Zombie D.O.A. Series Four: The Complete Series Four

by JJ Zep

  He looked across at Kelly, the stretcher now moved towards the rear of the cabin. The kids were there too, and Janet, moved out of harm’s way. To the fore stood Chris and Joe and Ruby. Hooley, now somewhat recovered, had his hand on the chopper’s twenty-mil, ready to fire the minute the door slid open. They were going to rely heavily on that gun, because the only other weapons they had were the M-16s left behind by Grant’s bodyguards and the MP-9 and 9-mil liberated from Justine. In addition there were two pistols Joe had taken from the pilots. Hardly enough to fend off the number of Z’s that were scuttling along the runway towards them, which is why it was essential that Chris and Joe got to the two Humvees abandoned close by. Without the guns mounted on those vehicles there was a good chance they were going to get eaten.

  “Hooley! You ready?” Joe shouted, his hand on the release grip of the door.

  “About as ready as a bitch in heat,” Hooley came back. “Let her rip, pardner.”

  “Okay then,” Joe said. “You all know the drill. On my signal, three, two…” The chopper bumped against the tarmac, the Z’s now just thirty feet away… “One!”

  three

  Marin Scolfield was not, by nature, a praying man. But he had the good grace to realize when thanks were due to whatever deity still watched over this ruined planet. He was thankful now, thankful that the wind had dropped, thankful for the heavy snow that had fallen in the early morning hours, thankful that the fire had been stopped in its tracks. He stood up in the firing hatch of the Humvee and looked north from Columbus Circle across the barren expanse of Central Park, its once lush foliage reduced to skeletal skyward-reaching branches. He was reminded of a sketch, charcoal on white, a vision of Hades in monochrome.

  The neighborhoods west of the park - to his left as he stood - had borne the brunt of the inferno. Huge swathes of real estate, stretching from Central Park West all the way to the Hudson, had been devastated. The buildings left standing were in the main, gutted husks, many of them still billowing smoke towards a white sky. And yet, amazingly, there were survivors. Scolfield could see them emerging from the wreckage, dark, huddled figures moving furtively, heading south. How pathetic they were! He was tempted to give them a blast from the turret gun, might even have done so if he’d known how to operate the damn thing.

  He scanned his eyes right, to an entirely different vista. The buildings to the east of the park (including the Met, he was pleased to see) had been left untouched by the blaze, spared by the northwesterly that had driven the flames away from them. On such things are the paths of lives decided, Scolfield mused, as he heard the first low rumble from that direction. He consulted his watch. Larry, Mo and Shemp were on time. Wonders would never cease.

  four

  Joe had said to wait until Hooley started firing, but Chris wasn’t about to do that. The minute the door began to slide, he squeezed through the gap and was sprinting, veering left towards the nearest Humvee. He ran bent over, not concerned with the Z’s, certain he could reach the vehicle before they had time to react. For a moment he appeared to be running through a vacuum, the only sound his harsh breath and the percussion of his boots crunching down on the crust of snow. He vaguely heard Joe shout his name. Then that cry was cut off by the thud of the twenty-mil, the pop of small arms fire.

  The Humvee loomed just ahead, its sloped back facing towards him, both of its doors shut, the gunner slumped over in the turret. Chris assessed his chances of getting one of the doors open before the Z’s reached him. They were shuttling forward, a large contingent breaking off from the main group to intercept him. It was touch and go whether he beat them to the vehicle or not, but there was no stopping now. The equation was simple. Either he reached the Humvee or he died here on the runway. He ran harder, driving with the MP-9 clutched in his hand. The Z’s were swarming around the front of the vehicle.

  Five yards to go.

