After the Pandemic: Genocide (6): Against the Grain (641 hits)
Category: Quotes & StoriesLabels: After_the_Pandemic
Rating: 1.5 on 14 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Axolotl (View user info) at 2005-12-13 09:42:28 EST
Jack McCallum's Introduction - http://www.ubersite.com/m/61238
After the Pandemic: Genocide (1): The Variants - http://www.ubersite.com/m/79933
After the Pandemic: Genocide (2): The Armory - http://www.ubersite.com/m/80119
After the Pandemic: Genocide (3): Times Square - http://www.ubersite.com/m/80429
After the Pandemic: Genocide (4): The Highbridge - http://www.ubersite.com/m/80522
After the Pandemic: Genocide (5): Stars and Stripes Forever - http://www.ubersite.com/m/80836
-----------------------------------------------------------------
PART SIX - Against the Grain
-----------------------------------------------------------------
"Where are you from, Gordie?" Preston asked John Gordon as they hunkered down in a fortified trench somewhere on the Palisades in Fort Lee.
"Ridgewood," Gordon replied. "It's a rich town, and I was in a rich section. I just joined the Guard mostly to rebel against my parents."
"I heard Nixon lived in Ridgewood," Preston said, lighting a cigarette. "I lived in Dumont, just south of—"
"Put out that fucking cigarette!" Captain Farrell hissed, making his way around the long trench, stooped over. "Do you want the zombies to see you?"
"Have they crossed the bridge, sir?" asked Gordon, his insides freezing.
Ignoring his question, Farrell pointed at Preston and said, "I need you, boy. Brigade sent out a scout party three hours ago to check if the enemy had made it over the bridge, and they haven't returned. We're going out again, and you're coming with me, Preston."
"Affirmative, sir,"
"Lieutenant Gordon," Farrell said. "Me and a squad are going to be leaving the trench for a while. The zombies are out there. They have knives, swords, and some of them have old WWII guns from the Fighting 69th Brigade Armory in Manhattan. They are in this area, so be careful."
"What happens if—"
"The password is 'thunderflash,'" Farrell said. "When you hear someone approaching the trenches, you say 'thunder,' and if it's us, we say 'flash.'"
"Got it, sir," Gordon whispered.
"Let's go," Farrell said. He, Preston, and about ten other soldiers left the security of the sandbag-lined trenches and left Gordon alone in his sector.
The night was dark as hell, and alone in the trench without benefit of any light, Gordon felt entirely alone. He dared not to make a noise should the zombies hear him. He waited there for a long time, counting the stars blazing above his head, listening to the slow crackle of the smoldering city of New York.
There was a sound—was it, or was it his imagination? Gordon sat up, alert, listening to what was beyond the trench.
"Thunder," Gordon whispered, raising his M-16. There was no reply but the crackle of sticks and leaves on the rocky ground.
"Thunder!" Gordon said, his voice loud and terrified, locking back the bolt on his M-16.
"Flash, flash," came the voice of Captain Farrell. "Put down that gun and let us over."
Gordon moved out of the way as Farrell and his squad came into the trench, bringing with them the remains of the scout party. They were a bloody mess, many of them missing arms or legs, some with no heads, and some disemboweled. All of them, though, were dead. Their throats had been universally cut, and they were bled dry.
"Jesus," Gordon exclaimed.
"Prepare for combat," Farrell said. "The zombies have most definitely crossed the George Washington Bridge, and they are coming."
Preston and a soldier called McGallan sat down next to Gordon, their faces blank and pained. "It was pretty bad," Preston said simply. "The zombies are coming. They're coming with swords and shields, like, Lord of the Rings stuff. Like goblins. They ate the scouts alive, and cut off their body parts. They were all dead."
"Don't worry," Gordon said, trying to convince himself as much as anyone else. "We've got M-16s and grenades. We'll defend this place well."
* * *
At three o'clock in the morning, the zombies attacked.
In wave upon wave, the hundreds of zombies threw themselves mindlessly and suicidally upon the trenches, some armed with swords and others just with their bare hands and the fear of what they could do. Preston, McGallan and Gordon defended their sector viciously and brutally, their M-16s in constant action, the muzzle flashes blazing in the night air.
From other sectors a steady stream of flares and grenades illuminated the landscape. The trenches were dug in a wide arc defending a deserted highway leading from Fort Lee into New Jersey, and from the woods of the Palisades the zombies poured, only to be shot down like dogs by automatic fire.
