Insurgent Z: A Zombie Novel

by Scioneaux, Mark C.

  The directions were simpler this time: Head back to base.

  They walked silently down the dark highway, the two in the rear carrying the dead drone. The Humvee that carried them there was parked behind a tree. The two carrying the dead drone tossed the corpse into the back of the vehicle. They climbed in and started the drive back to base.

  Up ahead, people began to appear on the horizon, hundreds littering the road. The drones received orders to scan the upcoming mass. All scans revealed no vitals and no body temperatures exceeding the surrounding air. They were dead, like them. The drones drove past the mass of moaning voices and thrashing limbs. Blind eyes lurched forward in search of only one thing: food.

  The zombies paid the drones no mind as the Humvee headed toward them. One of the undead was knocked to the ground as the edge of the front fender caught its leg. At their current pace, the drones would be back on base soon. There, they would receive their next orders.

  The swarm of zombies continued, moving forward without care or regard. The air was peppered with the scents of living flesh and fresh life; it drove them forward. A new challenge for humanity was upon them, and though the majority of Louisiana residents were fast asleep in their beds, they would wake to find life as they knew it had changed.

  Epilogue

  Hart was strapped in so tightly to the gurney his skin bulged around the restraints. The monitor on the wall showed his brain activity at zero. An IV to either side dripped clear liquid into his arms. His face had started to twist with the unseen forces activated in his body.

  The door to the lab opened. Reid walked in, lifted his hat, and ran his fingers through his short hair. “Do you want to hear the good news first or the bad news?”

  “Is it really good news or just better bad news?” Gottlieb pulled away from a microscope and rubbed his eyes.

  “The drones have returned. They completed the mission flawlessly, but we lost one of them. The cameras they wore recorded everything in real time. That’s the good news. The bad news is that the zombies have escaped into the next parish. Blackwell busted through the barricade. The troops were out of ammo and had no way to stop them. We’re dead in the water until help arrives.”

  “When is that going to be?”

  “I don’t know. I just got off the phone and reported the situation. If a breach doesn’t light a fire under the brass, then nothing will.”

  “Did they tell you what to do with the Colonel?”

  “No word. It looks like you have him under control right now.”

  Gottlieb stretched his back. “Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. At least he’s not going anywhere. The drugs have him in a coma. I don’t know if the biological agents working inside will find a way past the drugs to reanimate him later on. There’s so much to learn at this stage.”

  “What about Mason?” Reid pointed to the body on a gurney near a wall. “Should I haul him out and burn him with the others?”

  “Sure. He’ll just stink up the place if you leave him here.”

  “Fine I’ll—what the hell?” Reid took a step back and brought his hand to his mouth.

  “What is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Gottlieb looked over at Mason’s body.

  “His fingers twitched! I saw them move.”

  “That’s nothing. Dead bodies do that sometime. Body gases, electrical charges stored in muscles, rigor mortis setting in, could be one of those things.”

  Mason’s arms were at his sides. His right arm fell off the gurney and hung to the floor. His hand slowly balled into a fist.

  Reid and Gottlieb met gazes. Each waited for the other to make the next call.

  The End

  Read on for a free sample of Convoy 19: A Zombie Novel

  Dane Hatchell is the author of the novel: RESURRECTION X, the collection: MIND HEMORRHAGES, co-author of the novella: SLIPWAY GREY, and the novel: INSURGENT Z. Multiple short stories by Dane have appeared in various anthologies over the last few years.

  Mark C. Scioneaux is a Bram Stoker Award ® nominated editor and author.

  He is the author of numerous short stories appearing in various anthologies. He is the author of FAMILY DINNER; and coauthor of SLIPWAY GREY. He is also coauthor of the "Splattire Series" with books that include CANNIBAL FAT CAMP and DIE, YOU ZOMBIE CRACKERS!.

  He is the co-editor of the award-nominated Horror for Good: A Charitable Anthology.

  He is a graduate of Louisiana State University and currently resides in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.

