The gate opened and several men appeared. One large over muscular black man knelt down and let loose a long volley from an M249 while a smaller, almost anemic Asian dude tossed a grenade off to the far right. The explosion ripped through the horde sending a geyser of limbs, heads and headless torsos flying through the air. Another man in the group rolled up a contraption on a platform with a multi-barreled weapon mounted on it and cut loose with its rotating barrels spewing forth a wall of flying lead. He assumed it was the man named Doc. Jackson rolled forward and opened the door and leaned out to yell out to the muscle man. “Where the hell’s the dock?”
“About mother fucking time! Get on down the ramp and inside! We’ll cover you!”
Max slammed the door shut and moved off towards the dock. In his mirrors he could see that the men were having trouble trying to close the gate. Zombies by the hundreds pressed against each other and the gate. He saw muscle man yell and start to run with Doc following close behind. The skinny guy was running in reverse, firing his M4 as he went. The gates opened and the flood poured in just as he tripped and fell then was up and limping. He had made it inside the parking garage just as Doc and the soul brother had run inside behind him. He peered outside and saw the skinny dude was hobbled and saw his life getting ready to be torn away from him if Max did not do something.
“Oh shit!” He had not made it this far to lose any one if it could be avoided.
Doc pointed out to the Muscle man known as Jake. “Jake, get down with some covering fire. We can’t lose Tac!”
Jackson jumped out of the armored truck. “Hold that fucking door!” Then dashed outside holding his Sterling at the ready. Tac was running as best as he could, limping and hopping but the zombie horde was quickly catching up to him. High up to his right on top of a small grassy knoll with sparse shrubs, hundreds more zombies slammed against a chain link fence. It was only a matter of time before the whole fence line was trampled down and they invaded the loading dock.
Tac tripped and fell then rolled over just as a zombie reached for him. Jackson ran forward with the Sterling blazing blowing the zombie backward to land flat on it‘s back. The gun emptied the magazine and he quickly changed it out for a fresh one. Tac sprang up, rolling to his feet and ran past him. Jackson leveled the Sterling and downed several more just as the gun ran empty again. He paused to reload just as a burly zombie in a tattered business suit rushed through a gap in the chain link fence higher up the slope and jumped down to the pavement.
The zombie had the looks of having been a successful businessman or some political leader. He ran across the driveway and caught Jackson by surprise when it swiped out at him. He felt the heavy hand tear into the bullet-proof vest and the Kevlar material quickly became shredded. “You mother fucker!” He unloaded the Sterling into the zombie allowing the weapon to start low catching the undead being first in the groin then upwards across the torso. The hollow point bullets blew chunks of raw meat out into the air and the final rounds blew apart its head in a mist of pulpy gore.
Tac grabbed hold of Jackson’s shirtsleeve and pulled hard. The zombies had broken through the fence on the embankment above and were cascading down across the thin patch of grass and shrubs to fall the ten feet or so to the concrete dock work. It reminded Jackson of a waterfall that had been turned on but in this case it was zombies flowing like water through a broken dike. The other horde at the end of the driveway pushed the gates wide open and was rushing in.
Jake and Doc were just inside the doorway and let loose another volley from their rifles. A white woman with long hair tied back into a ponytail, which Jackson assumed was Jane, appeared and held out an A12 shotgun and cut loose with a burst of buckshot. The horde rippled under the effects, faltered then came surging forward just as Tac and Jackson ran under the closing door.
The sound of the zombies slamming into the metal door echoed throughout the loading dock area and Jackson knelt over and grabbed his knees, breathing hard. Again he had managed to evade certain death. He looked over at Tac who sat down on a wooden crate. He nodded. “Hey thanks. I thought I was going to be the main course there for a moment.”
“Main course? More like a hors-d'oevres. You ain’t got that much meat to you.”
Jane walked up and placed a hand on his shoulder “You’re…” She let her voice trail off.
“What Black? That surprise you?”
She winced. “No…you’re bleeding.”
He looked down and winced in shock at the cut. After all the precautions he had taken to not get cut or hurt, all the survival skills he had honed to a fine edge and now he had finally succumbed to his worst fears. He stood dumbfounded and the others backed away slowly.
Doc pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, grabbed Jackson’s arm and looked. “Infected!” He whispered then stepped back.
“Bullshit…after all that shit…” Jackson wobbled on his feet then fell to his knees. He knew he had been cut by the zombie but thought it was superficial but with the adrenaline flowing at the time, he had no real idea on how bad it actually was. “How…?”
“How long before the conversion?” Doc finished the question then pulled the Beretta 9mm from his holster. “It depends. I’ve seen as little as two hours to as long as forty-eight hours. From the infection field surrounding the cut area, I would venture a guess of eight hours.”
Eight hours! The thought slammed into him. The idea that he would become one of the living dead was beyond belief. He felt fine other than the itchy feeling from where the zombie had clawed him but inside the infection was growing rapidly and in its beginning stages of destroying the immunity system then the white blood cells. He shook his head. I should’ve played it better, done it different and not even been here to begin with.
“Is there anything we can do?” Jane yelled at Doc.
