After the Pandemic: Genocide (8): The Crucible (719 hits)
Category: Quotes & StoriesLabels: After_the_Pandemic
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Submitted by Axolotl (View user info) at 2006-01-17 22:35:48 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
After the Pandemic: Genocide (7): Infiltration - http://www.ubersite.com/m/81839
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Photoshop shenaniganery over, it's time to get back to After the Pandemic. This is part 8 of 16 - we're halfway there...
...ohhh, living on a prayer.
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PART EIGHT - The Crucible
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Tobias Collins looked at a map of the Palisades area, surrounded by his chief warlords and zombies. He was well enjoying his newfound power, and was a little surprised that he had risen to such authority. In his heart, he was afraid that someone might question his power as illegitimate, which was why he had to enforce rigid discipline in the Tobian ranks.
Father Robertson, Tobias' most trusted advisor, pointed at the map and said, "I suggest a strike at either the Meadowlands Sports Complex, or perhaps the Teaneck National Guard Armory."
"Eh...I think Kessel is taking Giants Stadium," Tobias remarked. "It would be a bad idea to cause a conflict with him just yet."
"If we take Teaneck, it opens the way to Hackensack," said Von Dorn, a heavily scarred and burned advisor. He was the captain of the 69th Street Variant C Brigade, a blond-haired zombie that reminded many of a younger Axel Rose. "That's a major population center, we could feed there for weeks."
"And then move onto Paterson or Garfield, those are fairly large towns as well," said Robertson.
"But where do we go from there?" asked Marcia Thorpe. Thorpe had been a CPA in her time as a human, a tall and skinny black woman who in her infection had received the loss of a breast and a great deal of blood. She had survived, and now commanded a Midtown company.
"What do you mean? From where...?" Tobias asked, intrigued.
"After we move through the NYC metropolitan area, it's all farmland and rural country," said Thorpe. "We eventually will run out of humans to feed upon, and with our numbers growing bigger and bigger..."
Tobias pursed his lips and sighed. "I understand...but who's to say we can't move to Boston, or Trenton, or even—"
"It's not the point," said Thorpe pleadingly. "We can't go on like this. I need blood and flesh just like the rest of you, but one day we'll run out of humans, and both our races will die."
"I don't hate the humans," Tobias said. "It's just that we need them to live...we'll think of something before it's too late, don't worry."
"But for now?" queried Von Dorn.
Tobias drew his knife from his holster and stabbed it down in the middle of Teaneck. "Teaneck Battalion it is, then."
* * *
The 2nd Pennsylvania Infantry Brigade aimed their guns out down the deserted Teaneck streets toward the approaching body of men. Their commanders had told them it was the 50th New Jersey retreating from the Overpeck, but it never hurt to be overly cautious. Behind the lines was the 55th Pennsylvania Armored, with its tanks and artillery pieces cluttered outside of the low, wide armory itself, defending the thousands of civilians inside.
Aware of the dozens of US snipers aiming between their eyes, the New Jersey soldiers made their way carefully and slowly down the cold avenue, entering the square on which the armory stood, indefatigable and stoic in the stark September air.
"Take it slow, guys," a sergeant of the Pennsylvanians called out as the troops approached the fortifications and breastworks. There were several lines of trenches dug into the area outside the armory, stretching from the pavement all across the hundred yards of lawn to the barricaded doors. Sandbag-lined bunkers and hastily-constructed concrete pillboxes rose sporadically out of the churned land. Machine gun nests were set in dark camouflage, with long .30-caliber muzzles peering out toward the streets in enfilade style. There was a tremendous amount of soldiers there defending the armory, but they were inexperienced Guardsmen, not regulars.
John Gordon veered a little away from the column entering the perimeter through a barbed-wire gateway in the breastworks, and walked toward an officer, standing in the midst of his men. The soldiers with their guns all out in a straight row, leaning on the mounds of dirt, for a moment reminded Gordon of his basic training days, where he had practiced firing in a row with his comrades. There had been an incident where out on the firing range, a turkey had ran across the field, oblivious to the fact that it was on a range. The men began to turn their weapons on it, laughing and cheering as they fired. It had been Gordon with an MG49 who had finally killed that turkey, blasting it into a puff of feathers; the memory amused him, and he smiled.
