by Jon Schafer
An uneasy silence fell over the table. The Chairman broke this by saying, “The sacrifice of the few…”
To the Commandant’s shock, this was picked up on by the Naval Chief saying excitedly, “So the experiment was a success. If we can use the Malectron to attract the dead as well repel them, we’ll have one hell of a weapon. It could be used in both a defensive and offensive role.”
Looking around to see if anyone else found horror in his report, and in the reaction of these two men, the Commandant was dismayed to find everyone eagerly leaning forward to hear more about the Malectron. His intent was to get some backing in order to rein in Doctor Hawkins, but apparently his report had the opposite effect. None of them were strangers to losing men in combat, but the death of innocent civilians was something that should have caused an uproar around the table. Instead, the military applications of the Malectron had taken precedence, and the loss of nearly a hundred people was disregarded in their excitement upon hearing about a weapon of almost unlimited power.
Knowing he was outnumbered, the Commandant put on his poker face and continued in a neutral tone, “And that brings us to the third test that Doctor Hawkins is requesting. When his use of civilians came to light, I temporarily put a hold on any more field experiments until I could bring this in front of the Joint Chiefs. It seems Hawkins has come across another group of survivors and wants to test the latest version of his device in the area around them.”
Hoping the first question asked would be if the civilians would be put in harm’s way, he was disappointed to hear the Chairman ask, “How soon can Hawkins do it?”
“He’s ready now, sir. All he’s waiting for is the go ahead from us, sir.” the Commandant replied.
Looking at the men seated around the table, the Chairman said, “It appears the Malectron is in its final stages. To hold it up now would be an injustice to the people of the United States of America. We need to know the full capabilities of this device, so I say we give Doctor Hawkins the go ahead.”
The Commandant of the Marine Corps tried to keep the shock off his face as the Chairman’s words echoed in his mind.
An injustice to the people? They’re using those same people as lab rats in some half-assed experiment to test a device that could easily be used against them. Hell, it’s already being used against them.
Deep in thought, he barely heard the Chairman say, “A show of hands for all those in favor of continuing Doctor Hawkins’ experiments.”
Without hesitation, everyone around the table raised their hands except the Commandant. Looking down at the papers on the table in front of him, he was weighing the pros and cons of giving Hawkins the go ahead. On one side of the argument, the Malectron would give them the upper hand in dealing with the dead. It could be used to herd them into unpopulated areas like the desert where they could be dealt with using airstrikes. In addition to that, it would make the United States the most powerful nation in the world. Maybe even the only nation in the world.
Until a country like China stole the idea. Then what? Would the dead fight the next world war as they were pushed back and forth into the living?
And then there was the question of which direction the Chairman was taking the country? Since their coup and the isolation of the President, the Chairman had stepped into the role of de facto leader. Everything was still brought up to a vote, but it was obvious that he was running things.
And what really happened to the Vice Chairman? He questioned the story they had been told. The man had confronted the Chairman about speeding up relief efforts to the people still trapped in the Dead Cities when he found out they had been halted. Shortly after the two men had gotten into a heated discussion about how to use their existing resources, the Vice Chairman died in a helicopter crash.
But was it an accident?
There were just too many unknown factors.
When he glanced up and saw the other Chiefs staring at him, it took him a moment to realize that everyone was waiting on him. Deciding to bide his time until he had more information, he grinned sheepishly and said, “Sorry, gentleman, I was woolgathering.”
As he slowly raised his hand, the Commandant of the Marine Corp decided that if the Joint Chiefs had been corrupted by power, a coup would be the least of their worries.
New Orleans, Louisiana:
The hall to his right seemed clear, but Staff Sergeant Fagan knew this didn’t mean shit. A survivor of three months of fighting Z’s in the Dead Cities, he hadn’t lasted this long by relying on assumptions. Putting a whistle between his lips, he blew out sharply.
The shriek of the ten-cent child’s toy died off as he raised his Remington 1100 semi-automatic shotgun and searched for targets.
