by Joshua Guess
He leaned back in the flimsy plastic chair. “I care because I had my fill of following orders to stand by while good people suffered long before The Fall happened. I'm not going to let it happen here, whether you help me or not.”
Slowly, Miles extended a hand across the table.
“I'm in,” he said simply.
Twenty-Three
Kell woke to an air raid siren going off somewhere just inside his ear canal. The noise was so powerful that his terrified brain skipped the warm-up steps and transitioned from a dead sleep to fully alert instantly. He slapped his hands over his ears, ignoring the pain arcing through his collarbone in favor of not letting his gray matter liquefy from the noise and drain from his ears.
“What the hell?” he shouted, his voice lost in the wailing.
The nave was full of terrified people mirroring Kell, wide-eyed faces framed in hands trying to block out the din. He saw one of them mouthing something and realized after a few seconds that the other man was counting.
The siren began to cycle down, moving from deafening to merely painful and finally silent over the course of fifteen seconds. The guards must have left it on long enough to make sure everyone was awake.
“What the shit?” Turner asked, wiggling a finger in his ear. “Somebody bombing us?”
“Tornado siren,” Steph said as she moved closer. Their beds were all adjacent to each other, which thankfully wasn't suspicious here. People tended to clump into groups based on when they arrived. “Used to have an apartment right below one of those things.”
“That has to mean an attack,” Liam said, plopping next to Steph.
Kell struggled very hard not to glance at Mason, who was standing with his arms crossed in the dim light behind the bed Liam and Steph sat on.
“Probably,” Kell said. “I didn't think to ask what their alert system was like.”
Mason cocked his head. “Zombies. First thing I asked.”
“So what's the warning for an attack by people?” Turner asked. “Living people, I mean?”
“Gunfire,” Mason said with a humorless smile.
The heavy rattle of the main door being unlocked suddenly echoed through the room, followed by the entrance of two heavily armed guards.
“Whoa,” Liam said as the two men stepped forward. Kell understood the sentiment.
The tan and green the guards normally wore—hunter's togs—could be seen below the new gear, but only in patches. Over their everyday wear the men wore pieces of sleek armor, heavy plastic gleaming all over. Black plastic shone in the dim space, though the effect stopped at the limbs. On their chests the guards wore heavy ballistic armor, the kind soldiers in war zones packed around to stop rifle fire.
“We need volunteers for the garden,” One of the guards said from behind what to Kell seemed a custom helmet. “Bad timing. We were in the middle of replacing a section of fence.”
“Do we get to be armed?” Kell asked.
“Push spears and shields only,” the same guard answered. “They're outside by the door.”
“Any zombies inside the garden already?” Mason asked.
The guard shook his helmeted head. “No, that's why you should hurry.”
“I'll go,” Kell said. Mason opened his mouth to protest, but Kell undid the straps keeping his binder on and held up a hand.
“If we're using push spears, I can anchor. I don't need both arms for that. You'll need someone big.”
Mason hesitated—not a state of being he was famous for—then nodded. “Fine.”
“Me too,” Steph said. She turned to Liam and Turner. “You two stay here.”
The authority in her voice was quiet but powerful. Both men nodded.
“We'll need at least one more,” Kell said.
Miles, who had seen the guards stop to speak with Kell's people, had jogged over. He was careful to make plenty of noise to the heavily-armed men didn't whip around and give a demonstration on the use of their submachine guns.
“Hey, I'll go,” he said as he came to a stop. “I'll make sure the new guys can manage.”
The second guard cleared his throat and finally spoke. “Make sure you do. We'll be close.”
Kell stepped into his boots and felt a pang of guilt that the others had to make do with their flimsy institutional slippers.
“I can't believe I'm about to fight the undead wearing Crocs,” Mason grumbled, casting a jealous eye at Kell's footwear.
“You can wear them—”
Mason shook his head. “I'm a couple sizes smaller than you. Those boats you wear would rattle around on me and throw me off.”
The talkative guard gestured toward the door leading out to the enclosure. “Let's get to it, people.”
They moved quickly, only slowing long enough to let the guard unlock the door for them. Just outside the door, as promised, was a large shield and a push spear. The shield was nothing special, just a hexagonal traffic sign reinforced with wood to hold the leather straps in place. The spear was also standard for its type, a rod of smooth pine eight feet in length and studded with thick dowels to serve as handholds.
“I'll take anchor,” Kell said, in case Miles hadn't figured it out.
Miles snorted. “No shit you will, man, you're like nine feet tall. I'll take front.”
“Middle,” Steph said. “Unless you want me on shield. I can do it, but I'm out of practice.”
Mason grinned. “Nah, no worries. I'll take the shield. And you guys just keep back and ready in case I miss any.”
Kell felt a sigh struggling to work its way out of his chest. He had seen Mason in action before, and it was impressive as hell. The example was nothing on the stories he had heard. Even if you ignored the insane—almost impossible—amount of damage the guy had taken to get all those scars, what Kell had heard was enough.
“What are you talking about?” Steph said. “You can't fight dead people with just a shield.”
Mason smiled wryly. “Don't worry, mom. I've got another weapon in mind.”
