The Martialist: The Magazine For Those Who Fight Unfairly

White Fire, Part 06

By Lawrence Keeney -- Presented Unedited, Verbatim, as Written

March 2005, Palm Bay, Florida

The first time Roland Toth ever shot another human being, it didn’t quite work out as he imagined it would. It was the day everything started going to hell.

Roland was a NASA engineer who worked on optics for the space agency. He had moved to the sunburn state from his home in West Virginia some thirty years ago with big dreams. He wanted to be one of the guys who epitomized the “Right Stuff.” The guys in the white shirts who solved massive problems for the space program at short notice, and came out looking like heroes. It happened with him a couple of times, but lately, with budget cuts and two major accidents, the space agency was virtually at a standstill. Roland was reduced to designing long range optical sights for aircraft. Important to be sure, these devices allowed chase planes to keep an eye on the space shuttle from up to thirty miles down range. However, he couldn’t help but think it just wasn’t like the old days.

That fateful day, he and his friends heard many frenzied reports of everyday folks going crazy and killing their neighbors. Toth figured it was some kind of illegal drug that was laced with rat poison or something. The mild-mannered man of science didn’t believe in monsters. He knew there had to be some logical explanation or something. Certainly, it wasn't the walking dead. It couldn’t be, could it?

Checking out early that Friday, as he headed for the gate of Cape Canaveral, Roland saw lines of heavily armed Air Force Security Policemen lining the fence. They were locked and loaded, belts of ammunition in their 50 caliber machine guns, and magazines in their rifles. The main guard shack didn’t want to open the gate, but he begged and pleaded and looked sad enough that the young serviceman took pity on him. “Be careful sir, “ the young man cautioned. “We don’t know what the fuck is going on out there.”

The streets of Cocoa Beach were clogged with wrecked cars, trucks and other delivery vehicles. At an intersection, Roland saw an overturned ambulance with the back doors splayed open. He could see a female patient in just a hospital gown locked in struggle with a paramedic. The woman seemed to be chewing on his neck, and blood was spraying in all directions. What the hell was happening? A confused Florida State Trooper fired a shotgun into the ambulance, and suddenly, Roland knew it was time to get home. He hit the cell phone speed dial button and got his wife Maria on the second
Ring.

“Roland, there is some crazy man out across the street fighting with Manuel, and he’s got him down in the ground doing something to him. Where are you?” Manuel was their Cuban neighbor, a bull of a man, was a construction worker and sometime kick boxer. “I’m a few minutes out honey, you got your gun?” His wife came to firearms late in life, but took to all sorts of revolvers after a break in next door. “I’ve got my 357. And I want to get the shotgun, but get your ass home, I’m scared.”

As he turned into Galley Circle, Roland saw something he had never seen before. Two bloody, older men had his neighbor on the ground, and seemed to be trying to tear his arms off. He grabbed his Glock 26 out of the center console of his truck, and sprinted for the front door. One of the attackers looked up at the running man, and tried to get up and pursue. However, the being promptly fell down, as his leg was broken or hanging limp. Roland made it into the door, and sprinted for the bedroom. “Get some food and water and head for the safe room honey, grab the shotgun and the shells too. Take them ALL.”

Jerking open his gun closet, Roland grabbed his Marlin 45-70 Guide gun and a belt of ammo. He bought the large bore lever action rifle in anticipation of a chance to hunt feral hogs in the Everglades. A trip that never materialized, the man was glad to the rifle now. As he shoved the long, copper rounds into the magazine, Roland watched the lunatics across the street and wondered how long it would be before they attacked his house.

Pulling the caps off his Redfield Scout Scope, Roland jacked a 500 grain Buffalo Bore handload into the chamber and sighted out a crack in the screen door at what he thought was the most violent of the crazy killers. His chosen target was a large, black man. The goblin wore green work pants and a torn green work shirt with one sleeve torn off. The killer knelt over his victim ripping at the woman’s throat, oblivious to his soon-to-be violent demise.

Come on fucker; stick your head up, Roland thought as he sighted in on the man. The killer raised his head, and it seemed as though he looked right at him with dead eyes. Roland put the crosshairs on his foes chest, just below his neck, right around his breastbone, and squeezed the trigger. The recoil was stout, but he didn’t notice. The round traveled the seventy yards across the street in an instant and hammered the glassy-eyed killer. The bullet passed through the thing’s chest, and an arterial spray could be seen in Roland’s scope. The lead missile screamed on downrange, shattering the side windows of a Ford Freestar van before coming to rest in a fence post. He was dead. By God, he had to be. Didn’t he?

