Zombie Spring's Roland Thomas Type IV

The Arrival

Ten wide-eyed soldiers lined the freeway. Their hands were on their hips, and their jaws were somewhere near their toes. Each shared the same alarming thoughts and felt a tightness in their stomachs and chests that would not go away; for before them lay a carpet of bodies that stretched away as far as they could see. From the roadside to the hills beyond, lay the remains of tens of thousands of IED dead: a result of multiple fuel-air explosions, cannon, and small arms fire. Horrific blasts of incalculable power and five days of uncharacteristic spring heat left their Undead foes dried and shriveled husks, but what remained produced an overpowering stench of decay and a visual blight that dampened the troopers’ spirits on what otherwise would have been a marvelous looking day.

Many thoughts coursed through the soldiers’ heads, but the recurring themes were similar. My God! We have to get through that? Can we do it? Disgusting! Are they all dead… truly dead? Is there another way? Why us? These horrible flies… ugh! A few were quick to note that there was not a single officer amongst them.

Rank has its privileges.

Throughout the last millennium of bloody warfare, man has honed his tactics and skills down to a science, but many aspects of fighting have not changed since the first warrior picked up a rock and bounced it off his adversary’s head. One of the prime tenets of combat is when preparing to meet the enemy, either dig a deep hole and keep your head down, or find the high ground, take it, and hold it. Never get caught in the middle!

In this particular case, it was the first squad, third platoon of Kilo Company’s job to secure Hill 542. From the time they left the freeway until the time they reached the summit of 542, they would live or die in the middle ground.

One of the men lowered the notebook he had been using to shade his eyes. His gruff voice broke the group trance by barking out a series of orders.

The trim, athletic man with the sergeant’s stripes called out, "Get ready to move out. Fix bayonets, line formation. Corporal Doogan, you anchor the center. Everyone, and he put extreme emphasis on that last word, watch out for Biters, Crawlers, and Type III’s that might be concealed among the bodies. Sully, I want you on the left flank. Viktor, end on right."

The rasping of bayonets leaving their scabbards and the snicking sound of handles latching onto bayonet lugs accompanied the soldiers’ movements as they shuffled into position. Lissa Doogan checked out the troops’ intervals and readiness on her left side and then her right, before she assumed her position in the center.

Ready, sergeant. And then she cocked her head to the side and peered at the man in charge. If I’m anchoring the center, where will you be, Shell?

Right behind you.

A ghost of a smile brightened his face, and then it was gone as if it had never been. He circled his right hand over his head and ordered, Move out.

The wary ten-man patrol wended its way to the southeast, away from the ruins of Fortress Joyous Gard. According to newly appointed Captain Lukas Hammerstein, their primary mission was to secure Hill 542 and establish a lofty base along I-Corps’ eastern flank. Once established, the squad’s duty was to eliminate infiltrating IED’s and warn against large concentrations of Dead gathering to the east.

On the face of it, the task appeared to be fairly routine. Drive south two miles from the abandoned fortress, debark, and head for the high ground, but when 1st Squad arrived at their first way point, they discovered that the area had not yet been cleansed of the havoc of war. In short, charred bodies lay just as they had, when five days ago, the United States Air Force laid waste to the I-5 corridor all the way from Fortress Joyous Gard to Los Angeles. IED dead littered the 400 yards between the freeway’s margin and the base of Hill 542 on the east.

The men and women in the patrol moved skillfully and with great care, probing and edging their way towards the heights southeast of the freeway. Negotiating a safe pathway through the field of dead was brutal, dangerous work. The Dead were so tightly amassed that from the air, the scene would have resembled a line of ten ants traversing a gigantic field that was both a maze and a jigsaw puzzle, with twisted bodies serving as the interlocking pieces.

Most of the twice dead or TD’s were leathery black husks, but here and there, hidden in the piles of bodies, were Biters or ZAM’s. Next to the Type III IED’s, ZAM’s were the bane of the infantrymen. Walkers and Crawlers gave themselves away by their motion and their raised profile. ZAM’s, on the other hand, looked TD because they could not walk or crawl, but if a trooper stepped near one, sometimes the head had just enough juice left to take a bite out of an unsuspecting leg. The acronym, ZAM, was infantry slang for Zombie Antipersonnel Mine because ferreting out a Biter was a lot like plunging a bayonet into the ground to probe for a deadly land mine.

