by Tripp Ellis
“Yeah you would,” Duke said. “You’d pop within 30 seconds.”
“Would not,” Earl protested.
“Just use a rubber if you do. You don’t want to get zombie dick.”
“You really think you can get it that way?”
“Shit. I wouldn’t take any chances.” Duke ripped another bong hit.
“How long do you think it’s going to take for her to turn?”
Duke shrugged.
Earl sat on the couch next to Duke and stared off into space. “You don’t seem too upset. Didn’t you have any feelings for her?”
“What do you want me to do, Earl? Cry in my beer? It ain’t going to change the fact that she’s going to turn. And when she does, she won’t think twice about killing us. Besides, we’re in a war now. I need to keep my head in the game. Stay focused.” Duke took another massive bong hit. He blew a cloud of smoke in the air. He offered the bong to Earl, but he didn’t seem to be in the mood.
Duke set the bong back on the coffee table and focused on the video game. He was rolling through the streets of Manhattan, commanding an M9 Thunderbolt tank. “Wanna play?”
Earl shook his head.
“Hell, I’ll let you be tank commander this time, and I’ll drive.”
Earl shook his head again.
“You missed it,” Duke said. “I was watching the news… and you know the anchor woman? …The brunette with the nice rack? Well, her co-anchor decided to chow down on her. Right there on television. Blood was spurting everywhere. It was fucking hysterical.”
Earl’s eyes misted over, and a tear rolled down his cheek.
“What’s your problem?”
“Nothing,” Earl said. He sniffled and wiped his nose with his sleeve.
Duke sighed and paused the video game. “I know, it sucks. I’m real sorry about your sister.” He put his hand on Earl’s shoulder. “It’s hard for me to see Brandi turn into one of them things. Don’t think it’s not. I know a lot of times I act like shit don’t matter. But we gotta be strong. We gotta continue on. That’s what they’d want us to do.”
“I don’t know if I’m cut out for this, Duke.”
“Not cut out for this? Hell, this is what we were born to do. This is what we’ve been waiting for.”
“All that militia talk was one thing. But everybody is dying. I ain’t got nobody left.”
“You got me.”
Earl gave a slight nod. He sat silent for a long moment. “To tell you the truth, I don’t really like shooting people.” Earl’s face was sullen.
“What kind of talk is that? They ain’t people no more.” Duke shook his head “See, that’s exactly what those infected want. You can’t pussy out on me. If you do, the infected win.”
“I’m scared.”
“I’m scared too,” he whispered.
“You are?”
“Not really, but if it makes you feel better.”
Earl frowned.
“Look we can sit around feeling sorry for ourselves, or we can run into town and get some supplies. If this is the end of the world, we need to stock up.”
Duke barreled down the two lane black top in his jacked up 4x4. The massive tires whirred against the concrete. The truck was pristine, inside and out. His mobile home might have been a pig stye, but his truck was spotless.
Duke took a swig of whiskey, then puffed on a fat cigar. The cherry glowed red. He used it to light a stick of dynamite. The fuse crackled and sparked. He tossed it through the open window to the side of the road. It landed amid a group of lurkers.
A few moments later, the dynamite exploded. Dirt and debris rocketed out. Body parts flew through the air. The blast rocked the truck.
Earl watched through the back window. “That was awesome.”
“Give me another one,” Duke said.
At Earl’s feet, there was a box of dynamite. He grabbed another stick and tossed it to Duke. There was another group of lurkers ahead on the right side of the road. Duke lit the fuse, took a swig of whiskey, then hurled the dynamite over the roof.
It was a perfect toss. A few seconds later, it blasted several lurkers to bits.
“Whoohoo!” Earl screamed with joy.
“See, I told you this shit would be fun.”
They drove down the highway a bit, and Duke saw another cluster of infected ahead. “Gimme one more.”
Earl dug out another stick and handed it to him.
