Blood Soaked & Gone

It feels like years ago—even if hasn’t been—my father, the zombie, tried to rule the world. It didn’t work out as well as he planned, due to the fact that I pounded his skull into tapioca on the hall floor of his office building.

Shortly after that, my community was co-opted and walled off from the rest of the world because we had a bad case of contagious nanotechnology. They put us between a rock and a hard place.

The hard place was the threat of being contained with a suitcase nuke between our eyes.

The rock was join our elite special zombie-fighting cadre, or die.

We joined up, only to discover, shortly thereafter, that the virus that brought people back to life was of alien origin. Not only that, but the virus was part of the lifecycle of the little extraterrestrial bastards. They seeded worlds with the means to grow their own people, genetic memory and all, on site.

It saved them all kinds of money on faster than light travel.

We never expected our new recruits to turn against us, but they did, and stole the remaining original nanotechnology Bajali originally used on us. Mere moments later, Bernard Buttons Grachevsky detonated an EMP weapon, powered by madly powerful explosives. He’d decided to take up with the enemy, and we had no idea why.

The bomb killed quite a few people, including my friend Shoei Omura, and wounded many others. You see, electromagnetic pulses turn nanomachines into nutritional supplements. We couldn’t heal anymore.

I lost my right eye, right arm, most of my face, and the sanity of my girlfriend. Buttons attacked her while chaos reigned, and cut out her uterus (with our unborn child inside). Charlie nearly died, but clearly went mad.

Did I mention he took her womb with him when the Progeny spirited him away? Maybe it was a trophy, or an insurance plan that I’d come after him.

Wounded, our people tried to save my life, and I probably would have died except for the intervention of another alien species. I use the quotes, because Biggie is a combined entity. He offered me a form of salvation, and a way to stop the invaders…for free.

Not long afterward, I got the old nanotech is hungry cramps. Instead of licking a chair, I made a beeline for the wreckage of a Progeny UFO. After contact with it, I changed forever.

My right arm stands out. It is matte black, the way that stretched latex is. In fact, some people have asked me if I’m a rubber fetishist.

I’m not. I wouldn’t know what a rubber fetish was if it sauntered over and stuck its tongue in my ear.

Truthfully, I’d probably squeal.

When you take a closer look at my arm, you can see the fibers and crystal-like formations that spread across the surface of the skin. Then it is completely apparent that my limb isn’t rubber, silicone, or some high tech textile wizardry; it is something else.

The same goes for my right eye, except that it behaves in typical ways, and for the most part, looks normal. Yet, if you pay attention, you’ll notice that the pupil doesn’t react to changes in light—it doesn’t need to. That’s been known to bother people. All I can do is shrug because I can’t do anything about it. I’m just happy it looks like a normal eye most of the time.

There was a time that it was just as black as my arm. You’d think I mugged a gothy teenager in a shopping mall. Luckily, I convinced it to look more like a regular eye. The arm, on the other hand, resists persuasion.

I can’t remember how many times I’ve asked myself if these body parts are truly a part of me or if they’re something else. I imagine if they were traditional prosthetics it would be an easy answer. You pull your artificial limb off, stand it in the corner, or lay it on the bedside table, and you know you stop where your physical body ends.

What are these parts? They’re not prosthetics, even if I can detach the arm—I can still move it, even when it isn’t in the same room as the rest of me—I know how I got them, and where they came from, but defining them eludes me.

Don’t ask me about seeing with my fingers. I don’t like talking about it. Fucked up, let me tell you!

While my arm will work by remote control, the eyeball doesn’t pop out of the socket and roll around.

Well, I haven’t found a way to coax it out yet. It ignores cookies, begging, and curious prodding from scientists.

Bajali Sharma, my friend, and nanotech genius, tried to touch my new eye. It was a late night, and we’d all been drinking… even Baj has started drinking… and he decided to see if I could feel his finger, or if I’d blink to keep him from touching it.

I didn’t blink. I couldn’t feel his finger, but he sure as hell felt my eyeball. A normal person would have needed stitches to close the incision in his index finger. He just yelled, staunched the blood, and waited until his onboard nanomachines fixed it.

