That is until the ambitious mayor of New York City decides to do something about it. Mayor Rosenthal has sent a force to Staten Island. Their mission, to clear the borough for human habitation.
A noble cause which soon goes horribly wrong, setting off a chain of events that threatens the life of every man, woman and child in Manhattan and beyond.
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Dead Things
one
On the day that
the Rosenthal Plan was initiated, Chris Collins had a fight with his wife,
Kelly. The plan called for the extermination of all zombies on Staten Island,
to prepare the borough for resettlement by humans. Chris had committed his
services to the newly re-elected Mayor Rosenthal. Kelly, now seven months pregnant
with their fourth child, felt his responsibilities lay closer to home.
“I gave my word, Kel,” Chris said. He was standing in the doorway to
the bathroom. His wife, up uncharacteristically early, stood next to their
marital bed, her arms folded across her chest and supported by her huge belly.
“Besides, I happen to believe in this project. It will do a lot of good for a
lot of people.”
“I’m sure it will,” Kelly said. “I think it’s a good idea too, and
I’m happy for the people it will help. But why does it always have to be you,
Chris?”
“It’s not only me. Lots of other people have volunteered.”
“Really?” Kelly said, a look of mock disbelief on her face. Despite
the argument Chris thought it made her look incredibly cute. “How many other
volunteers from Manhattan?”
“Well, there’s Dave and –”
“Dave Bamber is military, he works for the city, he has to go.”
“And there’s…”
“Go on,” Kelly coaxed, a victory smirk beginning to blossom on her face.
“How many others?”
“That’s not the point, Kel.”
“That’s exactly the point, not even Joe’s going.”
“Joe’s still hobbling around on a damaged ankle.”
“Hooley then, Hooley’s not going.”
Henpecked by your mother, Chris wanted to say and decided not to. “I’m
not Hooley,” he said instead.
“No,” Kelly pouted. “He pays attention to his wife’s concerns.”
The door to the bedroom angled open. Samantha poked her head
through, “Mom? Dad? Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine, honey. What are you doing up so early?” Like her
mother, Sam was usually a sound sleeper and a reluctant riser.
“I thought I heard shouting.”
“Your mother and I were just discussing something.”
“Fighting,” Sam said, in a voice that carried the hint of a
reprimand.
“Just talking.”
“Go on back to bed, Sam,” Kelly said, giving her daughter a
reassuring smile “Everything’s fine.”
“Please don’t fight,” Sam said, tears spilling over. Spousal
arguments were a rarity in the Collins household.
“Ah honey,” Chris said. He started towards her.
“I’m fine,” Samantha said, withdrawing from the doorway. “Just
please don’t fight.” The door clicked shut just before Chris got to it. He
heard Kelly chuckling behind him.
“Now, that’s the way to win an argument,” she said.
“I thought we were having a discussion.”
Kelly waddled over to where he was standing, slipped her arms around
his waist and held him. Chris hugged her back and placed a kiss on the top of
her head.
“I’m not going to talk you out of this, am I?”
“I have to go, Kel.”
He braced himself for Kelly’s counterargument, but Samantha’s
intrusion seemed to have achieved its objective. Kelly let out a long
sigh. “You be careful out there,” she
said into his chest.
“Careful’s my middle name.”
“I thought your middle name was Cruisin’.”
“That’s my first name.”
two
An hour later he
was standing on the sidewalk, a tote bag at his feet, his AK-47 slung over his
shoulder. Ruby was with him, her sword across the back of her black combat
suit, a frown knitting her brows. Chris though his daughter must be the most
serious fifteen-year-old in the world. Sixteen, he corrected himself, Ruby had
had a birthday a couple of months ago.
It was early-January, New York cold, the sky an eye-watering shade
of blue, the air mercifully still. The slushy remains of last evening’s minor
snowfall littered the sidewalk and crept down the gutters like alien slime. Chris
shuffled his feet and blew into his cupped hands. He looked north along the
frigid expanse of Columbus Avenue towards the 125th Street barrier.
He thought it might snow again later.
“They’re coming,” Ruby said and in the next moment Chris picked up
the low and distinct thrum of diesel engines. Five minutes later, the first of
the military vehicles made the turn from 125th onto Columbus, their
engines now the sound of rolling thunder, bouncing back off the valley walls
created by the buildings.
Three Humvees lead the convoy, behind them six transports in drab,
military green. Two of those - the one’s trailing power generators - were
supply trucks, the other four were empty. Later they’d pick up the volunteers
from Queens and Brooklyn.
The convoy rolled to a stop in the middle of the street. Chris
picked up his bag and walked towards the lead vehicle, where the door had just
flipped open. He stood aside and let Ruby scramble on board ahead of him. Then
he got in himself, pulling the door shut behind him.
“Cold enough for you?” Dave Bamber said.
“Hell yeah,” Chris said, shaking the hand that Bamber extended.
Bamber wore the insignia of a full bird colonel these days. “Couldn’t you have
picked a better season for this Z hunt?”
“Best time for it,” Bamber said. “Cold makes the Zs lethargic, and
if we get some more snow, which I fancy we will later on, those Zs are going to
stand out like targets on a rifle range.”
