Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to the now defunct HTML/text-based MMORPG Bio Nightmare created by someone by the nickname of ZombieMaster, this story was just loosely based off the game.
Author's Note: This is a very old discontinued story of mine, probably written when I was around 16 (3-ish years ago), but I recently just found it again and thought it would be cool to put it here. This is the very first feature-length story I have ever written, too, and remains as one of my more popular works online.
The following was copy and pasted from the Urban Dead Proboards forum (which in itself was copy and pasted from the original Bio Nightmare boards) without the pictures because you can't put them up here on fanfiction. Also, since the forum ran on a different code thingy, you may or may not see some leftover forum code or image stamps I may have missed when I did my quick spell check thing... whatever just ignore them and read on.
Bio Nightmare
On a cold and gray September morning, a charcoal-colored El Camino pulled up on top of a hill. On both sides of the car were spray painted in red the word "Caiger." There were four people dressed in thick, ragged winter clothing. Two were in the seats, and the other two were riding in the open bed. One of the passengers on truck bed stood up and scanned the misty valley with binoculars after slinging his AK-47 over his shoulder. Through the fog he saw the usual sight of stray zombies lurching around aimlessly. Then he noticed a light in the distance. As he focused on it he realized it was a campfire of some sort. He pounded on the roof of the car, pointing out the direction, and they drove down the hill towards the possible sign of human life.
The vehicle sped through the field, running down any zombie unlucky enough to stray in front of the car's path. The El Camino pulled over in front of some kind of ruin. The old, decrepit building looked like a partially-collapsed barn, and on the second story opening was the campfire they had seen. The white smoke seeped trough the holes in the barn's ceiling.
All of the men, excluding the driver, dismounted the vehicle and readied their weapons. The four didn't looked like professional soldiers at all. They looked more like a ragtag bunch of resistance fighters you see in the movies, with tattered, worn apparel and old army gear probably salvaged from abandoned forts. The one from the passenger seat, armed with a heavily-scratched Remington 870 12-Guage Shotgun was the first to approach the barn doors. He slowly opened the doors; the new path was accompanied by a loud creak from the hinges. The man had a black balaclava on, along with winter clothes, but despite these warm coverings his breath still shown in the air when he exhaled from the mouth opening of his ski mask.
He turned on the flashlight connected to the chrome shotgun's forearm grip and had a look in the barn. He cocked the pump, moving the light as he did so. He then signaled to the other two who were standing in front of the car with their Kalashnikovs aimed. They cautiously followed the lead man. The driver stayed behind, keeping the engine running. He looked out the windows of the car and saw that the approaching zombies were still a good ways off, not posing a direct threat at the moment. If a few lurchers happened to get too close for comfort, however, its nothing his trusty Glock Model 18 couldn't handle.
Knowing he could be sitting there, idling, for a good long time while his comrades searched the barn for any signs of life, he turned on the radio and kicked back with a forty of Bud Lite while Metallica's "Blackened" lulled him to relaxation with its lyrics hinting of slight irony.
The three men each formed a triangle on the bottom floor of the building, in case they would need to defend themselves from hostile forces. The lead man with the Remington called out. There was no response, but movement was heard behind a stack of milk jugs, and the three men aimed their weapons toward the noise.
"Anybody there?" asked the man with a makeshift bayonet on his AK-47 in the form of a kitchen knife duct-taped to the barrel; though still reliable, the blade has obviously seen better days.
There was no response to the inquiry.
"Show yourself!" commanded the man with the Remington as his light focused on the containers, weaving left and right, to and fro, scanning the dark area for any trace of the disturbance.
Hands poked out from behind the stack, then slowly a head, and then finally the rest of her body. Dressed in worn out clothing she kept her hands in the air as the three men lowered their weapons.
"Put your hands down, we're here to help. " reassured one of the men.
The young woman look surprised, and after some hesitation she slowly lowered her arms.
"Then...then why did you enter the barn all quiet-like, like you were here to kill us or something?" she questioned.
"Just thought there might be some zeds in here." came the answer.
"What do you want?" she asked with some fear in her voice, "Our supplies? Our food? Our-"
"No, no, no," interrupted the man with the Remington as he and the other two slung their firearms over their shoulders, "We're from a settlement. A settlement filled with other people. Every so often we go around the countryside looking for survivors to bring home."
As he explained, more people from various areas of the barn began to emerge from their hiding spots.
Outside, the driver rose up from his seat as one of his comrades came out of the barn door. He rolled down the window as his fellow seeker approached the door.
"We got some. About like, I dunno--20." said the man, leaning down.
The driver took the receiver of a ham radio that was on the dashboard and spoke into it.
"Scotty, Scotty. Come in Scotty." he spoke into the radio. After a few seconds of silence he repeated his call.
"Yo yo, wus crackin'?" finally came the response over the radio.
"We found some. 'Bout 20." The morning sun began to shine through the overcast as Jazz gave their coordinates to Scotty.
"Roger. We'll be there in an hour."
After Jazz hung up, the man outside the car ran into the barn and opened wide the doors. After the car pulled in, they closed the doors just as a few zombies neared. Jazz backed the vehicle up and parked the El Camino in with the rear propped up to the doors to reinforce them. Luckily it was one of those barns where the doors opened inward.
The pounding and groaning intensified as Jazz stepped out of the car, his tall 6'4'' figure towering over the other people in the room.
"They'll be here in an hour, Boss." he informed.
"Alright." the man with the Remington exhaled with a bored clap.
