Chaos Theory: A Zombie Novel (9 page)

While we had been talking, the sporadic gunfire from the towers had gotten more steady. A few soldiers had arrived in a Hummer to assist, and I heard one of them say
Holy shit.
I peered off into the woods, and I had to agree with the soldier’s assessment. Holy shit.

An exceptionally large group of dead people were streaming out of the woods toward us. Captain Simmons showed up with another group of soldiers and rednecks, and they poured out of their vehicles and started loading up.

Simmons looked at us. “You might not want to be here.”

Yeah, like we had appointments. Where were we going to toddle off to exactly?

Ship grabbed Kat and we moved quickly back to the house we had gotten assigned to. The gunfire was heavy at that time, and I heard the big gun on top of the Hummer come to life as well. It was loud. We got our packs and made sure our weapons were good, but again, where were we going to go? Besides, I wasn’t going to be running anywhere. I had a head and a shoulder wound.

People must have figured something was up, because the whole compound was a flurry of activity. Not panic yet, but the adrenaline was definitely amped. We ran into Bob and he had his and Carla’s stuff packed too. He was carrying weapons as well, and I wondered how many people actually surrendered their guns to Simmons when he had demanded them.

Bob told us he had access to a truck. He had been on one of the crews that worked outside the gate and he still had the keys. Another Hummer and two pickups full of gun-toting locals roared past us toward the rear of the compound. Bob went to get Carla

It was slow going up the stairs in the gorgeous house we were in and my head hurt. We were on the third floor; six other families and a bunch of military types were housed in this house. I got to the third floor landing and looked out the window. I hadn’t noticed before, because who looks out those little windows anyway, but I could tell that if we went up to the roof we might be able to get a decent view of the chain-link fence and the tanker truck.

Ship thought that might be a good idea, so we made our way to the attic. There were beds up here too, and people were hurriedly packing things. They let us in, and we moved to a small balcony thing with beautiful French doors (So? I like French doors. That doesn’t make me gay or anything) and we moved outside. We had an excellent view of the rear side of the complex. An excellent view of the sea of dead people that were already pushing on portions of the fence. There were hundreds, and the woods kept expelling more. Some of the army guys and locals were spearing some through the chain link, and the men with rifles were shooting any they could sight in on. Over the gunfire we could hear people screaming for more ammo. Some folks were running up ammunition crates to the men and women on the line, but they would need a lot of rounds to deal with this particular event.

Inevitably, the fence began to buckle as the dead pushed against their brothers to get to the meat inside the compound. One man in a red flannel jacket and jeans, with a black cap, clicked empty and screamed for more ammo, but nobody came. He looked up and down the line, slung his rifle and ran. Others saw this and did the same, some dropping their weapons, and soon half the defending force was high-tailing it out of the danger zone. This was all the impetus the zombies needed, and the fence came down in a long section as Simmons first screamed at the retreating men to return to their posts, and then screamed a general retreat himself. Many of the living men were caught by the dead ones and went down in a flood of gouging fingers and snapping teeth.

The dead still streamed out of the woods directly at the compound. Ship moved quickly, and we gathered what gear we could carry and I ran down the stairs with my friends, my noggin letting me know that this headache discussion was not over. When we reached the front yard, we could see the compound was in total pandemonium. Everyone was running in every direction. The tank and the other two heavy vehicles, (I had found out that one was a Bradley, and the other was a Stryker, but I didn’t know which was which at the time) were moving toward the chaos at the rear of the compound.

A gray truck pulled up to us and Bob was driving with a passenger. I had expected the passenger to be Carla, but it was Lynch. Lynch had a gun on Bob. “You,” he said, pointing at me, “get in.”

“There isn’t room for everybody.”

“Everybody isn’t going. You, me, and Bob.”

I folded my arms, “No.”

“No?”

“No. You won’t shoot me. So, no.”

