by Rachel Aukes
I’d made lieutenant only three days ago. Two days ago, Lendt promoted me to captain. At how quickly the zeds were chewing up officers, I’d be a general by next week. It wouldn’t matter that I’d just lost thirty-two troops under my command. They would keep throwing more troops from every branch at me until we ran out of troops to send to their deaths against an enemy that never stopped. How many had died under my command? Was it eighty now? No, more. Eighty-six.
“What’s the plan, Maz?” Jonesie asked in a low voice, ever the calm one.
Pulled back to the current SNAFU, I swallowed. After being in a hot zone for over twenty-eight hours, I was mentally and physically exhausted. And now Jonesie—my closest friend—along with all that was left of the Third Platoon, was looking to me to save our collective ass.
“Take five—check your ammo and refill your canteens—and then we head out for the RP. We’ll hoof it until the road opens up. Then we’ll grab wheels,” I finally said. “Thompson, open up some of those bags of ground coffee and run some water into them. It might help to mask our scent out there.”
I’d lost five good men learning that little lesson. If it moved like a human, the zeds went after it. If it made noise like a human, the zeds went after it. If it smelled like a human, the zeds really went after it.
Thompson handed me a bag of soaked coffee grounds. I grabbed a clump and smeared the grounds across my vest, rubbing extra over a broad dark stain I’d acquired when Frankie bled out in my arms. The pungent smell of coffee grounds was a vast improvement from the stench of plague saturating the air and my clothes.
I climbed up on my knees, and raised my head just enough to peek over the counter and out the window. On the street, vehicles were mashed together, filling up every inch of open space in front of us. The lights on an ambulance still flashed, though they were growing dim. Even if we could make it through that obstacle course of twisted metal and mangled bodies, we’d never make it past the hundred or so zeds. We’d use up what little ammo we had left to clear out the herd. And who knew how many more the noise would draw out. Not to mention the fresh ones joining the bloody herd every minute.
I checked my ammo. Half a mag. What I wouldn’t give for a .50 cal machine gun with unlimited ammo right about now.
After everyone finished checking their ammo and refilling their canteens with water bottles off the shelves, silence reverberated through the place for long seconds.
I shouldered my rifle and pulled out my knife. “Let’s do this. Once we’re outside, we’re invisible until we get in a vehicle. No shots unless there’s no other option. Got it?”
Yes, sir and hooah were my only response.
I took lead and crawled into the back room to the service door. I pushed aside the stack of boxes propped against the busted door and scanned outside through the window. Two zeds trudged near a dumpster. One had been a younger man wearing a nametag the same golden color as the coffee shop sign. The other, a middle-aged woman in business clothes, had been badly chewed upon.
I held up two fingers. “The alley looks wide open right now. Thompson, you take lead. Hart, you’re with Thompson. Jonesie and I will take out the two tangos at the dumpster and will be right behind you. Whatever happens, do not draw attention. Got it?”
Jonesie gave a slight nod. With a glance and a returning nod from Thompson, I helped Jonesie open the door.
Thompson took the lead. On his way past me, Hart grumbled something under his breath, but I ignored him.
Jonesie stepped outside next. I hustled up behind the zed, pulled out my blade, and skewered its temple just as it turned its jaundiced eyes on me. It fell lifelessly to the ground. I turned to see Jonesie standing over a dead zed, pulling his knife free from its forehead. When no other zeds jumped out from behind the dumpster, we jogged to catch up with the rest of the Third.
At the end of the alley, Thompson flattened against a small outbuilding, and everyone followed suit. He peered around the edge of the building and snapped back. He held up the all-clear sign and then took off at a sprint.
We ran to catch up.
After several blocks, we slowed to a steady jog but continued this way for over forty minutes, weaving around cars, killing every stray zed that noticed us. My hand ached from gripping the knife. As far as I could see, the roads were still blocked every so often with wreckage. Nothing short of a Humvee would break through the mess, and the best vehicle we’d found so far was some hybrid car with the driver’s side door wide open.
