John F. Holmes

as Nick Agostine

EVEN ZOMBIE KILLERS GET THE BLUES

Dedicated to all our brothers and sisters who never came home. We won’t forget you, ever.

PART I

Chapter 1

“You know what sucks about the Zombie Apocalypse?” Brit did her obnoxious eye roll at me. Another profound thought from our fearless leader. She humored me, though, and asked.

“What sucks, oh fearless leader whom I have seen piss his pants from fear?” Sometimes her sarcasm annoys the crap out of me. She sat picking at a piece of MRE cracker in her teeth. She was wearing dirty army ACUs, stained from weeks out in the field, her long red hair tied up under her helmet, blue eyes contrasting with the dirt on her face.

“Toilet paper, or the lack of it. That’s what sucks most about the Zombie Apocalypse. All those books we used to read, and movies, that stupid TV show, and never once did any of them mention that mice and bugs would eat all the toilet paper, and the survivors would have to make due with rags and whatnot.”

“And whatnot? What the eff are you now, Shakespeare?” Again, with the sarcasm when I’m trying to hold forth on a serious subject. The firelight played across the smart-alecky grin on her face, the shadows mixing with the dust we all had on us from today’s patrol.

She turned to Jacob, who sat with his back to the fire, watching the stars through the hole in the roof of the old farmhouse. “Jake, in this dream you’re having, why don’t we have toilet paper?”

He ignored her, knowing better than to engage Brit when she was in one of her moods, and kept staring at the stars. I knew what he was watching for. The Space Station, passing overhead, beautiful and dead.

“Leave him alone, Brit. He’s pulled his weight so far on this patrol.”

“It just creeps me out. I mean, why does he get to hide in unreality and I am stuck dealing with reality?”

“You creep me out. A vegetarian zombie slayer. Disgusting. Jake can’t help what’s going on in his head. You being retarded and not eating meat is a sick lifestyle choice. By the way, that MRE cracker you just ate is made from used animal byproducts.” To emphasize it, I took a big bite out of the squirrel that I had been roasting on the fire. She shot me a disgusted look and continued to wolf down her hummus.

Jake turned back to the fire. “How can I explain what goes on in my dream? Someday I’m going to wake up and who knows if I’ll even remember this? I think I’m in a coma, and I’m not going to ever wake up. In which case, Brit, you’re stuck with me.”

Brit stared at him for a minute. Jake had joined the patrol yesterday in Waterford, dumped on us by the FEMA idiots. He seemed OK, had been on the ball so far, but every now and then he just got a spacey look.

“Jake, you really believe this is just a dream.”

“Yup.”

“Really? I have to sit here and watch some grubby pig gnaw on a squirrel because you’re dreaming it? How about you dream me back to college or something, where I can be getting laid by some football player on nice clean sheets? With fluffy pillows all around and nice silk things to wear instead of a nasty five day-old uniform?”

Jake sighed. “It’s like this, Britnney. People don’t rise from the dead. It’s impossible. Can’t happen. Once you are dead, you’re dead. So I’m dreaming this. Or more like I’m having a nightmare. Maybe I was in a car accident or something. I dunno. Hopefully I wake up soon, my wife will be snoring next to me in bed and my kids will be fighting downstairs over the TV. This is just a really long-ass nightmare.”

People lost everything. I lost my family. My wife, my daughter. Hell, I had to beat my wife’s head in with my rifle butt when she came after me, blazing red Zombie eyes, trying to bite my head off. Millions, maybe billions have died, and now we’re living in some Mad Max kinda freaky world. This is just Jacob’s way of dealing with it without going totally insane. He really thinks he’s dreaming this whole thing. What I’m worried about: At some crucial moment, he’s going to realize this isn’t a dream and lose it right then and there. I might have to put a bullet in him then, because this is not the world I would want to wake up to.

“I got yer reality right here, Jacob.” With that, Brit leaned to one side and let one rip.

“Careful doing that close to the fire. You’ll get burned.”

“Haha, pig.”

