by JJ Zep
The school was just half a block away, when Charlie saw that they were going to have a problem. As on the night of the ill-fated mission with Hedrick, the Z’s lined the sidewalk opposite the school, simultaneously attracted and repulsed by the broadcast from the perimeter fence. There weren’t as many as there’d been that night, just enough of the things to hold him up and force him to waste valuable ammo.
He stopped in the road, looked back the way they’d come. Galvin was just a few yards behind him, red in the face, his breaths coming in ragged bursts. Beyond Galvin, along the entire expanse of Imperial Avenue, as far back as the overpass, the Z’s were streaming north.
Charlie slotted his arm through his rifle belt, then ducked his head through, so that the AR-15 lay across his back. He unholstered his 9-mil, shucked the magazine and then slotted it back in. Galvin had been bent over, hands on knees. He straightened up just as Charlie withdrew his trench knife from its scabbard.
“You any good at walking backwards, Galvin?”
“Walking backwards?” Galvin screwed his face into a perplexed frown. He looked over Charlie’s shoulder, spotted the Z’s. “Aw shit,” he said. “Forgot about them.”
“No problem. We’ll punch a hole right through them.”
“How?”
“Tell you once you’ve got your bayonet fixed.”
While Galvin got to work on the bayonet, Charlie looked back along Imperial Avenue. The Z’s had made it almost as far as the church, about a block away. Already he could hear their drone, like a nest of enraged wasps. But those Z’s weren’t his problem. By the time they got here he and Galvin would be through the cordon of zombies surrounding the school. Either that or they’d be lunch.
“Ready,” Galvin said, drawing his attention back.
“Okay,” Charlie said. “This is a little Z-fighting trick I learned from my Uncle Joe. Goes by the name of the Alamo.”
“Good name,” Galvin said. Charlie was impressed by his coolness under fire.
“Thing is, it normally requires at least three men. We’re going to have to make do with just the two of us. I’m in the lead covering front and left; you’re behind me, back-to-back, covering back and right. Got that?”
Galvin nodded his head vigorously.
“The idea is that we punch a hole through them. Once we’re through they can’t follow because of the frequency from the school. You ready?”
Galvin nodded again, less confidently this time.
“Let’s get this done then.”
He set off, walking at pace directly towards the Z’s gathered on the sidewalk opposite the school.
forty seven
He’d initially thought that there were less Z’s than on the night Hedrick died. Now he saw that his estimation was wrong. There were at least as many, maybe more. That didn’t matter. There were Z’s behind them, Z’s to the fore. One way or another they were going to have to get through them.
Without slowing, Charlie scanned the line before him, probing for a weak spot. Just seconds before, the Z’s had had their backs to him, their focus entirely on the school. Now some had turned outward, their maws dropping open as they spied a meal heading directly towards them. More of them turned, an undulation running through their ranks like ripples on a becalmed ocean. Their stench reached his nostrils, stung his eyes. Their death buzz worried at his ears. Still none of them moved. Why should they? The prey was coming to them.
Twenty feet, fifteen, ten. Charlie clutched the 9-mil in his left hand, the trench knife in his right. He slowed his pace, probed, probed.
“Ready?” he called to Galvin.
“As I’ll ever be.”
“Okay then. Position.”
Galvin’s back pressed up against his.
“And we’re rolling.”
Charlie lifted the 9-mil and took out the 4 zombies directly in front of him. He stepped immediately into the gap they’d created, blocking with his arm guard, slashing with the trench knife. From behind he heard the slaps of Galvin’s rifle, Galvin’s grunts as he thrust with the bayonet.
They were in the midst of the melee, the Z’s piling in from all sides, trying to get at them, hindering each other in the process. Charlie worked the 9-mil again, firing in rapid succession, scoring five close range headshots.
He saw a gap forming, stepped over the fallen Z’s and pushed into it. One of the creatures lashed at him. Charlie swatted its arm aside, thrust upward with the trench knife, skewering its throat. An idea occurred to him and he implemented it immediately, ducking behind the skewered Z and walking it backward, using it as a battering ram.
