trigger. The weapon bucked in his grip, the familiar sulfuric smell wafted into his nostrils, and the brass shells flew through the air as the SAW thundered violently in his hands. He laid fire on the creatures in short, controlled bursts, and they began to jolt backwards and fall to the ground. The second SAW joined the fray, and soon they were firing in near-synchronization, the first weapon speaking, and the second answering its call, the line of zombies slowed under the barrage.
Specialist Matthews raised his M16 to his shoulder and fired, followed by the soldier across the road, and the two M16s joined the symphony of fire, adding a regular rhythm of single shots to the near-constant machine gunning. With the machine gun fire slowing the crowd, Specialist Matthews calmly aimed and fired at the heads of the creatures, pausing only to see the blood and brain matter spray from the zombie’s head before moving to the next one. Even with the constant fire, the creatures gained ground, falling less than a hundred feet from the rows of wire in front of the two fighting positions.
A half-naked woman with a silver ring in each her nipple, her left arm hanging on her body by a thread, stumbled toward their position ahead of the rest of the creatures. She was fifty feet away when Capini’s SAW fire tore into her stomach, her intestines spilling out of her gut and plopping near her feet. She tripped over the bloody appendage and stumbled as Matthews tried to get a clear shot at her head.
When it looked like the zombie would tumble nipple-rings over heels, she suddenly regained her balance, her intestines ripping away from her body. Matthews re-aimed, putting the iron sight directly over her forehead, and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He stopped for a moment, dumbfounded, then glanced down at the weapon and felt the urge to kick himself. He dropped the empty gray magazine from the weapon, grabbed another from his vest, slammed it in and let the bolt slam forward. The nipple-ring zombie was barely fifteen feet away now, with several more of the creatures even closer. Capini was following their procedures to a tee, ignoring the nearest zombies and continuing to spray the crowd that followed behind.
The zombie, its long, jet-black hair waving in the wind, stepped into the first line of wire and became tangled, flailing its arms and legs, struggling to get free, the thin metal tearing into its dead flesh. Without bothering to aim, Matthews fired. The zombie’s brain flew out the back of its head, and it fell forward, even more of its innards spilling from the wound in its stomach and coming to rest on the wire below the body, hanging like a grotesque Christmas decoration.
Matthews didn’t stop to admire his work. More of the creatures were closing in, and he began aiming and firing again. He got into a groove and the creatures started dropping like ducks in a carnival game, some of the closest falling just a few feet from the wire. He had been playing catch up, but he was ahead now. After several more shots, the nearest zombies were on the ground, giving them more breathing room. He went through another magazine, and this time dropped it and inserted a new one in two quick, fluid motions.
He was halfway through that clip when he realized that the SAW fire had stopped. He lowered the weapon and looked out at the carnage, the bodies littering the land in front of the base like a Civil War battlefield.
“God damn, I think that was the biggest mob yet,” Capini said exhaustedly, letting go of the saw and slumping back against the sandbags.
Matthews nodded. “Another busy night for body detail. The fire will be hot today.”
A GUARD STOPPED Sergeant Molina’s Humvee, checked the vehicle briefly, and then waved them on, continuing to wave as Brent pulled up. They continued into the parking lot and followed the lead Humvee and to the rear of the building. Brent waited while Molina parked neatly next two other vehicles, then exited along with his battle buddy. He signaled for Brent to pull forward, and guided him so the rear of the Humvee was just ahead of a door in the rear wall of the building, then signaled for him to stop. The other soldier disappeared into the building, while Molina came around to the window, which Brent rolled down, his face shielded this time, mostly, by the overhand of the building roof.
“You guys can come in if you want. Get a cup of coffee, something to eat if you want. I think they’re finishing up the night meal, so you might be able to grab something,” Molina told them. He loosened his hood for the first time and pulled it back, revealing his tan face and closely-cropped black hair under his gray patrol cap, the hat adorned with three chevrons, the mark of a Sergeant.
“What’s on the menu these days?” Brent asked.
