Eastman was turning the plane when we all saw the first signs of something amiss. I know, I know, everything about this was amiss; this was amisser, and I don’t give two shits if that’s a word or not, and, anyway, it is now because it exists in this journal. Smoke; thick, black smoke was pouring from one of the engines on the far side of the plane. I’d like to think that some of the zombies had begun to combust, but that was too much to ask for. I knew the four-prop plane could fly with three working engines; how far was the major going to push it? The plane was vibrating even more than it should have been, given the circumstances. Like maybe the engine that was smoking had thrown its bearings and the prop was turning unevenly. I didn’t know much about planes other than I was happy when they landed and I got off the fucking thing. But if the prop was jacked and not running true, could it wobble off and fly into the plane? It would cut through the shell like a fillet knife through a fresh fish. I’d do the hot knife through butter analogy but that one has been overplayed. There were nervous stares from my entire squad. BT was still glaring at me.
The zombies had dispersed, not completely, but they were keeping a respectable distance away, Eastman didn’t chase them or turn the engines down. I was waiting for the order to cover them while they raced out to work on the tail. It didn’t come. He must have been shutting down the bad engine, or it was seizing up, because the bounce in my eyes was subsiding. Then all of the engines began to slow. The door to the cockpit opened.
“The major wants to see you.” Major Jackson pointed at me.
I unbuckled and headed that way; I felt like I was being called into the principal’s office. Not sure why I always felt guilty about something, but there it is. The Catholic runs deep in me, and let’s be honest, I’ve usually done something worthy of a berating. Chloe and Holly followed; I was happy for the company.
“Could you shut that,” Eastman asked as the three of us stepped in. He took a look at the dogs before talking. I missed the first few sentences as I was busy staring out a windshield that had been covered in zombie gore. The windshield wipers were doing their best to push the material to the side and off, but were failing miserably. The blades of the props were dripping blood to match that of a Kosher slaughterhouse’s instrument of choice. The nose of the plane was a deep crimson color, so much so, that the tiny spots of shiny metal that shone through looked out of place like diamonds in the mud.
“Lieutenant,” he said loudly to snap my attention to him.
“Yup, I’m here,” I told him, though I’d yet to look his way.
“Look over there.” He was pointing to the engine that was still smoking; thick wisps roiled off of it. At first I thought it was a trick of the eye, then I saw the tentative licks of flame.
“Shit. Now what?”
“I’m going to get the plane moving again, but I’ll be dumping the fuel, otherwise we’re just a rolling bomb. There’s a freeway past that greenbelt up ahead; I’m going to drive as far as this old bird lets me.”
“Any guess on how far that might be from them?”
“Could be two miles or as many as five; after that there’s an overpass we won’t fit through. I wanted to ask you if you would prefer the distance or my attempt to kill more of them.”
“Get this thing moving. You kill another ten or hundred doesn’t matter; they’re like Fritos.”
“Fritos?” he asked.
“Yeah, they’ll make more.”
He could only shake his head. Not sure how thrilled he was that his survival was now so tightly intertwined with mine.
“Get us the distance so we can make our next move.”
“Buckle up again–not sure how friendly the terrain in that greenbelt is going to be.” He reached back and petted Chloe’s head; she licked his hand. Holly nudged the other on the hindquarters as I was leaving to let her know they needed to go.
“Go lay down, you two.” I pointed to their makeshift bed as I sat back down, they decided instead to crawl under mine and BT’s seats.
“What’s going on?” BT asked as the engines throttled up.
“I’m not telling you shit. You’ll just blame me for it again.”
“Tell me or I’ll start going into great detail about this role-playing thing your sister and I do.”
“Don’t you fucking dare.”
“She likes to dress…”
“Fine! We’re on fire. Happy? Eastman is going to dump all the fuel while trying to get us on the freeway where we will once again be hoofing it in an attempt to get away from Dewey.”
BT’s head sagged.
I was worried for him, but even more so for the dogs. Yeah, they were survivors, they’d proven that point. But fast, fleet of foot, and tons of stamina were all things they did not possess. They’d relied on smarts. Tommy could carry them for days, but was it right of me to ask him? I looked over to the boy, who gave me a thumbs-up like he knew what I was thinking. Not sure how they would react to it, as they were still getting used to being around people again, but one thing at a time. We were moving down the runway, although this time, a lot slower.
I was thinking the fence wasn’t going to be much more of an impediment than what I was used to seeing in shows and movies; cars generally blew through those like they were made from wet, used toilet paper. Not sure why I went down that road; maybe because most of the events of the day were shitty. Should have known Hollywood got it wrong, given how many other things they had taken liberty with. My head swung back and forth violently as we crashed through. The grating sound and the jarring collision made for some very disorienting moments.
