Even Zombie Killers Get The Blues (Zombie Killer Blues) by John Holmes Page B
Authors: John Holmes
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Whitehall, and
the pair I was wearing had holes in them. Doc had patched the blisters with
duct tape after they had burst, but the skin had started to slough off around
them. The others weren’t in much better shape. It was eighty kilometers from
Whitehall to Stillwater, where we would go to ground at the Combat Outpost.
Home for all of us most of the time except for Doc. He ran a clinic at Fort
Orange so he was back and forth a lot.
We needed time to refit and rest, and I was
completely focused on getting there. We had run out of water a few hours ago. The
summer sun was draining the sweat from our bodies. In a little while, we would
take a break to filter some river water, but for now, step, step, step. Each
time my left foot hit the ground, a bloody footprint was left behind. I knew
Jonesy, for one, was hurting just as bad, the pack on his back had rubbed two
bloody sores on his waist since the pack frame didn’t fit on his back .
To pass the time and take my mind off the burning
pain in my feet, I asked Doc to tell me about the fighting at Seneca Army
Depot. Rumor of it had spread east through the little groups of survivors spread
throughout the state.
“Well, things started to get bad right around
September. The Guard was pulling out of the NYC area, and things were pretty
much falling apart all over. You remember that time, Nick.”
“Yeah, my unit got overrun just outside of Albany. I
think we could have held, but we had an absolute boneheaded chain of command.
No tactics, just RESCUE THE CIVILIANS! And STAND FAST TO THE LAST MAN! We got
outflanked by infected just coming down south from the `burbs, and our position
was a line across the Waterford Bridge, instead of a hedgehog on high ground
behind barriers. We were stacking them up like cordwood, trying to hold a lane
open for uninfected civilians, when all the sudden the guy next to me goes down
with a Z on his back. Then it turned into a madhouse.”
I had run. I admit it. The whole mess had turned
into a brawl, with hand-to-hand fighting and every man for himself. All I could
think about was my wife and kid, ten miles behind the lines. I ran to them like
I had never run before, and I was too late. I would never, ever forgive myself
for that.
“I remember that week. I wound up on a chopper
pulling troops out of Governor’s Island, just off Manhattan Island. Our unit
was the last one out Manhattan, just barely made it to the ferry pulling out of
the pier. I caught a CH-47 to Stewart Airbase, then a C-130 to Seneca Army
Depot. I had been awake for three days, just doing what I could for the guys
over and over.”
I stopped him for a second. “What do you mean, `for
the guys?’ You’re a medic. You of all people know once someone gets bitten
they’re done for.”
“Yeah, I euthanized more than a few of the guys who
were infected. Know what that’s like? Someone begging you to save them and you
stick them to take them out before they turn into a Z and go after you? Yeah,
dozens of those. What I was talking about, though, was the wounds from the
fighting.” Yeah, I knew what it was like. I’d done it myself. He knew that, but
I let him talk through it.
“What do you mean, the fighting?”
“Man, it was a battle. Thousands of civilians trying
to get off Manhattan, the bridges blocked with smashed cars, infected running
wild, tunnels flooded. Here we were holding onto the piers, trying to evacuate
as many civilians as possible, and they were storming the barricades. Remember
how NYC was pretty much “a gun-free zone?” Apparently not. Pistols, shotguns,
AKs, AR-15s, hell, even some heavy automatic weapons that some douchebag
Russian Mafia guys from Brighton Beach started opening up on us. I was treating
gunshot wounds left and right. It made Afghanistan look like a picnic. People
with the highest standard of living in the world fell the furthest, I guess,
when they realized their money wasn’t going to save them. In the end, we just
pulled
the pair I was wearing had holes in them. Doc had patched the blisters with
duct tape after they had burst, but the skin had started to slough off around
them. The others weren’t in much better shape. It was eighty kilometers from
Whitehall to Stillwater, where we would go to ground at the Combat Outpost.
Home for all of us most of the time except for Doc. He ran a clinic at Fort
Orange so he was back and forth a lot.
We needed time to refit and rest, and I was
completely focused on getting there. We had run out of water a few hours ago. The
summer sun was draining the sweat from our bodies. In a little while, we would
take a break to filter some river water, but for now, step, step, step. Each
time my left foot hit the ground, a bloody footprint was left behind. I knew
Jonesy, for one, was hurting just as bad, the pack on his back had rubbed two
bloody sores on his waist since the pack frame didn’t fit on his back .
To pass the time and take my mind off the burning
pain in my feet, I asked Doc to tell me about the fighting at Seneca Army
Depot. Rumor of it had spread east through the little groups of survivors spread
throughout the state.
“Well, things started to get bad right around
September. The Guard was pulling out of the NYC area, and things were pretty
much falling apart all over. You remember that time, Nick.”
“Yeah, my unit got overrun just outside of Albany. I
think we could have held, but we had an absolute boneheaded chain of command.
No tactics, just RESCUE THE CIVILIANS! And STAND FAST TO THE LAST MAN! We got
outflanked by infected just coming down south from the `burbs, and our position
was a line across the Waterford Bridge, instead of a hedgehog on high ground
behind barriers. We were stacking them up like cordwood, trying to hold a lane
open for uninfected civilians, when all the sudden the guy next to me goes down
with a Z on his back. Then it turned into a madhouse.”
I had run. I admit it. The whole mess had turned
into a brawl, with hand-to-hand fighting and every man for himself. All I could
think about was my wife and kid, ten miles behind the lines. I ran to them like
I had never run before, and I was too late. I would never, ever forgive myself
for that.
“I remember that week. I wound up on a chopper
pulling troops out of Governor’s Island, just off Manhattan Island. Our unit
was the last one out Manhattan, just barely made it to the ferry pulling out of
the pier. I caught a CH-47 to Stewart Airbase, then a C-130 to Seneca Army
Depot. I had been awake for three days, just doing what I could for the guys
over and over.”
I stopped him for a second. “What do you mean, `for
the guys?’ You’re a medic. You of all people know once someone gets bitten
they’re done for.”
“Yeah, I euthanized more than a few of the guys who
were infected. Know what that’s like? Someone begging you to save them and you
stick them to take them out before they turn into a Z and go after you? Yeah,
dozens of those. What I was talking about, though, was the wounds from the
fighting.” Yeah, I knew what it was like. I’d done it myself. He knew that, but
I let him talk through it.
“What do you mean, the fighting?”
“Man, it was a battle. Thousands of civilians trying
to get off Manhattan, the bridges blocked with smashed cars, infected running
wild, tunnels flooded. Here we were holding onto the piers, trying to evacuate
as many civilians as possible, and they were storming the barricades. Remember
how NYC was pretty much “a gun-free zone?” Apparently not. Pistols, shotguns,
AKs, AR-15s, hell, even some heavy automatic weapons that some douchebag
Russian Mafia guys from Brighton Beach started opening up on us. I was treating
gunshot wounds left and right. It made Afghanistan look like a picnic. People
with the highest standard of living in the world fell the furthest, I guess,
when they realized their money wasn’t going to save them. In the end, we just
pulled
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