Category: Zombie Strike

Mexican Anthropological Museum, Mexico City, 1735 hours local, 2 December 2009, Countdown: 2 years, 29 days

Quentin McLintock heard the stacks of crates crashing down as the corpses inside them came alive and thrashed to get out. He knew in short order there was likely to be forty or so zombies bearing down on him and his three fallen team members. He wasn’t worrying about those zombies. Quentin’s entire attention was on the hand of one of those team members gripping his forearm like a vise and the moaning emanating from the body. Then Quentin’s logical mind finally broke through swirling emotion and terror. Those weren’t undead moans.

Quentin looked down at the arm. Slim’s PDA was blinking furiously. Its owner was dying – not dead – and the armor’s computer was doing everything it could to protect Slim. The PDA was desperately sending Slim’s vitals to the rest of the team. Including the Beta team. Quentin heard the crashing of glass and the sound of someone sliding down a rope. By the time Quentin turned around, The Steve was shoving him aside. The team medic was pulling a variety of supplies from all over his armor. Quentin’s mind was desperately trying to understand how The Steve got to them so fast.

“Quentin, would you do The Steve a favor and keep those zombies busy?” The Steve said with his normal light tone. Quentin looked up. The first of the zombies had freed themselves of the crates. They let out hunting moans and staggered towards the living. An odd sense of relief swept through Quentin. This was something he could understand. This was something he didn’t feel inadequate to handle. Quentin snatched his carbine off the ground. He fell into the fighting stance and brought the weapon up to the nearest zombie. With the reticle on the zombie’s head, Quentin squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened.

“Don’t get frustrated,” Quentin whispered to himself, as the zombie shambled closer and let out a hunting moan, “Tap, rack, bang.” As he spoke the words, Quentin slapped the end of the magazine, pulled the charging handle, felt the fresh round chamber, and squeezed the trigger. The ZKC coughed as it fired a suppressed burst into the zombie. The moaning was cut off as the rounds shredded the zombie’s head. Quentin didn’t wait to watch the zombie fall. He was busy twisting to bring the carbine on the next zombie. A second burst dropped a second zombie. After the third burst, the weapon locked back on an empty magazine.

Quentin dropped the magazine out of his weapon and felt around for a new one. As his hand grasped an unfamiliar pouch, Quentin remembered the spare magazines were further back. As he fumbled with a new magazine, the chorus of moans grew louder. From the sound, Quentin judged the horde was about to hit crush – the point when the sheer numbers of the horde would overwhelm the actions of the defenders. Quentin inserted the new magazine and released the bolt. Before Quentin could open fire, metal glinted out of the corner of his eye, and an axe screamed over his shoulder to bury itself in a zombie’s head.

Billy Shakespear leapt onto the loading dock with a pistol in one hand and a collapsible baton in the other. The zombies tried to turn to attack the new prey, but Billy was in motion. Billy double-tapped the nearest zombie with the pistol. As the zombie fell, Billy slammed the corpse and threw its weight against two others. Zombies, by their nature, tended to be unable to maintain balance if anything strong collides with them – especially 150 pounds of decomposing flesh, muscle, and bone. The two zombies collapsed. Billy didn’t seem to notice He already was attacking another with a precise flurry of blows with the baton. Broken leg, broken arm, shattered skull. The zombie went limp and collapsed.

Quentin started on the opposite edge of the zombies from Billy. Walking zombies were priority. Quentin took down two of the walkers. He brought his weapon to bear on a third zombie. The creature dropped out of his sight as Billy slammed its legs out from under it. Quentin immediately lowered his carbine. Without stopping, Billy brought down the baton onto the creature’s head and twirled to find his next target.

"Billy, calm down," Quentin said, "You came into my line of fire."

"I don’t ‘calm down’," Billy said arrogantly, as he charged at a newly emerged zombie, "I am William Who Shakes the Spear. My father is a Chiricauau Apache whose grandfather rode with Geronimo and great-grandfather fought alongside Victorio." The zombie’s outstretched arms were shattered by a pair of hammer blows. Billy paused for the briefest instants before sliding to the zombie’s left and slamming the baton into the back of the zombie’s head.

"Top it all off, I grew up in the toughest city on the planet," Billy continued, "So, don’t think for a moment that I’m ever going to slow-" Billy stopped in mid-motion. The baton and pistol fell out of his hands. He stood there motionless as two zombies shambled towards him. Quentin shouted Billy’s name, but there was no response. Without warning, Billy collapsed to the ground.

"Damn kids always push themselves beyond their limits," grumbled Mateo as he staggered to his feet, "Quentin, go get him." The team leader looked weak, but Mateo held his carbine in a firm manner. Quentin nodded to Mateo and lifted himself up onto the docks. He focused on Billy’s still form about thirty feet away, ignoring the quiet staccato behind him and the crack of bullets around him. Quentin easily hoisted Billy up over his shoulder. Quentin ignored the moans of nearby zombies and charged back to where Mateo was providing cover fire. Quentin jumped down off the docks. There was the unique and slightly unsteady sensation of feeling the shock of landing on one foot and one knee. The prosthetic didn’t betray him this time. Or was he finally acclimating to it under stress? Quentin gently lowered Billy to the ground. A quick check of the young man’s PDA showed weakened but steady vitals.

“What happened to him?” Quentin asked, pointing at Billy.

“Fool kid recovered a bit from Giant’s attack and thought he was good to go,” Mateo said, taking down another zombie, “Didn’t think there might be an after effect of that whammy Giant slapped on us. He should be fine in a minute or two.”

“So, what now Matt?” Quentin asked.

“Collin, are you busy?” Mateo asked over the radio.

“Just a bit, Matty,” Collin answered in his calm understated manner, “Managed to run across another patch of the buggers. Dealing with it, but they’re acting a bit odd.”

“Giant is fleeing out the first floor,” Mateo said, “Can you intercept him?” There was a pause before Collin answered.

“Negative,” Collin said, “He’s up here. He’s got those blokes in black with him. Looks like they’re rooting around for something. Oh bloody hell—“ Collin cut off. Mateo checked his PDA, but the faceplate prevented Quentin from seeing his team leader’s face. The quiet string of curses from Mateo worried Quentin. Mateo snapped up his carbine and unleashed a string of bursts that brought down five zombies in less than ten seconds. Mateo let go of the carbine and drew his pistol. With an aggressive fury, Mateo drilled the remains of the zombies with precise fire. Quentin belatedly joined Mateo with fire from his own carbine.

“What is Slim’s status?” Mateo demanded as he reloaded his pistol.

“Critical. That big dude really effed him up,” The Steve answered, not looking up at Mateo, “We need to get him out of here stat.”

“Wake up Sleeping Beauty and have him help you get Slim out,” Mateo ordered, motioning to the unconscious Billy, “Extract to a local hospital and call in for more medical help. Then, I need the two of you back here ASAP.” Mateo turned to Quentin.

“Quentin, you’re with me,” Mateo said as he replaced the magazine in his carbine, “Looks like Collin’s team ran into a pair of gollums.” Mateo tried to keep the neutral command in his voice, but Quentin heard the hint of true fear. The fear a father felt watching his child walk into an inescapable danger. Quentin refused to contemplate the torrent of emotion running through his friend.

The two charged through the museum. Mateo ignored the few stray zombies meandering through the ground floor of the museum. As they charged up the main stairwell, Giant and his minions appeared. The two groups froze in mutual surprise. Mateo and Quentin snapped out of it first and brought up their carbines. The two minions fumbled with pistols tucked into their robes. Giant just stood there with a perplexed look in his eyes.

"How did you get here?" demanded Giant, with a thunderous roar, “Why aren’t you near death?” Mateo responded by shooting one of the minions. Giant lashed out with his whip. Quentin was stunned by the booming crack of the whip and the sickening wave of energy that washed over him. The whip struck Mateo in the head. The faceplate cracked as Mateo’s head snapped back. Mateo staggered back a half-step before regaining his stance. Mateo fired two quick bursts. One hit Giant squarely in the chest and drove their enemy back. The second burst dropped the other minion.

"Quentin move!" Mateo shouted. Quentin didn’t think. He just acted. He stormed up the stairs. Giant loomed over him as he reached the top of the stairs. Quentin didn’t have a chance to be afraid. He lowered his shoulder and aimed for Giant’s stomach. Giant never moved. He stood there like one of Quentin’s old tackling dummies. Quentin felt the familiar crush as his body slammed into the larger man. Quentin lifted Giant off of his feet before tossing him back several feet.

Giant looked at Quentin with a wide-eyed stare, as if he just couldn’t believe Quentin dared to strike him. Quentin felt a sudden rage. He let his carbine fall on its sling and drew his warhammer. Giant scrambled to get to his feet, but Quentin slammed him back to the ground. The hammer came down on Giant’s knee with a wet crunch. Giant let out an unearthly scream. A second blow pulverized the other knee.

"Leave him," Mateo said, grabbing Quentin’s shoulder, "He isn’t going anywhere, and we need to help Collin." Quentin’s anger faded. Mateo continued to rush to their teammates’ aid. Quentin gave the screaming Giant a final look before following Mateo.

He hoped they would make it to Beta Team in time.

Zombie Strike Part 3 Chapter 23

Mexican Anthropological Museum, Mexico City, 1715 hours local, 2 December 2009, Countdown: 2 years, 29 days

Quentin McLintock needed to run away. The shrill howls of the gollums triggered a flood of emotion and memory. Memories of pain and terror. Memories of his friend going insane and destroying his leg with an errant burst of gunfire moments before he was swarmed by gollums. He could clearly remember those leathery fingers digging into his skin.

"Lights on!" barked Mateo, his calm, commanding voice yanking Quentin out of the nightmare and back into the fight. Four beams of dazzling white light pierced the darkness. The four gollums at the end of the hall hissed as the beams illuminated them. The gollums’ withered, leathery skin was decorated with blue-painted symbols. They wore simple leather flaps as loin cloths and clutched carved wooden clubs. Quentin noticed this, but didn’t care. His eyes focused on the stone medallions hanging around the gollums’ necks by leather strips. Until those medallions were destroyed, the gollums were essentially invulnerable.

"Billy. I need into those docks," Mateo said, "Get me there." Quentin could feel the small man’s smile. Billy’s beam disappeared. The snicker sound of two batons extending were replaced by an unearthly yell. William Shakespeare, descendant of a Chiriquaua Apache warrior who rode with the infamous Victorio, attacked with the full fury of his ancestry. Quentin saw glimpses of Billy as he danced amongst the beams of light. The dull thuds of wood hitting armor were intermingled with the wet crunch of a metal baton slamming into bone. One person fighting four gollums was, at best, suicidal. Gollums were stronger, faster, felt no pain, and most importantly, invulnerable as long as the medallion around its neck was intact. Suicidal, if you were fighting to defeat them. Billy was just buying time for the team.