Duke puffed on the cigar a few times to get the cherry bright. Then he lit the fuse. It showered sparks. He was about to toss it out of the window when the left tire slammed into a massive pothole. It rattled the truck, and Duke dropped the TNT on the floor. The fuse sparked and hissed.
“Goddammit, Earl. Get it.”
The dynamite rolled under Duke’s seat. Earl dove down, fumbling around for it. He jammed his arm under the seat. His head was practically in Duke’s lap. It was an awkward moment to say the least.
Duke had cut the fuses short. There was about a 10 second delay before the TNT would detonate. Duke counted down in his mind—9 seconds, 8 seconds, 7 seconds, 6 seconds...
“I got it,” Earl shouted.
But instead of the stick of dynamite, he pulled out a small flashlight.
“Shit.”
Duke grimaced.
Earl jammed his arm back under the seat.
Duke swerved around the road to avoid a stalled car. “Hurry up, dipshit.”
“I ain’t the one who dropped it.”
4 seconds…
3 seconds…
2 seconds…
“Got it.” Earl pulled the sparkling red stick from under the seat. In a fluid movement, he flung it through the window.
A second later, the dynamite exploded. The blast was deafening. The only thing Earl could hear was a high-pitched buzzing in his ears.
The concussion from the blast rocked the truck onto its side. Tires squealed, then metal crumpled as the truck rolled over. The windshield shattered, and the roof caved in.
The truck slid upside down on the asphalt, spraying a stream of sparks. It finally ground to a halt, rocking back and forth a few times.
Duke and Earl slumped upside down in the cab.
“Earl,” Duke said, calmly. “You made me spill my goddamn drink.” To say Duke was pissed would have been an understatement. He gritted his teeth and tried to contain his rage. He was like a bottle of soda that had been shaken up. And he was trying to keep his lid on.
The whiskey bottle was shattered. Bits of glass, still affixed to the black label, were resting on the roof in a puddle of 90 proof whiskey. Duke’s cigar was still smoldering in the cabin. It was dangerously close to dozens of sticks of dynamite that had spilled out onto the ceiling.
The massive tires were still spinning. The cracked radiator billowed steam up from the engine compartment. The air was filled with the smell of gasoline, oil, and rubber. It mixed with the burnt banana smell of spent nitroglycerin from the dynamite.
Duke’s pride and joy was now a hunk of scrap metal. To make matters worse, there was a horde of lurkers lumbering toward them.
11
Duke rolled out through the window. The asphalt was scorching hot from the midday sun. Engine fluids were pooling in the road. He grabbed the undercarriage and pulled himself up. Then he stretched out. His neck was already stiff. He took a few steps back to look at his truck—he wanted to cry. He almost felt worse about the truck than he did Brandi getting bit.
Earl climbed out the window on the other side and took an assault rifle with him.
“Son-of-a-bitch.” Duke lost it. He started kicking the shit out of the door with his boot. He didn’t seem to give much notice to the lurkers stumbling toward him.
Earl stepped back and steered clear. He took aim at the infected, and started picking them off. Heads exploded. Bodies flopped onto the asphalt. He went through an entire magazine before Duke calmed down.
“It’s not really that big of a deal,” Earl said.
> Duke’s eyes blazed at him. “What do you mean? Not that big of a deal?”
Earl cowered. “I mean. There’s probably nobody left alive at the dealership. You can just take a new one.”
Duke thought about this a moment. Then he smiled. “You know, for being a dumb ass, sometimes you’ve got good ideas.”
Earl smiled. But his smile soon evaporated when he heard a rumbling in the sky. He looked up to see a massive 747 screaming toward him. It was in flames, billowing black smoke into the sky. It roared overhead, flying much lower than any plane he’d ever seen before. The thunderous engines shook the ground.
Earl could read the words The United States of America on the fuselage. It was Air Force One. Even Earl knew that.
The mammoth craft dove through the sky, plummeting down in a ball of fire toward Miller’s field. It slammed into the ground, plowing up row after row of corn. Engines tore from the wings and tumbled across the field in flames. Then the wings ripped from the fuselage. Metal creaked and groaned. The fuselage tore in half.
