The Restless Dead

[skarface]

Good work! Keep it up! I still like how things aren't magically resolved overnight. Makes things more realistic.

[majorhavoc]

Thank you for the encouragement, everyone.

[majorhavoc]

After closing the outer door of the sally port behind us, we finally enter the police station itself. With the batteries in my flashlight spent and useless, I appropriate Zoey’s and use it to take up position at the rear of our party. Our only other source of light is Francis’s torch, which he employs to sweep the darkness ahead as he leads us cautiously into the control room. It’s almost pitch dark inside, illuminated only by the feeble glow of indicator lights on the control panel. No wonder we couldn’t see the three zombies lying in wait through the narrow view port.

Still, it strikes me: even a week ago the commotion we were making when we first entered the sally port would have triggered an agitated response from any zombies lurking in the next room. Alerting us to their presence. Now these things seem to understand how to remain quiet, ready for an ambush. It’s as though even the normal infected are somehow evolving, growing more cunning as they adjust their tactics to deal with the remaining survivors.

Zoey breaks away from our group and walks over to the control panel. “It wasn’t hard to figure out,” she explains. “See, it’s almost exactly like you described, Rebecca.”

Rebecca nods in approval. “Yep, these are practically the same controls I used at my old job. You did really well, darling. And there‘s no way I would have been able to deal with those three zombies.”

I clear my throat impatiently. Francis picks up my cue: “Yeah, well you won’t have to Rebecca, once we find those guns. Let’s get what we came here for.”

“Pbbbllfftt!” Zoey, still on a high from her recent heroics, cheekily lets loose a raspberry noise. “You’re just jealous Francis, because I don’t even need a gun or your big, bad axe to deal with zombies.”

Lottie, Rebecca and Donovan break into quiet snickers and giggles, the first true moment of levity enjoyed by the group this entire miserable day. Even Francis seems to sense that this would be a fine moment to let develop naturally, cementing the strained bonds our beleaguered group has endured.

Instead, I rashly kill the mood by whispering harshly: “Enough of the chit chat, people! We’re here to do a job, so let’s start acting like it.” In sullen, dispirted silence, our group proceeds forward.

We’re only accosted by four more zombies in the police station, likely because most have been drawn off by our noisy escape from here in the ambulance four days ago, and the smoke alarms we employed for the fire trap. And by whatever is drawing these creatures to the Shake 'n Bake.

Each of the four remaining creatures is encountered individually and three are summarily dispatched by Francis before I or the others can even react. The fourth takes longer because we spot it first, lurking just around the corner of a four way intersection of the interior halls. In times before the apocalypse this was high traffic part of facility because a large, parabolic mirror hangs from the ceiling, affording a reflected view of anyone in the corridors to the right and left. That’s how we get a jump on this last zombie.

Chillingly, we can not only see it in the mirror pressed against the wall just around the corner to the left, but that it's clearly anticipating our approach, alerted by the sounds of our footsteps. It’s lying in ambush. These things are definitely getting smarter, which I mentally add to the list of reasons why our continued survival, as well as our basic understanding of this threat, is becoming increasingly in doubt.

Francis begins swinging even before he clears the corner. Lunging out into the intersection and to his left, he accelerates the axe head in an elongated arc that transects the creature’s neck and terminates deep into the wall directly behind it. As we round the corner, we find Francis struggling to extricate his weapon from the wall. This final zombie retains enough tissue in its neck on either side of the axe wound so that its head remains connected to the rest of its body, staked to the wall.

“Damn!” Francis grunts as he continues to struggle with the axe. “Sucker’s in there good!”

Francis tugs at the axe handle a moment longer and then decides to take a break from this latest chore. Releasing the axe handle, he arches his back and groans in satisfaction. “Ahhh! This has been one hell of a long day folks. Your's truly is going to sleep well tonight. Just gimme a minute here Bill.“

I look around nervously. Here in the hallway intersection, there’s clear lines of sight in all four directions. We’re highly visible, but we’ll also have plenty of warning of any approaching danger. “I guess this isn’t a bad place to stop,” I concede. “For a minute.”

