Brian Keene (15 page)

Skip had overheard them talking via radio, and after Schow informed the General of their recent progress and

125 victories, the disembodied voice (sounding hauntingly like Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now) had repeated The Dick is pleased" over and over like an insane mantra.

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Probably because he was insane, Skip knew. Just like Schow. They were all insane. You had to be, if you wanted to survive this. Gettysburg was secure. The town had been swept clean of the undead, and those that died from sickness, injuries, or natural causes were disposed of immediately, the bodies incinerated.

After the initial sweep and purge operation, they'd tried placing barbed wire around much of the town, and planted mines in the surrounding Civil War battlefields. The defensive measures had proved to be hopelessly ineffectual against the living dead. Hordes of zombies simply poured over the barbed wire, slicing themselves to shreds with unflinching disregard. Worse were those who had their legs blown off by a mine, only to then pull themselves by their arms across the fields in search of prey. Finally, guards had been posted all around the perimeter to insure that it remained secure. The mines and barbed wire remained in place as a semi-effective early warning system-and to keep marauding gangs of bikers and survivalists at bay.

Roving bikers and renegades weren't the only problem. Refugees streamed into the town early on, attracted by the false rumor that the government had established an underground Pentagon there during the Cold War. Skip had always found that amusingly ironic. Stupid civilians-as if the government would ever allow the location of something like that to be known to the general populace. Still, they came, looking for shelter and order, and found Schow's men instead.

They still were attempting to come up with an effective defense against the avian zombies and other

126 types that could make it through the secure zone. Undead snakes, rodents, and other small animals also presented a problem, and still managed to slip through. As a result, most of the civilian population stayed indoors at all times.

Not that they had a choice, Skip thought to himself.

By orders of Colonel Schow, any civilian, be they man, woman or child, caught carrying a weapon was to be shot on sight. No exceptions had been made and after a few examples, thoughts of dissent were now virtually nonexistent.

It wasn't like the civilians had any great reason to venture outside anyway, Skip knew. Downtown Gettysburg had become an armed military encampment. Smoke from burning trash barrels choked the sky and the air was thick with the stench of the latrines and the bodies burned in the pit on the town outskirts. Garbage rotted in the gutters, despite the work detail's efforts to pick it up. The streets were filled at all
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times with armed Guardsmen. There were no utilities; things like running water and electricity belonged to the past now, but generators had been set up for the officer's quarters, and for some of the enlisted men. When the townspeople were allowed outside, it wasn't exactly a cause for celebration. Able-bodied men were used for slave labor, although nobody called it that out loud. Instead, it was referred to as a work detail, and it was strictly enforced. The soldiers were, for the most part, happy with the arrangement, as it meant somebody other than them got to do the grunt work like digging latrines and disposing of bodies. Those civilians who resisted were used in more onerous tasks, the most popular of which was bait detail. When a patrol ventured into the surrounding fields and villages, they would take a dozen or so civilians with them. One at a time, the unfortunates would be put 'on point', and forced to walk ahead of the group. Any zombie lying in wait would inevitably attack the lead

127 individual, giving the soldiers plenty of advance warning. Individuals sent on bait detail were considered expendable. Women were used for 'morale'. For most, this involved sexual enslavement in the Meat Wagon, although a few of the elderly or the absolutely unappealing were allowed to work in the mess hall and at other menial tasks. Those women who repeatedly resisted the use of their bodies were also sent to bait detail.

What disgusted Skip most of all was the compliance of the civilian populace. Their spirits broken, the vast majority simply accepted this lifestyle. Some of them even seemed to prefer it. A few of the men had proven themselves and were "drafted" into the unit and allowed to carry a weapon. Especially appalling to Skip, were the women who enjoyed being a sexual conscripts: post-apocalyptic whores who didn't seem to mind sucking ten dicks a night, as long as it kept them relatively safe and alive.

He clenched his fists.