  Chris saw what he had to do. He powered across the last few yards and flung himself at the Humvee’s sloped back, gaining a handhold. He felt a grip tighten on his boot and wrenched himself free, twisting as he did, looking into the nightmare faces of the creatures, engulfing the vehicle on every side. He scrambled aboard, pulled the gunner’s corpse through the firing hatch and allowed it to roll down the slope. The zombies snatched at it, pulled it from the vehicle and tore it apart. That bought him precious seconds. He paused a moment, stood on the Humvee’s rooftop and looked back towards the helicopter, its rotor turning in lazy circles. Hooley was still working the twenty, firing into the massed Z’s, driving them back. Ruby stood off to one side, cutting and slashing at any zombie that somehow made it past Hooley’s barrage. Paulie and Carlito were firing too, the M-16’s bucking in their hands. To the other side of the chopper, Joe and Ana had already reached the Humvee. The engine of that vehicle suddenly roared into life and it lurched forward, straight into the midst of the Z’s, Joe in the hatch, decimating them with fire from the turret gun.

  Chris dropped through the hatch into the interior of the vehicle. There was blood on the floor and spattered against the walls. The body of a soldier lay huddled in a fetal position, half its face chewed away. The driver was still in his seat, hunched over the wheel. Chris edged forward, felt his foot slide in a patch of blood and give way under him. He caught the seatback just in time to prevent himself being spilled to the floor. Through the windshield he could see the Z’s, totally engulfing the Humvee, jousting for position, rocking the vehicle as they did.

  He reached over the driver’s shoulder, found the catch on the man’s safety harness and released it. The click sounded very loud in the confined space. It filled Chris with a feeling of dread, which he couldn’t quite explain. Something was wrong here. He yanked the driver out of his seat, pulled him towards the passenger side, noticing as he did what had killed the man. A sizeable chunk had been ripped from his throat, severing the main arteries, drenching his combat suit in blood, spattering the door panel and side window. That would have killed him quickly, but the soldier had still somehow managed to lift his sidearm to his temple and blow his brains out.

  What Chris couldn’t understand was who had killed him. All of the doors were closed and no one had come in through the firing hatch, not with the gunner rammed in there. The only possibility was the other soldier, the one who Chris had seen huddled…

  Something shifted behind him. A low electrical hum suddenly reverberated through the cabin.

  five

  The sound of the approaching vehicles was louder than he’d expected. As unlikely as it seemed, it looked as though the Three Stooges had come through. Scolfield had always known that he would need help to get this project off the ground, and Chez Burn’s three gormless sons had been ideal. That is to say they were dumb, easy to manipulate, and driven by the basest of all instincts – revenge. They wanted the person who had killed their father. Once Scolfield had promised that he could deliver her to them, they’d been putty in his hands. Crazy putty, he chuckled to himself.

  The first of the vehicles, a battered old tow truck, made the turn from 5th Avenue onto Central Park South. A trio of burly motorcyclists appeared, riding unwieldy off-roaders that made the most god-awful commotion Scolfield had ever heard. Now more motorcycles came, and more, the thud and pop of their engines deafening as they echoed back off the buildings to the south. Interspersed among the motorcycles were a flotilla of other vehicles, tow-trucks and pickups mainly, each more battered than the next. Finally, a fuel tanker, all rust and diesel smoke, crept around the corner. By the time the lead vehicles had stopped in front of him, Scolfield estimated that there were maybe 100, 120 men. The Stooges had outdone themselves, and here was one of the idiots now, just shucking himself from the cab of the lead vehicle.

  Scolfield had no idea what Chez Burn’s idiot sons were called, had no interest in finding out either. The one approaching him, the big cheerful lug with the unruly hair and the perpetual grin, seemed to be the only one of the trio capable of speech. Scolfield called him Mo
e.

  “Morning Captain,” Moe said as he approached. “We did good?”

  Scolfield looked over the massed motorcyclists and had to agree that the Stooges had indeed done well. He’d asked them to round up twenty, thirty men. They’d given him an army.

  “These fellers come all the way from Oklahoma,” Moe continued proudly. “They’re looking for some action so I told them you was hiring. I done good, didn’t I Captain?”

  Scolfield despised being called captain, but he decided to let it slide and throw Moe a bone. “You done good,” he said, at which Moe’s grin spread so broadly it threatened to spill his ill-fitting dentures into the snow.

  “Now,” Scolfield said, turning towards the bikers. “Which one of you fellers speaks for this outfit?”

