Free Dead Wrangler by Justin Coke Page B

with a minimum of drama. Once they gave the ok, the decoys took off in any direction except the one they really wanted. Then they looped back to base once they lost the bulk of their zombie tail.
    That was the plan as it was explained to him by Sergeant Andrews. His complaints about the bolt action Russian rifle she had given him were ignored. She pointed out that if he wanted more than twenty rounds of ammo, he could go find some on his own. It didn't seem like a stupid plan, and he was in the military now so there was fuck all he could do if it had been. So he sat in the back seat of the Hummer as it left the gate, now studded by machine guns and a flamethrower or two. The perimeter gate was kept white-glove clean; no zombies were allowed to build up. Some of the other prisoners’ whole job was to patrol the chain link fence for lurkers and give them a quick stab in the eye with a short spear. Ammo was not to be used except in an emergency.
    "The army is going green," Sgt. Andrews like to joke. "Now we're all about weapons with a low carbon footprint."
    It wasn't a good joke, but Sgt. Andrews said it at least twice a day, and laughed harder each time.
    James could recognize an anxiety joke when he heard it. She was scared. Six months ago the Army had a budget of six hundred and fifty billion dollars. Now it struggled to keep people supplied with bullets, like some tinpot dictator. Not a good sign.
    Outside of the gates James felt very strange. He couldn't separate the shock he felt leaving prison from the shock he was pretty sure he should be feeling at seeing what he was seeing.
    Figures stumbled at the end of empty fields whose crops had fallen to the ground unharvested and now were turning to rot. The roads were empty except for broken down cars, many with bodies inside. Some of them looked him in the eye with the same look of hunger he had seen in Dick's eyes before he caved in his skull.
    It was quiet. Not prison quiet, where there was always some mumbling or electric hum so constant you tuned it out. This was quiet. There was the noise of the Hummer, and that was it. No planes, no horns, no cars. No hum of civilization. It was like being in miles on some nature trail no one had used in weeks. Pure quiet.
    His heart was racing and he focused his eyes on his feet. He wanted to be back behind the fence, back in his cell with the door locked. This was not what he wanted, this was not how he was supposed to get out. He was supposed to go to a party with his family at Chuck E. Cheese, then go back to his basement room at his mother’s house. The open spaces unfolded into infinity, an infinity of gibbering cannibal monsters. The empty fields and trees were full of menace, and here they were voluntarily driving out into that hostile void!
    Sweat beaded on his brow and he began muttering something. He didn't even know what he was saying but it was half prayer, half begging to go back to jail.
    The Air Defense guys hadn't been too happy either, but he became aware they were looking at him with contempt. He tried to straighten up and pretend he wasn't afraid. He did keep his eyes in front, and he ignored everything he could. He kept his eyes down even when the other men stared at something with horrified fascination. Even when something snarled and smacked a bloody hand on the windshield. Even when the truck rolled over something that made a vomitous crackling squishy noise. Even then.
    After what seemed to be forever, they broke off from the other Hummer and Stryker and headed up a gravel road. A farmhouse was exhibiting an unusual concentration of zombies, a red flag for real humans trapped inside. They ended up in a field with a few nonplussed cows. He could see a milling crowd, but at this distance it was hard to distinguish individuals. They cranked up "We Built This City" and started waving their arms and shouting.
    The response was immediate. The crowd around the house atomized and they began heading their way. His