"Into the docks!" Mateo yelled over the noise of the fight. Quentin followed his team leader as the man charged into the narrow opening provided by Billy.

"Don’t fight them until we have more room," Mateo commanded as the gollums reached out from behind the wall of blows provided by their teammate. The door opened to an open-air loading area. The sudden sunlight blinded Quentin. He stumbled forward as his eyes strained to adjust to the brightness. Quentin heard Mateo and the Brit charge past him. Why couldn’t he be as good as he was on that island? Why was he stumbling around like some newbie? Finally the room around him came into focus. The loading docks turned out to be a large concrete room with stacks of crates. The stacks were of uneven height, and in the sudden light, looked like a miniature city skyline. Or decent defensive positions, Quentin’s tactical memory reminded him. He scrambled to set up behind the crates.

"Billy step in and cut right," Mateo ordered. Billy retreated into the docks, still trading blows with the gollums. As soon as he was through the doorway, Billy rolled to the right to come up in a fighting stance with his batons ready. The gollums charged at the team, but stopped short at the doorway. It was like they hit an invisible wall. What stopped them?

"Take them down," Mateo said, before placing a burst into the chest of one gollum. Two rounds lanced harmlessly through the gollum’s withered body. The third impacted the medallion. The 6.8 mm round easily shattered the stone. The gollum let out an unearthly scream as the shards of the medallion fell to the ground. Its torment was cut short as Mateo fired again. Devoid of its supernatural protection, the gollum was violently torn apart by the bullets. Slim dispatched a second gollum with the same efficiency.

Quentin took aim at a third gollum. The chevron in the holographic sight lined up on the medallion. He knew he missed the moment the rifle rocked back with the recoil. He rushed the shot and jerked the trigger. Quentin could feel how out-of-step he was in the fight. The gollum snarled as the rounds punched through its stomach. Enraged, the gollum threw its club at Quentin. The heavy wood club slammed into Quentin’s shoulder as he tried to duck behind cover. Quentin felt the blow as the club slapped harmlessly against his shoulder armor. No pain, but the force of the blow was enough to throw Quentin off-balance. Old football reflexes took over as he slid his right leg out to keep him upright. His new leg just couldn’t move as fast as he needed. Quentin felt his breath rush out of him as he hit the concrete. He heard his weapon clatter off the dock. Quentin stayed on the ground for a second, annoyed with himself. What a stupid way to go down. Especially since his team needed him in the fight.

"Quentin, are you okay?" Mateo called out, between bursts. Quentin couldn’t answer for a moment. His frustration gripped him like a vice. Mateo called again, more concerned this time. "Quentin, you with us?"

"Yeah, just tripped over myself," Quentin growled, finally finding his voice, "Lost my gun."

"Go get it while we deal with these two," Mateo said. Quentin rose to a crouch and walked to the edge of the dock. Mateo, Slim, and Billy could handle two gollums that couldn’t even come into the room. Why couldn’t they come into the room? The question nagged his mind. The rear of the loading area was a pit that allowed trucks to back up to the docks and roll out their crates without the need of a ramp. It was safer for the precious cargo. Quentin’s rifle was a few feet from the edge of the docks in the middle of the pit. Quentin jumped down, picked up his weapon, and inspected it. It didn’t look too bad. Just some scrapes and scuffs on the housing.

Quentin head snapped around as he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Giant stood at the corner of the building with about twenty zombies behind him. He was still dressed in the black ninja suit. His dark eyes were wide in surprise. Giant was trying to trap the team, and he wasn’t expecting to find Quentin out of the trap. Quentin had an instant to bring up his weapon.

The crack of the whip boomed with the force of a concussion grenade in Quentin’s face. The sheer ferocity was enough to stun Quentin. He didn’t even feel the whip as it wrapped around his neck. His mind was barely aware he couldn’t breathe. He felt the dimness around him.

Four loud barks of a pistol snapped Quentin back. He saw Giant flinch as four spurts of blood erupted from his chest. The whip loosened a bit. Quentin’s head swam as blood rushed back into his brain. The primal need for survival awoke a part of Quentin’s mind he tried very hard to keep locked down. Rage flooded him. He grabbed the whip. A cold, sick energy rippled up his arm. Quentin didn’t have time or emotion to care. With every bit of his strength, he yanked on the whip. Giant was strong and powerful, but physics still ruled. Giant flew off his feet and into Quentin’s waiting fist. There was no art or technique to the blow. It was pure and simple savagery.

Giant’s head snapped back. The blow would have killed a normal person. It should have, at the very least, dazed the man. Quentin felt the whip slither off his neck like a dead snake. He heard the sound of suppressed fire as Slim and Billy engaged the zombies. Mateo landed next to his friend with pistol in hand. Quentin felt a small rush of relief. Then, Giant stood back up without a hint of any injury. Even the bullet wounds were gone. What was Giant?

"Drop the whip!" Mateo yelled at Giant, rising to his favored Weaver stance.

"Mateo Cortez. You aren’t as tall as I expected," Giant said, his voice flat and cold. The accent was odd. It sounded American, Spanish, and European all at the same time. "You are not supposed to be here." Mateo answered by unloading his pistol into Giant. The seven foot tall man jerked back with each impact, but showed no pain. As the slide on his Sig locked back, Mateo dropped the magazine. The whip tagged Mateo as he was slapping a new magazine in. The team leader dropped without a sound. Quentin moved between his fallen friend and Giant. Slim and Billy jumped down next to him with their rifles raised. They made relatively quick work of the zombies with Giant. Quentin could feel their rage at not being fast enough to protect their leader.

"I didn’t kill him. It’s not allowed quite yet," Giant answered, "Still, you have managed to annoy me." The whip shot out and knocked the rifles out of Slim’s and Billy’s hands. Giant flicked the whip out to the side. The long cord froze rigidly. Before Quentin’s mind could comprehend what was happening, Giant ran the whip through Slim like a lance. The tall Brit was slammed into the wall of the pit as blood poured out of the tiny wound.

Giant flicked his wrist and the whip went limp. Another flick and the whip curled back to Giant. Quentin fumbled for his medical kit. He needed to stop the river of blood pouring out of Slim’s unmoving form. Quentin heard a sick crack and looked back in time to see Billy lying in a heap in front of Giant. The man locked eyes with Quentin. There was no amusement or even annoyance in those dark eyes. They were filled with a fire Quentin couldn’t decipher. The moment was broken as Giant leapt over Quentin and his fallen team. As the man strode into the museum, he cracked his whip once again.

The crates on the dock began to rattle as the familiar moan of zombies echoed through the loading dock. Quentin’s mind raced, trying to figure out what to do. Then, Slim grabbed Quentin’s arm, and moaned.

Zombie Strike Part 3 Chapter 22

Over Mexico City, 16300 hours local, 2 December 2009, Countdown: 2 years, 29 days

Quentin McLintock swallowed down a wave of nausea as he caught sight of the ground speeding under the helicopter. Motion sickness was one of his curses. Quentin swore under his breath. He closed his eyes and forced his mind to concentrate on something else. Like the new gear Mateo foisted upon him before bundling the team onto the helicopter.

The armor was comfortable. In fact, it reminded Quentin of the pads and protection he had worn as a linebacker. The base was simply a version of the popular Lycra sports garments Quentin had worn for years, except this stuff was tear-resistant. That meant it was also very hard to bite through. Then came a harness for the electronics, including the radio, sat phone, GPS, and a few other things Quentin wasn’t sure how they worked. They all tied into a PDA that reminded Quentin of a very rugged iPod. A Camelback went on next. The shoulder, chest, and gut protection was articulated polymer over Kevlar. The arms and legs were protected with leather augmented with plastic at the joints. All of his gear was stored in a series of rigid pouches scattered around the outside of his armor. The helmet was perhaps the strangest piece of the armor. The actual helmet was styled similarly to an American combat helmet with a flip out mount for enhancements. A tinted face shield attached to for a seamless wraparound bucket. Quentin caught a reflection of himself, and felt like the ancient ancestor of an Imperial stormtrooper.

The carbine, at least, was relatively normal. The "Zombie-Killing Carbine", or ZKC as the team called it, started out as a Bushmaster ACR. The rear of the weapon retained the familiar controls and stock. An ACOG-type sight graced the top of the weapon with a flip-up bracket to attach additional enhancements, such as nightvision or a thermal imager. The front of the weapon displayed none of its lineage. It looked like a single piece of molded plastic with an integral suppressor, high-powered white light, laser, and flip-down vertical grip. The whole package was somewhere between combat functional, tacti-cool, and futuristic. Mateo swore the "ZKC" was an easy weapon to master, but Quentin wished he had more time to work with it.

"Okay, the bad guys are in the Mexican Museum of Anthropology," Mateo said over the team’s radio, "The place emptied out fast once the zombies showed up, but intel says at least ten to thirty civilians were turned."

"Where are we getting intel?" asked Collin DuBois from the other helicopter.

"Local control says there are a couple of Mexican police on scene who haven’t run," Mateo answered, "They’re keeping their distance, but trying to watch what the bad guys are doing. Best estimates are fifty or so zombies, two guys in dark clothes, and Giant. The non-zombies are hunting for something while the zombies are keeping away the humans."

"Sounds like a party," Billy Shakespear interjected.

"Glad you think so," Mateo answered dryly, "Control wants us to eliminate the outbreak."

"I know that tone, Matty," Collin said, "What’s the real op?"

"Giant and his two minions are in there for a reason. They need to be captured to find out what their end game is," Mateo answered, "That’s Alpha team’s job. Quentin, myself, Slim, and Billy are on Alpha. Collin, you have everyone else for Bravo. Standard zombie clearing, but be ready to come to the rescue." There was a chorus of mike clicks as the team acknowledged Mateo’s orders.

The two helicopters flared to a hover before dropping to the ground. The first out were the professionals – Collin, The Steve, and the Brit Boys. The rest of the team followed them onto the museum grounds. Mateo flashed hand signals. Quentin couldn’t remember what they meant. It didn’t matter. He just had to stick with Mateo.

Collin and the rest of Beta team moved into the museum’s shattered entryway. Debris and discarded items were scattered over the marble floor. There were no zombies, but the wrecked exhibits left a clear trail. Beta team cautiously moved in. Mateo didn’t wait for them to disappear into the museum. He pulled the four members of Alpha around him.

"The police focused on the zombies, so we don’t have a clear idea of where our target is," Mateo explained, displaying the museum’s floor plans on his PDA, "Suggestions?"

"The museum was the main recipient of the artifacts we were digging up," Quentin said, "They’ll probably be searching the labs and offices for the more recent artifacts." The others nodded.

"Okay, Billy you’ve got point," Mateo ordered, "Quentin, you’re next. You know the place better than we do, so you’re navigator."

"Matt, I’ve never been here before," Quentin protested.

