“Well, what the good Lord taketh with one hand, he giveth with the other!” Donovan proclaims joyously when we enter the evidence room. “I’m sorry I ever doubted you, Bill.” The door to this room yielded quickly to Francis’ practiced technique; opening with just a pair of well-aimed axe blows. Not to the door lock, but to the door frame just above and below the strike plate.
“Wood’s a helluva lot easier to bust up than a steel bolt,” Francis explained matter-of-factly. “Don’t need but a little kiss right here where it stops in the door frame. Two little cuts and the whole thing just pops out when you tug on the doorknob. Now don’t y’all be givin’ away my trade secrets!”
Inside we find the material history of numerous crimes; tagged electronics, jewelry and silverware, bagged clothing and carpet fibers, fingerprint slides and racks upon racks of surveillance tape. But in amongst the more mundane items we find three more handguns, another 12 gauge shotgun, a circa 1980’s M16a2, and several hunting rifles, including a scoped carbine. And numerous boxes of ammunition and extra magazines.
“Come to poppa,” I whisper reverentially, reaching for the M16. Cradling it, my pointer and index fingers fall naturally, instinctively to the charging handle. I rack the bolt and let the action slide back into battery with a familiar metallic clunk. “Now it really does feel almost like ‘Nam.”
Lottie and Donovan each take a hunting rifle and a revolver, along with a share of the ammunition supplies we find in cardboard boxes marked with case numbers. Rebecca takes the shotgun and waives off an offer to replace her service revolver with an automatic. “No thank you, sir,” she says to me pointedly. “Never liked the way those automatics felt in my hands. This .38 and I are old friends. Trust me, if you want me to hit anything, I’ll do a lot better with 6 tries from this old girl than 15 shots from one of those.”
“Search the rest of the offices,” I instruct the group. “But quietly. Grab anything we might be able to use; any food you can find, water bottles, spare batteries, anything to keep us going for the next several days. Zoey, stay with me for another minute. Let’s get you set up with something you’ll feel comfortable with.”
Alone for the first time since our blow-up in the sally port, the evidence room seems to contract in size and the air immediately grows tense as the footsteps from the rest of the group recede down the corridor.
“So, you seemed to handle that 9mm pistol just fine back at the fire trap,” I say, for no reason other than to break the tension.
“Lucky shots, I guess,” Zoey replies awkwardly.
“Don’t sell yourself short; you’re a natural with an automatic handgun,” I assure her. “Nine out of ten beginners would have emptied that whole magazine into the air all around the first zed, but you made almost every shot count. That’s something. That’s more than something. That’s a goddamn blessing that you can handle a sidearm like that.”
“At least I’m good for something.”
“Zoey. What I said earlier about you not - ”
“ - Just give me a fucking pistol and some bullets, Bill. Then I can help the others look for supplies.”
“Zoey, don’t -”
- what? Don’t what, Bill?”
“Don’t be like this. I don’t want things to be -”
“Difficult? Messy? Is that it, Bill? Wouldn’t want to complicate your mission, now would we? That’s all I am to you after all, isn’t it? Captain William Overbeck’s glorious final mission. Just a piece of logistics that you have your orders to transport from point A to point B.”
“Zoey. I don’t want it to be like that. Believe me. But I’ve realized some things today. Some things happened after we got split up. I understand now these zombies aren’t exactly what we thought they were. I know that now; what they really represent.”
“And what me and Francis and Donovan and Lottie and Rebecca represent, apparently. Just fucking pieces on a chessboard, aren’t we?” Zoey whispers bitterly. “The whole human race has been whittled down for you, Bill. Things should be so simple now. Just a few people left for you to care about. And you still have to be like you always have, your whole goddamn life!”
“What do you know about my life, young lady? You don’t know anything about me. And if you did you’d ….”
“Then I’d run screaming, right? That’s what you were about to say, isn’t it? Oh, Bill, it’s so obvious! I don’t know the exact what and when and I am sorry, believe me. But it’s so obvious what you carry around with you; what you put between yourself and everyone you meet. But this is your last chance to let it go. Can’t you just let it go?”
“I don’t even want to have this conversation.”
“Well, we’re having it, so tough shit mister! Bill, when I was out there on the side of that building, I couldn’t even lift that ladder. I had lost my parents. I was exhausted, and hungry and I didn’t have anything left. Nothing. And then suddenly: there you were. And you killed those two zombies, and you got me into that building. And you fed me, and got me drunk and made me laugh. I never thought I’d laugh again. But you made me feel safe and special and you put me to bed that first night and promised me that I didn’t have anything to worry about and … and......”
“I promised you too many things, Zoey.”
“You only have to promise me one thing, Bill.”
“Zoey, I’m not going anywhere.”
And with that the last strands holding back a tide of emotion give way. The girl collapses against my chest and begins sobbing. Great, shuddering sobs as she buries her face deeper into the folds of my army jacket. Confounded, I tentatively wrap my arms around her heaving shoulders. In response, her sobbing intensifies as she encircles my torso with her arms and returns the embrace, squeezing with a fierce, desperate strength.
“What the hell, child. What did I say?”
“You stupid old fuck, you!” she sniffles happily. “That’s all I need.”
“But Zoey. That’s the only thing I can promise you.”
“Well you old fart, guess what? That’s all I want! Bill, I know we’re gonna die, OK? I know these things are going to get us eventually. And I also know what you’ve discovered about them today. Because it’s the same thing I see in them when they chase me. They’re not just hungry, are they? They’re consumed by hate. They hate us just for living. It’s their purpose, isn’t it? To take away life because all life torments them.”
I hold Zoey away from my chest and look at her in amazement. “Yes, Zoey. That’s it exactly. I didn’t realize that you already understood that.”
“That’s because you’re a bonehead. But Bill, in this new world we live in, with so much death borne of so much hatred, don’t you get it?”
“Get what?”
“That the only point of clinging to life is if it comes with love. Right? Or something close to it. I mean it’s life that’s the source of all that hate those things have. They hate it so much the only thing they understand is death. Death is what gives their hatred meaning. So our living can only have meaning if it comes with love. Don’t you see? Otherwise we might as well be dead. Otherwise, those bastards will have already succeeded.”
The Restless Dead
Moderator: ZS Global Moderators
Covenant of the Damned, Part 15
by majorhavoc » Thu Aug 16, 2012 9:47 pm
Last edited by majorhavoc on Sun Aug 19, 2012 7:50 am, edited 5 times in total.
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majorhavoc - ZS Donor
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Covenant of the Damned, Part 16
by majorhavoc » Sat Aug 18, 2012 1:55 pm
After composing herself (which primarily entails using the front of my army jacket as a handkerchief, which she pointlessly smoothes out afterwards), Zoey looks up at the remaining tagged firearms resting on the rack above us. “What about something with a bit more range?” She ponders aloud, reaching awkwardly for the scoped carbine. “I can’t say I enjoyed being close enough to those things to make use of the pistol.”
“I doubt it’s the last time that’ll be necessary, but you do have a point,” I respond, brusquely reaching over her and pulling down the carbine. “Your eye's on this one, huh?” I say, appraising it critically. “Wouldn’t be my first choice to marry with this telescopic sight …. still, should get the job done. You might be onto something, actually. It’s shorter than a regular rifle, so it’ll be a bit easier for you to handle. And see this? This weapon’s chambered for the same round as this M16. That’ll make things simpler. Yeah, if we could find an opportunity to get you a little trigger time so you’re not scared of it …..”
As I musing all this aloud, I’m gingerly extending the gun toward Zoey. I expect her to take it tentatively, but instead she grabs it out of my hands and without prompting retracts the bolt, checking that the chamber is clear. “Ruger. Mini fourteen,” she advises, casually picking up an empty magazine from the shelf and shoving it into the weapon in front of the trigger guard. I hear the bolt slam home and recognize the final metallic click as the safety being released as Zoey swings the gun up to her shoulder and sights it on an imaginary target to my right. “This scope looks brand new,” she observes. “I wonder if it’s even been zeroed yet?”
My mouth merely opens and closes several times as I struggle to give voice to my astonishment. “You … you obviously know how to handle this gun,” is the best I can come up with.
“My uncle in upstate New York had one. I spent at least two weeks with him every summer growing up. We spent a lot of time shooting tin cans. I got pretty good too. He said I was his “little Annie Oakley”. This one’s a little newer; it’s a bit different than his was up here in the front. But it works the same though.”
She’s schooled in long arms, I think. I’m marvelling at the odds of my crossing paths with someone possessed of such a skill when I again think of Donovan’s unshakable conviction that divine influence is intertwined with our fate: Do you really think it’s a coincidence, Bill?
Zoey and I catch up with the others in the administrative offices, where she happily joins them rifling through the desks and cabinets looking for supplies.
“Bill?” Francis queries with a quick lift of his chin. “Got somethin’ to show you.” As we pass through another doorway into an office fronting Main Street, Francis cautiously peels back a portion of curtain in front of the ceiling-to-floor window glass and beckons me closer for a look.
“You two make up?” he asks quietly as I advance towards the window.
“I think so.”
“Good. Otherwise the rest of us were going to lock you two up together until you decided to start acting like adults. What did you say to her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Whaddaya mean ‘I don’t know’?”