The plane rattled like an angry baby, infused with steroid laced milk and shaking the hell out of its toy. Does that even make sense? I felt like we were in said rattle. I was thankful the dogs had decided to stay with us; the equipment and boxes in the back were smashing against everything around them. Cases of bullets blew open spewing rounds all around the floor. This was another strike against us, as we were going to have to spend some time picking up as many of those as we could before we made a go at getting away. One of the larger crates shattered; wood splintered and intermingled with the rest of the debris. The front of the plane hopped up as we either hit a large divot or finally went up and over the section of fence we were taking for a ride. As if the butterfly riot in my stomach wasn’t enough, I bit down hard on my tongue when the ass end slammed into the ground and forced the front end back to the earth in a concussion-inducing seesaw impact.
A crinkle in the aluminum appeared in an arc near the cockpit from floor to ceiling, and, I would imagine, completely around the underbelly. Safe to say this bird’s wings had been clipped. If this thing ever went airborne again it would crack open like a rotten egg. I’d had my fair share of turbulent flights through the years, but I was going to demand my money back at the end of this ride. If this had been a commercial flight, we would have been pelted by luggage popping out of the overhead bins, and orange cups with bags that didn’t inflate would be dangling in front of our faces. If I had to use the dirty-ass seat that a thousand people had flatulated in as a flotation device, it was safe to say I was going to be ornery. We were hopping around–nothing overly worse than what we had been going through–right up until we hit what must have been a deep culvert. When the front end of the plane hit, it had bent up the props, blew out the glass in the cockpit, and most likely gave me four herniated discs in my back. It was so bad I barely even noticed when the tail of the plane followed.
The worst of it was over as Eastman got onto the road, but even then, it was not a smooth ride; sort of like my Jeep on a barely maintained trail. Rough, but not gut wrenching. Eastman had done enough damage; he was not going to get his security deposit back. I could only hope he took out the supplemental insurance the rental agency offered.
“What do you think the deductible on something like this is?” I asked BT as I tried to regain my bearing.
He didn’t even bother to answer. I wasn’t sure I could stand, as I began to unbuckle. “Harmon, Springer, Grimm, Kirby…get on that brass. I want as much of it picked up as quickly as possible.” I felt like I’d done an adequate job of not swaying too much. “Winters, help Tommy rig up some carrying harnesses for the dogs.”
BT pulled me down by the shoulder to whisper into my ear. “That’s not going to look too suspicious? Him carting around a hundred and twenty pounds of dog like it’s a Pop-Tart box?”
“It’s you or him.”
“I think he’ll wear it nice.”
“Figured you might say that.”
“Rose, Stenzel, start packing magazines. BT, you want to help Gary?”
“Might want to think about rigging a carrying harness for him,” BT replied. My brother was awake, but calling him entirely aware and alert would have been a stretch. He was sick; not zombie virus sick, but he was fighting off an infection and it was going to get worse before it got better. We’ve all at some point in our lives dragged our asses out of bed and gone to work feeling under the weather, but very rarely did that job you secretly couldn’t stand involve life or death struggles. Sitting up in bed to change the channel from Dr. Phil to Jeopardy was usually about the most intensive thing I wanted to do when my throat was on fire. Running from zombies wasn’t really an option; I felt bad for him, but it was what it was. Couldn’t do anything about it.
“Lieutenant.”
“No. Every time you call me up there it’s shitty news, and I’m all shittied out for the day. In fact, I’m probably not going to have any room for shit tomorrow, either.”
Stenzel looked up from her loading duties, unbelieving in the fact that I’d said that to a major. The astonishment was her fault; she’d been around me long enough to know how this goes.
“Lieutenant.” The major seemed more mildly annoyed than perturbed.
“Yes, sir.” I reluctantly went up. Eastman was busy putting on his duty belt holster and his 1911. “I take it we’re abandoning ship?”
He didn’t look up while he was getting ready. “Everyone doing all right back there?”
“As good as they can be after going through the spin cycle.”
“Randing’s coming back.” Now he looked up to gauge my response. “Now before you say anything about his character, I want you to know that he is disobeying a direct order to do so.”
“Bennington told him not to, and he is anyway?”
“Not quite like that, but he was told to return to base immediately once he had the scientists aboard.”
“I know that tactic; better to ask for forgiveness than permission.”
“Exactly. I don’t think any amount of pleading is going to forestall the punishment he’s going to receive.”
“He coming back for me?”
“I’m sure that’s it.” Eastman was being sarcastic.
“He needs the runway,” I said as I began to piece out where this conversation was going. “He needs the runway clear of zombies. Should draw most of them out here with your little off-roading adventure. We’ll circle and wait.” I was anticipating a response from Eastman. When it wasn’t forthcoming, I was confused. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“There’s a crate in the back needs to come with us.”
“What is it?”
“That’s a need to know, Lieutenant.”
“You’re going to pull rank right now? Pretty sure I need to know how big it is, how much it weighs, and if it’s dangerous or not, considering it’s my people that are going to be transporting it.”
“My people,” Eastman said.
“Every time I feel like we go over a hurdle together you do dumb shit like that. Go back there right now, Major, and give them an order. See if they look over to me for approval before doing it. Then you can go and threaten their careers and freedom. See if that tact works. Or we could just work together and get shit done.”
“It’s a nuclear device.”
