Get Off My [email protected] - A Zombie Novel (23 page)

T
he day had finally come. Thursday (Day 43), we
all rose early and had a substantial breakfast of dried eggs and cereal with
powdered milk. We simulated toast with saltine crackers and used home canned
pumpkin butter.

A heavy snow had continued during the night
covering everything. Winds had caused drifts of snow up against the fence
enclosing the fuel cell system.

Several dead, who had escaped the terminal
welcome offered by our snipers during the night, had already climbed the fence.
We found them at first light slowly grabbing into the space between the natural
gas tanks and the generator itself. The Specialist on camera duty had not seen
them breach our defense due to the snow.

Bob and Bob took careful aim and turned the
zombie’s lights out, dropping them directly onto the device keeping our lights
on.

Bill sent men out to shovel away the drifts at
the base of the fence. The drifts made it easier to climb the fence. The snow
had stopped, but the wind hadn’t. Drifts returned soon thereafter. Keeping them
away from the fence would be a lost cause.

At six twenty, the starkly visible horde of dark
on white trampled past Carson Park. We watched tensely on the big screen as it
enveloped and crushed what was left of Eau Claire. So far, we saw no activity
inside the park so all seemed well for the survivors inside. They would be
surrounded for hours to come.

CB2 was now only a few hours away from us.

At six thirty, we saw a flight of helicopters
destroy what was left of the eastern causeway between the mainland and the
peninsula of the park itself. They left the Carson Park Drive area alone,
apparently satisfied with what the survivors had done for themselves.

We topped off the water containers we had been
using. Bob Wisnewski swept off the solar panels. The men checked ammunition and
weapons.

Bill and I had an early meeting with Frank.

“You can see the drifting snow has made it
easier to scale the fence around the generator. The damn thing is attracting
the dead like gun shots,” I said.

“Sir, I request permission to disengage the fuel
cell generator,” added Bill.

“The request is denied Christmas Tree. The
datacenter must remain running for as long as possible. We have serious
situations in a number of Administrative Zones that need the results you
produce. The hordes are getting hungrier. They are more aggressive if you can
imagine that. A number of safe zones are in peril as we speak. Do you
understand your orders Lieutenant?”

“Yes sir. Hua.”

I
gave up trying to have the generator switched
off. In my resignation, I changed subjects.

“Frank, we may not make it through this. There’s
one thing I want to know,” I said.

“Walter, there’s no reason to get maudlin. We
will keep you safe.”

“No really. We’ve had this Father Goose Frank
and Walter code name business going since the beginning. I have to know. What
is your real name?”

“Frank.”

“Frank?”

“Frank.”

“Your code name is your real name. Seriously?”

“I never said it was a code name. You were to be
Christmas Tree. I told you my name, you came up with ‘Walter,’ I just went with
it.”

Off mike, I said to Bill, “You knew about this?”

“Of course. I had no idea why he called you
Walter and Ruth Ann Miss Goody Two Shoes. Is Father Goose a movie?” Bill said.

Back on mike I said “Attention all listening
stations this is Doug and Ruth Ann Handsman signing off from Christmas Tree.
Good night and good luck.”

“That was touching Walter. Sit tight. We’ll talk
again. Lambeau Field out.”

B
ill and I looked at each other and took a deep
breath in. Then he shouted, “Gather up people!”

Bill was joined by his ten men.

“CB2 will be here soon. There are millions of
them and the god damned fuel cell thing is going to bring them here like flies
on a honey wagon. Our orders are to keep the datacenter running as long as
possible. Doing so will save lives,” Bill paused and looked into his troop’s
faces.

“To do that, we have to keep the generator on.”

Another pause.

“I want three volunteers to man the roof to keep
the generator clear. I don’t have to tell you, you will likely die.”

“I’ll go,” Bob Peretz said.

“You stupid kike, what are you volunteering me
for?” said Bob Wisnewski.

“I didn’t volunteer you, you dumb Polack.”

“Sure you did, you know I got your back. Where
you go I go.”

“I’m going on the roof,” said Peretz.

“OK man. I got your back.”

“That’s two. I need one more.”

Leon Cremmons, a quiet Specialist I hardly knew
was the third volunteer to face a likely death on the roof of Christmas Tree.

“Thank you men. Take whatever you need and dig
in up there. Sweep Zeke off the generator but try not to blow it up yourselves.
Good luck.”

The doomed three shook hands and said good byes
to their brothers. Then they went off to gather gear and headed up stairs.

“Brandt, you’re in the basement. Your job is to
protect the gear and specifically that box Mr. Handsman told you about.
Whatever you do, that box has to be kept safe, understand?”

No mention of protecting us.

“Hua,” was Brandt’s reply.

“Barry, Orderly, you’re in the basement too.
Your job is to keep Mr. and Mrs. Handsman safe. Hua?”

“Hua,” both said.

There’s that, I thought.

Brandt and Clark looked determined. Orderly look
relieved.

“Lim, you me and John will stay on the second
floor. It won’t be a picnic, the windows are our weak spots. We can fall back
to the first floor if need be.”

