Dark Rhodes

by Michael Canon

  Ichabod says, “Take out the front three, then I got right of the walkway, you take the fuckers on the left.” His voice is much more nasally than I expected, but kind of fits my name for him.

  The three Hunters in the front were dropped in quick succession with little celebration. The six or seven on the cages has increased to 15 or more.

  “Where the fuck did all the fast ones come from?” exclaims Ichabod, voicing what I was thinking.

  As I continue to shoot, I reply, “They seem to come from humans that are in really good shape. Fitness nuts, military, police, firefighters, anyone that was in decent shape before they became a zombie.”

  He yells, “Just frigging great! There’s two fitness centers and a MEPS station nearby! And the friggin road outside the warehouse is used by runners all the time!”

  We keep firing at the oncoming Hunters as the outer chain link fence posts groan and fold under the weight of hundreds of Georges pushing on them. As the poles folded, it turned the containment enclosures into an impromptu ramp. The Georges are now mixing with the Hunters, making it difficult to target the dangerous, fast zombies. We’re moving from monster to monster as fast as we can – acquire, fire, repeat – with each of us calling out our reloads.

  I see people streaming by I don’t recognize as part of our group, and yell, “Where did all these people come from?”

  Diana steps between us, picking off targets with her MP5, “I’ll take the middle. The Davron Group was not the only place we tried to save people from. This facility was made to quickly switch from day to day business into a waypoint to rescue survivors such as yourself, from an event similar to this.”

  I stop firing momentarily because I’m stunned at what she just said. I look at her with a mixture of shock and exasperation for a second before I continue to take down zombies, holding my comments for later.

  The last group is about ten feet from us when an inner chain link wall gives way, spilling dozens of zombies in among the fleeing survivors. We watch in horror as two Hunters grab a woman, throwing her backward into the waiting horde! I try to sight in on her, but the mass of undead hides all but her screams.

  Ichabod growled sarcastically, “Tactics! Really, these God-damn things can think? Can today suck anymore, please?” as he shoots one of them.

  The monster crumples, as his peer hisses loudly and comes for us. I stop its advance with two rounds to its right eye, earning a grunt and “Nice group.” From Ichabod.

  Between us, the fleeing survivors and the ever increasing mob of undead, the safe area outside the door is getting uncomfortably small.

  I announce, “I’ve only got four mags left, we need to end this fast!”

  The survivors are bottle-necked in the doorway, no one is moving. Five members of the final party are pulled down by the advancing zombie horde. The situation deteriorates quickly as people watch their friends and colleagues being torn apart right in front of them. Panic ensues as the survivors try to climb over each other to escape from the insatiable hoard.

  As terrible as it sounds, the victims and ravenous nature of our enemy create a momentary buffer zone, as the monsters stop to feed.

  I can’t understand why it is taking so long for people to go through a doorway! I hear the echoing report of gunfire from beyond the doorway, followed by the immediate release of the bottleneck. Diana, Ichabod, and I close ranks, firing on full automatic as the final survivors pour through the doorway.

  “Go through, I got the door!” demands Ichabod, but I’m in a better position to close it.

  “No, stop the sexist bullshit and get inside!” I scream over the din of our firing.

  Diana enters first, the loss of her gun is felt immediately as the undead throng surges forward. Ichabod and I reposition to get a better angle for entry.

  “Ready?” I ask, without looking.

  “Affirmative!” he replies.

  “OK, I’m ready, on three. One, two, THREE!” I instantly drop the nose of my M4, blowing the kick down doorstop off the door, before I return to our zombie aggressors. Ichabod backs through the doorway and only stops firing as he sees me grab the crash bar to pull the door shut. A wall of zombies immediately fills the space we just occupied.

  We both pull hard on the door’s crash bar, hearing bones cracking as multiple undead arms keep us from shutting the door. I watch the fluid movement of a gray Hunter’s hand as it grasps the door and pulls. Straining against the creature, I look over at Ichabod, only now seeing the two M67 grenades hanging from his battle harness.