The usual way soldiers dealt with suspected Biters was to use the tried and true method pioneered by Captain Hettie Younger. They fixed their bayonets to their M-16 rifles, and when confronted by a potential ZAM, the bayonet was inserted deep into the Undead’s mouth. Zombies have no guile, so if the mouth clamped shut, the soldier withdrew the blade and fired a round into the IED’s brain. Alternately, the soldier saved the bullet and drove the blade through the IED’s eye socket. The means of dispatching the low level threat depended upon what each soldier could stand. A bullet was clean, efficient, noisy and wasteful of a 5.56 mm round, but a bayonet thrust into a crispy Zombie’s eye socket often resulted in a head stuck on the end of the blade, and that head had to be removed. That meant a gooey foot or the use of momentum to fling the head off the blade. Either way, it was a spectacle that only an Attila the Hun or a Genghis Khan could fully appreciate.

Shelton Tucker was a twelve-year veteran of three police actions in the Middle East. He was the sergeant in command of the patrol. At the ripe old age of twenty-nine, he was an acknowledged leader of men and a handy man to have around when things got rough. His men called him Shell or Tuck, and on those rare occasions when he screwed up, they made fun of Shell’s name by calling him Dud.

Sullivan! Viktor! Slow it down. You’re getting too far ahead of the others, warned Shell.

The intervals were ragged, and that would not do. If the men did not get too far ahead of each other and maintained their proper intervals, then their fields of fire would overlap everywhere except on the flanks and give them all an extra measure of protection.

Shell felt nervous pressure build from within. "Lissa, skirt that mound of dead in the center. Take the men on your right flank and go around. Meet up with the left on the other side.

Sully, watch that pile of bodies on your flank. Easy does it.

Tuck’s voice was raspy. His face was uncharacteristically white, and not for the first time this day did he wonder, is this it for me? I haven’t felt right since the Z’s chased us out of LA.

Sully picked up the change of tone and sneaked a peek at his sergeant. His color wasn’t right, and sweat poured down his face.

Do I look as haggard as him? Yes, sergeant, replied Sullivan with concern. I got the flank covered.

Sergeant Tucker wore a three day growth of stubble that aged his young face considerably, and like many of the other men and women he served with, his eyes were sunken and showed traces of dark shadows. The horrors of the Death March I-Corps endured during its retreat from LA were clearly stamped on his craggy features, as were the words, March or Die! etched into his memory.

A gunshot on the right whipped Sully’s head around. It was Armstrong dispatching a Biter hidden under a pile of bodies. Then came a flurry of shots from the center at something he couldn’t see. He craned his neck as far as he could to…

An explosion came from directly behind him, and Sullivan leaped at the ugly sound of a bullet striking bone. The Zombie that would have killed him was still falling backwards when Shell launched into him with an angry tirade.

"Damn it, Sully. You keep your mind on the left, THE LEFT YOU HEAR ME? CRIMINY…"

Lissa cut him off and pointed. "Type III! Type III! Watch it, Ollie! In that pile on your right. OLLIE!"

Ollie picked up the threat and dispatched his crouching enemy. With Type III’s, you never knew where you were going to find one. All you knew for sure was that they’d be coming at you out of the corners of your eyes or from behind. They were deadly.

As they neared the base of the hills that lined the I-5 corridor, Shell slowed his pace until he could see all of his troopers clearly from one side to the other. From that vantage point he watched his men zigzag their way through the field of bodies. They were good, real good, and he felt a great measure of pride in what he helped accomplish in building this unit.

Sergeant Tucker swung his weary body around to observe the far right flank. In doing so, he caught Corporal Lissa Doogan’s smile. He never tired of that smile, and just for a single moment, his heart lifted and his feet felt lighter.

Lissa hoped that the smile she gave him masked her concern for his failing health. During the Death March out of LA, he more than anyone, saved the lives of her squad by pushing, cajoling, supporting, and being the first in line to bear the brunt of the constant IED attacks. Sadly, it had taken its toll on the man, and everybody knew it. Tuck had no idea how concerned the squad was for his wellbeing.

