Zombie Redemption Page 3

  “These pricks were going to hunker down here in this bunker and wait out the pandemic just like the others. Oh, yeah… there’s more back home just like them – the privileged, high ranking high and mighty, saving their own asses while the rest of us are left hanging out in the wind to fend for ourselves. But, I don’t count those kind back home as survivors. They’re more like cockroaches that survive a nuclear holocaust.

  “Technically, I was supposed to be in here, saving my own hide along with them. I knew what they were doing. I was flying missions for it, for God’s sake, and I didn’t even think to stop them until it was too late. But better late than never. Right?”

  Jef tugging at the insignia on his uniform. “I’m not really a Captain,” he admitted, “I’m a Lieutenant Colonel. One of the higher ups that was supposed to be spared in this bunker. The pilots were under my command to pick up their payloads of zombies here. I was on the ground when all hell broke loose. Sure, I tried to fly away like I told you, but that was later. I was hiding down here with the rest of the head honchos. They were all having a pow-wow in here, while everyone else, including my crew, was left topside to fend for themselves. They were considered expendable. Some got away. Some didn’t. That’s when I knew what I had to do. Tossed in the incendiaries and locked the door.”

  Tom studied Jef carefully, unsure of what to make of this man before him. Can he be trusted?

  “That’s my truth, but not the truth I brought you down here for; not the one you came here for,” Jef continued. “You want the big truth. The mother of all truths.”

  Jef stepped into the room with a purposeful stride, as if he needed to tell the story among the ruins of this macabre stage.

  “My pilots were supposed to fly those creepers to other parts of the world, along with our homegrown brainwashed sleeper creepers so they could take out whomever our government wanted gone. That way, it would look like just another zombie attack, and not a U.S. assassination strike. Project Living Dead they called it.

  “Even though things have been ramping up here over the past year, it’s not like in the hay day though, when this place was hoppin’ with all branches of the armed forces during the cold war — and even before that.

  “Officially, the U.S. evacuated this place in 2006, but that’s not entirely true. We had to keep a small presence here to operate the zombie factory in the basement, as I call it. But of course, Iceland’s Defense Department didn’t need to know that. They think we stuck around as a temporary supply and refueling station. They haven’t known the truth of what’s really been going on here for more than seventy-five years. Why start now?”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Seventy-five years? Are you telling me that this zombie shit’s been percolating since World War II?”

  “Open your eyes, Tom. It’s never been about zombies. It’s been about mind control. It’s always been about mind control. This place was the petri dish that spawned the likes of Sirhan Sirhan, Lee Harvey Oswald, and countless others whose names never made it into the history books, like Walter Flynn.”

  “Who’s Walter Flynn?”

  “Recently, there was a test run, for lack of a better term, so Major Fleming and his superiors could show off their brainwashing refinements for Project Living Dead. Walter Flynn was the poor son of a bitch that they programmed to kill Alik Kuman, an Alqueda operative. An operation which ended with Flynn taking his own life; just like he was programmed to do.”

  Tom’s brain was reeling from the information pouring forth. As Jef continued, the whole sordid history played out like a black and white movie reel from the History Channel in Tom’s mind.

  Flickering through his head was a scene of European football between German and Icelandic teams before World War II. Smiling Nazi’s plotting under the guise of friendly competition. The friendship became close enough that Germany was allowed to establish a small seemingly innocuous presence in Iceland – on the very spot of the air station. It seemed harmless enough, but the Nazi’s created secret underground bunkers to conduct brainwashing experiments. No one would suspect it was being done outside of their own country.

  The goal was to create unquestioning devout followers of the National Socialist German Workers’ Party. Tom envisioned the creation of an entire country of puppets, leading to the ultimate goal of world domination.

  “An ambitious effort, but not without its pitfalls,” Jef began to explain. “Controlling a person’s mind required deeper and deeper brain augmentation, as they termed it. Many subjects went as mad as rabid dogs, became brain dead vegetables, or died.”

