by Micah Gurley
The survivors, experienced hands at this point, gave no war cry, no last minute good luck wishes, no yell to ignite their battle fever. It was simply what needed to be done and they were determined to do it.
A few more feet.
"Handguns. Fire." James heard the command and fired off fifteen rounds from his Beretta. He aimed at the outer wall, trying to create a pile to keep the diseased from making it to the moat. It partially worked, but with only one magazine, the work soon finished.
James holstered his Beretta, along with Kyle and Grace. They would save their last magazine for the handguns. James picked up his shield, faced it front so the person next to him would be covered. Kyle stood to his left, their shields overlapping by an inch. They'd worked out the kinks in the last four encounters, the seeming ease with which they used the shields was from hard experience.
"Alright, keep the wall tight. No letting them in, and aim for the head. Shotgun, be ready for the call."
No response came. None was needed. The diseased came.
The first diseased to reach for the survivors stood a foot below the wall, its head reaching only to the waist of the defenders. Eric, holding a spear of his own design, jammed it forward, impaling the diseased through the eye. He grunted, twisted the narrow black pole and yanked it free, leaving the diseased to drop in front of the wall.
More came. The diseased, more pale blood than flesh, rose against the wall with a sense of zeal. They slammed into the shield wall, their uncontrolled attack meeting a swift end. The defenders moved the wall apart, lashed out with sword or spear, and kicked the diseased to the bottom of the pile. The wall reformed and awaited the next attack.
Still they came.
The next twenty minutes became an effort in the will to live. With no backup, no place to go, the defenders held off the constantly growing mob, their screeches of madness an unrelenting siren of dominion in this new world.
James front kicked a fat diseased back, the man only flopping a foot away, stopped by the ever growing mound of dead. There was nowhere for him to fall to. James didn't have to give it thought as a diseased lunged at Grace, who had been moved by Kyle. James slammed his shield into the diseased, sending it flying sideways, farther down the wall and back into the moat. James turned and kept fighting, more to keep them off than kill them.
Kyle was out of strength. He shoved his sword up through the jaw of a female diseased, its red blood pouring down his arm. Kyle pulled the sword loose, dropping the woman where she stood.
The attackers had the high ground now, with the mound growing so big they were reaching down from above. Something needed to change, but Kyle was out of ideas, exhausted from holding up the sword and constantly battling fear, which assailed him stronger than the zombies.
"Shotguns. Fire everything!" Kyle yelled, his voice hoarse from shouting directions.
Five shotguns opened up, clearing the diseased from the plateau of the pile, but that only added their bodies to the mound, making it taller. A second round, their last, killed the diseased climbing from the back, trying to gain the high ground. Kyle made a decision, they just couldn't fight like this. They needed the high ground.
Kyle moved forward, stepping off the wall, onto the mound of the dead. "Everyone move onto the pile.Stay in the middle, we need to keep the high ground."
Kyle moved faster than the others, kicking off a diseased climbing the pile, its body flopping down a few feet, only to regain its balance and step up again.
Since walking was tenuous on the pile, Kyle placed his feet carefully and took up position, yelling to the others to do the same. In less than a minute the small group formed a circle, their shields facing out, waiting for the next attack.
A group of five diseased climbed the pile opposite Kyle, facing Billy and his wife who fought side by side. The diseased reach Billy who used his shield to knock two of the attackers back. His wife, holding a buck knife, struck at the face of another. The knife bounced off the cranial cavity, and before she could stick it again, her arm was caught.
The diseased latched on, his a claw like hand pulling the woman out from behind the wall, onto the slope of the dead. She screamed in panic as she lost control, her hands desperately reaching for her husband, who, seeing what was happening went berserk.
Billy, not thinking clearly, dived shield first into the mass of diseased falling on top of his wife. He used his shield like a butcher knife, bringing it down with hurricane force on top of head after head, his power busting them like grapes.
It wasn't enough.The diseased pulled him down as if he were an afterthought, latched onto his exposed skin and began feasting.
