The Martialist: The Magazine For Those Who Fight Unfairly

It was truly a hell of a way to celebrate the nation’s 229 Th
birthday. Elements of the 1st. Marine Division (what was left of them),
Virginia State Police, and hastily formed groups of armed citizens were
on their 5th day of the so far fruitless attempt to retake the District
of Columbia from the undead. From the moment the forces crossed into
the district, their armored vehicles were besieged by an onslaught of
zombies. The dead souls gathered in crowds so thick the vehicles had to
drive through and over them. Large tires crushed skulls and the mangled
bodies of the not so dead were caught in the undercarriages of trucks,
tanks and Striker Assault Vehicles.  Taking a cue from the Iraq
war, Marines welded pieces of scrap steel to all vulnerable areas of
their vehicles. The scrap metal was scavenged from whatever was
available. It didn’t look pretty, but it worked.

The most normal of all the vehicles was a fleet of five Ford vans.
These normal vans were in fact very secure, being formerly used by a
security company to pick up money deliveries from local businesses.
They were lined with bullet resistant fabric, hard steel doors, which
could be secured from inside the vehicle, and shatter resistant glass.
The vans had firing ports in the top and sides, which would be used
extensively during this operation. Three man teams rode in the vans,
ready at a moment’s notice to rescue any confirmed living beings.
Overhead, three “Little Bird” observation helicopters flew
cover. On numerous occasions, the choppers picked up survivors hiding
on the roofs of hotels and government buildings.  The pilots were
able to rescue only fourteen living beings from the city during this
operation.

A D.C. police officer and his family, who had moved from building to
building over the past few months, scavenging what they could and
narrowly averting death on several occasions were rescued that evening.
The officer, his wife, and two teenage sons were all armed with
machetes, baseball bats, and at least one very expensive samurai sword.
The ammunition in Officer Robert Washington’s Glock 22 had run
out within hours of the initial zombie appearance, but the family
continued fighting. “I had my cruiser shotgun and a trap gun I
kept at home,” He told soldiers later.  “My son and I
went through a case of skeet and trap shotgun shells during the first
two days. We finally figured it was better to hit those things in the
head with bats and hammers and machetes. After a while, it got easier
to do. I saw several of my friends and brother officers turned, and
ended up taking a couple of them out myself.” The family
eventually broke into the D.C. Office of Homeland Security, where they
were able to steal boxes of flashlights, survival rations and bottled
water. They barricaded the doors and moved to the top of the building,
where the family lived until being rescued.

Independence Day 2005, Boone County

As I write this, we are all pretty sure it is July 4. 
Regretfully, it’s far too dangerous to plan any sort of
celebration that involves the use of fireworks. The risk of drawing the
undead is too great. Late yesterday, several of us were helping put up
a new radio antenna when we heard a series of explosions. The loud
sequence of thuds erupted far south of here. It was dark enough to see
several bright flashes at what one of us thought was about 20 miles
away. “I was on the ground in Afghanistan during the first weeks
of the war,” former Army Ranger Sam Elkins said. ” You
could tell how far the bombs were dropping then, and it’s no
different now. Someone is dropping bombs somewhere down the
corridor.”

What was going on, and who was doing it, I wondered. Explosions are
usually a result of live human actions. Nearly every day someone here
sees jets flying over. Why the explosions happened, that’s the
question. I made a note to talk to the sheriff about it tomorrow to
organize an expedition down the highways for a look see. My father and
I lived in the Quick Express bonded warehouse at the edge of Court
Street. The building is a very secure building where deliverymen parked
and dropped off secure packages for the mining industry. Steel doors
and secure locks made zombie defense easy.  You just pressed a
button, the doors opened, and you drove right in. The second floor had
showers, sleeping rooms and lounge areas with large windows we could
open up in case the need to shoot at the undead below presented itself.

