Dead Team Alpha: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller

by Jake Bible

  “I’m going to need a massage,” Diaz says.

  “I’ll let you know my rates,” Benji says as he helps the man undo one of the cables.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Cole says. “Keep it in your pants.”

  “Why you gotta be such a homophobe?” Diaz smirks. “Or biophobe, in like half the Stronghold’s case.”

  “That would mean afraid of life,” Alastair says. “Not afraid of bisexuality.”

  “If you don’t want to experience it all,” Diaz laughs, “then maybe you are afraid of life?”

  “Shut the fuck up, you two,” Val says. “Leave Cole alone. He’s not homophobic or afraid of bisexuality. He just likes being the only dick in the room, which he usually pulls off perfectly fine.”

  “He pulls off his dick?” Benji asks. “Now that’s a trick.”

  “I hate you guys,” Cole says, trying to hide a smile. “You’re all fucking suck.”

  “Good to go here!” Stanford shouts. “How are you doing, DTA?”

  “Hold on,” Val says, lifting a steel plate so Alastair and Anna Lee can adjust the gear underneath. “There. All good!”

  The Teams look at each other and then at the trolleys.

  “I don’t mind marching the rest of the way,” Horton says. “No, really, I don’t.”

  “Get in, you big scaredy cat,” Carlotta says.

  Repeating their previous ride’s prep, they all get in to their trolleys, wrap legs, and grip tight. Stanford and Val reach out the backs, grab the couplings, and pull.

  ***

  A herd like no other. That is what most of the sentries think as they crouch on tile, tin, and old asphalt shingles, their rifles and carbines aimed at the mass of undead below them. Once the herd has pushed through the checkpoint at the outer perimeter, it is forced to funnel up the road and stagger, shuffle, shamble between the rows of houses that line each side of the street.

  Some spill over into yards made of cracked mud and rock, but most stay on the direct path the street offers. The old order of their former lives keeps them in line. Zs are deadly, but predictable.

  No one gives a signal, because no one has to.

  Gunfire erupts and Zs start to fall. The men and woman could have stayed anonymous and probably survived, but once the Zs are alerted to their presence, the mega-herd starts to crumble and fill the whole area. Putrid hands showing weather polished raw, fingertips of bone, claw at the faded and ruined siding of the abandoned houses, trying to find purchase so they can get to the meat above.

  Bullets rain down, piercing skulls, shoulders, chests, bellies. Zs drop left and right, falling under the thousands of feet that make up the herd. The numbers are thinned, but the attack only makes a dent. There is no significant outcome other than spreading the Zs out across the area. The sentries, one by one, fire their last rounds then look towards the wall. Many just sit where they are, placing their butts down on the tile, on the tin, on the old asphalt shingles, and wait for whatever it is Fate has in store for them.

  ***

  “Frags ready?” Commander Lee yells from her place on the platform. All up and down the wall, confirmations are shouted back to her. She watches as grenade launcher after grenade launcher is braced and set. She holds up her arm then brings it down quickly. “Fire!

  The grenades hit the herd and begin exploding, one by one, sending fountains of undead flesh and congealed blood flying sky high. The air in front of the Stronghold is filled with putrid offal and shattered limbs. Heads, their teeth still gnashing, tumble end over end as they fall to the ground, only to be crushed by the herd that will not stop.

  “Hold!” Commander Lee yells and the grenadiers set their launchers down, grabbing up their rifles and carbines. “All hands get set! And fire!”

  The entire line squeezes their triggers, sending a sheet of bullets down at the Zs. Hundreds of bullets create a scythe of lead, slicing the unfortunate Zs up front in half. Torsos tumble from legs, which keep moving a few more steps before falling, and soon, not only are there thousands of Zs marching, but hundreds of Zs pulling themselves by their hands and fingers towards the delicious smell of humanity.

  Commander Lee immediately calls for another volley. And another. And another. The area that stretches out before the wall is covered with severed Z bodies, choking the road and slowing the herd. She finds the weak points in the herd and runs down the platform, barking orders at specific shooters to take out this group, put down that one, to jam up the road even more.

