“Nobody’s going to be there!” Mary
insisted. “For God’s sake, the military
couldn’t hold the damn things off!”
It’s just across those tracks,”
Carlos told her, pointing ahead at an overpass. “If I remember correctly, it’s
down the street up there.”
The Prius reached the overpass, and
from the top looking north Mary saw a wrecked train, the containers scattered
over a mile of track. Farther up the track, half-hidden by smog, was the Denver
skyline.
As they turned south on the Avenue
and rode towards the police department they heard several shots ring out.
“Well goddamn,” Mary whispered.
“Somebody IS alive.”
“You don’t have a family, do you? It’d be
awful if you did, because- and I’m only pointing out the truth- they are
probably dead.” Mason asked, though hardly showing concern.
“No, I’m divorced,” Roger replied, lying
down on a dirty mattress Mason had provided.
“Glad to hear it. You
know, because now I don’t have to worry about emotional problems from you or
anything.”
“It really is a good thing I saved
you yesterday. I was going to kill myself last night if hadn’t.” Mason said,
giving Roger a thankful look.
“Can I do the driving?” Roger asked.“Nope! You can have shotgun, though,”
=====
A single tear rolled down Private
Paul Marshall’s cheek as he grabbed an M16 Assault rifle off the gun rack and
continued down the line. At least three hundred soldiers were solemnly grabbing
any supplies they needed from the long tent in the middle of the runway.
Anything from guns and ammunition to grenades or MREs were available.
Everything was first come-first serve. Nobody cared what you took with you, as
long as you could help destroy the undead.
They heard the roar of jet engines
above. On Paul’s back was a field pack containing an emergency radio. A voice
crackled over it, and through loudspeakers all around the airport:
“Attention all personnel,” it began,
“This is your Commander speaking. Today we take back this city, or we lose it
forever. We cannot allow this infection spread, so we must destroy it at its
source. For the security of our great nation, we fight today!”
“Hoorah!” everybody hollered. All the
soldiers remaining at the Denver front line base were preparing to re-enter the
city- which now belonged to the dead.
Paul did not share the excitement
that some of the others did. They didn’t have to go through what he had; they
came mostly from Colorado Springs, whereas He’d had to fight his way out of
Denver just to be thrown back in at the will of his friend.
“Don’t start bawling now,” a familiar
voice said from behind him. It was Paul’s best bud, Richard Daley. Richie had
disappeared into the crowd earlier, only now catching up. They left the tent,
blinking in the bright spring morning light. Several choppers were lifting off,
and flying towards the skyscrapers in the southwest.
“There will be plenty of tear-time
later. I’m real sorry about your parents, but it’s time to fight right now.” He
clapped Paul on the shoulder, then hoisted his pack and strolled ahead. Paul
composed himself as best he could, and nervously followed his friend to the
closest waiting helicopter…..
· · · — — — · · ·
The road was empty, at least traffic
wise. There were a few wrecks here and there, and the occasional Mocker. The
only running car on the highway sped right past all the scenery, on its way to
the nearest town.
“Lyons is just a mile ahead-we should stop for
gas,” said Mason, who was now in the passenger seat. Roger had complained that
Mason’s driving was too extreme for him and had taken the wheel.
“We haven’t even used a gallon yet.”
“We don’t want the car to make it
only to Denver. We want it to last longer than that,” Mason pleaded.
“You have to use the bathroom, don’t you?”
Roger asked, rolling his eyes.
“I do not!” Mason exclaimed
defiantly, and then glumly added, “Yeah, I do.”
“Why didn’t you go back in Estes?”
Roger inquired shutting the car door and opening the trunk. They had stopped at
the cleaner looking of Lyon’s two gas stations, assuming that the best-looking
would be in the best condition. A sign read U-Pump-It. The other station looked
too full of vehicles for them to use the pump.
“As children say, I didn’t have to go
then,” Mason answered, taking his axe. Roger was glad to find his assumption
was correct. The station appeared to still have power. He paid for the half
–tank with his visa card and impatiently waited for the tank to fill.