The shooter could feel his heart beating like a bass drum in his chest as he fired. Roland was a small man, and smoked way too much. On a good day, He was not an athlete, and today the stress of shooting what he thought was another human being was almost more than he could bear. And yet, the goblin had attacked and slain his friend. The man who had slipped him fine counterfeit Cuban cigars over the years and brought over tasty, rich, deserts on holidays was surely dead. For no apparent reason, he kept his eye on the target through the scope for ten additional seconds. What he saw would haunt him for some time to come.

The dead man’s feet, one of which was bare, and the other, which was clad in a ratty tennis shoe, started to move. One foot flopped up and down a few times, then the right leg bent. Within a second or two, as if he were terribly drunk, the zombie started to rise. One leg, then another bent, and the figure was on its knees, showing its back to Roland. Through the scope, the man could see a massive hole in its back. In any normal situation, a paramedic would be zipping the body into a bag, and homicide detectives would begin collecting information and interrogating suspects. Today, there would be no such intervention. Roland was on his own.

The undead figure grabbed at a streetlight to stand up, and eventually righted itself. Roland, knowing this wasn’t right, and thinking back to the news reports of dead people rising, suddenly changed his mindset. He knew he had to put this thing down.

Suddenly, his dozen or so tactical shooting classes and the knowledge within kicked in. Ok, he didn’t go down. What do I do now? Mozambique drill…Mozambique. Roland jacked a new round into the chamber of his Marlin and got back on target. He sighted between the eyes of the now-dead stranger, focusing on the thing’s torn nose. When the target was clear, the man fired. The big game bullet blasted across the street and struck the zombie’s head right where Roland aimed. Whether he had shot the thing in the nose, or the chin, it didn’t matter, the head exploded in a spray of brown and red. The human that once was, had been released from torment.

While focusing on the one goblin, Roland had lost sight of two other undead who were also feasting on his friend. A dead, elderly woman, dressed in a torn pink housecoat, with her neck torn out, was within twenty feet of him, and would be on him soon. An explosion suddenly deafened him, over his head, and something hot went down the back of his shirt.

“Get away from my husband, you BITCH,” Maria screamed to no one in particular, as she fired her 12 GA. Remington 870-riot gun at the female goblin. As she fired the shotgun, she pumped the action, fired again, and repeated the action. Hot, empty shot shell casings rained down on her husband. Damn, he thought, she DOES know how to shoot. The female zombie went down in front of his wife’s car, and he was surprised to momentarily focus on the dead woman’s feet. They were clad in blood stained formerly white bunny slippers. He looked up at the white picket fence next to the car, and the massive smear of blood and brains that was oozing down the side and had a funny thought. How the hell am I gonna get that stain off there?

The final zombie as far as they knew had managed to crawl, and limp across the yard and into the street. He did this as the same time as a Melbourne Fire Rescue attack pumper came screaming down the street, and ran over the zombie, throwing it’s body under the wheels of the truck. The momentum of the 20-ton rescue vehicle caused the head of the dead thing to slip under the rear wheels, flattening the zombie’s skull. For some reason Roland never discovered the truck kept going, and turned north, sirens wailing like a frightened child.

From the moment Roland grabbed his rifle, to the death of the last of the zombie pack, the encounter spanned less than four minutes.

As the couple slammed barred security doors shut, locked them, grabbed supplies, and headed for the safe room, Roland Toth wasn’t sure what he, and his wife would do next.

March 15, 2005, Palm Bay, Florida

Roland Toth and his wife spent the preceeding five days hiding in their safe room not sure exactly what their next move would be. The safe room was build around an interior spare bedroom they had never used. He and some friends had designed strong doors and walls in an effort to make a room Toth and his wife could retreat to in the event they were unable to bug out during a hurricane. The room was very comfortable, with bathroom, television, and radio. The television anchormen from his area stations became more concerned and frantic as the hours ticked away. One by one, the various local stations disappeared from the air, with technical difficulty notices on the screen.

Ladies and gentlemen, authorities, including Governor Bush’s office, have informed this reporter that the instances of crazed citizens attacking and murdering their friends and neighbors have lessened. This station is, however, monitoring police radio traffic, and has discovered just the opposite. Police on Melbourne Beach, for instance, are reported to be battling crowds of what they describe as insane persons. They were forced to shoot and kill many of these subjects, but report the attackers are getting back up, seemingly unaffected by the bullet wounds.

Just moments after that report, the reporters seemed to become animated, and shots rang out in the studio. The main studio camera seemed to spin around, and screams were heard. No further reports were heard from Florida Coast News Channel. Fox News switched moved their studios from Washington to Edwards Air Force Base.

