Undead War (Dead Guns Press) Read online

  I made it to King George on the ninth, and was vastly relieved to find signs of life: cars on the road, open shops, men with guns patrolling the streets. The bike ran out of gas on the side of Kings Highway fifteen minutes after I blew into town. I walked it from the shoulder to the small parking lot of a church and left it in the shade. I warily noticed the graveyard on either side of the aqua colored building. None of the graves appeared to have been escaped. The ground probably housed older bodies, which didn’t reanimate.

  “Can I help you?”

  The voice startled me, and I at once felt for the pistol in my pants pocket. I saw, though, that the man meant no harm. Standing in the gloomy archway into the church, he must have been in his late sixties, had snowy white hair, and stood hunched.

  “I…I…”

  “Why don’t you come on in?” he said, moving slightly aside. “Got food and showers in here. You an outta towner.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “but I’m fine…”

  He waved me off. “No, come on. You been on the road, right?”

  “Yeah, but really…”

  My stomach rumbled, and a hot shower sounded like heaven right then. The old man introduced himself as Pastor Pavoda, and led me into the church. The pews had all been replaced with rows of cots and tables loaded with doughnuts, fried chicken, hamburgers, hotdogs, coleslaw, sodas. My mouth started watering.

  “We been gettin’ a lotta travelers through here lately. Only two motels in the county are closed, so me and some of the others got together and converted this into a shelter.”

  The cots, army issue, were empty for the most part. An elderly man reclined in one, catnapping and drooling. A young woman sat in another with her arms wrapped around her legs, her gaze distant.

  “Most of them are out and about,” Pastor Pavoda told me, “times are hard, and everyone’s got to work. No electricity, runnin water.”

  He gave me permission to eat, and I tried not to pile my plate too high. He talked to me as I shoveled sweet food into my mouth, and I nodded and pretended to listen. I caught the gist of it, though; a National Guard unit was passing through from Northern Virginia when Governor McDonnell released them from their duties. They took refuge in the civic center, and decided that they’d stay and try their best to fight the good fight. Most of the men sixteen and older in King George had volunteered their services, but they needed more, more, more to cover the entire county (which had many isolated corners).

  “You’ll have food, medical attention, clothes, protection…”

  I didn’t have to think long about it. “Sure,” I said around a mouthful of Stovetop stuffing. What else was I to do? Plus, I just wanted to murder all the walking shitbags I could.

  After lunch and a long, orgasmic shower, Pastor Pavoda gave me a clean set of clothes and drove me over to the community center. It was a squat brick building across from the Food-lion strip mall and next to the volunteer fire department. Inside, the halls were hot, dim and silent. At one end were a gym and a swimming pool, where the guardsmen slept, ate and whatever.

  The last door down another hall turned out to be the office for General Rhodes, who, I later found out, was actually a captain when the guard was dissolved. He was second in command, and when his superior, Cooper, had a heart attack and died, he became the big man on campus. He was about fifty with a salt-and-pepper crew cut, a broad chest, and tan, leathery skin. He wore a pair of olive cargo pants, black boots you could eat off of, and a brown tee shirt, the neck and underarms stained with sweat. He sat behind a small metal desk surrounded by boxes and other things that instantly screamed converted storage closet, hunched over and writing something.

  “General?” Pastor Pavoda said, knocking on the doorframe. The door itself was open to let air circulate; it was hot as an oven.

  He looked up. “What?”

  “I have a new recruit for you.”

  Rhodes looked me up and down. “What’s your name?”

  “Robert Houser, sir.”

  “You look in good shape. Any heart problems? Diabetes? Anything?”

  “No, sir.”

  He looked back to Pavoda. “Okay. Leave him here.”

  Pavoda squeezed my shoulder. “You’ll do fine,” he muttered, probably sensing my nervousness.

  I watched him walk away with a tightening of the heart. Though I had known him less than an hour, I knew him. Here, I was alone, the odd man out.

  “Have a seat,” Rhodes said from behind me. I settled into an uncomfortable metal folding chair in front of the desk.

  “Tell me about yourself,” he said, focused on his paperwork.

