The Zero Dog War (18 page)

“Nice one, Captain,” Rafe growled. Water streamed off his fur, and he looked both wet and miserable.

“It’s only a little mist.” I laughed to show how little I minded the water, but nobody joined me. Ingrates. I could burn right through the spray if necessary, but doing so would make a lot of steam and visibility would suffer. “All right, enough playing in the sprinklers. Move out.”

We’d barely started to advance when the water shut off all at once—an eerie event, because the necromancer had to be behind it. Zombies wouldn’t turn off a sprinkler system unless directed to do so. Which meant someone watched us. I searched for spell traps, but didn’t see any—which made me more nervous, not less.

“Cameras.” Mai pointed to dark hemispheres mounted on long poles dropping down from the ceiling.

“Fry ’em,” I said.

Sarge began to put neat three-shot groupings into each camera housing. Bits of plastic rained down like polycarbonate tears from the gods. No more visuals for the bad guys. The only things I wanted Necromancer Hansen to hear were Rafe’s bad table manners, Mai’s squeaking ferrets and our gunshots getting closer and closer as we dropped, dissolved and chewed our way through his zombies.

“All right, move out,” I ordered. “Keep frosty. Keep moving. Clear those corners, people.”

We advanced again, moving out of shipping onto the manufacturing floor, headed toward the door that, according to the blueprints, led to the front offices. Huge, mysterious stainless-steel machines loomed on either side, fed by pipes and conveyors and wiring. Zombies worked the machines, maybe twenty RCTs total. They turned toward us, sniffing the air. One short zombie in black socks and sandals took a step toward us, slipped on the water pooling on the tile and slid into a support column. Jake and Sarge began to shoot, dropping the undead with a merciless precision almost frightening to behold. Rafe charged at a cluster of zombies in his AOR, and Mai sent her alien ferrets to support him. A fat male zombie wearing a tiny yellow bib with a lobster on it came at me, pinching his fingers to thumbs as if he had lobster claws.

I incinerated his head for him.

The fight was brutal but short. We burned, shredded and shot our way through them until the bodies of the re-killed undead littered the floor in every direction. Sarge and Jake switched out clips with mechanical precision. I had to once again admit we were pretty damn Sierra Hotel badass.

“All right, nice work,” I said. “Form up and let’s tear this place apart. I want to be home in time for dinner. And who’s up for Jell-O shots?”

The resounding silence told me no one was. I smiled anyway.

Spoilsports.

Chapter Fifteen: Executive-esque Decisions

Undead Army of the Unrighteous Order of the Falling Dark

Office of the Zombie Overlord

SE Holgate Boulevard
, Portland, Oregon

11:28 a.m. PST April 16th

General Manager slash CEO slash CFO of Bokor Gelzonbi Foods Jeremiah Hansen sat in his leather executive chair, leaning forward, elbows on his knees and his hands steepled in front of his face as he watched the video monitors. The invaders had just destroyed most of the cameras, but as part of the security apparatus, he’d paid a huge chunk of change to have hidden fiberoptic cameras installed, so he still had a decent view of the carnage on the manufacturing floor. His zombies hadn’t exactly shown Viking berserker fury in destroying these intruders. In fact, his zombie security team on the dock hadn’t shown much competence at all. Yet, Jeremiah still held a few unplayed cards…

He used the silver cord connection to direct another group of zombies into the fray. Every time those soldiers out there terminated a zombie, the severed cord snapped back to him. It didn’t hurt, but his collection of cut puppetmaster strings had started to grow at an alarming rate. This would be a nightmare of costs and equipment loss, not to mention the havoc it’d play with the schedule. The water damage would be atrocious. God, the
costs
. He didn’t even want to think about what the water had done to his batches of gelatin, to say nothing of the stuff already boxed up and waiting to be shipped.

Son of a bitch.

