by Mark Tufo
“Mr. T, I think I can get you some rounds!” Tommy called down.
“I’m listening!” I told him.
“I can pack a couple hundred rounds in magazines and then into a protected backpack!”
“Water, too?” I asked hopefully.
“I can do that.”
“And then?”
“I’ll toss it as far as I can.”
Now, a few hundred M-16 rounds and some water could easily be in excess of ten or fifteen pounds. Even from that high vantage point, a normal person slinging that weight wouldn’t get it much more than twenty feet from the foot of the tower. Of course, Tommy wasn’t normal by any standard definition, and because the squad suspected something, I wasn’t sure how much he could or should expose. On the other hand, we needed to play all our strengths, and it was a good bet he could get double or more that distance. Still way too fucking close to the zombies, but I still had cover from above, and we needed that water. The bullets would also be pretty cool to have. Was it a risk worth taking? Especially if BT got the fifty cal free? It was worth it just so I could help. I didn’t want to be following BT without any way to assist should he need it, and there was always the chance the gun might jam.
“Okay,” I finally told him as I weighed out the risk-reward factors.
Nothing happened for a while, as he must have been prepping the airmail. BT had reached the machinegun and was out of my line of sight, bent over, working on the footing. I divided up my time between him, the zombies, and the tower. I was going to have to call my cable provider and let them know I was unhappy with the lack of variety on my viewing options. Finally, Tommy came to the edge and gave me a thumbs up. He was all smiles. I wished I was. He must have been working through the problem of the throw, much like I had. He had the squad clear back from the edge as he began to spin like an Olympian getting ready to toss a hammer.
“Holy shit,” I said as I watched the bag take flight. I’d involuntarily taken a step backward, afraid the thing was going to crash into me. Wasn’t nearly that far, but the trajectory and the power behind the throw was incredible. When it smacked down onto the deck, it ended up somewhere around a hundred feet from the tower, which meant two hundred from me. Even from this distance, I could see a couple of sidelong glances directed his way. “I’m going for the package now!” I maybe should have shut up about it, as now the zombies knew exactly what I was going to do. I even saw a couple with their hands against the tower like they were going to use it to push off of to help in their acceleration. I ambled at first, doing my best to keep from triggering their chase response. I was midway between the plane and the bag when first one zombie took off, then another followed.
I stopped counting after five. Stenzel was quick on the trigger, as were the others with her, now that their help was needed. It wasn’t often I ran straight toward zombies, with good reason. I was going to make it to the bag before any of them could, but grabbing it, turning back around, and making a run for home was going to be pretty tight, and once the zombies were that close in proximity, my covering fire was going to be much more hesitant to shoot.
I was thinking about how stupid this was. I should have waited for BT, especially if he was successful. I could have made this as easy as walking in the park. Instead, this park was Central Park, at Midnight, in the ’70s, when it was rife with crime. And just for the fun of it, I was wearing large gold chains and a couple of Rolex watches. I took an arcing turn, realizing I could not come to a complete stop to grab the bag. If I did, they’d have me.
“So many zombies.” I was staring down numerous faces, twisted with need and hunger. Black, cracked lips, broken teeth snapping loudly in their jaws, wagging tongues drooling in preparation of their feast. I leaned down; the tips of my fingers brushed against the material but as of yet, I’d not hooked onto anything. I forced my legs to stutter step, nearly paid dearly for that as I slipped. The benefit was I used the backpack to right myself and grabbed one of the straps. I was back up and running but had lost a considerable amount of social distancing. I was yelling as I ran back, but that was drowned out by the shooting above. That’s when I saw the man that could have easily rivaled Arnold for the coveted Terminator role. BT was standing straight ahead of me, enormous fifty caliber machinegun in his hands, a trail of clipped together bullets extending out from an ammunition case.
“To the side!” he bellowed. That made sense; no reason for me to be in the way. I’d gone ten feet over when he opened up, his arms absorbing the heavy rounds as he leaned back and let the gun do its deadly work. The percussions from the bullets were so strong I could feel the expanding air strike me as they blew past. The plane’s thirty cal had been a bloody disgusting sight to behold in its speed and devastation and, although the fifty BT was shooting was much slower, what it did upon impact was inhumane. I now knew why the Geneva convention had talked about not firing these at personnel; it wasn’t so much for the victim, because if struck by the bullet, there’d be nothing left worth salvaging. It was for the men and women that witnessed the event. It would be difficult to be right in the head again after watching a fellow soldier quite literally explode. I’d finally got next to BT; he’d stopped firing a second or two beforehand, and those from the tower quickly followed suit.
The deck, as to be expected, was fucking beyond gross. We’d need a hell of a rain and a platoon’s worth of squeegee wielders to scrape it clean.
“What the fuck, Talbot! What were you thinking? Was it worth it?”
I was catching my breath, bent over. I rummaged through the pack and pulled out a bottle of water, which I handed to him after he put the gun down.
“Like me again?” I asked as he drank.
“You’re all right.” He wiped his mouth after downing half of the contents.