"You know the back side of a museum," Mateo answered, "Good enough for now." Quentin knew better than to argue the point. Mateo didn’t care if he was asking for the impossible again. He just expected Quentin to perform. As Billy led them through the museum’s entrance, Quentin studied the information on his PDA. The best place to start would be the receiving dock. Quentin drew a line on his PDA from Alpha’s position to the dock and uploaded it to everyone else’s PDA. Okay, the technology was pretty impressive. The question was how much was it going to help against someone like Giant?

Quentin winced at the sound as Billy smashed open the door leading to the back. For such a small person, Billy could deliver a lot of force when he wanted to. The corridor was a main access hallway. It was lit by flickering fluorescent lights. The off-color walls and linoleum highlighted the eeriness of the empty and quiet hallway. Quentin felt like he was walking into the set of a horror flick. It was a straight shot of maybe three hundred feet to the docks. Mateo flashed urgent hand signals and the team entered the hallway with trepidation.

About halfway down the hallway intersected another. Quentin’s heart pounded in his chest as Billy slid against the wall towards the intersection. Billy popped around the corner into the other hallway. Endless seconds passed as Quentin strained to listen for the faint sound of suppressed gunfire. He almost longed for action – any action. Anything to break the nervous tension. Billy slipped back around the corner and motioned. Nothing. Maybe the way was clear.

Quentin felt a little better as the team neared the door to the docks. He didn’t expect to find his target in the docks. Maybe something that would give Quentin an idea of why Giant had come to the museum. He started thinking on this as the team skulked towards the door. What had they come for? What could they need from this museum they didn’t find at the dig site? The team was maybe thirty feet from the door to the docks when it all went dark.

"Welcome to the trap gentlemen," came the familiar voice of the man dubbed Giant, and Quentin’s stomach plummeted. The next sound was the familiar howls of gollums.

Zombie Strike Part 3 Chapter 21

Aztec Ruins, 150 miles south of Mexico City, 1100 hours local, 2 December 2009, Countdown: 2 years, 29 days

Quentin McLintock was fighting fatigue and grief. William "Billy" Shakespear, the Native American dervish who pretty much took down a fifty-zombie horde on his own, took one look at Quentin and started processing the bodies. Such a clean word for such a gruesome task. They were joined by the team Mackenzie and Winston sent down to assist in the clean-up of the camp site. Quentin just couldn’t watch their clinical efficiency with the corpses of those he called friends and colleagues. So, he did what he could do to stop this horror from happening again. Quentin grabbed a laptop and went into the temple and started to try and decipher why Giant and his minions attacked the camp.

The temple looked gray as filtered light managed to reach into its main room. The floor was strewn with broken shards of what looked to be clay tablets of some sort. Quentin went to work. As he immersed himself, he barely noticed the gray light turn to amber from the dawn. He didn’t stop. He was making so little progress. Then, Quentin noticed the ambient light in the temple darken. Annoyance flashed through his tired mind. Who was interrupting him now? Don’t they understand how crucial–

"Hello Quentin," said a familiar voice that shouldn’t be anywhere near this temple. Quentin almost dropped the piece of clay tablet in his hands. He was sure his fatigued mind was playing tricks on him. Still, there was the faint glimmer of hope it was true. Quentin turned to see Mateo Cortez standing in the opening with a warm smile on his face.

"What are you doing here?" Quentin asked, his mind still unable to reconcile with what his eyes were seeing. The last time Quentin saw this man was on Skull Island. Mateo was boarding a helicopter and swearing never to have anything to do with zombies or zombie hunting again. Now he was standing in the doorway of the temple in a strange set of armor with an odd rifle hanging at his chest on a tactical sling. Why was he here now?

"Yeah, I know it’s hard to believe," Mateo said, "I’m team lead for the Skull Island Zombie Response Team. It’s a long story we don’t have time for right now." Mateo’s smile vanished, replaced by a determined look. Quentin remembered that look with fondness. Mateo was back and fully in command. For some reason, that gave Quentin a small sense of peace.

"I talked with the guy, Billy, outside, but he says you’re the only one who saw the primaries. What can you tell me?" Mateo asked.

"One guy who looked like he was a foot taller and fifty pounds heavier than me. Two more like the prisoner," Quentin answered, "I think they were searching for how the Aztecs created zombies and gollums. Did you ask the prisoner?"

"He’s not talking due to a bad case of death," Mateo said, "Not sure how he managed to suicide, but the body’s off to Mexico City for autopsy. The clean-up crew was nice enough to do some forensic work before it left. I’ve got Collin and The Steve working on that. What have you found here?"

"This is definitely the place where the followers of Xipe Totec created their own versions of the undead," Quentin said, waving his hand around the temple’s main chamber. "Giant broke all of the tablets relating to the process, but I’ve managed to piece enough together. Also found a half-dozen gollum medallions."

"How do you know Giant broke them?" Mateo asked. Quentin held up one of the broken tablets.

"No erosion on the broken edges," Quentin answered. "Giant’s the most likely suspect."

"Were those the ones Giant left, or did he not understand their significance?" Mateo asked.

"I don’t know, Matt," Quentin answered, tiredly, "Maybe if I knew more about how gollums were created in the first place. My guess is Giant left these for some reason. He knew too much about this place not to know about the medallions."

"That makes finding this guy priority," Mateo concluded, "What do you need to find out what he’s after?" Quentin gave Mateo a wide-eyed stare. Did he even begin to understand what he was asking? No, Mateo never did when he made his impossible requests. Yet, they couldn’t be impossible because no one had yet to fail him.

"I need to find out why they smashed up the place," Quentin said, thinking furiously, "No reason to waste time demolishing the place unless they were covering their tracks." Mateo nodded in agreement. Mateo cupped his hand to his ear.

"Jess, I need you and the Brit Boys down here," Mateo said. Quentin watched as his friend’s expression blossom with consternation at this Jess person. Mateo took a deep breath before speaking. "No, he can’t come with you. I gave you an order young lady. Now get down here!"

Quentin stifled the laugh. There was something about Mateo’s face, tone, and posture. Quentin had seen his friend dealing with the antics of some of his teammates, mainly The Steve, but this was completely different. It reminded Quentin of a father dealing with his teenage daughter. Then a blonde-haired, blue-eyed homecoming queen in body armor sauntered into the temple. Quentin almost didn’t notice the two professional-looking men trailing her. The girl couldn’t be more than sixteen. Why in God’s name would Mateo let this little girl be a part of the team?

"Mateo, what’s the problem with bringing Billy down here?" Jess asked with just a hint of whining. The two men who entered the temple with her rolled their eyes and braced themselves.

"Because you’re looking at him like you did that, um, guy from Twilight," Mateo answered, and Quentin wondered what word his friend swallowed. "I need that mind of yours focused on the task." Jess gave him the look of aggravated patience that only teenage girls can throw. Mateo ignored it.

"You three help Quentin with his work here," Mateo ordered, "The rest of the team will be outside doing other investigation." Mateo strode out of the temple. Jess just glared at Mateo as he left.

How to handle this ball of fire? Quentin asked himself.

"He’s gone now girl, you can bloody well drop the act," the taller man said reprovingly with a clear British accent. It was slightly different from the accent of Quentin’s friend, Collin DuBois, but it clearly hailed from the United Kingdom. The man looked at Quentin. Jess shot the man a betrayed look. He ignored it.

"Apologies, Mr. McLintock. You may call me Slim. This is my associate Sport." The shorter man raised a knuckle in salute. "You’ve met Ms. Montgomery."

"Good to meet you all," Quentin said, "How good are you at jigsaw puzzles?"

A few hours later, Quentin emerged from the temple. Mateo walked over and handed Quentin a bottle of water. Quentin savored the cool liquid running down his throat. It was a relief from the dry, dusty, and hot environment. Mateo gently tapped the end of the bottle, a reminder to Quentin to sip the water.

"What have you found?" Mateo asked bluntly.

"The tablets were instructions for creating the undead, but the instructions rely on the reader already knowing the basics," Quentin said, "There was a lot of, for lack of a better term, technical jargon. Things that didn’t translate out properly. I think this was a raid to steal medallions and to destroy any remnant of the knowledge how to create the undead."

"Makes sense," Mateo agreed, "We’re trying to ID the two bad guys here. So far, no luck. Anything else?" Quentin gave his friend a sidelong glance before answering. Mateo picked up on his friend’s discomfort. "What is it?"

"Why did you bring along the kid?" Quentin asked, embarrassed at having to ask Mateo. Mateo took one look at Quentin’s face and laughed.

"Relax, Quentin, she’s my foster daughter," Mateo answered. When that didn’t seem to ease Quentin’s concerns, Mateo gave him a quick rundown of the events surrounding the fight at Forreston.

"So what do you want me to do?" Quentin asked.

"I need you to keep trying to find out everything you can," Mateo answered, "This group of cultists is acting very differently than Xipe Tzin, and I want to know why. Keep Jess with you."

"Are you really worried about her being distracted by Billy?" Quentin asked, nodding to the animated Native American who was busily following the distinct forms of Collin and The Steve.

"Honestly, any other time I would be jumping up and down she was showing interest in a young man," Mateo said, "Jess had a rough time with all of the upheavals in her life. There were some really dark days."

"So what’s the problem?" Quentin asked.

"We’re facing a group of individuals who were willing to kill everyone in this camp to keep the information you found hidden," Mateo said, "I can’t let her mind be distracted when dealing with people like that." The cold bluntness of his words triggered a wave of suppressed grief in Quentin. Mateo realized belatedly the effect of his words. "I’m sorry about your friends. Are you going to be okay?"

"Yeah, I’ll be okay as long as I’m busy," Quentin said, "We need to stop these murderers. I’ve got the feeling the attack here was a small part of whatever they’re up to." Mateo started to stay something, but his mouth clicked shut as he listened to his earpiece. His face grew grim.

"Understood," Mateo said in his command voice. He flicked a switch on his radio and said, "Everyone grab your gear and rally on me." Quentin could see a flurry of action around the camp.

"For the record your new name is Prophet," Mateo said, "Giant and his friends are leading a zombie attack in Mexico City. Transport is fifteen minutes out. You’re with me." As Mateo, turned to brief his team, Quentin’s mind flashed to his friend’s words. Quentin couldn’t tell if his friend was joking with him or cursing him.

Zombie Strike Part 3 Chapter 20

Aztec Ruins, 150 miles south of Mexico City, 2200 hours local, 1 December 2009, Countdown: 2 years, 1 month

Quentin McLintock faced one of the worst scenarios a zombie hunter could encounter. He knew it as soon as the first arm shot out from the ground. Quentin recognized the familiar ring from his Alma mater, West Virginia University. These were his friends and colleagues. They’d been murdered by a mysterious giant of a man and his four minions. Two of those minions fled with the giant. A third was starting to rise with the familiar shamble of the undead. The last was tied up after losing a fight with Quentin.

