Our Undead (29 page)

He doesn't know exactly
what he is going to do when he gets there, but he figures the idle
threat might work. Margaret begins drifting back into the present
where Billy exists, and Roger's voice slowly crossfades into the
boy's.

Billy:
One!

Margaret's shoulders shift
up and prepares to descend.

Billy:
Two!

Her eyes come back from
staring into space, and return their absolute focus on to the
hockey puck standing in front of her. Her grip tightens on the
stick. Billy pulls the goalie mask down in front of his
face.

Billy:
THREE!

Margaret brings the hockey
stick down and the blade makes perfect contact with the puck,
striking it just above the middle, but slicing it enough to give it
a good lift. The puck flies through the air toward Billy in an
orange flurry, twirling madly in a topspin while also bouncing up
and down, just like in the movie. Up and down, up and down, it
flutters like a moth on a mission and then
*splat*,
it lands in the top right
corner of the net, snug inside Billy's borrowed black goalie glove.
Billy looks into the big mitt to make sure that he actually caught
it. When he sees that it's in there, he nods to himself in
affirmation. His reflexes are still in tiptop shape, just as he
expects them to be. What he didn't expect was that shot he just had
to save. It was flawless, almost flawless enough to have gotten
past him.

Billy:
Welcome back!

Margaret:
Heh, yea!

The next game they play is
a bizarre game of baseball. Bizarre, because nine out of ten times,
when the ball is hit, it just crashes into the massive shelves that
are towering to the left and right of them. Margaret sends one
pitch down the aisle and Billy gives it a solid hit that ricochets
strangely off the shelf to his right. It soars at Margaret, and she
ends up having to duck just to avoid the fate of many a zombie;
losing her head. There is literally nowhere for these balls to
go.

Billy hits another one,
this time a pop fly that crashes into a light almost directly above
Margaret's head. She darts forward, running toward Billy at full
speed, screaming as shards of glass fall from above. She stops, out
of breath, when she arrives in front of him and stares at him with
"WTF?!" written all over her face.

Billy:
Uhhh, sorry about that…

Margaret:
It's my turn to bat.

Billy hands over the bat,
and they switch positions. Margaret doesn't do too much of a bad
job considering the conditions of the field. She actually makes a
few hits that don't need the shelves for guidance. They fly
smoothly over Billy's head.

Billy:
You're pretty good at this.

Margaret:
Hah! I'm sporty. Can'tcha tell?

Billy:
Yes, especially after that knuckle puck.

Margaret:
That
was
a pretty beautiful shot.

Billy:
I
told you relaxing would work. Even though you were thinking about
Roger and it pissed you off… Relaxing naturally led you to where
you needed to be. It got you thinking of the thing you needed to
think of, so that you could accomplish what you needed to
accomplish.

Margaret:
Uhhh yea, sure. That sounds pretty smart. How 'bout you throw
a pitch there, guy?

Billy raises his eyebrows
at her little snapback, but he half expected it, reminding her as a
little test. He knows that just hearing the fat man's name gets
Margaret's blood boiling, and he can tell that it's starting to get
hot again, just by the look on her face. He winds up and throws his
pitch. Margaret hits the ball perfectly with a loud crack, but this
time it rides a little lower and travels like a bullet toward
Billy. He ducks as to not get hit, and in turn, the baseball
strikes Abe, who is standing a few yards behind him, directly in
the chest. It sends him reeling back a few steps. After a few
seconds, Billy uncovers his head and looks around to see if it's
safe to stand up. From his crouched position he looks at Abe and
sees that he's a-okay. When he turns back to Margaret, her face is
stunned.

Margaret:
Ummmmm…. next game?

Billy shakes his head up
and down in agreement.

Margaret:
Right…
Sorry, Abe!

ETERNITY

Inside of a jet black UH-60
Blackhawk helicopter, a pilot, co-pilot, three men and a woman in
combat dress (no head gear), are flying over an unspecified stretch
of dry midday desert. Inside of the cabin sit four stone-faced
soldiers paired off on each side, each one sitting face to face
with their partner opposite them. A large scary looking fellow, and
endearing European man sit of one side, and a rugged American man
and spunky African American woman sit across from them on the
other.

The wind rushing freely
through the open cabin, combined with the rotary wings and engine,
make a thundering roar throughout the entire flying machine.
Talking would be pointless so they all sit in silence, looking out
on to the sky and desert floor below. The co-pilot is comparing
coordinates on the helicopter control panel to a map held in his
hand.

Co-pilot:
This looks like it should be the spot.

Pilot:
Yep, I see them.

The pilot begins easing the
helicopter down toward a spot that looks no different than any
other location in the dry landscape, but as they get closer, it
becomes apparent that two individuals are awaiting their arrival.
The helicopter comes to a soft landing on the dusty ground, and it
becomes clear that they are the bodies of a man and woman. The man
is dressed in high-ranking attire, medals included. The woman wears
a white lab coat that falls down to her ankles and black glasses
that she takes off and puts in her coat pocket as the helicopter
approaches.

On touch down, the four
soldiers in back unbuckle themselves, and all exit the aircraft
except the rugged American man. Four large crates have accompanied
them on their trip, and the rugged American passes each one down
and out to the other members of his team until each soldier carries
one, then he exits the helicopter himself. With all of their hands
full, the four begin trotting over to the man and woman. The burly
one in lead speaks first, when they stop in front of the waiting
pair, drop their cargo and raise their hands in salute. The
helicopter rumbles on in the background.

