by JJ Zep
Charlie placed his hands behind his head, fingers interlaced. He stretched until he heard his joints pop, something he often did when he was trying to figure something out.
“How much ammo you got?” he said eventually.
Wackjob hefted the carbine in his hand, didn’t bother removing the magazine. “About a half a clip,” he said.
Charlie nodded. “Here’s what I think,” he said. “You remember our last sortie to Palm Desert?”
“Fuck yeah,” Wackjob said. “Went in to do an evac, but the place was rotten with Z’s. We almost got our asses chewed that day.”
“Exactly,” Charlie said. “So if we were to sneak in there and –”
“What!” Wackjob cut in. “The two of us! We almost got our clocks cleaned with the whole squad.”
“Three of us,” Charlie corrected him.
“Oh yeah,” Wackjob said. “Two of us and a catatonic chick. That will help.”
“Last time we rolled in with a couple of Humvees, making a big hullabaloo, drawing them to us. This time we’ll be sneaking in, rounding up some supplies, maybe even some weapons and ammo. We’ll be gone before they even know we’re there.”
“How do you know there’ll even be any supplies?”
“Think about it,” Charlie said. “You said yourself, the place is Z central. That will have kept away any casual looters and browsers. And the town was overrun very quickly which means everything was left as is. Likely to be like a supermarket down there.”
Wackjob seemed to contemplate for a moment, eyes squinting at the rising sun.
“In and out before they even know we’re there?” he said eventually.
“Piece of cake,” Charlie said.
“And they call me Wackjob.”
forty
Jojo heard the door at the end of the corridor clank open, heard the sound of boots crunching across the tiled floor. He stood up from the bunk, straightened his uniform, placed his tan beret on his head and patted it down. He ran a hand across his chin and felt the rasp of stubble. Nothing to be done about that, but if he had to go, he was going out looking like a soldier. He stood, legs apart, hands behind his back in the at-ease position.
The sound of rhythmic footfalls grew louder. A couple of soldiers came into view, executed a halt and a left turn, facing him. Now Colonel Litherland sauntered into view, a scroll of paper in his hand, a self-satisfied smile creasing his features. Behind Litherland but out of view, Jojo heard the rest of his escort being ordered to a halt, boots slapping the deck in unison. He kept looking straight ahead, not attempting eye contact as Litherland unraveled the scroll and began reading.
“Joseph Christopher Collins, formerly a serving officer with the 1st Ranger Division of the Pendragon Corporation. You have been found guilty by military tribunal of the crime of treason. The sentence of the tribunal is death by shooting, said sanction to be carried out immediately under the authority of General Robert Harrow.”
He shuffled across to stand directly in Jojo’s line of sight, that shit-eating grin never leaving his face. “If you have anything to say, Collins, now is the time.”
Jojo said nothing, kept his eyes focused on the barred window of the cell opposite. A swatch of watery blue sky was visible, stained by wafts of black smoke.
“Very well,” Litherland said. “Restrain the prisoner.”
One of the soldiers stepped forward, produced a key and turned it in the lock, then slid the door back. It opened with a rattle. The other soldier strode into the cell, a thick cable-tie clasped in his hand.
“If you wouldn’t mind, major…if you could…”
Jojo did a 180-degree turn, felt the soldier maneuver his hands into position behind his back. The cable tie was looped around his wrists then pulled tight. Then the soldier placed a hand on his shoulder and Jojo turned back towards Litherland’s smirking face.
The soldier gave Jojo a nudge. Jojo took three paces forward into the corridor. A squad of eight waited there, formed up in four ranks of two, facing away from him. Jojo stepped into their midst, stopped between the second and third ranks. The soldiers closed in around him.
“Detachment!” Litherland barked. “Attention!”
Boots met tile in a single slap.
“Forward march!”
