Zombie D.O.A. Series Four: The Complete Series Four Page 13

  Only Ruby had thought to take cover. He saw her at the periphery of his vision, standing stock-still up against a white panel van.

  “Julie,” Chris hissed. “Get everyone to the cover of those cars.”

  They hustled over, running crouched, dropping into a squat. Chris meanwhile walked to where Ruby stood.

  “See anything?”

  “Quiet,” she said simply. “They’re around though.”

  Chris listened and heard nothing but a faint whisper of wind.

  “They’re here,” Ruby assured him.

  He surveyed the street, an ordinary residential thoroughfare that stretched into the distance and made a dip before gradually rising and disappearing among the snow flurries. At the corner, to his back, stood a two-storey building. A coffee shop (‘Pacino’s – best brew in Staten Island’) occupied the first floor, apartments the second. It was the only elevated position in the immediate vicinity, the perfect spot for a machine-gunner. Except, the Bamber strategy didn’t call for a machine-gunner, or even for an elevated position. What it called for amounted to suicide.

  six

  The Bamber Z fighting plan went something like this. The squad of eight formed a tight circle in the road, two of their number equipped with flame throwers, the others with machineguns, grenades, claymore mines, machetes and clubs as a last resort. They placed a radio at their center and transmitted a signal, drawing the zombies from the houses. Then, as the Z’s approached, they turned the flamethrowers on them. If there were a lot of Z’s, tightly packed, the flames would soon spread between them and they’d go up like dry kindling. If their numbers were thinner, no problem, the squad could take them out with rifles and grenades. The hell of it was, it should work. It was, in fact, a ploy Chris had used several times before, a tactic Joe referred to as ‘The Alamo.’ But when he’d used it in the past, it had been as a last resort. He didn’t believe that it was something to base an entire campaign on. He’d have preferred to use methods that elevated the safety of his team to the top of the list.

  The radio crackled suddenly to life. “Fox leader you there, over?” Bamber’s voice.

  “This is Fox leader, over.”

  “Fox, we’re going live in five, over.”

  “Copy that, out.”

  Five minutes. Whatever his reservations about the plan, he had to get moving.

  Chris hustled along the sidewalk, Ruby close behind. He dropped into a crouch next to Julie, calling the rest of the team to him with a hand gesture. He didn’t even know all of their names yet. The big guy was called De Salvo, although he went by the nickname, Strangler. Then there was the kid, eighteen years old, handsome, cocksure, a mop of unruly black hair. His name was Chico. The small, scrawny guy was Paulie Di Angelo, his brother Pete had been killed in Scolfield’s fighting cage. The redhead was Julie’s cousin, although Chris couldn’t remember his name. The other guy was almost as big as Strangler with coarse, blond hair. His name also escaped Chris right now.

  “You, you,” he said, pointing out Strangler and the other big guy. Get those tanks on. You, Chico, help Ruby running out some of those claymores. The rest of you, come with me.”

  He stepped quickly into the middle of the road, drew out a rough circle, then changed his mind. He really didn’t like the idea of allowing themselves to be surrounded without a fallback position. He spotted something that drew his interest. In the garden of a house on the other side of the road, a couple of wooden slats were nailed into the trunk of a staunch, oak tree. He followed the slats up and saw a platform among the branches, probably the base of a one-time tree house that had long since collapsed. The slats too, were probably rotten. Did he have time to check it out? Two simultaneous events told him he didn’t.

  “Standby,” Bamber’s static-infused voice spewed from the radio.

  “Dad, where do you want these claymores?” Ruby said.

  He jogged back to the middle of the road and redrew the circle. Give me about twenty feet outside of the perimeter,” he said to Ruby.

  “You want them angled for head shots?”

  “No, keep them low. Just make sure Chico faces them out.”

  He turned towards Julie and the others. “The rest of you, distribute the ammo around the inside of the circle.” He grabbed Strangler by the arm. “You stand here,” he said, pulling him into position. “This half of the circle is yours. You got that?” Strangler nodded and grinned, stood, legs apart, like a western gunfighter, the flamethrower’s trigger grip in his hand.

