Thunderflash

"Gordy, where are you from?" They were crouching in a defensive trench along the Palisades at Fort Lee when Pressley asked John Gordy.

Gordy said, "Ridgewood." I grew up in a fancy area of this wealthy town. I joined the Guard primarily to get even with my parents.

Pressley struck a match to light a cigarette and remarked, "I heard Nixon lived in Ridgewood." "I live in Dumont, which is just south of—"

"Extinguish that fucking cigarette!" Hunched low, Captain Farrington growled as he waded down the lengthy trench. "Do you want to be noticed by the zombies?"

"Sir, have they moved on from this?" With his stomach churning, Gordy inquired.

Farrington poked a finger at Pressley, ignoring the inquiry. "Soldier, you are needed. Three hours ago, the brigade dispatched a scout group to see if the enemy had overrun the bridge; they haven't come back. You're going out with me once again.

"Yes, sir," Pressley answered.

“Lieutenant Gordy, I’m taking a squad out of the trench for a little while,” Farrington went on. Armed with swords, knives, and even WWII weaponry from the Fighting 70th Brigade Armory in Manhattan, the zombies are out there. Keep your wits about you because they are here.

"What if—"

"The "thunderflash" in the password, Farrington interrupted. When someone comes near you, you say "thunder." If we are, we will say "flash."

Gordy muttered, "You got it, sir."

"Let's go," Farrington said. Gordy was left alone in his area as he, Pressley, and ten soldiers slipped over the edge of the trench, which was lined with sandbags.

Without any glimmer of light, Gordy felt completely alone in the dark night. He was afraid the zombies would hear him if he made a disturbance. The distant crackling of smoking New York was a dismal lullaby while he waited, counting the stars that were blazing overhead.

His ears were pricked by a sound, imagined or real. Gordy sat up, listening intently from outside the trench.

Whispering, he raised his M-16 and said, "Thunder." The only response was the rustle of leaves on stony ground and the snap of twigs.

As he racked the bolt on his rifle, he said, "Thunder!" in a terrified voice.

Captain Farrington's voice came back, "Flash, flash." "Leave us through and lower that gun."

Gordy moved aside as Farrington and his team scrambled back, hauling the remnants of the scout party. They were a horrifying sight, with some disemboweled, others headless, and limbs amputated. They were all dead, with blood drained from their slashed throats.

"Jesus!" Gordy exclaimed.

"Get ready for battle," Farrington remarked somberly. "There is no doubt that the zombies have crossed the George Washington Bridge. They will arrive.

Beside Gordy, Pressley and a soldier called McGallen sagged, their features marked with expressionless agony. "That was awful," Pressley stated bluntly. They're bringing goblins and other Lord of the Rings-related weapons, like swords and shields. They chopped off the scouts' parts and devoured them alive. Everyone is dead.

Gordy assured them and himself alike, "Don't worry." We have grenades and M-16s. We'll keep this spot.

The zombies came at three in the morning.

Hundreds threw themselves at the trenches, suicidal and senseless, wave after wave. Their threat was evident as some used swords and others used their bare hands to claw. With M-16s blazing and muzzle flashes piercing the night, Pressley, McGallen, and Gordy fiercely defended their section.

From other sections, the landscape was illuminated by grenades and flares. Stretching from Fort Lee into New Jersey, the ditches formed an arc around an abandoned highway. From the woods of the Palisades, zombies surged forth, only to be slain by automatic fire like frenzied dogs.

"They're Bs with variations!" From behind, Farrington yelled. "They are painless! Take them out!

"You bastards, die!" As he charged up the slope, Pressley shouted and spat rounds from his machine gun into the crowded ranks. They collapsed in their kamikaze attack, stacked three deep.

Then an Upper West Side commander led the Variant Cs. These were more composed, stronger, and almost half of them were armed with guns, in contrast to the frantic Bs. Armed with swords and pikes, they charged the ridgeline while wearing body armor and helmets covered in net.

They charged forward like Red Army hordes at the Yalu, their wave of humanity absorbing the deadly toll of the machine guns. Gordy let out a deadly volley, observing objectively as humanoid faces contorted in pain beneath his bullets, limbs flew, and heads exploded.

With their faces lit by grenade explosions, the more composed Variant Cs perished most humanely, lying on the ground, hurt and defenseless. Others rushed with fervor, getting within feet of them before being shot, their last cries a melancholy dirge.

Gordy's eyes watered as the zombies approached, their bodies heaped on the blood-stained grass like firewood. These people were contaminated citizens. A female zombie fell under fire, her fangs snarling and her knife bared. Alongside them, zombie troops were killed by the lethal hail.

Shots rang out from the ranks of the zombies. Slumping, McGallen gripped his face; the back of his skull was gone. Pressley foamed with homicidal passion. Gordy had not enlisted in the Guard, anticipating bridge patrols with Homeland Security or weekend bank service. Why was he killing Americans like sheep and witnessing the deaths of his friends?

The zombies won out. They overran the trenches and overwhelmed the soldiers, unfazed by the enormous losses. Gordy looked to his left; Pressley was gone. His head was smashed by a blunt force, and darkness took him.

"Are you okay, boy?"

Gordy opened his eyes a little. Captain Farrington crawled toward him via the trench as dawn broke. Gordy stood groggy, his head spinning.

Even though his face was darkened by pain, Farrington laughed and said, "You have a nasty bump." Gordy's fingers traced a seeping gash on his scalp.

He said, "Are you hurt, sir?" Lifting his pant leg to show a bullet wound in his calf, Farrington smiled.

Gordy remarked with relief, "Don't worry, Captain; if it missed the bone, it will heal easily." "You'll survive."

"How about right now?" Farrington lifted his shirt and asked. His intestines spilled onto the floor as his stomach widened. "You think I'll survive now?"

"Sir..." Gordy stumbled over his words.

"We've prevailed," Farrington said angrily. When reinforcements arrived, the zombies had already reached the overpass and had blown those jerks to hell. I took it personally. paid what I owed.

"Pressley...?"

Farrington responded, "Alive, the coward." Nobody else is. It's possible that you are the only one who survived. If the government still had fangs, we could award you a Medal of Honor. The zombies have returned to the bridge, but they will come back.

"Sir..."

As he eased onto the bleeding grass, Farrington said, "Goodbye, John." "I'm done; I've paid my dues. At least we prevailed. John, thank you.