Report from Engine Co. 22

[DannusMaximus]

“Jesus Christ ell-tee, what the fuck happened our there?!” Tasker was rattled, but was professionally sizing up the injuries to the police sergeant. “Who was shooting? What the fuck tore him up like this?”

Cass was fighting to catch his breath after racing up the stairs with the 240 pound officer, and was slumped forward, steadying himself on his good arm. The dislocated shoulder had popped back into place but still burned like napalm, radiating pain across his back and chest. In between gasps for air he told the two firefighters about what had occurred outside, relating the events as they treated the injured sergeant. When the police officer was stabilized, all three men sat on the living room floor. Several minutes passed before Tasker finally broke the silence.

“Ell-tee, what the hell is happening? That guy that attacked Robinson was dead when we got here. I ran the strip myself and there wasn’t nothing. No heartbeat, no pulse. Nothing. Shit, you saw him, stiff as a goddamn board. Then he kills two people and shrugs off a gunshot wound to the chest and ½ dozen broken bones? Now you say the guy that tore up Sgt. Popp took a dozen gunshot wounds and kept coming, too?”

“Tasker, I only know what I saw. Dispatch isn’t transmitting, and Popp said shit like this was happening all over the area. And as far as Rustin, I don’t care what our EKG said or what we think we saw - - dead guys don’t get up and start walking around, and they sure as shit don’t start chewing on people. Maybe there’s some kind of new disease breaking out that makes people seem to be dead, or some kind of drug induced riot going on. Maybe the EKG is fucked up. I just don’t know. “

“Goddamn it, Rustin was fucking DEAD!” Tasker was starting to lose it, his voice becoming more and more high pitched. “I’ve been doing this shit for 11 years, you’ve been doing it a lot longer than that. Hell, fucking probie could tell he was a goner. There was a dead guy in that bedroom and then there wasn’t!”

“TASKER! Stop it! Stop flaking out on me!” Cass shouted. Tasker stopped abruptly. Cass closed his eyes, forcing himself to calm down. He began again, more calmly now.

“We’ve been through some shit together, Tasker. You’re a damn good medic and a damn good firefighter. If I knew what was happening I would tell you, you know that. I don’t. But I do know that we’ve gotta get the hell out of here and try to get Popp to the hospital. There are more people out there in the hallway and the street. We’ve got to get past them and get to our truck. Pack up whatever medic gear is left and we’ll figure out a way to carry Popp out, okay?”

Tasker had recovered his composure, nodded grimly, and he and Bowden began repacking their few remaining supplies. Cass got up and went back to the bedroom. He was oddly relieved to find the scene was unchanged, all three figures still lying motionless on the floor. Cass pushed Rustin into the corner of the room, and laid Robinson and Barnes side by side on the bedroom floor. He grabbed Robinson’s wallet and wedding ring, shoving them into one of his cargo pockets, then took the St. Florian medal from around Robinson’s neck and put it around his own. The engineer’s wife deserved to have all three items, and Cass was damned if he was going to leave them to be looted. He then took Officer Barnes wallet, noting no other jewelry or personal items. Almost as an afterthought, he picked up the officer’s gun from the floor where it had fallen and pocketed the spare ammunition from her duty belt. That done, he laid a sheet over the two fallen officers, picked up the axe and halligan, and returned to the living room.

[DannusMaximus]

“Bowden?”

The new firefighter was putting the last of the medic supplies away.

“Yes sir?”

“You were in the Marines, right?”

“Roger that, sir. Parris Island then assigned to one-eight at Camp Lejeune after my MOS school. Why?”

“Can you shoot?”

“Sure. I was an 0621… um, that’s a radio operator. But we had to qualify just like everybody else. I’m no crack shot, but I usually did pretty good.”

“You got deployed, right?”

“Yeah. One tour in Afghanistan, then I went back stateside and got a billet as an instructor for the radio operator school out in 29 Palms until I got out. Why?”

“Did you ever get in a firefight, have to shoot somebody?”

“Well, we were in a pretty busy area, so we got into some scraps. I had to put some rounds downrange a few times, but don’t know if I ever hit anybody. I wasn’t really a shooter, sir, I mostly tried to keep my ass down and followed my CO around. Sir, due respect, why does any of this matter?”

