Matt gripped the AK-47 with white knuckled hands.  He knew the weapon was pretty much useless but it was the only defense he had.  The pounding on the BTR-80’s hull grew louder as if the dead outside somehow sensed his fear.  Matt was the sole survivor of his entire unit.  When the three heavily armored vehicles rolled into Krasnoarmeisk no one aboard them fully understood the horror of what they were driving into.  It was supposed to be a search and destroy op.  Find those who’d been exposed to the virus that jerk in a lab had let get out of control and clean up the mess.  The orders came directly from Moscow.  Everything was supposed to be low profile and hush, hush.  The problem lay in the fact that the virus had already killed its hosts and returned them to a sort of unlife state of rage.

The unit had disembarked from the armored carriers, fanning out into the street as they prepared to do a sweep of the area.  The noise of the A.P.C. engines alerted the dead to their presence and the creatures came pouring from the alleyways and buildings along the main street.  The commanding officer gave the order to eliminate the horde charging towards the unit’s position.  Assault rifles chattered spitting expended rounds to the pavement.  Matt watched as one of the things took a full clip to the chest and got back to its feet as if nothing had happened.

The commander saw the unit’s fire was ineffective as well and ordered everyone to go for headshots.  Such a tactic almost always worked in the movies but it did not in real life.  Even the creatures that lost the entire top half of their skulls still stumbled forward grasping for someone or something to vent their rage upon.

The line was overrun as Matt’s commander gave the order to fall back.  The dead swarmed over them.  Matt and one other soldier managed to escape the cold clawing hands of the dead.  Matt had seen the other soldier reach the open door of one of the A.P.C.s but the man hadn’t been able to seal the door in time and the dead flooded in after him.

Matt was luckier.  He had made it inside and slammed the heavy armored door of the vehicle shut, but now he was trapped.  The dead were so great in number and driven by their rage, they’d flipped the BTR-80 onto its side in the middle of the street.  Matt leaned against the roof of the vehicle and waited.  There was nothing else he could do.  The radio was damaged, so calling for help was not an option.  His sole hope was that the things would lose interest and wander off.

The dead had been relentlessly trying to get to him for over an hour now.  He seriously began to doubt that the things were ever going to go away.  He dug around in the near darkness until he found what he was looking for.  The RPG-7’s length was smooth in the palms of his hand as he felt to make sure the grenade was aimed at the side of vehicle above him.  He leaned back against the ceiling once more and smiled. At least some of the bastards would be leaving this world with him he hoped.  His finger slid around the weapon’s trigger and he jerked it back before he lost his nerve.

The street was lit up by the fireball of the exploding vehicle as the dead howled and cried in the night as the flames washed over them.

___

© 2009 Eric S. Brown

For more great Eric S Brown stories, check out. “Unabridged, Unabashed, and Undead:  The Best of Eric S. Brown” from Library of the Living Dead Books. Eric’s other works include Season of Rot from Permuted Press, and Zombies: Inhuman (the second edition) from Black River Publishing, all three set for release in 2009.  His short fiction has been published hundreds of times in markets ranging from Dark Wisdom to Ethereal Tales.  Some of his past books and chapbooks include Cobble, Madmen’s Dreams, The Queen, Dying Days, Zombies: The War Stories, As We All Breakdown, and Viruses and Vamps to name a few.  Eric also writes ongoing comic book columns for Abandoned Towers Magazine and a local entertainment paper called The Guide. Find out more at www.myspace.com/esbrown4

You wipe the sweat off your head with your arm. The sun is bright, blindingly so. You close the door behind you. It feels so much better out here, on the roof, than inside your stuffy apartment.

You stand still, reveling in the cool air. Then you see her, the woman next door-your neighbor. She’s standing on the edge of the roof looking down twenty stories of cold steel. One strong gust of wind and… No! You push the thought from your mind. You feel the need to help, but you hesitate. You tell yourself to stop thinking about it, take action.

You walk over, heart in throat, taking your time, but not too much of it. Your heart’s beating fast, it’s hard to breath. You lick your dry cracked lips, ready to speak. The words have to be right, perfectly shaped in every way.

“Wait!” you say gentle yet demanding. Startled, she turns her face towards you. She’s beautiful, more dazzling than the sun. You never knew this till now. She was always on the move out and about. You only caught fleeting glimpses of her slim figure, her liquid shadow.

Her face is red from all the tears and there’s hardness deep in her eyes. You ask “Why?” and she answers “Why not?” She sits down on the ledge and pats the empty space next to her.

You take your time and you sit on the cool stone surface. For a while the both of you just sit there and gaze into the empty sky. The woman next to you wipes a rogue tear from her smooth cheek. She looks at you with her wide, questioning eyes.

You tell her “It’s okay, everything’s going to be alright.” She tells you “No, no it’s not going to be alright.” In your mind you know it’s true but you don’t tell her that. The words spill from her mouth. She speaks so fast that you have a hard time catching everything. You understand, you understand the only true way, by experience.

She’s alone. There’s no one in her life, no one at all. You grab her trembling hand in yours. “You’re not alone, not now.” She looks at you and smiles.

She needs someone to come with her; she asks you if you will come with her. Even now, she’s still fears being alone. Then she points down. You look, your mum and dad are down there - skin flaking - even Uncle Bob who can barely stand, wobbles on his decaying legs. There are others, some you recognize others you don’t. They’re all waving. Waiting.

The woman next to you squeezes your hand tightly. You both stand up, and you take your final breath. You jump hand-in-hand, into the sea of writhing bodies.

___

© 2008 Grant Wamack

Grant Wamack has been published in Nemonymous 8, Polluto #2, and 365 Tomorrows. He lives and dies daily as a student at Northern Illinois University. You can hear him talk about nothing at http://grantwamack.blogspot.com/.  If you haven’t had enough nothingness you might as well visit him at http://www.myspace.com/gsmooth101.