by Dana Fredsti
He started with basic hand-to-hand, specifically methods of disabling without grappling. In other words, how to not let the enemy (i.e. ravenous ghouls) get a hold of you. And if they do, how to disengage without being bitten or otherwise mauled.
He also stressed the importance of maintaining an awareness of our surroundings while dealing with the zombies. This made it easier to keep any eye out for escape routes, objects that could be used offensively or defensively, and more damn zombies.
Sure, Wild Cards didn't have to worry about infection, but we could still have our carotid arteries ripped out or our limbs torn off. Either one would most likely result in death, just without the subsequent reanimation of our corpses. And while yeah, the thought of lurching around while rotting on the hoof was gross and disturbing, the thought of just being dead was even worse. At least to me.
At any rate, we spent two hours learning how to fall, roll, deflect our opponent's energy, blah blah blah—lots of blocks, throws, joint locks. A lot of emphasis on avoiding the mouth area, even if we couldn't be infected by bites any more.
How cool was it that this stuff came so easily? Kind of like being turned into a vampire in the Buffy-verse: you're suddenly gifted with martial arts skills even if you were a total non-athletic geek before the bite. Okay, not that unrealistic, but our coordination, strength, and muscle memory were definitely amped.
“Excuse me,” I said to Gabriel after slamming Kai to the mat by jerking on his arm while simultaneously knocking his legs out from under him with a foot sweep.
Gabriel paused, one arm wrapped around Mack's throat, the other pinning Mack's arm behind his back.
“Won't some of this stuff just … like … rip off a limb or two? I mean, we're talking rotting walking corpses.”
Gabriel shrugged. “It could happen.”
“Schweet,” said Tony in a passable Cartman imitation. So not surprised he watched South Park.
“So if we can't really hurt them or hold them, won't they just keep trying to snack on us?”
“If you rip off an arm, that's one less limb it has to grab you with. A leg? It can't run after you. And you don't run the risk of infection from splatter like most people. So more time to take the brain out of action. No brain, no zombie.”
I nodded, wondering if I could beat a zombie's brain in with its own leg. Probably not. Too squishy.
“Nice takedown, by the way.” Gabriel nodded at me.
“I'll say,” Kai groaned, getting slowly to his feet.
“Um…” Mack raised his unpinned hand, neck still in Gabriel's chokehold. “Can we get on with this? This is just not a comfortable position.”
* * * *
When we finally stopped for dinner, I was dripping with sweat, exhausted, and so ravenous I didn't care that there wasn't time to shower before chow time. We were pretty much all smelly and sweaty. Kind of like when everyone eats garlic so no one notices anyone else's stinky breath.
We ate in a small cafeteria adjacent to the gym. I wondered how much of this underground space lay directly beneath D. B. Patterson Hall, if any of it spread out further. The whole complex reminded me of the Magic Castle in Hollywood—much bigger on the inside than it appears on the outside.
The Wild Cards weren't the only people eating in the cafeteria. Medical staff, soldiers, and various anonymous-looking clerical types drifted in, clad in Hazmat gear sans helmets. They'd load their trays with food and scarf it down before heading back out. A few nodded at Gabriel, but for the most part our little bunch of zombie-retardant Wild Cards was treated as if we didn't exist.
Wow. Zero popularity points for being partially invulnerable.
“Is it just me,” I whispered to Lily, sitting on my right, “Or are they acting like we all just farted on their pillows?”
She giggled. I noticed she'd tucked her hair behind one ear so half her face was now visible.
“Don't worry,” said Simone, overhearing us from the other side of the table. “It's natural for people to be intimidated by things they don't understand. They'll get over it.”
“Considering we'll be putting our asses on the line for them, I sure hope so.” I stabbed a piece of steak with my fork for emphasis. I didn't have a lot of patience for Wild Card phobia after all we'd already been through and what we were being trained to face.
“Hear, hear!” Mack raised his glass of milk in a toast. I picked up my water glass and clinked against it. Lily followed suit, along with Kai, Simone, and Gabriel.
“Jeez, that's gay,” said Tony. So much for political correctness, but he did pick up his soda and wave it in our direction.