Why didn't they rise up? When the unit was away like this, they easily outnumbered the soldiers left behind. Why did they just blindly accept it, like sheep? Maybe the alternative didn't seem all that appealing to them. Or perhaps they were scared.

like him. Scared of staying alive but even more terrified of dying. These days, death offered no escape from the futility of their lives. When he was in high school, Skip had dated a Goth chick that had been obsessed with death. So much, in fact, that she'd tried to commit suicide several times. He'd been upset by this, blaming himself, her
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parents, the school and a number of other things; until he realized that killing herself was part of the fantasy-part of her obsession. She hungered for what came after.

Riding in the Bradley, listening to the tracks rumbling 128 beneath his feet, Skip found himself wondering if she was still alive, and if she was still hungry for what came after. Second Lieutenant Torres pointed on the highway map at a town labeled Glen Rock. "We are here. Captain Gonzalez wants you to take some men and recon this town here." He indicated a small town marked Shrewsbury, nestled on the Pennsylvania-Maryland border. "The Captain says that Colonel Schow wants to abandon the Gettysburg encampment in favor of a more secure location. Determine if Shrewsbury fits our requirements." Staff Sergeant Miller nodded. "I can do that."

"Staff Sergeant Michaels, you will take another squad here." Torres pointed to York. "Again, this is only a recon mission. Do not engage any hostile forces unless you are attacked. Just observe and report back. Meanwhile, I am to take the rest of the unit and the prisoners and report back to Gettysburg."

"I'll take PFC Anderson," Miller said.

Michaels cleared his throat. "Anderson was killed during this morning's raid."

"Shit," muttered Miller. He ran a hand through his greasy hair; his military buzz-cut long since abandoned. "Alright, then I want Kramer."

"Fair enough," Torres nodded. "Staff Sergeant Michaels, you can take Sergeant Ford."

"Good deal. I want Warner, Blumenthal and Lawson too."

"No, screw that!" Miller protested. "That leaves me with Skip, Partridge and Miccelli, and I don't trust that shifty little fucker Skip! I think he'd rather shoot us all in the back than shoot a zombie. You notice that he never fucks the whores? I think he's a faggot."

"Too bad! You got Kramer, so you're stuck with them! I'm not taking all the fresh meat!"

129 "Enough," the Lieutenant barked. "You've got your orders! Carry them out. Miller, if you have reason to believe Private Skip does not have this unit's best interests at heart, and you can prove it, then we'll deal with that. Otherwise, that is all."

Staff Sergeant Miller snapped off a salute, lit a cigarette and stormed
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away.

"Prissy little fucker. Who does he think he is? I was patrolling Atlanta after the terrorist attacks while that fucker was still in high school." After successfully raiding Glen Rock, they'd camped at the nearby National Guard Ammo Dump as planned. The secure site was removed from the town and the highway, accessible only by driving down a two-mile gravel road that led into the woods.

The ammo was stored above ground in engineered bunkers that looked like hills of dirt, all identical in size and lined up in neat rows. Each bunker had a door built into its side and each door had a sign indicating what type of ammunition was stored inside. A security fence surrounded the entire complex.

The tractor-trailers were parked between the mounds. The doors of one hung open, and a line of soldiers were wrapped around it all the way to the cab.

He dropped the butt to the pavement, ground it out with his boot heel, and considered the line.

"I need to get laid before we go."

He approached the Humvee that the three Privates were assigned to and banged on the hatch. A moment later, it opened and an acne-scarred Private, barely out of high school by the look of him, peered out.

"Get me Skip, Partridge and Miccelli."

"Miccelli and Partridge are in the meat wagon, Sergeant," he pointed at the tractor-trailer, "but Skip's in here sleeping." The Staff Sergeant poked his head inside.

"Skip, fall out and bring your gear," he bawled, and stalked toward the rigs.

130 Skip scrambled out, blinking the sleep from his eyes, and trailed after him.

"Find PFC Kramer and then both of you report to my vehicle and wait for me," Miller ordered him. "We've been assigned recon, fifteen miles southeast of here. I'm going to find Partridge and Miccelli, grab a quick piece of tail, and then we'll take off."

He elbowed his way through the line of waiting men, and climbed up inside the trailer.

