Three Zombie Novels

by David Wellington

  Bannerman Clark had gone for a week with little more than catnaps and cold MREs for sustenance. In that time he had fought a war.

  He had butchered civilians.

  Innocent, sick civilians who desperately needed medical care and basic services. He had fought and strived against the unarmed citizens of the United States.

  And he had lost anyway.

  A cold emptiness like the void of space between galaxies opened up in his stomach and it went all the way down. He was empty, physically empty so that a slight wind could have come along and blown him away. The weariness in his arms and legs turned to paralysis and the buzzing in his head, the grinding, whining buzzsaw headache he always felt during combat operations unfolded into an entire machine shop of torment. Every moment of the battle for Denver waited there, separated and dissected, awaiting his careful analysis. He would spend the rest of his life, he knew, going over these factoids, these isolated decisions from the fray. Just as he continued to think through and re-think every battle he’d ever participated in. Most of them he had won, with relatively little loss of life. Those were easy, just logistics reports, lists of numbers and names, so many men deployed to this location, so much materiel consumed there. The ones he had lost were the same except the lists of names had ghosts paper-clipped to them.

  Something other than a ghost came with this action. The girl. The blonde girl who had to be the key to the Epidemic. She had escaped while he was busy with the WOFTAM of trying to defend a doomed city.

  Vikram was suddenly standing before the desk, looking anxious but smiling. Always smiling. Clark had not heard his friend come in, did not know how long he had been standing there. Vikram was a veteran, though. He would understand the intensely personal malaise one fell into following a bad action.

  Clark stared at the bracelet on his friend’s wrist. The current calamity had driven Vikram closer to his deity. “You’ve never doubted the existence of God for a moment, have you?” he asked, the words swimming out of him as if he were at the bottom of a cold, dark lake.

  Vikram straightened up to a considerable height—he’d already been at attention but he found some more backbone somewhere. “The teachings of my faith require me to never have dealings with one who has no faith in some manner of god,” Vikram said in a proper, clipped tone. “This could prove difficult in our line of work. What should I do if my commanding officer was an atheist? I have asked myself this question many times. In the end I have chosen to follow a strict policy where it comes to religion.” The smile broadened a fraction of an inch. “Don’t ask, don’t tell.”

  Clark grinned and it felt very, very good. A half-formed chuckle came out of his mouth like a cough. He didn’t examine why he wanted to laugh so much, he just went with it. “I’m way outside of my jurisdiction, here. This has become a joint duty assignment. Because of my special position as a subject expert,” he couldn’t bring himself to use the Civilian’s term: wonk. “I’ve been prevailing on your good counsel despite the fact that you outrank me. If you want to jump ship now you’d be well within your rights.”

  “Not until the hurly-burly’s done, my friend,” Vikram said. “Let me rephrase: not until it is done, sir.” And that was that. “I have a situation report all in preparedness, should you care to hear it.”

  Clark did not care to hear it. He had feasted on enough bad news to choke him. No, he thought, not now. “Alright,” he said. “No time like the present.” Sometimes you had to keep going in life no matter how awful you felt. Sometimes sheer obstinacy was the only thing for it.

  “Colorado is under martial law. The cadets of the Air Force Academy were armed and mobilized. They have not fared so well. Reinforcements of regular Army troops, namely the 82nd Airborne and the 10th Mountain Division, are doing what they can to secure the state. This amounts in the most to blocking all the highways leading out. The interior of the state, by all accounts, is without governance.”

  Clark had pretty much seen that for himself. He nodded.

  “Nevada and Utah have both declared state-wide disasters but the relevant authorities remain in control. I spoke with a very nice radio operator in Las Vegas and he told me that large parts of the city are quarantined but they believe they can hold the infected back from the central region. We have lost contact with California.”

  Clark opened a box of pens he had found in one of his desk drawers. He had been arranging them in a pen holder while he listened. He stopped and set down the pen holder carefully on the edge of the desk blotter. “What does that mean? Los Angeles or San Francisco?”