Lesson learned: don’t touch the eyeball.

I digress.

When I find Buttons Grachevsky, I’m going to kill him in the most horrible way I can imagine in that moment. I fantasize about the sort of death he’d get if Charlie gets him first. Actually, that’s a lie. I don’t want to imagine that horrible of an end… except that I do imagine it in the wee hours of the morning, before coffee, when I find myself alone.

Charlie’s not doing well, psychologically. She’s good for a day, and then off-kilter for two. I don’t know what is going to happen with her, but I do know that I still love her.

That’s a plus. Right?

Chapter 1

We send out a patrol at least every four hours. Major Kenney has us on a rotating schedule.

There have been whole fortnights when I've not been out and about in the wilds of post-apocalyptic Northern Virginia. That is the sort of luxury that makes you twitch, because there's not much to do when you aren't on the technical, scientific, or medical staff. I don’t have many hobbies, except for getting into trouble.

I don't think Yolanda would allow me in her kitchen, or anywhere near the support wing of the operation. She loves me for my sterling qualities, but is quite aware of the places where my organizational skills are not up to snuff, or are missing entirely. Consequently, all I'd get from her if I offered my time is a kiss on the cheek, and a cheerful decline in Spanish.

I should know, I keep trying.

Someone took pity on me, and assigned me to be an instructor for the enlistees. I was dubious at first, but figured that it couldn't be worse than pining for the fjords, so I agreed.

In the midst of all that, I longed for patrols as an excuse to get outside the walls they'd wrapped around us like a concrete swaddling blanket for Godzilla. Those little missions were as close as I could get to running around and causing trouble.

Charlie would have been my preferred source of companionable troublemaking, but things between us were... strained. She wasn't as unbalanced as she'd been for the first few weeks after the bomb and EMP, but no one would say that she was back to her old cheerful self.

Yeah. No trouble for Frank, except for occasional opportunities to run down zombies—the original, recently revived variety; the seasoned, regenerating, super-contagious kind; and the latest nasty to appear from the twisted brain of the Progeny: the Flathead.

Imagine a typical reanimated person—claws, teeth, bad disposition, and icky smell—after being stretched out on a rack with a weight on his head. Once you let him up, you'd have the beastie we call a Flathead, faster, stronger, extra vicious, but strangely stupid.

They make up for it by being ten times as tenacious.

Corporal Antoine Charles was the first of us to encounter one of the new breed of bipedal pains in the ass while on patrol out in Tyson's Corner. His team was wandering through the burnt-out remains of a shopping mall, talking to squatters and assessing the local color. He was guarding their Humvee in the nearby parking garage, which had suffered surprisingly little damage in the riots and looting that afflicted the mall in the years past.

There was a hooting noise, he told me a few hours after they'd returned from their rounds. It sounded something like a lost animal trying to find the rest of the pack. The next thing I know, there's a naked, deformed, pro basketball player running towards me.

That must have been shocking. It was my lame effort at being sympathetic.

No shit! I even gave him some warning, Antoine held up his hands and gave them a cheerful wave to show us his due diligence in an awkward situation, before I raised my weapon.

He didn’t stop, did he?

Antoine shook his head. There’s nothing worse than being nice and not having your kindness appreciated.

The rest of us who were hanging out with him in the cafeteria made tsk tsk noises, participating in a kind of sarcastic behavior reserved for the victorious. It was lost on Antoine, but not on us.

The corporal was one of those large African American men who exemplified the gentle giant trope. Objectively, any sane creature would pause before engaging him in combat, unless it was a wild animal. All bets are off with wild animals, feral children, zombies, and—apparently—Flatheads.

What happened then? Chul-Moo Kim asked around the water bottle at his lips.

Corporal Charles pointed to the shredded shirt that was valiantly hanging onto his frame. His skin bore no signs of damage. The wounds had closed long ago, thanks to the wonders of technology.

The thing closed the distance so fast, I barely got a shot off. I’m going to carry one of those little rail guns from now on, because this guy shrugged off the bullets.

Did they bounce off like Superman, or did he just ignore them? That question came from Alex Cameron, at that point a new addition to our friendly crowd.

