Dead Again (11 page)

When Cowboy had realized what he had done, he seemed to be in more pain than the woman. His wide eyes bulged in astonishment. The woman turned to him and, with her good hand, reached out for help. Her face was a tight ball of pain. Her eyes pleaded to Cowboy, and then she collapsed.

Just when Peterson thought he was about to get control of this crowd, their chaotic screaming created a sound wave that hit him in the face. He snapped his attention back to the group of leaders surrounding him, and fixated on the Nurse. Something had changed in his eyes. He was going to execute his plans, and anything standing in his way, the zombies or the Sheriff, would make no difference. He would tear them apart equally.

“Will you lead us to the shelter, Nurse?” Peterson’s tone was flat. Not angry. This is how Peterson’s brothers-in-arms knew that he was ready to unleash the animal killer which boiled deep inside of him, when he was about to ignore the responsibility of his command, the meaning of law, the rules of civilization. It was when his fellow soldiers knew he had reached his limit, teetering on his personal edge. And with a sense of disconcerting omnipotence in his voice, Peterson continued: “I will part the Red Sea.”

The people around him—the Sheriff, the Trooper, Washington, the Mayor and the Nurse—were all silent. They must have seen in Peterson
 
a glimpse of the darkness in his soul, and it must have scared them.

“Yes commander,” she cleared her voice, and then, with a good deal of confidence and bravery continued, “I’ll get you there. I’ll get us all there. Follow me.”

“Sheriff,” Peterson’s word shot like piss from his mouth as he turned to leave. “If you or your men get in my way from protecting these civilians, we will have a war on our hands.”

“These are my people, Commander. You have no fucking right!” Sheriff Jones was a sneaky bastard. Earlier he feigned weakness and pleaded for help. Now he was like a different person. “If you want a war, I’ll give you one.”

“We had a deal,” Peterson said, making just one last attempt to change the course of the situation. “I am in command.”

“Deals change, Commander,” Trooper Willis interjected. He loved the turn of events. He really hated Peterson, “and you’re not the only one with guns.
We
keep the people. You do what we want, or we
will
have a war on our hands.”

“This is madness!” The Mayor was on the verge of tears.

Then the clear, logical voice of Dr. Washington rang out. “Gentlemen, the solution is simple. Let the people decide,” Washington turned to the Mayor. “Address the crowd, and quickly.”

Peterson, Sheriff Jones and Trooper Willis didn’t know how to respond to this suggestion.

The Mayor didn’t wait for objections to be heard. He moved into position and stood before the civilians. He shouted out, quickly: “Some of us are following the soldiers and are heading to the shelter in the basement. Sheriff Jones thinks it’s best to stay upstairs. There is no time for hesitation.
 
I’m going downstairs with the soldiers. The rest of you do as you will.”

Some leadership skills the Mayor had, Peterson thought. When push came to shove, he just wanted to save his own ass. A wave of confusion and fear arose from the crowd.

Peterson was already planning for a possible armed engagement with these cops. Nurse Dee slipped by Peterson, brushing his shoulder, leading the way. “Follow me,” she said.

Peterson fell into place and followed her through the crowd. The Mayor and Washington fell in line behind Peterson.

“I’m with you,” trembled the Mayor.

“Good.” Peterson said without looking back, “You’re responsible for those who follow us. Keep them close to our backs.”

Cash could be seen clearly by Peterson. He was laying-down a fiery wall of
well directed
fire. With each crack of his rifle, the thud of a falling body could be heard.
 
And Sharon, she could be seen off to the right, covering the flank of the civilians. She too was laying down fire.

But Peterson couldn’t see the entire team. Armstrong, Tag, and Johnny boy were holding up the rear. He knew that much. But he wasn’t too concerned about them. They could take care of themselves. And when he moved, he knew they would move, too. Despite Dr. Washington being a major pain in his ass, Peterson had come to realize, despite himself, that in order to complete the mission, Washington was needed alive.

“Stay close behind, Washington. I want your butt in one piece.”

Washington looked surprised by Peterson’s concern.

Peterson turned to the Mayor, “Do it now.”

The mayor took a deep breath and hollered at the top of his lungs. “THOSE COMING WITH US, WE ARE MOVING! STAY CLOSE TOGETHER! STAY WITHIN THE PERIMETER OF THE SOLDIERS. DON’T HESISTATE! WE ARE GOING TO THE SHELTER!”

Peterson liked the style of Nurse Dee. She was a natural leader. She walked right up behind Cash, without hesitation. In fact, Peterson had to keep up with her. They stopped, stood side by side, and for the first time caught a glimpse at what Cash was shooting at. The double doors, now propped open by dead zombies, revealed a long and deep hallway. It was populated by at least fifty of those things. Their ghostly moans reverberated off the walls.

Shit.

“The entranceway to the shelter is at the end of that hallway,” Nurse Dee said, taking a deep breath. “Just have to make it to the end of the hallway, and the door is right there.”

A zombie was approaching Cash, its neck and jaw broken, creating a grotesquely disfigured appearance. Its eyes rolled up in the back of its head as it lumbered, slowly, mechanically, ever closer to Cash. Peterson wondered what Cash was waiting for, why he wasn’t shooting it?

Behind the zombie were many more, and Cash didn’t have time to screw around.

