by Jim Couper
Jane, with Donald a step behind, barged in on the Colonel’s conversation with a mother and explained the plan as quickly as she could. She told him she would ride in the first vehicle in order to coordinate the assault. Donald sprinted to an armoured personnel carrier and told the crew to be prepared to knock a hole in the wall on the north side of the school the moment they saw smoke through the bottom windows. He told them to prepare a second vehicle to blast through the wall of the gym at exactly the same time. He would ride with them.
Colonel Mayhew-Shostakovich surprisingly nodded in agreement that the plan made sense. Parents surrounding him backed away and gave him room to think. He said that acting immediately had elements of logic and surprise. The Emergency Response Team received his order. They would break up the walls with bazooka fire then drive personnel carriers, each armed with bazookas, machine guns and grenades, through the hole. He said nothing about passengers, but Jane and Donald exhibited such authority and command when they climbed aboard that no one questioned them. The heavy vehicles drove along the town's back roads then positioned themselves on streets facing the targeted walls, far enough away as not to be obvious.
Jesse unfolded his wallet and found that his flammables consisted of a few receipts and bills in denominations of fives and twenties. "This is going to be an expensive fire," he whispered. He pried open a junction of the heating duct that ran just below the ceiling and pushed it in to shield his fire so the rush of furnace air would gently fan it rather than extinguish it. Exactly $125 in crumpled bills and various receipts acted as kindling. On top of that he placed strips of tar paper torn from an open section of roof. It caught fire on the first strike of the first match from a flattened pack he had stuck in the corner of his wallet, next to a condom, for emergencies. A small fire flared up and he tore off more tar paper and dropped it on top. When the flames reached 12 inches he dumped his wallet, minus MasterCard and driver’s license, on top. The loss of his Costco card and Save on Foods card caused him no sorrow, but seeing his Hooters discount card melting brought a moment of regret even though there were no establishments within 200 miles.
Smoke billowed black, but was hardly enough to fill a closet, let alone a room. He tossed in the matches and an insignificant flare ensued. Larger tarpaper strips from the ceiling quickly ignited and finally wisps of dark smoke sifted into the room below. In a frenzy he gathered bigger chunks of black paper, drop-ceiling plastic and a handful of dusty wood bits and tossed all onto the growing blaze. The fire alarm sounded and the sprinkler system started spewing water while his flames grew within the protective duct. Noise and water added to the confusion.
A short call to Jane confirmed he had a good start on his childhood dream – a burning schoolhouse – and the plan looked good. She should tell Mayhew everything is in order and she should see smoke within a minute and get ready to hit the wall. It pleased Jesse to know she was aboard the armoured truck.
Doogie experimented with the buoyancy of two bodies face-down in his pool. He added a handful of salt and stirred, since he thought the problem might be the solution. The fire alarm sounded. He ordered six full-bodied zombs to the children's room and shouted, "If they try to escape, eat them," but doubted they understood.
Mort had not liked the hostage taking from the start, but so far it had worked out and the army of misfortunates now had a meat locker full of fresh bodies, ripe and ready to be consumed. They might even get more meals in exchange for the remaining kids. He gave Doogie full credit for good planning and looked forward to the time his own mind reached levels of clarity that he could make a plan and carry it out. As it was now, if he planned to comb his hair, he would end up probing for ear wax with a toothbrush.
Despite his respect for his leader, Mort abhorred the idea of eating children, no matter how nourishing. It hurt to think of little Liberty’s missing fingers.
Six cohorts came towards Mort, at top zomb speed, heading for the kids’ room. They were the executioners, he knew. The wailing siren and water running along the hallway floor had caused panic. Mort blocked the doorway and grabbed each by the shoulders the way Doogie did, stared into their vacant eyes, and spoke loudly and clearly, "Do not eath children." He got the same reaction as if he had told them they won a Caribbean cruise.
