Z-LEVEL 10
A NOVEL BY MICHAEL COLE
www.severedpress.com
Copyright 2019 by Michael Cole
CHAPTER 1
Fluttering wings lifted its tiny body off of the fallen branch it was perched on. Carried in part by the wind, the beetle zipped between the trees. It often fed in the morning hours and food was plentiful in the wooded area it lived in. In fact, it was almost too plentiful. Its antennae were overwhelmed with the sense of smell. Odors usually travel in whiffs of scent, usually dissipating quickly like ghosts as the wind carried them away.
But even in the wind, the odors were plentiful. Food was abundant, so abundant that the insect’s sensory systems felt overloaded. In the generations preceding its birth, pheromones would be picked up in pores of its antennae, bound with proteins, then carried through the nerve endings. Its brain could only handle so much. But now it was overloaded.
The many sources of smell were in motion, lumbering below it in dormant states. It had fed off many of them before, unknowingly infecting itself with a contagion its tiny brain would never understand. Lacking intelligence, it never noticed the connection with feeding off these organisms and the intense aggression and hunger it subsequently developed. Whenever it drew near to other species, it would viciously lash out. Hunger, thirst, and procreation didn’t factor into its reasoning. There was just an overwhelming desire to devour the flesh of others.
With the sense of smell so abundant, the bug could not use its antennae to lock on to a specific source. It had to use its eyes to determine where to land. It dove several feet down, planting its six legs on the neck of a rotting human corpse.
It had been dead a while, its smell rising with the late summer heat. Maggots had grown and collected inside a gaping hole in its stomach, a wound that had likely ended its life. Its eyes were open, shriveled back into their gaping sockets. Slumped against the trunk of a tree, its skeletal face seemed to stare endlessly into oblivion. The bug scurried along the neck, moving up near the jawline. Using its mandibles, the bug peeled flakes off its skin. It moved upward, exploring the lower jaw and chin of the dead organism.
The lips were gone, exposing rows of jagged teeth rooted in rotting gums. The bug brushed the inside with its antennae, detecting the gooey remains of the tongue. It was softer than the rotting skin tissue. The jaw was slack, allowing the bug to crawl inside.
As it did, a loud whirring sound passed by above the trees. A heavy downdraft hammered everything below, causing the plant life to sway as though in protest. The combined sound and physical sensation clicked a surviving receptor in the dormant brain.
The bug was halfway inside when it felt its exoskeleton cracking. The jaws came down on it, severing it in two. Its abdomen fell away, spilling innards as it rolled into the grass. Its head and thorax slipped down into the black, slimy gullet of the very thing it fed off of.
Spurred by the vibration, the corpse looked to the sky. Whatever passed above, it was moving. Movement and sound were indicative of prey. It clicked its jaws together, biting the air, picking up any trace of scent. The sound increased, the strange object descending in the distance.
Driven by an infinite desire to feed, it pushed itself upright. It rocked back and forth on wobbly limbs. With its muscle mass heavily decomposed, it had to shift its weight to move forward. Slowed by this handicap, it was easily surpassed by the others that walked among it. The more freshly dead were able to manipulate their muscle tissue more efficiently, thus they could move with greater speed. It was all the corpse could do to keep up with them.
Soon, over a hundred of its brethren flocked ahead of it, their moans filling the air as they converged upon the possible source of food.
CHAPTER 2
Vertical draughts pounded the ground below as the Boeing CH-47 Chinook reached its destination. The pilots put the ninety-eight-foot long aircraft into a slow descent, stopping at one-hundred and fifty feet above the cement parking lot of a county hospital. Thirty thousand pounds of steel balanced as the rotors pushed a heavy downdraft on the crowd of the undead that lumbered along the hospital perimeter.
Inside its fuselage, seven marines stared down at their landing site.
“They said Level 5!” Private Dunn bickered. “This is not a Level 5!”
