Jason Campagna: White Ash on Bone: A Zombie Novel

Paul Sulla scratched at his facial hair and thought. "Call the school district, and inform them of the situation. Tell them they should consider whatever emergency contingency plans they have for a lockdown or evacuation. Tell them that whatever they are going to do, do it now because I want their busses available in two hours. We may need them for evacuation."

"You want me to do anything else?" George said.

"Stay here, and try and get me any information you can. Also try and round up some back up for us from the South," Sulla said. “I can’t imagine what in the world is going on for the EOC to tell us to arm ourselves. I can only imagine terrorism, but what the hell would they want in Butler of all places?”

Sulla stood and headed for the door; his hand paused on the doorknob. "George, make sure you lock the door behind me."

Sulla went into the equipment room and selected a black jacket with yellow reflector strips on the arms. On the back of the jacket the reflection material read, "PENN TOWNSHIP". Sulla also grabbed a riot shotgun and an AR-15. He stuffed ammo for each weapon into a duffle bag and took the keys for the unmarked police cruiser still in the squad bay. Sulla did a quick radio check to the EOC and George. He then left the municipal building.

The diner in Penn Township is best described as a greasy spoon, but the food’s always been good. It’s located along Route 8, and the building is well into its years. The likeness of Humpty Dumpty sits atop the diner. The Egg Man has needed a paint job since at least 1980.

Sulla entered the restaurant announced by the squeaky hinged front door. More than a dozen pairs of aged eyes turned to look at the young man. Sulla looked at the old-timers haunting the restaurant. They represented a celebrated category of the American experience. They were veterans.

"Gentleman," Sulla said, "I'll make this as short as possible. As some of you know, I’m Paul Sulla, Township Supervisor here in Penn. The Butler County Emergency Operations Center has contacted us asking us to turn traffic around. There has been some kind of event in the City of Butler. The County EOC has lost contact with the officers and personal sent in to help; this includes our own township’s officers. I know many of you served in the armed forces at one point or another. The township needs your help. I need your help."

The old-timers looked at Sulla and didn’t answer.

Sulla went on. "Anyone who volunteers will have their bills picked up today by the township.”

"Now you’re talking our language," said one of the old guys.

Three Road Department trucks pulled into the parking lot outside. "Anyone who can help is asked to be outside in five minutes,” Sulla said. “If you have a gun with you, or you can get to one in the next 15 minutes do so now."

Outside the restaurant Sulla looked at the crowd. Between the road department, restaurant patrons, and other personnel George had managed to send his way, Sulla had 28 volunteers.

In the restaurant, Sulla had discovered a man by the name of Dan Wilson who used to be a State Trooper. Wilson had recently retired from service and moved to Penn Township.

Sulla half expected to find Wilson at the restaurant and offered him an emergency position working for the township.

The traffic heading north was stopped by members of the road department who set up roadblocks. Sulla split the volunteers into different teams. He sent five men out to round up more volunteers. They would then assemble at the airport.

One of the veterans had been a radio operator in Vietnam. Sulla sent him up to the municipal building to take over for George. Sulla sent a dozen other people off to pick up guns from their homes. They were to then go to the airport and help organize the evacuation point.

The rest, Wilson included, would take the squad car and a couple of road department trucks north to the edge of the township to see what was going on in Butler.

Sulla distributed radios and weapons to the men, and then everyone moved out.

The northern edge of the township seemed normal at first. As they crested the hill, Sulla could see smoke rising from Butler in the distance. A number of people from the Chevy dealership stood at the intersection watching the smoke.

Sulla had one of the road department trucks deploy jersey barriers across the north bound lanes at the intersection. They could hear gunfire from the valley below. The few cars heading south on Route 8 roared through the intersection going way over the speed limit; they didn’t bother to stop.

"Let’s drop some flares," Wilson said, "so we can flag some of these people down and find out what's going on."

Sulla asked the dealership employees if they knew anything. They shook their heads no, but said that a number of people had driven down to the city to see what was going; none of them had come back.

Sulla thanked them and then asked them to close shop. "You guys should look in on your families. Either head south, or go to the airport for safety. I would ask that you folks stop at all the business south of here and any homes you see and encourage people to clear out."

None of them seemed thrilled about this, but they agreed to the request. A few of them indicated that they had concealed carry permits or a rifle in their truck and offered to stay.

Wilson managed to pull a car over. Two of its five occupants were injured.

"You guys got to get out of here," the driver pleaded, "you can't stop them."

"Stop who?" Wilson said.

"I don’t know,” the driver said. “They’re like fucking zombies or something. They’re tearing apart anyone they get a hold of. It’s fucking chaos down there.”

"What about the police?" Sulla said.

"Police... the only cop I saw was eating a little boy," the man said.

One of the vets shouted out, "We got walking wounded coming up the road."

"Shit that’s them, we just passed them up,” the driver said. “We’re getting the fuck out of here," the driver sped off without waiting for permission to go.

Down the road four people limped toward the Penn Township force. "Those people on foot look like they are injured," Wilson said.

"What about what the driver just said?" asked Sulla.

"Demented or on drugs,” Wilson said. “I'm going to go down there and talk to these people.”

"What about the gunfire and smoke?" Sulla pointed out.

"I don’t like it one bit,” Wilson said, “but I refuse to believe, even for a second, anything that nut just said.” At that, Wilson took off down the hill at a jog to the four injured people. He stopped short of them. He could see they were badly injured. All four of them locked onto Wilson with their eyes.

"Are you folks okay?" the retired Trooper asked.

They plodded toward him with no response.

"I asked, if you folks are okay?" No response. "If you need medical attention- I am an officer of the law, and you will respond."

The four kept coming. Wilson stepped back and pulled his firearm. Wilson fired a round in the air. The four didn’t even flinch at the gunshot.

In all of Wilson's years in law enforcement, he had never seen anything like this; his hands started to shake. He looked back to Sulla and his men, and he realized how far away they were and how close the four injured people were. They seemed unnatural somehow.

A primal instinct in Wilson smelled death on the four. For the first time in his life, Wilson decided he’d better run. Even with adrenaline pumping through his system, the hill took its toll on Wilson's body. He made it thirty feet up the hill when he felt the first stab of pain in his arm.

Please god, not now, Wilson prayed to himself as the second stab of pain shot through him. He fell to the ground and tried to grab at something to steady himself as he struggled for life. The dead came on, desperate to finish what remained of Wilson.