The large group of people were now lounging around the barn, waiting.
For half an hour now, they sat, waiting. The pounding on the walls and door now turned into a deafening symphony of determined bashing, and the chorus of zombie groans, now dozens strong, have frightened the younger children within the group to seek sanctuary in their mother's arms.
"Hey Victor," Jazz called to the one who was outside with him earlier, "You got the time?"
"Nope...Cleon?" he asked the guy who had the AK with the makeshift bayonet.
Cleon rolled up his sleeve and checked his Rolex.
"10:17. Still like got like a half hour." he said.
An incredibly loud bang was then detected at the door. It was more distinct from the others, as it was louder and sounded stronger.
"What was that?" asked a woman in the corner with fear in her voice.
Everyone stared at the door as the bang sounded again.
"Hey Victor, check it out." commanded Boss.
"What?" Victor exclaimed, "Are you crazy? I'm not going out there, its suicide! You might as well tell me-"
"Fuckin' retard…" interrupted Jazz, "He means go up to the second floor and look out the window."
Victor gave a slightly embarrassed look of understanding and climbed the ladder to the second floor to poke his head out the window to investigate the disturbance as Jazz shook his head toward Boss.
"Rookies…" Jazz scoffed.
The countless moans pulsated through Victor's eardrums as he stuck his head out of the second story window. Peering down, he saw a sea of death crashing on the front and sides of the barn, with more and more rotters approaching from all corners of the valley. Leaning against the window sill, he surveyed the scene until he found the source of the threat.
A rather stocky zombie who was obviously a construction worker in life, evident by the torn uniform and hard hat it was wearing, was clumsily wielding a crowbar which it used to periodically pound on the barnyard door. It was having trouble using the weapon because it had little room in the squished crowd.
Victor unholstered his 38.-Special revolver and took careful aim at the zombie. He fired at the zombie's head, but the shot found itself punctured into the shoulder of a neighboring corpse instead. Victor lined up his gun once again, taking a few more seconds to ensure greater accuracy. After missing once again, the bullet hitting something he didn't catch with his eyes, the frustrated Victor let out an irritated grunt as he holstered his revolver.
"Goddamnit, I suck…" Victor scolded himself under his breath as he aimed his Kalashnikov.
He fired an unsteady burst at the late construction worker, the second shot penetrating the corpse's hard hat. That was actually only the second time that Victor fired his AK outside of the shooting range back home. The first was just mere hours ago at the group's first stop at an abandoned train station, along with two other teams.
The reason the four didn't perform the obvious tactic of picking off zombies from the second story of the barn to buy themselves some more time was that they were dangerously low on ammo. Their last skirmish at the train station left their supply nearly spent.
Victor remembered that horrifying experience, as it was still fresh in his mind. Back at the station, Victor's group was unfortunate enough to be selected to investigate the underground storage area. They broke the lock of the inclined wooden double doors and descended into the pitch black basement. The storage room was unusually large for a train station, packed with old, rusted engine equipment, tools, and crates completely engulfed in dusty cobwebs.
With no working illumination beside their electric torches and Boss's flashlight on the forearm grip of his shotgun, they slowly made their way through the tall shelves, making a round. Victor remembered hearing the first moans, ringing in his ears, sending terrifying chills down his spine. As soon as the Boss got wind of the hostiles, he ordered his men to fall back, but less than halfway the undead emerged, seemingly coming out of the woodwork.
They retreated to a large clearing of the room and stood back to back, facing different directions, holding off the attackers until the other two teams rushed down to rescue them. They never figured out why there were so many of them in the basement of a train station, but Cleon theorized that with the strong lock on the door, they may have been trapped down there on purpose by other people long ago.
All they knew was that the experience left them with almost no more spare ammunition. Boss was down to his last belt of shells, Cleon and Jazz each had less than half a clip to their names, and in Victor's panic he went wild, spraying the area to a somewhat adequate effect. Despite his fit, Victor was the luckiest of the bunch, still retaining another full clip in addition to the bullets left in his gun, just barely making it into the teens.
With no way to replenish their ammunition, HQ commanded the teams to continue on their patrols, regardless.
Back in the current moment, Victor gave a triumphant chuckle as he rose up. As the rotter dropped, the other zombies in the horde looked up at him and raised their hands in a vain attempt to get him. He spit down at the zombies, who were grabbing at the air towards him. Like the immature kid that he was, Victor began taunting them. After he was satisfied, he chuckled and set his AK on the sill, forgetting that the strap was not around his shoulder.
He gasped as his weapon slipped from its position. Victor dashed his hands to grab his gun, but it fell down below. The strap caught onto a loose piece of wood sticking out of the wall of the barn, some three feet below. Not being able to even bare the thought of having to explain to his teammates how he lost his stupid rifle, he leaned out of the window, trying to reach for the caught Kalashnikov.
His stomach began to hurt as he tilted farther, but he was getting close. He tried his best to ignore that he was literally staring death in the face, as the zombies were stretching up towards him, mere yards away. His AK was just in reach, and he felt himself getting closer.
Suddenly, he was pulled back up to the second floor.
"What the FUCK is wrong with you?!" Cleon demanded as he smacked Victor upside the head.
"What the hell, I almost had it!"
"What're you talking about, are you on crack or something?!"
Victor directed his attention to his lost weapon. Cleon looked out and let out a disappointed sigh, telling Victor to leave it be.
"It's not worth it, man."
With reluctance, Victor followed Cleon down the ladder and returned to the group.
"Got 'em," he announced, "It was some zed with a crowbar."
