It's the return of Axolotl - After the Pandemic: Genocide (7): Infiltration (745 hits)
Category: Quotes & StoriesLabels: After_the_Pandemic
Rating: 2 on 12 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Axolotl (View user info) at 2006-01-03 20:28:42 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
After the Pandemic: Genocide (6): Against the Grain - http://www.ubersite.com/m/80897
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...And I've returned.
I've not really paid attention to Uber at all for the last two weeks. I saw a few things...Badassmofo's TMI post, and some random other stuff, but I have not been on Uber much. And I certainly haven't been writing my ATP either, lazy me. I've been busy with my family for Christmas and New Years', starting a relationship with a truly wonderful girl, and of course, playing Civilization IV to an absolutely obscene amount. I finally finished Part 7 tonight, after I had some time to think.
And here it is...
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PART SEVEN - Infiltration
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"Michael," Brandon whispered, drawing close to his buddy in the darkness of the Armory. All the refugees were asleep except for the patrolling officers with flashlights making rounds around the aisles of sleeping bags and cots.
"Yeah, Bran?" Michael replied, opening his eyes and sitting up to face Brandon.
"I can't go on like this," choked Brandon, his fingers trembling. "I feel terrible...I look at people and I want to kill and eat them. I want to kill you, and I want to kill Jennifer, but I'm forcing myself not to."
"Let me see the wound," Michael whispered. Brandon showed Michael the scratch on his arm, now turned a deep scarlet. "That looks infected..."
"I know, I know!" shot Brandon, his voice rising anxiously. "I'm just filled with a hunger, not for food, but for people. Before I looked at people and I saw a human being, a person like me with feelings, but now I look at people and wonder how good their blood tastes."
"Have you...killed anyone yet?" Michael asked.
"No, but I'm afraid that I can't control it," Brandon answered. "It's like a drug, I just need it so much...are you sure only you and me know about this? Do you think Jennifer's suspicious?"
"I'm sure. Don't worry, Bran," Michael said. "Just remember that you're human deep down on the inside, just a human with a bad disease. Only you and I know about it, and I'll take the secret to the grave."
"Thanks, man, thanks," Brandon said, relief present in his voice.
"Just go to sleep...don't worry about it," Michael said. "It'll get better...they'll find a cure. Just don't kill or infect anyone...try with everything you can to control yourself."
"I will...thanks," Brandon said, leaning back down into his cot. Michael looked over at him, in restful slumber, and a pang of fear stabbed into his heart. He was sleeping next to a zombie...but this zombie was Brandon Dicambrio, the brave American patriot, and father of a baby girl.
Anxiety descending in a pallid curtain upon Michael, he rolled over and went to sleep, clicking back the slide on his gun before he did so, and tucking it into his covers.
* * *
"This is her?" Tobias asked.
"Aye, it is," Robertson answered, hauling on his shoulders the body of a young zombie woman. He had been a priest in his old life, but now was a close confidante of the zombie leader Tobias and a deadly killer of normals. He dropped the body down on the grass of the public Fort Lee Park where Tobias' faction had set up a temporary base. They were known as the Tobians, in recognition of their leader, and they were quickly becoming a feared band of warriors and fighters.
"Our Tobians have set upon the civilian population of Fort Lee, but we're having some disputes with another zombie tribe from the Bronx, led by a man called Kessel," Robertson reported. "And Vedder's zombies were nearly killed off to the last man by an American mortar and machine-gun attack late last night."
"Less competition for us," grunted Tobias, looking down at the body of Angel that Robertson had brought him.
Angel was a woman with a scrawny, dirty face and an ashen and frail body. She looked like a user, although there was no way to be sure. She had been the one who had infected Tobias himself, and she had died in the early morning the previous day when the zombies had made their mass suicidal attack on Farrell's company in the trenches near Route 9W in Fort Lee. Though he did not know it, John Gordon had fired the killing bullets at Angel, two hollow-points through her back and stomach.
