Divide and Conquer
The great steel doors clanged shut after Bill. He dumped the man he'd been dragging — who turned out to be a young woman in a pink sweater — and slumped against the wall. His leg was getting to him again. He hadn't run in twenty years and now running was becoming a necessity. The shrapnel was going to be a problem. But he'd had worse.
He spat the cigarette butt out and trod on it with his good foot, scanning the troops he would now have to work with. The ones who had been outside were all panting, faces red and palms sweaty. Bill felt the same. Breath ragged, a twinge starting at the back and working up to a smoker's hacking cough. His legs ached and his hands were numb from the M16's rattle. But he would continue. He had to, if only to prove to himself he would not be beaten by anything less than death.
He heaved to his feet and walked over to the girl he had half dragged out of the mob.
"You okay, miss?" he asked, offering a hand.
The young woman nodded and took his hand. Halfway up, however, a look of shock and horror washed over her face and she let go, thudding back to earth.
"Alex," she cried and scrambled to her feet.
"Who?" Bill asked, watching her shove past a few men and disappear into the crowd.
The biker — Francis — walked over and poked Bill in the chest. "When someone yells 'fall back' people tend to go away from a fight. What the hell were you doing telling us what to do? We could have taken them."
Bill didn't answer; a loud and violent ramming coming from the prison hall doors answered for him. He jerked his thumb at the wrought iron, already showing miniature dents.
"Feel free — Francis, right? — to open up. I'm sure you could take them."
"Hell, yeah. Damn right I could."
Bill sneered as Francis did not move toward the door. He looked around and spotted a table. He walked over and jumped up. The noise was getting deafening: banging fists on metal, shouts of 'what the hell just happened' and general confusion.
"Hey," Bill yelled, trying to make himself heard. "Listen up, people."
No one listened. Bill tried once more before shouldering his M16 and firing a few rounds into the ceiling. The mob turned as one, pistols, rifles, shotguns and heavy melee weapons all going to shoulders, all pointing at each other, Bill, and in other varying directions.
Bill snorted out a puff of smoke. "All jumpy as 'Nams with napalm on the air." He lowered the rifle, careful not to aim at anyone. "Look, convicts. Put down the guns and hard objects. We aren't using them on each other. Right now is not the time to bash the other guy's brains out."
"Unless that guy's Infected." The young man vaulted up next to Bill. "Personally, old man, you don't have the lungs for this shouting stuff. Especially with that smoking habit of yours. I'm Cutter, by the way. Not a cutter; name's Cutter." He turned back to the crowd. The hammering Infected fists settled into a steady rhythm. "Listen up, whack-jobs. You lot are lucky not to be on Death Row. You got a second chance, don't waste it. Listen to the old guy." The M16 lowered steadily. "Or I start making life easier around here. Got it?"
"That won't be necessary," Bill said, putting a hand on Cutter's rifle. "If anything, it'll be counterproductive. I need to know who is in charge."
There was a slight murmuring and then five men walked up.
Bill sighed. Finally, council and democracy. The hellhole needed it, as did the rest of the world.
Then one man — a large burly jock with muscles for his muscles — punched one man in the gut and jumped on another.
"Fight, fight, fight," the mob cheered as the four men — one already out cold — beat the living meat from each other.
Bill slapped a hand to his brow. "Damn monkeys." He gripped Cutter's shoulder. "Help me break this up. No way I can do it alone, and this is wasting time. That horde is not getting smaller with us bashing each other."
"Agreed. Hey, Francis, new guy—" Cutter jabbed a finger at Louis. "Come on, break it up." Cutter followed his own orders and jumped into the fight, getting one man in a headlock, kicking another in the shin while he was at it. Francis and Louis got the other two down and then Bill leveled his M16 at the last one.
"Not another move, dumb-ass," Bill growled. "We do not have the time for this. I asked for a leader, because logically the leader knows about rations and munitions and defenses. You know, the things that win a defensive fight. Is that you?"