Shell returned Lissa’s smile, and more. All good leaders have a sixth sense, and so he said the words everyone wanted and needed to hear. He said them loud and clear.

I’m doing fine back here, corporal. Couldn’t be better.

Shell lied because the unit needed him, and he could not bring himself to admit weakness before his troopers. He could not face the fact that he was the unit’s weakest link, so his next suggestion to her was purely defensive.

Watch your step, Lizzy, or you’ll end up flat on your face in a pile of dead bodies.

The words were barely out of his mouth when a sharp pain shot down his left arm. He winced and ground his teeth together to choke off his cry of pain; he almost stumbled and fell. His vision clouded over, and for a scary moment, Sergeant Tucker feared he was blind. This was the third such incident in two days.

The man was a realist. I think my days are numbered. Too bad. I was hoping to be here at the end of all this fighting.

His right hand drifted down into his pocket for the bottle of aspirin he carried. Wouldn’t be caught dead without it, he silently joked. Shell looked up at Lissa’s back, and a tear welled up.

She’ll find someone else.

The squad walked on in silence for a few minutes before Lissa spoke quietly from the side of her mouth. "Chino."

A man drifted closer to her. Yes, corporal, he returned in a subdued voice.

I think something’s up with Tuck. Help me keep watch over him. There was an unmistakable sound of desperation in her voice.

Chino’s eyes rose ever so slightly and took in her look of worry. He also caught a fleeting glimpse of his sergeant’s face. Chino was no dummy. He wasn’t blind to what he saw.

Yes, Mother Doogan.

The wise guy reply was standard form for the man. He didn’t know any other way.

That got a few looks of amusement from those that overheard, but Lissa shot him back a quick look of gratitude. She would have pummeled his arm for that comment too, but he was keeping himself just out of her reach. The crafty Chino was always one step ahead.

The squad plodded its way through the killing zone until it finally stood before the lower slopes of Hill 542. Shell called a twenty-minute halt so that he could survey the next leg of their journey. The trail didn’t seem so bad until he realized that his neck had stiffened while peering at the summit. Tuck estimated that the chosen route was shorter than all of the other possibilities, but it was narrow with steep sloping sides.

All in a day’s work, thought Shell. Work your way through hundreds of yards of… of extremely hazardous waste, and then climb to the summit of a fairly large hill. Thank goodness we’re not making this climb at night. At least there’s a trail of sorts… with signs of recent usage. Hmmm.

The concerned sergeant knelt down and carefully examined the tracks. The indentations along the edges were sharp, and that implied visitors, and not that long ago.

Well, no matter. I’ve got my orders.

At the end of twenty minutes, Shell gave out explicit commands. We’re moving up this trail in staggered column formation. I’ll be at the head of the column. Ollie, you and Viktor take point and stay within sight of the column at all times. Someone or something has used this trail recently, and until we know more about our guests, we must assume that they are a hostile force. Sven and Wallace, I want you two at the rear.

Shell took one more look around. His eyes missed nothing. Let’s move out.

Ninety Minutes Later

The summit of Hill 542 was the highest knob on a range of hills that extended North, East, and South. Shell Tucker planned to station his lookouts upon the lofty pinnacle during the daylight hours, and run two man patrols along the high ridges at night.

Three-hundred yards below the summit, ten tired soldiers got a nice reprieve when they discovered an L-shaped cut in the side of the hill with a good-sized shelf to rest on. The ground was very level, and there were three large shade trees near the edge of the plateau on the eastern most side. The ground was soft and grassy, and in one corner of the ledge there were large piles of windblown leaves and a fallen tree trunk.

The men breathed a sigh of relief. With bedding, kindling, shade, and a fantastic view what more could they ask for? The place was perfect for an encampment, not only because of the amenities, but because the summit was only a fifteen minute stroll for the lookouts.

After a quick visual for signs of danger, Sergeant Tucker made up his mind to make the shelf their base camp. The place was made to order.

We’ll make camp right here, said Shell. Stack your rifles by those piles of leaves.

