Chapter 4
The Dark Times: The year 2015
Platoon Forward Observer Steve Rogan scanned the streets below from atop the roof of Broadmoor First Baptist church. Once-dead bodies reanimated to life filled his Omega Class range finder in every direction. He knew that things weren’t going well for the good guys, but had never seen it this bad.
He let the range finder drop to his chest, dangling by the strap, and wiped a crusty accumulation of dirt and tobacco spit from the corner of his mouth. Squinting under the noonday sun, he began to reminisce how a problem the military once had almost contained had gotten so out of hand.
The cloud of space dust the Earth had wandered into as it orbited the sun had turned the day into night. There was some widespread panic, but it was detected early enough that scientists knew what to expect. The various worldwide media gave out the warnings and all but the most uncivilized and less sane reacted rationally.
The Earth passed through the cloud in less than thirty-six hours. Seemingly, the only observable effects were the darkness and the rains turning yellowish. The rains carried with them remnants of the space dust.
The dust harbored an alien microbe best resembling an Earth virus, and not considered a true life form, as it did not self-replicate.
Being alien with incompatible DNA, the virus was unable to infect any living creature on the Earth, much to everyone's relief. However, no one suspected that it would work its way into the soil. No one suspected that it would mutate. No one suspected the alien virus would rekindle the fires of life in the dead.
Rogan returned the range finder to his eyes.
"What are you looking for? The cavalry? They ain't coming," Andy Wells said as he sat cross-legged on the roof by Rogan. He then ripped open a MRE with his teeth, squeezed a portion of noodles and red sauce up through the hole, and took a bite.
Rogan continued his watch. "I'm amazed how the numbers keep growing by the day. We almost had them beat when all that damn virus did was raise the buried dead. But since it started effecting anyone that dies, or anyone that gets bit, their numbers have been growing exponentially."
"Ex-po-nent-il-ly. That's a mighty high-dollar word for a high school grad-u-ate," Wells said, sucking a dangling noodle from the food pouch.
"Go fu—hey, what's that?" A group of the walking dead picked up the pace of their lumbering gait. Rogan moved his range finder in the direction they were heading.
"Oh my God," Rogan said in disbelief.
"What?" Wells asked, tearing the side of the pouch and licking the remaining sweet sauce stuck to the inside of the package.
A family of five consisting of a man, a woman, three kids, and a dog, were running for their lives up the street several blocks away from the church. The man held a toddler closely to his chest, and pushed his wife to run faster. He pulled at the other children, a boy and a girl—who were around seven or eight years old—to keep up.
The clothes the family wore were filthy, not much better than the rags the living corpses wore that were in pursuit. Rogan could see the fatigue in humans' haggard faces, and wondered when they had last eaten a meal.
The girl tripped, landing on her knees and elbows, peeling the flesh back, and sending the rich scent of blood into the winds. The dog, a cocker spaniel, turned back and sped to her side.
The man nearly threw the toddler into the woman's arms, and rushed back to his daughter's aid.
An athletically built male zombie with a blank stare and a huge chunk missing from its neck reached out to grab the girl as she struggled to lift herself off the street. Her cries for help only excited the flesh eater more.
Before the zombie could grab the girl's foot, the dog leapt up and latched onto its wrist. Snarling like a pint-sized wolf, the cocker spaniel shook the hand violently, twisting it off. The dog ran off, clutching the undead prize in its jaws.
By this time, the man was on the scene, and put the full force of his heel into the nose of the ravenous zombie. Its head snapped off and rolled directly in front of the murderous horde that was only a few feet away.
"I said, 'what?'" Wells followed with a burp.
The living dead covered the man like a swarm of fire ants. He disappeared into the crowd, finding eternal rest in the bellies of the beasts.
The girl was next to go, caught up in the wave of zombies that headed straight for the boy, the woman, and the toddler she was holding.
"Nothing," Rogan said.
The woman and the boy came to a screeching halt as another group of the walking dead appeared in front of them. Trapped, with nowhere to run, the woman dropped to her knees and screamed out angrily toward the sky. Bending over, she covered the toddler with her body.
Like two mighty rivers, the zombies overwhelmed the fragile humans from both directions, the distance too far for their screams to reach the rooftop.
"Come on, really, what do you see?" Wells said, pulling at the cuff of Rogan's pants.
"I said nothing you ignorant fuck! Now fuck the fuck off!"
Wells looked up into the face of his friend, a brother in his platoon, and winced as if he expected to be hit. Wells went to speak, perhaps to ask for forgiveness, but lowered his head instead and stared at the shingles.
Rogan broke his laser stare and turned his attention back toward the skirmish, and raised the range finder to his eyes. Gone, all gone. As if it never happened. Some dark splotches stained the street, but even that could have been there before. The streets had been stained with blood and gore for a long time. He was not sure if, or when, the slaughter would finally end.
The radio microphone squawked on Well's collar. "Second Platoon, Wells, are you still with us?"
Well's cleared his throat. "Yeah, we's still with ya. Not sure for how much longer though. Thems flesh eaters got us surrounded so thick that the wind won't blow between 'em."
"This is a heads up. Bombers will be arriving soon in a neighborhood near you. Their ordinance is a modified version of an aerosol bomb that will be dispersing Z-gas. Z-gas is heavier than air. Each bomb released will cover an area several square miles wide. This gas is not harmful, repeat, not harmful to the Living. It only affects those dead bastards carrying the alien virus. Don't be alarmed when you see the bombs drop out of the sky. And for God's sake, don't go shooting at them for target practice."
Wells smiled at Rogan, giving him a thumb up. Keying the switch on his microphone, he said, "What's this here gas gonna do? Make their heads explode or something? That's the only way to kill a zombie—blowing its head off."
"The gas won't kill them, but it will make them docile. There will be further orders once the gassing is complete. Do not engage any of the undead until given direct orders to do so. Hold your position. Expect new orders in twenty-four to thirty-six hours. Clear?"
"Oh, we's clear, with fingers and toes crossed. Wells, Second Platoon, out."
Rogan wasn't sure what result this new assault would bring. At least it offered a hope he didn't have five minutes before.
He wondered about the dog that ran off with the zombie's hand, if this would be too little, or too late, for it to be saved.
(End of chapter 4. Resurrection X: Zombie Evolution will be available in paperback and electronic download from Post Mortem Press in June/July 2012 and all major online booksellers.)
Love Prevails: A Zombie Nightmare Page 6
