Dead Again (15 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY

As Peterson stood there, before the door, getting ready to go, he couldn’t help thinking that this was exactly the type of situation he was hoping to avoid.

Sharon leaned in and spoke in a whisper, “If the cops didn’t succeed, we’ll be walking into an army of those things.”

Peterson looked at her. “Yes, we will,” he acknowledged.

Peterson turned to his men one last time: “If we find ourselves in a zero sum lose situation, then on my command, we will give up the mission and we will retreat back into the shelter.”

He turned back to the door. He nodded, and as he did, Sharon reached over and unbolted it.

“MOVE!” Peterson yelled.

With that, he kicked open the door with his heavy boot, sending it flying out.

He burst into the hallway, zigzagging . His heart was pounding as in his chest, expecting zombie resistance.

Indeed there was. There were a handful of zombies clustered around the door, as he suspected, and he ran right into one. He knew he had to clear the way for the others, so he raised his machine gun and butted it hard in the face, knocking it back. He then swung the butt, knocking another one hard in the throat. He leaned back and kick the third one in the chest, and sent it flying across the hall.

Peterson then swung out-of-the-way, making room for the others to follow. He saw three zombies just off to his right, took out his handgun, and fired three quick shots, killing them all.

On his heels, brushing past him, was Cash, who wasted no time. He extracted he beloved machete from his belt. A zombie leaped towards him, and swung, like a medieval barbarian. His decapitated the creature, and blood spurt out of its neck. Then, Cash sidestepped for the rest of the team to charge out behind him.

Johnny Boy, Sharon, and Armstrong took up the rear. They all went to work, all using pistols and taking careful aim; within seconds, they easily took out several remaining zombies moving in on their position.

Peterson heard a loud crash. It was the huge cast-iron door slamming closed, pulled shut by Cowboy and Hatchet. He then heard the bolt slam closed.

Good
, he thought. At least the hall was cleared, and the door was locked behind them. The first step was done, no one was hurt, and all seemed to be in good order.

Luckily, there were no more of those things in sight. Most of the infected were probably distracted chasing the remaining civilians, and cops, somewhere on this floor.

In the distance, Peterson thought he could hear something like a faint gunshot, or a crashing noise, or maybe even the shout of a civilian. He wasn’t exactly sure where it was coming from, but he had to take control, be assertive, and choose a direction. He decided to head back the way they entered. The civilians and cops might have moved on elsewhere, but they might just still be there. His guess was as good as any.

Peterson signaled with his hand, and he chose a direction and ran down the hall.

As they went, there were carpet to carpet corpses. Floors and walls were painted with blood and organs. And most eerie of all: silence. The hallways, once filled with the horrible groans of the undead, were now filled with an equally ominous stillness. Nothing was moving.

In point lock step, the team leapfrogged one another down the hall, as they were trained to do, providing intersecting cover. Sharon took a knee, and Cash leaped past her. And so the movements of the formation continued, as the team, like a nest of deadly snakes, slithered their way in perfect harmony, a well-oiled killing machine.

Nearing the end of the hallway, Peterson took the lead. He knelt and gave a hand signal. The rest of the team read it, and all took a knee.

Slumped against the wall, right near Peterson, was Trooper Willis. He was mauled, having been bitten multiple times. Willis’s pistol was clamped in his frozen hands, and the barrel of the pistol was in his mouth. Behind his head was a splattering of blood. Clearly, he had killed himself. His face was frozen in fear and torment. He had probably wanted to spare himself from the pain, or maybe the terror of becoming an infected.

“That is one less pig we have to deal with,” Cash said, a sadistic ring in his voice.

Peterson wasted no time and made a beeline towards the hospital’s West Wing. They continued to execute sweep and clean maneuvers as they wound their way through the hospital. The site was the same everywhere--dead corpses sprawled out, littering the floors.

As Peterson turned another corner, he could suddenly hear a shout vividly, and the clear sound of gunfire. He now knew for sure that he was heading in the right direction. This new hallway was dark, some of its emergency lights smashed out, and the others flashing red. This hallway, too, was filled with corpses, and luckily there were no live zombies in it. Peterson assumed they were all attracted to the remaining civilians and cops.

Despite everything, despite all that he was doing right now, all he could think of was that he had not come up to rescue them sooner. He was suddenly wracked with guilt as he wondered how many had been wasted while they were down there, safe. He never should have let those cops take control of any civilians. Now was the time to make up for it.

Peterson gave a sudden hand signal, jumped to his feet, and sprinted down the hallway, his team on his heels. He ran all the way to the end, braced himself, and put his shoulder through the closed door, bursting it open, ready for whatever might lay behind it. It was show time. And he knew it wouldn’t be good.

It wasn’t. He burst into a large, open, brightly lit fluorescent room, the cafeteria, which was filled with utter chaos. About a dozen civilians were still alive, their backs to the wall, and around them were three cops, including Sheriff Jones, and one armed civilian, raising their handguns, firing at a cluster of about thirty zombies. The creatures were packed tightly together, lumbering like drunkards towards fresh meat.