“I mean, I’m not sure I said anything.”
“You had to say something Bill.”
“I think I might have said ‘I’m not going anywhere’. Then she started crying. Then she used me for a snot rag and suddenly everything was OK. Francis, I just don’t understand women.”
Francis tips his head back and lets out a bellowing laugh. “Well don’t try to now, Bill. Did she at least do most of the talking?”
“That’s for damn sure. I think she said something about chess pieces and promises and me making her laugh.”
“Well, don’t fight it Bill. All you really need to know is they want to talk. God, do they ever want to talk. And when they come to you with a problem, for fuck’s sake, don’t try to solve it.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because they don’t want you to solve it. Alls they want you to do is know they have a problem.”
“Then why bother talking about it?
“Exactly.”
“Exactly?”
“Yes, old man. Exactly.”
“Exactly what? Start making sense, man! I can’t have that young lady taking a frigging swing at me every time I turn my back on her!”
“Exactly what you and I and every other man on the planet wants to do, solve the problem. If for no reason other than to get the bitches to shut up.”
“So, why not solve the problem if she tells you about it?”
Francis puts his arm around my shoulder and for one chilling moment, I’m reminded of Duke. “Because,“ he whispers conspiratorially. “They don’t want you to actually solve the problem; they just want you to listen to them talk about it. If we fix it, then they can't talk about it no more, can they?”
I stare at Francis, dumbfounded.
“See, Bill, men: we’re fixers. That’s what we do. We see or hear about a problem, we take care of it. But with women, that’s the exact wrong approach to take. Women just want to talk about their problems. All you gotta do is say, “Yeah babe, that stinks.” Or, “Oh, isn’t that awful? Don’t you just hate it when that happens?”
“But all I said to Zoey was ‘I’m not going anywhere’.”
“Exactly.”
“You say ‘exactly’ one more goddamn time, Francis …”
“Because if you’re ‘not going anywhere’, then you’ll be around so she can tell you all about her problems!” Francis concludes, smiling. “You did good, Bill. ‘I’m not going anywhere’ is a great line. I use it all the time. The bitches love that one.”
“Sounds like you’ve assured a lot of ‘bitches’ over the years that you’re ‘not going anywhere’.”
“Hey, I didn’t say you have to mean it, old man. Only that they think you mean it.”
“You gotta helluva way with women, Francis. Can’t believe I’m taking advice from you. So what did you want to show me?”
“Just take a look outside Bill and tell me if you still want to try to get back to the Shake ‘n Bake.”
I move abreast of Francis and regard the scene on Main Street outside. We’re both silent for a moment and then Francis offers in low, earnest voice: “You done real good Bill, making up with her. That one ain’t no 'bitch', is she? Zoey, she’s a real lady.”
“I doubt it’s the last time that’ll be necessary, but you do have a point,” I respond, brusquely reaching over her and pulling down the carbine. “Your eye's on this one, huh?” I say, appraising it critically. “Wouldn’t be my first choice to marry with this telescopic sight …. still, should get the job done. You might be onto something, actually. It’s shorter than a regular rifle, so it’ll be a bit easier for you to handle. And see this? This weapon’s chambered for the same round as this M16. That’ll make things simpler. Yeah, if we could find an opportunity to get you a little trigger time so you’re not scared of it …..”
As I musing all this aloud, I’m gingerly extending the gun toward Zoey. I expect her to take it tentatively, but instead she grabs it out of my hands and without prompting retracts the bolt, checking that the chamber is clear. “Ruger. Mini fourteen,” she advises, casually picking up an empty magazine from the shelf and shoving it into the weapon in front of the trigger guard. I hear the bolt slam home and recognize the final metallic click as the safety being released as Zoey swings the gun up to her shoulder and sights it on an imaginary target to my right. “This scope looks brand new,” she observes. “I wonder if it’s even been zeroed yet?”
My mouth merely opens and closes several times as I struggle to give voice to my astonishment. “You … you obviously know how to handle this gun,” is the best I can come up with.
“My uncle in upstate New York had one. I spent at least two weeks with him every summer growing up. We spent a lot of time shooting tin cans. I got pretty good too. He said I was his “little Annie Oakley”. This one’s a little newer; it’s a bit different than his was up here in the front. But it works the same though.”
She’s schooled in long arms, I think. I’m marvelling at the odds of my crossing paths with someone possessed of such a skill when I again think of Donovan’s unshakable conviction that divine influence is intertwined with our fate: Do you really think it’s a coincidence, Bill?
Zoey and I catch up with the others in the administrative offices, where she happily joins them rifling through the desks and cabinets looking for supplies.
“Bill?” Francis queries with a quick lift of his chin. “Got somethin’ to show you.” As we pass through another doorway into an office fronting Main Street, Francis cautiously peels back a portion of curtain in front of the ceiling-to-floor window glass and beckons me closer for a look.
“You two make up?” he asks quietly as I advance towards the window.
“I think so.”
“Good. Otherwise the rest of us were going to lock you two up together until you decided to start acting like adults. What did you say to her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Whaddaya mean ‘I don’t know’?”
“I mean, I’m not sure I said anything.”
“You had to say something Bill.”
“I think I might have said ‘I’m not going anywhere’. Then she started crying. Then she used me for a snot rag and suddenly everything was OK. Francis, I just don’t understand women.”
Francis tips his head back and lets out a bellowing laugh. “Well don’t try to now, Bill. Did she at least do most of the talking?”
“That’s for damn sure. I think she said something about chess pieces and promises and me making her laugh.”
“Well, don’t fight it Bill. All you really need to know is they want to talk. God, do they ever want to talk. And when they come to you with a problem, for fuck’s sake, don’t try to solve it.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because they don’t want you to solve it. Alls they want you to do is know they have a problem.”
“Then why bother talking about it?
“Exactly.”
“Exactly?”
“Yes, old man. Exactly.”
“Exactly what? Start making sense, man! I can’t have that young lady taking a frigging swing at me every time I turn my back on her!”
“Exactly what you and I and every other man on the planet wants to do, solve the problem. If for no reason other than to get the bitches to shut up.”
“So, why not solve the problem if she tells you about it?”
Francis puts his arm around my shoulder and for one chilling moment, I’m reminded of Duke. “Because,“ he whispers conspiratorially. “They don’t want you to actually solve the problem; they just want you to listen to them talk about it. If we fix it, then they can't talk about it no more, can they?”
I stare at Francis, dumbfounded.
“See, Bill, men: we’re fixers. That’s what we do. We see or hear about a problem, we take care of it. But with women, that’s the exact wrong approach to take. Women just want to talk about their problems. All you gotta do is say, “Yeah babe, that stinks.” Or, “Oh, isn’t that awful? Don’t you just hate it when that happens?”
“But all I said to Zoey was ‘I’m not going anywhere’.”
“Exactly.”
“You say ‘exactly’ one more goddamn time, Francis …”
“Because if you’re ‘not going anywhere’, then you’ll be around so she can tell you all about her problems!” Francis concludes, smiling. “You did good, Bill. ‘I’m not going anywhere’ is a great line. I use it all the time. The bitches love that one.”
“Sounds like you’ve assured a lot of ‘bitches’ over the years that you’re ‘not going anywhere’.”
“Hey, I didn’t say you have to mean it, old man. Only that they think you mean it.”
“You gotta helluva way with women, Francis. Can’t believe I’m taking advice from you. So what did you want to show me?”
“Just take a look outside Bill and tell me if you still want to try to get back to the Shake ‘n Bake.”
I move abreast of Francis and regard the scene on Main Street outside. We’re both silent for a moment and then Francis offers in low, earnest voice: “You done real good Bill, making up with her. That one ain’t no 'bitch', is she? Zoey, she’s a real lady.”
Last edited by majorhavoc on Mon Aug 20, 2012 7:57 am, edited 4 times in total.
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majorhavoc - ZS Donor
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- Location: Maine
Covenant of the Damned, Part 17
by majorhavoc » Sat Aug 18, 2012 7:02 pm
In the mid-afternoon light I gaze out through the window glass onto the stretch of Main Street that passes directly in front of the police station. The stone and brick walls of buildings all along this block are darkened and streaked from the recent rain. Dark, roiling clouds, laden with moisture, hover menacingly in the afternoon sky, threatening another storm.
And arrayed before me, some just a few scant few yards away, are dozens upon dozens of infected, milling listlessly about on the street, on the sidewalks, on the entry steps of our next objective, the building directly across the street. And interspersed amidst the ranks of shuffling zombies are not one, but two Tanks and a bloated Boomer zombie. My eyes detect additional movement above and I again look skyward, this time picking out a trio of Hunter zombies crawling crazily over the steel lattice work supporting the letters that spell out the words “Shake ‘n Bake” on the roof of the building across the street. Like flies flitting about on the surface of rancid meat.
“Well this is going to complicate our plans,” I mutter quietly.
“‘Complicate our plans’?” Francis parrots incredulously. “‘Complicate’? Bill, it’s a fucking Macy’s Day parade of undead freakshow out there! The words I think you’re looking for are ‘fuck this shit - let’s go home’!”
“That parade of undead is exactly why we need to get inside that building and see what it is that Duke stole from that government convoy, Francis! Look at them; they’re being drawn to this place like bees to honey!”