He knew those soldiers, whoever they were, wanted him and probably wanted him dead. They’d been cutting their way through his zombies toward the offices since they’d blown their way in. His throat clamped so tight it felt as if somebody had wrapped a tourniquet around his neck. Still, he wouldn’t flee, pissing his pants and running away from the first serious fight of his career. Not yet, anyway. Necromancers were known for bringing the devious and bringing it by the bucket load.

Blake walked into the office. He halted in front of Jeremiah’s desk and consulted his PDA. “We’re being attacked by a mercenary team. They’re part of the Hellfrost Group. A source of mine indicated they’re acting on behalf of the Federal Government. Most likely the Department of Defense or Homeland Security.”

How the hell had Blake found that out? He opened his mouth to ask, but stopped himself. It didn’t matter. That was the kind of shit he paid Blake for anyway. Of course it would’ve been nice to have some actual
notice
they were going to be attacked.

Jeremiah turned back to the monitors. “Looks like they have a six-foot dog eating my zombies. And a horde of weasels or…something. Not to mention the demon. And…is that a ninja?”

“These mercenary teams are often a conglomerate of differing creatures. Their diversity is their greatest strength.”

“That’s encouraging, since we only have zombies.” Whose idea had it been to forego the sex ninjas? Oh yeah. Blake’s. Disciplinary action might be in order. Disciplinary action with extreme prejudice.

A burst of flames filled the view from one camera, turning the image bright white for a long moment. When the camera lens recovered from the flare, he saw the fire had come from the hands of a woman—and he’d bet two hundred zombie foreskins, a prime currency during Biblical times, that she hid a great shape under all that assault armor. He moved his wireless mouse, clicking and dragging a box, zooming in on her.

He was right. Her face was pretty, even if it didn’t quite reach the level of angelic beauty—especially since she happened to be soaking wet and kept baring her teeth like a wolf. Her eyes though…he had a thing for women who could do a hard-ass stare. Dirty Harry with tatas. Yeah, that flipped a few of his switches, big time.

“Who
is
that woman?” he asked, right before she turned toward another group of zombies and thrust out her hand. A stream of fire shot out and engulfed them and a few more severed cords snapped back to him. Damn. Really fucking cool. “How does she do that?”

“I don’t have that information…yet. She appears to be some kind of fire mage.” Blake did inscrutable things on his PDA screen with his stylus. “Pyromancers construct a kind of flammable energy they can manipulate by a version of telekinesis. They ignite the substance—”

“Yeah, that’s great,” he said, staring at her. God, she was awesome. Of course she’d come here to kill him, which put a bit of a damper on his hard-on.

He zoomed the camera out again, and then closed his eyes and directed another horde of zombies to their position. “Too bad they didn’t try and come in through the ventilation ducts…”

He hadn’t expected a full-out assault without a probe or infiltration of some sort. That broke the rules in a most egregious way. It also might’ve been nice to have some crushing walls right about now. Maybe a collapsing floor booby trap. Or a Tyrannosaurus Rex with an antitank gun mounted on its head.

Blake moved around the desk and glanced from monitor to monitor. “Mmm. They do seem extremely competent.” He sighed. “This was not unforeseen, but still, our insurance policy doesn’t cover mercenary assaults. We’ll need more undead assets to replace our losses. The water damage from the sprinklers will be horrendous. Assuming that, with the sprinklers down, the plant doesn’t burn to the ground during our altercation.”

“Don’t worry,” Jeremiah said. “We can rebuild—bigger, better, faster, and with an arcade. As for them…” he waved a hand at the screen, “…I have a surprise.”

Blake Delany turned to look at him. Jeremiah smiled, and with one click of his wireless mouse, killed all the lights.

“I hope they can glow in the dark.”

Chapter Sixteen: A Bridge So Not Far Enough

Mercenary Wing Rv6-4 “Zero Dogs”

Bokor Gelzonbi Foods

Manufacturing floor

1134 Hours PST April 16th

“Steady, Zero Dogs,” I said over the comlink. “Nobody’s afraid of the dark.”

“Gavin is,” Rafe volunteered, a little off mike because his com headset hung battered and askew on his werewolf head. He went through headsets at a dismaying rate, as fast as tissues during hay-fever season.

