by Dead Again
The rate of firing increased behind Peterson, and the crack of machine guns and pistols resounded through the air. The fight was closing in on them. Peterson turned around and saw the crowd of scared and confused civilians at his back, huddled together, following him. However, the crowd was smaller than before. Some of the civilians stuck it out with Sheriff Jones.
God help them.
Sharon was covering the rear of the civilians. She snapped in a new clip of ammunition into her rifle, and resumed firing. She was confronted with a surprisingly large group of zombies, and they had moved into point blank range. She was popping them off, one by one. It seemed she was barely holding the line.
“We have a lot of company!” Sharon yelled out to Peterson. “I hate to interrupt your good time, but if you’re going to do something, now is a good moment!”
Peterson looked down the hall. It didn’t seem to matter how many Cash killed—more and more just flowed out. I need more guns, Peterson thought.
As if on cue, Cowboy appeared over his shoulder.
“Looks like you could use some help,” Cowboy no longer sounded tough, his voice was trembling.
Then Hatchet stepped up next to Peterson, gripping his machine gun. “The truck was a good idea,” was all he said.
Peterson glanced at them both. He liked their loyalty. He looked for any signs of the cops, hoping maybe they’d changed their minds and decided to join the right side of the fight. But there was no such luck.
At least they’re not getting in our way, Peterson thought.
“Okay, line up side by side: we’re going to make a wall of fire head straight down the mouth of this hallway,” Peterson slung his assault rifle off his shoulder, pulled back the bolt, loaded a round. He released the bolt and it snapped back into place. “Watch the doorways, make every bullet count, and most importantly, don’t get in each other’s line of fire.”
Cash smiled in acknowledgment and slid a bayonet on the barrel of his machine gun. The shiny, razor sharp blade fastened with a smooth click.
“They must be flowing in from somewhere,” Nurse Dee said. Her observations were sharp, and her instincts correct. Indeed, the hoard of zombies got thicker in front of them, and occupied the entire hallway from side to side and front to back, and were lumbering closer every second.
A disfigured black nurse was leading the pack of infected. Her right arm was gone, and her right foot was a bloody stump. Her arms reached out and she let out a bizarre, eerie groan.
Peterson, Cash, Hatchet and Cowboy quickly got into formation. They lined up shoulder to shoulder, side by side. They raised their rifles and took aim. They looked like a firing line getting ready to execute a person. Not waiting, Cowboy shot the black zombie nurse. He blew her head off.
The rest of the firing line followed. Their four rifles shot in unison and shredded to pieces everything in their path.
In all his years of combat, Peterson had rarely seen such a gory scene. As their bullets ripped into the heads of the undead, blood, brains and bones splashed on the ceiling, walls, and floor. The cracking of the guns was deafening, and created a ringing in Peterson’s ears. His spent bullet casings discharged in rapid succession from his rifle, and the smell of gunpowder grew thick in his nostrils.
It was a duck shoot. The zombie’s rigid, slow movements were no match for the accuracy of Cash and Peterson—and the civilians were doing all right, Peterson noted. One by one, the zombies were falling fast.
“Forward!” Peterson yelled over the gunfire.
As they marched down the hallways, blasting every zombie in their path, a new obstacle presented itself. Now the men also had to watch out for their footing. As the walking dead were shot, they fell on top of one another, creating significant blockades to be climbed over. Also, their blood pooled heavily on the floor, creating the equivalent of an oil slick. The more zombies they killed, the harder the hallway became to navigate. Peterson did not foresee this.
In front of the men was floor to floor carpeting of dead zombies. In unison, the team stopped. The next steps they had to take were on top of the corpses. There was no way around it, Peterson thought, as he led the way, taking the first step. The consistency of the ground changed from hard tiles to being wobbly, crunchy, and soft.
“Don’t look down,” Peterson snapped, “just do it.”
As if stepping up onto a platform, the rest of the men followed, walking on top of the corpses while continuing their march forward. A sickening crunch filled the air, and Peterson glanced over to see that Cash had stepped on the skull of the dead zombie. Now his boot was in its brains.