Quentin looked into the face of his academic mentor, Dr. Eli Stone, as the undead corpse freed itself from the dirt. Painful guilt wracked Quentin. He knew the moaning creature was no longer the kind man that looked past Quentin’s jock facade to challenge the burgeoning anthropologist underneath. He knew it was a monster that would kill him and turn him into a member of the horde. Yet, Quentin just couldn’t make his finger squeeze the trigger on his M4.

Quentin did the only thing he could do. He ran. He ran as fast as he could from the animated corpses of those he labored with in this cursed place. He sprinted into his tent. At the bottom of the trunk that held all of his weapons was a satellite phone. He needed help. Quentin clipped the phone to his vest and jerked the trunk up onto his shoulders. There were too many goodies Quentin didn’t want falling into the hands of the giant and his minions. He rushed out of the tent to the pre-fab building at the center of the dig camp.

The last minion was where Quentin left him bound with copious amounts of duct tape. The minion’s eyes laughed at Quentin as he slammed down the trunk. Quentin was sorely tempted to throw the bound man in the odd ninja costume to the zombies. Quentin squashed the thought and fumbled with the satellite phone. One of the buttons was blinking a friendly green. Quentin mashed it as he heard the hunting moans of the newly risen horde.

"Mr. McLintock are you all right?" asked a beautiful, melodic woman’s voice with an unmistakable British accent. "My name is Seraph. Help is on the way."

"What?" Quentin asked, his mind jarred by the warm calmness in Seraph’s voice.

"I’m with MacKenzie and Winston, Mr. McLintock," Seraph said, referring to the multi-national insurance firm covertly fighting zombie outbreaks around the world. They also covertly funded the archeological dig Quentin joined, hoping to find answers behind the outbreaks. Seraph continued, "One of our armed response teams were dispatched to your location when you opened the weapons locker."

"Turn them around!" Quentin said, "There’s a zombie outbreak here! I need you to connect me to Kenn Blanchard! I need zombie hunters here as fast as possible." Seraph didn’t say anything. Quentin worried that he scared the woman off. Just as he felt he was alone, Seraph’s lovely voice returned.

"Skull Island has been notified Mr. McLintock," Seraph said. "However, the team will be unable to reach your location for quite some time. One of our armed response lads is Zed-qualified. He will be at your current location within the half-hour."

"I got a feeling I’ll be surrounded by the time your boy gets here," Quentin said, looking out the window at the mass of undead stumbling and moaning towards Quentin.

"Might I suggest you evacuate the area or engage your opponents?" Seraph said without a hint of condescension.

"Neither is a real good option," Quentin temporized. Quentin just couldn’t confess to this warm and assuring voice he couldn’t bring himself to shoot the corpses of his friends and colleagues. At least not right then.

"I understand your reluctance to engage the zombies Mr. McLintock," Seraph answered, her voice conveying warm and compassionate understanding, "They were our friends and colleagues. If you can’t fight, what prevents you from retreating?"

"Because I have a prisoner related to the individual who caused this outbreak, and I’m not going to surrender him unless I have no choice," Quentin said with deadly calm. Seraph was quiet for a long minute.

"I have relayed your situation to the responding individual," Seraph said, "He should be joining you in approximately five minutes, so do try to avoid shooting him." Quentin arched an eyebrow in a silent question. How was someone from an armed response team twenty to thirty minutes away suddenly appear in five? The moans of the undead tore him away from the quandary. The pre-fab building wasn’t the best fortification. The horde could probably push through the thin walls once the mass built up. Quentin peered out through a large window next to the front entrance. The shambling mass of animated corpses were staggering straight to the building. It was a loose horde, not the densely packed groups that were easier to whittle down and stop. It looked like every person in the camp except for Quentin and his prisoner were among the horde. It would take less than five minutes for the horde to swarm the building. Quentin took a deep breath. He hated it and was sure it would haunt his dreams for a long time, but he had to do what he was put on this Earth to do.

Quentin opened the front door. He brought up his M4 and sighted at the closest zombie. It was Kathy Walker. The cute little undergrad zoomed around the dig with a hyperkinetic need to help everyone do everything. Now she was a moaning, staggering undead with only a partially caved-in head to show how she died. She hadn’t even had time to decompose. Vibrant memories flashed before Quentin’s eyes. He heard the muffled laugh from the bound and gagged minion behind him. Sudden anger flared through Quentin’s body. Hot, seating rage boiled through his veins as the minion continued to laugh at Quentin’s inability to put down his former colleagues and friends. It was these intruders who killed these people and desecrated their bodies by turning them into zombies. The anger became too much. He snapped the rifle up and placed a round into the bridge of Kathy’s nose. The zombie toppled back and stopped moving.

Next was Jeffrey who hero-worshipped Quentin because of Quentin’s football career. He went down with a shot through the right eye. Then Autumn, the girl who feigned being a princess before getting her hands dirty with the rest of the crew. Marisol, who was hoping to find some link with her Aztec ancestors. Each shot bled a bit of Quentin’s rage and strengthened his guilt. The bolt locked back on an empty magazine. His rage spent, Quentin dropped the weapon. He couldn’t think what to do. He just looked at the oncoming zombies with faces that taunted and tormented him.

Quentin barely heard the loud, high-pitched screeching, but he saw the small armored figure barrel into the horde with a pair of clubs. Four zombies went down amidst a flurry of blows before the horde even noticed the speeding figure’s presence. The person buried the clubs into two more zombies before drawing two small Steyr TMP submachine guns. The zombies nearest the hurtling figure fell as the chattering of gunfire started. New memories flashed in Quentin’s mind as he watched the figure slide away from two lunging zombies an instant before putting both down with an impossible double shot. Memories of angry Australian whose dance of death defied the laws of nature and statistics. There was the same synergy of violence and motion, of grace and brutality. Quentin was transfixed.

It was danger that snapped Quentin out of his haze of guilt and memories. Not personal danger. The armored figure zigged when he should have zagged, and the corpse of Paul Jones snatched him off the ground. Paul Jones, the only person in the camp who even came close to matching Quentin in sheer muscle. The former star wrestler for California who was often mockingly called SOG, or Son Of Governor, in deference to California’s former-movie star chief executive. Quentin’s hand snatched the pistol out of the holster and double-tapped the zombie before Quentin even realized he was acting. The corpse of the once mighty man collapsed. Wordlessly, the armored person shucked off Paul’s lifeless corpse and finished off the last three zombies.

The person, Quentin really couldn’t tell the gender under all that armor, holstered the two TMPs before coolly walking into the midst of the carnage to retrieve the clubs. Quentin managed to pick up his own carbine and reload it as the armored figure strode back to Quentin, the featureless plate of armor hiding the face. The plate slid up as the person neared. A young face with distinctly Native American features. The man tucked his two clubs under his left arm and stuck out his hand.

"Hiya," the young man said with a thick Brooklyn accent, "The name’s William Shakespear."

Zombie Strike Part 3 Chapter 19

Aztec Ruins, 150 miles south of Mexico City, 1730 hours local, 1 December 2009, Countdown: 2 years, 1 month

Quentin McLintock desperately wanted to scratch the itch on the bottom of his right foot. There was just one problem. His right foot wasn’t there anymore. Everything from the knee down had been amputated after Sissy O’Connell put a burst of 4.6mm bullets through his knee during the battle with Xipe-Tzin. During the long rehab, the doctors warned about phantom itches. For the most part, Quentin could ignore them. When he put in a hard day’s work excavating recently discovered Aztec ruins, the itch was bad enough he had to focus to get them under control.

Quentin didn’t complain. He was lucky. More so than Sissy. The poor woman was still in a mental hospital, and probably would be for the rest of her life, according to the doctors. She didn’t even acknowledge Quentin’s presence the last time he visited. She just sat staring at nothing. Quentin, on the other hand, was almost back to his former self. Mackenzie & Winston, the insurance firm that recruited Quentin to fight zombies, hired the finest doctors, prosthetics designers, and physical therapists to help him. The result was three months of hell that made him strong enough to work on the archeology project. M&W even footed part of the bill for the expedition.

"Itch started up again?" asked Dr. Stone. Kevin Stone was Quentin’s academic advisor for Quentin’s doctoral program. Quentin nodded stoically. During his undergraduate years, Quentin had been part of West Virginia’s powerful offensive line. He could endure the phantom itch. Dr. Stone clapped the massive man on his shoulder. "Well the Californians found something last night that they’re having trouble identifying. They’ve asked us to take a look, if you can believe that."

"Oh?" Quentin asked, his curiosity piqued. The contingent from the University of California had been more than a little condescending to Dr. Stone and his little group of Mountaineers for the entire expedition. They tended to avoid Quentin altogether. It was annoying to deal with, but Quentin couldn’t deny the Californians’ expertise. If they couldn’t identify what they unearthed, it would have to be something truly rare. Quentin just hoped it wasn’t what he feared finding in these ruins.

Quentin followed Dr. Stone to the UC building. The prosthetic leg felt both alien and natural at the same time. Even after the intensive work, Quentin still wasn’t as nimble on his feet as he once had been. His pride mourned that loss. He knew he shouldn’t. The doctors kept telling Quentin his recovery was amazing considering the extent of his injury. In the darkest hours of the night, Quentin still felt weak, and then felt guilty about feeling weak.

The sun was setting as Dr. Stone and Quentin stepped into the prefab building. The sudden chill of the air-conditioner felt good after the long day in the Mexican sun. The two senior Californian archeologists were inspecting the object under a large magnifying lens. Dr. Stone traded good-natures quips with the pair as Quentin inspected their find. Quentin’s body froze as his eyes locked onto the small stone medallion. It was a flat disc maybe three inches in diameter and a quarter inch thick. The carvings were barely visible after centuries of erosion, but Quentin could make out the familiar runes. Old instincts flooded through his mind. Quentin’s hand grasped for a weapon that wasn’t there. Memories of terror flooded his mind. Desperate battles on a small island against almost unstoppable creatures.

"Where did you find this?" Quentin asked, flatly. His eyes were transfixed on the talisman.

"Grid three-two, by the temple," answered the younger archeologist. He walked over to where Quentin was inspecting the medallion. The archeologist had the look of a man with a newborn child. "The carvings are extremely faint, but it’s not like anything else we found around that area. Completely unlike any of the other artifacts. Almost as if it’s from another period of Aztec history. It’s fascinating."

"I need to inspect everything you extracted from the temple and the surrounding area," Quentin demanded, his normal jovial tone replaced by a cold and commanding voice. Dr. Stone and the two archeologists stared at him with shocked looks. They didn’t know how to handle the sudden shift in the man they assumed to be the prototypical gentle giant.

