01 Voyage of the Dead

by David P Forsyth

  “Get ready, George,” said Scott. “We’re coming in hot. You’ll only have a couple of minutes to find your family and get the RV moving. Got it?”

  “Got it! Let’s do this!”

  “Fuck’n A,” Mark concurred from his position at the open door on the left side of the helicopter as they passed through a pillar of smoke from a large house that was burning below. “I love the smell of napalm in the morning,” he added.

  “All-mighty, All-mighty,” said Scott with a tight grin. “PBR Street Gang is in hot.”

  “Don’t worry dudes,” Clint chimed in, Charlie don’t surf!”

  “LZ coming up,” Mick said and Scott relinquished control to the professional pilot. None of the banter among old friends who had all watched Apocalypse Now a dozen times or more helped George Hammer’s nerves, but he seemed to harden when Scott leaned around to hand him the three loaded magazines and a box of extra bullets for the Desert Eagle.

  “Terminate with extreme prejudice,” said Scott. When George gave him a confused look, Scott added, “Calling it murder would be like handing out speeding tickets at the Indie 500.”

  They were all talking like they were in a war movie. But maybe that’s exactly what this was. It was strange how circumstances could alter people. Perhaps when the choices came down to living or dying, the survivors became method actors.

  “You guys are fucking nuts,” said George. “But let’s do this!” The helicopter swooped along the cliff and came to a hover over the RV in Scott’s driveway. Mick dropped smoothly to within a few feet above the vehicle and Scott signaled George to jump off with a thumbs up.

  As George took off his headphones and cautiously jumped onto the roof of the RV, Mark asked, “You want me to go with him?”

  “Hell, no,” replied Scott. “We’re the top cover. No contact with anyone on the ground. Got it? Besides, your son is back on the ship and he might kill me if I left you here!”

  “Roger that,” said Mark. “Charlie Mike.”

  “Charlie Foxtrot Mike,” Scott came back. Continue the F-ing Mission. “I have the stick,” said Scott as he pulled up on the collective to rise from the house and distract any nearby zombies away from the gate.

  *****

  Interlude in Hell

  El Segundo Water Tower: 7:18 AM, April 2

  Carl Stiller was tired of sitting on top of the water tank. He could probably survive there for several weeks, since he had found an access hatch into the water tank. So now he had plenty of water to drink and to mix with the dehydrated food from the backpack. He could even climb down into the tank for a swim. But he felt helpless and impotent up there, staring down at a city that had become a ghost town filled with blood sucking monsters that used to be human. Carl didn’t want to watch them. He wanted to kill them, just as they had killed his wife and his world.

  The streets seemed quiet this morning, compared to yesterday. He moved slowly around the catwalk on the water tank, scanning with the binoculars for any signs of intelligent life. The water tower, which was placed on top of a hill, provided a panoramic view from the coast all the way to downtown LA in the distance. He could see that the 405 and 105 freeways were jammed with apparently abandoned cars, as were most of the major surface streets. He had been lucky to get off the main roads early yesterday. Nevertheless, Carl spotted quite a few vehicles that were still moving about on side streets. Most of them were trucks or SUVs that seemed able to plow their way through the herds of zombies that invariably converged on them. But there were also a few smaller cars that sped through the gauntlet in mad dashes for escape. Carl watched several of them fail miserably and either crash or be engulfed by zombies. After a few minutes of observation he couldn’t spot a single unclogged road leading out of El Segundo, so he decided that anyone trying to drive away from here was doomed. His first vaguely formed plan of finding a vehicle with keys in its ignition was a non-starter.

  Pillars of smoke to the east indicated that the fires were still burning and probably spreading out of control. But there were no major fires nearby and the wind was still blowing inland from the ocean, less than a mile to the west. The scent of the ocean air was almost strong enough to mask the growing smells of decomposing flesh, at least on top of the water tower. But Carl knew that the stench of rotting corpses would only grow stronger as the day progressed. Perhaps there would be fewer bodies down near the beach.

  Carl moved to the west side of the water tank and scanned the area between there and the ocean. Grand Avenue ran through the heart of town before winding down to the beach, but it was teaming with zombies. So were many of the cross streets in town. He noticed, however, that there seemed to be fewer zombies roaming around the top of the hill by the water tower than there were farther down the hill, even though the density of houses was pretty much the same. He should be able to get away from the tower safely, but once he started down off the hill into town his chance of survival would shrink quickly.

  After eventually moving to the south side of the water tower he saw a possible escape route. Lomita Street, next to which the water tower was perched, ended two and a half blocks down the hill at El Segundo Boulevard, and beyond that was a seemingly strong fence and tree line surrounding a large oil refinery. Carl paused to inspect the refinery for the first time. The sides of the big storage tanks bore the Chevron emblem. The property was huge, covering close to a square mile, bordering El Segundo Boulevard all the way to the beach, and it was fully fenced. Best of all, he couldn’t see a single zombie roaming the grounds within. That way led to safety. But how could he get there?

