Dead Again (12 page)

“Don’t look down,” Peterson snapped, “just do it.”

As if stepping up onto a platform, the rest of the men followed, walking on top of the corpses while continuing their march forward. A sickening crunch filled the air, and Peterson glanced over to see that Cash had stepped on the skull of the dead zombie. Now his boot was in its brains.

At that moment, more than ever, Peterson wished this was over. He just wanted every fucking walking dead person to be dead again. He wanted this passageway cleared. He wanted the civilians safe in the shelter, and he wanted to be on the way to finish his mission. A rage and bile filled his gut, and like a volcano, his anger spewed outward from the tip of his toes right to the end of his finger trigger. He screamed a war scream, which rose from the blackest depths of his soul. He opened up with his machinegun, and brought down upon the zombies the wrath of hell.

Peterson’s scream was contagious. It lit up Cash like fireworks on the Fourth of July. Finally, Cash had a partner in crime--another person as insane as he. Cash started screaming, too, a cry of rage and venom which rose louder than the machine gun fire itself.

 
At first Hatchet seemed jolted by the sudden war screams, but then he too suddenly screamed. He just screamed at the top of his lungs and began to fire his rifle like a maniac. The repeated deafening boom of the elephant shotgun was enough of an indicator that Cowboy was on board, too. All four men had let loose, throwing everything they had at the walking dead before them.

Flashes spit from the barrels of the rifles, creating a strobing effect which made Peterson feel lightheaded. His surroundings became surreal, the blood before him a stunning red, and the bones splintering from the zombie’s skulls a bright white. He blinked, trying to regain normalcy. But he also felt a bizarre sense of control, as if he were playing a computer game.

As if a sixth sense had come upon him, he could see so clearly now, as each zombie fell. He counted as he squeezed his trigger in rapid succession. One, two, three, four, five, six.
 
With pin-point accuracy he dislodged the brains of every goddamn zombie that stood in the hallway. He marched forward, squeezing the trigger, and his team marched with him. Stopping at nothing, they were homicidal, relentless, mass murderers of the walking dead.

In the back of his mind, Peterson knew he was having another episode of psychological dissociation. But he didn’t fight it.
It is serving me know
, he thought, as he fought his way to the very end of the hallway. But he was lying to himself. Dissociation, he knew, was just a coping mechanism, and it existed for one reason: to defend a person’s psyche from what it otherwise can’t handle. Even before this curse fell upon the earth, Peterson had been teetering close to the edge.

Peterson and the firing-squad were arriving at the end of the hallway.
 
Just in front of them was a doorway, adorned with a sign which read “storage.” Peterson knew this must be the entrance to the shelter.
 
However, the end of the hallway was a t-section. A hallway to the left, and to the right, from which zombies were flowing from. His team would have to turn the corners, and hold back the incoming infected from both the left and the right, creating a passageway for the civilians to safely enter.

Maybe five minutes had passed since they’d started the fight down the hallway, or maybe an hour. Time was standing still. Peterson didn’t even notice that the civilians, being
lead
by the Mayor, were right behind them, until Nurse Dee shouted out.

“That’s the shelter door!” she exclaimed with a fierce sense of urgency.

Zombies continued to appear into the hallway. So close to the end, the fighting was almost at point blank range. Peterson knew they had to move fast, they had to turn the corners and take control of the other two corridors.
 

A zombie, probably in the middle of an autopsy before it returned from the dead, turned the corner. It was cut open from belly to neck. All of its organs were removed, simply gone.
 
This zombie was faster than the others. It speed was surprising as it jumped forward and took hold of Cowboy. It opened its mouth, wide and terribly, to clamp down upon Cowboy’s face.

A bayonet entered the skull of the zombie with such force that it pinned the zombie’s head to the wall. Cash stood with a vicious look, and pulled his bayonet out of the zombie, allowing the dead body to slide to the floor like a sack.

