by Jack Wallen
Michelle continued writhing on the floor, as if the festering bag of pus was still on top of her, her screams filling the house with a siren call for more monsters.
“Michelle! Michelle, it’s okay, the thing’s dead.” I ran to her side.
“My head!” the poor thing cried.
“It’s okay, you’re okay.”
Michelle looked at me, with swollen eyes, tears rushing down her cheeks to meet the floor. “No it’s not. It’s never going to be okay. We’re going to die. I can’t do this anymore.”
She spoke the words my brain had thought day in and day out, since this hellish scenario began. But I refused to give those thoughts credence. I wanted to pull her up, take her hand, and walk her out into the dark, night air, and let whatever wants us have us.
“Bethany, there are more coming. We have to do this now!” Jean’s voice pulled me out of the vicious loop my brain was falling into.
I realized I was needed. Even though I was not a good shot, if I fired the damn thing enough, an undead target or two would go down. I turned to Michelle to give her some reassurance.
“Michelle, just stay here. Keep this gun in your hand, in case you need it. I’m going to make sure you’re safe.”
I pulled away from the sobbing woman and went to the front of the house. When I pushed the end of my boomstick through the already broken glass of the window, I got a good look at what we were up against.
“Oh my God…” Jean’s voice trailed off into the ether.
“Just shoot, Jean. Just shoot.” I did my best to assure Jean what he had to do. It worked. He turned to face the window and started firing as if his life depended upon it. Which it did.
I matched his method. Squeezing the trigger of my machine of death, I let loose a hailstorm of bullets into the oncoming weapons of undead destruction. The only way to bring them down was to hit them square in the head, which I was not doing such a good job of. It did dawn on me that enough bullets could rip off the limbs of the things, which would render them ineffective and immobile. With that in mind, the tip of my gun began waving around like a conductor’s baton.
“Bethany!” Sam called out, “You’re going to need these.”
I turned to Sam, who was offering up more weapons – five of them to be exact.
“Fire grenades. Just what the doctor ordered,” Sam said with a wicked grin. “Just pull that pin and lob it into a crowd.”
I did just that. Fire. Perfect in its chemistry, elegant in its simplicity, amazing in its ability to wipe out masses of zombies. It took a little longer than I had expected for the things to go down, but once they caught fire it seemed their senses went haywire. The things could no longer hone in on their targets, so they just started pointlessly ambling about, bumping into one another, falling, turning around. It was like a blooper reel from an undead Three Stooges film. Eventually the fuckers went down, their burning carcasses smelling of a barbeque gone horribly wrong.
Ah fire, you are so my best friend now. Friend me. Tweet me. BFFs.
After things quieted down, I turned my attention to Michelle. The poor dear had just been through more horror in thirty seconds than most have in a lifetime. Thinking back to that moment made me realize how vulnerable the girl was. That thought reminded me of the vaccination…and how it had actually (and perfectly) prevented infection in me. Jean had injected me with blood we knew without a doubt was profoundly infected, and here I am, still very much alive, still very much not craving brains or hearing horrible noises.
The conclusion here was fairly obvious: if we were to make it back to the States safely and take down the ZDC, we were all going to have to be vaccinated. With moaners and screamers on every corner of every street, keeping us safe from Mengele’s evil touch was the only way to protect us from succumbing to our own inner zombie.
I took this proposal to Jean who had both good and bad news for me. It seemed he couldn’t, with good conscience, allow me to be the sole guinea pig for his vaccine. So before he injected me, he had shot himself full of anti-Mengele. Jean knew I wouldn’t stand for our only doctor taking such a risk, so he’d kept this secret from me. Fortunately, for everyone on the planet, the doctor survived the experiment.
The bad news was only one vial of the serum remained and Jean did not have the means to reproduce the vaccine. Reproducing the vaccine would require a pit stop before heading to the States. This was a problem. We had two uninfected humans to vaccinate (after Sam had saved our asses, we couldn’t leave him out) and we’d have to have a sample remaining, just in case.