The Humvee made a left turn, then a right and headed along Broadway
towards downtown.
“Figured we’d cross via the Brooklyn Bridge,” Bamber said, “Pick up
your people there. I got another group heading out over the Triboro to load up
the Queens volunteers. We’ll RV at the Belt and cross via the Verrazano-Narrows
into Staten, pitch camp at the golf course in Silver Lakes.”
Chris nodded. He knew all of this of course, had been involved in
the planning process. He figured Bamber was just making conversation.
“Bet Joe’s sore to be missing out of the action,” Bamber chuckled in
similar vein.
“Wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Chris said. “I think he actually
enjoys swanning around the apartment in his PJs and dressing gown. Thinks he’s
Hugh Hefner.”
Bamber laughed at that and the conversation died down soon after.
They crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, leaving Manhattan behind for only the second
time since he’d brought Ruby back from Scolfield’s little torture palace in
Hackensack. He wondered what had happened to Scolfield, decided it didn’t
matter right now. They had business to take care of, serious business. For the
first time since the Rosenthal Plan had first been floated, he considered the
possibility that it might not be such a great idea after all.
three
Bamber’s
prediction of snow, and his own hunch about it, turned out to be right. By the
time they trundled from the bridge onto the Staten Island Expressway, it had
clouded over, and the snow was falling in thick flurries. The Expressway was
clear of vehicles for the section of road they’d have to travel (a couple of
earth movers sent in the week before had taken care of that) and they stayed
with it until Clove Road where they took the off ramp. This road, leading all
the way to Port Richmond, would form the barrier of their initial thrust. The
aim was to secure the north east corner of the island, and to work out from
there. Their starting point, though, was the Silver Lake reservoir and the land
surrounding it. That area was roughly wedge-shaped, and bounded by Victory Boulevard
to the east, Clove Road to the west, and Forest Avenue to the north. They were
just making the turn into Victory Boulevard, now.
They hadn’t seen a Z since leaving Brooklyn and they saw their first
one now, a bedraggled looking creature that stumbled into the road and threw
out its arms as though it intended to engulf the Humvee. The driver simply put
his foot down and drove the thing under his wheels.
Shortly thereafter they made a right turn and passed through a
collapsed gate towards the golf club.
“I figured we’d set up camp here,” Bamber said. “No one wants to be
pitching tents in this shit and the clubhouse is in a good position, slightly
elevated, open fields of fire to all sides, more than enough room to
accommodate our numbers.”
“Sounds solid,” Chris said.
“Might get a bit cold, but I hauled some big ol’ oil heaters along.
Can’t have our civilian volunteers freezing their little tushies off.” He
laughed his familiar chuckle. The Humvee rolled into a large parking lot,
sitting adjacent to the clubhouse.
“Let’s call a halt here, corporal,” Bamber instructed the driver.
They were way back from the building, the rest of the convoy behind them,
stopped on the approach road. The snow was falling more heavily now, turning
the world white and cutting down their visibility.
Bamber lifted a handset to his mouth and spoke into it. “Charlie and
Delta teams, move into position.”
“Roger that,” came the dual reply.
Chris heard the sound of engines being raced and the two Humvees
peeled off from behind them, passed them by, and entered the lot. There they
did a wide turn and came to a halt maybe a hundred feet from the clubhouse,
facing the building. The firing hatches popped and a gunner appeared in each.
They were dressed in white snowsuits, almost invisible against the snowy
background.
“Right,” Bamber said. “Let’s see if this little radio broadcast of
yours strikes a chord with the residents.” He got on the radio again. “Delta,
this is team leader, send that sermon, over.”
“Roger that team leader, sending now, stand by.”
The stillness of the afternoon was suddenly broken by a barely
perceptible hum. Even under the layers of clothing he was wearing, Chris felt
the hairs on his arms rise. He felt an itch in his back teeth, a buzz in his
head that reverberated through his skull like a bone drill.
He looked through the windshield towards the low brick structure
standing at the other end of the lot. The snow continued to fall. Nothing else
was moving out there.
Bamber lifted the handset again, spoke impatiently into it. “Delta,
this is team leader, are you transmitting, over?”
The question was redundant. It was obvious the transmission was
being sent.
“That’s affirmative, team leader. Message is looping, loud and –”
A clatter of gunfire interrupted the conversation, not 20 or 50-mil,
Chris thought, 7.62, probably Browning. At the entrance to the clubhouse a Z
was being torn apart by the gunfire, jiving like a marionette with someone
jangling the strings.
“Delta, Charlie, hold fire,” Bamber barked. “Get them out into the
lot. You’re shooting up our goddamn HQ!”
The guns fell silent and remained that way while the Zs stumbled
from the building, drawn towards certain death by the dissonant Z buzz being
broadcast from the Humvee. They crept forward, treacle-slow, a tide of pitiful,
blackened waifs, backlit by the whiteness of the snow.
Bamber let them come, then spoke into the microphone one last time.
“Charlie, Delta, you have a go. Let’s clean house.”
The guns opened up immediately, spewing metallic death across the
lot. Some of the Zs rippled and danced, disgorging their black blood into the
pristine snow. Others simply collapsed, almost gratefully, to the ground.
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