"By all the shots we heard you fire, we thought you were trying to take on the entire horde." Jazz snarked as Victor found an upside down bucket near the milk jugs and sat down.
"Uh…" Boss started as he raised his eyebrow. "Where's your--"
"He dropped it." Cleon answered promptly.
Boss and Jazz traded a look. Jazz's expression was a lot meaner than Boss's, who took on a more professional demeanor.
"Ooooooh, my God…" Jazz sighed, perturbed.
The young Victor stared down his nose as he twiddled his thumbs.
The dust from the walls began to fill the barn as the poundings intensified; more and more people coughed as the time to leave drew near. The corner of the barn started to show signs of collapsing as Boss ordered the group to seek refuge. He, Cleon, and Victor began to barricade the corner with whatever they could find as the zombies outside learned of the weak spot and started to flock to that area to break through. Jazz moved to the El Camino and picked up the radio receiver.
--
"Scotty, come in, its Jazz. You there?" he hurriedly said with desperation in his voice.
"Yeah?" almost immediately came the reply, "Wassup?"
"I don't know how much longer we can last. The zeds are starting to break through. There's like over a hundred of 'em! You gotta get here quick!" he pleaded.
Remarkably, the zombies now started to pound the wall in unison, effectively increasing their attack.
"We almost there, homey. Hold on. We...we see the barn...aaooow shit! That's a lotta zeds! Hold up man, jus' hold on. We gon' be there in like 2 minutes." he assured. "Good luck. Out."
"They'll be here in 2 minutes!" Jazz yelled over the zombies. "We just gotta-"
Before he could finish his announcement, the wall gave way and fell inwards. Boss, Cleon, and Victor opened fire as the excited groans filled the barn.
The struggled rumble of mediocrely-maintained engines grew louder as four vehicles approached the overrun barn. A military half track, a military jeep and two transport trucks raced from the horizon at top speed. The old, rusty WWII-era vehicles had the same red spray painted title on their sides as the El Camino.
Jazz ran up beside his three comrades and fired into the approaching tides of death. They were holding back the zombies long enough for the civilians to climb up the ladder to safety. The plan was to delay the horde until all the civilians got up the ladder, then the four fighters would climb up the ladder with them and wait for back-up to arrive.
Blood mists filled the air like smoke as the zombies stumbled closer to the four men. Even with the stressing predicament, the four were surprisingly professional and did not panic as others would by letting loose on fully automatic. Instead they took quick, aimed single shots at the differently-sized zombies.
The four began to fall back as the undead now lurched towards them from mere feet away. Boss took a quick look behind him and saw that all the civilians were off the ground. The last was already halfway up the ladder.
"Okay! Get up that ladder! Move, move!" he yelled over the groans. He reloaded as Victor made his way up. A zombie managed to make his way to the side of Cleon and caught him off guard. As it moved to bite him on the shoulder, he shoved it away as hard as he could into the crowd of zombies, knocking some of them down, but the ones behind them that weren't knocked off their feet stepped over their fallen brethren and drew nearer as Cleon began to ascend. Jazz climbed up after emptying his Glock and Boss followed behind.
Boss paused at the foot of the ladder as he heard a distant honking. It was frantic and continuous, as if to get attention. He realized it was the vehicles and gave a small sigh of relief. His rejoice was short-lived, however, as zombies grabbed him from all sides and pulled him to the floor.
The halftrack was ahead of the convoy, going almost 70 m.p.h. As the vehicles neared the infested barn, the gunner on the halftrack opened fire on the crowd of lurchers; the 50-cal. machine gun ripped through the targets like they were paper as the vehicles ran over unlucky zombies.
Limbs and guts littered the area around the breach. The halftrack stopped in front of the hole, the front left wheel running over a rotten head, spilling its contents all over the yellow grass. Eight armed men jumped out from the back while the gunner continued to unload on the remaining zombies. Six of them ran into the breach while the other two stayed behind and helped the gunner and drivers hold off the feral zombies that were attracted by the commotion.
The six armed men rushed into the barn like charging knights, guns blazing. They dropped lurchers shambling by the window. They dropped lurchers standing near the door. They dropped lurchers around the El Camino. They dropped lurchers reaching upwards from the foot of the ladder. Going wild on fully automatic they took out over two dozen zombies before the rotters could even react.
The lead man noticed a couple of zombies near the ladder base fighting over something. It looked to him like a hunk of meat, which should be the left leg of a human being. The lead man raised his Kalashnikov and caught both zombies right above the eye in three aimed shots.
After the barn was cleared the six called out to the survivors. The reply came from Victor at the top of the ladder. One right after the other, they began to descend to the sickening scene below. Gunshots from the vehicles outside were still audible, though they weren't as frequent as before the battle, indicating a sharp drop in approaching ferals.
After all the refugees left the second story, Victor came down, with his comrades no where in sight. Victor approached the lead man of the six with a grim look on his face. The other five were escorting the civilians to the transportation trucks. Victor stopped in front of the lead guy as the man slung his rifle over his shoulder. At first Victor wouldn't make eye contact.
Victor was just a kid. A kid who look's like he just saw something he shouldn't have seen.
"Scotty. Took you guys long enough." he managed to say as he finally stopped staring at the floor.
"...We..saw 'em feedin' on a leg," Scotty said, "Is everyone coo'?" Victor just stared at him, giving no response.
The man understood.
"So, Cleon an' Jazz, where 'dey at? They alright?"
"Yeah, they're cool."
"And where's the Boss Man?"
