Good day folks! As promised, here is the first chapter of my upcoming zombie apocalypse thriller – Oscar Mike. As I also promised, those people who participated in this summer’s Zombie Hunter Challenge will now have the honor of seeing their characters featured in this story. So Rami, Rhys, and Khaalidah, pay special attention because your signature creations appear below for the first time ever! Enjoy!
“The king who is situated anywhere immediately on the circumference of the conqueror’s territory is termed the enemy. The king who is likewise situated close to the enemy, but separated from the conqueror only by the enemy, is termed the friend.”
-Kautilya, Arthasastra: Book IV
The sun was finally beginning to set, which made the going somewhat easier. Though after the many hours spent dealing with the pounding heat and their full gear, no token amounts of mercy seemed likely to make the ascent any easier. After days of plodding their way through the bush, exhaustion had become a constant companion and pain a recurring feature.
Marcel swallowed another dry breath, forcing the lump in his throat down and trying hard not to think about his empty canteen. Stocks of fresh water had dried up some time ago, and their iodine pills were exhausted as well. So in addition to making it to a safe place, finding another viable source of water became the subject of the latest day’s march.
Up ahead, Dixon raised his fist and called for the all stop. As the only NCO remaining in their crew, he had taken charge of their group several days back. That responsibility had originally fallen to Sergeant Morelli, now dead from a sniper’s bullet. Before him, it had been Lieutenant Washburn, who had died weeks ago when the bombs were still falling and they were engaged in the enemy town. Those days seemed like ancient history now, the names and faces of those they had left behind like some vague and distant memory.
It was an odd reality that the more distance they put between themselves and that terrible firefight, the thinner their group became. But as they had finally managed to get out of range of the enemy’s mortar, rocket and rifle fire, they found that the surrounding countryside was just as hostile to their presence. Snakes, dehydration, and even clever little traps were their enemies now. And they had been proving just as deadly as the enemy’s munitions.
“Psst, Dix, what’s going on?” whispered Jackson. As the squad’s only PFC, the impromptu duty of acting like Dixon’s second now fell to him. For several seconds, Dixon kept his arm raised and was simply looking around, his eyes looking to every gap in the bush ahead of them.
“Dixon, what’s up?”
“Shh!” he ordered. His head continued to dart back and forth. Marcel quickly guessed that after days of losing men to punji spikes and improvised bear traps, he was afraid to step into any open space where a man might be able to tread. Such places were the most likely spot for such traps, they knew. Whoever had covered this section of the hill with them was clearly not hunting for wild game…
Looking Jackson waved to the squad to take a knee and Marcel and the others obliged. It felt good to get the weight off his knees, and he reached down to massage the right one while they waited. The aching was getting worse and he could feel his calf muscle tensed to the point of feeling rock hard. Dehydration was no doubt a factor, and he tried not to think about that too much. Knowing that his muscles would all be turning to stone soon and seizing up on him was not something he cared to contemplate right now.
Up ahead, Dixon turned around and came to Jackson’s side. Marcel couldn’t hear them, but it sounded like some strained words were passing between them. Eventually, Dixon went on ahead, leaving the rest of them kneeling and waiting. Jackson took a knee too and looked over his shoulder.
“Corporal’s going on up to scope things out. Think’s there might be a clearing ahead, maybe a creek or something.”
Marcel grumbled quietly. He was not alone in thinking that Jackson was toying with them. For days now, they could tell that the incline was getting steeper. If they were permitted to pop their heads out from the canopy of trees, they would no doubt see that they were firmly on the side of the mountain by now. But knowing that the enemy had eyes in the sky and bands of roaming snipers, they dared not.
Still, the legs didn’t lie when they began to note that each step was working a different set of muscles – sore quads giving way to hamstrings that were dying for relief. And as such, the likelihood of finding a creek at this point wasn’t getting any better. If few were seen below, less were likely to be found from this point onward. Odds were, they would be reach the dry peaks of the mountain before they ever found a stream.
Within seconds, Dixon was no longer visible, his body disappearing through a fold of bush and the only evidence of his existence being the sound of his boots crunching against the forest floor. And in time, even those stopped.
“Corporal?
