And the Blood Ran Black

by Nathan E. Harvey

  “Alright, take it slow guys!” A young soldier in the back of the truck yelled while motioning to progress with a circular motion of his hand.

  One of the Jeeps circled around opposite the other two, causing a tangle in the lines. The ropes were able to unknot themselves by violently flipping the tethered man’s body around in a blur of force until he was now facing the ground, and all three ropes stiffened. The ropes grew even tighter and pulled the Chinese man’s body completely up off the dirt. The man let out a horrible wail that was cut short by a gurgling and forceful vomiting. The scene unfolding before him brought a glower to John’s face but seemed to have the opposite effect on the soldiers who were now laughing like giddy school kids and exchanging high fives. Before long, the Jeep that had been tied to an arm lurched forward, towing the severed limb behind it. The other two Jeeps dragged the body several feet before the same instructing soldier had them stop. His demeanor was like that of a driver on the lake after a skiing friend had fallen.

  The pale-bodied prisoner jerked around in the sand, the same dark, bile-like substance leaking slowly from the empty shoulder socket. The instigator of the torture hopped down from his Jeep and ran over to the man, whose cries turned to growls at his approach. The determined Chinese man again fought to his feet as the soldier crept forward. The soldier was unaware of just how close he’d come to the prisoner as he walked backwards, facing the men in his truck. He quickly realized his mistake as the captive man swung at him with his single arm, and latched onto the man’s shirt. One of the still attached Jeeps alertly jerked forward, pulling the man’s leg out from under him, and freeing the young soldier. Another Ally, who didn’t appear to be American, laughed hysterically at the wide-eyed shock of the now pale-faced soldier--obviously shaken by his near fatal mistake. Regaining his composure, the soldier retrieved the loose rope, severed limb and all, and re-attached it to the man’s remaining arm.

  “Alright, round two,” the young soldier yelled, trying to regain his nerve. “I was gonna end it quick for ya, you dumb douche,” the soldier said while kicking dirt into the face of the helpless man. It was apparent that he was now hesitant to go close enough to actually kick him.

  This time, the Jeeps spun their wheels as they all accelerated in opposite directions. An excruciating popping sound echoed from the man’s body cavity as two of his remaining limbs gave way. Gore slowly trickled into the sand as the confused man squirmed, trying to stand on his lone, dislocated leg. John was reminded of a pathetic, overturned turtle. The soldiers laughed as they approached, watching the man repeatedly force his face into the dirt as he tried to get upright, apparently unaware of his incapacitating predicament. The depraved soldier kicked the man in the chest a couple of times before bending over to pose for a picture with his victim. The casualty, who lay in literal disarmament, looked up quickly after the camera flashed and then turned his focus to the young soldier at his side. As the young man stood to walk away from his prey, the victim thrust himself forward with his lone leg, latching his teeth into the man’s calf. The soldier screamed in a shrill, high-pitched voice as he kicked at the undying man, trying to escape his hold. The other soldiers stood idle, panicked and dumbfounded by the ability of the unyielding enemy to attack. Finally, a solid kick was landed against the side of the ferocious man’s head, knocking his teeth loose with flesh and cloth still dangling from his mouth. The AWOL soldiers raced back to the two nearest Jeeps and sped away in a panic.

  John nudged his brother and nodded ahead. “They left one of the Jeeps. Let’s get the hell outta here.”

  Upon reaching the truck, Moto fumbled his hand around the ignition area, finding no keys. He reached down under the steering column and tore away a section of paneling that enclosed a bundle of wires. As Moto reached for his knife to strip the insulation, John expectantly pulled down the sun visor--revealing no keys.

  “You watch too many movies,” Moto laughed.

  “Why not check?” John asked. “I leave mine there sometimes when I go running. It’s still the last thing anyone assumes.”

  Moto expertly flicked two wires, sparking the engine to life, and tied the exposed wiring together. He jerked the stick into gear and sped off in a controlled slide, doing his best to catch up to the other soldiers.

  “HO, HO!” John yelled, throwing his palm up at Moto.

  “What is it, Santa?” Moto yelled in frustration as the Jeep slid to a stop.