"Er…"
"That would be me," Cutter grunted, struggling with his captive, who was starting to go blue. "I don't know offhand, but we had two months at the start of this whole thing, about four days ago. Ammo is what the guards had, but we've got ammo from runs to the city." The headlock victim struggled and stood on Cutter's booted foot. He snarled and tossed his guy away. Cutter's foot shot up between the man's legs and the brute toppled, squeaking. "I hate squirming, jackass," Cutter said, kicking the man. He turned back to Bill. "Defenses consist of these girls and that barricade. We have a mini-gun up top, but ammo is hard to come by. We salvaged rounds for it and if the Infected get in we can put up a good defense in the warden's quarters."
"And die," Bill said, sitting down and noticing his cigarette was out. "Anyone got a light?"
"What do you mean?" Francis asked, folding his arms.
"The city of Xion," Bill said, as if reciting from rote, "is a city approximately half the size of New York City, with a little more than half a million people in population." Bill glanced around at the inmates. "How many you got?"
"Hundred, hundred fifty."
"There's a hundred-plus times that out there, yowling for your blood." Bill fished in his pockets for a match, found one, and struck it on the cement floor. "Think you'll last?"
"No," Cutter said, matter-of-factly. "But what else can we do?"
"A bit fatalistic, aren't you?"
"You like answering questions with questions?"
"Maybe." Bill grinned. "Look. In a group this size, we should be able to make it out of the city. We make for the city exit. Some of us make it, some don't, but at least that's a chance. A better chance than what you lot got here." He straightened. "You in?"
There was silence, permeated by a low sobbing from the back corner. Bill couldn't help but look and found two young women — one the pink sweater girl he had dragged from the mob not five minutes ago, and the other a small brunette, shaking and hyperventilating into a paper bag.
Bill turned back to the convicts. He had seen too much hysteria for his tastes.
They were starting to pick sides. As one, the mob divided down the middle. Cutter and Francis were on one side, along with thirty others. The other seventy or so were on the other, all behind the muscle man who had started the earlier fight.
Bill nodded. "Okay. Cutter, you have any transports?"
"A few prison vans, ATVs, and some regular cars and trucks." Cutter shrugged. "Stripped down most of the cars for parts, though. Height is one of our few advantages, and trucks give us the most."
"You're a tactical thinking man," Bill grunted, shouldering past him. "Louis, stick with me. Cutter, show me what we got. The rest of you start packing gear. The sooner we move, the less time the Infected have to mass."
"Agreed." Cutter slung the M16 over his shoulder and started ordering men left and right, shoving his way through the throng to the other side. "Come on. The motor pool is this way."
Bill and Louis followed, leaving a good thirty people arguing with the other seventy, with Francis the most vocal out of them all.
Cutter paused by the door, then turned to Bill. "Head out this way, I'll catch up. All inside, no Infected, no worries."
Cutter left without a word, pacing the wall. Bill decided to wait for him. Namely because he had no idea of the layout of the prison, but his leg was getting tight again and he needed to get some weight off it.
Cutter walked up to Alexia and Zoey, stopping a few feet away and squatting down. Alexia was not sobbing anymore, and the bag rested in her hands. Zoey glanced at Cutter and then back at Alexia.
"Alex," Zoey said. "I will be right back. Four feet away. You okay?"
"Yeah," Alexia said, pulling her legs up to her chest.
Zoey eyed her for a second and then turned to Cutter. "What do you want?"
Cutter grinned but resisted the urge to make a comment. "What's wrong with her?" he asked instead.
"She's never killed anyone before," Zoey said, looking over her shoulder at Alexia. "I know the Infected aren't human anymore, but they… they look and were human. I wish I had reacted like she had."
"Uncontrollable sobbing and hyperventilation don't suit you Zoey."
"But what does that say about me? I am just as bad as you. A cold blooded killer."
"As good as me," Cutter corrected, grinning. "I never said I didn't feel bad about killing those guys. Zoey, right now, it is not the stone hearted we need. We have plenty of them. But there is nothing wrong with it. Either you were prepared to kill to save your friend and your own life, or your body is shielding your mind from the worst of it. Trust me, there will be time for weepy breakdowns and Zombies Anonymous sessions after we get away from the Infected. Until then, I'm glad I do not have helpless damsels in distress. Despite popular opinion, they are not charming or useful. Just a handful, and loud at that."
