Dead Fall

by Joseph Xand

  "Daddy?"

  Thad looked back. The creature had refocused its attention on Karen. She was trying to squirm backward to the top of the dirt pile. The corpse jerked towards her, its legs shaking.

  Reaching the far wall, Thad grasped a wall stud that he'd knocked loose from the top plate the summer before and yanked it free of the bottom plate. The stud was 9-feet long and awkward to handle, but it would have to do. It wasn't the kind of light-weight studs lumber manufacturers made in recent history (when people were still building homes, or garages, or anything for that matter). This was solid, milled back when a 2x4 was truly two inches by four inches.

  Half carrying, half dragging the thick piece of lumber, he reached the creature just as its toes touched the bottom of the dirt mound and it was about to fall forward onto Karen. He swung the stud as best he could manage, which was only high enough to strike the creature in the upper thigh. But it was enough. Its broken and battered legs crumpled on impact. Half its body, the lower half, fell back away from Karen. The top half fell straight down, facing forward. The reverb from the collision caused Thad to lose his grip on the stud, and it tumbled out of his hands and clunked on the ground.

  As if nothing had changed, the dead man dragged himself towards the blubbering child. Karen had reached the extent of her retreat, crammed into a corner at the highest point of the dirt pile as the thing's grotesque phalanges touched the toes of her soiled slippers.

  Thad kicked it hard enough in the side to hear ribs crack. The thing slumped onto its side, but never lost focus on Karen. It caught her slipper between two grimy fingers and slipped it off her foot. Thad kicked it again, harder this time. It toppled onto its back and seemed momentarily dazed, its eyes searching, looking for a target. Its arms flailed aimlessly.

  Thad reached down and hoisted the 2x4 again. He straddled the creature as he had done the one before. Seeing him, it reached up. Feathers almost comically protruded from between the bony fingers.

  Thad dragged the stud till it was standing straight beside him. He raised it up with both hands, centered and leveled it above the things face, then brought it down, allowing gravity again to take its course. The dangling eyeball splattered against its upper cheek, and the jaw bone beneath cracked and gave ground.

  Thad lifted his battering ram again and let it fall, aiming higher this time. The forehead collapsed an inch under the weight. The creature's hands pawed the air, searching for him.

  Raising the stud one more time, he drove it down again, putting some force behind it this time and aiming for the same spot as before. The thing's head split and flattened with a wet thud. Its arms fell limp on either side.

  Panting, exhausted, Thad released the stud and let it topple to the ground, half of it landing outside the barn door. He dropped to his knees and scuttled over to his daughter, grasping her roughly, turning her over and scanning her for any sign of injury.

  "Did it touch you? Are you hurt?" he tossed her around, feeling her back, arms, and legs for spots of blood.

  "No," she said faintly, submitting to the frisking.

  "Have you been bitten?" He was about to flip her completely over and search again.

  "No!" She pulled away from him and sunk deeper into the corner. She dug her face into her shoulder and sobbed.

  Thad stared at her for a moment and reached for her hair, but stopped. Instead, he fell back onto the dirt and laid face up, trying to steady his breathing.

  Eventually, Karen crawled over to him and laid her head on his chest. Out of habit, he raised a hand to her head and petted her softly.

  How could I have been so careless?

  Thaddeus Palmer had always been a man who savored the limelight, who craved attention. He believed a man's clothes and women and how many houses he owned said something about the man, and he'd always had a lot to say.

  His marriage had been nothing more than a business proposition, binding him contractually to a woman whose father carried a lot of weight in the world of medical research grants. And in times when that fell through, at the very least his marriage was a nice, welcome tax deduction.

  Then Karen was born, and for the first time in his life he'd fallen completely and utterly in love. He was enamored, and he sold off cars and homes and canceled speaking tours and other high-paying engagements so he could be home more. He traded Italian silk ties and diamond cuff links for diapers and spit rags. He held her and cooed and played, and when Karen was in the room he felt small and insignificant, and for the first time in his life, he didn't mind.

  "I'm sorry," he said a long time later. He was sure she'd fallen asleep.