  John raised the guard’s rifle, and fired a single shot into the disfigured man’s head, dropping his body instantly into a lifeless heap. Appreciating, but not really understanding John’s compassion, Moto floored the gas pedal and released the clutch.

  Several miles south of their base, Moto suddenly planted both feet firmly on the brake pedal. He dug the heel of one hand into the steering wheel, expertly turning into each slide before finally swinging the Jeep sideways to a sudden stop. What appeared to be the other men’s Jeep lay in a ditch further down the road, consumed by flames. Barely visible to him were several Chinese soldiers lining the sides of the road just before the spot where the Jeep had come to rest. The silhouettes of two men emerged from the burning car, stumbling up and out of the ditch. Their fatigues were still burning, and some of the rounds of ammunition strapped to their person were bursting from the heat of the flames. The Chinese soldiers opened fire as the undead approached them, blasting holes through their chests. One soldier was screaming out orders to the others, and the men began firing off headshots which proved to be much more effective.

  John secured his rifle against his shoulder as Moto sped forward, straight into the Chinese soldiers’ road block. John narrowed the attention of his fire to whichever men ignored the enflamed soldiers and especially to the few of them who were quick to raise their rifle in the brothers’ direction. John systematically eliminated the most immediate threats and prevented any shots from being fired in their direction. As they sped past, one of the American soldiers stumbled backwards into the roadway after he’d fought loose from another man’s grasp. He backpedaled to keep some distance between himself and the man who was engulfed with flames. Neither man saw the speeding vehicle as it approached and both stepped out into the road. In order to avoid the live soldier, Moto was forced to slam into the burning man.

  Blood smeared across the glass as the windshield wipers swung back and forth. Moto squirted some wiper fluid to help his limited visibility, and inadvertently splashed some over the top of the windshield. John, who was still squatted up on his seat in a firing position, caught a face full of the blood and water.

  After it appeared the two were clear of danger, Moto was careful not to laugh. “Sorry, dude.”

  “Dammit, Moto!” John yelled as he frantically rubbed his sleeve across his face. “You probably just got me infected!”

  “Infected? Whoa, you’re supposed to be the realist here. I was supposed to tell you that you can’t ignore how those guys were getting dropped by nothing but headshots, and you were supposed to make me feel stupid with some logical explanation.”

  “How about this for logic? If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck…” John trailed off.

  “It’s a damn zombie,” Moto finished, with a contemplative stare down the center of the road. A grin crawled across his mouth and tugged into his cheek.

  “I mean, who knows at this point, but it’s hard to ignore what we’ve seen,” John said. “I’m racking my brain to piece all this stuff together, but nothing else makes any more sense to me than zombies do.”

  “Hey look in the back,” Moto said. “Did they leave us anything useful?”

  John, once appeased by his furious efforts to de-contaminate himself, crawled into the back and fished through the cargo area. In the rear, he found a few mostly filled canteens of water, some ammunition, and perhaps most importantly, a radio. He switched the handheld to life and the sound of desperate, English-speaking voices filled the Jeep. They had already missed much of the conversatio
n, but overheard one of the men reacting to the mention of missiles. The man on the other end of the conversation began sharing the plan of action with the former, in a much more panicked voice. The plan was to head south to the coast. He mentioned rumors that their air bases were already overtaken and burning. The other voice confirmed the fact, but added the importance of avoiding passenger flights, as many areas were now holding Americans captive. The faceless voices agreed that perhaps the best course of action would be to stow away on a random ship and simply bribe whoever could let them aboard. Mid-sentence, once voice went silent. There was a hint of commotion, and then nothing. The other voice didn’t call out to ask what had happened but chose instead to speak no more.

  “Don’t transmit anything,” John said. “The Chinese definitely have some of our radios by now, and I can only assume they’re listening to all this.”

  “Well, we’re already south of the road block. You want to steal the plan?” Moto asked.

  John shrugged. “I really feel like the Chinese probably overheard all that. I don’t know, man. I can’t think of a better option. If we go for it, we’ve got to do it fast before they have time to mobilize and do something about it.”

