Rotter Apocalypse (29 page)

“Okay.”

“Tell you what,” Miriam said, forcing herself to sound happy. “Why don’t you kids get dressed, and when the others get back I’ll make breakfast for all of us.”

Rebecca’s face lit up. “Can we have some of that bacon Mr. Denning keeps stored away for a special occasion?”

Miriam fought back her tears. “Of course we can.”

“Yay!” Rebecca ran over to Philip. “Come on. I’ll help you get ready.”

While the children were preoccupied, Miriam pushed aside the shade again to see what was taking place in the pasture. The zombies were stumbling to the southern fence, and Windows and Denning were going somewhere in a hurry.

*  *  *

Denning led Windows down to the southeast corner of the pasture where he kept the combine. He hopped the fence and ran over to the ladder leading up to the cab. Windows stayed close.

“Are you planning on escaping with this?” Windows asked. “We all won’t be able to fit on it.”

“I know.” Denning opened the cab door and pointed to the rotters crossing the pasture. “I plan on using it against them.”

“What can I do to help?”

“Stay on the other side of the fence and take down any of those things that get by me.”

“You got it. Good luck.”

While Windows climbed back over the fence, Denning crawled up into the cab, closed the door, and propped his rifle in the corner behind him. He switched on the ignition, and the engine roared to life. When he shifted into gear, the combine lurched forward and made its way along the fence line. Thirty feet ahead of him and ten feet to the right, a rotter in military cammies lumbered toward the fence. When it saw the combine, it changed direction and headed toward it. Denning steered right and plowed into the rotter. It became trapped in the maize header, and the oscillating blades sawed through decayed skin and bones, severing its legs below the knee cap. The rotter fell forward onto the guides and began crawling, occasionally pausing and grasping for Denning. When it reached the end of the header, it clutched the horizontal spiral blade. The rotating blade tore apart the rotter piece by piece, severing its hand, lower arm, and then upper arm. The rotter did not notice. It kept its face arched upward in Denning’s direction, snarling and snapping its jaws, until its shoulder and head were pulled into the blades. The skull burst, exploding blood and gore across the maize header. The rest of its body went limp.

Denning swerved back toward the fence. The head of a rotter in front of them exploded from a round fired by Windows and it went down. Denning drove the combine over the body, the vehicle rocking as if crossing a speed bump. He maneuvered around two more nearing the fence, figuring Windows would take care of them, and steered toward a cluster of four a few yards distant. The combine knocked one of them over, its left front wheel crushing it under the vehicle’s massive weight. The other three were scooped up in the maize header and shredded. By now four corpses jammed the header. Denning stopped and shifted into reverse, hoping to dislodge the bodies. The one closest to the edge slid off into the pasture; the other three remained lodged in the blades. Even reversing and swerving back and forth couldn’t clear them. He slammed his left hand against the steering wheel, ignoring the bolt of pain that shot up his arm. There were still over ninety of those things out there, and without the combine they would never be able to clear them out. They’d lost. Unless….

Denning knew of a way around this. It sucked, but they had no alternative.

*  *  *

Windows paid no attention to Denning, concentrating instead on shooting those rotters that got near the fence. She had taken down three when Denning backed up the combine opposite her and opened the cab door. He leaned out and yelled to be heard over the engines.

“I need you to clean out the header!”

“What?”

He pointed to the front of the combine. “The blades are clogged. I need you to stay by me and clean them out, otherwise this plan’s not going to work.”

Windows climbed over the fence. As she approached the combine, her eyes darted back and forth to both ends of the machine, waiting for rotters to swarm around it. “You realize I’ll be exposed?”

“I know. There’s no other way.”

Windows moved toward the front of the combine. Every one of the living dead converged on them. “This is insane!” she yelled up to Denning.

Denning grabbed his rifle. “I’ll cover you.”

Slinging her AK-47 over her shoulder, Windows raced over to the header. The blades were jammed by three decapitated bodies. She grabbed the first by its shirt and pulled. It came loose with little difficulty, spilling muscles and skin across the header. Windows dragged it onto the grass and went back for the second. This one also came free with no trouble except for its trachea and lungs that had wrapped around the spiral blade. Swallowing back the vomit in her throat, she ripped the organs free and rolled the body off the header. She didn’t have the same luck with the third body. Its upper torso was wedged between the spiral blade and back shield, and wouldn’t dislodge. She climbed onto the header, her feet slipping on the blood-coated metal. Grabbing it by the waist, she pulled. The body would still not budge.

A shot rang out over her head and Windows ducked. A rotter in a blood-darkened yellow sweat suit near the front of the combine fell over backward, a bullet wound in its forehead. A second rotter, this one without a right arm, closed in. A second shot exploded its head, and it collapsed onto the grass. She glanced up to see Denning in the cab, his rifle pointed out the side window.

Moving to the end of the header, Windows dropped to her knees and reached her hands in between the blades and back shield. She felt the cold, dead flesh and rotting muscles, and nearly threw up. She yanked at the body again, but it was stuck fast. Windows felt around inside the torso until her hands touched the ribcage. She grasped the bones and pulled, and the body moved a few inches. Windows paused, took a deep breath, and pulled again. This time it slipped free. Dragging it along the header, she dumped the body on the grass and retreated to the left side of the combine. When Denning saw that she was clear, he sat back down and shifted into gear. The combine lurched forward again.

Windows wiped her hands on her jeans. That only cleaned off the surface gore. Unslinging her AK-47, she followed the combine, staying at a distance of twenty feet and keeping the machine between her and the approaching horde.