He jabbed his finger at two men. Not you, Ollie and Wallace. You two will take first watch on the summit.

Awww! What’re you pickin’ us for? squealed Ollie.

Because you’re so damn pretty! Shell slapped his right fist into his left hand and gave them his best no nonsense look.

We’re tired, whined Wallace.

Okay, boys, who should I send in your place? This is going to be fun, thought Tucker as he gestured to the other troopers.

Seven soldiers faced around and glared at the two malcontents. One made a throat slashing motion with her finger. Another made a big fist and shook it at their faces.

With loud sighs, Ollie and Wallace spun around and headed for the peak. They knew when they were licked.

Doogan, called out Shell. Take over for a while, will you?

Lissa took one look at Shell and gave the order he needed the most. Two hour rest, boys and girls.

Sergeant Tucker sat down and propped his back against a rock. He leaned his head backwards and closed his eyes while the rest of the squad stacked their arms and headed for the precipice to take in the view. To the east and stretching far into the distance were hills, mountains, valleys, and the desert. To the south, towering black clouds of smoke marked the funeral pyres of millions of the Undead. Even as they watched, dozens of road rollers swept down the sides of I-5 and crushed the drying remains of the Dead. Following closely behind the road rollers came lines of armored bulldozers for the purpose of shoveling and piling the flattened husks into huge mounds that would be set afire after the sun and heat absorbed the remaining moisture.

To the north, huge cranes were in the process of disassembling the famous wall of boxcars that helped save an army corps and stopped millions of the southland’s Undead from migrating northward into central California. General Jones ordered that the gallant Fortress Joyous Gard be returned to its former state and the moat filled in before the rains came and weakened the Rainbow Trail. If the Trail were to collapse, a major artery between the southland and the north would be lost.

A large flag that once graced a capital ship, sparkled and shimmered over the summit of Hill 503. The banner stood out from the hillside and waved a reassuring greeting to the troopers.

Yes, I’m still here, was the vibrant message carried on the wind.

Below the walls and just south of the moat sat a million gallons of stale gasoline in two makeshift reservoirs and a pair of hundred-thousand gallon reservoirs of used motor oil. Gaia’s nervous engineers stood ready to open the huge gate valves on both sides of the moat that would send the mixture cascading into the huge ditch.

In the moat itself, volunteers from nearby towns heaped tons and tons of brush and construction lumber atop the dead in an effort to create an inferno capable of incinerating an estimated one million bodies. Captain Gaia, the army’s chief engineer hoped for a bake down effect with the bodies sandwiched between the timbers on top and the gasoline below.

When the fires burned out, an army of bulldozers was ready to fill the moat with the soil that once made up the castle’s huge glacises. In the end, the proud flag on Hill 503 and the small, sad graveyard of soldiers and citizens that died defending the pass would be all that remained of the fortress and its impressive earthworks.

On the other side of the freeway and opposite the graveyard was the motor pool, I-Corps’ huge supply depot, and a long line of fuel tankers ready to refill the storage tanks if a second burn was necessary. Southwards, across the Rainbow Trail and perhaps one-and-a-half miles down the road was the new base headquarters. Two medium sized tents housed Five-Star General Cartwright Jones and Admiral Elwood Dewey in the one and Colonel Chris Okusako and Major Buck Smiley Bellew in the other. A third tent was a circus Big Top. The all canvas enclosure was special and of magnificent proportions. It was situated nearest the freeway for easy access.

Automobiles lined the edges of the freeway, and a few civilian helicopters sat a short distance to the north of the parking areas between the Gard and Tent City.

Early in the morning when the squad drove passed the huge tent, swarms of people in fancy suits milled about the entranceway to the Big Top, waiting to be admitted and seated in its cavernous interior. Now, except for a few posted sentries, things looked peaceful in camp, but everyone knew different. The Big Top was sitting on a powder keg, and the man holding the match was their commanding officer.