Nothing. But he knew this didn’t mean shit either. The Z’s were dumb sacks of meat, but they weren’t completely stupid. He had noticed that they slipped into a kind of self-preservation mode when they knew they were being hunted, but this was overridden if there was food around.
That’s me today, Fagan thought. Food.
Motioning the two men behind him to crouch down, he reached into the cargo pocket of his BDU pants and extracted a squirt gun. Guaranteed to shoot a single burst up to thirty feet. It was their newest weapon in the fight against the dead.
He had pulled the cocking lever back when he realized with disgust that it had a leak, as blood dribbled down his wrist. Looking at the stain on his pants, he knew he’d be doing laundry early this week. He wanted to attract the Z’s, but not to him.
Hoping the gun wouldn’t backfire and tag him even more; he held it away from his body as he pulled the trigger. A sharp pop issued from the toy and a stream of red spewed out and landed on the floor fifteen feet away.
Lost some range, he thought as he put the squirt gun on the floor and readied his shotgun. I’m going to have to get a new one when I get back to base since I like my targets a little further away.
After thirty seconds with no movement, a quiet voice behind him said, “Looks clear, Sergeant.”
Without turning his head, Fagan answered, “What the fuck do you know, newbie?”
Private Jimmy McPherson’s face reddened in anger. Having just joined the unit after only two weeks of basic training, he was trying to fit in. This was his first mission into New Orleans to clear it of the dead, and he felt at a loss. The last few days had been a whirlwind of activity, as he was pulled from basic and transported to New Orleans to fight the dead. He’d been issued an M-16 assault rifle with no ammunition and informed that desertion was punishable by death by hanging. He’d already lost part of his family to the new Army, so he took this warning to heart.
Staring daggers at the back of the Staff Sergeant’s head, he calmed himself, as this was the man who would teach him to survive in a world overrun by the dead. Jimmy knew that he might have only been a country boy when he’d been shanghaied into the new Army, but he’d matured a lot since then. The Sergeant had skills he needed to learn, so he needed him alive for now.
A creaking noise caught his attention, coming from the hallway as a door opened.
Everything here is old and creaky, he thought.
They were in an apartment building on the West Bank, a mish-mash of the old and new that included some of the worst parts of the city and some of the best. Regardless of where they were, almost the entire city was still occupied by the walking dead. They had been ordered to secure this building in preparation for the sewer rats taking over.
Jimmy shivered at the thought of their job. Coming in after the initial sweep, these were the soldiers that searched the basements and the flooded sewers and drains for the dead.
Fagan tensed as he pointed his stockless shotgun down the hall and said quietly, “Load up.”
Jimmy slid the one, thirty round magazine he’d been issued into his rifle and pulled back the charging handle. The Staff Sergeant was standing in the open, but he and the other member of their team had to look around the corner to see what was happening.
> “Come to Mama,” Fagan said in a low voice.
In the hallway, the thing that had once been human stepped through the doorway of an apartment and raised its head as if sniffing the air. Dressed in rags that might have once been a uniform of some sort, part of its pants leg hung down to reveal huge chunks of meat gone from its thigh. Oval wounds leaking black goo still showed an attempt to bandage them.
It shuffled forward a few steps and stopped. Looking down, it spotted the fresh blood on the floor. The attraction so overwhelmed its limited senses that it didn’t notice the three men only feet away. It got onto its hands and knees, and then extended a blackened tongue to lap up the blood.
“Looks like a solo,” the third man in the team said. “Take his ass out, and let’s get going.”
“Shut up, Timmons,” Fagan whispered. “You know it’s not the one you see that gets you. I’ve got a feeling there’s more around.”
