by Dead Again
As the viewed the broadcast, a murmur of shock and awe swept through the civilians. They hadn’t yet seen anything of this nature.
Peterson and Sharon stood and watched. “We’ve already seen this type of shit, Commander,” Sharon says. “Turn it off. We know what’s going on out there.”
“Maybe we can learn something new,” he shot back.
“This broadcast is two days old. We got a signal now, let’s see what else we can do with it,” Sharon sounded pissed, impatient.
“We will, but some people need to see this.” Peterson turned and faced Sharon. She was as beautiful as always. Even when angered. “They need to know what is happening, so when we leave, they have a chance of fending for themselves.” Peterson looked back at the television.
A camera snapped around and captured a portion of Manhattan. There were fires blazing, Army forces running, ambulances and police vehicles racing, panicked people filling the streets.
Another camera focused on a petite, blond news reporter with nice tits and red lipstick, the famous Patricia Surefire. She was standing outside, in the crowd. Publicly, she was known for following hurricanes, and all other natural disasters. The crowd elbowed and shoved her, and she was caught in its sway.
Surefire hollered over the noise of the crowd, “This is Patricia Surefire reporting for CNN live from the scene of the Manhattan Bridge. As the final bridges, tunnels, and transit have been shut down, effectively quarantining New York City and barricading all exits, the public has grown outraged. The tension is reaching a breaking point as residents and visitors alike are attempting to flee the city for safer grounds, or to return home, or to connect with loved ones. As you can see all around me, a terrible situation may just be turning worse…”
The broadcast cut to another camera angle which zoomed-in, and focused on a line of National Guard soldiers; they were wide eyed and afraid. They were besieged. A Colonel could be seen standing amongst them, his posture and expression odd, like that of a roman conqueror. He raised a bullhorn.
It looked like the Colonel greatly enjoyed his power, and it sang in his voice. “Any individual violating the quarantined will be shot. Disperse now.”
A NYPD officer approach the Colonel.
The video footage was incredible, just like a horrifying reality TV show.
“You are NOT going to fire live rounds upon these civilians. They are just scared. And mouthing-off into your bullhorn is not making the situation any better!” The NYPD officer shouted.
The Colonel shot a venomous look at the cop, “like hell I’m not. We defend this quarantine, and therefore this bridge, at any cost. I have my orders, and in case you’re not up to date, this is military jurisdiction now. First person to step over the line gets shot.” The Colonel looked away, his eyes teary with excitement. There was a scary lunacy in the Colonels’ face.
“Sir, you are in power here,” The NYPD officer reasoned. “I know this. Please consider there are woman and children in the crowd.”
“Return to your post, cop,” The Colonel spat, entirely disregarded the authority of the NYPD.
Unable to control himself, the officer burst into a rage “This infection has already spread throughout our entire damn nation, and you know this, you son-of-a-bitch! This is not a quarantine, it’s a firing line. I’m pulling my men out!”
Another camera captured a National Guard soldier, a young Private, manned a 50 caliber machine gun atop a tank. He swiveled the machine gun torrent out of nervousness. This kid was the very last line of defense. At his back was just the empty bridge.
The image caught something moving behind him. A silhouette appeared, limping and swaying without balance. Step by step the figure advanced closer. It was a horrid sight: an elderly man missing the left half of his skull. His sticky whitish and pruned face was otherworldly. Any person with such wounds would be dead, but not this person.
A shout from the cameraman, “Behind you!”
The zombie opened its mouth and let out a hair-raising groan.
The young Private was startled and swung his machine gun one hundred and eighty degrees. There, point blank in the private’s crosshairs, was the infected. The kid seemed to freeze.
“Shoot it soldier. SHOOT IT!” came the cameraman’s voice.
The private squeezed the trigger.
The 50 caliber machine gun exploded bullet rounds at the rate of 300 rounds per second, and practically sliced the infected man in half, from the bottom up. For a split second, the infected remained standing. Its head still intact, the look in its eyes was somewhat startled. Then it collapsed, and hit the ground with a wet slap.
