by JJ Zep
Charlie entered the darkened gymnasium and allowed the double doors to swing back into place behind him. The room was deep and high ceilinged, a basketball court at its center, bleachers to one side. A couple of hurricane lamps inadequately lit the space and projected long shadows from the men standing in front of the bleachers. The room smelled strongly of kerosene.
“As you were,” Charlie said as he crossed the court. One of the men, tall and slim with a receding hairline, stepped forward and saluted.
“Lieutenant Ray Pasquali,” he said.
Charlie returned the salute. “Grab a seat, Lieutenant. You men, too.”
While the men found their seats, Charlie looked them over. Duma had left behind two sections plus the lieutenant and a signalman, sixteen men in all. Currently, three were patrolling the perimeter, a fourth manning the main gate. Then there was Galvin, now returned to his station in the admin block.
Charlie waited until the men had settled down before speaking. “So,” he said eventually. “What’s the deal with you guys?”
Nobody spoke. For a moment the only sound was the hiss of the lamps and Charlie’s voice resonating back off the walls. Then Pasquali said “Sir?” in a tone that suggested he had no idea what Charlie was talking about.
“What did you boys do to buy a ticket on the Titanic?”
He scanned his gaze over the men, most of who refused to make eye contact. They shuffled their feet, found sudden interest in their combat boots, discovered tickles in their throats. Only one man, a beefy soldier with a square jaw and a five o’clock shadow, was prepared to meet his gaze. He offered Charlie a smirk. The name on his tag said Fagan.
“You,” Charlie said, picking out Brunsden, the sleepy sentry he’d encountered earlier in the day. “Why are you here? Sleeping on guard duty?”
“No sir,” Brunsden muttered and looked down at his shoes.
“Private Brunsden was caught pilfering rations from the mess, sir,” Pasquali said.
“Greedy fat fuck,” Fagan offered under his breath.
Charlie ignored him. “How about you?” he said, picking out a small, weedy man wearing a single stripe on his sleeve. Nielsen was his name.
“Refusal to carry out an order,” Pasquali said before Nielsen had a chance to reply.
“Thank you, Lieutenant Pasquali,” Charlie said. “I’d prefer the men to answer for themselves.”
“Sorry sir.”
“I was accused of rape,” a man in the top row blurted. Charlie turned towards him, picking out a beanpole with unruly, blond hair. “I didn’t do it. We were in love.”
“She was fifteen fucking years old, you pervert,” Fagan said.
“She was sixteen, going on seventeen,” the beanpole snapped back at him.
“You are sixteen, going on seventeen,” Fagan sang in a falsetto that impersonated Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music. Then he broke off. “Fucked her before you did anyway, Jespersen.”
“That’s enough, Fagan,” Pasquali barked.
Eventually all of the men in the room had confessed their misdemeanors. As Charlie had suspected, Duma (under Harrow’s orders, no doubt) had saddled him with a bunch of thieves, liars and shirkers. Not only that, but few of them had combat experience. They were in the main support staff. Cooks, clerks and bottlewashers, Uncle Joe would have called them. Still, at least he hadn’t been left with a bunch of cutthroats who’d shoot him in the back and throw him to the Z’s first chance they got.
“I killed a man.”
Fagan was sitting in the second tier, to his left. Charlie turned to face him and saw that Fagan was wearing a grin, his teeth flashing white in the dark.
“Son of a bitch had it coming, calling me out as a cheat. Shafted the fucker, eight inches of steel in his gut.” He illustrated this by slamming his fist into his open palm.
Charlie turned away. He knew Fagan’s type, big biceps, small brain. Fagan was a bully, testing the waters to see how far he could push his luck. Charlie wasn’t going to rise to the bait.
“Whatever you’ve done in the past,” he said, talking to the group, “this is the moment the slate gets wiped clean.”
“Did you hear me, Lieutenant? I said I killed a man. Enjoyed it too.”
Charlie ignored him. Pasquali didn’t.
“Shut it, Fagan. Listen to what the officer has to say.”
“Bite me, Pasquali.”