In the next moment he was through them and onto the road surface. He twisted his knife free just in time to hear Galvin shout “Oh shit!”
Charlie spun around as Galvin fell, his upper body free of the melee, but his feet still caught among the fallen Z’s. Instantly, one of the creatures was on him, grabbing a handful of combat boot and hauling him back in.
Charlie fired off three quick shots, dropping the creature and one other before the hammer clicked on an empty chamber. Clawed hands reached out of the ruck and started hauling Galvin back in. One of the creatures angled its head for a bite. Charlie dropped his empty pistol and charged towards the wall of Z’s. He hacked with the knife, forearm and back, severing fingers, slashing faces, disgorging eyes. Then he cast the weapon aside and dropped into a crouch, arms slotting under Galvin’s armpits, hands meeting and clasping across Galvin’s chest. He pulled hard, leaning back, pulled again. Galvin lurched backward by a couple of inches.
The Z’s were leaning in, slashing with clawed hands trying to get at them, held back by only the frequency from the school. If someone had chosen that moment to shut things down, if the radio’s battery had at that moment given in, both he and Galvin would have been torn apart and eaten alive.
Neither of those things happened. Charlie focused all of his strength, leaned back and gave a final wrench. Suddenly there was no resistance from the other end, his feet gave way under him as he fell, slamming his coccyx into the pavement. A shard of pure agony rocketed up his spine. Then the AR-15 bit into his side, supplementing the pain.
But Galvin was free.
While the two Z’s that had been pulled into the frequency field with Galvin lay convulsing on the tarmac, Charlie found his feet. He trotted over and retrieved his weapons, holstered the empty pistol and sheathed his knife. He swung the AR-15 free, then went to help Galvin to his feet.
Galvin came up tottering and shaky.
“You been bit?”
A shake of the head.
“Scratched?”
“No. Loot I don’t know how to –”
“Save it,” Charlie said. “Let’s move.” He turned and sprinted along the fence, reached the corner and hit a left. The main gate lay just fifty feet ahead. It was open. And unguarded.
forty eight
Charlie approached cautiously, not sure what to make of this new turn of events. Had the school been overrun by Z’s in his absence? Not possible, the Z’s were being held back by the frequency field. Had Morales launched an attack? Unlikely. Why would Morales risk an attack on a military base? It was Jespersen he wanted, and he had obviously known that Jespersen had been part of the mission to Mexicali. What then? This didn’t make sense.
He thought of calling out to Pasquali, decided against it. If someone was lying in wait inside the school grounds that would surrender the element of surprise.
From behind he heard Galvin’s combat boots pounding the pavement. He looked over his shoulder, raised a finger to his lips. Then he turned back towards the gate, eased his head forward and peered into the schoolyard.
The administration block lay straight ahead, the library to its left, partly shadowed by the trees along its flank. Behind the library, the upper level of the gym was just visible. There were classrooms left and right that were barred from his view, the open parking lot to the fore, empty but for a single Humvee. As far as he could see, nothin
g moved out there.
Acutely aware that time was crucial, that Jespersen might even now be climbing some makeshift scaffold, Charlie indicated for Galvin to come forward.
“What’s happening?” Galvin said.
“Don’t know,” Charlie said. “The place looks deserted.”
“Pasquali?”
Charlie shrugged. He had no idea where Pasquali or any of his men were. Chances are they were dead. But, if so, who had killed them? Despite discounting Morales earlier on, he now realized that it had to be him? Who else was there?
“We going in?” Galvin whispered from behind him.
Charlie thought about that for less than a second.
“We have to,” he said eventually. “We need that Humvee and we need ammo. I’m down to half a mag. You?”
“All out.”
“We need to tote up before we hit Morales. Thing is, time’s wasting.”
“Let’s go then,” Galvin said, already pushing past.
