Dead Again (8 page)

Peterson surveyed the situation. They were about 300 yards off, and if they bee-lined for it, they might just make it. They’d have to cut their way through hundreds of zombies, but they had little choice.

Peterson watched as Sharon pulled a small first aid kit out of her backpack. From it she drew a syringe. Dr. Washington was on his knees, next to her, holding his head and still reeling from the chopper crash. She stabbed him in the bicep with the needle. It only took moments and then Washington’s eyes opened wide and he stood up on his feet.

Good idea,
thought Peterson,
she’s using adrenaline.

Tag was holding onto Peterson for support. But not for long. Sharon didn’t waste any time as she approached them, syringe in hand. She did the same to Tag, stabbing him in the arm with the needle, and pushing the plunger all the way down.
 
It looked like the adrenaline went straight to his heart as he stood on his own two feet.

“That will get your heart pounding, soldier.” Sharon said with a taste of satisfaction.

“Damn right.” Tag replied, catching his breath.

The population of zombies around them were becoming increasingly dense, and their numbers multiplying. “TO THE PARKING LOT!” Peterson yelled, “MOVE OUT!”

The team all maneuvered into cover and flank position, and then moved as a single unit, heading to the far-off parking lot. Just ahead of them was a thick line of zombies. There was no way around them. In all other directions they were completely encircled by these things. They’d just have to fight whatever stood in their way.

Peterson raised his pistol and took careful aim and began firing, up close, into the crowd. He aimed for their heads and, knowing that he had 25 rounds per clip, he counted his shots. He blasted one zombie after the next, and their bodies fell to the ground like wet sacks.

Beside him, his teammates did the same. As experts, they ignored their pain, and maintained perfect composure. Walking steadily towards the zombies, they remained in complete control, conserving their ammunition, and aiming for the heads of the infected only. The cracking of their machine guns overlapped, their barrels flashed, and empty shells cartridges spit from their rifles.
 

They began to clear a path. Zombie after zombie fell. They marched forward without hesitation, and found themselves at point blank range, and face to face with the infected.
 
Peterson got closer, within several feet, and pulled out his knife. Friendly fire now became a threat. It was going to have to be hand-to-hand from here on in.

Peterson felt a bile of rage fill his gut and, surprising himself, he charged directly into the crowd. He stabbed the closest zombie, thrusting his knife through its skull. Blood spurted as the creatures eyes rolled into the back of its head. Others reached out to try to claw him, to grab him, to scratch him. He spun around and kicked one in the chest. It rebounded backwards, and knocked over several other zombies as it fell.
 
His team had charged with him, and were doing the same. Kicking, stabbing, and using the butt of their rifles to smash skulls.

Peterson noticed Cash, that maniac, whip out a machete from God knows where. Peterson was happy he had it now. Cash, with a wicked swing, chopped the head clear off a zombie, and then brought the machete down overhand into the skull of another. It was as if he were chopping coconuts, as if it were the most natural thing in the world and he’d been doing it his whole life.

Peterson and his team busted their way out of the crowd. The parking lot was right ahead. He was proud of their team, they kicked some zombie ass.

They sprinted for the parking lot, with nothing left between them.

“Commander!” came Sharon’s yell.

He spun and looked. Cash was still standing back there, with his machete, chopping at the heads of the zombies left and right. He was smiling with delight, and laughing out loud. He didn’t seem to care that he’d lost track of the team, that the zombies were getting closer and closer to him. That it was a losing battle. He was like a kid in a candy store, having a great time.

“CASH!” Peterson yelled.

Reluctantly, Cash finally looked towards Peterson.

“Don’t wait!” Peterson yelled to the rest of his team, and they all took off as one, all continued running for the lot, Cash about twenty yards behind them.

Cash, he realized, was more than a maniac. He was a self-sabotaging maniac with a death wish. He was now a liability.

“THIS WAY!” came the voice on the megaphone.

As the team bee-lined for the parking lot, they saw that the fence which surrounded it was under attack by zombies, in every direction, trying to get in. There was only one entrance, around which clustered a dozen more zombies. He saw that the police were standing on the other side of it, getting ready to let them in.