Lissa smirked and laughed under her breath, nor was she the only one wearing an expectant smile. The scuttlebutt going ‘round was that Colonel Chris Okusako, the Military Governor of California, had called a mandatory meeting of the surviving state politicians, leading manufacturers, and growers of crops and livestock for the purpose of discussing the future of California as it related to those three classes of people. The guards that encircled General Jones’ and Admiral Dewey’s tent passed on the news that the two Chiefs of Staff were overheard discussing secret plans to slip out of Tent City before Chris threw his, "…usual diplomatic bomb," as they put it. When he did, the devious Jones and Dewey planned to be miles away before the uproar began.

An explosion of flames tipped with dense clouds of black smoke shot up from both sides of the moat. The twin fireballs were nothing short of spectacular, and they elicited the expected and enthusiastic Oohs and Ahs from her squad mates. Sullivan and Armstrong climbed a tree seeking more elevation for a grander view.

Lissa grimaced. From a historical standpoint, we are probably looking at the largest funeral pyre in the history of the world, and my guys act like it's a wiener roast.

Through the distance, the flames, and the black smoke the squad saw that half of Joyous Gard’s boxcars were still standing. A breezy south wind worked its way through the pass. Dust, foul odors, greasy smoke, and heat blew directly into the demolition crews bent on dismantling the rest of the wall. Lissa’s squad hooted and howled at the sight of the fleeing workers.

No need to guess whose side her squaddies were on. The great wall would stand another day or at least until the wind changed direction.

From tent city, a navy helicopter took off on a southwesterly heading. Lissa beamed. Yup, That’ll be the general and the admiral heading for the hills. The little chickens. She looked at the hands on her watch. Well, I didn’t win the betting pool, I wonder who did?

A chorus of groans rent the air followed by Viktor’s, "I win! I win! Wait! Wait! Don’t pay up yet. I’ll bet double or nothing that Jones and Dewey will be back before 1800 hours tonight. Takers?"

The smiles disappeared over time. Lissa, Sven, Viktor, Chino, and Chamis stood as a group and watched the distant flames and boiling black smoke, but at some point, their earlier fascination with the blaze turned into a moment of contemplation. One by one, and in his or her own way, they were remembering what happened at Joyous Gard.

They remembered the Death March and then the cataclysmic battle to control the Rainbow Trail. There in that narrow pass, it seemed like the war in the west subtly tilted in favor of the Living.

When I first saw Joyous Gard, I couldn’t believe my eyes, said Chamis. It was like a fairytale come true. The fortress and the people who manned the walls saved us. It seems wrong to tear the place down. It hurts me right here, she said, and she placed a slightly quivering hand on her chest.

A tear rolled down Sven’s cheek. I know what you mean, Chammy. I wish the place could stand forever. I want to remember what I saw and how I felt when we passed down the Rainbow Trail and marched through the portal. Wasn’t it wonderful? The cannon, the music, the colorful uniforms…

The food! exclaimed Viktor. Remember the kids with the signs directing us to the rest areas and the mess tents?

Sven irreverently belched. And when you sat down to eat, I remember that you fell asleep with a drumstick sticking out of your mouth. Why if I hadn’t happened along when I did, you would’ve choked to death.

Buck up, y’all. Chino was animated. This is America, boys and girls. If we survive the Zombie Wars, in ten years this place will be rebuilt, a town will spring up around it, and we’ll be paying ten dollars a head to walk down memory lane.

Lissa socked Chino in the arm. Idiot, she grinned.

Chino laughed and pointed a finger at her nose. You know I’m right. Admit it. If there’s a way to make money, Americans will find it. You don’t believe me? Well, take a gander at this.

Everyone gathered around to take a peek. In his hand he held a dramatic picture of then Captain Chris Okusako proposing marriage to Lieutenant Cindy Christopherson on the summit of Hill 503. It was just after the Shinpuu Incident. The American flag flew in the background, the Undead littered the steep slopes, fire spat from machine guns, and there was just enough smoke in the air to create an atmosphere of desperation and a feeling that the power of love conquers all.

Chino gloated. That picture is going to make me rich someday.

How so? asked Viktor.

Valentine’s Day, you lug nut…

The rest of what he was going to say was cut off because Chino was gang tackled by Sven, Viktor, and Chamis. Lissa noted with interest that somebody managed to jerk Chino’s pants down around his ankles. Probably the flirty little Chamis, suspected Lissa.