When Denning approached the west end of the fence, he reversed the combine to the right and headed in the opposite direction. He missed a rotter in the tattered remnants of a hospital gown that stayed close to the fence. Windows stepped up to it, fired a single round through its brain, and then fell in beside the combine.

*  *  *

Denning attempted to sideswipe the rotters, hoping to knock them over and crush them beneath the wheels rather than scoop them, thus cutting back the number of times Windows had to clear the blades. He was able to do that with most of them, although two staggered into his path at the last moment and were shredded. Denning attempted to swerve around a naked, bloated rotter that wandered in front of the combine. Before he could steer away, the header caught it up and dropped it onto the guides. The spiral blades caught the rotter’s right arm and pulled it into the machine, shredding its arm, shoulder, and head. When the blades reached the torso, rather than becoming jammed in the system, the body erupted. A mix of putrefying liquid and blood splashed across the cab’s windows. The stench of decay filled the cab. Unable to control himself, Denning puked across the steering wheel and dash board. He pushed open the cab door to let out the reek, which did little good.

Wiping the vomitus from his lips with the back of his hand, Denning took the steering wheel and aimed at the next rotter in line.

*  *  *

Once Miriam had gotten the kids preoccupied with a card game, she sat down on the edge of the bed, reached behind her, and removed the revolver from her pants. It felt cold and ominous. Bringing it around front, she covered it with her left and placed it between her knees so none of the children would see it. She heard the battle raging, and cringed with every rifle shot or ghastly moan. It would only be a matter of time before those things overran Windows and Denning, and then burst their way into the house. She thought back a few days ago to when the rotters killed Paul, and the agony he went through in those final minutes. She wouldn’t let that happen to Rebecca and Philip, or to Cindy. Placing her thumb on the revolver’s hammer, she cocked it back.

God forgive me.

*  *  *

Windows crawled up onto the header for the sixth time. It resembled a slaughterhouse floor, being completely covered in blood and shreds of tissues and organs. Windows pushed the image out of her mind and concentrated on the job at hand. By now the procedure had become routine, and she could clear bodies in a matter of seconds. She had to work faster because of the increasing number of rotters converging on them. Several times she had to pause in order to help Denning gun down rotters before they got too close. Following along beside the combine had also become more difficult. Seven passes along the pasture had covered the grass in a slick coating of human debris. She had already slipped half a dozen times, twice landing on her ass, which would have been fatal if the rotters had been too close. After doing this for ten minutes, Windows was soaked in blood, emotionally drained, and physically exhausted.

While Denning prepared to make his eighth sweep across the pasture, three more rotters moved into his path. Each was scooped up and shuffled into the blades. A loud grinding came from the header, followed by a loud snap. The combine jerked to a stop. Windows ran over to check. The spiral blade sat an angle. Its left mounting had shattered, and the blade had dropped down, the jagged end digging into the ground. The three mangled rotters were still moving. Windows raised her rifle and fired one round into each head.

Denning opened the cab door and stuck out his head. “What’s wrong?”

“The header is broken and the blade is stuck in the ground.”

“Shit!”

A moaning came from behind the combine. Six rotters approached from the rear.  Denning warned Windows to stand clear, and then sat back in the cab. Windows moved away, and Denning shifted into reverse. The spiral blade in the header strained and scraped, eventually breaking loose from the ground. Swerving from right to left, Denning backed over the living dead, knocking them down with the rear chassis and crushing them beneath the wheels. Each one exploded under the weight, sending a spray of blood and organs across the pasture. When the last one had been crushed, Denning stopped, waved Windows over, and opened the cab door.

“Climb on,” he ordered.

“Why?”

“You’re going to direct me.”

Moving around front, Windows climbed up on the header and used it as a ladder to mount the combine. When she had taken up position on the thresher machinery casing by the cab’s window, Denning shifted into reverse.

*  *  *

The rotter in the EMT uniform lifted its head from Walther’s body, attracted by the noise. Something large moved across the field, and something smaller moved around it. The rotter couldn’t comprehend what it saw or distinguish the noises. Its primitive mind knew only one thing—noise and movement meant food. Climbing to its feet, the EMT rotter circled around Walther’s stripped corpse and set off for the commotion in front of it.

The other eleven rotters got to their feet and followed.

*  *  *

Denning was halfway through the ninth sweep of the pasture when the combine bucked several times. The engine stuttered and died, and the combine ground to a halt.

“What’s wrong?” Windows asked.

“We’re out of petrol.”

“Now what?”

Denning scanned the pasture. They had taken down every rotter except for a pack of a dozen approaching from the north thirty meters away, the same ones that had been feeding on Walther. He wanted to kill these things more than any of the others. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out his remaining cartridges and counted them. Six left.

“How many bullets do you have?” he asked.

“Five.”

“Make them count.”

Windows crouched on top of the combine and took up a firing position while Denning crawled down from the cab and circled around the machine. The pack focused on Windows, which gave him a clear shot. He aimed, lined up on a rotter in a soiled bathrobe, and fired. The back of its head exploded, and it dropped face first into the grass. Denning felt a sense of satisfaction that suddenly turned to rage, rage that these damned creatures had consumed everything. They hadn’t been content destroying civilization. They had to ruin his farm, threaten the lives of him and his friends, and murder Walther. Denning fired off the last five rounds without even focusing on his targets, venting his fury. All he saw was the rotter in the EMT uniform, now covered in Walther’s blood. It tottered toward him, its arms outstretched, wanting to rip the life out of him.