by Mark Tufo
The zombies were tightening their vice, moving in so close that it didn’t make sense to try and avoid them. The truck had a steel bumper on it; I guess it was time to see if the welder who had put it on was worth their union wages. At twenty miles per hour, I wasn’t getting the explosive hits with the guts pouring up and over the hood; it was more of an ushering to get the fuck out of the way. Kind of like what the cops do at the end of Mardi Gras; assemble en masse at the end of a street on horseback and just push the drunks out of the way.
And much like those revelers, the zombies weren’t too pleased about it, either. Those that weren’t beating on the truck were finding a way to hold on for a ride. Felt very much like I was wheeling a banana cart into a monkey house, or more aptly, like a modern-day virus injecting into a decent operating system. Randing was turning the plane around; it was going to be a race to the finish line. I heard BT yell out in surprise–I was fully expecting to see his body rolling away from me and had hit the brakes so I could help him.
“Why the fuck are you stopping?” he yelled.
“Why the fuck are you yelling? Thought you were about to fall off!”
“Readjusting the box!”
“How you doing up there?”
“Just hurry up, Mike.”
Whenever BT used my first name, I knew it was serious. The collision of so many bodies was slowing our progress, Randing looked like he was speeding up, and considering what was happening, I couldn’t blame him. Eastman, his crew and my squad looked in danger of being cut off from all avenues of escape. If Randing didn’t get to them soon, they would have no choice but to make a run for it. Randing would take off, and then it would just be myself and BT in the midst of all the zombies, armed, of course, with a nuclear warhead. At that point, I’d want to pull the pin. Pretty sure they don’t work like a hand grenade, but it sounded good. There were some more shots from up above; I could see in my one, good side-view mirror zombies falling off and tumbling into the throngs of others. My heart skipped a beat every time I witnessed this, not because of the zombies, but at any moment I expected it to be the oversized BT doing the falling.
I was so tense, I would have been hard-pressed to slide a pencil out of my ass. Wait…that’s really weird; what the fuck was the pencil doing there in the first place? Maybe I should have just said my cheeks were clenched tight. If I ever edit this, I’ll take out that other sentence. I was frustrated; I just wanted to shout at the zombies to get the fuck out of the way. We were in range of getting some assistance from my squad, but they were having their own problems. Randing was grinding down the occasional stray zombie that ventured into his path. If I thought it had been gross watching from a seat on the plane, where I could only see the final outcome, witnessing the event firsthand was something I don’t think I’ll ever be able to scrub from my memory. When I’m old and drooling and don’t remember how to operate a television remote, I will still see those bodies turned into watery confetti. It sprayed up and around the props and backwashed some fifty feet before settling to the earth like a macabre snowstorm that might fall in some version of hell.
Randing had, thankfully, gotten to my group. The side door had opened and he was urging them in. I could see them looking our way; I was waving them into the plane.
“Go! I’m ordering it!” I told them.
Chapter 12
Mike Journal Entry 10
The plane turned; I figured this was where he went back down the runway and up, leaving us to our own devices. Instead, he turned his ass. We were looking at an open cargo bay and a well set up machine gun nest–even had sandbags. Somebody’d been planning accordingly. From this angle, it looked like it was firing head-on, but he was clearing a path to our right. The heavy rounds and the rate of fire did an adequate job.
“Going to get bumpy,” I told BT as I was preparing to get onto our bullet-plowed lane.
“Like it’s been smooth so far.”
“How many with you?”
“Ten, maybe twelve…not moving. They’re holding on, waiting for the ride to stop.”
Most of my squad had fanned out around the machine gunner and were firing in lanes, knocking down zombies like bowling pins. I was beginning the process of turning us in a slow arc so I could back the truck up as close to the plane as possible and let the belt take the bomb down.
“BT–you’re going to have to guide me in.” The passenger-side mirror was still there, just pushed in so far that all I could see was the logo of the transport company that guaranteed to move my luggage with as much care as I would. That’s a crock of shit. They toss that stuff around like politicians do promises at election time. Just fling those words helter-skelter to see which ones stick or resonate, I would imagine.
“That’s what she said.”
“What?” Then I remembered my last words. “Are you kidding me right now?”
“Sorry. You’re not the only one that tries, and fails, by the way, to use humor in a terrifying situation.”
“What fucking situation am I ever going to be in that necessitates you being there to help guide it in?”
“You are seriously analyzing a ‘that’s what she said’ joke? Just drive to the left…your other left! “Your other, other left!” he yelled out after I figured I had corrected my trajectory.
“How many fucking lefts do you think I have?”
“Don’t hit the plane!”
“BT–I can’t see the plane!”
On paper, this may come across as a humorous interlude; while it was happening it was anything but. The truck was jostling around as I plowed into zombies and with the herky-jerky movements you tend to make when you are backing up with any speed. Zombies were smacking at the side windows as I went past; on more than one occasion I would watch as a zombie’s head blew up under the stress of a high-speed projectile added into the mix.
“Another hundred feet!”
Telling someone “another hundred feet” when they can’t see where they’re going is like telling a starving person how delicious the hamburger you’re eating is. Basically, no help, is what I’m shooting for here. I could hear my squad yelling.