 
Peterson caught Cash’s attention and provided a series of complicated hand signals. Peterson took up position, getting ready to turn the corner of the hallway to the left, and Cash the hallway to the right. Then, in unison, they pulled two hand grenades each from their vests, pulled the pins simultaneously, and lobbed the grenades around the corners.

“FIRE IN THE HOLE!” Cash shouted and everybody ducked for cover, including the crowd of civilians.

The hand grenades detonated back to back, putting forth explosions which shook the walls. Shrapnel, debris and smoke mushroomed around the corners, covering everybody in smoke and dust.

Peterson and Cash wasted no time: they turned the corners ready to fire, covering each hallway.
 
In front of Peterson was a salad of body parts and blood. His hand grenades
tore
to shreds a good number of zombies. However, what presented itself a bit further down the hall put a pit in his stomach.
 
It was just like the hallway they’d just cleared. There were more zombies, slowly walking right at them.

“Holy shit” Cowboy said, as he appeared over Peterson’s shoulder and saw the incoming zombies. “There’s no end to them.”

“I got more here, too—a big crowd!” Cash’s voice came from behind Peterson, sounding like a boy in an amusement park.

“Get everybody into that damn shelter!” Peterson demanded, as he turned to the Mayor. “NOW!”

The Mayor reached for the door which read “storage” and turned the knob. Locked. He reached over and grabbed a gun from a civilian and aimed it at the door.

“STOP!” yelled the nurse as she grabbed his shoulder. “We have to lock the damn thing behind us.”

“This is the only freakin line of defense? This one damn door?” he retorted in surprise.

“No, idiot!” she said, “but every door counts.”

Machine gun crackled from behind. Armstrong, Sharon, Tag and the rest fought a war in the rear, and Cash’s machine gun erupted. He opened fire again, plugging holes in the infected coming down his corridor. Peterson’s position was also getting worse, and he didn’t have much time--they were moving in closer.

“Can you open it?” Peterson yelled to Nurse Dee, and then fired two rounds from his machine gun, putting down two zombies.
 

 
“Hold on!” she said as her eyes filled with hope. She turned back down the hallway, climbed over a pile of bloody corpses, and found what she was looking for: a corpse wearing a dark brown jump suite, the familiar dress of the hospital maintenance men.
 
She reached down and grabbed a ring of keys attached to his belt. Peterson was impressed as he watched her.

“Keys to salvation,” she said with a cool and collected ring in her voice.

 
She suddenly threw the keys in the air, sailing across the hallway to the Mayor, who fumbled and dropped them, uncoordinated.

He finally picked them up and slid the key into the door: the lock opened with a smooth click.

“We got it!” he yelped. “We Goddamn got it!”

A sound wave of hope and relief bounced through the crowd of civilians.

A voice rang out from the civilian crowd, “Well what the hell are we waiting for? Let’s get moving!”

Peterson must’ve had at least 15 zombies in front of him, now within about 20 feet of his position. He squinted his eyes down his rifle and smoothly pulled the trigger. One, two, three, four,. The crack of his rifle was like seconds ticking on a clock, precise and consistent.

Peterson turned quickly to cowboy. “Can you take my position?”

Cowboys slid more ammunition into his shotgun. “You bet I can.”

Peterson did like the guy. He blew off that woman’s hand, but still acted bravely. Underneath a man who was scared was a man who was trying to be tough. “Okay Boy. But if you let any of them through, people are going to lose their lives. Don’t forget that.” Cowboy and Peterson switched places, and cowboy raised his rifle, preparing to shoot.

Peterson looked down Cash’s corridor. The situation wasn’t much better. Cash was holding off maybe 15 or 20 of those things. Peterson, for better or for worse, wondered where those damn local cops were. He heard shots of pistols in the far distance. He figured they must be trying to barricade the first floor.
 

Stupid bastards
.
 

Even worse, an image of the hospital parking lot flashed through Peterson’s mind. He imagined a larger and larger crowd of those monsters, gathering, surrounding the hospital, moving in on all of them.

