Gus was riding shotgun in the Suburban, although his only weapons were an axe and a crow bar. Carl wore the pistol he had appropriated from the zombie cop and his trusty fireman’s pickaxe. They drove slowly up El Segundo Boulevard and the rest of the zombie-proof convoy followed. Next in line behind the Suburban was the big front end loader that would be used as a wrecker to clear traffic jams from their path. Behind that was the armored fire engine. Following it was the modified eighteen wheeler, with the shuttle bus bringing up the rear. It wouldn’t take long for them to attract attention.
The road looked clear of both zombies and vehicles, but Carl knew from what he had witnessed atop the water tower that this open stretch was the result of massive traffic jams from crash sites in every direction. They arrived at a massive accident scene at the intersection with Aviation Boulevard. It was ugly. A bus had crashed into a truck and the combined tangle of metal blocked the entire intersection. It was hard to see beyond the accident scene, but Carl was positive that he saw movement and it wasn’t reassuring. He hesitated to clear the wrecks, because it would open the highway for the zombies to stream towards the refinery, but he had been told that the Big 5 complex on the other side of the intersection was a goldmine of survival gear.
There was no time for Carl to express his reservations, however, as the earthmover passed the Suburban and muscled through the wreckage. The bus and truck were pushed out of the way as if they were merely children’s toys and the big Caterpillar pressed forward into the intersection. As Carl had feared, it was teeming with zombies. They swarmed towards the opening where the bus had been. The operator of the Cat didn’t pause; he just lowered the big scoop to waist height and plowed into the crowd. He swerved back and forth, knocking bodies to the ground and crushing them with the giant wheels of the earthmover. None of the zombies had any chance to climb onto the vehicle, especially since Carl had used a torch to cut off the access ladders below the operator’s cab. After crossing the intersection the Cat made a U-turn and drove back over any infected still standing. This time the skillful operator raised and lowered the front end scoop bucket, smashing it down with thousands of pounds of pressure on top of the mangled bodies that were squirming around on the ground. Skulls burst like overripe fruit and bones snapped like matchsticks.
Of the more than twenty zombies that had filled the road moments earlier, only three were still on their feet, with half a dozen more reduced to crawling cripples. Carl was surprised at how effective the Cat had been at taking out the undead mob. He drove the Suburban through the carnage and past the Cat as it turned again to finish off the rest. The other vehicles of the little convoy followed Carl into the Big 5 parking lot where he fully expected dozens more of the infected to converge on them.
There were few cars in the lot, but almost all of them were clustered around the entrance to the store with little or no regard for delineated parking stalls. Carl figured that the cars belonged to people who had come here after the outbreak in search of the same kind of supplies he and his group were looking for. The fact that the cars were still here meant that those people were still inside the store, or they weren’t really people anymore. Either option implied danger ahead. That assumption was confirmed by the horde of zombies that erupted from the sporting goods store when the convoy arrived in front of it.
There were well over a hundred attackers this time, far more than Carl and the security guard from the refinery had bullets for. It was time to see if Carl’s zombie-proof convoy concept would work. He turned the Suburban along the fringe of the undead stampede and accelerated, aiming to take out the front row with the triangular crash-guard and extended bumper and mirror protector cutting blades. He also engaged the four wheel drive and made sure that all of the windows were rolled up. Seconds later he was slashing through the leading ranks at over 30 miles per hour.
The experience was revolting and satisfying at the same time. The added armor and anti-zombie hardware that Carl had attached to the big SUV worked perfectly. Zombies in front of the Suburban were simultaneously ripped apart and thrown aside by the sharpened triangular wedge of quarter-inch thick steel welded to the crash guard on the front end at hood and bumper level. They were similar to a cattle catcher on an old locomotive, except that these were sharpened pieces of steel five feet and three feet above the ground, and extending five feet in front of the SUV at its point, where a sharpened vertical blade connected and supported them. These arrowhead-like blades ripped through the crowd like a scythe in a ripe wheat field. The improvised blades caught many of them at close to neck height and sliced off their heads cleanly. Well, not so cleanly when their blood spurted onto the windshield and their heads bounced off the chain link fencing – hence the revolting part of the experience. But Carl just held down the wash and wipe button to clear his vision and stepped down hard on the accelerator. That first pass took out at least fifteen of the fiendish maniacs. Gus was cheering as Carl performed a tight U-turn to make another run.
