They went from room to room disposing of all the corpses and tossing them out the windows. Body parts and gelatinous brain matter lay splattered across the floors, ceilings and walls. Once all the corpses had been tossed outside, the men swept up the remaining nasty bits and flung them out with the rest of the garbage. Outside, the horde gathered below as if waiting for the Pope to deliver a sermon.
Townsend kept his ears and eyes open for the sound of that returning chopper, hoping that Ackroyd could give him a detailed report of the survivors’ whereabouts. He ordered one of the soldiers to stand near the basement door in case Ridley wandered upstairs and caught wind of them.
Soldiers emerged into the hallway with buckets of soapy water, sponges and mops. They started at the far end of the hallway, washing down the blood splattered walls and floors. Cleaning the entire hallway and rooms could take days, maybe weeks, although he hoped they wouldn't be stuck in this shit hole much longer than that. Two goddamn months had seemed like an eternity.
The stench was horrific and the work difficult on his men's psyche. Many had to stop and vomit or take a quick break in order to clear their minds of the carnage. His head pounded in agony, although by this point he'd become accustomed to living with pain. Pain is fear living the body! Every day felt like the morning after a hard night of boozing. Normally, he'd have forced his men to push on through the pain, but the blood, guts and rank odor of death only intensified their misery. Some of the soldiers suffered worse migraines than others. And because he needed their undivided loyalty, he allowed them plenty of time to rest and recoup from this ongoing nightmare.
An hour passed before he heard the faint sound of the chopper returning. He dropped the sponge and sprinted over to the window, spotting the magnificent black bird in the sky. He glanced down at the helipad and saw that the horde's numbers had grown so large that they were practically walking over each other's backs as if climbing a set of stairs. The dead crawled atop the Army vehicles and stumbled over them, often toppling over the edge on account of their rigid musculature. The chopper, he realized, had nowhere to land. And even if he did manage to settle on the flatbed, the horde clambering atop it would rip Ackroyd to shreds.
He wracked his tortured brain trying to think of a safe place for the pilot to land. He badly needed both pilot and chopper intact. Then it hit him. He ordered all his men to drop whatever they were doing and look for the door leading to the rooftop. The soldiers staggered frantically around, checking every stairwell, bathroom and broom closet for an access door leading to the top.
“Why don't he just land on the roof?' one of the soldiers asked, staring out the window at the circling chopper.
“This guy ain't the brightest bulb the Army has to offer.”
“Maybe he's afraid General Ridley will find out and chew his ass out.”
“Maybe, but if Ackroyd keeps flying around like that the entire Chinese Army'll park their junk outside the front gates and start bombing the hell out of us.”
The chopper flew around the base a couple of times, looking for a safe place to land. Townsend was beside himself with rage; none of his troops could find the stairwell leading to the roof. A few minutes passed. Finally, to his delight, he heard one of his men shouting. He ran over and instantly understood why it had taken so long to locate the access door. It had been boarded over with plywood, completely concealing the entrance. One of the soldiers found a crowbar lying on the floor and began to pry loose the boards until he had ripped it all off.
Three zombies sitting on stairs looked up at them. One wore an Army uniform and the other looked as if she'd been a secretary or administrative assistant. They growled but didn't move very fast. Townsend grabbed the crowbar out of the soldier's hand and thrust it into each of their skulls. Gelatinous gray brain matter flew up against the walls and stairs.
They high-stepped over the corpses and ascended the staircase. Once at the top, he turned the door handle, relieved to find the door unlocked. Almost immediately, he understood why Ackroyd had not landed; hundreds of zombies paced back and forth along the roof. Most wore Army uniforms, but some were civilians as well. As soon as they saw him, they turned as one and began to shuffle toward the door.
Townsend swung the crowbar and crushed the skull of the zombie closest to him. In a matter of seconds his troops poured out behind him, and immediately began firing rounds into their skulls.
The chopper flew erratically, trying to remain airborne. The sound of the motor combined with the bursts of gunshots filled his ears. In less than a minute, the gunshots ceased. They'd run out of ammo. He blamed Ridley, that cheap bastard, for having rationed out the magazines.
A zombie grabbed his arm. He turned and swung with all his might. The crowbar cracked its skull, spilling porridge-like plasma along the black tar. Cries went up and when he turned around he saw a zombie sink its teeth into one of his soldiers' arms. He ran over and cracked that zombie in the head just as it pulled out a tendon. There were too many of them, and he realized he couldn't finish the job without more ammo. Some of the soldiers began to retreat back to the narrow doorway. Others lay writhing on the roof, the dead feeding on their warm flesh. Although infected, the injured soldiers were still alive and pleading for help. But it was too late; there was nothing he could do for them now. He only hoped their deaths were quick and painless.
