Category: Monday Fiction

St. Louis, Missouri, 4 June 2011, 1015 hours local; Countdown: 6 months, 26 days

Evan Torelli looked at the three-story building with a mixture of relief and anxiety. The relief came from finally reaching the building. From the map Evan had on his PDA, it looked like the building was only a few blocks from where the team killed the Red Gollum. Evan remembered Jim’s chuckle as the teen pointed out that the team was going the wrong way. It was made very clear to Evan that getting to the building was only part of what was needed. The team also needed to avoid as many fights with the zombies rampaging through downtown St. Louis.

"Aren’t we supposed to kill zombies?" Evan asked Jim as the team sidestepped a horde through a small alley.

"Nope, that’s the military’s job right now. We need to get the minions responsible for this outbreak. Can’t do that if we blow all our ammo on walking range targets," the cowboy answered. "And believe me, we’ll probably need every round we’re carrying to deal with those folks." Evan kept quiet after that and followed Jim. The team went down side streets and alleys, through buildings, and even hid in a parking garage. The Nasty Stuff helped, but it was mainly a matter of noise discipline. After forty-five minutes of careful movement, the team was spread out along a pair of alleys that faced the minions’ building. At least, that’s what everyone was hoping. That was where the anxiety set in. Evan had never done an assault. All of the horrible ways he could die were flashing through his head.

"Relax kid, you’re gonna hyperventilate and pass out before we even get into that building," Jim said. Evan tried to calm down, but his body didn’t want to cooperate. "Listen, everyone has felt the same thing the first time. Stop overthinking and just trust your instincts."

"Easier said than done Jim," Evan said, his eyes still fixed on the glass double door Mateo designated as the team’s entry point.

"Concentrate on your job. Watch our collective back and making sure that nothing gets Tredegar. Man’s got a sharp mind. Not so good on the shooting bit. You do that and let everyone else do their job." Evan noticed that Jim didn’t say everything would be alright, but he didn’t say anything. He really didn’t want to know. At Jim’s cue, Evan slipped down the alley to stand just behind Tredegar. If the FBI agent was nervous, he didn’t show it. Evan checked his shotgun one last time and waited as Mateo cued the team.

"Green light, stop. Red light, go. Red light, stop. Green light, GO!" Mateo barked the last order. Quentin, Sport, Jessica, and her dog sprinted across the street. Quentin pushed open the doors with the dog close on his heels. Sport and Jessica were covering them with their weapons. As soon as the quartet was through the doors, Jim, Slim, Chief Stahl, and The Steve dashed across the street. As soon as Mateo motioned, Evan followed Tredegar through the door. Just beyond the doors was an open air lobby. A large fountain dominated the center of the lobby. Huge skylights in the ceiling poured down sunlight. Off to each side were long hallways. The rest of the building was dark giving the whole area a disturbing contrast.

"Any sign we’ve been noticed?" Mateo asked.

"Nothing," Quentin answered.

"Billy’s got their scent," Jess chimed in, "Somewhere on the third floor."

"Gotta wonder what they have waiting for us if Billy can smell them all the way down here," Chief Stahl said. The former soldier turned to Tredegar. "I don’t suppose you could ask your eye in the sky exactly where the bad guys are?"

"Sorry Chief, it’s not that precise right now," Tredegar answered.

"Didn’t think so. Okay boys and girls, time to do this the hard way," the chief said.

"Oh you have no idea!" boomed a melodic feminine voice out of the darkness. The building seemed to shake with the combined hunting moans from what had to be dozens, maybe even hundreds of zombies. Office doors slammed open all around the team and zombies seemed to pour out at the team. Gunfire erupted as Zombie Strike engaged their natural prey. Evan brought up his shotgun and placed the bead on the head of an approaching zombie. He squeezed the trigger. Evan wasn’t using traditional slugs. These were heavy metal darts, essentially scaled down versions of the M1 Abrams’ "Silver Bullets." At fifty yards, they could take down a man in body armor. At fifty feet, the speeding dart pulped the first zombie’s brain, and then went on to take down four more zombies before embedding itself in some drywall. Evan didn’t see any of this. He was already attacking his next target.

"If you run now, you just might survive," the voice taunted as the zombies closed on the team.

"Not a chance," Mateo said at their unseen tormentor. "Chief, stairwell."

"Got it boss. Sport, Quentin, your with me. Slim, cover us." The three zombie killers formed a wedge as Slim poured fire down one of the hallways coming off the lobby. The Brit was firing his SR-25 as fast as he found targets. The chief opened up some room with a long burst of gunfire. Quentin led the three team members as they charged into the gap created by the gunfire. Quentin’s warhammer wasn’t as big as a sledge, and the big man whipped it around with unbelievable speed. The chief and Sport covered Quentin’s flanks with gunfire. Evan lost them as he was forced to transition to his pistol. The Beretta M9 felt gargantuan in Evan’s hand, but it was what he had. He fired at the oncoming zombies until the slide locked back on an empty magazine. Maybe another five zombies down. Evan dropped out the magazine. Where were his spares? His hand danced around his waist as he tried desperately to remember where the magazine pouch was.

"Evan, reload that shotgun. I’ll cover you," Tredegar said, stepping in front of the teen. The FBI agent fired off several bursts from his M4. Evan slammed the empty pistol into its holster and loaded the shotgun as fast as he could. He felt the feed ramp bite into his thumb as he slammed round after round into the tube. Evan chambered the first shell and moved up next to Tredegar.

"FRAG OUT!" hollered Sport over the radio net. Evan almost didn’t get his first shot off. What in the world did that mean? The answer came in an almost deafening roar that shook the building. Evan kept his calm long enough to fire twice more. Good God, didn’t they ever stop coming? It seemed like every time he put one down, three more took its place.

"Everyone into the stairwell!" shouted Mateo over the din before charging to where Quentin, Sport, and the chief were standing. Where there had been a door before, there was only a ragged door frame. Evan followed Tredegar as the pair fled the oncoming zombies. He felt the gunfire crack around him as the rest of Zombie Strike covered their retreat. Evan nearly vomited as he entered the stairwell. It looked like the stairwell had been painted in zombies. Evan’s foot slid out from under him, and he nearly went sprawling into what looked like pulped guts. Jim caught the teen before Evan face planted into the foul-smelling stuff. The team quickly moved up the landing.

"Sport, for the record, never use any of those custom jobs of yours again!" the chief barked at the short Brit.

"Why?" complained Sport.

"Because I nearly got decapitated by the door! Do you even know how to make a proper frag grenade?" asked the chief.

"I followed the cardinal rule. P equals plenty," Sport answered. The retort was so dead-pan, Evan couldn’t tell if Sport was joking.

"Dude, never let the demo guys plan the entry. That never ends well," The Steve quipped. Chief Stahl could only nod in resigned agreement.

"Joking’s over. Quentin, Sport, you’re on point. Get us up to the top floor. Sport, don’t you throw another grenade unless I tell you or you see Giant. Is that understood?" Mateo asked. Sport nodded seriously. "Evan, Jim cover the back."

"What about the zombies coming into the stairwell?" Evan asked, hearing the ragged cacophony of hunting moans.

"Zombies don’t exactly climb stairs," Jim said, "It’s more of climbing over each other. Best thing is to let them bunch up and then take them out quick. Kind of acts like a dam." The team moved quickly up the stairs. The second floor landing was clear. That didn’t sit right with Evan. The minions had attacked with so many zombies. They couldn’t keep any to attack the team on the second floor?

The team stopped suddenly just shy of the third floor. Standing at the landing was a woman in a tight fitting black jumpsuit. A balaclava covered her face. In her hand, she was waving around what looked like a long knife. The entire team had weapons pointed at her, but she didn’t seem to care. The look in her green eyes was pure contempt.

"I don’t care what Mikhail wants," the woman said. It was the same voice that taunted the team earlier. "You’ve killed too many of my friends." She pointed the knife’s tip at the team.

"Time to die Zombie Strike." Evan stood unbelieving as the fireball lit up the stairwell.

Zombie Strike Part 8 Chapter 85

St. Louis, Missouri, 4 June 2011, 0907 hours local; Countdown: 6 months, 26 days

Evan Torelli froze in horror as the monster stepped out from the ruins of a store. The twelve-foot tall humanoid’s grey skin was pebbled and painted with red symbols. The monster’s red eyes glittered as they locked on Evan. Not like a human’s. These were more like when a bull decides it’s going to charge. An overly-wide mouth opened to reveal two rows of dagger-like teeth in a twisted smile. The monster let out a bellow of rage and swung a three-fingered fist at Evan. Part of Evan’s mind screamed at him to bring up his shotgun, but he couldn’t make his body move. He just watched as the fist the size of a turkey whistle down on him.

Evan’s ears barely caught the snarl. An instant before the monster’s fist crashed into Evan’s face, Jess’s dog pounced on the monster, dragging it to the asphalt. At least, Evan thought it was Jess’s dog. The animal was now the size of a mule. The monster flailed at the dog as it savaged the monster with claws and bites. Evan jerked backward as someone yanked the drag handle on his armor. Evan looked up to see Quentin hauling him back with one hand while the other held Quentin’s infamous warhammer in a loose but controlled grip.

"Billy, get clear!" ordered Mateo as the rest of Zombie Strike formed an arc around the monster. Mateo gave a hand signal and the team brought up their weapons. The oversized dog leapt off the monster, landing nearly twenty feet away. The monster struggled to its feet. The team opened fire. The monster howled in agony as bullet after bullet ripped through it. Black blood spurted from dozens of holes. The firing became ragged as various team members reloaded. For a moment, no one was firing at the monster. It tried to take advantage of the lull, and took a step towards Mateo. Its head snapped back as the heavy metal dart slammed into it. A second ripped a gaping hole in its chest. More darts ripped open its torso. After the eighth lanced through the monster’s throat, the creature dropped to the ground. Evan stood frozen, keeping the sights of the semi-auto Benelli on the fallen creature. He didn’t remember scrambling off the ground. He didn’t even remember when he started firing. One moment he was paralyzed with fear, and the next his shotgun was empty and smoking. The rest of the team looked back at him. Evan didn’t even realize he was thumbing in more shells until Quentin put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

"Evan, you okay?" Quentin asked.

"What was that?" Evan asked, his eyes still fixed on the monster’s corpse.

"We started calling them Red Gollums, but that ain’t quite accurate," Jim said, walking over to Evan and Quentin. "They kind of look like gollums, but they aren’t nearly as tough. Still dangerous though. Nice to see those new slugs worked."

"Yeah, nice shooting and all mate, but next time could you try and not shoot over us. Lessens the chance of a minor catastrophe," Slim said his tone biting. Evan felt his ears burn with embarrassment as he realized what he’d just done. He could have killed someone.

"Lay off Slim," Jim said defensively, "It ain’t like you haven’t done similar shots."

"There’s a world of difference between a precision shot with a specialized rifle and rapid firing a bloody smoothbore," Slim snapped back, "I’ll give him his due. That was very nicely done. He just needs to keep his situational awareness."

"Enough," Mateo said with a tone of finality, "I don’t need you chastising him until he hesitates to take a shot." Slim grimaced, but acknowledged the rebuke with a nod. "As for you Evan, try to be more careful. Those aren’t your hunting loads." Evan mimicked Slim’s nod.

"I thought we stamped out all of the Truth’s nurseries," Mateo said, turning back to the monster’s corpse.

"Maybe Alan had a few stashed wherever he fled to," suggested Chief Stahl.

"If that bugger’s here, I want another shot at him," Sport said, "I knew I tagged him the last time."