  Moto nodded and pressed the pedal to the floorboard. Dust kicked up behind the Jeep, and the two felt good to be putting some distance between themselves and the chaos behind them. The good feeling wouldn’t last much past dusk, though, when the glow from a missile streaked across the darkening sky. Several more followed behind it--all targeting the coast a few miles ahead.

  ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

  “Tell me this isn’t happening,” John said. “Tell me we’re not stuck on this damn island.”

  “At least we were late to the party,” Moto sighed. “If we’d been much quicker, we’d have been goners.”

  “So what now? We know what’s waiting for us if we go back,” John said.

  “I say we go for it,” Moto shrugged. “Lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice, right? Why would they send another missile strike where they just sent one? Let’s just continue on, and we’ll figure it out from there.”

  John agreed, and the two continued south toward the coast as they night air cooled. As they drew nearer to the ocean, the road became impassable from the debris of a decimated convoy. Moto slowed and navigated carefully to avoid any human or inhuman contact and continued to the beach. The visibility soon became limited from the plumes of smoke blowing in off the water. John cautioned Moto to slow down and preserve their only means of transport. Moto began his usual speech that he’d always used whenever his driving abilities were questioned. Moto rattled off examples of his extensive “behind the wheel experience” having driven Motocross for a decade as well as his upbringing as a grease monkey. He assured John that he couldn’t be in more capable hands.

  Perhaps proving them both right, Moto suddenly slammed his foot onto the brake and guided the truck down an unseen hill. As he steered to avoid the rapidly approaching debris and sharp crevices as they appeared from behind the cover of smoke, the Jeep flirted with but never surpassed its tipping point. The Jeep finally skidded to a stop just before reaching a significant drop off.

  “God, you’re stubborn,” John said as he climbed out and slammed his door.

  “What?” Moto smiled as he grabbed his rifle and a canteen from the back. “We made great time.”

  At the bottom of the slope was a slight beach and then surf. Their only ticket off of the cursed land lapped calmly against the sand. John squinted to look for any light aside from the numerous fires left ignited by the missile strikes. Moto sipped from his canteen and slowly walked down to the water’s edge, searching for a boat. In his mind, any boat would do. Truly, anything buoyant would have been a strong option. Seeing nothing, they decided to follow alongside the waterline in the Jeep and see what the headlights would reveal. A few barely audible moans caught the brothers’ attention. It was unclear if the sound was coming from the wounded or the dead.

  Moto cut the lights and slowed to a stop as they rolled up on an area that had obviously been one of the main targets of the strike. All of the burning ships and piers across the beach made the area visible in spite of the night sky. Human silhouettes would appear and disappear along the beach as they walked past occasional fires. The figures were shuffling awkwardly along the coast, but from a distance it was not obvious whether it was just humans struggling against the deep sand or dozens and dozens of the undead. John nudged Moto and pointed up past the fires. Out on the water, flashlights were visible patrolling the deck of a large freighter. Obviously, the ship had not yet been overrun by zombies. Moto turned to face John and spotted a figure stumbling down the bank next to the Jeep, but still several yards away. He reached for the rifle, but John stopped him.

  “We can’t attract the rest of ‘em,” John whispered. “If we can just get to the water by the ship, we’re golden! No way those things are coordinated enough to swim. Just get us near that ship!”

  The zombie was just steps away from the passenger door as Moto punched the accelerator. Aside from slight adjustments to dodge debris along the beach, the Jeep took a beeline for the ship. The hum of the engine attracted the attention of all the staggering forms within a large radius. Moto hoped that they were indeed all zombies as there were too many for John to shoot, and several began to walk out into his path. He eventually gave up any effort to avoid them. Most of the lost souls were the perfect height for their head to slam against the hood, echoing the unmistakable, resonating sound that the cranium makes when it receives a harsh blow. One of the taller assailants unexpectedly rolled up onto the hood and shattered the windshield before coming to rest in the truck’s cargo area. The gangly man had not suffered severe enough damage to keep him down, and he began to creep forward to the front seat. John had fired off the last round of his magazine before realizing that the zombie was in the car with them. He considered the second gun, but turned to realize that the zombie had landed on top of their second rifle, leaving the brothers completely vulnerable. Moto nodded to his brother as he buckled, and John fumbled to latch his belt. The Jeep redlined and the engine whined as they accelerated to an impressive speed considering the drag of the loose sand. Moto’s butt lifted out of the chair as he put all of his weight into pinning the gas pedal to the floorboard and bracing himself for impact. The Jeep seemed to skid along the top of the water for a brief moment before hitting an invisible wall and abruptly slamming to a halt in the surf.