  "I know," she replied eventually.

  "Why did you come out here? I told you to stay in the house."

  "Eggs," she whispered nonchalantly.

  "Eggs?"

  "For the pancakes," she explained.

  "Oh," he said. He looked over at the ruined chicken coop and the several carcasses within. Two or three still pecked around within it, but most of the flock were scattered outside the barn. It would take him half the day to patch up the coop and round up the chickens. Plus he still had bodies to gather and toss over the edge of the cliff.

  The cliff, he thought. Suddenly he remembered what he'd seen before Karen screamed. The men watching the prison. Watching him.

  Thad rose up and faced his daughter. "How about we eat the leftover biscuits from yesterday, okay? With some peanut butter and jelly?"

  "Okay," she agreed lazily.

  "You go inside, okay, and get it all ready. I've got to check on something, and then I'll be right behind you."

  He helped his daughter to her feet and crouched next to her. She was a dusty, dirty mess. He grabbed her discarded slipper and put it on her, then started dusting her off, patting her down quickly. He brushed dirt and leaves out of her hair with his fingers and tried to use his shirt to wipe her face before he realized it was pretty useless.

  "How about you clean up a little bit before you get started on breakfast."

  Karen nodded her assent, and he walked with her through the barn door. He stopped there and she walked on without him. He watched as she padded towards the front porch.

  Thad left the barn and made his way to the newest craters in the ground. One of them still had the body in it, of course. From the empty depression, his eyes once again followed the trail of crushed grass that led beyond the tractor and seemingly towards the cliff edge in the distance. He walked along the grassy trail to the other side of the tractor. Sure enough, the trail changed direction; there was a line of crushed grass leading directly to the barn. The creature must have dragged itself this far before noise or movement from the chickens changed its course. At some point, probably inside the barn, it had managed to stand up.

  He shook his head. He knew better than to move onto something else before he'd accounted for every corpse fallen from above, to the best of his abilities. He'd gotten lax and it nearly got his daughter killed, which would have dealt a killing blow to him as well.

  Thad walked on to the cliff's edge, retrieving his binoculars along the way. They had been hanging by their strap from a small limb in the bushes, fortunately undamaged. He secured the binoculars to his neck again and stood at the precipice, this time hiding, at least partially, behind some low-hanging tree limbs.

  He turned the binoculars immediately to where the men had been earlier. They were gone. He scoured the tree line and highway beyond for movement. Nothing there either, save for the occasionally straggling corpse.

  Thad lowered the binoculars and breathed deep. Out on the horizon, where the sun should have emerged, dark, ominous clouds crowded, lopping off the tops of the mountains far beyond.

  Silently, lightning streaked between the clouds, striking unseen among the lush, green peaks.

  Apparently, a storm was coming.

  Chapter 2

  C OLONEL MOSS WAS frustrated. He'd been yanked out of a long retirement when everything started going to shit, promoted up the r
anks, then assigned to command a ragtag regiment comprised of untrained enlistees, aging National and Coast Guard troops, civilian police officers (apparent weekend warriors) and only a smattering of actual, experienced military personnel and officers.

  His orders from the brigadier general (the highest ranking military officer in existence, as far as Moss knew) were to make a route through what was being called the North Central Corridor, supplying a number of civilian outposts along the way with much-needed ammunition, medical supplies, and food rations. The Corridor was comprised of Michigan, Wisconsin, Indiana, Northern Kentucky, Ohio, and parts of West Virginia.

  To this point, the mission (Operation Outreach) was an utter-fucking disaster. The regiment left military headquarters (what used to be a used car dealership) in Monroe, Michigan nearly three weeks ago and headed South. Moss lost two officers before they even reached the state line.

  Their first stop, the Mansfield Outpost in Northern Ohio, was no longer in existence. It had been completely overrun by the dead.

  Ditto for the next two outposts; they'd circled wide around Columbus only to find the First Baptist Outpost in Athens, Ohio deserted. Then in St. Albans, West Virginia, they found only the charred and smoldering skeleton of buildings where the outpost was supposed to be.

