Intestines Spilling

"Captain..." Gordy stumbled. "William, Will, Will."

Farrington let out his last breath with a sigh. He clenched, then relaxed, the agony and anxiety fading.

Hundreds, maybe thousands, of zombie bodies littered the slope beyond the trench. The remains of Gordy's platoon were in the trenches. The survivors of Bravo Company wandered around, gathering American bodies and calculating losses in a solemn manner.

"We have a survivor!" A shouting voice hurried to Gordy. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm all right." Gordy said as he climbed out. "I simply need to go to sleep."

Vice President Ross Effing said weakly, "It didn't work." Although a large portion of the city was destroyed by the bombardment and there were many casualties, the nerve gas served no purpose. There are still at least a few hundred thousand zombies inside the fence.

"What are we going to do?" With his hands clasped over his face, President Derring inquired. "I can't leave this crisis alone, even though I'm tempted to step down."

"The 29th Division is refueling at Morristown, and the 11th Division is at West Point," Secretary Marquet stated. "The 43rd won't be reinforced until at least tomorrow. General Rylan is thinking of withdrawing from Long Island, but the 51st New Jersey needs to defend Fort Lee for as long as possible.

"Why?" DuPont, the secretary, inquired.

"They're overworked," Effing answered. There is only one infantry brigade with sporadic artillery along the Nassau County border. To evacuate them, airlift forces from Fort Bragg should show up. For protection, Rylan is already at the Teaneck Armory.

An aide interrupted, coming into the meeting room and saying, "Sir, Mr. President." "On the line is the governor of New York."

Derring sighed and reached for the ivory phone in the middle of the table. "Governor Marcan?"

It's a pleasure to speak with you, Mr. President," James Marcan answered. "We're facing a significant issue."

Derring remarked, "As if I didn't have enough." "What is it?"

"The Bronx was hit by the nerve gas you used to bomb the city. We can't hold it for much longer without reinforcements, as the 4th New York Armored has suffered casualties.

"Marcan, you'll have them by tomorrow," Derring assured him.

Marcan yelled, "We are losing ground along the Harlem River." "General Thomason was considering moving the two brigades from Long Island to the Bronx."

Derring moaned, "Just do it—let it happen."

"Will you come over here? Come on over?” Marcan pushed. "Raise spirits. You would be miles away from the fighting—just a press conference in Hackensack—but the men need to see you.

"How could I possibly do that?" Derring fired back. "I assumed that Snoopy the Dogg and Bruce Springsteen were hosting a benefit concert for the victims. What's his name?" Why am I needed by them?

Marcan retorted, "It's Snoop Dogg, and yes, they need you." "The President is you. Leave the White House and come on over here! There is no greater national emergency than this one!

"Jim, how dare you talk to me like that!" With a roar, Derring addressed the receiver.

"You fool," Marcan muttered. "We're going to die. God knows if my brother-in-law is dead from the bombing or a zombie, but he was unable to get out of Brooklyn in time. Mr. President, please assist us. More than any famous person, we need you.

The line lingered awkwardly silent. At last, Derring gave in. Give me a few of days. Okay, I'll try to get to Hackensack by the 24th. I apologize for...

"Come on over, sir," Marcan answered grimly. “I hope to see you soon.”

He ended the call.

"You have been staying here?" Mike inquired as he looked around the packed auditorium at the Teaneck Armory. Compared to when Jenna had snuck out under false pretenses, it was packed with more evacuees.

She said, "Unfortunately, yes," while caring for Mike's septic wound. "Don't you think it's a little noisy?"

"How do they manage to eat enough?" In the middle of a K-ration, Mike's comrade Brant inquired.

Jenna clarified, "They've been bringing it in from all over, but in case the zombies attack, there's a huge supply in the basements."

Individual Mike Benko, still wearing his soiled military uniform, had a crew cut and pale, ashen complexion. His leg was severely cut by what appeared to be a knife, and his otherwise elegant face was smeared with terror.

Half-Black Corporal Brant DiCamillo has a scar from an Iraqi bullet during the previous war on one arm. His face was pocked with shrapnel wounds, while his other arm was ripped and scraped.

Brant stated, carefully putting his ration aside, "The zombies are coming." In large numbers, they are traversing the George Washington Bridge. Some more skilled ones form tribes and factions by bringing weapons, armor, and swords. They are all pursuing the same goal: blood.

As Jenna bandaged his wound, Mike joked, "You're a real ray of sunshine, Brant."

"I will fight them once more," Brant said, his hand clenched. "They won't treat us the way they treated us in the streets."

Mike smiled and looked at Jenna. "What the hell, man—if they're coming, they must want something," he said. Puzzled, she looked blankly.

"It's just an internal issue," he said sheepishly. Grinning, Jenna inserted the needle into his calf.

While she was sewing the cut, she said, "You should tell me about it later."

While watching the late-morning news in Berkeley, a wealthy suburb of San Francisco, three thousand miles away, a typical family was enthralled with graphic images of zombies and carnage. CNN aired live from Fort Lee, where a ferocious battle between zombies had broken out.

"Several thousand zombies attacked an American position near Route 9W in New Jersey at approximately three a.m. Eastern Time today," the East Coast correspondent wrote. Hundreds of zombie corpses, some blown apart, were scattered across a forested slope as the camera moved over them. It moved to the trenches, where two troops used a weapon as an improvised stretcher to carry a colleague who was without legs.

The reporter went on, pointing to the killing fields, "American casualties in Fort Lee alone stand at eighteen dead and at least fifty wounded." "But the toll will undoubtedly rise as zombie attacks in the Bronx and Queens intensify."

The father remarked, "Thank God we don't live in New York." A blank-eyed stranger, meanwhile, staggered down a sidewalk in San Francisco in the direction of disoriented visitors.

The mother inquired, "Is there a way to help—like donating water?" As the figure pounced and tore into a throat, the visitors across the bay shouted. A police officer with a revolver jumped out of his parked vehicle.

"We're fortunate that—"

The attacker was dropped by the officer's round. As it collapsed, a gunshot through its heart, its ruby eyes rolled back. Dread creeping over him, the policeman radioed for backup as contaminated blood splashed across Powell Street.

Blood from Variant B pooled from the creature's chest into the sidewalk drains as it perished. The cop felt cold as he stepped over it and observed its bloody mouth.