It wasn’t quite a cold beer on a hot summer’s night, but it was close. I closed my eyes as I took a healthy pull. “Man, that’s good.” I held the bottle away from me and studied the label like it was an outstanding Chardonnay.
“Fuck, that thing is heavy.” He was holding the small of his back.
“You want to switch out to your rifle?” I asked, holding out a fully loaded magazine.
“After shooting that? That’s like eating a filet-mignon one night and then a Steak-Umm the next.”
I was heading back to the plane to grab both rifles.
“I’ve been thinking about this, Talbot. You’re going to need to carry the ammunition as we move. I’ve got to figure that’s your plan, right? We’re going to fight our way through?”
“Might as well. Even death seems better than that plane for another night. But I don’t like the idea of being a pack mule. How about I shoot the cool gun and you carry the ammo.”
“Not going to happen. Don’t even think about it,” he said as he watched my gaze travel to the machinegun.
“Let me know when you’re ready.”
“What’s your rush?” he asked.
“Stalling because your back hurts, aren’t you?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“My kid standing at the front door with a cop behind him and him saying he didn’t do anything is less obvious.”
“Mike.”
“Okay, it was me, and to be fair, I told my dad I wasn’t the only one. Why I thought that was a valid argument, I don’t have a clue.”
“Just give me a minute and stop making shitty analogies.” He first leaned far back with his hands on his hips and then did a surprisingly limber move as he placed his fingertips on the deck.
I had my eyes on the zombies, who appeared to be licking their wounds from the last fight and didn’t seem quite ready to begin anew. Call it Spidey-sense, ESP, situational awareness, paranoia, whatever works, but I became acutely aware of just how exposed we were, dead center in no man’s land. I turned, earnestly hoping that I was making something out of nothing—wouldn’t be the first time. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be the first time I was wrong, either.
“B
T!” I shouted much louder than I needed, considering he was standing next to me. I didn’t know where they came from, but that was a secondary concern, as dozens, maybe as many as a hundred, were running straight toward us. If we’d had options, they were gone now. Our only course of action was forward. It must have been Walde, (I’d thank her if we made it) the net landing sprang up, usually, this was reserved for planes that were coming in crippled and couldn’t stop on their own due to mechanical failure. I can’t imagine any scenario ever devised that included using it to foul up the march of zombies, but it did, and if not for that slowing tactic, we wouldn’t have had a chance. I would have loved to stay and watch for a moment as they got tangled like dolphins in a tuna net, but we had to go. I was hoping BT would forego the machinegun; he didn’t. I reluctantly grabbed the huge and heavy box of ammo.
“You need to start shooting soon!” I was leaning so far back the damn thing was nearly resting on my chest. We did the world’s most awkward dual pirouette and were now looking right at the zombies coming. The machinegun roared, as did BT. I grunted. He was killing them by the score, but the zombies had had enough waiting; they weren’t peeling off. This attack was for all the marbles—or meat. I looked over my shoulder, those behind were coming too.
“Gotta go!” I tried to be heard, but I didn’t get his attention until I dropped the box. The netting had caught a bunch of them up, but it would only buy us a little time—nothing we could afford to fritter away.
I quickly handed him his rifle, pulled my charging handle, took a half a beat to make sure a round had been chambered. We were on the move, finally. Again, right into the literal teeth of the enemy. I could only think of how asinine a way to fight this was. After the ravages and havoc that the machinegun had caused, the M-16s were completely anticlimactic, especially since headshots at a sprint were impossible. We weren’t going to make it. Walde must have been busy during the night, as a twenty-foot section of steel pipe sitting on a turret began to turn and drop down. A cylindrical blast of water more than a foot across blew forth and into the zombies. They were tossed away like insurgents under a firehose. Walde was swiveling the water cannon back and forth, sending more than a few zombies over the edge, and those were the lucky ones. Some were launched into vehicles, planes or machinery and were completely broken. Crushed skulls, shattered spines, splintered legs, broken arms. A spoiled child, mad at his parents for not letting him get the new video game console, could not have wrought so much damage onto his defenseless GI Joes if given an entire day and a hammer.
I wanted to think we were going to make it. I don’t know if it’s a condition unique to me or a small percentage of people, but I was waiting for the rug to be pulled out from underneath or maybe the shoe to drop from above or fuck it, both. Walde had taken care of a good portion of zombies and simultaneously blocked off another large chunk’s approach, but that didn’t mean we were home free. And soon we would be too close to the tower and would no longer be under their protection. Stupid zombies were smarter than they had a right to be. A few had figured out that if they couldn’t make the straight approach, they could circle the tower. The memo hadn’t been widespread, but enough of them were coming that it was going to add another level to the game. Hardly seems like right word in this case. Twenty feet for us to get to the door, ten for the zombies, though they wouldn’t be stopping to wait for us to come to them.
BT and I were advancing much slower, taking better-aimed shots—wouldn’t call it well-aimed, but better; zombies were falling. This was it. We broke through or they did. Outside bettors had the zombies in an overrun. We didn’t have a chance; we’d never had a chance. More of them were coming around the corner. Our running had been slowed to a speedwalk, then to a shuffle, now, finally, we were standing still. There was no ground we could gain, and the zombies would not yield any.