"Not a chance," Jim said, his voice full of promised violence, "I still owe him, and I aim to put paid to that debt." The sudden change in the cowboy made Evan nervous. He didn’t know who this Alan was, or what he’d done to Jim, but Evan didn’t want to be anywhere near when Jim caught up with this man.

"Dude, that guy’s survived two MOABs, gunshots, and getting too close to one of Sport’s grenades. The Steve thinks you’re overly ambitious," The Steve chimed in. The conversation stopped as the team stared at the medic. If The Steve noticed it, he didn’t show it.

"The Red Gollum certainly means there are sorcerers here," Tredegar observed. The FBI agent’s face became thoughtful. "If they’re still using magic to control the zombies or any other monsters, we might be able to find them."

"How? You got a magic detector in all that gear you’ve been lugging around?" Chief Stahl asked.

"No, I have an AWACS," Tredegar said cryptically. "Searchlight Three-One, Searchlight Three-One, this is Zulu Fox Five. I need to know if you had any distortion near my position." Tredegar paused as he listened. "Not jamming exactly. Like someone was waving a magnet over your monitor." Another moment of silence. "Excellent Searchlight. Thanks."

"I’m pretty sure our targets are here," Tredegar said, highlighting a building a few blocks from the Ed, the stadium the Rams played in.

"Care to explain?" Mateo asked.

"Oh yeah. Some scientist we tasked to help DOD and DOJ figure out some of the magic the Truth was using. He noticed that when the sorcerers were using magic, you could see some weird distortions in the EM spectrum. Showed up on radars and satellite photos."

"Okay, and the reason you didn’t bring this little tidbit to our attention?" Mateo asked.

"Hadn’t been verified," Tredegar said. "Besides, you’d need airborne radar or the big backscatter array to see the distortion. How often do we have an AWACS on station? Mateo, we need to move."

"Remind me to talk with you again about relevancy of information," Mateo said to Tredegar. The FBI agent just shrugged. Mateo turned to the rest of the team. "Okay, by the numbers. We’ve got our target. Let’s get there in one piece." Almost as if on cue, dozens of hunting moans echoed through the streets. The zombies were starting to home in on the sound of the gunfight.

Zombie Strike Part 8 Chapter 84

St. Louis, Missouri, 4 June 2011, 0835 hours local; Countdown: 6 months, 26 days

Evan Torelli held on for dear life as the LAV crashed through the burnt-out wreck that was a sedan. The six-wheeled mini-tank jostled around as it sped around an abandoned semi tractor. The vehicle commander opened fire on a small group of zombies with a machine gun. The heavy bullets tore the undead into little more than decaying hamburger. Evan swallowed hard to keep his breakfast from coming back up. It all seemed so cool when they started out. Now Evan was praying he wouldn’t be tossed from the speeding LAV as the convoy raced down the highway.

As Evan was put into some cobbled up armor, Mateo announced the Marines reported some people that matched the general description of minions in downtown St. Louis near the river. Zombie Strike flew into Busch Stadium, which the Marines turned into a collection point for rescued civilians. The pristine fields were torn up to make room for dozens of tents and helipads. There were also four big guns sitting in right field. Chief Stahl told Evan they were howitzers. From the stadium, the team joined a convoy going out to rescue some trapped civilians near where the minions were reported. Jim and Evan were on the lead vehicle, which the Marines called an LAV-25, and the chief called a Baby Striker. The Marines didn’t seem to like that name for their tank. Evan leapt at the chance to ride on top of the tank. In retrospect, it wasn’t one of his better decisions.

The convoy of two LAV-25’s and four armored trucks turned down a side street. The cracks of gunfire echoed through the streets. That would be the civilians the Marines came out to rescue. They managed to barricade themselves on the roof of a fast food joint. As the convoy roared out of the side street, Evan saw a massive horde swarming the restaurant. The LAV screeched to a halt. The turret swung at the zombies at the front of the store.

"Evan, ears!" warned Jim. Evan turned on his hearing protection a bare instant before the big gun of the LAV opened fire. Evan felt the thundering hammer of the auto cannon through his entire body. If Evan thought the LAV’s machine gun tore apart zombies, it was nothing compared to the big gun on the tank. The Marines were using a new type of ammunition for the big gun nicknamed "Mini-Grape." Evan didn’t understand the name, but it essentially meant the gun was shooting out dozens of buckshot with each round. The zombies were shredded with all the efficiency of a food processor. The second LAV opened up at the back of the restaurant as the four armored trucks roared up to the store. A platoon of Marines stormed out of the vehicles, firing at the undead as they went. The horde seemed to melt away at the combined firepower.

"C’mon kid, time for us to start our mission," Jim said, pointing to where the rest of Zombie Strike was waiting. Evan and Jim slid off the LAV. As they approached, Evan nearly gagged at the smell. The two Brits were busily smearing everyone with a thick, sticky goo that was the source of the odor.

"What is that?" Evan said as Slim approached.

"Nasty Stuff," Slim answered.

"No kidding," Evan retorted, "I don’t want that stuff smeared all over me."

"Get used to it, boyo," Slim said, "This stuff keeps the zombies off of our back. Hopefully, long enough to find our quarry and stop them." Evan closed his eyes and tried not to breath too deeply as Slim applied the Nasty Stuff.

"Relax, you won’t notice the smell in a bit," Slim said, moving on to Jim. The cowboy stood nonchalantly as Slim applied the Nasty Stuff to his armor. Evan tried to choke back the stench as Mateo motioned for the team to gather around.

"The minions were seen on this street," Mateo said, highlighting a side street on everyone’s PDA. "From here, there’s a couple of good places to hole up. The warehouse and the office building. Everything else is too exposed to view for the minions. We’re going to try the warehouse first."

"Better pray they’re in the warehouse. Trying to root them out of the office complex will be bloody rough," Sport chimed in. There was a murmur of agreement amongst the more experienced team members.

"Jess, you and Billy are on point. Evan you follow them. Try not to shoot anything unless you have to. I don’t want to bring out a horde quite yet," Mateo said. "Remember people, we need to capture the minions to find out why the Truth is in St. Louis. That is why we’re here." The team members nodded at Mateo, and he motioned for Jess and Evan to start. They were maybe a hundred yards ahead before the rest of the team followed. There was something exciting and lonely about being at the point position. Well, Jess and her dog were the actual point. He was right behind them though. That counted, right?

Jess and Evan walked a few blocks before Jess stopped suddenly and leaned on one of the buildings. Evan rushed up to her, searching around for the ninja-suited minions. Jim said that minions could work magic. Maybe Jess was under some sort of spell.

"Are you okay?" Evan asked.

"Yeah, I’ve just been out of sorts since we landed in this town," Jess explained, recovering to her feet. "I don’t know why. The Steve said I wasn’t coming down with anything."

"You want me to take over?" Evan offered. Jess smiled at the teen, and Evan nearly forgot how to talk.

"No, I just get waves of vertigo. I’ll be glad when we finish this operation up," Jess answered, "Now let’s get moving before Mateo starts getting annoyed. Or worse, the chief." From the look on Jess’s face, Evan never wanted to get on the soldier’s bad side. The two smiled at each other. Jess took a step forward and froze. Her dog started a low growl. Evan searched for the threat. Evan was thrown off of his feet as the wall of the store next to him exploded. As the dust settled, Evan looked up at the twelve foot monstrosity. It screamed once and attacked.

Zombie Strike Part 8 Chapter 83

Kirkwood, Missouri, 4 June 2011, 0120 hours local; Countdown: 6 months, 26 days

Evan Torrelli screamed in horror as the zombie that had been his mother lunged at the SUV. He was torn from the world as his mind grappled with what he was seeing. His friends and his family staggered towards the trucks. They were worse than dead. They were defiled by whatever made them rise in decaying mockeries of the people he loved. Mateo and Jim said something to him, but the words just sounded like noise. Evan felt the SUV rock as the Marines stormed out into the street. He heard the pop-pop-pop sound of M16’s and the deeper sounds of the heavier rifles from the Zombie Strike shooters. Jim reached in and grabbed Evan out of the back of the SUV. Jim dragged Evan to the back of the truck while firing his revolver single-handed. In a moment of brief clarity, Evan wondered how Jim could fire the big .500 without breaking his wrist.

"Evan, get it together," Jim said, slightly shaking the teen.

"That was my mom," Evan murmured, his voice barely audible over the moans and the gunfire. Jim’s eyes went wide. He let out a string of curses. Evan looked up at Jim with pleading eyes. "Nothing feels right."

"Don’t worry, kid. We’ll get you through," Jim said, his voice tight, "Just stay here." Evan wasn’t sure how long he sat on the street, slowly rocking himself as the battle raged around him. It felt like somewhere between days and years. Familiar movement broke through his trance. Evan looked across the street. A crawling zombie was dragging its half-mangled body towards the group with a stubby arm. It was slow. It wasn’t drawing attention. Evan looked around. The Marines and the Zombie Strike team was busy fighting the forty or so walkers attacking from the front. No one was paying attention to the crawler. Evan stared as the crawler moved over the asphalt. Why wasn’t Jim paying attention to that crawler?

A Marine stepped back, right into the crawler’s grasp. The crawler launched at the Marine’s ankle. The Marine screamed as the zombie slammed into him. He toppled over, almost frozen by sudden panic. Evan snapped back into reality. All the horror turned into a burning rage. The need for violence overcame him. Evan leapt to his feet and sprinted to the Marine. Evan grabbed the Marine’s M16 and slammed the butt of the weapon on the zombie’s head. It moaned, so Evan hit it again. And again. And again. The head fractured and split open, but Evan didn’t stop. He kept hitting the zombie until the butt of the rifle was slamming into the asphalt. Evan felt two giant arms wrap around him. Jim snatched the M16 from his hands. Evan felt a sharp jab in his arm. He turned to see The Steve smiling and holding a hypodermic gun. Evan struggled, but then felt his body go slack. Everything went black.

When Evan regained consciousness, he was lying on a hotel bed. He sat up and regretted it instantly. His stomach lurched with the sudden movement. Carefully, he stepped into the bathroom. He barely had the lid of the toilet up before he emptied his stomach. Drained, Evan lay on the cool tile of the bathroom and cried. His mind cruelly replayed the last words of his father while showing him images of his mother as a zombie. Why couldn’t he have been faster? Why couldn’t he have saved them? Evan felt more than saw as someone stepped into the bathroom. He craned his head around to see Mateo Cortez leaned against the counter. Evan felt his face flush with embarrassment. Oh God, why did Mateo have to see him in this condition?

"That concoction of Steve’s really takes it out of you, doesn’t it?" Mateo asked. Evan tried to talk, but all that came out was some grunting. He couldn’t even get off the tile floor.

"Relax Evan. You’ll start feeling better in a few minutes," Mateo said crouching down next to the boy. Evan looked up at Mateo suspiciously. The Zombie Strike team leader let out a tired laugh. "I speak from experience. You’re not the first one who’s ended up on the bathroom floor after getting a shot of Steve’s sleepy-time juice." Evan could feel his strength returning as Mateo talked.

"When you’re ready, there’s some food in the other room," Mateo said, standing up, "We’ll talk while you eat." Evan tried to stand as Mateo walked out of the room. It took him a couple of tries before he could sit up. As Evan waited for his strength to return, anger and shame seeped into his mind. Slowly at first, his emotions began to boil as images of his family flashed in his mind. The potent mix drove the last of his weakness out of him.

Quivering with sudden rage, Evan picked himself off the bathroom floor. He stormed into the front room of the hotel suite. Mateo was doing something on his PDA. Evan’s eyes narrowed as he took three steps and threw a punch at Mateo’s head. Mateo easily sidestepped the clumsy blow. Before Evan could take another swing, Mateo had the teen in a wrist lock. The most painful part wasn’t the lock, or even that he missed, but the look of sad understanding on Mateo’s face. Evan screamed in helpless rage. Evan collapsed into a chair when Mateo released the hold. Before Evan could even think about standing up, Mateo thrust a plate of food into his hands.

