Beyond the Barriers (Novella): Ghouls (13 page)

“Oh fuck-knuckle!” I swore, falling back and drawing my M45A1 as I went. I drew a bead, fired, and missed the head zombie—a guy dressed in a sanitation outfit. It was on me before I could scream for help and, just like that, I was fighting for my life.

I slammed it to the side, my forearm working like a hammer, but it just kept on coming. A shot rang out and I swore again. One thing we tried to avoid at all cost was the sound of gunfire near our home base. We’d already broken that rule twice in the last fifteen seconds.

Another shot and one of the Z’s dropped. I punched my attacker again. His head cocked to the side, but then he snarled and I got a look at broken teeth. There wasn’t time to make a smart-ass quip. I tried to avoid a bite but screamed in horror as his mouth closed on my arm.

Thank god for my jumpsuit. It was hot as hell but the zombie’s mouth closed on fabric, and when he tore, he got a piece of that instead of my skin. I pushed him away, raised my Colt .45 and blew off the back of his head.

A shuffler took notice and was in the air before I could take aim. I emptied the magazine but didn’t have a chance to reach for a fresh one because the shuffler came in with flailing arms and a screaming mouth. I kicked his legs out from under him and shrugged out of my backpacks so I could maneuver. When the shuffler hit the ground, I ducked away from his wild grasping, got behind him, and kicked him in the ass.

He went down but was back on his feet in a heartbeat.

I reached down and grabbed my wrench. When he leapt at me again, his mouth a snarling howl of hate, I swung the wrench around and caught his jaw, ripping it loose.

But that was the problem with shufflers. They were so psychotic that even a massive amount of damage couldn’t put them down. Headshot or enough damage to squish the brain had to be applied.

Joel’s AR jammed. He dropped it and drew the pistol his friend had used to kill himself, then moved on the last couple of Z’s. He put one down and fired a few more times until the gun was dry.

The shuffler, minus a jaw and part of his face, was on me again. I stepped on the body of the sanitation worker I’d shot and went down on my ass. The shuffler, arms still flailing, hit me hard enough to knock the breath out of my body for the second time.

I got a foot up and caught him in the chest as he bent down for me. Joel barreled into the shuffler, allowing me to roll to the side. I came up slowly because my body was all beat to hell. Another Z was on Joel, so he drew his Ontario 498 combat knife and slashed the creature across the gut, spilling intestines in a wet pile of gore. He reversed his grip and drove the blade into the dead woman’s head.

He faded back as the shuffler looked between us.

He must have made up his mind because he went for Joel, the remnants of his mouth producing gurgles in place of a howl of fury.

I grabbed the wrench and closed in on the shuffler. Joel saw me coming and pushed the psychotic Z back. I hefted my weapon and let him have it, crushing his skull like it was a soft egg. The corpse dropped to the ground; Joel nodded at me and then the wrench with a half grin.

We dragged the corpses away from Fortress, retrieved the ladder, and scurried up as soon as we were sure no one was watching. Inside, we unpacked our treasure. I was not a happy camper to learn that a couple of our beer cans had exploded in one of my falls. At least we survived another expedition and came back with food and a new weapon.

“Sorry about your friend,” I said.

Joel nodded. “Thanks, man. We saw some action in Iraq. He always had my back and I had his. Like you and me.”

“Are you going to look that sad when it’s my turn to bite it?”

“Depends on if I have to put you down myself, motherfucker.” He grinned.

I grinned back and we toasted the day with warm PBRs.

“Oh yeah, what was in the paper bag?”

I dug out the bag I’d pulled from under the front seat of the old Ford pickup and looked inside.

“Shit yeah,” I said, and pulled out an ounce of weed with a California medical dispensary logo on the bag.

“Stay sharp and don’t smoke that shit. You white boys get all sad-eyed when you’re high.”

“Only on special occasions. Besides, I bet we can trade it if we run into other survivors.”

“Good call. I’m gonna go use a few baby wipes to take a bath.” Joel rose to his feet and headed toward his room. “Good work out there, Creed. And thanks for saving my ass.”

Joel nodded again and left.

I sat back and drained my beer, then eyed the weed. Special occasion, eh? How about still being alive.

N
othing to do
except hang out and try not to kill each other. We’re flush with supplies for a day or two but no reason to start stroking each other’s egos after yesterday's mess. Frankly, I’m surprised we’re still alive. And with all of these supplies I’m really missing Tylenol. My body feels like I worked out until I puked.