  “Ruby, how are my claymores coming?”

  “One minute.”

  “I don’t have a minute. Move it along.”

  He positioned the other flamethrower guy, whose name he now recalled, was Richie, at the opposite side of the circle to Strangler, gave him similar instructions.

  “Fox leader come in, over”

  “Ah Christ,” Chris said. He ran towards the radio, slid in beside it.

  “This is Fox, over.”

  “Send your transmission. I repeat, send your transmission, over.” A pause. “God be with you, Chris.”

  seven

  “Read ‘em and weep,” Hooley said, spilling out his hand - aces and eights.

  “You been palming cards on me, Hoolihan?” Joe said.

  “No sir, I just happen to outskill you when it comes to the game of poker. You Yankee boys have no talent for card games, except maybe for Old Maid.” He scraped Joe’s pile of chips towards him. “You want to go again?”

  “Nah,” Joe said, levering himself out of the chair. He reached for his cane and then deliberately let it clatter to the floor and hobbled across to the window without it. It had been nine weeks since the incident in Brooklyn that had pushed one of his ribs through a lung, nine frustrating weeks of being an invalid. Joe had always been a faster healer. This time though, the healing had taken a lot longer than he’d have liked. His abdominal injuries were fine. It was the ankle that was still giving him jip. It still felt stiff and sore, as though his foot was bolted too tightly to his leg. The cold weather did him no favors either.

  He stood at the window looking out onto the snow-choked expanse of Columbus Avenue.

  “You thinking about, Chris?” Hooley said from behind him.

  “That Mick son of a bitch is old enough, and ugly enough, to look after himself,” Joe said, then, “Of course, I’m thinking about Chris. Ana and Ruby too. We should be out there with them.”

  “We should,” Hooley agreed wistfully. “Still, in your condition its probably better to rest up.”

  “I ain’t dead,” Joe said looking out onto the street again. “Might as well be, though,” he muttered under his breath.

  There was a knock at the door. Joe turned back towards the room where Hooley was now sipping from his bourbon glass and counting out his latest winnings.

  “You want me to get that?” Hooley said.

  “Would you?” Joe said, giving him a grin that would have done Bucky the Beaver proud.

  Hooley set his glass aside and got to his feet, walked a few paces and then turned back towards Joe. “You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d have sworn you were condescending me just now.”

  “Man, you rednecks are perceptive,” Joe said.

  He watched Hooley cross the apartment and head down the passage. After a moment he heard voices - Hooley and Kelly and someone else. Probably Janet coming to nag her husband home, Joe thought, but then he heard footsteps and caught a faint whiff of perfume. In the next moment, Kelly was standing in front of him, a woman beside her. Joe’s hand flew involuntarily to straighten the front of his bathrobe, his other hand patted down his hair. The woman with Kelly was gorgeous - five-nine, great figure, accentuated by her tight jeans and black polar-neck sweater, dark hair so shiny it seemed to sparkle, eyes that hovered somewhere between blue and grey, cheekbones you could…

  Joe caught himself. He was sure he was gaping.

  “Joe?” Kelly said. “I’d like you to meet Justine, our ne
w neighbor. She’s just moved into Cal and Yonder’s old place.”

  “Joe, I’m taking off now,” Hooley called from the door. “Be back tomorrow to whip your ass again.”

  “In your dreams, cracker!” Joe shouted back. He turned to Justine and grinned. “Sorry about that. Just a bit of boy talk. Hooley’s too dumb to be insulted.”

  “I think he’s charming,” Justine said.

  “Charming? Yeah, I guess he is, in a cornpone sort of way. So, Justine, you’re the one who saved Kelly from Barlow’s thugs, right?”

  “It was nothing really,” Justine said.

  “Nothing?” Kelly said. “It was a thing of beauty. You should have been there, Joe.”

  “Where’d you learn to fight like that?” Joe said, then before Justine could answer, “Geez, look at me. Cross questioning you before I’ve even properly introduced myself. I’m Joe Thursday.” He stuck out a hand and Justine took it. Her grip was firm.

  “Can I get you ladies a drink? Some coffee maybe?”