"Doctors, that wasn’t a suggestion," Quentin said, forcefully, "Get me what I asked." Something in the look on Quentin’s face scared the two Californian archeologists. They scurried to comply with Quentin’s orders. Dr. Stone cautiously approached Quentin, looking as if he were about to stick his hand in a beehive.

"Quentin, what in God’s name are you doing?" Dr. Stone asked, in a low whisper, "You can’t order full professors around like undergraduates on their first dig, much less look at them like you are about to eviscerate them if they refuse. You’re going to ruin your career before you have one. What is going on?"

"I think we may have stumbled onto what we were looking for on this dig," Quentin answered.

"Wait, what do you mean ‘what we were looking for?’" Dr. Stone asked.

"Why do you think we got that last minute donation to fund this expedition? It’s related to how I lost my leg." Dr. Stone froze for a moment. The doctor didn’t have all the details surrounding the loss of Quentin’s leg, but he pieced enough together to know it wasn’t in the automobile accident that Quentin told everyone else.

"Okay, now I understand why you were pushing so hard for our team to join this dig. What I don’t understand is how this dig connects to zombies," Dr. Stone said, quietly. The doctor’s conclusion surprised Quentin. It never occurred to him that the doctor could possibly know what Quentin was really hunting for.

"Not zombies exactly," Quentin said, carefully choosing his words, "I think the Aztecs had methods of creating different types of undead. From some stuff I found, I think this site is where they created them. I needed to find it before someone else did." Dr. Stone looked as his student with a look of stark terror on his face. Just being close to an ancient place tied to the undead was enough to evoke the familiar primal horror in the experienced archeologist. Quentin was lucky, or cursed, to be one of the small percentage of humanity who didn’t experience that terrifying panic when dealing with the undead.

"What are we going to do?" Dr. Stone asked. His eyes darted about, looking for places to hide. Quentin laid his hands on the man’s shoulders.

"Don’t worry Doc," Quentin said calmly, "Remember, this is why I came here. I just need to confirm my suspicions, and then I make a phone call. The problem gets dealt with." Dr. Stone nodded, but there was no comprehension in his eyes. The doctor was still trying to process the sudden revelation.

At that point, the two UC archeologists returned with a laptop. Quentin sat down to look through the items excavated near the medallion. Most were simple everyday items. Pottery, tools, and such. Nothing that appeared to be linked to the creation of the undead, or worse, the gollums he fought on that Pacific island. Quentin flagged a few items so he could go back and study them in more detail. Quentin opened the files to examine the human remains. Then, someone hit him over the head.

Buried reflexes came alive as Quentin lashed out against his attacker. He felt his fist connect against flesh and bone and heard a grunt of pain. Quentin fell into a fighting stance, but nearly collapsed when he misjudged his prosthetic. As he stumbled, Quentin clearly saw his assailant for the first time. His attacker appeared to be an average height and build man, but it was hard to tell through what looked like a bad ninja suit. The man was armed with what appeared to be an old-style police billy club. A tonfa, an old memory supplied. The wannabe ninja took advantage of Quentin’s misstep to strike with the tonfa. Quentin blocked with one of his massive arms. There was pain, but it was dulled. Years of being in the crush of the offensive lines, followed by rigorous training allowed Quentin to soak pain that would cripple lesser men. The assailant was stunned when Quentin shrugged off the blow. He never saw the punch coming. Quentin’s fist crashed into the side of the assassin’s head and drove him to the ground. The assailant half-bounced off the floor before crumpling into a heap. Quentin did a quick check. The man was alive, but unconscious. So, where was Dr. Stone and the two UC archeologists?

Quentin opened one of the toolboxes in the stacked against the wall and found a roll of duct tape. A few strips later and the assailant was secured. Quentin took several deep breaths as he thought about what he needed to do. Quentin was sure the assailant wasn’t alone. The dig site had no security beyond the numerous cell phones amongst the students. Well, that and the few items Quentin stashed in his tent. Quentin crept out of the building. The camp area was dark and deathly quiet. Quentin cursed silently. There were always students around campfires to BS about the day and do other things young men and women did when far away from home. Quentin barely made out a few shadows darting about the dig site around the temple. Best guess was at least three other individuals around the temple. Quentin needed to get to his tent.

Quentin stepped out into the night. There was no sign the intruders noticed him. His breathing slowed to a familiar rhythm as he dashed to the nearest tent. Quentin snapped a glance towards the temple. Still no reaction from the shadowy figures. Emboldened, Quentin dashed to his tent some forty yards away. For the first time in months, he felt like his old self. Charging into his tent, Quentin tossed the clutter hiding his "special" trunk. He punched the combination into the pad and threw open the lid. The weapons somehow managed to gleam in the almost nonexistent light.

The rig took a few minutes to put on. It had been some time since the last time Quentin wore this gear. The warhammer was a familiar weight. It went into its scabbard on his back. The Glock was holstered at his waist. Finally, Quentin picked up the M4. The weapon always felt so tiny in his hands, but it was effective. He had expected to need the weapons in the crate against narcos. He didn’t know who the intruders were, but they damn sure weren’t narcos. Quentin stalked out of his tent towards the temple with his M4 up and ready.

The nightvision showed Quentin the camp wasn’t quiet, it was deserted. Quentin knew when he was working, he was mostly oblivious to the rest of the world. That said, how did fifty people vanish without Quentin hearing a sound? Quentin suspected the three individuals rooting around the temple held the answers. Quentin crouched about thirty yards from the three intruders. The three were dressed in dark clothing from head to toe. More ninja costumes like the assailant trussed up back in the lab? They weren’t talking, just frantically digging around the temple in silence. They didn’t even seem to notice Quentin’s presence. Quentin didn’t see any weapons other than the small spades the intruders were using.

"Freeze!" yelled Quentin, breaking the silence. There was an instant of embarrassment at his choice of challenges, but he forged ahead. The three intruders were looking directly at him, as they were also wearing nightvision. "Lose the shovels and get on the ground!"

"Leave interloper," the nearest said with a coldness that brought a touch of chill to Quentin’s bones. The speaker paused, as if to watch his words have their desired effect. When Quentin didn’t move, the speaker drew something from his sleeve. Quentin wasn’t sure what it was, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He squeezed the trigger. The area rocked with the sound as Quentin placed a burst into the speaker’s chest. The other two charged before the first’s body hit the ground. Quentin lined up the carbine on the closest.

"Stop!" boomed a voice. The two intruders stopped in their tracks. Quentin swiveled to where the voice originated. An impossibly huge person walked out of the temple. He was easily seven feet tall and dressed in the same black ninja-like clothing as the other intruders. Gripped in his right hand was a long whip. This new person strode out into the open with an unnatural grace.

"This one killed two of you," the giant said to his two minions, "I’m sure he is wondering where all of his colleagues went. Let us answer his question." The giant cracked the whip. The sound echoed eerily through the camp. Quentin was suddenly queasy from what felt like a sudden wave of sickening power. The three intruders walked away from Quentin. He knew they were dangerous, but Quentin just couldn’t bring himself to shoot a human in the back. Quentin stood up to tackle them, or anything he could to stop them.

Quentin stopped cold when the first hand shot out of the ground.

Zombie Strike Part 3 Chapter 18

Skull Island, South Pacific 1000 hours local 31 October 2009 Countdown: 2 years, 2 months, 1 day

Mateo stepped off the boat on to the concrete dock. Maybe fifty feet down the pier, Kenn Blanchard was greeting the latest contestant for Zombie Strike! Memories flooded Mateo’s mind as he remembered when he first came to this island some eighteen months ago. It seemed so long ago. Mateo turned back to help his companion off the boat.

"Welcome back my brother," Kenn said as he walked up to Mateo. The handshake turned into a warm hug. "Who’s this you brought us?"

"Kenn Blanchard this is Jess Montgomery, my foster daughter," Mateo introduced. The teenager smiled shyly as Kenn quirked an eyebrow.

"It’s a long story," Mateo said, "Short version, her parents were killed during the fight at Forreston, and she didn’t have anywhere else to go." Mateo looked back at Jess with a smile. Kenn could see some of the emotional wounds were healing, just very slowly.

"So you took her in," Kenn finished with a smile, "The Steve said you had some personal business to take care of. Never mentioned you’d be bringing back a new daughter." Kenn looked back at the boat and frowned.

"Where’s Collin?" Kenn asked.

"He isn’t here?" Mateo asked in surprise, "He left Florida with The Steve, Jim, and the Brits."

"The Steve said he dropped them off at the airport," Kenn answered, "Collin told him that he had to help you with some unfinished business."

"I never saw him," Mateo said, suddenly worried about his friend. Kenn read the younger man’s face and clasped his shoulder reassuringly.

"I wouldn’t worry Matt," Kenn said, "Collin probably had something come up. What was he doing in Florida anyway?"

"I thought you sent him," Mateo said, surprised by the question, "He said he was there to provide support for M&W’s investigative team." The two men stopped and looked at each other with mirroring concerned looks. The unspoken questions hung in the air between them. What was going on with Collin?

####Mobile, Alabama 2000 hours local 31 October 2009 Countdown: 2 years, 2 months, 1 day

Collin Dubois’s mind was alert to the danger around him as he strolled casually into the dive of a pub. It had taken a week to track his prey. Difficult, but not as challenging as hunting Al-Qaeda in Iraq and Afghanistan. Especially not as dangerous as his time in Ulster. The denizens of the pub noticed the tall black man as he entered, but didn’t consider him much of a threat. Bloody fools.

Collin’s target was sitting with the remains of his family. Collin almost laughed at how they looked and acted like stereotypical American bikers. He strode to their table as he unbuttoned his long coat. The target’s companions began to stand up, but he waved them down.

"Don’t see many black limeys," Morris Templeton said, without a trace of his normal condescending sarcasm, "I also don’t see my money." Collin sat down, ignoring the barb as well as the five other toughs trying to look intimidating. They wouldn’t have lasted a day in the paras.

"You lost the shipment," Collin replied, "You should be happy I didn’t tell Mr. West exactly how you lost his drugs." Collin was impressed. Templeton didn’t even flinch. "Needless to say, Mr. West was most displeased with your failure to fulfill your end of the agreement." Collin’s flat, empty tone made Templeton sit up straight. A faint expression of worry and fear crossed the criminal’s face.

"I don’t want Mr. West unhappy," Templeton said, matching Collin’s tone, "What can we do to make this right?" Collin smiled inwardly as the opportunity presented itself.

"Who was Keenan smuggling that zombie for?" Collin asked. Templeton’s eyebrow arched, surprised at the question. Then, Templeton swallowed a gulp of beer from the mug at his elbow. The man looked nervous, but he put up a brave façade. Collin and Templeton stared quietly at each other as the question hung in the air. Templeton finally folded in the silent battle of wills after a minute of quiet tension.

