Z-Level 10: A Zombie Apocalypse Novel

by Cole, Michael

  “There,” Stacy whispered, pointing her finger over to the left. She pulled her revolver from her belt and double-checked the cylinder. Joe held a bolt action Remington to his shoulder, while Kevin, a County Sheriff recruit, kept his Glock holstered, opting to hold a baseball bat until being forced to spend any rounds.

  He moved first, hustling up a small hill, bat poised over his right shoulder. He waited a few seconds for the others to catch up, all the while looking everywhere for walking corpses. But the fog seemed to thicken as they neared their destination. At best, he could only see thirty feet ahead. A small breeze brushed the branches above, causing the fog to drift like one enormous ghost. The leaves rustled overhead, spilling some of their secretion down in large streams.

  Kevin was suddenly frozen in place. He could hear rustling along the ground throughout the forest.

  Joe and Stacy could see the terror building up in his eyes.

  “Come on. We’re almost there,” Stacy said.

  “Shit, Doc, we should’ve stayed in the foxhole,” he said.

  “Dude, get a grip,” Joe said. “You’re wasting time.” Kevin drew a deep breath, then shook some of the watery residue from his beard. Taking another step, he tensed at the sensation of his shoes sinking into the mud. The ground squished with each step, making it impossible to keep their movements silent.

  Just two hundred yards, he reminded himself. The mud squished even louder with the next step. His foot sank over one centimeter, then hit something rigid. Before he took the next step, he felt pressure under his foot. He froze. Whatever it was, it was moving. He looked down, seeing the dirt and mud swooshing beneath him. Long thin formations squirmed like giant worms. One reached up, extending five bony fingers that grabbed at his leg.

  Kevin shrieked and jumped back. The arm continued reaching, while the mud continued to unfold, exposing the eyeless face of a shriveled corpse. Its lips and cheeks were gone, leaving a large overstretched jawbone. Despite having no eyes, it still turned to face Kevin, reaching with one of its arms. Covered with skin and worms, it grabbed at the air between them.

  “Jesus!” Kevin squealed. With terror consuming him, he wildly bashed the baseball bat into its head. He smashed down repeatedly, squirting brain matter through the broken skull.

  The rustling around them intensified. Mud squished from behind the blanket of fog. The wind carried the groans of hungry corpses, now drawn to the sounds of the living. Joe and Stacy looked around, unable to determine the source of the moans.

  “We can’t stay here,” Joe said. “Come on, Kev. We gotta get the doc to the bunker.”

  “Fuck. This,” Kevin said. Finally, he had pulled his Glock. He held it in his right hand, keeping it pointed outward. In his other hand, he held the bat high over his head. The snarls increased in volume. He moved down a small hill, increasing as he came into a region where the ground was drier. Looking ahead, he saw a shape forming through the fog. He stopped, ready to fire. It was about a man’s height, almost twenty inches in width. He inched forward, seeing there were no arms or legs. Reaching out with the bat, he scraped off loose chunks of bark. It was the trunk of a fallen tree.

  Christ, is this a fucking joke?

  Arms sprang out from around the tree as two corpses emerged from the fog. Kevin shrieked, firing wildly into the duo. Bullets punched through their breastbone and traveled out into the forest. He could feel their hot breath as they closed in. He tried backing away, only to slip on the mud behind him. He looked up, seeing their scrawny figures falling down over him.

  Stacy and Joe rushed in to help, only to be stopped by the sight of numerous other figures that appeared through the mist. Kevin was screaming by now, his Glock discharging as one of them bit into his bicep.

  “This way! Let’s go!” Joe shouted. They ran down the small slope, while several of the undead converged on Kevin. One of them was right on top of him, pressing its head toward his face. Kevin gritted his teeth as he pushed back against its forehead. He called out in agony, feeling its fingers press between his ribcage. The other undead joined in, seeing the sight of fresh blood.