“We have to go back to Val de Grace. The hospital is the only place I know that has everything I needed to recreate the vaccination,” Jean said softly, as if he were afraid he’d get bitch-slapped for suggesting we go back to the beginning.
The beginning. Jesus, can I even remember the beginning? I wouldn’t let my brain revisit Jacob, Dr. Godwin, Susan; fuck, Susan. That was a total failure on my part.
As cruel as this sounds, the beginning was past and the past has now become irrelevant. The only relevancy is survival, but to survive we have to backwards to Val de Grace. Back to the memories, the pain.
I fucking hate this.
The rub, of course, is making it safely back to Paris. Not only are the streets lined with the undead (and truly dead), but ZDC knows where we are. That small fact, however, gives this whole plan just the ironic twist of fate it precisely needs. The last place the ZDC would be looking for us now would be that hospital.
Going back to the beginning was the most logical choice to throw off the bloodhounds.
“Perfect. That is exactly what we are going to do. Sam, we need a way back to Paris, to the hospital.” I marched my way to Sam’s side and offered him a helping hand up.
Funny how plans can fall into place with only the slightest of discussions. Of course it helps to have Armageddon in the background, prodding said plan on. Sam did have the means to safely transport us to Paris. Thanks to an SUV with bullet-proof windows and zombie-proof tires, we would arrive at the front door of Val de Grace early tomorrow. Although we were hesitant to wait until morning, Sam promised us he had a foolproof plan that would allow us the luxury of a full night’s sleep and then a plane trip across the water. He promised he had everything under control. Before retiring for bed Sam would send the ‘kill signal’ to the Zero Day Collective. The ‘kill signal’ was apparently the means to immediately inform the ZDC we had been eliminated. Not only would that communiqué afford us that much needed rest, it would also give us the upper hand over Zero Day. If one is dead, one cannot possibly sneak into headquarters and blow the holy shit out of the organization.
I decided Sam could be trusted. Why? Well, that was simple. I waited until the solider had retired to the restroom to do whatever business was necessary, and then I pounced on his computer. What I was looking for was simple – communication between him and the ZDC. I found some – but the most recent communiqué to Sam was dated a few weeks back. Sam, on the other hand, had sent a few nasty-grams to Zero Day, promising to exact his revenge for the abandonment. Sam was safe. Sam’s plan was sound. I love a good plan. Especially when said plan was elegant in its simplicity.
Sleep. Wake. Drive. Chemistry. Inoculate. Fly. Destroy.
When a plan can be boiled down to a string of single words, the chain it creates can only be broken by inaction. At this point in our game there is no inaction. We act, therefore we survive. And in order to survive, I must get some sleep. I am utterly and profoundly exhausted.
Before I lay me down to sleep, I pray Zombie Radio my soul to keep.
“It’s nighttime out there my lovelies. I would go all ghoulish and call you my creatures of the night, but the newborn stigma attached to anything remotely macabre…oh who in the fuck cares? Seriously, anyone out there care? And for that matter, is there even anyone left out there? Wow. That’s a thought I’d rather not entertain. Imagine being the last survivor. Let’s go to that secret place together. Close your eyes and let your min
d drift off to another world, another time…in the age of wonder. The remaining dregs of the zombie horde have hit brain famine. There is but one remaining ounce of living gray matter – yours. They can’t find you. Systematically, they destroy one another in a vain attempt to find a scrap of living tissue. They fail and finally succumb to extinction. It’s now just you. You run outside into the bitter cold and scream until your vocal chords are swollen. Your echoes return only silence. That’s it. Game over. The big hunt is finished and the grand prize is solitude in absolutes. What do you do? Do you rejoice in the knowing you beat incredible odds? Or do you drop to your knees, touch the barrel of your gun to your soft palate and pepper your front door with the contents of your skull? The very last thought of the human race? Oh fuck!