  I scream, “Diana, his grenades, use them! Both at their feet!”

  Diana grabs them both at the same time, pulling the pins and rolling them out the door, yelling, “Fire in the hole!” as she drops to the floor.

  I close my eyes and open my mouth to help dissipate the chance of the shockwave damaging my eardrums.

  Both grenades go off so close together it sounds like one explosion, my head rings from the sound and shockwave. The resistance from the Hunter ends immediately. We quickly pushed the door open enough to clear it of zombie parts then slam it shut. Diana produces a key to lock the crash bar in its inoperative position.

  We stand there, stunned for a moment as we try to decompress. One of the hardest parts of being in battle is going from a life-and-death situation to complete calm. It takes a while for the body to wind down and recover.

  Diana says, “Nice work you two, let’s get out of this hallway.

  I’m about to follow Diana but lunge forward to catch Ichabod.

  Easing him to the floor, he apologizes, “Sorry, caught a piece in the leg, might be worse than I thought.”

  I look down to see the right leg of his black BDU pants is shiny and wet with blood. Diana sees this too and takes off down the hall shouting for medical personnel.

  Diana returns seconds later with two men dressed as she is, each carrying a large soft-sided medical bag. They set to work on Ichabod as two more medics arrive with a rolling gurney.

  Cutting the leg of his pants away, one of the medics says, “Ok Jason, we’re here buddy, stay with us.” Jason, much better than my name for him.

  Diana touches my shoulder and says, “Let’s get out of their way.”

  We walk down the hall, Diana pointing to a room on the right. As I pass the threshold, a sliding door of heavy duty wire mesh slams shut.

  I spin around and yell, “What the fuck?”

  Diana nods to my right arm. My dark gray shirt has a darker, blackish stain just above the elbow. There’s a small hole too.

  “I’m sorry, but I need you to remove your shirt so I can see your whole arm,” says Diana.

  I’m pissed off, but I understand her reasoning, so I just glare for a moment before removing my tactical vest, then my shirt. I show her my arm, knowing my body has already pushed out the tiny piece of shrapnel and healed the wound.

  Diana apologizes, “I’m sorry. As director of this facility, I must take every precaution I can to protect it. We need every one of the people we’ve rescued if we are to survive as a species.” as she keys in the code to unlock the door.

  Myer’s cool fire washes over me, and I reply acidly, “All you had to do is ask. I would have complied.”

  Her expression becomes very stern, as she says, “The shooting you heard before we entered was someone who looked fine, felt fine, and still turned into one of them. It’s my job to be paranoid.”

  Her look softens, “Please follow me, we‘ll get you cleaned up, fed, and we can talk more about this place. I can see you have a lot of questions.”

  I nod, and ask, “I could use more ammo if you have it?”

  Diana smiles mischievously, “Ammo, yes we lots of ammo. I’ll have my armorer go over your weapon too.”

  As we walk, she says, “You fight well; ex-military?” I shook my head, no, thinking I might need to record this and just play it every time someone asks me. “My Dad is former Marine Force Recon, my brother and boyfriend are both former Air Fo
rce Combat Control officers. I kind of learned through osmosis.”

  Diana laughs and says, “Both my brothers are Marines, Daddy was a Navy pilot, oh, excuse me, “Naval Aviator.” Calling him a pilot was a running joke in our home.”

  Moving deeper into the warehouse, I ask her, “So, you’re telling me someone, or someones, had the foresight to set all this up in preparation for a zombie freaking apocalypse? I find that a little hard to believe.”

  Diana smiles and nods, as she replies, “Yes, and no. This facility owned by an international marketing company, but it is part of a worldwide consortium code-named “The Lazarus Project.” The Project links government as well as private infrastructure together to help recover from various disasters. The goal of the Project is to help rescue and resource various crucial survivors from a multitude of global natural and man-made disasters to boost the survival chances of the human species.”