When I started to climb the stairs, Dad appeared, clad in just his
boxers and cradling a no-loner illegal Model 1928 Thompson Sub Machine
gun. “Shit son, whistle or something, will ya, you about scared
me half to death,” He said. “You made me stop my game, and
it was getting good.” Lately, my sixty-nine year old dad had
discovered the joys of X Box. He went around town all day long carrying
either a shotgun or a Tommy gun, along with a Colt 45, and what does he
want to do in the evenings? He plays games called Grand Theft
Auto,  Bloodrayne, and Resident Evil. It was truly a strange New
World.

July 5, 2005, 06:30

I was immersed in a hot dream. Angelina Jolie and I were in the midst
of exploring the mystery that is the Kama Sutra when my body was jerked
back into reality by a heavy, loud vibration. One look out the window
made me realize it was a trio of helicopters circling the Town Square,
looking for a place to land. I jumped up, put on my shoes, grabbing my
weapons on the fly and sped off in my truck. While two attack choppers
circled overhead, a Marine CH-53 helicopter touched down on the
courthouse lawn. A hatch opened and a lone Marine officer surrounded by
a rifle company climbed out. “Folks, we’ve got
trouble,” Captain Rob Watson said.

Over coffee and cigars, the officer laid it out for us. Two nights ago,
a military aircraft had dropped cluster bombs on a crowd of the undead
south of here. “We thinned the herd considerably, but there are
still at least a couple hundred more on the way,” Watson told us.
“The thing is, the storms have kept us from conducting any more
patrols. So, there could be two hundred or two thousand, no one knows
for sure.”

Bravo Command, located in the bunker at Yeager Airport, sent the
captain to urge us to pack up and bug out to more defensible ground
very soon. “We can cover your escape with Cobra gunshots, but the
fighter planes come from Virginia, and they won’t come down here
until the storm system from that damn hurricane passes through. 
Do you good folks have a fall back location figured out?” As a
matter of fact we did.

Bolt Mountain Coal Company operated a strip mine on what
else…Bolt Mountain.  It was a 1,200-acre site overlooking
three counties. The mine had a dozen buildings with barracks to serve
700 miners. Bolt Mountain had a self-contained coal fired power plant
and enough water to serve a city of 20,000. It was truly a marvel of
engineering. Along hangar with a small airfield and 4,000 foot runway,
it had two Cessna aircraft. The problem was, our only pilot had been
bitten by a zombie a month earlier, and was long dead. Security for the
site was limited to a ten-foot high-electrified fence that encircled
the plant. Being that the plant was on a mountain, there were only two
roads into the facility, which made it easier to defend.

Ideally, it was the perfect bug out site.  Buildings for people to
live in, electric service to provide at least a few creature comforts
for our charges, and plenty of water. On top of that, there was ample
forest area filled with game animals to hunt. We had many hunters who
would smile at the end of game laws. See a deer; shoot a deer that was
the new law.  Seven hundred plus souls could live at Bolt Mountain
with some comfort, but would they agree?

Less than an hour later a team of us were blasting along over the
treetops of the Pond Fork area on the way to Bolt Mountain.  It
was a ten-minute flight, but the Marine crew was obviously nervous. The
farther away they traveled from the sanctuary of Yeager the less they
liked it. One malfunction, one second of pilot error, and the chopper
could go down in enemy territory. One Marine, peering out one of the
windows spotted a Black Bear walking through a farmer’s field and
his faced changed from one of grim determination to that of a child
filled with wonder. “I’m from New Jersey man, where would I
see a bear,” he joked.

As the choppers circled the facility, one of the gunners spotted two of
the undead stumbling out from under an overturned Ford truck.
“Hostile, hostile, spotted off the port side,” the Marine
shouted over the intercom system. “Zap the fucker Mongo, weapons
free.” The pilot ordered. Before I could even process the order
in my mind, a loud BRRRAP emanated from the mini gun and I was
immediately pelted with a seemingly unending spray of red hot brass
casings. The zombie, and his unfortunate partner that the gunner
didn’t immediately spot, disappeared in a dingy red mist.