  I told him my story. Watching my family die, trekking north and everything bad in between.

  “You hate those sons of bitches, don’t you?”

  For a moment I didn’t know what he was referring to. “Yeah,” I finally replied, “I do.”

  “Good. They’re monsters. They look like your granny or your fuck-toy, but they ain’t. A lotta the men here don’t hate them. They wanna protect their families, but they haven’t lost anything to them. Know what I mean?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He looked up and jabbed a finger at me. “But don’t get stupid. Had a guy once went crazy and try to knife one of those things. His mama and daughter got it, so he was pumped. But the thing bit him, and we had to blow his head off.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  For a long time he worked in silence, occasionally sighing or frowning. “What size clothes do you wear?”

  I told him.

  “Go back down to the end of the hall; you’ll see a little closest. Get yourself a uniform and report back here ASAP. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I found the closet, and found a uniform that fit me. Pants, shirt, undershirt, even boots. It looked like a clothing store. I wondered how the hell they just happened to have a bunch of uniforms with them, and then a horrible thought occurred to me. I didn’t find any blood on my stuff, but maybe…

  I came back into the office. Rhodes looked up. “What are you doing?”

  “You told me…”

  “Go get dressed! Take those damn civies off!”

  Red-faced, I found the locker room near the gym and changed. I stored them in an empty locker along one of the walls. I took my pistol with me. Back at the office, I asked Rhodes what to do with it.

  “Lemme see it.” He took it and gave it the once over. It was a Colt Woodsman, black with a polished brown handle. He cracked it open. “Got more ammo for it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then keep it.”

  He handed it back to me. “There’re some holsters behind you.”

  In a box I found one, olive green. I clipped it on and slid the Woodsman in. “Get an M4 from that other box.”

  I looked in three before I found several wicked looking assault rifles. I took one. I had trouble getting the clip out. When I did, I saw it was fully loaded.

  “You eat?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rhodes stood. “Then follow me.”

  We walked as Rhodes gave me the rundown. He didn’t seem very interested, and rushed through the formalities (“this is that,” “that is this,”) and took the first opportunity to pawn me off on someone else.

  We had made it outside by then. It was bright and hot, hotter than it had been when Pastor Pavoda brought me in. There were a few men standing around the front door smoking and talking, one a massive black man who must have stood at least seven feet tall and a short white boy with big hipster glasses and a knobby Adam’s apple.

  “Harley,” Rhodes said and gestured. The black guy, smiling warmly, jogged over as the white kid said something like, “You better run, son.”

  “Hey, Cap. What’s up?”

  “Harley, this is Robby Houser. He just came in. Could you show him around? I’ve got shit to do.”

  Harley looked at me, and then to Rhodes. “Sure thing.”

  “Good,” Rhodes said. “Houser, when you
’re done, you relieve Harley and take his spot, okay?

  I nodded.

  With that, Rhodes rushed off across the parking lot.

  When we were alone, Harley smiled at me and dragged me into one of those black handshakes. “Welcome. I’m Harley.”

  “Thanks,” I said; his good nature was infectious, and I felt myself smiling just as widely as he was. “Is that your real name?”

  My question must have caught him off guard, for he regarded me with a puzzled expression. Then it dawned on him. “Oh, yeah, yeah.” He led me back into the building. “My dad was a motorcycle ridin’ nigga. Part of a biker gang down in Atlanta. Black Spades.” He laughed. “That motherfucker named me after a motorcycle. You believe that shit?”

  I laughed. “At least it’s interesting. I was named after my great-grandfather.”

  “Least you were named after a person,” Harley replied as we descended a flight of stairs. “Alright. Massa Rhodes wants me to give you the grand tour so get ready.”

  “Dude seems like a hardass,” I said. I followed Harley

  “Nah, he’s alright. He’s a dick sometimes, but I guess you have to be in his position. Here we is, nigga; home sweet home.”

  Before me, through a wide threshold, lie a vast room lined on the north and south walls with bare metal bunks beds; at the foot of each sat a metal trunk. It looked like a scene from a community theater production of Full Metal Jacket.

