An Ex-Heroes Collection

by Peter Clines

  Captain Freedom made a point of grabbing the last ex and twisting its head off with his bare hands. It was a heavy man with long hair and a thick mustache. He tossed the head underarm, letting it roll up the street like a bowling ball. A couple soldiers chuckled at that. It was a good morale boost. We needed it. The road was getting too clogged for the Humvees.

  By ten-thirty-five the convoy had gone another mile and a half and killed another three dozen exes. Sections Twelve and Thirty-three dropped back to reload. The other downside to the Bravo, for us, is it eats ammo like candy. The spare ammo boxes were awkward things for a soldier to carry. Even for a soldier who can bench nine hundred pounds.

  We’d also found four survivors in a mobile home. Family of three and the son’s girlfriend. We loaded them in one of the last Humvees. We had three with us just for potential survivors.

  From here we could see the intersection of 95 and East County 9½ a hundred yards or so ahead. It had a gas station and a Circle K. Everyone stops there if you’re taking the long way back to the proving grounds after a night in Yuma.

  There were a lot of cars there. I couldn’t tell if it was a huge fender-bender or everyone in this part of the city decided to drive out and all abandon their cars at the same place. There were two or three big trucks as well, including one semi stretched right across most of the intersection. We could see a few exes milling around the vehicles. Nine, maybe ten. One or two of them had seen us or heard our weapons.

  We moved up nice and slow. Another four exes stumbled out from between the cars while we did. They were finding a path through the pileup. We got close enough to hear their teeth clacking together.

  But there was a lot of clacking. Too much for the exes we were seeing.

  Two or three looks, a couple of gestures, and Freedom had Twelve and Thirty-one flanking either side of the intersection. Sections Twenty-two and Thirty-three dropped back to watch our rear. The Humvees were about fifty yards behind us now. Section Twenty-one moved forward toward the baker’s dozen of exes.

  By now, most of us knew how strong and fast we are. There was a period of broken doorknobs, torn shirts, and lots and lots of snapped bootlaces. We went through bootlaces like you wouldn’t believe. But that was long past. Section Twenty-one flitted across the open space and eliminated the exes. They grabbed skulls, twisted, and moved on to the next one before any of the dead guys could raise their arms. You can only get two or three that way, but six people doing two or three each is a lot of damage in less than ten seconds. Not one shot fired.

  The last ex hit the pavement and Twenty-one leaped up into the air one by one like it was the most natural thing in the world. A fifteen-foot vertical jump. They came down on top of the semi.

  “Oh, screw me,” said Taylor. We could hear him forty feet away. He didn’t say “screw.” I see no need to use his exact phrase, even in an informal report.

  A voice crackled over my radio. Sergeant Harrison, Twenty-one’s leader. “Unbreakable Seven,” he said. “This is Unbreakable Twenty-one.”

  “Unbreakable Twenty-one, this is Seven,” I answered.

  “Seven, this is Twenty-one. Six is going to want to take a look at this, sir.”

  Captain Freedom took three steps and leaped into the air. Thirty-five feet from pretty much standing still, the magnificent bastard. I had to run more, but I ended up landing on the semi just after him. The rest of Eleven was right behind me.

  A sea of dead things. I’d read that phrase in a few reports. Once in a book someone loaned me at the start of the outbreaks, some horror-sci-fi thing about the Grim Reaper hunting zombies. It always struck me as a crap phrase. Something people said to avoid being exact. I’d dealt with hundreds of soldiers in boot camp and never had trouble keeping them separate. I’d been at ceremonies with over two thousand men and women present and it never seemed like a sea.

  There was a frigging ocean of dead things on the other side of the pileup. It’s one thing to read reports about the walking dead, to hear how many of them there were. Seeing it is like getting dropped in ice water. Seven, maybe eight thousand exes. Maybe more. After one of the first briefings we attended together, Freedom told me the human mind can’t comprehend numbers over one hundred. As the previous paragraph might indicate, at the time I thought it was bullcrap. Now I’m not so sure.