“Which is exactly why we need to get as far from here as possible! Listen old man: I’ve backed you up all day. And don’t think I didn’t have my doubts even coming this far. But you were right, we’ve got guns and supplies now. And a good chance of making this trip. But this last idea, Bill? It’s too much. Even if we step out of that front door with every gun we have blazing, those tanks will be be on top of us before we can bring them down. To say nothing of those fucking zombie spidermen hanging off the side of the building over there! "
"You’re an excellent tactician Francis. I don’t deny anything you’ve just said. But you need to start thinking strategically."
"Holy fuck, old man! You’re just like Zoey described, spouting off all that army shit. Speak english! What you’re proposing is suicide. Long odds I’ll consider, but we won’t last 15 seconds out there!"
“What I’m saying Francis is that you’re right about just barging out there in the middle of that horde. I’m certainly in no mood for a suicide mission. Nor are these people,” I add, gesturing towards the office doorway. Beyond, the rest of the group is excitedly sharing news of each new discovery they find within the desk drawers they’re searching.
“Well good, Bill. Glad to hear you listen to my advice for once. So let’s quit while we’re ahead and get back to Frank’s safehouse!”
“Hold your horses son. Just hear me out. What if there was a way to get in there? Some kind of …. back door. What if we could get a look at that thing Duke found? What if there was a way to reverse what it’s doing right now; so instead of drawing zombies towards it, it could somehow push them away?”
“You mean like a fucking zombie repellent? Make ‘em want to be anywhere but where we are?”
“Exactly. We could stroll all the way to Cape May and with something like that keep ourselves and the rest of the survivors safe from these creatures indefinitely. We could actually live out our lives somewhere with a real sense of security, instead of always being on the run from these things.”
“Once we get on that boat and get to one of the islands, we won’t have to worry about them no more.”
“I hate to break it to you son, but that’s never going to happen.”
“Whaddya mean?”
“There is no island, no place in this world where these things won’t find us. As long as anyone is left alive, they’ll know about it and they’ll find a way to get to us. They'll adapt and evolve until they can swim or fly, but they will eventually get to us.”
“What are you talking about? Are you saying these things have...have....people radar?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“And how the hell would you know something like that?”
“Francis, after we got split up, when Donovan and I were in that building, we ….. we encountered something. We were in the presence of something that no one had seen before. And it was more than a physical presence; it was something beyond our everyday experience. When we encountered the creatures in the midst of that, we could …”
“Could.....”
“….. could somehow relate to them on some level. Zoey’s felt it too. An … understanding of what they are, what they want. A meeting of the minds if you will. Those things don’t just hunger, Francis, they - “
“- Wait a goddamned second, Bill! Jesus, old man. You really need to get back on your meds, you know that? Are you saying you had some kind of sixth sense-shit going on with those freaks? And Zoey too?”
“Ask Zoey and let her explain it to you in her own words. As for me, I now understand that our mere living is torture to them. They simply cannot stand to be in a world where there’s any human life. They absolutely must seek it out and destroy it.”
“And you got this from what? Some kind of Jedi-zombie mind-meld?”
I’m losing him, I think. And without this man on my side, I have no chance convincing the others to do what I know we must do. I place all my chips on the table and bet the house.
“You’ve felt it too.”
“Felt what?”
“Something.”
“Something?”
“Yes. Something … off, something -
“Yeah, Bill. Now that you mention it; I have felt something ‘off’. I’ve felt like maybe you’ve been slowly goin’ ‘off’ the deep end. I’ve felt like you got this eternal youth shit going on after getting infected and it’s slowly gone to your eighty-year old brain.”
“Sixty-six year old brain.”
“Yeah, whatever. Your fossilized old brain. You’ve done a lot for us, old man. I’ll give you that. But if you think I’m going to believe you’re some kind of voodoo-zombie shaman -”
“- Just tell me this: have you had a single quiet moment in the past few days? A moment when no one was talking? When you weren’t really thinking about anything?”
“A what? Yeah, sure. When I’m chillin’.”
“And when that happens you haven’t felt, or maybe thought you could hear -”
“You mean since I was infected?”
It means something that he volunteered that, I think. I was about to suggest that, but he brought it up first. “Yes! Since you were infected!”
“You mean the buzzing? Well not exactly ‘buzzing’, more like I can always hear this faint - well, not exactly like ‘hear’ because it’s really more like ‘feeling’.... “
“Like the sound of the taste of chewing on tinfoil,” Zoey suggests, hovering near the doorway, listening in on our conversation.
“The sound of the taste of chewing on tinfoil,” I repeat. “That’s not how I’d put it, but - “
“ - But now that you mention it, that’s sort of ... it. Exactly,” Francis says, finishing my sentence.
“But it’s not really there, not right there, but sort of tucked into the gaps between the silence,” Zoey continues. “Except you can’t really hear any sound in silence, right? So you decide that you....”
“.... that you aren’t really hearing anything, because it’s not really here,” Francis, picking up the thread. “Except for something that isn’t really there, it sure as hell is persistent.”
“And it’s stronger now than it was before,” I join in. “Isn’t it?”
“Maybe,” Francis allows. “Maybe it is stronger.”
“You know why?”
“No,” Francis sighs in exasperation. “But somehow I think you’re going to tell me why.”
“Because,” I continue, pointing to the curtained window facing Main Street. “Because of what’s across the street, inside that building over there. “It’s having some kind of effect on the zombies, and it’s having some kind of effect …. on us.”
And arrayed before me, some just a few scant few yards away, are dozens upon dozens of infected, milling listlessly about on the street, on the sidewalks, on the entry steps of our next objective, the building directly across the street. And interspersed amidst the ranks of shuffling zombies are not one, but two Tanks and a bloated Boomer zombie. My eyes detect additional movement above and I again look skyward, this time picking out a trio of Hunter zombies crawling crazily over the steel lattice work supporting the letters that spell out the words “Shake ‘n Bake” on the roof of the building across the street. Like flies flitting about on the surface of rancid meat.
“Well this is going to complicate our plans,” I mutter quietly.
“‘Complicate our plans’?” Francis parrots incredulously. “‘Complicate’? Bill, it’s a fucking Macy’s Day parade of undead freakshow out there! The words I think you’re looking for are ‘fuck this shit - let’s go home’!”
“That parade of undead is exactly why we need to get inside that building and see what it is that Duke stole from that government convoy, Francis! Look at them; they’re being drawn to this place like bees to honey!”
“Which is exactly why we need to get as far from here as possible! Listen old man: I’ve backed you up all day. And don’t think I didn’t have my doubts even coming this far. But you were right, we’ve got guns and supplies now. And a good chance of making this trip. But this last idea, Bill? It’s too much. Even if we step out of that front door with every gun we have blazing, those tanks will be be on top of us before we can bring them down. To say nothing of those fucking zombie spidermen hanging off the side of the building over there! "
"You’re an excellent tactician Francis. I don’t deny anything you’ve just said. But you need to start thinking strategically."
"Holy fuck, old man! You’re just like Zoey described, spouting off all that army shit. Speak english! What you’re proposing is suicide. Long odds I’ll consider, but we won’t last 15 seconds out there!"
“What I’m saying Francis is that you’re right about just barging out there in the middle of that horde. I’m certainly in no mood for a suicide mission. Nor are these people,” I add, gesturing towards the office doorway. Beyond, the rest of the group is excitedly sharing news of each new discovery they find within the desk drawers they’re searching.
“Well good, Bill. Glad to hear you listen to my advice for once. So let’s quit while we’re ahead and get back to Frank’s safehouse!”
“Hold your horses son. Just hear me out. What if there was a way to get in there? Some kind of …. back door. What if we could get a look at that thing Duke found? What if there was a way to reverse what it’s doing right now; so instead of drawing zombies towards it, it could somehow push them away?”
“You mean like a fucking zombie repellent? Make ‘em want to be anywhere but where we are?”
“Exactly. We could stroll all the way to Cape May and with something like that keep ourselves and the rest of the survivors safe from these creatures indefinitely. We could actually live out our lives somewhere with a real sense of security, instead of always being on the run from these things.”
“Once we get on that boat and get to one of the islands, we won’t have to worry about them no more.”
“I hate to break it to you son, but that’s never going to happen.”
“Whaddya mean?”
“There is no island, no place in this world where these things won’t find us. As long as anyone is left alive, they’ll know about it and they’ll find a way to get to us. They'll adapt and evolve until they can swim or fly, but they will eventually get to us.”
“What are you talking about? Are you saying these things have...have....people radar?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“And how the hell would you know something like that?”
“Francis, after we got split up, when Donovan and I were in that building, we ….. we encountered something. We were in the presence of something that no one had seen before. And it was more than a physical presence; it was something beyond our everyday experience. When we encountered the creatures in the midst of that, we could …”
“Could.....”
“….. could somehow relate to them on some level. Zoey’s felt it too. An … understanding of what they are, what they want. A meeting of the minds if you will. Those things don’t just hunger, Francis, they - “
“- Wait a goddamned second, Bill! Jesus, old man. You really need to get back on your meds, you know that? Are you saying you had some kind of sixth sense-shit going on with those freaks? And Zoey too?”