I decided to keep hoofing it. There were getting to be more trees and the stores had switched over to rows of houses. The number of zeds was decreasing, and we were moving faster. It wouldn’t be much longer before the roads were open enough that we’d be able to grab anything and get out of town before Phoenix struck.
We no longer stopped at corners. We ran through shaded alleys, pausing to kill strays and stopping only at buildings and intersections to get our bearings.
We paused at a small detached garage. Thompson peeked around the corner. He hollered and fell back with a zed clinging onto him. He swung his rifle, and a quick burst of automatic gunfire broke the quiet like an alarm clock in the early morning.
“Goddammit, Thompson!” I hissed as Hart and I yanked the zed off him.
He climbed to his feet. “Sorry, Maz. Fuckin’ zed got the jump on me.”
With our stealth approach literally shot all to hell, another zed came running across the yard, leveling its empty gaze hungrily on us. My blade through its temple finished it off. Three more that had been busy chewing on something in a car turned our way.
I threw my arm forward. “Run!”
We took off, but every zed in a mile radius must’ve heard the gunfire and was closing in from every direction. As Thompson and Hart cleared a path in front of us, a pair came at me from the side. Freshly turned zeds were as fast and agile as humans, and these were as fresh as they come. I grabbed the first zed by its shirt and flung it to the side. It twisted around and lashed out at me. I jumped back and shoved a blade through its eye. The second zed pile-drove me into the ground, snapping its jaws at me. A few more gunshots and it slackened. I rolled it off me, flinging brown sludge off my flak vest.
“I’m empty!” Thompson yelled. I joined him and started firing into the wall of at least twenty zeds at the roadblock in front of us. With each zed that fell, three more climbed over it.
My rifle clicked on empty. I dropped it and pulled out my sidearm, keeping my knife ready in my other hand. The zeds came at us from every direction. Those still in buildings pounded on doors and windows.
“This way!” Jonesie yelled, jumping over a dead zed at his feet, and we all made a hard right to follow him onto someone’s driveway. As we ran for the open gate to the fenced backyard, several zeds blocked our way.
A petite zed with long pink nails slashed at me. One quick shot to her head sent her down. More zeds were closing in every second. Rifle fire cut down the first wave of zeds behind us. I fired at every zed that came at us from the yard.
Something grabbed my foot, and I looked down to find a shot-up zed gnawing on my boot. I kicked it, trying to find anywhere to stand that wasn’t littered with still writhing bodies.
“Agh, fuck!”
I looked over to see Hart knock down a zed that had gotten past me. He reached up and clutched a bloody ear. Then he snarled and raised his rifle. “Die, you mother fuckers!” Wild eyed, he laid down machine gun fire in a wide, manic arc. Zeds fell all around us.
My eyes widened. “No!” I barely ducked in time to miss Hart’s panicked firing. Thompson wasn’t so lucky. With a grunt, he fell to his knees, clutching his chest where blood was spurting out. His shoulders slumped and he fell face forward. The zeds, oblivious to the gunfire, went after the easy prey without any regard to getting shot.
Hart’s rifle ran out of ammo. A quick glance from Jonesie, and I knew exactly what he was thinking. The instant the zeds closed in on Hart, we ran for the gate. His screams s
liced my nerves, but there was nothing I could do to end his agony. Not that I would have. Thompson had been a good Guard. One of the best.
Jonesie and I shoved through the still-standing zeds at the open gate between the garage and house. I stabbed a long-haired zed just under its nose, going through its sinus cavity to get to its brain, and it tumbled backward, collapsing to the ground. Jonesie took out a pair of kids trying to chew through his pant leg.
I fired my last shot into a goliath blocking our way to the backyard. I used the Beretta as a hammer on a zed’s nose as it lunged for me. We tumbled through the busted gate, leaving the herd to funnel in behind us.