At that moment, more than ever, Peterson wished this was over. He just wanted every fucking walking dead person to be dead again. He wanted this passageway cleared. He wanted the civilians safe in the shelter, and he wanted to be on the way to finish his mission. A rage and bile filled his gut, and like a volcano, his anger spewed outward from the tip of his toes right to the end of his finger trigger. He screamed a war scream, which rose from the blackest depths of his soul. He opened up with his machinegun, and brought down upon the zombies the wrath of hell.
Peterson’s scream was contagious. It lit up Cash like fireworks on the Fourth of July. Finally, Cash had a partner in crime—another person as insane as he. Cash started screaming, too, a cry of rage and venom which rose louder than the machine gun fire itself.
At first Hatchet seemed jolted by the sudden war screams, but then he too suddenly screamed. He just screamed at the top of his lungs and began to fire his rifle like a maniac. The repeated deafening boom of the elephant shotgun was enough of an indicator that Cowboy was on board, too. All four men had let loose, throwing everything they had at the walking dead before them.
Flashes spit from the barrels of the rifles, creating a strobing effect which made Peterson feel lightheaded. His surroundings became surreal, the blood before him a stunning red, and the bones splintering from the zombie’s skulls a bright white. He blinked, trying to regain normalcy. But he also felt a bizarre sense of control, as if he were playing a computer game.
As if a sixth sense had come upon him, he could see so clearly now, as each zombie fell. He counted as he squeezed his trigger in rapid succession. One, two, three, four, five, six. With pin-point accuracy he dislodged the brains of every goddamn zombie that stood in the hallway. He marched forward, squeezing the trigger, and his team marched with him. Stopping at nothing, they were homicidal, relentless, mass murderers of the walking dead.
In the back of his mind, Peterson knew he was having another episode of psychological dissociation. But he didn’t fight it. It is serving me know, he thought, as he fought his way to the very end of the hallway. But he was lying to himself. Dissociation, he knew, was just a coping mechanism, and it existed for one reason: to defend a person’s psyche from what it otherwise can’t handle. Even before this curse fell upon the earth, Peterson had been teetering close to the edge.
Peterson and the firing-squad were arriving at the end of the hallway. Just in front of them was a doorway, adorned with a sign which read “storage.” Peterson knew this must be the entrance to the shelter. However, the end of the hallway was a t-section. A hallway to the left, and to the right, from which zombies were flowing from. His team would have to turn the corners, and hold back the incoming infected from both the left and the right, creating a passageway for the civilians to safely enter.
Maybe five minutes had passed since they’d started the fight down the hallway, or maybe an hour. Time was standing still. Peterson didn’t even notice that the civilians, being lead by the Mayor, were right behind them, until Nurse Dee shouted out.
“That’s the shelter door!” she exclaimed with a fierce sense of urgency.
Zombies continued to appear into the hallway. So close to the end, the fighting was almost at point blank range. Peterson knew they had to move fast, they had to turn the corners and take control of the other two corridors.
A zombie, probably in the m
iddle of an autopsy before it returned from the dead, turned the corner. It was cut open from belly to neck. All of its organs were removed, simply gone. This zombie was faster than the others. It speed was surprising as it jumped forward and took hold of Cowboy. It opened its mouth, wide and terribly, to clamp down upon Cowboy’s face.
A bayonet entered the skull of the zombie with such force that it pinned the zombie’s head to the wall. Cash stood with a vicious look, and pulled his bayonet out of the zombie, allowing the dead body to slide to the floor like a sack.
Peterson caught Cash’s attention and provided a series of complicated hand signals. Peterson took up position, getting ready to turn the corner of the hallway to the left, and Cash the hallway to the right. Then, in unison, they pulled two hand grenades each from their vests, pulled the pins simultaneously, and lobbed the grenades around the corners.
“FIRE IN THE HOLE!” Cash shouted and everybody ducked for cover, including the crowd of civilians.
