Legacy of the Living

by Sean Liebling

  "Then why does she think she talks to angels? She actually has conversations with them."

  "Darin. Maybe she does talk to angels. Have you considered that?" Doctor Trask smiled up at him gently.

  "I would love to believe that, Doctor." Darin sighed and rubbed the stubble on his shaved head before continuing. "The good Lord did not create these zombies though. We did!"

  "Yes, we did. Perhaps this was what Heaven needed to take a direct hand again? Well, regardless, my concern really is not that she'll hurt Jay or any of us at this stage. My concern is what this is doing to her mind and we'll have to keep an eye on her to see if she starts exhibiting any paranoid tendencies. If you notice any, let me know quickly and we'll probably have to remove her."

  "Understood, Doctor!"

  *****

  DAY 11: 1500 ET MONDAY NOVEMBER 14TH

  "Watch out! They're breaking through again!" shouted Samson from his perch above the side gate. They had built a ramp allowing him to roll up. Nobody in a wheelchair but Samson had the strength to do so as it was steep, at almost thirty degrees. Currently he was using a long, hand-fashioned spear to thrust downward into the skulls of the zombies arrayed against them. Their mass was so great they were pushing in the side gates even against the weight of a car alongside.

  The undead had pushed hard enough, with enough bodies behind them, to pull the hinges from the poured concrete pillars supporting the wrought iron gate. Now they were climbing up the ramp it made as it rested against the side of the vehicle that was pulled across the front of the opening. The gates were inset about four feet and the plethora of furniture they had piled between the car and the entrance was no match for the combined weight of dozens if not hundreds of the creatures as they piled on it.

  "We're gonna need the Molotovs this time. Bring them up!" Samson shouted again as his hands, gripping the long pole, kept stabbing downward repeatedly into the heads of the zombies.

  They were getting very low on gasoline and there was no easy way to get more. The center’s generator used a tremendous amount just to stay running, and they were lucky it was not a diesel generator or they really would have been screwed. They were also getting very low on ammunition after eight days of keeping the undead creatures at bay, and were relying more and more on makeshift handmade weapons.

  From his vantage point atop the newly build platform beside the gate, Samson could see the wave of zombies moving in a rhythmic motion as they all somehow coordinated their forward push. The results were devastating. Even though dozens were being crushed to uselessness against the barricade, more dozens were able to climb over their bodies to gain entrance up the newly created ramp.

  Johnny joined him and looked out over the teeming multitude. "Holy shit!" he gasped as he gripped Samson's shoulder. "They're moving together. Loki has a hand in this for sure."

  "Screw Loki," grunted Samson as he thrust downward again, spearing another in the top of the head. At that moment a flaming Molotov arced overhead to land fifty feet out from the gate, splashing its contents and setting about a dozen on fire. "Stop that!" he screamed, then shouted again. "Bring them up here. Do not throw them so far out. We need to build a barricade!"

  Daniel, a physical therapist, ran up the ramp with a dozen Molotovs in a cardboard box and hastily set them down beside Samson's wheelchair. Johnny was almost pushed off the small platform in Daniel's rush and hollered while shoving him back.

  "Hey. Watch it! You almost pushed me off!"

  "Sorry, Johnny," Daniel said apologetically as he lifted the first and prepared to light it with a Bic lighter. "Where do you want them, Samson?" he said urgently.

  "Toss about four of them spread out, about twenty feet from the wall around the entrance. We want to build a barricade. Only four, Daniel!" Samson snapped.

  "You got it. Here goes," and Daniel lit the first and threw it about fifteen feet to their right near the wall and immediately reached down for another. Seconds later the second was on its way, exploding in an arc outward and to the right of the first.

  "Perfect! Keep it up. Only four. We'll need to burn them at least three layers deep!"

  "We have another dozen on the way," replied Daniel as he lit another. He waited until the burning cloth was almost at the neck of the bottle, then pitched it hard directly ahead, twenty feet out as his arc of fire curved to the left.