“Hot shit!” Gus said. “You’re cutting them to pieces. This idea of yours kicks ass.”
“Hold the kudos until we survive this,” Carl replied.
“Cujos?” asked Gus. “What the fuck is that? Like the killer dog in that movie?”
“Never mind,” Carl replied, cutting through the crowd a second time. “Just hold on and pray that this works.” It was working. The zombies in front of the Suburban were decapitated by the upper arrowhead blade, cut in half by the lower blade, or smashed by the crash-guard; while those approaching from the side were sliced to pieces by the blades welded in front of the side mirrors and extending out from the front and rear bumpers. Carl was gaining confidence as he turned for his third pass. Dozens of decapitated, disfigured and dismembered bodies marked the course of his first two runs through the crowd, but a multitude continued to pour out of the sporting goods store.
The good news was that these creatures didn’t seem to learn any lesson from the carnage in the parking lot. They were an implacable and fearless foe, and rushed out onto the open expanse of asphalt. The rest of the convoy held back as Carl made his third pass, taking down at least another dozen. The Suburban rocked and roared as it ran over bodies on the ground and sliced those standing in its path to pieces. Breaking clear of the mob, Carl made a turn out into the parking lot and flashed his headlights as a signal for the other vehicles to join him in the zombie demolition derby.
The specialized fire truck rolled towards the crowd. It was a German model known as a Panther with eight large wheels and a powerful water cannon mounted above the Plexiglas driver’s compartment, designed to fight fires at airports and oil refineries. The cannon operator, sitting next to the driver, unleashed a massive blast of water at the zombies as the big vehicle approached them. Carl was curious to see their reaction after hearing a news report that they were afraid of water. The water cannon had a dramatic effect. Those hit directly by the powerful stream of water pumped out at a rate of close to 2,000 gallons per minute were obviously thrown back into the mob behind them, but it was the reaction of the ones around them that interested Carl the most. They actually shied away from the water; some of them even turned and began moving away from the fire truck.
From everything Carl had heard about zombies, this was unprecedented behavior. All reports indicated that zombies were fearless, single-minded attackers. Everyone said that nothing short of destroying their brain could deter a zombie from advancing on its prey, but many of these zombies were retreating from the water. Those who didn’t turn away were clearly agitated. Some jumped up and down with arms flailing wildly, while those knocked down by the jet of water seemed to go into convulsions as they squirmed on the ground. This development sparked many possibilities in Carl’s mind. Unfortunately, the fire truck only carried enough water to operate the cannon for a very short time, and that wouldn’t be enough to disperse a large group of zombies like this one, but it helped to blunt their advance.
The Panther continued forward and plo
wed through the mob, running over many of the disoriented zombies that the high pressure jet of water had thrown to the ground. As the fire engine emerged from the crowd it shut off the water cannon to conserve its supply, then circled back towards the rest of the convoy. The zombies resumed their advance.
By this time the Caterpillar had caught up to the rest of the vehicles. It moved forward with ponderous purpose and accelerated with the big scoop poised at knee level. Tearing into the approaching pursuers, it actually scooped a dozen or more of them into the bucket and raised the scoop while its big wheels rolled over any other zombie that crossed its path. Then it dumped the bodies in its scoop and smashed the bucket down to crush them flat. It was quite effective. The operator repeated that process several times and Carl realized that the mob of hundreds had been reduced to several dozen by the combined efforts of the little convoy. Not a single gunshot had been fired. Carl smiled as he drove the Suburban back towards the remaining zombies. The zombie-proofed big rig and shuttle bus followed behind the Panther to run down any stragglers that evaded the Caterpillar and Suburban.
