Zombie Zero: Survival of the Deadest

Zombie Zero 2: Survival of the Deadest

By Scot McAtee

Published by Scot McAtee

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Scot McAtee

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Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Chapter 1

For two long years researchers from the Center for Disease Control tracked down and eradicated each successive outbreak of the First Zombie Plague. Incident reports from around the country slowed to a trickle, though it was hard to tell if it was because they had eliminated the great mass of the undead or if there weren’t enough people left living to report new outbreaks. So it came to pass that on this day, almost two years to the day since the first reported zombie sightings, a team of CDC Investigators found themselves at the edge of the snowline near the top of a picturesque mountain in the wilds of Colorado. They were intent on clearing the latest and hopefully last infestation. As beautiful as the scenery was, every person in the group was thinking the same dark thought. Somewhere above them was the soul responsible for the death of millions, the abomination they referred to as Zombie Zero.

One way or another, Sam Tribbet, the leader of the expedition said quietly, this ends here. The men closest to him nodded in optimistic agreement.

It had taken his crew three days to climb to the snow line. None of them were experienced mountain climbers and so it had been traumatic for everyone. But after all the trials and tribulations, mostly involving slips and falls with the resultant cuts and bruises, they stepped out of the forest and into the scrubby brush that marked the border between life and death on the mountain.

Holy crap, gasped one of the men as his eyes fell upon the carnage before him. Frozen purple balls huddled together at the foot of the snow pack. Zombie bowling balls! That's a new one on me.

There must be a hundred of them, someone remarked.

That’s not all, said someone else. Look. He pointed up the slope. There were dark shapes, people, struggling toward the summit.

Are they alive?

Tribbet pulled a pair of binoculars from his backpack and peered up the mountain. He focused on the closest moving form and informed his men, No, that one's definitely not alive.

Ah! hollered one of the crew who had wandered over to a corpse. He leapt into the air, flying backward from the stiff purple body. His buddies laughed at him.

Jumping at shadows? someone snickered.

Screw you, came the reply. That guy opened his eyes.

Burk, a burly hulk of a man who was as brainy as any of them but who lacked a proper sense of fear, sauntered over to the corpse in question and lightly kicked it in the temple with the toe of his boot.

Sure enough, he said, shaking his head. Then he reached into his thick climbing jacket and pulled out a gleaming silver .357 Magnum. Emotionlessly, he blasted the zombie’s head into purple shards of frozen glass.

Somebody laughed incredulously. Damn!

Bob, Tribbet said to Burk, probably not the best move. He pointed up the hill.

Half the zombies above turned, slowly realizing that dinner was behind them. The cold must have addled their brains even more than usual because they took an extra long time to actually begin to descend. It was as if they were weighing the benefits of a warm dinner at the bottom of the hill against reaching whatever it was they were chasing to the peak.

None of those who started back down the slope thought fast enough to adjust for the fall of the ground beneath their feet and immediately tumbled down the hill. It was comical.

Unfortunately, there were a lot of them. I count thirty plus, said Campbell, a sturdy fellow who loved action as much as science. He loved the danger of following killer viruses and diseases back to their sources. Tribbet wondered secretly if Campbell was wired right in the head or if he just had a death wish.

Mmm, not good, Tribbet replied.

Burk reached into his jacket and felt for his spare ammunition.

Got about a dozen caps left, Sam, he shrugged apologetically.

It’s alright, Tribbet replied, weighing their options even as the approaching wave of ridiculous bowling balls plowed toward them. We go up, boys. We’ll go fifty yards over here to the left and then up.

Up to what, sir? asked the horribly named Douche, the youngest member of the group.

Up to whatever they’re chasing after.

One of the zombie balls reached the landing and ground to a halt in the bed of loose pebbles at the foot of the snow pack. Slowly, staring at Tribbet’s crew the whole time with a glazed look upon its face, the zombie unraveled itself, stood up and lumbered toward them.

Burk blasted it before it could take more than a couple of steps, but he didn’t take enough of the brain to completely stop it. Slightly stunned, the creature came at him, its mouth widening into a gaping maw. Its arms widened out in slow motion, fingers opening with the quickness of a glacier.

Burk held the barrel of his gun up and waited for it to come close enough for the barrel to touch its forehead before he squeezed the trigger and ended the threat.

Damn, sighed one of the greenhorns in the crew. Tribbet read fear and disbelief in the man’s eyes, even though they had all seen it before.

He tried to lighten the mood. Burk, you need a new signature kill. That one’s getting old.

Burk chuckled and agreed, Yeah, but I love it. They just stop when the barrel hits them. They don’t know how to get around it.

Tribbet glanced sideways at the greenhorn who did his best to shake off his emotions.