Marcel heard Jackson whispering the name into the woods and reached for his gun. He looked back at the other members of their squad and saw them taking notice too. Some began to get to their feet, weapons in hand.
“Corporal? Dix?”
Marcel put the butt of his weapon to the ground and slowly rolled his weight onto his right foot. His knee and calf protested through the entire exercise, but he managed to get into a crouching position all the same. The stock of his gun trembled in his hand as soon he rested it there, though he couldn’t tell if it was the result of exhaustion or fear.
They had heard nothing, no sounds of metal teeth closing suddenly, and so shouts; no telltale signs at all that Dixon had fallen into some kind of trap. Which only left two possibilities: either he had reconnoitered too far, or whatever had gotten him was so quiet as to elude detection.
His weapon trembled more. This time it was definitely fear working its terrible magic on him. Jackson looked back at them and motioned with his head to move up. Marcel took a deep breath and began to crawl forward, the other members of their squad following. He could feel his heart beginning to pound, the terrible icy tentacles climbing up his back. And in the back of his mind, a voice protesting fervently.
Not again… please, no more of this shit…
He kept his eyes focused on the treeline ahead, the spot in the brush where Dixon had disappeared. Jackson paused on the point of entry, looked back to make sure the others were still behind him, then stepped through. Marcell was next, and were it not for the three more men waiting on him, he might not have stepped. But his feet reluctantly obliged, his rifle muzzle piercing the wall of leaves and branches first, followed shortly thereafter by the rest of him. He looked back and watched as the bodies of Thompson, LaFleur, and Cisco passed through behind him, and then turned to look on ahead.
Everything went dark for a second. Slowly, his eyes resolved to the lower light and he saw Jackson standing before him, and then Dixon a few feet beyond the two of them and kneeling down. That’s when he saw what he was standing in front of, and the weirdly elated expression on his face.
“Shit… shit… shit,” said Dixon, his voice low and breathless. Laid before him, its stomach splayed open and guts strewn about, was a fresh-killed quail. It looked to be a particularly plump one, and the blood and entrails looks fresh.
“Is that what I think it is?” said Thompson.
“You mean a fucking meal?” said LaFleur. “Yeah, I think so.”
Jackson didn’t appear to hear them and was focused on Dixon, who began digging into his belt to find his knife. Once freed, he began poking around the carcass to separate the entrails from the main body.
“Corporal? What are you doing?” he said.
Dixon looked up, his eyes distant and flooding with relief. “Fresh meat…” he breathed. “How longs it been since we had some real goddamn meat?”
“Dix, are you sure?” said Jackson.
“Fuck it, it’s food isn’t it? We cut it up, cook it over a fire, best supp we’ve had in weeks.”
Jackson was about to object, but the others were already pressing forward hoping to lend a hand. Thompson was the first to join Dixon, offering his grenade satchel as a means for storage.
“Shit, is it fresh?”
“Smells like it,” said Dixon, cutting off one leg and then a wing and offering them over. “Between the breasts and limbs, I’d say we got about a pound of meat here. Lucky fucking break…”
Lucky indeed, Marcel thought. For some reason, he felt himself looking to the tree line as the others waited or negotiated the flesh from the carcass. He could see the appeal, but what was a fresh kill doing just lying there? Whatever predator had taken the time to rip its belly open wouldn’t have just left it behind. And if the scent of blood and guts was on the wind, they could expect that any Zulus in the area would be keen to it.
All these thoughts began to pour through his mind, but his dry, tired mouth didn’t seem to want to voice them.
“Can’t believe the flesh-eaters didn’t get to it…”
“Yeah, wouldn’t something like this be like a signal flare to those bastards?”
Marcell’s heart turned into a cold ball and shot up into his throat. He looked back to Dixon in a hurry, his mouth falling open but refusing to cry out. Jackons must have realized it too, because he managed to get the words out in time.
“Shit! Get off it – “
There was a slight metallic sound, and then Dixon screamed and straightened up. A bolt extended from the back of his leg, a straight green filament of fiberglass with several colored plumes on it. Everyone fell back, too sluggish to move quickly, and watched helplessly as a second bolt landed in the back of his neck. Dixon’s body fell, his mouth emitting a gurgling sound that was followed by several thick, red bubbles.