Kaitlyn ignored us, huddled in her own little world at the end of the table. She'd done the work during training, but reluctantly, as though it pained her to have to touch any of us. I wanted to feel sorry for her but she pretty much made it impossible. Bitch with a capital B.
“Hey, everyone.”
Speaking of bitches, Jamie, Ms. Hot Topic herself, stood next to our table dressed in black-and-fuchsia striped tights, short black tattered skirt, sparkly fuchsia T-shirt, and some truly amazing black platform boots that would have been comfortable on a ‘70s pimp. No Hazmat fashion for Ms. Hot Topic; she looked like Tinkerbell's evil twin. Or eviler twin, considering Tink tried to get Wendy killed.
Wonderful. Another person who didn't like me.
Jamie set a tray of food on the table and inserted herself between Simone and Mack. She didn't quite do a hip check on Mack to make room next to Simone, but close enough. Mack moved aside with good grace, raising his eyebrows and shrugging.
“Are you a Wild Card too?” Kai looked Jamie up and down, definitely checking her out. I could have told him he was wasting his time, but he'd figure it out for himself. Or not. Kai strikes me as one of those guys who has unwavering faith in his own myth.
Jamie flicked him a brief glance. “No. I'm Professor Fraser's assistant.” Her focus went back to Simone as if drawn by gravitational pull.
I wondered if Simone had any idea just how gargantuan a crush Jamie had on her or if it was even a blip on her gaydar. Or maybe she knew and liked it. Maybe she—
Okay, so not something to worry about right now. Simone's sexual orientation was totally none of my business anyway. At least Jamie didn't have the hots for Gabriel. I could admire him without worrying about laser stares of death if Jamie caught me looking at him.
“Jamie, you remember Ashley from Pandemics in History?” Simone smiled at me.
“Yes,” said Jamie, giving me a laser stare of death.
Oh well.
* * * *
After dinner we had a welcome break from kicking each other's butts, and focused on a more esoteric form of training: watching excerpts from zombie movies. We're talking the good, the bad, and the really shitty.
We sat in one of the lecture halls—Room 217, in fact—where Simone and Gabriel did a poor man's Mystery Science Theater 3000 commentary (except serious), pointing out facts and fallacies during each bit (yes, you really do need to shoot them in the head or otherwise take out the brain, just in case you were wondering).
“OMG,” I whispered to Lily after the fifth excerpt, “We're in the film class from hell.”
Lily giggled, then immediately shushed when Jamie, sitting by the DVD player, shot a dirty look our way. I stuck my tongue out at her and grinned as she turned away in a huff. Childish, I know, but satisfying.
I mean, I love movies as much as the next person, but how many zombie flicks can people watch without having spaghetti with red sauce totally ruined for them?
“Killer…”
“Yeah, dude!” Tony and Kai, who had bonded with almost frightening speed during the last hour, gave each other a high five as a zombie got its head taken off with a scythe and FX blood and goo spurted everywhere.
Okay, maybe Tony and Kai would still be chowing down at Old Spaghetti Factory after our training, but personally, if I saw one more rotting ghoul doing the taffy pull with someone's intestine
s, well, nor even a Meg Ryan film retrospective could make things right. Heck, maybe she would become the world's cutest zombie. I could just see her cocking her head to one side in that little puppy dog way she used in all of her movies (except for Addicted to Love, where she kicked ass) right before sinking her teeth into warm flesh.
The movie currently playing was the remake of Dawn of the Dead. “Fast-moving zombies such as the ones portrayed here,” commented Simone as the heroes slammed the mall door in the face of a really creepy one-armed zombie, “are products of the MTV generation's filmmakers. Short attention span.”
I raised my hand and she nodded. “So you're saying there's no such thing as a zombie who can run?”
Simone opened her mouth to answer then, then paused and exchanged an undecipherable look with Gabriel. “Let's pause the film here, shall we? Based on the records our organization has kept through the centuries, fast-moving zombies do not exist. They may be ambulatory, but their bodies are rotting. Zombies shamble, stumble, lurch, and crawl. They do not run.”
