Keep Busy

47.

Roy could no longer bark orders as his lower jaw was left in pieces somewhere back by the Holding tent—where the aggressive shotgun soldier had been summarily dispatched with a remarkably accurate shot to the forehead. Roy was pleased and surprised with his hasty marksmanship but instantly shifted back to anger as he realized he was unable to talk. But he could point emphatically. Which is what he was doing when he saw Jane cruise by in the transport truck, her long blond locks whipping in the wind out the open window. He pointed frantically and moaned, nearly throwing his shoulder out in the effort. The other zombies seemed to understand and proceeded to bob and weave their way toward the barn, rushing from cover to cover where the massive stadium lights cast hard shadows.

One of the zombies, Craig or Greg, Roy couldn't remember, had his head destroyed by a lucky shot as they dove behind a stack of empty pallets near another tent. For the briefest of moments, Roy envisioned ripping off the Craig/Greg's lower mandible and jamming it into his own half-destroyed face. The top of the man's head was gone, showcasing a shiny red mess of what looked like overcooked pasta... but the jaw was fine.

Would that work? The way it did in cartoons?

"Not likely," he said to himself. But what it actually sounded like was, "Nnnnggghhh."

Jesus, he thought, I'm becoming a cliché. I'm a Romero extra.

Next, he figured he'd be staggering around with his arms dangling in front of him, stumbling forward, his skin greyish green, his eyes sunken and empty.

Ugh. I'm becoming stereotypical.

He reached a hand up to his chin to rub his scruff only to find his finger squishing into a lot of hanging meat. His brow furrowed.

Fuck. Am I going to have to learn sign language?

He cleared his head by leaning around the pallets and unleashing a hail of bullets at the oncoming soldiers. A few hit their mark and the men fell forward, locked into their inertia, grinding their faces into the dirt.

At least God was still with him.

Roy winced at the sudden pandemonium and crash of Jane's transport truck ripping through the old barn at the edge of the base. More soldiers were streaming around the sides of the structure, having exited from the back doors looking like escaping prisoners as they ran through pools of light.

Roy pointed again, and again said, "Nnnnnnggghhhh!"

The other zombies leveled their weapons and opened fire on the onslaught of unwitting soldiers. They reacted to the impact of the bullets, flinching and jerking, but continued on, making their way to more transport vehicles. In a frenzy, they clambered into the trucks, the engines starting and gears grinding.

They're abandoning ship, Roy thought. They fear God's wrath.

He grabbed one of the three grenades he'd snatched off a corpse as they'd been making their way through the camp and slapped it against the chest of one of the last two zombies with him. He pointed at the closest truck where fleeing soldiers were piling into the back.

The zombie shook his head, terrified, but Roy pulled the pin and pushed the guy out from behind the pallets. The zombie paused for a second and looked at the grenade in his cold hand. He began to raise his arm when it detonated, throwing Roy, the other zombie and the pallets back across the ground. When the smoke cleared, Roy saw the lower half of the zombie still shaking on a charred patch of earth. The top half of the guy had been scattered around the immediate area. Intestines and slick organs oozed out like giant wet worms where the torso would have been.

"Ggnnh!" Roy said. Translation: Fuck!

He grabbed another grenade, stood, pulled the pin and launched it at the transport truck like he was throwing a hail Mary touchdown pass. The small explosive sailed through the air right on target, bounced off the head of one of the soldiers scrambling into the back of a truck, took a hard left and came to rest at the feet of men anxiously waiting for the vehicle to depart.

The explosion wasn't huge, but definitely enough to do the trick. Roy grabbed his last zombie cohort by the shirt and yanked him to his feet. They advanced on the smoldering truck as a few of the soldiers climbed over each other out the back, missing limbs and trying not to slip on their exposed guts as they splattered on the ground.

Roy opened fire, watching heads burst and bodies fall. The other zombie had run to the cab of the truck where he threw open the door and unloaded his gun at the two soldiers inside. Roy felt a few bullets tear into his body as the frenetic battalion attempted to defend themselves, but he was fucking Rambo now, striding forward like a man possessed. All bravado, no cunning.

When he ran out of bullets, he coolly dropped his gun in the dirt and slung a second around, not missing a beat. Blood mist filled the air as the soldiers went down for good.

He felt invincible.

But then one of his ears was torn off the side of his head. He looked to where the shot had originated and saw a lone soldier standing beside a tent, desperately trying to reload. Roy ran at him, pulling the third and final grenade from his belt. He would have let out a war cry... but... you know.

The guy shuffle-stepped back, intent on getting his gun in order, but Roy was too fast for him. He opened his mouth in shock, as if to mock Roy and his inability to perform such rudimentary functions, so Roy jammed the grenade into his open gob, shattering teeth in the process. He pulled the pin and threw himself to the ground.

The soldier's head exploded with a thick wet sound, throwing bone fragments, brain and shredded face all over the nearby tent. The body fell forward and hit the ground hard, squirting out a torrent of tar-like blood into Roy's gaping maw. He choked and spat (as much as he could) as the viscous slime crept down his throat.

Roy got to his feet actively vomiting down his front and looked back at the smoking hulk of the transport truck. The last hillbilly zombie was making sure everyone was fully dead, moving from body to body, nudging the corpses with the barrel of his gun.

He spotted Roy dusting off his pants and walking, like a goddamn movie star, back to the truck

"Holy shit, Roy!" the zombie drawled. "You were fucking amazing!"

Roy nodded.

"I mean, the grenades... and you shootin' all those guys... it was the best thing I've ever seen." The zombie raised his hand, offering a high-five and Roy obliged.

The instant their hands connected in a sharp smack; the zombie's face exploded onto Roy. As the body fell and Roy wiped the chunks out of his eyes, he saw Emily standing at the sliding barn door looking over the scope of her rifle. She scowled and cursed at herself as she lined up another shot.

Roy dove into the pile of dead soldiers as the bullet whizzed past his good ear. He scurried through the bodies, having difficulty finding purchase in all the blood and viscera. He felt an impact on his left butt cheek before he managed to get his own gun off his shoulder and slung around in Emily's general direction. He pulled the trigger repeatedly and managed to dash away behind the tent with the grenade soldier's head still dripping down the canvas.

"Doesn't feel good, getting it in the ass, does it, you jaw-less fuck?" Emily yelled. She took a few steps forward to engage pursuit.

"Emily!" shouted Jane from inside the barn. "Emily! I need you!"

Emily twitched a little as she came to a stop, hearing Roy's footfalls slapping in the distance. Every muscle in her body ached to continue her advance. They burned and knotted as her brain reluctantly commanded them to stay still.

"Emily!" Jane's voice sounded frail and tremulous.

"Mother fucker!" Emily screamed, then turned and went back into the barn.