Zoey snorted.
Cutter nodded to Alexia. "You stay with her. I'll be back in ten minutes or so. By then she had better be ready to go."
"Go? Go where?"
"Any place but here," Cutter responded. "I am not leaving her here with those nut cases waiting to happen. I suggest you come, but I get a feeling that I would be on the floor cradling various parts of my anatomy if I tried to make you do something you didn't want to do."
Zoey glanced at Alex and then at Cutter. "I presume that we are not walking out of here."
"You presume correctly, ZZ." Cutter tossed her a two fingered salute and jogged back to the old man who had dragged Zoey out of the fray, waiting by the door. "Meet us in the garage in twenty. Help Frankie out. He'll appreciate it."
Zoey watched him disappear through the door, followed by the old army guy and the dark-skinned man. "ZZ?"
Cutter sat down next to Bill on the back of an old Ford pickup truck; blue paint dinged and dented through a few days of use in a post-dead world . Francis sat behind him, perched like an ugly black raven on the side board, with Louis facing him. Alexia was curled up in the corner of the flat bed, and Zoey was sitting on the truck cab behind and to her friend's left.
Cutter turned and leaned against the side board. "Those things will kill you, Bill."
"Can it." But Bill's retort was good natured. He took a final drag on the cigarette and tossed it on the cement floor, jumping down and landing on it. "We ready to go?"
"Some of the lads are out," Cutter said, with the casual air of a weather man reporting clear skies with rain pouring down around him. "Cuts our numbers to fifteen."
Francis snarled. "Cowards. Bet all sixteen are crying in their little wussy holes right now."
"Nope," Cutter said, sliding off the truck bed and walking around to the cab. "Blood pools."
They all were silent.
Cutter hefted a crate and handed it up to Francis. "Hunters got them. Upper tier, last guard posting."
"Hunters?" Louis asked, sliding the crate to the end of the truck, next to Alexia.
"The scream-and-jumps," Cutter clarified. "Came in right through the windows. Mind the girl; don't let the stuff drop on her."
"Right, sorry," Louis said, using a band of steel chain to secure the crate.
"Alright," Cutter said, picking up another crate and tossing it to Francis. "You lot are good gunmen, so you four are going in that old jeep there. Alexia, me and John are going in this rust-bucket with a few extra supplies. We'll toss a gun crate in back, a few smoke detectors — at least one in each vehicle; Louis, you double check that — and a pair of gunmen. Alexia will be in front with me, John on the other side — shotgun. Ironic, right."
Bill nodded. "Sounds good. Francis and I will check on the others. Zoey, you any good with cars?"
"Not really."
"Okay. Francis, you'll double check the point cars and Zoey will help me get squared away. Move it people."
Cutter grinned unconsciously. After knowing each other less than fifteen hours, they were working like a well-oiled machine.
"Damn it, Francis. Get off my foot."
"Sorry, ZZ."
"You call me that again and you'll have to ask Bill for some denture paste."
"Watch it, young lady."
Cutter snorted. Working like a rusty machine then, but a machine nonetheless.
He vaulted into the back of the truck and sat, pulling his pistol from its makeshift holster and checking the cartridge.
Alexia's eyes fixed on it and then darted away as he glanced at her.
"You okay, girly?"
"Fine," she squeaked.
Cutter's superior smile faltered and, after a quick look around to make sure no one was watching, dissolved completely. "Alexia… what's wrong?"
"I-I… I barely know you… and y-you think I'm going to lay all my problems on you?"
"Yeah, I think you are." He stood and pulled Alexia to her feet as if she were a feather. "Come on. We'll talk about it until John gets here. In the cab."
After a half-hearted attempt to resist, Alexia sat down next to a murderer in the cab of a beat-up and bloody Ford.