  “That would be me,” one of the men said immediately. He dismounted his motorcycle, kicked out the foot stand and stood to the full extent of his height, six-four, Scolfield reckoned. He had red-hair, worn in two thick braids that hung down past his shoulders. His beard, too, was red and also plaited. On his head he wore a metal helmet with bull’s horns protruding from the sides. He looked like a Viking warrior.

  “This here’s Conan,” Moe said eagerly. “He’s –”

  “I’ll do my own talking,” Conan rumbled. He turned towards Scolfield. “Name’s Conan Eriksson,” he said. “This here’s my crew. These three fellers tell me you’re hiring.”

  Scolfield looked back at the man and felt his lips crease into a smile. Eriksson and his crew would do, all right. Matter of fact, Eriksson was perfect, brawn to brain ratio about ninety to ten, totally oblivious to how out of his league he was.

  “You keep looking at me that way, feller,” Eriksson growled, “and you’ll be having your teeth for breakfast.”

  Scolfield ignored him, went right on smiling. “Here’s what I need,” he said. “I’ve got maybe fifty thousand refugees in town, refugees who need to be rounded up, processed, kept in line. That’s where you come in. What I’m offering in return is food, shelter, booze, women, fuel for your vehicles. What do you say? Can we work together on this project?”

  “What makes you think we need to work with you?” Eriksson said. “All those things you just mentioned, we could just take them, take this town. Why do we need you?”

  Scolfield had expected this response, hoped for it even. It was time to lay down a marker, show these miscreants who was in charge. He reached into his pocket and retrieved an I-Pod, spun the dial and selected a track.

  “Here’s why,” he said.

  six

  Three thoughts tussled simultaneously for Chris’s attention. The first was to chastise himself for not making sure that the soldier was dead; the second was the realization that that simple oversight might cost him his life; the third was much simpler, “Move!” Even as he had that thought he realized that he was trapped. The driver lay in the space between the seats, blocking his way into the cab and the Z, he sensed, was right behind him. If he tried to turn, to bring the pistol up, he was going to be bitten.

  This entire summation occurred instinctively, in the space of a split second that also brought the answer to his predicament. “Down!” some instinct jangled in his brain and Chris obeyed instantly, dropping to the floor as he felt the Z’s claws snag his collar. He tore free, pushed back with his feet and skittled into the thing’s legs, knocking it off balance. He rolled out of reach, releasing his grip on the MP-9 as he did. The last thing he wanted was to get into a wrestling match with a Z, but firing in these close confines was a risk too. If he missed there was a good chance of being hit by a ricochet.

  Chris scrambled to his feet and faced off against the zombie. The thing stared back at him through dead eyes, half of its face a bloody pulp, its stance lopsided, its collarbone clearly dislocated. The Z lowered its head, preparing to charge. Chris looked desperately left and right for a weapon and saw what he needed. He crouched and grabbed the metal ammo case by its handle, his eyes never leaving the Z. Then he swung the box in a broad arc that connected solidly with the side of the zombie’s head. The creature clattered into the wall and Chris swung the box again, catching it in the back of the head this time. He kept swinging until the zombie’s skull was pulverized.

  Chris tossed the box aside and scrambled through into the driver’s seat, picking up the MP-9 on route. The driver still lay in the space between the seats and Chris dragged him out, then clambered through the gap and dropped into the seat. He twisted the key in the ignition, half expecting the engine to splutter and die. It roared instantly into life.

  He looked through the windshield into the blank faces of the Z’s, packed closely around the vehicle. Then he slid the shift into drive and floored her, shunting them aside as the Humvee lurched forward. He turned hard on the wheel. The Humvee bucked suddenly as though driving over rough terrain and he knew that a few of them had been driven underneath it.

  The turn brought the helicopter back into view. Hooley had stopped firing, probably out of ammo. The other Humvee had fortunately picked up the slack, Joe in the hatch working the twenty, aiming fire at the highest concentrations of zombies. Chris put his foot on the gas and accelerated towards the chopper. The path was littered with dead Z’s and he powered over them, raced the vehicle in a wide arc that brought it alongside. Hooley immediately scrambled aboard and was working the cannon even as Chris stepped on the gas and lurched forward. He veered away from the other Humvee, staying out of its line of fire. The gun thudded away in the firing hatch, cutting a swathe through the remaining Z’s. They were going to win this battle, Chris saw. The war, however, was far from won.

  seven

  Scolfield held the I-Pod up to the light, his thumb hovering over the play button, a smile on his lips, his eyes never leaving Eriksson. He waited a moment, waited on the inevitable question. It wasn’t long in coming.