The detachment started forward, taking Jojo to his place of execution.
forty one
Chris Collins jogged along the uneven path at a decent pace, his feet guided by years of experience running these woods. The wolf ran ahead of him, her sleek form bounding joyously along the trail. When Luigi had died two years earlier, Chris had been so saddened that he’d sworn never to have another dog. Then, a couple of months later, he’d been on one of his runs when he’d come across a litter of abandoned wolf cubs, all but one of them dead. The surviving cub was tiny, her eyes still closed, and he’d been unable to resist her mewling cries. He’d carried her home and Samantha had immediately assumed the role of surrogate mother. It had been touch and go for a while, but eventually a diet of baby formula and ground venison had pulled the little wolf through. Chris had named her Sugar, after his all-time favorite boxer, Sugar Ray Robinson. Sugar was now a strapping two-year-old with gorgeous blonde fur and a puppyish love of life. She was also ultra protective of Chris and the rest of her pack.
As always, Chris could smell the water before he caught the first glimpse of the lake between the tightly spaced trunks of tall pines. He veered right before the ground became soggy, tracked along the shoreline until the path underfoot became shale. At the end of a small bluff, in its usual spot, he picked out the faded red paintwork of Hooley’s Chevy pickup, stark against the green foliage.
Sugar bounded towards the truck, stood up on her hind legs and clawed at the glass of the driver’s window. Failing to raise a response, she darted off down the trail, chasing a squirrel.
Chris could see Joe asleep in the cab, slumped forward over the steering wheel. Over the last couple of months, he had come up here on a number of occasions to rouse Joe from a drunken stupor. Each time he’d worried that Joe might have decided to eat a bullet. Joe had been withdrawn lately, even teary eyed on occasion. Chris was worried about him.
He levered the door open, looked into the cab, to the empty Maker’s Mark bottle on the seat, the half empty bottle still resting in Joe’s lap. The cab smelled like a skid row barroom at happy hour.
“Joe,” Chris said, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder and giving him a shake.
Joe muttered something under his breath, produced a truncated snore.
“Joe!” Chris said, more urgently this time, shaking hard.
“What!” Joe said. He was instantly awake, wild-eyed, looking frantically left and right.
“It’s okay, buddy,” Chris said. “It’s only me.”
Joe gave him a dazed look. There was three days worth of gray stubble on his pudgy face, his eyes were like red lined road maps, his breath was industrial.
He reached for the bottle in his lap but Chris put a hand on his wrist. “No, he said. “Not now.”
Joe looked at him with that dazed, owl-eyed gaze. Then his bottom lip quivered and his face seemed to dissolve. Suddenly, Joe was crying.
“I shouldn’t have done it, Chris,” he sobbed. “God forgive me, I shouldn’t have done it.”
“Done what, Joe?” Chris placed a hand tentatively on Joe’s shoulder. He wasn’t quite sure how to respond to this turn of events. Joe Thursday was hands down the toughest son of a bitch he’d ever encountered. Joe blubbing like a jilted teenager just didn’t sit right.
“What shouldn’t you have done, Joe?”
“All those kids,” Joe sniveled. “All those young boys. I killed them.”
“Jesus compadre, I think its time you laid off the sauce. What in God’s name are you talking about?”
“All of those kids, Chris, all those innocent kids. I sacrificed them. I sent them into L.A., into San Diego. I literally fed them to the fucking Z’s. And for what? We’re in mo
re of a mess now than when we started.”
“Is that what this is about, Joe? Jesus man, you were head of the Corporation. You were the only thing standing between millions of people and a swift and ugly death. You did what was needed, what other people didn’t have the balls to do, what I wouldn’t have had the balls to do. You think people don’t understand that?”
“But they were kids, Chris, just kids.” Joe had stopped crying but his eyes were still rimmed with tears, his voice tremulous.
“Okay first off, stop referring to them as kids, like you sent a bunch of first graders in against Z’s. They were young men granted, but they were soldiers Joe, they were volunteers.”
Joe looked straight ahead, through the windshield. “Still,” he sniffed.
“Still nothing,” Chris said. He paused a moment, wondering if now was the best time to give Joe the news he was carrying. The news wouldn’t wait, he decided, might as well just say it.
“Janet’s dead,” he said without preamble.
Joe swung towards him. “Jesus! When? How?”
“Couple of hours ago. It’s been coming, Joe. It’s been –”
“Hooley?”
