Zombocalypse Pacifica

Authored by Squintus, Oct 2007

Note from the author: This story chronicles the as yet untold story of the Pacifican Zombocalypse, which nearly ended the Pacific way of life. If not for the brave men and women in the New Pacific Order, we might have seen an end to society and humanity as a whole. For this, you have my greatest thanks.

Part 1

Dr. Tom Walters sat uncomfortably in an uncomfortable chair, reading a women’s health magazine, as he waited for the secretary to call his name. He checked his watch. 6:45 am “I dragged myself out of bed at four in the morning just so I could sit here for two hours,” he muttered to himself as he turned the page.

Military types had come and gone during that time. For the first half hour, Walters had tried watching them, hoping to see something interesting. However, they lived up to their reputation as Pacifica’s elite soldiers. Expressionless; spit-shinned jackboots; a weight lifter build; 120 marches a minute. “These men have to be genetically enhanced... super soldiers of some kind...” the psychology professor had entertained himself a further twenty minutes pondering how that could have been done. Eventually, though, he succumbed to boredom and picked up a magazine. “It can’t be helped when in such a boring waiting room,” he reasoned as he flipped to an advertisement for tampons.

“Dr. Walters?”

The doctor nearly jumped from his seat. The secretary, phone to her ear, furiously scribbling down notes, pointed to a door in the back before saying, “You’re not listening to me, Gerry. It’s over- no, you’re fat-”

Walters passed through the doors and quickly became disorientated. The room was completely dark, save for a single naked bulb that hung down over a wooden chair and table. He slowly approached the chair and sat down. A very slow minute ticked by. And, then another. These military people are always playing their macho head games. As if a spy is going to break down and confess to selling government secrets because he had to kill some time in a dark room. Walters chuckled at the thought. It was then that the entire room lit up. He looked around, noting that the room was deceptively smaller then all the darkness would have suggested. The door opened behind him. The doctor stood, guessing that someone it was someone from Military Intel, about to brief him about some odd occurrence in an enemy government or some such nonsense. The sound of stomping jackboots echoed in the small room. The man came around on Walters’ left. The doctor quickly noted that he wore no medals or insignias, only a plain dress uniform.

“Sit down, doctor.” Walters did such. “You have been called in here as a response to a possible epidemic that may rip through our nation.”

“Sir, I have no medical training-”

“We know. The Imperial Staff wanted...”

“Imperial staff?” Walters thought to himself. “What could they possibly want from me?”

“...in order to fully combat the hysteria that will obviously set in. The army will be abroad, fighting the creatures, and will be too spread out to keep things calm here. This is where you come in specifically, Doctor. I want you to coordinate with our Civilian Response Team and keep things under control here. You will be at the complete disposal of the CRT. Since you may be called in at any time for any reason following this meeting, I have secured you an office from which to work and live out of until this crisis is over. Any further questions can be answered by a member of my staff or in your briefing materials.” He pulled several thick folders from his briefcase and threw them onto the table in front of Walters. “Get to work.” And with that, he marched out the way he had come in.

Walters picked up the closest folder, stamped several times with “Top-secret” and “For internal use only”, opened it and began reading. The first thing he saw was a title page, marked simply with “Kervoskia Plan: Response to Class III Outbreak”



Two days earlier

Marl Kox swung his feet out of bed, stretched, yawned, stretched again... then finally got up. Twenty minutes later, dressed in his cleanest suit, Kox stood in front of his door. He recited the entirety of the Kommunist Maniphesto, as was his morning ritual. Following this, he got into his car and began driving to Francograd High Courts, where he served as an attorney for the defendants who could not afford a “fancy” one. Kox was a defender of the downtrodden, a champion of people’s rights, and a defender of the have-nots’ wallet.

Kox turned onto the main highway and set his auto-drive, a relatively new technology. Despite what the name may suggest, it actually isn’t automatic, but rather, remotely controlled. As well as giving commuters more free time, it also gave new drivers some experience behind the wheel. Although expensive, dangerous and complicated to install, some, such as Kox, felt that the extra time was worth it. Most days, he used the time to catch up on paperwork or do research for a trial. This morning, however, he chose to take a short nap. Had he been awake, he would not have missed the numerous signs posted, stating that the highway had been closed and that motorists should turn back “immediately.” Unfortunately for Kox, his teenage assistant driver failed to see them as well. But what he could not help but see was the mass of bodies blocking the road.

The teenager slammed on the brakes from five thousand miles away, waking Kox.

“What the bloody… oh, Walford, aka Pauline, aka Pauline, aka Pauline, aka Pauline, aka Pauline, aka Pauline, aka Pauline, aka Pauline, aka Pauline H. Christ…”

All of the things that populated the crowd were gray, some covered in blood. They began stumbling towards Kox. For a split-second, he considered trying to run them over. Then he thought to himself, “The hell with work. I’m getting out of here!” He put the car into Reverse, turned his torso to see out the back window, and floored it. But the zombies had closed in on him. They were everywhere, and advancing surprisingly fast. Kox felt his tiny car bounce and shudder violently as he ran over more and more bodies. He winced as the back windshield shattered. He could clearly hear the moaning now. Hands started to reach through the open hole before being pulled under. One managed to grab hold of the passenger seat headrest. Kox slapped at the undead hand until it eventually gave way.

The engine seemed higher-pitched then normal, noted Kox. He turned to look through his front windshield, only to see smoke pouring out from under the hood. He was by no means what one would consider a car expert, but he did know when his engine was about to die.

“I will not let them get me,” he told himself. “I will not let them eat me alive. I refuse to die like that!”