Peterson observed all the details of the scene before him at once, as he had done numerous times in battle, and as he was trained to do. He saw numerous dead cops and civilians, being eaten and chewed upon by zombies, which were too focused on their food to join the fight. He saw a partially-barricaded door, and realized that the cops hadn’t succeeded in locking down the place. Just as he had predicted.

He could see all the signs of struggle, of tragedy. It had been a bloody battle in here, and there were few people left to show for it. The police began clicking away on empty rounds, too panicky to realize they were out of ammo. The zombies were thickening, pouring in through open windows, and saw that within a minute or two, the remaining civilians would all be dead. And he saw with relief that that little boy, Doug, was still alive, cowering behind her petrified father.

Not wasting time, Peterson sidestepped out of the way, raising his machine gun and fired at the cluster. He was careful not to aim too close to the civilians. He felt his team burst through behind him, and there was no better feeling then that.

Cash brushed by him, firing, and Sharon, Armstrong and Johnny-Boy followed on their heels. They zigzag passed each other, spreading out, each focusing on separate targets, each instinctively knowing who the other was going for. They were instinctual killers.

They did considerable damage. Within seconds, their rapid fire in every direction took down dozens of zombies. They shot their way closer to the group of civilians, being careful not to hit them. Cash switched his gun for his machete, and went to work. Peterson, like the others, resorted to using his boot, kicking back those things that got too close, then taking aim with his pistol and firing. Kick, aim, fire. Kick, aim, fire. In situations like these, Peterson had seen more civilians wasted by friendly fire than by enemies. Peterson was impressed to see that even Johnny-Boy got this, and didn’t aim once in the direction of civilians.

But the cops were not as well-trained. They had let themselves become overrun with panic, and the one cop that still had ammo was raising his hand and, stupidly, firing at zombies in their direction.

Peterson jumped out of the way just in time, a second before a bullet grazed his head. The cop, in shock, kept firing. A sound of pain came from behind Peterson, and he whirled around to see Angelo, still standing on his feet, holding his hand to his heart. He had been shot. Blood gushed from his wound. It was fatal, Peterson could tell instantly. The only thing keeping Angelo standing was pure shock. Then, he collapsed, dead.

Peterson lunged at the cop, tackling him hard to the ground, knocking him down. After he knocked the wind out of him, he jumped to his feet and kicked the gun from his hand. Peterson placed his piston the far-head of the cop. Rage filled his eyes.

“STOP,” Sharon shouted. “Friendly fire,” was all she said. It was enough to change Peterson’s mind.

He spun and surveyed the room. His team had managed to wipe out every nearby zombie and not hurt a single civilian. But he also saw that the large door and open windows, which had only been partially barricaded. More and more zombies were pouring in. It was a no-win situation.

“Get em’ and move out!” Peterson yelled.

He ran and grabbed the civilians off the floor. They were sitting, kneeling or slouching against the wall, too terrified to run. Peterson had seen it before, and he knew they wouldn’t move unless he forced them to. He ran over, grabbed Doug with both hands, and stood him up.

“I knew you would save me,” Doug said through his tears.

Peterson’s had a
 
lump in
hi
throat, “You bet, friend,” was all he could muster.

He then looked at Doug’s father, who had a deep bit wound on his waist. Peterson lifted him quickly to is feet. His team saw what he was doing, and joined in, prodding the civilians to stand and run. It worked: it got them moving. Their fear broken, they ran, heading towards the shelter.

Peterson’s men fell in behind them, providing retreating fire. Peterson was the last one to leave the room. Right before he did, he surveyed the area, and steadied himself for one last shot. Instead of taking out another zombie, he took aim on Angelo, on the ground, who would soon turn into one of them. With tears in his eyes, he raised his pistol and took aim. With one shot, he hit Angelo in the head. He had, he felt, spared his man, his friend, from a soul-less existence.

Peterson followed his team down the hallway, and saw that they were positioned around the shelter door, pounding on it. A wave of shock ran through him, as he realized the civilians inside were not opening it. He hadn’t anticipated this. He heard the Mayor’s whiney voice behind it, yelling at the civilians not to open it. That fucker.

“GOD DAMN IT, OPEN THIS DOOR!” Peterson yelled. He took the butt of his gun and banged again and again. But nothing came in return.

“I told you,” Cash yelled over the din. “I told you not to waste time on these civilians! Now we’ll get wasted because of them!”

Peterson looked down the east and west corridors, and saw zombies creeping their way. They were being closed in, were low on ammo, had no room left to maneuver, and had a dozen panicking civilians and cops on their hands. This wasn’t good.

Peterson turned back to the door.

BLAM! A shotgun blasts reverberated from the basement, and then the thud of a body could be heard.

Before Peterson could react, he heard a lock turn and the door opened. It was Cowboy, bearing his elephant killer, smoke rising from its barrel. Next to Cowboy, flaccid against the wall, was the Mayor, his head was blown off and his brains smeared against the wall.

“The bastard tricked us,” Cowboy said with rage in his voice. Peterson took quick note, this guy really is a Cowboy, unpredictable, and a damn good guy to have on our side.

Peterson took several steps back and allowed the civilians to submerge into the basement. His team had already taken flank positions, and were laying down a torrent of lethal fire at the arriving zombies.