“Ask Zoey and let her explain it to you in her own words. As for me, I now understand that our mere living is torture to them. They simply cannot stand to be in a world where there’s any human life. They absolutely must seek it out and destroy it.”
“And you got this from what? Some kind of Jedi-zombie mind-meld?”
I’m losing him, I think. And without this man on my side, I have no chance convincing the others to do what I know we must do. I place all my chips on the table and bet the house.
“You’ve felt it too.”
“Felt what?”
“Something.”
“Something?”
“Yes. Something … off, something -
“Yeah, Bill. Now that you mention it; I have felt something ‘off’. I’ve felt like maybe you’ve been slowly goin’ ‘off’ the deep end. I’ve felt like you got this eternal youth shit going on after getting infected and it’s slowly gone to your eighty-year old brain.”
“Sixty-six year old brain.”
“Yeah, whatever. Your fossilized old brain. You’ve done a lot for us, old man. I’ll give you that. But if you think I’m going to believe you’re some kind of voodoo-zombie shaman -”
“- Just tell me this: have you had a single quiet moment in the past few days? A moment when no one was talking? When you weren’t really thinking about anything?”
“A what? Yeah, sure. When I’m chillin’.”
“And when that happens you haven’t felt, or maybe thought you could hear -”
“You mean since I was infected?”
It means something that he volunteered that, I think. I was about to suggest that, but he brought it up first. “Yes! Since you were infected!”
“You mean the buzzing? Well not exactly ‘buzzing’, more like I can always hear this faint - well, not exactly like ‘hear’ because it’s really more like ‘feeling’.... “
“Like the sound of the taste of chewing on tinfoil,” Zoey suggests, hovering near the doorway, listening in on our conversation.
“The sound of the taste of chewing on tinfoil,” I repeat. “That’s not how I’d put it, but - “
“ - But now that you mention it, that’s sort of ... it. Exactly,” Francis says, finishing my sentence.
“But it’s not really there, not right there, but sort of tucked into the gaps between the silence,” Zoey continues. “Except you can’t really hear any sound in silence, right? So you decide that you....”
“.... that you aren’t really hearing anything, because it’s not really here,” Francis, picking up the thread. “Except for something that isn’t really there, it sure as hell is persistent.”
“And it’s stronger now than it was before,” I join in. “Isn’t it?”
“Maybe,” Francis allows. “Maybe it is stronger.”
“You know why?”
“No,” Francis sighs in exasperation. “But somehow I think you’re going to tell me why.”
“Because,” I continue, pointing to the curtained window facing Main Street. “Because of what’s across the street, inside that building over there. “It’s having some kind of effect on the zombies, and it’s having some kind of effect …. on us.”
Last edited by majorhavoc on Sun Aug 19, 2012 7:52 am, edited 2 times in total.
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majorhavoc - ZS Donor
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Re: The Restless Dead
by DTyra » Sat Aug 18, 2012 10:42 pm
Yayah Baby! I'm lovin' it!
You weren't born with a silver spoon in your mouth; you were born with a shovel up your ass, so pull it out and start digging!
Short stories about the subsidiary characters of "Behind a Veil of Darkness" http://zombiefictionandothertales.blogspot.com
Short stories about the subsidiary characters of "Behind a Veil of Darkness" http://zombiefictionandothertales.blogspot.com
- DTyra
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Re: The Restless Dead
by Sheriff McClelland » Sat Aug 18, 2012 11:38 pm
I love this ride 
"Yeah, they're dead. They're all messed up. "
- Sheriff McClelland
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Covenant of the Damned, Part 18
by majorhavoc » Sun Aug 19, 2012 1:50 pm
We share the new dilemma with the rest of group in the joint office room where the others have been searching. The only thing we all seem to agree on is that simply walking across the street and entering the Shake ‘n Bake through the front entrance is tantamount to suicide. Francis reminds us that the rear entrance is sealed from the inside per the late gang leader Duke’s ill-considered instructions.
Attempting to reach the pine trees on the western side of building and using them to climb up to the roof is quickly considered and just as quickly rejected.
“What if we could draw them away from the Shake ‘n Bake; maybe into another fire trap?” Rebecca suggests.
Under the circumstances, another diversion seems like the only feasible plan. Except that judging from the quality of light visible through the window, it’s now at least 4:00 pm. This time of year, we have a maximum of three hours of workable daylight left.
“Besides,” I find myself conceding, “taking on a horde of ordinary zombies is one thing. But Francis and I counted at least three of those hunter creatures, a pair of tank zombies and a boomer out there. Even assuming we could lure them into another trap, the tanks seem fairly resistant to fire based on what Francis and I discovered in that parking garage. And the way those hunters move, they’d just as likely go over or around any trap we set up.”
“And if we pop fatso waddling around out there,” Francis says, referring to the boomer zombie, “Within thirty seconds we’ll be dealing with a horde double that size.”
Donovan, seeking to contribute to the discussion: “Yes, I believe it important to note that there are two distinctly different categories of zombies now. The common infected and then the unique ones; the hunters, tanks and boomers. And possibly variants we haven’t yet seen.”
“And what makes you suddenly an expert on zombies, padre?” Francis retorts. “Don’t you tend to squeeze your eyes tight and curl up into a ball every time we run into one?”
“Francis! Hear him out,” Rebecca hisses. “Donovan told me he and Bill faced some things in that building they were chased into that you can’t even imagine!”
“Donovan raises a valid point,” I add, coming to the man’s defense. Then I address Donovan directly. “In fact, when we get back to the safe house tonight, I’d like you to debrief …... go over with everyone everything we know so far about these different types of zombies. And I want you to explain to the others exactly what we saw in that building back there. What it looked like, what it appeared to be doing, and especially how it made you feel when we encountered it.”
A pained look comes across Donovan’s face. “Bill, I wasn’t myself at that point. I’m not proud of how I reacted when we first - “
“ - how it made both of us feel, Donovan. I reach over and rest my hand on his shoulder. “I had the benefit of some training and experience that you didn’t,” I assure him. ”That was the only difference between us in that room back there. And I believe it was more than just a feeling. I believe we were … exposed to something. Made privy to a …. consciousness.”
Donovan nods gratefully. “I’ll do the best I can to describe the un-describable. But Bill, what I’m hearing everyone saying right now is there’s just no viable way to get into the Shake ‘n Bake.”
I’m about to reluctantly agree when Lottie, silent through this entire exchange, finally offers a contribution. “Maybe not, people. Francis, didn’t you say your gang was able to run the Shake ‘n Bake right across the street from the Drexel Hill police because you reached an … accommodation with them?”
“Yeah, except what I meant by ‘accommodation’ is that every month, Duke sent the police chief a fat envelope marked ‘liquor license documentation’. Could it be any more obvious, or do I have to spell it out for you?”
“No, we figured that last part out the first time you told us, Francis. And it’s the apocalypse in case you’ve forgotten, so no need to be coy about it anymore. But, judging from these diagrams, I’d say your police chief was planning a bit of a double cross.”
“What?” Francis sputters as he rushes over to the desk in front of Lottie, on which she has several large diagrams spread out. “What the fuck am I looking at? Looks like someone with dyslexia went ape-shit with an Etch-a-Sketch.”
“That’s because you don’t know how to read an engineering diagram, Francis,” Lottie retorts. “These are schematics showing the facilities engineering layout of every building on this block. And underneath this block. Zoey and I found these in the police chief’s private office, didn’t we Zoey? Zoey?”
At that moment Zoey enters the room from the police chief’s office, looking startled and zipping up her backpack. “What, why is everyone looking at me? Is this my big entrance? I was just, you know, packing up some things I found in there that we could use.”
“OK, so the police chief liked fancy diagrams, so what?” Francis queries anxiously.
“Well see these dashed lines here?” Lottie continues. “These lines show everything that’s below grade - underground. This is the main sewer tunnel that runs right beneath Main Street. And these are trunk lines feeding off of the individual buildings. See? Like little tributaries feeding a big river.”
We lean in closer and as our eyes begin to distinguish between the solid and dashed lines, two distinct images of the area between the police station and the Shake ‘n Bake leap off the paper diagrams. One a street level view, the second revealing a hidden world beneath.
Lottie, directing our focus: “See this one coming from the Shake ‘n Bake? Look how big it is - almost as big the main line itself. A couple-three people could walk abreast through that pipe. That’s because the Shake ‘n Bake is a really, really old building. It’s the kind that has an internal rainwater collection system - no gutters or drains or anything like on more modern construction. It shunts all of the roof runoff, plus all the stuff from the bathrooms, into this big cistern in the basement here. And that opens directly onto this big branch line.”
Lottie looks up at us, expecting enlightenment. When she doesn’t get, she prompts us: “And the branch line runs straight back to the main sewer tunnel. Directly under Main Street. Hello?”
“So you’re saying anyone could get into the Shake ‘n Bake from the main sewer tunnel, which we could access through any manhole,” I say, starting to see what Lottie’s getting at.
“Oh, it’s even better than that, Bill,” Lottie responds, chuckling sardonically. “Check this out. Look at the size of the trunk line coming off our building here; the police station. That’s frigging huge compared to what it needs to be. With gutters and modern roof drainage systems, there’s no way you need anything near that big. We’re just talking toilets and sink drains in a modern building. All you need is a pipe. But this bad boy here is practically a tunnel; big enough for a person to crawl through. That’s way over spec’ed. Tell me Francis, what came first? This new public safety building or the police chief your man Duke reached that 'accommodation' with?”