  “We got room for fifty dudes,” he said, “only twenty-some livin’ here, though. Most the other guys got families and stay at the church with them, others are local. You gonna be stayin’ here?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Then just take a bed. I gotta show you the kitchen first. Otherwise, I dunno what that nigga wants me to show you.”

  Harley led me back down the hall, but at the stairs, we hung a left. The kitchen was on the right. At this hour it was dim and silent. Next to it was a large communal dining hall.

  “Oh, we got a rec room, but don’t nobody use it. Shit’s weak.”

  “So that’s it, huh?”

  Harley seemed to search his memory banks. “Yeah, pretty much. Ain’t much here.”

  “Oh. What do I have to do when I relieve you?”

  Harley grinned. “You get to do what I been doin’ all day.”

  ***

  I stood in the shade of the front overhang, watching the occasional passing car and fighting the good fight against boredom. Don’t let anyone in civies in unless they have a solider with them, Harley told me. Check. Make sure no zombies came waltzing in for lunch. Got it.

  Around two-thirty, a group of men in a pick-up driven by a young guy in a uniform pulled up and unloaded. I stepped aside and let them in. The young guy looked me up and down. “You new?”

  I nodded.

  “Private Harrison,” he said, and we shook. “Welcome to ZomCom.”

  “Huh?”

  “The Zombie Command Center,” he smiled, “you’ll fit right in.”

  Another one, an older black guy with a beer gut and sergeant stripes on his shoulders, came after him, and gave me a dirty look.

  “You forgetting something, Private?”

  “Ahhh…” then it dawned on me. Blushing, mouth dry, I gave a sloppy salute.

  He nodded, smiling. “Guard duty on your first day. Huh? Stinks.” He then walked on.

  I was out there for about another two hours before Harley came back and relieved me. We smoked a cigarette and talked for a few minutes. I told him my story and he told me his. He was a construction worker before the Rising. “Vinyl siding. Awful shit, man, ‘specially in the summer. And in the winter, the panels get so cold they crack like Wheat Thins.” He joined the Guard six months before. “This the first damn time I been in longer than a weekend.”

  After we had smoked two cigarettes each, he sighed. “Anyway, Rhodes wants you.”

  “He does?” I asked.

  “Yeah. He likes that fresh meat.”

  I chuckled. “Whatever. I’ll see you later, man; okay?”

  “Yeah,” he nodded.

  Rhodes was in the rec room lifting weights. “Yes, sir?”

  “Come here, spot me.” I stood over him as he lifted, lifted, lifted. After almost a hundred, he wasn’t even out of breath, though he was covered in a film of sweat. “Your turn.”

  I took off my shirt and sat my rifle aside. “I don’t think I can lift that much.”

  “Okay.” Rhodes hopped up and took the extra weight off. I lied down while he spotted me. I did about twenty-five before my arms were quivering with exhaustion. “Next I want you to ride the bike.”

  In the corner was an elderly exercise bike, totally manual, not a bit of technology to it. I mounted it while Rhodes looked on, arms crossed over his chest. I made close to five miles before I couldn’t peddle any further.

  “Alright, not bad.”

  He then assigned me kitchen duties. A few guys I didn’t know were busy unpacking large tan pouches from boxes piled on a counter.

  “Who’re you?” one of them, a large man with close-cropped red hair and a pink apron over his uniform, demanded when I entered.

  “Houser,” I stammered, “I’m new.”

  Pinky nodded. “Here.” He took off his apron and handed it to me. “Tomatoes and peppers are in the sink. Slice ‘em thin.”

  He and the other guy, a stocky Latin, went back to unloading the pouches. I sat the plump fruits onto a plate and cut them as thin as I could, once asking Pinky (DONOVAN was stitched above his left breast) if it was doing it right.

  That night, dinner was served in the communal hall. Pastor Pavoda came in with a group of men who’d been on patrol. We sat down at the long table, which was half empty, and the pastor led us in grace. We had MREs, which tasted like dried dogshit and a salad. Pastor Pavoda and some of the old church ladies brought iced tea, so overall it was a good meal. Rhodes sat at the head, and munched of a slab of beef. Lucky bastard.