  “Not me,” Kelly said. “I’ve got math problems to work through with Sam. Not that I understand half of it myself.”

  “Justine?”

  “I’d love a bourbon but I’ve got unpacking to do. Rain check?”

  “I’ll hold you to that.”

  “I’ll count on it. It was a pleasure meeting you, Joe.” She offered her hand and he took it. Her grip was softer this time and lingered perhaps longer than it needed to.

  eight

  He would have liked to have held back on tuning in to the dissonant Z frequency, but the briefing last night had been clear. All teams had to co-ordinate their efforts. Even as he hesitated he heard shots fired from the next block, heard shouts and the whoosh of flame. He twisted the dial and stepped back as a blurt of static squawked from the radio and then settled into the familiar, discordant hum.

  “Dad!” Ruby called. He looked up and saw the first of the Z’s stumbling from one of the houses, no doubt roused by the gunfire from the next street, now a constant clatter. A window shattered somewhere along the street. A shot rang out.

  “Hold your fire!” Chris said. “Save your ammo. You fire only at those Z’s that break ranks. Everyone clear on that?”

  The Z that he’s spotted first was lurching down the porch steps now, more of the things following behind, still more exiting the other houses. There was movement in the junction to his left, close to the coffee shop, more from the road stretching into the distance on his right. They crossed the snow-covered sidewalk with awkward listing steps, a black tide creeping up a white beach.

  “Jesus Christ! There’s so many of them,” someone said.

  “You just hold, all of you. We got this,” Chris said. “Let them come.” He may have said the words, but he was beginning to doubt them himself. Bamber’s strategy (which he assured Chris had been extensively field tested) was starting to look more and more like suicide by the moment.

  From the road junction came the sound of machinegun fire. One of the rover units, a Humvee, rolled into view, the gunner standing in the turret and working the Browning in a deadly arc.

  “Give ‘em hell boys!” Chico yelled.

  “You focus on what’s in front of you!” Chris said. “Ruby, you standing by?”

  “Ready,” Ruby said.

  “Hold.”

  “Jesus, Chris, how close are you going to let them get to us?”

  “Hold.”

  The Humvee drifted past in the junction, still firing. From beyond came the tattoo of small arms fire, the low percussion of grenades.

  The Z’s were maybe thirty feet away, encircling them forty deep, with more joining from left and right. They were old Z’s, had probably lain dormant for years after the human food supply on Staten Island had fled. The smell of them hung in the air, not the reek of the abattoir, but the smell of musty old rooms, of damp and decaying paper. The buzz they emitted sounded like static electricity.

  One of the things broke ranks. Julie put it down.

  Chris looked across at Ruby, standing with the detonator in her left hand, her right on the lever. Wires ran from the detonator to the multiple claymore mines positioned around the perimeter. Twenty-five feet. He gave Ruby a nod, and she twisted the lever.

  A series of detonations, closely spaced, slapped across the street and rebounded off the buildings. The front few rows of zombies folded as though they’d stepped suddenly into a swamp. The spew of high velocity ball bearings from the claymores hadn’t killed them, that hadn’t been Chris’s intention. What he’d wanted was to drop as many of the front-runners as possible, so that they formed a natural barrier between those coming behind and the small group of humans.

  Nonetheless, the claymores had inflicted maximum damage, ripping legs off at the shin, pulping bone, ripping away chunks of desiccated flesh. To every side Z’s writhed in the snow, tried to stand, fell again. Those coming behind tried to step over them and crashed to the ground themselves.

  “Richie! Strangler! Cook ‘em!”

  “Sure thing, boss!” Strangler called back. Richie said nothing, but in the next moment the flamethrowers each spewed a jet of flame that was directed first at the Z’s on the ground and then angled upward towards those coming behind.

  Chris was reminded of an incident in Tulsa many years before, when he’d still been searching for Ruby. On that occasion some Z’s had been lit up by an exploding LP gas canister. They’d reminded him then, of shamen. Now they looked like an entire army of humanoid torches, ablaze and dancing in the harsh white light.

  To their right another rover unit was wending its way through the massed Z’s, decimating them as it did.