  Through it all, Collin Baptiste watches as the inevitable gets closer and closer. Someone bumps his arm and he nearly jumps then quickly calms down as he sees what’s being offered.

  “Have a snort,” the man to his left says, holding out the flask. “Been hanging onto this for a special occasion. This may not be the special occasion I was looking for, but it could be my last.”

  Collin nods to the man and takes the flask, tipping it to his lips. The burn of the corn hooch works its way into his sinuses, filling his head with potent vapors that cause even an old pro like him to cough.

  “Careful,” the man laughs. “You drink too much and you’ll go blind.”

  Collin doesn’t laugh with him, just hands the flask back.

  “There are worse things than being blind,” Collin says. “Trust me.”

  The man gives him a puzzled look, shrugs, and takes another quick sip before capping the flask and tucking it into his front pocket.

  Even over the gunfire, the sound of the approaching Zs can be heard. Collin wishes more than anything that he could drop his shotgun and clamp his hands over his ears. He may be a direct descendant of the legendary Sammy “John” Baptiste himself, but Collin was never meant to be a soldier. That was his wife all the way. The woman came out of the womb with carbine in hand and a burning desire to kick some Z ass, which suited Collin just fine.

  Until…

  He shakes his head and curls his lip up in disgust. Disgust for his cowardice, but also disgust for the charade he’s been living since the night he walked into his bedroom to find the love of his life lying there, half of her head splattered against the headboard of their bed. He is disgusted with the lies he was forced to tell his daughter, who only months earlier had lost her brother. Disgusted with how the flavor of corn hooch that still lingers on his tongue is almost the only incentive he has to keep living.

  Maybe more incentive than seeing that daughter that is now grown up and looks at him every day as if he is the biggest failure in the Stronghold, which he can’t argue with.

  Then a new incentive comes to mind.

  “I’ll tell her that you weren’t a failure,” he whispers. “I’ll tell her the truth, Molly. I promise. For you, my love.”

  “What’s that?” the man next to him shouts, pulling back the bolt on his Remington, and glancing over at Collin.

  “Nothing,” Collin says. “You got another nip for an old man?”

  “Sure,” the man says, handing the flask back over. “Just save me some.”

  Collin doesn’t.

  ***

  The Teams look at the one trolley before them.

  “We’ll fit,” Alastair says.

  “True,” Shep agrees.

  “Probably be safer with us all crammed into one,” Lang adds.

  “True,” Shep says again then looks at Stanford. “TL?”

  “Not like we have a choice,” Stanford says. “Get it prepped.”

  “Weight distribution won’t be right,” Tommy Bombs says. “We may not make it all the way to the next switch.”

  “Never hurts to try,” Stanford says.

  “Every time in our life you have said that, it does end up hurting. A lot,” Val says, her eyes watching the area. “Not alone.”

  “Huh? Not alone in hurting?” Stanford asks. “What does that mean?”

  “No, dipshit, we have hostiles at nine o’clock and three o’clock,” Val says quietly. “They’ve been watching us since we got here. Or whatever it is they
do without eyes.”

  Stanford glances left then right, noting the locations of their observers. The two aren’t exactly working hard at hiding. Stanford reaches for his 9mm. Val notices and does the same.

  “Let’s hurry it up, Mates,” Stanford says. “Locals are restless.”

  Without stopping what they are doing, the Teams find the watchers.

  “Not liking that body language,” Carlito says.

  The two people step away from their hiding spots and start to walk towards the Teams. The way they carry themselves, easily avoiding potholes and debris, Stanford knows they aren’t just blind crazies, but actual Code Monkeys.

  “People?” Stanford says. “Any second.”

  Anna Lee and Diaz move away from the Teams, their 9mms drawn. They lift their arms and each takes a bead.

  “Say the word, TL,” Diaz says to Val. “Drop them?”

  “No,” Val says. “Save the ammo.”

  “Done,” Lang and Horton say at the same time.

