George Magnum

by Dead Again

  Peterson waved to Cash, who reluctantly began to fight his way towards the parking lot.

  Peterson was conflicted. Should he wait? He wanted to, but the rest of his team needed him more.

  He turned ran towards the parking lot, the air burning his lungs with every step he took. Out of breath, he neared the crowd of creatures at the front of the gate. His energy was wearing thin. Getting into this parking lot was going to be harder than he first thought.

  “I’VE GOT THIS!” Armstrong yelled, as he stepped to the front of pack. He extracted his flamethrower from his back, and held it out in firing position.

  “WAIT” Peterson yelled to Armstrong, and then turned towards the cops. “GET THE HELL OUT OF THE WAY!”

  The cops saw the flame thrower. Their eyes widened with fear and they scrambled for cover as if their lives depended upon it.

  A wicked flame licked from the barrel. Armstrong pulled the trigger, leaning into the flamethrower with all he had. A jet of gasoline pissed from the barrel and landed on the infected. They burst into flames. The putrid smell of burning flesh and hair filled Peterson’s nostrils as the zombies moaned and shrieked, and scrambled every which way.

  Moments later, a pathway to the entrance was available.

  The local cops burst into action and opened the gate. The shadow team ran through it, and entered the parking lot, but Peterson stopped and turned. Cash wasn’t with them.

  He was about twenty feet behind, trying to make his way for the parking lot. He shouldered one zombie out of the way and swung his machete as another zombie clawed and grabbed at him. There were just too many of them. A zombie from behind Cash opened its mouth. It was about to bite down.

  Suddenly, a bullet entered into the zombie’s right eye, blowing its brains out. Peterson turned and saw Angelo, smoke rising from his sniper rifle.

  “Move your ass, amigo,” Angelo said under his breath.

  He just saved Cash’s ass.

  Cash sprinted clear of the remaining infected and directly through the opening of the gate. Peterson, the last man, followed him into the parking lot.

  Once inside, the cops slammed close the gate behind him.

  A group of about six local cops, and three state troopers, stood looking at Peterson with a combination of fear and respect.

  A tall, brawny cop with gray hair, who looked old enough to be on the verge of retirement, stepped forward, “Sheriff Jones,” he said, introducing himself with a nod.

  Peterson didn’t nod back.

  “Commander Peterson.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Peterson and his team followed Captain Jones as he led them through the crowd of civilians.

  “It’s been nearly 48 hours now,” Jones said, as they wound their way across the cement parking lot and through the masses. “We got hit pretty hard. Just like everybody else. One day everything was fine, the next, everything went to hell. Most of the town got wiped out. We’re all that’s left”

  He began to choke up as he spoke.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it. Kids turning against parents. Husbands against wives.” He shook his head. “People got bit, then they…turn…then…it was like we couldn’t recognize them anymore…

  “Me and my officers, we took over this parking lot and rescued whoever we could. It was the only safe place I could find at the time. I had to make a decision. People were dying on the streets, and they had no place to go. This lot was right in the center town, and it has this fence to keep them out.”

  Peterson looked around. Some of the civilians were armed, and they followed at a little distance behind him. Spread all about were about fifty more civilians. They looked like they’d been through a war. There seemed to be a general state of despair and shock. Most of them just sat there, staring into space, heads laying on their knees. Others openly wept.

  Some, though, stood as Peterson and his men walked by them. Hope in their eyes, they looked at Peterson and the team as if, perhaps, they were salvation.

  “God bless you. Thank you,” came a voice of a heavy set man. “I’m the Mayor. Thank God you’re hear.” He had the stink of a politician.

  Peterson didn’t respond. A civilian man approached, holding the hand of his wife.

  “We knew you would come. Where are the rest of you?”

  Peterson stopped and blinked hard. It struck him. These folks think we are here for them. Peterson wasn’t sure yet how to respond, so he kept walking.