He whispered a prayer to a God he had refused to believe in for his entire life, then pulled the wheel to one side as hard as he could. The car jerked to the left, hitting the safety barricade. The driver side of the door flipped over the passenger side and crashed to the surface, leaving the car upside-down. It skidded for twenty yards, crushing a dozen zombies, before coming to a halt. The moans became all the louder as the undead realized their prey was within reach. Kox hung in his seat, suspended by his safety belt. Blood dripped from the spot where his forehead and smashed into the center console. His suicide attempt had failed. He tried with all his might to lose consciousness but, having never actively tried to do any such thing, only succeeded in becoming more acutely aware of his pain. A rotted hand grabbed his face and tore away part of his cheek. Another tore at his midsection. While yet another struggled to pull the safety belt apart. Kox was pulled apart and eaten alive.



A week later

Dr. Thom "Freezer" Bitt stood before the assembled scientists. These were the greatest minds in the entire world, but yet, none knew where the source of the zombies was. Most theorized that it was somehow a genetic mutation, but even that did not explain improvements the zombies had over regular humans, such as hearing and ability to function without most organs.

"So, when I meet with the Imperial Staff in forty minutes, what do I tell them? That we just don't know?"

Most of the scientists murmured or nodded sadly.

"Goddammit."



Two days later

"... this rationing of vital supplies will allow our military forces the fullest advantage against the incoming enemy. We ask that residents stay within their homes as much as possible. Protect yourselves as much as possible by barricading your homes. These zombies will not be able to penetrate a properly defended home. However, looters can and will. As such, it is now Imperial Law that looting of any kind will result in death. This cannot be emphasized enough. Don't do it. Citizens are also encouraged to have weapons handy in the event that they come across a looter or zombie.

"That concludes this PNN broadcast." The reporter's face was replaced with the PNN logo. David Hughes picked up the remote and thumbed the Power button, turning off the only source of light in the room. "Drinking in the dark is better anyway," he thought as he pulled out another can of beer.. Lying across his lap was a 12-gauge shotgun. He was ready to take on anything those zombies could throw at him. Unfortunately for him, zombies were not all he had to contend with.

Hughes began hearing banging from his front door. He quickly finished his beer, put his gun to his shoulder, and slowly moved forward. He loaded a shell into the gun and chambered it. The front door exploded, shooting shards of wood into his neck and left shoulder. He collapsed under the pain. Several teenagers jumped through the opening in the door.

"Dude, you were just supposed to take out the lock. Not kick down the damn door!"

"Whatever, we're in now. Find his guns." They stepped over the homeowner and began ripping apart his living room.

Hughes started feeling around, trying to find his gun, but doing it as quietly as he could. The looters were still busy digging though his personal things. He finally found it. Slowly and carefully, he pulled himself up, unsteadily pointed the shotgun at the closest of the three looters, and fired.

The youngster fell forward into a shelf of books, pulling the whole thing down with him. The bigger one, the one who kicked down the door, pulled out a pistol. Hughes turned to face him. They fired at the same time. Both shots missed their mark. But it distracted the older man long enough for the second looter to pick up a chair and bash it over his head. Hughes collapsed for a second time that evening.

"This isn't good, man. Someone musta heard that. We gotta get out of here."

The one with the gun approached Hughes. "In a second." He pointed his gun at the man's head and fired two shots. Hughes died instantly, the first victim of the conflict, killed by looters. The two young men went out the way they came in, having stolen nothing except the lives of a middle-aged man defending his home.



Four days later

Sergeant Sasha Alexandrov stood at parade rest, awaiting the customary rallying speech before a battle. For it would be here, in the hills surrounding the recently fallen city of Doppelganger. Military Intelligence (an oxymoron if he'd ever heard one, the cynic in Sergeant Alexandrov might say) determined that this would be the focal point of the zombie mass, seeing as they had just finished mobbing the city's 3.2 million residents, turning the vast majority of them into fellow undead. "A damn shame..." It had taken nearly two weeks since the emergency plan had been activated, but they were finally ready; ready to stand up for themselves. The sergeant heard the sound of jackboots stepping and quickly transitioned from idle thought to focusing on the speaker. The sight before him was awe-inspiring.

Imperator Emeritus Moldavi stood on a wooden table, towering over the assembled Pacific Expeditionary Force. A chill ran down the spine of every man there, knowing the importance these next few seconds would have on all of world history. Moldavi slowly looked across the assembly, emotionally drawing the men in, forcing them to actually listen. It was just one of the man's many talents.

"In the course of human events," a dramatic pause, "there always comes a time when those of righteousness must take a stand against corruption and the vile infections of those that would see Justice smeared.

"Today, for you fine soldiers of the NPO, and for the rest of the world, is that day. Today we vow to remove this slime, this undead horde, from Pacifica. We will pry it off our boots and grind it into dust. No more will their guttural voices be a plague on our world!

"May God have mercy on them, for we shall have none." With that, he took a step back and began walking off the impromptu stage.

The men erupted into cheers and applause. All managed to resist firing their weapon into the air, though. Sergeant Alexandrov yelled with the rest of them. He was pumped; he was ready to kill some mother$%&@ing zombies.

Partly under their own volition, partly due to the COs herding them along, the adrenaline-pumped young men sprinted to their prepared defenses. Five feet deep, three feet wide trenches had been dug out for them, with heavy machine guns placed every fifty feet. The entire trench system spanned four miles, closing off the southern half of the city from the rest of the countryside. For each machine-gun, there were three men with rifles, dividing up the space between the gaps. Huge amplifiers, set up along with the trenches, began blasting Guns N' Roses' Out Ta Get Me.