  At that point, several of his men went AWOL, and others tried to steal a supply truck and head out on their own. Colonel Moss had to commandeer a police transport van to serve as a makeshift, mobile jail cell, a sort of brig-on-wheels, until they returned to Monroe. He'd chosen two former police officers, promoted them to second lieutenants, and put them in charge of the prisoners. Then, after turning the convoy west from St. Albans, he lost three other men in a friendly-fire incident during an encounter with a swarm of the dead.

  Morale wasn't low.

  Morale was beaten, gang-fucked up the ass, drawn and quartered, and tossed into a deep, cold grave to be food for worms.

  Currently, the regiment was held up in a high school baseball stadium in Morehead, Kentucky, just east of the Licking River. Colonel Moss knew of only one bridge to cross the river, and it had been crudely sabotaged.

  In a rickety tent that served as his command quarters, he stood over a map of Kentucky, lifted from a local convenience store. He was searching for an alternate river crossing, as well as trying to map a route to Salem, Indiana (where the next outpost was supposed to be located) that avoided the larger communities of Lexington and Louisville where large pockets of the dead were likely clustered.

  "I've sent Cadagon and Fuller here," Colonel Moss pointed to an area of the map along the Licking River South of their current position, "to see if the bridge there is still functional. If it is, that's a good option. However, if this bridge were crossable," his forefinger landed on a part of the river far North of their location, "then, yeah, it's a long ways up river to make the cross, but this Northern route above Louisville," his finger traced a route he'd already highlighted in orange, "is nearly a straight shot to Salem. It might be faster in the long run. Plus we might be able to rendezvous with the 10th Armored Division out of Milwaukee if they've made it this far South. I'd like to send—"

  Colonel Moss's words were cut short when a bullet passed through his brain and blasted a circle of red, chunky matter against the tent's canvas wall. Colonel Moss, caught up in strategizing, didn't notice his first lieutenant approach him from the side and place the muzzle of his sidearm just half an inch from the colonel's temple. Moss fell onto the map, then dragged it and the metal table to the ground with a crash.

  "I'd like to suggest an alternate route, Colonel," said First Lieutenant Beechum as he replaced his 9MM in its holster.

  Nunez chuckled nervously. Schuler looked down at his feet. They'd nearly jumped out of their boots when the shot rang out, even though they'd expected it and even watched Beechum as he approached Moss. Both men had been standing in front of the colonel as he laid out the possible routes. They'd have likely been the scouts Moss would have sent north to survey the bridge there.

  Outside the tent, some yelling broke out, indecipherable, followed by gunshots, and then people clearly being ordered to their knees.

  "Christ!" Beechum said. "What the hell kind of cannon are they shooting off out there? They'll have every fucking piece of stink-meat within two miles pounding at the gates."

  With his leg, he shoved the colonel onto his back and disarmed him, sticking Moss' Colt 45 into his pants. The army hadn't used Colts as standard issue for a long time. Recently they'd doled out 9MM Berettas to soldiers. But veterans like Moss weren't accustomed to change, and he kept his Colt 45 at his side, even though bullets for it were not issued and were scarce. Beechum had been eyeing the Colt for some time.

  Private First Class Murphy shuffled in through the tent flaps and stood at attention, raising an arm in salute, but the gesture nearly faltered when his eyes fell upon the fallen colonel and what was left of the right side of his head.

  "Knock it off," Beechum ordered. Murphy dropped his arm and stood more at ease, but unable to remove his gaze from Moss.

  "Everything under control out there?" Beechum asked.

  Murphy didn't hear him.

  "Murphy!"

  Murphy looked up at Beechum. "Yes…Yes, sir," Murphy responded. "Everything's good. Captain Rodriguez went for his gun, so Phillips had to put him down. But everything is cool…uh, good…under control, now…sir. We're awaiting your orders."

  Beechum nodded and snatched a pack of cigarettes out of Moss' front shirt pocket. He tapped out a cigarette and popped it into his mouth.

  Murphy looked back down at Moss. "Well…that's it, then. It's a mutiny," he said.