  He surveyed the area, and saw the zombies outside the fence, all reaching up and grabbing it, sticking their faces against it, trying to get inside. They moaned and snarled and pulled the metal. It swayed and bent hard under the weight.

  There were hundreds of them. Peterson could hardly believe it. They were on all sides of the fence, pulling and tearing at it every which way. He felt like he was an animal trapped in a giant zoo.

  It was disconcerting, to say the least.

  Peterson looked even closer at the joints of the fence for any signs of strain or tear. The fence was giving way. It wouldn’t hold much longer.

  “You can’t stay here much longer,” Peterson warned.

  “My thinking exactly,” Jones said. “We need to make a run for it. I don’t know how much longer this fence will hold. I’ve got people here who are sick and hungry. We’re out of food and low on ammo. We have no shelter from the sun, and they’re getting burned. We need a real shelter. And we need medicine. And a place that might not get knocked down any second. You guys came at the perfect time. We need to break out of here.”

  “We need to make for the school,” came a low, heavy voice.

  Peterson turned, and saw a tall stocky man standing over him, a state trooper donning a handlebar mustache, dark sunglasses and knee high boots.

  “I’m Trooper Willis,” he introduced himself. “It’s our best bet. The school’s got a cafeteria. Bound to have some food. And we can defend it.”

  Sheriff Jones shook his head. “But it’s too damn far,” he said.

  “No it’s not,” Trooper Willis countered, exasperated.

  “It’s a good mile away,” Jones continued, “a few might make it. But the sick, and the elderly…we just can’t get everyone there.”

  Peterson looked around carefully, not choosing sides. Frankly, this wasn’t his concern. He had his own men to look out for, his own mission to fulfill. He just needed to take stock, to figure out his next move.

  “Where are we?” Peterson asked. “What town is this?”

  “Coram,” said Jones.

  Peterson nodded, thinking. Coram. Long Island. Far enough out there, maybe Suffolk County, but not far enough to get them where they needed to go. It would still be a long-haul to make it from here to the island.

  Peterson’s men crowded around him.

  “Coram,” Cash said. “Shit.”

  “We’re still a good way off, Commander,” Dr. Washington piped in.

  Jones looked at Cash, and then at the other members of team.

  For the first time, Sheriff Jones noticed that they were an unusual looking group. “What force are you with?” Sheriff Jones quizzically asked.

  “I wish I could say, Captain,” Peterson said, noncommittally.

  “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter,” Sheriff Jones responded. “At least you made it to us.”

  Peterson wasn’t sure how to break the news. However, he didn’t have to. The expression on his face said it all.

  Trooper Willis was very observant. “You’re not here for us, are you?” he asked.

  Sheriff Jones was shocked at the idea. “Tell me this isn’t true, Commander.”

  “It is correct,” Peterson said, his voice dropped.

  A tense silence filled the air.

  Sheriff Jones finally caught his breath. “We were told the military was coming to help us. We’ve been waiting,” the tinge of hope that first range in his voice was now gone, deflated.

  “Then I suggest you hold on,” Dr. Washington spoke down
to the Sheriff. “Because we ain’t it.”

  “We just saved your asses,” anger rose in Jones’ voice.

  Peterson looked around, “you pulled us into a death trap. We would have been better off out there.”

  Sheriff Jones’ resentment continued to grow, “well, whatever your mission was, your chopper is down, and your men are hurt, so clearly, you need to abandon it. Your mission is our mission now. We’re all in this together. And our mission right now is to survive. And to get these to civilians some food, water, shelter, and medicine. Like it or not, your with us.”

  “The police station won’t work,” a third cop said. “It’s too small and doesn’t have food.”

  “But it’s close,” Sheriff Jones countered, “and it has weapons and ammo. We can all find a way to fit. And our first task is finding shelter. Once we secure it, we can figure out how to get food.”

  “Bullshit,” snapped Trooper Willis.

  “So, what’s your opinion Commander?” Sheriff Jones asked, “Do we try to make a run to the school? Or to the police station?”