Charlie let that one fly too, but he knew he couldn’t allow another act of insubordination to stand. Not unless he wanted to lose the respect of the men.
“As I was saying,” he continued. “You all start with a clean slate, and right now I’m offering two of you the chance to get yourselves some points on the board. Any takers?”
Nobody spoke.
“I’m looking for two men to come out with me to the Morales residence. Any volunteers?”
A ripple of conversation ran through the ranks.
“Tico Morales?” Pasquali said. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, sir. The guy’s crazy, likely to open up on you the minute you get within sight of his front door.”
“So I heard,” Charlie said. “Thing is, with the outer perimeter down, him and his family are a Z buffet just waiting to happen. We can’t leave them out there. Now, any takers?”
Again nobody spoke and standard issue military combat boots became the most fascinating objects on God’s green earth.
Thirty seconds ticked by.
“Right,” Charlie said. “Looks like I’m going to have to make the call myself. Sleepy Brunsden, you owe me for this afternoon. Get kitted up and meet me at the front of the building in five. Move.”
Brunsden opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and rose reluctantly from his seat. He stalked across the gym like a man being led to his execution.
Charlie scanned along the row of men, all of them seemingly trying to disappear into the woodwork. He reached the end of the line, locked eyes with Fagan. “You’re it, killer,” he said. “Hustle and kit up.”
Fagan held his gaze without blinking. “The fuck I will,” he said.
eighteen
Pasquali was on his feet in an instant. “The officer gave you a direct order, Fagan! Get off your ass, fetch your gear and report back for patrol! Now!”
“I’m saying no,” Fagan said calmly. “I’m not putting my nuts on the line for a bunch of crazy taco benders.”
“That is an order, soldier!” Pasquali was shaking, his voice taking on a higher register. Fagan continued to ignore him, a look of mild amusement on his face.
A shiver passed through Pasquali’s slim frame, gaining velocity until he was shaking like a greyhound at race time. For a moment he looked like he was about to burst into tears. He jerked his head left and right to his men, seeking support, opened his mouth to say something, stopped.
“I…I…”
“You what?” Fagan mocked. “You want your mamma?”
“I’ve had it with you, Fagan,” Pasquali blurted and went for his sidearm.
Charlie had been anticipating just such a move. He shot out a hand, closing on Pasquali’s wrist as he got the weapon free of its holster. “Stand down, Lieutenant,” he said, speaking directly into Pasquali’s ear.
“Yeah, stand down, Lieutenant,” Fagan sneered. “Before I take that popgun away and club you like a baby seal.”
Pasquali blinked his eyes like a man emerging from a dream. A shudder ran through his body. “You okay?” Charlie said. Pasquali nodded. “You ain’t going to do anything stupid if I let you go, are you?”
Pasquali shook his head.
“Okay then,” Charlie said.
He released his grip on the lieutenant’s hand, turned to face the men, deliberately ignoring Fagan as he stood grinning and rolling his shoulders like a prizefighter.
“Seems Private Fagan’s too much of a chicken shit to step out after dark,” he said. “So I’m still a man short. Which one of you ladies wants to make a name for himself?”
“What did you just call me?”
Charlie ignored him. “How about you, tall guy, Jespersen isn’t it?”
“Hey Collins! I’m talking to you. What did you just call me?”
Charlie turned to face him. Even in the half-light he could see the thunder in Fagan’s face. He was a big guy, almost as big as K-Mart, but lacking K-Mart’s muscle definition.
“I called you a chicken shit, Fagan. I called you a sack of pus masquerading as a soldier.” The rest of the men were on their feet now and had formed a loose circle, with Charlie and Fagan at the center.
“I won’t be called a coward,” Fagan threatened.
“Won’t you? Then how about I call you a murdering scumbag who knifed an unarmed man to death over a game of cards.”
The grin on Fagan’s face flickered and died. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, wasn’t what he was expecting. He ran his tongue nervously over his lips.
“Say that again,” he threatened. “Say that again and I’ll –”
“And you’ll what Fagan? Stick eight inches of steel in my gut?”
“I’m warning you.”
