Zombie Anthology (22 page)

    
Lucas cracked off three shots in the closest one's chest sending it reeling backwards leaking black pus and then they were on him. He felt the stone tip of the second one's spear punch through his sternum and looked into the third's hungry eyes above the drooling orifice on its face.

    
With the last of his strength, Lucas shoved his 9mm into his mouth and pulled the trigger. The bullet exited the back of his skull spraying the snow covered grass with brain-matter.

    
The creatures hissed and danced about his corpse. Tonight they would be eating American food for the first time.

THE END

4 - Grave Watchers, Inc.

    
Steve gazed at the shotgun resting in his lap, a nervous unease eating away at him. He had never cared very much for firearms of any kind. He saw himself as a thinker not a fighter. He ran a finger down the cold metal of the sawed-off barrel. There was no way out now, having came this far.

    
"Don't let the waiting get to you,” Chris said flatly, his large rotund form perched on a nearby tombstone which barely supported his weight. He wore a horribly out of fashion shirt with colors so bright that they hurt Steve's eyes. His black jeans were splattered with mud and his hair was black with a hint of gray, so oily it glistened in the rays of the setting sun.

    
Steve looked around at the grave markers so worn by time that few still possessed any readable markings. “Yeah,” Steve answered, pushing his glasses back into place with a single thin finger. The things had a bad habit of sliding down his face but he didn't have the cash to get a new pair. His own hair was a disheveled mess of blond atop his head and wore an old ratty Alien Sex Fiend T-shirt. Always self-conscious, he tugged at its back uncomfortably.

    
"The old Fairview cemetery,” was what people called this place. It had been filled beyond its limits and abandoned years ago. Still, even backwoods places like this needed to be guarded if the town was to avoid the plague claiming the world as its own.

    
"How did you get into this line of work?” Steve asked.

    
Chris shook his M-16 at Steve and asked, “You mean this?"

    
Steve nodded.

    
"I founded Grave Watchers, son, three weeks ago with a friend of mine named John. Remember when the first reports of what was happening up north began to show up on every station and the shit really hit the fan? The local newscasters not really believing the reports they were reading?"

    
Again Steve nodded, wishing Chris would get to the point.

    
"Well, when John and I saw those reports, we were sitting on the couch in my living room, bullshitting and being pissed off about the Sunday game being interrupted. We got a drunk.” Chris laughed, the mounds of his flesh rolling with the movement.

    
"We started asking ourselves if what was happening up there could happen down here in the south too. At first, we were scared shitless, but then we started thinking. Maybe, just maybe, down here it could be stopped before it started ... If someone were to watch the graveyards, the morgues, and put those bastards back down into Hell before they got loose. John and me, well, we were both ex-military so we ran an ad in the papers to do just that. We got more responses from mayors and city officials than we knew what to do with so the company was born. Our fees were monstrous, but this is a monstrous job. We hired on extra help, had to, from job to job, and a few permanents.

    
Now we're covering more than six counties, kid. You're going to be real happy with your paycheck when we get out of here if you handle yourself well enough and don't get careless."

    
"Has ... Has anyone ever been killed doing this?” Steve stammered, looking away from Chris's stare.

    
"Sure. It happens in almost every job kid,” Chris chuckled when he saw Steve's trembling hands, the knuckles growing white from the grip he had on his rifle. “Only the stupid and unlucky get ate or infected, kid. Those who set up for the job in the wrong place where some of those things could flank'em or bravado filled punks with balls too big for their own good. They're the ones that die.” Chris waved a hand through the air in a gesture of confidence. “We ain't got nothin’ to worry about here. Fairview's so old I doubt any of ‘em will even be intact enough to wake up."

    
Chris stared at Steve who seemed to be fighting some kind of inner battle with himself, blinking when Steve's 12-guage was thrust within an inch of his forehead. He looked up the barrel in disbelief as Steve stood above him.

    
"Which kind of punk was my father?” Steve asked his voice filled with a anger and hard determination.

    
"Damn, I thought you looked kind of familiar kid. “He was on that job up in Canton, wasn't he? We lost of a lot of good men up there."

    
Steve pumped a round into the chamber. “What happened?"

    
"We weren't prepared. It was one of our first big jobs, ya see? I don't think a lot of people took it seriously. Sometimes ya can't believe something like this without seeing it with your own eyes. Hundreds and hundreds of those things dug themselves up all around us, wave after wave. Everybody panicked. We all got separated in the chaos. If it hadn't been for John's radio, none of us would have gotten out of there alive. As it was, we were barely able to hold the things long enough for the National Guard to show and help out."

    
"Good answer,” Steve grinned, letting the gun drop a bit. “But you still let it happen.” He said, jerking the gun back up and squeezing the trigger. Chris's face was torn to shreds by the scattershot weapon, bits of blood and bone raining onto the ground around the tombstone he sat on. His almost headless corpse tottered of a second, then fell with a loud thump to the dirt.

    
Steve fell to his knees, smearing the blood that had spattered on his face with the back of his sweaty hand. Tears burned in his eyes. “Bastard,” Steve sobbed, “You lousy bastard, you shouldn't have let it happen."

    
In that moment, he did not hear the low sound of muffled moaning around him. He paid no attention to the first hand as it tore through the dirt not five feet from where he sat, its decaying fingers grasping at the air. Still Steve never moved, he only wept. He cried and cried and screamed.