"They're Variant Bs!" Captain Farrell yelled from behind the lines. "They don't feel any pain! Just shoot them! Shoot them down!"
"Die! Die, you bastards!" Preston shouted, his machine gun blasting round after round down into the dense lines of advancing zombies running up the slope. They fell onto the ground, piling up three deep in their kamikaze assault.
After that wave, the Variant Cs came, led by an Upper West Side zombie commander. These ones were far different than the Variant Bs that had come before. They were stronger, more efficiently violent, and just under half of them carried some type of firearm. They charged the trench on the ridgeline with swords and pikes, wearing body armor and net-covered army helmets.
Like screaming hordes of the Red Army at the Yalu, they poured themselves with cutlass and bayonet onto the trenches, letting their human wave suffer the attrition of the dozens of machine guns cutting through their ranks. Gordon with his M-16 set a murderous fire down on the Variant Cs, watching impersonally as their heads exploded as his bullets struck them, as their legs and arms were blown away and their humanoid faces contorted in pain.
The more calm and moderate zombies were most human in their deaths, as they lay vulnerable and dying on the ground, their sad and pained faces lit up by grenade flashes. Other zombies fanatically charged the trench, coming within feet before being blown full of holes and screaming in their swan song.
Gordon's eyes filled with tears as the zombies came even closer, their bodies piling up like logs of firewood on the blood-slicked grass. They were humans, just infected civilians. Even more poignant was to see a female zombie shot to death as she charged with knife and bared teeth at the trenches. Zombie American soldiers perished under the deadly curtain of fire just like everyone else.
From the zombie ranks scattered shots were ringing out. McGallan slumped over and clutched his face; the back of his head had been blown away. Preston's mouth was frothing in his murderous fervor. Gordon had not wanted this when he had signed up for the National Guard. He had expected an easy job, just working on weekends guarding banks, guarding the Washington Bridge and working with Homeland Security...what was he doing here, watching his friends die and slaughtering fellow Americans as though they were sheep?
The zombies had won; they charged over the trenches, unconcerned by their tremendous casualties, and overwhelmed the soldiers. Gordon looked to the left; Preston had run away. A blunt object smashed against the side of Gordon's head, and he knew no more.
* * *
"Boy, you all right?"
Gordon slowly opened his eyes. It was morning now, and Captain Farrell was above him, crawling on the ground toward the trenches. Gordon stood up, head dizzy.
"You got a nice bump there," Farrell laughed, his face pained. Gordon felt his head, and ran his fingers over a bleeding cut.
"Are you hurt, sir?" Gordon asked Farrell. Farrell smiled and showed Gordon his leg, where a bullet had penetrated his calf.
"Don't worry, Captain, that'll be healed easily, as long as it didn't hit any bone," Gordon replied, thankful. "You'll live."
"How about now?" Farrell asked, pulling up his shirt. His stomach had been laid bare, and his intestines were pouring out onto the ground. "Do you think I'll live now?"
"Sir..." Gordon began, but he lost the words.
"We've won," Farrell snarled bitterly. "The zombies got as far as the overpass when reinforcements arrived and blew those motherfuckers all straight to hell. I took it hard in the stomach...I've paid my dues."
"Preston...?"
"He's alive, the coward," Farrell said. "No one else is, though. You might be the only one who stayed to fight and lived...we could give you a Medal of Honor, if the government had any power. The zombies have been pushed back to the Bridge, but they'll be back."
"Sir..."
"Goodbye, John," Farrell said, lying back on the bloody grass. "I've paid my dues, and I'm gone. We've won, at least. Thank you, John."
"Captain..." began Gordon. "William...Will..."
Farrell sighed, and his last breath left his lips. He tensed up for a single second, and then relaxed, all his worries and pain leaving him.
Out on the slope there were hundreds, if not thousands, of dead zombie bodies. In the trenches lay what was left of Gordon's platoon. The rest of Company B was milling around, collecting the American bodies and dismally taking note of the casualties.
"We got a survivor!" an excited voice cried out, rushing over to Gordon. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm okay..." Gordon said, stepping out of the trench. "I just need some sleep."
* * *
"It didn't work," Vice President Russell Effinger began lamely. "The bombing run damaged and destroyed a good portion of the city, and casualties are high, but the nerve gas attack was entirely futile. At least several hundred thousand zombies still exist within the perimeter."
"What are we going to do?" President Derringer asked, covering his face with his hands. "I have half a mind to resign, but in the face of this crisis, I can't."