"She was the one who made me a zombie," Tobias explained to Robertson, who was still standing there, leaning on a ruined park bench. "I had heard that she had been part of a zombie group that had fallen at 9W, and I thought she needed some recognition."
"Tobias!" came a grating voice. The lank-haired Briton looked up to see a square-jawed and heavily scarred fellow zombie walking toward him, accompanied by four warriors. "Tobias, I want a word!"
"Yes, Vedder?" Tobias answered politely; Robertson began to step away from the confrontation, and some of the high-ranking zombies watched in interest at the scene. Vedder was a man of diminutive height and strength, but he made up for it by carrying a .22 Luger at his side along with a cutlass. The four warriors behind him bore swords and stolen WWII Army helmets, and stood their ground fiercely.
"Nearly all of my men were killed last night by the Army," Vedder shouted, his finger pointed accusingly at Tobias. "And the hundred that are left are being denied food by your zombies! My warriors and I tried to ambush a group of uninfected civilians in the suburbs, and instead of filling up our stomachs, some of your Variant Cs aimed their guns at us and told us to bugger away, or some other insult! They wouldn't let us get food, and my men are starving for flesh and blood."
"And?" Tobias asked sardonically.
"And, I demand that your men withdraw so that my men can feed!" hissed Vedder in a faux-tough-guy voice, drawing his Luger.
In the blink of an eye, Tobias had drawn his own sword and had delivered a deep gash to Vedder's arm, shouting, "Kill the attackers!" Vedder's four guards drew swords, prepared to fight and die for Vedder. Tobias' men, Robertson included, produced sabers and pistols, defending Tobias.
Tobias picked up the dropped Luger and raising it to eye level, shot the stunned and amputated Vedder between the eyes, turning his brains to liquid jelly inside his skull. Father Robertson leaped upon the guards with a tomahawk, and a dozen Tobies charged forward into action.
Tobias swung his sword, hacking apart the guards, while Robertson took his own man apart piece by piece. Before the eyes of the neutral third-party zombies watching from all over the park, Tobias' men cut down the five Vedderites, leaving nothing but bloody corpses on the clean, green grass.
"Let me make it clear that I do not tolerate threats," Tobias announced, severing Vedder's head and holding it up for the denizens of the park to behold. "If you have a problem with territory or feeding rights or anything—talk to me like a man, and don't dare draw a pistol on me."
Turning to Robertson, stained with blood from his furious hatchet attack on Vedder's mutilated guard, Tobias said, "Talk to the hundred or so remaining under Vedder's command. See if they want to join the Tobians; if not, kill them."
"I will, sir," replied Robertson; before he turned and left, he did something he had never done before and saluted Tobias.
There was one law and one along in the zombie hierarchy: defend your rights or they will be taken from you. There was no room for slave morality or weakness amongst the leaders. The zombies were constantly in crises from lack of food, and it took a strong leader to get humans to feed upon. With Vedder's death, there was one less leader, and a more powerful central authority among the zombies.
However, the peace between the different tribes wouldn't last long, Tobias predicted.
* * *
Overpeck Creek bubbled serenely as it ran its course, dividing gently sloping grassland that was the county park. At the far end of that crisp meadow, dewy in the autumn evening, was a monument standing, hewn from rock and granite.
An American flag marked the monument, and on it were names of those killed on September 11th, 2001. The granite circled around, flowers in bloom on its sides and the rising moon glinting off of the embossed lettering of the names of the dead.
John Gordon slammed his shoulder up against the monument, down to his last clip of ammunition on his M16. Daniel Preston ran across the shadowy flat field of grass, trying to join his comrade at the monument.
"Have you seen any of them?" Preston asked, approaching the monument at a dead sprint.
"No," Gordon replied. Preston joined him, and knelt down next to him, rifle out and facing out into the darkness. "How's the rest of the rearguard?"
