George Magnum

by Dead Again

  Peterson scanned all their faces, and saw them staring back with a mix of fear and anticipation. It was as if they were all staring death in the face.

  He had to assert his command.

  “We’re all going up,” he said, mustering his most authoritative voice. “It’s not a command. Those of you he want to stay behind,” Peterson looked at Armstrong, “go ahead and do so. If you follow, you will answer to me by the numbers.”

  They all stared back, and nobody dared say a word.

  “I’m not going,” Dr. Washington said. “I’m not a combatant. I don’t have to go. And I won’t.”

  “Nobody invited you,” Peterson spat back. “You’re not part of my team.”

  Washington retreated, meekly.

  “There are civilians up there,” Peterson said, to the rest of his team. “If they are still alive. they won’t be for long. Whoever is alive, we will bring back. And then we will lock down this bunker for good.”

  “What about the cops, sir?” Armstrong said. “They didn’t go along the first time. What if they get in our way now?”

  “I’m betting that they failed, and that they’ll be in bad shape by now,” Peterson said. “They’ll probably see us as the second coming of Jesus. But if they don’t, and if they get in our way, we waste them.”

  His team stared back in silence.

  “But what about us? The people down here?” came a whiney, pleading voice.

  Peterson turned and saw the Mayor standing there, now sweating and looking very nervous. He fought his best fight, and now he knows he has lost. “Like Dr. Washington said,” the Mayor continued, “you have responsibilities to all of us. You can’t just leave us alone down here. You have the firepower. And if you go up there, some of them might get in here. We need you down here. It’s—um—” he cleared his throat, “—very unfortunate that some of our town members might not survive up there. But we have to think of the others now.”

  Peterson smirked at him. He hated politicians, always looking out for their own skin, and this guy was no exception.

  “I’ve heard the people out Mayor, even though civilian law means nothing now. I gave you all that much. You can’t make up your minds, so I have made it up for you.”

  Peterson turned to the growing crowd of civilians flocking around them, and addressed them directly, in a loud voice.

  “I want the armed civilians watching our back as we exit this staircase. Some of you have rifles. You will provide suppressing fire, and secure the door behind us as we leave. When we return, we’ll bang three times. That’s our signal. You open it when we do. Wait at the top of the staircase. If we don’t come back within the hour, consider us dead. And then don’t open it for anything.”

  “But you can’t bring the other people down here!” the Mayor yelled. “There’s not enough food and medicine for all of us!”

  Peterson shot him a look of disgust.

  “You are one pathetic human being,” he said, steely cold.

  Peterson turned on his heel and marched across the room, heading for the staircase. He hoped to hear the sound of all his teams boots following him, hoped that all of them, even Armstrong, would be on his heels, and he hoped that the civilians would also be following, taking up their guns, ready to unbolt the door. But he couldn’t risk turning and looking. That would indicate a lack of confidence in his command. So he strutted, hoping they would follow.

  They did. He could hear their boots right on his tail, and knew that this would work. As he headed up the steps, he could hear the boots heading up behind them, single file, along with the clicking of guns being prepared.

  They opened and passed through the cast-iron door and then ascended the staircase. Reaching the top, he rested his shoulder against the final door, listening. Finally, he turned around and looked.

  The staircase was already filled with his people, and civilians, ready to follow orders. That was one great thing about the shadow team: they might all disagree, but at the end of the day, they acted like soldiers. And like good soldiers, they would follow orders.

  Peterson turned and looked the civilians in the eye. Good old Cowboy was along for the ride as usual, and so what the tough-ass biker Hatchet. He felt that they would be up to the task of fulfilling their duties.

  “Don’t forget,” he reminded, “we open the door, you shoot anything that may get inside, and bolt it behind us. Can you handle that?”

  “Yes sir,” they responded in unison.

  Peterson turned and surveyed his team one last time. He felt good.

  “Let’s cause some hell.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  As Peterson stood there, before the door, getting ready to go, he couldn’t help thinking that this was exactly the type of situation he was hoping to avoid.

