“Do me a favor?” Steve suddenly said.
“What’s that?” I asked, although I already knew the answer.
“I can’t kill myself. Thought I could but a while ago knew I couldn’t. Guess that’s what made me such a badass with the Z’s. I wasn’t fighting so hard to kill them, I was fighting so hard so I wouldn’t have to kill myself.”
I understood where he was coming from. Steve was my friend, and I had to kill him before he got sick and turned. My heart was heavy as I answered him. “I’d be honored.”
Steve locked eyes with me. “Thanks. I’m glad I found a friend like you in this mess.” He put his guns down and made a pile of the gear he took off. His guns would go to another shooter, his clothes would be burned, and his body would be buried on the hill overlooking the creek. He would join the 27 others up there, killed in a battle that some, even myself, were wondering why we bothered.
Steve walked away from his gear and stood facing the field. I could see the other corpse out there, the one that Steve killed; the one that killed him.
I walked a little to the right until I was about fifteen feet behind him. I had a hard time with my sights, because something got into my eyes. But I knew what he wanted and as a friend I could not do less. I would want someone to end me the same way should I get bitten. I said a quick prayer for Steve and quick request for forgiveness, and pulled the trigger.
The high powered round took Steve in the back of the head, killing him instantly. His body fell straight over, not bending or crumpling in any way. I smiled slightly to myself. That was just like Steve. No compromise. I looked skyward, raging inside at what I had become, what I was forced to do. But nothing was going to change what had happened that day. I lowered my rifle and walked back to the groups waiting for me. I picked up Steve’s weapons and slung them over my shoulder. My mind went back to the days when I had to kill another person, when the all the killing began.
16
Cleanup went fairly smoothly, although there was a definite pall in the air. People were angry that three of their number were down, and more than once I had to stop people from going “hunting” on their own, looking for some kind of revenge. When you were angry, you didn’t focus, and when you lost your focus, especially against this kind of enemy, you were killed. It didn’t get any simpler than that. Screw up and die, there were no second chances.
A large pile of corpses was dragged to the baseball diamond, where we had dug a hole in the pitcher’s mound a while ago. Bodies were unceremoniously dumped, covered with gasoline siphoned from cars, and set on fire. We have a pastor who once wanted to say a prayer for the dead, but after a particularly scary moment where his wife was nearly bitten, his prayers usually consisted of “Fuck you and burn.” I didn’t think that helped morale any, so we stopped the practice.
Frank was the consummate complainer. He whined about how heavy the bodies were, how bad they smelled, how much his back hurt, are we sure they were completely dead, why can’t he be a pinner, why can’t he be a shooter. Nate Coles was about ready to shoot the little bastard. Can’t say as I blamed him. I fully expected Frank to go completely childish and ask “Are we there yet?” each time he dragged a body over the bridge.
I was busy myself, hunting a lurker that had managed to avoid the eradication crews by falling into the wooded area on the north side of the creek. Two of the groups had indicated that they were sure something was in there. I hated the woods, because it was hard to see. The leaves hadn’t fallen yet, but there were enough on the ground to make silence impossible. What made it worse was the trees were small and close together, so rifles were hard to use. Yippee for me. I positioned two other shooters to cover the woods on the north and south, and I was going to enter through the west side along the creek. Why the thing hadn’t come out yet was a mystery. Did it catch a stray round that had luckily put it down? Who knew? All I knew was I had to go get it. Part of being a leader, I guess. Never ask someone else to do something you wouldn’t do yourself.
I edged along the creek with my gun out, held low. My senses were on hyper alert, and I strained to hear anything that might give me a clue as to where he or she was. I stopped at the edge of the woods and called out, “Here, Stinky, Stinky, Stinky!” No response except a snicker from one of my shooters. I tried again. “Come on out, you cute little pus-bag, you!”
No luck. I started to think there was nothing here. But I still needed to check the woods to be sure. I went in slowly, stepping along the creek. The bank of the creek was steep, and footing was difficult. The water was noisy, covering any sound Stinky might make. I walked a little bit further, and still saw nothing. What the hell? I could see the end of the woods a little further ahead, and no sign of any zombie. If they knew I was here they’d be out already, so my guess was nothing was here.
I turned to head out and the creek exploded upwards behind me. The ghoul had apparently fallen in the creek and was lying on its back. The rushing water must have masked any sound, causing it to go quiet. My shadow on the water had made it react and lunge.
I spun around and took a step back as a dripping zombie rose up out of the water with arms outstretched and mouth open with a gurgling groan. Talk about your B-movie moments. Water flew everywhere as it fought to get out of the water, and I nearly shot it then and there, I was that surprised. But figuring that dragging that sucker, who looked to weigh two hundred pounds, out of the water would be a little much to ask of anybody, I decided to bait the bastard to drier ground.
I walked backwards out of the woods, trying to keep Slimey in sight. He was a big guy, pretty much my size, except he was completely bald with an eye and ear missing. His shirt looked to be a security uniform, and his belt was a police issue. I noticed he had a couple of magazine holders, so I made a note to have the draggers check his belt for ammo once he was down. Every round counted in this war.
He stumbled after me, moving slow, but steady. Water dripped off him in little streams, and even more water came out of his mouth as he tried to groan, keeping his eye locked on me.
I led him out to a small lawn, and when he came close enough, I put a round through the hole he already had in his head, just making it deeper. He dropped immediately, slumping into a ball on the grass. I holstered my weapon and signaled my shooters to draw back, keeping an eye on the houses and bushes. You never knew when one action will lead to a reaction. Most of the areas around the school were cleared out, but drifters were everywhere. In all seriousness, I probably should have saved the bullet, but hugging a wet zombie while sticking a knife in its ear didn’t rank high on my list of things I enjoyed on a regular basis.
I went back to the building, waving to a cleanup squad that there was another one to pick up. By the way one of their number’s shoulders sagged, I knew it was Frank Stearns. Poor baby, I thought. It’s tough making a living in a dead world.
I went inside and got cleaned up. Things were always busy on cleanup days. I passed through the gym and waved to the kids who were playing basketball. In all, choosing this place as a safe haven wasn’t so bad. There was enough room for all of us, we had a water supply, food was still plentiful, and we could feasibly grow food out on the grounds if needed. We hadn’t been through a winter yet, but it was coming. I personally was curious about what cold weather did to zombies, and whether or not it killed the virus. If so, there was going to be a lot of cleanup in spring, and people could actually go home.