“The police chief. He was a real mover and shaker. Had his hands into everything, not just what we were doing in the Shake ‘n Bake. Had this fancy new building put up according to his grand vision.”
“And his personal specifications,” Lottie adds. “Yeah I thought so. This is where we get to the double-cross part. Not only is the trunk line for the police station oversized, but look what else they had built right in the basement. See this? It’s labeled ‘Overflow/Inspection tank’. What the hell is an ‘Overflow/Inspection tank' in a modern municipal building? I already showed you how the line they installed is way bigger than it needs to be. The only way this 'overflow tank' would ever contain any liquid at all is if the whole damn municipal sewage system backed up. You’d need a biblical flood for that to happen. And if it ever did, this tank here wouldn’t accomplish a damn thing. No, this installation serves one purpose and one purpose only: to allow someone to enter the oversized trunk line through that ‘inspection’ port.”
“Which gives them access to the main sewer tunnel.” Rebecca observes.
“Which gives them access to the trunk line leading to the Shake ‘n Bake” Donovan continues.
“Which gave that shit-head two-timing cop access to our basement, where we kept the cash, drugs and guns. He was planning on taking it all and making it look like a sting operation.” Francis concludes, pounding his fist onto the desk. “Bastard!”
“So we’ve found our way into the Shake ‘n Bake! Without having to face all those zombies!” Zoey cries triumphantly.
“Lottie, I just have one question for you,” I ask, my mind spinning. “How is that you know how to read a technical diagram like this?”
“I worked in the city planning office in Philadelphia for eight years,” Lottie replies matter-of-factly. “And before that I got my degree in civil engineering. Reading these diagrams is easy for me.”
“Of course it is, Lottie,” Donovan says smugly. “It comes easy for you, because it was necessary for you to read this diagram for us when we found it. And I assure you all, we were meant to find it.”
Everyone else in the room looks perplexed when Donovan says this. Everyone else except for me.
Knowing this, Donovan turns to me: “I honestly wouldn’t keep bringing it up, Bill. But it just keeps happening, doesn’t it? There are no coincidences anymore. This was all meant to unfold exactly the way it’s occurring. Continue denying if that comforts you, Bill. But like your man Francis has already said: “Could it be any more obvious, or do I have to spell it out for you?”
Attempting to reach the pine trees on the western side of building and using them to climb up to the roof is quickly considered and just as quickly rejected.
“What if we could draw them away from the Shake ‘n Bake; maybe into another fire trap?” Rebecca suggests.
Under the circumstances, another diversion seems like the only feasible plan. Except that judging from the quality of light visible through the window, it’s now at least 4:00 pm. This time of year, we have a maximum of three hours of workable daylight left.
“Besides,” I find myself conceding, “taking on a horde of ordinary zombies is one thing. But Francis and I counted at least three of those hunter creatures, a pair of tank zombies and a boomer out there. Even assuming we could lure them into another trap, the tanks seem fairly resistant to fire based on what Francis and I discovered in that parking garage. And the way those hunters move, they’d just as likely go over or around any trap we set up.”
“And if we pop fatso waddling around out there,” Francis says, referring to the boomer zombie, “Within thirty seconds we’ll be dealing with a horde double that size.”
Donovan, seeking to contribute to the discussion: “Yes, I believe it important to note that there are two distinctly different categories of zombies now. The common infected and then the unique ones; the hunters, tanks and boomers. And possibly variants we haven’t yet seen.”
“And what makes you suddenly an expert on zombies, padre?” Francis retorts. “Don’t you tend to squeeze your eyes tight and curl up into a ball every time we run into one?”
“Francis! Hear him out,” Rebecca hisses. “Donovan told me he and Bill faced some things in that building they were chased into that you can’t even imagine!”
“Donovan raises a valid point,” I add, coming to the man’s defense. Then I address Donovan directly. “In fact, when we get back to the safe house tonight, I’d like you to debrief …... go over with everyone everything we know so far about these different types of zombies. And I want you to explain to the others exactly what we saw in that building back there. What it looked like, what it appeared to be doing, and especially how it made you feel when we encountered it.”
A pained look comes across Donovan’s face. “Bill, I wasn’t myself at that point. I’m not proud of how I reacted when we first - “
“ - how it made both of us feel, Donovan. I reach over and rest my hand on his shoulder. “I had the benefit of some training and experience that you didn’t,” I assure him. ”That was the only difference between us in that room back there. And I believe it was more than just a feeling. I believe we were … exposed to something. Made privy to a …. consciousness.”
Donovan nods gratefully. “I’ll do the best I can to describe the un-describable. But Bill, what I’m hearing everyone saying right now is there’s just no viable way to get into the Shake ‘n Bake.”
I’m about to reluctantly agree when Lottie, silent through this entire exchange, finally offers a contribution. “Maybe not, people. Francis, didn’t you say your gang was able to run the Shake ‘n Bake right across the street from the Drexel Hill police because you reached an … accommodation with them?”
“Yeah, except what I meant by ‘accommodation’ is that every month, Duke sent the police chief a fat envelope marked ‘liquor license documentation’. Could it be any more obvious, or do I have to spell it out for you?”
“No, we figured that last part out the first time you told us, Francis. And it’s the apocalypse in case you’ve forgotten, so no need to be coy about it anymore. But, judging from these diagrams, I’d say your police chief was planning a bit of a double cross.”
“What?” Francis sputters as he rushes over to the desk in front of Lottie, on which she has several large diagrams spread out. “What the fuck am I looking at? Looks like someone with dyslexia went ape-shit with an Etch-a-Sketch.”
“That’s because you don’t know how to read an engineering diagram, Francis,” Lottie retorts. “These are schematics showing the facilities engineering layout of every building on this block. And underneath this block. Zoey and I found these in the police chief’s private office, didn’t we Zoey? Zoey?”
At that moment Zoey enters the room from the police chief’s office, looking startled and zipping up her backpack. “What, why is everyone looking at me? Is this my big entrance? I was just, you know, packing up some things I found in there that we could use.”
“OK, so the police chief liked fancy diagrams, so what?” Francis queries anxiously.
“Well see these dashed lines here?” Lottie continues. “These lines show everything that’s below grade - underground. This is the main sewer tunnel that runs right beneath Main Street. And these are trunk lines feeding off of the individual buildings. See? Like little tributaries feeding a big river.”
We lean in closer and as our eyes begin to distinguish between the solid and dashed lines, two distinct images of the area between the police station and the Shake ‘n Bake leap off the paper diagrams. One a street level view, the second revealing a hidden world beneath.
Lottie, directing our focus: “See this one coming from the Shake ‘n Bake? Look how big it is - almost as big the main line itself. A couple-three people could walk abreast through that pipe. That’s because the Shake ‘n Bake is a really, really old building. It’s the kind that has an internal rainwater collection system - no gutters or drains or anything like on more modern construction. It shunts all of the roof runoff, plus all the stuff from the bathrooms, into this big cistern in the basement here. And that opens directly onto this big branch line.”
Lottie looks up at us, expecting enlightenment. When she doesn’t get, she prompts us: “And the branch line runs straight back to the main sewer tunnel. Directly under Main Street. Hello?”
“So you’re saying anyone could get into the Shake ‘n Bake from the main sewer tunnel, which we could access through any manhole,” I say, starting to see what Lottie’s getting at.
“Oh, it’s even better than that, Bill,” Lottie responds, chuckling sardonically. “Check this out. Look at the size of the trunk line coming off our building here; the police station. That’s frigging huge compared to what it needs to be. With gutters and modern roof drainage systems, there’s no way you need anything near that big. We’re just talking toilets and sink drains in a modern building. All you need is a pipe. But this bad boy here is practically a tunnel; big enough for a person to crawl through. That’s way over spec’ed. Tell me Francis, what came first? This new public safety building or the police chief your man Duke reached that 'accommodation' with?”
“The police chief. He was a real mover and shaker. Had his hands into everything, not just what we were doing in the Shake ‘n Bake. Had this fancy new building put up according to his grand vision.”
“And his personal specifications,” Lottie adds. “Yeah I thought so. This is where we get to the double-cross part. Not only is the trunk line for the police station oversized, but look what else they had built right in the basement. See this? It’s labeled ‘Overflow/Inspection tank’. What the hell is an ‘Overflow/Inspection tank' in a modern municipal building? I already showed you how the line they installed is way bigger than it needs to be. The only way this 'overflow tank' would ever contain any liquid at all is if the whole damn municipal sewage system backed up. You’d need a biblical flood for that to happen. And if it ever did, this tank here wouldn’t accomplish a damn thing. No, this installation serves one purpose and one purpose only: to allow someone to enter the oversized trunk line through that ‘inspection’ port.”
“Which gives them access to the main sewer tunnel.” Rebecca observes.
“Which gives them access to the trunk line leading to the Shake ‘n Bake” Donovan continues.
“Which gave that shit-head two-timing cop access to our basement, where we kept the cash, drugs and guns. He was planning on taking it all and making it look like a sting operation.” Francis concludes, pounding his fist onto the desk. “Bastard!”