After tense half-hours of room clearing, the Marines and our deputies
declared the buildings free of undead. The buildings themselves were
fairly undamaged and the power plant still seemed to be running.
“We found a whole warehouse full of canned goods and supplies
over there,” the captain reported. “This is a good place
for your people, I say go for it.  We can drop you some crates of
ammo and food, and as long as we are able, your people will get
supplies, The United States Marine Corps won’t let you
down.”

July 5, 2005, 16:00

The courtroom of the Boone County Courthouse was full of residents
called for a special meeting. Snipers vigilantly watching for the
undead were places on the building’s roof, and a Marine Super
Cobra circled Madison, ready to blast zombies at a moment’s
notice. The sheriff stood up, approaching the podium and tapping the
microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, I have some news.”

After shock and anger changed to fear and acceptance, the residents
returned to their homes in a frenzied attempt to pack on the fly.
“Remember the most important rule,” the sheriff reminded
everyone. “We may be gone for a while, so pack for fall weather.
In fact, pack for cold weather. Also take any medicine or medical
supplies you might need. And for God’s sake, take all your
guns.”

By six the next morning, a convoy began to form. Ten school buses,
dozens of passenger cars and over-filled pickup trucks towing campers
slid into line. The owner of a local Yamaha dealer was driving a car
carrier loaded with two dozen all terrain vehicles. I had to admit,
that addition was good thinking. We would probably need them to patrol
the property. Over at the rail yard, a CXL train was powering up. It
was towing nine cars loaded down with lumber and building supplies. It
would probably be waiting for us when we arrived at the complex.

Two hours later, the convoy was getting ready to move. It contained
over 120 vehicles, including motor homes, construction machines, police
cars, ambulances and a dozen bread trucks. “Ronnie, I think we
are about ready to roll,” I said to the sheriff over the radio.
“Wait, stand by a minute, something’s wrong here.”

  Two people were running down Court Street toward the convoy,
waving their arms and yelling. Behind them, four of the undead were
pursuing them really fast. Wait, were they.. These damn things were
running. When the fuck did they learn to do this?

 “All units, all stations, be advised there are hostiles on
Court Street. Be advised, the hostiles seem to be running, or at least
moving damn fast. All units on alert. Protect the
civilians.”  The fleeing civilians climbed to the top of one
our vehicles, and one of them began popping away with a revolver. One
of them, didn’t quite make the climb, slipped, and fell. Within a
second, two zombies pounced on the woman and began to tear into her.
Her blood-curdling scream pierced the calm around the convoy and
stopped when her throat was torn out.  My dad and three other guys
came down the stars opened up. Five more undead joined their friends
and our team opened fire. One guy started popping away with a scoped
M-1 Carbine, but was drowned out by dear old dad. Four, five and six
round bursts from his Thompson seemed to bowl the undead souls over
like so many bloody tenpins. “Back up boys,” dad screamed.
The shooters backed around the corner and my father fast-pitched three
Marine supplied fragmentation grenades around the corner. Three loud
claps of thunder followed, along with the breaking of windows on most
of the street.

He said, “Move out, clean this shit up.” After leaning his
Thompson against the way,” Dad drew his Gold Cup and moved around
the corner, with the shooters close behind. Two of the undead were
still moving. Cleve Nelson shot one of them between the eyes with his
revolver and my father ended the torture of the remaining zombie the
same way. At the end of the street, the team spotted a family of four,
heading for our convoy. They almost made it, until the family car ran
out of gas. “This shit never gets any easier,” dad noted
over the radio to no one in particular.

Ten minutes later, as everyone was starting up and moving out, my dad
climbed into the passenger seat of our Hummer. I patted him on the
shoulder and asked, “Ready to go pop?” He took a long drink
from his flask and began to pontificate in the manner he did after a
drink or two. “Son, I’ve seen a lot of strange stuff in my
life. I’ve been to the war, seen floods, and fires. Hell, one
time I even saw a dog try to fuck a cat. But I’ve got to say this
one thing.” He played with his snow-white goatee and though for a
minute, took another drink of whiskey and looked right at me.
“Zombies man…those nasty mother fuckers creep me
out.” His grin got bigger and he began to laugh.

“Me too dad,” I agreed. “Me too.”