Hearing the shout of Armstrong, Peterson turned and saw that, behind the crowd of civilians, the rest of the team had gathered, holding their positions and not letting any of those zombies get through. Armstrong, Tag, Johnny-Boy, and Sharon were a sight for sore eyes. Empty shell casing spit from their rifles as they pulled their triggers relentlessly. The crack of their assault rifles stung his ears.

Peterson calculated the field of play. In effect, they were surrounded. But they held good tactical positions. And, most importantly, they were a lot faster and a lot smarter than these dumbass walking bags of flesh. As long as they had enough ammunition, they were going to be successful. They were actually going to pull this thing off.

Despite himself, and despite his nagging concern that detouring from the mission was the wrong decision, he felt good. He was going to save these vulnerable people. After all the horrible shit he had seen in this world, and for all the terror that had taken place over the last 72 hours, he felt, for a moment, that something good could come out of all of this. Acts of decency in times of tragedy was what being human is all about. This thought made Peterson feel flushed for a moment. For the first time in his life he had
saved
people—instead of killing them.

Nurse Dee appeared over Peterson’s shoulder, and looked into the darkness which lay beyond the open doorway leading to the shelter. “You parted the red sea,” she said, admiration on her face. “Like you promised.”

Armstrong came up from the back line, drenched in sweat from head to toe. “How’s everything going up here in the first class cabin?” Armstrong said with a grin. “Good news sir: we got the rear under control. The crowds of infected have thinned out considerably. We still have some wobbling around, but it
ain’t
nothing we can’t handle in a snap.” Armstrong stared at the open shelter doorway, “Is that it?”

“Do me the honors and lead the way,” Peterson eye’s never stopped shifting, surveying the surroundings, estimating scenarios. Now it was going to be easy to get the civilians into the shelter. His new concern, however, was what the police would do when they realized they were locked out.

Armstrong turned to the scared, huddled crowd of townsfolk and shouted a charge, “FOLLOW ME!”
 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Peterson, Armstrong and Cash struggled against the weight of a huge, cast-iron door. It probably hadn’t been moved in 50 years. It was rusty, and looked like a remnant of an ancient battleship.

They grunted, and with a squeal the door finally slid on its hinges. Using their momentum, they pushed even harder, all three men straining their muscles. It slowly came around and shut with a thud which echoed throughout the shelter. Armstrong reached up and pulled down a hefty lever, and like an old prison cell, the door locked and sealed the basement shut.

The men were absolutely exhausted, as if shutting this door took the last bit of energy from them. They were also emotionally exhausted. They were safe, though, and the people were safe—at least for the meantime.

The old WWII shelter didn’t look like much more than an old cement basement, converted into a storage chamber. It was vast however, probably the length of a football field. It was dark and a bit chilly, and the emergency lights had turned themselves on, which were no more than encased, red light bulbs fixed intermittently to the ceiling. Patches of the shelter were not well lit, leaving areas of shadows.

Peterson took the entire room in, pacing it, and walked by a barely visible sign on the wall. It must have been eighty years old. It read:
bomb shelter
.

As Peterson surveyed the surroundings, he saw a very impressive array of items which had been stored. Medical machinery, boxes upon boxes of what appeared to be dried and canned food, and several hundred jugs of spring water. There were also medical supplies, surgical equipment, wheelchairs, and old computers. There were even hospital sheets, blankets, and even some old beds.
 
The inventory was vast, and would have to be closely examined. He felt more confident than ever that he had made the right choice coming here.

Some of the civilians moaned in pain, while others couldn’t stop crying. Nurse Dee and the Mayor led them to an open area, and guided them to sit or lay down. Peterson estimated there were about thirty civilians who had made it. The Nurse moved promptly, rolling out old hospital beds. Not missing a beat, she was already scavenging, testing and preparing the available supplies to serve the civilians.