“Can you shoot this if you need to?” Cass produced the pistol, and handed it to Bowden.

The probie took the handgun and looked it over. It was still sticky with blood.

“Yeah, I mean, I guess so. It’s a Glock, they’re pretty much just point and pull the trigger until it doesn’t go bang anymore. One of my buddies in California had one like this but sold it so he could buy his girlfriend a tattoo...What?”

Both Tasker and Cass had begun to grin, then chuckle, then laugh openly. Bowden was chagrined at first, then began to chuckle as well, and finally all three men were laughing hysterically, doubled over with the effort. The laughter went on for several long moments, and finally all three began to recover, wiping tears from their red faces.

“Sold a gun to buy his chick a tattoo. That is fucking outstanding, Bowden!” Tasker was still giggling and looking at the new firefighter approvingly. Cass fished the spare ammunition out of his pocket and handed it to Bowden. “Here’s two more clips, I assume they go with that gun.”

“It’s actually ‘magazines’, ell-tee. Saying ‘clips’ is kinda mall-ninja…” Tasker offered helpfully.

“Mall-ninja? Well shit, I didn’t know you were a superhero medic and some kind of Rambo!” Cass retorted with mock insult. Cass knew for a fact that Tasker had grown up in the city, and, like him, had probably never even held a gun before, much less fired one.

“Hey, I shot a shotgun once at my Uncle’s house. He has a farm out in the country, we used to go out there during the summer when I was younger.”

“Well, Tasker, if I happen to shit a shotgun between here and the station, you can be the man to shoot it. Until then, we’ll let the guy who knows what end of that pistol goes bang have it. Even if he is a probie with dumbass buddies in California.” Cass was grinning again, but soon was all business. “Let’s package up Popp and get out of here.”

The three wrapped the wounded officer in a blanket from a hallway closet and picked him up to leave, Cass carrying the feet of the makeshift stretcher with his good arm and Tasker carrying the heavier upper half. Tasker had offered to give the Lieutenant a short dose of morphine to take the edge off his injured shoulder, but Cass had refused, afraid that even a small amount of the analgesic would hinder his judgment. Instead, he had wrapped the arm and shoulder tightly with their remaining bandages and tape, and had used a piece of webbing from one of the medic bags to strap the injured arm across his stomach. The crude fix would have to suffice until they could get to a hospital or back to the fire station.

“We ready, gents?” Cass looked at his two remaining firefighters and felt a flash of pride. Tasker was fully engaged now, holding onto Sgt. Popp’s legs, his first-in bag draped across one shoulder, the halligan and axe strapped neatly to it. Bowden stood at the door, holding the pistol in one hand, the two spare magazines strapped to the suspenders of his bunker pants with medical tape. Both men looked back at their officer and nodded.

“We can do this.” Thought Cass. “We can make it.”

“Alright. Let’s go.” Bowden unlocked the apartment door, pulled it open, and the small party stepped out into the hall.

[akraven]

Now that shift is really of to a bad start. Good story.

[ForgeCorvus]

What?
You just can't leave it there!!!

Your prologue hooked me and the rest drew me in...... I now I find that I'm missing a chunk of time

Your emergency services work differently to ours but that didn't distract me (I did have to puzzle a few things out, but such details aren't important to the story flowing)
Thanks for the description of a Halligan Tool ( I didn't know what one looked like) yet again just enough info to picture the scene but not so much that the flow gets broken

I like the fact its a slow-burn start rather then an "Those guys are shambling, they're Zombies, shoot 'em in the head" it a "WTF is this shit??"

[DannusMaximus]

What? You just can't leave it there!!!

Thanks for the comments guys. It's always hard to gauge interest, but it seems like there's a least a few folks tagging along for this ride, so I'm pleased.

Here's the thing. It occurs to me that this story could easily end now, leaving the final fate of our intrepid bucket boys to the reader's imagination. That said, I already have an ending in mind (have actually written part of it), and I personally hate stories that don't have an actual ending. SO...

*MINOR SPOILER ALERT*

If you like where it's at, stop reading. If you want a bit more, check back in over the next few days. Fair warning, though. In the ending I've envisioned, things may not end particularly well for our crew...

[Laager]

I just caught up with this story and have to say I really am enjoying it. Thank you for posting it.

