again and again.
But this is hardly sloppy storytelling. Quite the reverse, actually. This is your life, your job, he’s describing-only with zombies.
So turn the page and get mad for a while. Fight back, if only against the meat puppets of the mind.
And be glad you had this chance to vent.
Joe McKinney
San Antonio, Texas
August 31, 2011
Chapter One
All the Towns’ Folk
Dejected by the dead world beneath him, Cahz closed his eyes and listened to the throb of the helicopter’s engine. The constant heavy beating of the blades and the drone of the turbine encased him in noise. He cradled the solid metal body of his carbine, its hard surface reassuring to his touch. The weapon sat in an unorthodox position, butt hooked over his forearm with the muzzle pointing at his feet. With every rock or turn the chopper made, the stock jostled against the helmet sitting in his lap, making a low clunking noise.
It was a sound almost lost to the din of the cabin, but Cahz felt it and loathed it, like the incessant dripping of a leaky tap, coercing his silent rage to a crescendo. With his eyes closed he focused on his physical state. His backside was numb, his legs were aching for a stretch, and there was a sharp pain in his shoulder from a strap on his body armour that was biting into his flesh. But it was the most comfortable arrangement he could muster.
The view from the chopper proved to be no distraction. Out of the window the corpse of one more unimportant city lay before him, ragged and dirtied by violence, neglect and nature flaking away the remnants of civilization. They were cities populated by the walking dead-the men, women and children who had found no rest in their demise. The wretched creatures were tortured by a malodorous and corrupt immortality that robbed them of their vital spark and imposed a ravenous hunger. They were forever-shambling husks in a perpetual hunt for living flesh.
Cahz opened his eyes, desperate to lose the nagging dread of coming in country. He purposefully kept his gaze inside the cabin and focused his attention on the minutia.
To his right was an invisible demarcation line-a few extra inches of space he would not cross. That area belonged to Idris, the pilot. Cahz didn’t like to engage him in conversation or intrude on his side of the cabin. It wasn’t a festering hostility that made Cahz standoffish. It was fear. Not fear of the man; Idris was a nice enough guy, a bit reserved and quiet, but there was nothing menacing about him. Cahz was fearful of something going wrong.
It was the fear that he might initiate some distraction that would cause them to crash, were he to nudge Idris’ elbow at the vital point in a manoeuvre or break his concentration at a crucial moment. It wasn’t that Cahz feared dying. After all, these days there were worse things than death.
He looked around the cabin trying to distract himself from the discomfort and noise.
The chopper they flew in hadn’t been designed to ferry troops but it served well enough in its current roll. She was small, not so much compact as cramped, but she had good fuel economy and an excellent range. All things considered not a bad run about. Cahz very much doubted any new helicopters had come off any production lines for some years now. This was the third chopper sequestered to them in as many years. The first broke down and was dismantled for parts; he assumed because the vital part that was broken no longer had a replacement. The second chopper no one knew what happened to it or its crew. It flew out one bright morning on a specimen run and never returned. No distress call, no wreckage, nothing. She just vanished.
Thirty minutes ago he’d been briefly occupied by the sunrise-a palette of vivid golds, azure blues and iridescent pinks as the lingering period of murky twilight was forced back. It was beautiful; a rare splash of colour to this dead world.
However, the brilliant orange glow had quickly been obscured by a flock of dark rain laden clouds. With that the world had taken on the depressing insipid hues that shrouded the dead below. And as it did the claustrophobic oppression had returned.
Cahz had been a soldier all his adult life. He’d lost count of the number of flights over hostile territory-flights far more dangerous than this. The enemy below didn’t fire ground-to-air missiles, they didn’t drive a car packed full of explosives into your base, and they didn’t leave indiscriminate booby traps. He’d served much of his time in uniform fighting insurgents, being shot at and bombed. But this world was a long way from those tours. In the old world people had tried to kill him, people had tried to help him and some people couldn’t have cared less about him. But there were always people. The villages or towns or cities may have been battle damaged, but without fail life would return. The traders would reopen the market, the housewife would brush out the dirt and shattered glass and the kids would play in the street.
Not now. The city below was scarred from the damage inflicted during the chaos of collapse. But the wounds to the cityscape hadn’t been healed by man. Instead nature had started the long task of breaking the concrete down and reclaiming the land, soothing the harsh grey back to a verdant green.
Unable to escape the dismay overwhelming his consciousness, Cahz purposefully switched back to his military mindset, preoccupying himself with the practical aspects of his mission.
He toggled his radio. “Angel, what’s your situation?”
“Secure and in position,” Angel answered in her thick Russian accent. “I have eyes on Bate and field of fire is good.”
“Bates, how’s your position?” Cahz asked.
Bates’ voice crackled over the short range radio, “A-okay. Area is clear. Capture net is set. Activity is high but I’m ready when you are.”
Cahz re-examined the terrain below. Raggedy figures shambled their way towards his man on the ground.
There were more than he’d expected. Normally their quarry was thinly spread out from their aimless wanderings, but here they looked more concentrated.
He craned round, trying to take in as much of the terrain as possible when he caught the eye of the last member of his team. Cannon was a giant of a man and had to cock his head slightly to fit in the cabin. His broad muscular chest wouldn’t have looked out of place on a power lifter. And now he was wedged into the back of the tiny chopper.
Even though the other two team members were on the ground, Cannon filled the back seats. His only relief was the half hour or so when they set up and executed the collection. As soon as Bates and Angel were back in the cabin Cannon spent his time crushed up against the door.
The whole nine hours or so the round trip took, Cannon and Idris wouldn’t leave their seats.
“Your biggest risk,” Bates had once joked, “is getting deep vein thrombosis from sitting on your ass.”
Cannon had quipped back, “And your biggest risk is me.”
“I don’t know why you insist on coming along,” Cahz had commented long ago. “Let French or one of the Marines come in country.”
Cannon had pouted ever so slightly in disdain, “And who’d look after your ass?”
That was all the dissuasion there would be. Cannon just sat there quietly waiting for his commander to take the lead.
It always amazed Cahz that even in this shattered world the logistics corps had produced body armour large enough to fit his frame. It had proven impossible to supply one small part for a helicopter and yet extra-extra large