No time to stand around thinking about it, Tribbet said forcefully, pointing up the mountain. Company’s coming.

They all turned toward the snow and watched as other zombie bowling balls tumbled down the slope at them. It was an avalanche of horror movie rejects.

The men picked up their packs and quickly marched perpendicular to the snowpack. When they’d gone far enough for Tribbet’s liking, he told them to start climbing up the slope.

Still don’t know what we’re climbing to, the scared greenhorn said.

Tribbet didn’t answer but after a thirty yard climb, he stopped for a breather and scouted the slope with his binoculars.

There was a reason all those zombies were climbing a frozen mountain. There had to be a really good reason to make them attempt to penetrate an environment that would surely stop them from any advance. He guessed that it was Zombie Zero drawing them like moths to a flame.

He scoured the snow and rocks, not seeing anything that might indicate the zombies’ Promised Land or Holy Man or whatever they were searching for.

Ohhh wait, he cooed. I see it now.

Where? Burk asked excitedly.

There, Tribbet replied, pointing toward what appeared at first glace to be a mound of rocks but upon closer inspection was clearly the front of a stone and stick built cabin, complete with a door and two little windows. Branches strapped together to shape a door and two sets of shutters covered the rough openings.

Looks like someone’s home, too, Tribbet added.

Burk had his binoculars out and had already locked onto their target. Is that smoke coming out of the top of it, or just snow blowing around?

Smoke, I think.

Captain? called out the greenhorn. Whatever we’re doing, we need to do it fast. Down below, three zombies had already reached the edge of the snow just below them and were beginning to trudge up the snow after them. Burk blasted two of them, missed the third. He thought about reloading but decided against it for fear of dropping his remaining ammo in the powdery snow.

Instead, he waited for it to climb up to them, by which time other zombies had gathered at the edge of the pack below. He pushed it backward with little effort. The creature, what had once been a hard looking woman in her forties, toppled over and rolled back down the slope, crashing into the other monsters and knocking them to the ground.

Steeeerike! Burk growled happily. Tribbet shook his head disapprovingly, secretly amused at his longtime buddy’s humor.

Temporarily freed from pursuit, they resumed their hike up the mountain. They maintained a parallel track to the trail of dead folk just fifty yards away from them. The greenhorn occasionally groaned or cursed when one the zombies gazed at him or started to step towards their group. But they were so cold, so near frozen, that by the time the creature had taken a single step, the scientists were well beyond its range.

Eventually, they reached the rustic stone cabin. Two zombies stood staring at it like stone gargoyles, frozen in their tracks just fifty feet from the cabin.

Tribbet marched up to the door. He tried to hide his nervous excitement from his men, but he was sure they saw through his façade. He banged on the makeshift door, which nearly gave way under his manly pounding, and waited.

A full minute later, the door opened and the occupant of the cabin stood face to face with him.

Hi, Tribbet smiled.

You better leave, a crazed, bearded man ordered. There’s nothing here for you but death.

I’m sorry? Tribbet replied, sizing up the man.

I’m Death, the man hissed back. Death on the Mountain!

You’re a crazy loon! the greenhorn chuckled.

Instantly, the hermit was at the greenhorn’s throat with a four inch bowie knife.

I’m trying to save your life! spat the gaunt fellow. His hair was wild and his beard full, thick, and tangled. The greenhorn suddenly recalled the image of Tom Hanks in Cast Away, and stifled a nervous laugh.

You laugh? the mountain man challenged him indignantly. You laugh Death in the face?

The greenhorn felt the blade press into the flesh of his neck and stopped smiling.

Please mister, he now begged. I didn’t come here to die.

Slightly Cro-Magnon in his appearance, the dirty man pressed the knife into his skin a bit more.

Then get your asses off my mountain, he growled.

Fine with me, squealed the greenhorn.

Burk raised his pistol to the mountain man’s head and cocked the hammer.

Nice to meet you, Death on the Mountain, he said in a low tone. My name’s Death in a Barrel.

The mountain man spun around in a flash and leaned an eye up to the barrel.

Got no bullets, chief. Fire away! he chuckled insanely. Counted your shots earlier. Watched you come up here. Didn’t reload, did ya?

Burk’s bluff had been called. He dropped the gun into his coat pocket and smiled.

We just came to visit, that’s all, he said, raising his hands like a hostage. We just needed to see where these zombies were coming from so we could eradicate them properly. No more, no less.

The mountain man looked him over, sized him up. He sniffed at the men like a dog, trying to scent a lie.

You’re all dead men.

We all die sooner or later, Tribbet responded authoritatively.

No, not really, chuckled the hirsute fellow. Some of us don’t. He pointed down the hill at the advancing dead. They didn’t.