“Dunn, if you don’t shut your mouth, I swear I will sew your lips with barbed wire!” Sergeant Keegan said. Private Dunn turned from the starboard shoulder window. The six-foot, broad shouldered marine’s eyes were blazing with ferocity and alarm. The desire to protest was still there, and the will to suppress it was crumbling like a dam in a raging river.
“Sir, I’m not seeing any survivors,” one of the pilots spoke through the headsets.
“Oh, you’re seeing them alright!” Dunn said. “They’re right there below us. You just can’t recognize them because they’re now walking piles of pus!”
Staff Sergeant Keegan prodded a finger in his face.
“That is the last time I’ll tell you, Marine!”
Dunn tensed, quivering ever so slightly as he contained his rage. The anger was stronger than the fear. Despite his spiraling emotions, he was never insubordinate, though that was simply due to the fact that he respected the sergeant. Keegan was a man equal in height, though sporting a greater muscular frame. The Staff Sergeant was bordering on forty, twenty of those years being in the service. His hair had gone prematurely white, and his face was rife with the features of a man fifteen years older. War and chaos had a way of doing that to a person. The fall of mankind only perpetuated it.
“Staff Sergeant!”
Keegan turned around to face Corporal Reimer. With one hand pressed to his headset, he was listening hard to a transmission.
“What do you have, Corporal?” Keegan asked.
“Transmission’s breaking up,” Reimer said. “They’re inside the hospital. Third floor. From what I could hear, the undead got here before we did and forced them into the building.”
“How many?” Keegan asked.
“I can’t say.”
“Did you ask?”
“Yes, sir. I tried multiple attempts, but the transmission is too grainy, probably due to interference from multiple layers of brick and technology inside the building.”
“I’m gung-ho for getting down there!” Binkowski said. She rocked her M4 Carbine and marched toward the loading ramp, where PFC Gordon stood near a mounted M240 machine gun.
“I guarantee that place is full of corpses!” Fisher said. Unlike Dunn, he expressed his concern in a calm and articulate manner. “The Corporal said it was third floor, right? We must consider the numbers and tight quarters. If we go in, we’ll have to go through a swarm of those things.”
“Hell, we can find the nearest stairwell and go up,” Binkowski argued.
“Negative,” Sergeant Keegan said. He was observing the building through the window. The pilots had circled the facility, bringing the main entrances into view. Crowds of the undead were moving in and out of the broken doorways, indicating that many more waited inside. Fisher was correct in his analysis, though Keegan wouldn’t plainly say it, as Dunn would take it as ammunition in his argument to abandon the mission. “Corporal, make a call to Headquarters. Pronto! I will speak with them directly.”
“Yes, sir!” Reimer said. Corporal Reimer moved up into the cockpit where he could access the radio. With a quivering hand, he twisted the knob to change the frequency, then pressed his headset to his ear to drown out the noise.
“Viking One-Seven to Border. Come in.” He felt a hand on his shoulder. He shifted his elbow back. “Not now, dude!” The marine next to him knelt down.
“Hey!” he br
iefly yelled to get the Corporal’s attention. Reimer tore his headset off and looked to his left, seeing PFC Kane standing near him. “You alright?”
“I’m fine,” Reimer said. “What do you need?”
“Just letting you know you’ve got it on the wrong frequency,” Kane answered. Reimer looked at the knob, realizing he was on channel 5.
“Shit,” he muttered.
“You alright?” Kane asked again. He was aware that the Corporal had not slept in days, and his glazed eyes and sluggishness was evidence of this.
“I’m good. Do you mind?” He gestured toward the cabin. Kane stood up and joined Binkowski and Gordon near the ramp. Reimer readjusted the frequency then hit the transmitter. “Viking One-Seven calling Border. Come in.”
“This is Border Command responding to Viking One-Seven. Go ahead.”
“Sergeant Keegan is requesting contact with General Spears,” Reimer said.
“Stand by.” Reimer waited. With all of the rescue operations taking place around the western United States, or what used to be the United States, it would be a few minutes before the General could dedicate his attention to them.
