Zombie Invasion

  * * *

  Mankind stood upon a precipice. From the ocean, aboard the USS Bohman, President Reilly studied graphs, figures, and reports. It took some time to reach his conclusion and choose his response. For the most part, he wondered how history would treat his legacy and spent more than half his precious time on that one aspect. Then, he righted himself and gave the attack order.

  A group of fighter jets took off from an aircraft carrier en route to Mount Mitchell and the surrounding forest. An onlooker might assume blasting them to hell was in order. That was not the order given. They laid down fire from rotary weapons, cutting a path in the dense forest. After the jets, came a group of helicopters loaded with elite soldiers. They parachuted into the area the jets cleared out for them.

  Heavily armed soldiers touched down and removed their parachutes. They gathered together before marching as a unit into the heart of the zombie infestation. Their leader, Captain Ross, steered them to a place to use as cover—trees and a lone building. He peered from around the small red shack, a latrine. From there, he looked out and saw the zombies cradling their meals, feasting on bent knee. The most god-awful noises traveled to all ears. Fear gripped Ross as he saw his elite force recoil in horror. It was hard to believe—war veterans covered their ears as if first year cadets.

  Captain Ross took it all in. He steeled himself. The men would look to him to lead. “It seems someone threw a party and didn’t invite us. What do we do about their audacity?” he thundered.

  The haze lifted, the group stood taller.

  “What do we do when the inferior slaps us in the face?” asked Ross.

  “Slap back, sir!” they bellowed.

  “How hard?”

  “Twice as hard, sir!”

  “Three times!”

  “Three times, sir!”

  “Nobody throws a party without inviting me! And party in my backyard to boot! Remove this filth from my sight!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Go, go, go, go!”

  The soldiers ran from the side of the shack and from the trees, screaming. They moved to an area just ahead of the horde and opened fire, each screaming and firing their weapon. The zombies were riddled with bullet holes and danced upon the cool ground as if at a block party.

  “Hold! Hold!” barked Ross.

  When the smoke cleared, all zombies were flat on the ground next to bits of mutilated flesh. The soldiers turned to one another, nodding their heads with grins all around. Captain Ross turned on the radio unit on his outer vest. “Strike Team One to Whiskey Bravo, come in Whiskey Bravo. Strike Team One to Whiskey Bravo, come in Whiskey Bravo.”

  Ross and his men listened to momentary static that gave way to a voice. “Whiskey Bravo. Report Strike Team One.”

  “Enemy down. All hostiles terminated, awaiting further orders, Bravo.”

  “Hold, Strike Team One.”

  “Men, I commend you on your bravery and service to this fine country,” said an authoritative voice over the radio. Ross rolled his eyes. President Reilly would take every opportunity to inject himself into military matters with no training or knowledge of what they do. Arrogant, son of a bitch.

  Without warning or preamble, a soldier to Ross’ right screamed. When Ross looked, he saw the man’s body moving quickly, flying backward toward trees. Before he could react, another performed the same maneuver. He reached for his weapon and heard another scream. Ross whirled and fired blindly. It was one of the dead zombies he thought he terminated. He fired into the beast’s chest. The red eyes closed as it went down, then they opened again. The monster leaped in the air to the trees above. Captain Ross fired as it swung from tree to tree. Remembering his men, he barked, “Fire! Fire!”

  Some knew what to do while others were dumbstruck. Zombies were in front of them and in the trees above. Tree zombies dropped down on the firing men, mouths open and ready. Soldiers fired and knocked them to the hard ground. They were dead for all of a second before rising again. A small group prepared to shoot them again. Others shot the ground zombies in the chest. They stumbled back, then stopped to assess.

  Zombie Captain took charge by pointing at the food before him. “Charge,” was his metallic command. As a unit, they advanced.

  “Heads! Heads! Heads! Fire at their heads!” shouted Captain Ross.

  Ross took out the zombie about to grasp him with a head shot. Green goo splattered him. He aimed at the next and fired, all the while being incensed by the stench of the filth on his face. He let out a loud battle cry and fired continuously to save himself and his men.

  Finally, they had proved themselves worthy. By his count, Ross and his men had killed half the creatures. Ross looked about with disappointment. He took a moment to catch his breath, listening to the frantic voices coming from his radio. “Bravo, come in Whiskey Bravo.”

  “Whiskey Bravo, Capta—”

  “Listen goddamn you!” he shouted to cut off Reilly’s drivel. “We just got our elite asses handed to us on a platter. I have two men left. A ground campaign will not succeed. I repeat. A ground campaign will not succeed. Code 87, Zeta 5. Repeat, Code 87, Zeta 5. Come back, Whiskey Bravo!”

  “Understood,” came an unfamiliar voice, “Code 87, Zeta 5 confirmed in ten. Repeat. Confirmed in ten.”

  Captain Ross looked at his remaining soldiers. They made unwavering eye contact. He nodded. “Strike Team One, confirm ten,” his voice loud but bland, “ground away.” Ross turned off the receiver. He pointed to the path opposite the zombies took. He nodded to each and in silence, they ran in that direction.

  A vast armada lies in the Atlantic Ocean off the coast of North Carolina. The aircraft carrier that previously launched fighter jets was lively with sailors scurrying around like ants. It was joined by another on the far end of the fleet. Together, they launched fighter jets on a mission to end what could not be ended by ground forces. Twice in their history, the order had been given, but never has it been executed.

  Jets flew on their steady course toward the mountain to carry out their mission. Near the target, they spread apart and all dived toward the mountain’s base. Once over their target, each dropped their payload and made their sweeping turn to return to base. When the bombs landed, their explosive power rocked the earth’s surface and produced magnificent plumes thousands of feet in the air. Seconds later, the rest of the fleet came to life.