Meanwhile, Mason cautiously entered the convenience store. He stood in the
doorway scanning the room, and then swore. The goddamn place was empty. The
shelves had been cleared of all food, and everything else was scattered on the floor.
Glass from the freezers was shattered on the floor as well. There was no blood,
no rotting bodies, and no stench of decay. He lowered his axe and went to the
first bathroom door.
He paused suddenly, and listened
intently. He could hear, barely, some scratching and growling from down the
short hallway. He carefully approached the last doorway, marked Employees Only.
Written over the sign were two underlined words: STAY OUT!
Suddenly the growling got louder and
banging came through the metal. Mason stepped away, gave the door one last
look, and then went back to the bathroom.
“The whole town looks abandoned,”
Roger replied when Mason had returned to the car. The tank was full and both
men were ready to continue.
“Of course it does- everyone is dead!”
Mason said matter-of-factly as he closed the trunk. Roger shook his head,
looking at the surrounding buildings. There’s
hardly any damage at all, in fact if you hadn’t known the world had ended you’d
have thought the town looked perfectly normal-except for the convenience store,
Roger though.
“No, I mean the place looks like it
was actually abandoned—like the people all left here before they got hit. They
might be alive and safe somewhere.”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” said
Mason, who was impatiently leaning against the car, “There are Mockers in
there, locked up.” He nodded towards the convenience store.
Roger quickly opened the trunk and
brought out his rifle. He watched the building alertly.
“How many?” He asked, now serious.
“Hell if I know, probably just a few. They’re
locked in some employee closet.”
“Oh,” said Roger, “They aren’t worth
it then. Let’s go.” He placed his rifle back in the trunk.
“Can I drive now? We’re almost out of the
mountains,” Mason asked.
Roger sighed. “As long as you don’t try to
kill us.”
“Grenade!” Richie yelled as he tossed
one into the small horde. He, along with Paul, and another soldier nick-named
Grill (for his welding skills) was on the run. Their helicopter had dropped
them off at the city zoo parking lot, only to be surrounded in minutes. It
seemed the zoo had been a great buffet for the undead. The loud rotors
attracted them like dogs to a dinner bell. The explosion knocked aside four
zombies, but also set off many car alarms.
“Damn it!” Grill yelled, whipping out
a SCAR-H Mk 17 and spraying lead into the approaching, growing throng. The unlucky trio sprinted east on 23rd
Avenue.
“Why can’t we hide in the golf
course!?” Paul yelled between deep breaths.
“We’d be going the wrong way! Our
objective is just up the street!” Richie answered, speeding ahead.
Paul shook his head in ignorance,
running as fast as he could.
“They should have known there’d be
seekers galore in there!” Grill cursed, stopping for a breath. Paul caught up,
panting. Richie went on ahead for a few seconds before realizing his partners
had stopped.
“Come on!” he hollered. The group of
Seekers was still following.
Grill fired a few shots then took off
again, with Paul close behind. Another five hundred feet of running, and his
lungs were burning, legs aching, and heart throbbing. Even at 23, Paul wasn’t
very fit. He’d barely scraped by in basic training, with plenty of help from
Richie, who was only a year older but had a greater physical build.
“Come on guys, run!” Richie yelled.
He looked over his shoulder, seeing the throng of Seekers getting closer. A few
were dashing ahead of the rest; he stopped to shoot them down with his M1911.
To his dismay the creatures actually dodged
the bullets: where they should have taken head shots they raised their arm in
defense. The others jumped out of the way.
“Mockers!” Richie hollered, running
to catch up with Paul and Grill, who had almost made it to the stoplight ahead.
Downtown loomed ominously just a couple miles ahead.
“The hospital’s a few blocks that
way!” Grill announced, pointing southwest.
Two F-16s suddenly flew overhead,
launching missiles in the direction of-
“That’s not the hospital, is it?”
Richie exclaimed, hearing the thundering booms of many explosions. A large
black cloud rose up from the approximate area. Grill turned his head in dismay,
looking at their surroundings.
“Into that church!” he ordered,
pointing across the intersection at an older cathedral-like building.