  Another reel of footage flashed. A charismatic Hitler swaying a nation to his will, but that wasn’t enough for ol’ Adolf. He wanted a sure thing. One hundred percent conversion. Brainwashing was the beginning, but eugenics would be the ultimate control. A slow course to breed an Aryan race that would have total allegiance to the new world order.

  As Jef continued, Tom’s conjured History Channel brought forth a 1939 newspaper headline: WAR IMMINENT IN EUROPE. “Iceland established a position of neutrality, then promptly kicked the Germans out. When the Germans left they didn’t destroy their bunker labs, but rather they carefully hid the bunker entrances, presuming they’d be returning to reclaim it by force in the near future.

  “In 1940, because of Iceland’s strategic location, the British requested – pretty please with sugar on top – to establish a military presence in Iceland, but the request was denied. What Iceland never saw coming was a British invasion, after which the Brits set up shop in the former German installation.

  “Churchill and Roosevelt convinced Iceland to have the U.S. replace the British, and we’ve been here ever since. The Brits saw no need to create bunkers, so they didn’t discover what the Nazis had hidden. But when the U.S. came in and started digging its own bunker system, that’s when we found the German mother lode,” Jef said with a knowing grin.

  “Sounds unbelievable,” Tom added.

  “The proof’s in the pudding. And you’re standing knee deep in the pudding right here, my friend.” Jef rummaged through the burned debris hoping to find some remnant the fire hadn’t consumed. Something the sprinkler system had spared over the human victims.

  From a filing cabinet, Jef pulled a soggy series of old bound volumes, blackened around their edges. He wiped away a top layer of grime to reveal the Nazi swastika emblem emblazoned on the front.

  “Copies of documents and procedures, equipment, formulas – the whole megillah. All we had to do was make it our own; never letting on that we discovered anything at all, or course.

  “Over the years, new methods of mind control were explored using LSD and other drugs, and brainwashing techniques that gave way to the CIA’s MK-Ultra program. Despite the new stuff our guys were coming up, it still was not as advanced, or reliable, as some wanted.

  “Some high up military muckety-muck, with more brass than brains, decided to out-god the ones already playing god. His name was General Madsen, and he decided to go back to where it all started and tweak the Nazi’s original recipe. Claimed they were closer to getting it right, but it just needed some good old Yankee know-how to perfect it — the right Yankee know-how.

  “Then, when big government think tanks got involved, and no one was willing to test the new drug protocols on military personnel yet, Madsen came up with his own way to test it. He hit the streets, lacing crack and heroine with the new brain altering formula, and then let the junkies of America be unwitting guinea pigs. If they died, no big deal. What no one saw coming was Mother Nature throwing a wrench in the works.

  “Long story short, a fluke of nature gave the world a flesh eating virus — the one you’ve got, zombie man — that mutated like a bitch when it was mixed with the government’s concoction.

  “For all intents and purposes, the host was dead, but was left with a functioning brain stem that compelled the created zombie to wander aimlessly in search of fresh meat. No one knew why the craving existed. Maybe it was a latent primal
behavior from deep in the brain that surfaced once all advanced brain function ceased. So, when some deranged crack-heads with their faces falling off started attacking people, they either killed their victims or spread the virus with a single bite until… presto! Zombieville, USA.”

  Tom connected some more dots and recalled his neighbors, Chris and Kris. They had the same virus as he did, but they turned. Transformed in to full-blown zombies. Then, there was the young man at the diner that he had to put down with Roger Norton’s gun.

  Casual drug users, maybe average people, stricken with the flesh eating virus who were looking for an escape from their circumstance for a while by getting high, got a hold of the tainted drugs and they slowly turned. Even Mona, who gave him the virus, soon succumbed to using the tainted drugs — drugs switched out by his partner from his deal with Major Fleming.

  “The news always said that the mutated strain of the zombie virus came from Central America,” Tom acknowledged.

  “The government can spin anything they want. You should know that by now, Tom.”