  Massive warships with anchored cannon weapons sprang to life. Huge guns rocked back and forth with explosive force as they launched heavy shells into the air. Mount Mitchell was in flames and to keep anything from escaping the area required an overkill approach, such was the nature of General Order 5—known as Code 87, Zeta 5 (Scorched Earth).

  The air held the sounds of war. Huge ships could be seen slightly rocking after each delivery. Sailors scurried around the monster cannons with earmuffs, though they would not be enough protection from the generated noise. If their mission was successful, permanent ear damage would be a blessing compared to the alternative.

  Finally, all ships went silent. Soldiers stood on the decks of the ships gazing at the distant mountain. An entire forest had been set ablaze in the hopes of ridding the world of unimaginable horror. Aboard the USS Bohman, President Reilly stood, looking out at what he had done. He only wanted to discredit terrorists and make himself the hero; both were lost to him now.

  As a team of reporters clamored around Reilly throwing out a salvo of questions, he ignored them all, looking toward the devastation. Many reporters delivered live editions of their broadcasts. Reilly began to hate he had invited them in the first place. Now, what could he do? What cover story would be plausible at this late stage? Fanmer, he needed Fanmer. Though he was a fool and a thorn, the scum always proved useful. Reilly stepped away from the railing to go onto the bridge of the ship.

  “Sir,” said the chopper pilot he diverted. “Did you get them all, sir?”

  Reilly wanted nothing to do with the man. Even now, the man shook like the coward he was.
What has come of the military, allowing cowards in its ranks? Another problem to add to his plate. “Don’t worry son, we got them all.”

  “I saw them, sir. If you didn’t get them all . . .”

  “Relax son.” He gripped the young man by his shoulders. If only he could choke the life out of him and be done with it. He smiled, reassuringly. “In the morning, this will be nothing but a bad dream.”

  Reilly patted the man on the head as if he were a good little dog. He gave a wave as he walked toward the Captain’s quarters. His mind was ablaze with scenarios. He hadn’t given up on finding the perfect patsy to pin this fiasco on. He mulled over his choices as he made it to the Captain’s quarters and entered without as much as a knock. “Ferris?”

  “In here, sir.”

  The voice came from a room at the far end. President Reilly walked with indignation. So many people had such a hard time with respect, another thing to add to his growing plate. He entered the room with a smile for all. “Gentlemen, ladies,” he said.

  Captain Ferris displayed a small amount of respect by motioning him to the head of the table. Reilly waddled around to the big chair and plopped his sturdy frame inside the restricted space. “What do we know?”

  “We can send teams to the edges to check for survivors, but we won’t make it to the center until tomorrow evening,” said Ferris.

  “Tomorrow evening?”

  “If that,” responded Ferris.

  “Keep me informed.” Reilly pulled himself from the chair. There was no need to stay with this lot and hear their chatter. “I have another pressing problem to attend to.”

  Reilly left the room and went down a flight of stairs at the end of the hallway. Winded from the walk, he barely had strength to tap on the door.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s me, Jack.”

  If Jack Duncan had been quicker, he would have seen Reilly’s eyes roll to the back of his head. Instead, he opened the door to face an awkwardly smiling President Jason Reilly. “Sir?”

  “I haven’t been able to get a message to Katherine and was wondering if you are Kim had, by chance.”

  Reilly’s thin lips held their unfamiliar positions with great effort. As Jack Duncan glanced downward, they gave up and the smile vanished.

  “Come in.” He stepped to the side to give the President room and then shut the door.

  Reilly knew something was wrong. Duncan was not a friend and as far as enemies go, he wasn’t that either. Something was off, troubling the man. Reilly watched the way he clumsily rubbed his hands raw, not looking him in the eye like a man. His thin lips turned upward. “Is there a problem I can help you with?” he gave his sincerest face.

  “I’m not too sure.” Duncan kept his eyes to the floor, not able to keep still.

  “Where is Kim?” asked Reilly.

  “In there,” said Duncan, pointing to the small door to their left.

  Reilly took the lead. Indecisive people make his blood boil. He wrenched open the door to show his displeasure. Inside, Kim lie in a small bed covered by a blanket. Reilly’s heart nearly stopped. It is not often he was unprepared. “Is she . . . ?” he couldn’t get the words out.

  “No, god no! She’s resting.”

  “Thank god for that.” Relieved, Reilly walked to her. He bent and lifted the edge of the sheet. As he did, the sheet flew up and he heard a loud growl. President Reilly fell backward against a wall. What force had done that? It wasn’t a fall, he was pushed, thrown. The back of his head hit the wall. Between the ringing in his ears and the growl, no other senses worked. Then, he smelled something foul. It was in his nostrils. There would be no time to interpret it. Half a second later, he felt searing pain, then the feel of an open wound. As his eyes began to work and focus, he saw it. Kim.

  A stream of foulness came from her stained mouth as she brought her face in for the kill. Her mouth was wide as he looked down the gullet of where he would soon be. Zombie Kim’s mouth clamped around his head with a crunching sound, then pulled back, taking a pound of flesh and an eyeball with it. President Reilly released a horrific scream then sunk to the floor.

  Sudden fright hits us all, Duncan was no exception. He shook it off and ran for the door. Zombie Kim caught him and ripped out his throat from the back. They were not the loving couple they portrayed to the public and quietly contemplated divorce. There would be no need; she had found the best divorce remedy.

  As for Reilly, he and his girth would be spared to become the nation’s first Zombie President.

  Zombie Kim loss interest in his plumpness and leisurely sat and finished every scrap of her husband. Soon, she and others would make a meal of half the crew. And then they would launch themselves at the entire fleet, then the world.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Army Life