[majorhavoc]

Fair warning, though. In the ending I've envisioned, things may not end particularly well for our crew...

Part of the whole zombie canon is the idea that a bad ending is almost inevitable. It's almost never a question of if you succumb to the horde. Only when. Sometimes it takes guts to follow through on that premise. Especially after you've created characters that you begin to care about.

I'm sure I'm speaking for many of your numerous readers when I say we'll follow Cass and his charges where ever this grim night takes them.

[DTyra]

Very well done and there is a lot of potential here for an extended tale. The fireman's turnout equipment would give them good protection from infected attacks, they have the pistols from the dead and wounded police, their Halligan tools and fire axes for melee weapons, and a bigass truck for the run to home. Yeah!

[confusedyeti]

Great job DM, I like the spin of following fire/emt personnel instead of the cops, Nat guard, gas station attendant type story. The fire crew would see all the fucked up shit first and aside from the vets, would probably hesitate to engage.

Great back story and follow through on the characters and plot, I look forward to more.

ETA: oh and the line " if I shit a shotgun between here and the station, you'll be the one to fire it", priceless man. Hopefully more of that kinda writing to come soon as well

[DannusMaximus]

Bowden paused for a moment in the door threshold, letting his eyes adjust from the relative brightness of the apartment to the dingy light of the hallway. A single figure was visible under the flickering bulb swaying over the far stairwell. Bowden squinted, trying to focus in the dim light. It was a man, walking unsteadily but making slow progress towards the four men. Something was obviously wrong with the man. One leg was dragging uselessly behind him, and both arms appeared disjointed, like they had been fractured in several places. He was leaning against the hallway to support himself as he moved forward.

Bowden lowered his pistol. “Sir, you alright?”

There was no answer from the man, only a scraping sound as he continued towards them, knocking loose plaster and peeling paint from the wall.

“Hey bud, you okay?”

Tasker and Cass had exited the room with Popp at this point, and Cass could now see the man Bowden was addressing.

“Bowden, that guy tried to jump me when I was carrying Popp back to the apartment! Tell him to stop, now!”

Bowden raised the pistol again. “Hey man, stop right there! I’ve got a gun!”

There was no response from the man, only steady forward movement.

“Dude, I’m serious, stop or I swear to God I’ll shoot you!”

The man had closed to within 25 feet of Bowden and showed no signs of stopping. He had raised his broken arms towards the group, his face twisted in a feral, noiseless snarl.

“Bowden, shoot him. Now.” Cass’ voice was firm and unhesitating.

Bowden fired twice, the noise and shock of the discharge pounding the hallway walls. Two bloodless holes appeared in the man’s tank top, both directly in his sternum and only inches apart. The man staggered briefly, then continued forward. Two more shots followed, again punching into the man’s chest, this time in his left pectoral and clavicle. The man’s shoulder structure had been completely destroyed by now, and his left arm flopped uselessly to his side. He faltered again, off balanced by the dropping arm, but quickly regained his footing and continued inexorably towards the group. He was 15 feet from the apartment door.

Bowden raised the pistol one more time, sighting carefully. A part of Cass was slightly amused to see that Bowden’s tongue was sticking out of the corner of his mouth, concentrating like a primary school student trying to color within the lines. He squeezed the trigger once more. The bullet tore a fist-sized gouge from the man’s forehead, splattering brains and blood across the ceiling of the hallway. He dropped to the floor, broken arm still reaching towards the group.

The men’s ears were ringing, and a pungent blue haze of spent powder hung thickly in the air. Bowden turned back to his companions. “Everybody okay?” Tasker and Cass nodded. Bowden ejected the pistol magazine and glanced at the back of it, gauging the number of shots left, then slid it back into the grip, handling the weapon with complete confidence. The senior paramedic and his lieutenant exchanged glances. Bowden’s standing among the remaining members of Engine 22 had just kicked up several notches, from ‘Good Dude’ to ‘Most. Awesome. Probie. EVER.’

“Shit. Nice shooting, Tex.” Tasker was visibly impressed. “We ready to roll out, ell-tee?”

“Let’s do it,” commanded Cass, and the small group moved towards the exit, giving wide berth to the shattered figure lying on the hallway floor.