"We're crossing over the Overpeck, and leaving Leonia to the zombies," Preston reported. "Delaney and Ignacio are coming back from Leonia Civic Center, they'll be here in a few minutes."
They stared out through the sights of their rifles into the wilderness of the suburbs. There was a grim rustling on the air, and fire and smoke lit up the ashen sky. The smell of blood was in the air, and the two figures alone by the monument, defending their lives, were solitary and miniscule against the threat that reared its head. The fist of God was coming down upon New York City, for what reason, no one knew. It was merely the next step in the evolutionary chain, sped up to a frightening and lethal speed—but the humans would not be going down silently and meekly.
"I see them," Preston said. Out across the lawn came Privates Delaney and Ignacio, running in a loping manner toward the monument, bringing as well a squad of other Guardsmen. From their looks, they had not been infected and were not zombies, but there was always that suspicion.
"Preston, Lieutenant Gordon," saluted Ignacio. "We're the rearguard. The zombies have been making their way closer and closer to Overpeck Creek."
"We've been fighting the whole way," Delaney said. He was a broad man, with scars over his eyebrow and on his jaw. His nose had been crushed, and his piercing blue eyes seemed faded and grey. "Join the National Guard! Serve your country in disasters, floods, hurricanes, the war on terror...fuck...this is insane..."
"Yo, Gordon, remember that girl?" Preston asked. "Do you think you'll see her again?"
"What the hell do I know?" Gordon snapped, playing with the safety on his rifle. "I barely saw her for half an hour. Jennifer...I don't know. I'd hope to think so, however this all will turn out."
"How do you think this all will turn out?" Preston asked inquisitively.
There was a tense pause; butting in, Ignacio said, "We haven't got a chance,"
"Ig!" Gordon rebuked.
"Every other country in the world has fallen to these things," Ignacio said. "All of Africa, Asia, the Middle East, Europe—why would we survive?"
"Because we're America," Gordon said proudly. "We're a superpower. We have a strong army, and we're powerful."
"So were China and Russia," Ignacio said bitterly. "What makes you think America can fight any better against the zombies?"
"I hear that in England," Preston tentatively started. "The zombies attacked the big cities first, killing or infecting any human in sight. Then, when all the humans had moved to the Scottish moors and the cities were empty, the zombies banded together, realizing that they needed to keep the humans alive to eat from."
"And?" asked Gordon, not wanting to hear the rest, but too curious to forbid Preston.
"They kept the humans alive, and bred them for food," Preston said emotionlessly. "Like, they took blood from them, and bred them, and ate their children. There's a zombie government there, same thing in France, and Germany, and Russia. In Russia, the zombies made these huge camps in Siberia with millions of humans to breed and eat, and—"
"That's enough!" Gordon shouted, slamming his M16 angrily on the monument walls. There was a short and awkward silence.
"You know, we were using the M16 at Ia Drang, over forty years ago," Ignacio said softly. "It's an old gun, and we've had this model forever. The French, however, are far more advanced. They have the FAMAS assault rifle, and their army and marine units—"
"What's your point?" Gordon asked.
"My point is that the French were all defeated within six weeks," Ignacio said.
"I said that's enough," Gordon replied quietly.
Preston looked down at his digital watch. It indicated that it was 8:46 PM, on the night of September 21, 200X. "Well...we have a few weeks to go at that, then. At least we know that the zombies want to keep us alive...that couldn't be so bad, could it? To not be infected, to not be killed...to just live in peace."
"How could you say that? How could you want to live like that?" said Gordon with passion. "To live in a cage, in a zoo? You'd be only kept a live to breed, and your children would be eaten by the zombies for the rest of history. Through the years you would be a slave, and when you were too old, you'd just be killed for food like the rest of the humans..."
"We'll fight, though," Ignacio said softly. "You can't underestimate the will to survive among people, especially if they aren't fighting alone."
With a resounding crash, the trees on the far side of the park meadow two hundred yards away were blasted and felled, and a pillar of ugly black smoke rose in their place. The explosion shook the ground, and a cheer of screeching zombie voices rose through the din.