  "Yeah, but we can't use up the last of our gasoline. We need to conserve. If we can melt them down enough so they can't move, we can create a secondary barricade." Samson said as he watched the burning zombies.

  The zombies, or guppies, as Johnny called them, obviously did not feel pain. Even on fire, the zombies were still trying to push forward while ignoring the fire engulfing them. The burning gasoline did have a devastating effect though, in that it burned away enough skin, fat, and muscle to immobilize them. The fourth Molotov did not break, causing Samson to curse as Daniel was forced to grab another gasoline-filled bottle to replace it.

  Within moments, a raging line of fire was burning in a rough semicircle around the side entrance, and Samson watched in satisfaction as the undead collapsed when their ligaments fused together or burned away from the intense heat. He gave the signal as the fires died down and more zombies started climbing over the blackened bodies of their brethren, and Daniel instantly started lighting and throwing a fresh batch of Molotovs, placing them carefully on top of the new mass of hungry zombies.

  Another round later and they had created a very effective if temporary barricade almost six feet high. It was only then that Samson breathed a sigh of relief. Below them the others were able to dispatch those few that managed to crawl over the broken gate to gain entrance into the facility.

  "That was too close, Samson!" Johnny spoke up as Samson swiveled his wheelchair to face him.

  "I know, Mighty Leader, and it won’t hold them for long. Maybe a day, maybe less, before they pull those bodies apart and then we'll be in deep shit again. We need to find help or we're not going to make it."

  "Yeah. I need to talk to Whit again."

  "How's he coming on the CB thing?"

  "That's what I need to talk to him about, man."

  "Then why are you standing there talking to me, oh Fearless Monarch of the Disabled?"

  Johnny rolled his eyes and turned, limping down the steep ramp, and made his way slowly to the maintenance shed around the dozens of people who ran around cleaning up after the latest incursion of guppies.

  The maintenance shed was less than a hundred feet away but it took Johnny several minutes to get there as many stopped him to ask how safe they were. He was blunt and to the point, telling them the truth, which was ... not good! Finally, he made it to where Whit was working on a collection of components strewn over an entire workbench. Two others were bent over the bench beside him and Johnny smelled the pungent odor of hot solder as he limped in.

  "Whit!" he hollered.

  "Jesus, Johnny. Quit that. I almost broke a circuit board." Whit had jumped at the shout then turned on Johnny, furious at the interruption.

  "Hey man, sorry and all that. How's it going? I'm here for a status update on your CB transmitter thingy."

  "We're working on it. It's more complicated than you think with no tables to go by. We are guessing at the number of turns for the antenna and experimenting. We can hear them but they still can't hear us. We fixed the amplifier problem by running four in parallel and series combination but the antenna needs to be right or we can't transmit effectively."

  "Well, you might want to get it working soon because we're about out of everything. Honestly, it doesn't look good, Whit." Johnny sighed and sat on the end of a riding lawnmower parked to one side. It was not needed anymore, as the grounds, once immaculate, were now churned mud and dirt.

  "Johnny, I know. I'm doing the best I can. We'll be ready to try again tonight."

  "Thank you, Whit. I know you are. I'll leave you alone now," but Johnny sat there for a moment more, gazing off in the distance. His
thoughts were grim.

  *****

  DAY 11: 1600 ET MONDAY NOVEMBER 14TH

  Rich Dupre surveyed the beasts on the other side of the barricade with worry. Steve and Craig Trotto and Robert Filipkowski were beside him. Rich had his right main officers next to him, as together, they gauged the strength of the mass arrayed against them. Supplies were still good but it was getting harder to keep the dead bastards out, even with plenty of ammunition.

  When the shit hit the fan, they had been ready for it and prepared. As members of the informal North Brookfield Massachusetts Militia, Red Zone Tactical, they prided themselves on being prepared for every eventuality. Because of this, most in the community loved and supported them, as the RZT participated in every amber alert and missing person’s report by fielding over four hundred trained men and women to comb the countryside and back alleys of their native hometown. They had also been instrumental in helping state and local law enforcement catch fleeing felons while providing emergency services during every National disaster, helping countless thousands. Others though, considered them paranoid conspiracy theorists that saw a boogieman behind every government program. Those few who had thought that were not giving them grief anymore. They were long dead!

