“Goddamn it, sir. I wasn’t thinking,” the agent hissed as he rocked back and forth on the ground, trying to dull the fiery pain that now resonated through his entire lower half.
Meanwhile, the infected were surrounding their position.
“Guys, set a perimeter.” Bishop motioned to his remaining men, ordering them to get into a defensive position. “Jones!” Bishop shouted, looking for his second in command. A large black man jogged over to his position.
“Yeah, Cap?” the former special forces soldier said with a slight Mississippian drawl.
“Get us in that door,” Bishop stated, needlessly pointing past the injured agent laying abreast the door frame.
“You got it, sir,” Jones answered almost casually.
Jones walked across the forecourt and inspected the door and its lock, looking for the weakest entry point. He could possibly pick the lock, but judging the distance of the advancing horde of drooling attackers, he didn’t think that they’d have that kind of time. With the threat of children being abducted or just plain massacred by crazed armed gunmen entering the premises, the school had really upped the ante on security. The red brick building held rows upon rows of tempered security glass, the kind with the waffled wire pattern running through its center. Jones had often wondered what would happen if he pushed a man’s face through that glass. Would it cube him? He thought and chuckled in spite of himself. He wondered if he could test the theory with one of the advancing infected, but then decided against it, not really wanting to get that close. Those people looked really fucked up.
“Gonna have to blow it, Cap,” Jones said flatly, a slight grin crossing over his features.
“Do what you gotta do. Just get us the fuck out of here!” Bishop shouted to be heard above the gunfight that raged on as his men engaged the enemy.
“You, uh, might wanna move Albert Einstein here unless you want that leg amputated explosively. How ’bout it, Simmons?” Jones quipped.
“Go to hell,” Simmons hissed while Bishop grabbed the man under his arms and began to drag him away from the door.
Jones snickered as he lifted a Velcro strap on his body armor and retrieved a small foil packet from within the recesses of his vest. He peeled off a thin layer of film and began to manipulate the small amount of plastic explosive within.
“Gonna need a few minutes here, boss,” Jones said calmly while studying the lock intently.
“Make it quick, Jones, or we’re all dead,” Bishop said as he propped the injured Simmons up against a concrete and wooden bench that lined the forecourt’s entryway. “Can you still shoot, Simmons?” Bishop asked.
“I think so, sir,” the injured man replied. Bishop retrieved his weapon from the grass in which it had landed and handed it to him.
Simmons reluctantly took it and propped himself up giving off a grunt, an expression of pain moving across his pale face as he took aim downrange at their attackers.
Bishop did a quick head count on his men. There were eight of them, eight out of twenty, he realized, not knowing exactly what had befallen the rest of his squad whom he had ordered to set up perimeter around the school. The fact no one had answered his call, and the gunfire from that side of the school had since ceased, led him to assume the worst. Bishop took up position next to Simmons, kneeling and setting his elbows atop the bench to help steady his aim. He opened fire.
His first target appeared to be a half-naked homeless man. Torn pants drooped around his dirty ankles; his penis, flopping around with each stumbling step. He looked as if he had bought it while trying to take a piss. A large neck wound shown beneath his long graying beard.
“Ouch,” Bishop muttered and shot the man in his scraggly face. He acquired another sight picture and fired, bringing another infected down, and then another. Bodies began to pile up in front of the forecourt, creating an almost symmetrical half circle, and yet they still gained ground. “Anytime now, Jones!” Bishop shouted.
“Another sec, Cap,” Jones replied as he spooled out wire away from the door. “Cover your ears, bitches!” Jones shouted almost gleefully, and depressed the trigger, activating the small detonator.
A loud bang sounded as a piece of the locking mechanism broke away and whizzed through the air, buzzing by Bishop’s neatly trimmed hair. Bishop recoiled instinctively, thrusting his hand up to his head.
“Holy fuck, Jones! Check your shit!” he shouted, momentarily losing his usually cool demeanor.