Chris shrugged. “What do you think? He’s broken, Joe. He needs us right now, you more than any of us.”
“Kelly?”
“Kelly’s a trooper. She’ll be okay. Sam’s taking it hard but that’s my issue to deal with. I need you to take care of Hooley. You up to it, Joe?”
Joe straightened up, dusted off his shirtfront, ran a hand through his hair. He already looked more alert, more like the old Joe.
“Of course,” he said, reaching for the key dangling from the ignition.
Chris reached into the cab and grabbed his hand. “I think I’d better drive,” he said.
While Joe scooted across the bench, Chris whistled for Sugar and directed her into the cab as she came sprinting from the woods.
“Hey girl,” Joe said as she delivered a flurry of licks to his face.
Chris started the pickup and threw it into reverse. “Something else,” he said as he backed her up. “I think there’s something going on at Pendleton. I’ve been trying to get word to Charlie and Jojo but all I’m picking up on the radio are some weird clicking sounds.”
We, The Dead
(Book Nineteen of the Zombie D.O.A. Series)
J.J. Zep
PUBLISHED BY:
JJ Zep
Copyright © 2014
www.jjzep.com
one
Jojo Collins looked across the prison yard to the eight camouflage-clad figures facing him. The soldiers were just twenty feet away, at ease, rifles at order arms. The detachment commander stood slightly to the left, pistol drawn, ready to deliver the coup de grace should Jojo somehow survive the volley of bullets that was going to be directed at him. Jojo wasn’t at all surprised to see that Litherland had chosen Colin Buckland to command the firing squad. Col had come through Ranger training with Jojo, and Jojo considered him a friend. It would no doubt give Litherland some perverse pleasure to know that it was Buckland who would give the command to end Jojo’s life.
“Carry on, Captain Buckland,” Litherland said. He was standing to the right, arms folded, a smirk playing on his lips. The blindfold that Jojo had refused, dangled between his fingers. Behind Litherland, Jojo could see the redbrick perimeter wall of the prison, the guards leaning on the rail in front of their lookout post, watching the drama unfold. Beyond the wall the sky was a familiar shade of California morning blue, but rendered hazy with smoke. To the right, from the area of the shantytown, pillars of oily black residue towered into the atmosphere like hellish twisters. A slight breeze carried on it the sickening barbeque stench of seared flesh. There was sporadic rifle fire in the distance, and the sound of heavy diesel engines being geared down. The battle was all but over. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who had won.
“Captain Buckland,” Litherland said, his voice now carrying an edge of irritation. “I said carry on. Let’s get this shit bird shot and body bagged so that I can get on with my day.”
Jojo looked across at Buckland, who appeared bewildered. Jojo gave him a reassuring nod. Buckland returned a glazed look.
“Is there a problem, Captain Buckland? Because if there is –”
“No sir, there’s no problem,” Buckland cut in.
“Then get it done, goddamn it!”
Buckland turned slowly towards the firing squad, brought them to attention in a voice that wavered only slightly. A second command, delivered more firmly, brought their rifles into a firing position. From beyond the wall came a sudden flurry of gunfire, an explosion, isolated screams. One of the guards strolled casually towards the open side of the lookout post and shielded his eyes as he scanned south.
Jojo diverted his attention back to the eight riflemen facing him, all of them wearing the tan beret of the 1st Ranger Regiment. In keeping with military protocol, he was to be put to death by members of his own unit.
In the face of his imminent death he felt remarkably calm. He’d heard it said that in the moments before you die your life flashes before your eyes. His experience wasn’t that exactly. Instead his brain relayed fleeting images of the people closest to him – his parents, Ferret, Sam, Charlie, Uncle Joe. Hard as he tried to hold onto them, they flittered away, like autumn leaves before a stiff breeze. He felt numb. It was as though the bullets had already been fired and he was already dead.
Why were they waiting?
They were waiting on the command, he realized, one that Buckland seemed reluctant to give. Even now he was looking across at Litherland, his mouth working itself into formless shapes, his complexion pallid.