"Eat," Mateo ordered, "Between last night and Steve’s drugs you’re on the ragged edge. Food will help." Evan didn’t want to believe him, but the smell of bacon and eggs awakened a ravenous hunger. It was all Evan could do not to shove everything in his mouth at once. As he ate, the rage washed out of him.

"Is there anyone left?" Evan asked.

"No," Mateo answered. The smallest glimmer of hope was extinguished with an almost crushing brutality. "We matched up your family. Their remains are being shipped out to your family’s farm. Your uncle wants you to come home right now." There was an undercurrent in Mateo’s voice. Evan couldn’t figure out the peculiar look in Mateo’s eyes.

"What?" Evan finally asked as he finished off the last of the eggs.

"To be honest, I can use you here if you’re willing," Mateo said.

"What?" Evan asked, nearly dropping the plate in shock.

"Evan, those men you stumbled across? They’re responsible for all of this, and it’s much worse than just the outbreak in Kirkwood," Mateo said. He turned on the television. The image was of St. Louis’s skyline. A thick cloud of black smoke hid many of the buildings. He could barely make out the Arch. Next was a video from a helicopter of thousands of zombies cramming the streets around the Old Courthouse. As the camera panned across downtown St. Louis, it looked like the entire city’s population was now zombies. Another video started of Marines holding off a zombie horde while people boarded one of the gambling steamships.

"They’re responsible for all of this?" Evan asked, unable to tear his eyes from the television.

"Yes. We don’t know why, but we intend to find out," Mateo said, "If you’re willing, I want you to help us hunt them down."

"That’s crazy," Evan said, his mind trying desperately to make sense of everything, "I’m just a kid. I don’t even have a driver’s license yet! I just saw my mom as a zombie last night, and now you want me to go fight the guys who did that to her. It sounds like a bad kid’s movie!"

"Evan, you proved yourself to the team last night. I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t think you could do this. Truth is, for this kind of operation, I need all of the shooters I can get. The Marines and the Army are too busy to give me anyone. I’ve seen you do amazing things with a shotgun. I’ve seen you stand and fight when others would’ve just run away in terror. At the end of the day, it’s your call." Mateo looked at the PDA in his armor’s bracer.

"We’re leaving in an hour," Mateo said. "You’ll need to be downstairs in thirty minutes to armor up. If you don’t think you can handle it, the front desk clerk has a packet to get you back to your uncle’s." Mateo walked over to the door and stopped. He turned back to Evan. "In all honesty, you should go back to your uncle. This is going to be beyond dangerous."

"So why offer to bring me along?" Evan asked.

"I told you, I need all of the help I can get," Mateo answered as he stepped out of the door. Evan filled a glass with water and took a long drink. His parents would have told him to get over to his uncle’s just as fast as he could. Evan knew he needed to get someplace safe and just grieve for his family. Why was he hesitating? Some of it was that one of his heroes asked for his help. That was hard to turn down. As he thought about it, the real reason emerged. Mateo and Zombie Strike were going after the people that turned his family into zombies. His sadness and shame changed into a burning desire for vengeance. Evan finished the water and slammed the glass down. He didn’t even notice as the glass shattered in his hand.

Evan stormed out of the room to find Mateo.

Zombie Strike Part 8 Chapter 82

Kirkwood, Missouri, 4 June 2011, 0100 hours local; Countdown: 6 months, 26 days

Evan Torrelli almost went deaf as The Steve opened up on the zombie horde with the machine gun. The Steve swept the flame-spewing weapon in a tight arc. On the other end of Zombie Strike’s position, Chief Stahl was making similar patterns with his machine gun. A couple hundred yards down the street, scores of zombies tumbled to the asphalt. Only a few of the zombies were taking head shots from the two machine guns. The rest were either standing back up into the fusillade of gunfire or crawling along the asphalt. Five explosions erupted in the middle of the horde. Evan swallowed back the sudden taste of bile as body parts were thrown through the air. It wasn’t like when someone used a grenade in the movies. In real life, the grenades shredded everything around them.

Evan focused on the zombies closest to him. Two caught his attention. They were shambling just outside the machine gun’s firing arc. Evan gauged they were about a hundred and fifty yards away. A bit long, but Evan’s patience was almost gone. He needed to do something.More by instinct than rational calculation, Evan aimed the shotgun and squeezed the first trigger. The heavy slug slammed into the zombie’s forehead and tore the head apart. Evan was already aiming for the second zombie. The shotgun bucked as Evan placed the second slug a little lower. The slug lanced through the zombie’s right eye. Evan was reloading before the second zombie hit the ground. Evan searched for more targets. That’s how he had to think of them. These were just mere targets with not even the dignity he gave a deer. Four shots took down three more zombies. The last one tore off an arm, but the target wasn’t down. Evan slammed two fresh shells into his shotgun. Before he could finish off the zombie, Jim came up behind him and took the zombie down.

"Slow down, kid," Jim said, working the lever of his rifle. "Take your time. You’ll get a more harmonious outcome." Almost as if to prove his point, Jim casually aimed at a crawler and fired. Evan took a deep breath. He could feel his blood pounding through him. Evan brought the shotgun to his shoulder, drew a bead on a zombie that just stood up, and fired. The zombie collapsed back to the ground.

"See, easy," Jim said, clapping the teen on his shoulder. Evan smiled as he took down another zombie. He quickly fed two new shells into the shotgun. As he brought the weapon back up, Evan noticed the two machine guns stopped firing. Evan looked over at The Steve, who was staring at something in the air behind him. Evan started to turn, but The Steve yanked him to the ground.

The night turned into a surreal daytime as powerful beams of light illuminated the street. Evan had a bare second to recognize the sound of helicopters before the area exploded with the sound of chainsaws on steroids. Looking underneath the SUV, Evan watched with horrified fascination as the zombie horde was torn apart as thousands of bullets rained down. When the chainsaws finally stopped, The Steve let go of Evan. The four attack helicopters screamed over them. Two other helicopters hovered above the team. Ropes were flung out the sides. In less than a minute, a dozen soldiers in full gear were on the ground. At least, Evan though they were soldiers. Chief Stahl quickly corrected the teen.

"Figures. Marines are always horning in our action," the former soldier growled as the Marines cautiously approached the team.

"Kenn was a Marine," Mateo reminded his deputy.

"And I haven’t exactly forgiven him for that," Chief Stahl retorted.

"Place your weapons on the ground and identify yourself!" demanded the lead Marine. Evan mimicked the rest of the team and slowly placed his shotgun on the asphalt.

"Mateo Cortez. Zombie Strike. This is my field team," Mateo explained. The lead Marine motioned to the other Marines, who relaxed.

"We thought it might be you, Mr. Cortez, but we had to be sure," the lead Marine said, slinging his M16.

"How many other groups are fighting off zombie hordes with fully automatic weapons?" Chief Stahl asked, sarcastically, "And why are the Marines here?"

"To answer your first question, sir, a few civilian militias ransacked the National Guard Armory. There have been reports of automatic fire all over the city. As to the second, we’re here to kill zombies," the Marine answered.

"Hurrah!" the other Marines chorused. Mateo shot the chief a look. The chief shrugged and went to put away the machine gun.

"So why are the Marines out looking for my team?" Mateo asked.

"Orders are to bring you to the command post, sir," the Marine said. "Since headquarters is establishing the CP, we need you to remain in place." Evan felt his stomach drop. He still had to get home. He still needed to try and save his family. Mateo looked over at Evan and nodded.

"Marine, I appreciate you have your orders, but we have our own. Now you’re welcome to come along, but my team can’t wait here for your commanders. Team mount up. Drop the running boards if the Marines want to tag along."

"Mr. Cortez, I can’t let you-" the lead Marine started before The Steve slid up next to him. The Steve said something to the Marine, but it was too low for Evan to hear. Evan snatched the box of shells off the hood and climbed into the back of the first SUV. The lead Marine grimaced, but waved his men to the SUVs. Evan was squished between two Marines. Four others climbed onto the running boards. Evan smiled weakly at the two Marines. They stared down at him questioningly.

"Um, sir, you’ve got a kid back here," one of the Marines said to Mateo as the Zombie Strike field leader stepped into the SUV.

"Local guide," Mateo said.

"But he’s a kid," the Marine continued. Evan’s ears burned with embarrassment and anger at the Marine’s tone. He wasn’t more than a few years older than Evan.

"Son, let me explain something to you," Jim said as he slid into the driver seat, "That kid just battled two hordes of zombies with us. And he was taking them out at a hundred and fifty yards using that scattergun of his. As far as this team’s concerned, the kid’s proved himself more than the Marines have so far." The Marine looked down at Evan with wide eyes. The SUV’s sped through the remains of the zombie horde toward Evan’s home. From what Evan could see, Kirkwood was now a war zone. Buildings, cars, even people were on fire. Several buildings looked like they had been hit by a bomb. From every direction, gunfire and zombie moans could be heard.

The two SUV’s turned onto Evan’s street. His heart plunged as he saw his neighbors’ homes. A few were blazing infernos. The others were deathly quiet. His own home was around the bend, at the bottom of the cul-de-sac. He wanted to shut his eyes, to not see what happened to his home. He forced his eyes open. As his house came into view, Evan started to hope. It wasn’t on fire, and it was brightly lit. That hope died when he saw the zombie horde standing in the cul-de-sac. Then, the headlights of the SUV shone on his mother. She turned and moaned.

Zombie Strike Part 8 Chapter 81

Kirkwood, Missouri, 4 June 2011, 0030 hours local; Countdown: 6 months, 26 days

Evan Torrelli’s heart was in his throat as Jim sped through the streets. The teen didn’t even notice his surroundings. His mind kept replaying the last words his father said. Zombies were attacking his house. Instead of going to the police like his father told him to, Evan was going back to his house in the company of the world’s finest zombie hunters. That should have given Evan some hope, but all he could hear was the zombies crashing through the windows of his home.

"Boss, we’re starting to see the edge of the panic," Jim said to Mateo Cortez, the Zombie Strike field leader. Evan looked up and saw a wave of stampeding humanity coming down the road at them.

"Side street, now!" Mateo snapped. Evan was smashed against the window as Jim whipped the SUV through a quick turn and raced through a parking lot. The SUV bounced over landscaping as Jim dodged speeding cars fleeing the area. Jim drifted the truck onto a street and hammered the gas pedal. The truck jerked with the sudden acceleration.

"Oh good, I only have to play dodge-car now," Jim commented as he slalomed through cars driving down the wrong side of the road. "Chief, this is getting a bit insane, even for me."

"I am sticking right behind you," Chief Stahl said over the team radio net, "Try not to get us killed before we even get to the horde." Jim didn’t respond. He gripped the steering wheel tight and gritted back the pain from his earlier wound.

"With this much traffic, we should be seeing the horde soon," Mateo said, "As soon as we see the horde, we stop and evaluate."

"But we’re still a few miles from my home," Evan argued. Mateo looked back at the teen with a sorrowful expression.

"Evan, we will do everything we can to get to save your family, but we can’t do anything if we’re dead," Mateo said, "That means we have to fight smart, or we’ll find ourselves beyond crush without a way out." Evan wanted to scream at his hero to save his family. Wasn’t that what heroes were supposed to do? Evan slammed his fist against the seat. He knew Mateo was right. Evan spent too much time learning about how to fight the undead. After getting past the whole "shoot ’em in the head" basics, most of the posts were on how to push back the point of crush. The theory was simple. At crush, the sheer mass of a zombie horde would overcome the speed at which the defenders could put them down. The idea was to push back the point of crush through the use of modern weapons, prepared defenses, trained persons, and tactics.

