by Dead Again
As they did, Peterson could suddenly see countless zombies starting to exit from the out houses, from all directions, to completely enclose them. In just a few more minutes their position will be over run, for sure.
Peterson scanned the grounds, counting the team, as everyone else filtered back into the chopper.
“Where the fuck is Spooky!?” he screamed.
Everyone looked at each other, but nobody seemed to know.
Suddenly, on the horizon, Spooky exited the hangar, pulling down his shirt, and running with a limp. Why the fuck was he limping?
Peterson could give a shit. He was more pissed than he’d ever been.
“Where the fuck are you doing?” he yelled, as Spooky came close.
Spooky looked down, ashamed. He should be.
“Sorry, sir,” he said. “I had to piss.”
Peterson looked him over carefully. Was he lying? He’d never trusted this Intel bastard. He was just like all the other Intel—filled with lies.
“Why are you limping?” he asked.
“Sprained my ankle, sir. Tripped . It was dark in there.”
“You weren’t only stupid,” Peterson snapped, “you also defied an order. I should kill you right now,” he said, staring him down, fuming.
Spook looked down with just enough humility to make Peterson change his mind.
“I’m really sorry sir,” he said. “It won’t happen again.”
Peterson looked him down, hard. He felt he was hiding something, but he didn’t know what. Finally, grudgingly, he nodded for him to enter back into the chopper. He had a about two hundred zombies heading his way, after all. He’d have to deal with this dumb fuck later.
Peterson was the last one in the chopper, and as he got a head count, he saw they were all there. He nodded to Tag, who immediately lifted up.
Just in time. The zombies were not more than twenty feet from the chopper. Just a few more seconds, and they would have been toast.
As Peterson looked down, he saw all that gas, still pouring out of the pumps, still spraying everywhere.
What a waste, he thought.
And then, he remembered.
Peterson reached over, grabbed Washington, and stripped him of his pistol, yanking it out of his vest.
“That’s my gun!” Washington cried out. “What are you doing?”
“I’m taking it from you until you learn how to use it,” Peterson said.
“What do you mean? I saved Tag’s life!”
“But you nearly killed us all. You NEVER fire around an open gas leak,” Peterson scolded.
Washington looked like a chided schoolboy.
Peterson looked over and saw Cash, on the far side of the chopper, leaning all the way out.
What the fuck was he doing?
At just that moment, Peterson saw him take out a flare gun, lean all the way out and take aim.
“NO!” Peterson screamed.
But it was too late. There was the muted pop of a flare gun shot.
Peterson looks out just in time to see the glowing flare hit the gas stained ground.
A massive explosion suddenly lifted up into the air. The chopper was already a good hundred feet off the ground—but that barely mattered. The ball of flames rose and rose, and the shockwave sent the aircraft rocking wildly. Peterson could feel the heat, too uncomfortably close to his face.
Luckily, the explosion stopped just low enough to spare them.
It was a glory shot. Cash had aimed for the gas tanks, just as the hundreds of zombies had surrounded it, and the gas that had been pouring out everywhere lit up. It was a massive explosion, taking out hundreds of zombies with a single shot. And the fire below spread and spread, over the grass, over the zombies, like wildfire.
But it has also shot up into the sky, like a mushroom cloud, so high, it nearly consumed the chopper.
Peterson was in a rage. He’d always known Cash to be a reckless soldier—but he’d never realized that he was stupid, too.
While the other teammates were yelling in approval, Peterson lunged across the chopper, grabbed Cash with both hands by his shirt, and pulled him close.
“You do something so stupid again, Corporal, and I’ll throw you out this bird myself. Understood?”
Cash stared him down, a wild craziness in his eyes. Peterson realized that he could not be controlled, that it was like trying to scold a wild stallion.
But finally, something, somewhere, deep down from military discipline must have finally clicked into Cash’s mind. He grudgingly nodded.
“Sir?” came a hesitant voice.
