Razor-Sharp Teeth and Nails

New Jersey residents adored Governor Damien Rich. He took on the responsibility of eliminating corruption, plugging holes, and correcting legislative injustices following the scandals that dogged the McGree and Forest administrations. In the process, he saved the state budget from certain doom. Bespectacled and portly, with a bulbous nose and thinning auburn hair, he frequently argued with New York Governor Marcan, especially about extradition rights.

He had no idea where Marcan or anybody else might be at this point.

The majority of New Jersey's county executives had resigned, as did the governors of Delaware and Connecticut. Jersey's two senators had virtually quit their positions, and the state assembly was on the verge of disintegrating.

General Thomason of the 18th Airborne Corps clarified, "There is a brigade in the Bronx, with one each in Teaneck, Newark, and Englewood." The whole 29th Division is located between Bergenfield and Oradell. If necessary, I can get you the 83rd Airborne, but it will take a few days.

In the center of Bergen County, under its imposing domed ceiling, was Hackensack Courthouse, which served as their command center. To face the zombie threat, Governor Rich, state secretaries, and other generals gathered there.

With his customary composure ebbing, Rich yelled, "Of course I need another division." "Do you even realize that zombies are determined to wipe out humanity less than six miles away?"

"I'll forward it," Thomason answered.

"Governor Rich?" An assistant entered the room and interrupted. "You're being called upon—"

Rich eyed the red phone at the center of the table, its blinking light indicating a caller, and said, "Take it and tell them I'm occupied."

The President of the United States is the one.

Pushing Thomason and two generals aside, Rich sprang for the receiver and put it to his ear. "This is Governor Rich, Mr. President."

President Jack Derring's tired voice said, "Good." "What's going on up there?"

Thomason pushed Rich away as he muscled his lips to the mouthpiece. "Zombies are attacking us, and—"

"I am aware of the circumstances," Derring interrupted impatiently. "What has changed?"

“The zombies have broken through on several fronts, most importantly Overpeck—” Rich started, then yelled, “Damn it, Thomason, get out of here! I apologize, Mr. President. They are preparing to siege the Teaneck Armory and are crossing the Overpeck River.

"Siege?" Derring repeated. "Is this the year 1200? Rich, we are not living in the Middle Ages.

"It appears that the zombies are," Rich shot back icily. "They use swords, bows, armor, and even the occasional mortar, rocket launcher, or M1 in addition to their razor-sharp teeth and nails."

Derring was quiet for a while.

Finally, he continued, "I'll be in New Jersey soon." "I'll take a plane as soon as I can—you know, to boost morale."

"The 83rd Airborne is what we need, not morale!" Bellowing into the phone was Thomason's tone.

"Mr. President—will you stop talking? Rich snarled.

"Listen, you two," Derring murmured in a sorrowful tone. "I have no idea what you or this nation need. To be honest, I don't know much about zombies. Is asking for assistance too much? Can you support me? Effing is in charge of the military, and my approval rating is in the dirt.

Rich let out a sigh. "All right. Arrive in Jersey quickly. I am grateful, Mr. President.

"Yes, Governor," Derring said. "I'll be over there shortly. Farewell.

The line ended with a clipped good-bye.

The gymnasium was packed with over 3,000 people, all standing, inside the armory. The clamor was deafening—crying babies, whimpering kids, and terrified adults made up a restless mob that hardly paid attention to the group of officers whispering nervously close to the stage.

"What will take place?" With a painful grip on his arm, Brant asked. In the crushing crush of humans, he stood with Jenna, Mike, Pressley, and Gordy.

"An attack took place. "There's a zombie in here," Gordy said, his face pale.

"No, how can they... What are they going to do? As she stumbled, Jenna's heart ached for the kids who were squashed in the mob or held by anxious parents.

Individuality vanished in the arsenal. Dread and resentment for the vampiric zombies that preyed on them linked the people together into a single fungal mass.

Gordy noticed Major Lucas Hamm as an officer climbed up to the platform.

Hamm tapped the microphone and uttered, "Attention, attention." There was silence in the gym.

With his fiery orange hair atop his beige Iraqi fatigues, Major Lucas Hamm was a burly man with a thin red mustache. He had a patch and the officer's chevrons on his shoulder: The 114th Infantry Regiment's 2nd Battalion commander is CO 2-113. Having fought at Manassas and, more recently, Guantanamo Bay, where Hamm had first gained experience from West Point, the 114th had origins dating back to the Revolutionary War.

The 251st Forward Support Battalion and 6th Squadron, 118th Cavalry, National Guard units from Newark, Monmouth, Ocean, and Bergen Counties, patrolled the suburban neighborhoods, while the 115th Infantry and 103rd Armored held the trenches outside. All exits were sealed, and the 114th Regiment and 51st Main Support protected the population within. They had locked down the Teaneck Armory.

Hamm started, "Ladies, gentlemen, children." "As most of you are aware, there was a murder in this armory, and I won't mince words: a zombie is probably to blame."

General Picket said something that made Hamm's face go white as he crossed the stage.

"Two attacks have occurred," Hamm stated quietly. "Just now, a woman was discovered dead." He lowered his head, his solemnity reflected in the armory.

Remorse had hardened into rage when he looked up. "Now form ranks!" he roared. "Everyone! Every time I leave an auditorium, I want a platoon of the 51st! Here with me, B Company, 1st Platoon! In this godforsaken chaos, I need enforcers. Clear out one at a time to make room.

Gripping his crucifix, Gordy watched the 114th plod out.

"What?" Jenna inquired.

He answered, "I'm... 1st Platoon, B Company."

"Well, let's go! Take down some zombies! Pressley pulled Gordy's arm and urged.

Hamm stood, arms crossed like a strict father, with machine-gunners flanking the exits. With M-16s upright and butts grounded, twenty-eight members of 1st Platoon, B Company—down from forty because of zombie attacks and desertions—mounted the stage. Some fatigues were smeared with blood and filth.

Hamm snarled, "Let's get this show going." Gordy entered the stiff line, and Jenna observed him warily.

With a microphone in hand, Hamm strode the stage, yet the room was controlled by his voice alone. "Are you telling me no one was near the killings?" he yelled, furiously.