  I helped Donovan clean up afterward, and we talked a little. When all was done, he led me back to the barracks. “We work in shifts,” he said, “twenty-four hours, some here, some out on patrol. You’ll probably be out tomorrow.”

  The barracks was alive with activity; men were settling down for the night, some reading, some writing letters, some bullshitting back and forth The bunk Donovan pointed me too sat between an empty bed and one occupied by a small white kid, the one Harley had been joking with earlier. He was lying there, paging through a magazine, Popular Woodworking, and humming a snatch of music (I think it was Seether) when I walked up, but when he noticed me, he looked over at me.

  “You’re the new guy, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I said, reaching over the bed. “Robby.”

  He took my hand and squeezed. “Termite.”

  “Termite?” I asked.

  He gave me a lopsided grin. “That’s a nickname, obviously. My real name’s Jordan. They call me Termite because I love wood.”

  “Yeah you do.” Harley threw an olive drab bag onto the bunk above Termite. “Suckin’ on it after hours.”

  “Fuck you, ass-munch,” Termite laughed, sitting up.

  “This is my little white brother right here,” Harley said, and gave Termite a nudgie.

  “I like actual wood,” Termite explained after he pushed Harley away. “Pine, oak, maple. I fuckin’ love it. I used to be a carpenter. Best guy they had.”

  He and Harley horsed around for a little while longer as I unpacked, and then, once things started settling down a bit, we got to talking. It was midnight before we all said goodnight. I thought I’d be awake a while, but I was out almost as soon as my head hit the pillow. My sleep, as I recall, was dreamless.

  The next morning, I was up before the sun. They didn’t wake us up with a bullhorn or a starters’ pistol, as I half expected; the lights went on, Rhodes barked at us to wake up, and that was that.

  After breakfast, Harley took me to Rhodes’ office. The big guy wanted me out and about
today.

  “Go with Donaldson’s group,” he nodded to a large man with gray hair standing behind me.

  ***

  Me, Donaldson, and a few guys in civilian tee shirts and jeans piled into the back of a pick-up truck. “Okay,” Donaldson told me, “it’s easy. We go up and down the roads. See anything, shoot it.”

  “What about all the woods and shit?”

  “We got guys in there, too.”

  As if to punctuate, gunshots echoed in the distance. “Sounds like they got somethin’, too.”

  I squinted through the foliage along the highway, but couldn’t see anything.

  “So, you’re new,” Donaldson said, “where you from?”

  I told him my story, about leaving Wayside and heading north. He nodded and grunted here and there. “Well, you came to the right place. If anyone’s gonna get through this thing, it’s gonna be us. And if Captain Rhodes has anything to say about it, King George County’s gonna be just fine too.”

  Encouraging words, I suppose. After that, we lapsed into silence, each one of us absorbed in his own thoughts. We rode the highways for what felt like days, but it must have only been a few hours. We stopped only twice, once at the intersection on Kings Highway and Route 205 to take out a few walkers, and then again in the town of Fairview Beach.

  Now, everybody who was in any kind of organized service during the zombie war has a certain battle that they’ll never forget, sort of like a D-Day or Iwo Jima. Mine is Fairview Beach, a former sleepy bedroom community huddled on the Potomac. Fairview was dumpy and depressed, a hodgepodge of houses along half paved or dirt streets, the entire eastern half given over to a sprawling trailer park. I doubt more than two hundred people lived there in the old days, and that’s being generous, but for some reason, it turned into zombie central after the rising. The road connecting Fairview with 205 was a long, gentle incline. On the way down, we came across at least twenty of them wandering aimlessly from one flank to the other.

  Donaldson let out a cowboy “Yee-Hawww!” when he saw them, and the rest of us just groaned.

  “Here we go, boys! Engage at will!”

  We took them out, but none of us really enjoyed it. Except for Donaldson and some weirdo whose name escapes me. In Fairview proper, we found the mother lode: rank after rank of the undead. There were so many that even Donaldson looked taken aback.