John Holmes - Even Zombie Killers Get the Blues

“So check it out. This guy, he’s a C-130 pilot now, but before, he flew B-2 bombers. No shit, they loaded up a whole crate of zombies on, like, a dozen B-2, stealthed their way through Chinese radar and just air-dropped them over the biggest cities. He said he almost got shot down ’cause he had to go low and slow, bay doors open while the Zs went dropping out of the bomb racks. They dropped ‘em right in the rivers with water-soluble ropes around them. One, two days later, a couple of Zs drag themselves out of the river and start biting the shit out of the little yellow fuckers. Instant chaos! Recon flights say the whole place is a massive battleground now.”

“Damn, man, that some dirty shit,” said Jonesy, then laughed so hard his gold teeth showed. Frigging gangbanger would laugh at something like that.

“That just doesn’t seem right. I mean, that’s a crime against humanity.” The Engineer contractor spoke up through his heavy breathing, sweat pouring down his face.

“Man, that ain’t no different shit than them chinks dropping nukes on all them cities just because America was down and out, and not watchin’ over everyone else no mo’. Just like back in the ’hood, you get a chance to kick your enemy, you go do it.”

“I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem, right.”

“ Sheeeyit , Socrates, it’s just the way of the world. People been fightin’ forever, and unlike your lily-white, suburb livin’ ass, I seen it my whole life.”

Conversations like this took up most of the march. We were soldiers, and it’s what soldiers do, telling stories and talking smack to each other. We broke for lunch at noon, out in the middle of a field with good observation. Three on watch, three eating. The Engineer didn’t count. He was there for a job only, and he knew it. The six of us were a team and he wasn’t on it. The smoke from MRE heaters soon rose above the circle, and I sat back on a rock to enjoy the spring sunshine, to casually assess everyone in the group.

Brit, eyeing the Engineer like he was a piece of fresh meat, wondering if he was worth anything in the sack. She stood guard but would glance back at him every now and then. Ahmed, cleaning his weapons like he did every stop. Legacy of living in that dust-ridden shithole they called the Middle East. Jonesy, picking his nose and flinging it at Ahmed, trying, and failing, to piss him off. Doc Hamilton, that big bald ex-biker who was our medic, stood with his back to me, watching towards the river. Syzmanski, the newest guy, who had shown up at the river fort one day a month ago on the run from the FEMA camp outside Albany. We didn’t ask what he did to get him on the run and he never told us.

After twenty minutes the guards switched out and I stood to take my turn. After a few minutes of watching the road, I heard a blood-curdling shriek erupt from inside the perimeter. As I turned back toward the sound, the Engineer dude came tearing past me, pants hanging low, half of a zombie kid holding on for dear life trying to chew a chunk out of his ass. I stood open-mouthed as he ran past. He was trying to knock the thing off him with an unfolded E-tool, probably the one he had been using to take a crap. Jonesy stepped forward, faster than me, and swung that big steel rod he carries right at the guys’ legs. Down he went, and then Jonesy was beating the brains out of the Z before it got a chance to scream.

“Everybody up! Weapons Hot! Doc, check him out! AND SHUT HIM THE FUCK UP!”

The team was up already in a 360 perimeter. Doc Hamilton ran over to the Engineer, who lay on the ground yelling “OH MY GOD!” over and over. The Doc took one look at his wound, stood up, pulled his suppressed .22 and shot him in the head. The guy flopped once more then lay still. I stood in shock for a few seconds at the speed of the whole thing, then snapped out of it.

“Doc, take his tags, any personal effects; Jonesy, you and Syzmanski bury him. Then split his equipment up around the squad.”

I had screwed up. I hadn’t assigned anyone to keep watch over him and now the guy was dead, killed by a stupid mistake. He had probably just dug a cat hole and not checked the brush or tall grass around him. Like I said, Zs are animal-smart. It had probably waited for him. Damn, just goddamn. I hung my head down and watched them dig a quick, shallow hole and roll his body in it. You just assumed that someone who had survived this far in the post-plague world would know you never went anywhere alone and you always checked out the area you were in.

Brit walked over to me, wanting to know what to do next.

“Hey Chief, it could have happened to anyone. You can’t babysit everyone and it was the chain of command that saddled us with him. Are we Charlie Mike?” She was asking if we were continuing the mission.

“Yeah, I suppose we have to. Just a sucky way to go.”

“I know, Nick” she said, then punched me as hard as she could in the shoulder. “Now suck it up and let’s go. You know it’s a hard world we’re living in.”

“Yeah, I know… if you can call it living.”

“Empire, Empire, this is Lost Boys, over.” I let go of the hand mike and waited 30 seconds. Stupid radio watch back at Fort Orange was probably stuffing his face.

I tried again. “Empire, Empire, this is Lost Boys, over.”

“Kilo 39, this is Gulf 38, use proper radio procedure, over.”

“Yes, because the Zombies are listening over the secure net, over.”

There was a long silence. I pictured the fat fobbit running to his commander. Sir, those stupid civilian scouts are on the radio again, they are being mean to me .

“Lost Boys 6, this is Empire 6, SITREP, over.”

Great, the Task Force Commander, LTC MacDonald, aka Jackass. We love each other. Actually, we frackin’ hate each other. Mutual disrespect based on numerous incidents of his stupidity and incompetence.

“Well, Empire 6, we lost our Engineer asset, over.”

“What do you mean lost, over.”

“Lost, gone, finished, dead, over.”

“Dead how, over?”

“Cessation of heartbeat due to interdiction of cranial matter by copper and lead alloys, over.”

“Don’t be such a fucking smartass, Agostine.”

“Empire 6, please use proper radio procedure, over.”

The line was quiet for a full minute. I pictured Jackass smashing things in the TOC. He was notorious for throwing things at subordinates. I couldn’t help messing with him. I knew the fact that he needed me and my people and couldn’t do anything about me sent him ballistic. I was actually trying to get him to have a stroke.

“Lost Boys 6, this is Empire 6. What happened to your engineer, over.”

“Bitten by a zombie, we had to neutralize him, over.”

“Way to fail on the job, Lost Boys 6. I’ll make sure you write his wife, over.” God, that man was a prick.

“Can do, Empire 6. Are we going to get another asset? Over.”

“Negative, no air assets available. Continue Mission, Lost Boys. Out.”

Had to get the last word in. Jerk. I stuffed the hand mike back in Syzmanskis’ rucksack and turned off the SINCGARS radio.

“I think you two should kiss when next time you meet. Just give him a big, wet sloppy kiss.” called Brit over her shoulder as she moved to take up point. “Give him a reach-around.”

“Such a pig.” I muttered.

“OINK OINK!” she called back. We moved out down the broken road.

We stood over the Route 4 bridge and watched the water flow underneath. It was clear, clearer than I had ever seen it before. Clear and toxic. Not as bad as downstream, but there was a sheen of oil slick across the top. Millions of gallons of heating oil, industrial chemicals, toxins released by houses decaying. The engineers testing the water figured it would be close to a hundred years before it was drinkable. The streams draining into the Hudson were almost as bad. Who would have thought clean water would have been an issue after the Zombie Apocalypse? Another thing the movies got wrong. We knew of one good well on the east side of the river, a mile south of here. A hand pump into a deep well, but in a few years the ground water would be contaminated by rusting gas tanks and underground oil tanks. From here on out we would have to hump our water, which is heavy as shit. On a hot spring day in Upstate NY, humid as hell, humping seventy pounds in a pack, you wind up soaked to the bone with sweat in about ten minutes.