As Peterson gazed upon the townsfolk he further grappled with the unbelievable fact that the dead were walking. He was beginning to wonder if maybe survival wasn’t all that life was about. Maybe it is not the length of time, but the quality of life that really matters. He had spent his whole live in survival mode. Now, as he looked at the people he’d just saved, he felt a pang of uncertainty. Have I lived a life of worth?

Right then and there he resolved anew to do whatever it took to make it to that island, to find that lab, to do his best to save humanity. It would be his redemption, for all the mistakes he’d made in his life.

He remembered the words of General Moore
There are only two ways out of this mission
. But that statement now dawned with new meaning. Two ways out:
the redemption of his soul, or death.

The civilians clearly had no energy left, their last bit of reserves completely gone. They huddled up against one another, as if by some protective instinct, like gazelle herding together in order to increase the chances of survival of the whole. It was odd how much humans could resemble animals in times of panic. Peterson knew that some of these survivors could be counted on, while others would be big trouble—the type that would stop at nothing to save only themselves.

In life and death situations, Peterson knew, some people will throw themselves on a hand grenade to save another person’s life. But other people will throw their neighbor on the hand grenade to save themselves. He knew that in just a little while, once they started getting their energy back, both the ugly and the good would rear its head amongst the survivors. And when it did, Peterson had already determined, he would make certain the folks of good character would be the ones with the lethal power. At least, that much he could do for them.

Nurse Dee helped a man onto one of the beds. He had a nasty wound, and was bleeding badly. Once on the bed, she pulled up the man’s blood soaked shirt.
 
Underneath was a very nasty bite wound, already turning black around the edges. Peterson wondered how many people in this crowd were infected. The Nurse placed her hands around the wound and gently touched the surrounding area.

“Nurse!” Peterson almost shouted.

She turned to him, startled.

“If you insist upon providing first aid,” Peterson lowered his voice, “wear protective gloves. That’s an order.”

Tag sat down on the floor, and clutched the bite wound on his arm. Blood had soaked clear through his bandages. His face had turned pale, dark circles had formed around his eyes, and cold sweat look liked tears on his forehead. He twisted in pain.
The virus is moving through him,
Peterson realized.
 

Tag had been fighting without blinking an eye. He swallowed his pain even though he knew he was infected, and going to die.
He is here because of me
, Peterson knew,
following my orders
. He looked weak now, and his time was limited. In the saddest of ways, Tag’s selfless nature made Peterson proud of him.
 

The bastard hates my guts, but he’s a damn true soldier.

Looking upon the crowd, Peterson could better understand now how this virus moved so damn fast. He watched as a pretty woman in her late thirties cradled her ten year old son. The boy had deep scratches on his arm. If Peterson didn’t know better, the kid was probably also infected. He noticed, perhaps for the first time, that most of the survivors seemed to be with family members. An elderly couple held each other tightly, a younger couple and their two children huddled as one, and twin brothers lifted a bottle of water together, working as one to help some others.
 

 
The infected all die. But when they rise back up, if it was your son, brother, or mother, would they really be dead,
Peterson wondered?
They would be the people you love dearly, standing before you, resembling the ways of life. And even if you could accept their death, could you actually bring yourself to smash in their skulls?

His stomach hurt as he wondered how many people became infected as a result of being bitten by a family member, a loved one or a friend. Peterson looked carefully at that mother in her late 30s, holding her injured son, and he understood. This infection had them beat from day one.

At that moment, more than ever, Peterson felt the aloneness of his own life. He turned, almost involuntarily, and looked at Sharon, the woman who, deep down, he still loved. She knelt down next to Tag, and placed her hand on his forehead. Peterson knew what she was doing. She was providing a dying man with what he wanted most. . .her.

 
Peterson shook it off.
 
Johnny-Boy was standing next to him.

“See to it that the wounded are separated from the others,” he ordered. “And ask the nurse to perform triage. Then I want you to distribute some food and water. Also, give me a head count while you’re at it.”