  Chapter 1

  “Almost home,” Sergeant First Class Carl Harvey whispered under his breath, as he accelerated his military Humvee through the dark, rubble-strewn city streets. The windshield wipers, moving at full speed, barely cut through the torrential downpour that was so uncharacteristic of San Diego weather. Carl leaned forward in the driver seat struggling to lead his convoy of military vehicles home. The interior of the hummer was a noisy cacophony of confusion. Terrified sobs and screams from the civilians who sat in the back of his vehicle, mingled with the constant squawking of communications across the combat network. The .50 caliber machine gun mounted above him drowned the havoc in sporadic thunder and death.

  A swarm of living dead was close behind. Carl had often wondered at the horrifying phenomenon that drove undead to gather in groups. Individually, they were dangerous, but easily dealt with. In groups, however, they could work themselves into frenzy. Hundreds, even thousands of rotting cadavers sprinted after the convoy like a ravenous marathon.

  Agitated for long enough, a boiling swarm of zombies might pursue prey for miles until they were distracted. Carl knew that if he were to stop driving, the howls of the hungry dead would raise to a crescendo as they engulfed the convoy. He blinked away the mental image and pressed on the accelerator.

  Harvey’s responsibilities as point driver – the lead vehicle of the convoy – were measured in split seconds – instantaneous judgment calls that led the convoy through the mayhem of a city consumed by the undead. A wrong turn, break down, even a flat tire, would cost lives. Having grown up in northern Michigan, he had learned to drive in an unforgiving crucible of weather that was encouraged and supported by a culture and family that loved everything about cars. Now, as the country struggled to survive a living nightmare of death risen to devour the living, he couldn’t help but remember the blizzards he had experienced in his youth. A relentless, high-intensity storm, where no one respected the law, cars being abandoned and debris littered every inch of the road. On top of all that, an armed hostile civilian or flesh-eating monster could, and often did, jump out at you at any second.

  Carl Harvey was in his late-twenties, but the stress of the last year had aged him. His dirty-blond hair was cut military short and was beginning to show flecks of gray. His jaw was always covered in stubble. He walked and talked as if he was half soldier, half truck driver, and extended a cool aura of confidence that made him a natural leader. He was the kind of man that made other soldiers believe that, whatever shit the world threw at them, Sergeant First Class Harvey knew what he was doing, and he would get you through it. Aided by the obscenely high attrition rates among the convoy teams, he vaulted quickly through the ranks.

  “Approaching Interstate 8, five miles east of US Naval Station. We’ll be home in no time boys.” Specialist Pamela Grace sat in the passenger seat speaking into her headset-mounted microphone. A laptop computer sat on a dashboard-mounted tray in front of her. Her words seemed to calm the civilians somewhat. As point vehicle communications expert, she was connected to an extensive network of communications, satellite feeds, and minute-by-minute reporting. This gave her a picture of how to get the convoy where they needed to go, without leading it straight into a roadblock, hostile civilians, or a swarm of flesh-eating dead who would stop at nothing to consume the living.

  With a gentle spin of the wheel, Carl expertly turned his Humvee up an onramp onto a yellow-lit highway that would lead them to their destination. The machine gun fire gradually
dropped from a sporadic thunder to a periodic rattle.

  “What’s that?” Pam covered her microphone and sat up abruptly.

  “What? SHIT!” Carl quickly pushed down on the accelerator before he slammed into a dozen figures huddled on the highway. Gore and body parts launched in every direction, smearing the windshield with thick gouts of blood. The civilians in the back screamed in horror.

  Convoy drivers had been trained to neither slow down nor swerve, but rather to accelerate when something – living or dead – crossed the path of their moving armored vehicle. Swerve and you risk losing control or crashing; a very bad thing in the best of circumstances, a death sentence in most. Slow down unexpectedly, and you risk being rear-ended by the Humvee on your tail, ending up with a carcass on your hood, or giving an armed attacker with nothing left to lose that extra second he needs to put you in his crosshairs. It was best to use the Humvee’s kinetic energy to plow through anything that didn’t have the wherewithal to stay out of the convoy’s way.