"It… it would be pointless to ask you what it's like to kill someone," Alexia said, glaring at him with a surprisingly vivid hatred. "So why would talking to you about my heart-eating guilt help me?"
"Don't you feel a little better already?"
"No."
"Oh… well, if you would feel more comfortable talking to ZZ…"
Alexia let her head fall back, banging a few times against the truck's rear window. "That's just it. She… s-she…"
"She's different."
Alexia glanced at him. Cutter's sardonic and malicious smile was gone, leaving a sincere pain on his face. "What do you—?"
"I mean that you're scared of her," continued Cutter. "As much, if not more than, the Infected. She looks like your life-long friend, but she could kill things that used to be people as if they were insects, not humans in any way, shape or form. And you couldn't. You didn't have the guts to do it, the stomach to say, 'I shot and killed something. Get over it.' You're a sensitive soul, something that has little value to us out here."
He paused, his quick eyes scanning the people moving around in the garage.
"Except you are the most precious thing out here." Cutter looked back at her. "I will do everything I can to protect you. I don't want you to ever let go of that calm, that honest hatred of violence. Put is aside sometimes, sure. But promise me you will never lose it. I feel like half of me is gone, and I know that by protecting you, I can pretend to get back the missing piece."
"What do you mean?"
Cutter sighed. "I killed four men. They broke into my house. My baby sister and my girlfriend were upstairs, my mom in the kitchen. I protected the people I loved, but… I lost something." He glanced at her. "My hands are red in more than a figurative way. I beat them to death. Turned out one was my older brother, drunk like always. I caught him last. He tried to rape my girlfriend, in front of our baby sister." His teeth clenched. "I beat him to death. Not with a bat like the three downstairs. I throttled him until the only thing holding his head to his shoulders was his spine.
"I lost something that day. I've never found it, and I doubt I ever will. But you have it. Something I want to preserve. Because the way my sister looked at me… I never want to be seen like that again."
Alexia stared.
Cutter suddenly laughed, his cocky demeanor sliding back into place as if it never left. "Sorry. I got a bit carried away. But that's me in a nutshell. Emotionally detached. I lost my humanity, my family, the only person on this planet that could actually stand me for more than two seconds. But that's also how I know what you're going through. I went through it too. And so will Zoey. But she's strong, and she cares for the people around her. She'll stay strong so that they can. You have a really good friend there."
A tap on the window made Alexia jump. Cutter reached over and opened the passenger side door. "John, this is Alexia. Alexia, my mate John — embezzlement. We'll be out of this hellhole in less time than you know."
The sun was going down by the time the four trucks rolled into the yard, lining up on the gate. Bill stood up in his seat, turning to view the state of their convoy. Cutter was in front of them, a prison van in front of him, its confines laden with two weeks worth of ammunition and supplies. There was another jeep at the front, six men occupying the small vehicle, all with some sort of shotgun or rifle.
Bill dropped down in his seat next to Louis, who was driving. Bill hefted the old walkie-talkie and thumbed the button three times.
"Cutter on the squawk-box, Bulldog. What's the go-go?"
"Cutter, what the hell?" Bill asked, completely confused.
"Sorry. I just could not resist," Cutter's voice said over the radio. "But seriously, we ready to go, go, go now so I do not have to look at this drab olive-colored pigpen for another second?"
"Get her rolling."
"Roger that."
Bill sat back, clicking the radio once.
"Bill, right?"
"Yeah, Butch. Get going."
"Okay. Let's get this bastard rolling."
Bill pulled his thumb from the radio and glared at Francis. "Do you lot have a book of urban synonyms that you pass around?"
"Why?"
"You all talk alike."
"Shut it, Old Man."
The radio clicked four times. Bill picked it up. "Go."
"This is going to get ugly."
"What's going to get ugly, Butch?"
"The zombies are all over the place. We try to open the gate; we are going to get swamped. Ideas?"
"You ever want to ram a gate, Butch?"
"Sure but… hey, I like the way you think, old man."
"Can people stop calling me that," Bill snarled.
