BATTLEFIELD Z SWEET HOME ZOMBIE

by Chris Lowry

  That neighbor was a dead Z now, so I got the last laugh.

  The guys who came to cut the tree had sixteen inch chainsaws on the end of poles, the blade on one end balanced by the motor on the other. The poles could telescope out.

  The next town we drove through I was going to find a way to hit a big box home store and find a couple of dozen of those.

  It checked all the boxes on my killing Z list. Stay away from them as far as possible, and hit the brain. It didn't check the noise box, but I would have to find a way around it. Maybe they made electric versions, or we could cobble together a battery-operated engine. I know they made those for mowers and weeders. Would a weed whacker mower power a chainsaw blade fast enough to chew through Z?

  I put it on the back burner and stared at the guard shack at the gate. A couple of the bodies lying on the ground were half eaten and still had M-16's strapped to their backs. What was left of their backs.

  I knew the Army was looking at a newer more advanced rifle before the zombie's hit, but that hadn't trickled down to the rank and file yet. The M-16 was ubiquitous, not quite as reliable as an AK-47 which could be soaked in mud or water or dirt for years, wash right out and almost any idiot could use. But there was a reason the Army stuck with the tried and true rifle. It worked.

  And I thought it could work for us to get into the armory.

  “See those three?” I pointed.

  Byron nodded.

  “We're going to run for it, grab those guns and play target practice with what we see, got it?”

  “We should break into zones,” Byron said. “You right, me center, Bock left.”

  He pointed to a boy in his squad. Thick shoulders, thick neck he looked like a high school football player ready to turn pro. I had seen him in action before. One of Byron's loyalist. Good shot.

  “That way we don't waste ammo on the same target.”

  “Good plan.”

  “What about me?” Brian asked.

  I turned and squatted in the dirt next to the truck. I used a weed to sketch out a rough plan.

  “We move next to the guard shack and grab those rifles. Flip the selectors to single shot and start popping heads. You move in behind us, clear the holsters for pistols and ammunition and follow us.”

  I checked to make sure they were paying attention.

  “We walk in fast. Lock the stock to your shoulder, aim with your chin. Look at where you want the bullet to hit. Move your body with the shot,” I twisted to demonstrate.

  “Don't let them bunch up on us. Drop the closet to us, then move in a pattern out.”

  They didn't nod. They didn't have to.

  “Brian, the rest of you, get pistols, get weapons from any we drop. Headshots to the ones we don't kill. One shot each. We clear it out. The sound is going to draw more out, so watch our back.”

  Brian shivered and glanced around the fender of the truck.

  “What if there are too many?”

  “We could just get enough guns from the ones we kill and get out, but if we're going through ammo to get the guns, we may not have enough for the speedway.”

  The boy's eyes glistened as they planned out heroics in their heads. I didn't want anyone hurt or anyone bit.

  “I want to get into the brick building. That's where the weapons are kept. We're going to back a truck up to the door and fill it up with everything we can carry.”

  I stood up and stretched.

  “We hit hard. We hit fast. Nobody gets bit. Nobody dies. Got it?”

  Byron glanced at his squad and Brian as if making sure we were all in this together, and then his cheeks split in that maniac's grin.

  “When do we start.”

  “Now.”

  I turned around and led them at a slow jog to the gate. I didn't even check to see if they followed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  I could hear the shuffle of their feet behind me as they stayed close. When we reached the first half chewed body I pawed through the tatters of its uniform and unclipped the strap holding the rifle to its raw back. The smell of rotten meat and decay was overwhelming and I gagged.

  Someone behind me didn't make it and vomited in a splashing torrent on the road top.

  The Z had heard us approach and started shuffling our way. I stood up and didn't wait for the others as I followed the plan.

  Key the selector to single shot. Check the safety. Aim. Fire. Again.

  I dropped three when Byron joined me to cover his zone, and one shot later Bock joined him.

  We stepped forward in a sloppy formation and I concentrated on clearing the dozen zombies in front of me. When they were down, I swung the rifle to cover Bock's zone, but he was mopping up the last three.

  Byron's rifle clicked dry with a zombie two meters out from him and lurching forward fast. He backed away, trying to keep distance and glanced around in panic.

  I twisted and finished off the Z in front of him.

  Brian and the rest stepped up to join us with three pistols. There were still two or three dozen undead soldiers stumbling toward us, but we had space before they got there.

  I checked the magazine on my rifle. It was light, three shots left.

  “Trade,” I passed it back to Brian and took the Colt from his hand. It was a heavy standard issue, fifteen in the clip, none in the chamber. I jacked a shell in to fire and waded forward.

  Bock followed and Byron traded his rifle for another from a fallen z.

  We cleared a path to the armory and my gun was empty at the door. Brian held out a magazine and I traded it, keeping the empty. We could get more ammo inside and refill the mags.

  The door was locked.

  A good sign.

  I wasted a bullet popping the lock and stood back as I opened the door. We could hear moaning inside, but it was pitch black. I kept the door open, and motioned everyone to move out of the way.

  We waited.