[DannusMaximus]

Nobody else was in the hallway, and their movement from the apartment to the building entrance foyer was uninterrupted. At the entrance the group paused, laying Sgt. Popp on the floor of the main landing and catching their breath. It was nearly full dark, but the streetlights were on and they could clearly see the street for several blocks in both directions. All three men stopped, squatting in the doorway and staring out at a scene that had changed impossibly in the short time since they had left the Fulton Park station.

There were dozens of people visible now, a sharp contrast from the deserted streets and sidewalks they had rolled by on their way to the medic run. There seemed to be two very distinct types of people on the street - - those who were running wildly and those who were slowly plodding along. The running people were generally also yelling, the plodders seemed uniformly silent. Occasionally a car or truck would race by, sometimes stopping for the people in the street, sometimes not. One car had crashed into a light pole near the intersection just north of their fire truck and burst into flames, the thick black smoke swirling up then banking down and flooding the streets with the smell of burned plastic, rubber, and gasoline. The screams of injured people added to the overall cacophony of car alarms, breaking windows and the scattered pop of gunfire.

As the group watched, one of the runners, a middle-aged female, ducked in between two parked cars and began to skirt along an alley that ran perpendicular to the main street, almost directly across from the apartment building entrance. Less than 50 feet into the alley she found it blocked by a locked chain link security fence. She turned around, attempting to make her way back to the sidewalk when a group of walkers shuffled towards the alley entrance, blocking her exit. Now trapped between the chain link and the group, tall brick walls hemming her in on all sides, the woman appeared to be pleading with the group. He panicked screams grew louder and louder. The group moved slowly towards her. She turned away, attempting to climb the tall fence. Dozens of hands drug her back down, and she disappeared into the mass of swarming figures, still shrieking.

Bowden started forward, but Cass put a firm hand on his shoulder. “Sir, we’ve got to help that woman!” he hissed, and tried to shake out of his Lieutenant’s grasp. Cass tightened his grip. “Bowden, that lady’s dead, and there’s too damn many of those…things. We can’t help her. We CAN get to our truck and get the hell out of here, and that’s ALL we can do. Are we clear on that? No hero bullshit, and no dicking around.”

It had become crystal clear to the officer that whatever was happening, whatever mass hysteria had gripped the people of this city, the situation had become a life and death one for him and his crew. The only way they were going to survive was to get back to their truck, and make their way back to their station. From there… well Cass didn’t know what would happen once they got back to the station. Frankly, it didn’t matter. One thing that many years of responding to emergencies had taught the Lieutenant was that sometimes it was counterproductive to think too many steps ahead. Sometimes you needed total focus on the present.

“Listen up gents, here’s what’s going to happen...” The other firefighters leaned in towards their officer, shutting out the chaos around them and focusing on Cass.

[Braxton]

And then?



MOAR

[majorhavoc]

Yeah, DM! Cass and his crew have been conferring in the hallway for an awfully long time now.....

[DannusMaximus]

Yeah, DM! Cass and his crew have been conferring in the hallway for an awfully long time now.....

The best laid plans take time, gents, but now that you mention it, I think they're about ready to move out...

[Laager]

Sometimes you needed total focus on the present.

I am totally focused on the present......waiting......waiting........still 100% focused......

[DannusMaximus]

The fire truck was still running, its flashers and strobes helping to illuminate the mad scene outside. Robinson had parked the truck about 15 feet behind Sgt. Popp’s squad car, which was itself parked almost directly in front of the apartment building main entrance, and was also still running. The three would have to move only about 45 feet from their position on the main landing to the relative safety of the big truck, but would be slowed by the wounded officer they were carrying. The street was growing even more crowded now, a wild combination of slowly walking homicidal crazies and the people madly scampering away from them. Cass had already determined that they couldn’t risk taking other people with them - - there wouldn’t be enough room in their rig for additional passengers once they had secured Popp in the back, and (Bowden’s stellar performance in the hallway notwithstanding) his crew was neither trained nor equipped to survive in the running street battles which had developed with such astonishing speed.