Timmons bristled. He’d been on Dead Duty for three weeks and considered himself as good as the Staff Sergeant. Just lasting this long was an accomplishment in and of itself and showed he had his shit together. When he’d first been transferred to New Orleans, he was told his life expectancy would be measured in hours. All that had changed with the new tactics they’d developed. Before, they had to go room-to-room searching out the dead, but now they made the Z’s come to them. Their job was simple. Get the dead out in the open by spraying blood and then take them out with a shot to the head. They’d been doing this for a week and it was so effective they hadn’t lost anyone. Although they still weren’t taking back any more of the city, it was definitely safer.
A private had come up with the idea after cutting his calf on some broken glass and leaving a trail of blood behind him as he headed to an aide station. He attracted such a long line of Z’s that when he showed up at the medical tent, they thought they were about to be overrun. The Z’s were so interested in the blood though, they ignored the human meat until it started methodically shooting them in the head.
Looking at the thing with its face pressed into the floor as it licked at the blood, Timmons saw splinters sticking out of its tongue. With a shudder, he said, “Come on, Sarge, let’s cap this thing and move on.”
“You got somewhere you need to be?” Fagan asked.
“Anywhere but here,” Timmons replied quietly.
Fagan laughed and looked around before saying, “Alright, go ahead and take him. Maybe my feeling is wrong.”
As he raised his rifle to fire, Fagan told him, “You know the rules, solos get the knife. Conserve your ammo.”
Timmons nodded and handed his M-16 to Jimmy before drawing his bayonet from its sheath. Stopping, he reached into his breast pocket and extracted his cell phone saying, “Get a picture for posterity. Fucking WiFi hasn’t worked in months, but it’s still good for something.”
Jimmy fumbled with both rifles as he reached for the phone. Slinging one over his shoulder, he held the other at the ready as he pushed the touch screen to bring up the camera function. Nodding to Timmons that he was ready, he said, “Doesn’t matter if you win or lose, as long as you look good.”
“Then make me famous. I can’t send it to anyone but I can still use it to impress the ladies back at base camp.”
Holding his knife slightly away from his body, Timmons advanced into the hall in a crouch. Watching the dead thing bent over what would be its last meal, he visually marked the spot at the base of its skull where he would shove his blade in.
Completely oblivious to the soldier’s approach, the Z continued to drag its tongue along the rough floorboards, making a rasping sound like a cat cleaning itself.
Standing behind the creature, Timmons couldn’t help but turn and mug for the camera. He knew that once the dead locked onto food, they were oblivious to all else, so he felt safe.
Jimmy looked at the screen of the phone and tried to line up the shot. He had Timmons in the frame but the Z’s head was cut off. He turned the cell to re-orient it and zoomed out but dropped the phone and raised his rifle at what he saw.
The Z had turned and was looking at Timmons.
It rolled its eyes and let out a loud screech as it lunged forward and sank its teeth into the soldier’s shin. Timmons tried to jump back but only succeeded in throwing himself into the arms of two more dead who emerged from the door behind him. One bit into his neck while the other grabbed the hand holding the bayonet, sinking its teeth into his wrist. The hallway was suddenly flooded with dozens of the dead as they burst through the doors and swarmed the doomed man.
Fagan fired two quick shots; one was wasted as it plunged into the far wall, but the other was on target as it exploded the head of a Z in a spray of black mush. Screaming, “Ambush,” his voice was lost in the noise of Jimmy’s M-16 as he opened fire.
Smoke from their weapons filled the hallway as the two men fired headshots to exterminate the dead. Timmons’ screams filled the air along with the whine of the Z’s.
Seeing that one of the dead was digging its teeth into the doomed man’s chest, Jimmy switched his aim and mercifully put a bullet into the side of Timmons’ head.
Fagan screamed, “I’m out,” as he took a step back and dug in the bag at his hip for more shotgun shells.
The bolt on Jimmy’s M-16 locked back, telling him it was also time to reload. Having been issued only one magazine, he dropped the empty weapon and un-slung Timmons’ rifle. Seeing over thirty of the dead mobbing the hallway and heading toward him, he yelled, “Too many.”