"The 10th Division is at West Point, and the 28th at Morristown, fueling up," Secretary Marquez said. "They won't be able to reinforce the 42nd until tomorrow at the latest. The 50th New Jersey needs to hold the zombies at Fort Lee for as long as possible, but General Riley has considered withdrawing his forces from Long Island."
"Why?" asked Secretary Dupont.
"They're spread too thin," Effinger answered. "Only a single infantry brigade guarding the entire Nassau County border, with some scattered artillery support. Some airlift units should be arriving from Fort Bragg to evacuate the troops. Riley's already gone to the Teaneck Armory for safety."
"Sir, Mr. President," said an aide, walking into the conference room. "The governor of New York is on the phone for you."
"Hmm," the President sighed as he reached for the white ivory telephone in the middle of the table. Picking it up, he spoke into the receiver, "Governor Marcano?"
"Glad to get in touch with you, Mr. President," said Governor James Marcano. "We definitely have a major problem."
"As if I didn't have enough," Derringer replied. "What is it?"
"The nerve gas you bombed the city with blew back into the Bronx, and the 3rd New York Armored has taken casualties. We won't be able to hold the Bronx much longer without reinforcements."
"Marcano, the...by tomorrow, you'll have reinforcements,"
"Our positions are being compromised along the Harlem River," Marcano snapped. "General Thompson has considered moving up the two brigades from Long Island up to the Bronx."
"Let it be done. Just do it," Derringer groaned.
"Can you come here? To make an appearance?" Marcano asked. "Just to boost morale. The men need to see you, and you can be miles away from the action. Just go to Hackensack and hold a press conference."
"Why the hell would I do that?" Derringer asked aggressively. "I thought that Bruce Springsteen and—what's his name—Snoopy the Dogg are holding some kind of benefit concert for the victims of the zombies, why do they need me?"
"It's Snoop Dogg, and yes, they do need you," Marcano answered. "You're the President. Get out of the White House and get over here! This is a national emergency, bigger than anything else!"
"How dare you address me like that, Jim!" Derringer shouted into the receiver.
"You idiot," Jim Marcano whispered. "We're dying here. My brother-in-law couldn't evacuate Brooklyn in time, and God knows where he is now. He could be a zombie, he could be killed by the bombing...help us out here, Mr. President. We need you more than any celebrity."
There was an awkward pause over the line, and finally Derringer said, "Give me a few days. I'll try to get to Hackensack by the 24th, all right? I'm sorry about..."
"Just come, sir," Marcano said bleakly. "I'll see you soon, hopefully."
He hung up the line.
* * *
"This is where you've been staying," asked Michael, looking around at the crowded armory's auditorium. It was even more packed with evacuees than when Jennifer had left it under false pretenses.
"Unfortunately, yes," Jennifer replied, cleaning out Michael's infected wound. "It's a bit noisy, do you think?"
"How do they get enough food?" asked Brandon, Michael's compatriot, in the process of consuming a K-ration.
"They've been shipping it all in from all over, but there's a huge stockpile in the basements if the place is besieged by zombies," Jennifer answered.
Private Michael Benkosky had a crew cut and pallid, ashen skin. He was still wearing his dirty military uniform, and had a smooth, handsome face. His demeanor was shaken and fearful, and his leg was gashed deeply with what looked like a knife wound.
His comrade Corporal Brandon Dicambrio was half-black, and bore a scar on his arm where an Iraqi bullet had bitten him back in the days of the old war. His other arm was scratched and torn, and his face was pocked with shrapnel wounds.
"The zombies are coming," Dicambrio said, placing his ration down thoughtfully. "They've been crossing the George Washington Bridge in huge numbers, and some of the more advanced kind are bringing over guns, armor and swords. Leaders and factions have emerged within them—little groups and tribes of zombies. They all want the same thing though—blood."
"You're a real ray of sunshine, Brandon," Michael said, leaning back as Jennifer sprayed and dressed his wound.
"I'll be willing to take up arms again against those zombies," Brandon swore, making a fist. "They won't get us again...not like how they came at us from the streets."
"What the hell, man, if they're coming at you, it must mean they want something," smiled Michael. He looked at Jennifer, who stared blankly, uncomprehending.
"Just an inside thing," Michael explained, embarrassed. Jennifer smiled, and dug the needle into his calf.
"You should tell me about it later," Jennifer remarked, stitching up his cut.
* * *
Three thousand miles away in Berkeley, San Francisco's wealthy suburb, an ordinary family watched the late morning news in awe, observing at the vivid images of zombies and bloodshed. CNN was reporting live from Fort Lee, where major zombie resistance had transformed into a pitched battle.