The plan was simple. Bowden would lead. Cass had been very clear that any of the slow walkers who got in their way were to be shot, no questions asked. The three men would make their way to the truck, put Sgt. Popp in the back, then Tasker and Cass would jump up front in the driver and officers seats, respectively. All three men were comfortable driving the engine, but Tasker was officially the second driver, assigned as the wheel man when Robinson was on vacation. After Robinson and Cass, he was the most familiar with the truck and territory. Bowden would stay in the back with Popp, and they would head back to the station by the same route they took to get to the apartment.

Cass and Tasker were crouched by Sgt. Popp, tightening their grip on his makeshift stretcher and mentally gearing up for the short sprint to the fire truck. Bowden slid the nearly empty magazine out of the pistol and dropped it into one of the cargo pockets on his bunker pants, then slapped in one of the spares Cass had taken off the dead officer upstairs.

“How many bullets we got left?” Tasker asked.

“18 in the gun right now, 17 more in the last mag, and I think 4 or 5 shots left in the partial… if we need more than that we’re probably fucked anyway, huh?” It was more of a statement than a question.

“Bowden, if you have to shoot one of these wackos, try and hit them in the head, okay? Whatever they’re fucked up on they’re not feeling anything. Headshots seem to do the trick. Can you do that?”

“Roger that, Lieutenant Cass.”

The streets were still frantic with people, but the area between them and the truck was clear. Bowden glanced both directions down the street. “Got a couple of the slow ones about 75 feet away to the north, Lieutenant, other than that it’s pretty clear from what I can see.”

“No time like the present then, gents. Let’s roll.”

The three moved out of the shelter of the entryway and quickly down the stairs to the sidewalk. They covered the ground between the apartment and the fire truck in seconds, Bowden yanking open the back door of the engine while Cass and Tasker began to slide the injured police officer into the large open back of the cab. Bowden had turned to help his fellow firefighters when he noticed movement in the street. “Fellas, I think we’re about to have some company…”

Their activity had drawn the attention of a number of the slow moving figures passing nearby, and they had turned and begun slouching towards the truck. Bowden kept his pistol trained on them. They were too far away for a good shot, but they were closing. There were two women and one man in the group. One of the women was dressed in nothing but a pair of pajama pants, the other was in an oversized sports jersey. The man was dressed only in boxers, and all three were in some combination of bedroom slippers and bare feet. The scene might have been comical, but Bowden could clearly see that each person had suffered horrendous, possibly fatal injuries at some recent point. The entire right side of the man’s upper torso looked like it had been blown away by a shotgun or some other weapon, and the women both had enormous lacerations on their arms and legs, like they had crawled on hands and knees through shattered glass or metal. All of them continued their slow forward progress, oblivious to their gruesome wounds. If Bowden hadn’t been otherwise distracted, he might have noticed that none of their wounds were bleeding.

“Guys, you about got Popp loaded?”

Tasker was inside the cab, wrestling the big officer into place. Cass could only provide limited help, balancing the officer’s legs against the crook of his uninjured arm while Tasker struggled. “Just another few seconds, Bowden!”

“Don’t have a few seconds, Sir. Shit.” Bowden raised the pistol and fired when the first of the figures was 25 feet away.

The first shot struck the topless woman in the neck, spinning her off balance. She quickly regained her footing and continued forward. Bowden fired twice more, missing with the first shot and tearing away a portion of her lower jaw with the second. She continued forward. He carefully lined up the sights and fired once more, the bullet entering just below her right eye, shattering the cheekbone and exiting at the base of her skull. She staggered once, then collapsed, falling directly in the path of the other female, who tumbled over her and dropped down into the street on her hands and knees. The man was now within 10 feet of the truck, and Bowden could see his features were twisted into an animal grimace, his eyes filmed over like he had been dead for many hours. Bowden shot him once, the round smashing into his nose and burying itself in his brain. He dropped silently to the pavement. Bowden stepped over the fallen man to where the second woman was struggling to get back to her feet and shot her point blank in the back of her skull, flattening her to the asphalt.

The exchange had taken only moments, but Bowden felt numbed by the effort. He quickly glanced around, making certain that none of the other slow walking figures was nearby. By now Tasker had finished securing Popp, and had crawled from the back of the truck, standing next to Cass by driver’s side door. Both men looked queasy as they silently surveyed Bowden’s handiwork.

“You alright, Bowden?”

“Not really, sir. Can we get the fuck out of here?”

“Best idea I’ve heard all day, brother. Hop in back.”