  Huddling around him, they pried their hands into the same area and pulled outward, opening his ribcage like a book. Bones snapped and blood spat. The ghoul pulled its head from Kevin’s, opting instead to bury its entire head inside his open ribcage. Arms left the shoulders as the others tore away at him. The last thing he would see were several fleshy fingers grabbing around his head. Looking for a place to grasp, those fingers pierced his eye sockets, turning his eyes to jelly as they reached deeply. The corpse pulled away, its brain not having the capacity to sense a limit in its strength. Blood spurted and tendons snapped, leaving a red trail as the head detached from the neck.

  Joe and Stacy ran at a full sprint. Kevin’s screams had ceased, now making way for the dozens of moaning bodies that surrounded them. Joe raised his rifle at three figures that emerged ahead of them. He blasted the first two, while Stacy shot down the third. Joe paused and looked around, having lost his sense of direction in the chaos.

  “This way!” Stacy said. She ran through a small clearing in the woods, stopping once to shoot another ghoul before continuing in a full sprint. Winding between several trees, they came to a thinning in the fog. The ground dipped and flattened after several yards.

  They had found it; the abandoned bunker. With it being underground, there wasn’t much to see aside from a small concrete structure. The structure resembled a small house, with a huge mechanical door in the front. On the door was a small keypad for Stacy to punch in a special code.

  The mud squished behind them, provoking Joe to glance over his shoulder. In a sudden reaction, he jumped forward out of the reach of several hands. Several ghouls stumbled into the clearing, many of them dragging wet strips of torn clothing behind them, revealing mushy looking flesh.

  Joe and Stacy sprinted for the door. Stacy holstered her revolver and activated the keypad, while Joe fired several rounds into the advancing crowd. Heads split down the center as bullets carved their path, dropping the corpse into the earth. Stacy punched in her code. The computer, sluggish from the exposure to moisture, read the code.

  Joe fired his last shot.

  “Open the damn door!” he yelled.

  “I did!” Stacy yelled back. The keypad flashed, then finally a loud metallic thomp echoed from inside. Gears grinded inside as the door opened electronically. “Come on!”

  She heard the crunch of the rifle collide with one of the ghouls. Next came a horrific scream as the corpses ganged up. Joe tried to go for the entrance, only to be held back by several hands. Stacy emptied her revolver into the crowd, doing little to stop the pile-up over Joe. There was nothing she could do, except slip through the slow-opening door. She grabbed a handle on the inside and pulled it shut, stopping once to thrust a kick into an advancing corpse to drive it back.

  Joe yelled for her help as his body registered pain from head-to-toe. Several bony faces pressed into his body. Chunks of flesh were torn from him, some simply being tossed aside like slabs of meat at a butcher shop. Before long, Joe’s identity had been degraded to various mangled pieces of meat and organs, many of which would reside forever in the gullets of walking corpses that would never digest them.

  Stacy dry heaved as she stumbled into the radio room. The overhead lights came on, as did the various computers in the room. The code she had entered had likely initiated a motion tracking system.

  She drew in a deep breath and remembered what she was instructed to do. She looked to the left, seeing a doorway that led to a concrete stairway. She descended the fifty-step flight, which led into another open doorway. The lights in the radio room came to life, bringing several computers into view.

  In the back corner was the com unit. Stacy dashed to the large computer. She pushed the seat aside and tapped her initials into the login, along with her prescribed password. The communication system came to life. Several buttons emerged on the touchscreen. She tapped h
er finger on the one that read SOS Transmission.

  A mechanical drum sounded from above as the facility protruded its antenna array. The automated message had begun its transmission.

  ********

  FORT STROSHINE

  West Coast United States, Inhabitable Zone. Previously known as Washington.

  Bill Rico thought he’d seen enough chaos at the dawn of the plague. It was just two years ago when he was a simple air traffic controller. The job was busy, requiring constant attention to detail. It was that same skill that prompted him to move his family to the coast, well before his home state of Nevada increased to a Z-Level 6.