“Fuck you,” I blurted out, didn’t even mean to.
“This is why I didn’t want to tell you.”
“Well no shit. How much danger were we in after your little paint shaker experiment?”
“As long as it didn’t break free from its straps, we should be fine. If not, I don’t think you would have even noticed.”
“Comforting, Major. Can’t tell you how much fun it is for me, knowing that thing is aboard. And why?”
“Treading again on need to know.”
“Eastman.”
“Major.”
“Major.” I acquiesced. “What does Bennington want with a nuke? Can’t deploy it on the zombies; wherever they are, there are people too.”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss what the Colonel wants with it.”
“The SEALs.” The light dawned in my head. “I was wondering why they were here. I figured they were a back-up plan if we didn’t make it. That was the primary mission, wasn’t it? The scientists were just a little gravy on top of the meat and potatoes.”
“Colonel Bennington ordered me to retrieve the weapon and that’s what I did.”
“Just because you were ordered doesn’t mean you had to follow through.”
He paused. “I have family on that base, just like you.”
“You realize where we rank in all of this, right? He wanted to make sure those scientists got back safe and sound, so he left us behind to bring back the bomb.”
“Talbot.”
“Lieutenant.”
He didn’t bother adding that part when he replied. “We’re in the military. Our entire life consists of doing things we don’t like on someone else’s orders.”
“That is a pathetic excuse.”
“We’re not all like you. We can’t simply do what we want and get away with it.”
“Does Randing know what he’s coming back for?”
“No.”
“I’m sure he’s going to be thrilled.”
“Sir.” It was Sergeant Winters.
I turned back. “Are you ever going to address me and it not be zombies?”
He shrugged.
“How we doing on bullets?” I asked.
“Locked and loaded,” Stenzel informed me. “If Grimm would stop eating for a minute or two might have all the ones up off the floor, too.
“All this running around is making me hungry,” he called out.
“How heavy is it?” I sighed. I had serious misgivings about taking the thing, not only the danger it put us in right now, but the long-term consequences.
“Around three hundred pounds…with the case it would be approaching four hundred.”
“I don’t want to be a stick in the mud, but without a vehicle, how do you think we’re going to heft this thing around an active battlefield?”
He didn’t respond.
“Great. You make the shitty orders and I’m just supposed to magically find a way to grant your wish. Want me to do a little jig for you as well?”
“Good god no.” BT had come up to see what the problem was. “I’ve seen you dance. You look like you’re trying to stomp out a brush fire, even have the arms flailing about in no particular rhythm.” He let it go, stopping in mid-windmill, when he realized I was not sharing in his amusement, though he did my unique lack of grace on the dance floor justice. “Spill it, because that was comedic gold; nailed the visuals, too.”
“Major?” I deferred.
“Is this going to get us out of here quicker?”
“Beats me,” I told him.
“Fine.” He turned his attention to BT. “Gunney, there’s a thermonuclear device in the back that we need to get back to the runway.”
“Fuck you.”
“That’s what I said!”
“Mike, what are we supposed to do?” He looked to me, completely ignoring the major.
“I’m going to throw this in there, because it might affect your decision making,” Eastman said.
“If he had decision-making skills, you mean. Sorry,” BT added at the end when he realized I wasn’t liking any part of this. “It’s difficult when they are set up so beautifully. It’s like walking in a room with dominos all lined up and no one there to tell you not to touch them. I mean really, how can you not set that in motion?”
“Done?” I asked.
“For now.” At least he was truthful.
“We don’t bring that thing back, we’ll all be packing our bags.”
“Fuck.” I was looking out the cockpit, hat in one hand, the other I was running through my hair. My family was starting to get into the routine of a more normal existence. The road was nowhere anybody should be. Bennington had many faults, like any of us, but he had that installation buttoned up tight. “What if we tell him it was ruined in our escape attempt? Leaking radiation, maybe.” I had turned back around to gauge Eastman’s reaction.
“He’ll know we’re bullshitting him.”
“Yeah, he will,” BT piped in. “Guy has cop instincts.”
“Lieutenant, I’m sure whatever you’re doing up there is important, but, well, you know…zombies,” Winters yelled up.
“All right people–we’re gearing up. We’re out in three minutes,” I said, going to the back.
“And the crate?” Eastman asked.
“I don’t see the Hulk anywhere around here, Major. Right now our objective is to get away from the zombies and to keep them from congregating here. We’ll get some transportation and swing back by.”
“I will absolutely not leave that untended!”
“Perfect. You hold down the fort and we’ll swing by and pick you up.”
“You insolent piece of…”
“Careful, Major,” BT said, stepping up. The rest of my squad’s attention was now rapt on what was happening, though they were doing their best to pretend not to notice.
“Two and a half minutes, people.” I was in the crew area.
BT stared the Major down before joining me. It was a good bet when we got back we were both going to be made Private, and we’d be cleaning out overused latrines with our own toothbrushes for a very long time. The major and his crew were in a small huddle, I’m sure discussing how they were going to deal with the mutiny. There was a chance, albeit a small one, that they might draw down on us. It would be a bad move on their part, but one I needed to be prepared for. I made hand signals for everyone to change their channels to a private one before I spoke.