In a few moments the men had all climbed into their respective places on the truck, and Tasker backed away from the curb. If any of the men felt or heard the truck tires crushing the three prostrate figures who Bowden had shot, they didn’t say a word.

[DannusMaximus]

As they trundled down the street back towards the Fulton Park Station, Cass stared through the windshield at the nightmare snapshots illuminated by the headlight strobes and emergency flashers. A series of horror movie vignettes were playing out in real time in front of him, and he struggled to wrap his mind around what he was witnessing.

In an alley to his right a group of young men dressed in garish gang colors was attacking one of the slow walkers with bats and fists, beating him to the ground and stomping him as he lay on the street.

Near an intersection packed with wrecked, smoking vehicles, a heavily armed SWAT unit had formed a skirmish line behind a group of parked squad cars and was firing indiscriminately into a crowd of the slow walkers and the screaming civilians which were intermingled with them.

More screaming people were jumping from the 2nd and 3rd floors of a nearby apartment building which had heavy black smoke pouring from the 1st floor entrance. Cass saw one of the jumpers land and attempt to crawl away from the burning building, legs shattered. She was quickly overtaken by a swam of shuffling figures, and disappeared from view.

Next to the burning apartment, an older man who had fallen while exiting through the smashed front windows of an appliance store was lying unmoving on the sidewalk, stolen microwave still clutched in his outstretched hands. One of the slow walkers was crouched unsteadily next to the man’s back, placidly chewed the flesh from his neck and shoulders.

Despite the chaos all around them, Tasker was making good time, expertly swerving the rig around various obstacles, both hands on the wheel, intensely focused on the road in front of him. If he was distracted by the horror unfolding around them he didn’t show it. A last intersection was coming up, the safety of the fire station was only a few blocks away. Tasker unconsciously pressed harder on the accelerator. The rig was going nearly 45 mph when it passed through the intersection, about 15 miles per hour slower than a car covered with swarming figures which raced through the cross street at the exact same time and directly into the path of Engine 22.

[DannusMaximus]

Cass slowly opened his eyes to a blurry smear of lights. The truck was still running. He shook his head, was rewarded with a wave of pain and nausea, and clamped his eyes shut again. Breathe. Something was wrong with his equilibrium. He felt wrong, like he was hanging in his seat. He opened his eyes again. He was hanging in his seat. Tasker had lost control of the truck when he swerved to avoid the car, and the 38,000 pound fire engine had flipped onto its side, jumping the curb and smashing through the plate glass frontage window of a shop. The fire engine had come to rest on the driver’s side, and Cass was suspended from his seatbelt, partially sprawled across the engine compartment cover that divided the front of the cab in two. He smelled diesel fuel and tasted blood. A dull throbbing pain was pounding through his dislocated shoulder, and he could now clearly feel blood dribbling down his face. He cautiously felt his forehead, and confirmed a large gash over his right eye. Another blast of nausea crashed over him, and again he screwed his eyes shut, willing the cab to stop spinning.

When it passed, Cass opened his eyes again. The truck interior was thinly illuminated by the dashboard lights. He neither sensed nor saw movement.

“Guys?”

No response.

“Tasker, Bowden?”

Again, nothing. Cass reached for one of the handlights mounted on the interior of the cab, unlocked it from its charging base, and flipped it on. He swept the powerful light across the cab.

Tasker was slumped against what remained of the driver’s side door. His left arm was a bloody stump, and the windshield in front of the driver’s side was spiderwebbed from impact. A massive smear of blood and hair was imbedded in the fractured glass. In his mind’s eye, Cass could picture the paramedic being thrown forward into the dash and windshield by the impact, then his comatose body being partially ejected when the truck had landed on its side, pinning his left arm between the unyielding concrete and the exterior door. Tasker’s eyes were wide open and unseeing, his chest still.

Slowly, Cass turned the light to the back of the truck. Bowden was belted in, hanging from his seat much like his Lieutenant was doing. He hung limply, the left side of his head caved in by an SCBA cylinder which had come loose from its mounting and which now lay on the rear driver’s side door. Blood streamed from his nose, mouth, and ears. Bowden was breathing, but wouldn’t be for long. Cass had been a paramedic for far too long to not recognize agonal breathing when he heard it. Sgt. Popp was lying in a heap against the passenger side rear door, also unmoving, partially buried in a pile of equipment that had tumbled around the rear cab during the wreck.