“I said cover your ears, Cap. No worries, though. It didn’t mess up your hair.” Jones gave Bishop a sideways grin. The door hung open on undamaged hinges. The door’s lock was all but obliterated by the small Semtex breach charge Jones had used to open it.
Bishop glanced over at the approaching infected, now merely yards from their position. “Everyone, get inside!” he ordered.
The men started to pullback from their cover positions, operating in tandem; one group would retreat while the other covered. They operated smoothly and with precision.
Bishop motioned over to Jones to get his attention. “Grab his legs,” he said, motioning to Simmons who still sat beside the bench, firing in a futile effort to stem the tide that threatened to wash over them. Bishop shouted down to Simmons, “Cease-fire! We’re getting out of here!” Simmons either didn’t hear him, or he simply ignored the order altogether. “I said, cease-fire, damn it!” Simmons risked him a glance.
“I can’t, sir. They’re right on top of us,” his voice quivered.
“You have to. Don’t worry, troop, we’ve got ya,” Bishop said with confidence.
Simmons ceased-fire and braced himself as Bishop and Jones gathered the man up in their arms and hoisted him up into the air. Bishop’s squad formed a protective barrier around the trio as they retreated toward the open door. Men fired volley after volley of shots, doing their best to hold off the infected that were now merely feet from their targets.
Jones and Bishop struggled to carry Simmons in through the doorway just as a member of their squad was caught from behind. A scream of panic and pain cried out as an infected grabbed him by the back of his head and sank his teeth into his tender flesh. Arterial spray jutted out from the man’s neck as the thin layer of flesh surrounding his windpipe and arteries were torn away; his compatriots turned and fired on the attacker. The infected went down in a heap, taking their squad member with him. There wasn’t time to check on their compatriot. The man was finished, and his squad knew it. The infected were on them, so close they could almost feel their hot, fevered breath on their faces. They began stumbling into their ranks threatening to overrun them.
The remainder of the men ran for all they were worth, bursting through the school’s entrance, managing to shake its sturdy frame and pulled the door quickly shut just as the throng slammed into the door. The men held the door tightly as the infected pounded on it in frustration, nearly knocking the three men who fought against the tide to the flat tiled floor. Bishop and Jones set Simmons down next to a potted rubber tree, off to the side of a small display case that appeared to house assorted science fair projects, no doubt the best the school had to offer.
Simmons eyed the detritus as the hammering of the infected became more belligerent; he ignored the noise and the commotion and tried his best to fight back the pain radiating in his leg. “I’m such a fool,” Simmons whispered to himself, shaking his head listlessly, finding it almost hard to believe he’d done something that stupid. His squad was never going to let him live this down.
Bishop looked around frantically, trying to find something, anything—to bar the entryway. “Hurry, we’ve got to find something to keep this damn door shut!” Bishop shouted to Jones.
“Already on it, Cap!” Jones shot back, trying his best to be heard above the din. At that, Jones took off down the dimly lit corridor and darted into an open doorway, Bishop following him with his gaze.
A few seconds passed, and Jones poked his head out and waved Bishop over. Jones cupped his hand to his mouth an
d yelled, “Over here! Give me a hand!”
Alex complied and ran over to the man. They stood in front of what appeared to be the principal’s office.
“In here, boss.” Jones pointed over to a heavy-looking receptionist’s desk that set facing the doorway.
The two men jogged over to the desk, each of them taking up position on opposite ends.
“Ready?” Jones asked.
They both grasped the ends of the desk. “One, two, lift!” The men grunted with exertion and hefted the monstrosity a few inches off the floor. With as much expedience as they could muster, they began to carry it toward the office door.
Bishop, who had his back to the doorway, turned slightly, glancing over his shoulder. “Is this fucking thing going to fit?” he said, eyeing the opening.
“That’s funny, Cap. My last girl friend said the same exact thing about me,” he joked with a grunt.
Bishop shook his head, his breathing growing heavy with the strain. “Tilt it to the side, or we’re gonna crush my damn hands.”
Jones smiled and did as instructed.
They managed to squeeze the large desk through the opening and, with effort, carried it down the length of the hallway.