Ignored them. Once he got up on me, he ripped the hell out of me with his claws and sunk his teeth into my neck. Antoine shook his head. Then I shot him in the head at close range.

Nasty, I commented.

You know what? Antoine asked. The thing stuffed his finger in the entry wound as he fell, like he was putting a bung in a barrel. It didn’t do him any good. They can’t regenerate brains, same as the other kinds of zombies.

A bung in the head, Alex announced and laughed.

About a week later, I was on patrol with Alex Cameron and Chul-Moo Kim, and we learned some new things about the lanky menace: they hunt in packs, and they’re omnivorous.

Word had filtered up to us from the civilian population—what was left of it—of tall wild men hunting on the grounds of what used to be Gulf Branch Nature Center, out by the crumbling ruin of the Chain Bridge. The next thing I knew the three of us were assigned to head across the county and do a little impromptu stakeout.

Our cheerful drive ended as we pulled up the narrow lane of cracked asphalt that led to the center. As soon as we got out of our vehicle, it became apparent that the Flatheads were waiting for us, a classic ambush.

Two of them hurtled out of the bushes and took Kim down before he could draw a weapon. Three more dropped from the trees and rode Alex Cameron to the road. I popped the Man Scythe out of the scabbard at my back and was about to even up Alex’s odds when six more appeared out of the stream and hooted at me.

I quickly glanced at Alex and Chul-Moo. They were holding their own; not without some effort, but they were okay. I looked at the pack heading towards me, and I took off running down the path by the old blacksmith’s shop.

I’m just under six-foot tall, and these guys were at least two feet taller than me. Their longer legs and undead speed meant I didn’t keep my lead for long. When they caught up to me I was tackled with brutal efficiency. One of them wrenched the Man Scythe out of my hand and threw it into the bushes. Then they proceeded to beat the ever-loving shit out of me.

A normal person would have died. I’m pretty sure of that. My brain cataloged every major injury and flashed it up in front of my eyes, as though I couldn’t feel it when my legs were broken, and one of them took a bite out of my love handle. I was damned sure I needed to get up, or they’d finish me off.

With my left arm pinned to the ground, I had to rely on the magic of my black right arm. It snaked out of the grip of the smelly bastard who’d been pummeling my head into the dirt and speared him through the abdomen. He let go of me, wailed in surprise, and clutched his midsection.

My right leg healed enough that I could launch a decent kick backwards into the nearest body. I heard an uncomfortable grunt, and was immensely pleased to have the persistent gnawing stop. At the same time, I drew my weapon and blew another one to pudding.

Abruptly, I was free. I rolled over, took stock of my situation, and pointed my weapon at the next attenuated, revived, dead man. For their part, they crouched down, mumbled at one another and pointed at me.

What? Are you waiting for the cannibal chieftain to bless me before dinner? I snarled at the five of them.

There had been six. I’d wasted one .

Cannibal chieftain stabbed me through the throat with a branch. I choked on blood and tissue, and started to thrash around. Chief’s audience honked their approval, and closed in to resume disassembling me.

With what little composure I had left, I pulled the trigger on my sidearm. The hypervelocity slug exited the barrel and sailed right between two of my would-be attackers. A normal bullet wouldn’t do squat in a situation like that. The pellet from a Soroka MK II, on the other hand, creates a mini cyclone as it travels.

Those two were close enough together that they were shredded by the atmospheric disturbance. They fell to the ground clutching the ragged edges of where their left and right arms, respectively, and ribs had been. It was a hideous mess.

I was fighting for air, even if I didn’t need it, and begging my nanomachines to hurry up when the smarter of the remaining three, the one I called Chieftain, stomped on my right hand until I let go of the pistol. Some small part of my brain that wasn’t in full panic took offense at his rude behavior and set my black arm to work.

Lightning quick, the sneaky thing slithered up Chief’s leg, dissected the femoral artery, and kept going. His head exploded from the inside, covering my audience and me in gummy mess. A moment later, I yanked the tree limb out of my throat and sat up.