“Wow, you’re a smart one,” he said, rolling his eyes, then pointed the gun at Ship. “How about now?”

“You shoot him and I’m not coming.”

“Yes, you will.” He shot Ship high in the chest and Ship flew backward landing on his back. Lynch pointed the gun at Kat. “Get in the truck or she’s next.”

I was kneeling over Ship’s prone form when Lynch sighed and got out of the truck. “Get in the truck now, or I swear to Christ I will shoot that girl in the face.” I listened for one more second but I couldn’t hear a heartbeat from my friend. Lynch had killed my new best buddy. This asshole was toast, maybe not now but soon.

“You bastard,” Kat screamed and launched herself at him. He caught her wrist and did some flip thing as nonchalantly as you would yawn. Then he yawned. “We don’t have time for this.” He raised his pistol and blew away a zombie that had snuck up on us from between the houses. He shot it in the head from a hundred and fifty feet away, barely taking his eyes off me for a moment. Kat was on the ground and he put the pistol to her head. “I can do this all day.”

“She comes too.”

“Fine, but in the back.” We both helped Kat into the bed of the truck, and then Lynch pointed the gun at Bob, “Out.”

Bob got out immediately and Lynch told me to drive. “Bob, get in the back, I need you too.”

“I need to get Carla.”

“If she’s not here now she’s dead, look,” he said, pointing back to where the tanker was. Dozens of dead were streaming from between the buildings. I watched in horror as a runner took down a woman and began to tear into her. The runner had been wearing military fatigues. People were screaming and running in all directions now, and the gunfire was pretty much the same.

Bob got in the back of the truck, his face in his hands. Kat put her arm around him and Lynch and I got in the truck. It was already running, and I put my hand on the gearshift to put it in drive when a hand smashed through the passenger side window, latched on to Lynch and dragged him out of the vehicle. The giant form literally threw the prick across the yard. To Lynch’s credit, he went into a roll and came up with his weapon drawn. He fired two shots at his attacker, then had to grapple with a zombie that had grabbed him from the side.

The big thing that had pitched Lynch opened the passenger side door and sat in the seat. The whole vehicle took on a starboard list when he plunked his ass down. Yup, it was Ship. I looked at him and he was pissed. He jutted his chin forward and I threw the truck in gear. Zombies were beginning to notice us, so I drove away. I saw Lynch fighting off three of the things as we drove toward the gate. F him. I wish I had some steak sauce to give to the zombies before we took off.

“Thanks for not being dead, although I have no idea how you hid your heart beat.”

The big guy pulled his sleeping bag poncho up to reveal body armor. Mr. Smarty Pants strikes again.

I raised my eyebrows. “Kevlar. Huh. Where the F is mine?”

Miles to Go

I was doing my best to drive like hell, while at the same time not bouncing Bob and Kat out of the bed of the truck and ignoring the colossal, tequila-hang-over quality headache I had. The compound was total bedlam, with people and zombies everywhere. I heard the roar of the tank firing its main gun, but I couldn’t see what that was going to do. I saw a young woman go down under a mob of those things. The dead were pouring out from between the buildings and entering the houses themselves. The clubhouse was on fire. How the hell did it go to shit so fast? Ten minutes ago, we were looking out at the fence from the balcony.

I saw Simmons. He tackled a guy in a white lab coat. Simmons was fighting hand to hand with Dr. Smith. One of them must have been infected, but I couldn’t tell who, as they were both covered in blood. I was betting Simmons as he was the tackler. I guess the doc had better things to worry about than stealing my blood now.

We headed for the gate, the carnage around us starting to get closer. The school bus was in the process of moving, some people had the same idea we had. We had to slow down as other vehicles were lined up to get out. The bus moved and the vehicles tore out of the little cul-de-sac street headed for who knows where in several directions. I hope they all made it.