“I heard that, you mange-riddled flea-circus freak show.”

“Keep this channel clear,” Sarge said, thunder in his voice.

The darkness wasn’t total. A dingy, weak light filtered in through a few soaped-over windows. Moans echoed all around us. The shuffle of feet dragging on concrete drifted down the rows between storage shelves. Sarge clicked on his MP10’s flashlight. Jake turned on his pistol’s laser sight. I lit the cardboard in the metal recycling bin on fire. Smoke billowed out and coiled along the roof, but the flames threw almost as much light as the grimy windows.

The zombie horde attacked, pouring through two double doors onto the manufacturing floor and slouching out of the rows of damp, ready-to-ship product. More zombies appeared behind us, lurching in from the direction of the loading dock. We tightened formation and faced outward at every approaching threat. Outside, the chain gun began to spit 25mm ammo in sharp, loud bursts.

Shit
. What was Gavin up against? We couldn’t risk getting cut off from our rolling armor. I lobbed two firebombs at the horde before I backed off and keyed the mike. “Gavin. What’s your status, over?”

“A couple of zombies came out a side door, sniffing around. We Swiss cheesed ’em. What’s your status, over?”

“We’re busy. Out.” Damn, was the necromancer already scouting our positions? Did we miss a camera?

Sarge changed out clips and opened fire on single shot, dropping zombies by the score. More RCTs filed in, some of them tripping over the felled zombies, making an absolute marching disaster fresh out of a Keystone Cops film.

Jake held out a hand. His brow furrowed, and the muscles in his arms stood out rock hard. A slight shimmer appeared in the air at the double doorway leading into the manufacturing floor. The advancing zombies ran face first into an invisible barrier. Some of them hit so hard they broke noses and damaged dental work. A few of the undead seemed to catch on and started to pound on the barrier with their fists.

Mai swept a hand at the zombies closing in from behind. Her corrosive-drool ferrets raced off like a chittering bear rug and began to piranha zombies down. I sent arcs of fire snaking across the warehouse, lashing them against the zombies coming out of the stacks. If any burning zombie got too close before being consumed, Hanzo would leap forward and hack off its flaming head with a sweep of his katana. The air stank of burning hair, smokeless powder, and, God help us all, fried pork skins.

“I can’t hold them forever.” Sweat beaded on Jake’s forehead and his arm started to waver. More and more zombies hammered at his barrier.

I scanned for our objective in the dim light while the Zero Dogs wailed on the zombies.
There
. The gray metal door leading into the front office area. A red light in an iron cage flashed above the doorjamb, casting bloody light across a half dozen safety signs tacked to the wall.
Eye protection required beyond this point. Hairnet and gown required on manufacturing floor.
A sign that warned people if they stole a fellow employee’s lunch, they’d be banned from the break room for the length of their employment.

“Zero Dogs, follow me!” I shouted over the gunfire and moans. “We’re late for our status meeting!”

We withdrew in formation toward the door, but as we did, Jake’s barrier started to falter. Zombies pushed past its edges, only to be dropped by headshots. Rafe ripped into any zombies who closed with us, showing what savagery and canines could do against walking corpses.

I reached the door first and yanked on the handle, but it didn’t budge. “Sarge! Door!”

He slung the MP10 and began to work the same breach spell he’d used before. I backed up to give him room and covered him.

“Barrier’s down.” Jake sagged against a snaking metal track of rollers—some kind of treadmill designed for sliding things along. His face streamed with sweat and his breath rasped in and out of his mouth.

The zombies flooded into the gloom, spreading out as they advanced, forming a wall of rotting flesh. Mai pointed, directing her ferrets to attack, but I raised a hand and she called them off. I concentrated, fighting off the weariness seeping into my muscles like acid eating away my strength. I sent a wall of flames blazing along the floor. Steam hissed upward from the wet tile. Bright orange-red firelight painted everything and threw dancing shadows along the walls and the steel roof beams. The zombies threw up their arms to shield their faces from the heat while they moaned in dismay. More zombies crashed into them from behind, shoving them forward into the fire. The rest of the zombie horde marched over the top of its burning front line and continued toward us undeterred.