Peterson knew immediately that the entrance could only be opened for a few moments, that they’d have to get in quick as the cops shut it behind them. He also saw that they couldn’t risk firing on the crowd of zombies congregating around it, given the proximity of all cops. He prayed that these cops weren’t amateur enough to try fire themselves. Their bullets would hit Peterson and his men as much as it would the zombies.

Peterson waved to Cash, who reluctantly began to fight his way towards the parking lot.

Peterson was conflicted. Should he wait? He wanted to, but the rest of his team needed him more.

He turned ran towards the parking lot, the air burning his lungs with every step he took. Out of breath, he neared the crowd of creatures at the front of the gate. His energy was wearing thin. Getting into this parking lot was going to be harder than he first thought.

“I’VE GOT THIS!” Armstrong yelled, as he stepped to the front of pack. He extracted his flamethrower from his back, and held it out in firing position.

“WAIT” Peterson yelled to Armstrong, and then turned towards the cops. “GET THE HELL OUT OF THE WAY!”

The cops saw the flame thrower. Their eyes widened with fear and they scrambled for cover as if their lives depended upon it.

A wicked flame licked from the barrel. Armstrong pulled the trigger, leaning into the flamethrower with all he had. A jet of gasoline pissed from the barrel and landed on the infected.
 
They burst into flames. The putrid smell of burning flesh and hair filled Peterson’s nostrils as the zombies moaned and shrieked, and scrambled every which way.

Moments later, a pathway to the entrance was available.

The local cops burst into action and opened the gate. The shadow team ran through it, and entered the parking lot, but Peterson stopped and turned. Cash wasn’t with them.

He was about twenty feet behind, trying to make his way for the parking lot. He shouldered one zombie out of the way and swung his machete as another zombie clawed and grabbed at him. There were just too many of them. A zombie from behind Cash opened its mouth. It was about to bite down.

Suddenly, a bullet entered into the zombie’s right eye, blowing its brains out. Peterson turned and saw Angelo, smoke rising from his sniper rifle.

“Move your ass, amigo,” Angelo said under his breath.

He just saved Cash’s ass.
 

Cash sprinted clear of the remaining infected and directly through the opening of the gate. Peterson, the last man, followed him into the parking lot.

Once inside, the cops slammed close the gate behind him.

A group of about six local cops, and three state troopers, stood looking at Peterson with a combination of fear and respect.

A tall, brawny cop with gray hair, who looked old enough to be on the verge of retirement, stepped forward, “Sheriff Jones,” he said, introducing himself with a nod.

Peterson didn’t nod back.

“Commander Peterson.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Peterson and his team followed Captain Jones as he led them through the crowd of civilians.

“It’s been nearly 48 hours now,” Jones said, as they wound their way across the cement parking lot and through the masses. “We got hit pretty hard. Just like everybody else. One day everything was fine, the next, everything went to hell. Most of the town got wiped out. We’re all that’s left”

He began to choke up as he spoke.

“I’ve never seen anything like it. Kids turning against parents. Husbands against wives.” He shook his head. “People got bit, then they…turn…then…it was like we couldn’t recognize them anymore…

“Me and my officers, we took over this parking lot and rescued whoever we could. It was the only safe place I could find at the time. I had to make a decision. People were dying on the streets, and they had no place to go. This lot was right in the center town, and it has this fence to keep them out.”

Peterson looked around. Some of the civilians were armed, and they followed at a little distance behind him. Spread all about were about fifty more civilians. They looked like they’d been through a war. There seemed to be a general state of despair and shock. Most of them just sat there, staring into space, heads laying on their knees. Others openly wept.

Some, though, stood as Peterson and his men walked by them. Hope in their eyes, they looked at Peterson and the team as if, perhaps, they were salvation.

“God bless you. Thank you,” came a voice of a heavy set man. “I’m the Mayor. Thank God you’re hear.” He had the stink of a politician.

Peterson didn’t respond. A civilian man approached, holding the hand of his wife.

“We knew you would come. Where are the rest of you?”