Doc sighed. “If the cut was on his forearm, I’d say amputate but this is higher up in the shoulder region. I’m afraid there is nothing we can do.”
Jackson pulled his canteen and drank deep of the water thinking this was going to be some of the last things he would have a chance to enjoy. He laughed to himself then pulled a cigarette between trembling fingers, lit it and allowed the smoke bit deep inside his lungs. Yes he should have said no to all of this. The others in the group had clustered together, discussing their options and what needed to be done.
“What we gonna do about him?” Jake pointed a thick finger at Jackson.
Jackson looked up. All eyes were upon him. “What the fuck about me?”
“We sure as hell ain’t taking him along.”
Jane looked at Jake. “We can’t just leave him here either. He risked his life to get here.”
“How ’bout we just bust a cap in his ass and be done with sentiments?”
Jackson lifted up the Sterling and flipped the safety off. “Hey fuck you asshole. If you want a piece of this you just come right the fuck on.” The barrel wavered at the small group like a third eye. “I’ll blow the shit outa all you and we all go down Hell‘s Highway together.”
“Now hold on there…” Doc held up his hand.
“No you hold on! I risked my ass getting here to help you guys out and look what the hell it got me! Now you want to kill me like it’s a mercy thing?” He spat a chunk of phlegm. “Fuck you guys.”
“You know what will happen then if you come along. We take you then you turn into one of those zombies out there then you turn on us.” Jake turned to the others. “You see that right?”
Jane looked down. “I’m sure we all do but this is insane. We can’t just leave him here or shoot him. What would that make us? Better people?”
“I’ll make it easy then, I’ll stay. I’m infected anyway but I‘m doing this my way.” Jackson could feel something was wrong within him and he was coming to terms with his final demise. He didn’t know if it was the thought of the virus coursing through his veins that was making him sick or the fact he had left his sanctuary to help these people and
he would never be able to return to it.
“What’s the point of that? We can end it for you now?”
“None of your god damned business. It’s my way or you’re not getting the location of the vault or the codes to get in.”
Doc pushed his glasses further up his nose with a long finger. “Well I think he is right. I say let him have it his way. There is no point in taking him with us and having to deal with this later.”
Jake waved a hand in front of him. “What the hell you going to do?”
Jackson exhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke. “Take as many to hell as I can before checking out myself.”
Tac shrugged his shoulders. “I say let him have his way. I’d want it that way.” He looked over at Jake and nodded. “I know as sure as hell you would too.”
Jackson and Jake locked eyes. “What you say man?”
Jake snorted. “I guess, if that’s the way you want it. It ain‘t any sweat off my balls.”
Doc stepped forward. “I wish circumstances were different. All I can say, for what it is worth, is thank you.” He nodded to the others. “Let’s get loaded up.” The men began stacking crates of weapons and ammunition by the rear doors of the armored truck.
Jane stepped forward and removing a necklace, she reached up behind his head and clipped it in place. “It’s something for you. I know it’s no consolation but you have given up so much to help us.” She leaned over and hugged him and Jackson closed his eyes breathing deep of her faint aroma of perfume.
“When you get back to the vault, down off Industrial Avenue, just hit the switch mounted on the dash. It’ll open the gate. Hit the other blue button and it’ll open the garage door.” Then as an afterthought, he added. “Inside is a case of some high dollar perfume I took from one of my excursions. Hell if I know what use I had for it but I think you can use it more than I can. The rest of the things you guys can figure out.”
Tac opened the rear doors to the armored truck and saw the MG-42 and whistled. “That’s an old gun there!”
Jackson leaned over. “Leave that here. I’m going to need that and the ammo belts too.”
Jane looked at Tac and nodded. Tac then took hold of the MG-42, admired it for a second then handed it up to Jackson. Jackson took the long gun, opened the top and feed in a fresh belt of ammo, then slapped the top down and pulled back on the charging handle. “You best get going.” He stood up on the loading dock edge. A slight fever was coming over him, the effects of the virus as it began to take over his body. He had no plans to become a zombie but in the meantime he had his plan worked out in his mind. He would have a war with the zombies. Running back deeper into the hospital killing as he retreated. Then with his final bullet…he shook off the thought but knew what he was going to do. Jane and the others loaded up what weapons they had and then themselves. She gave a thin smile as the rear doors closed. The gun ports opened and barrels of M4’s and M249s poked through readying for the onslaught.
Jackson smiled as the armored truck backed up and he waved a final farewell. The garage door clicked open and began its trek upwards and he could see the feet of zombies packed against it. He checked the Sterling, making sure it was loaded and ready then slung it over his shoulder. He stuffed the earphones into his ears and held up his MP3 player and cycled through the menu and found a song he liked. Michael Jackson’s voice streamed out ’Don’t Stop till You Get Enough’. He smiled wondering just where that Disco era went. At least Michael held on to the disco beat throughout most of his career and the dude could dance too even if he was a bit odd there later in life. The armored truck sped through the bunched mass of zombies, some clawed at the side panels, others fell to be crushed under its wheels and with a quick turn had disappeared from view up the curved driveway. He wished them well. The zombie horde saw the lone figure standing on the loading dock and the wave of undead flesh surged forward. He exhaled sharply, lifted the MG-42 up to waist height and pulled back on the trigger.