Jesse threw a final arm-load of tar-impregnated paper onto his impressive blaze, swung down from the ceiling and landed a short lunge away from the grasping hands of ghoul guards. He danced backwards, a few feet ahead of them, taunting and leading them to the corner farthest from the children. Thick smoke descended around their heads as the alarm wailed and water sprang from the ceiling. Dirty spray trickled from their mottled hair into their eyes, half blinding them. The crash he waited for came on cue. Booms of bazookas and staccato rattling of machine guns filled the air. A familiar female voice shouted, “Don’t shoot until you see the yellow of their eyes.”
Jesse ducked under the smoke's black pall and pushed kids towards daylight. He did a head count as children scrambled to freedom and one could not be accounted for. Jesse rose to look for the missing kid. A small bullet entered his temple and blew out the back of his head. He never heard the crack of the rifle that ended his life in one perfect shot. He never heard his sergeant scream, “Hold your fire,” before a teen pulled the trigger. Dying as a humorous side event had been his fear: Jesse never envisioned himself as hero. His heart continued beating after the shot killed him and 10 grimy nails pulled selected meats from his torso. They never got to his brain.
In hand-to-hand combat the soldiers did not do well and their marksmanship did not match the standards of the private who felled Jesse with one unlucky shot. More zombies filed into the room and they would not die unless hit directly with a bazooka that beheaded them. Only two such shots reached their marks amidst the wet, smoky chaos.
Children scrambled to where Jesse had directed them and raced out the door and across the field. Two lumbering zombies tried to catch them, but turned to mush as a dozen machine guns got them in their sights and opened fire without regard for the houses they demolished when they missed. Soldiers grabbed escaped children and ushered them to safety, leaving behind their vehicle and the smoky school.
The ram and shoot tactic proved less effective in the gymnasium due to the indistinguishable mix of zombies and civilians. Had there been smoke, the military sharpshooters would have known to shoot the ones that didn’t possess enough sense to duck under the black blanket. The zombies descended on the soldiers who tried to discern differences before firing. Yellow bleary eyes, rotting skin, patchy scalp, maggots, overpowering stench, the presence of flies and good clothes were what they looked for. Trigger fingers held back because they had been warned the sneaky creatures might even change clothes once more.
In Darwinian accord the strongest and fittest teachers broke from the school and raced to safety. Several soldiers fell to teeth and nails. Donald recognized that continuing the attack was fruitless. He shouted for a retreat but no one listened as he had no authority. Zombies were having a field day eating captives, hostages and soldiers far faster than they themselves were being killed.
Mort walked through the room where children had been held and felt a strange satisfaction with their escape. From a cupboard a muffled whimpering sound emerged and he opened its door. A pudgy boy huddled under a blanket, cowering and crying. He looked delicious. Mort put out his hand and said, "I promith, won’t hurt you, I hath two kids." The boy put out his hand and Mort helped him to his feet. He could taste the lad melting in his mouth. He could see him roasted on a platter atop a table with bulging belly, apple in mouth, ready for a pair of hungry hands to unveil inner warmth.
Daylight scrambled through the wall’s gaping hole. Freedom for the boy was a sprint away, but Doogie posted new guards, three inside and three out. “Stay in cuthboard, out of thight,” Mort told the cowering lad in his clearest, slowest words. The boy returned a puzzled stare. Using two walking fingers to indicate going away and returning Mor
t conveyed he would return in a few minutes with food. It was Mort’s duty to keep him fat.
At field-side, parents jubilantly celebrated the return of their children. The military congratulated each other on a successful operation and lamented the loss of more soldiers. Jane and Donald knew nothing of the fate of Jesse, who dropped out of sight beneath the smoke blanket. His comical voice, that had become so serious during the crisis, did not respond to phone calls.
After a few minutes calmness descended over the crowd as if a cloud of Dramamine had blown into the valley. Despite the fact undead still controlled the school and held a few staff hostage, there was a feeling the war had been fought and won and Peachland could return to normal. A mother's moan interrupted the quiet and word spread that one child remained unaccounted for. Eyes glanced to a forlorn couple as if it was their fault that everyone could no longer relax and celebrate. Why hadn't they taught their child to follow the crowd, to seek out the light and run to freedom? What kind of parents were they that their child should choose to remain with filthy ogres? Had he gone native?