Though Alexandrov did not particularly care for the band, he had to admit that the song was both darkly fitting and a good song to keep the adrenaline going. The zombies soon became aware of the music and came wandering towards the Pacifican killing zones. The first shot of the night was fired at 9:02 pm by a heavy machine-gunner. Private Jeremy Jenkins let loose a burst of 5 shots, ripping through the target's chest and proceeding to go through several dozen more. But the zombie kept coming. Not having a torso didn't seem to faze him a bit. The private fired a longer burst, 10 bullets, raking the zombie's entire body. It fell, but then began crawling towards the soldiers. It was at this point that all of the men started picking targets and shooting. The only problem was none of them were going down. The open line that all soldiers headsets were connected to burst with overlapping transmissions:

"Dammit all, why won't they go down-"

"They aren't going down-"

"We can't kill them-"

"-won't die"

"Body shots aren't doing a damn thing-"

"They just won't die!"

"Soldiers, stop filling up the channel with your useless crap," said someone authoritatively.

Inevitably, however, the channel soon began filling up with panicky, uninformed statements.

"They're not doing-"

"-not dieing-"

"What the hell?!"

The sound of steady gunfire permeated all of the transmissions, causing more confusion. The older soldiers, ones who did not put all their faith in the new technology, were slowly and deliberately lining up their shots, taking aim at the head, and firing one bullet at a time.

The radio went dead as someone in Command Central cut all incoming transmissions from the men at the frontline. "Soldiers, goddammit, you are the best army in the world. Act like it."

A transmission came through from the Military Intel outpost; "Remember to go for head shots. The only sure way to kill one of these is to destroy the brain."

The men shifted their fire upwards, no longer going for a simple torso shot. More zombies began hitting the ground and not getting back up, but not enough. Every zombie in a two-mile radius was slowly advancing on the Pacificans. And the soldiers did not have ammo for all of them. Each of the 450 men had at least three magazines (roughly 72 bullets), though some carried more. Factoring in heavy machine-gun ammunition, this made for approximately 42,400 bullets that could have possibly been fired... for over 1 million zombies. An unnamed numbers weenie also figured out these numbers, thirty minutes into the battle. Military Command issued a general retreat at 9:39 pm.

Sergeant Alexandrov had already run out of ammo and was running back to the MC tent to ask where he could get more bullets. His headset crackled, "Now hear this; we are pulling out due to lack of supplies. Humvees are being sent from Francton now. They should be here within ten minutes. Conserve your ammo until then." Alexandrov sprinted back to the front. He had no idea how he would fight, but he knew he had to do something. In his absence, the zombies had advanced to within ten yards of the main trench. Soldiers were beginning to take them out by breaking open their heads with the butt of their rifle. The sergeant joined in, helping beat down several zombies getting in the way of a machine-gunner.

Those coming from the city were mowed down by rifle fire or otherwise killed. Not so with the zombies that had heard the loud music and gunfire. These ones came from every direction, closing in on the source of the noise. The unsuspecting impromptu headquarters was completely absorbed by undead. They then began approaching the trenches. Due to their ungainly coordination, the zombies simply fell into the soldier's midst. Panic quickly ran through the men, who were feeling spent after losing the initial adrenaline rush. Hand-to-hand combat became the predominant form of combat. Sergeant Alexandrov saw one soldier keeping fighting with a pistol, despite having more then a dozen zombie bodies piling on top of him. The sergeant dove in, pushing most of the bodies off the beleaguered man.

"Thanks, pal." He reloaded his pistol, then moved on down the line, pausing occasionally to fire.

Alexandrov grabbed a dead man's rifle, pulled the mag from it, inserted it into his own gun, chambered a round, and started looking for a zombie !@#$%^&'s brain to splatter.

Zombies were now dropping in on all sides. Chaos reined where order had faltered. Men no longer thought of their comrades, only of saving themselves. And it was this mindset that led to the destruction of most of the Pacifica Expeditionary Force. A single man cannot possibly fight off seven, eight, nine zombies climbing all over him. Eventually, he will yield. All would have been lost if not for the convoy of Humvees.

The lead all-terrain vehicle smashed through the zombie-infested tents, steering towards the trench. Soldiers who still had a will to live crawled over the side and towards the headlights. Fresh men poured out of the vehicles, firing at everything. Only when a man clearly demonstrated that he was, in fact, not a zombie (usually by shouting, "Go for the heads, dammit. No, not mine!") were they allowed into the vehicles. Alexandrov was recognized from a friend in another unit and, after quickly looking him over, decided that he was fine and threw him into the back. After several minutes of waiting, the Humvees packed up and started driving back to Francton. The Outskirts Battle of Doppelganger had ended in a tragic loss for the humans.

Part 2

One hour later

General Urmbae von Noctwick, Head of Logistics and Tactics in the Pacifican Military Command, sat at his desk, staring at the ceiling. In front of him was the preliminary report from Francton, which detailed the stunning loss at Doppelganger. In his mind, Noctwick was running through some basic plans, namely evacuation plans and logistics. Pacifica had plenty of equipment for destroying human armies, such as missiles, aircraft, and nuclear devices, but none of those were truly effective against a creature where only a headshot worked. "Why didn't we see this zombie invasion coming?" he asked himself sarcastically.

He sat forward, pulled out a map of Pacifica, and began marking weapon caches. Those would all need to be under Pacifican control within the next 24 hours if there was any hope of a mass evac. Refuges would probably move in a column of some sort. amour would form the center and drive through anything so as to clear a path for the column. Squads would handle flank protection. That left the refuges themselves for covering their own rear. The Air Wing would be tasked with tracking large groups of zombies.

