Elements of the Undead: Fire (Book One) (10 page)

With a disgusted groan, Hollister rolled off and flopped onto her back beside him. She pointed at the door. “Get out!” It wasn’t an invitation.

The boy didn’t wait for a second command. Cradling his abused penis, he rolled from the bed and gathered his clothes, then scurried from the room like a whipped dog.

Hollister lazed on the soiled sheets for a minute, reflecting on her evening. One thing was for sure. It was time for a new plaything. She chuckled to herself, amused at the beautiful absurdity of her life.

Prior to the collapse, this type of behavior would have landed her in the brig, or worse, in Leavenworth. Trapped on a ship full of young, virile men, she had often fantasized about starting at the bow and working her way to the stern, fucking her way through the crew one sailor at a time. But not as a Commander in the United States Navy. In a contest between her carnal desires and her passion for Navy life, the Navy had always come out on top. Besides, even if she had found a way to fulfill her fantasies in the civilian world, there would have been complications. There always were.

She recalled the instant she had given the order to fire. Not since the day she received her Navy commission at the Academy had she been so filled with possibility. It was the closest she had ever come to orgasm without a man inside of her, and it had taken everything in her power to maintain a somber face in front of Pollard. Her first priority was survival. The world was turning to shit, and she alone had the knowledge and the skills to survive. Sure, there would be others out there, people who could scavenge, read the winds, or build a campfire.
But did they have the desire to remake reality in their image?
She didn’t think so.

She sat up and crossed her legs. The room reeked of sex and stale cigarettes, a musky, flat odor that both turned her on and made her nauseous. Still, it smelled better than the inside of a sub.

Her thoughts finally settling, she slid from the bed and pulled on a t-shirt, a pair of loose shorts, and a pair of battered New Balances. She was almost ready. Dipping her finger into a gallon-sized Ziploc on the nightstand, Hollister scooped out an ample pinch of cocaine. She put her finger to her left nostril and snorted, drawing the fine white powder deep into the recesses of her sinus cavity. Her heart responded immediately, hammering in her chest like a caged animal. The room jumped into a sharper focus; energy welled from deep within.

Fortified, she headed for the door. Her heart skipped a beat as she almost collided with Andrew Pollard, who had been waiting on the other side.
Had he been listening the entire time?

She scowled. Pollard shot her a half-salute on top of a knowing leer. “I’ve got some news from the scouting party,” he said.

She pushed past, jostling his arm in the process. Papers fluttered to the floor, and he bent to retrieve them.

“How long have you been here, Andrew?” she said, stopping and turning to face him.

“Not long.”
He’s lying.

She paused for a moment, thinking back to the young man who had just left. “Please dispose of…” She couldn’t remember his name. “The one who was just here. I’m finished with him.”

“Consider it done.”

She had a new toy in mind. “And make arrangements to bring me someone new tomorrow, maybe the Asian kid that came in with that group from Colorado last week.”

“Of course,” Pollard said. If Pollard had any reservations about serving as her pimp, he didn’t let on. To the contrary, he seemed almost too eager.

“Okay. Let’s hear about the scouting run,” she said, taking off down the hall.

Pollard launched into a rundown of the mission. Fort Huachuca was a sprawling base nestled up against a mountain range, providing a natural barrier for the undead swarms migrating from south to north. Still, the post was a scene of devastation. Abandoned vehicles, flattened fences, and burned-out buildings dominated the landscape. Expended shell casings glinting like discarded diamonds lay scattered across the sun-baked desert floor, evidence of futile battles against an army that never retreated.

As with the military and police installations they had inspected as they traveled through Mexico, it appeared civilians had gravitated to the base in a last-ditch bid for protection. It had been the wrong choice. The soldiers were under orders to protect their base at all costs. Unfortunately for both parties, once the undead infection began spreading through a crowd, the chance of others in the crowd becoming infected grew exponentially. Everyone died. And then they came back.

Weapons and ammunition were readily available, Pollard reported, as was food.