  “We had some of the world’s brightest disaster preparedness minds working on every level to figure out the best way to recover from events like this. We’re talking everything from meteor or asteroid impacts, nuclear warfare, terrorist attacks, even a global pandemics like H1N1, Ebola, or as it seems, the Charon-Z Virus.”

  She continued, “A zombie apocalypse was always used as the generic human disaster situation.”

  I looked at her quizzically but kept quiet.

  “Think of it, floods, hurricanes, earthquakes, and tornados – even a meteor impact, are all the typical run-of-the-mill, boring disasters. They are like a song you’ve heard on the radio a hundred times. Nobody pays enough attention to them anymore. They don’t follow the drills or procedures as they should. In other words, they half-ass it. The zombie apocalypse scenario was used to make people laugh at the notion, but it also keeps them interested in essential topics.”

  Smiling, she said, “We actually went so far as to dress people up like zombies, with fake blood, body parts – the whole nine yards. All to keep people engaged. Never in our wildest dreams did we think it would actually happen. Here’s the armory.” Pointing to an open door on the left.

  Entering the armory, I’m amazed at all the weapons that fill this very large room. I can guarantee most of the contents of the room would not pass Massachusetts’ strict gun control laws, but that isn’t really an issue anymore.

  A short man of Pacific Islander decent with an artificial right leg and both arms sleeved in Polynesian style tattoos walked up, and Diana introduced us, “Ashleigh, this is Vaughn Kou, our head armorer. Vaughn this is Ashleigh Rhodes, her mother is the lead oncologist for the Davron Group.”

  In a soft, but powerfully baritone voice, “Hello Ashleigh, It’s a pleasure to meet you. Would you like me to give your M4 a once over?”

  It seemed like more of a request than a question. I reply, “OK, but I’m pretty sure it’s one of yours anyway, I was just borrowing it” with a smile.

  Vaughn’s eyes narrowed for a moment but then sparkled. His face broke into a wide grin as I hand him the M4, “I was watching the camera feeds of your work outside the northeast door. You are one bad ass fighter Ms. Ashleigh, one seriously bad ass fighter. Thank you for standing with Jason and Diana. They are two of my best friends, and for the honor you showed them, now you are too.”

  Walking away with the rifle, he ended with, “I like her Diana; you should keep her around. She’s as good an operator as she is beautiful.”

  I looked at Diana with mildly embarrassed laced shock.

  “That’s my Vaughn, he must really like you. That’s more than he’s said to 90% of the people here.” Was her only retort, as she beckoned me to follow her again.

  Diana led me across the warehouse to the accommodations area. “We’re short on beds in the civilian area right now. I’m going to bunk you with some of our security folks if that’s okay with you?”

  I told her it was fine. She got me some toiletries and some clean clothes. Socks, bras, underwear, as well as three sets of black BDUs like everyone else wore. She then showed me where the showers, food, and cots were. She took my armored tactical vest and my boots, telling me she was going to have them sanitized.

  I flopped down on a cot after a beautifully hot shower and couple plates of food from the cafeteria. I was feeling better than I had since I awoke in that terrible room. I had no idea what time it was, but it didn’t matter, I was asleep in seconds.

  33

  Ground Response Team Delta pulled around the right side of the warehouse, an automated security gate closing behind them. A bald, square-jawed black man with the name “Lewis” above his left BDU shirt pocket walked out of a small prefab building and bellowed to the driver, “Sanders, you and your rig are painted! Head to Decon on the double!”

  “Painted” was the term used by the Project folks for anyone or anything that was heavily contaminated. It meant the highest level of decontamination was mandatory.

  The driver nodded and pulled onto a large metal grate. Instead of rolling the windows up, they were all rolled down as a powerful misting system came on, quickly soaking the vehicle and occupants with water and disinfectant. After five minutes, the soaked vehicle pulled through to the other side of the wash rack.

  One by one, each person was escorted out of the vehicle and into a personal decontamination room, while another crew sanitized the vehicle. Equipment was removed and dropped into large plastic bins for decontamination or disposal.