  They arrived only days before the outbreaks went rampant. The world governments were too fixated on trying to find a cure. There was debate on whether the carriers were even dead. Not to mention the outcry about insensitivity. People referred to the resurrected as zombies, a term deemed derogatory by many commenters on social media. Before the world understood how to deal with the carriers, it was too late. Of course, the government, still more concerned with votes for the next election, caved to the vocal minority. In turn, they opted for treatment procedures for the undead rather than euthanasia. Yet, despite this, the feds were setting up various settlements to the west, condensing all major political figures into the coastal states. Such a move was not kept secret for long. It was then that Rico packed his family and moved to the coast.

  In the following year, the world fell under the weight of an ever-increasing number of infected. The United States, what was left of it, was now condensed into the states of Washington, Oregon, and northern California. The rest was deemed uninhabitable. To prevent the undead from getting in, this area was separated from the rest of the continent by the use of a large concrete barrier. Stretching from Port Angeles and curving down to San Rafeal, what remained of the U.S., and North America, resided.

  Everyone was recruited into some kind of service. For Rico, his air traffic control resume placed him into military dispatch service. To this day, the military was conducting what seemed to be an endless amount of rescue missions into areas deemed Z-Level 5 or lower, bringing civilians back behind the Border. In addition, he would have to intercept radio calls for aid, and pass the information over to the Station Commander.

  In doing so, he was required to reference the caller’s location in the satellite map in his computer. The computer displayed the area’s outbreak level, which would ultimately determine whether resources would be spent for rescue.

  A physical, laminated copy of the rescue program was tapped to his desk. It was the same text as the brochures that were handed out in the early days of National Emergency being declared, listing the various outbreak levels. Except the difference with this brochure was that somebody had taken a pen to it, labeling a ‘Z’ next to all the outbreak levels.

  Z-Level 1 – Undead Population minimal. Infection Risk minimal. Area considered suitable for inhabitance.

  Z-Level 2 – Low Undead Population. Infection Risk low. Inhabitants are warned to monitor surroundings.

  Z-Level 3 – Undead Population increased. Threat Level low but has potential risk of elevating. Approximately 10 undead per every 100 inhabitants. Citizens encouraged to remain indoors. Pack precautionary items in case of evacuation.

  Z-Level 4 – Undead Population at 20 percent. Martial Law declared. Citizens remain indoors pending further details.

  Z-Level 5 – Undead Population deemed too uncontrollable. Infection Risk High. Area residents ordered to sanctuary areas to await military pickup for evacuation.

  Z-Level 6-7 – Escalated Undead Population. Considered highly contaminated and highly dangerous. Military intervention deemed improbable.

  Z-Level 8-9 – Undead Population Overwhelming. Rescue operation considered impossible. Any residents left behind forced to fend for themselves.

  “I copy. Border Command, out,” he said. He got on the computer to type in the log for a successful rescue in Utah, and another in Idaho. It seemed that the operations would never end. Rico often wondered if they could even spare the fuel and resources. Sure, the government had built a manufacturing facility for armaments, but that was slow moving and would surely not keep up with the demand.

  He was too busy to think too hard on it. In minutes, he would have to take the next call, and he really needed to get the log completed. He typed in the time, location, and name of the officer in charge. Then it came to the event description. He was a few words into the first sentence when the computer froze.

  “What the hell—”

  A green bar flashed at the top of the screen. A new tab opened, displaying a beacon on the map, located somewhere in Montana. He read the glaring red text, then shot up out of his chair.

  “COMMANDER! You’ll want to see this!”

  From across the room, the officer in charge hustled in his direction, winding between several moving bodies in the busy dispatch center.

  “What have you got?” he called out to Rico. The dispatcher sat back down in his chair and zoomed in on the beacon. As the Commander arrived, he enlarged the text. The Commander studied the screen, then grabbed the landline next to Rico’s computer.

  “Get me the President!”

