Zombie Anthology (21 page)

    
No longer was humanity separated by such petty things as politics and faith. We stood together in an attempt to survive the new age dawning upon us. A choice was made to use the world's nuclear arsenals and the great cities like New York, Moscow, London, Berlin, and more were the first to be scorched to nothing but radioactive dust. Atomic fire swept their streets of the walking dead and living alike as millions perished.

    
From the bottom of the ocean a new land rose above the tides and upon its shores dwelled a race far older than our own. It was learned from the few mariners who survived the horrors the sea now held that upon this land the “Deep Ones” as they called themselves performed the last rituals to secure our demise and awaken their long slumbering master who was already stirring beneath the waves.

    
But all that is past now as humanity soon shall be. I reside inside the concrete walls of this mighty bunker buried within the Earth itself along with soldiers like myself guarding the leader of a democracy that is no more. We spend our time remaining listening to the scraping of talon-ed hands on the shelter's outer doors or trying to tune in a radio frequency of another base like our own. We have yet to find another as the airwaves are overpowered with the croaking and chattering of things from outside of time as we know it. Eventually death will come for us but for today we still pray, hope the doors hold, and fight on.

THE END

2 - Last Call

    
Owen donned his Kevlar vest and wondered why he bothered. It wasn't as if the enemy shot back these days. Usually if his unit made it to the scene of the disturbance at all, all that was left were the dead lumbering around with drooling mouths and eying the S.W.A.T. van like a meat wagon as it pulled up.

    
During the first few days, before the dead were everywhere and martial law had been declared, Owen had kept track of the number of “dead-heads” he'd put back in their graves. It'd made him feel like he was making a difference however small but after his fifty second kill he had given up counting. The world was going to shit anyway.

    
Two days ago, Owen had finally been forced to move into the station. The subways were closed down and the streets were like a war zone. It was difficult to get anywhere in the city. Abandoned and wrecked cars cluttered the roads. Packs of looters and vigilantes prowled the alley ways and dark corners as eager to “pop” any other “breather” they came across for a profit just as they killed the “dead-heads” for sport.

    
Owen opened his locker and strapped on his holsters. He'd long since stopped using standard issue gear even that of a S.W.A.T. unit like his own and slid two, twin Mark XIX Desert Eagles in to their homes. As he readied his new Mini-Beryl assault rifle, Sergeant Rigby walked into the locker room. The Sarge was already suited up and carried a sawed off twelve gauge in his hand.

    
"Walter bother to show up today?” he grunted, leaning on a locker next to Owen's. It was a tired joke that had lost its zeal days ago but the Sarge still seemed to find it amusing. Walter had been a member of the unit that had been shot by some looters and his body had never been found. It was assumed he had reanimated and made off before the firefight was over with and that one day his corpse would come walking into the station, just like he did when he was alive, to head out on the day's run with them.

    
Owen shook his head in the negative.

    
"Hell, looks like it's just us and Josh then,” the Sarge laughed, “Best get to it."

    
Owen nodded snapping a magazine into his rifle and followed the Sarge out to the parking area.

    
Their first call the normal kind of “BS", two idiots holed inside a bank they managed to screw up robbing. Three “Blue Boys", as Owen called the beat cops, had the placed surrounded as best they could. The whole department was hurting for manpower and everyone was stretched thin not just Owen's unit. From the layout of the bank, it looked as if it was going to be a bitch to get the pair of would-be robbers out of there.

    
The Sarge stood talking plans with the ranking “Blue Boy” as Owen headed off to find a good snipping position across the street. He never made it there however. Josh solved the problem of the situation very easily by putting an anti-tank rocket straight through the bank's main window. The building erupted into a shower of shrapnel and flames knocking Owen to the ground.

    
When the Sarge asked Josh what the Hell he was thinking in front of the bewildered “Blue Boys", Josh's answer was simple. “Frag it Sarge, there wasn't anything in there anyway but paper and scum bags."

    
Later as Owen's unit of three drove towards the warehouse district where a large mass of “dead-heads” had been reported on the move, Owen found himself still laughing at Josh's response. If he didn't laugh then he would be forced to think about what actually happened and the sick absurdity of it all. Money was a thing of the past yet those two losers had died trying to make off with bags of it though Owen had no idea why. He guessed old habits died hard.

    
As they reached the corner of 8th and Main, he noticed red lights flashing from a side street as the van drove nearer to it. “Josh, slow down, man,” he ordered.

    
The S.W.A.T. van came to a crawl as Owen peered out its pus stained window. The window was always a mess. The team couldn't keep it clean. Josh had a tendency to run down any “dead-heads” he could if possible and often he didn't have a choice. The things were either too slow or stupid to get out of the van's way when it came tearing down an avenue.

    
"Is that an ambulance?” Josh asked, his own gaze following Owen's.

    
"Think it is,” Owen agreed, “Should we call it in Sarge?"

    
The Sarge leaned up from the back to get a look as Josh brought the van to a complete stop. “What the Hell is it doing just sitting there?"

    
"Jeez, Sarge, you don't have to be a smart ass about it,” Josh snapped. It was clear the ambulance had been overrun by “dead-head".

    
The Sarge grinned showing off yellow tobacco stained teeth.

    
"I thought all emergency vehicles were supposed to have a “Blue Boy” escort now.” Owen commented.

    
"Well, I guess this one didn't. Too bad for them,” the Sarge laughed.

    
"So do we call it in or not?” Josh asked again eager to be back on the move. If you were smart, you didn't stay in any one place too long, not even if you were as heavily armed as they were.