As Peterson sat back, he turned and looked over. It was the rookie. Johnny-Boy.
“But wasn’t that a good thing? He killed, like, 300 of those things with a single shot.”
“And what’s that going to do us?” Armstrong asked the boy. “By now there must be 300 million more behind that.”
CHAPTER TEN
This isn’t just one of those missions…it’s worse, Peterson thought. Beirut came to his mind. 1987. He’d had a mission were everything went wrong from the start. There wasn’t enough manpower. The enemy Intel was underestimated. There was no exit strategy….He’d lost some of his closest friends on that mission, and he still had three scars from bullet wounds to show for it. He was the only one who’d made it out alive, and all throughout it, he’d never thought he would. He’d had a bad feeling about that one, from the second they’d set out, a feeling that no matter what they did, things would just get worse. He hadn’t had that feeling for at least 25 years.
Until now.
From the start, it was like a black cloud was hanging over them. It was that gritty, awful, unshakable feeling, deep in his gut, that things would just keep snowballing, just keep going wrong, until they spiraled down to the bottom a black hole where life merged with hell. This one was jinxed, he was convinced of it now. He wasn’t a superstitious man, but then again, he could only ignore the signs for so long. He wanted out of it already. He wanted any other mission except for this one. And ironically, he was the one in charge.
Not that he planned on losing, or backing down. He didn’t. He’d get whatever the hell it was his bosses needed, find a way to keep his men safe, and make it back. But the more things progressed, the more he started to wonder if victory—whatever that was—was even possible.
“Sir?” came the voice.
Peterson looked over. Tag was looking at him, with that wide-eyed expression he always had after he’d asked a question twice, and Peterson hadn’t responded.
Peterson snapped back into it. He saw all his team looking at him, all still pumped up from the battle.
He looked down, and saw that that airfield was already becoming a dot on the horizon.
“Where to now, sir?” Tag asked again, glancing back and forth between Peterson and the controls.
Peterson thought.
“How much gas did you manage to fill?”
“We got lucky. Nearly full. But now the gauges are already reading three quarters of a tank. We’re still losing gas, sir. I don’t know how fast.”
“Didn’t’ find the leak?” Peterson knew the answer, but was choosing to blame Tag for his failure.
Tag looked over to Spooky. If looks could talk, Tag would be ripping Spooky’s head off.
Peterson returned to thought. Armstrong edged up beside him, as he always did in times of trouble. The two of them had been through it all together, and Armstrong had always been one of his closest friends. It felt good to have him at his side. But still, Armstrong liked to overstep his authority, to offer an opinion when it wasn’t his to give. He always thought that because they were friends, he could get away with it. But on a mission, they weren’t friends. Peterson was boss.
“Maybe we should head back to base, get a new bird.” came Armstrong’s deep, bass voice.
Peterson turned and gave him a hard look. But Armstrong didn’t back down. He was too tough of a soldier. And too anti-authoritarian.
<
br /> “We’re not going back,” Peterson said in an extra loud voice, with as much authority as he could muster. “We are proceeding with our mission.”
“But you heard the man,” Armstrong said, “we ain’t got the fuel.”
“We’ve got enough fuel to make it somewhere,” Peterson said, and that’s exactly where we’re going to go. As close to the destination as we can get. From there, we’ll figure it out.”
Dr. Washington chimed in, shaking his head. “I don’t like it.”
“Well then it’s a good thing you’re not in command,” Peterson said coldly.
Dr. Washington got the message, and slinked back to his seat.
Peterson could feel all eyes on him.
“I’m changing the flight plan,” Peterson announced. “I know it’s not as direct, but we’re not going to fly out over the ocean. If we go down out there, we’re toast. I’d rather fight my way against those things than go down in the ocean.”
Peterson unfolded a map, and surveyed the landscape around them. He held out his compass, and checked the horizon.
“I want you to cut over Manhattan. Cross the rivers, then we’ll fly over Long Island. We’ll have land beneath us, all the way. And gas stations, if we’re lucky. And if we go down, at least we’ll have a fighting chance.”