Shell slipped to the ground and lay on his elbow howling like a wolf. Sully and Armstrong yelled out encouragement from the top of the tree and pelted those below with acorns.

Soldiers at their very best, she decided. Lissa turned once again to view the remains of the Gard. What a shame nothing lasts. Such a gallant little fortress.

Only a few days ago, Shell and Sven carried Lissa across the Rainbow Trail. She remembered the exact moment her eyes came into focus, and she saw the succoring walls of the Gard. Old Glory floated proudly above it, the band played rousing music, children and townspeople cheered and welcomed them, and best of all… for the first time in days, they could rest and eat without worrying about being torn to pieces. It was like a wonderful dream.

Lissa’s reminiscences ended with a shout of alarm from Sergeant Tucker. The large piles of leaves on the shelf jiggled, juddered, and exploded outwards exposing three nasty looking IED’s. The three immediately spread from each other and came straight towards the soldiers in a smooth arc.

That surprised no one. Everyone knew that IED’s were pack hunters, and what these three were attempting to do was hem in their prey against the cliff.

It was what happened next that was as surprising as it was terrifying. As the three Undead approached, they began to lick the ends of their fingers or dip them into sores or wounds on their bodies. Somehow, these Undead knew that they could either kill or reproduce themselves with a single scratch.

Lissa hauled Shell to his feet. Have you ever seen or heard of Zombies doing that before? she asked in amazement.

No, I think we’re the first, said the sergeant haltingly.

Well, aren’t we just covered with luck! What are we going to do, sarge? implored Sven.

Three Zombies, even smarter ones than usual, would normally pose no problem for a squad of soldiers except that this squad stacked their arms, and the Undead were between the men and their weapons. With a precipice on one side of the triangular shelf and IED’s on the other, Shell had only two realistic options remaining. Either he ordered his men to climb the trees, or they ran down Hill 542 and got some help.

Shell took an aggressive step towards the downward slope and halted dead in his tracks. Two more Zombies were on the slope. The shelf was a trap, and they were surrounded.

Everyone, get up the trees. HURRY! cried Shell.

The first three Undead slowed their pace until the other two joined them from the slope. With the ring formed, each step forward tightened the noose around the group of soldiers.

Meanwhile, the Living were frantically trying to shinny up the slippery tree trunks with combat boots more suited for running through dirt than gripping hardwood surfaces. Sully and Armstrong reached down from their perches to give a helping hand, but some people have no aptitude for climbing. In the end, five troopers managed to climb to safety, two were on the summit unaware of what was happening down below, and three were still on the ground looking for an escape route.

Shell, Lissa, and Sven spent what they thought would be their last moments on Earth watching their ends approach, and they were grisly ends to be sure. Of the five enemies, four of them were whole, and one of them was badly burned. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the attacking IED’s were Type III’s, but if there had been, those doubts would have been immediately dispelled after listening to the quality of their moans. Only a T3 can moan with rage. Only a T3 can show that same emotion on its face.

The treed soldiers yelled, Run! But there was nowhere to run. The choices were the leap of faith and hope to survive the plunge off the cliff, or try a mad dash through the line of Undead.

Someone might make it if we run, thought the sergeant. Maybe even two might survive if a sacrifice is made.

The partially cremated III on the end was his best bet. What about jumping? he wondered.

Shell eyed the drop off the face of the cliff, and two thoughts instantly came to mind. The first was, unless someone puts a gun to my head, there is absolutely no way I am going to jump off this cliff!

The second thought was that the squad was his responsibility, and it was up to him to see that everyone survived, even at the cost of his life. That was part of what wearing those sergeant’s stripes was all about, and every day that he donned his uniform, he knew that he would lead from the front, fight like a lion, and lay down his life if the situation required it. Shell made up his mind. He chose door number two.

Shell knew that if anyone could survive a savage encounter with a T3, it would be himself because he played linebacker on his high school football team. He was big and fast, and if he could hit the Z with enough force and level him, then the three soldiers might be able to get to their weapons. If only his head would stop swimming. If only he could avoid being scratched.

Sven, Lissa. Get behind me. I-formation. On ‘three’ we will make an end run on the last IED on the left.