Pandemonium erupted among the group, with some trying to save the lost members, others using the last of their strength to plug the holes that opened. Billy's son, initially not seeing what happened to his parents, followed his father's example and rushed to save his parents.
A chain effect rippled among the defenders, with Billy's son and daughter in law both surrounded by the diseased, after leaving the protection of the shield circle. Their cries rippled through the rest of the survivors, desperate pleas that stripped all the remaining courage from the group.
The circle threatened to break, the open gaps causing some defenders to be forced back, others to be separated. Kyle watched Grace being slowly pushed back, her small sword held low in her hands. Fatigue and exhaustion almost kept her from defending herself.
Fear-like strength rippled through Kyle. He pulled his handgun, his last magazine, and fired shot after shot dead center into the heads of the diseased that were forcing Grace away from the group. He ran over to her, grabbed her and yelled to reform the circle. The tired group responded, moving closer to each other to lock the wall of shields.
Kyle, satisfied Grace was safe for the moment, turned to the where Billy and his whole family had gone down. His gun had eight bullets left. He took careful steps on top of the dead and fired eight shots. Ignoring the enraged voice of James, whom he knew wouldn't leave Grace. Kyle switched his sword to his right hand.
He needed to give his group more time to settle themselves. He took a quick step, meeting a diseased climbing the mound, and put his short sword through the bloody mouth of it. He yanked the blade out and plunged it again into the top of its head, making sure it was dead. He pulled the sword again, scanned his area and closed with the next diseased headed for the group.
He didn't make it.
On his second step across the uneven pile of bodies, he tripped, falling face first into the mass of dead bodies. He tried to pick himself up, but his muscles and bruised ribs decided they'd had enough. After an eternity, he found a secure hold and lifted himself, only to find three diseased descending on him.
One of them came faster than the others, quicker than Kyle could respond. Before he had time to act, the diseased latched onto his arm and bit down. The bite felt like a lion had gained purchase, it teeth closing down with determined purpose. Kyle panicked and tried to swing his arm, to jerk it free, but the diseased remained latched on, not giving up its prize. Kyle felt the teeth break into his skin, felt the teeth close and dig in.
He brought his panic under control and grabbed his knife from his hip. He slammed it into the top of the man's head and forced it through the skull with his remaining strength. The fight ended and Kyle shook the teeth away from his mutilated arm. But it was too late, the damage done. He was dead.
Kyle turned his head toward the group, not able to make out anyone through the blur in his eyes. Regret flashed through him, regret at leaving them, but he'd be with his brother now. He looked again to his friends, he needed them to survive. "Stay with them!"
James, Eric, Patrick; they knew what it meant. He was lost. Kyle faced the diseased, growled and used the last of his energy to tackle the two remaining diseased, knocking them off the pile and down the slope. Kyle tumbled down the side of the heap, hitting pieces of bodies on the way down. He flipped in the air, his head moving towards the gr
ound. It collided with something on the bottom. The force, almost subtle in its effect, knocked Kyle out and he remembered no more. The diseased attacked.
Chapter 20
Kyle came to consciousness slowly, sluggish, not sure where he was, not sure if he was dreaming or not. Pain. Pain brought him back; quickly. He tried to open his eyes, no dice. They were heavy, stuck together. He moved his head and a sharp pain, like a knife being stuck in his temple, shot through him.
He stopped moving.
He tried to raise his arm, the pain shifted there. The ache in his arm was different, more dull and throbbing. Even his breathing hurt. Any movement threatened agony. He stopped moving everything but his eyes. The lids came apart like a wet bandage, sloppy and sticky. He could see yellow lights, a white room. Confusion threatened to overwhelm him. He briefly wondered if he'd been dreaming. A horrible dream. Maybe he'd been in a car accident, sending his unconscious mind to replay the many horror novels he’d read.
His brief and happy delusions crashed as he heard and saw movement through his blurry vision. He tried to focus, but his eyes wouldn’t cooperate.
"Hey," called out an annoyingly cheerful voice. "The nurse told me you were coming around. You don't look so good."