"At roughly three in the morning, Eastern Time, today, several thousand zombies attacked an American position near Route 9W in New Jersey," the East Coast correspondent was saying. The camera cut to show hundreds upon hundreds of zombie bodies, some blown to pieces, lining the gentle wooded slope. The view panned across the American trenches, to where a soldier with his legs eaten away was being carried away by two comrades, using a rifle held by the two of them as a kind of seat for the wounded man.
"American casualties in Fort Lee alone have been eighteen killed and at least fifty wounded," the reporter said, gesturing out at the killing fields. "But with zombie attacks like these happening with greater frequency in the Bronx and in Queens, the death toll is sure to grow a tremendous amount."
"Thank God we don't live in New York," the father of the family said. Somewhere in the city, a stumbling figure with blank eyes walked hungrily down a sidewalk toward a group of lost tourists.
"Is there any way that we can help them—like, to donate water?" the mother asked. In San Francisco, the tourists screamed as the figure pounced upon them, ripping through one of their throats. A policeman quickly stepped out of his idling car, gun drawn.
"We're just lucky that—"
The policeman fired, and the attacker dropped the tourist's limp body. Reddish eyes rolling back in its head, the creature fell, a bullet through its heart. Its infected blood splashed across Powell Street, and the policeman immediately called for backup on his walkie-talkie.
The attacker died, and its Variant B-infected blood coursing from its chest out into the drains along the sidewalk. The policeman stepped over its body and looked at its bloody mouth, and a chill fear swept over him.
User Reviews
Submitted by electrictoothsyndrome (user info) at 2006-08-11 15:39:29 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
No Comment
Submitted by awesome_face (user info) at 2006-03-28 16:58:15 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
This is almost as good as boobs.
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2006-01-20 18:14:07 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2006-01-03 21:46:37 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
and I'm back
Submitted by MyNameIsTim (user info) at 2006-01-03 14:16:29 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
it's been 3 weeks.
have you been evaded?
just remember: destination unknown, ruby ruby ruby ruby soho!
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2005-12-21 10:23:18 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
no, I'm just trying to write part 7.
it's a bit evasive. I'll get to it soon
Submitted by MyNameIsTim (user info) at 2005-12-20 09:54:44 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
it's been a week.
are you dead?
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2005-12-15 13:02:00 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by thecaes (user info) at 2005-12-15 12:17:43 (#)
Ranking: 2
"What the hell, man, if they're coming at you, it must mean they want something,"
Pffft!!
That surprised me.
I didn't like the interaction between the mayor and the president. Neither of them talked or acted the way I expected them to.
Heh, and you might want to reconsider naming that captain Will Farrell.
------
Farrell comes from Captain Farrell from Whiskey in th eJar by the Grateful Dead
Submitted by thecaes (user info) at 2005-12-15 12:17:43 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
"What the hell, man, if they're coming at you, it must mean they want something,"
Pffft!!
That surprised me.
I didn't like the interaction between the mayor and the president. Neither of them talked or acted the way I expected them to.
Heh, and you might want to reconsider naming that captain Will Farrell.
Submitted by MyNameIsTim (user info) at 2005-12-13 16:28:59 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
excellent. i'm still anxiously awaiting these as they come.
Submitted by mbstateside (user info) at 2005-12-13 10:48:38 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
These are getting better and better.
I didn't like this sentence though
Farrell said. "Me and a squad are going to be leaving the trench for a while" people just don't talk like that it didn't feel right something like " I'll be taking a squad and leaving the trench for a while" said captain Farrell would have worked better I think. I'm just nit picking here so please don't take that criticism too seriously.
Oh and I loved the "What the hell, man, if they're coming at you, it must mean they want something," line. Pure genius!
Submitted by fluff (user info) at 2005-12-13 10:46:35 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Why is it that I've missed out on the others of your series?
Nice work.
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2005-12-13 09:54:59 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Funny Video
Cute Critters Learn Life Lessons. Brought to You by Wendy's. Yum! Extremely Funny T-Shirts
Huge Selection of Funny Stuff. T-shirts, Hats, Stickers & more!
----------------
These ads are very weird.
I had ads for Wicca, the 82nd Airborne, tours of New York, and fluffy pets on my other ATP posts.
Submitted by HadToBeDone (user info) at 2005-12-13 09:49:52 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Picture make me dizzy, story make me hungry.