[majorhavoc]

Francis considers the zombie hanging inert from the axe still buried in the corridor wall, as an artist might regard his own handiwork. “Never thought I’d say this,” he announces as he straightens his back and sidles up alongside the creature. “But I’m starting to hate killin’ zombies. At least for today.” He glances at each of us, smirks and continues. “What do you think? Even if we evenly divide the infected we smoked at the fire trap between the six of us, which would be,” Looking directly at Donovan: “ - total bullshit, I figure this one makes it close to a hundred for me.”

Sidling closer to the zombie, Francis grasps its limp right arm and slings it across his shoulder and behind his massive neck. “What do you think, sweetheart? Think Sir Francis Chops-a-lot should take a breather for a while?”

“Eeew,” Lottie intones. “That’s disgusting, Francis.”

Francis, winking in reply: “Maybe it’s your arm that should be around me then, darlin‘.”

“No, that would be even more disgusting.”

For the first time, I notice that this last zombie was a female. A police officer by the looks of the uniform. The right half of its lower jaw and a good portion of the cheek on that side of its face is missing. So are two of the fingers on its right hand.

Rebecca has been taking note of this creature as well. It’s still wearing its duty belt! It’s armed!”

“Well there’s a bit of luck,” I announce as Rebecca gingerly withdraws a .38 police special revolver from the leather holster. “More so if there are any rounds left in it.”

I expect Rebecca to hand the weapon over to me to check. Instead she expertly unlocks the cylinder and with a flick of her wrist swings it out of the frame. “Five live rounds,” she observes. “And one spent case.”

“Looks like maybe you learned more than just how to run the radios and the sally port when you were a police dispatcher,” I observe, nodding towards the weapon in Rebecca’s hands.

“Yeah. Well, when I worked there I was thinking about making a career out of it. But marriage and two children got in the way. I did manage to qualify with the Remington 12 gauge and a .38 revolver though. Which isn’t to say I was particularly good with either. Just good enough.“

“Plenty good enough, I’d say,” I quip appreciatively. “I think you found your weapon. I suggest you take the whole belt and put it on.“

“Bill, don’t you think you should -”

“- no, I don’t. We’re all going to hopefully be armed in a moment and you should stick with what you’re familiar with.”

Rebecca nods in agreement. I sense that the look of gratitude I receive is as much for the vote of confidence as for the weapon itself. I hold her gaze a moment longer and it occurs to me that Rebecca isn’t that much younger than I am. In a different lifetime, I think I would have been attracted to this woman. The moment passes and Rebecca looks thoughtfully at the uniformed corpse, and then at the gun she's shamelessly pilfered. “I don’t get it,” she finally says. “I mean this policewoman turned. And yet she still had ammunition for her gun. I can’t imagine not choosing to end things if I were bitten and had the means. Why didn’t she use it to check out? “

“I think she did,” I say, again eying the grievous wounds on the zombie’s face and hand. “Or tried to, at any rate. My guess is she lost these fingers when she was bitten. She escaped, but probably couldn’t properly hold the gun and . . . . botched the job. Wounded herself enough to be unconscious and then just -”

“- woke up dead. Literally.” Donovan says quietly, finishing my sentence. “I’ve always known suicide to be a mortal sin because it‘s a willful choice to reject God’s gift of life. But I think maybe God would understand why this poor woman - or anyone else - would chose death over . . . . undeath. Life and death are gifts that God bestows to all of his creatures. Each at the appropriate time.”

“But undeath? Surely that is a gift that can only come from the depths of Hell itself. I think choosing to end life under those circumstances - before the Devil can complete his work - would be the only way one could truly honor God.”

Then Donovan's face clouds over as he glances between the corpse and the gun Rebecca is cradling in her hand. "Except, how exactly did the gun get back in her holster if she used it to shoot herself?"

"How do child zombies ride bicycles and skip rope?" I respond rhetorically.

"Or a married couple end up within a few feet of each other three days after they died?" Zoey intones, picking up on the theme.

"There's a rational explanation for this, I just don't exactly know what it is," I add. "But I've got some hunches. And I've seen a buggered suicide attempt before; it looked a hell of a lot like this. We have some things we need to talk about tonight. The news reports we all heard about what these things are were wrong. Or at least, they're no longer true."

Francis now: "What's that supposed to mean – ‘no longer true’?"