And with that, Mason stepped forward and snagged a small garden trowel off its peg near the door.
“Jesus in heaven,” Miles said in horrified awe. “You're all crazy people.”
“You know, most people would never consider gardening the enemy to death,” Kell said from the back end of the long spear. It's not really badass, if you think about it. A shovel would be more appropriate, maybe?”
The four of them moved toward the half-repaired section of fence slowly. It was a rusty segment, the top right corner slouched open like a page frozen in while being turned. The bottom corner still had a tie holding it in place, but every other tie on that side was missing.
Miles cursed in German. At least Kell thought he was cursing; German was an angry language to start with.
“What is it?” Steph asked quietly.
“We were weakening those ties a little at a time,” Miles said. “The guards must have seen it. Man, this feels like a setup.”
“I don't think so,” Kell said. “If they suspected anyone they wouldn't have asked for volunteers, would they? They'd have sent whoever they thought was responsible out here to die if it was a trap.”
“I don't get why they need us out here at all,” Steph said. “There's another layer of fence.”
The sharp pinging of overworked steel filled the night. It was a more piercing version of the weird sound chain link fences make when you grab them with both hands and rattle them.
It was coming from the gate in the fence.
“Ah,” Mason said. “How much you want to bet that outer gate isn't going to hold up to a bunch of zombies clawing at it?”
“Why the fuck wouldn't it?” Miles asked, exasperated.
“Oh,” Kell said. “I get it. They wanted to leave an easy way in. The guards, I mean.”
“Yeah,” Mason said. “If you're more worried about the dead and you're in a rush, you want to be able to get in quick. I bet the outer gate is held shut with a quick-release
lock. The kind you can pull on with one hand and open. Or maybe wire just weak enough to break with a solid kick.”
“Shit,” Steph said. “Yeah, that makes sense. Not like this fence would keep out living people anyway, so why bother with a real lock?”
They took their place between the mounds of potato plants, and it was a tight fit trying not to damage them. They would, if it came to that. Better to lose a few in the scuffle than let the dead trample all over the place in a swarm. The idea with a push spear was to transfix a zombie or two on the spike and use their bodies to plug the hole in your defenses. Usually the shield man served as a means of protecting the people behind him. Mason hadn't been given a real weapon, which Kell assumed meant they were only supposed to hold out for a short time until more help arrived in the form of men with guns.
“A little anticlimactic if you ask me,” Miles said after a full minute of waiting in place.
Steph punched him in the shoulder. “You're gonna jinx us, asshole.”
“I don't believe in that shit,” Miles said, his voice one of a man who did believe in that shit but wanted to convey confidence.
“Wide as that hole is, I'm not really sure of our chances if a bunch of them come at once,” Steph said.
Groaning metal in the direction of the gate changed suddenly into a bright ping of something rigid snapping.
“Asshole,” Steph repeated. Miles glanced back at her with a roguish smile.
Two things worked in their favor. The first was the geometry of the outer and inner fences, which forced the zombies to take a right-angle turn in the narrow space. Their distant forms were visible—the flood lights were already on when they had entered the garden—and none betrayed the more graceful stride of a New Breed. Which wasn't necessarily an indication of facts, as New Breed were notorious for acting like their less evolved cousins when they could get away with it.
In the dark, that job was a lot easier. In the light it was a pointless act.
The second advantage rose in importance after the zombies cleared the turn and the first few toppled onto their faces. While working, Kell had noticed the more subtle defenses within the bailey between the fences. Chains strung from one fence to the other at ankle height, spaced out every six or seven feet. Not fatal in and of themselves, but excellent for slowing down careless—or in this case, dead—enemies and creating choke points.
Mason raised the shield and pointed with his spade, a small rain of dirt dislodging as he did so. “Come on,” he shouted with a feral grin. “Let's do it!”
Kell had been under the impression they would stay in the garden and mind the breach, waiting for the zombies to come to them. Mason had other ideas.
Without looking to see if the rest of the team agreed, he bashed aside the hanging fence and leaped into the infested walkway.
“Son of a bitch!” Steph shouted.
Then they ran forward to join him.
Twenty-Four
Mason calmly walked forward and decapitated a zombie by slamming the edge of his shield into its neck as it struggled to regain its feet. Not a bad start, in Kell's opinion. He'd used the same move from time to time.
“Be ready to aim,” Kell said to Miles. As the head of the spear, it would be up to Miles to give the order to strike. Usually a two count. Kell and Steph would push in unison while Miles guided the weapon. It was an effective system when everyone knew what they were doing. So much so that it had sprung up in several communities of survivors at the same time as different groups worked out the same solution to the same problems.
Evolution did that sometimes, rational Kell noted. Organisms separated by distance would adapt the same physical characteristics or behaviors to address similar problems.
Ahead of them, Mason continued his assault mercilessly. From removing the head of the first downed zombie he hopped, slamming his weight onto the backs of two more. Kell couldn't see the details, but a fast sort of shuffle-and-stomp followed by the wet crack of bone told him the dead people serving as Mason's landing pad were out of the equation.