Bodies were flung about the field. Flaming bits of debris scattered everywhere. Finally, the main cabin ground to a halt. The field was grooved and pocked with debris. Multiple clouds of black smoke wafted into the air.
Steele unhooked the safety harness and climbed out of the cockpit. The fuselage was tilted at a 45 degree angle. It was like walking on the side of a mountain. He pushed through the door and into the corridor.
Parker, Delroy, and Chloe were all strapped in their seats—and they were all still alive.
“Remind me never to fly on Air Force One again,” Delroy said. His speech was slow and groggy. He was rubbing the back of his aching neck.
“Grab some weapons from the storage locker and get off the plane. I’m going to look for the president.”
“The locker is coded,” Parker said. She looked to the dead Secret Service agent on the floor. “And he sure as hell is not going to be able to help.”
“I’ll figure something out,” Steele said. “Just clear the aircraft.”
Parker nodded. She unlatched her safety harness, as well as Chloe’s. Then she moved to the main cabin door and unlocked it. All flight doors remained armed for slide deployment during flight. Once Parker flung the door open, the emergency slide deployed automatically.
Parker, Delroy, and Chloe slid down into the corn field—or what was left of it.
Steele made his way aft down the corridor. He could see that the rear section of the fuselage had ripped apart, just behind the wings. There was a twisted hole of shredded metal and wire at the end of the compartment. He hoped the president was still alive.
What was left of the wings were on fire. The 747 had two main fuel tanks, and one reserve, in each wing. Plus one main tank in the center of the fuselage—right under the president’s office. This airplane was in danger of exploding at any minute.
When Steele made it to the president’s office, Susan Norton’s body was limp on the floor. He knelt down beside her and put two fingers on her neck. She had a faint pulse.
The president was still in his seat, writhing in agony with a chunk of metal in his side. Part of the bulkhead behind him was torn away. A stray shard of aluminum had found its way into the president’s abdomen.
“We’ve got to get you out of here, Mr. President.” Steele unbuckled Johnson’s seatbelt, and helped the president to his feet.
Johnson grimaced with pain.
“Can you walk?”
“I can try,” he tried to smile. “Take Norton first.”
“No, sir.”
“That’s an order.”
“Sorry, Mr. President. Your safety takes priority. I’ll come back for her.” Steele helped the president hobble into the corridor. The back of the craft was engulfed in flames. The two men staggered toward the main exit. Steele helped the president slide down the ramp.
Lurkers were starting to gather at the edge of the field. The corn tassels were waving like ripples in the ocean. No telling how many of them were shuffling through the corn stalks.
Steele darted back down the corridor. The fuselage was filling with smoke. He ducked into the president’s office and scooped up Susan Norton. She was still unconscious.
The flames from the fire were getting hot. He was dripping with sweat. Steele sprinted back down the passageway to the main exit. He slung Susan over his shoulder, then grabbed the nuclear football with his free hand. Then he slid down the ramp with Susan in his arms. Delroy took her from Steele at the bottom of the ramp. Parker gave Steele a hand up.
“This thing’s going to blow. Get clear,” Steele said.
They ran as fast as they could. Within a few seconds, the fuselage exploded. A blinding ball of flames and black smoke billowed into the sky. The blast sent them tumbling to the ground. Bits of scorching hot metal and aluminum rained down. Air Force One was a smoldering piece of rubble.
Steele pulled himself from the ground. The president was writhing in pain. Getting knocked to the ground hadn’t helped his condition any. But he was still alive.
Steele heard the roar of an F-45 rip through the air high above. It didn’t make sense. How was an infected pilot still flying?
Unless he wasn’t infected.
That would mean, Air Force One had been shot down on purpose. Steele’s mind was reeling, trying to put it all together. The ground blast was too large to have been from the fuel tanks alone, Steele thought.
The F-45 had fired a Hell-Storm missile to finish the job. If that were the case, the pilot would be making another pass to make sure there were no survivors.