The teen didn't answer the question and turned away. He diverted Scotty's gaze at the top of the ladder. Cleon and Jazz slowly and carefully came down the ladder, as if they were supporting something. They were helping a bloody mess descend. It was Boss, missing his left leg and bleeding something fierce, but other than that he was okay.
As they got down to the floor, Jazz and Cleon each threw one of Boss's arms over their shoulder and assisted the limping man to the vehicles. On their way out of the barn, Scotty patted Boss on the back and gave the old man a reassuring smile.
Victor and Scotty slowly followed after them.
"So what happened?" the usually upbeat Scotty asked somberly.
"Well...he was the last to go up the ladder."
"As usual. Same ol' Boss. Always gotta be the hero."
"Yeah. Well, then he got grabbed by the zeds before he could get up, and they pulled him to the floor. We started shooting at the zeds around him until he could break free."
They exited the barn into the sunshine, which was peaking through the clouds. The El Camino was ready to go, engine running with Jazz at the wheel and Cleon at his side.
Victor continued.
"So he rushed up the ladder, but before he could get far they got his right leg and started mutilating it. They got him good, but again we helped him break free and he managed to get up to the second floor. We told him we had to amputate, or the infection would get him. Through his screaming we could make out an agreement. So we gave him a smooth piece of wood to bite down on as Cleon took my machete and cleaved off what was left of his leg. We didn't have any fire to seal the burn so we covered it in clean clothes to hold on the bleeding."
"Sheeyit...fuckin' zeds. Well, he should be in the transport truck with a medic."
Victor got into the bed of the El Camino and sat down. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes as the car drove off. Scotty got in the halftrack and the convoy was on its way.
Through the dying fields of yellow grass and thriving weeds, the El Camino rounded up the convoy from the rear. Victor laid curled up on the truck bed, sleeping while wrapped under a torn blanket. The night was pitch black, but the feral zombies made their presence known. Their groans could be heard through the darkness, even with the roar of all the engines. Cleon was pressing the button on the radio that skipped the tracks on the CD until he found a song he liked. "Green Hell" played softly as he turned to Jazz.
"So what do you think?" Cleon asked.
"What? The song? Yeah its cool."
"No, I mean the Boss. What do you think?"
Jazz stared straight ahead at the rear bumper of the Jeep in front of them, thinking about what answer to give. His habit of driving with a fixed gaze would have been troublesome 15 years ago, before the outbreak, but in this post-apocalyptic world no one gave a damn.
"I...don't know. He seems like he'll pull through. We stopped the bleeding, and I think we got the infection in time."
"That's the thing. What if we didn't?"
Jazz knew that's what he was getting at.
"Then," he said with a sigh, "We kill him."
His answer may have sounded cold, but with good reason. This 35 year-old was forced to kill so many people throughout the years that turned into zombies that he no longer gave putting a bullet through a zombified friend's forehead a second thought. He lived by the most important rule in this land of the dead, which was to kill or be killed. The younger, sensitive Cleon took a more optimistic view, having many of his friends and family still alive to that very day.
"Shit. He can't die. He just can't. The Boss is strong. He's gonna make it. He's got to, man."
"And what if he doesn't? Are you gonna put him down if you had to?" Cleon was surprised at the question.
"I...I don't think I could. He taught me everything I know. I wouldn't be living today if it weren't for the Boss."
Years ago, the twenty-something Cleon was rescued from certain death at the hands of a blood-thirsty horde by Boss. Since then Boss taught him how to shoot, how to forage, how to fight, and how to survive. Looking up to Boss as a father figure, Cleon couldn't even think of the possibility of having to kill Boss.
"I wouldn't be able to do it," He stuttered. "I just wouldn't be able to shoot him."
Jazz gave a disappointed sigh.
"Cleon, we've been through this a million times. It was on the test to apply for the CSF for fuck's sake…'Once they turn, they aren't…'"
Cleon joined Jazz in simultaneously finishing the motto, word for word.
"'…The people you know any more. They won't remember you at all. When they see you, all they'll see is a meal.'"
"Alright, I know you know it. You have to live by it."
"…I don't know."
"You have to, Cleon. If you keep thinking like that then your gonna get yourself killed, kid. You have to face the reality that when they turn, they're no longer the person you once knew. They're just a zed. A zed that's gotta die. So, tell me right now. If someone you knew turned and started lurching towards you, would you pull the trigger?"
Cleon gave no response as he continued to stare at the floor.
"Hey, Cleon, look at me," he commanded sharply as he turned off the radio and Cleon looked up, "Would you do it?"
Cleon could look into Jazz's eyes no longer and redirected his eyes back to the floor, not saying a word. Jazz glared at him for what felt like forever before turning back to the road.
"Then you've already dug your grave."
Peaking through the clouds, the full moon shone down dimly as the convoy continued on its way.
--
The dawn of the 2nd day was bright and partly cloudy as the convoy pulled into an old highway. Last night, the convoy rested at Ida Outpost, one of the Caiger-run checkpoints spread throughout the region. Ida was the base Jazz, Boss, Cleon, and Victor were stationed in for the past week. They were eager to return back home to Caiger, but spending the night at Ida was a welcome stop.
Caiger had numerous outposts strategically established all throughout their territory, acting as checkpoints, safehavens, and early-warning systems. The running of the bases worked like how the military cycled in troops back in the day. All Caigerians owned a home in the mother city, but soldiers would be sent throughout the outposts each week, the roster rotating evenly to ensure each person could have their own leave to relax back at Caiger.