Cass closed his eyes and went limp, staggered under the realization that he would soon likely be the only surviving member of his company. His mind was in overdrive, but the thoughts were incoherent. Only an hour or so ago he had been comfortably involved in the routine duties of his fire station, surrounded by his friends and co-workers. How could things have gone so horribly wrong so quickly? His view narrowed and faded to black.

Time passed.

Cass was suddenly startled awake by movement outside the cab of the truck. His head was swimming.

“Hello? Hey, I need help getting out of here! Is somebody out there?” Cass shouted.

Talking made his head feel like it was about to split completely open. He heard a shuffling sound outside of the shattered windshield, and flipped the flashlight back on again, shining it through the cracked glass.

Somebody was outside. Several somebodies, in fact. Cass could make out at least four figures pressed up against the broken windshield, and several more appearing behind the initial group. His vision was blurred, his eyes crusted over with dried and clotted blood. He rubbed his eyes against his shoulder, inadvertently re-opening the cut on his forehead but succeeding in clearing the dried muck from his eyes.

His initial euphoria at being discovered died as the figures outside the window came more clearly into view.

[DannusMaximus]

The people outside the crushed cab were silent, slowly swaying as they looked through the windshield. All of them were disheveled, all of them had the same glazed, vacant look shown by the other men and women who had tried to attack them that night. His flashlight played across the blank faces and unreactive pupils. The light seemed to stir the figures into action, first one, then all of them beginning to paw and pound on the windshield, faces flexed into horrible noiseless grimaces.

Cass tried to open his cab door, but it was jammed shut, tried to unbuckle his seatbelt, but it was hopelessly twisted in the bent door frame. He reached into his cargo pocket and pulled out a folding knife, cutting through the tough nylon strapping. Freed, he was able to wriggle loose from his seat and slide across the interior engine cowling into the back of the cab. He reached across the hanging figure of Bowden, trying the rear door. Also jammed. Cass was trapped, but forced himself to squash the panic that was welling up in his psyche. Breathe, man. You’ve been in tough spots before. Breathe. Think.

The already damaged windshield was starting to give away under the slow pounding of the figures outside the truck. Cass was backed up against the rear wall of the cab, and suddenly noticed the pistol which Bowden had jammed into the waistband of his bunker pants. He knew nothing about guns, but vaguely remembered the probie saying that you only had to point and pull the trigger on this particular model for it to work. He grabbed the pistol. The windshield was beginning to buckle, stiff arms were reaching into the cab. Cass grabbed the portable radio from the sling across his chest and pointed the pistol at the first figure reaching through the fractured glass.

[DannusMaximus]

One of the figures shuffling slowly by the abandoned police cruiser stopped suddenly as the radio inside the still running vehicle burst into life.

“Central Dispatch from Engine 22, do you copy?”

The figure stopped, drawn by the noise. It didn’t understand anything being transmitted, had in fact lost all concept of language or communication. It did understand that the sounds coming from the object were food sounds, though, and it began walking towards the noise. It stopped when it ran into the door of the cruiser.

“Central, are you monitoring this channel?”

Popp had several peculiarities born of habits developed when he was a rookie many years ago, taught to him by gruff training officers who had survived the racially charged riots of the late 60’s and early 70’s. These habits were reinforced throughout his service during the crack epidemic of the early 80’s and the rise of gang violence which followed. One of these quirks was the old school snub nose he had carried in an ankle holster on his right leg, and which now lay abandoned near the curb. Another was his practice of riding with his windows down, eschewing the beeps of his computer and the air conditioned anonymity of his tinted cab for the sounds and smells of his beat. The sound of the radio transmission rang loud and clear through the open windows.

“Central, this is Engine 22. I have a mayday situation, do you copy?”

The figure pawed at the open passenger window. It had no memory of cars, or how to open a door. Seventeen hours ago, when it had been Dao-ming Cao (‘Demi’ to her non-Chinese friends, a bubbly part-time piano teacher and doting mother of two adorable little boys, aged 5 and 8), it had of course known such things, but no longer. Seventeen hours ago Demi had died, finally succumbing to the roaring fever which had consumed her for three days. Her husband had been out of town on business all week, and the little boys had continued to play video games in their small living room, assuming that the silence from their parent’s bedroom merely meant that mommy had finally been able to fall asleep. Sixteen hours ago they had paid little attention to the figure that appeared in the living room behind them, slowly moving towards them as they sat on the couch absorbed in their game.