“OK, Jacob. You’re on the next watch, two hours with Brit relieving Jonesy one hour from now. You know the Zs might come. If they do, you know the rules. Wake one other person; and try to take them out silently. We don’t need to have some howling screaming shit waking up every Z in the neighborhood. Come on, Brit, I know this is a safe house, but let’s check the basement one more time before lights out.”

Jacob went through the routine of checking his gear. As a scout, your gear stays next to you or on you at all times, even in a safehouse. We stand guard with our packs on our backs because you never, ever know when things are going to go to shit and you will have to run for it. Then your ass is out in the wilderness, with help dozens of miles away, zombies and wild animals roaming the woods and deserted towns, and nothing to save yourself except what you have on you. I’ve been there, alone in the dark. It’s damned scary. Hammock, rope, water filter, two MREs, extra ammo, compass, multi-tool, poncho, lighter, small .22 caliber revolver, signal flare. All fit into a small pack that you didn’t touch unless you really needed it. They can and will save your life.

Brit ran the crank on her light and I flicked the safety off my M-4. Her job, behind me, was to keep the light where I needed it. She might be a vegetarian smartass with a sex drive like a Mack truck, but she was my partner. We headed down the stairs to the basement.

I had called this a “safehouse” and hopefully it was. To us a safehouse was usually an old stone farmhouse which we had used before. Whenever we got a chance, we pulled stone from the second floor and bricked up the windows. The front door was barricaded lumber ripped from the walls, overlapped and hammered into place. Upstairs, there were two coiled ropes for making a quick getaway, one with a grapnel hook we could use to catch into a nearby tree. We could hold out here for as long as our water lasted, but once a Z showed up, they started screaming and more and more would come from miles around. The Army actually ran missions where they would fort up in a place like this, bring in pallets of ammo, spend days shooting everything that showed up and then clear out by helo. They did that when they wanted to clear an area for “resettlement” or needed to salvage something from a nearby site.

Not for us Scouts. We walked by day to objectives we were told to check out. We lived outside the wire in our own fortresses. Ours was in Stillwater, on an island in the Hudson River. We had barricaded the two bridges and lived in the house on the island between them. Zs don’t like the water. They can’t swim but they do fall in the water sometimes and get dragged along the bottom by the current, washing up somewhere downstream. To guard against that we’ve built a six foot- high wall around the house, and we’re trying to grow our own food. Nothing like the Fobbits that lived in the Army base downriver or the pogs that lived (existed?) in the FEMA camps outside Buffalo, working the fields.

Last time were we were in this particular house was about two months ago, scouting upriver to see what remained of the hydroelectric plant in Glens Falls. Our mission this time was to check the locks on the canal system and report back to the Army Engineers on them. We had cleared this place, taking it in a quick rush through the door just before sunset, when the Zs were least active. I had killed two with my shotgun on the second floor. I was just relaxing and shoving shells into the magazine when one had jumped on me from the hole in the roof. That was when I pissed my pants. Brit would never let me forget it. She about knocked both our heads off with the baseball bat and had kept a gun on me for more than an hour to see if I had been infected. I laugh about it now, but right then? It had literally scared the piss out of me.

The stairs creaked as we walked down. In the movies, this was the time when they would build up suspense, and let me tell you, they were spot-on right. I had that twist in my gut that made me feel like I wanted to puke and I was sweating my ass off. It didn’t go away until we had cased out the whole basement. We’d found nothing there except two old skeletons, which I knew were there from last time. We ignored them, since the real dead held no terror for us anymore.

Chapter 2

Brit shook me awake at 2 AM for my watch. “Get up, squirrel breath,” she whispered, then stuck her tongue in my ear. I almost jumped out of the sleeping bag. It was frigging cold as shit despite being early May, and I jogged around for a bit to get warm. There ain’t nothing like having to get out of a warm sleeping bag on a cold night. I grabbed my boots out of the bottom of the bag and pulled them on, then my armor. I checked my rifle and chewed on some Skittles.

“Gah, that was disgusting! Forget toilet paper, obviously you’re missing Q-tips, too.” Brit spat loudly on the floor.