Holden:
We
are the four special class soldiers sent from Sector 337-4 to
assist this compound in its operations! The Mav-Elite. Kush Holden,
reporting for duty, sir!

Erika:
Erika Blaze, reporting for duty, sir!

Kerrick:
Matthew Kerrick, reporting for duty, sir!

Sharp:
Denver Sharp, reporting for duty, sir!

Feleider:
General Feleider! This is Professor Gwen Gavine! Welcome to
Sector 333-3! At ease!

The General eyes all four
members but takes care to fully absorb the two men he was
previously informed about. The first man to introduce himself,
Holden, is a large fellow of what looks like Columbian descent,
although his strong American accent would never reveal that about
him. His face is in a grimace, probably perpetual, and he is still
sporting yesterday's five o'clock shadow. To Feleider, he is
everything "The Sir" had described, and Feleider knows that he will
be a useful Unit for advancing The Conditioning and making sure
things run smooth and inconspicuously. Holden too, eyes Feleider up
and down when the man introduces himself. To him, Feleider is old,
small and weak, not the type of man he will enjoy taking orders
from, but he is devoted to the events that are to take place and
will carry out the orders no matter what weakling is barking them.
Holden rubs his shaved head wearily as he listens.

To the left of Holden,
Feleider surveys the next soldier. Erika Blaze is an African
American woman standing about five feet in height. She wears her
hair tied up in a short cut pony tail, with bangs trailing down the
sides of her face, covering a bit of her forehead and part of her
left eye; very cute. It is hard to believe that such an appealing
woman could be so dangerous, but Feleider is experienced enough to
know not to judge a book by it's pretty smile.

Matthew Kerrick stands next
to her, a European looking guy with shaggy looking bronze hair,
standing just under six feet. Although his face is as serious as
the others', it holds a more welcoming quality than the rest on his
team. Possibly because of it's clean shave.

The farthest to Feleider's
left is the other soldier he had earlier been informed about, or
rather, warned about. Denver Sharp is an American man, about six
and a half feet tall. He isn't quite as tall as Holden, who tops
out in the seven to eight foot range, and he isn't as bulky, but
one would be a fool to underestimate his resolve. His hair is a
little shorter and lighter than Kerrick's, and his face not as
cleanly shaven. Sharp's gaze is unwavering, and Feleider knows that
the stubborn gunman is sizing him up. But the General is no push
over. With Holden to help him, this wanna be mercenary would be no
trouble.

Feleider:
Let's get these supplies inside the compound, shall
we?

The General and professor
turn and begin walking. All four team members pick up their decent
sized crates and follow behind. Before them lays miles and miles of
dry turf, sprinkles with shrubbery, but no sign of a military
compound that could hold thousands of rescued civilians, and
professionals comfortably.

Erika:
Uhhh, isn't there supposed to be an external conveyance
structure of some sort out here!?

Feleider:
Ours isn't external Ms. Blaze! At least, not
initially!

Feleider and the professor
stop, and the General taps one of his worn medals in a peculiar
sequence. The ground beneath them starts into a light quake, and a
large metallic building like structure begins to erect from the
dusty desert floor, ten meters ahead of them. The square building
itself is about fifty feet wide and twenty feet in height, with a
large door that slides open when the building has completed its
ascension. It leads into a large white room. As the little
spectacle comes to a close, the helicopter's engine finally cuts
off as well. Everyone walks in. Kerrick coughs and sputters,
wafting at the dust that flutters down from the top of the
oversized elevator.

Kerrick:
Nifty... Now, you see it.

Feleider:
Yes. They've taken extra precautions to keep these facilities
well hidden.

Gavine:
There are some very important people here.

Kerrick:
We're flattered Hun, but really, all this for little old us?
You may not know this, but staying hidden isn't really our thing..
unless the hiding is a necessary step in a plan that involves some
serious gun fire… following the hiding,… which would be a
very
brief step
in said plan.

Gavine:
I'm sorry to burst your bubble, uh, Kerrick, but there are
people here that can potentially cure this infection. I can
appreciate your part in helping us defend ourselves, but the four
of you can only do so much. If the doctors in this building are
lost, regardless of the survival of the four of you, there is no
hope for this planet.

Her harsh words push the
buttons of each of the four super soldiers, but only Holden smiles
at them. He knows that despite this woman's efforts, the cure would
never come to be. Her ignorance is amusing.

Kerrick:
Ah, I see. Well, I'm glad you can appreciate what we do. It's
hard but… aw, you know the rest.

Feleider:
You're not going to have to worry about hiding right now,
soldier, because you and Sharp here are going back out there. We
need you two to surveil the surrounding area for any extra supplies
or survivors, for one hundred klicks in every direction. Drop those
boxes and tell those pilots to turn that black bird back
on.

Kerrick:
Sweet. I'm down for that.

Sharp:
Hold on a minute. We just got here. I thought we were
needed.

Feleider:
You
are
needed, just not at this current location at this current
time. You're skills are needed elsewhere.

Sharp:
But
one hundred kilometers? In all directions?

Feleider:
You're in a helicopter, Sharp. You men should be able to
cover everything within that radius in no time. Trust me, you're
not missing anything here. It's all medical labs and whiny
civilians. A soldier like you will enjoy yourself much more out in
the dead-zones, I'm most sure of it.