"This just might work..." Noctwick quickly wrote down his preliminary plan and had a runner take it to General Mary T. Rothinzil, his counterpart on the Planning side. In the meantime, he had a report to deliver on the Doppelganger battle. Folder in hand, he straightened his rumbled uniform and purposefully strode out the door. A quick stroll down the hall brought him to the stairs. Sure, he could take the elevator, but stairs were faster most of the time, anyway. That damn elevator was always getting stuck somewhere...

He began jogging up the stairs, taking them two at a time. A scientist passed him, reading a report of some kind. Noctwick noted the white coat he wore and official-looking folder, but did not see an ID badge. He paused and was about to turn around and say something when the man in the white coat grabbed his shoulders and tried to push him over the railing.

The General was a tall and burly man; he always had been. He could have grabbed the thin impostor and cracked his spine in two had he not been so thoroughly surprised. The man's muscular chest went over the threshold of the railing. It's momentum pulled the rest of him along with it. General Urmbae Noctwick fell 52 stories to his untimely death.

The fake scientist picked up his report, which was in fact a real report that had been stolen some months earlier for this mission, and began heading towards the elevator. The doors opened as he approached. It was empty, as planned. He stepped in, pushed the Close button, and then pulled out a cyanide capsule. After making sure his pre-prepared suicide note was in place among the other files, he placed the capsule in his mouth and bit it open.

Fifteen floors down, an elevator technician was surprised to find the dead body. She calmly called for security while keeping her foot against the door to keep it from shutting. Several minutes later, the body of the military commander was found at the bottom of the stairwell. No connection was found between the two deaths.



Meanwhile

General Mary T. Rothinzil leaned back in her chair and stretched. For the past three hours, she had paced around, read all the Intel she had about the "Undead Menace" and logistics plannings, done countless calculations, and began the complex process of deciding which cities will be evacuated, and which will be barricaded, supplied... and ultimately abandoned. The Pacifican Military was just too overstretched, especially after the tremendous morale loss at the Outskirts Battle of Doppelganger. Word had spread fast of the battle. It was only a matter of time before the civilians found out.

"We never should have allowed freedom of the press. It was just asking for trouble," she told herself. After a minute's idle thought, she went back to her work.

It was all a numbers game for Mary. Her assigned task was to save as many people as possible, which meant either evacuating the larger areas, or trying to protect it with military. But, with the recent loss, public confidence in Pacifican troops wasn't all that high. "Some probably would feel safer fighting their own battle."

She turned back to her map of Pacifica. Zombie groups were marked with pieces from the old Risk board game, which Mary found darkly humorous. Her own armies were represented by Monopoly pieces.

"If we move the top hat here," she pushed the metal piece several inches to the left, positioning it between Port Franco and a mass of Risk pieces, "that might buy us enough time..." She scribbled some notes in an empty space near Francopolis. "Maybe we can save Golgothopolis, too..." She became lost in thought, going over possibilities, tweaking and twisting, trying to make it work.

Of course, there was no way to save everyone. The infrastructure to move and maintain that many people just wasn't there. Some would have to be sacrificed for the greater good. It was a horrible position to be in; to dictate who will die. She sighed, rubbed her eyes, and then began finalizing the plans. Francograd, Capital City and Francton would have to be completely evacuated, their residents escorted to the Northern Isles. Hopefully, the extremely low temperatures there would freeze the zombies. What it would do to the humans, well, at least they would have a chance at making it out alive. But doing that would mean the protection would have to be pulled off Port Franco. Maybe they could escape on the barges... maybe... in any case, there weren't enough people there to warrant extra protection.

She scribbled out some final notes, rolled up the map, and called for an aide. The young man took the map and began running through the halls towards the Emperor's public chambers. General Rothinzil slumped back into her chair. "Even if we kill the zombies, we'll still lose..."



The next day

Private Jim Brown's Humvee bounced around violently as he tried to keep pace with the rest of the convoy while driving in the ditch to it's right. Of course, his passengers didn't mind, as they would be the first to start shooting at anything coming from the east. Most of the armour had been removed, allowing for more ammunition and men. Every window but the windshield had been taken out as well, allowing more freedom to the men with shooting. It also made the trip seem "cooler."

"Movement, four miles southeast," called out the soldier riding shotgun.

Pvt. Brown picked up his radio and thumbed the Transmit button, "Mobile HQ, this is Picket 412. Movement reported southeast of our position. Requesting permission to check it out."

A pause, some static, "Granted, but come right back."

"Roger."

Brown pulled the vehicle into a u-turn, and began heading southeast. After ten minutes of driving, the sergeant manning the heavy machine-gun on the roof called out, “Bogeys! Up ahead! Gun it, private!” Brown pressed the pedal to the floor and the Humvee shot forward. He roared up a hill. As they came over the crest of it, the sergeant opened up on a small group of zombies sixty yards away. Brown turned towards them and, several seconds later, ran them over. He braked and turned to the left, to face the main group of zombies. Some of the men on the side fired at the crushed figures.

The sergeant fired again, getting several head shots. Everyone started leaning out the open windows, firing their rifles. The zombies approached the Humvee’s grille. Brown gripped the steering wheel tight and plunged ahead.

The first zombies that were hit collapsed under the tremendous inertia of the vehicle. However, the weight of the group slowed the Humvee. Brown shifted down for some more power and went ahead. The soldiers positioned their rifles so that the barrels were roughly at the same level as the zombies’ ear. Often, they would just fire through an entire mag in one shot. Accuracy hardly mattered at these close ranges. The sergeant up top hardly let up. For the most part, he stuck to shooting directly in front of the Humvee. Brown certainly appreciated it, as it made driving through the undead that much easier.

As men ran through all of their ammo, they pulled away from their spot near the window and another would take his place. In the middle of the Humvee was a large crate of ammo mags. Soldiers were told to use whatever they needed. After that first battle, the bullets were flowing pretty freely from the quartermasters.