One of my remaining attackers dissolved into a gushing cone of nasty, which let me know that at least one of my people was up and moving. I gave silent thanks to God, Ganesha, Kali Ma, Buddha, and the saints of weapon designers everywhere.

I was a little surprised to see the two wounded Flatheads attacking their hale companion. Worse than that was watching them regenerate their injured bodies as they consumed their chum. For a moment, I observed the carnage, and quickly decided I’d had enough.

The Soroka MK II makes a singular whip crack noise when you squeeze the trigger. Three cracks pierced the afternoon air, and the buffet was over.

Alex staggered up the path, and played his eyes over the mess spread across the overgrown landscape. He spat a gob of congealing blood and shook his head.

I think I like these less than both regular kinds of zombies, he wheezed.

I sent him a message because my throat was still reassembling. Is Kim okay?

Yeah, yeah. Alex waved towards the parking area. He’s just looking after our ride.

Good. I don’t want to walk home.

You got a branch through the throat too? Alex asked me.

Yeah, I replied via skull cellular service, right through the front and out the back.

Nasty shit, he said, and walked over to help me to my feet. Chul-Moo got that too. He pulled it out, and skewered two of them.

I cleared my throat, and gave speaking a try. Good for him.

Alex laughed. You sound like Tom Waits, all raspy and too many cigarettes!

There are worse things. I was tempted to start singing, and then changed my mind. My singing voice wasn’t glorious at the best of times.

After I retrieved the Man Scythe, we walked back to our comrade, and surveyed the mess we’d made.

Chul-Moo looked up from prodding the remains of one of his assailants as we approached.

Get a load of their lung capacity, he said, and lifted a lung so we could take a gander.

It looks like a deflated hot water bottle, I commented.

This is easily twice the size of a normal human lung, he said, dropping it onto the headless corpse at his feet, and shot me a disparaging look. Their sinus cavities are huge, too.

I never knew you had an interest in anatomy.

Kim gave me another sideways expression. How can you kill something if you don’t know how it works?

Kim, Frank believes in the ‘overwhelming damage’ principle. Alex clapped me on the back. Don’t expect him to give a rat’s ass about what a monster’s insides look like.

Kim nodded, Typical for a civilian.

Hey, now! I yelled. I didn’t know I’d have something else to yell about in less than two hours.

No one had ordered us to clean up behind ourselves, so we left the bodies to become fertilizer. I had thoughts of petunias, pine trees, and native Virginian plants that I couldn’t name, springing forth from the guts of mutants. Unlikely? Sure, but it gave me semi-pretty things to think about as we headed back.

There were new orders waiting for us when we got home. It was recon, based on more rumors from civilians.

Why us? We just got finished with patrol. I’m filthy, I complained to Commander Matt Flower Wilson.

That’s nothing new, Frank. It was a deadpan reply, typical of the man.

That’s a shitty reason.

At least I answered the question. It’s a simple recon. Go look at the unfinished metro site in Reston. Report back if there are zombies like the civilians are saying. If there aren’t, you got extra time cruising around outside. Win, win.

Even Chul-Moo snorted at that one.

We went.

Before too long, I was exclaiming, Cameron, get me the hell out of this hole!

I broadcast directly instead of yelling in the close quarters of the unfinished underground Metro station. There was a chance I had company somewhere in the tunnel, and yelling my head off could arouse attention before I wanted it. Chances are, I’d eventually get the attention, but only after I’d set the timer on the high-density plastic explosives we’d brought along.

It had already been a long day, I wanted to make something go boom and get back to the ranch. I had a lecture to deliver that night at 8 pm, and I hated to pontificate while smelling of explosives, burnt mutants, and roasted dirt.

Besides, I was hanging upside down in a hole. Why was I doing it, and not Cameron or Kim? I’m an idiot sometimes, that’s why. Delegating has never been, and probably never will be, one of my strong suits.

Stewart, I can’t get you the hell out of the hole. We’ve got incoming up here, so if you want out, you have to climb, Cameron shot back to me.

Shit.

I reached up with my right arm, got a solid grip on the rope, righted myself, and prepared to haul my buttocks up to the surface. Then I smelled him—about one-fourth of a second before he appeared on my internal HUD—a Flathead sentry who was headed my way from inside the tunnel below.