“Sir!” Binkowski approached Keegan. “Are you considering actually leaving these people behind?”
“We are awaiting updated instructions from Command,” Keegan said. His voice was lower, displaying mild sympathy. Fact of the matter was clear. They would ONLY conduct rescue operations in areas deemed Level 5 or lower. Anything higher, they were not permitted to risk. At least, that was the official policy, which was often overridden by the remaining government to rescue other officials or certain VIPs.
“Sir, we can’t leave them. We’re here to get these people out. We have to do something.”
“Are you implying that I don’t understand our orders?” Keegan barked. Binkowski took a step back, her discipline returning to her.
“No, sir!”
Keegan did an about-turn and followed Reimer into the forward cabin.
Binkowski paced by the window, keeping her eyes fixed on the third-floor windows. She could envision the poor souls trapped inside.
“Binkowski, I get what you’re thinking, but this is beyond risky,” Dunn said.
“I’m with her,” Gordon said. “This is what we’re trained to do, man! It was risky from the start!”
“There’s a difference between risky and stupid,” Dunn said. “We go down there, we’re gonna lose more than what we’ll save! I guarantee it!”
“What’s got into you, man?” Kane asked.
“What’s got into me?!” He kept his voice down enough to not be overheard. “We have improper intel. Improper equipment. Improper aide. We have lost Quill. Sanders. Harris. Coli! All in situations like this one, sir! This is not a Level 5. At best, it has escalated to Level 7.”
“You don’t think they’ll turn us around?” Kane said.
“Oh, come on. They’ve pulled this shit before,” Fisher interjected.
“Mark my words,” Dunn said. “If they make us go in there, it means there’s someone important down there.”
Reimer’s grogginess started taking over again. He felt a tremendous lack of energy. He felt his eyes closing automatically as he listened to the pilots speak on their radios. Feeling himself starting to slip away, Reimer forced his eyes open, immediately seeing the boot from someone standing next to him. Looking up over his shoulder, he noticed Keegan standing over him.
“Still waiting, sir,” he said after clearing his throat.
The pilots continued circling the extraction zone. The co-pilot on the right was speaking on another frequency, his face appearing gradually troubled with each sentence.
“Copy that,” he said. He looked back at the Staff Sergeant. “Sir?”
“What is it?” Keegan said.
“We’ve got another problem. Roosevelt Command says there’s no HC-130 available for mid-air refuel.”
“We’re past the PSR,” the other pilot said. Keegan looked down through the windshield at the landing zone. The National Guard in the area had arranged a fuel tank for refuel while the passengers were loaded up for transport. Nine-thousand pounds of fuel was waiting for them on the pavement, surrounded by a horde of the undead. Behind it, a large portion of the perimeter fence was down. From the looks of it, the six-foot barrier had succumbed to the combined weight and mass of hundreds of the undead pressing into it at once. As with many sanctuary sites, the fence barrier was rushed into production and not properly cemented.
“One way or another, we’re making a landing,” Keegan said.
“Sir!” Reimer said, extending the headset to him. Keegan put it on and listened to the General.
“This is Staff Sergeant Keegan…yes, sir. Sir, I have to advise you, there is increased activity in the area. Sanctuary is overrun. We have detected a radio transmission from inside the facility, but it is overrun with the infected…Infection level increased from 5. We will have to make a refueling attempt... Yes, sir… I understand, sir… Orders received and understood. Keegan out.”
“I suppose those orders had nothing to do with picking up a pizza on our way back, did it?” Reimer quipped.
“Very funny,” Keegan said. He observed the building, carefully watching the movements of the undead. “If they had to barricade themselves in the third floor, then that means they were forced up there. The first two floors are probably loaded with those things.”
“You suggest we go in through the roof?” Reimer asked.
