Lie Zombie Lie (I Zombie) Page 6

  And then, Hell was unleashed above ground. What seemed like a small army of screamers descended upon the unit. The second the first pair of sour-milk eyes was spotted, the tattoo of machine gun fire filled the air. It was on. War. And this time around, it was good for something – for killing zombies.

  “Drekker! Behind you!” One of the soldiers cried out, but too late. The screamer was on top of the young man before he could turn and fire. Cold, dead fingers tangled within the hair on either side of the man’s head and pulled hard. Hair and flesh released themselves from their permanent residence around the skull. The soldier screamed out as the zombie slowly dug its fingers into the exposed skin of the man’s head. The rotting flesh of the fingers had already peeled back to expose sharper bone. Those bony tips of the phalanges easily wormed their way into the space between flesh and bone. Once the deadly fingers were buried under layers of skin, the zombie yanked its hands out, tearing away the flesh like wet paper.

  The soldier passed out from the shock of pain. The screamer wrapped its fingers around the skull and bashed it on solid ground. It took only three cracks, before blood began to pour. After five cracks, the skull was sufficiently ruined to allow greedy fingers inside.

  Franklin, and the rest of the Zombie Response Team, had been trained well. But that training only applied to Type One Zombies – the slower moaners. The reality of the screamer went far beyond anything the Minneapolis unit had experienced.

  “Sir, what are your orders?” The second in command shook the leader out of his fear fugue.

  Franklin Tash had no orders. He couldn’t think. His brain misfired. The only command he could think of was ‘fire’. That had done no good. His men were going to die.

  “Sir! Your orders?” Again, the second demanded.

  “Fire.” Franklin half-whispered.

  “We’ve been unloading on them and it’s done nothing but piss them off.”

  The commander had another meaning of ‘fire’ in mind – a literal meaning. Without a word of warning, Commander Tash pulled away and headed back up the hill to his truck. In the bed of the pickup he had what he hoped he’d not need, a secret weapon.

  Franklin’s feet carried him faster than he ever thought possible. He knew how short time was. Bethany would arrive soon and there could be no danger in the area. Tash had one task, he wouldn’t fail it.

  As soon as he reached the truck, he jerked open the topper hatch and lowered the tailgate. The gleaming metal of the portable flamethrower spoke to him, begged him to put it into action. It would get its wish.

  The tanks were heavy with fuel. The dual metal pods slammed against his back, assuring him they meant as much business as their wielder. With the tanks strapped down tight, Franklin grabbed the nozzle and lit the device. The ‘fwump’ and hiss were a subtle music of death and mayhem he needed to hear. The liquid flame that spilled from the nozzle promised redemption for those members of his team that had just perished. Franklin Tash would uphold the honor of his men.

  When Tash returned to battle, the contents of his stomach were upturned and spilled to the ground at his feet. The screamers had snuffed the life of every member of his squad. With no brain matter left to dine on, the zombies pulled limbs from torsos and sucked marrow from bones. The thick stench of blood flooded Franklin’s senses. The heaves of vomit dried and stomach cramped; but the flame of redemption continued to fan from the hose.

  “Hey! Over here. The last big brain matter in the area. You want it; you better come and get it.”

  The screamers gladly complied with the command. All at once, the monsters descended upon the flame wielding sole survivor. The second a zombie was within reach of the fire, the rotting clothing and skin ignited. Once alight, the beasts began aimlessly wandering around, screeching like pitchforks on chalkboards. Franklin had to do a bit of sidestepping and dancing to avoid becoming nothing more than a collateral fire sale.

  The smell of meat seared by liquid fire was caustic. One by one, the screamers dropped to their knees and gave up their final ghost. The crackle and pop of burning flesh was replaced by a sickening black smoke. Franklin’s flamethrower spit up its last life and went cold.

  Commander Tash stood, motionless, staring out at the carnage of a battle that took less than fifteen minutes to fight. He lost every man on his team, but the goal was achieved. The path was cleared for Bethany. Even still, Franklin couldn’t find the silver lining. Though he lived, his existence was at the cost of every man he commanded.

