Legacy of the Living Read online

  "Who the fuck are you and what the fuck do you think you're doing?" a short, obese man shouted; he held a woman down by the hair, pinning her to a table, a chrome revolver stuck in his waistband. At about five-foot-five, he was at least a hundred pounds overweight, and idly the Reaper wondered how this man could run fast enough to escape the demons. The man started to pull his revolver out, blustering further. The Reaper turned his head slightly without removing his eyes from the heavier of the two men, then spit to the side and in a smooth motion tilted his rifle upward while pulling the trigger. He used the recoil to chamber a new round in a practiced back-and-forth motion as a small hole appeared dead center in the bridge of the man's nose. The back of the man's head exploded outward as his lifeless body slumped in place. His partner, who had been holding the woman down by the legs in obvious preparation to rape, backed up quickly with his hands raised.

  "Hey man. Relax. We were only having some fun. If you want the women, take them. They're not ours. We just found them." This man had a slight lisp and was younger than the first by a decade, putting him at around twenty-five years of age. Medium-length brown hair with a scruffy beard and clothing that was beyond salvageable with dirt completed his appearance.

  "They were going to kill my husband when he got back with food." The naked woman on the table had curled into a ball and was looking at the Reaper with one eye. The other was swollen shut and blackened.

  For the first time, the Reaper actually looked at her: mid-thirties with short brown hair, she was slightly heavy but otherwise proportionately figured.

  "Does he wear black sneakers?" the Reaper asked.

  "Yes!" She sat up quickly, ignoring her nudity, and looked imploringly at the Reaper. "You saw him? Is he on his way?"

  "He's dead." The Reaper turned away as she started crying softly and returned his attention to the man with the lisp. "Why?" he growled as he tilted his rifle upwards again. The other two he paid no attention to. He knew Johnson and Reeves would take them out in moments if they breathed wrong. The man backed up quickly until his shoulders hit the wall, his hands thrust forward and shaking. The Reaper noticed the wedding ring on his left hand and frowned further.

  "Easy man, easy. We were just having some fun is all."

  "Where is your wife?" the Reaper growled again as he nodded at the man's ring finger, never taking his eyes off him.

  "They bought it, man. My wife and kid."

  "Unfortunate." The rifle tilted and roared again. The Reaper turned away from the lifeless figure as it collapsed, and surveyed the rest of the room. The other two men, both obvious dirt bags, were pressed against the wall. One had stains spreading across his groin through his filthy jeans. With a sigh at the vulgarities of human nature, he removed his finger from the trigger of his Remington 700 and drew his Navy Colt, shooting both men in the right foot. Ignoring their screams, he nodded at Johnson and Reeves.

  Quickly, the two soldiers grabbed the screaming men and propelled them out of the half-open back door into the waiting arms of a swarm of zombies that had homed in on the previous gunshots.

  "Get out a side window, now! You, woman, have five seconds to get dressed, come naked or stay. It's up to you," the Reaper growled again as he grabbed up two children, his men hustling the others along through a hallway. A quick survey indicated the west side was zombie light, so they opened the window and went through there. More were approaching, and swarming the back of the house. The screams coming from the back yard were terrifyingly loud. The Reaper knew they only had seconds and handed the two youngest through the open window to Johnson, who was the first to go out. Reeves followed immediately after, then the rest of the children and women, the Reaper bringing up the rear. He quickly slung his rifle down and pulled his machete. One thing his new only friend in the world had taught him was that a heavy machete did the trick on these spawn of Satan.

  "Go, go," he hissed and they took off running, Johnson leading the way, the Reaper and Reeves bringing up the rear. Many of the undead creatures tried to stop them, but the Reaper always planned their routes and escapes ahead of time.

  Swinging hard to his right, he took the head off the closest zombie, not bothering to watch as it collapsed because his attention was already focused on anther moving in from an angle. With a downward stroke, he cleaved its skull in half while wrenching backwards at the same moment so the blade would not become trapped, and kept running. To his left Reeves had already dispatched twice as many and was keeping a close eye on the children.