“Goddamn. I frackin’ hate you sometimes. I really, really do.” She gave me the finger and crawled into my sleeping bag. I grabbed my gear and headed up the stairs, joining Ahmed on watch. He filled me in with a mumbled “not much,” and handed over the NVGs. Then he leaned over and picked up the sniper rifle, turned the scope back on and settled down on the bipod.

I scanned the area from the rooftop. The infrared sensor picked up a few hot spots, way in the distance. I called spottings out to Ahmed. 3 o’clock, 800 meters or so. We had the ranges pretty well sited from the last time we were up here but I didn’t expect much. We had cleared out quite a few the last time, but you could still smell the stench lingering. They give off heat, too. Not as much as a live body, but whatever it is that animates them, it makes the muscles work, and that generates heat. Another thing the movies got wrong.

Ahmed shifted his scope over to the right, then started muttering under his breath. “Allllaaaaahhhhhhhaakkkkbaarrrrrrrr allllaaaaaahhhhhaaakkkkkbaaaarrrr.” Shit just freaked me out, and I had told him time and again to not do that around me. Reminded me of all those Haji terrorist videos you used to see of them shooting at us over in the desert, and I could still here the echoes of that call being yelled at me when we duked it out in Fallujah. I asked him about it once, why he was here in America.

“Nick, yes, you were the Great Satan. Infidels. I fought you in Afghanistan. I fought the Taliban, also, to protect my people. Then this happened, the demons from hell. Allah has sent me here to America to kill demons, instead of infidels. God is great, and it is as he wills it.” Great, I have a muj sniper on my team who might slit my throat one night. Apparently he had managed to escape from prison in Guantanamo Bay when the plague started, made his way across Cuba alone and gotten to Florida. That was all he would say about it. There weren’t any sides anymore other than living versus dead. We had been on more than a dozen scouts together and he was a damn good shot with the rifle. He pretends he wasn’t trying to kill me ten years ago, I pretend I wasn’t chasing his ass all over the mountains of the ‘Stan ten years ago. We both agreed that was all just bullshit now.

POP! Suppressed, of course. A shot on a night like tonight would bring the Zs running. Ahmed picked up the empty brass and slipped it in his pocket when it had cooled. In the NVGs I watched the hot spot burst into a glowing mist, and the figure dropped.

“So what’s your view on taking down Zs like this in the middle of the night? Allah OK with that? It bothers me sometimes, you know? Once they were someone’s mother, kid, whatever. At night, through the scope, they look like people.”

“Nick, they are dead. I am only releasing their souls to go to Heaven. It is Allah’s work.” With that, there was another POP! A figure I hadn’t seen, off to the left, tumbled up and backwards from behind a bush where it had been hiding for the night, knocked over by the impact of the round in its chest. I watched as it started to get back up and waited for the Z scream to start. Another muted POP and the figure fell down, with a hot splash through the head.

“I had to smoke that one out, as you Americans say. Hiding in the brush.”

Another thing the movies got wrong. Zs are smart. Not people-smart, but maybe like monkey-smart. Apparently the infection destroyed their higher order brain functions, and, having no heartbeat, they can’t process things all that fast but they have an animal instinct. They go to ground, hide out, wait in ambush. Territorial, too. Ninety percent of Zs will stay within two miles or so of where they died unless another one starts screaming. That’s why towns and cities are such a bad idea. You can find yourself facing a horde within five minutes, ’cause those suckers can run when they get pumped up. One on one, I can out run any zombie, but holy shit, you do not want to trip and twist your ankle. As for the other ten percent, they wander around like lost souls, always moaning. They are what make things so dangerous on a patrol through open country. You never, ever know when you’re going to bump into a solitary Z, and have it attack or start moaning, drawing more to you.

We waited the rest of Ahmed’s shift but nothing else showed up. Just a pack of wild dogs that was, thankfully, south of our position. We watched them plow into a herd of deer, taking one down and then fighting over the kill. Stray dogs scare me almost as much as Zs do. What’s that, you say? Call me a puss to be scared by a dog? Hell yes. These aren’t your friendly golden retrievers or yappy little shits you want to kick like a football. This is the Rottweiler or pitbull that fought its way to the top of the pack when its trailer park meth dealer/owner turned Z and it got loose in the wild. I love dogs, and Rocket slept by the front door of the house, always half-awake, listening for Zs. A pack of strays though? Nuh-uh.

