Kennedy Shot

Tobey Colins looked at a map of the Palisades region, which was surrounded by undead and his main warlords. Its rapid ascent astonished him, but he enjoyed his newfound power. He imposed strict discipline on the Tobeyan ranks because of a deep-seated dread that someone might question the legitimacy of his authority.

His most trusted counselor, Father Robson, tapped the map. "I propose a strike at either the Meadowlands Sports Complex or the Teaneck National Guard Armory."

According to Tobey, "Eh… I hear Kesslers is claiming Giants Stadium," "Stirring trouble with him now would be unwise."

As a severely wounded and scarred captain of the 69th Street Variant C Brigade, Von Dornen stated, "If we seize Teaneck, it clears a path to Hackensack." He reminded me of a younger Axl Rose with his golden hair. "That’s a major population center—we could feast there for weeks."

"Then push on to Paterson or Garfield—sizable towns too," Robson continued.

"But where next?" Marcia Thorpen spoke forward. This tall, thin Black woman, who was once a certified public accountant, had lived to become the head of a Midtown business despite the scars of infection—her breast had been gone and her blood had been drained.

"What are you saying? Where did you get it? Intrigued, Tobey inquired.

"After we sweep the NYC metro area, it’s all farmland and rural stretches," Thorpen said. "We’ll eventually exhaust the human supply, and with our numbers swelling…"

Tobey sighed and pursed his lips. "I see… but who says we can’t move to Boston, Trenton, or even—"

"That's not the problem," argued Thorpen. "This cannot continue. Like you all, I have a craving for blood and flesh, but eventually humankind will run out and both of our species will die.

"I don’t hate humans," Tobey declared. "All we need is for them to live. Don't worry, we'll work something out before it's too late.

"For now?" Von Dornen pushed.

Teaneck was pinned when Tobey pulled his dagger out of its holster and stabbed it into the map. "Teaneck Battalion it is."

As they eyed the approaching individuals, the 3rd Pennsylvania Infantry Brigade pointed their weapons down the bleak streets of Teaneck. They were recognized by commanders as the 51st New Jersey retreating from Overpeck, but caution won out. The 56th Pennsylvania Armored was poised behind them, with artillery and tanks strewn around the low, expansive armory's perimeter, protecting thousands of civilians inside.

Unwavering and stoic in the cool September air, the New Jersey soldiers moved slowly down the chilly avenue, onto the square in front of the armory, followed by dozens of U.S. snipers.

A sergeant from Pennsylvania yelled, "Take it slow, boys," as the soldiers approached the defenses. Outside the armory, the ground was scarred by trenches that extended from barred doors to pavement over a hundred yards of lawn. Crude concrete pillboxes and sandbag bunkers protruded from the roiling ground. Nests of camouflaged machine guns, ready in enfilade, were brimmed with.30-caliber muzzles. Although there were many defenders, these were inexperienced Guardsmen rather than seasoned veterans.

John Gordy moved away from the column and approached an officer with his soldiers as they passed through a barbed-wire entrance in the breastworks. His basic training—firing in rows with fellow soldiers—was momentarily recalled by the soldiers, weapons positioned along dirt mounds. A turkey had once darted over the range without realizing it was in danger. Gordy's MG49 had blasted it into a fluffy cloud, and the men had turned their rifles on it while laughing. The recollection made him smile.

"What’s so damn funny, boy?" With his arms folded, the Pennsylvania police yelled. "Picturing me naked, you little punk?"

Gordy said, "51st New Jersey, reporting, sir," constricting his mouth into a grimace and giving a salute. "Lieutenant John Gordy, B Company, Teaneck Battalion."

According to the officer, "Major Lucas Hamm, 3rd Pennsylvania, maggot," "Who’s your CO?"

"He was killed in Fort Lee, sir," shot back Gordy. "That’d be me now."