  “I mean that the entire state has stopped communicating with the outside world.” Vikram didn’t shift on his feet, didn’t so much as blink. “It was a gradual process, of course, and did not happen all and at once. Until this morning there still were units of the Marine Corps in Sacramento who I could speak with, though they were very busy. The last I heard was that they were expecting reinforcements from the sea—a carrier group, called in to help maintain order. Then silence only.”

  Insanity. What could a fleet of warships do against common anarchy? Had they shelled the cities, carried out anti-infrastructure operations to destroy the roads and create choke-points? Certainly they hadn’t just armed the sailors and sent them in to the fray on foot. Had they? Clark wondered if he could have come up with anything else.

  Thinking about tactics helped him ignore the fact that Vikram had just said the state of California had been overrun. It didn’t help him in any way to wrap his brain around that particular factoid.

  “The infection has spread as far east as Ohio. We expect to hear about Pennsylvania in a few hours—there have been isolated reports of infection as far easterly as New York City, where whole neighborhoods under quarantine. The overseas picture is murky at best but we know that both Mexico and Canada have mobilized troops and that they are asking for help we cannot currently provide.”

  Clark nodded. He picked up the pens again and started sorting them by color. “Bad, bad, bad, worse. So. We need to find out what to do next. Are you in contact with the Governor right now?” He dropped the pens in their cup one after the other. “Normally I would take this time to liaise with the Adjutant General of Colorado but he, I happen to know, is dead.” They had found him in the high school chemistry room. He had been infected, with the meat of his right leg entirely torn away. He had been crawling on the floor, turning in endless circles. Clark had personally put the AG out of his misery.

  Vikram shrugged. “The Governor is not available, I’m afraid. His current whereabouts are unknown.”

  Clark just nodded. “Alright, so find me a General somewhere. Or a Colonel. Somebody who can give me an order.” Vikram shook his head. “A Lieutenant Colonel?”

  Vikram was silent for a moment before he went on. His eyes searched Clark’s face, looking for something. Some last shred of strength to take a new shock, perhaps. “Bannerman, sir, I am saying that in the whole of the COARNG, I cannot find an officer that outranks your good self. I think you are it.”

  Clark pursed his lips. That wasn’t possible and yet… many of the best officers in the Guard, and therefore the highest ranking, were deployed still in Iraq. Many more had died in Denver. Was it possible that not even a single Major had survived? Well, there hadn’t been that many to start with.

  The implications, however, were devastating. If a mere Captain was in charge of the Colorado Guard, if he was to be the supreme authority at the state level, then surely everything was lost. Clark had never been trained for that kind of autonomy. Then he thought of something. He still had his master in the DoD. Not every link in the chain of command was gone. In the morning he would call the Civilian and figure out what to do next. “Alright,” he said. He placed the pen holder at the top of his desk, on the left side, then moved it to the right. It looked better there. “Alright, we’re tucked in here. If I have to be in charge I’m going to at least get a night’s sleep before I start barking at people. Unless there’s som
ething more you need to tell me,” he added, seeing the look on Vikram’s face.

  “Bannerman, there is more to tell but I think it is better if you should see it for yourself.”

  Clark raised an eyebrow.

  “First Lieutenant Desiree Sanchez could use a moment of your time. Down in the Bag,” Vikram explained. “She has learned some thing.”

  Mood: Pissed Off!

  Listening to: Slipknot, Wait and Bleed

  yo ‘sup, we’re still here cause the road south is closed and brian thinks its no good in Canada, either, he’s so fucking smart, he thinks excep then wheres his girlfriend?…I would have protected my woman, true dat, I would lay down all I had for her I dunno. We got three big water jugs, and I filled up the tub last night, its not clean I guess, maybe well leve before it comes to that, if brian gets off his stupid ass. [Livejournal update for user PiramidHed, 4/9/05]

  The infected patient on the gurney had been cut down to an obscene minimum of humanity. His face had been carved off as well as the front of his skull. His brain sat like a shriveled piece of fruit in a bone bowl. Much of his chest had been removed—skin, sternum, musculature—to reveal his heart and lungs. Neither of them moved. Yet his fingers twitched and clenched, his toes writhed as the First Lieutenant prodded a long white curve of nerve tissue with a pair of forceps.