The backyard was fully enclosed by a privacy fence so there were relatively few zeds back there. But zeds poured through after us. Jonesie ran around the large play set and I hurdled the sandbox. We hit the fence at the same time. I swung a leg up. Hands grabbed at me from behind but I managed to shove over the fence.
Jonesie and I landed hard into another backyard, this one also enclosed by a matching wood fence, and thankfully zed-free. I fell to a knee and pulled out my map and compass. It was damn near impossible to get bearings without any landmarks. I glanced up at Jonesie. “Did you catch the last street sign?”
He frowned. “It was numbered, I think. Maybe E 14th Street?”
I came to my feet. “The RP is north of town off 60th, so we’ve got to be close. It should be just northwest of us.”
Jonesie looked at his watch. “We’ve got less than ten minutes. Not enough time.”
Increasing growls and moaning from the other side told us we didn’t have long. The fence behind us was already cracking and swaying under the waves of zeds pressing against it.
“It’ll be enough,” I said and ran to the wood gate. I opened it a crack and counted at least four zeds in the driveway. I shut the gate as quietly as I could, but as I clicked it closed, pounding from the other side vibrated the wood.
Jonesie rubbed his face. I motioned to the north side of the fence, and we shimmied over it and fell into the next yard. I rolled onto my feet in time to knock back a zed. It tripped and fell backward. I didn’t stop to finish it. The loud sound of cracking wood signaled that the herd had made it into the yard where we’d stood seconds earlier. Jonesie and I took off running through the backyard and climbed the fence into the next.
As soon as we hit an alley, we took off at a sprint, no longer stopping to take out strays. We were zed magnets, pulling together quite a tail, but we kept running full out, searching for any viable vehicle but saw none. Sweat burned my eyes. My lungs were on fire.
Once we hit 60th, the sidewalk disappeared along with houses, and we ran side-by-side down the road toward the RP. My muscles shook, but I pushed through. Jonesie panted at my side, and what sounded like a stadium-full of pounding footsteps followed too closely behind us.
Lendt came through my radio. “Third, sit rep. Fox to Third. Come in.” I didn’t bother picking up. “Masden, goddammit, pick up.” After several attempts, Lendt finally said, “Phoenix will be there in two. You better have gotten your asses out there by now.”
The RP was well over a click away, though I could see the hill in the distance. We’d never get there in time. I could hear the zeds closing the distance behind us. Unlike us, the bastards never seemed to tire.
A small pickup truck shot through the intersection we were about to cross. Its tires squealed as it cranked to a stop in front of us. Unable to stop in time, I flattened into the side with a painful thud. Air flew from my lungs.
The driver, a young man in full camo, waved to the back of the blue truck. “I’m with the militia. Get in! Hurry!”
Holding my cramping stomach, I tumbled over the side and collapsed onto the bed. Jonesie landed on top of me and rolled clumsily off. Something rammed into the truck with a soft but solid thump, and I pulled myself up to find a zed clawing for my face.
Jonesie kicked its face, sending it back a couple feet. The driver stepped on the gas, and the truck lurched forward. Another zed that had been reaching for us spun around and disappeared behind the truck. Several zeds met the truck head-on, leaving behind flecks of flesh and brown blood on the hood and windshield.
Turning back around, I leaned against the back window and sucked air as the truck put distance between us and the zeds. Jonesie sprawled out on the bed, panting. “I can’t believe it,” he said between gasps. “You really pulled it off, Maz. I just may have to kiss you.”
I kicked his leg. “Try it and I’m tossing your ass out the back.” Though I was having a hard time believing it myself.
He chuckled before wiping sweat from his forehead. His smile fell. “That was some fucked up shit back there.”
I stared at the shambling shapes growing smaller in the distance, each one seemed to bear the face of a troop from my platoon. “Yeah.”
The driver slid open the back window. “Sorry it took me so long. I saw you guys from the hill, but had to take a couple detours to get to you.”