"You and your unit are a waste of breath, you know that?" Hamm scoffed. "Are you using bows and arrows to combat out there? Men with spears and loincloths? 60% of casualties are against—"

"It’s more than that, sir," Gordy murmured, his teeth clinched. "Zombies ignore suffering that a normal man would die from. Some people carry handguns and rifles.

"Bullshit, son," sneered Hamm. "I served two deployments in Iraq, patrolling the Sunni Triangle and swarming the border with the 3rd Infantry. One day, fifteen Hajis with AKs in vests ambushed us two hundred yards away. They were slaughtered by my team. Do you mean that your unit is being carved apart by zombies the way I butchered those dirty rats?

"I…"

"Move along, boy," said Hamm, dismissing him. "I’ll see these zombies soon enough."

Disappointed and defeated, Gordy returned to his column. As he entered the large, high-ceilinged armory, the weight of bodies suffocated him. Even though he detested the cruelty of the war, the fresh air had been comforting. He looked around for Jenna Gray, the young woman he had helped five days prior when the crisis broke out, amidst the throngs of migrants.

"There!" cried Gordy.

"What?" In response, Pressley followed Gordy as he navigated the human tide. Jenna stood with two soldiers on either side of her in an alcove along the inner wall of the armory. One was a private, pale and weak with a bandaged leg; the other was a red-faced corporal with a scarred, pockmarked face.

"Miss Gray?" Pressley hung back, rifle down, and Gordy ventured.

Jenna stood up, acknowledging with a smile. "I thought I might see you again."

Their awkward embrace pressed on her ribs as his gun swung on its strap. Gordy pulled away, glancing at her fellows, armored soldiers from the 43rd Division.

"This is Mike Benko and Brant DiCamillo," Jenna said. "You’re Pressley, right?"

Gordy felt a twinge—she couldn't remember his name. No, Pressley is behind me. My name is John Gordy.

"Hi," Mike croaked, his hand clammy and weakly clutching Gordy's. "I’m a bit under the weather—trying not to breathe too much."

"It’s the close quarters with all these people," Brant replied, his flush showing a peculiar joy. Darkly, he continued, "At least, I hope that’s it," his eyes meeting Mike's for a tight beat.

"Was it… tough out there?" Jenna inquired. "Are the zombies strong?"

Gordy's thoughts relived the atrocities that had occurred since he had left the battalion five days earlier: the killing in Times Square, the bombing, the suffering of the infected, the bloodbath at Fort Lee, and the battle at Overpeck. "They’re strong," he stated plainly. "That’s what they are."

"It’s under control," Pressley said, clapping his M-16 together. "We have it under control. Even elderly Gordy is now the commander of the company.

"Let me guess," Mike said in a stuttering voice. "Your CO died?"

"Yeah…"

"It’s brutal," Mike declared. "Charlie, Brant, and I were ambushed while in Harlem with the 87th Armored. Charlie is no longer there. Our separation from our platoon is most likely the reason we are still alive.

"We’ll see how long that lasts," Jenna said reluctantly.

Through the binoculars, Hamm saw a figure six hundred yards down the deserted street—loping, unkempt, eyes gleaming ferociously. Others came after, with armor, machetes, long blades, and bows.

"We've got contact," exclaimed Hamm. "Morrisen, take that one’s head off."

Morrisen mumbled, "Click for angle, two clicks for windage," as he adjusted the lens on his sniper rifle. He aimed his crosshairs at the head of the lead zombie, keeping his eye four inches from the scope to avoid recoil. His spotter was ready to call the shot as he peered through binoculars.

"Hold…" said the spotter. "Hold… hold… fire."

Morrisen pressed the button. The zombie fell, pink froth spewing as the bullet fractured its head before the echo of the shot reached it. Fear flickered in the lines of the Variant Cs behind them as they faltered.

"Kennedy shot," yelled Hamm. "Pattison, snap a picture."

The unit's unofficial photographer, Milo Pattison, framed the fallen zombie after adjusting his lens.