They positioned the desk in front of the main entryway, pushing it up as close to the door as they could get without pinning the men who were holding it in place. Bishop and Jones stood behind the desk, ready to heft it into place.
“On my order, get ready to move. Got it?” the captain said to his men.
The men nodded in understanding, flashing each other nervous glances.
“Now!” Bishop screamed and slid the desk forward.
The men dove out of the way as the desk slammed into the front door. An infected hand managed to penetrate through the momentary crack and became lodged in between the double doors. The hand wriggled frantically in place, trying its damnedest to gain purchase on something.
Bishop and Jones didn’t give it a chance as they threw all of their combined weight behind the desk. The sounds of snapping and grinding bones reverberated through the small expanse, causing the two men to grimace in disgust. After one final shove, the hand sheered away from its owner and fell atop of the desk, twitching and writhing on its surface like a headless viper, its final nerve impulses firing and evaporating away without stimuli to control the movement. The twitching receded after a moment, finally bringing it to rest across the desk’s polished surface.
Bishop stared at the dead hand in disbelief, bloated veins and arteries hung limply, giving way to waxy pale skin. Deep crimson blood stained with spidery tendrils of orange seeped from the severed hand and soaked into the porous wood. He leaned hard against the desk and slowly exhaled; he pushed himself off and turned his gaze to focus on his men, the beasts outside still relentlessly wailing on the door.
“This isn’t gonna hold ’em long, guys. We need to find whatever we can and put it in front of this door.” He paused. “Jones, I need you to round up and inventory the remaining ammunition. Redistribute it accordingly. We have no idea of knowing if this building is in fact completely empty or not, so watch your asses.”
The men nodded in understanding, and Jones stepped over to them.
“Yo! You heard the man, people. Ante up!” the big man said loudly, holding out an open black backpack in front of the men, waiting impatiently as each of the five agents emptied their weapons and spare magazines into the open pack.
Jones carried the less-than-heavy pack over to a row of cushioned chairs that lined the wall and set it down; the magazines and loose rounds jingled as they shifted position in the pack. He eyed Bishop dubiously and emptied his own ammunition in to the pot.
“You too, Cap. Let’s have it.” He grinned with pearly white teeth that stood out in complete contrast to the dark-skinned man’s features.
Bishop stepped over and dropped his own share into the bag.
Nodding, Jones knelt down beside the chair and began removing the rounds and placing them one by one on the floor. After all sixty-three rounds were placed along the tile in neat rows, Jones stared at them incredulously.
“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” the big man said, looking to each man within their group. “All right, who’s holding out?” The men glanced at each other, uneasily shaking their heads. “Really, well, goddamn.” he exasperated, shaking his large head. Each of his squad had left Homeland’s base of operations at BWI this morning carrying at least one hundred rounds of 9 mm ammunition a piece, normally way more than they would ever need. Unfortunately, he mused, most had probably been stored within the group’s SUVs.
Jones split the cache of ammo six ways and divvied it out to the men. “Don’t use ’em unless you have to. We need to make this shit count,” he said as he passed out the rounds. Each man nodded in turn and began refilling their magazines. That task being fulfilled, Bishop split the men in to three groups of two.
“First things first, we need to put some weight on this door.” He pointed needlessly at the shuddering door frame for emphasis. “Check the surrounding rooms and look for anything we can use—filing cabinets, chairs, copiers. Hell, I don’t care if it’s the damned soda machine out of the teachers’ lounge. We need to buy some time till I can radio the cavalry and get us the hell out of here.” Being that his corporal had informed him that their target was still at large, he wasn’t quite certain if the cavalry would indeed be coming; unfortunately, the man he had tasked with the job of tracking the case was one of the men that were killed during the fight with the infected only moments ago. So, the only information that he had to go on was that the case they were seeking was roughly two miles to the west of their location, and given their current situation, getting there to complete their mission was going to be easier said than done.
