Resurrection X

by Dane Hatchell

“No, none of those things. What’s this about?”

  “I’ll tell you what it’s about. It’s about me getting fucked! That damn doctor of yours has really messed things up.”

  “Get a hold of yourself man, and tell me the problem.”

  “That funny batch of ATP turned my wards into mindless robots all right. Mindless flesh-eating zombie robots that is!”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. One of our buses had engine trouble this morning and didn’t leave the Institution on schedule. One of the Non-Dead started gnawing on the mechanic’s leg while he was underneath repairing it.

  “Every crew from the Institution is reacting the same. Z.M.A.T. has been called in. The National Guard has been activated. Hell, a call went out to the Army to be on standby.

  “Fenton really fucked up. People are dying! The Feds are going to swarm over this place with a microscope. They won’t stop until they find something. They’re going to be so far down my throat that you’ll be able to see them wave when I bend over to kiss my ass goodbye!”

  “I understand. I’ll contact you soon with my thoughts on the matter,” Hatfield closed his phone, visibly shaken.

  “Was someone asking for me?” Byron asked.

  “That was Warden Cain from the Institution. The other Sub Zs have all reverted to their flesh-eating ways.” Hatfield eyed the coloring of Byron’s face, knowing that he was spared from the madness because he no longer received his ATP feeding from the showers.

  “What? How can that be? He was asking if I turned, too?”

  “You needed to be accounted for. He told me to keep a close eye on you.” Hatfield focused on a drawer in his desk. Now would be a perfect time to kill Byron by claiming he had been affected. That would erase the chance of him spoiling their plans.

  Byron became visibly nervous. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with me. I can’t believe this is happening.”

  Hatfield’s body tensed. His right hand began to shake.

  “Reverend Hatfield?” Byron eyes widened as his pastor’s face started to flush. “Reverend Hatfield are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

  “I’m fine. Caffeine makes me nervous sometimes.” Hatfield’s eyes darted back and forth from the drawer to Byron.

  Byron edged forward in the seat, his hands gripped the arms of the chair, his feet poised as if to run.

  Hatfield fixed his gaze on Byron and slowly reached for the drawer.

  Byron sprang from his chair. “Andy! He’s out there with the crew! Is he okay? Did the warden say if the guards are safe?”

  Startled, Hatfield froze. “He didn’t say. But Z.M.A.T. and the National Guard are involved. The best we can do for them is pray.”

  “You pray. I’ve got to find Andy.” Bryon sprinted out of the Reverend’s office before he had time to protest.

  Byron burst out of the church’s back doors and ran to the garage. Once inside, he fumbled with the keys, and opened his locker. At the bottom, covered by three sets of navy blue jumpsuits, was his most prized possession. A gold plated Colt .45 pistol, hand engraved golden crosses on either side of the grips. It was a gift given to him by Reverend Hatfield in a ceremony where Byron became a special member of Hatfield’s personal protection squad. At the time, he was one of twenty of the most loyal of Hatfield’s followers, each of whom had received a custom pistol upon acceptance.

  He removed the pistol from the holster and cycled the slide, readying it in the cocked and locked position. He holstered the gun and retrieved an ammo belt holding six other full magazines.

  The church van had been scheduled for an oil change that day. Byron hopped in and fired up the engine, then sped away. “Please, God, don’t let anything happen to Andy.”

  *

  Reverend Hatfield held his .45 tightly in his grip and contemplated the odds of murdering Byron and getting away with it. There were too many unknowns at this point to push his luck and jeopardize the future. He picked up his phone and dialed Joel Spencer.

  *

  Four zombies were on their knees feasting upon what remained of Larry Fillmore. He had put up a gallant fight to the bitter end, but wasn’t well trained in actual combat, not like Private Andy Wells.

  A switch had flipped in Andy’s head, making him the killing machine the Army trained him to be. He was scared. But his training taught him to wall off that fear and become numb to it. The only objective was to think clearly and kill the enemy before he killed you.