“We’ve got a situation here; I’m not prepared to go into details at the moment, but the major and his crew might try something. If they do, I want them disarmed quickly and hopefully free from injury, but you are authorized for deadly force if it becomes necessary.” Yeah, you can bet that got a bunch of looks around. BT wasn’t a fan of that. What the major wanted us to do was within his rights to order, so this would be construed as a major offense, one that could land me and some of my team in front of a firing squad.
“You sure about this?” BT covered his mic.
“No,” I answered him as honestly as I could. “BT, we try and drag that fucking bomb past a thousand zombies what do you think is going to happen to us?”
I managed a brief smile as I looked over at Tommy; he had one bullie on his back and one in front. They all looked pretty content with their lot in life. Never met one of those dogs that would forgo a good ride as opposed to walking. I let out a sigh when Eastman said he was coming with us.
As I exited the plane, there was a conga line of zombies just hitting the greenway. I got everyone to the front of the plane and out of sight of our pursuers. If we moved quickly enough, we could make it to and up the overpass, roughly a quarter of a mile away, without them ever seeing us. What they did once they got to the last place they saw us was anybody’s guess. Normally they’d just kind of shuffle around in the general area until they caught wind of new prey. I had a strong feeling that Dewey would send his lackeys to check out that overpass.
We were making good time, even with the civilians. Tommy was making a show of the dogs being heavy, but the slow link in our procession was Gary. BT and I were dragging him at a decent clip. Stenzel was leading the way and Winters was watching our collective asses.
Within five minutes we had climbed the embankment and got to the far side of the road and out of view. Winters was lying down on the road, keeping us informed. We took a left, heading to a gas station and fast food joint a quarter of a mile away. We’d regroup there and then head back to the airport where I could drop off the major and most of my squad, including my brother and the church people.
“Sir, the zombies didn’t stop at the plane,” Winters informed me. I’d left PFC Grimm with him to watch his back while he was lying prostrate on the roadway. “I don’t know how they could have seen us, but they’re heading straight this way.”
“We’re just going to have to footrace them back. Withdraw and meet us at the Exxon.”
“On it.”
Winters and Grimm were with us in under five minutes. I would have loved to spell them a breather, but we were under some serious constraints. Randing was heading back and we still needed to get the bomb. We got underway the moment they stepped into the lot.
“What about one of those ramp trucks?” BT asked while we were running.
I was on a different track. “Where the hell did they even get the nuke from?”
“Does it matter at this point?”
“Sort of. Do they just leave those things hanging around like those green mailboxes where mailmen can grab a raincoat if they need one?”
“You realize that those two things have nothing to do with each other, right?”
“I’m serious man! Where the fuck did they get a nuke? Are there silos around here?”
“I was under the impression they had all shut down. I guess not.”
“That’s the best you got? You guess not?”
“You’re obsessing about the wrong thing,” he said, wanting me to close the book on the subject.
“Don’t you think I know that? I just don’t know what else to go on about. It’s a fucking nuke.”
Stenzel halted us as she got to the edge of some brush that led to a greenway, a fence, and then the airport. “Sir, looks clear.”
“Too clear?” I asked over the headset.
“Too clear? Keep going on with your paranoid self.” BT was getting ready to break for the front and out.
“Hold on there. Let’s go over a few things,” I said.
“What?” he fairly growled.
“Winters, how many zombies were tailing us to the overpass?”
“Ballpark…I’d say a little over a hundred.”
“Tommy, how many zombies do you think were on the tarmac?”
“Had to be eight hundred, possibly a thousand.”
“Major Eastman, how many zombies would you guess you blended into oblivion?”
“Wasn’t planning on counting them, but if pressed for a number…two hundred, give or take?”
“Now BT, I’m going to be completely honest with you. In high school, I smoked a lot of pot, like, to the point where I single-handedly bought a Taco Bell, and I was never really good at the maths. Pretty much made sure I had a hall pass for my entire senior year, but even taking the minimums and the maximums into account, there are roughly five hundred zombies still in the general area.”
“Movement in the concourse,” Stenzel said.
“They’re hiding,” BT said through gritted teeth, looked like he was about ready to grind them down.
“How are we going to clear them out before Major Randing gets here?” Eastman asked.
“Not going to be able to. BT and I will draw a few off as we grab a ramp truck and go retrieve the package.”
“You volunteering me now?”
“You’re the strongest here by a factor of three or four. Yeah, I’m volunteering you to help me move a stupid-heavy box.” I’d learned I could get BT to do damn near anything if I made him look like Superman first. Who among us doesn’t like a good ego stroke? Plus, no part of what I’d said wasn’t true.
“Don’t think I don’t know you think you’re manipulating me.”
“Let’s get this done.” I smacked his chest. “How much time do we have, Major?”
“Randing can circle for half an hour; after that he either lands or flies off before he gets into fuel issues.”
