Free The Neuropathology Of Zombies by Peter Cummings

provided a needed boost to our morale.
By now all the Marines were watching with binoculars. “What’s he saying?” asked one of the men. “He keeps pointing at something, what is it...”
A few minutes had passed when one of the Marines said, “Where did they go?”
His words had no more than left his mouth before someone yelled, “What the fuck is he doing? What the fuck is he doing?”
I snapped to attention and my smile faded. I squinted, struggling to see the other building with my unaided eyes. I could make out the movement of the front door and saw the top of a dark haired head quickly darting in and out of view.
“Don’t even think about it you asshole!” someone yelled. “Quick, get down to the loading dock, I think they are going to try and make a run for it! Fuck! Get ready to cover them!”
Four Marines ran for the exit. I watched them disappear down the stairs and then turned back to the street with a feeling of dread and despair.
Before I could refocus on the actions of our strangers, a Marine yelled “Cover!” and the air erupted with gunfire.
Below us I saw two people running across the street towards the loading dock beneath us. Several of the Driftwood took notice of the stranger’s rapid movements and began to lift their arms, grasping at the escapees. The strangers continued to run, swinging their fists at the attacking horde.
The bodies of the Driftwood exploded as they filled with fully jacketed metal bullets, the black goo that had replaced their blood streamed through the air around them like an aura. The barrage of projectiles did little to slow the swarm. Several creatures fell to the ground, but got up as if nothing had happened. One Driftwood was nearly cut in half by a stream of automatic rifle fire; it fell in the middle of the street and dragged its mangled torso along the pavement leaving behind a dark, oily trail as it pursued the escaping prey.
It was impossible to place accurate head shots on all of the Driftwood because their numbers were so large. Instead, the Marines opted to flood the street with bullets. They swung their machine guns back and forth, hoping to strike a bull’s eye.
When a head was struck, it exploded like a bursting water balloon, sending skull fragments and pieces of brain into the sky. With the head destroyed, the Driftwood fell to the ground motionless. The constant stream of bullets took 20 or 30 of the creatures out, but they just kept coming. The came from the surrounding streets, from alley ways, out of abandon stores, they just kept coming.
Soon the strangers were surrounded, and I lost sight of them in a sea of Driftwood. The pack of hungry zombies were howling and screaming with their arms flailing, all trying to push their way to the center of the feeding frenzy. After a few seconds the middle of the mob turned bright red and I saw several of the monsters hoisting various human organs into the sky before thrusting the meat into their starving mouths. The movement of the group became more frantic as the smell of blood wafted around them.
“Take them all out, mother fuckers!” a Marine screamed. The volume of gun fire increased, or it seemed to, if it that was possible.
One of the Marines pulled out a grenade, but a higher ranking officer beside him shook his head and said, “No, you’ll blow out the windows under us, we can’t risk that. They’re gone, there’s nothing more we can do.”
I didn’t notice the silence at first, but when I did, I became uncomfortable. Everyone stood still, feeling impotent and infuriated as we watched the Driftwood continue to consume the strangers. There was nothing else we could do. I stared at the scene in front of me, not believing what I had just witnessed.
“We’re fucked,” stated a Marine, defeated.
“Well, we’re in a lot of trouble, that’s for sure,” I replied. “A lot of trouble.”
Climbing into the helicopter seemed surreal and I was numb from what had just happened. My mind was lost in