"What's so fucking funny, boy?" barked the Pennsylvania officer, folding his arms and looking at the soldiers. "Picturing me naked, you little bastard?"
"50th New Jersey, reporting, sir," said Gordon, firming his mouth into a taut frown and saluting. "Lieutenant John Gordon, B Company, Teaneck Battalion."
"Major Luke Hammond, 2nd Pennsylvania, maggot," said the officer. "Who's your CO?"
"Sir, he was killed in Fort Lee," Gordon replied. "The CO...would be me, sir."
"You and your unit are a fucking waste of life, you know that?" Major Hammond sneered. "What are you fighting out in New York? Bows and arrows? Men in loincloths and spears? You have a sixty percent casualty rate fighting against—"
"It's a little more than that, sir," said Gordon through gritted teeth. "The zombies have a high capacity for pain, and things that can kill a normal person don't affect them. Some are armed with rifles and pistols."
"Bullshit, son," Hammond said. "I was on two tours in Iraq, and I stormed the border with the 3rd Infantry. Afterwards, my unit was on patrols in the Sunni Triangle. One day the Haj lit us up two hundred yards outside our perimeter; they had fifteen men in vests and AKs, and my squad still slaughtered them. You're telling me that zombies are slaughtering your battalion the way that I slaughtered those filthy termites?"
"I..."
"Get on your way, boy," Hammond said, brushing Gordon away. "I'll see these zombies soon enough."
Feeling depressed and demoralized, Gordon returned to his column, catching up with Preston. As they entered the wide, high-ceilinged Armory, Gordon felt stuffed by the press of human bodies. Though he had hated the violence of the warfare, the open air had felt good to him. In this massive flux of thousands of refugees, John Gordon looked around for Jennifer Grant, the young woman he had helped out back when this crisis began five days earlier.
"There!" said Gordon.
"What?" Preston replied, but he followed Gordon along through the traffic of humans. In an alcove along the sides of the armory's interior walls was Jennifer Grant, with two soldiers accompanying her. One was an ashen and sickly looking private with a bandaged leg, and the other was a flushed corporal, his face pockmarked and scarred.
"Mrs. Grant?" Gordon asked, as Daniel Preston stood back, rifle pointed toward the ground.
Jennifer stood up and smiled, recognizing Gordon. "I thought I might see you again,"
Gordon advanced, and they hugged awkwardly, his rifle swinging between them on his strap and crushing against her ribs. They disengaged, and Gordon looked down at the two men with her. They were 42nd Division, but armored personnel.
"This is Michael Benkosky, and Brandon DiCambrio," Jennifer said. "You're Preston, right?"
Struck through the heart that she hadn't remembered his name, Gordon said, "No, that's Preston, behind me. I'm John Gordon."
"Hi," choked Michael, grasping Gordon's palm with his clammy, weak hand. "I'm just feeling a little sick right now, I'll try not to breathe too much,"
"It's close contact with all of these people," said Brandon. He looked flushed and happy, almost jubilant. "At least, I hope what that is," he added darkly, his and Michael's eyes connecting for a tense second.
"Was it...hard out there?" Jennifer asked. "Are the zombies strong?"
Gordon thought back to what he had seen since leaving the battalion five days earlier. The fighting at Times Square, the slaughter of the bombs, the sickening infected, the massacre at Fort Lee, and the fight at Overpeck Creek—and just replied, "They're strong, that's...that's what they are."
"It's under control," Preston said, tapping his M16. "We've got it under control. Even old Gordon here got promoted to company commander,"
"Let me guess," Michael said, his voice cracking and losing its strength. "Your CO got killed?"
"Yeah..."