37
Chaos, never before known to vamkind, erupted at Vladimir's bar. Veronica, Victor and other Vees argued vehemently in raised voices about what to do with a wine cellar full of bloated floaters.
No one had the energy to fish out the bodies, take them deep into the woods and make them disappear as was the routine when a sucking went amiss. The basement water level shrunk by less than one-quarter inch an hour. It would be weeks before they could get to the few remaining vials of blood and who knew if water had diluted them? No one volunteered to snorkel.
Everyone felt the effects of sera deprivation: all looked wan and anaemic. Without exception the vamps wanted to walk away from the problem, head for the cemetery, crawl into a crypt, go dormant for a decade and emerge in improved times. To do so they had to be in full health and for that their blood supply had to be replenished. Catch 22. Well planned schemes resulted in a cellar full of death, a burned tavern and disaster on a dock.
Another botched attempt at problem solving and they could slip into the netherworld and end up as bodies on the barroom floor. Someone would find them, locate no next of kin and bury them. They would rise as blood-sucking cannibals: hybrid vambies. What a mess, what a miserable end to a golden era. Never again would they play spider solitaire or Wii bowling.
No solution presented itself and no one had the inclination to search for one.A small, battery-powered television displayed how a properly executed plan had saved the school kids and mowed down a significant number of the enemy. Watchers of the tiny screen wished they could get their teeth into the necks of robust soldiers. Even dead combatants with no blood pressure offered a few stray drops to be enjoyed. Subconsciously, they licked their lips and blood-thinning saliva filled their mouths.
Vamps couldn't even call a construction crew to have their tavern repaired and pumped out for fear workers would uncover floaters. Calling an insurance company didn’t come up for discussion as they carried no insurance and didn’t need it. Paying for repairs was like buying a stamp.
Even dogs and cats, whose blood could keep them happy for a few hours, in the most dire of circumstances, had skipped town or been eaten by egalitarian zombies. A rat raced past their feet and all eyed it with the same thoughts, but not one would stoop that low. At least not in front of others.
The end of October approached and Vladimir's Bar, their only meeting place, wouldn't be repaired for a month or more and that meant no heat and no electricity. They could be mushing through slush before things got close to normal. They hated cold and snow. That's why their Peachland locale, next to the shimmering lake, with long lazy summers and hardly any winter snow, served them well. Plus, they had access to big box electronics stores just 20 minutes distant.
For decades hookers provided the men with all the vital liquid they required. Vampettes lured lonely, naive men into shaded rooms for foreplay and siphon. Afterwards limp bodies were wheeled into minivans and dumped behind red-light hotels or in parkland. Street people, without the wherewithal to determine if a malaise came from overindulgence in cheap wine or from mysterious puncture wounds on their necks, could normally be counted on for a pint from time to time. Parks, shelters and church hostels now housed none.
Winter approached, useless bodies filled their wine cellar, all sources of sera had dried up, their business had burned and their feet were cold. The zombie invasion brought tranquility crashing down like a glass shelf in a china shop. Making another plan had all the attraction of watching a zombie buffet. Nothing inspired them to look for the sunny side of life.
Amidst the silence Veronica's small voice quivered with words that no one wanted to hear, "I have an idea. The best one ever." Several moaned, but she continued, "First I have to think it over. Meet here Thursday at six in the evening. Meanwhile go home, get warm, get rest."
38
Colonel Mayhew-Shostakovich almost cursed and then apologized as he stared at the school. He blamed the stupid kid who hadn't fled with the others. Were it not for him the mission would have been nearly perfect and he would have been a hero. Just one stupid kid. Bombs dropped on the school would vaporize the zombies. A few heroic teachers and ailing seniors would lose their lives, but it would end. It would be for the greater good. Mayhew would count the loss of one idiotic boy as collateral damage, but it would be hard to explain to his parents and the public that the army had bombed the little bugger into oblivion.