  Carl roamed silently around the catwalk of the water tower, looking down and around for any hint of assistance in the escape he was planning. Although he spotted a few zombies nearby, none of them ever looked up at him. They all seemed fixated on whatever was right in front of them at the time. However, he did witness one of them turn quickly and run towards a cat that had jumped from the roof of a house onto a trash can. Carl watched the zombie chase the cat around the side of the house and sent a silent prayer that the cat would escape and survive, adding a footnote for God to help him do the same.

  On his second circuit of the catwalk Carl spotted something in the parking lot below that had escaped his attention previously. He had already discounted the cars and trucks in the parking lot of the Water Department. They would all be locked and he had no idea where to look for the keys, especially without attracting the attention of nearby zombies. But now he noticed a utility golf cart tucked in next to the water tower. It would also need keys to drive it, but Carl doubted that it had locking steering and knew that it had a manual brake release. All he wanted to do was get down the hill to the fence of the Chevron refinery. A new plan began to form in his mind.

  Chapter 5: Escape and Evasion

  “Only the foolish visit the land of the cannibals.” – Maori Proverb

  George moved faster than he had in years. The cyclic thump of the helicopter rotors seemed to be amplified broadcasts of his own pounding heart beat. He rolled across the roof of the RV and reached for the ladder at the rear end. His descent was more like a controlled fall, but he landed on his feet and moved quickly to the door of the RV. It was locked. He reached into his pocket for the keys with one hand, and was banging the door with the other and yelling for his family.

  “Molly! Fred! Kids! It’s me!” There was no immediate response.

  The helicopter was pulling away, down and around to clear his escape route, and the noise level fell. Time was critical. Were they even here?

  “Molly!!” he shouted even louder.

  “Daddy?!” came a cry from behind him. He turned and saw his daughter in an open window on the second floor of the house he had built for Scott Allen. Thank God she was alive!

  “Yes, baby!” George bellowed. “Come down here! We have to leave right now!”

  “We can’t, Daddy!” yelled Molly. “Fred’s gone crazy! He’s one of them. He’s down there somewhere. I can’t bring th
e boys down!”

  “Shit,” said George to himself. To Molly, he yelled, “Okay! I’m coming to get you. Get ready. If I have to shoot Fred, I will. If he’s become one of them, it’s not Fred anymore. You understand? Thank God you knew enough to stay away from him when he changed. Just get ready to leave. I’m coming.”

  “Okay, Dad!” Molly called. “We’ll be ready. But Fred is somewhere in the house, or maybe out there. Watch out! He’s like one of those monsters on TV.”

  “Don’t worry!” yelled George. “I’m armed and I’m coming for you and the boys.”

  He moved quickly from the RV to the side entrance of the house and found it unlocked. He held the handgun elevated, but at the ready. With heightened awareness he moved quickly through the kitchen towards the rear staircase.

  George had thought his building days were over when he moved to Cabo five years ago. He had sold his construction business and house in Los Angeles to buy a condo and charter fishing boat in Cabo San Lucas. It was the fulfillment of his dream for retirement and it had been great, for a while. He became as familiar with running a fishing boat as he was with reading blueprints. He felt like Nick Nolte’s character in Rich Man, Poor Man and his wife had never seemed happier. Then the economy started to tank and his charter business took a nosedive. After a year of poor returns he decided to sell the boat and go back to the construction business. It hadn’t been easy, but George had worked all of his contacts to convince developers that he would be the best builder in Cabo. Scott Allen was one of the men who saw the value of having an experienced American contractor build his dream vacation home in Mexico. It was a decision that seemed very fortuitous for George right now.

  As the builder, George was familiar with every nook and corner of the house. He knew where every anchor bolt and shot pin had been installed. The floor plan of the house was like a display over his vision. Nobody knew this building like he did. Nobody could find a hiding place that he did not know, especially since very little of the furniture had been installed yet. No zombie was going to take him by surprise in this house.

  “Shit!”

  Something leaped down behind him from an open access panel in the kitchen ceiling. He turned quickly and fired, and the 357 Magnum hollow point hit dead center on the figure that had dropped out of the crawlspace above the hard lid ceiling. But the creature didn’t go down. The man sized beast staggered back from the force of the shot, but then he leapt forward again. George recognized his son-in-law, Fred Marsh, at the same moment that he fired another round into the familiar face. This time Fred went down and stayed down.

  George felt himself shaking slightly as he stepped around the body. He noticed that Fred had been wearing a bandage on his left arm. Had he been bitten? George hoped that was how Fred had been infected, and not by an airborne virus that George might be breathing, or that Molly and the boys might have already contracted.

  “Daddy!” his daughter screamed from upstairs for perhaps the third or fourth time following the two gunshots. He finally reacted to it.

  “It’s okay, Molly,” George called, even though it clearly wasn’t, since he had just shot her husband. “Get the boys and come down the front stairs. We’ll go out through the door to the pool. Hurry! We have to leave now!” He felt they could afford the extra 30 seconds it would take for them to avoid coming through the kitchen. It would be better if they didn’t have to see Fred. George stared down at the body. It was not a sight that any wife or son should have as their last memory of their husband and father.

  “We’re coming, Dad,” she called back. “Is Fred…?”

  “He’s not coming with us, honey. Just hurry.”