“So we’ve found our way into the Shake ‘n Bake! Without having to face all those zombies!” Zoey cries triumphantly.
“Lottie, I just have one question for you,” I ask, my mind spinning. “How is that you know how to read a technical diagram like this?”
“I worked in the city planning office in Philadelphia for eight years,” Lottie replies matter-of-factly. “And before that I got my degree in civil engineering. Reading these diagrams is easy for me.”
“Of course it is, Lottie,” Donovan says smugly. “It comes easy for you, because it was necessary for you to read this diagram for us when we found it. And I assure you all, we were meant to find it.”
Everyone else in the room looks perplexed when Donovan says this. Everyone else except for me.
Knowing this, Donovan turns to me: “I honestly wouldn’t keep bringing it up, Bill. But it just keeps happening, doesn’t it? There are no coincidences anymore. This was all meant to unfold exactly the way it’s occurring. Continue denying if that comforts you, Bill. But like your man Francis has already said: “Could it be any more obvious, or do I have to spell it out for you?”
Last edited by majorhavoc on Mon Aug 20, 2012 8:19 am, edited 1 time in total.
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majorhavoc - ZS Donor
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Re: The Restless Dead
by Sheriff McClelland » Sun Aug 19, 2012 6:21 pm
It just keeps getting better ...
"Yeah, they're dead. They're all messed up. "
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Covenant of the Damned, Part 19
by majorhavoc » Sun Aug 19, 2012 6:45 pm
With no electric lighting or natural light from windows, it’s pitch dark when we open the door leading into the basement stairwell. Bringing up the rear, I watch as our party noisily makes it way down the steps, their footfalls and nervous chatter echoing off the cinder block walls. In spite of my prior coaching, the group is practicing little in the way of effective noise or light discipline. Numerous lights and batteries were found in the police station offices, so we’re each now equipped with a functioning flashlight, and every single person feels compelled to use theirs. Flashlight beams are constantly flickering in people's faces and sweeping in every possible direction. And just about everyone is continuously (and pointlessly) reminding someone else to hush before they themselves voice aloud the next new thought or observation that pops into their heads.
As we emerge from the stairwell into the basement corridor, I see that only Francis, at his usual station walking point, is focused on any threats we might encounter, cautiously and systematically sweeping the corridor head of us with his flashlight, now zip-tied to the barrel of his shotgun. Mercifully, he finally snaps and chastens the group into silence.
“Shut yer mother-fucking yaps, people!” He hisses in exasperation. “Either that or somebody grab a bullhorn ‘cause there might be one or two zombies down here that still don’t know we’re comin’! And Zoey - Zoey! Don’t shine that thing in my face! Have you noticed that every time anyone talks you shine it right in their face?”
“Sorry, Francis!” Zoey professes with a grimace, shrugging her shoulders. Then whispering: “Note to self: do-not-blind-every-single-person-who-is-talking. Got it!”
Walking just behind Francis with her light trained studiously on a folded paper diagram is Lottie, directing our progress. “There should be a hallway leading off to the right up ahead; we need to get to the northeast corner of the basement.”
The last doorway, which according to Lottie’s diagram opens into the utility room housing the ‘overflow/inspection tank’, is locked. And not with the normal lockset found elsewhere in the building, but a heavy duty padlock and an armored hasp. “Somebody didn’t want the janitors poking around in this room,” Francis observes sarcastically. "Gee, I wonder why?”
“Think you can get through that with your axe?” Lottie asks looking at the metal door, door frame and lock dubiously. “That looks pretty heavy duty.”
“Hold up, guys!” Zoey whispers urgently. “Think I got a key here for that padlock.” She produces a heavy keychain laden with keys. “From the police chief’s desk,” she advises us. "Figured as long as we're poking around a police station run by a crooked police chief, we'd probably be interested in any keys he kept in his desk." Peering closely at the massive padlock blocking egress, she consults the key ring and then selects one. “Try this one, Francis; it’s the only one that says “MasterLock”.
“No, think about what you’re asking, Zoey,” I say, shouldering my way to the front rank and racking the bolt on the M16. “Francis is on point and you know that. So if he’s unlocking the goddamn door, who’s covering him if there’s a zed waiting on the other side?”
“Oops,” Zoey replies sheepishly.
“We need to stop relying on luck and start doing things by the book,” I announce. “This has been a long day, people. And I’m proud of each of you for everything you’ve done so far. But let’s get through this last part with no losses, OK?“
Silence from the group.
“I should have made this crystal clear earlier, but I didn’t. So I apologize to each of you. But I’m not going to apologize anymore for talking like a soldier. Because from this moment forward, that’s what each of you are. From when you first set foot out of a safe house in the morning until we lock that door behind us at night, you’re all soldiers on duty and the lives of the people next to you depend on you understanding that you are absolutely in the fight of your lives. Are we clear on that?”
Silence.
"I said are we clear on that?"
“Yes, Bill,” comes the reply in a chastened, disjointed chorus.
“Good. That means you keep your goddamn flashlights out of each other's faces. It takes twenty minutes for the human eye to become fully dark adapted, and about two seconds of bright light to reset your vision back to ‘blind as a bat’. And no idle chit-chat anymore when we are in a hostile environment. Not only are you potentially giving away our position, but every thought you devote to what you’re going to say next is a thought not spent on looking out for zombies.”
“And you’re all armed now, so let’s make damn sure the only things we shoot are the enemy. Donovan, that means you get your goddamn finger off that trigger or I’m taking that rifle away from you. Look where you got it pointed; you stumble on a crack and you’re going to shoot Lottie in the calf! We are not engaged at the moment so everyone except the man or woman walking point should have their weapons on safe and your fingers out of those trigger guards. There’s going to be zero friendly fire incidents, understood?”
Again, a grudging, sullen communal response: “Yes Bill.”
“Alright. Francis you stand over there so you’ll have the first quadrant in your field of fire as soon as the door opens. I’m right behind you practicing trigger discipline. Donovan, you may move to the back of the group, unsafety your weapon and cover our rear. OK, Zoey, unlock that door and then step aside.”
There are, of course, no zombies in the next room. But the point is made, and we enter safely due to circumstances beyond blind, stupid luck.
Lottie's suspicions about the police chief's designs on the Shake 'n Bake are all but confirmed when we first spy the inspection port. A circular composite disk resembling an undersized manhole cover, it lies on the concrete floor next to a matching hole, and two heavy duty power cords snake into it. Someone has been in the trunk line recently, and has been running power to some kind of equipment within the tunnels below.
With no functioning plumbing, the three foot wide trunk line is bone dry as we crawl along, single file, in the darkness. Lottie advised us it runs only forty feet, but it seems much longer than that as we make our way on hands and knees, slowly, awkwardly. Whether due to my harsh lecture or the oppressive confines of the narrow tunnel, no one needs to be reminded to remain quiet as we slowly work our way northward. Finally, the trunk line opens up into the damp, inky darkness of the main sewer tunnel. In the dim light of our flashlights, scrupulously directed ever downwards, we spread out along a slipperly, narrow stone service walk just inches above a swiftly flowing stream of dark, filthy water.
“It just started raining again when we came down the basement stairs,” Lottie advises. “But most of this is run off from the rains earlier in the day. If it keeps up outside, I imagine this water level is going to rise at least a few inches. We might get our feet wet on the way back.”
We’re already wet from the walls of sewer tunnel, seeping moisture and slick with mold and the accumulated slime of a hundred years of human refuse. The stench is overpowering. In the reflected light I see the expressions on everyone’s faces are uniformly grim and wrinkled in disgust. I direct my flashlight beam down the tunnel leading to the west. The light is largely diffused by a dense strata of fog that is visibly flowing along in the darkness, just like the fetid current running beneath our feet.
“This is the way, right?” I ask Lottie, my voice echoing ominously in up and down the tunnel. The question is a mere formality; as the two power cords we’ve been following for the last several minutes disappear into the darkness in that direction.
Lottie looks up from the folded schematic in her hands, already starting to disintegrate in the dampness. “Yep. About sixty feet down this tunnel, the Shake ‘n Bake trunk line will lead off to the north. It’ll be big, so no way we can miss it, even in this fog. But it’ll be on the opposite side of this tunnel, everyone. So we’ll have to jump or, um, wade across to the walkway on the other side.
“OK, people,” I instruct. “Stay sharp and no one fall in. Francis, take a break and cover our rear. I’ll be on point for this next stretch.”
As we emerge from the stairwell into the basement corridor, I see that only Francis, at his usual station walking point, is focused on any threats we might encounter, cautiously and systematically sweeping the corridor head of us with his flashlight, now zip-tied to the barrel of his shotgun. Mercifully, he finally snaps and chastens the group into silence.
“Shut yer mother-fucking yaps, people!” He hisses in exasperation. “Either that or somebody grab a bullhorn ‘cause there might be one or two zombies down here that still don’t know we’re comin’! And Zoey - Zoey! Don’t shine that thing in my face! Have you noticed that every time anyone talks you shine it right in their face?”
“Sorry, Francis!” Zoey professes with a grimace, shrugging her shoulders. Then whispering: “Note to self: do-not-blind-every-single-person-who-is-talking. Got it!”