"It means they're changing, Francis. Adapting. Evolving. And if we want to survive," I add gravely, "then we have to too."

[DTyra]

After botching her suicide attempt did the undead policewoman return her weapon to its holster before losing consciousness and then wake up dead? Perhaps the survivors might reconsider the theory, or is this going to play into the story somehow? Moar Please!

[majorhavoc]

After botching her suicide attempt did the undead policewoman return her weapon to its holster before losing consciousness and then wake up dead? Perhaps the survivors might reconsider the theory, or is this going to play into the story somehow? Moar Please!

Or is there something to this phantom memory that these creatures seem to have? Married couples staying together .... child zombies riding bikes?

Good point though, one of the characters should have keyed in on that. Thanks DTyra, sounds like I need to do a ninja edit!

[DAVE KI]

Adapting,changing,evolving, talk about being screwed blued and tattooed. That would really suck.

[ZeroT]

Awesome ride man!
The idea of adapting zombies is truly horrifying!
The thought of tireless antagonists with the ability to reason does not sound good for our heroes.
As usual, great job Major. I’m really enjoying the story!

[catss350]

I have been reading all day, start to finish. I must say this is one of the best stories I have read, period! Very well writin. Seems like I'm there with em'. Love it! Hope there is MOAR to come!

[skarface]

Because of your story I bought LFD at the steam sale. I'm enjoying it almost as much as your story.

Moar, please!

[majorhavoc]

Because of your story I bought LFD at the steam sale. I'm enjoying it almost as much as your story.

Moar, please!

And I bet you feel strangely protective of Zoey, don't you?

I was playing it the other day, first time in a long time. After a particularly harrowing shootout at Mercy Hosptial, Zoey quipped "Game over, man. Game over!" during the long, slow elevator ride to the rooftop. In all the hundreds of hours playing that game, I had never heard her say that before. Francis and Louis were snickering, enjoying the movie reference. But Bill, old fart that he is, kept saying: "I don't get it. What's so funny?"

[DeathBYFox]

My favorite no mercy elevator conversation is the one where francis asks who beefeed then zoey responds with sorry. P.S. i love what yyou have done with this story

[DTyra]

After botching her suicide attempt did the undead policewoman return her weapon to its holster before losing consciousness and then wake up dead? Perhaps the survivors might reconsider the theory, or is this going to play into the story somehow? Moar Please!

Or is there something to this phantom memory that these creatures seem to have? Married couples staying together .... child zombies riding bikes?

Good point though, one of the characters should have keyed in on that. Thanks DTyra, sounds like I need to do a ninja edit!

Oooo! Oooo! A dead cop that returns her pistol to its holster! I like! Moar please!

[skarface]

Because of your story I bought LFD at the steam sale. I'm enjoying it almost as much as your story.

Moar, please!

And I bet you feel strangely protective of Zoey, don't you?

I was playing it the other day, first time in a long time. After a particularly harrowing shootout at Mercy Hosptial, Zoey quipped "Game over, man. Game over!" during the long, slow elevator ride to the rooftop. In all the hundreds of hours playing that game, I had never heard her say that before. Francis and Louis were snickering, enjoying the movie reference. But Bill, old fart that he is, kept saying: "I don't get it. What's so funny?"

Haha. I just try not to shoot any of my teammates. It's pretty difficult when they run right in front of you while you're shooting a stream of bullets. I think it points out the difficulties in real life of close quarters battle and friendly fire.

And, I don't think I've ever heard her say that, either. Sounds funny.

[m249saw]

moar?

[majorhavoc]

A big, big shoutout to ZS forum member GrumpyDaySleeper, whom I haven't seen active on these boards for some time. Grandmother, bad-ass Harley rider and former sheriff's department dispatcher. Who last fall patiently helped me out with the details of police station layouts and taught me all about sally ports, gun lockers, armories and evidence lockups. GDS, you are a real life Rebecca and it was a privilege exchanging PMs with you.

[majorhavoc]

On the policewoman’s duty belt, Rebecca discovers a treasure trove of useful items: a heavy duty flashlight, a police baton, a pocket multi tool, a two way UHF radio. And a pair speed loaders, each containing six precious .38 cartridges. The handcuffs and pepper spray appear worthless in our present circumstances, so these we discard.