THE END

5 - C-Zone

    
The storm was fierce. Lightening crashed in the air near the helicopter. The pilot was struggling desperately to keep the bird aloft and moving in the gale force winds.

    
"Will you look at that!” John exclaimed from his seat by the open side door of the chopper.

    
"What the hell is it?” Gary asked, peering out through the rain.

    
John grabbed the young man's shoulder and pointed downwards. “Do you see him?” John yelled over the roar of the blades.

    
"Who?"

    
"There. Right there,” John pointed again. Gary squinted and sure enough, he saw it. A Charlie solider perched on a high tree limb like an ape. The man held no weapon and made no move to try to conceal himself from the American helicopter. He stared up at them with yellow eyes which seemed to glow in the darkness of the storm.

    
"Jesus, is he fucking crazy or something?” Gary asked.

    
John started to answer but Captain Peter Stevens shot him a look from where he sat on the other side of the chopper's cargo space.

    
"You could say that,” John shrugged and changed the subject. “You ever been out this far before?"

    
"No! Hell, no,” Gary laughed, “I just shipped in a couple of days ago.” The young solider glanced back into the distance, searching for the man in the tree, who was now no more than a speck on the horizon. “Are they all like that?” he asked John.

    
John shook his head silently.

    
"Captain!” the pilot called. Captain Stevens moved up front, taking a seat beside the flustered flyboy. “The winds are too strong, sir. I'm going to have to set her down!"

    
"No!” Stevens screamed, “That is not an option, solider. Keep this bird headed south!"

    
"I can't do that!” the pilot answered, “We either set her down or the wind will set her down for us. It's all I can do to just keep her up, sir!"

    
"Damn it!” Stevens snapped and turned to face John. “You think we can handle it down there, Sergeant?"

    
"Don't know!” John shouted, “But it's probably better than being splattered all over the jungle floor!"

    
Stevens turned back to the pilot. “Okay, take us down,” he ordered.

    
The helicopter bucked against the wind as it started its descent, tossing its occupants around. John and Gary fought not to slide out the open side.

    
The helicopter was suddenly shoved to the right by a powerful blast of wind. Its blades struck a nearby tree. The pilot screamed as the bird careened out of control.

    
The ground met them fast. The helicopter thumped into the muddy soil, flipped onto its side rolling over and over again.

    
When it came to a stop, John found himself surprised to be alive. He'd suffered some cuts and bruises but was otherwise intact. Gary lay near him and looked to be in much the same shape. John righted himself trying to stand. “Is everybody okay?"

    
Gary moaned a yes, but neither the captain nor the pilot answered. John helped Gary up, he looked into the pilot compartment of the chopper. The captain lay on the metal floor, his left leg bent at an odd angle. He was alive though, John could see the ever so slight rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. The pilot, however, was not so lucky. A piece of the tree the blades had mauled jutted through the forward window and into his face. His helmet was pushed back by the wood and blood poured from the instantly fatal wound.

    
"Help me with the Captain!” John urged. Together he and Gary climbed out of the wreckage dragging Stevens with them. When they were a safe distance away, John stopped. “Wait here,” he ordered, leaving the young solider with the Captain in his arms.

    
John ran back to the helicopter and climbed inside. He grabbed everything he could carry, a radio kit, a few rifles, a first aid kit, and field rations. He shoved the supplies into carrying packs and took one last look at the pilot's grotesque still twitching corpse, and bolted from the wreck.

    
He tossed Gary some of the salvage as he approached. Gary caught it gracefully, slinging the packs onto his shoulders.

    
John checked the clip in the M-16 he carried and readied the weapon. “Best be prepared, son, it only gets worse from here."

    
"Are we behind enemy lines?” Gary asked, moving to lift the Captain again. John grabbed the Captain's other side tossing one of the man's limp arms up and around his own neck. “Worse, kid. We're in a C-Zone."

    
"A what?” Gary blinked.

    
"I'll explain later. Get it together solider! We gotta move!” John urged.

    
Something howled nearby in the night.

    
"They must have seen us go down! We've got to find a defensible position before they find us!” John continued.

    
John and Gary ran without stopping for nearly a full hour before they stumbled upon the old mine. Its once grand entrance now resembled little more than the mouth of a cave.

    
As they stopped at its entrance, John's head perked up. “Get ready, Gary,” he cautioned, releasing his grip on the Captain. “Here they come,” he said almost too calmly.

    
A woman leapt from the dense foliage of the jungle to Gary's right. Neither John nor Gary had expected an attacker to be so close. She wore only a few filthy scraps of rag. They were all that remained of her clothes.

    
The nails of her fingers were unnaturally long and rigid. They slashed at Gary's throat. The young solider narrowly ducked under her swing. She hissed and spat as foaming white saliva bubbled from her open lips. Then Gary noticed her eyes and froze where he stood in terror. Her eyes glowed like a cat's, feral and hungry. She screamed as if in pain and hurled herself at him again.

    
John fired point blank, his M-16 chattering, nearly cutting the woman in half. “Get the Captain into the cave,” he yelled and turned towards the jungle.

    
Gary heard John's grenade launcher thumping behind him as he pulled the Captain inside. The explosions lit the night, as things not altogether human cried out in the flames. Everything seemed to be happening so fast that by dawn, Gary was a mess of nerves.