  A burly man with a shaved head and a salt and pepper mustache, Rich Dupre was their leader, the ‘Commandant’ as they called him. Calm he was not; instead, he was supremely confident in himself, his abilities, and his team of handpicked officers and the men and women of their Militia. Besides his gruff, no nonsense attitude, he was best known for his ability to pick the right people for the right job.

  When the super flu hit the Middle East and then quickly spread to Europe with thousands dying daily, he had pulled everyone in to the RZT headquarters. News reports told them that the flu was spreading too fast with many isolated outbreaks. By Rich’s thinking, paranoid to be sure, it was a planned series of outbreaks and he wanted no part of it. Then the vaccines had come out much too quickly in Rich’s opinion. He knew it took months to develop medicines designed to counteract viruses. Cultures needed to be grown, then tested against various antigens, then tested on animals first with humans taking samples after they were deemed safe. That wasn't possible in a few weeks. Hell, everyone in the medical profession knew that.

  Rich was thankful for Doctor Johnson. A fellow member of RZT and a licensed physician, he had secured enough of the vaccine ampoules to treat all of them if Rich's thoughts turned out to be sheer paranoia, and in the meantime, they would refrain from taking it. As it happened, they were not paranoid. Hundreds of millions died from the vaccines worldwide, possibly billions. Then those that were dead came back to life. Suddenly, just surviving until the next day had turned into an iffy proposition. The only good news about the entire ‘apocalypse’ as the RZT was calling it, was that you did not turn into one of them if bitten. You would get a nasty infection though, if the wound was not immediately treated, and then permanent death.

  They had secured plenty of antibiotics early into the apocalypse, having raided several local pharmacies on day two of this new world. Almost everyone in the area was already dead and the doors had been standing wide open. The RZT had also made a run into the outskirts of Worcester to the National Guard Armory there and managed to make it out with four six-ton trucks loaded down with weapons, ammunition, and explosives. They found it deserted with most of the equipment already taken, but there was still plenty left for their relatively small group. Then a trip to the local box store supermarket for food supplies had completed their supply runs during those initial days. The sad part of that was losing two good men when they made the Worcester run. Now, the zombies were too thick to send out scavenger parties.

  “Screw me. I think they doubled since yesterday,” Rich spat as he looked at the moaning, shuffling hordes.

  “Looks like it, Commandant. Maybe ten thousand of them now out there as they’re moving outward from the major cities. It’s all over the shortwave,” remarked Steve. "I suppose their food source is getting rather limited in the major cities," he continued.

  “Well, I don’t know about you guys, but while this place seemed secure, it ain’t so much anymore. We’ll have to relocate and soon,” said Craig.

  “So speaks the youngster with the wet nose,” joked Robert. Craig was Cindy’s boyfriend, and at twenty-two, already a master gunsmith. Cindy was the older of Rich’s two daughters, tall and beautiful with raven hair and a tanned complexion. Craig had the height to match her, with a stocky build and sandy hair to her athletic build. They made a great couple, and Craig was a great guy, which is why Robert was always giving him grief.

  "Bite me, Sir Galahad!" remarked Craig, giving Robert the finger. Robert just laughed and patted his broadsword. Originally a two-handed weapon for its size, Robert's strength and height enabled him to wield it like a toothpick. Before the apocalypse, it had been a fairly blunt melee weapon used in the Society for Creative Anachronism events. Now, it was hardened with a razor sharp edge and easily able to hew through three or four necks in a single swing. At almost four feet long and thirty pounds, it cleaved neck vertebra like tissue paper. It was Robert's favorite weapon. The good Lord knew he could not hit the broad side of a barn with a rifle unless his life depended on it, and then he was a marksman second to none. A broadsword in his hands was different, as the dozens of SCA raid trophies adorning his fireplace mantle could attest to.