“And if we can’t get a truck started?” I was now up front with Stenzel, looking at a row of the belt trucks. Eastman’s lack of a response was a response in its own right.
“As long as they’re using ethanol-free gas we might be alright.”
“We’d better hope they were using it or the fuel lines are going to be gummed up.” BT tapped my shoulder and we got moving.
We pulled ourselves up and over the ten-foot fence, and as soon as our feet touched the runway Stenzel warned us that she thought the zombies in the concourse had seen us.
“They holding up a welcome home sign?” I quipped.
“Worse. They’re pointing,” she responded.
“Ruined my joke, Corporal.”
“Sorry, sir…it wasn’t that funny anyway.”
BT snorted at that. “You could order her to laugh.”
“Kiss my ass. Let’s run; no reason to be stealthy now.”
“We should have circled further,” BT said, far too late. We had a thousand yards or more to get to the trucks which were inconveniently parked right next to the terminal.
“No time for that.”
“And if we die now?”
“Then we probably should have circled further,” I told him.
“Eat a dick.”
I think it was Stenzel who laughed, though it could have been anyone on the party line.
We were halfway there when the zombies exited the building. We had a sliver of good luck when the door nearest the trucks must have been chained or inaccessible. Still was going to be extremely close. These might be Dewey’s zombies, but they weren’t Dewey. Instead of figuring out where we were going and attempting to cut us off, they were all about hitting us in our current position. Eventually, we would be running for the exact same spot, but for right now, they were trying to get to us and that played in our favor.
We were about a hundred yards from the trucks when BT came up with this little gem: “What about the keys?”
Such a fundamental piece of the pie, and yet we’d overlooked it. One of those “trees for the forest” types of miscalculations. This was like trying to make an apple pie without apples. Sure, it was something my sister would have a go at, but it would fail miserably, a lot like this whole venture, should there not be keys. Had about a three-second window where we could abort the entire thing and veer off, head to the far side where we should have come in on in the first place. Go over the fence and circle back around to be with the squad. The two other scenarios were, we get into the truck, there are keys and it magically starts, we continue the mission. Or, two, we barricade ourselves in the non-moving vehicle surrounded by hundreds of zombies while Randing hot-lands, grabs up my squad, and departs for home. I gave option one a solid ten percent chance of success, so which way do you think we went?
“What if the door is locked?”
“Stop asking questions!”
“That’s your solution? Stop asking questions?” He would have rebuked me a second time, but oxygen was at a premium at the moment. I was hoping there was no reason to lock up one of these trucks; I mean, what fucking chop-shop worth its weight in criminals is parting out a belt truck? We were going to beat the zees to the truck, but by inches; once I touched that handle the decision was made. I took note as I got closer that there was, indeed, a slot for a key below the handle. I spurred myself on. I took the side closest to the zombies; it happened to also be the driver’s side. BT rocked the entire vehicle as he used it to slow himself down. He was halfway around as I gripped the handle. I pushed in the button, expecting to feel the locking mechanism release; instead I was met with the very anti-climactic feeling of it pushing in without resistance, meaning it was locked.
The truck rocked as I frantically worked at opening a door that was dead set against it. My options were limited and very time constrained: bust out the window or start shooting zombies.
“Get in here!” It was BT. I spared a glance; he was sitting in the passenger seat, I would imagine trying to figure out what the fuck I was doing.
“Locked!” I shouted over my shoulder. BT, in his haste to get the door open, nearly pushed me into the approaching horde, whom I was now busy attempting to slow down. I shot two zombies without even having to aim, hitting the first low in the neck and sending it spiraling off to the side as it attempted to hold its head up. The other I stopped dead in its tracks, the bullet making a neat circle under its right eye. That was when I was so rudely pushed forward.
“Get in!”
The command needed to be verbalized as much as a young child heading down the stairs on Christmas Day needs to be told to open his presents. Or a starving person told to eat Thanksgiving dinner. Or a foot fetishist needs to be asked if he would care to lick toes at a sandal convention. I don’t know if those actually exist, but if they did, there would be some very happy, albeit strange, people.
I dove in, making sure to lock the door quickly. BT was dangling the keys in front of me; he nearly dropped them as the first of the zombies slammed up against the side of the truck. I snatched them and put them in the ignition just as the window behind me exploded inward. I noted a zombie with what looked like a gargoyle statue in his hand, straight from some Gothic cathedral. Not sure where he got it, but he was wielding it effectively, slamming it into the side of the truck as he tried to make his way closer to my window. Fortunately, because of the press of zombies, Quasimodo was having a difficult time getting in there.
“Start the truck, Mike.” BT’s voice wasn’t hysterical or even raised, but his tone left no doubt what he wanted me to do and when. I turned the ignition. I got the same response I got from my wife if I gently touched her shoulder at three in the morning after I had spent a night of heavy drinking with my buddies and I was feeling a little randy. Nothing, that is. I got absolutely nothing.
Quasimodo had his gargoyle raised and was inching his way closer. From behind, a few zombies were trying to reach up and grab some part of me; again, the only thing saving me was that there were so many they could not reach in unencumbered. My seat was being pushed and pulled as they clutched at whatever they could.