Charlie put a hand on his shoulder. “Could be an ambush,” he said.
He peered into the schoolyard again. If there were an ambush where would it come from?
The answer, when it came to him, was obvious – the observation post on the roof of the gym. He angled his head skywards, blinking against the sun. He could make out the sandbagged bunker, the deadly shape of the M-60 silhouetted against the sky. Someone was behind the gun, the round shape of his head just visible, the barrel trained on the gate.
“Hey! Hey, you on the roof!” Charlie shouted.
The figure on the roof ducked down behind the sandbags, made no reply.
“Hey! I’m talking to you! Identify yourself.”
From Charlie’s left came the sound of banging, flat hands being applied to a steel door. It sounded as though it were coming from the storage cages.
“Hey!” Charlie shouted, stepping from cover and addressing himself to the man on the roof.
A burst of gunfire suddenly rattled towards him, raking a path across the schoolyard. Charlie threw himself right and to the ground, rolled and came up sprinting for the cover of the Humvee. Three large paces took him out of the M-60’s arc of fire, three more and he was scuttling in behind the Humvee.
From behind him came a scream. “Ah! I’m hit. Fuck me, I’m hit!”
Charlie turned and saw Galvin lying on his side on the tarmac, his hand clutching his thigh, blood oozing out from between his fingers. In the next minute he heard a single shot, not the M-60 this time, a rifle. The bullet ricocheted off the tarmac, missing Galvin. He realized now what was happening. Galvin was out of the machine gun’s arc of fire. The gunman had come to the edge of the roof to take potshots at him.
Another shot, another miss. Whoever was up there was no marksman. Sooner or later though, he was going to get lucky. The shooter fired again. Two quick shots, one of which hit Galvin in the foot. He let out a scream and directed him hands instantly to his new injury.
Charlie backed away from the Humvee, exposing himself to a shot. He angled his gaze upwards and saw the outline of a large man standing near the edge of the roof. Charlie couldn’t make out his features. The man had a rifle pressed to his shoulder, taking his time over his next shot. He seemed to have no inkling that Charlie was there. His entire focus was on Galvin.
Charlie swung his AR-15 upwards and pulled off two quick shots. Red blossomed on the man’s gut and throat and he pitched forward, like a diver performing a swallow dive from a high board. He struck the hood of the Humvee and was bounced from there to the tarmac, landing with the sound of a ripe melon. It was Brunsden.
forty nine
Charlie sprinted across the tarmac, grabbed a handful of Galvin’s shirt and hauled him to safety. He pulled Galvin into a sitting position, back leaning against the Humvee. Then he stripped off his belt and drew it around Galvin’s thigh, pulling it tight and cinching it. It must have hurt like hell but to Galvin’s credit he uttered hardly a cry.
“You okay?”
Galvin, white-faced, nodded.
Charlie stripped off his rucksack and dropped it to the tarmac. He peered over the hood of the Humvee. From the storeroom came more of the banging he’d heard earlier.
“Think that’s Pasquali in there?” Galvin grimaced.
“Maybe,” Charlie said. He ignored the banging, peered around the Humvee again, looked in the direction of the library.
“Thought you got him,” Galvin said.
“Brunsden is way too stupid to have planned something like this. You stay put.”
Before Galvin could say any more, Charlie edged round the Humvee then sprinted for the corner of the library building. He stopped just long enough to scout the gap between library and gymnasium. Then he dashed from cover and headed directly for the steel staircase that ran along the side of the gym.
He clamored upward, deliberately stamping down on each riser. Fagan knew he was coming, but Fagan was a chickenshit. The more noise Charlie made the more panic he was going to instill in the man. Besides, Charlie didn’t have time to pussy foot around. He needed to finish this quickly and get after Jespersen. Even now it might be too late.
He stopped on the last landing, just short of the roof, and listened. Nothing, not even a breath of wind bustling through the trees.
“Fagan,” he called out. “You up there?”
No reply.