The sound of the chopper overhead woke him out of his daze and he realized that there was nothing he could do for the pilot. He ordered the rest of his soldiers to retreat back inside the stairwell. When he turned to open the door, he heard someone walking up the darkened stairs. The general emerged onto the roof, carrying an M16, and upon seeing the horde he fired off an automatic burst. Heads exploded in a red aerosol mist and collapsed where they stood. Ridley fired and reloaded until he'd killed every last one of them. A whorl of smoke rose up out of the barrel as he surveyed the casualties. Still on the roof lay the wounded soldiers.
“Townsend, you traitorous son-of-a-bitch!” he snarled, motioning for them to stand back. “I knew you'd try and betray me.”
“General, I'm not trying to betray you. We had to send the chopper up or those traitors would escape,” he said. “And I know you don't believe me, but that Chinese tank battalion is still out there, looking to blow us to pieces.”
“Bullshit, Townsend! You think I don't know you want me out of your way, you snake. Your failure to obey a superior officer is cause for court martial. Well, I'm now the court and the martial, Townsend, and I've decided that you're guilty as charged.” Ridley pointed the rifle at him.
“General Ridley, I'm begging you to rethink this. We need to rely on each other if we're going to survive this ordeal.”
“Ha! I don't need to rely on anyone. I've lived on my own here for over a year and I managed to do just fine without the likes of you.”
Townsend looked up and noticed to his dismay that the chopper was beginning to descend on the roof behind the general. Ridley heard it as well and glanced back to see what was happening. Seeing his opportunity, Townsend tackled him to the roof as if he were back playing football at West Point. Ridley fired off a burst while falling backward, instantly killing two soldiers standing off to the side. The other soldiers hit the deck as he and the general wrestled for control of the weapon. The rifle fell to the roof and came to a rest in a pool of blood. Townsend hit his head on the way down and Ridley rolled on top of him and sat on his chest.
The chopper descended, its skids partially landing on some of the vanquished corpses. Ridley punched him in the temple and Townsend's vision went blurry. He thought for a second he might pass out. The blow sent a shock wave through his system and caused him to momentarily lose consciousness. He stretched his arm out and by pure chance felt the handle of the crowbar slide into his palm. Ridley punched him in the nose and he felt the cartilage spilt. He saw the madman staring down at him, fist cocked and ready to put an end to this fight. Using all his energy, he swung the crowbar parallel to his body and struck the man flush on his shinbone. He heard bones snapping followed by Ridley's bloodcurdling scream. Ridley dropped his elbow down toward his face. Townsend moved his head away at the last second as the man's elbow came crashing down on the tar next to his ear.
His face beaten to a pulp, Townsend swung the crowbar and again made contact with his broken shinbone. The general howled in pain, allowing him to easily push him off. He scrambled to his feet, wiping the blood smeared across his face and nose. He stared down at the general, now trying desperately to stand. But his shinbone had been shattered, evident by the bone shards protruding out of his ripped pants. Ridley supported himself on three limbs, trying to keep his weight off the damaged leg. Townsend circled the injured man, pounding the crowbar in his calloused palm.
“What the hell are you waiting for, asshole? Finish me off if you're such a tough guy.”
“In due time, General,” Townsend said, laughing. “Wouldn't you like to exit this world so easily?”
“You had it made, Townsend. We had plenty of food, water, and ammo. Had we cleared out the rest of this installation, you and I could have run this place together, as a team.”
“Memo to General Ridley: there is no I in team,” Townsend said, laughing. “What in God's name makes you think I'd ever want to run this shit hole with you, anyways?”
“Because I know where everything is. I have the keys to the entire base including the fuel tanks. Even got a dozen cases of twelve year old single malt scotch stored away for the good times.”
“The good times are over, General. Gave up drinking many years ago.”
“A man can try, can't he?” Ridley laughed, grimacing at the pain shooting up his shattered leg. “But what the hell, if you want to go back out into that crazy dead world, be my guest.”
“First off, asshole, I don't need your permission to do shit.” Townsend moved behind the injured man and kicked him in the ass, sending him falling onto his stomach. “Second, I got better things to do than to stay in this armpit of a base with the likes of you. I've been chosen for greatness, General, and will one day lead this nation back to prominence and success. This apocalypse has happened for a reason. This is my destiny and I've known it all along.”
“Destiny? You're just another worthless cockroach in the axle of this vast universe.”
The pilot emerged out of the cockpit and approached them. Ackroyd gazed around in horror at the pile of bloody corpses. He stopped in front of one of the soldiers crying out in anguish, and stared helplessly down at him.
“Holy Christ!”
“What did you see out there, Lieutenant?”
“I located the President of the United States, sir. The survivors have taken up residence in a nearby Amish compound roughly thirty miles from here.”
“Amish compound? I'll be damned! Now that's an interesting twist,” he said, patting him on the shoulder. “Good work, soldier.”
“With all due respect, General, what the hell happened here?”
“We needed to find you a safe place for you to land. General Asshole here had a slight difference of opinion.”