Fagan cast a wild-eyed glance to the men on either side of him. Like most bullies faced with an adversary unprepared to back down, he was running scared, looking desperately for a way to back out with his tough guy persona in tact. Charlie wasn’t going to give it to him.
He stepped forward, placed a hand on Fagan’s broad chest and pushed, sending Fagan staggering back. “Come on, Slugger,” he said. “I’m asking for an ass kicking. Give it to me.”
“Don’t make me hit you.”
“I want you to,” Charlie said, giving Fagan another push, staggering him backward and sending the men behind him scrambling. The circle quickly reformed, but Charlie wasn’t letting up. He stepped in and delivered a flat slap to the left side of Fagan’s head.
“Ow!” Fagan cried.
“Hurts, don’t it?” Charlie said, lashing out again.
“Ow! Don’t hit me!”
“What did you say?” Charlie said. He swung with his left this time, raining down a blow on Fagan’s right ear.
Fagan’s hand flew to the site of his injury. Then he brought up his other arm and wrapped it protectively around his head. “Don’t hit me,” he sobbed. “Don’t hit me.”
In the next moment, the stench of kerosene was augmented by the equally unpleasant reek of urine.
Charlie turned away from Fagan, turned back to the circle and selected one of the men at random. “You,” he said. “Kit up. We’re going for a stroll.”
nineteen
It was full dark, but still the heat of the day lingered, stickier now without the flash drying effect of the sun. Charlie made his way towards the main gate with Brunsden and the second man, named Hedrick, in tow. He’d left his carbine behind, opting instead for the 9-mil, which was better at close quarters. He also carried his trusty trench knife and of course he had his I-Pod. With a little luck, they wouldn’t have to fire at all. Gunshots would only attract more of the things.
A man-shaped patch of darkness loomed up ahead.
“Stand down sentry,” Charlie said, as the man swung his carbine up.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Lieutenant Collins. Stand down.”
The man started to say something else, but Hedrick cut him short. “This is the new base commander, Airey. Stop being a hard on.”
“Oh,” Airey said. “Sorry, sir.”
Charlie ignored the apology. “How we looking out there tonight?” he said. He already knew the answer. The horrendous electrical buzz told him that the number of Z’s on the other side of the fence had increased, significantly so.
“Like the mother of all freak shows just rolled into town,” Airey said. “Goddamn things are everywhere.”
“Perimeter holding okay?”
“If it wasn’t sir, I’d be heading back the way you came.”
“Good,” Charlie said. “Open the gate.”
“Sir?”
“Open the gate, we’re going out.”
“But –”
“Just open it.”
While the sentry got working at the locks, Charlie removed the I-Pod from his pocket, tapped the control wheel and saw the display light come on. He spun the dial, picking out Track 5 - “REPULSE,” and was just about to press play when the light flickered and died. For a moment he was confused. He’d charged the device fully this afternoon, so what was the problem? He pressed the play button again.
Nothing.
From the fore, he could hear the sentry sliding away the brace bars. He flicked at the display window with his forefinger. The light flickered and came on. He checked the little green battery bar and saw that it was fully charged.
“Ready sir?” the sentry called from the gate.
“Hold up,” Charlie said. “Give me a minute. Brunsden, Hedrick, to me.”
The two men hustled over, heads bowed, almost as though running for cover. Charlie could read the fear on their faces, smell it in their acrid sweat. For a moment he wondered if he was doing the right thing, taking two greenhorns out on a mission like this. Perhaps not, but they’d have to learn sometime. If they were going to survive out here, they’d have to learn quick.
“Which one of you knows the route to the Morales place?”
“I do,” Hedrick said immediately.
“How about you, Brunsden?”
“I do too,” Brunsden said, somewhat reluctantly.
“Okay then Brunsden, you’ve got point. Hedrick you’ll pick it up on the way back. I’m going to be covering your asses, but I want you men to keep a tight grouping on me, you hear? Touching distance.”
The men nodded earnestly, wide-eyed, brows speckled with sweat.
“Sir? A question?” Hedrick said.
“Shoot.”