“Nah. Your timing was great,” I said. “You saved our asses back there, soldier.”
“Just doing my job,” he said. “And the name’s Sean. I sell seed corn. I’m not a soldier. I just joined the militia this morning.”
“Captain Tyler Masden with the Camp Fox National Guard,” I said. “And this is Corporal Paul Jones.”
Jonesie limply waved before draping his hand across his chest.
Sean nodded. “I’m just glad I saw you guys—”
“Talk later,” I interrupted, watching a dozen evenly spaced white parachutes float down from the massive C-130. “You’d better step on it. Phoenix just got here.”
Jonesie pulled himself up on an elbow. “Aw, hell.”
We both stared as the parachutes floated peacefully toward the ground. When the first parachute disappeared somewhere downtown, I tensed and then lunged, flattening myself over Jonesie in the back of the truck.
An earthquake shook the ground. Each tremor sent us a few inches off the bed, only to land on the metal again with a painful thud. Hissing, I kept my head covered. Seconds later, the truck swayed as a gust of oven breeze and blistering dust shot over us. I gritted my teeth and held my breath against the tainted air. Shockwaves vibrated my teeth and bones.
Only after I was sure no more waves were coming, I rolled over and sat back up to see the city engulfed in black smoke.
“Holy shit,” Jonesie muttered. “That should take care of the zeds.”
“Yeah,” I sighed. Except that, watching Des Moines burn, I didn’t think of all the zeds the H6s incinerated. I only thought about the poor innocents I’d left back on that roof.
* * *
A tear ran down the cheek of the C130 pilot as she witnessed the destruction of a million lives. She hastily wiped her cheek with the back of her glove. She’d never imagined she’d be ordered to bomb her own country. Des Moines wasn’t the first city that she’d burned, and it wouldn’t be her last. Kansas City’s payload was onboard and being prepped at that moment in back of the cargo hauler. Her orders would be complete after that, but after talking it over with her crew, she’d added one more drop to the list.
She’d lost radio contact with the St. Paul Air Reserve Station over twenty minutes ago when the base was overrun by zeds. It had taken her crew only a few seconds to make a pact. They’d hold back the last H6. Then, they’d fly back to the station and deliver the only mercy they could to their infected families and friends.
“God help us all,” she whispered.
* * *
Looking out to the horizon with eyes that could no longer see, a soldier who was no longer alive crawled out from under the rubble of Des Moines. Flames licked at his tattered fatigues. The badge with the name “Pvt Jonathan Hart” could no longer be read under the blood and char. His ears were gone, burnt away in the blast. Pain registered but it was smothered by an insatiable need. As more joined him, only one thought remained.
Feed.
Perfect
/> A Deadland Saga short story (Benji Hennessey’s tale during the outbreak)
Mom calls me Perfect, but all my friends call me Benji. She said I got more chrome-zomes than everyone else and so I’m special. When she first told me I had Down Syndrome, I was worried that kids wouldn’t like me. But, other than a few jerks, no one picks on me because my eyes look funny or because I talk a different. Sometimes, I wish I was just like everyone else. But, most of the time I’m happy with who I am. I have lots of friends, and one day, I’m going to be an actor on TV. Maybe even in the movies.
Some of my classes are in a smaller room with kids who have a tough time learning like me. We were in there the day everyone went crazy. Mrs. D left the room to talk to someone, and when she came back, she was scared. She called our parents to come get us, and we all waited while she paced the room, talking about zombies. When we asked what zombies were, she said they were monsters. That made sense why she was afraid of them then. I was scared of monsters, too.
Mom was the first to arrive. She rushed through the door, grabbed my wrist and yanked me away.
I reached back for my bag. “But my homework—”
She didn’t even slow down. “No time.”
Mom worried me because she didn’t stop to talk with Mrs. D. She always stopped to talk with Mr. D.
“Bye! See you Monday!” I called out over my shoulder as my mom pulled me through the doorway.