Well, how about you invite us in and talk to us for a bit? Tribbet replied contritely. He shot Burk a glance, who was already fumbling in his pockets for a concealed tranquilizer that they used on uncooperative subjects.

The man danced a crazy little jig in the snow. Might as well, he said in a singsong voice. You’re all dead already. Might as well ask the Reaper what you need to.

He turned around and zipped into the cabin. Tribbet noted that one of the man’s sleeves flapped crazily in the stiff breeze as if there was no arm inside it.

Chapter 2

The cabin was tiny and Spartan. The only light that shone in was from the two windows that faced down-slope. But that was more than enough light to see that the entire place was a mountain man's wet dream. There was a small fireplace at the back end of the single room where semi-frozen green logs popped and crackled as they thawed and smoldered in the fire. There were shelves everywhere, each one housing various glass jars of pickled foods. There were books on the shelves, on the floor and piled up in the corners of the room. There was a wood framed bed with a thin mattress made from some sort of plant fibers. There was no way it could have been comfortable to sleep on.

In the middle of the cabin was a wobbly table with a matching chair made from saplings and topped by hand hewn planks. The chair was so fragile that when their host sat on it in a quick and comfortable fashion, Tribbet winced. He expected both man and chair to topple over onto the floor like Lincoln logs tossed from a container.

I’d offer you a seat, but... the man grinned. Oh Hell, it doesn't matter anyway. You guys aren’t going to be alive long enough to make a difference. Who needs manners in a world like this, huh?

Burk took exception to their host’s hostile attitude. And just what makes you think you we’re about to die? Are you planning to kill us? Because if you're thinking about it, then you ought to know that I’ve got a nice little pistol in my pocket and I can put a hole in your head quicker than you can get to whatever weapon it is you're hiding.

The look on the seated man's face never changed. I was never planning on killing you, the man replied quietly. There was pity in his expression. I was never planning on killing anyone, but you know what they say about the best laid plans of mice and men...

Tribbet latched onto his comment. It was precisely the thing they’d been after ever since the start of the first outbreak. Proof that the person at the epicenter of the global pandemic had been aware of his actions. The implication was that they were dealing with the worst mass murderer since Hitler. No, worse than Hitler because so many more people died.

You knew?

The man cocked his head to one side and shrugged. Not at first. But it was hard to deny after a while.

Burk blinked repeatedly, trying to follow the conversation. He was smart, but it took a few seconds before he caught on.

"Cap’n… is this the guy?"

Tribbet shrugged once and shot a questioning glance at their host, who raised his eyebrows and turned toward Burk. He nodded.

I’m the one you’ve been looking for, but it’s not going to do you any good.

You’re Zombie Zero? Burk asked dumbly, not believing that after such a long and fruitless journey they had finally tracked down the source of all the outbreaks.

Whatever you want to call me, the man said.

Burk processed the information, his mental wheels grinding. It had taken so long to find their target that he had almost forgotten the point.

How the hell can you sit there so smug and act like it’s nothing to you? he demanded.

Their host stared back at him.

Answer me, you bastard, the greenhorn added angrily. My whole family died because of you and so did a lot of other people, and…

…and so did my family, buddy, the man replied. Everybody I cared about died. Then everyone I didn’t care about died. Why do you think I came up here, huh?

The greenhorn shook his head. What? I…

He hadn’t expected a response from the man. He was so intent on his own offensive attack that he didn’t know what to say when it appeared that the object of his long simmering hatred might turn out to have a soul.

Yeah, you never thought that maybe I wasn’t the Devil, right? Well, I’m not.

The greenhorn suddenly felt sick. His ears started to burn and the room began to spin. Spots appeared before his eyes and he became dizzy.

I, he started to say. I…I…

All eyes were now on the greenhorn, who turned pale and collapsed.

What the…? Burk exclaimed.

What’s wrong with him? someone asked.

Their host rocked back in his chair. Told you, he taunted. Told you you were all dead.

The greenhorn didn’t move. Tribbet knelt down by the fallen man and touched his neck, feeling for a pulse that wasn’t there.

Impossible, he gasped.

Their host shook his head. Not impossible. Very much possible. It’s the reason I came up here.

Tribbet watched as the rest of his party slumped to the floor within seconds of each other. For whatever reason, he did not go as quickly as they did.

What did you do? he demanded.

Burk suddenly sat up. He looked like hell, but Tribbet was glad regardless. He helped his friend to his feet, but as he peered into the man’s face he began to realize that his friend was nowhere near alive. By the time he knew he was in trouble, Burk had both hands around his neck and was crushing the life out of him.