A horn blared and then the convoy moved. Bill had to admit, loathed as he was, that it startled him a bit. The convoys in 'Nam had been slow, heavy things, with troops walking alongside, wary of moving bushes and jumping at bird calls.
The Survivor convoy roared to life, bolted forward, and smashed through the wire gate that blocked the parking area from the outside road. There was a united howl from the Infected at the noise and they lurched forward, running haphazardly into the trucks.
Guns flared to life, but there was little time for exchanging pleasantries as the jeeps and trucks passed by, making more than a few zombies one with pavement.
"Yee-ha," someone yelled over the radio, making it buzz. "You see that one. It just plain ex-plod-ed. We are free and clear, dudes and dudettes."
"We are not free and clear," Bill snarled into the radio. "We are free and clear when we are out of this city and meet people who are not Infected. Keep your heads in the game."
"Sir, yes, sir," came Cutter's cheery tone. A second later however, it was more subdued. "Hey, Bill, I got a minor problem."
"Like what?"
"There's a Hunter on my hood."
"Well, shoot him off."
Bill watched as the Infected crawled over the top of the truck, a shotgun blast peeling the paint from the top of the cab. The Infected shrieked and collapsed, falling off the side and splattering onto the road.
"Nice shot, John."
"Not a—"
Bill did not even bother freezing up. He snatched the rifle from the back seat and stood, propping his arms on the windshield's upper frame. It had come from nowhere. A long slimly appendage had shot from the darkness, into Cutter's truck. John's strangled swears were evidence that it was 'disgusting as shit' and 'choking the hell' out of him.
Other yells and screams from the radio told them something, but as to what it told them, Bill did not have time to figure out. Instead he focused on tracing the string of muscle back to its start point. A tall gangly man stood hunched on a watchtower, the slimy thing extending from his mouth. Once more Bill did not take time to gather intelligence on his enemy. He took the shot, plowing a .44 caliber bullet through the Infected's head.
It promptly exploded in a haze of thick smog.
"John, you okay?"
"Fine. Whoever did that, thanks. Ugh… I think it's a tongue. Disgusting. Hey, Cutter, she's not going to throw up on me, is she?"
"Alexia, try to hold it down a bit."
"This is Point," Butch yelled into the clutter of noise. "There is an army of the bastards on the bridge. Follow us through; we'll try and find the easiest route."
"You are clear to go ahead," Bill said, already turning to Zoey. "Zoey, put a few holes in them. Take your time and pick off the more obvious ones. I have a feeling this is about to get complicated. Francis, I want you to clear as many out on our left as possible. I'll take care of our right. Louis, keep that Uzi on hand, but trust Francis to keep them off."
"Got it," Zoey said, standing and bracing herself as the hunting rifle began to report kills.
"Got it covered," Francis growled, already spraying bullets in the direction of the Infected army.
Bill leaned out one side and cocked the shotgun. The mist was heavy, but Bill's trained eyes picked out the situation in a second. They were headed to the bridge, and were already on it as the Infected charged across the suspension bridge. There were thousands of them. Tall and short, man and woman, stout and thin. Hundreds of hundreds of them.
Closer.
And closer.
And closer.
And then they bumped, the shotgun sounded and blood sprayed, spattering the jeep and occupants, bits and pieces of flesh and bone scattering over them and the Infected, and the pavement.
And then they were in the thick, guns blazed and roared and flared and then they were out, Infected scattering over the road and under wheels as the four trucks bowled over them. A few clung to the hoods and sides of the vehicles, but a few pistol shots and the dead fell to the sides.
Bill reloaded the shotgun, kneeing the radio on as he did so. "Damage report?"
"We lost one," Butch said. "No injuries, no vehicle damage. Point is good to go."
"Supply is bloody but good to go, and go fast." That was the prison van, whose driver Bill remembered as being a shifty, over-compulsive kind of man.
"Cutter here. We are okay, a bit shaken and… well, disgusted, but in working order." In the background, Bill could here Cutter murmur, "Alexia, it's fine. It's just a little bit of blood. Okay, yes, that is brain but… John, don't be a baby. It's only vomit. Dude, man up."