"They're here!" cried a guardsman.
"Gordon to Teaneck Command, Gordon to Teaneck Command," Gordon said into his transmitter, calmly cold as the zombies rushed the field. "We need immediate air support, we're at Overpeck Park, waiting to embark onto the pontoons, under attack by at least a hundred zombies,"
"Hello up there!" called the coxswain of a pontoon boat speeding toward the Leonia shore, cutting through the cold water. "Get down here—set up a rearguard!"
As the zombies charged across the meadow in a mass, Delaney and another Guard set up a heavy field mortar. Loading in the shot, they calibrated and aimed the weapon, zeroing out the center of the zombie mass. With a gut-wrenching thump, the mortar fired and sailed in a wide arc over the field, landing in the midst of the zombie rush.
The effect was dazzling; a column of smoke and accelerant rose into the sky, obliterating with the highest lethality dozens of zombies, throwing their shredded bodies into the air. The remaining zombies spread out, converging upon the monument where now fourteen American soldiers were defending themselves.
"Preston, Ignacio, you six, get into the boat," Gordon ordered. "Delaney, you four, we'll stay here,"
"Teaneck Command to Gordon, negative on air support," replied a voice over the transmitter.
As the eight ran down the slope toward the landing pontoon skiff, Delaney, Gordon, and the four others opened fire as the rearguard upon the zombie hordes.
From across the field a hundred and fifty yards away the zombies appeared to be wearing a crude metal armor, welded together inefficiently, but making a fearsome impression. On the far right of the zombie mass a sword-carrying Variant C with sharp, patched-together black armor was running toward the monument. Gordon dispatched him with three shots, the bullets piercing the poor armor.
Other zombies had on body armor or helmets, and carrying WWII-era antique rifles, firing at the monument and taking bites out of the stone. The six soldiers fired tenaciously, defending their humanity and their lives.
"Get back down here!" the coxswain cried.
"Let's go," Gordon said. "Let's get out of here,"
The six men abandoned their post and ran down the hill toward the rocky banks of the Overpeck, shimmering in the ghastly pale shade of the moonlight. Piling into the boat, they took their places, Preston guarding their rear with a Glock.
As they pushed off and continued into the water, the first wave of armored zombies reared up over the brink of the hill. Preston fired from the boat, but his small arms couldn't break through the zombies' thick black armor.
"Here," Ignacio said, lifting up Preston's rifle. Preston fired six times, punching holes through the armor of the advancing zombies. The zombies knelt and fired their M1s, some even shooting arrows from crudely-made longbows toward the boat.
A guardsman jerked stiffly, blood running from his mouth. "Heads down!" Gordon cried. The coxswain sped his boat further on, arrows and bullets whizzing past their heads.
* * *
A Humvee rolled on down the Palisades Parkway, part of the vanguard of the 10th Mountain Division, a light infantry unit of the US Army. They had been expected for a long time, but finally they were able to get down from Fort Drum to help out the thinly-stretched guardsmen.
"Just a little further," said a captain of the leading company. "If there's no resistance, we can turn off on Route 95."
The guardsmen were battle-hardened from Iraq and the zombies, but the Army regulars were far more resilient and tough. Armed with the most high-technology weapons that could be purchased and stocked up with tons of firearms and ammunition, they were able to deal with any threat that arose. A division was intended to be a totally independent task force that could control itself and care for its soldiers out in the field.
As the Humvee rolled past, two zombies stood up from a deep hole in the ground that they had dug, pushing away the grass and branches that had covered them. Raising two longbows and aiming them at the gunner on top of the Humvee, they released their deadly barbed arrows, striking the man in the back before the Americans could react.
The lead Humvee kept on driving, unaware that their gunner was slumped over, two arrows sticking awkwardly out of his back. The other Humvees following down the road had seen, though, and they opened fire upon the two zombies in the foxhole.