After fifteen minutes of driving, Brown broke free of the main group. He snuck a peak in his rear-view mirror and noted with satisfaction that there was now a large tear, right through the middle of the mass. “Sorta like parting the Red Sea,” he said to himself. He pulled a U-turn and went back up the same way he came, widening the gap by swerving back and forth. Twenty minutes of driving later, he was back with the convoy. He picked up his radio again.

“Picket 412 to Mobile HQ. Large mass of bogeys four miles southeast of our position. We did a Diving Swoop,” (the technical term for their maneuver) “and got about a third of them. Probably about a thousand left, though.”

“All right, 412. We’ll call for some helicopters from Golgothopolis. They should be able to slow them up enough for the rest of our convoy to get by.”

“Roger that.”

Brown replaced the radio and recalled the words of his lieutenant before they had set out, “Remember, guys, you probably won’t see anything. The air force is doing a pretty good of herding them around. Just a simple job.”



The next day

Second Lt. Zachary Wavel lead the small team into the Northern Isles Research Lab. Behind him, two privates dragged the still-alive body of the zombie recovered from a skirmish on a refuge movement. Dr. Zach Ryan saw them coming in and began putting on a mask and latex gloves.

"Is that thing still alive?"

"Yessir," replied Lt. Wavel.

"Set it on the table, then go get disinfected."

The soldiers left and Dr. Ryan began his examination. First, he strapped down the zombie, out of fear that it might revive itself and break loose. Satisfied that it was secure, he cut off all of its remaining clothing. An assistant came in and photographed the entire body. Ryan used a scalpel to make a lengthy incision from the zombie’s neck to its waist. A quick inspection confirmed what was already assumed; all of its organs were completely dead. Ryan glanced up at the zombie's face and noted that the being was only somewhat conscious.

After only a few minutes, the first intensive examination of an undead creature ever ended with Ryan merely confirming what most had thought beforehand. He stepped out of the room and called for the brain specialist. Ryan disinfected and went to the observation room. Waiting in there was Lt. Wavel, who had some free time and wanted to watch one of those suckers get cut apart.

"Evenin', Doctor."

Dr. Ryan nodded in response.

"Ya know, I saw something interesting with that zombie. Now, I fought LUE and a couple NAAC battles back in the third Great War. And the uniform that thing's wearing looks a hella like those LUE guys."

"Hmm... interesting," Ryan said. Though he remained somewhat unresponsive, his mind began racing. "Could these things be LUE soldiers reanimated? How the hell would someone pull that off? Who would pull that off? I need to call Francograd," he thought to himself. To Wavel, he said, "Excuse me, something has just come up."

With that, he quickly left the room to find the nearest phone.

Part 3

Four hours later

Bill Wurdeen, make-up artist, was not what one would call a patient man. “Heh. Waiting around for the Emperor. Well, sure, he may be busy, but that doesn’t mean he can get here late. He needs to be touched up before a television appearance,” he informed the mirror. “What kind of an example is he setting by being late?!”

He checked the clock on the wall and groaned. There was a fashion special marathon that he was going to miss if that fat cow of an Emperor didn’t get here soon. He decided to walk down the hall and get himself something to drink. “A good, strong coffee should calm me down.”

The “specialist” quickly walked down the hall. One man in a military uniform nodded at him. Wurdeen ignored him. He didn’t have time for such worthless pleasantries. The hall turned to the left. Wurdeen decided to cut the corner and nearly ran into another army person.

“’scuse me,” the man said roughly. Wurdeen quickly backed away and let the man pass. He saw that the army man was carrying a metal case. The side read, “Camera equipment.” Wurdeen began walking towards the vending machine, which was now within sight, before stopping himself.

“They already set up the cameras…”

Being a rather paranoid and anti-social person, he decided on the spot that that army jerk was in fact a Bad Guy. Wurdeen pressed up against the wall and peeked around the corner. Bad Guy had gone into the studio where the Emperor would give his address. Wurdeen, distrustful of authority, decided against calling for Security. He followed the man into the studio. Luckily for the make-up artist, all the lights had been turned off. He was able to slip in behind a crate of light bulbs and observe as the Bad Guy examined Camera B.

He paused. A quick glance around the room. Then, he took out a small pen and stabbed at the lens with it. The glass cracked. Now with what would look like a legitimate reason, he pulled out a replacement lens and began to swap one for the other. In 30 seconds, it was done. Bad Guy packed up his things and left.

Wurdeen waited a minute until he could no longer hear the man’s footsteps. Then, he cautiously approached the camera. Nothing happened. He closely examined the new lens, fully expecting it to blow up in his face. It did not. After several minutes, Wurdeen decided to go back to the make-up room and, maybe, tell someone about what he had seen.

As he left the room, Bad Guy was right there. He pulled up a length of electric cord and wrapped it against Wurdeen’s neck. Wurdeen, though surprised, began struggling with all the strength he could muster. He threw an elbow to the ribs. He tried to connect his heel with the man’s knee, hoping to kick it out from under him. The cord just got tighter around Wurdeen’s neck. He began to panic. His vision was going black. He collapsed.

Bad Guy loosened the cord from around Wurdeen’s neck and began dragging him into the studio. Ironically, he dumped the body behind the same crate Wurdeen had been hiding behind earlier. Bad Guy left. Wurdeen, for the second time in the last five minutes, waited until he could no longer hear the footsteps, then coughed and tried to catch his breath. He had forced himself to not breathe all during his farcical death. He pulled himself up and slowly began limping towards the phone at the other end of the room, behind the backdrop of the main area.

Wurdeen put the receiver to his ear. “I need Security to the main television studio.”