“But that’s too dangerous,” Angelo chimed in. “We can’t fly over the city. We go down there, we’re done.”
Peterson felt his anger rising. A little chaos and now everyone thought they were in charge.
“And you can’t just go changing the flight plans,” Dr. Washington chimed in. “Not without approval from HQ.”
Now Peterson was really pestered. Armstrong’s initial challenge of his authority was breaking down the entire chain of command.
“Other planes could collide into us,” Dr. Washington continued. “The sky is still full of traffic.”
“Have you seen any other birds yet?” Peterson asked Dr. Washington, staring him down.
Washington paused. “Well, no, not exactly—”
“Then shut your mouth,” Peterson snapped. “I’m the one giving the orders here. You’re the one taking them.”
Dr. Washington, finally leaned back, as did Armstrong.
“We’re flying over the city, then over Long Island, and that’s the end of it. Tag, keep trying the radio, and Spooky, keep checking the satellites. Find us a damn connection however you have to.”
“Yes, sir,” Tag said, as he adjusted the controls, and altered the direction of the chopper.
As Peterson leaned back into his seat and settled in, he stared out at the horizon. In the back of his mind, he had only the slightest awareness that Spooky hadn’t formally answered him. It bothered him a bit, but he was distracted. He had much more important things on his mind. And anyway, everything about Spooky bothered him.
*
As they flew East, right into morning sun, Peterson sat on the edge of the chopper, his legs dangling over, his hand resting on his machine gun, just like he used to when heading into battle. Behind him, he could hear soft Islamic prayers, coming from Ishmael, who was kneeling and bowing on his small carpet, praying. Despite himself, Peterson kind of liked it. It distracted him.
Sharon came over and took a seat beside him, dangling her legs out, too. She didn’t look at him, but instead looked out at the horizon, then down at the changing landscape. He liked sitting beside her, like they used to do. They usually never spoke. They didn’t have to. They both knew what the other was thinking. In a different life, and in a different place, they’d be together. Maybe settle down, have some kids. Some normalcy.
But in this lifetime, it just wasn’t meant to be. They both just weren’t wired that way. They were professional soldiers. Assets to be used by the government. It ran into their very DNA. They were born into violence, trained to be warriors, and ordered to be on the hunt. A life of sitting still just wasn’t meant to be for either of them.
“You made a good call,” she said, still looking ahead.
He turned and looked at her, but she didn’t look back.
“You mean, not heading back?” he asked.
She nodded, expressionless, still not looking his way.
He nodded back, grateful for at least one consenting opinion.
“Next time we go down, I’m not taking any chances,” she said. “If one of these men makes another mistake, I’m not letting them risk this mission. Just so you know where I stand,” she said, a hard-edge to her voice.
That was Sharon. Always the cold, formal, professional warrior. She was a hard woman to get close to. But he loved her for that.
“I already know,” he said.
Beneath them, the skyline changed, as they crossed the Hudson River. Peterson looked down, and saw the George Washington Bridge spread out before them. He couldn’t believe it. Black smoke rose in patches, originating from blazing fires. It was completely log jammed with cars, and worse, the cars were smashed into each other, chaotically wedge into the barriers, twisted in impossible directions. Many of the car doors were just wide open. The cars had been abandoned. The bridge was useless. He could make out a unit of soldier’s on the bridge, holding a line, firing their machine guns. They looked like National Guard.
They were shooting at hordes of zombies, hundreds and hundreds of zombies, walking up and down the bridge, between the cars. What was once a functioning bridge between New York and New Jersey was now a freaking war zone.
If things were this bad already, before they’d even crossed the city line, Peterson could only imagine what would be in store on the island of Manhattan.
“Holy shit,” came the Puerto Rican tinged voice. It was Angelo. “There is the Bronx, homey,” he said, “or what’s left of it. That’s where I was raised. Those are my people.”