Bishop needed to get some answers. He had read the report on the K5 virus, and knew it to be a bioweapon of sorts, developed in some other country he believed, but that was about as far down the rabbit hole he could go. Everything else was mere speculation on his part. On-the-other-hand, Hammond, if he could get off his lazy drunken ass and be bothered enough, had the clearance level to get the entire story, which could be why he was so gung ho about retrieving the files in that case.
The men separated into their respective pairings and set off into the dimly lit recesses of the school.
Bishop and Jones walked down the corridor to their left, passing by the principal’s office from where they had retrieved the receptionist desk. The desk at the moment seemed to be holding, but Alex didn’t want to count on it against the pressure being exerted by all the bodies on the other side of the doorway. As they walked, Bishop and Jones flitted glances into open classroom doorways, first checking for danger, second looking for objects they could add to their makeshift barricade.
Jets of pale light filtered in through semi-closed vertical blinds, illuminating bits of dust particulate that hung in the air, giving the classrooms an ominous appearance. The pounding on the main entryway became slightly muffled as the duo stepped into one of the adjoining rooms.
Bishop studied the student’s desks, taking notice that most were covered in childish scrawls in ink, with such phrases as “Justin was here 98,” and “Keith rocks.” Bishop scanned around the cluttered room, taking in everything in an instant, bulletin boards covered in brightly colored construction paper shapes hung on egg-yolk-stained cinderblock walls that oddly reminded him of egg salad. Standing there, the room brought back memories of his misbegotten childhood, sitting at his desk as a preteen child as a hooked-nosed, crater-faced Ms. Rice droned on about something he couldn’t remember at this point in his life. As he recollected his youth, he thought the one thing he missed about school was the extra sleep.
Bishop dismissed the thoughts and got back to the task at hand. Stepping around the meager children’s desks, he located a heavy-looking HON file cabinet that set in the corner of the room. Its black-painted surface dented and scratched from years and years of constant abuse. A
white-crocheted doily set atop the cabinet and held a potted fern. Bishop motioned over to Jones, who was curiously rifling through the teacher’s belongings.
“Jones!” Bishop snapped, bringing the big man out of his stupor; he brought his attention to Alex. “This ought to do.” Bishop smacked the side of the heavy cabinet. “Here help me clear this junk off, and we can drag it out of here.” Bishop heard a slight noise behind him, an almost imperceptible, shuffling sound.
He turned, half expecting to see one of his men, when suddenly a figure lunged. The infected was too quick for him to react, and something that felt like a broom handle connected with his forehead caused his neck to snap backward. He fell into the filing cabinet, sending the potted fern sailing down onto the man-thing that pounced on top of him like a feral cat. Bishop thrust his hands outward, trying to block the man’s snarling mouth before it gained purchase on the exposed flesh of his face.
Jones reacted without thought and savagely kicked the man in his face, striking Bishop’s outstretched hand in the process in the heat of the moment.
Bishop didn’t even notice as three of his finger bones fractured under the assault.
The figure dressed in dark-blue custodian’s overalls lost his grip on Alex and fell backward onto his ass. Blood seeped from an open gash on the custodian’s face and absorbed into his uniform’s fabric. Greasy, sweat-covered dark hair hung limply over insane bloodshot eyes. The man snarled, exposing tar-stained teeth as he lunged for Bishop once more.
Bishop kicked his foot out and sideswiped the man in the temple, bringing his head to the floor trapped between his two legs. Alex contracted his leg muscles and applied pressure on the thing’s neck and twisted his hips, causing the custodian’s neck to snap.
Its flailing arms and floundering legs fell to the floor and ceased to move all the while his mouth continued to open and shut as if still trying to bite; his eye’s stared angrily, flitting back and forth between Alex and Jones, seemingly trying to figure out a way to get to them.
“Holy Mary, mother of Christ,” Bishop said as he released the snapping head from his legs’ grasp and pushed its still body away. He forced himself to his feet and stared at the thing, in wonder. He had broken the thing’s neck, completely severing the spinal cord. He felt it pop like a chicken leg being separated from the thigh.
Dead Pulse Rising: A Zombie Novel Page 13