  CHAPTER 5

  General Spears inhaled the salty air as he waited at the Fort Anese landing pad. He had been informed of the successful extraction of Senator Baker and had been instructed to personally escort him to Headquarters.

  Fort Anese was only five-hundred yards away from the concrete barrier. As the General waited, his eyes were busy looking over the top of the twelve-foot wall. Soldiers marched with assault rifles along the guardrails, constantly looking down at the group of the undead that congregated on the other side. Like a miniature Great Wall of China, the barrier was consistently patrolled by soldiers. They walked over the top and the sides, checking for any weakness in the structure. Luckily, the weather was good, providing excellent sunshine and a blue cloudless sky for the aircraft to glide across.

  Soldiers moved about all around him. All around, he saw camouflaged uniforms stained with dirt and sand, if not the blood of victims. There was hardly a recruit in the battalion that had not been face-to-face at least once with a member of the infected. The sky was filled with medevac choppers both leaving and returning. By now, he’d be hard pressed to even find a civilian who hadn’t had to fight for survival at some point.

  His promotion came with his arrival to Portland Air National Guard Base in Oregon, when he was a Colonel. With it came the responsibility of overseeing the continent-wide rescue operations. In addition, he was given jurisdiction of maintaining defense procedures near Fort Anese, Washington. His responsibilities meant he never left the base. Rarely had he seen the residential areas, old and new. After a year, he was detached from anything that wasn’t his job. The pay rate meant nothing to him anymore. He was owned by the government. And his men were owned by him.

  The Chinook passed over the Border and began to descend onto the landing pad. General Spears stood unfazed as the downdraft swept around him. The ninety-eight-foot aircraft set down, and the ramp opened up.

  Private Dunn was the first to step out. The General could hear Sergeant Keegan yelling after him.

  “Private Dunn, get your ass back here!”

  Dunn had already reached the General and shoved the crumpled flyer into his hands.

  “You might want to have that revised, seeing we’re not going by it anyway,” Dunn said.

  “Private!” Sergeant Keegan marched from the Chinook. After giving the General one final glare, Dunn stood at the position of attention and waited for Keegan’s chastisement.

  “Yes, sir,” he said. Keegan looked as though he was about to burst into flames.

  “Report to the barracks! Now!”

  “Aye aye, Staff Sergeant,” Dunn said. With one final grimace directed at General Spears, he turned and marched away. Corporal Reimer walked alongside Gordon down the ramp, escorting the two VIPs to General Spears.
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  “Sir, I will enact disciplinary measures against the Private,” Keegan said.

  “Negative, Staff Sergeant,” Spears said. “You’re gonna need him. After I’m through with these folks here, I have to report to an emergency meeting with the President. I’m not yet informed of the specific situation, but I suspect your team’s services will be required.”

  “Sir…” Keegan paused, holding back on his desire to inform the General of the team’s low morale and exhausted state. But he knew his words would land on deaf ears. Even he couldn’t help but notice the General’s full figure, slightly rounded belly, and the cleanliness of his uniform. It contrasted vastly with the ragged appearances of the marines and other soldiers he commanded, particularly those being sent into the hot zones. Keegan feared a sense of disconnect. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the rank to address it. He would just have to hope that the next mission would be a fast and simple one. “Aye aye, sir.”

  Dunn arrived at the group of buildings that made up the barracks. He walked past several of the structures before arriving at Building D, where his assigned bunk was.

  “Hey man, wait up!” Dunn glanced over his shoulder, seeing Reimer and Gordon following him.

  “What?”

  “What? What do you mean what? How about, WHAT the hell was that back there!” Gordon said. “That’s General Spears!”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Dunn remarked. He shot an icy stare at his fellow marine, knowing full well it was obvious why he did what he did.

  “No, I’m not kidding,” Gordon said. “Is it your intention to get yourself put in the brig?”

  “Hell, now that you mentioned it, I should’ve socked the bastard in the jaw. Maybe get myself discharged.”

  “It’d be the brig first,” Reimer corrected him. “And that’s a best-case scenario.”