The shield flashed beneath the diamond pattern the floodlights draped across them as it cast shadows and light through the fence. Mason was in fine form, bashing back zombies and following through with surgical thrusts of the trowel. Kell could barely follow the swift dart of Mason's hand as he attacked.
When a New Breed zombie burst from its hiding spot within the larger pack, Mason was in mid-motion. Inertia, especially the sort a dedicated fighter needed to make every strike count, was damn hard to overcome even when you saw the threat. Mason didn't even try to redirect the impetus of his swing, opting instead to use the momentum to angle his body for a kick.
Whether through sheer dumb luck or a new sort of cleverness, the New Breed managed to catch Mason's leg and throw him totally off balance. Had Mason been without the shield, Kell was certain the man would have easily caught himself. Instead he tumbled backward awkwardly, his feet tangling in the limp arms and legs of his dead enemies.
The New Breed wasted no time in the follow-through, lunging forward and falling on Mason to attack furiously.
Kell saw it happen from his place at the back of the line. He felt pressure on the wood and heard Miles count. Pure reflex took over and Kell pushed, using his legs and hips to make up for the weakness in his shoulder.
Except the spear didn't hit the New Breed. It struck the closest of the now unopposed swarm moving toward them. The only reason they weren't instantly overrun was thanks to the minefield of bodies before them.
“No!” Kell snarled, a guttural sound so loud and primal it hurt his throat. “Help him!”
“We can't!” Steph said. “We'll get swarmed!”
Kell caught a sparkle of red in his peripheral vision from the general direction where Mason was being savaged. A bright ruby mist was already settling.
“Let go of the spear,” Kell said.
Miles looked back over his shoulder, which almost cost him an ear as the zombie already impaled on the weapon snapped at him. “You fucking crazy, man?”
“Let go and get behind me. Or run inside. I don't care which, but in three seconds I'm going to take it from you.” The words were somehow cold and molten hot at the same time, a controlled fury driving him. “Do it NOW!”
The last word was a bellow, one that so startled Miles that he actually did let go. He stumbled back, tugging on Steph's arm as he went. Kell saw the hesitation in the set of her shoulders, the tension in her neck. He observed these things and recorded them in the indelible memory he had been so famous for in a previous life.
He saw that fight go out of her as the facts became clear. Without the man on the front, the push spear wasn't a weapon she could help him use. Not enough mass. Not enough control. Too unwieldy for a pair of people.
There was a defeated look on her face when she spun away and let Miles drag her back. Kell knew what she was thinking; if two people couldn't use it, then the spear was useless.
For perhaps any other person, she would have been right.
Internally thanking the speared zombie for keeping the spear from dropping as the others retreated; Kell stepped to the side and moved forward. He grabbed two of the posts sticking out from the wooden shaft like a cop with a battering ram and raised a boot. At more than six and a half feet tall and with long legs, kicking the relatively short zombie in the face wasn't hard. Using the spear as a counterweight made it even easier to ensure he broke the thing's neck as he did so.
The zombie fell back into its fellows, giving him enough time to at least see if Mason was still alive.
“Hey, fucker!” Kell shouted at the New Breed. The horrible thing's head snapped toward his voice, recognizing the potential threat Kell represented. New Breed were smart—creepily so—and they could do everything from use tools to forming variable tactics. What they could not do, by the very nature of the organism giving them a second life, was turn off the predatory instincts and reactions which drove them.
Whe
n the dead thing turned its rheumy eyes to Kell, its gray skin rippling over cords of tough fibrous tissue beneath, its attention was entirely focused on him. The thin ribbons of flesh glistened between its teeth, blood splashed across its face in a macabre imitation of a smile.
Then Mason drove the trowel through the bottom of its jaw at the perfect angle to jam into its brain.
In any good action movie, this would be the point where Kell and Mason would share a brilliant set of catch phrases and one-liners. Instead Mason cursed like the sailor he was and set about yanking his weapon free. The smell of blood was thick, but Kell was satisfied. If the man could swear that creatively, he wasn't in immediate danger of dying.
All of this transpired in less than ten seconds.
Charged with adrenaline, Kell faced the swarm again and bellowed a wordless war cry. His boots crushed dead fingers as he planted his feet, spear already swinging on its abbreviated arc. His left arm was providing the power, his weakened right mostly aiming, but the effort still hurt like a son of a bitch.
He pulled with his right hand at the last second, forcing a change in angular momentum in just the right way. The tip of the spear veered upward sharply and slammed into the space where cheek and nose met. That gentle swoop of skin and bone might as well have been paper for all the resistance it gave.
Kell worked the problem methodically, never accidentally falling into the more fluid spear forms he would normally use. Part of the many dozens of hours of training was spent learning to fight in an enclosed space. Those drills came back to him automatically, some internal gear locking into place.
He used the space to his advantage, timing the mechanical swings of the spear to make the best use of the crowded zombies. Every falling body reduced the momentum of the swarm. When one of them finally squeezed through the press while Kell was occupied, he swept a harsh sideways kick. The boots he wore had started life as fireman's gear before being heavily modified, but the original steel toe cap and attached sole tongue remained. They found the kneecap of the slippery bastard and crunched the zombie's leg sideways.