  These three deadly men had a rule. Plan your route carefully each day. Prepare an escape route and location to hide with supplies. Protect women and children. Never fire after being seen, only do so on defensible high ground, and use machetes exclusively. It was one of the few ways to escape the zombies; otherwise, they would follow the sounds of gunfire and home in, swarming like locusts. The Reaper knew he had violated his own rules but dirt bags just pissed him off and were better off dead. He hated the dregs of humanity and planned to have a little chat about that with the good Lord when his time finally came. Right now, they were in the clear. The trick was to use multiple short paths and take out all the lead zombies. The forest provided cover, but a housing district would serve the same purpose. Within minutes, they lost the zombies in the turns. The Reaper and both his men carried the five children as the women ran beside them. The woman who had almost been raped carried her clothes as she jogged beside them, speed taking precedence over modesty.

  They made it to the water tower and entered the concrete blockhouse after releasing the children and dispatching the few zombies outside within sight. This, they had also learned the hard way; never let the evil bastards see you hide. Not even one, as they had some method of communication which the Reaper had witnessed while standing side by side with his friend Jay a few nights back. If even one saw you, dozens would be there within minutes.

  The Reaper flipped a battery-powered light on and surveyed his new charges, then sighed.

  "Alright. Reeves, hand them food and water. You people have travel ahead of you." Both Reeves and Johnson looked up, frowning simultaneously. "Yeah. You're both leading these people to Jay's. They'll be dead in a day otherwise, and we had this conversation already. Pains me to say, but I trust you guys," he continued as both men suddenly grinned at him with those words.

  "Reaper, one of us should stay," Johnson remarked as he leaned against the wall.

  "Nah dude. Both of you lead them to safety. You know the drill. I'll be alright, and if not, it's the Lord's way of saying I stacked 'em high enough." Both soldiers nodded at his words, then reached out to shake his hand.

  The Reaper shifted the weight of his rucksack across his back and gazed at the survivors they had just rescued. They were scared, hungry and half-clothed. He reached over his shoulder inside his backpack and withdrew the coloring book and crayons. One of the children was a small girl about four. Kneeling before her, he held them out. Cautiously, she accepted them, and then looked at the coloring book with its bright pink cover of unicorns and Disney's creatures.

  "Daddy said he will get me a coloring book," she said as she smiled up at the Reaper.

  His throat tightened. "He wanted you to have that, Hun." Reaching out, he stroked her hair gently, then rose once again. He nodded at the men one last time before exiting the blockhouse. They had also rehearsed this step. If they acquired refugees, he would lead off any zombies, and the other two would keep them safe. He took off at a lumbering run.

  Approaching the houses from the woods, he started seeing the spawn of Satan again. They gave chase, but he ignored them for he had a goal. He was currently headed to the radio station two streets over and several blocks south. Jason needed a vantage point to survey his surroundings, and experience taught the best thing was a radio tower or a cellular one. His rucksack contained over five hundred rounds of 7.62, a quart of kerosene, and enough food and water for a couple of days. Escaping at night after his ammunition ran low had become routine
. The zombies couldn't smell you if you doused yourself in kerosene. The bad part was getting it off afterwards, so he hated using it except in emergencies.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the beasts of the underworld converging on him, and picked his pace up. He patted his vest, making sure all ten magazines were in place. He was breathing hard now but raised his rifle, and with only half aiming, fired. Two of the zombies that were nearly upon him fell, leaking blood and brains as he chambered the next round. He fired again, then again, and never lost count while replacing each magazine as it emptied, firing continuously as his rucksack thumped heavily against his back, his breath coming in almost gasps now. This would be close, the Reaper thought, as he started sprinting when he passed a tall office complex to his right. Only half a block to go. He was surprised when a host of zombies didn't come streaming out of the office building's open glass doors as he passed, then noticed the entrance was mostly choked with bodies. Someone's last stand, was the Reaper’s only thought as he continued firing, chambering each round between breaths and making each count in almost clinical fashion.