The Rising
Joseph Rubas
We all saw things during The Rising that we'll never forget. No one emerged from it wholly unaffected. It was a plague, but not one spread in the normal manner. Even the natives in the mountains of Peru and on the African savanna weren't immune. They saw their dead walk, their mothers, fathers, sisters, daughters and sons ripped apart and eaten. We survived it, but we didn't make it through undisturbed. I still have nightmares, all these years later. I wake up crying sometimes and can't stop. I sob and sob and sob and fear that I'll never empty myself of tears.
I saw a shrink back in the twenties and thirties at the insistence of my wife, but that never helped. Everyone's so big on “getting it off your chest,” even though it doesn't work. I can talk until I'm blue in the face, what good does that do me? In fact, it makes it all worse. See, I try not to think about it. I try and forget that it ever happened.
The only reason I'm writing this is because I can't stop thinking about it, and I'm afraid that if I don't get it out it's going to back up into my system and I'll go into some sort of mental toxic shock. I have no one to talk to. I never told Heather about...the worst thing I saw. I don't think she could handle it. And everyone in the neighborhood is either too young to really remember The Rising or too traumatized to speak of it. They're all like me. They bottle it up and repress it, deep, deep in the chambers of their mind. The only outlet I have is this composition book. I think I could probably unleash an entire epic-length novel if I tapped into my soul, but I don't want to. I just want to finally get...it off of my chest; the worst thing I ever say, and ever hope to see.
It was the summer of 2018, and the dead had been roaming the land since March. Things didn't really get bad until late May, early June. In just a few weeks mankind let the dead overrun them. Society broke down. There were riots in the streets, and the interstates where every one of them jammed with desperate families trying to escape to the countryside. A lot of people had a post, but as time wore on and things went from bad to worse, they started to abandon them. First went the police and the doctors, who were on the frontlines of the epidemic. I can't blame them. I think those two lost more people than any other profession, aside from the armed forces. Our navy made it through all right, but that's only because most of the seamen were on ships at sea, broodingly anchored off coast. They sat on their asses until things were safe for them to land. Well, I shouldn't say that. They did lob the occasional missile at the zoms. The army and the Marines were the ones who suffered heavy casualties.
I left Wayside on the fifteenth in an old tan Camaro I took from the parking lot of the municipal beach. I knew whom it belonged to. Bill Bennett, the owner of the grocery store around the corner from my apartment. He lived on the second floor, right below us. I found him dead in his kitchen, wearing a crusty wife-beater and a pair of striped boxer shorts. He put a Saturday Night Special into his mouth and blew the top of his head off. He wife was in the living room, on the couch. I think he killed her outright to spare her.
I took 60 north. I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t know what I was going to do. I thought the world was coming to an end, and imagined I’d end up doing what Bill did. Maybe under a shady oak tree or beside a babbling stream. There was no reason to live. Why not do that now and avoid possibly dying at the hands of the dead later?
The dead.
For a while back then, I had a deep, burning hatred of them. In fact, on my trek north, I ran a few of them down with the Camaro. They just shambled out in front of me, and…rage would overtake me. I ran out of gas on the nineteenth, so from there I sneaked up on them with rocks, sticks. I tried not to use my bullets. I didn’t want to run out and have to face a hoard later on. I traveled by day, usually along the highway or in the woods. I didn’t see very many people on my way. It was surprising, the way society…broke down so quickly. Power plants were shutting down. Hospitals were either overfilled or closed, and the police were AWOL.
The sun beat unbearably day after day, and the occasional g
ust was so dry it felt as though it would rub away exposed flesh. I spent a few nights in a hayloft near Warsaw, a little farming community between the Potomac and the Rappahannock, too exhausted, flush and dehydrated to move. I had terrible nightmares about my family each night. I watched them die again, and again, and again. It was never the same. Zombies. Fires. Tornadoes. And I was helpless. I just stood there, indifferent. I woke from these panting and terrified.
I dragged myself to the farmhouse and drank tap water until a spike rammed through my head and my stomach threatened to heave its contents. I found a woman upstairs dead, her face skeletal, eyes bulging and her mouth frozen in a smile from the deepest pit of hell. I found a pistol in a shoebox on a shelf in the back of the hall closet. I took it, a box of ammo, and a large knife. There was a radio in what appeared to be a teenaged girl’s room, and listened to it, the sound almost all the way down for fear of passing zombies hearing me. I didn’t get much. The country was in chaos, Obama was hiding somewhere in West Virginia, Biden was presumed to be dead, rolling power outages, troops deserting. It was all so terrible; listening to it brought a hopeless ache to my chest. I thought again of using the gun on myself.
I left the farm around July first. The further north I went, the more ghouls I encountered. Across the Westmoreland County boarder, I found a motorbike in a shed. The house, another farm, was set off the highway in a growing field of golden grass. A few zombies shambled in another large tract across the highway. I took it, praying to God it had gas, and made ten miles by nightfall. Near Colonial Beach, a huge pile up clogged the road.
Undead War (Dead Guns Press) Page 5