  “In! Now!” Stanford orders.

  The Teams all rush into the trolley, cramming themselves together, with Diaz and Anna Lee coming last.

  The two Monkeys break into runs, sprinting at the trolley as Stanford reaches out the back and grabs the pin from the coupling. He pulls hard and his fingers slip off.

  “Fuck,” he swears.

  “TL?” Diaz asks. “We can drop them.”

  “Ford? You need some help?” Val asks as the Code Monkeys get closer and closer, dodging past old tires and collapsed business signs.

  “I got it, I got it,” Stanford says as he gets a solid grip on the pin.

  Sunlight glints off metal in the Monkeys’ hands, where there had only been air seconds before. Pulling the pin with his left hand, Stanford pulls his 9mm with his right and aims it out the back as the trolley rockets away from the switch. One of the Monkeys lifts her arm and throws the knife she holds.

  Stanford squeezes the trigger of his pistol and the knife goes spinning off into the dirt.

  “Damn,” Anna Lee says. “You really can shoot.”

  Stanford doesn’t reply, just watches as the two running Monkeys are left farther and farther behind. The trolley crests a hill and they are lost from sight. But Stanford didn’t see them slowing down. It could be a while, but they’ll be catching up with the Teams at the next switch.

  Except the trolley doesn’t make it to the next switch.

  Suddenly, the cage lurches, stutters and the entire thing starts to go off course, its tail sliding towards the side of the road.

  “Tommy?” Stanford yells. “What’s going wrong?”

  “Fuck if I know!” Tommy Bombs yells back. Then he sees the trouble. They all do. “Oh, fuck…”

  Up ahead, the road is littered with corpses that have been picked clean. A few Zs are squatted over bones that hold only a scrap or two of flesh. They hiss at each other as they fight for the remnants that the main herd left behind. A hunched pack of four doesn’t even look at the trolley that’s on a direct, uncontrollable collision course with them.

  “Hang on!” Stanford yells as the front corner of the trolley slams into the small pack of Zs.

  For one second, they feel the Zs crumple under the trolley, thinking the weight and velocity of the vehicle are enough to push them past, but after that second, they find themselves airborne as the trolley catches and the back end bounces up off the ground.

  Then it all comes crashing down as the front end slams into the pavement, digging up chunks of asphalt that pelt the Teams mercilessly. The trolley tumbles end over end and the Teams are powerless to stop from crashing into each other. Arms are akimbo, legs are askew, bodies twisted and turning.

  When it’s over, and they are able to scramble out of the upside down vehicle, there are two less Mates.

  “Fuck,” Stanford says, staring into the lifeless eyes of Carlito and Horton. “FUCK!”

  “Ford,” Val says, rubbing her left shoulder and blinking back the blood that drips into her eyes from a long gash across her brow. “Zs.”

  “Right,” Stanford says. “Teams? Do what you do.”

  The Mates all spread out, ignoring their various injuries, and wipe out every last Z that comes at them. Only a couple dozen are present, but that couple of dozen are all the Mates need to vent their grief and frustration. Stanford watches them work, and then walks over to the corpses of Horton and Carlito. He pulls his knife and kneels by Horton, plunging the blade through her temple. He turns to do the same to Carlito, but a hand grabs his bicep.

  “No,” Carlotta says.

  Stanford nods and stands up, giving the sibling room.

  Carlotta bends over, kisses her brother’s cold cheek, and shoves her knife into the base of his skull, making sure he doesn’t come back as one of the monsters they have spent their lives killing. She hunches over his body, wrapping him in her arms, and sobs.

  “Carlotta,” Stanford says. “We can’t stay.”

  Just up the mountain, he sees where the bodies came from as the downhill trolley that never made it to the switching station below, lies on its side, and the trapped corpses inside already turned and clawing at the cage that holds them.

  “Keep pistols holstered,” Stanford says. “Use blades until you absolutely can’t.”

  Lang grips Carlotta’s shoulder and the woman reluctantly lets the body of her twin fall to the pavement. She stands and gives everyone a nod, showing she’s ready, showing she’s a professional.