“Let’s see how far this one flies!” Mason
joked as he raised his axe, hanging halfway out the driver’s window as they
sped along highway 93, one hand on the wheel and the other tensed to swing at
the closest Mocker.
For the past half-hour the two men
had played ‘Behead the dead pedestrian’ as Mason had evilly called it, knocking
off the heads of every Mocker they passed.
The next victim was a thick-haired
scumbag, its lower jaw bloody and a chunk of shoulder missing, wearing baggy
jeans and a wife beater, and dog tags around his neck. Mason held the axe
steady and held onto the steering wheel firmly as he closed in on the creature.
The axe blade cut clean through the Adam’s apple; the carotid artery spurting
blood upwards several feet. The severed head kept up with the car for a second
as it spun wildly through the air, spraying the road with red rain until it
bounced and rolled to a halt. Mason cackled, watching his rearview mirror.
Roger couldn’t really understand how this ‘game’ made Mason
happy, but then again he hadn’t gone through what Mason had. The man seemed to
hate the creatures with a passion. How
can we do this? Roger had though a few times as they approached their next
target. But his answer was simple: These
“people” died days ago. They’re just bodies, controlled by a virus. They aren’t
‘alive’. They don’t have feelings-do they? He couldn’t quite decide whether
the Mockers could ‘feel’ or not, since Mason said they had the ability to learn
and maybe even reason.
He studied the map lain out on his lap. “Looks
like this road merges with highway 6 in about a mile,” he informed his friend.
“Yeah, I’ve taken this road before”
he replied, still smiling. His smile faded as he came around a bend, and saw
what a short hill had hidden: a large road block made of cars, concrete
barriers, and barbed wire.
“What the hell?” Mason whispered. He
noticed a military truck just beyond the barricade, which extended off the
sides of the highway by thirty or more feet, meeting the roadside fences.
“They must have done this when trying
to seal off the city from outsiders,” Roger observed. Mason slowed the car to a
halt a few yards from the barriers and got out. Roger quickly got his gun from
the trunk and joined him.
“Somebody else passed through here,”
Mason commented, peering over the wall of cars. There were remains, brown dried
chunks of human flesh scattered across the ground. There were no complete
bodies, only the chopped up, mutilated pieces.
“They were soldiers,” Roger noted.
The two men climbed over the cars, careful to land on clean ground. They cautiously
approached the truck. As Roger reached the cab he heard a muffled cough and
raised his rifle.
“There’s somebody here?” Mason
wondered. Roger started towards the back of the vehicle, and then heard Mason
grunt behind him. He looked back in time to see Mason unconscious on the
pavement, and a short dark person swing a metal bat at his face.
"East High School," Grill spoke sadly. “I used
to go there.” He, Paul, and Richie were trudging across the green lawn of the
old buildings.
“Used to be a grand place,” Richie reminisced.
“I just can’t wait for the airlift to arrive,” Paul
reminded them. A half-hour earlier, while hunkered-down in the cathedral a few
blocks to the north, Paul had used his radio to send a distress message. Their
objective had been to rescue any survivors in Saint Luke’s hospital; due to
reports that nurses had locked many patients in the wards to keep them alive.
Apparently the military decided to destroy the place the infection had started
in after all.
“What if there were survivors in there?” Richie wondered.
“They certainly are in a better place at least,” Grill
replied.
Paul looked around in fear, at the paper-strewn sidewalk,
the hundreds of black pillars rising all around them, listened to the ongoing
distant thunder of seemingly endless bombing. And over that he heard a sound
that filled him with hope: riding on a whirlwind of flying papers and debris
was the helicopter.
"It's
here!" he exclaimed in joy.
Grill
shot a few celebratory rounds in the air and Richie cheered. The whirlybird
came over the school and descended over the grounds, coming to a halt hovering
feet over the huge red E monument.
“Let’s
go!” Grill ordered, dashing towards their rescuers.
Carlos cautiously
edged the Prius closer to the police car. The driver got out, waving their arms and jumping up and down excitedly. He was a young mexican, wearing a police uniform that didn't look to be his for it was way too large for his short thin figure.