  “Fuck.” Was all Franklin could get out.

  The flamethrower clanked to the ground, the sound echoed to the heavens. He knew he was supposed to leave no trace, but there wasn’t time to clean up. No time for shovels, buckets, and body bags. Bethany would arrive any moment and every member of the Zombie Response Team was instructed to leave the site before the target arrived.

  Franklin took off toward his truck. As he ran he pulled out his mobile and hit the speed dial entry for headquarters.

  “This is Morgan.” The sweet voice of the young ZRT leader chimed out of the speakerphone.

  “Franklin Tash. The zombies have been neutralized. The area is clear for arrival. But… I lost my men.”

  A brief, awkward silence sucked the air out of the conversation.

  “How many men were lost, Frankin?”

  Another, darker silence.

  “All of them sir.”

  As expected, Franklin was commanded to remain in the area, out of sight, until Bethany arrived and took off safely. Should the target pass through the area, Tash was to follow, at a distance, until the route was clear.

  The eyes and ears of the Zombie Response Team had his orders. He tucked himself away, inside of the main building of the Flying J Truck stop. His position offered clear site of the area and clean shot, should something befall Bethany.

  The unexpected always had a way of following Franklin Tash. As he sat, waiting For Bethany’s arrival, he saw movement coming from the pile of bodies that was the remains of his men. It wasn’t possible. He torched every screamer in the area.

  “Oh fuck.” The realization hit him in the gut, like a punch in the night from a too-large boogeyman. The men that had limbs and intact skulls were amplifying. There was something strange about the whole situation. The process of infection never happened so quickly. Infection to amplification normally took, at least, twenty-four hours.

  The swelling chorus of moans proved that assumption very wrong.

  Franklin scrambled for his weapon, but came up with nothing. He’d dropped his pistol in the melee and, obviously, left the extinguished flame thrower out in the parking lot. He had nothing for defense.

  A gust of wind swung the door to the building open.

  “Shit!” Tash scrambled to the door, slammed it shut, and twisted the dead bolt. He knew the door would hold the zombies out. The multitude of glass panes, on the other hand, was a different story. It would buy him enough time to locate some form of weapon. No matter how dire the situation was, he knew he had to do everything he could to clear the area for arrival. Keeping Bethany safe was above even his own life. And now he had, maybe, ten newly amplified zombies to take out by himself; with no weapon of significance.

  Franklin dashed around the inside of the building, in search of something that could do damage enough to neutralize the walking dead. Connected to the convenient food mart was a diner. The smell of grease and trucker body odor had long since evaporated. All that was left was a slick floor and empty cupboards. Fortunately the cooks’ cutlery was left behind. The knives weren’t quality, but they had a point and held an edge. A cheap knife was better than nothing at all.

  He grabbed the biggest blade he could find. The song the knife sang as he picked it up from the counter brought some reassurance that things could possibly work out. Franklin Tash could survive yet another battle with the undead.

  The dead walked toward the building. The lumbering gate of the new-born zombies was the antithesis of how his men wer
e in life. At least there was some strange comfort in knowing that. If Tash was about to go up against the soldiers that had served under him, he’d never survive. Type One zombies? That’s a different story.

  His confidence peeked just as the zombies were about to reach the building. But before the first blood was drawn, the gray Audi pulled into the parking lot.

  “Bethany.” Franklin whispered as much in awe as he was in fear. Quickly that adoration washed away to be replaced by a sense of panic. He’d failed his one duty and had to rectify the situation. The target had arrived and zombies were present.

  The situation called for swift action. Franklin took an inventory of what weapons he knew to be in the area. Caution was tossed out the window when he realized there were automatic weapons in the trunk of his car. All he had to do was make it thirty yards across a parking lot, grab a weapon, and unload on the men that were once his colleagues.

  Bethany had yet to swing a leg out of the car. For Franklin Tash, this was now a race against an apocalyptic clock.