Walking just behind Francis with her light trained studiously on a folded paper diagram is Lottie, directing our progress. “There should be a hallway leading off to the right up ahead; we need to get to the northeast corner of the basement.”
The last doorway, which according to Lottie’s diagram opens into the utility room housing the ‘overflow/inspection tank’, is locked. And not with the normal lockset found elsewhere in the building, but a heavy duty padlock and an armored hasp. “Somebody didn’t want the janitors poking around in this room,” Francis observes sarcastically. "Gee, I wonder why?”
“Think you can get through that with your axe?” Lottie asks looking at the metal door, door frame and lock dubiously. “That looks pretty heavy duty.”
“Hold up, guys!” Zoey whispers urgently. “Think I got a key here for that padlock.” She produces a heavy keychain laden with keys. “From the police chief’s desk,” she advises us. "Figured as long as we're poking around a police station run by a crooked police chief, we'd probably be interested in any keys he kept in his desk." Peering closely at the massive padlock blocking egress, she consults the key ring and then selects one. “Try this one, Francis; it’s the only one that says “MasterLock”.
“No, think about what you’re asking, Zoey,” I say, shouldering my way to the front rank and racking the bolt on the M16. “Francis is on point and you know that. So if he’s unlocking the goddamn door, who’s covering him if there’s a zed waiting on the other side?”
“Oops,” Zoey replies sheepishly.
“We need to stop relying on luck and start doing things by the book,” I announce. “This has been a long day, people. And I’m proud of each of you for everything you’ve done so far. But let’s get through this last part with no losses, OK?“
Silence from the group.
“I should have made this crystal clear earlier, but I didn’t. So I apologize to each of you. But I’m not going to apologize anymore for talking like a soldier. Because from this moment forward, that’s what each of you are. From when you first set foot out of a safe house in the morning until we lock that door behind us at night, you’re all soldiers on duty and the lives of the people next to you depend on you understanding that you are absolutely in the fight of your lives. Are we clear on that?”
Silence.
"I said are we clear on that?"
“Yes, Bill,” comes the reply in a chastened, disjointed chorus.
“Good. That means you keep your goddamn flashlights out of each other's faces. It takes twenty minutes for the human eye to become fully dark adapted, and about two seconds of bright light to reset your vision back to ‘blind as a bat’. And no idle chit-chat anymore when we are in a hostile environment. Not only are you potentially giving away our position, but every thought you devote to what you’re going to say next is a thought not spent on looking out for zombies.”
“And you’re all armed now, so let’s make damn sure the only things we shoot are the enemy. Donovan, that means you get your goddamn finger off that trigger or I’m taking that rifle away from you. Look where you got it pointed; you stumble on a crack and you’re going to shoot Lottie in the calf! We are not engaged at the moment so everyone except the man or woman walking point should have their weapons on safe and your fingers out of those trigger guards. There’s going to be zero friendly fire incidents, understood?”
Again, a grudging, sullen communal response: “Yes Bill.”
“Alright. Francis you stand over there so you’ll have the first quadrant in your field of fire as soon as the door opens. I’m right behind you practicing trigger discipline. Donovan, you may move to the back of the group, unsafety your weapon and cover our rear. OK, Zoey, unlock that door and then step aside.”
There are, of course, no zombies in the next room. But the point is made, and we enter safely due to circumstances beyond blind, stupid luck.
Lottie's suspicions about the police chief's designs on the Shake 'n Bake are all but confirmed when we first spy the inspection port. A circular composite disk resembling an undersized manhole cover, it lies on the concrete floor next to a matching hole, and two heavy duty power cords snake into it. Someone has been in the trunk line recently, and has been running power to some kind of equipment within the tunnels below.
With no functioning plumbing, the three foot wide trunk line is bone dry as we crawl along, single file, in the darkness. Lottie advised us it runs only forty feet, but it seems much longer than that as we make our way on hands and knees, slowly, awkwardly. Whether due to my harsh lecture or the oppressive confines of the narrow tunnel, no one needs to be reminded to remain quiet as we slowly work our way northward. Finally, the trunk line opens up into the damp, inky darkness of the main sewer tunnel. In the dim light of our flashlights, scrupulously directed ever downwards, we spread out along a slipperly, narrow stone service walk just inches above a swiftly flowing stream of dark, filthy water.
“It just started raining again when we came down the basement stairs,” Lottie advises. “But most of this is run off from the rains earlier in the day. If it keeps up outside, I imagine this water level is going to rise at least a few inches. We might get our feet wet on the way back.”
We’re already wet from the walls of sewer tunnel, seeping moisture and slick with mold and the accumulated slime of a hundred years of human refuse. The stench is overpowering. In the reflected light I see the expressions on everyone’s faces are uniformly grim and wrinkled in disgust. I direct my flashlight beam down the tunnel leading to the west. The light is largely diffused by a dense strata of fog that is visibly flowing along in the darkness, just like the fetid current running beneath our feet.
“This is the way, right?” I ask Lottie, my voice echoing ominously in up and down the tunnel. The question is a mere formality; as the two power cords we’ve been following for the last several minutes disappear into the darkness in that direction.
Lottie looks up from the folded schematic in her hands, already starting to disintegrate in the dampness. “Yep. About sixty feet down this tunnel, the Shake ‘n Bake trunk line will lead off to the north. It’ll be big, so no way we can miss it, even in this fog. But it’ll be on the opposite side of this tunnel, everyone. So we’ll have to jump or, um, wade across to the walkway on the other side.
“OK, people,” I instruct. “Stay sharp and no one fall in. Francis, take a break and cover our rear. I’ll be on point for this next stretch.”
Last edited by majorhavoc on Mon Aug 20, 2012 9:54 am, edited 3 times in total.
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Re: The Restless Dead
by DTyra » Sun Aug 19, 2012 8:36 pm
Thanks for all your hard work, Major, I'm lovin' this!
You weren't born with a silver spoon in your mouth; you were born with a shovel up your ass, so pull it out and start digging!
Short stories about the subsidiary characters of "Behind a Veil of Darkness" http://zombiefictionandothertales.blogspot.com
Short stories about the subsidiary characters of "Behind a Veil of Darkness" http://zombiefictionandothertales.blogspot.com
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Re: The Restless Dead
by DAVE KI » Sun Aug 19, 2012 9:21 pm
I kinda figured there would be an arsenal behind door #1. All these great posting today. Thanks.
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Re: The Restless Dead
by ZeroT » Mon Aug 20, 2012 9:36 am
Zombies AND sewers! Nightmare city man!
Great writing as usual Major!
Great writing as usual Major!
"Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit upon his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats."
H.L. Mencken (1880-1956)
H.L. Mencken (1880-1956)
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Re: The Restless Dead
by The Mrs. » Mon Aug 20, 2012 11:59 am
The suspense is killing me! 
Cogito, ergo nom...nom...nom.
Cave canem, te necet lingendo.
______________________________________________________________________________
I'm not impressed. Quite frankly, your type of arrogance has nothing to do with greatness.
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Re: The Restless Dead
by majorhavoc » Mon Aug 20, 2012 1:06 pm
Thanks everyone! Your encouragement means, well the world to me. Still always open to contructive feedback, such as DTyra's artful catch with the zombie police woman.
Thank you also for your patience through the last several updates, which as I'm sure you've noticed, have unfolded at a much slower pace. Character development/relationship building and all that.
The action should be picking up again. Good things don't generally happen when one ventures down into the sewers............
Thank you also for your patience through the last several updates, which as I'm sure you've noticed, have unfolded at a much slower pace. Character development/relationship building and all that.
The action should be picking up again. Good things don't generally happen when one ventures down into the sewers............
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Re: The Restless Dead
by ZMace » Mon Aug 20, 2012 3:04 pm
Awesome additions, and our hero's are in the perfect environment for another special zombie, do I hear somebody crying in the distance? 
Great work, keep it up!
Great work, keep it up!
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Covenant of the Damned, Part 20
by majorhavoc » Mon Aug 20, 2012 9:16 pm
Jostling light from the flashlight beams behind me project my flickering shadow onto the tunnel walls, ceiling and even the refuse-strewn surface of the water flowing beneath my feet. Madly exaggerating my silhouette as I struggle to pick out detail in the haze and darkness ahead of us. As we creep cautiously along the slickened and narrow stone walkway, I note the agitated breathing of Lottie, Donovan, Rebecca and Zoey as they struggle to marshal their nerves. Interspersed with their anxious breath and the sounds of our footfalls, I hear water dripping everywhere around us and the burbling of the dark, brackish current flowing just to our right and inches beneath our feet.
A trickle of sweat finds its way into corner of my eye and I blink rapidly, trying to clear the salty, stinging intrusion from my vision. I signal the group to halt. Removing my beret, I use it to wipe down my brow, but find the woollen cap is already wet, as is my head, neck, and shoulders. Just standing in this tomblike catacomb, we’re all rapidly becoming drenched with a mixture of the damp, chill air, our own sweat and the constant brushing against the feathery, mucus-like slime that clings to every surface.