Twenty minutes later

Officer Red Cummins stood in front of the Imperial Bedroom while the Emperor was briefed in about the new threat. One of his comrade guards was currently “interviewing” that poof, Wurdeen. Cummins couldn’t stand the man – he was just so smug - but he was needed when it came to speeches and decrees and stuff. Besides, it was nice having a go-to guy for punch lines.

Lieutenant Al Kramer approached. Cummins saluted smartly. “As you were, Cummins.”

Kramer checked back and forth to make sure they were the only ones around, and then continued. “Wurdeen gave us a description of the guy. White male, around 6 feet, 220 pounds, maybe. He supposed to be balding and, as of twenty minutes ago, was wearing a technician uniform. So, if anyone comes around even vaguely looking like that, check their ID and call for backup if anything looks out of place.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. And be sure to keep off the radios. We don’t know how far this guy has burrowed into our system.”

“Right.”

“Good man.” Kramer gave him a pat on the shoulder and then moved on.

Cummins was worried now. “ ‘Keep off the radios’? Walford, aka Pauline, aka Pauline, aka Pauline, aka Pauline Christ… this is bad. We really should just pull back to the bunker…” he thought to himself.

He stopped worrying and went back to watching the hallway. Word of the attack must have spread pretty fast. No one walked by. They must have been avoiding any halls near the Emperor. But, of course, someone would have to go through. And eventually, someone approached. He looked about 5’7’’ and maybe 150. The guard decided to stop him anyway. He stepped in front of the man, blocking his path.

“I’m going to need to see your identification, sir.”

The man looked surprised, though quickly began complying and digging through his pockets. Cummins leaned forward, making sure the man did not pull out a weapon of any kind. The man patted himself, looking as if he did not have anything to identify himself with.

“Aw, crap. I think I left it back in the office…” he gestured vaguely over his shoulder.

“Where?”

“Over, that way,” the man turned around and pointed to his right. Cummins leaned forward, trying to figure out where the man’s office was and if there was in fact an office in that part of the building. The man quickly brought his elbow into the guard’s nose, breaking it instantly. Cummins recoiled and began spitting out blood. The man kneed him in the face. The burly guard fell over, groaning slightly.

The assailant reached into his pocket, pulled out a cell phone, and quickly typed out the simple message; “Opened.” He then began pulling the guard’s body into a nearby bathroom. It was difficult, due in large part to the man's heavy build. The man pulled and struggled for several minutes before reaching the bathroom door. Once Cummins was sprawled out on the tile floor, the man quickly locked the door. He put his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. After a minute of rest, he stood back up and renewed his efforts to hide the guard. After another two minutes of struggling and maneuvering, the man got Cummins propped up on a toilet in a stall. Once he stopped moving, the guard groaned and began to open his eyes. The man grabbed his head and slammed it into the wall tile wall, leaving a smear of blood. Cummins' body went limp and began falling off the toilet.

The man walked over to the sink and began washing his hands. He glanced up and looked himself in the eye. "Should I really go through with this?" He sighed. It was too late now. He was too far along to stop now. He turned off the faucet, dried his hands, and approached the door. Pulling his pistol from his back pocket, he opened the door and was surprised to find several people waiting for him. They grabbed his shoulders and threw him to the floor.

Other guards swarmed in from the hallway and tackled the man. He struggled for a brief second, giving all the reason one guard needed to give him a jab to the mouth. Men threw themselves onto his chest and legs, pinning him to the floor. He had committed the cardinal sin of espionage; he had done something stupid enough to get caught. The Imperial Office of Internal Affairs had intercepted the message, triangulated it to the floor, and had sent half the guard force, who were busy positioning themselves at both ends of the hall, completely guarding the Emperor’s quarters.

Captain Louis Bradley, head of the guard and interrogation specialist, made his way to the crowd to the prisoner. He knew he did not have much time to act. The Fortress had been infiltrated. Nowhere was completely safe now. He kicked the man in the midsection. “You little !@#$%*!” He bent down and pimp-slapped him across the face. “Who are you working for?” The man spit in Bradley’s face. Bradley pulled his service pistol out of its holster and pressed it against the man’s thigh. “I’m not going to ask again.”

The man again tried to be a hero, “I’m not telling you a thing, you Pacifican pig-” Bradley fired, shooting only through muscle. It would hurt like hell, but it was a clean wound. “Talk, you sniveling little ! Tell me who you’re working for!” The man groaned. Bradley slammed his gun down on the man’s nose. He was disappointed when he didn’t hear a snap. “Start talking and I’ll stop.” The man tried to kick Bradley in the groin. He sidestepped it and returned the favor. For good measure, he shot him in the other thigh. After a short pause to let the latest pain to sink in, he pressed the gun barrel, now warm, against the man’s forehead. Bradley looked into the man's eyes and saw that he was ready to die.

“No Cat will be intimidated by your imperialist ways and bully tactics!" He tried to push the gun away with his face. Bradley held it in place.

"Who are the 'Cats'?"

The man spit at Bradley. Bradley had had enough of this. He had gotten a name. That was all he would need for the first part of the investigation. He stood back up and walked over to his LT.

“Have someone in Intel check up on these ‘Cats,’ put any floor the Emperor even conceivably might go to on complete lockdown, organize a Class 4 sweep of the entire fortress, and get Sanitation up here to clean the mess.”

He reholstered his pistol and walked away.

Part 4

First Sergeant Mike Evans lined up the crosshairs on top of the bogey’s head and squeezed off a shot. The zombie dropped to the ground. “One down, a hundred thousand to go… and that’s just what I can see.” He chambered another shell and found another target. Around him, twenty other snipers were picking off zombies as they approached the front line. Large crates of pre-loaded magazines were stacked up behind the group, with couriers carrying the ammo to the snipers. Seven to ten shots were being fired every second, nearly 95% percent of those shots finding their mark, dropping hundreds of zombies. “One shot-one kill” was much more efficient and effective on the slow-moving zombies then brute force firepower.