  “I appreciate your dilemma, gentleman,” Peterson responded, “but as I said, we won’t be sticking around.”

  “You have no God damn choice. What the hell are you going to do? You barely made it in here alive. Your men are hurt, and you have no fucking place to go.” Sheriff Jones was on the verge of yelling.

  “As I said, we’re on a mission. And I intend to fulfill that mission. I’m sorry, but our orders don’t allow for distractions. We have to move on.”

  Jones laughed. “And how you gonna do that? Your bird is down. You think you can just walk out of here? Have you looked out there? There are hundreds of those things. There’s eight of you. And where do you go after that?”

  “I told you, it’s classified.”

  Jones’ stare turned cold. “So is that it? Is this just about you? You just gonna let these people die?”

  Peterson suddenly felt a tug on his sleeve, and looked down to see a small boy, about ten years old, standing there. Peterson was struck, as if seeing a ghost. The boy looked exactly like Charlie, his deceased little brother. His eyes were exactly the same. The breath left Peterson’s lungs.

  “I’m scared. Please, save me?”

  Peterson’s heart was in his throat. He was looking at the spit image of his little brother. “What is your name, son?” he asked.

  “Doug,” his little voice answered.

  The voice of Peterson’s little brother rung in his ears…save me.

  Peterson surveyed the crowd again. Most of the civilians were standing now, looking at him. He saw all the desperate and hopeful faces. A priest stepped forward.

  “We’ve overheard you, Commander. You didn’t come here for us. We understand and we won’t cast stones if you choose to go on your way. But, maybe, sir, you send us help when you can?”

  A voice rang out from the crowd, “please sir, please. We’re going to all die here.”

  “We won’t survive without you.” the Mayor pleaded.

  Then the rest of the crowd joined in, begging Peterson to help.

  “We need your help, Commander,” Sheriff Jones said. “I’ve only got a few officers here. If we bust out without you, a lot of good people are gonna get hurt and killed. With your help, we can make it somewhere. You guys are better trained, and better armed.” His voice softened. “Please. I’m asking you for a favor.”

  Peterson surveyed the crowd again. Then, he looked back at the ghost of his brother, at little Doug.

  Something moved deep inside of him.

  “Yes, Doug,” he said, finally. “I’m going to do my best.”

  Peterson then turned to Sheriff Jones, “you got us. But we’re just going to get you out of here and get you to your next spot. Then we’re done.”

  “Commander,” Armstrong interjected, “that’s a bad idea. Those are not our orders. We have to stay on track with our mission.”

  “This is absolutely unacceptable,” Dr. Washington complained. “I’m on direct orders from our government. You have no authority to take this side trip anywhere. I outrank you, Captain. You have to submit to my rank.”

  Peterson turned and gave Washington a steely glance.

  “You can go off on any mission you want, Washington,” Peterson said. “I’m not stopping you.”

  Washington gulped, realizing that without Peterson and his men, he would be helpless.

  Peterson turned back to Sheriff Jones.

  “I assume this town has a hospital?”

  Jones looked back at him, then slowly nodded.

  “Mercy Hospital. It’s about a mile down the road. The last I heard, it was overrun.”

  “Well, that’s where we’re taking you,” Peterson said.

  “That’s a bad idea,” Jones said. “It’s a huge facility. We can’t possibly secure all of it.”

  “We’d get killed in that place!” interjected another cop.

  “How are you gonna secure a building like that?”

  “We don’t have to,” came a voice. She was an attractive woman with short hair in her late twenties. She turned to Peterson.

  “My name is Nurse Dee. I work at Mercy Hospital.” Her voice was tough, and Peterson liked that. “The basement was once an old World War II bunker. It was converted for storage a long time ago. We keep a lot of stuff down there, including food, water and medicine.”

  “That basement is for shit, Nurse Dee.” Sheriff Jones turned to Peterson, “It’s seventy years old and no more than an old, beaten up basement.”