Tribbet's airway snapped before he lost consciousness a moment later, which proved to be a blessing as Burk bit into his face. There was a fleeting sensation of teeth sinking into his cheek but little pain as the world faded away.

Zombie and victim toppled over together, Burk gnawing away at his boss's face, even as they crashed into the rough wooden floor. He remained attached to his friend like a lamprey eel stuck to a fish.

Their host sat in his rickety chair at the end of his pitiful table watching the scene unfold with a detached air.

Told ‘em, he repeated over and over as he shook his head disapprovingly. No one listens.

A few minutes later, Burk stopped chewing on Tribbet and stood up. Tribbet also stood up, now a zombie himself. Both of them turned toward their host, then turned and wandered out of the cabin. The other men rose to their feet too and in bluish purple splendor followed their leader into the cold snow, where they immediately tumbled down the hill and froze solid.

The inhabitant of the cabin, alone again, pulled a book off one of the shelves and lay down to read on his meager bed.

Stupid sons of bitches, he said aloud as he cracked open Camus’ The Plague.

Chapter 3

When Tribbet and his crew missed their next scheduled report, warning flags went up at headquarters. It wasn’t abnormal for Tribbet to miss his appointed times by a day or two, but after a week had passed, the mission managers back at the CDC knew something bad had happened. Teams that didn’t report back after a week turned up dead if they turned up at all.

All antiviral teams carried sophisticated satellite tracking devices on their persons, though, so it wasn’t hard to track down Tribbet and his men, or at least where the clothing with the sewn-in locators was. Frequently, zombies shredded their victims’ clothes during an attack, and a few times rescue teams found the beacons in the bellies of the soulless monsters.

The biggest problem in reaching a team in the field, for extraction or recovery, lay in travelling to them. Since the first outbreak, air travel had been outlawed. Too many planes dropped out of the sky loaded with passengers who turned cannibal and when one plane crashed into New York City in a scene eerily reminiscent of 9/11, the American government shut the skies down. Other governments followed suit as their national carriers began to experience similar situations.

The scene of a 747 plowing into the Eiffel Tower and cracking open like a rotten watermelon spilling hungry, burning freaks everywhere played on televisions around the world in the opening days of the plague. It was too much for most people to comprehend. They chalked it up to governmental conspiracies and tried to pretend like it wasn’t happening.

Ground travel had been severely curtailed too, not that the government had to press people. To move about the countryside was to invite Death. Any sort of accident attracted the dead like picnic food attracts ants. Car wrecks were smorgasbords. Trains were the safest form, but even they sometimes fell prey to the plague. When they did, it was usually a spectacular slaughter since the passengers had no way to escape except to leap from the moving trains.

One particularly gruesome affair involved the Amtrak from Chicago to New Orleans. It left Chicago with over 200 live travelers. When it arrived in New Orleans as a runaway train, it crashed into the barrier at the end of its line and piled up cars into a massive burning heap. First responders rushed in, only to be eaten. And then Death radiated outward into the city. It took weeks for the Louisiana Guard to contain the infection.

So when the order came for a Rescue/Recovery Team to chase down whatever was left of Tribbet and his crew, the task was regarded with some trepidation by those picked for the task. Frequently, R/R teams never made it to their destination. Sometimes, they made it there but not back. The odds were one in three that an entire team would come back completely intact. And with greater distance the odds grew longer that anyone at all would come back.

Teri Soto, the leader of Rescue/Recovery Team 3, knew that anything over a thousand miles was a crap shoot at best. But that didn’t keep her or any of her men from going out time after time to try and recover what they could of their colleagues and it wouldn’t stop them from attempting to find their old mates this time, either.

Got to die sometime, Teri liked to say, At least this way I might make a difference before I go. Though many of them were not religious, everyone in Teri's crew held some sort of belief in a higher power. Teri herself was a lapsed Catholic from a devout family but she still believed that God had a plan for everyone. Frequently, since the first outbreak, she found herself wondering what sort of a cruel God could wipe out so many innocent women and children. What kind of twisted plan must God have in mind? It grew harder and harder to believe that there was any plan, let alone a loving God.

The majority of men in RR3 believed that life was more like a video game. God was the player and humans were pawns to be manipulated for His entertainment. Live or die it was all the same to God, they believed. That affected the way they approached their rescues—it made them more effective. The fear of no afterlife made them appreciate the preciousness of life and they behaved as if every moment was their last. They were extremely careful and paid close attention to detail.

Teri found the idea of nothingness to be horrifying and unpalatable. She didn't want to think that there was no real purpose in life, but when faced with a horde of hungry undead trying to eat her alive, it was difficult to think past their rotted choppers.

She addressed the men right after lunch. "Well,