Only the Dead Live Forever

by W. J. Lundy

  There were only ten of them, but they were running fast on a collision course for Sergeant Hahn and Specialist Theo, who had set up an observation post about one hundred meters out. The two men were between Brad and the mob and directly in Brad’s line of fire. The soldiers were firing into the charging creatures. One at a time, a soldier would rapid fire while the other would leapfrog back. They were making good movements but the mob wasn’t slowing down.

  From his peripheral vision, Brad saw Sean take a position under a wing of the aircraft. Sean dropped to the ground and aimed his rifle downrange. He took quick shots, cutting down the lead runners. Sean’s rifle fire allowed the soldiers to quicken their pace. They fell in alongside Sean just as the first of the four engines roared to life.

  Now with the soldiers clear, Brad was able to take aimed shots at the advancing primals. He was surprised to be so focused even under the influence of the lollipop. He was even having a good time, he thought to himself, smiling. He fired rhythmically, knocking the charging crazies down. Not every round was a kill shot, but he did enough to put the primals on the ground and slow the attack.

  A gunshot behind him broke Brad’s focus. He turned to see Brooks firing directly to the rear of the aircraft at another mob that was closing in on them from the terminal. More gunfire started outside near where the van was parked, and Brad feared they were becoming surrounded. Brad adjusted his position to take line with Brooks as he saw Nelson and Craig run up the ramp, shouting that the start cart and ladder were clear.

  Brad aimed and fired into the body of the mass of primals. He hit several of them square, but more filled the gaps. Corporal Parker and Gunner had joined them on the ramp and fired rapidly into the closing mob. Parker’s loud unsuppressed M249 machine gun was sweeping and cutting down the advancing mob. Brad heard Sean shouting, “Three friendlies coming around!” as Sean, Hahn, and Theo climbed the high side of the ramp and rolled into the aircraft.

  The throttles increased with the roar of the engines and the plane began to move forward. Chelsea worked a lever and the ramp began to rise, with the firing men still perched on the end of it. Brad stayed in position next to Brooks, firing until someone grabbed him by the good leg and dragged him into the cargo bay. A wave of primals collided with the ramp just as it closed. They could hear them banging against the aircraft’s body as Kelli slowly taxied the AN-12.

  Brad had been dragged onboard and near the pallet of rucksacks and gear. He grabbed at one and used it to unsteadily get to his feet. He moved forward and found Sean near a portside window. Brad strained for position and looked outside the aircraft. He could see an increasing stream of them pouring from hanger bays and buildings along the runway. Several had already gotten near the props and been chopped to pieces.

  “Good thing this is a propeller job! Jet aircraft might have trouble swallowing all of those body parts,” Sean said casually over the roar of the engines.

  “Won’t that mess up the blades?” Brad asked.

  “I’m sure it’s not good for them, but beats the hell out of the alternative,” Sean said.

  “Alternative?”

  “Going back outside to fight them.”

  Kelli brought the AN-12 onto a cleared section of the runway and rolled to the end. She made a quick maneuver, spinning the plane around so that it faced down the long empty strip. The primals were still rushing from all directions but had stopped launching themselves at the aircraft and its props. They seemed to be confused, unsure of what to do with it, or how to get at the men inside. They had massed in a crowd around the plane but were giving it space to move.

  The AN-12’s engines roared up as they climbed to maximum power. Kelli released the brakes and the plane began to vibrate and speed forward down the runway. Brad suddenly lost his balance and reached out for leverage. “You should probably get strapped in, hero,” Sean said, looking at Brad.

  Brad turned to take a step toward the rows of seats filling the middle of the aircraft and almost fell. Sean caught him and dropped him into a seat. Brooks moved up beside them and took a seat as the plane rapidly rose into the air. They heard the gear come up and lock into place. Brad put his seat back and smiled.

  “Anyone know what the in-flight meal will be?” Brad asked.

  “Not sure about beef or chicken, but I still have that morphine for you,” Brooks said.

  31.

  Burdened by heavy fur clothing, the bearded man wearily walked the trail. He distributed his weight on a walking stick to take pressure off of a nagging back. Jeremiah had followed the boys for more than five miles. His sons had something to show him, something they had found during their morning rounds. They had rushed back to the farm with excitement in their voices, dragging him out and onto the trail.

  Jeremiah was still curious as to why his two teen sons had wandered so far from the pasture. They told him they were searching for a lamb; he had his doubts, but was too tired to argue with them. The previous night’s winter storm had been harsh and scattered the flock, so the story was plausible. He knew they were young men and needed adventure in their lives. Jeremiah tried not to harass them; he knew that was their mother’s job.

  It was dangerous out in the hills away from the farm, especially with the cold of winter drawing in out of the high ground. He told his sons to stay close to the pastures. Still, it had been months since the last of the infected attacks, and the boys had become more complacent as a result of their boredom. He was sure they had wandered the path to visit their old school, now closed and shuttered. They were always in search of a school friend, or news from the outside.

  He saw the boys standing and waiting for him at the top of a hill. They had said they found something; something he needed to see. They refused to tell him what, probably knowing he would refuse to go if he suspected danger. That was why he had followed them all the way out here on this cold fall day, humoring the boys and joining them on their adventure.

  As Jeremiah neared the top of the hill, he could smell the smoke of a wood fire, and his senses went on high alert. Wood smoke could mean a campfire, and camp fires meant people. Not everyone was friendly these days. He checked his coat to make sure his old service pistol was still in his hip pocket as he hastened his pace up the hill. Jeremiah rounded the top, falling alongside his boys, and looked down into the snow-covered valley. He stood in awe at the sight.