  "I thought a mutiny happened on a boat, like in that movie, the one with Clark Gable," Nunez said.

  "I didn't think it mattered," Murphy replied.

  "Maybe it's a coup," suggested Schuler.

  Nunez shook his head. "Isn't a coup when you overthrow a government?"

  "No, that's a coup d'état," Schuler responded.

  "A coodit-what?" asked Murphy.

  "Man, fuck that, this is a mutiny," Nunez shot back.

  "A military rebellion," Schuler said.

  "But isn't that a mutiny?" Murphy asked.

  "Would the three of you shut the fuck up?" Beechum barked. The three men seemed to shrivel all at once. Beechum struck a match across his jeans and lit his cigarette.

  He bent over and tried to pry the map out from under Moss. It ripped and left Beechum holding half a map covered in blood. He dropped it and tried to kick it as it fell, but missed. It slumped to the ground unceremoniously. "Fuck!" he yelled.

  Murphy, Schuler, and Nunez looked at one another and then back to Beechum. Beechum unfolded a metal chair that had been leaning against a tent pole and plopped down into it, dragging hard on his stogie and blowing out a long column of smoke.

  "Schuler, go to wherever you got that map and get me another one."

  "Okay…sir. Um…a Kentucky map, sir?"

  "No, goddammit!" Beechum yelled. "Why the fuck would I want a map of fucking Kentucky?"

  Schuler opened his mouth, then snapped it shut.

  "Get me one of those road map books, with all the streets and highways of every state in it."

  "A road atlas?"

  "Whatever. Just hurry it up."

  "Yes, sir." With one more glance at his colleagues, Schuler slid through the tent flaps.

  Beechum sat quietly and finished his cigarette, seemingly deep in thought. He flicked the butt into a clump of brown, dry grass in the corner. They'd had to trample down a square of grass in order to erect the tent deep in center field. Nunez had to stop himself from going over to the butt and stomping it out to prevent a fire.

  "So what do we have out there?" Beechum finally asked, fixing his eyes on Murphy and tipping his head to the tent's entrance.

  "Um…well, what we expected, I guess. Captain Rodriguez is dead because…well, I told you that already. Um…Barnes and Revis, those cops?
We got them. Last I saw, Tucker and Caldwell were beating the shit out of them." Murphy laughed, quickly looking around to Nunez, who didn't seem amused but smiled anyway.

  "They're out of the brig, then?" Beechum emphasized brig sarcastically, glancing down at Moss when he did.

  "Huh? Oh yeah…brig. Yeah, we let 'em out."

  "Meyers?"

  "Meyers? Yeah, that's where we put her. In the, uh, brig. Police van-thing."

  "And the faggot?"

  "Travers? Yeah, him, too. Police van, brig-thing."

  Beechum nodded.

  As an afterthought, Murphy added, "What are we calling it now? Still the brig?"

  "I don't give a shit what you call it," Beechum said, then offered, "You can call it the pussy-mobile for all I care." He laughed. "Cause that's what it is, right?" He bellowed louder, and Nunez and Schuler laughed with him as if they'd been given a direct order to do so.

  "Or the fag-wagon," Murphy tossed out, and they all roared louder.

  Finally, the laughter died. Beechum tapped out another cigarette and lit it to break the quiet tension. He sucked on it deep.

  "What else?" he asked, again addressing Murphy, blowing out a stream of smoke.

  "Well, that old nigger, Keene. The Coast Guard dude who said he used to be a Navy Seal or some shit? Yeah, we got him, too. He's with Barnes and Revis, or what's left of them. Down in the dugout."

  Beechum nodded and took another long drag off the cigarette, then flicked it, half-finished, in the direction of the first.

  "Well," Beechum said suddenly and probably louder than he intended, "I guess I better go make an appearance." He slapped his hands to his knees and stood, creaking the chair as he did so.

  Outside the tent, the sun did little to counter the crisp, early morning wind that swept in after the overnight thunderstorm, which turned out to be little more than a drizzle. It blew through the tall grass in waves, and Beechum briefly imagined having to wade through the chest-high grass to chase down a fly ball.