"Hey!"
he exclaimed as they drove up. "You guys are alive!"
They
suddenly heard gunshots nearby. The young man looked desperately at them.
"You've
got to help," he pleaded. "I can't leave her there, no matter what
her orders were!"
"You
left a friend at the station?" Mary asked.
He
shook his head. "She told me to go. Please, we need to save her. All the
other cops turned, she's the last one left!"
Carlos
reluctantly nodded. "What are you waiting for?" he asked, starting
the hybrid. The young man gave them a thankful nod and dashed back to the cruiser.
As
they approached the police station Carlos and Mary gasped: surrounding the
front doors was a large mob of Seekers, perhaps forty or more. This was no
surprise to them now; what shocked them more was the person in the midst of the
throng: an Asian police woman was holding her ground, alone; firing an M16 in
one hand and decapitating zombies with a katana in the other.
Carlos
forced the Prius over the curb into the parking lot. He swung the door open and
started firing his pistol. The woman’s machine gun must have ran out of
bullets, because she threw the gun at one of the Seekers and picked another off
the ground. The police car pulled up alongside the Prius, and the driver dashed
out holding a baton in each hand. Carlos charged as well, punching the closest
Seeker and shooting five more in the head. Most of the living corpses were
crawling on the ground now, only seven were left standing, and the policewoman:
She
kicked a one-armed male in the groin, shoved the barrel of her second M16 down
the throat of an old female with a torn stomach, blowing the torso to bit from
the inside; then cut off the legs of the third and stabbed a fourth in its
forehead while her friend beat down the fifth. Carlos punched the sixth in the
chest, shot it in the temple, then spun around and unloaded three rounds into
the torso of the last.
He
panted, looking at the body-covered ground. Many of them were moving, trying to
grab at the people’s legs.
“Who
the hell are you?” the woman demanded. Carlos raised his hand in shock.
“We
just saved you!” he exclaimed.
. -. -..
On the Next Episode:
“I
didn’t need saving,” she said in denial. She then turned angrily at the young
Mexican. “And YOU!” she bellowed, “Miguel, I told you to go! I said we’d meet
at the safe-zone!”
“Safe-zone?”
Mary asked, stepping out of the car. She eyed the crawling corpses with worry.
Miguel noticed too, and said; “I don’t think that’s our biggest issue right
now, Angela.”
She
glanced around and sighed, looking at Carlos and Mary with distrust.
“We’re
heading south for NORAD. You two are welcome to follow if you like.” She
sheathed her katana and grabbed Miguel forcefully by the shoulder, leading him
to the car.
“I
guess we follow?"
"Your job is to reach Stem
Genetics and find Patcorn." the helicopter pilot ordered. Two hundred feet
below was a massive horde of Mockers, maybe three thousand. Paul Marshall was
currently at the left door-gun and Richie at the other. They both yelled
excitedly as they sprayed the horde with bullets.
"Eat lead, you bastards!"
Richie shouted. Somehow he was having the time of his life.
“We’re moving on,” the pilot told
them, “Your drop-off site is half a click ahead. Be ready!” Both soldiers
groaned, and the three others, Grill included, laughed. Everyone had been
enjoying the Mocker-killing. If killing is what you could call it.
The rescue was only a quick stop for
the pilot, who had other orders. Luckily he had heard Paul’s distress call, for
as they took off they saw a horde of equal size to the one they’d just passed,
close to the high school. There seemed to be many groups like this, all the
Seekers banding together in large undead armies.
“I hope the Air Force targets these
gatherings,” Grill remarked, peering out
at the suburban landscape.
“There will be plenty at the landing
site, I’m sure,” said Richie, who had an enormous grin on his face. If there is anyone who would actually ENJOY
a zombie apocalypse, its Richie, Paul thought. They were flying low over Columbine,
now nearing an empty parking lot. Half a mile away, across highway 470, was the
Stem Genetics Surgery and Science Lab building. Out in an open field, with its
four floors of windows closed in metal shutters, it looked like a looming
fortress. The place had a powerful security system, including cameras around
the fenced-in perimeter, bullet-proof windows; thick, reinforced walls, and now
(since the infection began): automatic sentry guns. To get any closer to the
place safely, they were going to land in the Kohl’s parking lot and cross the
highway on foot.