I’m about to fit my beret back on my head when I consider the swift current. Given the tenuous purchase our shoes have on the surface we’re walking on, chances are excellent that I’ll end up in that water in the next several minutes, one way or another. The beret will then likely fall off and be instantly swept away. I’ve had this artifact from my Special Forces days since advanced training at Camp Drake, some 42 years ago. It would be a shame to lose it after all this time. So instead I roll it up and jam it into the breast pocket of my army jacket. While attempting to fasten the pocket flap, the ancient button pops off, slips through my fingers and tumbles into the water, where it quickly disappears beneath the cloudy surface.
“How we doing up there, old guy?” Francis whispers out of the darkness from the back of the line. “Not losin’ your nerve are ya?”
Ignoring the taunt, I begin advancing again, my flashlight barely penetrating the blackness and fog that stretches out ahead. We progress another dozen or so yards and I’m just beginning to anticipate the appearance of the trunk line leading to the Shake ‘n Bake when from behind me, someone lets out a cough, oddly raspy in this damp air. And strangely distant sounding. I’m just considering how unlikely it is that any of us could have a dry throat down here when Francis again whispers forward, this time with somewhat less bravado.
“Hey! Guys. Unless one of you has tuberculosis and the echoes down here are seriously fucked up, I’m pretty sure we’re not alone.”
I throw caution to the wind, immediately turn around and step off the walkway directly into the waste stream. I nearly lose my footing on the slick, curved bottom of the tunnel and end up going down on one knee, waist-deep in the foul smelling water. As quickly as I dare, I stand up again in the surprisingly strong current and slosh my way back to Francis. At the back of the group I find him kneeling on the service walk, also facing towards the source of the odd sound, his shotgun and flashlight beam trained steadily back into the darkness.
“How’s the water Bill?” Francis asks expectantly, his eyes never wavering from the tunnel behind us. “Don’t let the rest of us stop you from diving right in.”
"It makes me realize how much I have to go to the bathroom," I reply. "I'm tempted to just go ahead and pee, but I'd hate to ruin the water for the rest of you."
Zoey laughs nervously behind us.
“It sounded like coughing to me,” I continue. “Is that what you heard? Did you hear anything beforehand?”
“Nope. Just the one time. I figure it’s gotta either be a survivor that’s been hiding down here, or a zed with really bad asthma. Should we check it out, maybe offer him an inhaler?”
“Never heard of a zombie that coughs before. But if it is a person down here, you’d think he would have announced himself when we first entered this tunnel. He had to have heard us talking.”
From the front of the group, Lottie inquires nervously: “Don’t forget us way up here! Alone! What are we supposed to do if something comes at us from this direction?”
“Then you and Rebecca will deal with it, won’t you?” I respond absently, still staring intently into the inky darkness behind us. The flowing haze, like the water, recedes into the blackness back there. Twice I almost decide that I can see something way back there in the darkness, hugging the north wall of the tunnel. Rock still, like a statute, almost as if it knows that movement will give it away. But just as quickly the dark grey mist realigns itself, and I find I am looking at nothing. Nothing at all.
“It’s as thick as Irish beer back there, Bill. And these walls make this whole place a freaking distortion chamber. No telling what we really heard. Could have been a frog for all we know. I vote we keep moving, and I keep checking our six.”
“Agreed,” I say, turning awkwardly in the current. “We’re almost to the branch leading back to your old home, Francis. No sense getting spooked and chasing off after every little noise we hear.” I start working my way back to the front of the group. But then I pause and whisper over my shoulder. “But Francis?”
“Yeah old man?”
“Make sure you don’t fall behind.”
A trickle of sweat finds its way into corner of my eye and I blink rapidly, trying to clear the salty, stinging intrusion from my vision. I signal the group to halt. Removing my beret, I use it to wipe down my brow, but find the woollen cap is already wet, as is my head, neck, and shoulders. Just standing in this tomblike catacomb, we’re all rapidly becoming drenched with a mixture of the damp, chill air, our own sweat and the constant brushing against the feathery, mucus-like slime that clings to every surface.
I’m about to fit my beret back on my head when I consider the swift current. Given the tenuous purchase our shoes have on the surface we’re walking on, chances are excellent that I’ll end up in that water in the next several minutes, one way or another. The beret will then likely fall off and be instantly swept away. I’ve had this artifact from my Special Forces days since advanced training at Camp Drake, some 42 years ago. It would be a shame to lose it after all this time. So instead I roll it up and jam it into the breast pocket of my army jacket. While attempting to fasten the pocket flap, the ancient button pops off, slips through my fingers and tumbles into the water, where it quickly disappears beneath the cloudy surface.
“How we doing up there, old guy?” Francis whispers out of the darkness from the back of the line. “Not losin’ your nerve are ya?”
Ignoring the taunt, I begin advancing again, my flashlight barely penetrating the blackness and fog that stretches out ahead. We progress another dozen or so yards and I’m just beginning to anticipate the appearance of the trunk line leading to the Shake ‘n Bake when from behind me, someone lets out a cough, oddly raspy in this damp air. And strangely distant sounding. I’m just considering how unlikely it is that any of us could have a dry throat down here when Francis again whispers forward, this time with somewhat less bravado.
“Hey! Guys. Unless one of you has tuberculosis and the echoes down here are seriously fucked up, I’m pretty sure we’re not alone.”
I throw caution to the wind, immediately turn around and step off the walkway directly into the waste stream. I nearly lose my footing on the slick, curved bottom of the tunnel and end up going down on one knee, waist-deep in the foul smelling water. As quickly as I dare, I stand up again in the surprisingly strong current and slosh my way back to Francis. At the back of the group I find him kneeling on the service walk, also facing towards the source of the odd sound, his shotgun and flashlight beam trained steadily back into the darkness.
“How’s the water Bill?” Francis asks expectantly, his eyes never wavering from the tunnel behind us. “Don’t let the rest of us stop you from diving right in.”
"It makes me realize how much I have to go to the bathroom," I reply. "I'm tempted to just go ahead and pee, but I'd hate to ruin the water for the rest of you."
Zoey laughs nervously behind us.
“It sounded like coughing to me,” I continue. “Is that what you heard? Did you hear anything beforehand?”
“Nope. Just the one time. I figure it’s gotta either be a survivor that’s been hiding down here, or a zed with really bad asthma. Should we check it out, maybe offer him an inhaler?”
“Never heard of a zombie that coughs before. But if it is a person down here, you’d think he would have announced himself when we first entered this tunnel. He had to have heard us talking.”
From the front of the group, Lottie inquires nervously: “Don’t forget us way up here! Alone! What are we supposed to do if something comes at us from this direction?”
“Then you and Rebecca will deal with it, won’t you?” I respond absently, still staring intently into the inky darkness behind us. The flowing haze, like the water, recedes into the blackness back there. Twice I almost decide that I can see something way back there in the darkness, hugging the north wall of the tunnel. Rock still, like a statute, almost as if it knows that movement will give it away. But just as quickly the dark grey mist realigns itself, and I find I am looking at nothing. Nothing at all.
“It’s as thick as Irish beer back there, Bill. And these walls make this whole place a freaking distortion chamber. No telling what we really heard. Could have been a frog for all we know. I vote we keep moving, and I keep checking our six.”
“Agreed,” I say, turning awkwardly in the current. “We’re almost to the branch leading back to your old home, Francis. No sense getting spooked and chasing off after every little noise we hear.” I start working my way back to the front of the group. But then I pause and whisper over my shoulder. “But Francis?”
“Yeah old man?”
“Make sure you don’t fall behind.”
Last edited by majorhavoc on Tue Aug 21, 2012 10:06 am, edited 3 times in total.
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Re: The Restless Dead
by DAVE KI » Mon Aug 20, 2012 10:40 pm
Hmm frog legs for dinner? Somehow I don't think frogs are the main entree.
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Re: The Restless Dead
by ZeroT » Tue Aug 21, 2012 9:56 am
Smoker!! I hate those guys!
"Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit upon his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats."
H.L. Mencken (1880-1956)
H.L. Mencken (1880-1956)
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Re: The Restless Dead
by ZMace » Tue Aug 21, 2012 10:19 am
I was hoping for a witch, but I will take a smoker. Hell, I will take anything, I'm loving all the updates. 
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Re: The Restless Dead
by dustycanuck » Tue Aug 21, 2012 11:56 am
Just found this yesterday, and I've been doing precious little since then, other than catching up.
Great tale; looking forward to more
Great tale; looking forward to more
"Nothing in the world can take the place of persistence. Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful men with talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts. Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent."
Calvin Coolidge
Calvin Coolidge
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Re: The Restless Dead
by Sheriff McClelland » Tue Aug 21, 2012 12:05 pm
I'm embarrassed to say that I'm having trouble recalling how our heroes picked up some of their group . No trouble remembering Francis , but the others 
"Yeah, they're dead. They're all messed up. "
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Re: The Restless Dead
by dustycanuck » Tue Aug 21, 2012 12:46 pm
Rebecca, Lottie, and Donovan were at Frank's safe room when Bill, Zoey, & Francis returned from their initial meet-up at the strip club.
"Nothing in the world can take the place of persistence. Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful men with talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts. Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent."
Calvin Coolidge
Calvin Coolidge
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Re: The Restless Dead
by Sheriff McClelland » Tue Aug 21, 2012 12:54 pm
Thanks !
"Yeah, they're dead. They're all messed up. "
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