“That’s right my creepy crawlers, the world has become a fucked up macabre joke and we, my dearies, have become the punch line. The big question here is: are we helpless? To that I proudly answer HELL NO! We must all arise and fight what little system is still in place. Those government systems were created to protect us. Are they? HELL NO! The governments have all gone underground. Any politician that still has a pulse has gone into hiding. If they won’t help us then we must find or create a new system that will. Arise my darling children and defend yourself against the living, dying, and dead monsters!”
The DJ spun a tune I had grown familiar with over the last few weeks. As my mind slowly spiraled into the sweet blissful abyss of slumber, Flyleaf’s Arise spirited me off into other worlds.
Blog Entry 12/16/2015 6:06 a.m
We rose early, in order to get a head start on the day. Making it through the night without so much as a single moaner ambling our way is a good sign. It looks like Sam’s lie held and ZDC believes me dead.
With the SUV packed, filled with enough weapons and food to arm and feed a small militia, we pulled out of the garage and onto the corpse-strewn road. Driving over the dead made me want to vomit at first, but eventually I grew accustomed to the constant undulation of the truck. The popping and cracking of bones, on the other hand, eventually had me hanging my head out of the window tossing rainbows.
I’m amazed. After everything I have experienced, the sound of what could be thousands of bones crunching and cracking underneath the massive truck tires has me hurling. I had assumed myself so completely inured to the horrors of the new world landscape that nothing could churn my insides. I was wrong, very wrong. At least I can enjoy the small comfort of knowing that I am not curled up in a ball, weeping.
That comfort won’t last, of that I’m sure.
As we drove in and out of the small towns, between wherever we were and Paris, the landscape grew ever-more bleak. Each town held similar signs of atrocity. Burning buildings, looted shops, alarms, streets covered in ash, and of course the bodies in various states of death. Some of the bodies are nothing more than rotting, festering, hollowed-out corpses, while others are lumbering about. Those that reanimated did their best to loot the heads of those that hadn’t.
This scenario changed very little from town to town. I had hoped to spot a living human or two to make up for those we’ve lost along the way. We need numbers in order to go up against the power we are about to face. Fortunately our final destination is a city inhabited by millions of people. Surely New York will offer us a warrior or two, ready to take down those responsible for dropping humanity to its knees.
I wanted to ask Sam why he had agreed to follow orders given by the Collective, but I was fairly certain the answer would fall into the militaristic category and only serve to piss me off. So, instead, I opted to skirt around the small talk. We are probably all better off without it. The gruesome landscape is winning the war for our attention. How can small talk top countless walking corpses, burning buildings, and dwindling humanity?
The trip back to Paris seemed an eternity. When we finally arrived at the outskirts of the city, it seemed things had returned to some semblance of calm. Yes, there were still plenty of undead roaming the streets, but since the Collective’s focus had shifted away from the City of Lights, the throngs of zombies seemed to be at peace with the moment.
Zen and the art of the undead.
We stopped at an intersection to ascertain the best way to Val de Grace when out of nowhere, a young male ran past the vehicle. His voice had the pitch of imminent death, his words indecipherable. Shortly after the young man flew past, a screamer followed in hot pursuit. Instinctively, Sam grabbed for a gun and hopped out of the truck. Unfortunately the hero of the moment forgot he had no left knee and collapsed to the ground in a screaming heap. Not wanting Sam’s heroics to fall short of saving the stranger, I leaped out of the truck, grabbed Sam’s gun, and took off after the target.
The young man was smart and climbed to the top of a tree that stood dead center in what it looked like was once a very busy intersection, as a testament to Paris’ dedication to being a ‘green city’. The screamer didn’t give a damn about paper or plastic and only wanted to scare the boy down so he could recycle his brain.
I ran up to within my shooting range (probably twenty or so yards), dropped to one knee, and fired off a shot. Unfortunately the screamer was spasmodically jerking around, which severely tested my aim. After the second miss, the beast did exactly what I had hoped it would do – it turned, stopped, and searched for the shooter. The moment the beast was still, I focused the sights on the center of the screamer’s forehead and pulled the trigger. Within the span of time between inhalation and exhalation of breath, the zombie dropped. My aim was dead on – the screamer just plain dead.