So the day we boarded up the place, Joel had the bright idea to fill the tubs with water. We drank until our eyeballs were floating and then we drank some more. Joel kept telling me what it would be like in a week when the water stopped running and he was right. Now the water tastes foul and I’m worried about mosquitoes.  I run a vegetable strainer over the surface every few hours. Tomorrow I’ll use cheesecloth but that won’t kill parasites. So do we burn through the few remaining Sterno cans boiling water or just put up with a bad case of the shits?

Joel said we can treat the water with a little bleach but I'll be damned if I can find a bottle in the house. I guess we'll have to find some on our next run.

Supplies:

• 1 pound of Jasmine rice
  
• ¼ pound of dried beans
  
• 1 ½ pounds of tofu-jerky
  
• 7 cans of tuna
  
• 2 cans of cat food - where the hell is Butch?
  
• 6 boxes of pasta
  
• 1 beautiful jar of spaghetti sauce
  
• 5 cans of various veggies
  
• 2 cans of mixed
  
• 1 case of canned spinach
  

* * *

“
W
hen you gonna
talk about how we met?” Joel pointed at my logbook. I had the pen ready to start recounting our day – and that was going to be boring.

Day X: Sat on ass. Stared at empty beer bottles. Pissed in a bucket.

“Like the day you bought me flowers and a drink?” I looked across the Sterno flame and batted my eyelashes at Joel. “Fucking Marines. Always trying to get into a lady’s panties.”

We had a can of water boiling up some rice so we could put it aside and let the grain set. It was the quickest way to accomplish two tasks. Boil water and have a little food in an hour. I'd probably toss in some tofu jerky just to add to the blandness.

Fortress was hot. It might be October out there, but this house hadn't had a breath of fresh air in days. No fans, no central air. That meant we sat in a room and fanned ourselves with a collection of Playboys I'd found stashed under a kid's bed.

“Yours were pretty fucking frigid,” Joel chuckled, “and it took a whole bottle, but just like a Navy puke, you put out on the first date.”

I stifled laughter.

“Too bad you couldn't get it up. You know they make little blue pills for that?”

Joel had his assault rifle stripped and was quizzing me on parts while rubbing them down with motor oil. His towel had been white a few days ago. Now it looked as grimy as gopher guts.

“Marines are giant blue pills. Just being in the Corps gets me hard,” he said. “That’s what my old Drill Sergeant used to say just before he quarter-decked the shit out of us.”

“Drill Sergeants are like that. Dicks.”

“He was just doin' his job. Gunny made me the man I am today.”

“Hooah!” I said.

“They only say that in movies,” Joel retorted.

“Imagine I’m Brad Pitt when I say it.”

Joel held out a long piece of metal that looked like a tube. “What’s this called?”

“The bolt thing.”

He sighed and tossed it to me. “It’s not called ‘the bolt thing,’ it’s called a bolt carrier assembly and even Brad Pitt would know, because I bet he pays more attention than you whether he’s stripping a gun or that hot wife of his. Now take this part.” Joel gave me the charging handle, something I actually remembered the name of. I took the pieces and slid the handle into the bolt carrier assembly, locking it in place before giving it back.

“There.”

“You ain’t as useless as I thought.”

“Guess not.”

“Too fucking hot for this. Go write about the ship,” Joel grumbled.

I’d avoided writing that chapter for a lot of reasons, but after the last few days of scrambling for survival I knew it was time to get it out of my system. If I waited much longer I was going to start forgetting important facts.

“Not yet. Man, I really want to say it.”

“Don’t. We made it and I don’t need thanks. We wouldn’t be here if we weren’t a team, even if you are a stupid fucking hole snipe.”

“Words hurt, Joel. Words hurt.” I leaned over my friend. Even seated I towered over him, but he didn't back down.

“Why all that writing anyway? Never heard of a hole snipe fond of jotting things down besides readings.”

“I always wanted to be a writer. Sue me.”

“What-the-fuck-ever. Just do it. Write about the boat; we ain’t getting any younger and we might be dead and eaten tomorrow.”

“Ship, it’s called a ship. A boat has oars - and what a morbid fuck you are today!”

“Like I said. What-the-fuck-ever. Just write it.”

So I did.

* * *

I
had
the worst fucking hangover of my life the day the world went to shit. I lay in my bunk, hand over my eyes, and dreaded going on watch. My head pounded and my mouth felt like someone shit in it. We ain’t supposed to drink at sea but I’m a classic Navy alcoholic and I keep a stash of booze you wouldn’t believe. Last night I dumped a third of a 2-liter Pepsi down the drain and topped it off with some Thai whiskey I picked up in Pattaya Beach.

That was only two hours ago. I barely got enough sleep as it was. Emergency flight ops had blown me out of my bunk, and that shit went on until dawn.

There were rumors that something big was happening back at base, and that’s why we were recalled. Then flight ops had started and never ended. Helos arrived and departed every fifteen minutes – that should have been my first clue that something was really wrong.