Lafleur hollered and raised his weapon, and was quickly hit from the other side. This time, it was a much longer shaft, black and carbon-like, that landed in his shoulder blade and sent him down next to Dixon’s corpse. A large pool began to form between them, and the bird’s gore was quickly overshadowed by the font of blood splatter that was forming on the forest floor.
“Fucking hunters!” Jackson screamed, raising his rifle and dropping to his knees. “Get down!”
Marcel quickly obliged and felt something zip past his year. Another shot went past Thompson and landed in the dirt, just close enough for Marcell to get a clear look at it. The arrow head appeared to be stainless steel, and angled viciously towards a very sharp point. It was long, the stock measuring almost three feet in length. He knew instantly what their quarry was using to target them. And clearly there was more than one…
“There!” LaFleur yelled, pointing to a spot behind them. Raising himself and his weapon, he managed to get off a three round burst. But no sooner had his bullets sped off that another arrow head appeared, this one pointing through his chest. In what seemed like slow motion, Marcel and LaFleur both looked at the point protruding from his chest, the shot that had punctured his vest from the other side and was now slickened with his blood.
His body fell to the ground and landed next to the others. Jackson fired a burst into the trees and yelled at them to move.
“To the treeline! Get out of the open!”
Marcell’s legs miraculously obliged him and he pushed forward. Thompson and Cisco were fast on his heels, the three of them moving as fast as they could to get into the cover provided by the brush again. Jackson fell in behind and kept yelling to them.
“Keep moving! I’ll cover you!”
They heard several more bursts coming from Jackson’s weapon that flew off into the surrounding forest. They were well timed and paced, and Jackson was sure to spot his fire in order to conserve his ammo. As they put more distance between themselves and the clearing, the thrumming became a steady rhythm that Marcel continued to listen for, hoping it would never end. As long as it continued, he knew they had covering fire, and it meant their enemy had someone else to shoot at…
A scream came from behind. Cisco went down and Marcel tried to look over his shoulder, but Thompson’s hand shoved him in the back.
“Go! Go! Go!” he cried. Marcel’s knee began to scream at him, the constant pounding making the pain worse with every step. But he kept both legs pumping. He heard Cisco scream again, but could not turn.
“Wait! WAIT!”
Marcel found himself running harder now. He yearned to turn back, but his tired legs could not manage a course change now. And Thompson remained too close behind him to slow down. And above all, they were getting into denser brush again and could not stop. A few more feet and they would be able to take cover and return fire. Perhaps Cisco could catch up then.
And then, the sound of the distant thrumming ceased. Involuntarily, Marcel looked over his shoulder.
“Jackso-” the name was barely out of his mouth before his knee cracked and he fell over sideways. His face struck dirt and he looked up to see a pair of boots stepping over him. Thompson was still running, his backside pushing through branches to get away.
“Wait!” he yelled. “Stan, wait!”
But he was gone. Marcel tried to push forward, but the pain that shot up his leg was so intense it sent him right back to the ground. At long last, something had broken on him, either his ACL or another crucial ligament, and the pain was blinding. He could not move, nor could he find the strength to crawl. Every muscle was immobilized from the terrible combination of pain and exhaustion.
He strained to hear the sound of reassuring gunfire, or the boot steps of Jackson or Cisco coming up behind him. But all he could hear was the sound of his own heart beating and his frantic breathing.
Until Thompson screamed up ahead. It was unmistakable. A loud, angry grunt followed by a gurgling roar. Marcel could feel the cold stab of icy fingers reaching up his back again. They extended all the way into the back of his skull now. Just another paralytic rendering him completely useless.
His heart became the only noise he could hear at all anymore, the entire forest having gone dead quiet. Things began to get especially dark, and he laid his face down into the cold, dry earth.
* * *
The poor bastard had that same look on his face. Sick and horrified, and even a little dumbstruck. It wasn’t at all like killing the deadheads. They hardly ever looked surprised once you buried a blade in their skulls. Between living death and total death, their dead white eyes never registered anything but the barest of expressions.
“Is that it?” asked Nurradin. Looking over his shoulder, Ghost shot him the barest of smiles.
“Looks like. Who knew fresh bait would work on the living?”