"Chief, we’ve found the horde," Jim said an instant before slamming on the brakes and sliding the SUV. Evan was sure the truck was going to roll, but it just teetered at the edge through Jim’s slide. The second SUV slid next to them, forming a defense line against the horde of zombies. Quentin half-shoved, half-carried Evan out of the SUV. The teen barely kept a hold of his double-barrel against the rushing wall of human. Evan’s feet barely hit the asphalt before the meaty hand guiding him out shoved Evan against the side of the SUV.

Quentin’s expression clearly told Evan to stay put and not get into trouble. Evan nodded and the obsidian face broke into a comforting smile. Evan smiled back weakly. The smiles were wiped away by the cacophony of moans from the horde. Evan turned around and peered through the SUV’s windows. The entire six-lane street was filled with hundreds of zombies. Evan couldn’t make out much in the dim light from the streetlights, but the shambling walk was distinctive. Was his family in that horde? Could he fight them if they were? The questions and fear raced through him as he stared at the solid mass of undead.

"Matt, we got a mix of old corpses and fresh kills in that group," Jess reported. The girl sniper was perched on top of the second SUV. "I don’t see any minions or gollums."

"You have a count?" Mateo asked.

"A lot," Jess answered, "They’re hard packed in there, and that horde has to be at least a hundred yards deep."

"Boss, there are at least a thousand head out there," Chief Stahl said, "If we’re going to engage them, we need to break out the MG’s quick."

"Do it," Mateo ordered, "Jess, Slim, and Jim, engage at max range. Everyone else will engage as soon as the Chief and Quentin have the heavies up. Sport, I want a wall of frags about midway. See if we can break this up into some smaller hordes."

"We’re not going to make it home, are we?" Evan asked Mateo as evenly as he could. Mateo looked Evan in the eye with a neutral expression.

"I can’t let a horde this size keep moving. It’ll keep growing until it wipes out Saint Louis," Mateo answered. Evan looked back as Chief Stahl and The Steve hauled out two large machine guns from the back of the second SUV.

"Then I’ll go home on my own," Evan said defiantly. Jim’s hand grabbed the boy’s shoulder and spun Evan around. The normal cheerful expression on the cowboy’s face was replaced by a stone cold look of authority.

"No, you won’t," Jim said, "Even if you get past that horde, there’s probably more zombies. Past that will be the survivors, most of who will shoot first and ask questions later. You want to get home, then you got to help us fight." The cowboy shoved a box of shotgun shells into Evan’s hands.

"But my dad," Evan said before Jim cut him off.

"Your dad’s a good man. Would he want you to save his life at the expense of everyone else?" Jim asked. Evan shook his head, barely holding back the tears.

"Evan, I need you in the line," Mateo said, "Get over by The Steve and make sure nothing gets near him." The sudden order was a life line for Evan as he nearly drowned in a sea of emotion. Evan focused on Mateo’s order and trotted over to The Steve. The medic rested the machine gun’s bipod on the hood of the SUV. Evan set the box of slugs on the hood. He broke open his shotgun and loaded the first two slugs.

Three rifles cracked almost simultaneously as the team’s sharpshooters went to work. Evan’s mouth went dry. This was different then the fight at the school. Things seemed to happen so quickly. This time, Evan could only wait as the zombies inched into range. His mind raced through all the worst possibilities. Evan was terrified. Not about fighting the zombies. He knew he could do that. Evan was terrified that Zombie Strike couldn’t finish this fight in time to get to his home.

The thoughts stopped as the two machine guns opened up.

Zombie Strike Part 8 Chapter 80

Kirkwood, Missouri, 3 June 2011, 2330 hours local; Countdown: 6 months, 27 days

Evan Torrelli was deafened by the twin roars as he blasted the jumping humanoid creature with both barrels of his shotgun. He could barely hear its screech over the echoes of the shotgun’s report. Instinct took over as Evan snapped the shotgun’s breech open and yanked out the spent shells. As his hands dug around his pants for a pair of new shells, Evans finally got a look at what attacked him. In the odd combination of moonlight and orange-colored light from the streetlights, the creature looked like a withered human with slate black skin decorated with bright blue symbols. Its face was twisted into an inhuman snarl as it shook a crude black-bladed axe at him. The creature reminded Evan of a model of a caveman he’d seen on some field trip.

"Down kid!" shouted Jim. Evan barely hit the soft grass before Jim’s rifle boomed behind him. Evan heard the snap of the bullet over his head. The bullet lanced through the thin creature. The creature staggered back a step before sprinting at the cowboy. Jim shifted his grip on his rifle, holding the weapon more like a staff. The creature’s axe whistled through the air as it lashed at Jim. The cowboy caught the axe on his barrel before twisting and slamming the butt of his rifle into the creature’s chest. The blow drove the creature to the ground, but it sprang back and buried its axe into Jim’s chest.

"Stupid gollum," Jim grunted, dropping his rifle. As the creature struggled to free its axe, Jim drew a monstrous revolver. The creature realized its mistake an instant before Jim fired. The creature flew off of Jim, letting out the most horrendous scream Evan could have ever imagined. Jim straightened, took aim with his revolver, and placed a single round into the creature’s head. Evan stared wide-eyed as the creature’s head exploded like a pumpkin. Then the creature withered away to dust before Evan’s eyes. His mind was grappling with what his eyes were seeing.

"Jim, are you okay?" Mateo called out. Evan shook his head as he suddenly realized he had lost track of Zombie Strike’s leader. Mateo was crouched behind the school’s electrical box taking down the zombies now staggering towards the trio. The four men that with the zombies were now sprinting away from them.

"Chest plate’s cracked. I think I’m bleeding," Jim reported.

"Evan, how’re you doing?" Mateo asked casually as he placed a burst into a zombie’s head.

"I’m a little freaked out right now," Evan blurted out. He finally managed to fish out a couple of shotgun shells. With slow and steady movements, he managed to reload his shotgun.

"That’s fine," Mateo reassured the boy, "Would you please go check on Jim?" Evan nodded, and then cursed at himself. Mateo was busy killing zombies. He couldn’t see Evan nodding.

"Yes sir," Evan said, hoping Mateo didn’t notice his screw-up. Evan rushed over to the cowboy’s side. The man had stripped off his web gear and shirt. Evan could see axe buried in what looked like plastic armor. Evan started to grab the axe handle, but Jim’s hand clamped down him.

"Just help me get this piece off," Jim said. Evan could see the trickle of blood coming from the break in the armor. Jim showed Evan the quick release points. The plate clomped to the ground. There was a bloody gash in the undergarment.

"We need to get you to a doctor," Evan said, staring at the wound.

"Doc’ll be here in a moment," Jim said, standing up. Holding the big revolver in a loose Weaver stance, Jim took aim. With measured movements, Jim brought down four zombies with four shots from the revolver. Unconcerned about the approaching undead, Jim tucked the spent brass into a pocket and fed five fresh cartridges into the cylinder.

"Get into the fight, kid," Jim said, snapping the cylinder back into the frame. Evan swallowed hard and looked at the zombies. There was now only about a dozen of the walking dead. The closest were maybe fifty yards away. A bit long for buckshot. Evan’s mind slid back to his hunting days. Okay, so maybe zombies were a little different from hunting deer. Zombies made things easier by coming to you. Evan popped out the two shells in his shotgun. He loaded two of the four slugs he kept in his back pocket. Even in the moonlight, Evan could see the golden bead of his front sight. He chose one of the closer zombies. A little Kentucky windage, and Evan squeezed the trigger. The heavy slug easily shattered the zombie’s decaying head before nearly tearing off the arm of the walker behind it.

"Not bad," Jim commented, but Evan didn’t hear the words. He was too busy lining up his next shot. He felt as if he was taking forever to get a good bead on the zombie’s head. They were much smaller targets in real-life then they seemed on television. He jerked the trigger just a bit hard. Evan cursed under his breath as the slug tore out the zombie’s neck. It fell to the ground and started to crawl without pause. Then there was more gunfire. Suppressed bursts of automatic fire cut down zombie after zombie with an almost contemptuous ease. It took less than a minute before the last zombie dropped to the ground. Evan turned around to see the rest of Zombie Strike spread out in a traditional fire line.

"Clear!" shouted Chief Stahl as the last echoes of gunfire died away. "Sport, Slim, get down to that graveyard and make sure nothing else is coming up our way. Jess, cover them." Two of the men nodded and dashed across the corpse-strewn field. Jess crouched down and brought her rifle up. Her big dog sat obediently next to him. Evan closed his eyes and forced himself to look away from her. She was too pretty for his teenage mind to handle properly, and he knew it. Maybe later he could work up enough courage to talk to her.

"Dude, you look like you just got sliced by a samurai sword," The Steve commented as he started working on Jim’s wound.

"Gollum," Jim grunted out as The Steve slathered the wound in a thick, gray paste.

"A gollum? We haven’t seen one of those in months," Quentin McLintock said. The former linebacker’s face scrunched in thought.

"Which means your theory was incorrect," the last member of the team said. He didn’t look like the others. He reminded Evan of his dad’s accountant.

"Thank you for that contribution Tredegar," Mateo said, slinging his M4.

"Maybe not," Quentin said, "What if they were looking for medallions here?" Evan was completely lost. He hoped it didn’t show on his face.

"Possible," Mateo agreed cautiously, "That could explain their low numbers. Get down there and start searching." Quentin nodded before sprinting off to the graveyard. Evan couldn’t believe anyone that big could move that fast. Mateo, Tredegar, and Chief Stahl walked away, talking amongst themselves. Evan stood there, not sure where he was supposed to go or what he was supposed to do. Jim motioned for the boy to sit down next to him.

"Relax Evan, it’s just time for the head honchoes of this outfit to start figuring out what to do next," Jim explained. The Steve was finishing up with a patch of white gauze that stretched over Jim’s entire chest.

"Yeah dude, don’t worry," the medic chimed in, "We’ll probably be dropping you home pretty soon." Evan looked down. Part of him wanted to go home, curl up in bed, and pretend this never happened. Another part of him was heart-broken he wouldn’t get to stay with Zombie Strike. The two men didn’t say anything, but Evan could see their sympathy on their faces. His phone started singing Toby Keith’s latest hit. It took a moment for Evan to remember that was his new ringtone. Pulling the phone out of his pocket, he saw the number and froze. It was home. His parents were going to skin him alive. Evan slowly opened the phone, flinching as his father’s voice filled his ear.

"Evan, where are you?" he demanded. Evan shot upright. His father’s voice wasn’t the expected anger. His father sounded terrified.

"At the school," Evan said his voice cracking as he spoke.

"Thank God," his father breathed. Evan could hear his mother screaming in the background. The sound drove a spike of fear into the teen’s heart.

"Evan, listen to me, you need to go to the police station and stay there," Evan’s father said. It was the same tone his father always used to lay down the law. "I don’t care what you hear or see on TV, you are not to come home." There was the sound of shattering glass and then the unmistakable sound of gunfire.

"Dad!" Evan screamed into the phone, "What’s going on?"

"Zombies are attacking the house." Evan’s father said, "Remember, we love you." With that, Evan’s father hung up the phone.

Zombie Strike Part 8 Chapter 79

Kirkwood, Missouri, 3 June 2011, 2300 hours local; Countdown: 6 months, 27 days

Evan Torrelli waited in the shadow of a large tree. The fifteen-year-old’s shotgun was tucked in the crook of his arm. His dad would skin him alive if he knew Evan was toting the coach gun around on his bike. Evan hoped his dad would understand. The email said Evan would be safe waiting in the park, but Evan needed the extra reassurance. He’d seen too much in the last two days.