“We have another problem on our hands, General. A battalion of Chinese tanks caught wind of me and is now heading this way. They fired off a few mortar shells at my chopper but I was easily able to avoid them. I estimate they're about one hundred miles from here, although I'm not sure they know the base's exact location.”
“Gather the remaining troops in the supply room, Lieutenant. Take as much ammo as can be carried out. Then wait for me to come down. We're going to get ready to leave this place, and God forbid anyone who crosses our path.”
“Yes, sir. But what about the injured soldiers?”
“What the fuck do you think?” He glared at the pilot for even asking such a stupid question. “Now grab Ridley's rifle and do as ordered, and take the rest of these men downstairs with you.”
The stunned soldiers followed the pilot down the stairwell. Townsend limped over to the two injured soldiers and stood over them. The first kid looked up with tears in his eyes, his arms and legs hideously covered with bite marks. He'd lost a lot of blood. A horrific gash opened up along his abdomen, exposing his intestinal tract and stomach muscles. The injured soldier next to him had the right side of his face chewed off and most of his fingers, and yet he was still alive.
“I'm sorry, fellas. The time has come.”
“Please, General, can't you take us with you?” Sanchez pleaded, trying to hold back the guts flowing out of his belly. “We'll get better.”
“It's too late for that, Sanchez. I can't risk the other men's lives and jeopardize our mission. May God have mercy on you two brave soldiers.”
“Please make it quick and painless then, General,” Sergeant Phillips pleaded.
“Thanks for your service, heroes. I sincerely hope you rest in peace and find eternal salvation.”
Sanchez screamed as Townsend lifted the crowbar over his head. The tortured sound of his anguished howls made Townsend’s head pound. He brought the black tool down into Sanchez’s skull until his body went slack. Pink brain matter splattered into the air and sprayed his eyes. He had to wipe it away with the back of his sleeve. Phillips, looking on in horror, closed his eyes and started to say a Hail Mary. Townsend quickly finished him off as well.
He turned to Ridley, rage pulsing from every fiber of his being. Rivulets of blood ran down his nose and into his mouth, which he swiped away with a flick of his wrist. He'd been humiliated for two long months now and he was going to make Ridley pay. The injured officer stared up at him with a smile on his face, knowing his fate had been sealed. The two soldiers killed by the errant gunfire shot up, their uniforms riddled with bullet holes and blood. They began to blather on like all the other false prophets, the same new age bullshit he'd gotten so tired of hearing. He had a right mind to plunge the crowbar through their rotten skulls, but he had another idea instead.
“What's the worst you can do to me?” Ridley crowed. “Bash my head in with a crowbar? Ha! You'd be doing me a favor.”
Townsend walked over and cracked the crowbar down on the back of his right knee before removing his set of keys to the base. Ridley howled in pain, laughing hysterically as the blood soaked through his pant leg. Tears streamed from his reddened eyes as he looked up at him in mockery. He reared back and brought the claw down on the back of the man's hand. The sharp teeth sliced through his palm and penetrated deep into the tarry material beneath, crucifying him to the roof. Ridley screamed at the top of his lungs, nearly passing out from the pain. Townsend walked over to the door just as the two soldiers finished blabbing and watched as they fell back dead.
“Hey, Townsend, you want to know what's the funniest thing about the last two months?”
Townsend held the door handle and glanced back at the general.
“I'm not even a soldier,” he said, laughing. “I was a lowly civilian cook before the shit hit the fan.”
“You're not a soldier?”
“Nope,” he said, laughing. Blood covered his bald head. “Nice uniform I cobbled together, huh?”
It felt as if the guy had stabbed him in the heart. Rather than head back downstairs, he ran over and took out the guy's wallet and examined his ID for proof. His name was Robert Walker and it listed him as a mess hall cook. Angry, he stood at the door and waited for the dead soldiers to rise up. Ridley's mocking laughter plunged like a dagger into his psyche. The imposter had made a complete fool out of him. The two soldiers began to groan, rising up only seconds apart. They stood awkwardly to their feet and glanced around until their eyes settled on Ridley, still pinned to the roof by the crowbar. The imposter let out a loud groan upon seeing the two zombies approaching, squirming to free himself. They grabbed his ankles and pulled, but the crowbar imbedded in the tar refused to budge. He kicked his legs but it had no effect on the hungry cannibals. They tore into his calf, snapping off strands of muscle and sinew. Blood spurted from the wounds as their powerful incisors worked fast and efficiently. Townsend watched in morbid fascination, vindication washing over him. Human flesh dripped from the zombies' bloodstained mouths as they lowered their heads into the fleshly cavity growing on his back. They reached inside and pried out his spinal cord as if it were a fishbone and began to lick it clean. Townsend grimaced at the sight of it. Having seen enough, he bolted down the stairs and joined up with the others.
He had to get his men out of here before the Chinese Army showed up and boxed them in for good. More importantly, he needed to get over to that Amish camp and grab the president and that spook before the survivors caught wind of them and took flight.