Peterson stopped and blinked hard. It struck him. These folks think we are here for them. Peterson wasn’t sure yet how to respond, so he kept walking.

He surveyed the area, and saw the zombies outside the fence, all reaching up and grabbing it, sticking their faces against it, trying to get inside. They moaned and snarled and pulled the metal. It swayed and bent hard under the weight.

There were hundreds of them. Peterson could hardly believe it. They were on all sides of the fence, pulling and tearing at it every which way. He felt like he was an animal trapped in a giant zoo.

It was disconcerting, to say the least.

Peterson looked even closer at the joints of the fence for any signs of strain or tear. The fence was giving way. It wouldn’t hold much longer.

“You can’t stay here much longer,” Peterson warned.

“My thinking exactly,” Jones said. “We need to make a run for it. I don’t know how much longer this fence will hold. I’ve got people here who are sick and hungry. We’re out of food and low on ammo. We have no shelter from the sun, and they’re getting burned. We need a real shelter. And we need medicine. And a place that might not get knocked down any second. You guys came at the perfect time. We need to break out of here.”

“We need to make for the school,” came a low, heavy voice.

Peterson turned, and saw a tall stocky man standing over him, a state trooper donning a handlebar mustache, dark sunglasses and knee high boots.

“I’m Trooper Willis,” he introduced himself. “It’s our best bet. The school’s got a cafeteria. Bound to have some food. And we can defend it.”

Sheriff Jones shook his head. “But it’s too damn far,” he said.

“No it’s not,” Trooper Willis countered, exasperated.

“It’s a good mile away,” Jones continued, “a few might make it. But the sick, and the elderly…we just can’t get everyone there.”

Peterson looked around carefully, not choosing sides. Frankly, this wasn’t his concern. He had his own men to look out for, his own mission to fulfill. He just needed to take stock, to figure out his next move.

“Where are we?” Peterson asked. “What town is this?”

“Coram,” said Jones.

Peterson nodded, thinking. Coram. Long Island. Far enough out there, maybe Suffolk County, but not far enough to get them where they needed to go. It would still be a long-haul to make it from here to the island.

Peterson’s men crowded around him.

“Coram,” Cash said. “Shit.”

“We’re still a good way off, Commander,” Dr. Washington piped in.

Jones looked at Cash, and then at the other members of team.

For the first time, Sheriff Jones noticed that they were an unusual looking group. “What force are you with?” Sheriff Jones quizzically asked.

“I wish I could say, Captain,” Peterson said, noncommittally.

“Well, I guess it doesn’t matter,” Sheriff Jones responded. “At least you made it to us.”

Peterson wasn’t sure how to break the news. However, he didn’t have to. The expression on his face said it all.

Trooper Willis was very observant. “You’re not here for us, are you?” he asked.

Sheriff
 
Jones was shocked at the idea. “Tell me this isn’t true, Commander.”

“It is correct,” Peterson said, his voice dropped.

A tense silence filled the air.

Sheriff Jones finally caught his breath. “We were told the military was coming to help us. We’ve been waiting,” the tinge of hope that first range in his voice was now gone, deflated.

“Then I suggest you hold on,” Dr. Washington spoke down to the Sheriff. “Because we
ain’t
it.”

“We just saved your asses,” anger rose in Jones’ voice.

Peterson looked around, “you pulled us into a death trap. We would have been better off out there.”

Sheriff Jones’ resentment continued to grow, “well, whatever your mission was, your chopper is down, and your men are hurt, so clearly, you need to abandon it. Your mission is our mission now. We’re all in this together. And our mission right now is to survive. And to get these to civilians some food, water, shelter, and medicine. Like it or not, your with us.”

“The police station won’t work,” a third cop said. “It’s too small and doesn’t have food.”

“But it’s close,” Sheriff Jones countered, “and it has weapons and ammo. We can all find a way to fit. And our first task is finding shelter. Once we secure it, we can figure out how to get food.”

“Bullshit,” snapped Trooper Willis.

“So, what’s your opinion Commander?” Sheriff Jones asked, “Do we try to make a run to the school? Or to the police station?”