Molina shrugged. “Food is one thing we have a lot of. We’ve gotta have enough to keep the civilians from going hungry too.”
“Yeah, I’d guess the yuppies aren’t eating gourmet anymore,” Brent replied.
Molina laughed. “Nope. They get whatever we get. It’s not gourmet, but it’s not too bad.”
Brent looked back at George and Jack. “Guys. Coffee, eats?”
They both nodded vigorously. “I think we’ll take you up on that offer, Sergeant Molina.” The soldier gave a friendly grin in response, and Brent, Jack and George got out of the vehicle and entered through the door, Molina walking in behind them.
They were greeted by the high ceiling and bright lights of a large school gymnasium. The bleachers were folded against the wall, but the space was still well-occupied: a green tent took up nearly half of the gym, and a row of tables that they were using to serve the meal that Molina had mentioned were along the opposite wall, though it looked like they were beginning to shut down the serving line. A variety tables, crates, and other
items were also scattered throughout the area.
“Coffee’s over there,” Molina said, pointing to a smaller table beside the green tent, which held a stack of Styrofoam cups, two dark green containers, and some packets of powdered creamer. “Appreciate it,” Brent replied. George and Jack headed for the table, but Brent stayed behind, next to the sergeant.
“Hey Molina,” he said. “You heard anything? Any news? Anything about what’s going on out there?”
“Not really,” Molina replied. “Not lately anyway. Up ‘till four or five days ago we still had the Internet working. I e-mailed every day with my mom and sister back in Texas. They said things were pretty crazy, but their town had kinda hunkered down, and they were doing okay, at least last time I heard from them.”
“What about your other units?” Brent asked. “You’ve gotta still be in contact with them, right? Any scuttlebutt coming down the chain? Anything from the government? DOD?”
“Probably have to ask Colonel Spengler about that. I don’t think they share stuff like that with—“ He grimaced in pain and rubbed his head. A few seconds passed in silence, while Brent looked on. Molina seemed to be in real pain. “What were we just talking about?” he asked, looking at Brent again.
“Uhhh… we were talking about the news, and you were about to say that your Battalion Commander doesn’t share some things with you. You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah fine,” the soldier replied. “I just been getting migraines sometimes lately.” He was sweating visibly, and wiped his brow with his sleeve. “One of my buddies works in our six shop… our communications area… and he said we get reports from other Battalions sometimes, but nothing big, just supply reports, casualty reports, some intel. Stuff like that. Said some units are really low on supplies and aren’t getting anything replaced. The colonel goes out now and again to Brigade headquarters a few hours away. So I guess the unit is still functioning. ”
“Any rumors? Anything else?” Brent asked, pressing for more detail.
“My buddy, the same guy I just said, he said he heard the colonel and Major Whitaker saying that those things were in the White House and the President and Vice President are in some underground bunker or something, and all the other countries are even worse off than us.”
“That it?”
“Well…” Molina began, then looked down at his feet, embarassed. “Just some other rumors. Some of the guys think there is some kind of alien invasion.”
“Alien invasion huh?”
“Yeah… stupid shit like that. Alien invasion, government conspiracies, bio-weapons. But it’s just stuff the troops are making up or shit they read on the Internet before it went down. The stuff about the President and the other units, though, I think that’s probably real.”
Brent nodded. “Makes sense. How many people you got here?”
“Soldiers or civilians?”
“Both,” Brent replied.
“I think we got a few hundred soldiers,” Molina said. “And over seven hundred civilians. Well, living civilians anyway. We’ve pretty much secured the town from those creatures. The civilians stay inside mostly, but they come to us for food and if they need medical help or anything like that.” He paused. “What about you all? You guys hearing anything?”
Brent shook his head. “Nothing. We’re more cut off than you. Before we arrived here, we didn’t even know if there was an outside world left. Believe it or not, seeing you all here like this is good news for us.”
Molina laughed. “I can’t imagine that.”
“Imagine it,” Brent replied. “You’ve got a nice set up here compared to the shit at Camp Edwards.”
“Well I hope this all this ammo we’re giving you helps some. And hey, I gotta go check on that. You guys good for now?”