Damn! He reeked like a rotting slaughterhouse. No surprise, since they’re either cannibals or they’re eating other creatures that have mostly human DNA. Our people found genetic material from at least four sources in the digestive tract of the corpse Antoine brought home from the old parking garage.

It made it very easy to not like Flatheads, and I was more than happy to introduce the oncoming sentry to the empty afterlife.

Nanotechnology not withstanding, I wasn’t as good a shot with my left hand as my right—but I pulled my Soroka MK III Baby Rail from the holster at my hip anyway. The new Soroka is a compact version of the sidearm we’d started carrying months prior to the Metro mission. After eight shots the battery is completely drained and you’ve got three minutes to wait before it can recharge... not optimal… but it was a decent effort to miniaturize the larger pistol.

The size of the thing could fool you though. It wasn’t much larger than a travel-size hairdryer, but it had 80-90% of the alien-stopping goodness we’d come to enjoy in the larger pistol.

I thumbed the warm-up button and waited to see if Mr. Flat-tastic would come any closer.

For those of you who don’t have the playbill or cheat sheet, the Flathead’s technical designation is Eater Stage 3.

A Stage 1 is the standard, recently revived zombie. Stage 2 is slightly more evolved, capable of healing like we do, and actively contagious. The Stage 3 Eater has undergone more DNA rearranging the other two. It is taller, stronger, faster, more contagious, less given to independent thought, and has the characteristic aerodynamic forehead.

We can’t tell if it is something new, or a rearranged Stage 2.

Not to be undone, in terms of fashion sense, Flats also run around naked. It is not erotic, based on my experiences. They don’t seem to give a shit about their bits flapping around in the breeze, and the breeze usually smells like a frightened skunk in a vat full of rotting pork.

Singly, they aren’t a big deal. Find them in groups of three or more and you really should call for back up—they’re a holy terror—more like dealing with a pack of wild animals than a coordinated assault.

This leads me to a very important bit of advice: never, ever, let them corner you. I’ve survived it because I’m even more abnormal than usual, but most don’t. I once saw a young recently enhanced soldier get shredded alive because they got him into a tight spot. Even with the nanotech, he didn’t survive. There wasn’t enough left to heal when they were done with him.

Cameron, what kind of incoming do you have up there? I’ve got a Flathead 20 meters away from my ankles.

I count sixteen. Ah, correction: Kim just took one out. That leaves us with fifteen able bodies. If you can wax your target and get up here, I’d appreciate it. Calling for backup at 1620 in the afternoon makes me feel like a pussy.

Bugger, I replied. I’ll see what I can do.

Hanging there in the harness, I tried to devise a quick Flathead call. My creative juices were pooled in my boots, and I couldn’t come up with anything.

When in doubt, use an old standard.

Yo! Smelly, good for nothing, people-eater! I called down the tunnel. I’d screw your mom, but she probably looks just like you. What a shame!

Oh, it got his attention all right. He came up the tunnel with a will, and an intense interest in my location. Strangely enough, he was also armed with a spear... Flatheads, in my experience, eschewed weapons, favoring claws, brute strength, and teeth. Not this one.

He saw me dangling in mid-air, and smiled beneath his sloping brow... (his sinuses are three times the size of a normal human’s... the better to smell you with).

See you, he grunted. Die now.

He threw the spear with impressive accuracy and power. My sternum didn’t stop it, but the backside of the Man Scythe sheath did. This was how I learned that being impaled with a ceramic-pointed spear hurts very badly indeed.

I contemplated the nature of physical discomfort for a fraction of a second, which was enough time for him to take a running leap and grab onto my boots. Fucker was heavy!

At such close range missing wasn’t even an option. I took aim between my feet and fired a single slug. The characteristic whip-crack sound of an electromagnetically-launched projectile echoed in the dirt-walled hole and rattled the inside of my skull.

I’m glad it didn’t make my ears bleed.