A few minutes later they were all parked in front of the entrance to Big 5. Carl noticed a fire hydrant and suggested that the Panther hook up a hose to it. If there was good water pressure, it would be able to maintain a constant supply for its water cannon to hold off any zombies that showed up while the rest of the refinery crew went shopping. He drew his pistol and slipped the ice axe into his belt as he turned to enter the sporting goods store.
Chapter 9: America’s Finest City
“Unlike its human counterparts, an army of zombies is completely independent of support. It will not require food, ammunition, or medical attention. It will not suffer from low morale, battle fatigue, or poor leadership. It will not succumb to panic, desertion, or out-and-out mutiny.”
The Zombie Survival Guide (page 155) 2003
San Diego was a war zone. Smoke and flames billowed from numerous buildings, and several of the high rises were already charred skeletons along the skyline. The view from the Dolphin helicopter was breathtaking in more ways than one, but the zombie apocalypse was truly depressing. Scott had spent more than ten years in San Diego, starting with his freshman year in university, until he met Michelle while celebrating completion of graduate school and moved north again. The view should have brought back fond memories, but it didn’t. This was not the city he remembered. This was a living hell.
Captain McCloud had come through with flying colors, literally. After confirming the authenticity of the letter of safe passage for the Sovereign Spirit, Captain McCloud offered the use of both of his Coast Guard helicopters for the rescue mission Scott had planned. They were faster and much better armed than Scott’s helicopter, and they also had the advantage of IFF (identification friend or foe) transponders and official Coast Guard paint. Captain McCloud had even ordered the pilots to tell anyone who asked that they were performing a high priority extraction mission at the direction of the Department of Homeland Security.
Scott was looking between the pilots, ready to point out the building they were going to. He knew that their GPS would give them even better direction, but there was still nothing more certain than a pointed finger in his book. The twenty-story apartment building near East Village had been converted into a high density student housing complex last year. Scott’s friend Blain Ford, the entrepreneur behind the project, had kept the penthouse for himself, his wife Mandy and toddler son. Scott’s single email exchange with Blain three days ago indicated that they were all safe, but trapped in the penthouse of the Swell Digs apartment building, which was crawling with coed zombies. Scott had promised to do his best to rescue him and his family and told them to expect a helicopter extraction from the roof.
Captain McCloud had helped him keep that promise. Barely an hour after McCloud left the Sovereign Spirit a message was received from the Stratton confirming the safe passage letter and asking Scott to come over with his rescue team to conduct the mission aboard armed USCG Dolphins. Scott accepted immediately and asked Mark and Clint to gear up. Then he placed a satellite phone call to the Expiscator and explained the situation to George Hammer. He summed up the call by saying, “George, I’m sending the Sovereign Spirit north at full speed with the Coast Guard cutter. You could keep up in the Expiscator, but I want you to stay back and follow with the slower boats. Head for Long Beach Harbor. We’ll go north towards Malibu to make some rescues and then come back to meet you. I’ll try to get you a Coast Guard escort too. If Long Beach isn’t safe, go to Catalina Island. We’ll find you.”
That had been three hours ago. Now the two Coast Guard helicopters were sweeping over Balboa Park and descending towards the Swell Digs student apartments. They had made their approach to San Diego over Mission Bay, instead of San Diego Bay, to avoid overflying the Navy and Marine fortifications on Coronado and Point Loma. The view of Ocean Beach, Mission Beach and Pacific Beach hadn’t changed too much, at least not from a thousand feet up and a mile or two away, but Scott knew that these were no longer the fun hang outs for surfers and college students that he remembered from his youth. The moving bodies that he could see on the streets were all turning and reaching towards the helicopters, just like the zombies in Cabo.