It was our turn. I started to roll the truck forward when Kat began to bang on the window. She pointed behind us, and I could see that Bob was frantic. Carla was sprinting toward the truck, hands waving and screaming. She had a host of infected on her heels, but they were all of the slow variety, so she outdistanced them quickly. I slowed the vehicle down, but if I stopped then the infected to our flanks would reach us. Carla ran for the truck, and leapt on to the back of the tailgate. Bob threw his hands out to help her in and Kat screamed. Carla climbed into the bed like a spider as Bob pulled on her, and she wasted no time ripping into him with claws and teeth. He fought her off and they were both screaming, but she tore him up pretty good before Kat was able to pull her pistol and shoot Carla twice in the side. Poor infected Carla tumbled out of the back of the truck as we sped away.

Kat told me later what transpired behind me as we drove: Bob sat up, looking at the deep red furrows on his forearms that were just now beginning to fill with blood. His face and neck were covered with scratches as well, and a small bite mark had drawn blood on the outside of his left elbow. He sat there and nodded, then rapped on the window. He asked me to slow down, and I asked him if he was effing nuts. We were moving at about forty miles per hour, and I wanted to put as much distance between us and that doomed compound as possible. Ship put his massive paw gently on my arm, and he also asked me to stop. I did. We were a good half mile from hell right then and there wasn’t a zombie in sight. Bob and Kat hopped out of the truck and Bob moved to the window. He showed me his elbow and I knew he was screwed.

“I might just hang out here for a while.”

I got out, a little woozy from my bullet head butt. “Jesus Bob, come with us. We’ll take care of you. If you stay here, they’ll catch up and tear you to pieces.”

“Nah. Don’t want to take the chance. I could turn quick, or just get my blood on you. You seem like nice folks and I couldn’t do that.”

“I’m so sorry about Carla,” Kat said and began to well up.

“I liked her, but I just met her a few days ago. We promised to take care of each other.” Bob looked at his shoes. “Couldn’t even do that.”

Ship came around to our side of the truck. He handed Bob a bottle of water, then shook his hand. Bob shook my hand, then Kat’s. He said good luck, then turned and walked into the woods. He was lost from sight before I could try to change his mind.

I started to get back in the truck, but Ship stopped me. He pointed to the passenger’s seat and then got in to drive. Big bastard didn’t trust me. Probably better what with my throbbing noggin. Kat rode in the middle and we drove on down the road.

We travelled a peaceful half mile before we began to see signs of the apocalypse. An abandoned car, doors open with bloody, smashed driver’s side windows. What was left of a body on the side of the road, mercifully facing the woods. We crested a rise and stopped, looking down on the carcass of what had been a quaint little town. I looked at Ship, but he had thrown the truck into park and was in the process of busting out a map. He was quite annoyingly not paying attention to me. As he unfolded the tremendously huge map of what must undoubtedly be the galaxy, I noticed movement in the town ahead of us. A Humvee and a white pickup were zooming through town down the infected main street. The armored Hummer swerved a few times to avoid the infected that got in the way, but on more than one occasion, it ran one over, the thing spewing out the back like a rag doll from a dryer; all floppy and shit. The front of the white truck was a dirty brown.

Ship was staring intently at the map when I nudged Kat and pointed. She saw the trucks headed for us too and nudged the big guy. He spared her the reproachful look and directed it (shockingly) at yours truly. That just wasn’t fair. I pointed toward the oncoming vehicles, which must have seen us by now, and were on the way regardless. Ship lowered his map, took a long three second gaze, and I could see the wheels turning. He was thinking hard. He sighed and opened the door. He folded his arms, expecting us to get out and do the same. I looked at Kat and we both shrugged and got out of the truck.

After a second of standing there with our arms folded, I had to ask, “Well Robin, what’s the plan, asked the Caped Crusader.”