    
The Sarge seemed to think it over for a moment. “Belay that shit. We're here, we'll check it out."

    
Josh shot an angry glance at Owen as if blaming him for noticing the thing to begin with. Owen turned away saying “Sarge says check it out, we check it."

    
Owen kicked open his passenger seat door and stepped out onto the street with his Mini-Beryl held ready. Josh followed reluctantly clutching his UZI in white knuckled hands. The Sarge got out too but stayed by the van with its engine still running.

    
Owen walked towards the ambulance as its light continued to spin slicing the night with its red beam. “We've got an officer down,” he called back at the Sarge.

    
Owen gently sat his Beryl down on the street and drew one of his Desert Eagles. It would work much better at point blank if the officer turned out to be a “dead-head". He squatted over the officer's body. She was young and probably in twenties from the looks of her. It looked as if she had put up a good fight too, trying to protect the rescue workers to the end. Several “dead-heads” lay rotting around her. Owen rolled her over to look at her face and badge. Large chunks of flesh and uniform were missing from her shoulders and her throat had been gnawed open, her long blonde hair lay beside her face in a blood matted ponytail. Even as he read the name on her badge he heard the Sarge who had moved up behind him whisper “Loretta."

    
The Sarge dropped to his knees beside Owen and the body. His eyes glistened in the pale glow of the street lights.

    
"You knew her?” Owen asked.

    
"She's my granddaughter,” the Sarge muttered weakly.

    
"God ... I'm sorry."

    
"She's about to be a f-ing “dead-head.” Josh warned.

    
Owen knew for experience what was about to go down. He'd seen it too many times before.

    
"Josh, go and check the damn ambulance,” the Sarge ordered. “Owen and I will handle this.” The Sarge looked into Owen's eyes with a pleading stare.

    
"I'm sorry,” Owen offered again, “but Josh is right.” He pressed the barrel of his Desert Eagle to Loretta's forehead and pulled the trigger before the Sarge had time to move. The shot echoed in the empty streets.

    
"Owen!” The Sarge yelled. He swung his sawed off shotgun up to be level with Owen's face even as Josh opened up with his UZI. Owen rolled to the side as the Sarge's shotgun thundered its burst narrowly missing him. He watched the red blossoms sprouting across the Sarge's chest as he staggered and toppled over.

    
The ambulance door swung open behind Josh and a woman in a hospital gown lunged out. An oxygen mask dangled about the wrinkled, gray skin of her neck. Her eyes were glazed but filled with hunger. She was covered with large open sores which leaked a type of infected, black ooze in place of blood. She grabbed Josh and the pair when down hitting the pavement hard. Josh struck out at her punching her in the face. Her nose shattered and caved into her head but she still managed to get her teeth onto Josh's cheek and when her head rose back up Josh's blood dripped from her mouth. Josh howled at the pain from the hole in face and threw her off him. He leapt over her and bashed his Uzi again and again in her head until her skull cracked and reddish pulp poured out over and splashed onto his hands.

    
Owen stood watching it all in horror. He sighted his Eagle carefully and put a mercy round through Josh's temple.

    
A soft moaning rose in the distance all around him seeming to come from everywhere. Owen wished he could convince himself it was just the wind but he knew better. The local “dead-heads” had heard the shots and were on their way for a late night snack if it could be found.

    
Owen made his way back the van and climbed into the driver's seat. He heard the dispatcher yelling at him over the van's radio. They had failed to report in to the station on time. He didn't reach for the radio though. The first of the “dead-heads” were in sight now spilling down the street in front of the van as they lumbered towards him. He put the van in gear and revved the engine. The city was dead but he figured he'd head south. Perhaps down there, in the sticks, maybe humanity still stood a chance. He intended to find out. He floored the pedal and the van roared to meet the mob.

THE END

3 - Hungry

    
Lucas lay in the ditch staring with disbelief at the metal spike which pierced his lower leg. At least he had managed to stop screaming but the pain was almost unbearable. Sweat glistened on skin despite the cold of the night. He knew he had to do something. They were coming of that he had no doubt. They didn't seem to have ears but he knew they heard him all the same. He looked around for his 9mm and saw it laying a few feet away out of reach. He'd dropped it when he'd stumbled into the ditch.

    
He heard them running through the brush of the woods towards him. He jerked his body in the direction of the gun. His fingers closed about its grip as felt the spike twist and tear free from his flesh. He howled from the pain again and nearly blacked out as the big one's face popped over the side of the ditch. He looked up into its gleaming red eyes and purple slick, smooth skin. The sphincter of its mouth dilated open revealing rows of razor teeth which seemed to stretch all the way down its throat as it hissed at him.

    
Lucas lifted the pistol and put a shot between its eyes. Shrieking it either pulled or fell back away from the edge of the ditch. He doubted very much that the thing was dead. When Lucas had been forced to bail out he'd had no idea he'd be parachuting into Hell nor did he have any idea what the fuck these things were but he knew one thing for sure, they weren't natural to the Earth. At least, not any part of the Earth he knew. He wondered if they were the reason for the “no fly” zone the Russians had set up over this area that had gotten his plane shot down. Maybe they were some kind of “Red” experiment in biological warfare, but if so they were a masterpiece, strong, fast, and deadly.

    
A gargled hiss echoed in the night as the one he'd shot leaned back over the edge of the ditch grinning at him. Then suddenly there were three more, leaping down around him where he lay. They carried primitive spears and rusted saw blades as weapons in their four fingered misshapen hands.