We can report the following cities seem to have severed contact with the outside world, The Fox News reporter noted. Seattle, Roanoke, Cincinnatti, Newark, and no major city in California can be contacted by authorities. Other major metropolitan areas report pitched battles with assailants who seem to be immune to bullets. Let’s check in with reporter Rob Margolin, who is imbedded with units of the 82nd Airborne division outside Little Rock, Arkansas, Rob, are you there?

The reporter, who seemed very concerned, was reporting from the top of a Home Depot on the outskirts of Little Rock. As his cameraman panned around, jittery soldiers could be seen firing rifles at the undead, who were standing in the parking lot, looking up at the defenders, unaware that they could be killed. An A-10 Warthog jet screamed over and fired its cannon at a group of the zombies. The BUDDAH BOOM of the gatling gun was deafening, even a half-mile away. The camera picked up the explosion of the cannon shells vaporizing a group of undead, who, a scant five days earlier, had been alive, and healthy.

Laurie, this is Rob, the soldiers protecting us have said we cannot hold this position for much longer, and a helicopter is on the way to pick us up. These brave men and women are scared, it’s clear. Five minutes ago, a specialist from Taos, New Mexico, who I interviewed yesterday, accidentally fell off the roof in the midst of these attackers. Laurie, it is difficult for me to adequately describe what these subjects did to that great young man. All I can say is, I hope he didn’t suffer for long. I can tell you one thing, and this fact needs to be emphasized to our viewers. If they are able to obtain firearms, our viewers are urged to shoot the attackers in the head. Try and shoot between the eyes, soldiers tell us. The attackers seem to be immune to injury to any gunshot wounds anywhere else other than the brain area. This reporter was given a 9mm pistol and is prepared to shoot if necessary. Laurie, I don’t want to shoot anyone, but I also want to get home to my family.

The next morning, Maria turned on their television, and all channels seemed to either be off the air, or running emergency broadcast system messages, over and over. Sporatic gunfire erupted throughout their neighborhood the next day, and occasionally, one vehicle, or another, could be heard speeding down their street. The couple slept, prayed, and wondered what to do next.

According to his watch, Roland determined it was two days since the madness began. For two hours, he listened for noises outside the safe room door, and wondered if anyone, or anything had entered. Finally, boredom and curiosity caused them to make a plan. “Ok honey, we need to get out of here, don’t you think,” he asked his wife. “What if one of those damn things are outside the door? What if a dozen of them are out there?” He really didn’t think anything was in the house but them. However, there was no reason to take chances. He loaded both of their shotguns, his AK-47, and her SKS. Their Surefire lights were working, and as a last resort, his machete was propped up against the wall. They, of course, were carrying their handguns. Burt Gummer didn’t have anything on the Toth family in terms of being prepared.

The process of opening the door was tense and slow. As the last lock was turned and he twisted the doorknob, the engineer had his Kimber 1911 in hand, with his index finger on the switch of the attached tactical light. The long hall to their secure room was dark, and the aroma ripe with the smell of a Florida home that hadn’t run air conditioning for two days. It was deathly quiet as well. He holstered his handgun and transitioned to his 870. Flipping on the attached tactical light, Roland crept down the hall, his wife right behind him. She clutched his AK, finger on the trigger, sweeping the two rooms to their left. So far, so good. At the end of the hall, to the left, was their living room. The patio door lay at the end of that. The couple’s feet were soundless on their tile floor.

What they saw sent chills through the couple. Across the yard, and on the other side of their fence, Roland saw black smoke, lots of it. The wooded area behind their home was ablaze. A house has caught fire, and there’s no one to put it out, he thought. We have to get outta here, and fast.

“Get your medicine and pack us whatever food we have, it’s time to leave. I’ll get the guns,” he told his wife. “We need to leave, like right now.” Within twenty minutes, the pair were ready to move. Roland bypassed the question of what to pack by pretty much emptying the contents of his dresser drawers into three large duffles. Along with those, he took the family sleeping bags and other creature comforts, like four bottles of scotch. Hey, if nothing else, we will have something to put us to sleep at night.

The couple chose their weapons carefully. Roland took both his 9mm Glocks, his custom Wilson 1911 and Colt Trooper. They both took their shotguns, a Ruger 10-22, and his AK.

Roland’s 2005 Ford F-350 duelly pickup truck was originally designed for construction company superintendents or people pulling horse trailers. It was a huge truck, but due to the diesel engine and twin 40-gallon fuel tanks, the vehicle had a six hundred-mile range. The club cab second set of seats was comfortable enough to sleep in, and since most motels were not closed permanently due to all the customers being flesh-eating zombies, their accommodations were limited.

They would sleep in shifts. West Virginia wasn’t that far, they could make it in 14 hours, if they could get some more Diesel along the way.