The hand grenades detonated back to back, putting forth explosions which shook the walls. Shrapnel, debris and smoke mushroomed around the corners, covering everybody in smoke and dust.
Peterson and Cash wasted no time: they turned the corners ready to fire, covering each hallway. In front of Peterson was a salad of body parts and blood. His hand grenades tore to shreds a good number of zombies. However, what presented itself a bit further down the hall put a pit in his stomach. It was just like the hallway they’d just cleared. There were more zombies, slowly walking right at them.
“Holy shit” Cowboy said, as he appeared over Peterson’s shoulder and saw the incoming zombies. “There’s no end to them.”
“I got more here, too—a big crowd!” Cash’s voice came from behind Peterson, sounding like a boy in an amusement park.
“Get everybody into that damn shelter!” Peterson demanded, as he turned to the Mayor. “NOW!”
The Mayor reached for the door which read “storage” and turned the knob. Locked. He reached over and grabbed a gun from a civilian and aimed it at the door.
“STOP!” yelled the nurse as she grabbed his shoulder. “We have to lock the damn thing behind us.”
“This is the only freakin line of defense? This one damn door?” he retorted in surprise.
“No, idiot!” she said, “but every door counts.”
Machine gun crackled from behind. Armstrong, Sharon, Tag and the rest fought a war in the rear, and Cash’s machine gun erupted. He opened fire again, plugging holes in the infected coming down his corridor. Peterson’s position was also getting worse, and he didn’t have much time—they were moving in closer.
“Can you open it?” Peterson yelled to Nurse Dee, and then fired two rounds from his machine gun, putting down two zombies.
“Hold on!” she said as her eyes filled with hope. She turned back down the hallway, climbed over a pile of bloody corpses, and found what she was looking for: a corpse wearing a dark brown jump suite, the familiar dress of the hospital maintenance men. She reached down and grabbed a ring of keys attached to his belt. Peterson was impressed as he watched her.
“Keys to salvation,” she said with a cool and collected ring in her voice.
She suddenly threw the keys in the air, sailing across the hallway to the Mayor, who fumbled and dropped them, uncoordinated.
He finally picked them up and slid the key into the door: the lock opened with a smooth click.
“We got it!” he yelped. “We Goddamn got it!”
A sound wave of hope and relief bounced through the crowd of civilians.
A voice rang out from the civilian crowd, “Well what the hell are we waiting for? Let’s get moving!”
Peterson must’ve had at least 15 zombies in front of him, now within about 20 feet of his position. He squinted his eyes down his rifle and smoothly pulled the trigger. One, two, three, four,. The crack of his rifle was like seconds ticking on a clock, precise and consistent.
Peterson turned quickly to cowboy. “Can you take my position?”
Cowboys slid more ammunition into his shotgun. “You bet I can.”
Peterson did like the guy. He blew off that woman’s hand, but still acted bravely. Underneath a man who was scared was a man who was trying to be tough. “Okay Boy. But if you let any of them through, people are going to lose their lives. Don’t forget that.” Cowboy and Peterson switched places, and cowboy raised his rifle, preparing to shoot.
Peterson looked down Cash’s corridor. The situation wasn’t much better. Cash was holding off maybe 15 or 20 of those things. Peterson, for better or for worse, wondered where those damn local cops were. He heard shots of pistols in the far distance. He figured they must be trying to barricade the first floor.
Stupid bastards.
Even worse, an image of the hospital parking lot flashed through Peterson’s mind. He imagined a larger and larger crowd of those monsters, gathering, surrounding the hospital, moving in on all of them.
Hearing the shout of Armstrong, Peterson turned and saw that, behind the crowd of civilians, the rest of the team had gathered, holding their positions and not letting any of those zombies get through. Armstrong, Tag, Johnny-Boy, and Sharon were a sight for sore eyes. Empty shell casing spit from their rifles as they pulled their triggers relentlessly. The crack of their assault rifles stung his ears.