 Lim Zsu, who accompanied Mancheski into the
warehouse and John Rentmiesters who also went on the raid would stick by their Lieutenant
once again.

“Chuck and Chris, you are in reserve on one. The
only way they are getting to the first floor is if the wheels come off the
wagon. Your job is to hold the door to the basement and cover us on the way
down, got it?”

“Hua,” said Chris Sanders who I didn’t know and
Chuck Evans who had been in on the warehouse raid.

“OK, people. Let’s do it.”

The volunteers on the roof were locked out. From
here on until their quickly approaching end, they were on their own.

Furniture from the first floor was moved to barriers
against the second windows. Only the windows near the generator were covered on
the outside with glued plywood. A heavy couch and chair were wedged into the
stairway leading to the roof. There really wasn’t a point to barricading the
stairway between the first and second floors. Doing so wouldn’t prevent us from
being overrun but would hamper any retreat attempt by Bill, Lim and John.

Ruth Ann and I, along with Brandt, Orderly and
Barry locked ourselves into the basement. I isolated the well, Internet router,
modem and the house camera system to the battery backups. If we lost generator
power, while the datacenter would crash instantly, we would still have water,
surveillance and two ways of contacting Lambeau. The NAS box containing a
complete backup of Christmas Tree was disconnected and ready for bug out.

We watched the satellite view of CB2 as it
converged on Christmas Tree from both north and south. Whether drawn by the
sound of the generator or just bad luck, CB2 came down on us like a closing
pincer.

The remains of our neighbor’s houses to the east
and north imploded into their basements under thousands of highly agitated
ghouls.

Giant fire balls erupted between Christmas Tree
and its neighbors. The mobile artillery made its presence known. High
explosives are loud but the sound of the exploding shells did not overpower the
sound of the horde itself.

Bob and Bob along with Leon Cremmons opened up
on the horde as it easily rose up and over the fence surrounding the fuel cell
generator. It was immediately obvious leaving those men up there to die was a
complete waste. Nothing would have stopped the generator from being overrun
except the stealth provided by being turned off before the horde arrived.

On my laptop, we watched the dead tumble off the
top of the generator fence. More and more made it into the tight space between
the fence and the generator.

On the other cameras, we could see the dead
coming closer and closer to camera level like rising floodwater. They climbed
over each other rising towards roof level. Just before the southward facing
cameras became blocked by constantly churning darkness we saw them spilling in
through the windows on the second floor.

There would be no prolonged heroic siege.
Christmas Tree did not stand firm against a raging ocean of dead. No, we were
slammed hard under in the first unstoppable wave.

We heard automatic weapons fire both through the
basement door and on the radio. Lim was already dead. John Rentmiesters body
checked Bill, tossing him down stairway leading to the first floor.

Evans and Sanders pulled Bill to his feet. For a
moment they stood, weapons pointing upward, while the John Rentmiesters assault
rifle howled.

I looked down at the laptop screen and saw that
bodies were still tumbling off the roof near the generator. The doomed men on
the roof were still firing.

Then they were tumbling off the generator
itself
.

Barely had I breathed “No” the cameras to the
rear of the house showed a blinding flash and went dead. The house shook so
violently cracks appeared in the basement ceiling. The datacenter went instantly
silent.

For a moment, the surviving cameras were clear
of writhing bodies. The explosion the generator was so great that zombies were
temporarily shaken from their purchase. The two remaining cameras facing
westward showed a massive fire. The northwest facing view showed flames
billowing out of the second floor windows.

In the few seconds lull afforded by the
explosion, Sanders banged on the basement door. Over the radio he said, “Open
dammit. We’re coming in.”

Brandt and Clark were at the ready at the top
landing. Brandt shouted “Clear!” and push open the door. Bill Mancheski and
Chris Sanders tumbled inside at knee level. Over them, Brandt fired his weapon
but as he did so, putrid arms grabbed him. They lifted him off his feet, over Mancheski
and Sanders. In an instant, Brandt was gone. In the feeding frenzy that erupted,
Barry Clark was able to slam the solid door shut and locked it.

Willem. Brandt’s first name was Willem.

Mancheski and Clark carried Sanders down stairs
where we could see, by the light of crank driven lanterns, ragged claw marks
through Sanders tattered uniform. Sanders, his arms already swollen with bites,
lay limply at the bottom of the stairs.

Bill Mancheski stripped quickly. We searched his
body for broken skin. He was bruised and dirty with what might have been blood,
but it was not his. The shield that was his thin layer of skin had held.

Chris Sanders barely breathed now. His skin was
gray.

There was no drama as in the prewar movies and
books. Bill, still naked, simply said, “Barry, can I have your sidearm?”

Barry handed his pistol to Bill.

Bill looked at all of us and looked at Chris. Then
he fired once into Chris’s head.

Barry and Orderly rolled Chris Sanders’ body
into a blanket and dragged it into the now silent machine room.

Bill Mancheski got dressed.

“What is our situation?” he said.

“Cameras at the back of the house are gone. So
is the one at the northeast corner. The other cameras are blocked by Zombies.
Sometimes daylight pokes through. There are a lot of flames,” I said flatly.