“Holyshit,” came the voice of the cameraman. “It’s still fucking alive!”
The Private gasped, aimed at the infected man’s head, and squeezed the trigger again. The violent flow of bullets was so powerful that the infected man’s head simply blew up, bone and brain matter popped in all directions. The zombie stopped moving, but this time, for good.
The crackling sound of the 50 caliber gun was like a starter pistol, and it set off the crowd into a panic.
Hundreds of wide-eyed people, parents grasping the hands of their children, elderly couples fighting to stay afoot, just everyday folks, suddenly shrieked in unison, charging the Manhattan Bridge barricade. The screen went blank for a moment, and then the broadcast cut to another angle: the NYPD riot police raised their shields, like Roman soldiers, waiting for the swarm of civilians to strike them. The impact of the crowded was much greater than they could have anticipated. The panic and terror had turned the crowed into a tidal wave, which slammed the NYPD riot shields with such incredible force that the cops were simply smothered and crushed, drowned in an ocean’s under toe.
Having trampled the riot police, the wave of civilians slammed into the wall of sandbags, which swayed with the massive impact. The Colonel stepped forward and screamed: “Fire! Fire! Fire!”
The NYPD commanding officer let out a futile scream. “NO!”
The formation of National Guard soldiers squeezed their triggers. Assault machine guns exploded, the flashes of barrels spitting bullets without mercy. A wave of shrieks burst from the crowd—the people targets, trapped in a kill zone.
Patricia Surefire was fighting hard not to get swept away by the crowd, and was still fighting. Her blouse was suddenly ripped open. A large caliber bullet hit the back of Surefire’s head, and exited through her face, and ripped it off. There was a gutted red hole where her face once was and the once pretty blonde reporter’s body dropped like a sandbag.
The TV screen flickered to black. Soon after, the emergency broadcast signal appeared again.
The broadcast ended, and the crowd of civilians were shocked. Some of them started to cry again, others stood with their hands over their mouths.
“Learn anything new commander?” Sharon asked, sarcastic. “Or did you just want to scare the hell out of these people?”
“Yes,” Peterson says gently, “both.”
Johnny-Boy arrived beside them. He stroked the barrel of his rifle, as if it brought him comfort, “What did you learn, sir?”
Peterson turned to Johnny-Boy. He was really coming to like this kid, “We’re killing each other, son.” Peterson turned to Sharon, “You know what that means?”
“That people panicked.” Armstrong appeared, throwing in his two-cents.
“No, Armstrong. It means were not being beaten by the zombies. We’re beating ourselves..”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The civilians sat in front of Peterson, listening intently. The Mayor stood off to the side, his arms crossed tightly against his chest.
“You have shelter, protection, food, water and medicine now. You have a television signal and, if you use the connection as we have taught you, you may be able to make contact with others.” Peterson turned, lowered his head, and thought, “Do not count on the military or any other armed force arriving to help you.” Peterson’s words drifted off. He regretted this speec
h, felt a growing pit in his stomach. In the back of his head he knew, the chance of their survival was almost none.
The injured child with the scratches on his side raised his hand politely, as if still in his third grade class. Peterson looked at the cute young man, and his heart sank even further.
“I see a hand from a young brave man,” Peterson said is a soft, fatherly tone. “What is on your mind, friend?”
“Mr. Peterson,” came the child’s voice.
“Call him Sir,” whispered his mother.
“Sir,” the young man corrected himself. “My friend Doug is upstairs, is he okay? Are the others okay?” With the type of insight and wisdom only children have, and the unfiltered way in which they speak their minds, the kid said what was on everybody’s mind.
Peterson thought of the ten year old boy, Doug.
Why does this kid get to me so much? Peterson wondered. He remembered the old days, with Sharon, how they spoke about having a child. He wanted a son. She didn’t care. Or maybe it was that the kid reminded him of his younger brother. Those eyes, are they really the same? Am I just imagining it?