  Sharon leaned in and spoke in a whisper, “If the cops didn’t succeed, we’ll be walking into an army of those things.”

  Peterson looked at her. “Yes, we will,” he acknowledged.

  Peterson turned to his men one last time: “If we find ourselves in a zero sum lose situation, then on my command, we will give up the mission and we will retreat back into the shelter.”

  He turned back to the door. He nodded, and as he did, Sharon reached over and unbolted it.

  “MOVE!” Peterson yelled.

  With that, he kicked open the door with his heavy boot, sending it flying out.

  He burst into the hallway, zigzagging . His heart was pounding as in his chest, expecting zombie resistance.

  Indeed there was. There were a handful of zombies clustered around the door, as he suspected, and he ran right into one. He knew he had to clear the way for the others, so he raised his machine gun and butted it hard in the face, knocking it back. He then swung the butt, knocking another one hard in the throat. He leaned back and kick the third one in the chest, and sent it flying across the hall.

  Peterson then swung out-of-the-way, making room for the others to follow. He saw three zombies just off to his right, took out his handgun, and fired three quick shots, killing them all.

  On his heels, brushing past him, was Cash, who wasted no time. He extracted he beloved machete from his belt. A zombie leaped towards him, and swung, like a medieval barbarian. His decapitated the creature, and blood spurt out of its neck. Then, Cash sidestepped for the rest of the team to charge out behind him.

  Johnny Boy, Sharon, and Armstrong took up the rear. They all went to work, all using pistols and taking careful aim; within seconds, they easily took out several remaining zombies moving in on their position.

  Peterson heard a loud crash. It was the huge cast-iron door slamming closed, pulled shut by Cowboy and Hatchet. He then heard the bolt slam closed.

  Good, he thought. At least the hall was cleared, and the door was locked behind them. The first step was done, no one was hurt, and all seemed to be in good order.

  Luckily, there were no more of those things in sight. Most of the infected were probably distracted chasing the remaining civilians, and cops, somewhere on this floor.

  In the distance, Peterson thought he could hear something like a faint gunshot, or a crashing noise, or maybe even the shout of a civilian. He wasn’t exactly sure where it was coming from, but he had to take control, be assertive, and choose a direction. He decided to head back the way they entered. The civilians and cops might have moved on elsewhere, but they might just still be there. His guess was as good as any.

  Peterson signaled with his hand, and he chose a direction and ran down the hall.

  As they went, there were carpet to carpet corpses. Floors and walls were painted with blood and organs. And most eerie of all: silence. The hallways, once filled with the horrible groans of the undead, were now filled with an equally ominous stillness. Nothing was moving.

  In point lock step, the team leapfrogged one another down the hall, as they were trained to do, providing intersecting cover. Sharon took a knee, and Cash leaped past her. And so the movements of the formation continued, as
the team, like a nest of deadly snakes, slithered their way in perfect harmony, a well-oiled killing machine.

  Nearing the end of the hallway, Peterson took the lead. He knelt and gave a hand signal. The rest of the team read it, and all took a knee.

  Slumped against the wall, right near Peterson, was Trooper Willis. He was mauled, having been bitten multiple times. Willis’s pistol was clamped in his frozen hands, and the barrel of the pistol was in his mouth. Behind his head was a splattering of blood. Clearly, he had killed himself. His face was frozen in fear and torment. He had probably wanted to spare himself from the pain, or maybe the terror of becoming an infected.

  “That is one less pig we have to deal with,” Cash said, a sadistic ring in his voice.

  Peterson wasted no time and made a beeline towards the hospital’s West Wing. They continued to execute sweep and clean maneuvers as they wound their way through the hospital. The site was the same everywhere—dead corpses sprawled out, littering the floors.

  As Peterson turned another corner, he could suddenly hear a shout vividly, and the clear sound of gunfire. He now knew for sure that he was heading in the right direction. This new hallway was dark, some of its emergency lights smashed out, and the others flashing red. This hallway, too, was filled with corpses, and luckily there were no live zombies in it. Peterson assumed they were all attracted to the remaining civilians and cops.