“Winters, guide me in.”
“Start slowing down, sir, and go to your left,” he responded. After a couple of seconds, he added, “Your other left.”
“So help me, I’m going to demote all of you,” I hissed.
Stenzel and Grimm came up on my passenger side, Kirby and Rose the other; they were firing.
“Sir, come to a stop.” I wasn’t going fast, but the suddenness must have been enough to start the bomb rocking because I heard BT’s litany of swears.
“The belt,” BT said as he began to scrabble down. “Wrong way!” I quickly reversed the direction. Tommy and BT, along with Springer, Harmon, and the SEALs were in position and helped get the box down and onto the ramp of the large plane. Captain Smoltz hooked a winch up to a handle and pulled it the rest of the way in, although the mechanism was on its own pace, some in the squad pushed, getting the process to move as quickly as possible. I was between my shooters and the loaders, gauging when it would be safe to collapse the defense.
“Package is secure!” Captain Smoltz reported. “Get your people in here.”
“Fire team! Let’s go!” I was waving with my arm. The zombies were fast on our heels. “Start putting the ramp up!” It moved slow enough that the lead zombies would be able to get on it. Heard the props rev up as Randing was getting antsy to move. Hard to fault him that, as we were now completely engulfed in a zombie horde. I had to jump up onto the ramp; Stenzel, Rose, and Kirby made the jump as well. Grimm stepped in a steaming pile of rotting intestine; his lead foot slid out from under him and instead of jumping, he made an awkward slide that partially obscured him from me as I kept rising in the air.
“Fuck,” I said. Stenzel turned; she and the rest had been heading down the ramp into the belly of the plane, which had lurched forward. I was looking straight down at PFC Grimm, who was panicked as h
e was trying to get his legs under himself. Looked like he was on the world’s grossest slip and slide. Every time he planted a hand to give himself leverage, it would splay away. I was jumping from a perfectly good plane and into a zombie storm. I was careful to avoid the brunt of the viscera and still almost went for a ride. I reached out to yank Grimm, first out of the quagmire he found himself in, and then up onto his feet. Unidentifiable goo dripped from the majority of his body…the odor was indescribable.
By now the plane was slowly beginning its taxi. Stenzel had halted the door closing and was making it go back down. Even over the sound of the engines, I could hear Randing screaming for the door to shut.
“Let’s go, Marine!” I grabbed his shoulder and shoved him toward our ride, which was getting away. Don’t know where it came from or what it was anchored to, but a thick rope was tossed out the back.
“Grab it!” BT said.
Liked that idea about as much as I liked the idea of eating the weird cat lady’s casserole at the office pot-luck. It always smelled like old tuna fish and looked surprisingly like Fancy Feast. If we lost our footing or got tangled up in it, we would be dragged to an ugly conclusion. But we did it anyway, because there were no other choices. The plane was moving at a clip that would have been difficult to match. Randing was either oblivious to our plight or didn’t give a shit. In one fluid motion, I bent over while running and wrapped my right hand around the rope; with my left I grabbed Grimm. We were running full tilt and my squad was pulling on the rope, attempting to draw us in. I was four or five steps from letting go, realizing we were going to come up short. Stenzel must have understood this as well; she dropped that ramp completely to the ground.
I lost sight of her in the resultant showering of sparks. The bits of superheated aluminum burned my skin wherever they made contact, but it was enough to slow the plane down–or make Randing slow it down–same thing. BT was singlehandedly pulling us in like a hooked and prized catfish. Zombies were no more than a few steps behind; no way we were going to make it on without bringing a couple of friends. I could hear yelling through the microphone. One of Randing’s crew was attempting to shove Stenzel out of the way to get the door closed.
It was BT to save the day again. “You touch her and I’ll toss you out like yesterday’s leftovers!” I appreciated the help, but he was talking to an officer; gonna bet that the majority of my squad would be facing the Uniform Code of Military Justice when we got back.
Grimm stumbled, but I had my left arm securely wrapped around his mid-section and a death grip on the rope with my right. We were running, stumbling, and were yanked forward to the edge of the cargo ramp. BT had the rope wrapped around his waist; I could see Rose, Kirby and a few others holding on to his life-line in a desperate tug of war with us on the other end. We were all going to make it or we were all going to be spilled out over the runway like a burst open piñata, the zombies jumping on their prizes like kids on candy.
As my foot hit the lip, I did my best to toss Grimm aboard. BT yanked him by the shoulder and gave him enough thrust I didn’t know if he’d stop until he got to the cockpit. He then extended his hand and grabbed mine tight.
“The door!” he yelled to Stenzel, who was doing her best to get it up. Three zombies joined us on that platform as it raised into the air. It was my feverish brother that helped save us from further casualties. He swayed to the back of the plane and drilled one of the zombies in the skull, then put two shots in the shoulder of the second, containing enough momentum to force it tumbling backwards out of the plane where it broke open upon contact with the pavement.