An hour before, Northern Isles Base 1 had received the massive convoy sent from Francton. Two hundred thousand refuges were now being outfitted with ammo and some limited marksmanship training. Hopefully by the next morning, they would be out here, on the perimeter, keeping themselves safe. That was assuming the small garrison could hold off the incoming horde, which had slowly increased in size as it had moved with the convoy. If the flank guards had had proper armour, maybe they could have crushed the threat four days ago, when it was only half its current size. “Oh well. Nothing we can do about it now.”

He fired a shot and watched with satisfaction as one zombie fell, then the one directly behind it from the same bullet. Flip up, pull, push, slap down, aim, fire. Another zombie went down. Evans heard the click of a now empty clip. He reached for another mag, only to find that there was no longer a pile of ammo next to him. “Had the squad really gone through 15,000 rounds already? We were only firing for twenty minutes…”

He slowly stood up and stretched. His comrades’ firing quickly came to a halt as well. Their part in the Final Battle of the Northern Isles was finished.



Emperor Trotsky Revenge, ruler of Pacifica, leader of all that is just and right, reread his prepared speech and sat uncomfortably in front of the hot lights and countless cameras, all of which had been checked over for any tampering. The address itself was fairly standard; an update on the “Z War.” The day before, when it was getting its finishing details, no one knew for sure if the convoys would make it or if Francograd would hold. But twelve hours and two assassination attempts later, the convoys had made it, and Internal Affairs now ranked terrorists as a higher threat then zombies. The Praetorian Guard was doing an excellent job at keeping the fortress walls free of the undead. Their purpose was not necessarily to kill the zombies but rather to keep them out of the fortress. If only they could something about spies…

“Thirty seconds, Comrade Emperor”

Emperor Revenge composed himself and stared right into the camera. A technician counted down the last five seconds with hand gestures, and then gave the sign that they were live.

“Good evening, Pacifica. Tonight, I will be discussing the War on the Undead Menace and giving you an update on the military situation…”



Private Jeff Dingle screwed a propelling charge into the warhead he was going to be using. After taking a second to do that, he bought the RPG to his shoulder and aimed at the closest group of zombies. The rest of the Vanguards did the same with their weapons. Their squad leader held out his arm, signaling them to hold.

“Ready men. Wait for it… wait for them to get into range… Now! Fire!”

Dingle pulled the trigger and quickly released it, losing the grenade. His comrades all opened fire at the same time, tearing through the front ranks. Dingle’s grenade tore through the small group’s ranks, shredding them all to pieces. They weren’t dead, but they were in small enough chunks to not be a problem. He slammed another round into the chamber and shot it off, blowing the torso off of a bogey’s waist.

The squad leader began to panic. “We can’t hold all of them! Smith, call command! We’re pulling back! Have them send armour.”

Evans sighed. “Once this war is over, we’re couping this guy. This is just retarded.” He prepped and fired one more grenade before moving back towards their secondary position.



“As you are aware, the convoys have all successfully made it to their destinations. All zombie attacks on the convoys were repelled by Pacifican soldiers. However, the hordes that the zombies travel in were not routed; they still follow the convoys. Or, now, move towards the bases where they have stopped at. At this moment, our compound in the Northern Isles is under attack by one of the largest hordes we have yet seen, over 400,000 undead soldiers against our garrison of 2,000. I have the utmost confidence in our men and fully expect them to repel the invasion.”



Private Kyle Bern waved Squad Vanguard towards him and the trench he was in. As soon as the last man climbed in, he could begin firing his heavy machine-gun. He waited several seconds, thumbs on the two triggers, watching as the zombies came within three hundred yards. The last man dove headfirst into the trench and Bern opened fire. His gun was the signal for all the men along the secondary line. Several RPGs flew towards the zombie ranks. Tracers could be seen all over. But the zombies kept coming.

After several minutes, they were two hundred yards away. Cruise missiles from the base itself came roaring in, completely incinerating hundreds of zombies at a time. But they still kept coming.

Once they were within one hundred yards, the order came through to retreat to the Main Line, half a mile back. The ML was their last line of defense before the residential section of the compound. It could not fall. The soldiers would have to hold it against the incoming horde.



“… and now, I would like to discuss something of a more personal nature. Over the past 24 hours, there have been two attempts on my life. The first plot was foiled. However, the terrorist escaped Security. The second attempt was nearly carried out by an accomplice of the first. He was captured and interrogated. Unfortunately, he fell down a flight of stairs accidentally and was killed.

“These failed murders come at a very inopportune time for Pacifica, however. As I talked about earlier, the Pacifican Zombocalypse is upon us and for your leadership to suddenly become… unavailable… would greatly benefit someone. As it turns out, the captured terrorist referred to himself as a ‘Cat’, which our Military Intelligence department has tracked down to be the infamous Spanish Cat Alliance, a terrorist group based out of the Arctic. It is my belief that the SCA somehow reanimated corpses from the Great Wars, specifically of Lue and NAAC soldiers, long dead. Once alive, they were steered into Pacifica. We consider this to be, not only an act of war, but also a weapon of mass destruction. Now, keep in mind, the SCA very rarely ever set down and build something up that is worth destroying, but that will not stop us from seeking Retribution.”



Private Rich Bailey aimed the laser sight at the front of the zombie ranks. Once he had it steadied, he radioed Missile Base 2. “Sight lined up. All go for firing.”

“Roger, Sight 4.”