Evan didn’t much care for living so close to St. Louis. He was a farm boy, and he liked the wide open spaces. The city felt confined, almost to the point of claustrophobic. Evan understood Dad couldn’t run the farm anymore after his heart attack. They needed to go where the family could make a living. Teaching at a small Christian school wasn’t much, but the family was making it. Evan did his best to adjust.

Evans looked up into the night sky as he heard what sounded like a crop duster coming in close. He could barely see the darkened shape in the night sky. It looked like a sleeker version of the Osprey tilt-rotor helicopter Evans had seen at an airshow. A bullet shaped body with two huge props at the end of the straight wings. The sound of the props roared as they rotated up. The tilt-rotor came down in the park’s open area. Red light spilled out of the back of the plane as a ramp came down. Ten dark-clad figures and what looked like a big dog tromped down the ramp. Almost before all of them were off, the tilt-rotor levitated back into the sky. As soon as it was above the trees, the props came back down, and it shot off into the night sky.

"Easy with that scattergun, son," a voice whispered in Evan’s ear. Evan froze in surprise. He didn’t even notice one of the figures slipping around him. A strong hand snatched the coach gun from under his arm. Evan turned around. The man was a foot taller than Evan, maybe six foot even. The man looked exactly like Evans imagined a spec ops soldier would look like. The soldier’s own weapon was slung as he unloaded Evan’s shotgun.

"Took a chance coming out here with a shotgun," the man said with a low baritone voice, "What would you have done if you’d come across those guys you told us about?"

"Run like hell and only shoot if I didn’t have a choice," Evan answered. The soldier smiled, his ivory teeth distorting the black streaks across his face.

"Good answer kid," the soldier said. He handed the shotgun and shells back to Evan before motioning to the others. Evan’s eyes went wide as he recognized a few of the faces. Evan had been a huge fan of Zombie Strike! Well, at least until his mom couldn’t take the sight of undead anymore and banned it. The events of the last year didn’t help Evan’s pleading to watch the reruns. Still, he recognized three of the people. Quentin McLintock, Steve "The Steve" Mountain, and Mateo Cortez were all champions of the reality show. Evan swallowed and tried to keep cool. He wanted to impress his heroes. He didn’t recognize the others, but they looked a lot like the soldier who took away his shotgun. Except for the guy with the cowboy hat. Then his eyes locked on the face of the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. His mind froze in shock. Any chance of keeping his cool was shot as he stared at the girl for a long moment.

"Eyes back in the head kid," the soldier said, slapping Evan in the back of the head.

"Sorry," Evan said, sheepishly. He could feel his ears burning with embarrassment. He didn’t feel any better when the others laughed. All except the girl. She just gave him a polite smile.

"Evan, I’m Mateo Cortez," one of his heroes said, and outstretched his hand. Evan snatched it greedily. Mateo wasn’t flashy or had some gimmick. He was the everyman of Zombie Strike!, and Evan was a fan.

"I know," Evan blurted, and then stopped. Cool, he needed to play this cool. Especially with that girl watching him. He tried not to look back over at her.

"Good. Are the vehicles parked where they were supposed to be?" Mateo asked.

"Yes sir," Evan answered, "Right outside the park." Evan pointed to where the three vans were parked.

"Good, you’re riding with me," Mateo said, "Jim, you’re driving. Chief, get the others divvied up." The soldier nodded. Mateo led Evan away from the group. The guy in the cowboy hat followed closely behind him.

"Did you actually see a zombie?" Mateo asked in a low voice. It took Evan a moment to realize the question was directed at him.

"Yes sir. There were a bunch of them," Evan answered, remembering back to two nights ago.

"Can you remember how many you saw?" Mateo asked. Evan concentrated hard. He stumbled onto the guys in black raising zombies. He wasn’t trying to count the zombies. He was trying to run away. He settled down and framed the last image in his head.

"Ten or fifteen or so," Evan finally answered.

"You sure?" Mateo asked. Mateo’s eyes bored into Evan’s. The boy swallowed hard and steeled himself.

"Yes sir," Evan said, squeezing every ounce of confidence into his voice.

"Well, hell kid, you might just be useful," the cowboy said, his light words filled with twang.

"Stow it Jim," Mateo ordered. "Evan, I’m going to need you to take us back to exactly where you saw the men." Evan nodded, trying to keep his fear from showing on his face. If Mateo saw past Evan’s façade, he didn’t say anything.

Mateo, Jim, and Evan climbed into the first van. Evan clung tightly to the seat at the cowboy sped through the streets following Evan’s instructions. Evan closed his eyes and waited for the van to roll over as Jim took a turn at nearly fifty miles an hour. The ride was mercifully short. In less than ten minutes, the van pulled up to the Christian school where his parents taught.

The cowboy unslung his big rifle as he stepped out of the van. Mateo unslung his M4 carbine. Evan loaded his shotgun. The cowboy looked over at the noise of the shotgun clicking closed and smiled. Evan led them around the converted church and through a small playground enclosed by a chain link fence. Maybe a hundred yards beyond the chain link fence was an old graveyard. Some of the older students snuck out to hang out amongst the gravestones. Evan liked to come out there at night. It was the only place that felt open enough and quiet enough to remind him of nights on the farm. Evan froze. They were back. In the moonlight, Evan could clearly see the four black-clad figures and the over twenty zombies. The undead were standing as if statues made of decaying flesh. They weren’t even moaning. The four figures were darting about the graveyard. It looked like they were searching for something.

"We have contact," Mateo whispered into his mike. He had his M4 up and trained at the figures in the graveyard. "Four minions, maybe two dozen zombies." Evan’s eyebrow quirked upward. Minions? Minions of who? Mateo listened for a moment and then made a hand motion to Jim. The big cowboy moved maybe thirty yards to the right before crouching down and aiming his big rifle. Evan was about to ask Mateo what to do. He stopped when his eyes caught movement behind the three of them. He turned back around, his shotgun coming to his shoulder. His shoulders tensed, like they did right before that hog had come out of the bush on his last hunting trip. It was something in the playground. Evans took a step closer, and something leapt into the air. Its screech broke the night’s silence. Evan pulled both triggers.

Zombie Strike Part 8 Chapter 78

Johannesburg, South Africa, 1 June 2011, 2100 hours local; Countdown: 7 months

The man known as Castle studied the report on his tablet. Zombie outbreaks caused by the Truth’s sorcerers and Champions were pushing the world just as he expected. The panicked populaces were demanding strong and capable men and women to lead them through these troubled times. Men and women the Truth was more than willing to provide, even if the populaces didn’t know who their true benefactor was. With the report in his hands, Castle’s chosen acolytes were now in control of Africa, Latin America, most of Asia (with the noticeable exception of China), and nearly all of the old Soviet bloc in Europe. Even in those nations not under the direct control of the Truth, Castle’s people held key positions in business, governments, and the media.

Commentators were calling it the second rise of the dictators. Many were trying to bring back the ghosts of Stalin, Hitler, and all those other ruthless dictators that slaughtered their own citizens in job lots. Most people didn’t really care. There were zombies rising and wiping out entire towns. Even the mighty Americans couldn’t protect the world from this threat. As far as most of the world cared, protection from zombies was far more important than little things like freedom and the rule of law. Well, if everything worked as prophesized, in seven months the zombies will no longer be needed. The Truth will have saved the world from the Great Death, and the Truth would take its rightful place as the supreme religion of the world. Castle took a sip of the rum from the crystal tumbler and smiled. Most men never saw the dawning of a new age, much less led the change, albeit from the shadows.

Alan walked into the office without knocking. Castle swallowed his annoyance as his head sorcerer strode into the room and plopped into a leather chair. Of all of his direct subordinates, Alan was probably the most arrogant, brash, and outspoken. Castle ignored all of that because Alan was perhaps the greatest sorcerer the Truth had produced. The Flayed One liked this American for some reason, and Castle wasn’t about to cross his god’s apparent wishes.

"Flayed One, I’ll be glad when I can get these bandages off," Alan said. Half of the man’s face was covered in thick white bandages. "If I ever get my hands on that Brit with the grenade launcher…" Alan’s voice trailed off.

"At least Zombie Strike didn’t succeed," Castle said. The freelance zombie hunters were becoming a real problem for the Truth. In the time since the Little Death escaped into this world, Zombie Strike had been hitting Truth installations all over the globe. Several key operations were disrupted and two nations were kept from coming under Castle’s dominance. All Castle could do was have them branded as terrorists in most of the world.

"Has Mikhail had any luck in running down the mole?" Castle asked. Castle was convinced there was a mole in the Truth. Zombie Strike was just hitting too many targets at the most opportune time.

"Actually, I think we’re trying to hunt down the viper," Alan said dismissively.

"What do you mean?" Castle asked, confused by the statement.

"Old GI Joe episode. One of the Joes keeps getting telephone calls from someone in a thick accent that calls himself the Viper and leaves cryptic messages. The Joes end up crashing a whole slew of Cobra ops. Everyone keeps wondering who this wonderful source of intel is. Turns out it was a little old man who was coming to wash the windows. I’ve come to vipe your vindows."

"As charming as that sounds, what is your point?" Castle asked, his reservoir of patience quickly draining.

"I asked our computer guys to see what files were being dumped first from the last three times Zombie Strike hit us," Alan said, "Want to guess?" Castle gave Alan a weary expression.

"Files regarding the prophecies," Alan announced. "I think that they’re focusing on getting the prophecies, and all the disruption to our activities is just a byproduct." Castle’s eyebrow crooked upward. As much as he hated it, Alan’s theory was plausible. The prophecies surrounding the Great Death were some of the Truth’s most guarded secrets, and as a consequence, were stored in the same places that many of their other sensitive activities were occurring.

"Assuming you’re correct, do we know how much of the prophecies they have acquired?" Castle asked.

"We should know in a few days," Alan said, "I handed it over to Frederick." Castle nodded in agreement. Frederick was the Truth’s head security specialist. He knew what resources to use for this kind of investigation.

"We’ll give Frederick some time to run this theory of yours down a bit," Castle said, "I want your people to use that time to prepare. If he confirms your theory, then I want to move quickly on our next operation. Zombie Strike must still be recovering from the last battle, and I don’t want them involved if we can help it."

"What operation?" Alan asked, "Why wasn’t I told about this?"

"Because you were still recovering from the Brit’s white phosphorous grenade," Castle explained. "I did most of the work while I’ve been here." Alan smirked, and then groaned in pain. The same attack where Alan was wounded also nearly revealed Castle to Zombie Strike. The Truth’s leader fled to the safehouse in Johannesburg. It was secure, but it lacked many of the luxuries the Truth’s headquarters in Lisbon possessed.

"So what’s the plan?" Alan asked. Castle brought up a map on the tablet and showed it to Alan. The sorcerer let out an off-key whistle. "That’s a bit on the audacious side, isn’t it? Did you consult the Flayed One about this?"

"Are you questioning my ability?" Castle snapped. Alan held up his hands in mock surrender.

"No, relax," Alan said, "I think it’s a good operation, but for something this big, we’ll need the Flayed One’s blessing. If for no other reason than to increase the ability of my people."

"I see your point," Castle conceded, "Yes, we have his blessing. If all goes well, then we will fulfill another stanza of the prophecy, and we will control the United States."