  The force of the impact jolted the rain-soaked gunner out of his mount. Sergeant Miguel Ramos dropped down into the cab from his position and cursed. “What the hell?”

  “More dead. Civilians know not to cross into the street by now,” Pam assured them both. As the situation across the country worsened, one of San Diego’s main arteries, Interstate 8, had been blocked off for strictly military purposes. The road served as a valuable pipeline connecting the various pockets of survivors scattered around the city to the US Naval Base. The U.S.S. Ronald Reagan, Nimitz-class supercarrier, and its accompanying battle group floated offshore collecting supplies and refugees. For over two months, the battle group had been filled with survivors from every reachable corner of California. The convoys were an essential component of a much bigger picture, whose focus was to survive an Armageddon no one had anticipated or planned for – the rise of the living dead.

  “There comes a point when the threat from the walking dead is greater than the threat from us,” Miguel grumbled curtly. He made the sign of the cross over his chest, pulled his stocky body back into the gun mount, and resumed scanning for targets. As the lead gunner, he was responsible for defending the convoy from constant onslaught – a job that seldom lent itself to looking at the bright side of things. No one knew how many unlucky innocent civilians found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time when a convoy passed by. The saying “from behind a .50 cal everyone looks the same”, was common among gunners who would return to the Naval Base with the gnawing guilt in the back of their mind about something they had seen on a mission. Was that shadow an animated corpse or some teenager running for his life? Was that an attacker or someone trying to flag the convoy down for help? There were millions of questions like this that were probably best left unanswered.

  The six-vehicle convoy had been making trips to and from the Naval base all day and well into the night, each time loaded up with civilians and supplies from Defensible Detention Centers. DDC’s - as they were called - had originally been set up as medical screening clinics all over the country when the outbreak first hit. As the outbreak grew, the clinics became more like detention facilities where those that had been screened were urged to remain to avoid infection. When the centers began to overflow with desperate people, the military had stepped in to provide security and supplies. Now that the entire country - indeed the world - was beset by the incomprehensible epidemic of cannibalistic undead, the decision had been made to evacuate the North American continent. Every convoy trip into the hell-torn streets of San Diego had cost lives, but had also saved countless more with the food, medical personnel, and supplies they brought to the fleet.

  “Control, this is convoy nineteen. Entry code: Alpha, Alpha, Tango, Alpha. We’ve got supplies and about thirty civvies that need offloaded, ASAP.” Grace’s voice always sounded monotone when she spoke through the communications network to the command center. The sandbag fortifications, gun towers, and bright yellow lights of the naval docks slowly loomed into view through the blurry windshield, and the sounds of the Naval Base defenses echoed off the buildings.

  “Negative, convoy. Entry code rejected. Do not pass checkpoint or you will be fired upon.” The casual voice of an officer in some comfortable office somewhere came back through the Humvee speakers. The civilians in back shuddered in terror at the thought of their struggle for survival within the DDC’s, meeting a violent end mere walking distance from salvation.

  Sergeant First Class r Harvey slammed on the brakes and the screeching tires of every vehicle behind him could be heard above the rattle of gunfire. His heart thumped into his chest. He knew his drivers were good, but rain-slicked streets made stopping on short notice a roll of the dice. Two Blackhawk helicopters hovered into position to block their entry to the docks. The menacing war machines looked like birds of prey, hungry to strike a defenseless target. A glance in the side mirror confirmed that the ravenous silhouettes of their pursuers had not given up the chase. Time was a valuable commodity.

  “Repeat, Control, entry code for convoy niner one. Alpha, alpha, tango, alpha!” Pam spoke clearly back through her headset.

  It was moments like this that he was reminded how lucky he was to have Pam as his communications expert. Had it been him speaking to Control, he would have screamed obscenities in impotent frustration, until the entire convoy was buried beneath a mountain of zombies. Despite the gravity of the situation, Pam always maintained a calm demeanor.