“I appreciate your dilemma, gentleman,” Peterson responded, “but as I said, we won’t be sticking around.”

“You have no God damn choice. What the hell are you going to do? You barely made it in here alive. Your men are hurt, and you have no fucking place to go.” Sheriff Jones was on the verge of yelling.

“As I said, we’re on a mission. And I intend to fulfill that mission. I’m sorry, but our orders don’t allow for distractions. We have to move on.”

Jones laughed. “And how you gonna do that? Your bird is down. You think you can just walk out of here? Have you looked out there? There are hundreds of those things. There’s eight of you. And where do you go after that?”

“I told you, it’s classified.”

Jones’ stare turned cold. “So is that it? Is this just about you? You just gonna let these people die?”

Peterson suddenly felt a tug on his sleeve, and looked down to see a small boy, about ten years old, standing there. Peterson was struck, as if seeing a ghost. The boy looked exactly like Charlie, his deceased little brother. His eyes were exactly the same. The breath left Peterson’s lungs.

“I’m scared. Please, save me?”

Peterson’s heart was in his throat. He was looking at the spit image of his little brother. “What is your name, son?” he asked.

“Doug,” his little voice answered.

The voice of Peterson’s little brother rung in his ears. . .
save me.

Peterson surveyed the crowd again. Most of the civilians were standing now, looking at him. He saw all the desperate and hopeful faces. A priest stepped forward.

“We’ve overheard you, Commander. You didn’t come here for us. We understand and we won’t cast stones if you choose to go on your way. But, maybe, sir, you send us help when you can?”

A voice rang out from the crowd, “please sir, please. We’re going to all die here.”

“We won’t survive without you.” the Mayor pleaded.

Then the rest of the crowd joined in, begging Peterson to help.

“We need your help, Commander,” Sheriff Jones said. “I’ve only got a few officers here. If we bust out without you, a lot of good people are gonna get hurt and killed. With your help, we can make it somewhere. You guys are better trained, and better armed.” His voice softened. “Please. I’m asking you for a favor.”

Peterson surveyed the crowd again. Then, he looked back at the ghost of his brother, at little Doug.

Something moved deep inside of him.

“Yes, Doug,” he said, finally. “I’m going to do my best.”

Peterson then turned to Sheriff Jones, “you got us. But we’re just going to get you out of here and get you to your next spot. Then we’re done.”

“Commander,” Armstrong interjected, “that’s a bad idea. Those are not our orders. We have to stay on track with our mission.”

“This is absolutely unacceptable,” Dr. Washington complained. “I’m on direct orders from our government. You have no authority to take this side trip anywhere. I outrank you, Captain. You have to submit to my rank.”

Peterson turned and gave Washington a steely glance.

“You can go off on any mission you want, Washington,” Peterson said. “I’m not stopping you.”

Washington gulped, realizing that without Peterson and his men, he would be helpless.

Peterson turned back to Sheriff Jones.

“I assume this town has a hospital?”

Jones looked back at him, then slowly nodded.

“Mercy Hospital. It’s about a mile down the road. The last I heard, it was overrun.”

“Well, that’s where we’re taking you,” Peterson said.

“That’s a bad idea,” Jones said. “It’s a huge facility. We can’t possibly secure all of it.”

“We’d get killed in that place!” interjected another cop.

“How are you gonna secure a building like that?”

“We don’t have to,” came a voice. She was an attractive woman with short hair in her late twenties. She turned to Peterson.

“My name is Nurse Dee. I work at Mercy Hospital.” Her voice was tough, and Peterson liked that. “The basement was once an old World War II bunker. It was converted for storage a long time ago. We keep a lot of stuff down there, including food, water and medicine.”

“That basement is for shit, Nurse Dee.” Sheriff Jones turned to Peterson, “It’s seventy years old and no more than an old, beaten up basement.”

Trooper Willis had a tone to his voice which annoyed the hell out of Peterson. “When everybody got sick, they went to the hospital. That place will be crawling with these things, Commander. It will be a downright crazy idea.”