“Why are we going in on foot? Why not take a Humvee?”
It was a good question. One that Charlie couldn’t rightly answer. Given the short distance and their miserly stock of diesel, a foot patrol just made sense to him. Maybe it was more than that. Maybe Harrow was right and he was a thrill junkie. Maybe he did take stupid risks.
“It’s five blocks, Hedrick, a walk in the park. The I-Pod’s going to make us a corridor. None of them will come within twenty feet. You stick with me and everything will be fine. Got that?”
“Yes sir,” the two men said in unison. They sounded like a couple of kids being reassured that there was really no monster in the closet.
“One more thing,” Charlie said. “I don’t want either of you firing unless I say so. That will be like ringing their dinner bell. So fix bayonets and use those if you have to. You probably won’t.”
While the men fumbled for their bayonets and clipped those into place, Charlie did a final weapons check himself. Then he turned to the sentry.
“Open her up,” he said.
twenty
The broadcast from the perimeter antennae kept the street directly in front of the gate free of zombies. They were there though, clustered on the opposite side of the road like migrant workers waiting to be picked up for a day of manual labor. Behind Charlie, the gate swung closed with a high-pitched screech that drew the attention of the Z’s. Some of them tried to lurch forward and immediately suffered spasms, as though they’d come into contact with an electrical field. They quickly retreated. Others sampled the air, savoring the alluring aroma of fresh prey. They shuffled restlessly, danced their club-footed boogie, cocked their heads in that quizzical bird-like manner. How many were there? Charlie estimated a hundred. He was probably calling it low.
He looked at the two men he’d selected for the patrol. Hedrick was eyeing the Z’s on the opposite side of the road. Brunsden had his head turned back towards the gate, a look of utter desperation on his face. Despite the heat, Brunsden was shivering.
“Let’s go Brunsden,” Charlie prompted.
Brunsden turned his head to the fore, scanned the far s
idewalk, swallowed hard.
“They can’t get you, Brunsden,” Charlie said. “Not while I’ve got this.” He held up the I-POD, jiggled it in front of Brunsden’s face.
That seemed to reassure the man. He took a few faltering steps, dropped from the sidewalk to the blacktop, then stopped. It was as if he’d come up against a brick wall.
“Get moving,” Charlie hissed.
“I…I can’t.”
“You can and you will, Brunsden.”
“I can’t do it, sir. I can’t.” He sounded close to tears.
Charlie considered his options. He could put Hedrick on point or take point himself and let them direct him from behind. He was going to do neither. Brunsden was going to have to get his shit together.
“You’ve got five seconds to man up and get moving, Brunsden. Five seconds before I pop a cap in your ass and leave you to the Z’s.”
“I can’t.”
“Five.”
“I can’t do it.” Brunsden was sobbing now.
“Four.”
“Please don’t make me, please.”
“Three.”
Charlie removed the nine-mil from his belt, cocked it.
“Pleassse! I’m begging you, Lieutenant, please!”
Brunsden had turned back towards him, his fat jowls glistening with tears in the faint light, his cries now reduced to wordless animalistic sobs.
“Fuck it,” Charlie said. He crossed towards the gate and banged on it with the side of his fist.
“Lieutenant?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Open up and let Brunsden in.”
He turned back towards Hedrick. “You running out on me too?”
“No sir,” Hedrick said.
“Good, then let’s hustle.”
***
The route to the Morales residence was a straight, four block, shot down West Orange Avenue, left on 4th and a block and a half headed north. Charlie and Hedrick walked at a brisk pace down the middle of the road, their entourage of Z’s keeping pace on either sidewalk. Their numbers had swelled from a trickle to a flood. Charlie suddenly realized that he had a problem. From what little he knew about Morales, arriving on his doorstep with a few hundred Z’s in tow was not going to go down very well. He considered for a moment switching the I-Pod to “MIGRANE” and just splatting the things before carrying on. But that would give him a whole new situation to deal with, hundreds of Z corpses rotting on the tarmac within smelling distance of the base. By the time they reached the intersection of Orange and 4th, he’d still not figured it out.