Rain was coming down now, turning the soil into slop. An infected man emerged from between the cornrows. Steele drew his P277 and shot the thing in its head. Dark blood splattered against the ears of corn. The lurker tumbled back into the row.
Steele lost track of how many shots he had fired up to this point. At best, he had two or three rounds left. He didn’t have time to get any weapons or ammunition from Air Force One.
He could hear a group of infected snarling and growling in the cornfield. They were moving toward him.
Another lurker parted the cornstalks. Steele did a roundhouse, kicking him in the head. The lurker fell to the ground. Steele pounced on his back, grabbed its head and twisted as hard as he could. Vertebrae snapped, and the thing went limp. Steele stood up and stomped its head with the heel of his boot until its skull split apart.
He needed to conserve bullets. But there were too many lurkers. They all started emerging from the cornrows at once.
Steele popped off a couple shots, blasting two lurkers. The pistol’s slide blew back and locked—the P277’s magazine was empty.
Delroy kept firing at the swarm of approaching lurkers. Soon he was out of ammo, too. Infected kept plodding toward the group of survivors, mowing over the cornstalks. They were surrounded. And there were too many infected to fight off by hand.
12
Steele battled droves of infected, bashing skulls with his titanium fist. Snapping necks, stomping brains. But more kept coming.
Fighting hand to hand with these things, you had to be careful not to get blood in your eyes or your mouth. Steele would throw a punch, then close his eyes and tighten his lips. He didn’t have his helmet or tactical goggles.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a lurker staggering towards the president. In a flash, the thing was gnawing and chomping at Johnson. The president was fighting him off. But with a piece of shrapnel in his side, he was having a hard time. The thing’s teeth were gnashing at his flesh, drawing closer.
Steele charged toward the infected man. But before he could get there, a shot rang out. The creature’s head exploded in a soup of blood and bone.
A flurry of gunshots blasted. Steele could hear the bullets zip through the air, then slam into infected skulls. All around him, lurkers were dropping like flies.
Steele saw the muzzle flash moving toward them through the cornrows. He saw a short little redneck i
n an Army Combat Uniform and tactical gear, wearing a trucker cap. He was blasting away with an RK 709.
He was saving their ass.
“Ya’ll come from the plane?” Earl said.
Steele nodded.
“Shit, that was a hell of a crash. You’re lucky to be alive.”
“We need to get him to a safe location.” Steele said, nodding to Johnson.
“Holy shit, is that really the president?”
“I’m really the president,” Johnson said, grimacing.
Earl stuck out his hand. “I’m Earl, and this here’s Duke.”
Duke had emerged from the cornrows, following behind Earl.
The president shook Earl’s hand and winced. Duke hung back. He wasn’t about to shake the president’s hand.
“We didn’t vote for you though,” Earl said.
“I won’t hold that against you.”
“Do you have a vehicle?” Steele asked.
“I had one, until numbnuts here wrecked it,” Duke said.
Earl’s face twisted up. “Don’t blame that shit on me. You’re the one who dropped the dynamite.”
“Dynamite?” Steele asked.
“We was blowing up those bastards on the road,” Earl said.
“The road?” Steele asked, arching an eyebrow.
“Yeah, the highway’s about 50 yards back that way,” Earl said, pointing.
Susan Norton had regained consciousness and staggered to her feet. Hair tussled, blouse untucked, and skirt askew—she still looked damn good.
Earl’s eyes grew wide. He was instantly smitten. But then again, Earl got smitten with every woman he saw.
Susan was hobbling along as she stepped to the president. One of the heels was broken from her shoe. “Mr. President, are you alright?”
“I’ll be fine,” he said. His voice was tight.
“How far is your place?” Steele asked Duke.
“About 3 miles.”
“Is your vehicle on the highway?”
“Yeah, but it ain’t gonna do you no good. It’s upside down, and the radiator’s cracked.”
“Earl, stay here and secure the area,” Steele said.