"It's brutal out there. I was with the 86th Armored in Harlem when they ambushed me, Brandon and Charlie. Charlie's dead," Michael said. "Us three had gotten separated from our platoon...it's probably the only reason that we're alive."
"We'll see how long that can last," Jennifer said hesitantly.
* * *
Hammond looked out from his binoculars and spotted a man six hundred yards down the empty street. Loping, unkempt, a fierce glint in his eye. Behind him were several more of his number, bearing bows and long knives, machetes and armor.
"We have contact," Hammond said gleefully. "Morrison, blow that one's head away."
"Click for angle, two clicks for windage," Morrison whispered, adjusting the lens on his sniper rifle. His eye about four inches from the scope to prevent recoil damage, Morrison pinpointed the lead zombie's head, aiming his crosshairs between his eyes. His spotter looked out with binoculars next to him, preparing to give the order.
"Hold..." said the spotter. "Hold...hold...fire."
Morrison pulled the trigger, and in an instant, the bullet shattered the zombie's head before the sound of the shot even reached him. His head exploding in a spray of pink froth, the zombie fell, the other Variant Cs behind him looking concerned and fearful for their lives.
"We got a Kennedy shot," Hammond said happily. "Patterson, take a picture of that."
Milton Patterson, the unit's unofficial photographer, adjusted his lens and aimed out at the dead zombie.
* * *
"We've got a position?" Tobias said to Father Robertson.
"Aye," Robertson said, checking in with his walkie-talkie. "I've got the coordinates. Should I give them to the mortar crews?"
"You may do so. I'll stay out of sniper range," Tobias replied.
* * *
With a resounding crash, a mortar shell hit the ground sixty yards behind Hammond, throwing up a cloud of soil into the air. The Pennsylvania soldiers yelped and looked back at the small crater.
"What the fuck?" Hammond roared. "What in the name of Christ is that? Who threw that? Which one of you fucking geniuses just threw that grenade? Morrison, get out there and see what the fuck just happened?"
Frightened by Hammond more than the explosion, Private Morrison leaped from his trench and began to walk toward where the blast had detonated, near the door of the Armory. He checked over his shoulder, where the zombies were slowly approaching. Hammond barked an order, and M16s began firing down the street.
"What's going on there?" Hammond yelled back at Morrison.
"Sir, I haven't a—"
With a sudden whoosh, another mortar round struck the ground beneath Morrison's legs, breaking them like glass fragments in a burst of bone and accelerant. Morrison screamed and fell to the ground, his body supported by nothing but air and bloody stumps.
"Hit the deck! We're under fire!"
"Morrison! Get back...Jesus, someone go get him!" Hammond said, feeling faint but resolved. "Find out where that's coming from, where's our mortar crew...?"
Morrison's spotter jumped from the trenches and ran out toward his fallen friend. As he got within ten yards, another mortar rent the tense air and took away his left leg, throwing his light body into the air like a rag doll.
"Fire! Mortar crews, zero out that gun!" Hammond yelled, huddling beneath the trench. The soldiers did likewise, firing out at the zombies, trying to find out where the fire was coming from.
Another mortar blast struck a tree looking down over the trenches, scattering fragments of shrapnel all down into the fortifications. Men cried out as their faces were slashed with jagged metal shards, or their hands pulped by larger slices of the alloys.
Another mortar burst nearby, and this time it was deadly. A Guardsman, curled up in the trenches, had taken a direct hit, and was scattered all around bloodily. Milton Paterson felt something strike him on the back; he reached back and was surprised to grab onto a hand.
"Is that..." he began. He pulled on it, and saw that a severed hand of the dead soldier was in his grasp. He looked at it as though from a distance, not comprehending the forces that had conspired to this moment. Another mortar round sliced through a squad of soldiers, spilling more blood on the ground.
"Sir," Patterson said, looking down. There was a dark stain over his groin. "I think..."
Another mortar round crashed into the fortifications, and the zombies charged the Armory.
* * *
"What is that?" Jennifer breathed, cocking her ear to the sound of the blasts. The armory went deadly quiet, every head inclined to the noise outside. Mortar rounds crashed heavily into the earth, and machine gun fire crackled distantly through the walls.