  Bock and Byron sent pops and zings into the scattered Zombies in the yard. I watched the black opening of the doorway.

  The first Z stepped out, took two steps and I sent a bullet into it's brainpan. It dropped.

  “Gross,” said one of the boys who was caught in the spatter. He tried to wipe the goo from his face with one hand, pistol in the other.

  The second zombie stepped out and joined the first, more goo spraying across the men on that side.

  They backed up.

  I called it extending the perimeter.

  A third and fourth dead soldier walked out and fell to bullets. I couldn't hear any more, but we weren't about to go in without a light.

  I pointed the gore faced boy out to Byron.

  “Get a truck and back it up.”

  He nodded, leaped over the dead zombies and ordered the boy to follow him. They ran toward one of the two ton trucks and I could hear the engine rumble to life as Byron hotwired it.

  I wasn't sure where the kid got all of his skill. It was one thing to be a bookworm, another to turn what you read into a practical skill. This mad genius must have done some real grand theft auto back in the world. I wondered how many cars he sent into the quarry just to learn how to do it.

  The truck rumbled back, the brake lights casting a reddish glow down the corridor inside the building.

  “Hold up,” I screamed.

  Brian jumped up on the runner and motioned Byron to stop short of the doorway.

  I took a knee and tried not to block the light as I used it to peer inside. Shadows moved and shuffled toward the opening.

  I didn't think shooting into an armory was a good idea, so we waited. They got faster when they saw me and it only took a few seconds to put two more bodies on the ground next to the others.

  That was six, a squad size. There may have been more, but we could ferret them out if we were careful.

  “We need more light.”

  Byron must have read my mind or more likely Brian told him to spin the truck around because he took a long loop through the armory yard, squashing
three z in the process and aimed the headlights into the building.

  It worked. The lights showed a long empty hall.

  We stepped in carefully, a collection of motley shadows stretching before us. There were doors to either side of the corridor, all shut except for the last one. I tried the light switch just in case, but no generator, no power. No power, no lights.

  We were going to have to do this the hard way.

  “We need flashlights.”

  Brian nodded and took Bock with him to scavenge for handhelds.

  I tried the first doorknob. It was cool metal that twisted in my hand. Unlocked.

  The door swung open on quiet hinges and I stood back, waiting for anything to step out of the darkness.

  Nothing did.

  “Fire,” Brain shouted.

  My finger twitched and sent two rounds up the corridor.

  “Sorry,” he said off my glare.

  I shook it off and saw what he was holding. A couple of sticks with cloth wrapped around the end, dipped in gasoline.

  “Light 'em up,” I told him. “The torches, not the guns.”

  He looked at his creation and snarled.

  “I don't have a lighter.”

  None of us did. There were no smokers in the group.

  I left two guards on the door to pick off any stray Z that wandered out and led the others on a quick scavenger hunt for a lighter. We opened up six cars before we found one, killed eight more zombies there and back and finally stood in front of the armory with flickering torches.

  “Medieval,” said Byron.

  We stepped into the dark hallway and explored the first room with the open door. It was empty except for a desk. Lots of paperwork. A real fire hazard for the flames and sparks that dripped off the end of our torches.

  We backed out of the room with great care.

  The next room was another office. An Army may move on its stomach but it thrives on photo static copies made in triplicate. This one had a bookshelf with a row of dust covered books. Field manuals.

  “Grab those,” I instructed Bock.

  He searched for a ruck or something to carry them in and ended up dumping them all into a trash container and twisting the plastic bag closed. He carried it over one shoulder.

  We tried two more rooms. One was a medical dispensary and one was a supply closet for cleaning. I left Brian and one of the boys to clean out the dispensary, and led the rest into the next room.

  The knob was locked and the door was bolted shut with a padlock. I thought that was a good sign, since there wasn't a sign on the door or next to it to indicate what it was. I knocked anyway.

  “Anyone home?” Byron whispered.

  No one answered. Another good sign.

  “Stand back.”

  I raised the pistol and shot the padlock and the doorknob. The boom was deafening in the narrow space and echoed out of the door. I hoped there were more guns in the room because we had just let every Z know exactly where to find us.

  I toed the door open with my boot and basked in the glory of discovery. Racks of weapons, rifles and pistols, shotguns and ammo cases filled the walls.

  “Back the truck up,” I told Byron.

  He motioned Bock to follow and spun around.

  “Hello?” a voice squeaked from the darkness at the end of the hall.

  Byron screamed. Bock screamed. I'm not saying I screamed, but there were a lot of voices shrieking in the hallway.

  Byron raised his rifle and I hit the barrel just in time to deflect it.

  “Z don't say hi,” I told him and advanced with the torch.

  He kept his gun aimed over my shoulder. I appreciated it.

  The orange circle of light hit a pair of bare feet first. Tattered fatigues on beanpole legs all the way up to a walking skeleton.

  Someone squeaked out a chirp. I swear it wasn't me.

  It was a young kid, private if you believed the insignia on faded camo clothes that draped off his emaciated frame. Foster was on the nametag.