Peterson stepped forward, about to say something, but then stopped abruptly. Cash was no longer smiling; no longer was there excitement in his face. Now his eyes seemed, Peterson found it hard to believe, a bit watery. His jaws were clenched tight, and he just stared at the inward bound zombie. He wasn’t even looking through the site of his rifle. The abrupt change of Cash’s disposition scared Peterson.

He’s losing his fucking mind
.

“Cash?” Peterson said lightly. “Cash, you okay?”

The incoming zombie let out a guttural moan and, walking as if drunk, moving ever closer to Cash.

“What the hell are these things?” Cash’s left eye twitched when he spoke. “In god’s name, what are they?”
 

The Zombie stepped within feet of Cash and Peterson. The nurse backed away. Peterson drew his pistol and, with a level hand, aimed at the zombie.

“They’re the fucking walking dead,” Peterson hissed and pulled the trigger.

The zombie took the bullet between the eyes, its body reeled, and it fell flat on its face. The back of its head revealed the exit wound.

Cash let out a deep belly laugh. His shoulders shook.

“What do we do boss?” Cash’s question was deeper than it appeared on the surface. For the first time, Peterson saw the deep vulnerability in Cash. Underneath his crazy tough exterior was a scared little boy, just like everybody else. And for the first time, Peterson’s heart went out to him.

“We kill them, friend,” Peterson looked down the hallway, at the rest of the approaching zombies. “Squeeze the trigger and let it fly.”

 
Cash’s expression turned on a coin. His emotions were unraveling. Now an odd smile crossed his face. He raised his rifle, took aim, and fired. Shot by shot, he hit six infected—all in the head. They dropped like bowling pins. Yet for every zombie killed, another seemed to appear. Like an army of ants crawling out of their hive.

The rate of firing increased behind Peterson, and the crack of machine guns and pistols resounded through the air. The fight was closing in on them. Peterson turned around and saw the crowd of scared and confused civilians at his back, huddled together, following him. However, the crowd was smaller than before. Some of the civilians stuck it out with Sheriff Jones.

God help them.

Sharon was covering the rear of the civilians. She snapped in a new clip of ammunition into her rifle, and resumed firing. She was confronted with a surprisingly large group of zombies, and they had moved into point blank range. She was popping them off, one by one. It seemed she was barely holding the line.

“We have a lot of company!” Sharon yelled out to Peterson. “I hate to interrupt your good time, but if you’re going to do something, now is a good moment!”

Peterson looked down the hall. It didn’t seem to matter how many Cash killed—more and more just flowed out.
I need more guns
, Peterson thought.

As if on cue, Cowboy appeared over his shoulder.

“Looks like you could use some help,” Cowboy no longer sounded tough, his voice was trembling.

Then Hatchet stepped up next to Peterson, gripping his machine gun. “The truck was a good idea,” was all he said.

Peterson glanced at them both. He liked their loyalty. He looked for any signs of the cops, hoping maybe they’d changed their minds and decided to join the right side of the fight. But there was no such luck.

At least they’re not getting in our way,
Peterson thought.

“Okay, line up side by side: we’re going to make a wall of fire head straight down the mouth of this hallway,” Peterson slung his assault rifle off his shoulder, pulled back the bolt, loaded a round. He released the bolt and it snapped back into place. “Watch the doorways, make every bullet count, and most importantly, don’t get in each other’s line of fire.”

Cash smiled in acknowledgment and slid a bayonet on the barrel of his machine gun. The shiny, razor sharp blade fastened with a smooth click.

“They must be flowing in from somewhere,” Nurse Dee said. Her observations were sharp, and her instincts correct. Indeed, the hoard of zombies got thicker in front of them, and occupied the entire hallway from side to side and front to back, and were lumbering closer every second.

A disfigured black nurse was leading the pack of infected. Her right arm was gone, and her right foot was a bloody stump. Her arms reached out and she let out a bizarre, eerie groan.

Peterson, Cash, Hatchet and Cowboy quickly got into formation.
 
They lined up shoulder to shoulder, side by side. They raised their rifles and took aim. They looked like a firing line getting ready to execute a person. Not waiting, Cowboy shot the black zombie nurse. He blew her head off.

The rest of the firing line followed. Their four rifles shot in unison and shredded to pieces everything in their path.

In all his years of combat, Peterson had rarely seen such a gory scene. As their bullets ripped into the heads of the undead, blood, brains and bones splashed on the ceiling, walls, and floor. The cracking of the guns was deafening, and created a ringing in Peterson’s ears. His spent bullet casings discharged in rapid succession from his rifle, and the smell of gunpowder grew thick in his nostrils.
 

It was a duck shoot. The zombie’s rigid, slow movements were no match for the accuracy of Cash and Peterson—and the civilians were doing all right, Peterson noted. One by one, the zombies were falling fast.

“Forward!” Peterson yelled over the gunfire.

As they marched down the hallways, blasting every zombie in their path, a new obstacle presented itself. Now the men also had to watch out for their footing. As the walking dead were shot, they fell on top of one another, creating significant blockades to be climbed over. Also, their blood pooled heavily on the floor, creating the equivalent of an oil slick. The more zombies they killed, the harder the hallway became to navigate. Peterson did not foresee this.

In front of the men was floor to floor carpeting of dead zombies. In unison, the team stopped. The next steps they had to take were on top of the corpses. There was no way around it, Peterson thought, as he led the way, taking the first step. The consistency of the ground changed from hard tiles to being wobbly, crunchy, and soft.