The kid was the loss and suffering in Peterson’s heart and, at the same time, was his dreams and hopes that he still, even in the midst of the pandemic, couldn’t let go of. The child was everything wrapped into one. And Sharon knew it.
Peterson again looked at her, and she avoided his eye contact, as before. She knew him better than he knew himself, and from the very start, with this kid, Peterson believed she had been reading his feelings.
A part of Peterson was so cold. Nothing would stand in this way of the mission. Another part, when confronted with a person in need, always seemed to act in a contrary way. He was conflicted, and this conflict lived deep in his soul.
“The more of us there are, the better chance of survival we will have,” said one of the civilians, a twin brother who Peterson noticed had been very compassionate to the others from the start.
“It’s not even a consideration,” the Mayor’s voice boomed. “The likelihood that they are still alive upstairs is slim anyway. And even if they are, those things will be all over the place! We barely got inside this shelter alive. I absolutely refuse to let this happen.” The Mayor’s wife, still rocking their daughter, spoke up, “My husband is right. We’re all safe now. Opening that door again is like opening Pandora’s box. We might all die, then. What good will that do them?”
Peterson conscious was growing on him. The Mayor was wrong, the twin kid was right. The more of them, the better chance of survival they will have. Also, the right people needed to be in charge. Maybe help would come later. Maybe there would be a miracle. I promised myself that I would give them the best chance of survival. Peterson thought of Doug, and got lost in his mind for a moment. I owe them at least that much.
The civilians broke out into an argument. Some agreed with the Mayor, others argued to help the others upstairs.
“But our supplies are limited!” came the voice of a teenage boy whose jacket was sprayed with dried blood. “They made up their minds. Let them face the consequences!”
A wave of agreement swept over a portion of the crowd.
“But they may still be alive upstairs, fighting against those things. We can’t leave them to be eaten alive by those monsters!” a high pitch, horrified voice came from an elderly woman.
Voices of agreement supported the elderly woman’s comment.
“Boss,” Armstrong said, about to give his opinion.
“Keep it to yourself,” Peterson said in a fierce tone. Their friendship was gone, and Peterson detested Armstrong’s disobedience.
“Commander?” came Johhny-Boy’s voice. “Request the liberty to speak, sir.”
“Permission granted, Johnny-Boy,” Peterson now favored Johnny-Boy.
“We haven’t heard any gunshots for the last ten minutes. That doesn’t bode well. However, if any of the cops or armed civilians are still alive, they will be an invaluable asset to the survival of these folks in the long run,” Johnny-Boy gave his thoughts in an even, professional tone.
“And how about you Sharon?” Peterson caught her attention.
She looked out upon the crowd of arguing civilians and noticed the elderly, the children, the sick and the weak. She looked at the kid. “We were able to handle those things pretty well getting down here, Commander. I agree, the more survivors, the better their chances. I’m game.”
An unearthly moan of agonizing pain rang out from somewhere in the crowd. It was Tag, lying on a hospital bed. Peterson felt a shot of guilt. He had been too busy to give him the decency and honor he deserved. Peterson walked through the crowd and over to Tag.
Tag’s face had pruned, and was a deathly pastel. The telltale signs of black circles surrounded his gaunt eyes. He appeared to be on the verge of death…and worse.
Peterson placed his hand on Tag’s arms, in a gesture of warmth and concern.
“She always liked you best,” Tag said, almost unable to speak through his pain.
“We didn’t get along Tag. I’m sorry for that. Perhaps we can put it behind us.”
Tag gave a dark, morbid laugh. “What do you want from me, Commander?”
“You’re voice, Tag. Do we try and rescue the folks who remained upstairs or not?” asked Peterson.
“Why the hell are you asking me?” Tag was on the verge of delirium. “I don’t want to turn into one of those things. You won’t let that happen, Commander. Please, don’t let that happen. When the time comes, you will do the right thing, won’t you Commander?”