“Fagan, I know you’re up there. How about I come on up and we have us a little talk?”
A rattle of gunfire from the M-60 perforated the silence. “Don’t you come up here. Don’t you come up, you son of a bitch. I’ll waste you.”
“I just want to talk.”
“Fuck talking. I’m done with this shit.”
Charlie did a quick calculation. The M-60 belt held a hundred rounds, which automatic fire chewed through pretty quickly. The earlier burst across the schoolyard plus his latest volley had used up maybe four fifths, leaving about twenty rounds. Still enough to turn Charlie into a tea strainer, but if he could coax Fagan into firing another burst, he might stand a chance of rushing him.
Charlie removed his beret and draped it over the muzzle damper of his carbine. Then he crept up the last flight of stairs, silently now, stopping three steps from the top, crouching there.
“What you doing down there?” Fagan sounded panicked. That was good.
“I’m coming up, Fagan.”
“Don’t come up here.”
“I just want to talk.”
“I’m warning you.”
He raised the rifle, popping the beret over the parapet. Fagan fired immediately, heavy on the trigger, high and wide. The rattle of the machinegun was soon replaced by a click and Charlie was instantly on the move, charging up the final three steps, landing on the tarred surface of the roof.
Fagan was in the bunker, trying desperately to slot another belt into the M-60’s breach. When he saw he wasn’t going to be able to do that before Charlie reached him, he stumbled backward over the sandbags, landed flat on his butt, then scrambled to his feet. Charlie could see a pistol, probably Pasquali’s, tucked into Fagan’s belt.
“It wasn’t my idea,” Fagan said, backing off. “It was Brunsden.”
“Sure it was, Fagan.”
“I’m telling you, it was Brunsden,” Fagan blubbered, his brutish features aquiver. He looked like he was about to start crying.
“I’m not disagreeing with you,” Charlie said. “I just don’t have the time for this right now. So how about you give me the gun and we get off this rooftop. What do you say?”
Fagan’s face took on an expression of perplexity. Then his gaze dropped to the pistol tucked into his waistband. For a moment he looked like a man contemplating his bellybutton. Then his head came up in a slow arc and he was wearing a grin.
“Don’t even think about it Fagan. Don’t even –”
Fagan went for the gun. Charlie put a bullet in his heart.
fifty
Charlie floored the Humvee, raced it through the
gate and crossed the intersection. He plowed through the Z’s standing there, swatting them aside like scarecrows. Black blood spattered across the windshield and he ignored it, kept his foot heavy on the gas.
After dealing with Fagan, he’d raced from the roof, crossed to the stores and freed Pasquali and his men. He ignored Pasquali’s apologies and explanations, told him to take care of Galvin and then ran to the Humvee. He didn’t bother with ammo or even weapons. What would be the point? It would be his AR-15 against their machinegun nests and pickup mounted 20-mils. No, if he was going to save Jespersen he was going to have to rely on his powers of persuasion. He was going to have to dissuade Morales from the course of action his honor demanded. Of course, Jespersen might already be dead. There was always that possibility.
He threw the Humvee into the turn at 4th Street, stood on the brake and straightened up. He half expected Morales’ men to open up on him from their machinegun nests, but the guns remained silent. The National Guard complex stood on the opposite side of the road, maybe 200 yards up. Charlie angled the Humvee across the road, put two wheels on the sidewalk and brought the vehicle to a shuddering stop directly in front of the building. He was out of the door the minute he applied the handbrake.
He strode to the gate, stopping only when his trouser legs snagged up against the four-foot deep razor wire. Nothing moved inside the complex.
“Morales!” Charlie shouted. “Tico Morales!”
No response.
“Senor Morales, this is Charlie Collins. We need to talk.”
Still nothing. Charlie felt sweat trickle down the back of his neck, down his spine. The day was hot and stagnant, edging towards evening but still 100 degrees plus. He felt suddenly woozy, the exertions of the last twelve hours, the lack of sustenance, finally getting to him.