  “Fire at will,” Chris shouted to his team. “Fire at will!”

  nine

  One of the direct beneficiaries of the Corporation’s decision to initiate military action against New York, was Colonel Robert Benson. Benson was a career soldier, and like most career soldiers who’d advanced beyond the junior officer ranks, his ambition was to make general. His recent promotion to full-bird was a good start and the successful completion of his current mission was sure to put him over the top for the star he coveted, might even earn him a deuce.

  Benson was a man in a hurry, not least because he figured he had only about six months left to live, maybe a year. Now, he flexed his considerable biceps and waited for his daily shot of BH-17 to take hold.

  “That hurt?” Dr. Alex Payne asked, as she discarded the used syringe.

  “No, feels the same as it always does,” Benson said. “Warm.”

  “Humph,” Dr. Payne grunted. “Might have to up your dosage.”

  Benson stood up from the cot and looked down at the doc. She was pretty, he guessed, a bit scrawny for his taste and with her complexion spoiled by the ghost of old acne scars, but pretty nonetheless. Maybe he’d sound her out some time, see if there was a pulse behind the white coat and brusque manner.

  He was glad that Grant had convinced that snot-nose Marcus Pendragon to appoint her as his M.O., anyway. Marcus had been reluctant at first (rumor around Pendleton had it that the young whippersnapper had the hots for the doc – go figure), but in the end, under pressure from Doc Payne herself, Marcus had agreed. None of this political maneuvering meant jack shit to Benson, the reason he was pleased that Alex had been given the gig, was because she was a no bullshit kind of gal, focused on getting the job done and not afraid to fuck with those who got in her way. Truth be told, Dr. Alex Payne was a bitch from hell – his favorite kind.

  “Will there be anything else?” Dr. Payne said. She turned her back on Benson as she spoke, took a couple of steps towards the desk in the claustrophobically small doctor’s room.

  Benson finished rolling up his sleeve. “Yeah,” Benson said. “I need to know how work is progressing.”

  “It’s not,” Dr. Payne said. She picked up a pack of smokes, shook one out and lit up.

  “What do you mean it’s not?”

  “First off,” Payne said
. “You need to get me some decent facilities. I can’t work in this shit-hole abortion clinic.”

  “It’s a fertility clinic.”

  “How Freudian,” Dr. Payne said. She blew out a stream of smoke, pointed at Benson with the hand clutching the cigarette. “Second, you need to get me some decent subjects. Not even I can work with the dried out crap your men keep dragging in here.”

  “That’s what there is,” Benson said. “Town’s been deserted for years.”

  “Gee, an abandoned town in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. Who’d have thought it?”

  “I’m not sure I like your tone.”

  “Suck it up pal. You want fighting stock, you bring me some fresh meat. Otherwise we might as well pack up and head back out west.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Benson said. He turned, pulled the door towards him, actually ducking his head as he passed through.

  “And get me some proper facilities to work in,” Dr. Payne shouted after him. “I’m a professional, not some backstreet abortionist.”

  ten

  Justine looked through the windshield of her SUV and angled her eyes upward, to take in the dirty façade of the high-rise apartment building. She counted floors, settled on the third, and ran her gaze along to the corner unit. The light she hoped to see there was faintly visible behind drawn drapes.

  She removed her HK 9-millimeter from its holster, shucked and checked the magazine, replaced it, and re-holstered. Then she flipped the door, allowing in a blast of near arctic air. She dropped her feet to the sidewalk and crossed quickly to the entrance, still under a tattered awning that harkened back to better days.

  The elevator (unsurprisingly) wasn’t working, so she jogged to the staircase and ascended, taking the steps by twos. It was dark in the third floor corridor, but she was able to navigate by the faint light creeping out from under some of the doors. The stench of the place was a riot of competing food odors, each more pungent than the next. Overlaying these smells, were the unpleasant odors of unwashed bodies, sewage, and the distinct, pissy reek of crystal meth. Somewhere a child was crying, somewhere a dog barked, both sounds drowned out by the monotonous thump, thump, thump of music from the apartment at the end. Justine followed the sound. She thought about drawing her sidearm and decided against it. She didn’t think it was going to come to that.