  Trooper Willis had a tone to his voice which annoyed the hell out of Peterson. “When everybody got sick, they went to the hospital. That place will be crawling with these things, Commander. It will be a downright crazy idea.”

  “If we’re going to do this, lets do it right,” Peterson said. “It has safety, and sounds like a good supply of food, water and medicine. My men could use it, too—I’ve get some wounded. It makes the most sense. That’s where were going.”

  “Who made you leader, Commander?” Sheriff Jones said.

  Peterson just stared back, calmly. “You want our help?”

  Jones looked back, clearly defeated.

  “Then from now on you’ll take orders from me. And so will your men.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Peterson’s team, the cops and ten armed civilians all huddled around Peterson as he laid out the plan.

  “We’re going to use that 18 wheeler,” Peterson turned and pointed to a eighteen wheel truck. The cabin was painted with red and yellow flames, and a shiny metal skull was mounted on its hood. “How is it on gas?”

  “It’s my truck sir,” came a voice. It was a civilian, in his mid-forties, wearing a cowboy hat and holding an 8 gauge shotgun—an elephant killer. He stepped forward, “At your service. It’s running on fumes.”

  “How much distance do you think she’s got left?” inquired Peterson.

  “Not much, soldier,” the cowboy said as he scratched his 5 o’clock shadow. “She can give up at any time.”

  “Well,” Peterson said, “all we need is for your truck to make it about 500 feet. Running on fumes will have to do. I will you need you to drive it, and a volunteer to ride shotgun,” Peterson’s voice was confident and direct. “It’s going to be risky.”

  “What’s the idea, Commander?” Trooper Willis demanded.

  Peterson shot Willis a hard glance. He didn’t like being questioned.

  “The truck is going to ram right through the front gate, and, like a wrecking ball, will hammer a passageway right through those things.”

  “Good idea,” the trucker said with some eagerness in his voice.

  “Good, Cowboy,” Peterson liked this guy. He looked up at the rest of the armed civilians. “And who will ride shotgun?”

  Another civilian stepped forward. He looked like a member of a motorcycle gang. He had a thick beard and mustache, long hair, and was wearing sunglasses. He also sported a bandana and a
weather-beaten leather biker jacket. Cradled in his arms was a mean looking machine gun.

  “Call me Hatchet,” he said in a cool, unruffled voice. “I’m the man.”

  “Yes you are,” Peterson said with approval.

  Looking down, Peterson used his finger to outline an invisible map on the cement.

  “Cowboy, you’ll need to back up to the other end of the lot, right here. Then I want you to make one loop, gain speed, and then break right through the gate,” Peterson looked at Cowboy and then continued. “Keep driving right over those bastards. You got to bore us a pathway right through those walking bags of flesh, understand?”

  “Understood,” Cowboy said, sounding self-assured.

  Peterson turned to Sheriff Jones, “As soon as the truck is through, my team is going to move outside and blast until we establish a perimeter, at least thirty feet wide, for the civilians to bust through. Your men need to usher the civilians outside the gate, and providing suppressing fire for us. Got it?”

  Sheriff Jones nodded back. He looked nervous.

  “Once we make it through, I want half of the armed men up front leading the way and the other half behind, making sure our rear is covered and that no civilians get left behind. My team will hold the flanks. This way, we have firepower in all directions, and everyone is accounted for.”

  “Got it,” Sheriff Jones said with jumpy voice.

  “And then what, Commander?” Trooper Willis clearly wasn’t used to being ordered around. It seemed to piss him off. “We just walk off into the sunset?”

  “If you stay here, trooper, your are all dead for sure.”

  Willis gritted his teeth, and grudgingly look away, having nothing to say to that.

  Peterson then surveyed the group of armed civilians. They were rag-tag, ranging from an all-star-American teenager with a six shot pistol, to an old, frail man with a rifle from world war II.

  “How many of these civilians are armed?” he asked.