  Blades in hand, the Teams begin their march, heading right for the next few Zs that have just began to take notice of them.

  ***

  The entire area is carpeted with headless Zs, but it isn’t enough to hold back the herd.

  Flares are dropped as, one by one, members of the defensive guard run out of ammunition. Those that still have magazines with cartridges, however few they may be, spread out along the platform at the top of the wall, trying to even out the final death they send down to the Zs below.

  Hands reach into the pouches and pull free the precious frag grenades. A couple is lobbed before Commander Lee can give the order to hold. They explode amongst the herd and bits and chunks of Zs splatter up over the wall. There is no more trying to slow the Zs, they are here and they are hungry.

  In just moments, the Zs begin to pound their fists against the gate and the wall, their hunger pushing them, driving them. The weight of the herd presses in on those that reach the concrete wall first. The men and women along the top of the wall look down in horror as the first waves of Zs are crushed, their bodies unable to take the weight of the massive herd behind them. Rib cages cave in, heads pop free of necks, spines crack and bend.

  And they just keep coming.

  Between the wall and the outer perimeter, screams go up as houses start to crumble from the force of the attack. The sheer numbers are too much. The corners of old brick ranch houses begin to topple and roofs start to lean, then collapse altogether. Two-story, stick-built homes are like paper to the never-ending mass of undead. The snapping of beams and shattering of glass joins with the sounds of the condemned men and women.

  And the groans and growls of Zs fighting over the few meals that fall to them.

  Commander Lee places a pair of binoculars to her eyes and scans the area, looking out past the end of the herd far below. She expects to see the cause of the nightmare; she expects to see the blind crazies, the Code Monkeys, which have brought Hell to their gate.

  But she sees nothing but the undead and that almost scares her even more.

  “Where are they?” she mutters. “Come on, you motherfuckers. Show your eyeless faces!”

  ***

  The Teams crest a rise in the Turnpike and stop.

  “I count twenty,” Diaz says.

  “Yep,” Shep agrees.

  Fifty yards ahead, a line of twenty men and women, their eye sockets bleeding with fresh cuts, stand waiting, hands at their sides, holding everything from hunks of steel to old, split 2x
4s. They stand silent, none moving a muscle. Even their chests seem still, their lungs stopped as they hold a collective breath.

  Then they move. Fast.

  “Fuck,” Stanford says. “We don’t have time for this.”

  He pulls his 9mm.

  “That’s what they want,” Val says. “Have us run completely out of ammunition.”

  “Then that’s what they get,” Stanford says, his arm up, one hand cupping the other that grips his pistol. “Fuck it, Mates. Take them down.”

  9mms are drawn, beads taken, and triggers squeezed.

  The crazies rush into the oncoming fire, bodies dropping as perfectly placed rounds strike them. Then it’s over and the Teams move forward, eyes watching the fallen blind men and women. Almost every shot is a head shot, and Shep and Diaz quiet those that still have their brains intact. Blood spills out across the pavement, pooling up against the boots of each Mate.

  “One shot each?” Stanford asks, ejecting and checking his magazine then slapping it back home.

  “I took two,” Val says. “Dropped that one and that one.”

  “Then this was a waste,” Stanford says. “For them, not us. What the hell was the point?”

  Alastair, Lang, and Cole roll a few bodies over and yank up the backs of their shirts. No markings.

  “Keep us occupied,” Shep says, spinning about as they hear a slight scrape of gravel behind them.

  All Mates turn and see five Code Monkeys standing there, only five feet away. Another scrape and Diaz, Val, Alastair, and Cole spin back around to see five more Code Monkeys.

  The Mates don’t need to see the backs of the people that stand in front and behind them. It’s easy to spot the difference by the way the new men and women carry themselves.

  And by the deadly sharp blades they hold in each of their hands.

  “You’re fast, but can you fucking dodge bullets?” Stanford asks.

  The Code Monkeys run. The Teams open fire. They all find out the answer to Stanford’s question.