Nurradin shrugged, pulling another arrow from one of their fallen and placing it back in his quiver. Wiping the sweat from his face, he looked around at the killing field, the four bodies that now lay in a loose formation who’s blood now mingled with the dirt.
“That makes six, assuming we got the ones that ran off. Who do you suppose they were?”
Ghost cocked his head to the side. His eyebrows were just visible above the top edge of his goggles. “Not the Mage’s men, that’s for sure. And the fact that they were running into our hills means they musn’t have been welcome in his domain either.”
“No… not after what we heard down there. But since when do the uniforms fight each other?”
Ghost felt his face twist up into something that was neither a smile nor a frown. The question was a valid one, though it did seem like the answer was predictable.
“People turning on each other. Inevitable once the shit hits the fan. Point is, if they aint welcome below, they aint welcome up here.”
Nurradin nodded. That was as much of an explanation as any of them required. The rules for dealing with the living were not quite an exact science at this point, but they had agreed a long time ago that anyone armed and audacious enough to be crawling over the hills had best be sporting the Rattlesnake insignia. Otherwise, they might as well be dead, because they were intruding.
“Speaking of the others, there’s our boy now.” Nurradin pointed to the trees behind Ghost, prompting him to turn and see where Tromos was emerging with several bloody bolts in hand.
“We get the last two?” Ghost asked him.
Tromos shook his head and smiled. “Better. We got a survivor…”
They were standing over his body a moment later. The poor bastard had eaten dirt, and then appeared to have gone into some kind of shock. His leg was all twisted up, and the pale, dead look in his eyes seemed to confirm as much. And since there were no bolts or arrows emerging from his body and no telltale slashes, that meant he was still in play.
“What do we do with him?” asked Nurradin.
Ghost and Tromos looked at each other. Once more, it seemed they were in uncharted waters. Dealing with intruders was one thing, but how to dispense with their wounded was another thing entirely. Ghost looked to Nurradin and noticed the same look of reticence on his face too.
“Seems wrong to cut his head off now…” said Ghost, his fingers touching the hilt of his blade. “Suppose we could carry him back… find out a few things.”
Tromos hummed thoughtfully. “People won’t be too happy about another mouth to feed. And giving aid and comfort to an enemy…”
“Yeah, but we don’t know who they are or where they came from, do we?” said Nurradin. All three men looked at each other and realized they were in agreement.
“Rattlesnakes would appreciate any info we could get him to cough up,” said Tromos.
“I heard enough,” said Nurradin, and cupped his hands around his mouth. He emitted several loud whistles, and seconds later, approaching footsteps could be heard. Soon after, a lithe, dark woman emerged from the bushes, her hair covered by a thin cover and her hands sporting a set of denim gloves. Her face contorted the moment she saw the man lying face down in the dirt.
“Oh God…” she turned an accusing look to her brother. “You know you’re not supposed to call me in until you’ve cleared the bodies. I spot them, you kill them, that’s how its supposed to work!”
“Relax, Deez. He’s still alive,” Nurradin said back to her, keeping his voice low to indicate that she might drawing attention to them. “Anyway, we need to get back up top. Tell Ommah we need water and medicine. Looks like we’re putting this one up for the time being.”
She looked back at the body and shot her brother another unhappy expression. But she obliged and turned to head off, disappearing into the bush at a runner’s pace and making her way up the mountainside moments later. With her gone, the three men began to negotiate their guest’s remaining intact limbs and managed to hoist him off the ground.
Nurradin was the first to point out how easily they had lifted him. “Not so heavy. Guy must have lost a lot of weight trekking through the bushes.”
“Be careful about that knee,” said Tromos. “He took a hard fall and must have twisted it up good.”
“So noted,” said Ghost, suppressing a chuckle. All things considered, it seemed odd to be extending the man any courtesy considering that moments earlier, they had been trying to kill him. And within a few days time, they would probably be doing something similar to him, albeit at a much slower pace. It all depended on just how helpful he chose to be when he came to.
Between the three of them, they managed to find their way to the path and even began making good time getting him up the steep incline. As they went, Ghost caught a look at the name tag on his uniform. The stitched lettering spelt out Marcel.
“Private Marcel,” he said aloud. “Welcome to Nuevo Acoma.”