Surprisingly enough, the boy knew exactly what had transpired and shimmied back down the tree. What happened next, I simply could not explain. I had expected the boy to come rushing at me, thanking me for saving his life. I would momentarily feel like a hero and we would head back to the vehicle and make plans for the young man to join our cause. Instead, the boy looked at me, gave me a great toothy smile, waved, yelled “It’s Zombie Tag, play along!”, and took off as if his life had not, just a moment ago, been in extreme danger.
Zombie Tag. The youth had managed to turn the apocalypse into a game. The disenfranchised youth (disenfranchised pre-apocalypse) had found this new earth a playground. Was this all nothing more than a joke? ‘The adults are all gone so it’s time to party?’ How in the hell can our species survive if its youth can’t even take Armageddon seriously?
Before I could get back into the vehicle, another young boy and a girl ran by me, the boy slapping me on the arm as he zipped past, and yelled “Zombie Tag, you’re it!” All I could do was hang my head in shame and doubt.
By the time I sat down in the truck, Jean and Michelle had Sam back in the passenger’s seat and the accidental, self-inflicted pain was starting to subside. If this man was going to be of any use other than a town guide, he was going to require a bit of repair. Sam knew this. Jean knew this. We also knew there was no time for a full-on knee replacement. This posed quite a problem. We could never pull this off with the only member of our team with military training on crutches. But that is, as they say, the hand we had to play. Sam on crutches, along for the ride, was still better than no Sam at all. We could always use him as a remote tactician if necessary.
When we pulled up to the front doors of Val de Grace a sick chill sped through my every muscle. After the horrors we lived through in that building, I didn’t want to return. But then I seem to be making a habit of returning to old haunts.
The entryway glass of the building was littering the sidewalk in front of the building. Body parts were scattered about among the glass shards, and blood spattered the area. Jean sensed my hesitation and gave my hand a squeeze. Together, along with Michelle, we cautiously entered the hospital.
Every sound, every movement, stilled our hearts. It wasn’t until my reflexes kicked in that I realized I was holding my breath. We stepped around broken glass and even more broken bodies until we reached the elevator and stairs.
“Which d
o we take?” Jean asked in a careful whisper.
The memory of our last elevator ride in this hospital would haunt me until I drew my last breath. Not wanting to repeat that ride from hell, I pulled Jean to the stairs and listened closely at a marginally open door. When no sound of terror reached my eardrums, I nodded and pulled the door fully open. Slowly, silently, we made our way up the stairwell, each step an exercise in purpose and patience.
When we finally made it to our destination floor I slowly eased open the door and listened intently.
Silence.
Luck, it seems, is on our side. Of course I knew luck had nothing to do with the situation. When the moaners and screamers ran out of fresh brain on which to gorge themselves, they had departed for the next living human buffet.
I did everything in my power to not look at the carnage. I knew, somewhere among the meat, was our fallen friends. My heart and mind couldn’t take that; not now, not ever again.
We made it to the room in silence. Jean worked diligently to gather everything he needed to replicate the vaccine. As he was working with his notes he instructed Michelle and I to look for a few items that would help Sam to be a bit more mobile. A mobilization brace and an air-cast would stabilize his shattered knee and allow him to put moderate pressure on the leg. We located the items quickly enough to allow me the luxury of checking up on the server and email. I had to be careful about making too much ‘noise’ on the server. I can’t give ZDC any reason to believe I am still alive. If my plan is to work, they have to be utterly convinced that I am dead.
The server seemed to be ticking along just fine. The logs gave no indication of possible break-ins or breakdowns and the services were running smoothly.
My email inbox was the bearer of some possible bad news. Once again it was Senator Slaton.
Bethany,
It may surprise (or even shock) you to know there are some of us who know of your plan. I won’t go into the details with regards to the how and the who, but suffice it to say, when you need help from within, you have it. When and if the eventuality arises that you need us, we will find you. Be brave. You are not alone.