They were entering the city proper now, with tall buildings rising fast and the fading light was lost quickly under the concrete monoliths. The alleyways were darkest of all, and more than once Bill thought he saw glints in the gloom.
Bill turned and glanced around. Zoey was grinning, slipping another clip of bullets into the slot on the hunting rifle. Likewise, Francis was pleased, slipping shells into the shotgun, murmuring sweet nothings to it. Louis was grinning like an idiot, too. It was obvious the civilians thought the worst was over, and were very pleased with themselves.
But Bill knew that was when it was most dangerous. When things got simple, people made mistakes.
"Keep your heads in the game," he bellowed over the wind whipping at their open-aired transport. "We are not out of it yet."
"Come on, Old Man. We just plowed over a thousand of those zombie bitches," Francis said. "What's to get worried about?"
"What the fuck is that?"
Bill spun around. "I hate you, Francis."
"Oh… crap," was Francis' epiphany.
Ahead of them a massive hulking form was rushing at them from the darkness. It was twice as tall as a human, with at least five times the muscle mass. It roared and aimed to shoulder the point car out of the way. Butch proved his worth as a driver by twisting to one side and then swerving around the giant, tricking it to aim the opposite way. The prison van was saved only by the point car's gunmen pouring hot shot into the Infected's back, keeping its short attention span on them.
It roared again and smashed its fists into the ground, ripping up a slab of concrete and hefting it over its tiny head.
"Crap… crap, crap, crap crap crap!" Cutter's truck spun out as the concrete impacted the ground next to them, the back end fish-tailing into the Infected. The truck dented and the Infected snorted, unfazed by the half-ton of metal smashing into its chest.
It raised its fists.
And got a bullet in the eye.
The Infected snarled, back-stepping and switching targets in the blink of a sightless eye. Bill aimed and let loose with the shotgun as fast as he could pump new shells in. As soon as the eight shells were embedded in the giant he chucked the shotgun in back and hauled his M16 into hand.
In this time Zoey had unleashed the rest of the hunting rifle ammunition into the thing's head and had pulled out an Uzi.
"How is that thing not dead yet?" Louis asked, spinning the wheel back and forth, evading a chunk of rock that was hurled at them.
"Thanks, Zoey," Cutter said, the truck squealing past them as all four survivors continued to fire at the Infected. "Saved our hides with that shot. See you on the outbound."
"You're welcome," Zoey shouted, firing in controlled bursts as the Infected barreled down after them.
"Go down," Francis snarled, switching to a loaded shotgun at his feet as the behemoth charged to within six feet, its arms flailing after them, shaking the ground. "Go — blam — down — blam — you — blam — dirty— blam — son — blam — of a — blam — bitch!"
The gargantuan Infected moaned as Francis' sixth shell pounded into its chest. It slowed, arms waving forlornly, blood oozing in thick streams from holes all over its body. The Infected slumped, fell to its knees and then collapsed on its face.
"Boo-ya," Francis yelled, pumping his fist in the air. "Take that, sucker!"
Bill sighed, and switched the radio on. "We are in the clear for now. Report."
"Point is fine. What the hell was that?"
"Supply is good. I have to correct Point. It's 'What the fucking hell was that?'"
"Cutter here. Thanks again, Zoey. Nice shot."
"Whoa, hold the phone. That the girl in pink? Girl you just shot up like ten points on the hotness meter."
"Butch, not only was that a bad pun but… hotness meter?" Cutter snorted. "You are so lame."
Bill grinned and leaned back, relaxing for two seconds, letting the adrenaline clear out of his head.
That was when a Hunter screamed, shooting out of the darkness of an alleyway. He landed on the hood of Bill's jeep, was promptly shot by Francis and slid off under the wheels. The jeep bumped and swerved, smashing into a wall. There was a too familiar roar from the other side and Bill swore.
Another giant Infected smashed through the barrier, hefted the jeep backward and over, sending it into the front of a furniture store.
Bill's last sight was that of a hideous neon-yellow flowered sofa with a sickening pea-green backdrop.
Then blackness.