“Not gonna say it again,” BT warned. Not sure what the fuck he was going to do about it. If the truck didn’t start, beating me into a pulp wasn’t going to help the matter. Might make him feel better, but that’d be about it. You’d think that by this stage in the z-poc, I’d know about glow plugs and their need to warm up before you can turn the engine over; maybe that tidbit would also help me with the wife. Just some shit goes right out the window when you’re up against it. There were zombies on the hood, and some were crawling up the belt in the back. We were pressed in from all sides, and the creepy part–yeah because that wasn’t ramped up enough–as near as I could tell, they were all staring at us. Yes, they were moving and trying to get in, but continuously through it all, their eyes never left ours. Whatever was flowing through Dewey’s brain, he was sharing. Quasi was close; I kept alternating between him, his raised arm, and the glow plug light. When it finally turned a bright yellow, I turned the key. There was a dreadful beat of my heart where again, nothing happened. Then, through the plume of a thick, lung-choking cloud of smoke, the engine chugged and turned over.
“Motherfucker,” I said as I put the truck in reverse. Quasi’s statue-clad hand smashed my side view mirror into oblivion. The truck was moving slowly; not sure if it knew another speed, considering what it did for a living. That, and the zombie bodies to the rear were taking away any momentum I could muster as I slammed the accelerator to the floor. The truck took off like a turtle high on crack. Same ponderous gait but with jerky movements.
“Any chance you could move a little faster?” BT was pressed against his seat staring down two zombies holding on to the lip in the hood, their faces comically smooshed into the windshield as they clung fast. The truck jostled and kicked before finally breaking free.
“Be aware, LT, you have seven stowaways on board with you.”
I thanked Winters for the information. The truck had a governor on it, maxed out at twenty-one and a half miles per hour. Couldn’t shake a sleepy toddler at full bore. Poor analogy; why I’d imagine a baby hanging on to a moving car I don’t know, and why I’d curse my inability to throw him off? Got no reasonable answer for that either. Although, a baby apocalypse would be terrifying in its own right. Just think of the biological warfare they could wage. There you are, a bunch of macho men sitting around a campfire discussing your conquests, when all of a sudden there is a barrage of incoming projectiles, fully-loaded diarrhea-laden diapers. The carnage would be incomprehensible.
“The exit is that way.” BT was pointing to his left; I wasn’t sure how he could see anything with the zombies planted in his face. “Get through the gate, then stop.” He was right, we needed to deal with our clingers before we got back to the plane.
It was the sun that saved my life, or rather the direction I found myself facing. Let me clarify. The sun was casting the shadow of the zombie standing on top of the belt directly over my head, where I could see it as I stopped the truck.
“Stop!” I shouted to BT just as he reached for the door handle. “Watch this.” I opened my door about a foot then pulled it shut quickly. Nothing happened.
“What?” BT asked, confused.
“Hold on.” This time I opened the door a little wider and actually moved my left leg out. That got the zee to move. It was a lot closer than I’d thought it was as it jumped down trying to grab me. I pulled my leg in.
“Damn! How’d you know?” he asked.
“It’s my attenuation to the enemy, my ability to put myself in the minds of those trying to do me harm.”
“Just answer the question.”
“Shadow.”
“Thought so.”
I pulled up a couple hundred yards to get some distance from my potential waylayer.
“You ready?” I asked as I put the truck in park.
“Yeah, if only to kill these two fuckers.” The zombies on the windshield had created enough drool that it had at first pooled on the windshield wiper and then flowed over. BT darted out, daring anyone from above to jump on him. He moved quickly to the front end of the hood before either of the zombies could react. He grabbed the closest one by its boot-clad feet. I thought he was going to merely pull it straight down; should have known that wasn’t going to happen, just because of who BT is and the strength he possesses. He whipped that zombie into a position where it was standing straight up before he brought it down violently. Its head crashed into the pavement with enough force to crack it wide open, the fissure big enough its brains poured out and began to flow down the crown in the road.
I wanted to comment on the grossness of it, but we still had six others to deal with. The other zombie, having witnessed what happened to its friend, was doing its best to make sure that the same fate didn’t befall him and was scrambling farther up the hood to get into attack position. BT had turned and was waiting for the zombie to launch. I fired two quick shots, the second one doing the deed, blowing its brains off to the far side of the road. It immediately collapsed on the hood, severely denting it; I hoped not enough to interfere with the fan.
Two of the zombies that were riding on the back found their way down while the other two were coming closer from above. Plus, we had a speeder running down the road toward us. I was backing away from the truck, realizing that this could go south quickly.
“Need a little help here!” I told BT when I realized that they all seemed focused on me. “Up top!”
It’s a hard thing to implicitly trust that someone is going to have your back. BT was easily one of my most trusted friends, and I know without a shadow of a doubt he would lay his life down for mine, as I would for him. It wasn’t that I doubted he would help; it was that I had fears he wouldn’t be able to kill them before they got to me. He fired a few shots, as did I. I was parallel to the truck and had just killed the zombie closest to me before I was hit from the side. The impact was jarring, and I was immediately sent to the turf. My right shoulder took the brunt of the force then, to a lesser extent, my head as it whiplashed down. Luckily, there’s not much housed there to suffer any damage.