The shock wave from Soroka MK III slug lifted me five feet into the air and pushed my legs out of my opponent’s grip as the slug turned his head and torso into a fine multi-colored mist. I promise you it isn’t a pretty sight when a living being is turned into an inverted cone of spinning, variegated fluids, and semi-solid chunks. On the other hand, you don’t have to worry if he will be coming back for more.

I pulled the spear out of my chest and tossed it to the dirt floor below. I spared a grimace at the two lonely arms on the ground, holstered my weapon, and climbed up the rope.

Cameron and Kim were in a pickle—that much was certain—and neither one looked pleased about it. I didn’t spare too much worry over their injuries. They’d heal. What bothered me was the pack of over-grown ET-pawns surrounding our position. I counted twelve of them, up and moving... definitely not what you’d prefer to see on a lovely spring afternoon.

Four-to-one odds. Dandy. Fucking dandy.

Leaving the odds aside, we had a greater inconvenience to manage. The majority of their forces had the high ground. We were in a valley between abandoned man-made dirt mounds and rusting construction equipment. Only one group of three Flatheads was close enough to bother with, from a melee point of view.

All of the `Heads on the dirt piles looked like they were waiting for something, or watching with interest to see what we’d do next. They weren’t even bothering with the muck-like remains of their fallen comrades.

Kim, I yelled, can you lay down covering fire with only one arm working?

What do you think I’ve been doing up here? Teaching these naked throwbacks to speak Korean?

Glad to hear your sense of humor is intact! Make the best of an awkward situation, I always say. Concentrate some suppressing fire on that knot of Flats on your 2 o’clock. I’m going to meet and greet.

Got anything you need from me? Alex Cameron asked, as he rammed a new clip home in his slug-thrower.

Keep them off my back. I popped the Man Scythe out of the scabbard and snapped the blade into position. Then I took a little cross-country sprint to visit the frustrating assholes who were making my day more interesting than I wanted.

Of course they saw me coming. It wasn’t as though I wanted to be stealthy—I just wanted them dead—and being a target might interest them enough to do something stupid.

The drawback of an unconcealed, full frontal approach is that your opponents can dig in and prepare for your arrival, or just come out to meet you in the middle if they’re feeling confident. Sometimes, on the other hand, you’ll get lucky and someone will tip their plans ahead of time. They did. It was really clear they wanted to come at me from the front and flank me on both sides—close me up in a warm puppy pile of blood and carnage—then eat me alive.

As far as anyone had been able to puzzle out, the Progeny send Flatheads out with only simple orders like: Hold this position. They’re blunt instruments, if effective.

My point is they don’t get a good briefing on their opponents. Had they been told about me, I’m sure the lecture would have included advice about avoiding my right arm. Certainly, they ought to avoid the Man Scythe as well, but it isn’t magic. My right arm is.

Four months ago, one of our own defected and set off a bomb before he left. I was caught near ground zero of the explosion. It cost me friends—one died protecting me—my unborn child, an eye, and my right arm. A combination platter of local nanotechnology and alien science grew me new parts, using flying saucer hull as raw material. It did not bring my friends back, or restore the baby to Charlie and me.

On a brighter note, the spiffy right arm does tricks... endless fun at parties.

My first opponent came in low, barreling across the newly sprouted grass like a champion runner from Kenya. His arms were spread wide, as if daring me to dodge the rush. Dodging him was not my intention at all; I hoped to greet him with affection and cake.

There was no cake. My arm doesn’t turn into cake. Doesn’t taste like chocolate, either.

The world shifted into the queer slow motion of impending violence, and it seemed like I had forever to examine the heavy claws growing from my guest’s fingers. I’ve seen the damage they can do many, many, times since then, and I never take it lightly. His chest was pumping like a bellows, polluting the air with Eater halitosis. Yet another reason to take them out: to preserve the ozone layer.

In my peripheral vision, I saw his companions begin to approach on their own. Fast, deadly fast, but silent. I was impressed. One was coming high, and the other was aiming for a head-on encounter. I’d deal with them in good time.

I ran straight at the first Flat, and dropped to the ground at the last second, pointing the tip of the Man Scythe blade at the sky. He ran right over me. The blade passed through his pelvis and several inches of his