It was the third zombie that was going to be my undoing. I was partially wrapped up in the rope and the zombie was leaning down to get at me. A brown blur passed on my right as a white one flew past on my left. Holly had circled in behind the zombie, dangerously close to the edge of the hatch, and Chloe had driven her head straight into the monster’s knee. I heard the crack of its patella as it was pushed backward and fell over Holly, who was in perfect position for what looked like a very practiced routine between the two. That last zombie joined the other two, rolling into unmoving lumps upon the tarmac.
“Fuck me,” was all I could manage as I got more securely inside and saw what had happened. Randing had the nose in the air before Stenzel got the door shut.
BT was leaning down, looking at his hands, which were raw after having lost more than a few layers of skin.
“Thanks man,” I told him.
He didn’t look up. “Welcome.”
Grimm was on the floor, his chest heaving. Most of my squad was sitting in the cargo hold, the rope in their laps. Captain Smoltz clapped me on the shoulder before he and his group went to sit down. We were all taking a moment to collect ourselves. Thankful, yes. But saddened, all the same; we had lost one of our own.
“Thank you.” I walked down the line and let everyone know how appreciative of their efforts I was. Chloe came over and waited patiently for her turn. Her, I took a few extra moments to thank as I got down on my haunches.
“Everyone up, get in your seats and strapped in,” BT said. As he walked past me, he let his hand drag across the top of my head. “Holy shit, Talbot. Can’t say it’s never interesting.” He turned to offer a hand up.
“I’m gonna stay here a minute.” Holly had joined me. I wanted to get lost in a little bullie huddle for a few. I knew underneath my cammies, I was trembling; I didn’t want anyone on the squad to know how rattled I was.
“When you’re ready, Major Randing wants to see you.” Eastman had come up. “How are you doing?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Damn good job out there. I’ll make sure Bennington knows.”
Wanted to tell him I didn’t give two fucks what he thought–or Bennington, for that matter. Instead, I thanked him. Every once in a while I let discretion take hold, although at that moment, I’m pretty sure I just wanted to be left alone, and I knew if I said something untoward, he’d feel compelled to let me know exactly what he thought; just wasn’t worth it.
We had climbed to our cruising altitude, and the flight attendants were getting ready to come down the aisles with our beverage choice and miniature bag of pretzels. I extracted myself from the dogs, who wanted to follow me up. Stenzel intercepted them with some treats from her MRE. Bullies are very loyal, loving dogs, but when you look up breeds that are food motivated, I’m pretty sure they ate their way to the top.
“Sir, you wanted to see me?”
Randing made sure to leave me at the position of attention for a lot longer than was necessary before he pulled off his headphones to look at me.
“I’ve been in touch with Colonel Bennington.”
Again, I wanted to say something about the little bitch tattling or running to momma, but I was beat–both mentally and physically. There was no sense in heading into another battle at this point.
“Told him you got the job completed.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I’m not done, and it would behoove you to not interrupt a senior officer when he’s speaking.”
I slowly clenched and unclenched my hands, considered counting to ten; didn’t.
“You get the job done, that’s without question, but I believe you are not fit for command. Perhaps a better officer would not have lost Private Hendley.”
“Halsey, sir.”
“I don’t give a good goddamned!” He stood.
“Private Derrick Halsey. Twenty-one years old, born in Stockton, California. His girlfriend is Karen Slackmon; wonderful girl. Makes the most incredible cupcakes you’ve ever had. He was planning on asking her to marry him when we got back; showed me the ring–little gaudy, but when you can literally choose from any stone you want in a jewelry store, why not? Now I have to tell her that he died in the line of duty.”
“Are you listening to anything I have to say?”
“I was just giving you some background information on the man we lost back there so perhaps
you would be less inclined to mispronounce his name again.”
“If I had my choice, I’d save us all the trouble and have you thrown off this plane!” Not even sure what I’d done to cause his face to turn so red and the veins on his forehead and neck to bulge out. Usually, I can pin it on something, this seemed entirely out of the blue.
Captain Wendley of his crew spoke. “Sir, I don’t think this is the time or the place.” He was looking back at my squad, who I’m sure were half a tick away from a mutiny at air. Not sure if it had ever happened before, but I wasn’t above pioneering it.
“This is my plane, Captain. I’ll do whatever I want,” he said in no uncertain terms. “Why the hell are you still in my cockpit? Lieutenant, you’re dismissed.”
I turned and left.
“Get back up here!”
“You just told me to leave.”
“You will give me a proper salute!”
“I don’t think so.” I left and sat back down.
“What are you doing, Talbot?” BT whispered. “Couldn’t you just give him the damn salute?”
“Wouldn’t have mattered. He’s going to try and hang me out to dry. At least I have this to help me sleep at night.”
“Oh shit,” Winters mumbled as Randing came storming out of the cockpit. His hand was on his sidearm.
I did not pick my head up as he was laying in to me. I just tuned him out. I’ve had way better than him dress me down, that, and if he did manage to get my feathers any more ruffled, I was going to be compelled to put him on his ass in a most unsavory manner.
“You will stand, Lieutenant!”
I stood slowly. BT tried to grab me so I wouldn’t do something impossible to come back from. It was Major Eastman that must have noticed a shift in the cabin.
“Major Randing, you can deal with this back at Etna.”