“Yes!” Tony punched the air in a victory sign. We all looked at him. “I had a bet with Manny. If he wasn't dead, he'd totally owe me twenty bucks.”
Kai raised his hand. “What about the smart zombies?”
“We're looking for a zombie no one's ever seen before,” said Tony. “Some kind of smart zombie.”
I rolled my eyes at Tony's paraphrased movie quote from Starship Troopers. Kai caught me in mid eye-roll and grinned. Oh no.
“Frankly, Tony, I find the idea of a zombie that thinks offensive.”
“I think you've both already had your brains sucked out,” I growled. “Now would you shut up so Simone can finish?”
Simone smiled and shook her head. “So far, aside from rudimentary motor functions from their lives, no smart zombies.”
Mack interrupted the proceedings with a huge, jaw-cracking yawn. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly.
“Let's call it a day, shall we?” Simone gestured to the back of the room. “On the table are a variety of fiction and pseudo non-fiction books on zombie apocalypses. Some are survival techniques, others much like these movies, works of fiction with kernels of useful information tucked into unexpected places. Consider them homework. They're rated from one ten as far as accuracy and efficacy. I'd recommend Zombie Survival Guide and Zombie Combat Manual. The authors have done their homework.”
Yes, Virginia, there really is a zombie apocalypse.
* * * *
I didn't go back to my little pseudo hospital room. Instead Lily and I shared a room on the same floor as the cafeteria and gym, thankfully above the med ward and the lab. It was very much like any other college dorm, minus any personal touches like band posters or family photos, but it had two twin beds and, joy of joys, our own bathroom.
“OMG, I am so glad we don't have to share a bathroom with everyone else.” I collapsed on one of the beds.
“Me too.” Lily smiled at me shyly. “I wonder who has to share a room with Kaitlyn.”
I grinned, relieved I wouldn't have to totally hide my inner bitch with my new roomie. “Bet she and Jamie have to share. Maybe they'll cancel each other out.” I stretched, feeling the aches and twinges in muscles and joints. “Is it okay with you if I take a shower? I promise I'll be quick.”
I forced myself out of the hot water in record time and pulled on a pair of sweats and a tank top I'd found in the little dresser between the beds. The bathroom medicine cabinet held basics like soap, deodorant, toothpaste, and toothbrushes, as well as a few luxury items such as face cleanser, moisturizing cream, and lip balm. The balm had a slight rose tint to it, and even the hint of color made me feel more human. I look like death without lipstick.
Crawling in between the sheets, I skimmed over the Zombie Survival Guide while Lily showered. By the time she came out of the bathroom, clad in green scrubs, I'd learned plate armor is a bad choice to wear in zombie combat, and chain mail, while slightly preferable, is also a bad idea unless you've trained in it for years. Guess all those Society of Creative Anachronism folks had one up on the rest of us, after all.
Lily jumped on her bed, burrowing under the covers like a little kid hiding from the boogeyman. “Do you want to read some more?”
“Nah.” I put the ZSG on the dresser next to a little banker's lamp. “Lights out?”
“Yes, please.”
I reached out and pulled the switch on the lamp. The room was immediately cast into pitch black, no ambient light at all. This must be what it was like to be blind.
We lay there in our respective beds for a few minutes, one of those thick, aware silences meant to be broken. Lily sniffled.
“You okay?”
A pause, then, “Yeah … I'm just worried about Binkey and Doodle.”
“Er … are they your roommates?” And if so, who the hell named them Binkey and Doodle?
“No, they're my cats.”
“Are they outside?”
“No. They're locked in my apartment.”
“Do they have food?”
Another pause accompanied by a sniffle. “I have a feeder, but it won't last too long. They like to eat a lot. I bought a bag of dry food a couple days ago, but I didn't refill the feeder.”
“Is the bag out where they can get it? Because if they're anything like my parents’ cats, they'll have ripped that puppy wide open by now.”
“You think so?” Lily sounded distinctly more cheerful.
“I know so.”
Another pause. “They had a bowl of water, but they go through it fast.”