Far behind them was downtown Denver,
burning and crumbling. The only reason the city hadn’t been completely leveled
was because of the evacuation-the military estimated there might be up to ten thousand
survivors-and to find Patcorn, and hopefully a cure.
Paul knew better. These ‘people’ are
dead, all of them. Mom, Dad-they fought
those things for a week, with guns and fire and everything else, and they still
didn’t make it out alive. We were so close…
“Patcorn is probably dead,” he said
to Richie, who nodded.
“But we’ll have to go in anyways; anything we
find in the damn place might be worth it.” Richie told him. All five soldiers
looked nervously ahead.
Suddenly gunshots rang through the
air, coming from behind and below the helicopter. Several bullets ripped
through the floor. One of the soldiers let out an “ungh…” and fell backwards
out of the doorway. Paul tried to catch him but was too slow. He knew the
soldier was dead anyways- for there was a bloody hole in his jaw.
“Evasive maneuvers!” Richie hollered
to the pilot. The helicopter moved swiftly up and right, towards the southwest.
The pilot increased their speed. Looking down at the parking lot where they
should have landed, Richie saw the shooters: eight survivors who were obviously
territorial.
“It’s some gang down there” Richie
informed Paul.
Grill fired his machine gun randomly
at the ground, and then collapsed to the metal floor, holding both hands
tightly over his stomach.
“You’re going live!” Richie roared
over the gunfire. Grill struggled to his feet, coughing blood, but nodded and
grabbed the door-gun.
Suddenly the chopper was hit by a strong
gust of wind, knocking the other soldier off balance. Richie reached out to
steady him, but it was too late. Another lurched sent the man out the side of
the helicopter, plummeting four hundred feet to the pavement. Grill held
tightly onto the seat straps
“We’re trapped!” Paul cried-and
everyone knew it was true. They could no longer land in the parking lot, and
the next best place was farther back, or in the field next to Patcorn’s lab.
“I’ll try the field, hold on!” the
pilot yelled. They zoomed over the highway and descended quickly. The next
moments went by so fast; Paul could only recall a few details later on:
One of the metal shutters on the Stem
Genetics building opened up, and a projectile zoomed out in their direction.
Behind it trailed white gas.
“Missile incoming!” Someone yelled.
The helicopter changed direction as fast as it could, but the missile followed.
Boom! The cabin was spinning, the tail blown free by the blast. Beep Beep Beep
went the alarm. Paul threw up. They were over water now. Paul decided to jump.
He was falling, alongside the burning wreckage….30 feet, 20, 10- splash. All
his senses were lost.
“Did you see that?” Mason yelled.
Roger looked up from the map he was reading just in time to see the diminishing
fireball and the falling wreckage of a helicopter no more than two miles ahead.
Roger thought he could see water below it, and wondered if anyone was still
alive onboard. At least they won’t have
such a hard landing, he thought with relief.
Then he saw the helicopter wreckage splash
into a lake, so close to the Stem Genetics building. The helicopter looked
military in origin, which made him wonder what its goal had been.
“Think anyone survived that fall?”
Mason asked.
“Even if nobody did, we should still
check it out; it’s just down the road from the lab.” Roger answered.
“What will we do about our new
‘friend?” Mason asked, looking at the backseat, where a teenager was bound in
duct tape. The kid, the person who’d attacked them earlier, had apologized
greatly for his mistake, claiming he’d done it in self-defense. Roger had
interrogated the kid, named Tyrone, who pleaded to accompany them. Mason had
been tempted to leave the kid tied up in the truck, but Roger made a deal:
Tyrone could come with them, but he would remain restrained until they reached
the lab.
“Keep him for now. He’s not a threat.”
Roger told him quietly. Tyrone groaned in the back, but at least wasn’t putting
up a struggle. Roger decided to take a risk, and tore the tape off Tyrone’s
mouth. The teenager took a deep breath the blurted: “We’re going to help those
folks, right?”
