John Holmes - Even Zombie Killers Get the Blues

I waited.

After a few seconds of silence, he went on. “I know that you have tons of experience, having survived out there for the last few years on your own, but maybe it’s time to let the professionals take charge.”

He glared down at me, hands on his hips. He was starting to sweat in his uniform, but I said nothing.

“So,” he continued “I think its best if we address the team and present a unified command, let them know that we understand each other. I will, of course, listen to your advice, but the decisions rest with me. Also,” he said, glaring at Brit as she chatted up the work detail “I will not have fraternization between my team and the other elements of this command.”

“Seriously? You know, Sir, you had me going right up until that point. No fraternization! Really? Might as well try curing the zombie plague as tell Brit to keep it in her pants. ”

He stared back down at me. “Some things are an abomination to the Lord, Sergeant.”

Oh great, another holy roller. There was a large segment of the population who thought the Zombie Apocalypse was Judgment Day, and we were living in the end times. Not so much out on the frontier, because you quickly realized that the dead were, well, the dead, and Jesus wasn’t coming, and everyday life still was a lot of hard work. I just couldn’t believe we had gotten rid of one pain in the ass to get saddled with another.

“LT, lets’ get something straight. Doc, Brit, Jonesy, Ahmed and I are a team. We have been fighting and surviving out here in Indian Country for a few years now while you’ve been sitting back in Candyland playing Chutes and Ladders. You can try to order the team around, but you’ll learn quick that trying and doing ain’t the same thing. Maybe you can earn their respect by being as good as they are, or at least Itrying to learn from them, but coming off all high and might isn’t going to cut it.”

I could see him getting red with anger, so I tried a different tact.

“OK, let me ask you this, LT. How many times have you been out in Zombie Country?”

“Uh, well, this is the first, except, of course, when we go through the combat course at Officer Basic School.”

“Please, give me a break. They drop you kids off in an enclosed area, with snipers all around, and let you play in the woods for a few days, hunting barely mobile Zs. You don’t know shit, and like as not, you’re going to get yourself and someone else killed.”

“I’ve got plenty of schooling, Sergeant, and with the Lord protecting us, I’ll be able to serve my country in its hour of need.”

I snorted and started pulling my boots on. “And when the shit hits the fan, Jesus is going to come rescue you riding a T-Rex and firing an Uzi, while Ronald Reagan supplies Close Air Support with a shotgun and a bald eagle. Honestly, keep far away from me, and we’ll do just fine, LT.”

“I’ll forgive you for taking the Lord’s name in vain, but remember who is in charge, Sergeant.”

“Aye aye, Scuba Steve.”

He stomped away and I resumed carving a small dolphin for Brit, flicking the shavings into the water, but my good mood was gone.

We cruised down the Hudson, passing the ruins of small towns. Burnt-out shells of buildings traced their way down to the waterfronts and ragged figures stumbled through the rubble. Zombies attracted by the rumbling of the diesel engines as the tug towed our two barges through the water. We passed one fortified farm with the stars and stripes flying over the house. The tug captain blew a long blast on the air horn and a group of people came down to the waters’ edge and waved. Maybe a dozen survivors, living on a walled farm. Tilled fields stretched off toward the woods. The tug’s zodiac boat went over the side, and a squad of Infantry, with Doc along for the ride, went cruising over to them. They would spend an hour or so with them, assess their needs and try to convince them to relocate to the FEMA camp upriver. I doubted they would go, though. We would meet back up with the team further downstream, after Doc had done what he could for them with medical treatment.

“Hearts and minds, Brother!” I yelled after Doc as they sped away. He stood up in the boat and thumped his chest in reply.

A lazy half hour passed. I dug out some lunch and headed back toward the barges. At the end of the first barge, a sandbagged .50 caliber machine gun position was hosting a curious competition. Ahmed, with his Draganov, and an Infantry Corporal with a Barrett .50 caliber sniper rifle, were going shot for shot, plugging at the figures on the shoreline. The flat CRACK of Ahmed’s .30 caliber rifle was followed by the big BOOM of the Barrett, alternating with each other. Behind them, another soldier kept score.

“What’s going on?” I asked when they had stopped to reload their weapons.

The Infantry sniper, a big redneck, spoke first.

“Ah gots a bet with yer A-rab buddy fifty dollars who’s the better shot.” He spat a big wad of chew out of his mouth and put another chunk in his cheek. Ahmed looked at me with a faint grin, then they both rested their rifles back on the sandbags again, pressing their cheeks to the stocks of their rifles and scanning past the scope to get a broad view of the shore.

“What’s the score?”

“Dead even. Seventeen each. Haha, get it? DEAD EVEN!” The kid cracked up laughing.

“Yeah, haha, very funny.” He looked like he wasn’t a day over sixteen, freckles under the dirt on his face and a wispy fail of a mustache, but he had a Combat Infantry Badge and jump wings with a skull on them, meaning he had survived an airborne insertion into an infested area and fought his way out. The Airborne did that sometimes. Jumped into the remains of a city to secure something important, historical items or critical infrastructure, secured it for later pickup if they couldn’t carry it out, and then had a running battle to the nearest safe Evac zone. The world was a hard, hard place. A few years ago, he would have been trying to save up for a car, mayve figuring out what college to go to, trying to bang his girlfriend. Now he sat here counting headshots to Zombies, cleaning his rifle and digging into an MRE. Girls were a pipe dream.

I sat down and ate my tapioca pudding while they continued to shoot. We were passing a small rise on the left bank, topped by an old stone church. There didn’t seem to be any Zs, but Ahmed and the soldier continued to scan the shore.

“I got movement up on that there church. Cain’t really see whut…”

The soldier keeping score grabbed at his throat just before we heard the shot. A spray of blood misted from his neck and then started to spurt as I rolled over backwards, behind the sandbags. I crawled over to the kid while the rifles cracked out rapidly. A figure jumped over me and racked the bolt on the .50, then started pumping rounds downrange, THUMP THUMP THUMP, the discharges from the half-inch shells pounding my ears. The deck tilted as the tug’s diesels cranked up, and time changed. I saw brass cartridges fall in slow motion on the deck around me and I pressed my hand to his neck, and started pulling at the bandage pouch on his vest. I felt like I had all the time in the world as blood spurted out between my fingers, and his feet drummed on the deck. I ripped at the plastic cover of the bandage, but by the time I got it out and shook the wrapping free, he had fallen still, and the blood no longer pulsed under my hand. “GODDAMMIT!” I yelled, and pounded my hand on the deck. The new medic pushed me aside and started compressing his chest but stopped when she saw the exit hole on the back of his neck.

We turned around a bend and the guns fell silent. I stood up, covered in blood, and looked down at the pale, lifeless body. Survived the Zombie Apocalypse, fought who knows how many battles, and he was popped by some nut job Mad Max scumbag. Joking one minute, dead the next.