The journey from decorated submarine captain to post-apocalypse survivor had not been without its challenges. When Hollister had grounded the Wyoming in Ensenada, she gave her crew the choice of either following her or going their own way. Most struck out on their own, embarking on personal suicide missions to find their families or die trying. Once the deserters were gone, Hollister had turned to her remaining crew and congratulated them on their decision. And then she laid down the new law of the land. She had executed all but seven of this original group within the first week, solidifying her role as alpha bitch of the new world. The remaining crew had fallen into line, afraid to question her, and now afraid to strike out on their own.

Hollister had the beginnings of a new army. She followed this strategy with everyone they encountered, offering protection and support in the form of food and weapons in exchange for absolute loyalty. Word of mouth served as a powerful motivator for new recruits. She had only executed two others since that day.

They reached the outside door of the warehouse, and she pushed through. Pollard followed, kicking a wedge of wood under the door to prop it open. Hollister fished a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and shook one out. She didn’t offer one to Pollard. She was excited by the potential of a base full of weapons, but also a little overwhelmed. The extent of the destruction was far greater than she had expected, and she worried about the challenges that lay ahead.

She blew smoke in Pollard’s face and smiled as he winced. “It’s too fucking hot here,” she spat. “We need to get out of the desert.” Pollard looked as if he was about to speak, but said nothing.

She sensed his mood. “Yeah, I know. Southern Arizona, and all that. I’ve got no one to blame but myself…”

Pollard rewarded her with a thin smile. “We can be on the road in twenty-four hours,” he offered.

“No.” She knew he meant well. They had adequate fuel and supplies. They had scavenged vehicles in Mexico, vintage cars and trucks built before the proliferation of EMP-sensitive electronics.

Pollard raised his eyebrows. “No?”

“I want to send a scouting team into Tucson before we head out, to see if there’s anything we can use.” Tucson hadn’t been on her sub’s targeting menu, and there was no guarantee another boat, or even a land-based missile, hadn’t been targeted at the city of a million. If, however, the city still existed, it would make their journey that much easier. They might even get lucky and find a military aircraft hardened against EMP. If it was gone, a barren crater, she would add one more ‘X’ to her map of dead zones.

Pollard nodded. “Okay. Tucson it is. I’ll get things rolling.”

Hollister finished her cigarette and flicked the butt toward a clump of prickly pear cactus where it became stuck on a spine, alongside dozens of others. She grinned, pleased with her aim.

Things are coming together.

Sixteen

Taos, New Mexico

Jack watched the candle in the center of the table flicker, the pool of wax around the wick glistening in the soft yellow light. He sighed and put his head in his hands. Across the room, Becka and Ellie were curled together, slumbering under a stained sleeping bag. He wore a dingy, blue t-shirt and jeans. His clothes were stiff with accumulated sweat and grime from the past few weeks. He didn’t care. At least he smelled better than the undead. His thoughts drifted to the moment when he realized how truly screwed humanity was.

After a frantic race to his mother’s house to retrieve the children, he and Becka had spent the next four hours huddled in front of the television, unable to tear themselves away from the macabre images of people attacking and consuming each other in the streets. It was only when the screen went blank and the emergency broadcast tone started blaring that they were able to focus on their situation.

The ski town of Taos, New Mexico was about as far from civilization as you could get and still have modern amenities, and that was its only saving grace. The message that had scrolled by on the bottom of the television screen instructing people to evacuate large cities and keep clear of the
changed
, even if they were family members, seemed surreal at the time, like something from a bad B-movie.
Changed
. That was what the media called the undead.
Stupid name,
Jack thought in hindsight. They were zombies, pure and simple. They were the very same creatures he and his friends in high school had laughed at as they consumed legions of hapless teenagers while stumbling around like brain-dead robots in all of those silly movies. He wasn’t laughing anymore, and he was sure his friends, if they were still alive, weren’t laughing either.

