John Holmes: Even Zombie Killers Can Die

“EVERYBODY DOWN!” I yelled as loudly as I could, and threw myself backwards over a tree.

My ears were ringing from the blast, and I felt blood pouring out of my nose. I sat up, and then fell back down when everything swam in circles in front of me. I took a minute to catch my breath and let everything steady, then slowly raised myself up again, pulling on the tree trunk to help myself back to a sitting position. I looked down at the firing line.

The bodies of four, no, five people were visible, not moving. Alys crawled towards me, away from a smoking crater, the radio on his back a ruin. The line of bunkers and the wall we had built, was smashed flat where it wasn’t upended. I saw another soldier, I think it was Esposito, though it was hard to tell, trying to stuff his guts back into his stomach. They lay scattered around him, and both his legs were gone. I couldn’t hear him, but I could see his mouth opening in a scream. I drew my pistol, held it balanced on the tree trunk, and shot him. Twice, in the head, from behind. He fell limp.

Next to me I could feel the concussion from gunshots. THUMP THUMP THUMP. I still couldn’t hear anything. I raised my rifle and pointed it drunkenly downhill, trying to focus on a target. Any target. I knew the zombies were still down there, and they would be attracted to the explosion.

A hand grabbed me by the carry strap on the back of my armor, and started pulling me up the hill, dragging my legs in the dirt. I still felt too wobbly to stand up, and I passed out again.

When I woke, Brit was again shining a flashlight in my eyes.

“Damn, Nick, you gotta stop beating up your head. Twice in four days. I think you have a concussion this time. Not that there is anything to hurt up there. Good thing you had your vest on.” She held up a jagged piece of shrapnel which had apparently torn its way through several layers of kevlar before glancing off the ceramic plate on my back. Her voice, which I could barely hear, sounded tinny and robotic.

“What, what about the squad?” She shook her head.

“Seven dead, one wounded. We have four effectives, not counting you.”

“Zombies. Coming.” I wanted to vomit. Not a good sign.

“Final Protective Fire, the arty is beating the shit out of them and making a wall of steel in front of us. Evac will be here in fifteen mikes. We’re being relieved by a platoon from the 82 nd. Maybe I can get a phone number from one of those cheesedicks, what do you think?”

She smiled at me, but I could tell she was worried. The smile didn’t reach her eyes, and she kept waving away some red hair the slipped out of her helmet.

“Esposito. I shot him.”

“Good thing, too. The Z’s made it to the wall, he would have been torn up by them. He was dead anyway, Nick.”

“Help me up.”

She did and I looked downhill. I could barely hear the artillery, but I felt it through the earth, a continuous vibration. As I watched, rounds continued to burst like clockwork, one every thirty seconds, walking their way back and forth across the foot of the hill. Jim Lock sat with our spare radio, calling corrections for the arty hitting the valley floor. He gave me a thumbs-up and turned back to the radio. Behind him, seven bodies were laid out in a row, covered by poncho liners. I stared at them, wishing them to move, but they never would.

Dear Mrs. Esposito,

I know you and your husband John were only married for a few days, and I’m sorry that the time you had with him was so short. I was against him going on this mission, but he was a fine soldier, and he knew the risks involved. I don’t think I could have stopped him if I tried.

I was his leader on this and many other dangerous operations, and his death is my responsibility. I don’t know if I could have done anything differently, but I wish that he were alive and home with you. He was my soldier, my friend and my brother. He saved my life in Denver, and if I could trade mine for his, I would have. Your husband fought for four days straight, through numerous attacks, and died on the firing line. His death was quick, and merciful, if there can be such a thing. He was never turned into an Undead.

I know these words are small comfort, but he will be missed by all of his teammates. If you ever need anything, please do not hesitate to ask.

They say the only thing that drops from the sky is birdshit and assholes, but I could have kissed the assholes that were falling from it now. Well, almost. OK, I wouldn’t have kissed them, but I WAS happy to see them.

The artillery fire had stopped for a few minutes, clearing the airspace, and a C-130 roared overhead, the familiar red tail markings of the guys from Scotia. Two sticks of paratroopers exited out of the side doors, ten in each. One figure fell quickly, his static line failing to open his main chute. They were jumping low to stay concentrated on the drop zone, an open field off to the north of our hill. The falling soldier tried to get his reserve chute open, but hit the ground with a sickening, bone-crunching thud we could hear up on the hill.

“Damn,” said Brit. “They better start making new equipment, ‘cause those chutes are wearing out. Lotta other stuff, too.”

The Airborne formed square, raised shields and advanced up the hill, smashing down the several zombies who stood in their path, saving ammo. As they made their way into our position, their Platoon Sergeant ambled over to me and sat down with an exhausted sigh.

“Hey Nick. Don’t get up.”

“I won’t, Cody. Watched your guy eat dirt. He a loss?”

The grizzled Sergeant First Class looked like he hadn’t shaved in a week, and his uniform was crusted with dried blood and brains.

“Yeah. Happens almost every third drop now. Too many jumps, worn out chutes. Tired guys, inexperienced kids packing their own chutes. That was our Lieutenant. No big loss.” He spat a stream of tobacco juice on the dirt, and leered at Brit.

She threw out her hip and stood at parade pretty. “Not if you were the last pervert on earth, Cody.”

“I’m pretty sure YOU’LL be the last pervert on earth, Brit.” She blew him a kiss.

I rolled my eyes. “Get a room, you two. Before you do, tell me what’s going on.”

He sat down on an ammo crate and started picking at his nails with a bayonet, trying to get the blood out from under his fingernails. He watched his squad leaders directing the troopers, who were shoring up the defenses.

“Well. As you can see,” and he gestured to the grime on his WWII style paratrooper jumpsuit, “we have been a little bit busy. That there twenty--”

“Nineteen” interjected Brit.

He glared at her. “Nineteen. Shut it, Pucker Lips. Like I said, NINETEEN fine airborne troopers are the remains of the company that parachuted onto the Interstate -84/Taconic State Parkway interchange a week ago when this shit sandwich started. Three hours ago we were relieved by a company of M1A5 tanks who went charging right up the Taconic, grinding their way over the mass of bodies we had piled up, including our own dead.” A thoughtful looked passed over his face, then he started laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“Well, you know the Taconic Parkway right there, right? Where it heads into the hills, going south to the city? Real narrow, two lanes on each side, steep drop offs?”

I nodded. “Yeah, been that way many times.”

“So this Cavalry Captain goes charging past riding out the hatch, yelling GET OUT OF THE WAY CRUNCHIES, firing that 120mm shotgun round, BOOM BOOM BOOM and letting his fifty cal rip, screaming GARRY OWEN AND GLORY and, get this, his driver can’t see the edge of the road bed and throws a track, and the whole thing spins around and rolls off down the embankment, must have fell about thirty feet. Last I saw of him they were using an M-88 to try and lift one side of the tank enough to let the crew climb out of the loader’s hatch. I could hear him yelling at them from inside to hurry the hell up. The rest of his company just kept charging down the road.”