There was no point in asking about Evans.

The banging and clawing at the basement door was
intense.

Thinking what we were all thinking, Bill said,
“The basement door will hold. The fire will take out the landing’s walls before
that door breaks. Does the radio work?”

“Negative,” said Orderly. “The explosion must
have destroyed the antenna. We can’t get a signal down here.”

“But we still have an Internet connection,” I
said. “Lambeau sees what the cameras see. We should have battery power for a
few days.”

“Let’s drop them a line,” Bill said sounding
like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.

“Tell them eight KIA and five survivors in the
basement. Radio is down. We have food, water and battery reserves. Request
immediate rescue.”

I typed and sent the email.

We waited.

Back in the earliest days of email, one girlfriend
or another dumped me. I was depressed. I sat at the UNIX shell prompt
reentering “mail” repeatedly only to see “no mail” appear each time. I felt
like that now. I get clicking on the email refresh button willing a reply to
come.

In what seemed like hours but was no more than a
few minutes, we got our two-word reply.

“Sit tight.”

After I read this aloud, over the din of the
banging, kicking and scraping coming from the basement door Barry Clark
expressed his dissatisfaction with the brevity of the answer.

“Sit tight? That’s it? That is all they fucking
said?”

“Barry, calm down. What else are we supposed to do?
We’re trapped down here. Whether we burn to death, die of thirst, starvation,
kill each other, die from smoke inhalation, get crushed or get eaten, we’re not
going anywhere,” said Orderly.

Sergeant Orderly looked like he could have
continued ticking off ways we could die for another long while. Thankfully, he
stopped where he did. Barry flung his arms out in a vigorous “what-the-hell?”
motion and sat down. Tight.

The ceiling above us creaked and groaned under
the weight of who knows how many zombies crashing about above us. The banging
on the door was incessant.

For a moment, body parts cleared from camera
four, replaced by fire. Then the feed went dark.

Moments later, there was a rumble like the sound
of falling concrete, which in fact it was. Part of the back wall of the house
had given way out of view of any of the remaining cameras.

We could smell the odor of burning house quite
distinctly now. There is the pleasant smell of a neighbor’s wood fire grill or
a fireplace on a winter’s night. There is the pleasant smell of a campfire.
Then there is the smell of burning house. It is different. It is not pleasant.

Ruth Ann soaked some towels in water and with
Orderly accompanying her to the top landing, placed them at the base of door.
When she returned, she told us that the door did not feel warm. Yet.

The smell of smoke did not decrease. In the dim
light of our lanterns we could see smoke, dust and small bits of debris drop
from the ceiling vents. The air in the basement has to be drawn from somewhere.
The growing haze told us the source of what we were breathing.

Email!

This email was as terse as the last.

“Rescue arrives in thirty minutes. Say state.”

After a brief discussion, we sent back:

“Smoke inhalation likely to kill us before then.
Hurry.”

There was an attachment to the email we received.
I opened it up and saw that it was a reasonably close up aerial view of
Christmas Tree. Above us somewhere, out of reach, somebody was looking over the
carnage. The picture showed too many creatures to count. Flames emanated from
the rear of the house and the northeast corner had indeed caved in.

There were dark gaps in the fire, which, when I
zoomed in, were roasting zombies. Everywhere there were zombies packed more
tightly than any living human could tolerate.

“Rescue? How can they get us out of a burning building
in the middle of a horde? How is that possible?” Ruth Ann said.

There was no need to speak in hushed tones in
face of the din thundering from upstairs.

“Now that the fuel cell system isn’t drawing
them to us anymore the crowd here at the house should go down,” I said
hopefully.

Indeed, I could see daylight more often in the
cameras that were still operational. The crush of bodies climbing over
themselves to get to us was thinning out.

The pounding on the basement door continued
mercilessly as did the groaning of the ceiling above us. The dead howled and
roared. We could hear the hum of the fire.

“We have to stop the smoke from coming down
here,” Barry said.

“But we can’t seal up the vents completely, we
need air,” Bill added. “The vent over there is furthest from the fire. Do you
have more cloth to cover the rest?”

“Yeah, Barry, help me get down some sheets and
soak them in the sink,” Ruth Ann rose.

While they did that, I told Bill about one more
way we could die.

“You know the door area isn’t their only way in.
If the fire penetrates the first floor anywhere, we’ll be a soft chewy snack.”

“I know. Nothing we can do about it.”

Barry and Ruth Ann returned with the white
soaked sheets, hammer, and nails. They went to each of the vents closest to the
fire and covered them.

Orderly stood watch at the bottom of the
basement stairs.

We waited.

Ruth Ann kept the sheets covering the vents wet.
They sagged and got darker by the minute.

It was getting hard to breath.

The cameras were clear of writhing bodies now,
though covered with dirt, pus and who knows what else. We were still in the
middle of a horde but its members were now slowly milling past us rather than
over us.

The noise from the zombies inside the house
lessened. Maybe the fire that would soon suffocate us or open a hole in the
landing or first floor for the horde to pour in, was consuming them. We did not
know.