  Despite everything, despite all that he was doing right now, all he could think of was that he had not come up to rescue them sooner. He was suddenly wracked with guilt as he wondered how many had been wasted while they were down there, safe. He never should have let those cops take control of any civilians. Now was the time to make up for it.

  Peterson gave a sudden hand signal, jumped to his feet, and sprinted down the hallway, his team on his heels. He ran all the way to the end, braced himself, and put his shoulder through the closed door, bursting it open, ready for whatever might lay behind it. It was show time. And he knew it wouldn’t be good.

  It wasn’t. He burst into a large, open, brightly lit fluorescent room, the cafeteria, which was filled with utter chaos. About a dozen civilians were still alive, their backs to the wall, and around them were three cops, including Sheriff Jones, and one armed civilian, raising their handguns, firing at a cluster of about thirty zombies. The creatures were packed tightly together, lumbering like drunkards towards fresh meat.

  Peterson observed all the details of the scene before him at once, as he had done numerous times in battle, and as he was trained to do. He saw numerous dead cops and civilians, being eaten and chewed upon by zombies, which were too focused on their food to join the fight. He saw a partially-barricaded door, and realized that the cops hadn’t succeeded in locking down the place. Just as he had predicted.

  He could see all the signs of struggle, of tragedy. It had been a bloody battle in here, and there were few people left to show for it. The police began clicking away on empty rounds, too panicky to realize they were out of ammo. The zombies were thickening, pouring in through open windows, and saw that within a minute or two, the remaining civilians would all be dead. And he saw with relief that that little boy, Doug, was still alive, cowering behind her petrified father.

  Not wasting time, Peterson sidestepped out of the way, raising his machine gun and fired at the cluster. He was careful not to aim too close to the civilians. He felt his team burst through behind him, and there was no better feeling then that.

  Cash brushed by him, firing, and Sharon, Armstrong and Johnny-Boy followed on their heels. They zigzag passed each other, spreading out, each focusing on separate targets, each instinctively knowing who the other was going for. They were instinctual killers.

  They did considerable damage. Within seconds, their rapid fire in every direction took down dozens of zombies. They shot their way closer to the group of civilians, being careful not to hit them. Cash switched his gun for his machete, and went to work. Peterson, like the others, resorted to using his boot, kicking back those things that got too close, then taking aim with his pistol and firing. Kick, aim, fire. Kick, aim, fire. In situations like these, Peterson had seen more civilians wasted by friendly fire than by enemies. Peterson was impressed to see that even Johnny-Boy got this, and didn’t aim once in the direction of civilians.

  But the cops were not as well-trained. They had let themselves become overrun with panic, and the one cop that still had ammo was raising his hand and, stupidly, firing at zombies in their direction.

  Peterson jumped out of the way just in time, a second before a bullet grazed his head. The cop, in shock, kept firing. A sound of pain came from behind Peterson, and he whirled around to see Angelo, still standing on his feet, holding his hand to his heart. He had been shot. Blood gushed from his wound. It was fatal, Peterson could tell instantly. The only thing keeping Angelo standing was pure shock. Then, he collapsed, dead.

  Peterson lunged at the cop, tackling him hard to the ground, knocking him down. After he knocked the wind out of him, he jumped to his feet and kicked the gun from his hand. Peterson placed his piston the far-head of the cop. Rage filled his eyes.

  “STOP,” Sharon shouted. “Friendly fire,” was all she said. It was enough to change Peterson’s mind.

  He spun and surveyed the room. His team had managed to wipe out every nearby zombie and not hurt a single civilian. But he also saw that the large door and open windows, which had only been partially barricaded. More and more zombies were pouring in. It was a no-win situation.

  “Get em’ and move out!” Peterson yelled.