Skip leaned against the Humvee and checked his weapons.
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Five of them on this mission. Miller, Kramer, Miccelli, Partridge and himself.

Five of them away from the rest of the unit.

Safety in numbers, he thought, and grinned.

Here or there; either way, he was a dead man walking. The knowledge gave him a cold sense of comfort.

He slapped at a mosquito, wondered if it was alive or the living dead, and decided that there wasn't much difference anyway.

He waited a while, then stalked away to find Kramer.

131

Jim stopped the car, stretched, and ran a hand through his hair. It came away greasy, just like his skin. He tried to remember his last shower and couldn't. The wound in his shoulder throbbed. The center of the bandage was black with dried blood, and the edges crusted with dried pus. Steeling himself, he opened the door, got out of the car, and started down the street.

The illusion was almost perfect-as long as he didn't look too closely. The sun hung high in the sky, bathing the neighborhood in warmth and brightness. The houses were lined up in two neat rows along the street, each one identical except for the color of their shutters or the curtains hanging in the window. Cars and SUV's occupied the driveways and curbs, and childrens' bikes and scooters lay discarded in the front yards.

A solitary ceramic lawn gnome watched him pass.

The street was alive.

A dog sat panting on the sidewalk. Jim thought that perhaps it would wag its tail if it could, but the tail had been torn out by the roots, leaving only a maggot-infested hole. A swollen cat stretched in a nearby windowsill, watching the dog with its one remaining eye. The feline's hiss sounded like a steam engine.

The wind playfully chased a discarded popsicle wrapper across the street. Jim heard a child's laughter as it tumbled by. The wrapper caught on a row of shrubs and the laughter faded.

132 It had rained the night before, and earthworms wriggled blindly in the puddles. Jim stepped on one and the mushed remains continued to writhe after he moved on.

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Elm and oak trees lined the street, forming a barrier between the curb and the sidewalk. Birds huddled in their branches, whispering to each other; marking his advance. Most of their feathers had molted away. The trees reached toward him with outstretched grasping limbs, but Jim was careful to stay in the middle of the street where they could not reach him.

The street was alive. Dogs. Cats. Worms. Birds. Trees.

All dead. And all alive.

He stopped in front of the house.

They'd added some new aluminum siding since the last time he'd been here. Nice investment. His child support money had probably paid for it. The grass was green and freshly cut. The clippings had been raked into neat little piles. On the front porch, a handful of discarded plastic army men stood guard. Roses bloomed along the side of the house. Their thorns dripped blood.

Jim checked his Walther P38 and approached the front door. His feet felt leaden, as if the grass clippings were quicksand sucking at his boots. He could feel his pulse in his temples.

Down the street, the dead dog howled, long and mournful. Jim knocked on the door and Rick answered it.

His ex-wife's new husband was a grisly sight. His bathrobe hung open, stained with dried bodily juices. Most of the thick, perfect hair that Jim had hated so much was gone, and the few clumps that remained were wildly askew. His skin was mottled and grey. A worm tunneled through the cheesy flesh of his cheek and another burrowed through his forearm. One of his ears was missing, and brownish-yellow ichor ran from the 133 corners of his eyes.

"Jim, you're not welcome here."

Its foul breath clung to him. Jim shuddered in revulsion as a rotted tooth fell out, landing on the carpet.

"I'm here for Danny."

"Jim, you know you don't have visitation during the school year. This is a violation of the court order."

Jim pushed him out of the way. The skin was cold and moist, and his fingers sank beneath the surface of the thing's chest. He pulled them
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away, dripping, and called for his son.

"Danny! Danny, Daddy's here! I've come to take you home!"

"Danny isn't here right now Mrs. Torrance," Rick cackled. It cocked its head. "You know, I always wanted to do that." Jim ran toward the stairs but the zombie stepped in front of him. Bony fingers coiled around his wrist, pulling his arm towards the gaping hole that had been its mouth. Jim yanked his arm away and the creature's teeth snapped together.

"Where's my son, goddamn it?"

"He's upstairs, taking a break. We've been playing football in the backyard, just like any other father and son."