Zombie Strike Part 8 Chapter 77

Baltimore, Maryland, 10 February 2011, 2000 hours local: Countdown: 10 months, 18 days

Sissy O’Connell nervously smoothed her skirt at the knock on the door. When she’d agreed to this appointment a month ago, it seemed so far away. Now it was here. She wasn’t sure if she had the strength. The door opened. The ivory white smile contrasted with mahogany face. Quentin McLintock filled the doorway, literally. Quentin was a graduate of West Virginia University where he’d been a linebacker for three seasons, and he looked the part. A head over six feet and probably four feet wide at the shoulders, Quentin was a three hundred and fifty pound wall of a man. Sissy hadn’t seen Quentin in over a year. She could see the new scars on his hands. They made her cringe.

"Thank you for coming, Mr. McLintock," Dr. Perez said as Quentin walked into the room. Dr. Ramona Perez was Sissy’s current psychiatrist. The last two just couldn’t handle dealing with the root causes of Sissy’s mental trauma. Dr. Perez was a sharp-faced woman whose strong features could be called handsome at best. Her straight, black hair was cut short and professional. Behind the blue horn-rimmed glasses shone black eyes that flashed with intelligence and passion. Even the normally easy-going Quentin seemed to be taken aback by the woman’s intense look.

"Not a problem, Doctor," Quentin said. The doctor pointed at a chair for him. Quentin sat down cautiously. It was habit for him. Furniture didn’t always survive his mass. The doctor waited for him to get settled before continuing.

"Sissy, it’s time," the psychiatrist prompted. Anxiety swelled from the pit of her stomach. Sissy practiced what she was going to say a dozen times. Looking into those brown eyes the words wouldn’t come. Quentin’s patient face was enough to bring tears to Sissy’s eyes. Quentin always treated her like a sister. He’d never made a pass at her, never leered at her, never treated her like she was only as good as her beauty. She knew what she had done to him was because her reality had come unglued, but that didn’t make the guilt go away.

"Quentin, I’ve been able to piece together what happened when we entered the temple," Sissy said after a few minutes, "I remember giving Matt Jack’s pistol. I remember the beginning of the fight in the temple." She shuddered as the horror shot through her. It was easier now. Not easy, but easier. Sissy swallowed hard and plunged ahead. "I can remember when that gollum jumped us. I lost it and just sprayed bullets all over."

Sissy couldn’t stop the tears. Everything was so clear in her mind. She could feel the MP7 jerk in her hand. She could see the hail of bullets shatter the tiles that lined the walls and floor of Xipe Tzin’s temple. She watched at the stream of bullets hit Quentin. Sissy saw Dr. Perez wave Quentin back. True to form, he was trying to comfort her. Dr. Perez was right. She needed to deal with her tangled ball of emotions.

"I remember shooting you," Sissy said between sobs. She forced herself to meet Quentin’s eyes. How could they be so sympathetic? Why didn’t he hate her for what she had done to him.

"Quentin, I’m so sorry," Sissy blurted out, "I know I wasn’t right in the head. I know." Shame and guilt tormented her. Sissy pulled all of her will together and forced out the words. "I can’t take back what I did to you, but I am so sorry, and I wanted you to know that." Sissy looked over at Dr. Perez. The psychiatrist smiled reassuringly. She’d done it and survived. Now she just needed to survive whatever Quentin did in response.

"Sissy, I want you to see something," Quentin said. He rolled up his right pant leg. The shiny plastic shell of the prosthetic limb gleamed at her. Shame and fascination battled in her mind as she looked over the artificial leg. Quentin just smiled at her.

"MacKenzie and Winston made sure I was well taken care of, and this thing’s saved me a couple of times," Quentin said. She could see the gouges in the outer shell. "More importantly, what the docs learn from my leg, they’re using to build better prosthetics for others." Quentin rolled his pant leg back down.

"You didn’t ruin my life. You didn’t cause me unending pain and misery," Quentin said, "I’m still your friend and I’ll always be here for you." Sissy couldn’t stop. She flung herself into Quentin’s waiting arms. He let out a low laugh and kissed her on the top of her head. He didn’t make it all better, but he did make it more bearable.

After a few minutes, Sissy let go of her friend. Was that right? She took another look at Quentin’s smiling face. Yes, he was her friend. Dr. Perez told her over and over that her friends cared about her. They understood what had happened to her, and they still loved her. The faces taunting her in her dreams were just that – dreams. Reality felt a bit more real in that moment. Sissy stood up and pushed back her hair. She smiled at the psychiatrist.

"Well, Dr. Perez, does this rate noting in your paper?" Sissy asked with a light tone.

"What?" Quentin asked, shooting an angry glance at Dr. Perez.

"Calm down Quent," Sissy said, "Dr. Perezís been real upfront about it." Quentin continued to glare at the psychiatrist.

"Mr. McLintock, just as your experiences with your prosthetic will help the medical community, so will Sissy’s unique experience," Dr. Perez said neutrally. "Sissy is the first person we know of that has ever come back from a psychotic break with reality due to prolonged exposure to the undead. I have been completely candid with her about the need to properly document her process for later publication. I assure you, this is not about my need for self-promotion, but to assist other professionals who might be dealing with a similar situation. That is why we’re supposed to publish, after all."

"How are you going to explain the conditions under which Sissy had her psychotic break? M&W hasn’t released anything about that mission except to a few governments and even fewer individuals," Quentin said, not relenting an inch.

"M&W is fully aware of my work with Sissy," Dr. Perez replied, "I am working with them to determine how to present the paper once it is completed. They understand that you cannot bury this kind of information. Not if you want the world to survive the next few years."

"Quent, stop, please," Sissy pleaded. His mouth snapped shut.

"Are you okay with this?" he asked. She nodded. "Okay. I don’t like it, but if you’re okay with it, I’ll drop it." A wave of relief swept over Sissy. She needed to believe that others would be better because of the hell she went through.

"As to your question Sissy," Dr. Perez said, "Yes, this encounter will definitely make it into my paper. You managed to confront your fears and emotions surrounding what happened to Mr. McLintock. It’s been a rough few weeks, but you did it. You hit a milestone in your recovery." Sissy just nodded. She felt exhausted, even more than after any of her physical therapy sessions.

"I think we’re done for today. I know this was emotionally exhausting," Dr. Perez said to Sissy before turning to Quentin. "You are going to be in town for a few days, Mr. McLintock?"

"Yes. Since I was going to be in town, I’m meeting with some of the folks over in the anthropology department at the university," Quentin said. He turned to Sissy. "There’s a possibility I might be starting on my doctorate here. Would that bother you?"

"No!" Sissy exclaimed, her face lighting up with a smile. Once she’d emerged from her catatonia, her family tried to help, but they just didnít understand. They couldn’t understand. To them, zombies were just things they saw on television. Quentin was someone who would understand. Her thoughts came to a screeching halt. Would Quentin understand? He was one of those few humans who didn’t suffer from the primal panic that overtook the vast majority of humans when they came into contact with the undead. Sissy still wasn’t sure how she’d lasted as long as she did before finally succumbing to it on that island.

Her thoughts came to a stop as the office suddenly went dark. The familiar background noises of the air conditioning and the cooling fans on the computers clicked off. Power outage was Sissy’s first instinct, but that was odd. Power outages weren’t unheard of, but they were uncommon at this time of year. With a start she realized she wasn’t scared. Ever since Sissy woke up from her catatonia, fear was an almost constant companion. Now, here, in a dark so deep she couldn’t even see her hand in front of her face, she wasn’t afraid. It was exhilirating.

A beam of white light split the dark. Quentin tilted the small flashlight towards the ceiling to illuminate the office. For the briefest moment, Sissy was incensed her darkness had been taken away from her. Her mind seized on that fact. Anger, not fear, was her first emotion. Was she finally starting to push through all of her emotional damage?

"Everyone okay?" Quentin asked, pointedly not directing his question at just Sissy.

"I’m fine Quent," Sissy said. She looked over to Dr. Perez when the psychiatrist didn’t immediately answer. Dr. Perez was staring at her cell phone with a confused look on her face.

"That’s odd," Dr. Perez said, echoing Sissy’s initial reaction, "Why would a power outage disable my cell phone?"

"Your phone could’ve just discharged and drained the battery. It happens. Here, you can use mine," Quentin said, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He paused as he saw his phone wasn’t working as well. Sissy pulled out hers. A dead screen looked up at her. The three traded looks.

"Do you have a land line?" Quentin asked, his normally light tone gone.

"At the receptionist’s desk," Dr. Perez said, motioning to the door.

"Okay, I’m going to check it," Quentin said. The room went dark as Quentin and his flashlight went in search of the receptionist’s phone.

"How are you doing really?" Dr. Perez asked Sissy in a low, almost conspiratorial tone. Sissy stifled a giggle. How long had it been since she’d done that? Months, at least.

"I’m fine. Really," Sissy answered. The doctor fell quiet. Sissy could imagine the stern, not quite believing face of the doctor at that moment. Dr. Perez always wore that expression when she thought that Sissy was trying to cover up her feelings.

"Okay ladies, we’re leaving," Quentin said as he stepped back into the room. The room lit back up. Sissy couldn’t hold back the giggle. The doctor was wearing the exact expression Sissy imagined. Both Quentin and Dr. Perez stared at her in surprise. Sissy swallowed the rest of her giggles.

"Why are we leaving?" asked Dr. Perez, "If the power’s out, it would make sense to stay here until it comes back on."

"Land line’s out. As one of my friends used to say, ‘Once is an anomaly, twice a coincidence, third time’s enemy action.’" Sissy recognized the words. Collin DuBois told her that when they were training on Skull Island. She suddenly realized she missed the ugly man. Then, Quentin’s choice of words hit her with the force of a punch. Quentin saw Sissy’s expression and grimly nodded. So, Collin was dead. It was a shock, but not really surprising. As was often repeated, zombie hunting wasn’t exactly a safe profession. Collin wasn’t the first friend she’d lost to the zombies. Most likely, he wouldn’t be the last either.

"What do you mean ‘enemy action?’" Dr. Perez asked, her voice tinged with the barest hint of annoyance.

"Something just took out the building’s power and phones and had enough juice left over to knock out our cell phones. That’s not your normal power outage, and it’s not something I want to hang around and deal with," Quentin explained. The doctor didn’t look convinced, but she obediently stuffed her laptop into its satchel. Sissy grabbed her purse and followed Quentin out of the office. Dr. Perez was a few steps behind her. The three walked under the light umbrella from Quentin’s flashlight. At this time of the day, the floor was deserted. That was one reason Dr. Perez scheduled Sissy’s appointments at this time. Now, the quiet was almost eerie.

The three started down the stairs. The stairwell was filled with shadows from the emergency lights. Sissy knew she should be scared, or at least a little frightened. Normal people would have been. Sissy could tell that Dr. Perez, for all stern control of her emotions, was frightened. Not enough to get through her calm, professional façade, but Sissy still saw the fear. Quentin wasn’t so much scared as uneasy. Sissy hadn’t seen Quentin in over a year, but she could still detect the small undercurrents in his voice as he tried to reassure the ladies that the power outage was probably nothing and he was being a little paranoid. It was almost amusing.

Sissy’s amusement came to a crashing stop. Almost forgotten instincts and awareness flooded her mind. She heard something. Maybe an echo, maybe it was just a scuff of feet. All Sissy knew was everything in her was screaming warnings. Long dormant training resurfaced from its hiding places in her mind. Sissy froze and flattened against the wall.

"Quent, stop," Sissy whispered. The big man immediately recognized her tone. He mimicked her and was against the wall. Sissy strained to listen for the faint sound. Dr. Perez started to talk, but fell silent at Sissy’s angry glare. Sissy ignored the psychiatrist’s indignant face. As long as the doctor was quiet. She concentrated and found what alerted her. Two voices talking to each other in hushed voices. They were male, and they sounded conspiratorial. Her mind froze when she finally recognized a word. Zombie. For a brief moment, she was frozen in a surge of fear. Sissy shook her head. Just because whoever was talking said zombie didnít mean any of the undead were actually here. The term was used in normal speech all the time. Sissy had a long discussion with Dr. Perez on that very subject after she had an incident. The word couldn’t hurt her. She took a few deep breaths to calm her galloping heart.