  Too late and not enough time, as they were upon him. He felt their undead hands grasping as he sprinted through their ranks, shooting some and shouldering others aside, not pausing as he tried to make the last hundred feet to the station's entrance. He stumbled, and as several of Hell's minions fell on him, realized the Lord had finally decided to collect him. Kicking out at them, he drew his machete, determined to take as many of them with him as he could. Suddenly, explosions rang out and he was thrown sideways as the concussive wave of a grenade went off almost near him. Two more followed in quick succession and then a strong hand was grabbing the back of his battle vest as he lay face down in his own blood, eyes dilated in shock and ears ringing from the blast that had nearly killed him.

  "Come on, old man, you're almost there. Good run by the way. You almost made it by yourself. Good thing I came along when I did." The voice was young and strong, vibrant and boyish with humor.

  The Reaper got his feet under him and started running as the man released him. He looked over and through half-lidded eyes saw a young man with what was obviously an M14 EBR raised, firing as fast as he could pull the trigger. Zombies were collapsing with headshots all around him. The Reaper drew his Navy Colt and started firing alongside him. Neither man missed as they took a toll on the undead surrounding them. Firing its last round, the Reaper dropped his Colt in its holster, shouldered his re-worked Remington again, and kept firing.

  Back to back, they continued to fire as they rotated in a semi-circle while shuffling towards the building. It was an old recon trick in close quarters combat. Keep hitting your targets to the left or right but always turn in the identical direction while relying on your partner to do the same. Some tactics transcend being scared. You trusted your partner, and for once the Reaper did again. He fired, hitting three demons through the head with each round. Lining them up wasn't that hard. There were simply so many. There was a pause in firing behind him, and the Reaper wondered if this young man was out of ammunition.

  "Drop and cover!" the stranger shouted and because the Reaper trusted, he dropped to the ground, covering his ears. Almost instantly, explosions rang around them in a circle. Too close, as the shock wave buffeted him and something tugged at the fabric of his black jeans. The Reaper counted four more grenades going off almost at once. "Up and inside the building. Those were my last grenades, so come on, old man," and again, the Reaper felt himself lifted, and together they ran all out for the concrete and steel station building, leaping over mounds of the undead as they cleared the few steps and slammed through the door, locking it closed behind them.

  Breathing heavily, both men looked at the other. The Reaper saw a tall, muscular young man, possibly a little over six foot tall, with short brown hair, dressed in jeans and camouflage blouse like his while sporting an olive drab military style weapons vest where the Reaper's was a black SWAT design. A large, heavy-bladed black steel knife hung at his side in a leather sheath and the Reaper saw with approval it was almost the size of a machete. The black steel rim glasses he wore were fastened at the back with one of those rubber sports straps, this one black. The other man was the first to speak, and held out his hand to the Reaper.

  "Name is Travis Kreuter. I'm guessing you're the Reaper they're all talking about on the CB. Pleased to meet you," he spoke in a low gravelly voice as he shook the Reaper's hand firmly.

  *****

  Dr. Lynch paused as he entered the large conference room. The only furniture was a single desk and chair, yet six large plasma monitors adorned the walls, arranged in a semi-circle. He straightened his clothing and smoothed his hair back before sitting, then pushing the button in front of him. Slowly the monitors glowed to life, and five men and one woman stared back at him. He knew they had identical arrangements in their own hidden locations.

  "Greetings, fellow Directors of the New World Order," he opened the meeting and smiled at them.

  "You're late. We've been waiting for almost fifteen minutes. This is unacceptable." The first to speak was an old man in his late 80's, white hair slicked back, his craggy visage glaring at the doctor. A world financier worth billions before the fall, he was still a man to be reckoned with, especially considering he had financed a majority of their undertaking. Though Polish, he had started his fortune working with the Nazis during WWII and grown it from there, sometimes by manipulating the currencies of entire countries.