I had about fifteen minutes to shit, shower, and shave. Smitty got to be an angry little bitch when I was late even though he’d never been on time for watch a day in his life.

Then the alarm sounded and I thought my head was literally going to explode.

“General quarters, general quarters, all hands man your battlesta...”

The first line wasn’t even finished, unless you counted the screaming. I sprang up and jumped out of my top bunk. Why a top bunk after this many years in the Navy? Because I fucking like it, that’s why.

I stared up at the speakers and wondered whose idea of a joke that had been.

“The fuck was that shit?” Feely asked.

He wore a pair of South Park boxers and socks that smelled like death. Feely had a weird OCD thing with socks and only changed them once a week. One time I bought him a bag of socks at the ship commissary and left them on his bunk. Gratis. He tossed them in the trash.

I dug out a pair of dark blue overalls and gave them the sniff test. Yeah, they’d get me through one more day. They weren’t as bad as Feely’s socks. Those fuckers were probably going to get up and walk around on their own.

Wanglund fell out of his bunk and looked ready to punch anyone that got in his way. His mustache was turning into a biker’s handlebar, but with shore in sight today he’d be shaving it. CHENG might put up with that shit on deployment but not when we were headed for port. The thing about Wanglund was that he was bigger than me and I’m a big dude. He was a boiler tech and looked like a gorilla, with hairy arms and enough fur on his back to let him fill in for the next Planet of the Apes movie.

Wanglund also owed me a hundred bucks from our last game of spades. I’d mention it later when it wasn’t so early in the morning and he didn’t look like punching someone.

* * *

I
trudged
toward the engine room, already dreading the heat and noise. The ship hummed around me. That’s the kind of environment you live in when you are stationed on a Naval vessel. It’s never quiet, not ever. From the grind of machinery to the sound of forced air in nearly every compartment, all you get is noise. Then there are the smells: the oil, the fuel, the cleaning chemicals. It’s an assault when you first board ship, but then you get back on land and suddenly you forget how to walk straight because the ground is no longer rocking and rolling under your feet.

I moved along the same bulkheads I’d passed every day for the last twelve months. Boring, white, yellow emergency lights in every corner. I didn’t see any other crewmen and that was weird. Maybe everyone was up early for mess. Was there an inspection I’d forgotten about?

Earplugs inserted, I descended a pair of ladders and stopped for a cup of shitty coffee before heading to main control. The whine of the turbines would be deafening without earplugs. As it was, the tone was slightly less annoying that having a tooth drilled. The engine was insulated and taller than a greyhound bus. I glanced at a couple of dials. Everything nominal.

The Chief Engineer was sitting at the console while newly-minted Chief Harmikle stood watch over the room. I was surprised he didn't have his nose up CHENG's ass. I tossed him a quick salute but he didn’t bother responding. Petty Officer Mahan had the helm. He was spinning the giant steam valve to slow the ship. It looked like we’d just come down from Flank 1.

“How long we been at Flank?” I asked him.

“Too long if you ask me. Some crazy stuff is going on back home, man. You’re my relief, right?”

“Nah, I got Smitty.”

“Damn, he’s ill too. They took him to sick bay an hour ago.”

“What happened?”

“No clue, man. I’ve been stuck here all damn night.”

“Say again?” CHENG barked into the phone. Then he banged it on the desk a few times. “Say again! Don’t make me come the fuck up there!”

“S’going on?” I asked Chief Harmikle.

“Some fucking bullshit on the bridge. Sent Keen up to take a look."

“Does he even know where the bridge is, Sir?” Keen was so new he hadn't washed the creases out of his BDU's.

“Doubt it.” The Chief Engineer said, hanging up the phone and hitting me with that “officer look” that's supposed to intimidate. I towered over him by a good seven inches and had arms the size of his neck, but somehow he always made me feel like he could take me in a fight. Maybe because he never wilted or looked away from one of my "pissed off" looks that sent other guys scurrying.

“You go look for Keen, Creed,” he ordered.

I almost smiled. Just a few minutes on watch and I was already on my first errand. Looked like some coffee in mess would be my first stop.

“And Creed, don’t get lost up there.”

I nodded, took my pounding head out of main, and started back the way I’d come. Well, fuck me six ways from Sunday. This watch was off to a shitty start, but at least I was out of the hot engine room.

I headed starboard hoping I’d run into Keen’s skinny ass. Instead, I ran into a riot.

Something was happening, something big. The passageways on a ship are already small and when a bunch of screaming guys are occupying the one ahead of you it’s not like you can find a way around. I’d have to walk back until I could cut across the center of the ship.