“Yes,” Peterson said. He hadn’t thought about it, couldn’t. In the back of his mind he was praying that somehow Tag would still make it, even though he knew that was impossible.
In an eerie voice Tag spoke. “I only want to die once.”
Tag’s words gave Peterson the chills. “How do you want it done?” Peterson asked.
“Sharon,” Tag stated flatly. “I want her to do it. Promise me.”
“I promise,” Peterson looked Tag dead in the eyes. His word was solid. “You gave your last bit of strength to save these people, Tag. This is why I am asking you. I have decided that you have the final word.”
“Good,” responded Tag through his pain, teeth clenched. “Then I say save the damn civilians.”
With these final words, Tag lost consciousness. His eyes shut and his head rolled back.
Peterson turned and waved Sharon over.
The entire shadow team stood over Tag’s bed. Sharon stood at the foot of it, with her rifle at the ready. The civilians became absolutely silent. A pin drop could be heard. They watched on from behind.
Tag’s body twisted and his skin turned grey. Before their eyes, his faced seemed to slightly transform.
“Give him another shot of morphine,” snapped Sharon.
“It’s too late,” Washington said, amazed at what he was seeing. “He’s about to turn.”
A single tear fell from Sharon’s eye. She raised her rifle and pointed it at Tag.
Tag’s eyes popped opened. At first he seemed disoriented. Then he looked left, then right. Slowly, rigid, he sat up. It was unmistakable. He had died, and returned to life.
Sharon peered down the sight of her rifle, and with all her strength, she pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Peterson couldn’t concentrate. The words of his fellow team members were muted in his head; he imagined, instead, the pain of the civilians, trapped upstairs. He couldn’t stop thinking about the boy, Doug, whose father was stubborn and had refused to follow them down. He kept flashing on the faces of all those unlucky civilians, protected only by those lame-dick cops. The cops deserved to go down. They wouldn’t listen to him.
But the civilians didn’t.
The civilians should have trusted him, not the cops. And most of them did; but some of them didn’t. They’d made a mistake. But they shouldn’t have to suffer for that with their lives.
Peterson
had been trained to fight for people who couldn’t fight for themselves. It was in his blood. Now with his team behind him, he couldn’t allow himself to just sit down here, safe and sound, while those people up there were being mauled to death. He just couldn’t do it. Their faces shined brighter in his eyes, and the sound of their voices became almost deafening. He became furious with himself. He felt a familiar fire burning in his veins, and he knew that that only meant one thing: he’d have to venture up there and save their sorry asses.
“We’re going up,” he said and strode across the room. His team members followed behind, hurrying to catch up, and he saw determination in the faces.
“What are you talking about?” A civilian said.
“Commander, you can’t go up there!” came another voice.
“Peterson,” came Dr. Washington’s sharp voice, as he felt his hand dig into his arm. He pulled him hard, and he stopped him. His face was hard and cold. “It’s suicide. You know that. They had a choice. They didn’t want to follow us. You have a responsibility to these people down here. If you go up there, we might all die.” He leaned in closer, lowering his voice. “We can’t save everybody. We also have a responsibility to our mission. You were not authorized, Captain, to diverge on this mission to start with. Our success is more important than these people. It is more important than one thousand lives, even ten thousand. What is waiting for us in that lab may save millions.”
Peterson stared at Washington. The logical damn prick may be right, thought Peterson, put my decision has been made.
“I’m with you,” Cash suddenly said. “I’m tired of sitting this basement. There’s no action. Let’s go off some more of these fuckers!” he said with a full-sized smile, and locked a fresh clip of ammo into his CAR 15 assault rifle.
“I’m with you, sir,” Johnny-Boy said again.
Johnny boy was pleasantly surprising Peterson. He been coming into his own all throughout the mission, and Peterson was amazed at how fast he was transforming from a rookie to a veteran soldier.