Ship stiffened and turned to face me slowly. I got the biggest stinkeye yet, and did I detect a hint of rage? He fumbled for his notebook and wrote furiously for a few moments.
They’ve seen us. Probably a patrol. We have one of their trucks, and they probably don’t know us. There’s a fifty cal on the roof of the Hummer, we can’t outrun that, and if anyone is Batman, it’s me!

Pretentious prick.

They were pulling up next to us by the time I had finished thinking the Shipster was a dick.

True to form, the Hummer contained soldiers, and the truck was full of rednecks. This was becoming common place. The driver rolled down his window and asked us where we were coming from. The big gun swiveled in our direction, but didn’t point at us. Every weapon in the hillbilly Chevy was trained on us however, and some of those toothless bastards were smiling and looking at us like we were the cheese in a grilled cheese sandwich. Roughly translated: they wanted to shoot us. Not that I wasn’t used to it.

People just suck.

I stepped forward, hillbilly guns sticking out a little bit further, and told them what happened at the compound. The driver of the Hummer just shook his head and said, “We’re all fucked then.”

One of the rednecks shouted at me, calling me a liar, but the others looked scared. They probably had family back there. The truck peeled out and left the Hummer parked where it was. The look on the young guy with the black cap and the beard was full of malice and hatred as the truck drove off. What the F did he hate me for? I didn’t start a worldwide zombie epidemic.

The driver got out. He was wearing woodland camo and a boonies hat. “Alvarez?”

“On it, Sarge.” The guy swiveled in his turret and looked in all directions. A guy got out of the passenger side and another from the rear passenger side. They took up positions to the front and rear of the vehicle scanning the tree lines and the town behind us.

“You’re the folks from the plane, right? What happened back at base?”

I looked at Ship. “They do know us.” I told the Sergeant what had transpired, leaving the part about my blood out of it. He seemed to sadden as I progressed. Nodding and asking pertinent questions.

“Did you see Regan at all?” demanded the Sarge.

“The major? No. I didn’t see him at all. Simmons was infected though, and I saw him attack the doc.”

“Damn it. For all of Regan’s ineptitude, Simmons countered by being a good man. He and I told Major Asshole that the rear of the compound wasn’t fortified nearly enough, but Regan wanted us to forage instead of shore up our defenses. We were there damn near two weeks, and the only thing between us and the enemy was a fence.” He shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Idiot.”

“Sarge, we’ve got maybe ten minutes,” said the soldier at the back of the truck. He pointed back toward town, and we could see the zombies in the distance moving toward us. Dozens of them.

“Less,” the sarge said. He drew his knife and walked past me. A zombie stumbled out of the woods and came at us up the embankment, its arms forward in that classic zombie pose you used to see in the movies. Kat started to cry. It was Bob. The Sergeant moved to the zombie and juked when the Bob-thing did that super-fast lunge that they do. He kicked poor Bob in the side of the knee and we all heard the crack. The zombie stumbled and Sarge jammed his weapon under its chin and yanked it out in what looked like one motion. Zombie Bob collapsed.

“Sorry Bob,” was all the sergeant had to say.

“His girlfriend was infected and she bit him.” I furrowed my brow. “But that was only about twenty minutes ago. He shouldn’t have turned yet.”

The soldier on the front side of the Hummer looked at us. “I saw a guy turn as one of those pus sacks was gnawing on his neck. They were still standing up. Couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds after he was bit.”

Pissa,
I thought.
Wicked pissa
. If you’re not from Massachusetts, you probably won’t understand pissa. Again, no Google, sorry.

The radio blared to life and the guy in front went to answer it. He leaned through into the driver’s side of the hummer, “Sarge, Lynch for you.”

I almost shit myself. Guy was like the plague. We were already in the midst of a plague. We didn’t need another.

Sarge grabbed the handset as he hopped back in the car. “Reynolds. Yes, sir. No, sir. Yes, I heard. Actually he’s right here.” The sarge pivoted his head to look directly at me. “We’re north of the town of Bethlehem’s Gate on Route Eight. Roger that, sir, devoid of hostiles, at least for the time bein. Your ETA? We’ll be waiting, Reynolds out.”