  He ran and grabbed the civilians off the floor. They were sitting, kneeling or slouching against the wall, too terrified to run. Peterson had seen it before, and he knew they wouldn’t move unless he forced them to. He ran over, grabbed Doug with both hands, and stood him up.

  “I knew you would save me,” Doug said through his tears.

  Peterson’s had a lump in hi throat, “You bet, friend,” was all he could muster.

  He then looked at Doug’s father, who had a deep bit wound on his waist. Peterson lifted him quickly to is feet. His team saw what he was doing, and joined in, prodding the civilians to stand and run. It worked: it got them moving. Their fear broken, they ran, heading towards the shelter.

  Peterson’s men fell in behind them, providing retreating fire. Peterson was the last one to leave the room. Right before he did, he surveyed the area, and steadied himself for one last shot. Instead of taking out another zombie, he took aim on Angelo, on the ground, who would soon turn into one of them. With tears in his eyes, he raised his pistol and took aim. With one shot, he hit Angelo in the head. He had, he felt, spared his man, his friend, from a soul-less existence.

  Peterson followed his team down the hallway, and saw that they were positioned around the shelter door, pounding on it. A wave of shock ran through him, as he realized the civilians inside were not opening it. He hadn’t anticipated this. He heard the Mayor’s whiney voice behind it, yelling at the civilians not to open it. That fucker.

  “GOD DAMN IT, OPEN THIS DOOR!” Peterson yelled. He took the butt of his gun and banged again and again. But nothing came in return.

  “I told you,” Cash yelled over the din. “I told you not to waste time on these civilians! Now we’ll get wasted because of them!”

  Peterson looked down the east and west corridors, and saw zombies creeping their way. They were being closed in, were low on ammo, had no room left to maneuver, and had a dozen panicking civilians and cops on their hands. This wasn’t good.

  Peterson turned back to the door.

  BLAM! A shotgun blasts reverberated from the basement, and then the thud of a body could be heard.

  Before Peterson could react, he heard a lock turn and the door opened. It was Cowboy, bearing his elephant killer, smoke rising from its barrel. Next to Cowboy, flaccid against the wall, was the Mayor, his head was blown off and his brains smeared against the wall.

  “The bastard tricked us,
” Cowboy said with rage in his voice. Peterson took quick note, this guy really is a Cowboy, unpredictable, and a damn good guy to have on our side.

  Peterson took several steps back and allowed the civilians to submerge into the basement. His team had already taken flank positions, and were laying down a torrent of lethal fire at the arriving zombies.

  Once all the civilians had filed in, Peterson yelled for his men to follow. They all did, Johnny-Boy was the last one in. Peterson finally followed him, too, and as he did, slammed the door shut behind him, locking it.

  It was just in time, as a cluster zombies immediately banged on the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  Peterson walked slowly through the basement, taking stock. He had accomplished his mission, and he knew he should be satisfied. But somehow, he wasn’t. Angelo was dead. The rest of his team was down here, safe and sound, and he had managed to get those civilian, and even some cops, back without a scratch. No one else was injured, or even bit by one of those things.

  But his conscious gnawed away at him. He kept beating himself up for not going up there earlier. All he saw in his mind were the faces of those wasted civilians on the floor, being eaten by zombies. Corpses that wouldn’t be up there if he’d moved up there sooner.

  “Commander Peterson,” came a meek voice.

  Peterson turned and saw Sheriff Jones standing there, facing him. Dejected, humbled, like a broken man. He lowered his eyes, lowered his face, before Peterson,. “I just want to say how grateful I am—we all are—for your coming back up for us. You were right all along. I was wrong.”

  Peterson nodded back coolly. It felt good hearing it. But he was still mad at himself for not taking action sooner.

  “What will you do now?” Jones asked.

  Peterson had been thinking that very thing. Clearly, he couldn’t stay down here. They had got the civilians to safety. Now they had permanent shelter from those things, and they had food and medicine, at least enough to last for a while. They couldn’t ask for more than that. Peterson had fulfilled his immediate objective.