“Can they get into the bathroom? Do you leave the seat up?”
“Um…I don't, but my roommate boyfriend does … or did. Casey was crashing there until he found his own place while Mom was out of town.” A pause, then guiltily, “My mom doesn't know.”
“So hopefully he did the guy thing and left the seat up, so they have plenty of food and water for now.”
“You think?”
I could tell Lily wanted to believe what I said. “I think. I also think we should get some sleep ‘cause you know Gabriel's gonna kick our asses tomorrow.”
“Yeah.” I heard her yawn. Another long pause, then, “Thanks, Ashley. You make me feel like things are going to be okay…” She must have fallen asleep right after her last sentence from the way her breathing evened out and lengthened into the gentlest of snores.
I lay awake for a few more minutes, feeling an unaccustomed warm glow. I'd made Lily feel better and that felt like I'd made a small difference in what had suddenly become a very bleak world.
Chapter Ten
The researchers and medical staff theoretically wouldn't see combat (or whatever one calls killing zombies), but they were strongly urged to get some training with weapons and combat techniques in case a) the walking dead penetrated the defenses around D.B. Patterson Hall; b) some of the infected in the lab somehow managed to break free; or c) one of them caught the virus and went zomboid without warning. This meant, joy of joys, that Jamie joined us the next day while we learned the basics of handling firearms, edged weapons, pole-arms, and pretty much how to turn any found object into an effective defense and/or offense against the walking dead. I did my best to ignore Jamie—who returned the favor—and learn everything I could from each lesson.
I have to say I loved the edged weapons portion of the training. Kai and I pretty much kicked butt at it. Of course, it helped that I'd studied theatrical combat and fencing in high school and college. Kai and I discovered we'd had the same theatrical combat instructor, a fifty-something wanna-be swashbuckler with an age-inappropriate soul patch. Total pretentious Lothario, but a good teacher. If I ever saw him again, I'd thank him. From a distance.
Honestly, you would not believe the things you can do with wooden kabob skewers if you know where to shove them. And if all you've got is a book? Shove it in the attacking zombie's mouth and reduce the risk of being chomped. Basically anything can help you survive if you use your bra
ins and don't panic. Which really is what a lot of the training was about: how not to panic when facing off against a horde of carnivorous ambulatory corpses.
Among other things we learned: to panic is to die. To give in to sentimental attachment (e.g. run into the arms of a loved one after they've been bitten and turned in the mistaken hope they'll recognize you and decide not to have you for dinner) is to die. To freeze in combat is to die. To eat two-day-old sushi is to die.
Okay, just kidding about the last one. Although I suppose it's feasible.
We learned all of these things and more through a combination of training techniques, including an intensive three-hour session covering firearms.
Ah, firearms…
Gabriel took us out to the range, which was just a closed-off hallway in DBP with a bunch of sandbags stacked against the far wall, and handed us over to Captain Gentry, a baby-faced guy in army fatigues.
Yowza. Is it politically incorrect to admit I love shooting things? And the targets were awesome. I mean, someone actually makes zombie targets for shooting ranges. Is that a cool idea or what? I blew the shit out of Zombie Steve.
The first half hour was pure fun because Captain Gentry operated on the assumption nobody had ever handled a gun before, so we got to start ‘plinking’ with these little .22 caliber pistols and rifles.
“Even a little bullet in the right part of a zombie's head will do the necessary brain surgery to put them down,” said Captain Gentry.
The .22s had no kick at all, kind of like a pellet gun or even one of those old rat-rubber pistols my friends and I used to play with. Lots of hours spent shooting each other in parks and playgrounds, and even more hours picking up the soft little yellow ‘bullets.’ Then we moved up to military-grade stuff, which is when Captain Gentry and Gabriel went all anal.
The Colt M4 was okay. I mean, everyone's seen them on TV for years, any time there's police action or a swat team. I mean, Jack Bauer uses one on 24. Not much of a kick or anything, but still pretty easy to shoot. Then we played with military pistols, Beretta 9 mms, and some other stuff: a Glock, blocky and ugly looking, but fun to shoot.