  Chapter 8

  November 20, 2016 10:15 AM

  Flying J Truck stop Minneapolis, MN

  The Audi was as low on gas as my bladder was low on space. It seemed almost a tragic relativism, my bladder versus our survival. But even in the given circumstances, the Audi running on fumes at least held some truth and validity over our survival. My bladder was nothing more than a discomfort. Even still, when the Flying J appeared on the horizon, I could finally uncross my mental anguish that radiated out from just below my uterus.

  Of course that relativism was shot to Hell when the small band of moaners made themselves known in the parking lot. At that moment, my hands wanted to jerk the wheel and head back to the freeway. The only problem with that plan was that we’d not get very far. The combustion engine was still very susceptible to inadequate amounts of fuel. So somehow, I had to first hope there was fuel in the tanks and, second, figure out a way to take out a small group of the undead.

  I stopped the Audi just on the periphery of the parking lot, its nose pointing directly at the shambling mini-horde. As the engine idled, the idea hit me. I had spent enough time with Sam Leamy to know the blunt force trauma of a car’s grill could quickly bring a flight of angels to sing these zombies to their rest.

  The gas pedal hit the floorboard. The engine roared, bringing the attention of the zombies my way. My brain scrambled for a pithy Shakespearean quote. The only thing I could come up with was “To die, to sleep; no more.” Cliché and touché at the same moment.

  Just as I was about to release my foot from the brake, a male came screaming out of the building. He wasn’t a screamer, of that I was certain. Who he was, and what he was doing, was clearly lost on me. I thought maybe he saw the car and was making a break for us, but he was running in the wrong direction. What the man was doing was suicidal.

  “What the heck is going on with that dude, B? And why are you revving… oh no, you’re not going to do what – ”

  Echo was a clever girl, much cleverer than her years should allow. But this was the apocalypse. People had to grow up damn fast now.

  “Echo, strap yourself in. This is going to be a bumpy ride. Gabriel, grab a hold of Jacob. Don’t let anything happen to him.”

  “Bethany, couldn’t we just pull out a piece and pump their asses full of lead? Why risk our only means of getting the fuck out?” Gabriel’s words momentarily stopped me from pushing the car into a maximum overdrive zombie smack down.

  And then tragedy struck. The Audi choked and chugged until the engine went silent. The gas gauge clearly proclaimed the car was bereft of fuel. Now, we had no choice. It was full-on war. Before my conscious mind could grasp what was going on, my hand grabbed the gun and my legs insisted I leave the car. These were moaners. Moaners die.

  I channeled the spirit of Jacob and the balls of Sam Leamy to go full-on hero. I was a La Femme Wrecking Ball, about to go beast mode on a small gang of brainistas.

  “Hey! Over here! IQ of 161 on the menu. Gray matter so sweet and delicious, it’ll make you smack your momma!”

  And like the film of my inner marine bad-ass, I dropped to one knee, brought the pistol to bear on the pack of monsters, took in a deep breath, and took a shot.

  The explosion was far louder than it should have been. When I saw more than one moaner go down, I realized what had happened – someone else had taken a shot. Two of the moaners had been dropped, the rest of the pack split in two; half coming after me, the other half after the mystery shooter.

  Three moaners. I had no idea how much ammunition was left in the weapon. Now was not the time for doubt. Now was the time for kicking ass – and willing extra bullets to magically appear in the clip of my pistol.

  Another breath in. Another shot taken. Another moaner down.

  I wanted so badly to do a bit more channeling, only this time the Count, from Sesame Street.

  “One dead zombie! Hahahaha!” The words actually came out of my mouth.

  The explosion of a larger weapon was heard, followed by a scream. Whoever the mysterious militiaman was, he was likely either dead or infected. Either way, his life was forfeit.

  Another breath, another shot, another dead bastard.

  I had one zombie left and he was getting much too close for my comfort. At first, it seemed the best plan of attack was to head back to the car, climb on top, and take my last shots from up high. But drawing the undead anywhere near Jacob was an obvious mistake.