  Some people abandoned their cars, taking the chance on outrunning the zombies. Some chose unwisely. Others remained inside their vehicles waiting to be rescued.

  Andy toted a tricked out 12 gauge Mossberg 500 loaded with double aught buckshot. He couldn’t risk shooting long range targets in fear of hitting the innocent.

  Andy didn’t know how many zombies Larry had taken out before he was killed, but he could count over twenty who were still alive on either side. As outnumbered as he was, he would have to employ strategy along with direct headshots to bring down the zombies.

  Zigzagging around vehicles, sometimes jumping from car roof to car roof, he outmaneuvered the lumbering undead until he was close enough to stick the gun barrel to the head and pull the trigger.

  “By God, if it’s a war you want, it’s a war you’ll get!” Andy’s eyes were wide, his mind strictly in the killing zone. He stepped onto the bumper of a truck and into the bed. He vaulted over the cab and landed on the hood, sticking the barrel directly behind the head of a zombie trying to break through a car window. Angling the barrel to avoid hitting the passenger, Andy pulled the trigger. Vile grey matter and liquid exploded into the air painting roofs of vehicles in the next lane over.

  “That’s number eleven. I’m coming to get the rest of you. Private Andy Wells, zombie killeeerrrrrr!”

  Ten cars ahead another target presented itself. Andy scoped out his position. He felt as if he was in a maze in a video game. It reminded him of when he was young, playing Pac-Man on the computer. He hurried toward the zombie before it could do any further harm.

  Andy went to lift his leg as he ran alongside a truck, but something caught his pants leg and pulled him back.

  A bloody hand had reached from under the truck and latched on. Andy turned and saw Butterbean looking up at him, a perplexed expression across his face. The lower half of his body was missing. One arm was crushed to a pulp.

  For a moment Andy saw familiarity in Butterbean’s eyes. It was almost like a cry for help, as if he didn’t know what was happening to him. Andy lifted his gun to shoot but hesitated to pull the trigger. “Aw, Butterbean. I didn’t want things to end this way. We’s had some good times, didn’t we?”

  Butterbean’s colorless eyes rolled in the back of his head as he opened his mouth wide showing teeth.

  Andy pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. He quickly cycled the pump-action to load another shell. Nothing. He knew he had at least five more shells remaining. But the gun hadn’t been properly maintained and was always kept loaded. The choke spring was either weak or broken. It was useless.

  As Butterbean lunged in an attack, Andy smacked his forehead with the butt of the shotgun. The zombie growled like a wounded animal. Repeatedly, Andy pounded away at his skull trying to find the sweet spot that would shut down the undead eating machine.

  When he believed Butterbean was dead, Andy raised the butt of the gun for a final blow for assurance. A hand reached from the side and grabbed the gun by the barrel.

  The gun almost slipped from Andy’s grasp. He held on, turned, and saw his one-time friend, Snake Eyes, coming in for the attack. Even though Butterbean was dead, the zombie’s hand clung tightly to Andy’s pants leg. Andy’s leg twisted as he fought off Snake Eyes. He struggled to maintain his balance, frantically avoiding the zombie’s snapping teeth.

  From the corner of his vision, two more zombies were just about to close in. With his last remaining strength he gripped the shotgun by the barrel and the stock, held it across his chest, and
maneuvered Snake Eyes over with the other two.

  Andy held all three zombies at bay using the shotgun as a block. Their combined strength leaning into him bent his spine almost in half. His arms trembled and sweat poured down his face as he waited for something in his body to give way, knowing he would be remembered as a failed warrior.

  “I should’a killed your ugly, dead asses while you slept. I hope you choke on my guts . . . I . . .” Andy’s whole body shook. “Tell God to make room. I’m coming home, Ma . . . I’m—”

  A hand came up from behind and covered his right ear. Three rapid blasts from a Colt .45 sent the head of each zombie jerking back from the impact of 230 grain bullets. Off-balance, Andy fell to the ground, and rolled over onto his back. His arms felt like lead weights. He didn’t have the strength to lift himself off the ground. As he gasped for air, he squinted into the bright sunlight at the silhouette of a young man standing over him.