As the zombies fell to the high-caliber SAWs, the regulars realized what it was they were dealing with. Despite their guns and helicopters and tanks, they could still be killed by untrained, fanatics with armor and arrows.
* * *
"So, what's been going on today as far as the zombies are concerned?" asked President Derringer, steepling his fingers and looking at his Chiefs of Staff. Behind him on the wall was the original of a famous mural of the Battle of Saratoga.
"Let's see...the situation is beginning to get under control." VP Russell Effinger replied. "We have two fresh divisions arrived as of an hour ago, the 10th Division from upstate New York, and the 28th NG Division from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. NORAD and the Northeastern Army Command have stalled the zombies on most sides, but General Riley has decided to withdraw his forces from Long Island."
Majority leader Senator William Cunningham politely handed President Derringer a sheet of paper, saying, "Your approval rating is at 21%, one of the lowest of all time."
"My approval rating is not my highest concern at this point," replied Derringer.
"74% disapprove of your handling of the zombie crisis, while just 9% approve," Cunningham said. "With 17% having no opinion or taking a neutral stance. This is a major problem, as far as your party is concerned. While you may not care, you could conceivably be impeached if this situation is mishandled. Thousands are dead already, what will you do?"
"What will I do?" asked the President, sitting up straight and staring into space at no one in particular. "What will I do?"
There was a deep and abiding quiet all around the conference table.
"I will follow in the footsteps of my predecessors Washington, Lincoln and Roosevelt," Derringer said softly. "And not stand down to a threat like this against America. We must defend ourselves—and we will defend ourselves. We will not be like China or France or England, falling to the zombies, but will exterminate and extinguish this threat will all possible force."
Standing up, President Derringer said, "This meeting is over. I'm sorry, gentlemen—and ladies—but I need to think. Mr. Effinger, could you come with me?"
"I can, sir," Effinger said, anxiously getting to his feet.
Derringer took off his glasses and massaged his temples as he left. As a final remark, he said to his cabinet, "I don't know what course others may take, but I plan to fight to the death. So help me God, America will survive."
User Reviews
Submitted by awesome_face (user info) at 2006-03-28 18:14:15 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2006-01-20 18:13:23 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by thecaes (user info) at 2006-01-04 19:34:08 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Cool beans, man. A couple of things:
The first dude seemed a little too blase about his buddy turning into a zombie. I would expect his reaction to the guy's fears to be a little more severe than, "Ah, I'm sure it'll be fine. Just try not to eat us." It didn't sound THAT casual, of course, but it's the impression I got.
Also, the breeding thing seemed chronologically unfeasible...I thought this epidemic was hitting the world at roughly the same time...so how would the British zombies have time to coralle surviving humans, drain their blood, and breed them? That sort of thing sounds like it should take years.
Oh, I liked the whole, "What makes you think America will survive" dialogue. A very valid concern that not every writer would have brought up.
Submitted by MyNameIsTim (user info) at 2006-01-04 11:30:50 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
REad it a second time, and it was even better when i'm awake.
keep em coming baby
Submitted by Fabit (user info) at 2006-01-04 09:37:48 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
This was brilliant, maybe as good (or better perhaps?) as the Caes.
Submitted by Benny (user info) at 2006-01-04 02:07:34 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Very nicely done. Your series just keeps getting better and better.
Submitted by MyNameIsTim (user info) at 2006-01-03 23:17:52 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
my nigga.
good to have you back.
this was excellent.
Submitted by Deconstruction (user info) at 2006-01-03 23:04:48 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Tubabuhst_01 (user info) at 2006-01-03 22:58:11 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
A-fucking-men. That was great!
Submitted by olivia_tremor_control (user info) at 2006-01-03 22:21:35 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
so good. nice job! on all of them!
Submitted by simple_catalyst (user info) at 2006-01-03 20:48:19 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
return of the writer!
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-01-03 20:37:18 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
WTF, I actually read all that!