  “They aren’t using most of their organs. Their blood is dried up in their veins. They digest their food… somehow, and they excrete wastes.” Desiree Sanchez looked up at Clark. “Noxious waste.” She scratched at her chin. “What you’re looking at, sir, isn’t human. It’s a nervous system that has failed to die.”

  The good doctor had doffed her level four biosafety suit. Inside the Bag she wore an apron and a pair of heavy work gloves over her uniform. She had a pair of plastic goggles for eye protection but they were pushed up on her forehead. Splatters of human tissue and clotted blood covered her from head to toe but she wasn’t even wearing a filter mask.

  “Lieutenant, I believe we spoke before about the patient’s hypothetical morbidity.” Clark held onto the intercom box, ready to interrupt her if necessary.

  “Sir, yes, sir,” Sanchez said, and blew a stray hair out of her eyes. “I just don’t know how this man could live through what I’ve done to him. I mean, this isn’t an alternative lifestyle. This is a complete physiological change.” She dropped the forceps into a bloody instrument tray. Clark heard the clatter even through the multiple layers of thick plastic curtain between them. She leaned on the gurney and closed her eyes for a moment before going on. “I’m at the end here, there’s nothing I can do short of torturing this man pointlessly in the name of science. There’s another avenue of research I’d like to pursue, though—the epidemiology of this thing. I think… that… that…”

  Sanchez’ face went blank and a pained croak belched out of her mouth. Alarmed, Clark reached for his firearm even before he knew what was happening to the woman. The weapon wasn’t there, though—he’d put the Baretta in his desk drawer and forgotten about it.

  “Get—get off,” Sanchez mewled. Clark looked down and saw that the infected man had wrapped grey fingers around her wrist. “Get off me,” she shouted, and grabbed with her free hand for the instrument tray. It was just out of her reach. Her eyes sought his through the plastic.

  Clark lacked so much as a pocket knife. He couldn’t get through the safety plastic with his fingers—he would have to go around. “Hold on, Lieutenant,” he said through the intercom box, then dashed out of the room. He whipped out his cell phone and called for help—for anyone.

  Outside the Conex trailer the sun was very, very bright. Clark hurried around the side of the shipping container and pushed in the other end through a zippered wall, then through a decontamination station. An automatic shower pelted him with scalding hot water and he threw his arms up around his face, his eyes burning with antiseptic. Behind him he heard boots crunching gravel—too far away, he was the only one close enough to respond. He pushed through the inner air lock, heedless of the whooping alarms that told him he’d failed to close the outer door.

  Inside in air that smelled of decay and horror he wiped soapy water out of his eyes and tried to get his bearings. He found himself standing next to the gurney, on the far side from Sanchez. The infected man had torn loose his wrist restraints—he sat upright on the table, both of his hands clutching at the squirming scientist. The exposed brain slouched forward across the decimated face, dangling on its spinal cord. My God, Clark thought, how is that possible? He grabbed for the instrument tray, looking for anything that might be a weapon. He came up with a gore-caked scalpel and tried to stab at the infected man’s wrists but Sanchez kept writhing around, trying to break the iron grip. There was no way to guarantee that he wouldn’t stab her instead.

  “It’s—it’s alright,” she said to him, “I’m sorry I scared you. He can’t hurt me—he doesn’t have a mouth, so how can he bite me? Really, Captain, I—”

  The infected man released her wrist and plunged his fingers into her throat, the thick, jagged nails sinking deep into her flesh. Clark jabbed at the specimen’s wrist, trying to cut the tendons there. Hot, red blood sluiced down his forearm. Sanchez’s blood. The infected man had found her jugular vein.