These creatures were the real deal, worse than anything George Romero could have ever dreamed up. And they didn’t shamble. No, these sons of bitches could sprint when they wanted to, at least some of them. And sometimes they were even able to work doors and windows, just like when they had been alive. He felt a momentary twinge of pity for all of the people who had perished trying to reach safety by following the half-baked evacuation orders proposed by the government. Jack had always known in the back of his mind that the west was home to a large portion of the country’s strategic missile forces. But for some reason, he had assumed they were all up north somewhere—Montana, Wyoming, Kansas, maybe even Colorado, but not in New Mexico.

But when the missiles lanced up on the horizon, bright plumes of fire defining their westward trajectories, the reality had smacked him in the face, forcing him to reevaluate everything he believed about the place he had called home. California, he thought. The big cities. Los Angeles. Sacramento. San Francisco. A few minutes later there were a series of chalky-white flashes to the far north, in Colorado—Denver, Colorado Springs, and Pueblo, most likely. And there was at least one large flash to the southeast, Albuquerque. But none for Taos. For that, Jack was thankful.

For everything else, he was furious—because the government’s plan didn’t work. The zombies still came. Only now, in addition to an insatiable hunger for human flesh, they were walking dirty bombs.

He wondered about the rest of the world. According to the news before the power had failed, the undead were on the march across the globe. Europe. China. Africa. The Middle East. Everywhere. He supposed there were others like his family scattered about. Between the nuclear-armed countries, there weren’t enough missiles to destroy the entire world—or were there? He didn’t know anymore. Since the collapse of the cold war, he had stopped paying attention to the whole concept of nuclear Armageddon.
Big mistake.

The first zombie had arrived in Taos a week after the bombs fell. It came from somewhere near Albuquerque, maybe closer, and it was in remarkably good condition. In fact, Jack hadn’t even realized it was a zombie until it was almost too late. The creature had strolled down the long driveway to his house with its head swiveling left and right, as if looking for someone. His gait appeared normal enough. The thing that tipped Jack off was the man’s clothing, or lack thereof. He wore no shirt, a pair of cutoff jeans, and one flip-flop, as if he had wandered off from a backyard barbecue. How the flip-flop had stayed on the man’s foot for so long still puzzled Jack.

Madeline had noticed him first. “Daddy. There’s a man outside.” Nothing in her voice indicated alarm. He and Becka had done their best to shield the twins from what was going on around them. They knew it couldn’t last forever, that things had changed irrevocably, but they wanted to delay it as long as possible. That was another mistake, it turned out.

The man noticed them, and like a missile locking onto a target, he had changed direction, heading toward the back porch where they all sat.

Jack stood. “Can I help you?”

The man hadn’t said anything; he just kept coming.

Then Jack saw it. There was a small hole in the man’s chest, a few inches below his left nipple. A line of dried blood snaked down his stomach and around to his back at his waistline.

“Becka! Mom! Get the kids inside. Now!” he yelled. Becka hadn’t wasted a second in herding the girls through the front door.

“Stop right there!” Jack commanded. The man was thirty feet out and accelerating—almost running. “I said stop!” Jack felt the world closing in around him. Time slowed to a crawl. He picked up his Benelli hunting rifle and brought it to his shoulder, leveled the barrel in the man’s direction and curled his finger around the trigger. It had been Becka’s idea to keep a gun close by at all times.

The feel of the cool, slightly oily steel under his index finger sent a wave of calm through Jack’s shaking arms.
“
I can do this
,”
he said under his breath.

“Stop right there!” he yelled. “This is your last warning!” He centered the man’s head in his crosshairs. The man opened his mouth and let loose a moan, a low, almost subsonic, guttural roar that made the hairs on Jack’s neck leap to attention.

He squeezed. The gun boomed, and the recoil punched him in the shoulder. The man had stopped in his tracks as the bullet tore through his cranium, turning his head into an airborne mist of bone and congealed blood, fanning out across the yard behind him. He stumbled forward a few more steps before tumbling into the dirt less than five feet from the edge of the porch. Jack lowered the gun and exhaled.
So this is it.
Behind him, the girls wailed in terror.