“Good,” Brent said. “Thanks for all the help. Thank Major Whitaker and your commander for us if we don’t see them.”
“Sure thing,” Molina replied. He walked across the gym and exited through a door into the building. Brent joined Jack and George and poured himself a cup of coffee.
“What were you two talking about?” Jack asked.
“Nothing really. I was just trying to see if they had any news.”
“And?”
“Not much worth a damn,” Brent replied. He went over what Sergeant Molina had told him with Jack and George.
“I wonder if we could just take the people from Camp Edwards and get them over here,” Jack said, filling his cup a second time. “They seem to have things figured out pretty well here.”
“Actually that’s not a terrible idea,” George replied. “I don’t think it can get much worse than Camp Edwards.”
“Except…” Jack began. “Anyone else think there’s something funky about Molina, and that other guy?”
“You mean that weird-ass way that Sergeant Molina and the major kept stopping in the middle of their sentences?” Brent asked, though it wasn’t really a question.
“That would be it.”
“Could just be exhausted,” George suggested. “I’ve worked twenty-four hour shifts before, sometimes longer. You start to get kinda batty by the end.”
“Could be it,” Brent said. “Hope there’s not some kind of virus going around here. Last thing I need is to be on my ass the next few days.”
“Guess we’ll find out if we get back to Camp Edwards and all get sick,” Jack replied. “It’ll be a small price to pay if we get all these bullets back there. Being sick probably beats getting eaten by those monsters.”
Brent sipped his coffee and nodded. “Can’t argue with that.”
They went silent and enjoyed the coffee, savoring the bitter flavor and the warm feel in their mouths. It wasn’t the best coffee they’d ever had – heck, it wasn’t even good coffee – but after the dark, rainy, slow drive, they might as well have been sipping a Café Latte in a Starbucks or Coffee Bean.
Two soldiers came out of the far door, where Molina had gone, carrying a wooden ammo crate between them. “You guys need any help?” Brent yelled as they walked past, heading for the door. One of the soldiers looked at him and shook her head. “We’re okay, thanks. We’ll get this loaded up for you pretty quick.”
“Thanks,” Brent said. The two soldiers went outside, then came back in a minute later without the crate. They went back across the gym and into the building, then came back with a second crate, and repeated the process a few more times. After the last trip, Sergeant Molina came back into the gym.
“Looks like you guys are good to go,” he said to Brent. “We gave you a few cases of MREs too. Figured you could use them if you haven’t been resupplied in a while.”
“Thanks again, Sergeant Molina,” Brent replied. He wasn’t sure that they needed the MREs right now, but he wasn’t going to turn down supplies. “I gotta hit the head before we go. Where’s it at?”
Sergeant Molina pointed across the gym to a door by the serving tables. “Through that door, on the right.”
“Thanks.”
Brent started across the gym and went through the door.
“I’d probably better go too,” Jack said. “I’d rather not have to pull over and take a piss in the woods on the way back. I have a feeling that would just be tempting fate.”
George laughed. “Good point. In that case, think I’ll go too.”
They crossed the gym, getting to the door and stepping into the dim hallway just as Brent was coming out of the restroom. “I’ll be at the truck, boys,” he said as he passed by. Jack and George emerged a couple of minutes later and walked back down the hallway towards the gym.
“If all goes well we’ll be back by sunrise,” George said, stepping through the doorway and back into the gymnasium. “Not looking forward to going back out in that rain, though.”
“Tell me about it,” Jack agreed his clothes still damp from the road-clearing he’d done earlier.
“Hey!” A whispered voice came from their side. They turned and saw Brent standing just to the side of the
door.
“What—“ Jack began, but saw that Brent was very subtly gesturing in the opposite direction. Jack looked over his shoulder. It took him a moment to figure out what he was seeing, but once he understood, his mouth dropped open.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Brent said.
“Yeaaahh,” Jack agreed. “Let’s.”
Table of Contents
Those Lazy Sundays
Copyright
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FREE PREVIEW: A CASE OF THE MONDAYS