Sergeant Tucker took the time to point so that there would be no misunderstanding about which left he was talking about. I’ll lead and take out the crispy critter on the end. You other two, no matter what happens to me, head for the rifles or get down the hill.

Lissa grabbed Shell’s arm and peered into his eyes. "On my life, Shell, I will never leave you… ever!" Her tone of voice showed her fierce determination, and it shocked him to the core.

Sven started to protest also, but the look Tucker gave them brooked no argument. NO NONSENSE! We go on three! he repeated.

ONE! TWO! THR…???

Puffs and swirls of dust rose from a section of hillside directly above the T3’s. The blank surface began to shift, crumble, and lift away. Hands emerged from beneath the dirt and the dust, to be swiftly followed by an emotionless face. A body erupted from the ground and sat bolt upright in almost the same manner as one might imagine a vampire rising from his coffin in the dead of night. A

(picture: Roland Rises From The Grave)

helmet hid the upper third of the creature’s head, ugly sores scarred his lower face, and marble white eyes gleamed within the shadow cast by the helmet’s brim. When he rose to his feet, his stance and posture was that of a colossus. He carried no soldier’s weapon, but in each hand he held a rock the size of a six-pound shot put.

Sergeant Tucker ordered, "Stand fast. Don’t anybody move. Don’t even breathe!"

Shell had to think, and he had to think fast. The three of them didn’t have good odds before the sixth IED popped out of the ground, but now? His every instinct told him to carry through with his original plan, but there was something about the new arrival that made him think that trying to escape would be a waste of time, that only the rifles would give his men an even chance. He thought about ordering his men out of the trees and making a concerted dash for the stacked rifles, but before he could do that, he thought of something that changed everything.

Shell’s eyes zeroed in on the rocks gripped in the entity’s hands, and something sparked in his memory.

He can use weapons too. Impossible!!! T3’s don’t use weapons. They don’t stand erect and exude buckets of charisma. They don’t… Suddenly his heart sank and a dizzying thought struck him a hammer blow. He’s a IV. He’s a bloody, damn Type IV, and now we are in for it!

If the newcomer’s appearance struck the troopers dumb with amazement, the effect on the III’s was just as remarkable. Somehow the Undead instinctively knew about the figure behind them because they hunched their shoulders, crouched, and spun around as if they expected to be attacked. They trained their colorless eyes on the menacing apparition on the slopes above them, and then began the strangest staring match any living human ever witnessed.

Shell Tucker gaped at the man on the hill and then at the group of III’s. He didn’t know what to think. Clearly, they were all Undead and inimical to life, but it was evident to him that the III’s perceived the T4 as an even greater threat than the eight soldiers in or around the trees. Tucker’s squad was nothing but a distant memory to the Infected.

The staring match continued, and if Shell hadn’t been so mesmerized by the encounter, he would have ordered Sven and Lissa to run past the preoccupied III’s and escape down the hill while he made an effort to obtain a rifle. Instead, they all watched in tense silence as a battle of wills raged between the Hunter-Killers and the solitary figure confronting them.

Every soldier knows what a Type III IED will do when faced with danger. It will either fight with fierceness and determination, or it will flee. In this case, something very different happened. Three of them began to vibrate as if they were victims in the last stages of malaria. The shaking soon subsided and the three shook themselves like wet dogs and set off towards the man on the hillside. Presumably, those three were in attack mode. The fourth Zombie did something wholly unexpected. She sat down, crossed her legs, and went into a trance-like state. The fifth IED turned away, shambled by the startled soldiers in apparent haste, and stepped off the precipice to fall upon the sharp rocks a hundred feet below.

The leaper was definitely TD, and Shell had just enough time to congratulate himself for not ordering Sven and Lissa to jump when the man on the hill flew into action. He wound up and launched the first rock at the III on his right, and what a throw it was. The chunk of granite was in his hand, and then it wasn’t. It was like a stab of light that shrilled like a small rocket engine before impacting the IED somewhere in the lower chest. Almost instantly, a cavernous exit wound opened up in the T3’s back, and an explosion of tissue and bone fragments sprayed from a terrible wound.