  The zombie flew out into the sea several feet ahead of the Jeep. Rattled, but aware, the two quickly unstrapped their seatbelts and began their swim toward the ship as the Jeep submerged almost completely from view. Without warning, Moto’s swimming motion was violently disrupted as one of his legs jerked him to a stop.

  “Hold up!” Moto yelled to John. “I’m stuck on the Jeep or someth…”

  His sentence was cut short as he was suddenly lost below the water’s surface. He kicked and pulled, before looking back and realizing that it was not the Jeep pulling him under. Illuminated from below the surface by the Jeep’s flashing hazard lights were dozens of zombies walking along the seabed. Moto lost what little breath he had in a terrified gasp at the sight of them all. He finally was able to kick loose from the zombie’s grip and resurface for a breath of air before being pulled under a second time, this time with more of the decrepit hands grabbing hold. He felt the additional weight pulling him under and looked to see numerous other zombies coming over and clinging onto him, sensing their next meal. The zombies’ combined weight was too much for him, and they were easily winning the battle, pulling him closer and closer to their gnashing teeth. As his hopes of escaping were all but gone, Moto felt a tug at his shirt from above as John fought against his own buoyancy and climbed down deeper into the water, pulling himself across Moto’s body as he descended. Once low enough, John grabbed a hold of Moto’s belt, and began furiously kicking at the underwater zombies. Finally, Moto was able to pull free an
d swim up for air. After kicking ferociously toward deeper water where the sunken undead couldn’t reach them, Moto and John floated on their backs and rested briefly. Each deep exhale sank them enough that the two were forced to paddle slightly.

  Before they could fully recuperate, a snarling floater drifted over to them. It was hard to know how many of the moans were carrying across the water from the shore, and how many were floating close by along the surface of the black water, still very active. The nearest floater had severe burns covering its upper body, and a large wave revealed that it had lost almost its entire lower half. The thing’s bloated stomach kept it afloat as it drifted nearer the brothers. John and Moto were able to easily swim away from most of the floaters, but were forced to keep moving.

  Finally, they neared the large ship and yelled up to the crew for help. Before long, several flashlights were aimed at them, and the crew was frantically searching for a way to pull them aboard. After what seemed like an eternity, a rope was slung over the side of the ship, landing next to the two brothers. Moto knew that he couldn’t hold his own weight, as his weary arms could barely tread water any longer. Instead, he tied a looped knot at the bottom of the rope so that he could stand as the survivors pulled him aboard. Waiting his turn, John’s arms also began to fatigue as his adrenaline wore off. The moans and splashing of slowly approaching floaters quickly jerked him from his lull, as he anxiously watched for the rope’s return. John’s concern grew as he heard some commotion up on the deck, but finally the rope was again lowered, and he too was pulled up to safety.

  Once aboard there was no time for celebration as he witnessed firsthand what the commotion had been about. One of the men, who appeared to be Russian, was yelling and pointing at Moto’s severely scratched legs. John couldn’t understand him, but could deduce that this man was convinced Moto had been infected. Several different ethnicities were represented on the ship, and the language barrier caused the confusion to grow exponentially. John pleaded with the English speakers that Moto would be fine; that he had not been bitten. He argued that they were only scratches. He was able to convince a few of the men but for those that mattered, his pleas fell on deaf ears. One of the larger, more outspoken Russians grabbed Moto by the back of his collar and began to drag him away. John jumped to his defense but was held back by some of the other men. For every English speaker that believed John, there were at least three Russians that either didn’t understand or didn’t care to endanger their own lives for the sake of empathy.