“Back?” BT asked.
That was out of the question. We had less than ten seconds. No matter the withering fire from above, there were more than enough eager volunteers to make the death race.
“The side,” I told him. If it came down to it, I was going for a swim rather than down the gullet.
“Look out!” was shouted from above and half a second later, a couple hundred pounds of thick chain slammed down next to me. If I’d been two feet over, I would have been crushed.
I pushed BT to grab the chain. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and climbed. Plenty of handholds, but nowhere to rest one’s feet or to use legs in the climbing effort. BT had pulled himself up a good ten feet; when I grabbed, I did the same, only I was just three feet off the ground when the first zombie got to me. I nearly lost my grip when I kicked out and caught him flush in the mouth. I can’t even begin to tell you the amount of satisfaction I received when I heard his teeth crack and break away as his jaw made accommodations for my boot. Still, he tried to bite through the thick leather and I could feel the pressure mounting. There were way more pounds per inch bite force than there should have been. An average human could do around 1100 psi, a pretty strong bite no doubt, but not enough to chew through a boot, yet that was exactly what the zombie was doing. Great. Another daunting adaptation. They evolved at a pace more in line with insects than mammals. I had to be rid of him soon or the next monkey from the barrel would pull me off. I brought my right foot down onto the top of the zombie's head. The first strike didn’t do much except make him chomp down harder. The second was an easing of pressure, and with the third, he finally released and fell away.
I reached up, and at the same time I climbed, I pulled my lower half higher, the zombie that had launched missed grabbing me by inches. BT was halfway up the chain by the time I was high enough to be clear. He’d stopped; I think he was exhausted. He had his head resting against the chain.
“You on?” Tommy asked.
“Pull, pull the chain!” I yelled before BT slipped or fell.
BT looked like a marlin that had been fighting on a line for seven hours. He had nothing left, no fight to give. I was strong, but I wasn’t: “catch a falling BT with one hand while holding on to a chain with the other” strong. We were moving inches per minute; not nearly fast enough, then Tommy must have anchored the thing because suddenly we were hauling ass. Paint chips were flying down from where the chain was rubbing up against the parapet.
Even as we were being pulled up, I climbed. When I got close, I reached up and grabbed BT’s leg to let him know I was there. His muscles were thrumming as he clung with all his might. I looked up and finally saw hands reach over and grab first the back of his jersey and then under his arms then they landed him much like that marlin. When they grabbed me and pulled me over, I flopped down next to him. We were both breathing heavily.
“Made it.”
BT weakly raised a fist, I made one and bumped it. We stayed there for a solid five minutes.
“Good to have you back, Mr. T,” Tommy said as he first helped me up and then BT.
BT found a chair and plopped down onto it. Stenzel handed him a water and a granola bar then came over to me.
“Thank you,” I told her as she handed the provisions over. I downed the bottle in one take. I noticed that my hands were shaking as I opened the bar wrapper. Stenzel had the wherewithal to go and find something else to do as I struggled with it. I was starving, exhausted, and my nerves were frayed. I’d been running at full capacity for so long my nervous system hadn’t got the message that it was okay to stand down now. With good reason, I might add. BT and I had traded up for better digs, but it was still a prison. We were effectively trapped up here with no discernible way to get out.
“When you’re ready, I need to talk to you, sir.” Walde met my gaze then looked down. I’d seen that exact face in my kids as they were getting ready to make a confession. “Dad, I scratched the car,” or: “I failed my chem test.” Something they had to bring to light, just didn’t necessarily want to.
“Ready as I’m ever going to be,” I told her.
“If you cou
ld follow me.” She was heading to a heavy canvas bag, the same bag I had seen Baggelli carrying. My stomach was preparing for the great reveal; I had that same feeling one gets at the apex of a roller coaster just as you are about to head down, the tightening from fear. When she popped it open, the granola bar I’d worked so hard to get into my system decided it wanted back out.
“Ebola canisters?” I said the words, but they weren’t making a cognitive connection in my head.
“This was the purpose of our mission,” she stressed.
“Weaponized Ebola? Why? What about the nuke?” I asked.
“The nuke wasn’t my team’s responsibility, this was. Ebola has a unique ability to kill zombies,” she stated.
“And people.”
“Yeah. In people, it causes viral hemorrhagic issues; basically liquefies our internal organs.”
I wanted to step back from the canned nightmare.
“In zombies, it does the same, but their recuperative powers have the ability to regenerate as quickly as tissue is destroyed, finally overcoming the pathogen.”
“Is there a good part to this?” If there wasn’t, I wanted to toss the shit off the ship and quickly.
“In zombies, for reasons not understood yet, it attacks the brain in the same manner.”
Now the dim-watted lights in my mind began to glow brighter.
“Unlike the internal organs, the zombie’s immune system cannot repair the brain quickly enough. It tries, but in every case, any zombie exposed to Ebola dies,” she continued.
“When the hell did we learn this?”
“There were experiments at Etna,” Walde replied flatly.
“How did I not know about this?”