  They’d been drawn this way by the sound of our engines and our weapons, stumbling in our direction for an hour now from all over the city. The semi across the road was acting like a floodgate. They just piled up against it, stretching back a mile down the double-wide road. I couldn’t see pavement anywhere. The chattering from their teeth was like static. It went on and on and you knew it wasn’t ever going to end. It just hung in the air like flies over garbage.

  The ones closest to the semi saw us and surged forward. They clawed at the sides of the box. Most of them still looked like people. I saw one that looked like it’d been set on fire. I couldn’t tell if it’d been a man or a woman. Another one looked like its arm had been shot off. There was a woman with dark hair like my sister. Her jaw had been blown off. There were strings of muscle and skin hanging off her upper teeth. The strings twitched as the dead woman tried to clack her missing teeth together.

  “Screw me,” Taylor said again. “Screw me.”

  “Shut it right now, specialist,” I snapped.

  “Yes, sir.” He stopped making noise but his lips kept moving.

  Right there. Taylor was an arrogant jackass but he knew to keep his mouth shut when told to. Seeing all these things was throwing him. Heck, it was throwing me. I should’ve said something.

  A message came in from Twelve. Enough of the exes were making it around the pile of cars that they needed to take action. Freedom gave the word and I relayed. There was a roar as Twelve’s Bravos cut down the dead things. Section Thirty-one joined in a moment later.

  It was gas on a fire. More exes started staggering toward the sound. By the time the echo of the gunshots faded another three dozen, easy, had made it through the maze of cars. They were finding their way just by raw numbers.

  “Wait here,” said Freedom.

  A few quick steps along the roof of the semi and he launched himself over to the roof of the Circle K, another five or ten feet up. Some of the exes in the crowd shifted to follow him through the air. They clawed the front of the store. One of them fell through a broken window into the building.

  The captain got his bearings before looking east with a pair of binoculars. Looked at the church and the homes about three-quarters of a mile down the road. The road we couldn’t even see under all the exes. He shook his head. He knew what I knew. Even if every single round in every weapon we had took out a zombie, we didn’t have enough. Not enough ammo. Not enough time to use it if we had it.

  I looked at my watch. It was eleven-hundred hours on the nose. I knew right then we weren’t going to be reaching those possible survivors on the south side of the city. They were going to have to hold out for a few more days.

  Credit where credit’s due, like I said before, the captain’s got a brain in that head of his. Some officers will bury their soldiers rather than admit they need to change tactics. Not many, but enough of them. Freedom’s willing to toss a plan on the spot if common sense tells him things have to be done different.

  I’ll also go on record and say he made the right call. If anyone reading this has any doubts, Captain Freedom made a difficult choice, but the only viable one. I would’ve made the same one if I’d been in command.

  He dropped back down onto the semi. We all felt the roof tremble. He was a big guy. “First Sergeant Paine,” he told me, “let’s fall back and regroup with the transport. Tell Twenty-two and Thirty-one to hold and give us cover until we’re back on the ground and clear of this traffic jam. Everyone else moves now.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. I sent the order down the lines and got back a drumroll of confirmations. Across the intersection Sergeant Pierce with Twenty-two gestured his understan
ding and his team’s readiness.

  The exes were thick around the semi-trailer now. They were flowing between the cars, like water finding the path of least resistance. The bodies Twenty-one had dropped to get up here were being mashed under hundreds of stumbling feet. The captain could’ve jumped clear to safety, but no way the rest of us could.

  “The cars,” he said. “Don’t jump for the ground, jump for the tops of the cars. It’s too high up for them to reach us.” He pointed out a path, from an SUV to a battered station wagon to a minivan to another minivan to another SUV to a shiny Lexus and hitting the pavement right near Section Twenty-two. “Once we go, we go as fast as we can. Don’t stop or they’ll have time to grab you and overwhelm you.”

  Again, training kicks in. Discussing tactics right in front of the enemy in a loud voice. It feels wrong. It’s hard to take it seriously.

  “Section Twenty-one then Eleven,” I told them. “You heard the captain. Hop, skip, and a jump. Line up and make it snappy.”

  Another burst of gunfire from the ground. Section Thirty-one had a steady stream of exes coming at them from two directions. Their support section of Real Men moved in and laid down more fire. Some of the dead things shifted course for the sound. Most of them kept heading for Twenty-two and the sections falling back.