Paul sputtered and gasped as he
pulled himself ashore. He could hardly go further, he was too shocked, and
tired, and in pain. He groaned as he finally pulled himself completely out of
the water. It took him a moment to realize he was alone.
“Richie! Grill!” He cried out. How did this happen? Everything had gone to
plan until those gangsters showed up!
“Richie!” He called out again. He saw
the pilot’s body drifting in the oil that leaked from the wreck.
“Paul, I’m over here!” He heard
Richie answer, and saw him few yards out in the water. Paul smiled in relief as
he watched his best friend swim up to the shore, but then gulped when he saw
the state of Richie’s right arm.
There was a ten inch-long gash
bleeding heavily. Immediately Paul went over to his friend and helped him up to
dry ground. He then tore a strip off his own uniform and wrapped up the wound
as best he could. It had to be over an inch deep, and still had bits of metal
in it. Paul knew the metal might cause an infection, but at the moment stopping
the bleeding was more important. Richie was already palling.
“Hope I don’t have too strong a
smell…” Richie laughed. Paul stared at him quizzically, thinking He’s losing
it. I have to find help, fast.
“Mockers smell blood, remember?”
Richie added, and Paul suddenly understood. If there were any Mockers nearby,
they would be attracted to them like moths to a light.
“We need to reach the lab, Patcorn
might help us,” said Paul, but he was too tired to stand, and Richie wasn’t
going anywhere soon either.
“Carry me?” Richie joked weakly. Paul
laughed and said, “I wish I could…”
Suddenly he heard the crunching of tires on dirt and gravel.
Looking up he saw a tan car, still in decent condition, speeding towards them. Oh no… Paul thought, thinking it was the
gangsters from before.
But it wasn’t- instead it was two
worried looking men: one with grey hair and a short beard, and another who was
balding and looked slightly hawk-like. And they were carrying a medical kit.
“Thank god!” Paul said, “Richie,
we’re gonna make it.”
“I think you’re lucky, soldier. We
were headed to the lab when we saw the crash. We only have a few medical
supplies, but we’ll make it work,” The older man told him.
“What’s your name, soldier?” the
other inquired.
“Private Paul Marshall, sir,” Paul
answered, struggling to stand.
“Mason Barres. Nice to meet you.” The
younger man helped Paul up while the other tended to Richie’s wound. Without
looking up he replied, “My name’s Roger Torrens.”
. -. -..
Mary looked back at the police car,
waiting for Angela to join the conversation. To her shock and dismay she saw
the cruiser turn around, spraying dirt, and speed down the street, fleeing
along with all the other survivors.
“Wait!” Miguel screamed, “Hey!” the
young man sprinted after the car for several yards but soon quit, knowing there
was no way to keep up. “Why? You can’t just leave me here!” he cried.
“I'm going to let you in, on one condition….”
Patcorn said over the intercom. Everyone paused and stared at the gate camera.
“Name it,” Roger warily replied.
After four hours of begging, they were getting a chance to go in.
“No. I owe you, and pretty much all of
humanity. You were right, I should have been searching for a cure. It was an awesome dream of mine. My wife died of brain cancer
twelve years ago. She was only 22. I thought I could make something that could
save people from things like that.”
“So you invented a virus?”
“Yes and no."
“You mean you didn’t know what you
were making?” Roger exclaimed angrily.
“It mutated, after it spread. It was beyond my
control…” Dr. Patcorn stammered. “I never meant for this to happen."
“Do you know how to kill them?” Roger asked.
“Not yet."
They had barely reached the other side of the overpass when
they both saw them: hundreds, no-thousands of Mockers, all slowly moving across
the store parking lots. They made no noise except for the shuffling of their
dead feet on the asphalt.
That
can’t be right, Roger thought, they’re
silent! No groaning or growling or whatever zombies do in movies. Mason
immediately turned off the engine. “God, I hope we haven’t been noticed yet,”
he whispered to Roger.
“If they do, we’re doomed,” Roger whispered
back.