“Alright vacation is over. Pack up and let’s get the hell out of here.” The sergeant yelled. His command was obeyed before it was finished being given.
During the drive to Carol’s, Brendon fluctuated between peculiar calmness, flushed sweating and searing pain. ‘This must be what menopause feels like.’ He mused.
Brendon’s truck shook as heavy armament was expended by the troop transport in front of him. Four zombies were reduced to ribbons of flesh on the side of the road. Brendon had a momentary pang of compassion for them and then quickly tore asunder the stray thought. He couldn’t help but wonder if that was to be his fate.
Three hours later they were in the center of Carol’s home town, if you can call a gas station, Post Office and a Piggly Wiggly grocery store a town center. From here Brendon’s recollection of exactly where Carol’s farmstead was became increasingly foggy. This would have been an issue if not for the near continuous line of zombies that cut across the town in a northeasterly route. A few zombies turned to appraise the new ‘eats’ but none strayed from their vector.
The sergeant halted the caravan and walked over to Brendon who had also exited his truck. “What are the odds they’re going to where we need to be?” The sergeant asked appraising Brendon. “You don’t look so good.”
“Nerves.”
“Oh that’s right, you have some pride swallowing to take care of.”
‘I hope I get the chance,’ he thought. He, however, answered the sergeant with a mere nod.
“Is there something I need to know here son? I’ve never seen zombies act like this. They look driven. The fact that they aren’t paying us any attention at all has me flummoxed.”
“Would you rather they were?” Brendon asked impatiently wanting this conversation to be over. The sand granules that measured his time remaining were running dangerously close to single digits in the hourglass of his life.
“Now that’s not really the point, is it? Something is not adding up, not at all, when this is all over you and I are going to have a long talk.”
‘Doubt it.’ Brendon thought. Brendon thanked God that Marines are more men of action than thought. The sergeant strode away, got back into the troop transport and took a right turn no more than 15 feet in front of the traveling zombies. It was another three miles before a left turn presented itself. Because of the zombies angling away, they had been lost from the line of sight for a few minutes. Another mile in a northerly route and the stain of them once again became visible.
It was another right and then left before the sergeant once again pulled over to a stop. The zombies' final destination was now clearly in view even though it lay a full mile away.
Henderson checked his ammo on the turret of the troop transport. Ramirez opened up the hatch on the hummer, readying his weapon also. “We can’t be going in there Sarge?” Ramirez asked bewildered at the sheer number of undead that surrounded the house. “We’re going in there.” He answered himself impassively. “I hate it sometimes when I’m right.”
“You done jawing over there Ramirez?” The sergeant asked him.
Ramirez rattled off a string of what can only be construed as eloquent foreign cuss words.
“That doesn’t look like a Country Buffet on kids eat free Wednesdays son. Any chance you could be a little more forth coming on any information?”
“I really wish I knew.” Brendon had no sooner finished the sentence and he bent over from crippling cramps. His stomach muscles nearly ripped under the strain.
“Murphy!” The sergeant yelled in alarm.
“Fine, I’m fine.” Brendon whistled through his teeth. Placing his hand on the sergeant’s arm to stop him from summoning help.
It was then the sergeant noted the bandage. “What’s this?” He asked suspiciously. “You didn’t have this yesterday.” The sergeant stepped back, fingering his holster.
Murphy rushed up and quickly accessed the situation that was quickly turning from bad to worse. Murphy had seen enough victims turn to zombies to realize that Brendon was close to joining the ranks of the enemy. His skin was taking on a gray pallor. Severe stomach cramping would immediately be followed by whole body spasms and then death. The body's last gasp so to speak.
Brendon was able to get himself under control and stand without a noticeable stoop. “I’m fine.” He slurred. “Let’s go.” Claws of stinging stitches tore out from his stomach and spread throughout his body. It took every fiber of his being to stand and endure under the scrutinous stare of the sergeant. Murphy placed himself between the sergeant and Brendon. Somewhat to hide the pain the kid was going through but mostly to keep the sergeant from just outright shooting him. “We’ve got to go now.” Brendon whispered. The strain of the words clearly evident.
“I think it’s rabies.” Murphy told the sergeant. “The sooner we can get him back to base the sooner I can get him treatment,” although that was a lie. Once symptoms of rabies showed, treating it was far too late. Murphy could only hope that the sergeant didn’t know this.
The sergeant thankfully stopped touching the hilt of his gun. “You stay here kid, we’ll get your future in-laws and then we’ll get you all back to Custer.”
“I’m going.” Brendon said defiantly.
“Don’t push it.” Murphy whispered.
“This is it for me Murph, I just want one more chance to see her.”
“Sarge, I can give him a heavy dose of antibiotics right now, it will get him through the next few hours.” Also a lie.
“Have it your way kid.” The sergeant got back in the transport and strapped himself in.
Murphy proceeded to give Brendon a mild sedative. “This will help a little with the cramping.”
“Thank you for everything Murphy. I’ll put a good word in for you when I get to where I’m going.”
“I’d appreciate that.” Murphy replied, and that was not a lie.
“What’s the plan?” Henderson asked leaning down from his gunner’s position.
“Guns blazing, I suppose.” The sergeant answered.
‘I was hoping for something a little more concrete.’ Henderson mumbled to himself once again checking that his weapon was fully ready to fire.
Murphy got into the passenger seat.
“Rabies my ass, Murphy. That kid’s dying." The sergeant said. "We all watched what happened to Greenfield after he was bit.”
“I know Sarge, he just wants to see his girl one more time.”
“Well let’s not disappoint him.”
Henderson cussed as his head smacked against the machine gun's breech due to the unprepared for acceleration.
“The house is on fire!” Henderson yelled down.
“Do you think I’m driving blind.” The sergeant replied. “You’d better start cutting us a path or this is gonna be a bumpy ride.”
The Browning M2 .50 Caliber roared to life as it dealt ever-lasting death. The full-throated scream of the bullets as they emerged from the barrel brought a certain sense of satisfaction to the Sergeant as he slammed the troop transport into the outskirts of the zombies.
“Fucking gomers.” He said grimly.
Murphy had grabbed every available handhold as the transport lurched from side to side under the assault, his ears almost bleeding from the noise of the small cannon above him. “Should have joined the Air Force.” He said, not for the first time nor the last.
Various pieces of zombie appendages slammed against the reinforced battle windshield. “Hope you topped off the windshield wiper fluid.” The sergeant needled a green tinged Murphy.
Time had slowed for Murphy. He watched a piece of hot brass as it lazily floated down and stuck to an eyeball of a middle aged zombie woman. The contact of the hot metal made her eye explode sending viscous fluid shooting out dislodging the offending ejecta. Murphy could not figure out how the sergeant even knew where he was going. Gore and blood covered every available port. It was like they were traveling within the innards of some giant beast of mythical proportions.