  ”But, I don’t understand why this General Madsen didn’t try to stop the zombie outbreak early on once he saw what was happening.”

  Jef’s mustache curled upward on one end with his lopsided smirk. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? It was actually Major Fleming who convinced the General that they could turn lemons into lemonade. Fleming saw an opportunity. An opportunity to help the United States gain the strongest upper hand of all time, not to mention earn himself a fat promotion. The irony is that the zombies they inadvertently created were just the ticket to perfect their brainwashing techniques. Project Living Dead began with the discovery of a specific zombie enzyme that would help cease certain brain activity, yet allow control of a person through selective programming.

  “Fleming’s logic, which his superiors seized as a winning plan, was to create and perpetuate a legitimate zombie threat; worldwide. The plan was diabolical. A soldier would be given the zombie enzyme along with the flesh eating virus. He would look like a zombie, yet be able to be programmed for an assassination. To the rest of the world it would look like the foreign target was killed by zombies. Fast forward to today – those jackasses didn’t have the foresight to realize that an outbreak this dangerous couldn’t be controlled.”

  “Man, this place is like Area 51,” Tom said. “But instead of aliens they’re zombies. I guess I should have known.”

  “Known what?”

  “That something this horrific had to lead back to goddamn Nazis.”

  #

  The bulkhead doors leading into the bunker had been left open when Tom and Jef descended into the dank subterranean chamber, now nothing more than a tomb for charred remains. As the two were making their way topside, they discovered that the doors were closed. Blown shut by the wind, they thought. Surely the heavy doors would have made a sound as they slammed shut. Heaving against the doors to open them, it was obvious that the doors had been deliberately barred. They were not alone.

  “What now?” Tom asked. “Does this thing have a ventilation system we can fit through?”

  Jef looked askance at Tom. “You watch too many movies. Follow me,” he instructed, hoping that the alternate exit hadn’t been discovered by whomever was outside. “There’s another way out at the other end of the bunker, just past the labs. It was used as a way to get the so-called test subjects in and out in groups, away from everyone else.”

  The fluorescent lights flickered on by motion detection as they entered each of the more modern hallways in the far recesses of the bunker. Jef navigated as if light weren’t even necessary; Tom simply followed. When they finally reached what looked to be the way out, Jef suddenly realized something. “Shit. You’ve got my gun.”

  Tom pulled the gun from his waistband and handed it over.

  “No. We both need one. We don’t know who’s out there, or how many there may be. There’s a small munitions cache a few corridors back, near the supply room.”

  “Say no more. I’ll be right back.”

  By the time Tom returned with the weapons, Jef was gone.

  Part 5

  There was shouting coming from the C.O.’s quarters. “I want to hear you admit it. I want you to admit that you are responsible for all this! Go on… say it!”

  Tom could hear it as he crossed the compound, after he made his way from the bunker. He cautiously approached the building to peer in the window for a better look. He naturally recognized Jef’s voice, but had to strain to make out who he was yelling at.

  Fleming! Tom couldn’t believe his eyes. Major Fleming was tied to a chair, looking disheveled, his clothes tattered as Tom’s had been after surviving his plunge into the North Atlantic. Jef was poised to blow the major’s head off if he didn’t get the confession he was demanding.

  “Admit what you did, you bastard,” Jef persisted.

  “Your hands aren’t clean either,” the major countered. “So don’t act so holier than thou,” he added sternly.

  “I was just following orders. I thought I was serving my country. I didn’t create this… this… thing.”

  “We all played a part, Colonel.”

  “NO! You created this. YOU DID! And it cost me everyone I ever cared about! I just want to hear you admit it.”

  Tom entered the room, slowly set down the weapons he’d brought from the bunker, and calmly spoke Jef’s name so as not to alarm him, and cause any unwanted gunfire.

  “Tom? I’ve got Fleming. See?” Jef was seeking validation for his actions. “You said he was dead, but here he is… and I caught the son of a bitch.” Jef gave an excited chuckle like a man who could no longer distinguish rational from irrational thought.