“You mean were your people,” Cash said, as they flew over another war zone of what was once the Bronx.
“Yo, shut the fuck up,” Angelo said.
Cash just smiled back.
Below them, the Bronx was, indeed, a war zone. Cars were strewn everywhere, and the streets were occupied by zombies and people running in all directions. Sweeping fires dotted the Bronx, coughing up plums of black smoke. Police and Fire sirens flashed, seemingly lighting up the entire borough. Peterson spotted the occasional military unit holding an intersection, but that was the exception. Chaos was the rule. And those things ruled.
Peterson glanced nervously at the gas tank, praying that they weren’t anywhere close to empty. The last thing he needed was to crash down here.
But the gauge read half a tank. The news was bad. At this rate, there is no way they’d reach Plum Island. They’d have to find more gas somewhere pretty soon. But at least they wouldn’t go down here.
Peterson watched as they flew over the city, then over the East River, then over the Brooklyn Bridge, which was in the same disarray as the George Washington Bridge.
It was really everywhere.
*
Peterson closed his eyes, just for what he thought was a minute. But when he opened them, and looked out, he realized the sun was already high in the sky, that they had already cleared Brooklyn and Queens. They were already flying over Long Island.
The urban landscape had given way to a suburban one, perfectly laid out on the grid below. The concrete gave way to a plethora of trees, lawns, parks, and perfectly manicured, small towns. Yet still, while it was a lot prettier, the streets here were also empty, cars abandoned. It didn’t look like they had fared any better.
Peterson surveyed the chopper and saw that his teammates were awake, each staring out into space, each lost in their own world. He wondered what was going through their minds, if they were looking down and thinking of their family members, their own home towns. Of all the wars he had been in, this one was by far the most demoralizing, the most psychologically destructive. He couldn’t reliably trust the state of mind of any of his soldiers. How could he? They might each have nothing left to live
for.
They had all settled into a comfortable, tense silence, all bracing themselves privately for whatever might come next. Based on what they had already encountered, they all knew that, whatever it was, it could only get much worse.
Peterson, just for a moment, thought he heard a soft moaning noise. He assumed he’d just imagined it. He was just replaying in his head the nightmare of the scenes before.
But then it came again. He was sure of it this time.
His eyes opened wide, alert.
He looked all around again, but everything seemed fine.
As Peterson looked back again, this time towards the cockpit, he noticed that Spooky was leaning over, towards Tag, as if to whisper something in his ear. He wondered what they could be talking about. Was Spooky trying to suggest a change of flight plan? Had they spotted a gas station below?
Before Peterson could get his answer, he was shocked to see Spooky lean over further, even closer to Tag, as if he were about to kiss him. What the hell was going on?
It was at that moment, in that split second, that Peterson realized. He suddenly caught a glimpse of Spooky’s profile, saw his face up close, how pale it was, how inhumanly pale. He also suddenly smelled it: the smell of rotting flesh. He looked closer and saw the craziness, the inhuman wildness in Spooky’s eyes. They were the eyes of a roving shark: emotionless, lifeless, and with just one thing on its mind: to feed.
Before Peterson could react, in that split second, Spooky leaned down, all the way, and sunk his teeth deep into Tag’s arm.
Tag shrieked in surprise and agony, and Spooky leaned back with a mammoth chunk of his flesh in his mouth.
Peterson jumped into action, but before he could get very far, the chopper suddenly jerked and swerved wildly. Tag, even being the veteran pilot that he was, wasn’t prepared for this. He was clearly in shock, and in agony, and as he went to push Spooky off of him, he lost control of the bird. It spun hard to the left, throwing Peterson across it. He banged his head hard against the metal casing, and found himself on the far side of chopper.
Peterson rebounded, determined to make it to the cockpit, to stop Spooky from attacking again, to help stabilize the bird. But he couldn’t risk firing in this situation; he reached down and extracted his knife, knowing that would be the safest way to kill the thing that Spooky had become.