Boss's team was based in Ida for the last week, which meant that every day or so, they would go out looking for stranded survivors or patrol for hostile forces, and every night they would return to Ida to sleep. Yesterday was their last scheduled date before being able to return home to Caiger, so they would take their trusty El Camino and join a convoy of found survivors and soldiers finished with their tour heading back to the mother city, which incidentally was the same exact people who were all present at the barnyard siege, both refugees and those from the rescue party.
Now heading back home with fresh ammunition and supplies, the convoy cruised down the highway. The halftrack was the lead vehicle, followed by the first transport truck, then the second transport truck, then the jeep and rounding out the line was the El Camino.
In the third vehicle, a medic was tending to the wounded Boss. She was lightly tightening Boss's bandage as the refugees in that truck looked on the procedure. He was doing well, showing no signs of infection, hemorrhaging, or turning. When she finished she sat back and laid her head on the truck's wall, which was slightly uncomfortable with the bobbing of the vehicle from the bumpy road.
The conditions in the vehicle were cramped with the crates of food and guns together with half of the refugees. The other half were in the other transport truck.
She looked at the dirty faces around her. Ending the awkward silence, she decided to get to know some of her newfound people.
"So," she asked as some of the refugees looked up at her, "Where did you all come from?"
For a time, the question remained unanswered until someone decided to break the stillness.
"Well," the man right beside her responded, "I guess you could say we were nomads."
"Yeah," another man from across them added, "Ever since it started we've been wandering the land, just...trying to survive. That barn was just a place we were resting in until it was time to move on."
The medic was surprised at the answers.
"So you've all just been going from one place to another? You've never been in a town or a city with other people before?" she asked.
"Nope. We weren't even sure there were other survivors left." said the man next to her.
"Wow. You've really never come across an inhabited community? There's actually quite a few out there." she said.
"There are?" asked the man across from her.
"Yeah. There's a whole bunch. They're all over the world. Separate fortified settlements, each run by their own leaders." she explained.
"Really? Wait, why are they separate? Why don't we all just group up and unite? Why don't we just pool our resources and work together?" asked a woman sitting across the medic.
Upon hearing this, the medic gave a little chuckle.
"Because people are stupid, that's why. People are too different from each other to live together, so they go to settlements that cater to their liking. For example, we, and now you all, are part of a small city called Caiger, founded by a democratic socialist named Heindrich Caiger. We're a settlement that believes that the only way to make it through this hell is to ride out the storm, to wait until all the zeds die out--or, whatever, I forget--so we can finally rebuild civilization. Or something.
"Anyways, we're an organized bunch who are helpful and caring, and we believe that we need to stick together. That means Caiger takes in all refugees, whether they be crippled, retarded, whatever. Some other cities believe that all their people must be used for war, that the only way to survive is to take other cities' supplies. Other settlements believe that only the strong should survive, that the apocalypse has a purpose to weed out the weak. Those extremists are dangerous, executing anyone who slows them down. Some believe the only salvation is to rely solely on divine intervention. Some cities are communist, some are passive, some are researching zed specimens to find a cure… So you see, we're all too different to unite."
"Wow..." Came a sigh from one of the refugees further down, then began to look at all the crates of automatic weaponry and ammunition. "By the way, where the hell did you get all this?! Its such rare equipment. We were lucky to come across a pistol!"
"Well," the medic started, "I'm not really sure. I never really thought about it...I mean, when you're getting free AK-47s, asking where they come from tends to slip the mind, y'know? But, I think I heard something about traveling merchants. Now that I think of it, that would explain where all our surplus crops go, and why those armored buses stop by Caiger once in awhile. They probably trade the food for those weapons. Maybe they're the Mafia, I dunno.
"Oh, and by the way, don't get me wrong about the whole 'cities hating each other' thing. There are some like-minded settlements who form alliances that help each other out. We're part of an alliance of 4 cities called the UCC, the Unite Cities for the Commonwealth." she explained.
"So we're now part of Caiger?" asked the woman, prompting a nod of agreement from the medic.
"So what's gonna happen when we get there? What're we gonna do?" asked another man.
"Well, you'll all be orientated on our city rules, then you'll be given jobs suited for your skills. A lot of you may be drafted into the army." she said.
"The army? Great." sarcastically commented the man next to her.
Victor was now awake. He looked at the passing scenery. Dead bodies, some fires, blood, foliage, trees. He also noticed all the zombies that slowly followed after them in vain. The zombies were endless, it seemed. There was a hole cut out on the back of the driver's seat so those in the vehicle and those on the truck bed could hear each other.
"Hey you guys," Victor asked Cleon and Jazz through the hole, "Did you ever wonder where the zeds came from?" Cleon looked back at Victor.
"No, not really, why?" he asked.
"Well, people all over the world must kill thousands upon thousands--hell, maybe even millions--of those things every year. Its been 15 years since they first showed up, and it seems like their numbers should be at least somewhat depleted by now, but its like there are more of them than ever! They just keep coming. They never end. I wanna know where they're all coming from." Victor asked.
"Well there's a bunch of theories. Some think they breed, some think they later rise up again after being shot in the head, others believe they come from the depths of Hell itself. No one really knows." responded Jazz.
"Huh," said Victor, "Well what about that theory of God just being pissed off?"
"Hell, I think he's just fuckin' with us." Theorized Cleon. "I bet he was all like, 'Hmm, how can I top my Hurricane Katrina and World War III pranks? Oh, I know! I'll sick billions of flesh eaters on 'em! It'll be so funny!"