  So, I took off the other way.

  But the zombie bastard continued on toward the car.

  “Holy fuck!”

  The zombie reached the car and made it straight for the rear passenger seat – Jacob’s side. When the soggy bag of meat made it to within licking distance of the window, it just stood and stared; its body slowly waving back and forth. Inside the car I could hear the sounds of panic rising and falling – mostly rising.

  But the beast just stood there, like it was transfixed on some hidden dimension only meant for the rotting eyes of the undead.

  “Hey!” My voice shattered the magic moment. The zombie turned to me and let out a sound I hadn’t heard from the walking dead. The sound was tonal, but more than one tone – a chorus of well-trained operatic cows, or like some special effects in a really bad sci-fi movie, only this was all too real.

  My hand held the pistol, steadily pointed at the bastard’s forehead. But even with the bangbang ready to knock the son of a bitch permanently into a state of slumber, the thing went back to the car window. I didn’t have to think too long and hard as to the why the zombie was so enamored of the contents of the Audi.

  “Jacob.”

  When the realization hit me, the pistol unloaded three shots into the moaners head. Just as the thing hit the ground, the anonymous gun blast went off behind me. Shortly after the overly-loud gunshot, the male that screamed out of the building earlier stumbled into the parking lot. He was hurt. My gut told me the boy had been bit. As soon as he was near enough for my eyesight to adjust, my suspicion was confirmed.

  “Help!” The boy cried out, holding his arm. Blood sprayed out from between his fingers. The moaner that bit him must have ripped through an artery.

  “Stop!”

  I couldn’t help him. The boy was gone, already infected.

  “I need help.” The boy drew closer.

  “I said stop. You’ve been bit. You’re infected. There’s nothing that can help you.”

  The boy continued forward.

  “That’s not true. You’re Bethany right? You have a cure. You can save me. I risked…”

  The boy dropped to his knees. He was bleeding out. I didn’t have the heart to tell him there was no cure. I wasn’t sure if he would bleed out before he amplified. If he amplified first, the blood loss wouldn’t matter.

  The pistol in my hand had an empty clip. If the boy amplified, he’d be on me in an instant.

  “Please. You have to help me. Just give me the cure. You can even toss
it to me and I’ll inject myself. I was a nursing student… I know how to…”

  The boy started convulsing and screaming. He was turning. I dashed to the car, threw open the door and grabbed for my bag. I always had a spare clip.

  “Fuck! Where’s my clip?”

  I turned back to the car and saw the clip shining in the driver’s seat. It had fallen out when I grabbed the bag.

  As soon as I turned back, I heard the scream of the boy. He’d turned. He was a screamer.

  Before I could slam the clip into the pistol grip, the screamer was on me. The bastard dragged to the ground and forced to my back. The best I could do was reach my hands up and block the screamer from getting close enough to bite. I could smell his already rotten breath, look into the curdled orbs of his eyes.

  With all my strength, I did my best to heave the beast to the side. I kicked up, sent a knee into his groin; everything I could think of. Nothing worked. The monster insisted itself upon me. Gnashing teeth drew nearer. This was it. I was finally about to get pimp slapped by the bitter hand of irony.

  The hot scream of the zombie was in my ear when the gun went off. The shot was made from the side, so all back spatter sprayed out and not down.

  The screamer rolled off, an un-lifeless lump. When the corpse was out of my line of sight, I had a perfect vision of Gabriel, holding the smoking gun.

  “Chicago style.” Gabriel smiled down at me and offered a helping hand.

  Finally upright, my knees decided they hadn’t had enough of being down, and gave out. I couldn’t believe it. I had already gone to Hell and back, swam naked in the River Styx, got raped and reamed by Satan himself. So why was I afraid? Zombies had become common place and I had seen everything the undead nation had to offer. And yet, one simple screamer had me pissing my pants. One. Screamer.

  “Bethany!” Echo was out of the car and on her knees at my side. Her concern was not only genuine, but touching.