Zombies - How To Kill Stuff and Annihilate Zombies

I was curled in a fetal of agony on the floor of a Humvee that loomed vertiginously off the ground, watching blood spurt from between fingers clenched in a death grip around my thigh. The shooting had stopped courteously, though something told me it had nothing to do with the intention of any kind of apology. They owed me a hell of a good one, though.

A clatter. Then, Lynette was leaping over the back of the driver's seat and stomping on the gas. The truck roared into action, churning its tires into black swaths of rubber on the asphalt with a hula motion and rocketing down the street like a Humvee being driven by a damsel in distress. With her knight in shining armour curled in agony on the floor beside her. I could almost taste the poetry.

The engine screamed. My blood spurted. Reinvigorated gunfire faded into the distance.

Then, without warning, we lurched to a halt, the truck's door opened and closed, then somebody was shooting again. I counted, twelve rounds, then a pause. Then twelve more shots, after which silence dominated. A fan ticked under the hood. Something howled.

Another shot.

More silence filled with ticking, but no more howling.

The door opened again and Lynette clambered inside with a paper bag in hand. Quickly, she dumped out the contents with a clink. Everything seemed to strangely quiet. There should be music playing or something. My blood was still forcing its way between my fingers. The pain in my thigh seemed to have spread to the rest of my body so that even my toes throbbed as they grew numb.

To grant Lynette a bit of charity, I did hear her pull the cork from the bottle, although I was too delirious to put two and two together even when she ordered me to remove my hands from the wound. But I caught on like flies to a dung heap when she tipped the bottle and set free a gout of amber-coloured liquid directly onto my profusely bleeding leg.

I don't faint often. And I find it ironic that alcohol was what did me in, but maybe the blood loss factored in there somewhere, as well. Whatever the case, I woke up a few minutes later to find my pant leg cut off and my thigh wrapped in clean white gauze. It throbbed with pain, but only slightly as if muffled somehow. I blinked and shook my head to clear it of the cottonballs that stuffed it.

"Oh thank God," Lynette breathed. "Here, drink some of this." She handed me a water bottle, which I took and sipped at obediently. After a moment, she spoke again. "I was worried you'd lost too much blood. How is the pain?"

We were still in the truck. I sat in the passenger seat now, reclined back as far as it would go, and Lynette sat, shoulders slumped, behind the steering wheel. The woman looked exhausted. Deep shadows rimmed her eyes and her hair was a mess. I nodded thankfully. "Better."

She seemed to take this in with some amount of satisfaction. "I injected you with morphine while you were asleep. It should keep the pain at a manageable level for a while. The bullet just missed your femur, for which you should be glad, but it hit an artery. I've stitched you up as well as I can out here. I'm not sure when we can get you proper medical treatment, though."

She watched me ponder all this for a moment. Then, answered the question before I could ask it. "I'm a nurse." She fidgeted for a bit before coming to some silent conclusion. We admitted the first infected case last night. It only took a couple hours before the hospital was overrun. I...don't know what happened to everyone. I just left." She finished her confession with her head bowed, in shame I guessed. And who could blame her, on both counts? Her duties as a nurse would be to keep people healthy and ensure that no condition grew worse on her watch, so watching a sterile hospital environment deteriorate into a chaotic, brain-munching orgy, not to mention fleeing the scene in a desperate attempt to save her own life, would be the ultimate self betrayal. But to her credit, here she was, alive.

I started to speak, to try and comfort her somehow but shut my mouth and sat mutedly. Some wounds have to be dealt with in silence, or risk being aggravated with insensitivity. I pushed myself into a sitting position as carefully as I could and took in our surroundings. The Humvee was parked in a rarely used lot somewhere along the river. Autumn leaves blanketed the pitted asphalt and lush, green grass that surrounded it. We sat facing the river which glided past several hundred feet below at the bottom of a gentle slope that arced away from us until it plunged almost clifflike into the gray-brown depths. A single ribbon of road lined by black lampposts cut through the hillside ahead and below us.

Lynette gasped, catching and drawing my attention a bit further down the roadway below us where a troupe of zombies ambled nonchalantly in the direction of an overturned car halfway up the slope. I squinted, straining for a clearer view. Sure enough, an arm hung limply through a broken window in the crumpled fuselage. The zombies drew closer.

What if whoever was in that car was still alive? I frowned and watched for movement but saw none. Still, the zombies were advancing. I had to make a decision.

"Fuck me," I grumbled as I loaded my shotgun, then my handgun.