"Got a position?" Father Robson was asked by Tobey.

"Aye," said Robson, looking at his walkie-talkie. "My coordinates are here. Do I need to tell the mortar crews about them?

"Take action. Tobey declared, "I'll remain out of sniper range."

Sixty yards behind Hamm, a mortar shell exploded with a loud thud, sending dirt flying. Soldiers from Pennsylvania yelled as they stared at the tiny crater.

"What the hell?" Hamm roared. "What was that in the name of Christ? It was fired by whom? Who among you fools threw that grenade? Morrisen, have a look!"

Private Morrisen jumped out of the ditch and moved toward the impact close to the armory door, more afraid of Hamm than the explosion. Hamm growled, setting off a barrage of M-16 fire down the street, and he looked back at the creeping zombies.

"What’s happening?" Morrisen was yelled at by Hamm.

"Sir, I don’t—"

He was interrupted by a whoosh as his legs were broken into bleeding splinters by another round of mortars that struck beneath his feet. In the midst of an accelerant explosion, Morrisen shrieked and fell into stumps.

"Switch the deck! We're being fired upon!"

"Morrisen! Return—someone, take him, Jesus!" Hamm commanded, hesitating. "Find that source—where’s our mortar crew?"

Morrisen's spotter leaped out of the trench and hurried in the direction of his companion. A third mortar burst through at ten yards, snatching his left leg and throwing him like a rag doll into the air.

"Set ablaze! "Zero that gun, mortar crews!" Huddling in the trench, Hamm yelled. Following suit, soldiers fired aimlessly in an attempt to locate the adversary.

Shrapnel rained into the fortifications as another explosion uprooted a tree that overlooked the trenches. As sharp metal sliced faces or pulped hands, men screamed.

A Guardsman twisted in the ditch and erupted in a bloody shower as a fifth mortar hit dead-on. There was a thud on Milo Pattison's back; he reached out and took a severed hand. He stared at it, unconcerned, then paused as another round shredded a squad, causing more blood to pour.

Pattison stumbled, "Sir," pointing to a dark smear at his groin. "I think…"

The undead charged the armory as a last mortar smashed into the fortifications.

"What’s that?" Jenna tilted her ear to the blasts and breathed. All heads turned to the din outside, and the armory fell silent. While machine gun fire crackled softly through the fortifications, mortar shells hammered the ground.

Beyond the compound, the combat continued incessantly, a ceaseless chorus of explosions and gunshots. The multitudes inside listened in awe for thirty minutes before returning to their work, the clamor dying down to a bearable hum—until a scream broke the silence.

"My daughter! My daughter! "What have they done?" From the other end of the hall came a wailing voice. Brant's mouth clenched in fear as he gripped his scarred arm.

The audience moved toward the chaos on the other wall out of curiosity. A route to the woman's cot was paved by soldiers, FEMA representatives, and local authorities.

"Let’s go," Jenna concluded. "What’s happening?"

"I’ll check," Mike said, coughing, and getting up. He pushed through the crowd with a rifle in hand, using his Guard rank to get close to the woman.

"She refuses to wake up! Her eyes won't open! It is imperative that you save her.

Mike caught a glimpse of a deathly pale girl on the cot, her scratched arm limp, between gaps in the crowd. As her anxious mother was detained by Guardsmen, she was inspected by doctors and officials.

A doctor was asked to examine the girl's arm by a FEMA official. He turned away with his head in his hands and swore after studying the crimson, swollen wound in the faint light. "Dude. The official murmured, "It's zombie."

Chaos broke out in the audience. Mike's mind was consumed by a single thought: Brant, Brant. Keep him out of it.

There was a scream of voices, "Find the zombie!" "Make him pay!"

"Find the person who did this! Murder them! Dismantle them!"

"By God, we’ll purge every zombie from this armory!"

Mike's heart was as low as his chances of surviving as he struggled back through the boisterous crowd.