Base.
But that one went sideways on him. He’d only managed to set
off a chain reaction outbreak in the civilian quarters. To which the fucking
soldiers showed up with Bradley Fighting Vehicles and Humvees and overwhelming
firepower. Cowards. Just like dropping the Oakland Bay Bridge into the drink to
save San Francisco. Using maximum force against their own populace in order to
save their own asses—cowards one and all. And in the end his escape from
Schriever undetected had been made possible because of the soldiers’
unwillingness to clean up their own messes ... to do their own dirty work.
Burial detail. He’d volunteered days before. A means to an end . Loading
the infected onto Dead Sleds—massive earth moving dump trucks—and then sending
them back, ashes to ashes and dirt to dirt, from whence they came. Nope
... nobody wanted to touch that task with a ten-foot pole. Not even the brave warriors .
Going outside of the wire to bury the very folks he’d just infected, as much as
killing his driver—the affable Private Mark Farnsworth—was also a means to
an end . And if all went as planned, that end would be very profound and
he’d finally strike a deadly blow to the heartless automatons who’d signed his
family’s death warrant on that Bay Bridge nearly three weeks ago.
Wishing he had an energy drink or steaming cup of black
coffee, or better yet a rail of something much stronger, chemically based and
white, Elvis cast a quick glance at Bishop who was watching him through a pair
of binoculars from the covered wraparound porch of the giant lake house.
So, just as he had done after volunteering as a driver for
the Minot mission weeks ago, he put his head down and did what he was told. Two
hours , he guessed. Two more hours and he’d have enough of the forest pushed
back and the soil packed and grated smooth that he could relax. Maybe even
sleep. He smiled at the thought of putting his head down and closing his eyes.
But then remembered what Bishop had said: A plat inside the security perimeter
sufficient in size to accommodate a number of helicopters. The muscular former
Seal had also ordered him to make it a ‘flag lot,’ leaving room enough for a tractor
trailer to back in and still remain under cover of the trees on the ‘pole part’
of the clearing. But Elvis had no idea what in the hell a flag lot was, let
alone the pole part of a fucking flag lot. Plus he’d just arrived from
his cross-country drive when the orders had been issued and had been much too
tired to request clarification. So he’d nodded and forced his eyes to remain
open and winged it—just as he was doing now.
He raised the blade by a few degrees and set the tractor to
idling. Pictured a mental image of a flag flapping in the breeze. He looked
left and then right. Which corner would the pole go on? He reached into a
pocket. Came out with a poker chip he’d scooped off the ground outside an
Indian Casino somewhere west of the Rockies. Left for heads, right for
tails, he thought as he flipped the clay marker into the air. He caught it
and slapped it on his thigh and removed his hand. Tails.
Right it is, he thought. One thousand worthless
dollars’ worth of right. He clanked the dozer over to the spot where the
chip decided he would start the next cut. Along the way he passed by the
black-clad soldiers, who abruptly stopped hacking appendages from the oblivious
flesh eater and flashed smiles and bloodied blades, as if to say Take a look
at our handiwork .
And he did, stopping the dozer broadside. He feigned a
conspiratorial smile and was caught off guard by the sharp pong wafting off the
corpse. Crinkling his nose, he whispered his new mantra, “Means to an end.”
Though he didn’t want to, he found himself compelled to set eyes on the poor
creature. From the neck up the thing was nearly impossible to look at. Truly a
ghastly sight, minus everything fleshy: nose, ears, lips, eyelids. The zombie
had been rendered
But that one went sideways on him. He’d only managed to set
off a chain reaction outbreak in the civilian quarters. To which the fucking
soldiers showed up with Bradley Fighting Vehicles and Humvees and overwhelming
firepower. Cowards. Just like dropping the Oakland Bay Bridge into the drink to
save San Francisco. Using maximum force against their own populace in order to
save their own asses—cowards one and all. And in the end his escape from
Schriever undetected had been made possible because of the soldiers’
unwillingness to clean up their own messes ... to do their own dirty work.
Burial detail. He’d volunteered days before. A means to an end . Loading
the infected onto Dead Sleds—massive earth moving dump trucks—and then sending
them back, ashes to ashes and dirt to dirt, from whence they came. Nope
... nobody wanted to touch that task with a ten-foot pole. Not even the brave warriors .
Going outside of the wire to bury the very folks he’d just infected, as much as
killing his driver—the affable Private Mark Farnsworth—was also a means to
an end . And if all went as planned, that end would be very profound and
he’d finally strike a deadly blow to the heartless automatons who’d signed his
family’s death warrant on that Bay Bridge nearly three weeks ago.
Wishing he had an energy drink or steaming cup of black
coffee, or better yet a rail of something much stronger, chemically based and
white, Elvis cast a quick glance at Bishop who was watching him through a pair
of binoculars from the covered wraparound porch of the giant lake house.
So, just as he had done after volunteering as a driver for
the Minot mission weeks ago, he put his head down and did what he was told. Two
hours , he guessed. Two more hours and he’d have enough of the forest pushed
back and the soil packed and grated smooth that he could relax. Maybe even
sleep. He smiled at the thought of putting his head down and closing his eyes.
But then remembered what Bishop had said: A plat inside the security perimeter
sufficient in size to accommodate a number of helicopters. The muscular former
Seal had also ordered him to make it a ‘flag lot,’ leaving room enough for a tractor
trailer to back in and still remain under cover of the trees on the ‘pole part’
of the clearing. But Elvis had no idea what in the hell a flag lot was, let
alone the pole part of a fucking flag lot. Plus he’d just arrived from
his cross-country drive when the orders had been issued and had been much too
tired to request clarification. So he’d nodded and forced his eyes to remain
open and winged it—just as he was doing now.
He raised the blade by a few degrees and set the tractor to
idling. Pictured a mental image of a flag flapping in the breeze. He looked
left and then right. Which corner would the pole go on? He reached into a
pocket. Came out with a poker chip he’d scooped off the ground outside an
Indian Casino somewhere west of the Rockies. Left for heads, right for
tails, he thought as he flipped the clay marker into the air. He caught it
and slapped it on his thigh and removed his hand. Tails.
Right it is, he thought. One thousand worthless
dollars’ worth of right. He clanked the dozer over to the spot where the
chip decided he would start the next cut. Along the way he passed by the
black-clad soldiers, who abruptly stopped hacking appendages from the oblivious
flesh eater and flashed smiles and bloodied blades, as if to say Take a look
at our handiwork .
And he did, stopping the dozer broadside. He feigned a
conspiratorial smile and was caught off guard by the sharp pong wafting off the
corpse. Crinkling his nose, he whispered his new mantra, “Means to an end.”
Though he didn’t want to, he found himself compelled to set eyes on the poor
creature. From the neck up the thing was nearly impossible to look at. Truly a
ghastly sight, minus everything fleshy: nose, ears, lips, eyelids. The zombie
had been rendered
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