John Holmes - Even Zombie Killers Can Die

I glanced around at the half dozen Guardsmen who were on the other side of the light. “What about them?”

“Do you really think I would be stupid enough to go out on a patrol with people that weren’t loyal to me?”

We had left Danny and his patrol to make their way back to Grand Isle, and returned to where we had ditched our zodiac boat. As I worked with Red to set up the outboard motor, and Buswarry and Hart loaded our extra supplies, Brit talked with me.

“Do you trust him? Believe his BS story?”

“What makes you think it’s BS?”

“Come on, Nick, I wasn’t born yesterday, and you get all teary-eyed around your old Army buddies. It’s like this big blind spot you run into.”

Locking down the engine, I hooked up the gas line feed and then turned to her.

“Look, Brit, all I want to do is get Doc and Ziv back.”

She laughed at me. “Bullshit, Nick. I know you. Deep down inside, there is this little guy running around in a Captain America outfit, screaming to get let out. You WANT to rescue those civilians. Power-hungry jerks are like your archnemesis. I could draw a freaking comic strip about you.”

Red chimed in. “Yeah, Kemosabe, maybe you’ll get your own action adventure series someday.”

“Stupid racist Indian.”

“Native American. Get it right, Paleface.”

Hart looked at all of us like we were crazy. “Do you all always act like this?”

Brit turned to her and yelled “Look out, it’s Jamie Lanister! The Kingslayer! Run, Lady Brianne!”

“I told you to knock that shit off, Twerp.”

“Yeah, Brit, lay off her.” Red flushed, but he stood up and squared off with Brit.

“Wait. Oh my God. Red, Lady Brianne, OH MY GOD I’MSOHAPPYFORYOU!” He took a swing at her and Brit ran away, laughing. “I’m going to give you a step stool as a wedding gift!”

“I’m going to kill her” said Hart, but she was blushing, too.

Right then, everything went to shit. Like it always does. We had gotten so wrapped up in the details of dealing with the Vermonters that we had forgotten about what the real war was, fighting zombies. We were reminded in a harsh way.

It was a small horde, about thirty or so. Nothing we couldn’t have handled on a good day, but today was not a good day. McCross was on guard, but he was distracted by the conversation between Brit and Hart. The first zombie latched onto his leg as he stepped around a wrecked minivan, looking back towards us. It shouldn’t have happened. McCross was an experienced scout, had been on dozens of missions, and there was no reason for him to die, but he did. So did Captain Buswarry, trying to come to his rescue, charging directly into the horde.

It was a mad house, and we wound up getting away by running full tilt in the opposite direction while the Zs scrabbled around McCross and Buswarry. They tore them apart, eating their intestines while they were alive, trying to rip open their heads to get at the brains. We didn’t even have time to kill them ourselves. Red had to drag Hart away, and she screamed as her friends died horribly.

“RALLY AT THE END OF THE BRIDGE!” I yelled as we crossed over a set of train tracks being held out of the water by a causeway, maybe five feet off the water. I reached the end and spun, firing into the horde as fast as I could aim, barely missing the others as they ran past me. Red, who had been carrying the 240B while McCross walked point, flopped down beside me, extended the bipod legs and yelled, “FEED ME!” Brit crashed down beside him and started passing linked ammo into the gun. It started barking in short, controlled sweeps, arching through head height about fifty meters away, blowing holes through the zombies, catching some in their heads, knocking others down by severing limbs.

Ahmed kneeled beside them, emptying the magazine of the Dragonov, one aimed round per second. Two out of three dropped zombies with head shots, a regular, steady rhythm. Once I had caught my breath and the red dot on my site stopped jumping around, I started to add to the carnage. In the end, it came down to one last Z falling onto the water, shot through the head by Hart with her pistol. We were left with the smell of cordite and rotting flesh.

It was over in less than two minutes, but it should have never happened in the first place. I stood over what remained of McCross and Buswarry, the latter crawling towards me with that red glare in his eyes, one arm dragging slowly in an effort to get at living flesh and eat. The sight of him made me want to scream and vomit at the same time. I reached over my shoulder, drew my mace, and smashed his head in.

We got back to the boat, secured the area, and I sat down looking over the water. My hands were shaking, and I held them between my legs to make them stop. Brit sat down next to me and watched me for a second.

“Brit, I don’t know that I can do this anymore.” I held up my hand to show her. She grabbed it and squeezed it hard, let go.

“Nick, you can quit. Anytime. I love Doc and, well, I sortta like Ziv, but I am NOT going to lose you.”

I knew what she meant. An American general in World War II supposed that a man only had so much courage to draw from, a limited reservoir. I wondered if I was reaching mine. Even before more than two years of zombie warfare I had pulled three combat tours overseas. I had killed my wife after she was bitten by a zombie and had eaten our daughter. My leg, severed below the knee.

“Brit, I’m not going to let the guys down. We HAVE to go get them. I swear to you, though, that this is it. I’m done. I’m not leaving the farm again.”

She nodded, looking off into the distance with her good eye. “Well, no, Nick. There is one more thing we are going to have to do.”

“Kill Doctor Morano.”

“Kill Doctor Morano.” I looked over where Hart was crying while Red stood watch over her, one hand on her shoulder, watching the woods for more zombies. “But I’m not going to lose any more people. Swear to God.”

“Nick, Baby, you can’t control that. This is war. People die. Our friends, families, buddies. They die. I might die. You might. Meanwhile, we have got to LIVE. Snap out of it, Fearless Leader.” She reached over and caressed my cheek gently, then slapped me hard on the inside of my leg. It stung like hell, and I got her message.

“OK, let’s saddle up!” We piled our rucksacks into the bottom of the zodiac, started the motor and headed out across the lake. Across the water, the Green Mountains of Vermont looked down on us; just another war party, like a thousand others they watched impassively in the last three hundred years.

“So how do we do this?” asked Red.

“We go in flag flying. We’re the US Army, and I’m betting they won’t shoot at us if we’re representing the Army.”

Red shook his head. “I think your reasoning is wrong, Nick. I think if you go in there flag flying, some of these rednecks are going to shoot at you just because they think you’re a jack-booted federal gubbermint thug who is gonna take their guns.”

“Seriously? Why would I do that? Take their guns after surviving the Zombie Apocalypse?”

“There ain’t no explaining crazy, Nick.”

Brit was trailing her hand in the wake of the boat, but she watched Hart, who was sitting up in the bow. I knew she was watching to see if she was going to break. Ahmed steered the boat, keeping the throttle low. We were in no rush to get there, and there were some small waves we hopped over. I just sat back and enjoyed being out on the lake, a chance to let my guard down a bit.

Red was right. Any way we played it, we were outsiders who were going to upset whatever power balance existed on the island. In my experience dealing with survivors, they tended to resent us showing up. Anger that the federal government had failed them in the Zombie Apocalypse, or just a tendency to resent authority anyway. This was the first time, though, that we had dealt with such a large group, and one that had somewhat legitimate authority.