  “Tooty? Tooty, is that you?”

  “Andy! My God, this is horrible. Are you hurt?”

  “Shucks, nothing but my pride.”

  The roar of helicopters washed down from the sky above. Z.M.A.T. forces rappelled down to strategic positions on the ground. Targets fell immediately.

  “Do you know what happened?” Byron asked.

  “No, not a clue. One minute they was working, and the next they went all stupid. Then, then the next they went zombie.”

  “Are you afraid it’ll happen to me, too? I’m a little concerned myself. Will I even notice some kind of warning before it’s too late?”

  “Don’t you fret yourself, Tooty. If you start actin’ extra stupid I’ll take you out real quick. Bang. Right to the head.”

  “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

  “Look, I need to get you out of here. If those troopers see that number on your forehead, well, we don’t want to take that chance, do we?” Andy said.

  “No. I guess we don’t. It’s probably best if we both get out of the way. Take me back to the Institution. I’ll probably be the safest there.”

  Chapter 35

  Joel Spencer sat at his desk in his home office, massaging his forehead with his left hand, and doodling on a blank sheet of paper with his right. The incident with the zombie road crew was good for an eight percent increase in popularity at home. The video of his valiant efforts killing thirteen raging zombies and saving multiple innocent lives had gone viral on the internet. A rare moment like this might give him a shot at the White House one day. President Joel Spencer. I like it. It’s too bad people had to die, but it’ll be worth it, he thought.

  A week had passed since the uprising and the unfortunate accident at the North Dallas Non-Dead Institution. A mysterious fire had broken out near the ATP storage tank area. Fortunately, there had only been one causality, Warden Samuel Cain.

  The campaign fired on all cylinders, there was no reason to pick up the phone and make that call. A little voice in his head warned him not to. Was that his conscience? He chuckled at the thought, it simply was a risk he didn’t need to take. Still, there was the unknown that could be waiting to bite him in the ass at the last minute. There was no telling what surprises Margaret or Rebecca might pull on him for revenge.

  Rick Poundstone was a good man. There was no justification to destroy Poundstone’s life since the odds of winning were so heavily weighted in Joel’s favor. It was time to make the decision. The window of opportunity was about to close for good. Oh, what to do?

  He tossed the pen aside and propped his elbows on the desk, planting his face in his palms. Spencer let his mind rest and go blank, and then let it drift toward the future.

  Fuck it, Spencer thought, and picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Poundstone campaign. How may I direct your call?” Sandra was at her desk applying touchup to a chip on her nail polish.

  “You know who this is,” Joel Spencer said.

  Sandra quickly capped the polish, and lowered her voice. “Yes sir, and how may I direct your call.”

  “Are Goudard and Poundstone following the day’s schedule.”

  “Yes, sir. Miss Goudard and Mr. Poundstone are on the schedule that we reported yesterday.”

  “Good. The time has finally come. At precisely one p.m., execute the plan.”

  She took a deep breath, and exhaled. “I understand. It will be done.”

  “Sandra, I know this must be hard on you. You have been Poundstone’s friend for a long time.”

  “Yes . . . I have,” she said, wiping the building tears from her eyes.

  “No matter what happens it’s for the greater good. It’s God’s plan, and it can’t happen without you.”

  “I know,” she choked out.

  “Be strong. Reverend Hatfield is counting on you. He’s counting on all of us. One p.m. Goodbye, Sandra.”

  Sandra shook her head and tried to force a stern expression. “Thank you, and goodbye.” She looked at the clock and whispered, “I feel like Judas.”

  *

  Rick Poundstone climbed into the back seat of an SUV after eating lunch at The Red Rooster Café. The onions in his hamburger steak hadn’t been cooked as well as he would have liked, and Rick felt the stomach acid trying to climb its way up to his throat.

  “How was lunch?” his driver, Edward, asked.

  “Not bad from what I remember. I was so busy campaigning I hardly took the time to taste it.”