"Quent, there are intruders below us," Sissy whispered. She could almost see the switch flip in his eyes. Intruders meant potential hostiles. This went from a simple evacuation to a possible combat situation. He pulled up his shirt and drew a black handgun from an inside the waistband holster. Dr. Perez gasped as she saw the pistol. Sissy just cocked her head in curiosity.

"When’d you start carrying a 1911?" Sissy asked, "I thought you were a Glock boy."

"I like shooting 10 mm more, and this Colt Delta Elite feels better shooting that than the Glock," Quentin answered, "If you want a Glock, there’s a 33 in my ankle holster." Sissy beamed at the offer. She stooped down and snatched the diminutive pistol from its holster. It had been a long time since she held a weapon. She hadn’t realized how much she missed it until she felt the hard polymer in her hand. Quentin handed her a spare magazine. He looked slightly embarrassed as Sissy tucked it into her bra.

"What in God’s name are you two doing?" Dr. Perez demanded, just barely keeping her voice to an angry whisper. "What are you even doing with those? You can’t carry those in Baltimore." Sissy mentally groaned. Like most of her profession, Dr. Perez didn’t like guns. She didn’t even like when Sissy talked about shooting.

"Actually doc, I have a nice card from the Department of Justice saying I can," Quentin said, "Now, if we’re lucky, we can slip out of this building without needing to use these. If we run into trouble, my car is parked right outside. Red Dodge Magnum. There’s another phone in the car as well as an emergency radio. Sissy, get the doc to the car and call in the cavalry." The psychiatrist looked at the two with a mixture of horror and indignation on her face. Quentin ignored it, and motioned for the two women to follow him.

Sissy fell into remembered habits as she slinked down the stairs after Quentin. She listened for the two voices. Either they left the stairwell or they stopped talking. Or she just couldn’t hear them over Dr. Perez’s clomping down the stairs. Sissy knew the psychiatrist didn’t have the training to know any better. Most people didn’t. It was still annoying. After a couple flights of stairs, Sissy finally had enough. She whirled on the psychiatrist. It was time for the older woman to learn a few things.

"DOWN!" Quentin yelled as the stairwell rang with the sound of gunfire. Sissy grabbed Dr. Perez by the hair and shoved the woman to the deck. Sissy heard the throaty booms of Quentin’s Colt and the higher pitched crack of lighter rounds. Probably nine millimeter by the sound. Bullets spanged off the metal railings with brilliant sparks. Sissy spun as fast as she could. She needed to get into the fight. Quentin was squashed against the wall as best he could and still keep his isosceles shooting stance. Sissy darted to his left and saw the men firing at them. Three bad guys dressed in tight-fitting black clothes with matching balaclavas. One was unmoving on the ground, but the other two were firing wildly with semi-auto pistols. Sissy brought the small Glock up. Quentin replaced the crappy Glock sights with an XS Big-Dot. Well, it was his back-up, so of course he set it up for close quarters engagements. Sissy put the huge front dot on the closer bad guy’s head. She stroked the lightened trigger. The bad guy’s head snapped back as he collapsed to the ground. There a brief moment to make sure the bad guy wasn’t getting back up then Sissy turned to engage the other bad guy. Quentin put two rounds into center mass and the final bad guy went down.

"What in the hell are minions doing in Baltimore?" Quentin asked loudly as he replaced the spent magazine in his Colt. Before Sissy could ask what a minion was, another black-masked head popped out from around the corner of the landing. Sissy saw the carbine and whipped her pistol around. The two weapons fired at the same time. Sissy heard the staccato of automatic fire followed by the sound of shattering plastic and Quentin’s grunt of pain. Sissy charged down the stairs and checked the landing. No more bad guys. The last one was lying dead gripping an HK G36C. Sissy looked up at Quentin who was holding his knee and cursing in pain. Blood was soaking through his pants.

Sissy grabbed the carbine and darted up the stairs to her friend. She pried Quentin’s hands off of his wound so she could inspect it. As soon as her hand touched the blood, she knew something was wrong. It wasn’t blood, but some sort of oily-smelling fluid. Then she saw the shards of plastic and circuit board littered the stairs. Quentin nodded as he saw the realization hit her.

"Yep, he destroyed my leg," Quentin grunted, "When I get my hands on the tech who decided to put a pain response into the feedback routines, I’m going to strangle him."

"You felt the pain from the bullets?" Sissy asked.

"Not exactly, but enough pain to let me know the leg’s thoroughly trashed," Quentin said. He turned to Dr. Perez. Sissy looked up guiltily at the psychiatrist. She’d lost track of the woman in the middle of the fight. Dr. Perez looked down at the dead men. Her eyes widened in horror. Her mouth fell open, but no sound came out. Sissy cautiously climbed the few steps.

"Dr. Perez, are you okay?" Sissy asked. She flushed with embarrassment as soon as the words came out of her mouth. The doctor swiveled her head to stare at Sissy with a look of incredulity. Of course she wasn’t okay. Sissy could only nervously look away.

"Um, sorry, Dr. Perez," Sissy said, "Can you look at Quent? He’s hurt." The shock fell from the older woman’s face. This was something she could deal with. The psychiatrist fell back into her professional mode. Dr. Perez gently pushed past Sissy and bent down to examine Quentin. As the two talked in hushed voices, Sissy slipped down and slid through the door to the third floor. The only light came from the few emergency lights. Large stretches of dark filled the gaps between the lights. Sissy slipped into the shadows and walked towards the large window at the end of the hallway. From what she could see, the entire city around the building was dark. That wasn’t a good. She took another couple of steps and froze. An unmarked door opened maybe twenty feet from her, pouring light into the darkened hallway.

"You can’t do this!" screeched a high-pitched male voice, "Castle would never sanction this!" The sound of metal smacking flesh floated out of the door followed by the sound of painful whimpering.

"Who do you think ordered this?" another voice asked. This one spoke with a flat Midwestern accent, but with a controlled menace that made Sissy swallow. She tightened the grip on her pistol and waited patiently.

"Did you actually think you could betray the Truth for petty greed?" the second man asked. "Now quit sniveling on the floor, and come with me. Mikhail is waiting." The first man gasped. The second man chuckled in amusement.

"No, I won’t," the first man said, his voice trembling, "My men will stop you." The second man laughed.

"We killed the ones downstairs," the second man said. "They’ll make decent zombies. Right now, I have six Champions with me. Exactly what do you think your mundane mercenaries will do against Champions?" The first man started babbling incoherently. There was the sound of a hard slap. The babbling ceased. The two men appeared in the doorway.

The first voice belonged to a tall, thin, balding man dressed in a nice, if rumpled, dark suit. His long arms hung loosely at his side, barely moving in time with his gait. The man’s head drooped in resignation. He looked like a man being marched to the gallows. The other man was dressed like the intruders in the stairwell. His dark jumpsuit was pulled tight over his bulky form. He moved with a silent step. Sissy guessed this man had some martial arts or dance training in his background. The second man pressed a pistol the back of the first man’s head.

Well that explained what the bad guys were doing in the building, Sissy thought to herself. The two men walked slowly towards the stairwell exit. Neither saw her crouched in the dark shadows. She brought the Glock up, moving slowly so as not to catch either man’s attention. She held her position and waited long seconds as her target closed. She took a deep breath, let out a little and squeezed. The ball of flame from the Glock’s muzzle lit up the hallway for an instant. Just long enough for Sissy to see that she’d missed.

Tight-suit man flinched an instant before Sissy fired. The .357 Sig round passed by within millimeters of the man’s head before burying itself in a wall. Gangly man was pushed to the ground. Tight-suit man brought his pistol down. He fired a double-tap at where the flash originated, but Sissy was already in motion. She felt one of the rounds tug at the cloth of her dress, but she didn’t feel any pain. She took a snap shot over her shoulder and was rewarded with a grunt of pain. She instinctively dove for the floor as the second man sprayed the hallway with indiscriminate fire. Bullets cracked above her. She heard the window at the end of the hall shatter. She scampered up as the bad guy reloaded his pistol. She fell into her isosceles stance as the man snarled obscenities. He managed to jam his weapon with a bad reload. He threw the pistol at Sissy. She ducked as the pistol slammed into the wall behind her. As she came back up, Tight Suit man dashed past her and jumped out of the window.

Sissy just stared. They were four stories up. Why had he done that? She cautiously walked down the hallway and looked out the window. The man was standing on the sidewalk outside the building. How in the hell did he fall four stories and not splatter himself all over the concrete? He looked up at her. She could feel his smoldering anger. Sissy backed away from the window. The man brought back a terror in Sissy that she’d fought against for the last several months. She took a few deep breaths as she pushed down the fear. Her mind came back into focus. Sissy whirled on the suited man on the carpet.

"Get up," Sissy growled with as much menace as she could squeeze into her voice. The man scrambled to his feet. His eyes never left the Glock in her hand.

"Walk to the stairwell," she ordered.

"Who are you?" the man asked, unsure if he was walking to his salvation or his execution.

"Move!" Sissy said, adding emphasis with her pistol. The man hustled into the stairwell. He stopped as he saw the bodies sprawled across the landing. There was a sharp intake of breath as he saw Quentin training the carbine on him.

"Flayed One," the man breathed, "Quentin McLintock."

"Well that makes you a Truther," Quentin said, gripping the carbine tighter.

"You can’t just kill him!" shrieked Dr. Perez.

"He’s with these folks. You know, the ones that just tried to kill us. Trust me doc, these are evil people," Quentin said. The man brought himself to his full height. He looked like he was ready to face his fate.

"Stop Quent. He’s who these guys are after," Sissy said, putting herself in front of her prisoner. Quentin immediately lowered his weapon. He nodded for Sissy to continue. Sissy quickly related the encounter in the hallway.

"Perhaps you should introduce yourself friend," Quentin said to the man after Sissy finished.

"I am known in certain circles as the Turk," the man answered. Now that he was calm, his voice lilted with a slight Mediterranean accent. "I am, or was, one of the Truth’s logistics people." The Turk shrugged his shoulders. "Apparently I have fallen out of favor. Perhaps Zombie Strike would like to avail themselves of my services." There was a new confidence in the man’s countenance.

"You’re assuming we’re going to survive getting out of here," Quentin said, "What are we facing?"

"Jean mentioned six Champions. I see three dead here. That means three or four more. Plus, the walking dead. I do not how many of those he has brought with him." The Turk shrugged his shoulders. Sissy’s grip on her pistol tightened. She hadn’t even looked at a zombie since coming out of her catatonia. The idea of facing the undead terrified her.

"Let’s go back upstairs and wait for help to arrive," Dr. Perez suggested. Sissy and Quentin looked at the psychiatrist. The calm, collected woman was now a shaking and terrified person. Quentin hobbled up the stairs and laid one of his big hands on the doctor’s shoulders.

"Doc, there is no help coming. The cops will turn and run the moment they see a zombie because of primal panic. The few who might hold their ground will either get slaughtered trying to fight them or will call in the Army. Task Force 11 is stretched thin. Probably take hours to get down here. All the cops can do is cordon the area off and wait. In that time, those minions will do everything they can to find and kill us. Kill us. We have one and only one chance. We have to get to my car. I’ve got weapons, armor, and a direct line to Zombie Strike."