Fifteen hours ago it had wandered from it’s apartment, slouching through the front door that her oldest son had managed to pull partially open before he finally bled to death. His blood and that of his younger brother was splattered across it’s nightgown and matted in it’s once lovingly maintained hair. It knew nothing of those children now, nor did it feel any regret over it’s actions. It simply knew it was hungry, and the sounds coming from the object were food sounds. It continued to scrabble at the cruiser door with gore streaked fingers as the sounds emanated from the radio.

“Engine 22 to any unit monitoring, we’ve been in an accident near the intersection of 14th and Oregon, and need any available unit to respond. I have two dead and one critically injured with me. We’re trapped in our truck and are being attacked by a crowd of people.”

Other figures had stopped now, their heads cocked and listening to the food sounds, some of them moving towards the patrol car. The radio crackled back to life after several long seconds of silence.

“Does anybody copy this?”

More seconds passed.

“This is Lieutenant Kenneth Cass, transmitting from Engine 22 of the Raccoon City Fire Department, can anybody hear this?!”

The speaker snapped and cracked and stayed open and transmitting for several minutes after KC had dropped his portable radio. The push to talk had locked open when the mic wedged in between the rear door frame and the floor of the cab. The next sounds over the police car speaker meant nothing to the other figures which had gathered around the cruiser, and they gradually began to drift off in search of food sounds. The thing that used to be Mrs. Cao, however, continued to beat on the car door as the sound of breaking glass and screams and gunshots echoed from the dashboard speaker. It continued to slowly pummel the doorframe for several minutes even after the transmission had ceased and had been replaced by the dull hum of background static. Finally, no longer prompted by any meaningful stimuli, it stopped scraping at the door and wandered slowly off. It shuffled awkwardly down the street, gradually fading into the darkness along with a growing crowd of similar figures, driven into the night in search of relief from their hunger.

[DannusMaximus]

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Part of the whole zombie canon is the idea that a bad ending is almost inevitable. It's almost never a question of if you succumb to the horde. Only when...

Indeed.

This story might seem to have ended rather abruptly, and I guess it kind of did. When I started writing it I had no intention of any of the firefighters or cops surviving, and I wanted to keep things fairly short. The total in-story time frame from the time of dispatch to the last shots fired is probably only a few hours. Believe it or not, I wrote the first draft of this story in MSWord, and it actually runs 27 pages in single spaced 11 point font. That's a lot of writing, it turns out. I had the ending written several days ago, and was trying to figure out how to get from the hallway to the ending. I wargamed several scenarios, including an extended foot movement, holing up in another building with weapons stolen from a downed SWAT team, making a last stand at the Fulton Park Station with their Rescue Squad buddies, etc., etc. The end result was always everybody dying, though, regardless of how long it took to get there.

One thing this little exercise taught me is that I have MUCH respect for the guys and gals who submit stuff to the fiction forum of this website. It's time consuming and rather mentally draining to work your way through a story. Fun, though. I might resurrect the men and women of the RFD and RPD at some point. There's probably quite a bit of backstory I could run with, and likewise a fair number of alternative endings. I think you could probably fill a book with these guys fighting their way out of the city if you wanted to.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the story. I'm a recent convert to the Fiction forum, but am pretty much hooked at this point. Everybody who is writing, keep it up, and thanks for reading!

[Manliest]

Now that's fucked up. I love it.

[majorhavoc]

Outstanding! Simply outstanding. The tie in with the zombie at the squad car, just hours from slaughtering her own children, now privvy, yet equally oblivious, to the last desperate moments of Engine Company 22? It brilliantly captures the desperately poignant, soul-searing horror that is central to zombie lore. Poetry man, sheer thematic poetry.

Thanks for sharing your talent, your creativity, and your unflinching take on the undead. It was a great ride and a superb ending. I'll definitely be looking for your name to pop up again in the fiction forum, DM.

[Laager]

Exceellent!!