  “What you got there?” Eriksson said, his voice uncertain.

  “Observe,” Scolfield said, holding up the player like a magician about to perform a trick - which is exactly what he was about to do.

  “What’s that?”

  “This, my friend, is an mp-3 player.”

  “An mp-3 player?” Eriksson scoffed, half turning to his men. “You gonna play us some tunes? ‘Cause me and the boys enjoy us a good ol’ hoedown once in a while, don’t we fellers? You got any Hank Williams? No wait, don’t tell me, you look like one of them classical homo types.”

  A few of Eriksson’s crew had by now left their vehicles and were gathered around to see what was happening. Eriksson’s remark got them sniggering and ribbing each other, which Scolfield didn’t mind at all. It was going to make what he was about to do, that much more fun.

  “Hank Williams?” he said. “I’m afraid not. But I do have something that you’ll find interesting. Check this out.”

  He applied thumb pressure to the dial. A thin blast of discordant static escaped the earphones. Scolfield looked across the bikers standing in front of him, more of them gathering to see what was going on.

  “Sounds like the fucking thing’s broken,” Eriksson said.

  “Yeah,” someone in the crowd said. “Why are we fucking around with this bullshit anyway? Let’s take this pansy.”

  “You boy’s hang back,” Eriksson said. “No one makes a move, unless I say so.”

  He was looking at the twenty-mil as he spoke, which Scolfield found mildly amusing. “You worried about this old thing?” he chuckled, slapping his hand against the weapon’s metal flank. “You shouldn’t be. I have no idea how to work it. And even if I did, I have no intention of firing at you. That would get our relationship off on the wrong foot, nez pas?”

  He detected something now, a low electrical thrum that brought an eruption of gooseflesh dancing up his arms. Eriksson heard it too. Scolfield could see it in the frown that suddenly creased his face, in the way his eyes widened as he scanned frantically left and right.

  “You boys hear that?” he said, trying to keep the fear
out of his voice and failing.

  “Sounds like…”

  “…Z’s…”

  “Goddamn Z’s boss! It’s a trap!”

  There was movement in the ranks, the fidgety, panicked movements of prey when they sense a predator nearby. A few of the bikers unholstered firearms, others began shifting closer to the security of their vehicles.

  “You boys stand your ground till I say different,” Eriksson instructed over his shoulder. “Any of them motherfuckers show themselves you fill them with enough lead to sink a boat, y’all hear me?”

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Scolfield said.

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because unless you’ve got a nuclear device packed away on one of those trucks, there’s no way you can withstand the number of Z’s I can unleash on you at the flick of a switch.”

  “Bullshit,” Eriksson said. He’d hardly got the word out when his eyes widened and he drew in a sharp breath. He took an involuntary step backwards. He was looking past Scolfield towards the buildings that stood at the southern edge of the park. Scolfield didn’t bother turning around. He knew what was back there. Besides, he was enjoying the incredulous, gape-mouthed expressions on the faces of Eriksson and his crew.

  “How are you doing this?” Eriksson said in a harsh whisper.

  “Never mind how,” Scolfield said. “You wanted to know why you need me. I trust I’ve adequately illustrated my credentials?”

  Eriksson said nothing. He seemed incapable of speech.

  “Well?” Scolfield pressed. “Have I?”

  “Yes… yes sir,” Eriksson stammered.

  “Good. Then tell your men to mount up and follow me. There’s work to be done.”

  Eriksson turned, let out a shrill whistle and gave a signal to his men, who needed little encouragement to scramble for their vehicles. Scolfield could make out an insignia that most of them wore on the backs of their jackets, a picture of a skeleton riding a motorcycle, with some words embroidered in red stitching, barely readable under years of filth. ‘The Dead Men,’ it said. Now what kind of an idiot name was that?