The zombie took one lackluster snap at my ear before it was called into the great beyond or below or wherever plagues go to die. I was happy he’d killed whatever virus had kept him animated, but there were still three zombies in play and I was in no position to do anything about it. I felt a rough hand on my collar as BT was pulling me up with one hand and firing with the other. I was scurrying backward, doing my best to assist him, realizing that until I got my feet under me, he wasn’t going to aim properly. I wanted to shout at him to leave me and shoot the fucking zombies, but things were happening so fast, and by the time I got all of that out it’d be over, one way or the other.
He was Ramboing rounds, shooting from the hip, to clarify. He yanked me sideways; I was pinwheeling backwards, doing my best to not fall over again. He finally, and thankfully, brought his rifle up to his shoulder and fired into a zombie that was close enough to me that I could have figured out if he was happy to see me; he fell to the side, a gaping hole where his temple had been. I got myself under control and returned the favor to BT, who was so fixated on my well-being he completely missed the one about to run into his blindside like a ball-hungry linebacker to a defenseless quarterback.
I had a crappy angle and still took the shot; if I had one of those super slow-motion cameras, I could have watched the bullet travel past BT’s chest close enough to ripple his uniform before colliding into the zombie’s shoulder. I had a bit of luck as the bullet must have careened off its clavicle, came back up the side of its neck, and blew a hole in its skull. Sometimes the 5.56 round got a bad rap for not being lethal enough, but in this instance, it worked much better than the heavier 7.62, which would have just gone deeper where it initially struck and thus, not killed it. We took care of the last one together. The adage, “friends that kill together stay together,” crossed my mind. Wasn’t much left of its head by the time it took its final convulsion.
“That was close,” BT said as the smoke from our bullets dissipated. We spent a few seconds catching our breaths. I heard the rumble of a plane high overhead.
“Randing. We have to go.”
“How about a ‘thank you?’” BT asked as he got back in.
“You’re welcome.”
“You too.”
I pulled up to the destroyed plane then backed the truck up to the rear cargo door for easier offloading. The aircraft did not have power, and we had to spend a few moments manually opening the hatch. The bomb, unlike most of the other stuff in the plane, was still latched down.
“What the actual fuck, Mike?” BT asked as we worked to get the straps loose.
“If I knew anything about bombs, I would sabotage this thing,” I said as I kept moving.
“Talbot’s hands in a nuke. Yeah, best not to think on it.”
I flipped a bird over the top of the box. When it was loose, it began to move toward the back of its own volition.
“You hold it and I’ll get the belt going,” I told BT.
“Perfect. I’ll stand here and hold the thermonuclear device in place. Sounds like a wonderful idea.”
As I got out of the plane, I did a quick scan of the area. I almost missed the lone zombie standing on the overpass looking at me. He was so still, I wondered if it was the mannequin that had plagued Will Smith in, I am Legend; it was just as freaky. Then it moved. The thought lingered a moment; I knew that the director of the film, in a bid to make that scene more intense, had made the mannequin move. But instead of a quick, cinematic head twist, my zombie started running toward the embankment.
“Shit.” I quickly went to the truck. What I figured was going to be a quick on-off switch ended up being three levers, none of them marked. The truck shook as the belt rumbled to life.
“Wrong way!” I heard BT yell.
I wanted to tell him to keep his eye on the very large bomb and not worry about what I was doing. There was grinding and crunching as I switched the direction of the belt; I think I was supposed to stop it completely, before changing its direction.
“Got it. Back up a little more!” he yelled.
With BT’s help, I got the truck close enough that the belt was less than an inch from skimming the floor of the plane. Once again, if I’d thought this through I would have realized the problem we were about to encounter. In all fairness, BT should have picked up on it as well.
“Zombie coming,” I told BT as we lined the box up.
“One?” he grunted.
“So far…but I doubt it. You ready to get a corner up?”
“Let’s do it.”
We’d no sooner dropped that box on the belt than the weight of it pushed the belt to the floor. The screeching and smell of burning rubber was intoxicating, and not in a good way. It had slowed to the point where it wouldn’t even move the bomb.
“Lift it!” BT bellowed.
I helped him heft it.
“The truck, the truck! I’ve got this!”
One lever was for reverse, one for forward. The other had to be to raise and lower, I reasoned. Had a fifty-fifty shot of raising the belt…yup, I dug that fucker deeper into the plane. BT was cursing up a storm as I quickly pushed the stick forward.
“Far enough!” There was a thud as he dropped the box back down. I was about to go and help him, when I saw a half dozen zombies closing quickly.
“Box is yours!”
“It’s not on right! It’s going to fall!”
“You better make sure it doesn’t.” If he wanted to yell back, it was going to have to be after I fired some kill shots. Took out three before the others halted their progress and headed for the side of the road. I knew they were waiting for back-up; it was my sincerest hope we would be long gone before any could arrive.