Lissa was standing next to one of the trees, when the stone caromed off the trunk with a loud crack. The harsh sound startled her, but the piece of bark that grazed her cheek was what got her moving. She rolled to her left and sprang to her feet just as the second rock smashed into the skull of the center IED with the same terrible velocity as the first. The head atomized and sprayed outwards in gooey globs and bloody ichor. It vanished as though it had never been. The stricken Zombie crashed to the ground with the stump of his spine protruding from the ragged flaps of skin that once made up his neck.

Sarge! hissed Sven. Shouldn’t we make a break for the rifles?

The men in the trees swung down to the ground in ones and twos and crouched together in a huddle.

Tucker was adamant. No, we stay put and let them kill each other off. There’s still too many of them. Unless they come after us, we wait it out.

Shell was about to say more, but the words caught in his throat. The T4 on the side of the hill chose that moment to make a soaring leap into the midst of the surviving T3’s. As soon as his feet smacked the turf, the two IED’s went for the stranger with their teeth and claws. Even though the soldiers were trained in hand-to-hand combat, and a few knew first hand the savagery involved, none of them were prepared for what they saw. Clawed fingers swiped away long strips of flesh, meat and sinew was ripped from bones, teeth flashed and removed chunks of flesh, the scalp of one was ripped from his head and hung down over his ear, and throughout it all was a moaning that was different because mixed in were sounds not unlike a snarling wolf.

Finally the Undead soldier gained an advantage over the disabled IED. He reached his hand inside the Zombie’s chest cavity through the hole made by the rock, latched on to his spine, and pulled with all his enormous strength. The III’s back arched until his head was nearly below his hips. Then came a very un-Zombie like grunt from the lips of the Type IV, and the III snapped in two so that the back of his head struck the heels of his shoes.

During the time it took for the IV to dispose of the second Hunter-Killer, his remaining enemy was free to wreak terrible damage on the former soldier. It gnawed off his ear, ripped out an eye, chewed off some fingers, and was clawing through his rib cage when the soldier swung a powerful right fist and sent most of his arm through the Zombie’s head to end the struggle.

The body sagged, the soldier lowered his arm, and the T3 quietly slipped to the ground. Jagged bone fragments from the ruined skull streaked and gouged the IV’s arm as he shook himself free of the remains.

The eight soldiers saw their chance and spread out into a loose semicircle around the IV and the remaining III. Although they effectively hemmed in their enemy, it was unclear who had the upper hand if push turned into shove. One thing was certain. By the expressions on their faces, not one of the soldiers wanted anything to do with the T4, and Tucker was smart enough not to force anything.

Stay right where you are! ordered Shell. Don’t anybody move. Don’t anybody do anything to provoke that thing!

Can we take him? asked Lissa.

Every eye turned to the sergeant. Maybe, said Shell, "but if we try, most of us will get infected or killed. In case you haven’t realized it yet, that’s a Type IV. Look at him. He understands every word I’m saying." Tucker shook his head. His thoughts were becoming cloudy.

The lips on the IV curled into a smile, and then he did something no one expected in their wildest dreams. He didn’t attack, and he didn’t run. Instead, he reached behind him and grabbed an M-4 carbine, and while the IED didn’t exactly aim the weapon at the men, it was pointed in their direction.

The T4 broke the silence and spoke in a very matter-of-fact way. You’re absolutely correct in your assessment, Sergeant Tucker, but why should you attack me? Doesn’t the old adage ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend’ apply to Zombies as well as the Living. Don’t you have standing orders that compel you to capture a Type IV alive? Don’t you follow the directives of your commanding officers?

Tucker’s mind was spinning, and he wasn’t alone. Standing before them was a dead man lecturing them about their duty. The situation was insane. What did it all mean? Was it to be life or death or something else?

There was only one way to find out. Ask a direct question and then let the chips fall where they may.

Have we been rescued or are you planning a group execution? What are your intentions? asked the sergeant.

The T4 stepped closer to Shell, and Shell, one of the bravest of men, felt himself inching backwards. Finally, he could move backwards no further.

The Undead came face to face with the sergeant and asked, Am I that much changed? Don’t you recognize me, Dud?

That made Shell blink and blink again. How does he know my nickname? Who