"They want him!" Dr. Perez said, jabbing her finger at the Turk, "Just give him to them and they’ll leave us alone!" The Turk laughed softly at the comment.

"First, I’m not about to hand over a potentially valuable resource to my enemies. Second, I wouldn’t hand anyone over to the Truth. Third, they’ll just kill us any way," Quentin said calmly. "Doctor, you’re afraid and not being rational. That’s understandable, but I need you rational if you want to have any chance of getting out of this alive." Dr. Perez’s mouth snapped shut as she swallowed her next outburst. Satisfied the doc wasn’t going to make any further protests, Quentin turned to the Turk.

"What’s your backup escape plan?" Quentin asked. The Turk started to say something and then thought better of it.

"Follow me," the Turk said, starting to walk back into the hallway.

"Hold it," Quentin said, "You’re the only one who’s strong enough to help me. So you get to play human crutch." The Turk’s face flashed in disgust, but he quickly smoothed his features back to his normal slightly pleasant face. Quentin turned to Sissy. "You still decent with a rifle?"

"I think so. I haven’t really been practicing lately," Sissy answered.

"Here, take the carbine. You’re on point," Quentin said, handing her the German weapon. "Dr. Perez, I need you to take that man"s pistol." He pointed to one of the dead minions.

"Are you insane?" Dr. Perez demanded, "I don’t know how to use a gun. I’m not about to touch that thing." She physically recoiled.

"Doc, we need you to cover our rear," Sissy said, picking up the Beretta. She inserted a new magazine and forced the gun into the psychiatrist’s hands. "If you see anything, shoot it."

"I’ve never fired a gun in my life," the psychiatrist protested.

"First time for everything," Sissy quipped. Dr. Perez glared at the young woman. Sissy glared right back and continued. "Just point this at your target and squeeze the trigger. You’re probably not going to hit anything, but it should give us enough cover to react to anything trying to sneak up behind us." The doctor nodded resigned to her role.

"You could just give me a gun," the Turk noted, waving his hand as if it wouldn’t be a problem for him.

"Not a chance," Quentin said. The Turk nodded, expecting the answer. As the Turk worked at lifting Quentinís enormous frame, Sissy managed to get the magazine pouch for the carbine and a belt off of the dead minion. The black corded belt looked incongruous with her yellow sun dress. Sissy tucked her Glock into the small of her back and hefted the carbine. It was one of the German G36’s, the spec ops version. It took her a moment to find all of the controls. Not bad, but she still preferred an M4, or even better, her old L96. Sissy wondered what happened to her beloved Danny Boy.

"We need to get back to my office," the Turk said, helping Quentin balance on his one good leg. Quentin hugged the Turk with one arm, while keeping his other hand free for his Colt. Dr. Perez held the Beretta shakily, but nodded when she caught Sissy’s eye. One deep breath and Sissy strode into the hallway with the G36 raised. The quartet slowly moved down the hall back into the Turk’s office. The front room had been a well-appointed reception room. Most of the furnishings were either tossed or just destroyed. The Turk looked around mournfully as the team walked past the destruction into the Turk’s office.

"Jean caught me before I could slip out," the Turk explained walking over to a non-descript wood panel. He waved a key fob. The panel slid back to reveal a small elevator car. "Getting all of us in will be tight, but it should be doable."

"Just remember to keep your hands to yourself," Quentin said with a menace Sissy never heard before. The Turk looked offended, but said nothing. The Turk led Quentin into the car and the two men flattened themsleves against the far wall. It was just enough room for Dr. Perez and Sissy. The doors closed and suddenly they were falling. Well, maybe not falling, but it was a quick ride down. The doors snapped open. Sissy froze as her eyes locked on the two zombies.

Sissy heard the others telling her to get out of the car, but all she could do was focus on the two undead as they turned towards the noise. A familiar terror spread across her body. She didn’t have the urge to run, but to just stay in place. To let the two zombies shamble over and kill her. Wait, what? She fought hard to come out of that endless nightmare. Even after she woke up, she forced herself to fight for every day. All because of these things. The G36 was at her shoulder. She looked through the holographic sight. Two quick strokes of the trigger and both zombies were reduced to unmoving corpses. No one moved as she strode out of the elevator. Dr. Perez and Quentin were looking at her with amazed looks. The Turk, on the other hand, just leered at her.

"C’mon, we need to get to Quentin’s car," Sissy said. She knew something inside her had just broken. All of that fear transformed into a burning anger. Sissy had been around mental health professionals to know the anger was something new she’d have to get under control. Right now, she was going to use it to keep her friend and her doctor alive. Maybe the Turk also. The others didn’t say anything as they followed her. The tunnel went a few hundred feet before ending at a stairwell.

"Go up," the Turk grunted from under Quentin’s mass. Sissy hesitated.

"How did two zombies get down here?" she asked, looking for some clue. There was movement from the stairwell. She was moving before she realized the danger. Her reactions were returning. All those training drills Mateo forced on her back on Skull Island. She clamped down on that thought. She’d deal with Mateo later. She crouched in the shadow of the stairwell as someone pulled the charging handle on a weapon. Who waited until enemies showed up to chamber a round?

"Hello Turk," a male voice said from the stairwell. Sissy was sure it was another of these Champions, whoever they were. "Jean thought you might come this way. Using your own dead as a tripwire was a stroke of brilliance though." The man let out something between a gasp and a shriek.

"Is that Quentin McLintock?" the Champion asked.

"No, I’m Shane, from Tuscon," Quentin said. The Champion bounded down the steps. He didn’t even look back to where Sissy was hiding under the stairs. The Champion was dressed just like Jean, but much shorter. He pointed a large silver revolver at Quentin. The tunnel exploded with sound. The Champion dropped to the ground. Dr. Perez stood over the stunned man and fired twice more before Quentin’s meaty hand snatched the pistol.

Sissy stormed out of her hiding hole and up the stairs. If anything followed that Champion, she was going to hose it with gunfire. Instead of another Champion or even zombies, a bearded man in a hunting vest and ballcap peered into the upper doorway. The man gave her a quizzical look. The incongrous sight was enough to stop Sissy from shooting.

"Y’all aren’t one of them," the man said in a strong Southern accent. He looked back to someone. "Rupert, you might need to get over here." Rupert turned out to be a lanky black man with a look that screamed military just barely going to age. He carried a decked-out and suppressed AR. He reminded Sissy a lot of Collin. He took one look at her and his eyes went wide.

"You’re Sissy O’Connell," he said in astonishment, "What are you doing here?" Sissy was taken aback. It had been a long time since a stranger recognized her.

"We were caught in the building," Sissy answered.

"We’ve secured up here, ma’am," Rupert said, "You can come up."

"Who’s we?" Quentin asked, hobbling up the stairs with the help of the Turk and a pale Dr. Perez. Rupert’s eyes went even wider. He actually went to attention.

"Maryland Citizens Anti-Zombie League," Rupert said. Sissy and Quentin traded looks. What in the hell was that? Rupert pointed behind him and made a come-here motion. The bearded man and another came into the stairwell. As soon as they saw Quentin’s injury, the men slung their rifles and respectfully took over supporting Quentin. The Turk started to inch back down the stairwell until Sissy stuck the muzzle of the G36 in his ribs. As the group climbed the stairs, Rupert explained.

"It’s kind of an informal militia for dealing with zombies," Rupert said, "There’s maybe thirty of us, but we knew we were needed when a zombie outbreak was reported in Baltimore. We were doing fine until this guy dressed like a ninja fired a laser and blew up Bubba’s truck. A lot of the guys scattered. Can’t blame them."

"Where are the police?" Dr. Perez asked.

"Weren’t none around when we showed up," the bearded man answered, "We saw a few abandoned cop cars. Figured they high-tailed as soon as they caught sight of them." He motioned to a couple of zombies staggering towards the commotion. Rupert smoothly brought his AR up and fired twice. Both zombies went down. Sissy was amazed at how quiet the carbine was. Rupert grinned.

"Get me to my car," Quentin said. "I can call in for back-up. Zombie qualified help. Plus, I’ve got a few goodies to handle the minions." Quentin quickly rattled off where he’d parked. Rupert nodded and motioned to two others. The men dashed down the deserted street.

"He comes with us," Sissy said, motioning to the Turk with the G36, "He’s what they’re after." The men carrying Quentin looked at Rupert, but the black man just inspected the Turk. Silently, Rupert nodded and motioned for his men down the street. Sissy corralled Dr. Perez as Rupert slid behind the Turk. The group went as fast as they could the hundred yards to the waiting station wagon. The car was a treasure trove. It even had a spare leg for Quentin. The G36 was discarded when Quentin handed her a very familiar black case. She tossed the lid open and squealed. It was her rifle. Her Danny Boy. She gently lifted the rifle up. No, it wasn’t hers, but it was a close-copy.

"Yeah, sorry about that," Quentin said, "Yours was lost in Mexico City. This was the backup you set up back before we went to the island." The rage bubbled up and threatened to overtake Sissy. Her precious rifle was gone? Who was using her rifle? And then lost it?

Deal with it later, she told herself. Quentin thoughtfully brought her working clothes. The men respectfully turned around as she shed her dirty and torn sun dress and quickly donned the heavy pants, shirt, and pads. Quentin got on the emergency radio and called for backup as Rupert found some zip-ties among the myriad of stuff. He efficiently trussed up the Turk and through their prisoner in the back seat of the Magnum. Dr. Perez collapsed in the passenger seat. The poor woman just couldn’t deal with what was going around her.

"What now, Rupert?" the bearded man asked. Then, he was gone in a brilliant flash of light. Quentin was already firing at the trio of Champions or minions or whatever they were called. One holding some kind of jewelry box went down. Sissy recognized Jean as the man spun a heavy sword in front of him. The blurring blade shimmered as Quentin’s bullets bounced off.

"If all of you put down your weapons, I will not kill you," Jean said in a calm, but menacing voice. "I assure you, your obsolete weapons can’t harm me." Then his head exploded in red-gray mist. Sissy worked the bolt on her rifle and fired again before the other ninja-clad guy could react. The men still seemed frozen in place as she sauntered over. Those idiots never even looked as she’d slid across the street.

"If you’re done staring, I think there’s still zombies that need killing," Sissy told them.

—–—

Sissy savored the cold water as she drank from the proffered bottle. She splashed the remnants across her face. Baltimore was not a fun city to fight zombies. Quentin sat down next to her. The Army finally arrived and took over from Rupert’s people and the M&W Armed Response Team. Sissy was impressed with the Maryland folks. Even those who retreated from the minions didn’t go far. They quickly rejoined their friends when the zombie fighting started back up.

"It’ll be good to have you back," Quentin said, "You’ll like Jess, and she could really use your help."

"I’m not going back to Zombie Strike," Sissy said.

"Why?" Quentin asked, surprised. "You were great out there. Whatever happened, you were taking down zombies down left and right."

"The fear’s gone, but there’s an anger now," Sissy said, "That’s what I used to keep fighting. It’s still burning inside of me. I can’t go back yet. Not with Mateo still there."

"You still hate him?" Quentin asked.

"Yes, no, I don’t know," Sissy answered, feeling emotionally drained, "All I know is when I think of him, the anger comes back. Until I deal with that, I can’t come back to Zombie Strike."

"So what are you going to do?" Quentin asked. Sissy didn’t say anything for a bit.

"One of the M&W guys told me they were looking for someone to work with all these small militias that are popping up. Helping to train them, find the bad ones, and so on," Sissy said, trying not to meet Quentin’s disappointed eyes. "Please don’t hate me, but I just can’t go back yet." The immense arms wrapped around her.

"Just get better," Quentin whispered, "I’m afraid we’re going to need you soon."

Zombie Strike Part 8 Chapter 76