Patrick. Kyle didn't say anything, just closed his eyes. It wasn't a dream. Letting go of his fantasy was hard. The truth hurt too much. Reality crashed in and he remembered. Abe. It hurt more than his body. He opened his mouth, tried to talk, but his throat felt raw, like he'd been drinking sand. "Water."
He heard Patrick stumble across the room and a straw was guided to his lips.
"Drink this, it's water. The doctor said just drink a little at first."
Kyle sucked the water. He'd never tasted anything so delicious. Water had never tasted like this before. He drank more, trying to get it all. The straw was pulled away.
"Slowly, man!" said Patrick. "The doctor said-"
Kyle started coughing, water shooting back out of his mouth. Pain raced up and down his body, as if confused about where to attack him.
"The doctor said a little asshole," Patrick said excitedly. He waited for Kyle to finish coughing, dabbing his mouth where the water had spilled out. Kyle coughed a few more times, and then cleared his throat. He settled down and lay still.
"Kyle?" Patrick said. "Kyle? Nurse he's not moving!"
Kyle started to laugh, but quickly stopped when he discovered laughing also caused pain. Of course it would. "Idiot."
"Hey, that's not funny man." Patrick pouted, standing up in indignation.
"Sorry," Kyle said, his throat feeling better. He could speak easier now. "Can I have some more?"
"Take sips or I'll take it away!"
"Yes, mom."
Kyle felt the straw placed against his lips again and tried to take slow sips, he didn't want to cough, too painful. He sipped a few more times and felt the straw being taken away. He made a last ditch effort to get it all. Water ran down his face as it was taken away.
"I swear, you don't listen at all."
Kyle smiled at the indignation in Patrick's voice. He was the weirdest nurse he'd ever had. He tried to open his eyes again, but they were still heavy and sticky. "Patrick, what’s wrong with my eyes?"
"There’s nothing wrong with your eyes, Lieutenant," said a woman's voice. The voice seemed strict, old. "You've just been sleeping for a long time and haven't opened them. I'll clean them for you. And now that you're awake, you can have some pain meds. Are you in pain?"
"God yes!" Kyle said.
Kyle heard Patrick laugh at this and ignored it. He figured Fort Macon didn't fall since Patrick was here. By his chipper attitude, his wife and family must be alive also. It felt like a weight had been lifted from his chest. He hoped everyone else made it but didn't want to ask, didn't want to know right now.
Other questions leaped to his mind though. Lieutenant? Who was this woman? Where was he? Definitely not at Macon. The bed was comfortable and he heard medical machines softly beeping. A hospital, but where? More questions surged through his mind as he felt his body easing, his pain drifting away. He sighed, physically relaxing as the tension and pain lifted off him.
"Better?" questioned the nurse.
"Yes, much. Thanks," Kyle said. He never understood the tough guys in the movies, who would shake their head at medication, as if they could handle the pain or needed to keep their mind clear. Only a person who'd felt debilitating pain and the miraculous relief of medication would understand. He accepted that his body needed to heal, and would gladly take something so he wouldn't have to feel it constantly.
"Good," responded the woman. He felt something wet wipe his eyes, much gentler than he would have expected judging from the voice. She spent a minute on one eye, then the next, wiping it clear. "Now open them slowly."
He did, blinking several times. His vision cleared and he saw Patrick, his yellow Mohawk fixed, standing at the end of his bed.
"Welcome back professor general," said Patrick.
Kyle grunted. "Are you here alone?"
Patrick laughed, "Hell no! I didn't get here until today. James came with you. Man, you should have seen it. He actually pulled a gun on the guy in the helicopter, though I don’t think he had any-"
"Get him."
Patrick stood and walked to the open door, he stuck his head out. "You heard him?"
No response came, but Patrick walked back in, followed by the unsmiling James. He looked like Kyle felt. His face seemed drawn and he looked at Kyle through eyes laced with red. He nodded at Kyle, but didn't say anything else.
"You stayed?" Kyle asked simply.