Ship had moved his gigantic paw toward his sidearm during the conversation, as had I. I looked toward the Sasquatch to see when he would make his move. He must have had poop for breakfast because he had the biggest shit-eating grin I had ever seen on his disapproving face.

Have you ever had one of those moments of absolute total confusion? One where you wake up and you’re not where you thought you were, or somebody says something and it’s not even close to what you heard? That’s how I felt when Ship extended his aforementioned massive mitt toward the Sarge. The GI got out of the car and shook with Ship, the big guy swallowing the soldier’s hand in his.

“Never did like that spook son of a bitch. Saddle up, we’re moving back through town.” The sergeant and two of his four man fire team got back in the Hummer. “One of you can fly a plane right?” Ship nodded. “Good, because I happen to have one, but I came up shit-short on a pilot.” He looked at Ship. “Follow us. You’re the half-back, I’ll block.”

I looked at the Sergeant. “What the fuck just happened?”

“I just cut my own throat. We’re not north of Bethlehem’s Gate, we’re south of Pinkton, which we now have to go back through to get to Arlo. Ten miles in the other direction.”

I was as lost then as you are right now.

He saw that and elaborated. “Lynch wants you. Don’t know why, don’t care. He probably wants to kill you for something, and I’ve seen enough death, especially concerning that bastard. We’re going to get in that plane and get the fuck outta Dodge, comprende?”

I nodded.

We got in the truck, and true to his word, the soldier’s vehicle spun around and headed toward the undead on the road behind us. They were now much closer. Ship followed closely behind as we made our way toward the infected town.

The first bloody jumble of parts that came tumbling out from under the Hummer and struck our front bumper scared the ever-loving shit out of me. I still wasn’t feeling well, and when I noticed the bloody, hairy thing moving across the corner of the windshield, I initially thought it was some great spider skittering in to attack me. It was some undead guy’s scalp, or part of it. I swear I saw an eyebrow. He had dark hair.

The things were all around us as we moved forward, but we were traveling at speeds upwards of twenty five miles per hour, and we were right up the military vehicle’s ass, so it was hard for those rotten pus sacks to get to us.

We got through the first, largest wave, and Ship had turned on the wipers and squirted some fluid to clean off the goo. The scalp-spider flew up and over the windshield, and I almost puked as I saw the inside of it.
Almost
might be a tad disingenuous, but it’s my effing story. If you tell me that after all this time that you haven’t tossed a cookie here and there after witnessing some of the things this new world has to offer, I righteously call bullshit.

The second wave of them wasn’t nearly as bad, although the stink had mounted. Have we discussed stink yet? I’m pretty sure we have, but just in case you need a reminder; the undead stink. They smell bad. Their aroma, or bouquet, or odor, scent, fragrance is something that you simply can’t get rid of.

I heard someplace that the only sense you can’t forget is a smell. I agree. Zombies are scary to look at; rotten and bloody with bits of them missing and filthy clothes. The sounds they make are absolutely terrifying. Mewling, screaming, moaning, growling. Ugh. The really rotten ones are squishy to the touch, and that’s just nasty. I’m thinking I’m the only living human to have actually tasted one of the things and lived, even though my infected dude was still alive. I can’t speculate on the taste of a rotten one. (I actually had to swallow a gag as I wrote that.)  But the end-all-be-all of the zombie is the smell. None of the other senses can compare to the smell of them. If you’ve never smelled them, and I can’t see how that’s possible, then you have no idea. A five days dead raccoon, on a ninety degree day in coastal Florida, covered in maggots isn’t even close. The smell of a zombie, even a relatively fresh one, is just…
more
. It somehow smells worse, an all-out assault on your olfactory tract. And it stays. It won’t go away even after you wash whatever was touched by the offending stench. At least for a while.