  “I hope it filled you up. You’ve got a full schedule, and you’ll be on the move until the rally at Independence Park. That thing probably won’t end until midnight. It oughta be packed though, since you’re giving away free food.”

  “I’ll have to sneak in a burger or a hot dog at some point to keep me going.” Rick paused and let out a long burp. “Ahh, I feel better now. Excuse me.”

  His cell phone chimed from his coat pocket. The special ring told him it was from his office. “Hello, Sandra, what’s up?”

  “Mr. Poundstone, Congressman Stephens has sent an email that needs your immediate attention. He knew you’re busy on the campaign trail and called to ask you to open it immediately.”

  “Stephens, huh? It must be about that flat tax bill coming up. Thank you, Sandra. Anything else?”

  An unusual silence passed. “No . . . no sir,” she said.

  “Well then, thank you. Goodbye,” Rick mindlessly ended the call on his phone and tapped it against his chin. Something about Sandra’s voice was different, an uncharacteristic icy coldness.

  Shaking off his concerns, Rick opened his email app, and found the message sent from Stephens. It was the first on top. Rick started reading, finding the information all too familiar. A glance at the headline showed the date to be from a week earlier. “Hmm, that’s strange. The email was sent today, but this document is a week old,” he said aloud to himself. I guess he forgot he had already sent it to me.

  Rick put his phone in standby mode.

  The virus the email contained had already sent out a text message and was busy wiping out all the information on his SD card.

  *

  Lisa Goudard’s cell phone buzzed in her purse laying on the passenger’s seat. Oh crap, what now? The previous meeting hadn’t gone as well as she had hoped. In fact, her visits for the last week hadn’t produced nearly the amount of contributions as usual.

  Just as soon as she came to a red light, she picked up her phone. It’s a message from Rick. With such a bad morning she hoped he had sent another one of his love messages. It would certainly brighten her day.

  She opened the message, and read, I’ve got some really important information for you. Something that will shake the political world and end the election in a landslide. I’ve canceled your two o’clock appointment. Drive directly to your apartment. I’ll be inside waiting for you. Don’t delay. This is a matter of the utmost importance. Rick.

  A horn beeped from behind two times. Lisa pulled her eyes away from the phone and drove through the intersection. Something big is up. I w
onder if his staff found some real dirt on Spencer?

  *

  Ben O’Brian leaned back on a bench at Independence Park watching a squirrel in a tree. His cell phone rang, right on schedule. “Hello.”

  “Ben, it’s Joel Spencer.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Spencer,” Ben said, sitting at attention.

  “The plan is in action. It’s all up to you now. I’m counting on you.”

  “I won’t fail you, sir.”

  “If you check your bank account, you’ll see all the money’s there. All fifty thousand of it.”

  “Yes, sir. It’s all there. My bank alerted me with a message of the deposit a few minutes ago.”

  “Good, good. I want you to consider this a down payment. Why, when you finish college, there will be a position for you on my staff in D.C.”

  “Sir, it would be an honor to be a member of your staff.”

  “You’re a fine lad, Ben. I don’t know why Rebecca couldn’t see that in you.”

  Ben flinched at the bitter reminder and kept his comments to himself.

  “There’s been a change, so listen up. The police officer will be on the corner of thirteenth and Main to escort you to the front of the receiving line. Be there for four thirty. Everything else stays according to plan. You’ll be standing next to James Hodges, a fellow church member and loyal Poundstone supporter. Or I should say, former Poundstone supporter. Poundstone arrives at five. When he sees Hodges he’ll make a beeline over to shake his hand. When Poundstone reaches out, you grab his hand first, and then let go quickly. Leave immediately afterward. Try not to draw any attention.”

  “Yes, sir. I have it memorized.”

  “You’re in complete disguise?”

  “Yes, sir. Long blond wig and a scratchy fake beard,” Ben said, rubbing his chin.

  “Good. Go to the safe house and change when you’re done. Use the key we sent and take the car in the back.”

  “Got the key right here, sir.” Ben tapped his left front pocket.