  “Okay, Daddy,” Molly said with a tremble in her voice. “Pablo and Maria are here with us too. So is Hector.”

  “Bring everyone and hurry. Leave everything except weapons, if you have them. Just move. Now!” George bellowed. He heard feet pounding upstairs and turned away from Fred’s body to meet them in the living room. Molly came running down the main stairs with little Brett. Hector Suarez, George’s foreman, followed with Brett’s five year old twin brother, Timmy, in tow. Hector also carried a sharp looking machete in his other had. Good man, thought George as he nodded at him. Pablo Mendoza, George’s project engineer, and his wife Maria came down last and fast.

  Thirty seconds later they were all at the RV. George pulled his keys out of his pocket, opened the door, waved everyone in, and then waved to the helicopter that was circling out over the ocean, apparently drawing any zombies on that side of the mountain towards the beach. Scott or one of the other men must have seen him, because the chopper banked towards the house and rose to provide air cover for their escape.

  George jumped into the driver’s seat and fired up the diesel engine. Reaching above the sun visor, he grabbed the remote control for the ten foot high gate to the property. The RV was already pointed in the right direction. After making sure that all the doors and windows were closed and locked, George shifted into drive and clicked the remote. The gate slid open smoothly.

  “Thank God for solar power! Hang on!” he yelled and gunned the engine.

  *****

  “There they are!” said Mark as he spotted the group boarding the RV parked at Scott’s estate on the hillside above the Pacific Ocean. “Let’s roll!”

  “Rolling!” replied Mick Williams, banking towards the mountain. “Looks like most of the freaks are out of the way.”

  Sure enough, all of the zombies visible on that side of the mountain had moved down towards the beach as the helicopter had swept back and forth along the Pacific coast.

  “Let’s take point for them,” Scott said. “We’ll fly the route over the hill. Weapons free for any zombies on that road. Got it?”

  “Charlie Mike,” said Mark. Clint gave a thumbs up.

  Mick flew the chopper over the RV as it pulled out of the driveway and continued up and over the hill at reduced airspeed. Two zombies came away from the door of a house up the street and moved quickly towards the approaching RV. Mark was hanging out the side door of the chopper, relying on his safety harness. He fired four shots in rapid succession. Both zombies dropped with at least one head shot each.

  “There’s another one!” called Clint. Scott looked down where he pointed and saw a woman open the door of the house and run out onto the road. She was disheveled and moving erratically but not acting quite like a zombie. She was waving her arms and swinging her head to look back and forth between the helicopter above her and the RV coming up the street. Her mouth opened to form what looked like words, not just gaping jaws.

  “Hold your fire!” yelled Scott. “I don’t think she’s a zombie. Let’s see how George handles this.”

  *****

  George was glad to see the helicopter fire on the two zombies that ran onto the road in front of him, even happier to see their heads blown open and watch them fall dead – really dead. But then he was shocked to see a woman run into the road waving her arms. He recognized her. She was one of the residents on this street, a young and normally attractive American woman who he had often seen with her older husband during the eight months George had spent building Scott’s house. Today she looked frightful, but more than that, frightened. Not the look of a zombie. She was giving him a look like a deer caught in his headlights.

  “Shit,” said George. “Hang on folks. We’re going to stop for a second. I know this lady and I don’t think she’s a zombie.” He hit the brakes and pulled up next to her. He rolled down his window part way and heard her babbling fearfully.

  “Thank God, thank God! Help me. They killed my husband!” she screamed.

  “Did they bite you?” yelled George.

  “No! We were going out to the car yesterday to leave for the airport when they jumped Earl. They killed him! Tore him apart! But I ran back inside and locked the door. They’ve been pounding on it ever since. I was so scared. Then I heard the helicopter and I saw them get shot, and then I ran out and saw you. Please tak
e me with you!”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yes! Please don’t leave me here. Please!”

  “Come on then! Go around to the other door. We have to leave right now.” George had a feeling he might regret this decision, but he still had his sense of humanity intact.

  *****

  “What’s he doing?” asked Clint.

  “He’s saving her,” replied Scott.

  “Risky,” Mark commented in his patented deadpan noncommittal tone.

  “But it’s the right thing to do,” said Mick.

  “Yeah,” Scott agreed, “it is. I wish we could save more. George has the right idea. I just hope it doesn’t get him killed or infected. The old rules may not work anymore, but I’m glad George is trying to push the envelope. Every life counts, especially now.”

  They watched as the woman got into the RV and it pulled away. The rest of the road to the top of the hill was clear. As they crested the ridge, however, things got more complicated. There were two roads down towards the harbor. One of them had the overturned car blocking part of it. The other had at least a dozen zombies on it and they had turned up towards the RV when it crested the hill.

  George turned the RV onto the road with the overturned car. He accelerated smoothly towards the obstruction then slowed to a crawl. The RV butted into the rear end of the upturned car and pivoted it around to make way for the big vehicle to pass. It scraped by with obvious but superficial damage and continued down the hill towards the harbor. The men in the helicopter released their breath that had been held in tension and looked down at the rest of the obstacle course to the docks. There was no way for the RV to avoid the swarm of zombies that were milling around the parking lot along the harbor.