“
Shit
. Hurry up, Sarge.”

“Got it.”

The door imploded with a grinding shriek and more sparks cascaded down like handfuls of burning tic tacs. The fluorescent panel lights were on in the hallway and cold white light poured out around us into the shipping area. Sarge lifted his MP10, squatted down and used a mirror to peek around the corner. “Clear.”

Jake slapped another clip in his pistol and chambered a round. He began to pick off zombies with headshots as they closed in. Mai had pulled the ferrets back in a loose arc around us. One of them perched on Rafe’s wolf head, squeaking at the zombies.

I closed my eyes for a second, fighting to recall the plant’s layout, a memory which felt fish-slippery in my mind. My brief exhilaration had fled and left a gaping hole inside me—a hole filled with rising dread. We’d already downed over a hundred zombies, but they kept on coming. Jake’s intel had put the number of RCTs at around a hundred, tops. Even allowing for a few truckloads of undead reinforcements, we seemed to face overwhelming numbers. Some Intel bastard had fucked up big time. I didn’t know why I felt surprised. Bad intel was business as usual for war fighters.

No choice but to push on and fight our way out. Sarge went first, hunkered down but moving with quick steps into the hall. The MP10 looked like a toy in his large hands. I followed him, resting a hand on his shoulder, ready to sling fire.

Mai hurried behind me with Hanzo at her side and the swarm of ferrets lined against the far wall to avoid our boots. “That’s a lot of zombies,” she whispered, glancing behind her.

Hanzo leaned one arm against the wall. Gloopy zombie blood smeared along the katana’s blade. “The undead don’t seem to fear ninjas.”

A loud metallic crash shook the walls and made me flinch. Several more crashing and smashing sounds came from behind us inside the factory, followed by a flurry of pistol shots. Rafe jumped through the doorway and into the hall with us. Blood spattered his muzzle and beaded on his gray fur.

“Where’s Captain Sanders?” Panic flared inside me with a white-hot fire of its own.

“Here.” Jake stepped into the hall, reloading yet again. “Rafe tipped a few of those shelves over. Should slow them, but not for long.”

No time to wallow in relief seeing him safe and sound. We still had a paycheck to earn. I moved back to the doorway and peered into the firelight, smoke and gloom. Toppled shelving had crushed several zombies in a tangle of steel struts, wooden shelves and boxes of gelatin. More zombies climbed over the shelves toward me, hunched and scrambling in jerky motions like spiders dying from pesticide. I glanced at what I had to work with for fuel, and then lit the closest shelves on fire. Hopefully it would make them hesitate…if they just didn’t push each other through the flames like before.

I spun back to my team. “Stack up and move out.”

We advanced up the hall in formation and pushed into the cubicle farm in the main office. Sounds had a muffled, flat quality—as if the atmosphere of violence, suffocating dread and flagrant Human Resources abuses smothered the sound waves. I could barely hear the moans behind us or the angry crackle and roar of the fire. Blinking lights flashed on a phone at the nearest cubicle—messages that would never be answered. A fluorescent light flickered and buzzed, one end of the tube swirling with what looked like gaseous light.

“I smell dead people,” Rafe said, and punctuated his sentence with a growl—an idling chainsaw rumble able to lift the hair on anything alive.

I tried to will my heartbeat to slow but had no luck. This room was a nightmare of blind spots and far too many places to hide. “Keep sharp. Clear the area and lock it down.”

We moved deeper into the cube farm, tightening up while still maintaining our formation and fields of fire.

A man stepped into view at the far office, across the maze of cubicles. He stood in a rectangular window with the vertical blinds drawn up and stared at me with open curiosity. Necromancer Jeremiah Hansen. I recognized his dark goatee and meaty face from the dossier photo and briefings. With his slacks, white dress shirt and askew tie, he better resembled a young, slightly frazzled accountant than a dedicated force for evil.