"Some guy named Castle," Templeton answered, "Never heard of him before, but he fronted me a quarter mil to facilitate, so to speak." Templeton paused. That explained Templeton’s reluctance to divulge what he knew. Simon West wasn’t known for being kind to his associates that went "off the reservation" as the American said. Collin watched as Templeton’s eyes went wide.

"Mr. West’s not going to blame me for that craziness back in Forreston!" Templeton said.

"I think you should worry less about that and more about preparing the next shipment," Collin said, rising from the table. None of the Templeton family noticed the small box Collin attached to the underside of the table. Sometimes perfect tradecraft was wasted on boorish amateurs. They would never appreciate the subtle grace of a truly gifted operator.

Collin was two hundred meters from the pub when the bomb detonated. The front of the pub shattered in a shower of wood, plaster, and glass. Collin waited for two minutes to see if anyone emerged from the wreckage. No one did. Collin turned and walked down the darkened street. After about ten minutes, Collin pulled out a phone from his jacket.

"Yes?" intoned the cultured voice.

"It’s done, West," Collin growled into the phone, "Time for you to bloody well hold up your end."

"Of course, Mr. DuBois," West answered with an excruciatingly polite tone, "Your sister’s debt is discharged. Yours, however, is still in effect. I expect you to honor the terms of our arrangement." Collin didn’t answer. He cut the call off and walked to Mobile Bay. Collin tossed the phone into the black waters. It sank beneath the small waves like a rock. That unpleasantness was finished. For the moment, at least.

Collin retrieved his rental car from the small private lot some five blocks away. He drove back to Florida to catch a military flight from a former comrade. It wasn’t technically legit, but old favors went a long way. Part of him just couldn’t understand how he managed to get into this mess. Part of him wanted to hop the first plane back to London and put Simon West into a watery grave. Still, in the end, Collin knew he would do what was necessary until the opportunity presented itself. He could only hope that he wouldn’t betray his friends too badly before he could settle his accounts.

Zombie Strike Part 3 Chapter 17

About twenty miles north of Lake City FL, 0800 hours Local, 18 October 2009, Countdown: 2 years, 2 months, 12 days

"YEEHAW!" The Steve hollered over the roaring engine. The pickup rattled ominously as it sped down the highway. Mateo wondered if the truck would shake apart before the team even reached their objective. That would definitely fall into the "not good" category. Especially considering the pickup truck was holding the precious cargo.

The small convoy – consisting of Mateo and The Steve in the pickup behind two large U-Haul trucks with the four other members of their small team – continued its race to reach the five hundred strong zombie horde as it crept down the highway towards Lake City. Lake City wasn’t one of Florida’s great metropolises, but there were enough people who lived there for the horde to explode exponentially. That many zombies would threaten the entire state of Florida, and possibly the southeast United States. At that point, the United States government would be left one option, and Mateo really didn’t want part of his home state glowing for the next thousand years.

Once out of Forreston’s electro-magnetic black hole, Sport was able to make contact with Mackenzie & Winston’s on-site team. The exchange wasn’t pretty and left the normally quiet Brit swearing with curses that Mateo had never even thought of using. Sifting through the varied connotations, Mateo gathered the M&W leader decided his job was recovery, not defense, and therefore, had advised the local authorities to evacuate Lake City. The local authorities were desperately trying to organize an evacuation, but the town was in pure panic. Regular people didn’t handle zombies well. That left Mateo’s team as the only defense between five hundred zombies and the twelve thousand residents of Lake City.

Following conventional zombie fighting techniques, the team faced two options. First, the team could nibble at the edges of the horde and hope to whittle it down before the zombies reached the city’s outskirts. The second option was the team could try to force the horde into a single engagement. The sheer number of the zombies and the distance to Lake City ruled out the first option, and the lack of shooters and explosives ruled out the second. Fortunately, Mateo had The Steve.

"Boss, that dude’s playing Pied Piper with a tanker truck," The Steve said, "So let’s use it. I’m thinking TB."

"I’m fairly certain you’re not asking me to give a disease to the undead," Mateo replied dryly. "So, what are you talking about?"

"TB. Thermo-baric," The Steve said, "Used to be called a fuel-air explosive. Spray out a cloud of fuel and ignite. The force obliterates everything around it."

The Steve went into a more technical and graphic description, and Mateo’s eyes went wide in shock. Use something casually referred to as the poor man’s nuke? What was his medic thinking? Still, the plan The Steve laid out made a certain amount of sense. Mateo half-wondered if he was becoming as insane as The Steve.

Perhaps the most startling part of the whole plan was that it wasn’t the first time The Steve used it. There were muttered references to, "this one time, outside of Fallujah," as the medic slapped together a bizarre looking device called "the Sprayer." Mateo wasn’t sure how he felt when The Steve promised this time would go a lot smoother than the last time. Something about "not going eighty miles an hour with every SOB unloading an AK at us." For the briefest instant, Mateo could almost understand why The Steve acted like he did, including insisting everyone, including himself, refer to him as "The Steve." The man had done some epic things before he even step foot on Skull Island to compete in Zombie Strike. As The Steve worked through the night, Mateo and the others assembled the needed vehicles.

"Target sighted Mr. Cortez," Slim reported, yanking Mateo out of his reminiscence on the previous night, "Mr. DuBois requests we move into formation." At another time, Slim’s insistence on maintaining formality might have struck Mateo as amusing. At the moment, it grated on strained nerves. Mateo swallowed his angry retort. Slim didn’t really deserve it.

"Do it," Mateo gritted out through clenched teeth. Ahead of Mateo, the two U-hauls closed up and drove side-by-side. Jim, the cowboy who fought beside them the previous night, drove one of the big trucks with Sport riding shotgun. Collin had been forced to drive the other. Of the three Brits on the team, Collin was the only one who had driven on the "bloody damn wrong side of the road" as Collin so eloquently put it. Slim was riding with Collin to provide fire support. The plan was relatively simple. The two U-hauls would clear the path for Mateo and The Steve. Once they opened a space, Mateo would maneuver next to the tanker, allowing The Steve to board and mount the Sprayer. If all went well, the team would recover The Steve, escape, and watch as the improvised TB bomb annihilated the horde. Then, it was just a matter of dispatching the few zombies weren’t vaporized by the big boom. If all went according to plan.

Mateo slowed as the two trucks plowed into the horde. It was like watching the two large vehicles hit a mud pit. They bumped and jostled as they ran down the zombies. Mateo jinked all over the road as he tried to avoid most of the corpses. A pocket opened up, and Mateo gunned the truck. As he came up to the right side of the tanker, The Steve scampered up the side. The tanker was barely making five miles an hour, so The Steve had no trouble running along the top of the tanker to one of the top openings. He cracked open the tanker’s hatch. The fumes slapped him with an almost physical blow.

"Boss we’ve got a bit of a problem," The Steve said, "Do you happen to know if crystal meth is flammable?"

"What?" Mateo asked, startled enough by the question he almost collided with the tanker.

"Doesn’t matter. Wouldn’t burn right anyway," The Steve muttered, "Looks like the Templetons are big into the hillbilly heroin trade boss. This thing’s about a quarter full of liquid crystal meth. Can’t use this to make a TB bomb." Mateo thought furiously as The Steve plinked away at the zombies on the far side of the tanker. The plan just went Tango-Uniform, so what did Mateo have to work with? The two U-hauls, the pickup, The Steve’s useless piece of machinery, six shooters – and the tanker. The idea flashed through Mateo’s mind.

"Okay, who knows how to drive a semi?" Mateo asked over the radio net.

"Mr. Collins says that he can," Sport answered.

"Get Jim into that cab now," Mateo ordered, "Tell him that as soon as he’s in, he needs to floor it until we’re about a mile or so from this horde." There was a moment of silence from Sport.

"What am I supposed to at that point?" Sport asked.

"Learn to drive American. Fast," The Steve quipped, "I’ll clear the cab. Give me a minute." The Steve trotted across the top of the tanker slinging his carbine. Mateo lost sight of The Steve as the medic dropped into the gap between the tank trailer and the cab. The Steve climbed around the side of the cab with a practiced ease that surprised Mateo. The cab door opened violently. The Steve casually grabbed the driver and flung him out onto the asphalt. Mateo grimaced as he watched the driver go under the rig’s wheels. He was hoping to subdue the drive and get information from him.

Sport cautiously edged up to the semi’s cab. The Steve held the rig steady as Jim stepped out off the U-Haul and into the cab. An instant later, the semi’s big diesel roared and the vehicle leapt forward. The zombies tried to keep up with the tanker in an almost comical fashion. The other vehicles matched the tanker and sped away from the horde. Mateo brought the convoy to a halt when they had put a mile’s worth of highway between the horde and themselves.

"So what’s the plan boss?" The Steve boomed as he stepped out of the semi.

"We’ve got three very heavy and very massive vehicles," Mateo said, motioning his team around him, "We’re going to line them up in a line abreast, with the semi in the center. Then we’re going to keep running that horde down until there are no more walkers."

"And after that Matty?" Collin asked.

"After that is the big finale," Mateo said cryptically before explaining the last part of the plan to his team. Their predatory smiles matched their leader’s. The Steve and Collin would drive the U-Hauls with Jim handling the big rig. Mateo, Sport, and Slim would follow in the pickup truck. They would whittle down the horde as the trucks rolled over the horde.

The approach of the convoy was greeted by a ragged chorus of hunting moans by the zombie horde. The trucks’ roared in response and picked up speed. As the rolling phalanx charged at the undead, Mateo and his two shooters set up roughly a hundred yards down the highway. A sickening crunch erupted over the sounds of the engines as the trucks slammed into the zombies. The vehicles staggered for a moment as their wheels momentarily lost traction from the slippery remains of the undead. More zombies were knocked to the side and around the trucks.

"Wait," Mateo said to his shooters, "Wait until they’re standing." The Brits didn’t acknowledge the order, but Slim took down the first zombie that wobbled to its feet. Within seconds, the shooters were unleashing a fusillade of precision fire.

The trucks broke through the horde. Roughly half of the zombies were still walking. They turned en masse to chase the trucks. The rumbling engines acted as the perfect lure for the zombies. The shooters put down another twenty by the time the trucks turned around and came in for a second pass. The trucks reduced the walkers to a little over a hundred. The third pass, and the constant gunfire from Mateo’s shooters, finished the walkers. It was time to finish the job.

The Steve had made the modifications to the Sprayer while the rest of the team was getting the trucks together. Instead of turning the tanker into a TB bomb, the Sprayer was used to coat the crawling zombies with the gasoline from one of the U-Hauls. A strike of the match and the remains of the horde exploded into a wall of flame. The team relaxed as they watched the zombies burn. Mateo let them enjoy the sight as he contemplated his future.