Bailey only had to wait now. He was on the roof of one of the air field control towers and had a very clear view of the Main Line, which was only a few hundreds yards in front of him. Muzzle flashes were going off all along the line. Occasionally, missiles would come roaring down, destroying hundreds of zombies in huge fireballs. Smaller explosions from grenades and anti-personal rockets were also going off.

“Firing now.”

Bailey sat back and watched. A few seconds later, he heard the telltale piercing squeal of an incoming missile. For a split-second, he saw the streak of light, then it exploded. He had to shield his eyes from the flash. Where the flash had been, nothing remained. No zombies there.

“Strike successful. Sighting new target.”

He began adjusting the sight.



“As I speak, we are beating back the Undead Menace in the Northern Isles. We are reclaiming our cities as our own. And we have bombers guiding nuclear weapons into Spanish Cat buildings and other infrastructure. Following this, in keeping with our policy of being Equal Opportunity Imperialists, we will begin airdropping the undead back to their homes, safely tucked away in SCA territory. We can only hope that the SCA will be as accommodating as we have been.

“Pacifica Prevails!”



General Rothinzil looked over the digital display, sent in via satellite from an overhead spy plane. The zombie horde was still nearly a mile long and coming, but they weren’t advancing as much as Intel had thought. Roughly one hundred thousand zombies had been killed so far, with three hundred remaining. But when compared to the fact that there had only been two casualties so far (one soldier broke his neck after diving into a trench; the other had held onto a grenade too long and had blown his own hand off), this battle wasn’t going all that badly. If the zombies kept coming at their current speed, it would dissolve to close-quarter combat in another ten minutes. While not the ideal situation, the soldiers would be able to keep the bogeys on one side of them. This would not turn into another Doppelganger. Rothinzil would not let her men get surrounded.



“Hot damn!”

Private First Class Willy “Boomer” Boon pulled out his service pistol and squeezed off two rounds at point-blank range into a zombie’s head. He wasn’t sure about his comrades, but he was having the time of his life. His battle rifle ammo had run out. He had thrown all his grenades already. All the soldier had left was his combat knife and pistol.

The bogeys had gotten too close. They were starting to breach the Main Line. Explosions were now being replaced with small arms fire. Refuges were being evacuated to the Safe Zone at the north end of the compound. Once there, it would be completely sealed off. None of the fighting men would be able to get in. “But we’ve got a plan if it comes to that- oh, damn.” A zombie came up to his left. He pushed his knife into its eye socket. The zombie went limp.

Boomer pulled it out. A bogey staggered towards him. He put a round through its mouth, then another through its left eye. The zombie went down. His ear bud crackled. “Now hear this. Execute Operation Thunderbolt. Repeat. Execute Thunderbolt.” Boomer smiled. Now the fun would really begin.



Engineer Lawrence Benson got the final piece welded into place on the Humvee and gave the technician a thumbs-up. The Humvee took off out of the hangar and started driving to the Main Line. “This had better work…”



Eighty-six other Humvees began driving towards the front line as the same time. Eighty-seven technicians, one for each Humvee, guided the vehicle along via remote control. Each Humvee was filled with several hundreds pounds of explosives and incendiaries. The technicians followed their memorized routes and steered into the horde in designated spots, such that none of the blast radii would overlap, allowing for maximum killing power.

The soldiers all pulled back to the edge of the residential area. Nothing was in between the Humvees and the horde. The vehicles careened across the now open field. Several seconds of driving. The first of the cars crashed into the zombies’ front lines, plowing out large wedges into the horde. Another few seconds passed, to make sure that all vehicles were far enough in. General Rothinzil held the master trigger. She watched the digital layout. Everyone looked far enough in. She pulled the trigger.

Eighty-seven explosions tore through the zombie ranks. Each Humvee had been filled with napalm as well as explosives. Fires broke out, quickly traveling from zombie to zombie. They joined together and roared through the ranks. The soldiers decided that this would be the opportune time to open fire. Tens of thousands of zombies were killed in the first few seconds following the explosion. Tens of thousands more were killed as the fire ravaged their bodies. Missiles were guided into the remaining pockets of zombies. Two hundred thousand zombies were killed in seventeen seconds.

Rothinzil’s voice was piped through the PA system in the base, as well as the headsets the men were all wearing. “They’re almost finished! Get close and go for the head! Give them all you’ve got, men! For Pacifica!”

The men charged. Rifles were used for bashing skulls rather then shooting. Pistols and knives were the weapons of choice. Zombies were simply run over by the men. They were rapidly pushed back towards the original front trench line. While the Battle for the Northern Isles was not yet over, the base was no longer in danger. Pacifica had completed its objective. The New Pacific Order had survived.

Epilouge

In the days and weeks that followed, the Pacifican soldiers covered every square inch of the nation, completely eradicating the undead menace. Several zombies were shipped to the Spanish Cat Capital of Gheytoe, starting the promised response epidemic. Unlike Pacifica, the SCA was unable to survive and was quickly overwhelmed. If not for the Pacifican troops that had been stationed along the SCA border specifically to contain the spread, the entire Planet may have fallen. In this way, Pacifica not only saved itself from the undead menace, but the whole world.

One should always remember history, as it allows one to avoid prior pitfalls and errors. World War Z and undead combat ravaged two nations and had the potential to end human life. Despite its use immediately following the Battle for the Northern Isles, the risks greatly outweigh any rewards one may get. As such, this author wishes to warn its readers that zombie combat should never be utilized under any circumstances… except perhaps against something that would unite humans and zombies, such as an alien or mole people attack. But, this is assuming that zombies would be able to consciously decide to unite with humans, and that of course is just silly.

Thus marked the end of the Pacifican Zombocalypse.