“It’s the only way,” Keegan said. “We’re gonna need to refuel and get out of here fast, so we’re gonna split into groups. First, we’ll clear out the parking lot as best we can with the M240s. After we do that, we’ll fly up to the roof. You will disembark with some of the men and work your way down. While you do that, I’ll be refueling our ride. By the time we’re both done, we should be picking you up on the roof. With some luck, the survivors will be working their way upstairs, which’ll save some time. Unfortunately, you can’t be sure what you’ll be running into in there, so make you have rappel lines in case you can’t make it back to the roof.”
“Understood, sir,” Reimer said. He followed the Sergeant into the cabin.
“Everybody listen up! And listen good!” Keegan yelled. The marines stopped all chatter and stood at attention. “We have received orders. We will be attempting rescue. Corporal Reimer will lead you down through the roof. From there you will work your way down. Get as many survivors out as you can. But first, we will conduct a sweep of the infected near the tanker.” Keegan walked by each of them, staring into their souls with eyes that had seen Hell and then some.
“Remember! You are hardened marines! You are not fresh out of boot! You are an experienced force to be reckoned with. You have done this before, and you will do this again!”
“How many times?” Dunn muttered, seething at the sight of the hundreds of undead. His view was suddenly obstructed as Keegan got in his face
“What did you say?” he yelled point blank.
“Nothing, sir!”
“You lie to me, I will personally feed you to the uglies! Hell, if they get a taste of your smelly ass, that might just kill their appetite for us, I might say! Considering it might save what’s left of humanity, I would suggest you not piss me off further, Private Dunn!” Keegan barked.
“Sir, yes sir!”
“Now. Repeat what you said!”
“How many times, sir?” Dunn spoke louder.
“How many times, what?!”
“How many times must we do this…sir?!
“As many times as I fucking tell you!” Keegan pressed his forehead against Dunn’s while continuing his lecture with increased intensity. “This is your life now! The Corps owns you! Mind, body, and soul! You WILL obey my instructions or you WILL suffer a wrath worse than what’s in store down there! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?”
“Yes, sir!” Dunn answered. Keegan took a step back from him. Without taking his eyes off Dunn, he barked orders
to the rest of the squad.
“Corporal Reimer, man the port M420!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Binkowski, take the starboard!”
“Yes sir!”
“Pick off those bastards as best you can and clear a landing zone! DO NOT hit that tanker. If they are too close to it, don’t waste the ammo. Kane and I will take care of the stragglers once we set down!” Binkowski and Reimer raced to their assigned weapons, chambering a round and quickly inspecting the ammo feeds.
“Dunn! Fisher! Gear up! You will be going in with them! Kane! You’re with me. Gordon, you will provide cover fire as we conduct refueling. Does everybody understand their jobs?!”
“Sir, yes sir!”
“I. CAN’T. HEAR YOU!”
“SIR! YES SIR!”
CHAPTER 3
The unrelenting downburst of wind spurred the undead into a crazed frenzy. Snarling their teeth, they gathered around near the chopper. Bits of rotted tissue peppered the concrete beneath their lumbering feet as they congregated. They reached up, trying to grab at its landing pads, not comprehending the fact that it was several yards out of reach.
Corporal Reimer extended his machine gun out of its port and aimed down at the army of the undead. He put the iron sights of his machine gun between him and their putrid faces. Through his helmet’s visor, he gazed at the large congregation. Numerous reanimated corpses were lashing up at him in various states of decay. Some were fresh, others were barely able to stand upright. Some in fact couldn’t stand upright, resorting to dragging their bellies along the ground. Black shards of diseased meat oozed into the concrete as their torsos scraped against it.
Their combined moans could be heard despite the rotation of the rotors. It was as though their souls had never been freed from their bodies. Corporal Reimer placed his hands onto the butterfly grips of the M240 machine gun. For a moment, he was lost in the empty eyes of the undead. He wasn’t sure if it was the lack of sleep, the overall exhaustion, the struggle to maintain loyalty to his service, or all of the above.
Z-Level 10: A Zombie Apocalypse Novel Page 1