Seconds ticked torturously by. From outside came another rattle of gunfire, this one more protracted. It was joined by the clack-clack-clack of a bulldozer. Atop the wall, the guards were scurrying around to get a better look. Whatever was going on out there was evidently more interesting than watching a man being put to death.
“Well?” Litherland demanded of Buckland. “What’s the hold up?”
Buckland looked nervously from Jojo to the firing squad, to Litherland.
“Colonel…I…”
“Just give the goddamn order, Captain.”
“Colonel…I…” Buckland said again.
“What? You what, Buckland? You’ve forgotten how to say fire? You need to use the bathroom? What?”
“I can’t do it sir,” Buckland blurted, simultaneously bringing himself to attention.
“The fuck you can’t,” Litherland snapped. “Give the order, soldier, before you find yourself next to Collins in the shooting gallery.”
Buckland remained at attention, eyes front in a thousand yard stare. “I request that I be relieved of this duty sir.”
“Request denied. Now nut up and get the job done.”
“I can’t sir. I won’t.”
“You won’t, Buckland?” Litherland allowed the blindfold to slip from his fingers, placed his hands on his hips, jutted his jaw. “You won’t? Say that again so everyone here can bear witness to your act of treason.”
“I said I won’t do it,” Buckland said, his tone resolute.
Litherland stared back at him as though astounded by this act of insubordination.
“Goddamn it!” he exploded. “I knew I should have used proper soldiers on this, rather than you Ranger pussies! Okay Buckland, you’re relieved of duty. Step aside. I’m running this show now. I’ll deal with you later.” He strode across the square, hand working at the holster of his revolver.
Buckland flashed a glance at Jojo, desperation in his eyes. His mouth worked again, forming those soundless words.
“Colonel Litherland!”
Jojo followed the sound of this new voice. A soldier was jogging across the prison yard.
Litherland turned towards the newcomer, a Ranger corporal who Jojo vaguely recognized. From beyond the walls came a sustained blast of heavy gunfire, a fifty, Jojo reckoned. Both of
the guards were staring into the distance now. One of them was pointing.
The corporal came to a halt in front of Litherland and delivered a smart salute, which Litherland failed to return. “What’s this about?” he demanded. “Can’t you see I’m busy here?”
“Begging your pardon, Colonel,” the corporal said. “I’ve got a message from General Harrow, sir.” He thrust forward a folded square of paper. Litherland made no move to take it.
“Can’t it wait?”
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
Litherland snatched the paper away, ripped through the seal and began reading. Whatever was in the note, it didn’t seem to be sitting too well with him.
“This is from General Harrow?” he said eventually.
“Yes sir,” the soldier replied.
Litherland read the note again, his face growing a deeper shade of red with each passing second.
“Faarrrkkk!” he screamed suddenly, throwing his head back. “Faaarrrkkk this shit!”
He ripped the note in two, crumpled it into a ball, threw it on the ground, stomped on it for good measure. “Fucking aaassshole!” he screamed, directing his curse to the heavens.
Then, as suddenly as it had started, his outburst was over. He shrugged, brushed at the front of his shirt, straightened his collar. A smirk formed on his face, then morphed into a smile. Okay,” he said, looking directly at Jojo. “If that’s how the general wants to play it.”
two
“Can you quit singing that?”
“Sorry boss. Just figured, seen as we’re on Frank Sinatra Drive and all.”
“That may be. But I’m not sure I want to hear about the end being near, and facing the final curtain, right now. Sounds too much like tempting fate.”
“Never thought of it like that.”
Charlie stood in the center of the road. To his left lay open desert, to his right an overgrown embankment topped by a collapsed and tottering boundary wall. Just beyond the walls, an endless row of tall, evenly spaced palms followed the expanse of the road into the distance. There were houses set further back, Charlie knew, dilapidated mansions that had housed settlers the last time he’d been in this burg. Might there still be supplies in those houses? Maybe, but it wasn’t worth the risk to check out. Their destination lay half a mile down the road, at the corner with Bob Hope, a small warehouse that had once served as a distribution depot for the community. If there were supplies to be found, that’s where they’d be.