  Hayes, Polk, and Taylor moved bang, bang, bang. SUV, station wagon, minivan, minivan, SUV, Lexus. All three were safe and some of the exes were still raising their arms. Too slow to get them, too slow to shift targets. Sergeant Harrison gave them a moment to make sure they were clear. Then he moved.

  Franklin, Truman, and Jefferson from Twenty-one were next. Truman’s foot slipped on the second SUV and he stumbled for a moment. In that moment I pictured Jefferson slamming into him from behind and both of them falling down into a crowd of exes. I don’t think I was the only one picturing it. Truman went with it, though. Threw himself forward again with the stumble. He pretty much hit the Lexus on all fours and pushed himself off as hard and fast as he could. Shoved himself back into the air with his arms. Right there, super-strength paying for itself with one life. He hit the ground by Twenty-two face-first and rolled away before Jefferson landed on him. Sergeant Monroe hit the ground a few seconds later.

  It left me, Captain Freedom, and Unbreakable Seventeen—Platoon Sergeant Kennedy—on top of the truck. She’s another damn fine soldier. “Ladies first,” I told her.

  Her lips twisted from a scowl to a tight grin. “With all due respect,” she said, “screw you, first sergeant.”

  “Noted,” I said. “Get yourself down there.”

  “Nosebleed.” I gave her a blank look. She mimed wiping her upper lip and pointed the finger at me. “You’re leaking, Top.”

  My glove came back red when I wiped it across the bottom of my nose. I didn’t remember getting hit or bumping anything. Damn air’s so dry out here. I wiped it again and pointed Kennedy off the truck.

  She jumped down to the first SUV. It was a little tougher for her. The exes were already gathered around the cars, already had their hands up. And there were a lot more of them making their way through the pileup. She was fast, though. Bang, bang, bang. They reached for her. They grabbed air every time.

  “After you, Paine,” said Freedom.

  “After you, sir.”

  “It’s getting tight. You should go next.”

  “Sir,” I told him, “don’t make me push you.”

  He gave me a look and launched himself into the air. The truck’s shocks squealed as it rocked. He hit the pavement right next to Monroe.

  Freedom turned to check on me. I saw his face shift. I looked to see what he was seeing.

  The exes had figured out the way around the wall of cars. That’s too generous. Don’t want to overestimate the enemy. They’d figured out a way around the same way water figures out how to get out of the sink when you leave the tap running. They just started spilling off the road and into the fields on the south side of the road. It had been a couple dozen when I first looked. It was a hundred, easy, already. Just like a sink.

  Section Thirty-one was closest to that flank. They were laying down fire while Twelve moved back in to give them some support. I could see a couple of them twitching and called out a stand-your-ground to Sergeant Boyle of Thirty-one.

  Then someone in the section flipped their rifle to burst. I saw the chest of one dead man ripple just below its neck. The next burst came a moment later. It was a little higher and tore through the corpse’s neck. Its head hung by a flap of skin and muscle for a few seconds and then tore loose. The zombie fell over.

  “Unbreakable Thirty-one,” I said, “this is Seven. Controlled burst only.”

  Another burst of fire from Thirty-one. And another. Section Twelve was in position and now they were firing big, long bursts from their Bravos.

  “Unbreakables Thirty-one and Twelve, this is Seven. Single shot only. Boyle, Washington, get your soldiers under control.” I tried to map another path across the abandoned cars, then saw Freedom was already heading that way with most of Eleven.

  Then I made my mistake. I jumped for the SUV, then to the station wagon. At the second minivan, though, I switched course. I cut across to a pickup. Then up onto a different SUV. From there to a Volkswagen. I needed to get back to Freedom before he did anything foolish. Officers are good at that sometimes. No offense to any officers reading this.

  I shouldn’t’ve changed the plan. I don’t know what made me do it. Deciding to change objectives in the middle of the plan is stupid. It gets people killed.

  A hand grabbed my ankle on the Volkswagen. I yanked out of instinct. Out of training. It threw me off. My next leap landed me right in the middle of a good-sized group of exes. They were so focused on Twelve they didn’t notice me. I was on my feet and pushing through them in a second.