“Mike!” BT was following the box as best he could, holding up the half that was doing its best to inch over and off the belt; the big problem was going to be when it went higher up, past his outstretched hands, and either fell to the side or somehow miraculously kept going until it dropped straight down on the hood, completing the job the zombie had attempted earlier. A lot of things were on the brink right now, and each of them lethal in their own way. Maybe the bomb went off when it fell, or maybe it made the truck into a paperweight, or the fucking zombies got us. If we had to make a run for it, it was safe to say we were going to miss our ride.
I streaked past BT; I may or may not have got a “What the fuck?” Hopped into the cab and shut down the belt. In what felt like two heartbeats, I was back outside. BT was on his very tiptoes, outstretched arms and extended fingertips straining to keep the package aloft. There wasn’t going to be anything I could do from the ground. I hopped onto the ramp and grabbed an edge of the box; I was pulling for all I was worth. Hardly felt like it was moving. In contrast, the zombies were flying toward us.
“BT, you’re going to need to defend us.”
“Hold the damn thing.”
I had to jump on an edge and put my entire body weight on it as BT let go. I was expecting to hear shots soon, instead, he got on the ramp and was striding up. The rocking of the entire truck was definitely accentuating the whole teeter-totter effect I was trying to prevent. This was one of those cases where if a pair of mating dragonflies landed on the other side of the crate, it would be enough to tip the scales. My end lifted an inch; this was it. We were both going for a short ride followed by an explosive conclusion. BT must have seen this because he lowered his shoulder down and drove it into the side of the box closest to him. Managed to get the whole thing on the ramp while sending me off to the dirt.
My shoulder hit first, then my back; felt most of the life-giving oxygen head out to parts unknown. It wasn’t that crippling “can’t breathe!” feeling, but he certainly wasn’t getting a Christmas card from me this year.
“You all right?” BT’s face swam into focus above me.
“Dandy.” I stood with as much alacrity as was possible. The zombies had reached the back of the truck. I was getting into position to fire.
“Just drive! Get us out of here!”
Can’t say I was thrilled with BT being exposed up there like he was, but he had a point. Staying and fighting was a rapidly losing proposal as more zombies were closing in. I got back in the cab, careful to not take off too quickly–not that that was really an issue, given the gearing of the truck. Through the windshield, I could see Randing making his final approach.
“Package in hand…how’s it looking?” I asked.
“Sir, this is Winters. Runway is awash with zombies. Major Randing is taking the only clear avenue and he told Major Eastman he’s only stopping long enough to pick us up. You’ve got maybe five minutes.”
“Roger that.” I looked to my speedometer which, for some reason, went to eighty. We were hovering at a blistering nineteen. In my rearview mirrors I could see zombies climbing the ramp and half the population of Rhode Island following.
“BT–you need help?”
“Naw…I’m cool, surfing on a moving ramp truck, giant bomb next to me, and a half dozen of my closest friends coming to visit. Everything’s fine.”
“Well, when you say it like that.”
“Just keep moving. They’re picking their way slowly.”
“Winters, have the squad ready. We’re bringing our own company.”
“Got it, sir.”
Saw the puffs of burnt rubber float up into the air as Randing put his plane down. We had just made it back through the gate. Randing was like that one final hottest game system left at a department store on Black Friday. The convergence was underway.
“This is Major Randing. I am going to attempt to pull as many to the far side of the airfield as possible; we will do the pick-up and the on-loading at the opposite side.”
I appreciated what he was doing as it afforded BT and myself an extra minute or two, but I wasn’t sure what he was thinking. There was a good chance zombies were going to be flooded on the runway. I’d let the flyboy worry about it; my plate was overflowing with a whole bunch of inedibles; looked like a buffet of kale, Brussels sprouts, and cherry glazed ham. Oh, and that weird shit the health freaks keep trying to pass off as tasty: pureed cauliflower that was supposed to be like mashed potatoes. What kind of abomination is that? No matter what you believe about capital punishment, the inventor of that cuisine needs to go. If left to his/her own devices, who knows what they could come up with. Beet fries perhaps? Chocolate covered liver? Maple glazed ham? People like that need to be stopped at all costs. BT began to fire his rifle; the zombies must have moved closer. I couldn’t spare a glance to see how he was doing as I was now entering the minefield of zombies.
“BT! You need to hold on; going to start evasive driving!”
“They’re close.” Another shot.
I was doing my best to make the turns as sweeping as possible, clipped a zombie in the hip; I could hear the crunching of her pelvis as the bumper cracked into her. The jolt was far from jarring, but it was enough to have BT swear at me. There wasn’t anything I could do except to keep driving. I swerved again; I was doing my best to miss them but they seemed determined to make a claim against my insurance. The latest victim was not going to enjoy any payout; as I hit her side she spun down and in front of the truck where I proceeded to go straight over her skull, shooting out the contents like a stomped-on ketchup packet. Had enough experience with those to know.
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.