The battle went on for what seemed like an age, a never-ceasing exchange of fire and sound from outside the compound. The thousands of refugees inside the armory listened intently for a half-hour, and then pulled themselves away from the sound. They went back to doing whatever they were doing, letting the gunfire fade as background noise. It was almost peaceful, almost tolerable—until the scream.
"My daughter! My daughter! What have they done?" shrieked a voice from across the armory. Brandon instinctively grabbed his cut arm, teeth gritting in terror.
People all around began to rush to the scene, on the opposite wall of the great hall, intrigued by the alarm. Soldiers, FEMA officials and town leaders cleared a way through to the woman's cot.
"Let's go," Jennifer said. "What's going on back there?"
"I'll check it out," Michael said, coughing as he arose. He pushed past the crowds of people, using his rifle to push people out of his way and his National Guard status to make his way closer and closer to the woman.
"...she won't wake up! She can't open her eyes! Save her, you have to save her!"
Michael looked past the crowd; through the gaps in the sea of humanity, he could see a deathly pale little girl with a scratched arm lying prostrate on a cot. Officials and doctors were examining her body, as guardsmen tried to calm her hysterical mother.
A FEMA official gestured for one of the doctors to take a closer look at the young girl's arm. He peered at the wound, red and inflamed in the dim overhead lights and swore, getting up and turning his face away. He walked away from the scene, head buried in his hands. "Shit. It's zombie." muttered the FEMA official.
As the crowd burst into an uproar, only one thought flickered through Michael's mind: Brandon, Brandon. Don't let it be him.
"Find the zombie!" cried some. "Make him pay!"
"Find whoever did this! Kill them! Rip them apart!"
"By God, we'll get every last zombie out of this armory!"
Michael walked back across the riotous throng, his heart as low as his hopes of survival.
User Reviews
Submitted by awesome_face (user info) at 2006-03-28 18:30:31 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Size of my boner=Statue of liberty
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2006-01-20 18:02:06 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by thecaes (user info) at 2006-01-20 00:19:36 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Photoshop shenaniganery over, it's time to get back to After the Pandemic. This is part 8 of 16 - we're halfway there...
...ohhh, living on a prayer.
****************
Heh heh heh
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2006-01-18 10:40:56 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
regarding the accuracy of the zombies, they were aiming to take out the officer (Hammond) of the battalion first, so their accuracy in killing and wounding the defenders was luck. Also, many members of the National Guard were infected in New York, which explains their knowledge of the operation and possession of mortars.
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2006-01-18 10:34:28 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by Nellypaal (user info) at 2006-01-18 10:25:01 (#)
Ranking: 2
Haven't read it yet.
Need to get Bon Jovi out of my head first...
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Someone got it stuck in my head first, just passing it along.
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Submitted by simple_catalyst (user info) at 2006-01-18 09:11:10 (#)
Ranking: 2
i chuckled three of four times.
at inappropriate parts.
joy.
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what parts would those be? the officer?
Submitted by Nellypaal (user info) at 2006-01-18 10:25:01 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Haven't read it yet.
Need to get Bon Jovi out of my head first...
Submitted by simple_catalyst (user info) at 2006-01-18 09:11:10 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
i chuckled three of four times.
at inappropriate parts.
joy.
Submitted by HadToBeDone (user info) at 2006-01-18 09:01:05 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Bout damn time. Liked it.
Submitted by MyNameIsTim (user info) at 2006-01-18 08:47:31 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
nice one. i'm kind of curious as to how shitty humans, when infected by zombies, become sweet and nasty zombie leaders.
but i'm looking foward to what's going to happen next..keep 'em c oming.
Submitted by Benny (user info) at 2006-01-18 08:08:48 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Nice instalment. It has me wondering how the zombies are so effective using those mortars though. Unless they were lucky enough to turn the soldiers manning those mortars into zombies I doubt that they would be so accurate.