  He stared at us with wide blue eyes out of hollowed out cheeks and raised one weak hand in our direction.

  “Are you real?” he whispered.

  “Close to it,” I said.

  “Oh thank God,” he sobbed and began weeping.

  We found another survivor.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  I told Byron to move Private Foster out to a truck, but he fought against it. Really it was like being batted by a butterfly as he pushed us away. After a second I figured out he was pointing and wanting to say something between the sobs.

  “Door,” he pointed. “Food.”

  I motioned one of the kids to get it and he twisted the knob, pushed the door in. The Z lurched out and fell on top of him, teeth gnashing at his face. The boy got an arm up, but the zombie caught skin and ripped. He screamed. We screamed. Poor Foster fell to his knees sobbing.

  I ripped a new hole in the Z's head and the pop of the gun quieted us all.

  Brian ran out of the dispensary and I pointed to the boy crying quietly on the floor. He stared at Foster first, then hit his knees next to the boy and tended his arm. He shoved the zombie to one side and got Bock to help drag the boy to his feet.

  They led him outside to tend the wound.

  “I didn't know, I didn't know,” Foster rocked and mumbled from the floor.

  “Get him out of here,” I instructed Byron who dispatched two boys to lift him up.

  I stuck a torch in the room we just opened and saw what he was trying to get. Food. Lots of food. Big giant industrial size cans of food.

  “Wait,” I showed Byron.

  He nodded, grabbed a can of soup after searching for a moment and took passed it to the two boys who carried Foster out.

  “Feed him.”

  “Slow,” I added. “Too fast and he'll puke.”

  “He smells like puke.”

  Foster was rank. But if he'd been locked in the other office long enough to be a scarecrow, then he would be. I'd get details later.

  “Park him outside, then bring everyone back,” I told them. “Truck.”

  Byron nodded and ran after them.

  It left me alone in the armory. Weapons on one side, Food on the other.

  If we cleaned it up, this might make a good Fort for Brian and company.

  I leaned against the wall for a minute to think it through. There was no need to clear it all out if we were just going to come back.

  I pushed off the wall and glanced inside the room where Foster had trapped himself. It smelled as bad as he did. Pen scratches on the wall, paper MRE wrappings lined up in neat order.

  I'm not sure how he divided them up, but he stretched the meals for a couple of weeks at least.

  It must have driven him crazy to know all the food he could want was across a dark hallway filled with a squad of Z.

  There was a final door at the end of the hallway. I knocked twice, didn't hear anything and opened it up.

  A herd of Z stared back at me.

  Too many to count, but they moaned and surged forward.

  I got the door slammed and shut just in time, fumbling with a bolt. They hit against it, but didn't push, which was lucky because their sheer numbers could have splintered the frame.

  I could hear the scratching of their nails, their teeth against the metal door.

  If we decided to stay, we'd have to do some zombie clean up.

  I peeked into the kitchen. No more Z in here, but it smelled too, almost as bad as Foster's room.

  There was a ladder that led to the roof next to the rear corner. I climbed up and lifted a metal square opening. It spilled out onto the tar and gravel between air conditioner condensers. Quiet now without power.

  The open roof hatch let a breeze in that carried the smell out through the open front door. I heard a pop, then another as the boys cleaned up more wandering Z.

  That made me wonder some more about the herd I'd seen through the back door. I crawled over a condenser unit and w
alked to the edge of the room.

  Even before I reached the end, I knew this wasn't the place for us.

  A refugee tent city stretched out behind the armory, thousands of zombies locked behind a fence.

  What I thought of as a herd was really just a small group of them standing by the back door.

  The roamed in mindless patterns in and among the tents, following some sort of instinct. All kinds of zombies, men, women, children.

  I caught a sob in my chest.

  My youngest was supposed to go to a refugee camp with her mom and stepdad. Had she been caught in something like this?

  I felt like I was being ripped apart.

  Three kids, two locations, all lost.

  How could I ever find her? She was twelve, my youngest, so beautiful and smart. Was she one of the Z below me?

  It was too hard to make out details. They all looked like zombies.

  The lump in my throat doubled, tripled and I couldn't breathe.

  It was going to be impossible to find them. Impossible to save them.

  There were too many Z, too many places to hide, the world was too big for three small kids and their idiot dad just trying to find them.

  “You up there?” Brian called out from the storage room.

  I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and slid down the ladder.

  “What did you see?”

  “Refugee city,” I told him.

  He sighed.

  “All of them?”

  I nodded. No need for words.

  “Damn.”

  “I thought we might make this your fort. Food. Weapons. Defense. A little spring cleaning and it would have been nice. But we'd use all of the ammo out back.”

  “It was a good thought. But we can still use the rest.”

  I let him and Byron take over the clearing out of food and weapons, after giving them my input to find another truck and divide it among the two.

  Then I went to find out what happened with Foster.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  “It's not good,” Brian gave me an understatement of an update.

  They had Foster leaning against the running board of one of the trucks. I could count the ribs through the thin material. He looked even more skeletal from the side, blue veins snaking under his parchment skin thin.