James nodded, his eyes not leaving Kyle, who just looked at him. "I was bit."
James nodded again, apparently not feeling the need to explain anything.
"Sit down James, you look tired."
James began to shake his head, but Kyle stopped him. "Sit!"
James walked to one of the two chairs at the end of his bed and sat down. He leaned back in the chair and seemed to relax. Kyle felt better with James here, but the guy was on the edge. He knew James had stayed, then Grace must be alright. Still, he didn’t want to ask.
"I see you're finally awake. A bit of a sloth, aren’t you?"
Kyle turned to find Grace standing in the door, holding coffee. Seeing her almost sent him crying like a baby. He'd left her in the fight, not sure if she was dead or alive. Now, she stood there looking at him, her beautiful green eyes locked on him. She walked into room, handed some coffee to James and Patrick, then walked up to his bed. She placed her small hand on his face and leaned down to kiss him. He felt her lips, soft and gentle, press against him. It was quick, over before he could register what was happening. His heart stopped, wanting to pull her back. Damn inconvenient, this bed.
"It's good to see you," she said, her hand still on the side of his face. He tried to reach up to hold her hand, but pain twisted his face and she quickly pushed his hand down again. "Stop. I'm here. Just lay still."
Kyle didn't say anything. He couldn't. Guilt washed over him at the thought of Billy and his family. Guilt at being alive when they were dead. Abe. A part of him still wanted to join his brother, to stop fighting and just hug his brother again. He knew his emotions were all mixed up. The drugs, he told himself. The pain of his brother cut through everything he was, but he didn't feel the threat of his heart stopping anymore. The pain wasn’t as sharp, but it was still there. He needed time.
"How am I not dead or a diseased now? How are any of us here?" he asked, trying to harden his voice.
"Well," Patrick began, standing up from his seat. He raised his hand as if to explain with it.
"They found the cure,” Grace said, jumping in before Patrick could get going. “And you've had the vaccine."
"The cure to what?" he said.
"A virus," said Grace. "We don't know much more than that. They haven't told us, but they gave us all the cure. Everyone at Macon has already received it. You'd only been bitt
en for less than an hour when you got the cure, so they say you'll be fine. Rich was bitten also and he's fine."
Kyle just looked back at her. The cure! So maybe it was over. He sighed when he heard about Rich. Another one safe. He couldn’t put off the question anymore. "How many survived?"
"Well, Billy and his family … and after you did your dive, Rich's friend, not Terry, the other one, was bit, but he bled out before we could stop it."
Kyle waited for the rest, expecting the worst, but Grace stopped, looking back at him, as if waiting for an explosion. "Five total?"
"Only five from the fight. Yes."
"And Jack and Abe before," Kyle said. Saying it aloud caused him to seize up, but grace squeezed his hand, bringing him back.
"I thought it would be higher," said Kyle finally, pushing away thoughts of his brother. "But how did we all survive? There were still thousands of diseased left.
"Oh man," Patrick said, happy to insert himself into the conversation. "A few minutes after you tackled those diseased, nice move by the way, a grey helicopter showed up. They call it a Hammerhead or something, anyway it's big. Then it hangs right above us and marines start sliding down ropes all around us, more than twenty of them, all armed to the teeth. They took care of the rest of the diseased for us. Of course, we did all the heavy lifting, didn't we?"
Kyle smiled, his heart lifting at the news. "Where did they come from?"
Grace answered, "The base, this base actually. Jasmine gave the girls instructions to keep trying the radio during the battle and they eventually got through. Lucky."
Kyle would have nodded, but it hurt too much. "Very lucky, about them showing up and us not losing more people."
"You really should have, but you put up quite a fight," said another voice. A soldier stood in the doorway. A Lieutenant Colonel if James could see correctly. The man was older, pushing fifty but built like a bulldog, stout and wide. He wore a smile, something Kyle didn't equate with marines, especially Lt. Colonels.
"Would you guys mind if the Lieutenant and I had a quick talk? I won't keep him long," asked the colonel, looking at his friends.