The trio shared a chuckle. Victor then laid back down, watching the clouds overhead.
BOOM! An earsplitting blast interrupted the calm. The lead vehicle just blew up in a fiery explosion.
Jazz smashed on the breaks as the jeep in front of them stopped. The El Camino's tires screeched as their car crashed into the jeep's rear bumper. Victor was almost thrown forward, but at the last second he braced himself by pressing against the back wall of the driver's compartment.
Victor opened his eyes and saw he was fine, but he noticed the car's horn was still blaring. He looked through the hole and saw Jazz slumped over the steering wheel. He wasn't moving, but there were no signs of trauma. The glass remained intact and there was no blood, and his seat belt was on. Victor figured he was just unconscious. He stepped up to see what happened as Cleon moved Jazz off the horn.
Victor got on his feet and saw the halftrack at the front of the convoy in flames. There didn't appear to be any survivors. He looked to his right and saw at the mountain top about 200 feet away a sight that sent a chill down his spine. Over 20 armed men were charging towards the convoy in a wide, loose line, yelling at the top of their lungs and closing the distance.
"Raiders!" he shouted to his comrades as he pointed to the attackers.
The remaining vehicles pulled off the road into the shallow ditch by the side of the road.
The medic grabbed her AKS-74U which was resting on a nearby crate, made her way through the refugees, and jumped out the back of the truck before it even stopped. She shouted for the refugees to stay put before she hopped out. Crouched down, she hurried to the side of the rest of her brethren who were already lying prone and waiting for the raiders to get in range.
"Maria! Hurry!" Cleon called out to her.
She hopped right beside him. Jazz, Victor, and the drivers of the jeep and the first transport truck were next to them. Also there was a middle-aged man who sat in the passenger's seat in the jeep. He was in an brown overcoat which was in relatively well-kept condition, compared to the state of the other's attire. A fur cap with ear flaps kept his head warm as he gripped a custom M4A1 modified to fire 7.62x39mm rounds, one of the only two types of bullets manufactured back at Caiger.
The raiders were now about 100 feet away when he spoke to his men.
"Alright, first thing's first: are there any survivors from the halftrack?" he asked the driver of the first transport truck.
"No, it's been completely wiped out, sir."
"God dammit, then we've got no other soldiers." Upon saying this, the driver of the second transport truck came up beside Maria with his Dragunov SVD sniper rifle. The old man rose up a bit so he could speak to the sniper, three people down.
"Hey, are those AKs still in the back of your truck?"
"Affirmative, sir."
"Okay, go get all the able-bodied civilians and give them those rifles!"
"Arm them, sir? But I bet none of them have even touched a gun before. They're just untrained people-"
"Just do it, son! We haven't got a lot of options! We can't fight them alone. Go!"
The sniper ran to the transport trucks. The commander turned to Jazz who was right next to him.
"Have you radioed for backup, yet?"
"Yes sir, we'll get some heavy support from the Charlie outpost, but not for another 20 minutes or so."
"20? Well, what are we gonna get?"
"Tanks, APCs, and infantry. More than enough."
After Jazz said this, a few refugees started to arrive, now armed with various Kalashnikovs. The commander looked on as they slowly made their way here from the trucks, one or two at a time. He ordered Jazz, Victor, Maria, and the two drivers to open fire on the raiders, who were already on the other side of the road. The plan was for them to halt the attackers' advance to give time for the armed civilians to come.
The deafening barrage of enemy gunfire kept the refugees crouched down as they ran towards the commander for orders. A bullet happened to find its way into a man's shoulder as he stood up for a split second to climb over a large rock. He fell on his back and screamed in pain while holding his wound to stop the bleeding. Almost immediately Maria heard his frantic calls and ran to his aid.
When the commander saw the sniper running back behind the last civilian, he knew that all the refugees able to carry a gun were present, so he decided now was the time to give them their orders. The raiders were now dug in on the other side of the road some 15 yards away, shooting at them. The commander had to yell over the gunfire and enunciate for the civilians to understand him clearly.
"Listen up, everybody! Help is on the way! We just need to hold them off for 20 minutes, that's all. I know many of you haven't even used a firearm before, but just shoot in short, controlled bursts! You don't have to hit any of them, just keep their heads down long enough for backup to arrive! Basically, aim that way and squeeze the trigger! Got it?"
There were scattered nods from the many faces staring at him.
"Alright! Space out evenly and return fire!" They spread out into a wide line, and while on their bellies, took 2-3 round bursts just like they were told to.
The commander was very organized and cool, and that came from experience. He was a major in the U.S. military before the zombies. His cunning expertise and superior battlefield tactics earned him a matching rank in Caiger's army.
The shots coming from the raiders were as inaccurate as the shots coming from the refugees. Through the chaos, the sniper looked through the scope of his Dragunov and chanced upon a way-to-easy shot. He got his unlucky target right above the left eye.
"Shit, this place is so hilly. Those guys really picked the right place to ambush us." Victor commented as he changed his magazine.
Jazz was right next to him, so they didn't have to yell or enunciate that much to hear each other clearly.
"Yeah, but a better trap would have been if they stationed themselves on both sides," said Jazz as he continued to take aimed shots, "And they should have known that this is the only place we could hide in, so they could've booby-trapped this ditch. Plus they can't shoot for shit. These guys are amateurs, and aren't that smart at all. This could work to our advantage."
The sound of the firefight seemed to echo through the hills. For the past half hour both sides of the conflict have exchanged hundreds of rounds, but to no avail.