  Robert was considered the playboy and spokesperson in the command structure of the RZT. At six foot tall and two hundred twenty pounds of solid muscle combined with tanned skin and a well-groomed goatee, his calm, easy-going demeanor could talk a dog off a meat wagon and Rich always sent Robert in first when sensitive negotiations were required. Like that time last year when they had been notified of an FBI manhunt for a pedophile that had taken a nine-year-old girl captive. At that time, the bastard had eluded law enforcement across two states before being spotted in RZT's part of Massachusetts. Rich had immediately mobilized the entire Militia to comb their area for an older white van with a dented passenger-side fender. One of their squads had spotted the vehicle, and after reporting it on the FBI's hotline, Rich had moved in with his team. The fugitive had attempted escape, but quick thinking on the part of another team member using his vehicle as a barrier had prevented that. The ensuing altercation, with the pervert holding a knife to the tiny girl's throat, had earned the child rapist a bullet through the forehead as Rich put him down like the dog he was.

  The women of the militia had immediately rushed to the girl, to comfort and aid her while Rich made a second call to FBI headquarters. To say the FBI were not pleased was an understatement, which meant Robert had to perform his magic. Arrested, then released four hours later with all charges dropped, Rich was still bemoaning the loss of his confiscated Glock, yet was satisfied with the overall turn of events when the girl was reunited with her parents who thanked the RZT repeatedly.

  They had been in luck, for the child molester did not have time to rape his latest victim. It was later they learned that he’d had a long record of perversion and prison time. Always getting out on early release with only partial sentences served, this pervert had destroyed the lives of over a dozen children during his twenty year span as an active pedophile, which was simply unacceptable. The RZT council had awarded Rich a nice plaque with the words, "Master Pedophile Killer" inscribed on its brass surface. It currently held a place of honor in Rich's home along with a small photograph of his confiscated Glock with the initials R.I.P. drawn on it.

  "Craig's right though," Rich spoke up as he watched the slowly moving crowd of undead. "I've lived here all my life, but we can't stay much longer. I realize we thought we had the perfect location. Blocking off the street and yards with cars, and using the surrounding terrain to keep them away from us, but it ain’t gonna happen. Steve, are you hearing anything new on the shortwave?"

  "No Sir, just much of the same. Eastern seaboard is zombie hell with the huge population centers. Most
of the ham operators I'm listening to, and speaking with, are moving inland to colder states like Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Michigan. Also, the Dakotas seems to be a popular spot. Michigan is building a large survival group. They have quite a few National Guard and Army units that have organized with them. They are far enough north for the cold to slow the zombies down, and they're also a great farm state for crops. They probably have the largest group we've heard of so far and are based in a city called Newaygo. People around them say this group is in the process of making their community and then the state safe."

  "And Michigan's the closest to us." Rich said it as a statement but Steve answered him anyways.

  "Yes, Sir! The survivor group in Michigan also recently experienced an encounter with this shadow government we've also been getting reports on. The rogues sent in a squadron of F-15s to take Newaygo out. I guess this rogue government doesn't like large successful survivor groups."

  "Oh? How did that turn out?" Rich inquired. This was news to him. They had been receiving short wave reports of this new shadow government that everyone felt created all this, but all they really knew for sure was that the current government appeared to have fallen.

  "Newaygo took out two of them and the remaining two fled. Word is they headed into Ohio, but the gist all over the shortwave is that Newaygo handed them their ass."

  "Well, I guess someone up in Michigan has some balls. Where are we on refugees, Robert?"

  "Just over a thousand as of yesterday morning, but I believe that will be it. The zombies are too thick for anyone to get to us anymore. High likelihood that any survivors left are few and scattered. If you're thinking of leaving it will have to be sooner vs. later. We sent the wireless webcam up in a balloon earlier and it looks like a sea of undead out there moving in our direction from the coastal cities," replied Robert. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other while settling the chain mail surcoat across his shoulders. A shield was strapped across his back and an M4 carbine was slung over his left arm. Both of his sons, Glenn and Danny, were similarly attired and stood to either side of their dad.