  A long, earth-strewn trench was sheared across the pasture. The trench ended at the smoking body of a large, destroyed aircraft. The nose of the plane was badly damaged; a wing and parts of engines lay behind the plane, impaled in the ground. The main body of the plane seemed intact from the distance atop the hill, but it had rolled to one side at an odd angle.

  “See Dad, we told you! What is it?” Jeremiah’s youngest son, Michael, asked.

  The man stood staring at the wreckage. Fear struck him; maybe he should return to the farm, pretend he had never seen it.

  No. There could be supplies on board, or possibly survivors.

  Or infected.

  “Anyone else hear tell of this??”

  “Not a soul, Dad. We came right to ya,” William answered.

  “Stay close behind me boys, and keep those guns ready. Let’s go have us a look,” he said to them, already second-guessing his words. He turned and watched his boys ready the small double barreled, twenty-gauge shotgun and semi-automatic .22 rifle he had given them months earlier. He told them to keep their fingers off the triggers as he led them down toward the crash site.

  Jeremiah thought his days of violence had ended when he left the service. Ten years in the Army, most of it with the 22nd regiment, had been enough for him. He happily left the forces and took over his father’s farm. The Army service pistol had been a retirement gift from his old man. His father had also been a 22nd man. The pistol was the same one his grandfather had given to his father when he returned from Korea.

  His boys were not new to the dangers of the world. They had survived their fair share of attacks
by the infected. For the most part, their remote farm sheltered them from the dangers they had witnessed on the television. Thomas, his older boy, had been in the city during the first of the attacks and had barely made it home. He told of the behavior of the infected and warned how they attacked without mercy.

  Days after the first outbreaks, a neighbor had come to him seeking help for his wife. She had been bitten. He tried for town, but the streets were blocked and the infected roamed freely. Jeremiah gave his neighbor all of the medical supplies he had. A day later his neighbor’s family attacked them. They had killed one of his sheep, and had trapped his wife and son in the barn.

  Jeremiah tried to reason with his longtime friend but he received a moan in response. They took their attention from the barn and charged at him. When the neighbor went to attack Jeremiah, he shot his neighbor three times in the chest with his old Army revolver. The man fell, but his neighbor’s wife and daughter carried on with the attack. If Thomas hadn’t been carrying the .22 rifle, they would have killed him.

  Jeremiah approached from the nose of the aircraft. He could clearly see now that the cockpit had been destroyed. The plane listed heavily to the side with the missing wing. The other side of the plane had half a wing pointed up at the sky. The moved close to the plane and walked near the sheared-off half-wing. Fluids still dripped from the wreckage, and not much snow had accumulated on the hull. The wreckage had not been here long.

  Jeremiah positioned his sons on a high embankment and warned them to cover him as he moved down to the rear of the aircraft. He could already see from his current position that the back half of the plane was split open. He was hoping he might be able to see or even enter the fuselage. Jeremiah watched his footing and walked steadily to avoid the crunching of the fresh snow. He had grown up hunting small game, and was familiar with stalking prey.

  He removed the Army pistol from his pocket and felt the weight of it in his gloved hand. Jeremiah slowly moved toward the split in the aircraft’s hull. The break was large, plenty large enough for him to step through if he could get high enough to access it. Jeremiah searched for a foothold but found none. He decided to try and climb to the break, but paused when he heard the sparrow’s call: a warning from his sons.

  Jeremiah turned back to make eye contact with the boys as a man stepped up beside him. Jeremiah was startled, and instinctively went to raise the pistol. Before he could, a second man moved in from behind him and quickly released it from his grip. Jeremiah took a clumsy step backwards, almost falling, before he was grabbed by the man and righted back to his feet.

  He looked up into the bearded, toothy smile of a man in uniform. The man was dressed in tan camouflage and had a small sub machine gun strapped to his chest. Now well balanced, Jeremiah took a step back and turned on the large man standing behind him. He was dressed in the same camouflage pattern and carrying the same type of machine gun. Jeremiah looked up as another uniformed man, dressed in different camouflage, limped from around the tail of the aircraft followed by several others.

  Jeremiah took another step back and put his hands in the air.

  “Lard tunderin Jesus, b’y! Welcome to Newfoundland!”

  Thank You for Reading

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  Lundy W. J. (2013-10-31). Only the Dead Live Forever. Kindle Edition.

  Whiskey Tango Foxtrot: Volume III

  Visit W.J. Lundy on Facebook

  Volume I Whiskey Tango Foxtrot. Kindle Edition.

  Volume II Tales of the Forgotten. Kindle Edition.

  Book four in the Series

  In progress

  As an independent author I have many people to thank for this book.

  So many have volunteered to proofread and flesh out my stories, or just read them and give honest feedback. They have been extremely supportive as I struggle to get my stories published.

  I had always thought you needed a traditional publisher. I was wrong, there is an entire network of individuals that are changing the way we can get stories into print. If we ever need help, all an author has to do is ask.

  I’d most like to thank,

  Monique Happy Editorial Service, they are far more than Editors. Experts in everything from promotional services, to guides through this dark world of self-publishing. Wish I would have reached out to them far sooner.

  Terri King who has carefully reviewed, edited and tweaked everything I have put into print, never asking for a thing in return. She has been a lifesaver at making my work respectable.

  Bill in Texas who trades ideas and stories with me, keeping me on the right track, so I don’t quit and scrap an idea altogether.

  Allen, his beta reads and words of encouragement have kept me pushing out new stories and ideas since my first book.

  There are many more, too many to list them all, so I will stop now.