"Jimmy?"

I glanced at her with a blank expression on my face. "Whoever's in that car may still be alive," I explained simply. "I will go save them."

She blinked. "Your, um, leg?" But I was already opening my door and hurling myself onto the pavement.

It didn't hurt, but my leg felt funny. Like it wouldn't hold me up or something. It carried me as far as the grass before I sprawled facedown, again without pain. There was just a dull sort of numbness that spread through my body when I landed. Another door slammed behind me and Lynette was helping me to my feet, leading me back to the Humvee where I could lean against it. I shook my head to clear it as she snatched the shotgun from my hands and replaced it with an assault rifle.

"It's loaded," she snapped brusquely and slapped a few extra magazines onto the hood of the truck. "Just don't blow my head off." With that, she was tacking down the hillside, shotgun at her hip. I noticed how she gave the zombies a wide berth before closing in on them and opening fire, allowing both for me to get a clear shot and for the shooting to come from more than one direction.

It was a passing thought, though. I sighted through the small scope on top of the rifle and pulled the trigger. My first few shots went wide, but I soon got the hang of holding the crosshairs on my target until the bullet was fired. The group started out with eight leering undead, two of which I dropped before Lynette got within mulching range with her shotgun and began cutting the things down like a madwoman. I was only able to drop one more, this one right through the skull. It rained brain matter back onto the grass as it flopped onto its back reluctantly.

I watched as Lynette approached the wrecked car tentatively. She held her gun ready to fire, but seemed to lower her guard as she neared the wreckage. Then, with a cry, she hurried forward and knelt in its shadow, working hurriedly at something I couldn't see.

I was so focused on her, in fact, that I didn't notice the newcomers until a group of men was hurrying past me, presumably to assist her. One of them stayed back to lounge against the truck with me.

Strangely, he seemed almost as if he'd expected the zombies. That, or he just knew how to adapt really quickly. The newcomer was taller than me by a few inches and adorned in heavy jeans stuffed into big, black boots. He wore a simple black t-shirt with the words 'Anarchy or Bust' in white flanked by a thick, leather duster. His brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail over a smooth face with a pointed nose, accented only by a day of stubble. He held out a hand in greeting.

"Mel Henson," he spoke in a rich, deep voice. "You look like a natural."

I tucked the assault rifle under my other arm to take his hand. "Thanks. Jimmy." I don't give out my full name unless I absolutely have to. Mel nodded and returned his gaze to where the men were helping wrestle someone out of the car. I opened my mouth, hesitated, then asked the question. "How bad is it?"

He grimaced. "It's a clusterfuck. We're not sure how it hit, or why, but the whole city is cut off. There's no way of knowing of anyone else in the country--or world--has been hit." His expression darkened. "We do know that we've been quarantined, though."

"Quarantined?"

He grimaced again, apparently displeased by the thought of it. "They've blocked all the major roads. The smaller ones might offer some kind of escape, but you can only go so far before you run out of gas."

"I'm sure there's a way to get to at least one," I insisted. "We're not in the middle of nowhere."

He shrugged and reached into his pocket for a cigarette with a creak of leather. "Like I said, there's no telling how far this has spread." He lit it with a flick of a lighter and puffed once. "I'd rather take my chances where I know I've got supplies. Wouldn't you?" He drew deep and exhaled a stream of smoke.

I had nothing to say to that. If it was true, if a virus had really caused all this and had spread to the countryside, then we were truly better equipped to stay in the city. For the time being, at least. The pain in my leg was returning so I hauled myself onto the hood with a grunt and sat there, resigned for the time being to watch the work further down the hill in the light of a setting sun. Though, I did glance over my shoulder time and again to check for more undead. They gave me the willies.

"You need a doctor," Mel noted.

I nodded, but said nothing.

He finished his cigarette and threw the butt on the ground, then drew himself up with that same creak of leather. "We should go, then. My men will take care of your friend and whoever's in the car. Can you walk?"

I shrugged. "Last time I tried, I nearly broke my nose."

He grunted in reply "We'll take your truck then. I look forward to finding out how you got one of these."

I forced a crooked smile. "Long story." I hobbled around to the passenger side and got in clumsily. My thigh was starting to throb with surprising vigour. I case one last glance at Mel as he started the truck. I had no reason to trust him, but nothing had presented itself to the contrary, and I had a feeling we both needed the companionship. After all, a disaster like this would no doubt bring people together, probably solve a lot of differences in light of higher necessity. I could at least be thankful for that.