“Primary target at eleven o’clock!” I yelled, pointing. “Drop him!”

Jake and Sarge opened fire. 9mm and 10mm rounds ripped into the glass and left a cluster of white craters, but the window didn’t shatter. Fifteen or so shots grouped around his head and chest in big, milky blotches. Bullet-resistant glass. Too much for the caliber of bullets we had on hand. The man hadn’t even flinched.

Jeremiah stepped to the side of the marred section of glass and looked right at me again. He shrugged and smiled. The look on his face seemed more
Isn’t this just one of those completely FUBAR Mondays at the office?
and not
Die, you mercenary scum!

For a long moment nobody moved. The quiet descended in a soundless snowfall.

A cubical wall toppled over with a bang and a thud. Hungry, pained moaning filled the air in surround sound. Zombies staggered to their feet, rising off the floor, falling out of the supply closets, climbing from beneath cubicle desks, pouring out of the conference room until the office swarmed with enough zombies to rival Walmart on Black Friday. They started toward us in a shuffling mass. The necromancer had held them back, waiting to spring this trap. More moaning echoed down the hall behind us, growing louder and closer—the second horde, sealing off our escape.

Oh shit.

I keyed the mike. “Zero Dogs, we’re buggin’ out! Fall back in defensive formation to the reception area. Bring the Bradley around front.
Now!
”

Sarge and Jake opened fire as we retreated. Jake had his free hand thrust out, fingers splayed, as he swung one of his barriers around and slammed it into the undead, hammering them back. Zombies appeared behind us in the hall. Rafe turned and leapt at them, slashing and tearing with jaws and claws. He seized one zombie and hurled it into the drywall so hard I heard bones shatter and studs crack twenty feet away. More zombies pressed in around him, grabbing and biting, but he shrugged off their attacks, ignoring the damage.

The necromancer still watched us through the bullet-riddled glass. Another man, cadaverous-looking, with slicked back hair and cold, dark eyes, leaned in close to the necromancer and said something in his ear. The necromancer nodded and stepped away from the window.

Dammit.

The office had filled with a nightmare blitz of sound—gunshots, moans, collapsing cubical walls and toppling file cabinets, Rafe ripping things apart, and wild, frenzied ferret chittering. My breath rasped in and out of my mouth as if I’d just sprinted a mile, and my tongue felt like a dry lakebed. Several of the overhead panel lights flickered and buzzed, giving part of the huge room a frenetic twitch between gloom and harsh light.

Zombies dropped left and right, but more kept coming as we retreated toward the reception area. I caught sight of the Bradley through the windows. It sped around the corner and jumped the curb. The treads shredded tracks through the grass and shrubs as Gavin raced toward the front doors.

“Short on ammo.” Sarge slapped another clip into the submachine gun and pulled back the bolt.

Mai sent her ferrets on sweeping sorties against the oncoming zombie tide. The zombies began falling on the demon-ferrets and trying to eat them. Soon our right flank became a chaotic, tumbling and writhing mass of teeth, claws and smoking flesh dissolved by acidic ferret drool. Mai Tanaka’s eyes blazed with the fury of an akuma straight out of myth.

Two zombies pushed over another cubicle wall and lunged toward Hanzo. He slashed with the katana and severed the head of a female zombie wearing spandex and a mud-stained bike helmet. The zombie head rolled along the carpet and came to rest next to a paper recycle bin. Her gaze remained locked on Hanzo and her teeth gnashed together.

The second zombie closed on Hanzo too quickly, forcing him to stab with the katana instead of slash, and he ran the blade through its body. The zombie, dressed like a hospital orderly, pulled itself forward along the blade with its jaws gaping to take a chunk out of Hanzo’s neck. Hanzo struggled with it, cursing. I lifted my hand to risk a fire spell but a group of Mai’s ferrets swarmed over the zombie and stripped it down to the bone.