Peterson calculated the field of play. In effect, they were surrounded. But they held good tactical positions. And, most importantly, they were a lot faster and a lot smarter than these dumbass walking bags of flesh. As long as they had enough ammunition, they were going to be successful. They were actually going to pull this thing off.
Despite himself, and despite his nagging concern that detouring from the mission was the wrong decision, he felt good. He was going to save these vulnerable people. After all the horrible shit he had seen in this world, and for all the terror that had taken place over the last 72 hours, he felt, for a moment, that something good could come out of all of this. Acts of decency in times of tragedy was what being human is all about. This thought made Peterson feel flushed for a moment. For the first time in his life he had saved people—instead of killing them.
Nurse Dee appeared over Peterson’s shoulder, and looked into the darkness which lay beyond the open doorway leading to the shelter. “You parted the red sea,” she said, admiration on her face. “Like you promised.”
Armstrong came up from the back line, drenched in sweat from head to toe. “How’s everything going up here in the first class cabin?” Armstrong said with a grin. “Good news sir: we got the rear under control. The crowds of infected have thinned out considerably. We still have some wobbling around, but it ain’t nothing we can’t handle in a snap.” Armstrong stared at the open shelter doorway, “Is that it?”
“Do me the honors and lead the way,” Peterson eye’s never stopped shifting, surveying the surroundings, estimating scenarios. Now it was going to be easy to get the civilians into the shelter. His new concern, however, was what the police would do when they realized they were locked out.
Armstrong turned to the scared, huddled crowd of townsfolk and shouted a charge, “FOLLOW ME!”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Peterson, Armstrong and Cash struggled against the weight of a huge, cast-iron door. It probably hadn’t been moved in 50 years. It was rusty, and looked like a remnant of an ancient battleship.
They grunted, and with a squeal the door finally slid on its hinges. Using their momentum, they pushed even harder, all three men straining their muscles. It slowly came around and shut with a thud which echoed throughout the shelter. Armstrong reached up and pulled down a hefty lever, and like an old prison cell, the door locked and sealed the basement shut.
The men were absolutely exhausted, as if shutting this door took the last bit of energy from them. They were also emotionally exhausted. They were safe, though, and the people were safe—at least for the meantime.
The old WWII shelter didn’t look like much more than a
n old cement basement, converted into a storage chamber. It was vast however, probably the length of a football field. It was dark and a bit chilly, and the emergency lights had turned themselves on, which were no more than encased, red light bulbs fixed intermittently to the ceiling. Patches of the shelter were not well lit, leaving areas of shadows.
Peterson took the entire room in, pacing it, and walked by a barely visible sign on the wall. It must have been eighty years old. It read: bomb shelter.
As Peterson surveyed the surroundings, he saw a very impressive array of items which had been stored. Medical machinery, boxes upon boxes of what appeared to be dried and canned food, and several hundred jugs of spring water. There were also medical supplies, surgical equipment, wheelchairs, and old computers. There were even hospital sheets, blankets, and even some old beds. The inventory was vast, and would have to be closely examined. He felt more confident than ever that he had made the right choice coming here.
Some of the civilians moaned in pain, while others couldn’t stop crying. Nurse Dee and the Mayor led them to an open area, and guided them to sit or lay down. Peterson estimated there were about thirty civilians who had made it. The Nurse moved promptly, rolling out old hospital beds. Not missing a beat, she was already scavenging, testing and preparing the available supplies to serve the civilians.
As Peterson gazed upon the townsfolk he further grappled with the unbelievable fact that the dead were walking. He was beginning to wonder if maybe survival wasn’t all that life was about. Maybe it is not the length of time, but the quality of life that really matters. He had spent his whole live in survival mode. Now, as he looked at the people he’d just saved, he felt a pang of uncertainty. Have I lived a life of worth?
Right then and there he resolved anew to do whatever it took to make it to that island, to find that lab, to do his best to save humanity. It would be his redemption, for all the mistakes he’d made in his life.