“You wear it well,” I say to Rebecca as she cinches the belt around her waist. It settles on the hips of her blue jeans at a rakish angle and I can’t help but admire the figure this woman cuts, strapped in leather and packing heat.

Suddenly aware that everyone’s eyes are on her hips, Rebecca blurts out self-consciously: “It’s been a long time since I geared up like this.” Smiling coyly, she adds: “It kinda feels good, actually.”

“I sure as hell wouldn’t mess with you,” Francis quips approvingly. “Least not until you take that belt off, if you know what I mean.”

“Bite your tongue, young man,” Rebecca snaps back at her tattooed admirer. “Like I said, it’s been a long time.”

“Well, Becca, I think it makes you look … badass,” Lottie announces. That final word has scarcely crossed her lips before Lottie covers them with her hand, startled with her own candor. “I can’t believe I just said that!” She giggles, Rebecca and Zoey joining in the mirth.

“Uh, Bill,” Donovan announces gravely, looking askance at the giggling women. “At least until we locate more guns, don’t you think it might be more prudent if the men hold onto the firearms?”

I make quick eye contact with Rebecca before replying. “No Donovan. No, I do not. Rebecca here is certified with that particular weapon. As a group we’re more effective - and safer - with the police revolver in the hands of the person specifically trained to use it.” Everyone in our party nods in agreement except for Donovan, who continues to regard the pistol riding on Rebecca’s hip with a mixture of doubt and envy.

“Besides, I add, throwing Donovan a bone. “Until we’re all armed, I’d like you to have the shovel. You’ll be far more effective with it any of the ‘women-folk’,” I lie. I nod to Rebecca, who suppresses a smile as she surrenders the shovel to Donovan.

Donovan, hefting the shovel appraisingly: “I guess you’re right. I scarcely know my own strength these days! You should have seen me, folks. I scaled this towering wall on the roof top back there like I was some kind of crazed-ape!” Donovan tightens his grip on the shovel and shakes it for emphasis, beaming with pride. He then glances pointedly at each member of the party. Except for me, I note. The one person who was there with him when he confronted that wall.

I use six of Rebecca’s twelve extra bullets to reload the .357 magnum revolver Donovan and I found in the Asian food market. I then stuff it into my waist band. Rebecca takes a seventh round to replace the spent shell in the police service revolver, leaving a paltry five cartridges in reserve. I give the snub nose revolver to Zoey, reminding her that it only has two rounds left.

“Why not use four of those extra bullets to load that one up too?“ Donovan asks.

“Wrong caliber,” I reply curtly. I‘m relieved that Rebecca takes Donovan aside to explain that while a .38 caliber bullet works in a .357 magnum revolver, it doesn‘t fit in a .380 pocket gun.

The two whisper together heatedly until Donovan finally blurts out, “But how can that be? .380 and .38 are the same damn number!”

Following signs to the central police offices and dispatch center, we discover that numerous recessed skylights in the ceiling admit sufficient daylight to illuminate the interior offices. There we find the police armory.

To our crushing disappointment, it quickly becomes apparent it’s been ransacked. With glass and shattered metal framework littered on the floor, egress was clearly achieved through a smashed skylight in the office ceiling just outside the armory. Dripping water from the roof streams down through the broken portal; runoff from the teeming rain earlier in the day. It streams down the sides of a tower of desks and other furniture where it puddles on the floor directly underneath the skylight. The tower of furniture was clearly built by the looters in order to climb back up to the roof with whatever they found in the armory, the door of which is now detached and leaning against the wall next to the open armory doorway.

“They popped out the hinge pins; never bothered with the lock itself. Just lifted it out of the door frame,” Francis observes with the studied attention of someone experienced in breaking and entering. “Stupid ass cops; put a thousand dollar lock on a door, but hung it with $10 hardware store hinges. I hate cops.”

“You standing right next to a former cop,” Rebecca reminds him behind his back. “And she’s armed.”

“Yeah, well you were smart enough to get out of the cop business,” Francis replies cooly, not bothering to turn around. “‘Sides, not only do you actually make wearing that belt look good, but the way you handled that shotgun at the firetrap today makes Bill here look like a sissy. So I don’t hate you.” Disarmed by no less than three complements in rapid succession, Rebecca relents and then grudgingly agrees with Francis’s assessment of the armory door. “It was pretty dumb of them to make it so damn easy to break in.”