  “I'm sorry. I've been busy setting up our end here," Dr. Lynch responded sharply.

  "Not what we heard. It seems you're a bit too interested in your own people there, in a sexual way." The next to remark was a middle-aged obese bearded man, a German central banker that oversaw gold deposits. Gold that wasn't worth as much as it used to be when originally stored, that is.

  "Enough!" For the first time, the one female present on the screens spoke, her tanned, sharp features looking from left to right in a glare at her fellow directors. "Why do you care what he does as long as he brings results. So stop now, you’re simply wasting our time," she continued.

  "Agreed." The sole Asian now spoke, and then inclined his head to the doctor. “Tell us, Doctor. What are the latest estimates on casualties?"

  Dr. Lynch hesitated, then accessed his memory. He knew these figures by heart but double-checked himself to be sure. "Approximately 97% casualty rate at this time. Mixed between deaths and biologicals. We were off on the biologicals by an order of four."

  "Update us on the aberrations. The mutations." The woman was continuing to speak, overriding the others.

  "They are unexpected. I do not know how far it will proceed."

  "Do they present a danger to the overall plan?"

  "Of course not, Madam! I have the anti-contagion ready for release if it comes to that."

  "And the exposed children? Did the outcome we hoped for, happen?"

  Dr. Lynch paused again and smiled inwardly. Here he reigned supreme. "Yes and no. Yes in that their immune systems can be transferred and retard aging in mice and some of the chimps. But, it has not been perfected. Many of the chimps are dying. I need more time."

  "You're out of time. I need it now," growled the first man that had spoken, the financier.

  "You'll have it when it's ready and not before, unless you wish to die," Lynch growled back.

  "Mein Gott! Enough, the both of you!"

  "I apologize, Madam President. I will gladly administer the serum we have so far to Horus even though it will probably kill him. There is a 5% chance he won't die though." Lynch grinned at the old man who sputtered, then remained silent.

  "Keep us informed and spend less time screwing the hired help." The madam was the first to sign off after uttering those last words. Within seconds, the others signed off also and the doctor rose from the desk, smiling. All in all, it had been a good conference. He turned and left.

  Unseen, a figure crouched in an air duct set in the ceiling above
the desk. He turned his recorder off and carefully rolled over on his back. He would have to remain here for another two hours until the security systems did their nightly maintenance. He had managed to program in a twenty-minute lapse that would give him enough time to exit the ductwork and get back to his workstation unnoticed. In the meantime, he attached a cable between the recorder and his cell phone. Dialing a number, he set the specialized recorder for burst transmit and hit the button.

  Don's cell phone picked up and copied the contents of the conversation the figure had overheard. Don was Dr. Lynch's director of security and some would say nominal second in command of North American NWO operations. In reality, the New World Order was quickly disintegrating into competing factions as rivalry and the lure of unlimited power set in. This had resulted in various members of the NWO facilities into adopting or changing sides in favor of the lesser of multiple evils.

  The burst transmission complete, the hidden figure settled back to wait for his opportunity to leave.

  *****

  Chapter 1

  DAY 8: 0730 ET FRIDAY NOVEMBER 11TH

  The sun broke the horizon at 0730 sharp. Its brilliant yellow rays and the clear blue skies signaled the beginning of a beautiful day. Well... the term beautiful is relative, isn't it? I used to think I was a long way from stupid, but last night's events made me think otherwise, so I wasn't thinking beautiful. Eighty-six dead and four missing. Forty-four of the dead were children. Among all those dead was my sweet Bridget, my dead lover, who died with a rifle blazing in her hands, vainly trying to protect the many little ones she stood guard over. We also had over two hundred wounded, and the only reason the death toll among the adults wasn't higher was because the zombies had concentrated on reaching the children first, bypassing most of the adults who happened to be closer. Most of the attacks on the adults seemed to be designed to incapacitate rather than eat as the zombies homed in on our little ones.