The commander changed another magazine. Frustrated at the situation, he looked over at Jazz.
"Its been over thirty minutes! Where the hell's our backup?" Jazz shrugged back at him.
"Go radio them and find out what's taking so goddamn long!"
Jazz hurried along to the El Camino, roadie running the entire way to stay out of the line of fire. The commander looked around at his men, fighting on. One kid a few guys over yelled out that they were almost out of ammo. The commander debated on what course of action they should take. He already tried sending some of the refugees to the left and the right for a pincher flanking maneuver, but fear held them back and they stayed stationed where they laid, which was still on their side of the road, but dozens of yards away from the main group.
The positions and wider range of fire were better than nothing, though not enough to gain any leverage whatsoever. As the commander formulated a plan in his mind through trial in error, Jazz returned from his mission.
"They're running late," he yelled over the gunfire, "They overestimated on the time! Its taking them longer than expected! They couldn't give me a specific ETA cause the radio got shot out by a stray bullet before they could tell me!"
The commander looked at his wristwatch. It was half past noon. They would be here soon, but he knew that they would soon run out of ammo, and if they did, they wouldn't be able to hold off the raiders and they'd be finished.
He knew if they didn't do something soon, they would all die. He began to rub his temples and thought as hard as he could. In seconds, a tactic came to mind. He called over Cleon to him and Jazz. He leaned in close enough so he didn't have to yell too loudly.
"Alright you guys," he said, "Here's the plan. I need you to lead two groups to flank them. If we don't end this now, we'll run of ammo and be defenseless. Cleon, I need you to take the 4 dumbasses by that ditch over there and sweep left. Jazz, take those 4 retards by that rock and sweep right.
"Head out twenty yards from their position without being seen, and wait. Keep behind this ditch. The rest of us will stay here and distract them. I'm going to give you both a radio. On my order, charge across the road and give them everything you've got. You get me?"
Nods of agreement sent them on their way. They traversed the terrain to their locations on their hands and knees to avoid being seen. With ten men taken from the line, there were eight left to distract the raiders. When the flanking groups were set, the commander gave the order to charge. Cleon and his men ran across the road and found cover behind a large boulder. Cleon leaned at the end of the boulder, waiting for a safe time to fire. He stuck his head out.
He looked into a rotting face. He screamed in horror as the creature grabbed him. He stabbed the thing in the head with the bayonet on his AK. With all the excitement of the battle, he forgot all about the zombies. Now that he thought about it, he wondered why for the past half hour he never saw any rotters. He turned around and saw dozens of figures in the distance, just standing in place. He noticed the guy next to him notice them to.
"What are they doing?" he asked.
"...They're just...waiting. Waiting for a safe time to approach. I guess it's true, those things are getting--"
Jazz's voice crackled on his walkie-talkie.
"Cleon! What the fuck are you doing? Rush 'em!" Cleon and the guy next to him traded an "oh-shit!" look and the five men charged from behind the rock. They ran into the enemy, firing on full auto.
The raiders wre taken completely by surprise. They took heavy casualties, because while they looked to their sides and saw the forces of Cleon and Jazz, the commander decided to take advantage of their distraction and led his men in for a charge. There was no where for them to run. As more than three-quarters of the raiders lost their lives, the rest dropped their weapons, raised their hands and surrendered.
In the end, both sides took bad losses. As the last raider was rounded up, right on cue, a large convoy of vehicles approached from the mountain to the east.
The long road home to Caiger seemed to last forever to the young Victor. He laid against the wall of the cramped WWII-era M114 APC. During the last few minutes of the battle he was hit in the right thigh from a stray bullet. Maria tended to his wound.
Near him were his comrades-for-life, Cleon and Jazz, as well as the sniper, who earlier introduced himself to the rest of the team as Marcus. The five pre-arranged to ride in the same transport before heading out. The convoy, a dozen vehicles strong, rumbled through the hills to their home city.
The group's attitude toward Victor's wounding was an antithesis to young fighter's view. He sat there, almost in tears, while the others rejoiced in Victor's predicament.
"Its not funny, you guys…" Victor groaned in-between his painful spasms. "This really fucking hurts!"
The others burst in jolly laughter.
"We know its not funny," explained Cleon, "We're just…Y'know, proud, that's all."
"Yeah," Maria added while stopping her bandaging of Victor's wound and briefly pinching his cheeks, "Owa widdle Victa is finawwy gwoing up!"
Victor swatted away Maria's hand as the others were sent into another volley of cachinnation.
"Alright, you guys. Settle down." Jazz said as the racket faded, "Victor, as soon as we get back home, I'm buying you a beer, because today, you're one of us!"
They all cheered in celebration as Victor, who finally understood, succumbed to the rest and finally eked out a smile.
The first vehicle in the convoy climbed the hill and descended, entering the valley. Right in the middle of the fields was a small city with tall, make-shift walls and guard towers. They had finally trekked the long way home to their promised land of Caiger.
The vehicles ran over countless stray zombies as they approached the city gates. The two 10-foot high sheet metal doors slowly creaked open as the convoy slowed down to enter. Accompanying the vehicles were the feral zombies attracted by the new path.
Several people armed with improvised flamethrowers exited the gates as the convoy drove in, one at a time. They sprayed in wide arcs, scaring the unwelcome corpses from getting too close. Some were unlucky--or foolish, if they can be called that--enough to stray too near the fire. Their groans intensified with confusion as they witnessed their rotten skin start to blacken and melt.