Once again, I’m struck by Francis, who in one quick remark simultaneously appealed to Rebecca’s intelligence, good looks and weapons prowess in order to thoroughly diffuse the situation. Definitely more to this man than meets the eye. I’m surprised Duke managed to retain leadership of his bike gang with Francis as part of the group.

After searching the sacked armory, we convene around a desk and appraise the paltry results of our foraging; what little had been left behind by whomever got to the armory first. A box 12 gauge shells (buckshot, not the slugs Francis used to such devastating effect against the hunter and the Tank), 50 rounds each of .40 caliber, .38 caliber and 9mm handgun cartridges. Plus a total of 80 rounds of .223 rifle ammunition, for which we have no weapon that can use them. Other than that and a few worn leather holsters, the armory contains nothing of value. Lottie willingly surrenders the shotgun to Francis, who grimly reloads it with the buckshot. No one objects when I give the automatic pistol to Zoey after replenishing it and the spare magazine with the 9mm bullets.

Then the recriminations begin. “Oh this is just perfect. We nearly killed ourselves to get here and for this?” Donovan demands. “Besides those two revolvers we found, this trip has been an unnecessary risk and a complete waste of time. We would have been better off just heading straight for Cape May!”

“It was a calculated risk,” I reply. “We’re never going to make that journey all the way to the evacuation point without arming ourselves. We wouldn’t make it twenty miles.”

“You don’t know that!" Donovan counters. "We survived what, like over 300 zombies today? I’d rather have spent that effort killing 300 zombies along the way to Cape May!”

Francis startles me by actually coming to my defense. “‘We’ killed 300 deadheads because Bill planned out that firetrap ahead of time. We can’t be stopping every few miles along the way and spend two hours setting up another ambush! And in case you didn't notice but even with Bill’s jungle trap, we used up just about every bullet and shell we had. The old man's right, we gonna need a lot more weapons and ammo if we’re going to make it to that evacuation center.”

“Well, we sure as hell haven’t found those weapons here, have we?” Donovan retorts. “I told you this was a foolish idea!”

Rebecca’s familiarity with police stations again proves persuasive: “Maybe not so foolish. We haven’t found the holding cells yet, where they keep prisoners.”

“Yeah, like the inmates had guns!” Donovan hisses.

“No, what I mean is they’ll have gun lockers there. Where the officers secure their weapons before entering the cell block.”

Moving back out into the main corridor, we follow the signs to the lock up just down the hall past a door marked ‘Evidence Room’. As the others hurry on by, I try that door, but it’s locked tight. I make a mental note and then hasten to catch up to the others.

“So how do we get into the cell area?” Donovan asks.

“We don’t want to go inside; that’s the point. They secure their weapons before entering,” Rebecca explains. Glancing around, she locates a small alcove to the side of the security desk. Inside, our flashlight beams reveal two rows of small stainless steel lockers, not unlike oversize post office boxes. Most have keys protruding from the locks, but two don’t.

“Those two,” Rebecca announces confidently, pointing to the two lockers missing keys. “Someone secured something inside those two.”

Francis makes short work of locker doors with his axe, which features a hardened steel pike on the reverse end of the blade. Inside of each locker we find a loaded .40 caliber semi-automatic pistol, each with a second, full magazine, secured in a nylon holster. Duty guns for officers whose last official task was entering the lock up area to retrieve or surrender a prisoner.

“Jackpot!” Zoey announces triumphantly. “Now we’re rockin’!”

[deadcat7382]

keep rocking it Major

[DeathDealer75]

Please moar moar moar !!!

[The Mrs.]

Can't wait for the next installment!

[DAVE KI]

Can't wait for the next installment!

Yup,what the Mrs. said. I couldn't have said it better.

[ZeroT]

I was having a crappy morning until I checked the thread and found this latest installment!
Loving all the technical details. Almost makes me feel like I’m in the room with the characters!
I’m also back to wanting to slap Donavan around. What a tool!! LOL!
Can’t wait for MOARR!!!

[ForgeCorvus]

Somebody give Donovan a red shirt......PLEASE !!

[m249saw]

moar please?