Johnny-Boy gave a nod. Somehow, his eagerness to please still hadn’t faded. With a sad,
child like
face, he was about to turn and carry out orders.

“Johnny-Boy” Peterson said with a fatherly voice. “You’re doing a damn good job.”

“Thank you, sir,” Johnny-Boy responded, his expression showing surprised and gratitude and still that star-struck loyalty he held for Peterson. “Thank you very much sir.”

“Boss.” The Mayor’s voice was calmer now, even friendly. He arrived over Peterson’s shoulder. “You did the right thing,” the Mayor said with a twang of moral- righteousness. Now that they were safe, the Mayor was playing politician again.

“I’m glad you approve,” Peterson drawled his words with a bite of sarcasm.

“Look Commander, I have a wife, and I have a daughter down here,” the Mayor’s voice was shaking with emotions as he turned and looked at his family. “The police and the other townsfolk made their decisions. They chose to stay upstairs.”

“What’s your point?” impatience strained Peterson’s voice.

The Mayor leaned in close, as if sharing a secret. “You’re not thinking of helping them out, are you? Those people upstairs?”

If he didn’t know better, Peterson would think that the Mayor was trying to manipulate him.

This man was dangerous. People turned to him for leadership, but he was spineless and weak. Peterson wanted to reach out and smack him in the face.

Peterson had, in fact, been thinking of that very thing. Ever since the sound of that iron door slamming shut, locking them in safe and sound, all he could think about was those unlucky bastards caught up there. The cops deserved it. But those people didn’t.

Most of all, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking of Dough, the ten year old boy he had met in the parking lot. He had hoped that Doug had followed them down; but it seemed that her father had kept her up there. He didn’t deserve to pay for her father’s mistakes.

“And what if I think about it, Mayor?” Peterson challenged.

The Mayor straightened his back and did his best to seem strong, “I won’t let that happen, Commander. I will rally these people and we will cast a vote against it.”

Peterson placed his hand on the Mayor’s shoulder, and squeezed tightly. “Democracy is dead.”

*

“This world has turned to fucking shit, and did a long time before this virus broke out,” Cash talked to himself. He was standing off to the side, almost hidden by the shadows. Lost in his own world, he pinched a wad of tobacco and put it between his lip and gum.

Nearby, some civilians overheard him, and became visibly unnerved. Peterson turned on his heels and walked straightforward to Cash.

“Keep that down soldier. The civilians are scared enough,” Peterson hushed.

Cash looked at Peterson sideways, carrying a one thousand yard stare. Peterson recognized that look all too well: it was like someone was looking straight through you, not at you. In the glazed reflections of Cash’s eyes, Peterson again saw a man who was losing his mind. Peterson had to find a way to stop Cash from unwinding, from continuing to spiral down into the abyss.

“What has got your goat, Cash?” Peterson took a deep breath, doing his best to sound collected and supportive.

Cash acted like he was speaking to himself. “Besides the fact that dead people are walking, that you have routed us from our mission, that we are with a bunch of wimpy civilians locked in the basement of a crumbling WWII shelter? Tag is dying, Armstrong can barely walk, and Jonny-Boy is injured. Spooky and Angelo are dead. Our chopper is gone. The only others who are in operating condition is that piece of crap scientist, and lovely Sharon and her firm breasts.” Cash rolled the wad of chewing tobacco in his mouth and spit a dark stream of saliva.

A fake smile crawled across Peterson’s face. “Yes, besides those minor details?” He was trying to be amusing, hoping to bring out some twisted humor. He thought Cash would appreciate such a thing, but he was wrong. Cash eyeballed Peterson, and looked like he was about to explode.

Sharon appeared and said blankly. “Follow me. I have a present.” And then she looked at Cash, “And my firm tits are reserved for a man, not for a whining overgrown ape who should be wearing panties instead of me.”

She arrived just in time
, thought Peterson,
he’s unpredictable, and a danger to us all.