Fagan whipped his head around as he looked for his escape route. A veteran of combat in the Dead Cities, he never went into a building unless he knew how to get out. Pointing behind him to a window at the end of the hall, he yelled, “That leads to the alley.” Grabbing a hand grenade from the front of his harness, he added, “Move.”
Jimmy didn’t have to be told twice.
He ran to the window but found it jammed. Using the butt of his rifle, he shattered the glass. Sticking his head out, he saw that the area below was clear. The drop was about fifteen feet, but this was nothing compared to the alternative. To escape the dead, he would risk a jump from twice the height.
As he eased himself over the sill, from behind him he heard Fagan yell, “Fire in the hole.”
At first planning to hang and drop, at these words Jimmy pushed out. He hit the cobbles of the alley and rolled, coming up into a crouch. From above, he saw Fagan leap out of the window and land awkwardly. The man had barely regained his feet when the grenade he’d dropped behind him went off with a sharp boom. Dust billowed from the window along with a few body parts and a fine mist of black blood.
His ears were ringing from the noise of the gunfire in the confines hallway so Jimmy could barely hear Fagan say, “AMF.” Short for Adios Mother Fuckers.
Turning around to try and get his bearings, he saw Fagan lob another grenade though the window. The Staff Sergeant ran toward him yelling, “Move! I’m not sure what the fuck just happened but it’s not good.”
Without hesitation, he followed his unit commander through a series of back alleys. From around them, the sound of gunfire and explosions mixed with the occasional scream of terror or triumph echoing from the other buildings.
They came to a main street and Fagan took the lead. He immediately drew back after peeking around the corner. Motioning for Jimmy to pass him a hand grenade, he said in explanation, “I used mine up.”
As he unhooked it from his web gear, Jimmy asked, “What is it? What do you see?”
“What the fuck do you think it is?” Fagan said harshly. Seeing the Private’s eyes flash in anger, he added in a slightly softer tone, “Listen, I don’t know what’s going on. Those Z’s back there ambushed us, and that ain’t normal. It’s like they were waiting for us. You can hear shit jumping off all over the city, so that means it’s not just us. Around this corner are about fifteen Z’s feeding on someone who wasn’t quick enough to figure this out. Thirty feet past them is a Stryker. Its re
ar hatch is open, so my guess is they’re feeding on the driver. I’m going to frag the Z’s while you haul ass to the ride. As soon as you get inside close the ramp. I’ll hold them off while you’re doing that, so don’t waste any of your ammo. We’re going to get inside that tin can, fire it up and get the hell out of here.”
“That’s the plan?” Jimmy asked.
Looking him dead in the eye, Fagan asked, “You got a better one?”
Jimmy could only shake his head.
“Good, then do what I tell you to,” Fagan said.
Pulling the pin from the grenade, he glanced around the corner before throwing it underhand. Opening his mouth and covering his ears to lessen the concussion, Jimmy mimicked him as the explosion almost knocked them off their feet.
The body parts thrown into the air by the blast hadn’t even hit the ground as Jimmy rounded the corner. Five Z’s had been completely obliterated and the rest had been knocked down. Running past them, he could see the open hatch of the Stryker beckoning. He hoped that nothing was waiting inside and threw himself through the hatch. As he recovered, he rolled over and hit the button to seal the vehicle.
Spinning around and bringing his rifle up, he saw Fagan standing in the opening with his shotgun at the ready. As the hatch sealed, the Staff Sergeant turned and said, “Can you drive this thing?”
Jimmy had grown up on a farm and could drive anything, so he nodded.
“Then get it moving. I’m going to man the .50 and direct you,” Fagan told him.
As he headed for the driver’s compartment, Jimmy said, “I don’t know the way to the base.”
“We’re not going to the base,” Fagan replied. “We’ve got troops all over the place we need to pick up.” Pointing to the increased sound of gunfire and explosions coming through the open hatch in the roof, he said, “This shit is jumping off big time so we need to get everyone out.”