  The mini operator, Julie Guzman, was the last one out of the vehicle. The former Army Staff Sergeant followed the commands of the Decon Technician in front of her. It was a little unnerving to hear the small hand saw start up and cut the helmet off her head, but that was the drill when you get painted as heavily as she was. Pulling a contaminated helmet over your mouth, nose, and eyes was not recommended.

  Her Decon Tech for the day was a large, muscular man named Arthur. Julie knew he was a former Navy medic and had seen him in the Project’s gym, but hadn’t worked with him before.

  Finished with the saw, Arthur started removing pieces of Julie’s helmet. Reaching under the neckline of the helmet, Arthur encountered a big blob of Hunter.

  “Eww, stand fast Julie, you got some pudding on your neckline. What the Hell happened out there? You’re a mess!”

  Standing rock still as she was taught, only her mouth moved.

  “One of the Speed Demons jumped in the air. I couldn’t get my mini around fast enough to engage. One of the ‘Hawk gunners pulped it right over me. I owe him a beer, or six. I’ll take the painting; that fucker was huge!”

  She’d seen what the Demons could do and shuddered involuntarily at how close she’d come to buying the farm.

  Following protocols, Arthur put the tainted helmet parts in a red plastic-bag lined garbage can. Continuing to follow protocol, he safety-stripped his dirty outer gloves to reveal another set of gloves underneath. Tossing the dirty ones in the bin, Arthur checked his under-gloves, then added another set, before returning to Julie.

  Arthur pulled out a pair of medical shears and cut the nylon buckles on Julie’s body armor. They were made to be replaceable, so it didn’t matter. The armor would be sanitized, repaired, and returned to her before her next shift. Julie’s outfit was tainted too, so he continued with the shears.

  “Well, today will be a good day,” he thought as he carefully removed all of Julie’s clothing. Using a handheld black light, he examined her body. Finishing with the light, he ran super accurate, temporal thermometer across her forehead in two different places.

  Julie was not happy standing there naked, but she knew the drill and didn’t want to end up on the other end of a rifle, so she didn’t move.

  “All clear Julie, sorry we had to go that far,” “But not really” – he thought. “You can hit the showers. You know to stay in the Decon lounge for one hour after you’re done.”

  Arthur disposed of everything that could not be saved. He carefully bundled it all up in the heavy red trash bags the Project used. Then he sanitized
the room in accordance with Group protocols.

  Even though he did everything by the book, it was too late for him. 18 months earlier, the overseas company that manufactured the non-latex gloves used by the group tweaked their formula to increase their profit margin. They soon realized they had gone too far. The gloves worked well for most chemicals but were no longer viable for use with biologics. To save themselves the cost of disposing of all the substandard gloves, the company illegally fed small portions of these compromised gloves into batches of good gloves.

  Arthur just happened to put two bad gloves on the same hand. It was also the same hand that his girlfriend’s cat had scratched as he left for work on the morning of February 5rd. The virus, in a very small quantity, had made its way through the faulty gloves and into this scratch. Because the virus was in such a minute concentration, Arthur didn’t turn in minutes as others had. The virus would need more time to replicate itself sufficiently to exact its change to Arthur’s physiology. Even Arthur’s body temperature was still normal when he walked past the wall mounted thermal scanners as he left the secure Decon area at the end of his shift.

  34

  I awoke to the same alarm and same amber lights I experienced outside the facility.

  All I could think is, “Really! Again?” as I jumped up off my cot.

  I saw Vaughn running up to me. Breathlessly he said, “Hi Ashleigh, I was bringing this to you before the alarms went off, guess my timing was perfect. Never a dull moment around here!”

  We both paused as we heard muffled gunfire from another part of the building.

  Shaking his head, Vaughn said, “Sounds bad, hope everyone is ok.”

  He handed me a new M4, this one had a collapsible stock and Colt 203 Grenade Launcher attached to the underside.

  “It’s got a high-end 18” barrel upgrade, the collapsible stock, and the ‘nade launcher. The receiver internals are all top-notch too. It’s one of my favorites, but it’s your now and should do you well.”