One thing was certain. Mateo couldn’t go back to a normal life. Being a leader, especially a leader of zombie hunters, scared him. The people under him could die, or worse, if he made a mistake. Even with that fear, Mateo couldn’t shrug away his duty. Mateo could feel the dark times coming. It was time for him to step up and embrace his destiny.

Zombie Strike Part 2 Chapter 16 – Epilogue

Forreston FL, roughly fifty miles north of Lake City FL, 1900 hours Local, 18 October 2009, Countdown: 2 years, 2 months, 13 days

Mateo stopped as Slim’s fist shot up. Of the M&W Armed Response Team, only Slim and Sport joined Mateo, The Steve, and Collin to clear Forreston of zombies. The two Brits were very vocal with their nominal leader about his decision to leave. Pryce grudgingly handed over some extra weapons, ammo, and gear before departing back to Lake City.

The small team decided the elementary school in the center of Forreston looked like it would be the easiest place to fortify against zombies. It would make a good place to rally the surviving humans. Then they could sweep out and eliminate as many zombies as they could until help arrived. Slim was point for the team as they made their way into the seemingly deserted town.

"What is it?" Mateo asked.

"Single zombie," Slim reported, "It’s in front of our door." Based on a quick satellite shot of the school, Mateo decided to enter the school from a side entrance. Mateo scanned the area around. He couldn’t see any other zombies around the school.

"Take it down," Mateo said. Slim’s suppressed carbine coughed once. The zombie’s head shattered from the bullet’s impact. The team sprinted to the door as the zombie’s body collapsed to the ground. Speed was of the essence. Mateo’s team needed to seize and clear out the school quickly if they were going to have a chance of using it. As the five men neared, the door slammed open.

"Thank the Lord!" exclaimed the woman in the doorway. She was a stout, mature woman with brown hair and eyes with a dress that hurt the eyes with its clash of bright colors. Mateo suspected when the woman smiled, she would look like someone’s favorite aunt. At the moment, the woman just looked terrified. "Is the Army here?"

"No ma’am," Mateo answered as his team pushed past her into the school, "We’re not soldiers. We’re kind of private contractors." It sounded lame to Mateo’s ears, but the woman simply nodded.

"Are you going to get us out of here?" she asked.

"We’re going to try, Ms?" Mateo asked.

"Oh, I’m sorry. I plumb forgot my manners," the woman said with a slight blush coloring her cheeks, "I’m Mary Jacobsen. Let me take you to the others." Mary motioned for the team to follow her into the school. As they walked, Mary related what happened after the zombies escaped the abandoned supermarket. By sheer bad luck, the zombies’ first target was the local nursing home. The residents never had a chance against the walking dead. Then, they turned on the staff. Their numbers bolstered, the horde attacked some of the outlying homes of the town. Those were occupied by a substantial number of snowbirds. They were easy prey for the horde, but at least they managed to raise the alarm. The town police chief ordered an evacuation of the town before his small force went to fight the growing horde.

"It was so horrible," Mary said, "Most of the folks managed to get out of town in time. The rest of us had to hole up here." She showed the team some of the classrooms that had been converted to sleeping rooms. Some were full of children with a few adults to watch them. "I mean, I’ve watched Zombie Strike! on TV. It was never that horrible on television." Mateo could only nod wordlessly.

Mary led the team into the school cafeteria. The large windows were boarded over with storm shutters. The people in the room stiffened as the team walked in. The faces Mateo saw were beyond scared. These people were terrified and didn’t have a clue how to deal with the horde. Mateo took off his helmet and gave his most confident smile.

"Are all of the surviving people here?" Mateo asked Mary.

"Everyone except those damned Templetons," a grizzled voice from the crowd answered. An old man stood up and strode over to Mateo and the team. The man looked about eighty with his weathered face and gleaming bald head. He wore a plaid shirt and jeans, accentuated with worn cowboy boots and a big lever-action rifle slung on his shoulder. "Those hooligans are trapped in their little clubhouse with nearly every zombie in town surrounding them. Serves them right."

"Now Sparky, that’s not being a good Christian," Mary said in a matronly voice. It reminded Mateo of one of his old Sunday school teachers. The old man, Sparky, scoffed.

"Who are the Templetons?" Mateo asked.

"Family of bad seeds," Sparky said, "Them and their friends cause most of the trouble in this town. Drinking, fighting, drugs. Better question soldier boy, when is the Army going to get us out of here?" Several of the townspeople looked at Mateo expectantly. Mateo braced himself before he answered.

"My men and I are not with the Army," Mateo said calmly, "We’re private contractors. We will try to evacuate all of you out of here, but it’s going to take some time. To be honest, we weren’t expecting this many survivors. If you’ll let us get in contact with—"

THUMP! The room shook as a thunderous roar rocked the cafeteria. People were thrown across the room from the concussion. A few seconds later, the sounds of shattering glass and ripping metal exploded from the hallway that led to the school’s main entrance. Something big just slammed into the school from Mateo’s estimation. A couple of townspeople started down the hallway to find out what happened, but stopped cold. The distinctive hunting moans of zombies echoed through the hallway. Lots of zombies.

"Collin, Slim, recon," Mateo ordered. The two men nodded wordlessly before charging down the hall. "Sport, The Steve, defensive positions. Have some of the locals help you."

"Not a problem boss," The Steve said. Mateo turned to Sparky.

"We need someplace for everyone to go," Mateo stated, "Do you have access to the roof from here?"

"Well, yes, but that’s not the best—" Sparky started before Mateo cut him off with a sharp hand.

"It’s the best place right now," Mateo said, "I need the children up there now with some folks to watch them. I need others gathering food, water, and blankets in case we’re up there a while. Anyone whose strong enough to fight the zombies, I need helping The Steve." Sparky nodded and hurried back to the townspeople. From the activity, the townspeople seemed to be accepting Mateo’s directions.

"Collin, what’s the situation?" Mateo asked over the team’s radio net.

"Some bleeding idiot drove an HG lorry through the front of the school," Collin answered, "Looks like the driver dumped the petrol tank he was hauling before he crashed. That’s what detonated."

"Are we on fire?" Mateo asked.

"Negative," Slim reported, "The petrol was a good two hundred meters away. Did manage to knock some of our friends off their feet."

"We’ve got roughly two hundred of the buggers bearing down on us," Collin reported, "We can take care of the few enterprising ones that managed to get close. The main party will be pouring through here in roughly twenty minutes from the way their staggering about."

"Do it," Mateo ordered. Sparky returned with three individuals. Sparky introduced them as Jim, Ken, and Jess. Jim looked about ten years older than Mateo, with the weathered look of someone who made his living outdoors. From his clothes, Mateo guessed he was a farmer or a farmhand, but the man’s stance and cool blue eyes told Mateo this wasn’t Jim’s first rodeo. Jim had a Ruger Mini-14 slung over his shoulder and a 1911 on his belt. Ken and Jess were teenagers, and quite obviously dating. They looked similar from their Nordic features to the trendy clothing they were wearing to the ARs each was carrying. It made them look so innocent for what was about to happen. The slight nervousness didn’t help. Mateo’s paternal instincts screamed at him to send these kids back, but the team leader ignored them. People always underestimated what teenagers were capable of doing. These two had the hard, determined look in their eyes Mateo instantly recognized. They would be fine. Mateo thanked them and sent them to help The Steve and Slim. Mateo was surprised they’d actually managed to get three more people out of the roughly hundred people in the school. Usually, the percentage of people who could overcome the horror of the zombies to be useful was much lower. Much less the smaller group of individuals who were willing to fight against the horde. Still, he only had eight against two hundred. Granted, Mateo had fought worse odds, but he’d had prepared positions, a trained team of proven zombie hunters, and a bunch of explosives. Mateo’s mind flashed with an insight. Not the best plan, but one that might work.

"The Steve, double thick the wall," Mateo ordered, "Collin, I need you and Slim to ghost out of there as soon as the main group starts getting close to the entrance." Mateo sketched out his plan in a few short sentences. Collin, ever stoic, made no protestations. He just double-clicked the radio mike in acknowledgement. The Steve already had more of the townspeople constructing the palisade. Any furniture or equipment large enough and heavy enough was lashed onto the growing wall. The wall curved around the mouth of the hallway. It left a pocket roughly fifteen feet deep. Firing positions were at regular intervals and provided interlocking fields of fire. Next to each firing position was a shotgun. The Steve was very good at this kind of thing. The workers followed his instructions quickly and efficiently.

"Showtime Matty," Collin whispered.

"Everyone not fighting, get to the roof now," Mateo said. Everyone froze for a moment as their minds realized what that statement meant. "My team, take your positions. We’ve got incoming." The townspeople dropped what they were doing and fled to the roof access. The Steve was positioning the small team. Jim and Ken were on the outmost positions. Jess and Sport took the next positions. That left Mateo and The Steve in the center. Well, that’s what they got paid the big bucks for. At least, Mateo hoped they were being paid for this. Before Mateo could take his position, Sparky stormed in while unlimbering his rifle. The glint in those aged eyes brooked no argument. Actually, it was a good idea. Having Sparky on the line let Mateo observe and act as the team reserve.

"Let the first ones in close before engaging," Mateo said, "Wait until I open fire. Watch your targets, and don’t waste your ammo." Everyone braced as the moans came closer. The first zombies staggered out of the hallway into the pocket. Mateo lifted his carbine and drew a bead on the trailing zombie of this first group. He waited for a long moment and then squeezed the trigger. The carbine rocked back as the zombie fell. No one else fired. What the–? Oh crap, Mateo forgot about the suppressor. It was too quiet for the amped up group.

"Open fire!" Mateo yelled, and was rewarded with a ragged volley of gunfire. A half-dozen zombies fell. From that point, each shooter fired on their own. Mateo joined in with sporadic fire as he watched more zombies pour into the pocket. They were being taken down, but not fast enough. The four townspeople were just not experienced enough to score head shots with each shot. Many of the zombies were just knocked down. Those just got up and continued the attack. Mateo could see the crush, the point when the sheer number of zombies would overcome the firepower being thrown at them. Mateo imagined it was like watching a tsunami bear down on you.

"Collin, now," Mateo said over the radio as he quickly reloaded his carbine. There was no acknowledgement. Panic flooded Mateo. Collin was the only hope for the team to survive this fight. Did he get killed before –?

"Sorry Matty, we had to throw off some of the buggers," Collin reported, "You might want to take cover now."

"FIRE IN THE HOLE!" Mateo roared over the gunfire. Everyone except the kids took cover. They just looked bewildered. They had no idea what the phrase meant. Mateo lunged and managed to yank Jess behind the impromptu palisade an instant before the claymores were triggered. The team only had three of the directional mines, but the shockwave from three kilos of C4 was funneled through the hallway. As close as the line was to the mouth of the hallway, it was like standing next to a howitzer without hearing protection. Mateo’s ears were ringing, and his head was swimming. He felt the cracking impacts as some of the two thousand steel balls propelled by the explosive force of the C4 embedded themselves into the palisade. He barely remembered to stand up and open fire on the surviving zombies. There were maybe twenty or so walkers with quite a few more crawlers. Walkers were priority. Training and instinct took over as he placed the holographic reticule on the nearest zombie. He didn’t even remember squeezing the trigger. Mateo just felt the recoil and transitioned to the next target. As his hearing came back, Mateo heard the screaming. He spared a quick glance towards the sound. Jess was on the ground, cradling the still and bloody body of Ken.