  Then they grabbed me from behind.

  I slogged forward, trying to get as far away from those dead things as I could. Their skin’s like old paper. Gives me the creeps. Two of them dropped off while I ran. One hung on and ran straight into the butt of Sergeant Washington’s Bravo. The front of its skull just caved in.

  Exes were overwhelming our flank. Section Thirty-one had gotten it under control with Freedom there, but they’d let the corpses get too close. It was turning into a close-quarters fight, and that’s not where you want to be with these things.

  I charged in to get by the captain. He’d pulled out Lady Liberty, that monster sidearm he’d made from an AA-12, and was turning skulls into mush. Washington’s soldiers were using their Bravos like clubs. I saw a few heads go flying.

  Someone from Thirty-one screamed. Specialist Richards. One of the last ones to wash out of the program. She’d been bitten on the hand, right through her glove. A corporal reached to pull her back. He got grabbed himself. Half a dozen hands latched on and pulled him into the crowd of exes. I couldn’t see him, but I could hear him screaming. Freedom fought his way there. By the time he made it he was too late.

  I shattered an ex’s knee with my boot and broke its neck as it spun to the ground. Lady Liberty’s drum was empty, so Freedom was using those big hams he called fists, throwing punches that’d put any prizefighter to shame. He broke necks and cracked skulls with every one.

  A call came from Unbreakable Twenty-seven, Sergeant Johnson. All other squads had embarked and they were pulling up transport for us. Five minutes of fighting later and we were all in or on a Humvee.

  We’d barely made it a mile past the city limits. We’d lost eleven soldiers. Eight Real Men, three supers. Half our ammo was gone. Freedom called the retreat and it killed him to say it. You could see it on his face.

  Of course, we weren’t even halfway back and I started feeling sick. Tried to ignore it but Freedom took a good look at me and called up Franklin, the medic from Eleven. He gave me a good once-over. He found the scrape on the back of my neck, right between the collar and the back of my helmet. Teeth marks. Shallow ones. Just deep enough to draw blood. I’d
been so amped up I hadn’t felt a thing.

  It was my own fault. I must be clear on this point, again, for the record. I was disobeying orders by deviating from the path Captain Freedom had laid out for us. He is in no way to blame for any of this.

  Freedom gave me the news himself. They’d counted over thirty different infections in my blood. Spread all through me because of this awesome, over-muscled heart I’ve got. If they treat all of them, the cures will kill me. If they pick and choose, there’s a good chance I’ll end up crippled or useless. Or dead anyway.

  I’ve had tubes in me for nine days now. Got caught up on all my paperwork. Three days ago my hands started shaking too much to write with a pen. Sorensen’s man dug around and found me a laptop no one was using. Wanted to make sure he couldn’t get me anything else.

  Yesterday, I had to start taking breaks while I used the laptop. I’ve been working on this last report since oh-six-hundred and it’s dinnertime now. I’m nauseous and tired all the time, even though they switched out my bags. And my nose is bleeding nonstop now. My ears, too. All this stuff they’ve done to us, but no one here can stop a nosebleed.

  This is a siege now. I saw the fences when we drove in. Heck, they gave me a bed near a window. I can’t see out, but I can hear them. I can hear their teeth.

  I know I’m never getting out of this bed. I’m going to lie here and use up resources until I croak. So the real question is, how long am I going to be the weak link? How long will I hold back the company and eat up supplies they’re going to need?

  I’ve had a few visitors. Most of them are polite and formal. One of them was good enough to get what I need from my quarters. I haven’t checked, but I can tell by the weight it doesn’t have a full magazine.

  That’s okay.

  THE EXES STAGGERED FORWARD. Cerberus swept aside the first wave and the air crackled around her fists as the stun fields ignited. She shouted over her shoulder, “Those of you with weapons, forward! Everyone else, get back!”

  One of the first exes, a young man with a gaping hole in his cheek, stumbled over the battlesuit’s toes and fell headfirst against the armored shin. Cerberus grabbed a dead man’s shoulder and threw the ex back through the mob. It knocked over a dozen other shambling forms before slamming into the back wall of the garage. Next to the titan, Stealth had already broken two skulls with her batons.