  Clark dropped the scalpel and rushed around the side of the gurney, intent on getting his own hands around Sanchez’ neck to stop the bleeding, knowing it was too late, unable to stop himself anyway. He caught his hip on the metal edge of the table and felt pain blossom through his thigh. The infected man let go of Sanchez and she staggered backwards, blood pouring from her throat like wine from a bottle.

  She didn’t look so much frightened or pained as curious. Clark wondered—was she a good scientist right up until the end? Was she approaching her own death with a burning desire to know what it felt like, to see what happened next? She slumped to the metal floor of the Conex as without a sound.

  Something in Clark’s body contracted as if he were having a heart attack or a stroke. No—it wasn’t him at all. The infected man had grabbed him in both hands and was trying to pull him close. He whirled to face Sanchez’ killer and saw two MPs come rushing into the room. They raised their pistols to shoot at the specimen. “No, no!” Clark ordered. “Hold your fire!” The firearms dropped at once.

  The infected man tightened his grasp, his fingers cold against Clark’s arm and stomach. The determination in his arms was nothing short of extraordinary. Clark stared into the gray folds of his brain and wondered where he got that resolve. He reached out with his own hands and took hold of the man’s frontal cortex. It was softer, much softer than he’d expected it to be and far less slimy. With a single two-handed motion he shredded it like a head of lettuce.

  The fingers weakened where they touched him and then they stopped moving altogether. The cut-down man fell backwards, what was left of his skull colliding noisily with the metal edge of the gurney.

  The MPs came closer and Clark waved them away. They huddled over Sanchez, probably trying to determine if she was actually dead. Clark staggered toward the airlock, intent on getting some fresh air. He could barely believe what had just happened. Florence ADX was supposed to be a fortress, an impregnable stronghold in this new and horrible war. If death could come for them even inside of its barbed-wire fences and dog-patrolled perimeter, then where was safe? Did such a thing as safety exist any more?

  Before he could switch off the automatic shower in the airlock—he was already drenched with soap, suds filling his mouth and nose—he heard one of the MPs grunt from just behind him and the other one took his arm. What was happening?

  “Beg pardon, sir,” one said. His eyes were very, very blue. Clark blinked. Why were they holding him up? “You looked like you were about to fall.”

  Legs—Clark’s legs—stretched out before him, connected to him only in the most metaphysical sense. His body reeled, his head was wrapped in felt. He had hit the wall. There was only so much fear and exhaustion a man in
his sixties could handle. Fighting himself he regained control. He was more afraid of further humiliation than he was of exhaustive collapse.

  “Yes, soldier, I see that… I’m fine now, though, so—”

  Metal clashed to the floor behind them, a bright, jangling, piercing sound. Clark turned his head and saw Desiree Sanchez standing up. Her neck had ragged holes in it. She had knocked over the instrument tray: one scalpel had fallen into her foot and stood there quivering, sticking out of her uniform shoe. The goggles had gotten themselves wrapped around her ears in such a way that they occluded one of her eyes. The other one was blank of expression. Her mouth opened, showing teeth stained with blood.

  Clark reached down and grabbed at the belt of the blue-eyed MP. He came up with the soldier’s weapon and fired one shot right through the middle of Sanchez’ head. For the second time in as many minutes she fell to the ground, lifeless. “I’m going to retire to my room now,” he told the younger men standing with him. “I think I need to get some sleep.”

  I’m sorry but the number you requested is not answering. If you’d like, I can keep trying, and your phone will ring when I get through. This service will incur a seventy-five cent surcharge. Press one now. [Automated telephone message, 4/10/05]

  Nilla picked at a curl of paint on the side of the shack. It came loose in her hand and she rattled it around in her fist, then threw it away from her, out into the scrub brush by the propane tank. She couldn’t stand just waiting around but what else did she have to do? Eventually Singletary would give in. Eventually he would tell her what she wanted to know.