"Steve, Ken’s down," Mateo said, flatly, "Sport, Jim, Sparky, close up the line and keep working the walkers." The four shooters moved towards the center of the palisade and continued to fire at the remaining zombies. The Steve slung his weapon and trotted over to the teenagers. The screaming came back, this time with a string of curses that no young lady should have been able to hurl. There were three walkers left. Sport and the others could deal with three walkers. Mateo went to deal with Jess.

"Do something!" Jess said, "Do something you—" followed by various aspersions on The Steve. Ken’s body was on the floor with The Steve between the body and Jess. Part of the boy’s head was missing. It looked like Ken managed to catch some of the claymores’ blast. Mateo shouldered his carbine as he walked up behind the screaming girl.

"He’s gone, honey," Mateo said quietly as he wrapped his armored arms around Jess. She fought, screamed, kicked, and cussed. Mateo held her carefully until she expended her fury. Then, she just broke into a torrent of tears and unintelligible sounds. The Steve carefully took Jess from Mateo, like one parent relieving another of a child. The father in Mateo screamed to comfort the hurting child, but Mateo knew he was responsible for not only his team, but all of the townspeople trapped in this school.

"Collin, what’s your status?" Mateo asked.

"We’re mopping up from our end Matty," Collin answered, "It’s a bit sticky, but we should be able to handle it." Mateo double-clicked his mike to acknowledge. Collin and Slim could handle themselves. He turned to the rest of his small team.

"Sparky, check on the people on the roof," Mateo said, "Keep them away from the front of the school. The claymores may have caused structural damage." The old man nodded before hustling away. "Sport, Jim, grab those shotguns and start clearing the crawlers. Start from the palisade and advance carefully. Sometimes those things will surprise you."

"What about the kids?" Jim asked, motioning to where Jess was crying over Ken with The Steve hovering over her.

"Ken’s dead, and Jess isn’t in any shape to fight right now," Mateo said, "You’ll have to do this on your own." There was a sudden sadness in Jim’s eyes as he nodded and went about his assigned task.

"You’ve got more trouble, son," Sparky said, "Beyond not knowing how small towns work." Sparky didn’t flinch under Mateo’s impatient glare. "You got another mess of them zombies marching to Lake City behind another tractor rig. The Diggens boy saw them. Good eyes on that boy." Mateo surveyed the scene. The Steve was attending to a multitude of small wounds. Sport and Jim were going through the remains of the zombie horde looking for the still-active ones. The town mothers were consoling Jess as Ken’s body was being removed by some of the men. The rest were milling about lost, flinching each time the shotguns fired.

"Collin, contact M&W in Lake City. Tell them a horde is on its way," Mateo ordered.

"How the bloody devil do you expect me to do that?" Collin asked, clearly annoyed with his team leader, "This town is a bloody black hole for radios and mobiles."

"Collin, you’re the former SAS guy. Figure it out," Mateo said. Collin grumbled out an acknowledgement. M&W might be able to put up some defense – if Collin managed to get off a warning. The problem was Mateo couldn’t depend on that. No matter how tired and battered he was – emotionally, physically, and mentally – Mateo couldn’t stop until this outbreak was extinguished.

[Zombie Strike Part 2 Chapter 15]Chapter 15

Forreston FL, roughly fifty miles north of Lake City FL, 1730 hours Local, 18 October 2009, Countdown: 2 years, 2 months, 13 days

“Collin, put that gun away!” Mateo snapped. Collin staggered back a step with a bewildered look on his face. The pistol dropped to a low ready position. Even when caught by surprise, the former SAS soldier maintained his weapon discipline.

“Matty?” Collin asked, barely whispering the name.

“Yes Matty,” Mateo snarled, “What are you doing here, Collin?” Collin holstered his Glock. He didn’t answer Mateo’s question. He just stared at Mateo’s armor with a shocked expression. The Steve slung his carbine, took off the smooth helmet, and walked up to his former teammate. Collin looked at The Steve, but said nothing. The silence was spooky as The Steve quickly checked over his friend and drinking buddy. Finding nothing physically wrong, The Steve clapped Collin on the shoulder in a familiar fashion.

“Matty, why are you dressed in Armed Response’s battle armor?” Collin asked, finally breaking the silence.

“We’re working with them to support the M&W investigative team,” Mateo answered, “I’m guessing that’s you. When did you become part of the investigative team? There was no mention of you in any of the briefings.”

“Last minute decision. I just happened to be available,” Collin said, “I was sent to provide some tactical support to the investigators.” Collin paused long enough to take a drink from The Steve’s canteen. “The team was a former FBI agent and a man who used to work for Five. Good investigators, but neither of them could properly handle a weapon. I was tasked with trying to keep them from getting themselves killed.”

“Another failure for your rather checkered record Dubois,” Pryce said, stepping into the office. Pryce’s helmet was off, and Mateo could see the look of pure contempt in the man’s eyes. Mateo stepped between the two men.

“Did you find anything in the store?” Mateo asked, drawing Pryce’s eyes away from Collin. Pryce’s eyes bored into Mateo’s unflinching gaze.

“I don’t know just who the bloody devil you think you are Yank,” Pryce said, “You may have caught me off-guard by barking orders out there like you did, but if you think—“ Pryce never saw the butt stroke that cut him off. One moment he was letting the impudent American have what for, and the next he was on the ground with a sore jaw and that very angry American standing over him.

“What did you find Pryce?” Mateo asked in a very calm voice. The Steve and Collin looked at each other. They knew when Mateo used that very calm tone there was a fiery rage inside their friend and team leader. “Don’t make me ask again.”

“Nothing!” Pryce yelled in frustration. Pryce tried to get back to his feet. Mateo ignored The Steve pushing Pryce back down. “We found nothing in the whole bloody place. No smugglers, no zombies, and none of our people.”

“What about the container the smugglers were using?” Mateo asked, surprised there were no other zombies in the building.

“Oh, that we found. Empty. Maybe you should ask your chum there what happened. How did he survive?" Pryce shot back, "Maybe you should quit trying to threaten me and find out what he knows.” It was a legitimate point. Mateo nodded for The Steve to let Pryce off the ground.

“Just so you know hoss,” The Steve told Pryce as he helped the man off of the ground, “The bossman wasn’t threatening you. You really don’t want to tick him off. No idea what he’ll do, but it won’t be pretty. Trust me.” Pryce looked over at The Steve. The man was probably insane, but Pryce didn’t think The Steve was lying. Pryce wasn’t sure if The Steve’s words made him angry or just afraid. Mateo didn’t even notice Pryce’s dilemma. He was busy waiting for Collin to talk.

“We walked into an ambush Matty,” Collin said, “The bloody smugglers were waiting for us. Don’t know how they knew, but they did. Tom, the American, and me took cover and exchanged gunfire as soon the smugglers opened up. Told Robby to run and get the police. Instead he tells me he’s got some brilliant notion, and pops off into the store. I think he’s the one that set the zombie loose.” Mateo and The Steve cursed simultaneously. Pryce looked at Collin in silent shock.

“It all kind of snowballed from there,” Collin continued, “Tom took a couple of rounds to the chest and went down. Then all the shooting stops. A moment later, there are all these zombie moans. I locked myself in here. I don’t know what happened, but I was not about to face off against that many zombies by myself with just a pistol. Figured I could wait them out.”

“How many?” Mateo asked. It took a moment for Collin to realize Mateo was asking him a question.

“Not sure Matty,” Collin said, rubbing his chin as he thought, “There were maybe fifteen or so on the smuggler crew. I know I took down two of the buggers, and I think Tom managed to get another before he went down. So maybe a dozen of the smugglers, and probably Robby.”

“Plus the original,” The Steve added.

“Plus Tom, more than likely. We’d have found bits of him otherwise,” Mateo said shaking his head. “Fifteen zombies with a twenty-four hour head start. Oh, this is so not good.” Mateo closed his eyes and drew a deep breath as he pondered the situation.

“Pryce, get the rest of your team over here,” Mateo ordered, “We need to get moving if we’re going to have a chance of getting that town cleared. Whatever survivors are down there don’t have much time left.”

“What the bloody devil are you saying?” Pryce asked, “My team is not equipped for that kind of sustained operation. We are outfitted for a surgical operation, nothing more. I am not about to have my people go out on some ill-advised lark because you have some sort of hero complex.”

“Pryce, you have weapons and armor,” Mateo said, clamping down firmly on his burning rage, “These people don’t have time for you to run down to Lake City, switch toys, and come back up here. You have to adapt and overcome. Now get moving.”

“It’s suicide. It doesn’t even deserve being called a forlorn hope,” Pryce said flatly, as if that statement was enough to end the argument.

“Comes with the territory, my man,” The Steve said, “This is what we do.” Pryce looked at the three men in utter incomprehension.

“This is not what my team does, and I will not risk them on your insane escapades,” Pryce said. Pryce stormed out of the office. The Steve started to grab Pryce’s arm, but Mateo stopped him with a shake of the head.

“He called us insane,” The Steve protested.

“Doesn’t matter. Let him go,” Mateo said, “If we keep him here against his will, he’ll be worthless to us. Worse, he’ll probably end up getting someone killed or turned.” Mateo turned to Collin who was recovering his normal poise.

“Collin, no BS. Are you good to go?” Mateo asked.

“Don’t worry Matty. I’ve got your back,” Collin said in his familiar confident voice. Mateo gazed long and hard at his friend. Mateo already made the mistake of pushing one teammate beyond her limits. He wasn’t about to make the same mistake. Collin was looked tired, a bit scraped up, and slightly dehydrated. Under all that, Mateo could see the familiar gritty determination that made Collin such a dangerous zombie killer. Mateo clapped Collin on the shoulder and gave his friend a predatory smile.

The three men walked out of the abandoned supermarket. Mateo looked up the highway at the town of Forreston. Mateo would have been hard–pressed to clear the town with seven operators. There were just too many possible hiding places for zombies. Maybe if Mateo was lucky, some of the survivors would be able to help out. Even a couple could give his small team much better odds.

As Mateo pondered the situation, he began to hum The March of Cambreadth. The Steve introduced Mateo to the song before the team assaulted the island a few months ago. It was a good song to get the blood pumping and ready for a fight. Mateo turned back to his teammates to start planning. It was time to see how many they could make die.

Zombie Strike Part 2 Chapter 14