Resurrection (60 page)

Oh, they were, all right. You could almost feel a shudder pass through the soldiers. More than one man crossed himself and a few others began to pray under their breath.

Pearle said, “Seems we have an enemy here that don’t care much for dying.”

More of the walking dead were pouring out of the gates now, all moving with the same leisurely pace. They were in no hurry. They
came forward, the rain falling
around them, many of them moaning like B-movie ghosts. And every man poised at the sandbag perimeter just watched as the dead came forward, getting a good look at those pale swinging arms and ruined faces that looked like birds had been pecking at them.

Outside the south wall where there really was no wall but a high reinforced chainlink fence topped by razor wire, the soldiers were able to see exactly what was happening inside the prison. They saw the prison mortuary building and the muddy, submerged graveyard. The dead that had risen that afternoon and assaulted the prison had, for reasons unknown, returned to their watery graves and now they were rising again. They came up out of that dirty, standing water, slicked with mud and clay, their skins barely concealing the bones beneath. They came up out of the ground like worms. Hundreds of them. An army of the flyblown dead that pressed themselves up against the fence, water running from the numerous holes in their hides.

And it was this more than anything, that made the soldiers panic.

These were hard-chargers. These were sky soldiers, troopers of the 1
^st
Air Cavalry Division, a unit that had killed more men than heart disease…or nearly. They had put the hurt to the Viet Cong and the NVA, Serbian guerrillas and Iraq’s Republican Guard. One thing you could certainly say about the 1
^st
Air Cav: they came, they saw, they kicked ass with extreme prejudice. And now they were beyond themselves. Men were screaming and folding up. Men were discharging weapons without authorization. Men were throwing their weapons and deserting. The skein that held together this tough, proud unit was unraveling on a large scale.

The men put on their masks, Pearle included, and the first volleys of tear gas canisters burst amongst the dead in hissing eruptions of white smog. More volleys followed.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
The smoke spread out in patches of fog and twisting plumes. It glowed in the lights trained on it. And the dead walked right through it, the smoke funneling out behind them like they were on fire.

Another test and this one a failure, too.

If Pearle did not believe what he was told at the briefing, he believed now. No men could walk through a wall of gas like that without so much as a shudder or a cough. The rain began to dissipate the clouds of gas and now there were easily forty or fifty walking cadavers emerging from the gates and spreading out in something like a rudimentary siege line.

They know we’re here, by Christ,
Pearle thought, truly afraid of an advancing enemy for the first time in his hard-bitten life.
We ain’t gonna stop ‘em with guns and gas. They know we’re here and their coming to chew on our livers and eat our stomachs out.

“FIRE!” he shouted. “FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!”

Nobody needed much prompting on that score. The fifty calibers opened up with steady roar, cutting the dead in half and making others literally vaporize. The light machine guns and automatic rifles followed. Tracer rounds lit like fireflies. Mortar teams shelled inside the compound with high-explosive and white-phosphorus rounds. Grenade launchers landed ordinance outside the wall. The dead were pulverized, bullet-ridden, blown to fragments. But they did not die. Body parts writhed on the ground. Hands dragged themselves forwards. Heads screamed obscenities into the night. The no-man’s land on the other side of the ditch became a blazing graveyard of dismembered corpses that could not know death.

The soldiers were losing it now, shouting and crying and many breaking and running, knocking sergeants flat as they tried to stop them. This was the meat of the matter and it was too much for some. Men suffered nervous breakdowns and some just went crazy with terror and pulled into themselves. And others leaped over the sandbags and charged the dead with fixed bayonets. Officers and noncom’s screamed at them, threatened them, physically and verbally abused them, but it did no good. For hell was offering up its own and it was simply too much.

More walkers poured forward, some of them little more than skeletons. Some with creeping funguses where their faces should have been. Many were half-eaten and many more bloated and spongy things that called out to the soldiers, telling them exactly what they would do to them when they finally reached them.

The firing continued and the dead were pierced by shrapnel and bullets, but they did not stop coming. Here were throngs of skeletal things and things like wraiths that had pulled themselves up out of the prison boneyard. Here were hundreds of convicts that had been very much alive that morning marching alongside guards. Punched with bullet holes, they still came on, black blood spurting from their wounds. Some were blown to fragments by tripping landmines, but most came forward with a deadly fixity of purpose. Nothing was going to stop them. They were coming to feed. There was a feast in the offering and they planned on getting their fill.

Pearle was just beside himself.

He ran up and down the top of the sandbags, shouting and screeching out orders to troops that were simply too mad or too frightened to obey. He kicked men that were in shock and slapped those that were not putting out a steady volume of fire.

“THIS IS NOT S.O.P.! THIS IS NOT S.O.P.!” he screamed. “YOU CANNOT DESERT ME! YOU CANNOT ROLL OVER AND PLAY DEAD! YOU CANNOT LOCK UP ON ME! DO YOU UNDERSTAND? DO ALL YOU SIMPERING NIPPLE-SUCKING MAMA’S BOYS UNDERSTAND THAT? I CANNOT HAVE YOU DOING THIS! IT IS NOT S.O.P.! NOT S.O.P.! NOT S.O.P.!”

But in the light of what else was happening, the once high and mighty and somewhat dangerous Colonel Pearle seemed completely trivial. Men actually laughed him. Some of them were completely mad. Soldiers had contorted faces and chattering teeth and tearing eyes, they laughed at everything and anyone and particularly the walking dead. They were not to blame for thinking Pearle was a buffoon placed before them for their mutual amusement.