Once the last car was in, the flamethrowers pulled back. The cars drove down a street filled with stands and small huts made of plywood and sheet metal. The few people on the street watched the convoy as it passed. Some kids already out in the early hour playfully ran after the last vehicle for a few minutes.
The trucks pulled up near a warehouse, filled with other old military vehicles. The soldiers dismounted and entered the warehouse. Cleon and Maria threw Victor over their shoulders and carried him to the medical tent, across the parking lot. Boss was carried out on a stretcher by Marcus and another man and was being taken to the same place.
On the way, the colonel patted him on the stomach. Boss didn't open his eyes, but he moved his head toward the touch and nodded his head slightly. The refugees were ushered out by Jazz. They stepped out slowly into the cold air, and huddled up in the middle of the parking lot as the colonel approached them to give them directions on what they should do next.
"Welcome to Caiger." The colonel spoke. "First of all, I would like to thank you for helping out during the attack. If it were not for your assistance, we would never have made it home. Now, if you'll all follow me to building 3-E, you will receive your orientation."
He led them off as Cleon came back with Jazz to unload the equipment from the trucks.
"Ahh..." Jazz took a deep breath while looking around the area. "Home sweet hell."
"Yeah.." Cleon chuckled while climbing up the back of a truck while Jazz stayed on the bottom. "Good to be back, huh?" he joked.
"Yup... I really missed my 'cozy' 15x12 hovel, as well as the rats, homicides, anarchy, and rotten food." he scoffed, his voice rife with humorous sarcasm.
Some of the crew from the nearby loading docks finally came out to assist the pair.
"Yo, why didn't you park closer to the loadin' docks, man?" inquired one of the workers.
"Hell should I know? We weren't the retards that were driving. They're from fuckin' Charlie outpost, go figure those pre-school dropouts."
Some of the workers chuckled as they hopped onto the truck and started unloading the crates.
Some workers emerged from the raised gate of the loading dock platform with several dollies for the crates from the transport trucks.
"Bring more over here." Commanded the foreman about the dollies. "This one's got more crates."
Cleon stacked a box onto a pile and stretched out a bit.
"Looks like you guys got it all handled." he observed while cracking his neck from side to side.
"Yeah, we're gonna head out." Jazz added while beginning to walk away.
The foreman didn't even look up from his clipboard as he nonchalantly waved the duo away, focusing on recording the inventory.
"Catch you guys later." Jazz bade farewell to some of the crew they chatted with earlier, prompting a friendly nod from the workers.
Jazz and Cleon strolled towards the open gate of the lot, soaking in the scenery they had not seen since before their tour of duty.
"Damn, how long has it been since we've been home?" Cleon inquired as they walked down the frayed city streets.
There was no sidewalk, just one unison black tar pavement about 7 yards across, which was tattered and uneven from extensive use. This was better than nothing, however; the asphalt was relatively new. Just a couple of years ago when the city was still in the mid-stages of development, the dirt and grass terrain was all you would traverse Caiger with, which was difficult for carts and vehicles to cross over.
"Seems like forever, man." Jazz replied as they split up to allow an old woman pushing an empty wheelbarrow pass through their middle.
The afternoon yielded a somewhat empty street. It was moderately quiet, and the sheet-metal huts and hovels on either side of the roadway were closed up tight. Then again, the duo were wandering down one of the calmer side streets. Reedwall Avenue, more infamously known as "The Devil's Turnpike"--a boulevard on the east side of town so named because of the "tolls" you have to pay to enjoy the various vice and sin-packed entertainment--was another story.
The more adamantly thrill-seeking and ultimately dangerous throng of Caiger's men and women populate the Turnpike's many hangouts, ranging from violently rambunctious, hole-in-the wall bars and profligately debauched brothels to lowbrow fight clubs showcasing brutally merciless exhibitions to the death or pretty damn close to it.
As commonly stated by the more mainstream crowd of Caiger: only the most utterly vile, disgustingly perverted, and morally depraved pitiful excuses for mankind would be caught dead on the decadent streets of Reedwall Avenue.
"You wanna see wussup at the 'Pike?" Jazz asked.
"Y'know what? Maybe later on tonight with the guys. I gotta check into some shit."
"Alright, just gimme a call."
"Cool, and see if Polo can make it. I got a bone to pick with him." Cleon said as he made a left at the intersection towards his house.
"Hey, we both do." Jazz called out as he watched Cleon depart. "That asshole's called in sick too many times, man! He should've been there at Ida with us, should've been as miserable as us!"
The two traded a chuckle before Jazz started on his way back home as well.
Though the marketplace was several blocks over, the appetizing fragrance of the street vendor's foodstuffs carried over to Cleon, and was a welcome aroma to the young militant, who lived off the rough, bland rations of Ida outpost for the past week.
Cleon traversed the near empty street until he stopped outside a some hut, which, with it's makeshift and rusty design, looked almost identical to the entire city's residential dwellings.
After a heavy sigh, he timorously approached the shack, coming to an uneasy halt at the entrance, then raised his fist to knock on the door. After some hesitation, he turned his hand and rapped the ingress several times, and then waited.
He began to nervously sway a little as he lingered, sucking in his lips and tapping his thigh with his hand.
With no reply, he raised his hand to knock again, but paused midway. Slowly and awkwardly, he let his arm fall and turned around to leave. With another heavy sigh and a poorly-disguised expression of dismay on his face, he walked down the street.
Author's Note: And then it goes into indefinite hiatus. Thanks for reading :P