Seaworld seemed to be full of refugees and surrounded by zombies. Not a fun place to take the kids today, but at least the grounds still seemed secure. Scott caught a glimpse of people and tents inside the San Diego Zoo as they overflew Balboa Park too. The people in the zoo were probably still normal. The walls and fences built to keep wild animals in would do equally well for keeping zombies out. Scott wondered briefly how giraffe and panda bears tasted. He had a feeling the people trapped in the zoo would find out soon enough, if the zombies trying to get in didn’t find out how the people tasted first.
The Dolphin helicopters had a distinctive whir to their engines and rotors. They literally whined as they swooped down on their destination. The Swell Digs building had a relatively flat and unobstructed roof. It might not be built to hold the weight of a big helicopter, but Scott planned to deploy and recover from a hover. He made a final check of his web gear and weapons. This morning he was packing an M-203 combination assault rifle and grenade launcher. His ammo pouches were full of thirty round magazines and the web straps across his chest held twelve grenades for the launcher stuffed into ammo loops with another six rounds in a pouch on his belt, along with his reserve .357 magnum Desert Eagle and three spare magazines for the handgun. It was about forty pounds of firepower that he was glad to have, but hoped he wouldn’t need to use.
They leveled out at less than 500 feet over the city and Scott could see crowds of infected zombies swarming along the streets below. He instructed the pilots to circle the Swell Digs building once at the penthouse level. That should be enough of a signal to get Blain and his family moving towards the roof. As they circled the building Scott saw movement on the top floor balcony. It might have been Blain, but he couldn’t be sure because the figure had darted inside immediately. Hopefully that meant he was headed for the roof. Scott gave Mark and Clint the go sign with his thumb and they all rose and prepared to hop down onto the roof of the building.
The rooftop was clear of obvious threats. No zombies or armed people awaited their arrival. The lead Dolphin pulled into a hover three feet above the roof while the escort chopper continued to circle. Scott, followed closely by Mark and Clint, hopped down and knelt until the helicopter rose again. They moved cautiously but swiftly towards the door to the roof access stairwell. Scott slung the M-203 over his shoulder and drew the Desert Eagle, chambering a round and holding it at the ready. The stairwell would be too confined for accurate use of the assault rifle and the attached grenade launcher was far too indiscriminate, especially with possible friendlies coming up the stairs. So Scott held his pistol ready as he reached towards the doorknob. Mark and Clint stood far enough back that they could use their rifles effectively. The door opened outwards, and as soon as Scott tur
ned the handle it flew into his shoulder, forced open by an unstoppable press of bodies.
A solid mass of zombies spilled out of the stairwell onto the roof. This was his first close encounter with the fiends and it was even more terrifying and repulsive than Scott had expected. The smell alone could have knocked him flat if it hadn’t been for the adrenaline that rushed through his bloodstream. He staggered sideways to clear the doorway and heard Mark and Clint open up with rapid semi-automatic fire and the heads of the first zombies began to burst. Scott recovered quickly and added his own pistol fire to the carnage. Bodies began to pile up in front of the door as the zombies behind pushed the dead ones out en masse.
It was obvious that Blain and his family were not in the stairwell, at least not if they hadn’t become zombies already, so Scott stepped further away from the door and pulled the M-203 off his shoulder. “Stand clear!” he yelled, cocking the grenade launcher. It was loaded with a 40mm shotgun round. When he pulled the trigger the weapon kicked hard and sent over 40 ball bearing sized pieces of buckshot into the doorway full of zombies with a spread that took them from waist to head height. Heads and limbs were literally torn away from the bodies and the entire mass of meat was forcibly thrown back down the stairwell.
Clint had pulled out a regular fragmentation grenade that he tossed down the stairwell after them. It detonated with a deafening thud and Mark ran forward to close the door before any more could make it up the stairs. He had to drag carcasses out of the way so it would close. Clint stepped up to help him as Scott loaded another buckshot grenade into the M-203.
01 Voyage of the Dead Page 19