  The communications network was silent for a second before a voice came back. “Sorry, convoy. Proceed.” The Black Hawks lingered for a moment before reluctantly breaking off in separate directions to patrol the perimeter.

  The gunfire from the convoy stopped, as more robust firepower from the docks took over defense of the area. Two Abrams tanks flanking the entry to the docks thundered away at unseen targets. Their big cannons were ideal for obliterating large pockets of walking dead before they gathered in numbers that would be difficult for the tower gunners to handle. Machine gun nests were staggered in a half dozen towers inside a chain-link fence topped with razor wire. They rattled away at roving bands of zombies that approached the dock perimeter. Sniper groups sat on roofs scanning the area for lone wandering corpses that somehow made it through the defenses. The docks were—at least for now—the safest place in the city. Carl allowed himself to relax. Whatever was following them, could not get past the Naval Base perimeter – for now.

  Sergeant Ramos plopped back down into the cab before closing the hatch to the gun mount. “What the hell was that all about?”

  “Command has its head up its ass as usual.” Pam removed her helmet to let her short brown hair fall. She was a good-looking woman, in great shape, and possessing a self-assured confidence that commanded attention. Her technical knowledge, ready sidearm, and relaxed demeanor, made her equal parts librarian, geek, and action hero. She was the best communications expert in the convoy teams, and Sergeant First Class Harvey and Sergeant Ramos were both happy to have her on their team.

  The convoy rolled to a stop inside an enormous warehouse stocked with people and supplies. Every driver, gunner, and support personnel of the six-vehicle convoy poured out of their Humvees. They were desperate to stretch their legs, eat, and grab a smoke. Harvey, Ramos, and Grace—familiar with the ballet of logistics around them—never ceased to be amazed at the organized chaos taking place. Civilians were escorted from the convoy and entered medical checkpoints, where they were thoroughly examined before moving on to a series of additional checkpoints. The exhaustive screening—in addition to ensuring no infected made it into the fleet—was designed to distinguish people with uniquely beneficial skill sets, from the rank and file who had little to offer the fleet outside of hungry mouths. Meanwhile, forklifts moved every imaginable type of supply onto ferries, destined to venture into zombie-infested waters to deliver precious cargo to the battle group and accompanying container ships off shore.

  Mechanics, reminiscent of a NASCAR pit
crew, instantly took to maintenance on every vehicle in the convoy with incredible efficiency. The lead convoy team stood wondering quietly, with everything going on around them, how the walking dead had gotten the better of the United States Military.

  As usual, Captain Sheridan approached the group to give a de-briefing and issue new orders. “Good job, soldiers. Here’s your next rendezvous point, and...” Captain Sheridan glanced about his paperwork before handing two slips of paper to Pam. “…here are your acquisition orders.” His finely pressed uniform and intellectual-looking glasses were a sharp contrast to the three disheveled soldiers standing in combat fatigues.

  Miguel sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Another run?”

  “Cap, how many more of these we gonna do?” Protocol had long since fallen by the wayside, and Grace cut right to the issue on everyone’s mind.

  “Another one down, Cap.” A mechanic covered in grease interrupted Sheridan’s reply. “There’s a police spike strip tangled in the suspension of number four. The axel’s warped… the transmission housing is cracked… hell… I don’t even know how it made it back here. It’s done.”

  “A police spike strip?” Captain Sheridan looked the mechanic straight in the eye before turning to address Carl.

  “I don’t know, sir. It’s pretty rough out there. Any cops trapped outside the DDC’s aren’t above doing whatever they can to hitch a ride…they get pretty pissed when we don’t stop,” Carl answered.

  “Specialist…” Sheridan looked at Pam, addressing her question: “you’re going to continue to make runs until your vehicle is broken down, out of gas, out of ammunition, or the Admiral says we’re pulling out--whichever comes first. Is that understood?”