The commander grabbed his hailer and shouted into it, "You have one child. We would like to offer you an adult in exchange."
Mort was mortified when he heard the colonel's words penetrate the school. He didn't want anyone to know about the hidden boy: he wanted to get him out of the school. Doogie would never allow the boy to go if he knew about him and now he knew. Although Mort craved fresh meat he had curbed his desire to dig into the plump boy in the cupboard. This restraint pleased him. Knowing how to be pleased pleased him.
On hearing the announcement a trace of a smile tried to transform Doogie’s serious visage. Since the children escaped he had paced while pondering his problems. He wondered why the army didn't regroup, march through the broken walls and slay them all. Now he knew. One child remained unaccounted for and he was in the school. Doogie turned on the intercom then turned it off. "Woon't reply,” he said to either Mort or himself, “Why give info?"
Doogie asked, "Doo yoou know where kid hid?" Mort shook his head. He shook it with too much vigor and a clump of hairy scalp slid off and landed on his shoulder. His body had become a mess with more duct tape than skin holding it together. The sprinklers had been cruel to him. Doogie fared little better although he used plain grey tape without the silver finish. It matched his skin color and didn't stand out. The checked green business suit he wore made his head look like a baked potato atop a salad.
Doogie assembled a group of full-bodied zombs plus Heady, who followed any group, welcome or not, and commanded them to find the child. The unthinking creatures seemed to have some basic concept of his commands.
"Loook behind dooors, under flooors, in cupbooards ... yoou bring me child. Then yoou eat. But not child." Some zombs had already taken advantage of wounded teachers plus a combatant felled by friendly fire. To Doogie, dining on the dead equalled the lowest order of dumpster diving. Stale organs of recently deceased gave little energy since their vital juices quickly trickled away. Dead humans, even newly deceased, tasted like pizza boxes.Mort joined the search team and when they reached the room where the boy hid he ordered, "I look here." Heady followed him while the others went elsewhere. On opening the cupboard door, the teary-eyed boy, a first grader, proclaimed, "I'm hungry." Mort said “thorry” for not bringing food and promised to find some. "You like liver?" he asked. The boy screwed up his face and Mort remembered that children preferred the mundane. "Thardine sandwith?"
Mort trod towards the door, his search of the room complete. Heady shuffled behind, silent and lo
yal, then made a U-turn and headed for the cupboard, salivating. Mort grabbed her and held her as she struggled. He told her not to blab about the boy and then realized she couldn’t.
An hour later the last child hostage had not been found. Doogie switched on the school's speaker system and proclaimed, "We not give yoo child. It oor protection." He switched off and waddled down the hall to check his floating bodies. The batteries still had charge in them and the new solution looked good. In the morning resurrection would begin.
Thinking about batteries made Doogie aware that his own charge ran low: the floor of the school did not conduct voltage from the ground. He gathered a group of 25 full-bodies and a half-dozen hollows and showed them how to shed their shoes. They walked outside the school, sliding feet across grass and picking up a trickle charge. After Doogie’s group dispersed and its leader vanished to the school basement, Mort did the dandelion shuffle with a second group.
Jane, Donald, the Colonel and many others watched the processions of barefoot zombies circle the schoolyard and wondered what they could be doing. Surely they didn't need exercise. At any time the military could have blasted them and, but for the sake of one young hostage, would have done so.
Colonel Mayhew-Shostakovich paced among his men, black shoes firmly on feet, deep in thought. After a dozen backs and forths Jane approached and Donald followed. She asked, “How much do you think they know?”
He rephrased her question. "What do those spit-heads, excuse my language, know?"
"Know about the missing boy,” she clarified. “We never specified a boy or girl. The zombie said, 'We will not give up child. It is …' If I was talking about a kid I was familiar with, I'd say 'We will not give up the boy. He is …' "
"So you think they may not know where he is," the Colonel deduced.
Donald chipped in, "An hour passed before he replied to our offer of a swap. They may have been looking for him. I'd guess they didn't find him. Maybe he isn’t there. Are you considering attacking?"