  “Ah, Mr. Dexter,” the major snorted. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost. Surprised to see me… alive?”

  “Shut up!” Jef spun back to Fleming. “The only words I want coming out of your mouth are a confession.”

  “What good would that do? All that doesn’t matter now,” Fleming conceded. “We’re all equals now. We just want to survive. We can help each other. We can wait this thing out right here in Iceland, and when it’s all over we come out on top to rebuild.”

  “All right. That’s enough,” Tom said trying to cut off Fleming’s attempt to get into Jef’s fragile psyche.

  Fleming’s eyes never left Jef. “Mr. Dexter’s days are numbered, but you and I can survive this. The zombies will decay into oblivion — fall and crumble into piles of bones in a few years. Your so-called friend here is just depleting your food and resources. You and I… we can truly survive for the duration.”

  Jef looked a bit dazed. His anger was put in check for a moment.

  Tom needed to assure him. “Jef, don’t let him get inside your head. Don’t let him fool you. He didn’t come here for you. He came here for himself. He must have come here looking for something.”

  Tom turned from Jef to Fleming, and in long quick strides he walked over and slapped the smirk off of the major’s face. “What were you in here looking for, you smug son of a bitch?” Tom’s instant rage brought him satisfaction. Fleming slowly turned his head from the direction Tom had knocked it, his eyes peering from under a darkly shadowed brow, as a defiant grin spread across the major’s face.

  “Where was he?” Tom’s outburst against the major caught Jef off guard, leaving him stymied. “Jef? Where was he when you found him?” Jef finally motioned over to a table on the far side of the room.

  Tom went to the table not knowing exactly what he was hoping to find among the maps and charts kept there. The guessing game was taking too long. “Is this all that’s over here? Maps?” Tom asked. Fleming was obviously looking for a map, but which one?

  Jef gave a cursory inventory from memory. “Yeah. Deployment maps, local maps, binoculars, GPS… hell, there may even be take out menus from local restaurants. What are you looking for?”

  Tom heard enough to make him scan the table once more. There it was. A small case.
Empty. He turned to Fleming, whose attempt at a poker face presented as smugness. Tom rushed passed Jef to forcibly search Fleming, and found what he was looking for in the inside breast pocket of the major’s jacket. A Rockwell Collins handheld GPS receiver.

  “Well, well, major,” Tom said. “Where are we off to, then? Another secret Nazi bunker, perhaps? Or maybe…” He was cut short by a noise outside, and he went to the window to check it out.

  “What is it?” Jef asked Tom.

  “My insurance,” Fleming uttered with a shit-eating grin.

  “We’ve got about twenty creepers heading this way,” Tom reported. “Looks like they’re coming from the Quonset hut by the hangar.”

  Jef’s face became expressionless, frozen in shock as another of his secrets had been exposed. His eyes trained on Fleming, and as they did, Jef’s face melted into a stare of sheer hatred at the man who revealed what was to remain hidden; protected.

  Tom’s eyes cut to Fleming as well, but for a different reason. Tom observed that Fleming seemed indifferent to the fact that zombies were headed their way. It was as if he welcomed it. He said it was his insurance.

  “You clever bastard,” Tom blurted to Fleming. He looked closely at the GPS and noticed that it was on, and coordinates were displayed. “That’s how you did it. That’s how you survived those zombies aboard the ship. You’ve been injecting yourself with the necromone serum.”

  “What are you talking about?” Jef asked. “Stop dickin’ around. Let’s just leave him to the zombies and you and I make a run for it.”

  “Nope,” Tom replied, not taking his eyes off of Fleming. “I made that mistake once before. He’s injected himself with a necromone serum that makes him impervious to zombies. He even did it to me once, like they do with those sleeper soldiers so they can walk among the zombies.”

  “I’ll be damned.” Jef contemplated a moment. “I thought I knew everything that was going on around here. So, it’s like a cure or something?”