But mad or not, Pearle was not about to put up with it. Just to show them how totally humorless he was, he pulled his sidearm

a silver-plated Browning Hi-Power

and shot a young rifleman right through the left eye.

The dead were closing in on the trench now.

White phosphorus shells erupted around them, lighting many on fire. Yet, they came on, the phosphorus blazing on them, leaving trails of white smoke in their wakes. Some of those in better shape began moving quite quickly at the trench. They were not slow in mind nor in action. They knew, perhaps, that if they got across that trench and rushed the perimeter, they would simply overwhelm what soldiers remained. A great number of them came forward, burning from sprays of phosphorus and from contact burns. Their flesh sizzled and popped. Some of them fought madly to put the flames out, but others didn’t seem to care.

It was at this moment in the 4/1’s turkey-shoot that they noticed something else: the dead seemed riddled with worms. Not just your average maggots, though those were certainly in attendance too, but long, red, elastic-looking worms that filled empty eye sockets and draped from mouths, moved beneath those ashen mottled skins and coiled from wounds. These were the same type of worms that Harry Teal and the others from the prison mortuary crew had discovered feeding on the corpses in the potter’s field graveyard earlier that day.

But whereas those worms were simply parasitic

one of Mother Nature’s little helpers that sped along the process of decay

and essentially harmless to living things, these worms were different. They had changed. Mutated. They had been like living red licorice whips before, now they were thicker, bloated almost. Oily red things looking for flesh to despoil. It was almost like the dead were hosts for them. And some of the walkers…they were infested. Literally infested. Their bodies were set with dozens and dozens of holes and bullets had had nothing to do with it. These were not bullet holes, but
worm
holes. Tunnels the worms had created as they fed on the corpses.

In the bright lights and spotter scopes, they were plainly visible sliding in and out of the corpses.

And then they saw something that was perhaps worse. If anything can truly be worse than the living dead infested with looping red worms. The ground beyond the trench was not only scattered with the still-moving litter of the dead, arms and legs and fingers and heads, but with free-moving worms. Many were sliding free of the shattered anatomies they had once fed upon, but many, many more seemed to be independent.

Pearle saw them.

Dozens of his men saw them.

What was at first dozens of those wriggling worms moving at the trench became hundreds, then thousands and finally a boiling red nest of them. They were interlocked and coiled together in a great rolling peristaltic wave that must have contained millions. That squirming wave poured forward and there was no doubt what the end result of that would be. If it reached the perimeter…good God, the men would be hip-deep in a ravenous, invasive sea of carrion worms.

If the walkers hadn’t been enough, this certainly was. Men bolted in numbers now and more than one overzealous NCO pulled his M-16 and shot his own deserting men.

It really was a miracle that the gas-filled trench had not went up by this point. Pearle, confused and disoriented, ordered one of the men with flamethrowers to ignite the trench. He did so just as the worms were but inches away. The gasoline erupted in a fuming cloud of fire and black smoke, the flames racing along the trench and encircling the prison in a blazing ring.

It worked wonders on the advancing worms. The majority of them near to the trench were cremated instantly and the others went back the way they came.

They waded right into the burning trench, dozens and dozens of them. Some were immediately overwhelmed by the flames and sank into the flaming gasoline. But others made it through, human torches that charged the perimeter only to be met by gouts of fire from the flamethrowers. But the burning gasoline only had a limited lifespan. The rain was diluting it steadily. Already the flames were dying down and in some places, so many walkers were trapped in the inferno that they suffocated it. And the others used their writhing remains as bridges.

The dead poured forth again as the rain fell in gray sheets.

They were met by clattering machine guns and the popping of small arms fire, walls of fire spewed from the flamethrowers. Still they came. In whole and in part. The air was thick with the smoke of rifles and burnt ordinance, the stink of phosphorus and cordite and incinerated flesh. But the most prevalent smell behind the sandbagged perimeter was the stench of vomit and feces from the men fouling themselves.

And the dead surged forward, as tenacious as any enemy the 4/1 could conceive of.

They could smell the fear on the soldiers and they charged forward, broaching the sandbags and the soldiers met them with bayonets and knifes, shooting until they ran out of bullets and then swinging their rifles like clubs. But the dead were overwhelming. They refused to die. They fell on the men in hordes, dismembering the defenders, tearing out throats and vomiting sprays of black acidic juice into their eyes. Pearle saw Waterman get disemboweled and then saw no less than six of the dead claw and snarl amongst each other as they fought over the steaming viscera that fell from his opened belly.

They lurched and hopped forward, white-faced things set with holes. Eyeless things. Things like mummies and wax dummies and scarecrows with their stuffing hanging out. Distorted faces and leaping shadows and shrieking nightmares. Things whose faces were creeping white tissue or glistening with hundreds of undulating, feeding red worms. Water ran from them and that black, viscous blood…if that’s really what it was. You could shoot them and stab them and slash their limbs free, but they did not die. Hands still clutched and legs still kicked. Torsos inched along the ground like slugs and heads shrieked into the night.

Surprisingly, through it all, very few men deserted. The ones that had maintained their posts fought on, most of them wounded and hysterical and blood-thirsty. They wanted to kill. They needed to kill. Flamethrowers hissed and the dead…and the living…went up. Grenades exploded. Weapons discharged. Smoke rose into the night in great seething clouds. Fire blazed everywhere. The dead fought with the living and scattered at their feet, the wreckage of war: limbs and bodies and scraps of pustulant white flesh that refused to know death.