Jones came up for the last hour of my watch, letting Ahmed get another hour of sleep. Then we conducted Stand –to, everyone a hundred percent up, waiting for the sun to rise. It’s a hard, hard world we live in, if you can call it living.

Chapter 3

“So, the night before we left the FOB, I hooked up with this zoomie guy from that C-130 that came in…”

“You is a female manwhore, you know that, right, Brit?”

We were walking slowly down the east side of the Hudson River, on our way to Fort Edward. The west side of the river was a no-go, fallout from the Knolls Atomic Power Lab semi-meltdown. It was probably safe, but the river made a good line not cross until you were north of Schuylerville. Our objective for the day was the south end of the Champlain Canal and the railroad bridge over the Hudson. The Army Corps of Engineers weenie huffed and puffed behind me, carrying too much gear. His problem, not ours. It made for a slow march, though.

“I’m just living life because I’m alive, Jonesy. So anyways…” and she rolled her eyes at him “…remember how China was saying it was the West’s plague, and they were going to shut their borders? Punishment for our decadent lifestyle and all that shit?”

When the plague started and things in America were going to hell, China was crowing about how they had sealed their borders and were sitting pretty, with not a single case, and how the world was going to quarantine North America. They had nuked London, Moscow and any other government that might stand in their way and were rampaging through central Asia, conquering all the gold mines and oil fields in Eastern Siberia. Their cyber attack on the US military command and control on the second week of the plague had wrecked our nuclear response forces, disabled every launcher we had. They sat back and took on anyone who argued with them. They had landed forces in Central America after the US Navy had pulled out of Hawai’i to reinforce the Pacific Northwest and had actually started building a wall across Panama to keep Zs out of the Canal. Then the plague broke out in Europe after a refugee ship from Mexico crashed ashore in France, Europe went to hell and China started slaughtering anyone who came near their borders. Then, a few weeks after that, all of the sudden China fell off the air.

“So check it out. This guy, he’s a C-130 pilot now, but before, he flew B-2 bombers. No shit, they loaded up a whole crate of zombies on, like, a dozen B-2, stealthed their way through Chinese radar and just air-dropped them over the biggest cities. He said he almost got shot down ’cause he had to go low and slow, bay doors open while the Zs went dropping out of the bomb racks. They dropped ‘em right in the rivers with water-soluble ropes around them. One, two days later, a couple of Zs drag themselves out of the river and start biting the shit out of the little yellow fuckers. Instant chaos! Recon flights say the whole place is a massive battleground now.”

“Damn, man, that some dirty shit,” said Jonesy, then laughed so hard his gold teeth showed. Frigging gangbanger would laugh at something like that.

“That just doesn’t seem right. I mean, that’s a crime against humanity.” The Engineer contractor spoke up through his heavy breathing, sweat pouring down his face.

“Man, that ain’t no different shit than them chinks dropping nukes on all them cities just because America was down and out, and not watchin’ over everyone else no mo’. Just like back in the ’hood, you get a chance to kick your enemy, you go do it.”

“I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem, right.”

“Sheeeyit, Socrates, it’s just the way of the world. People been fightin’ forever, and unlike your lily-white, suburb livin’ ass, I seen it my whole life.”

Conversations like this took up most of the march. We were soldiers, and it’s what soldiers do, telling stories and talking smack to each other. We broke for lunch at noon, out in the middle of a field with good observation. Three on watch, three eating. The Engineer didn’t count. He was there for a job only, and he knew it. The six of us were a team and he wasn’t on it. The smoke from MRE heaters soon rose above the circle, and I sat back on a rock to enjoy the spring sunshine, to casually assess everyone in the group.

Brit, eyeing the Engineer like he was a piece of fresh meat, wondering if he was worth anything in the sack. She stood guard but would glance back at him every now and then. Ahmed, cleaning his weapons like he did every stop. Legacy of living in that dust-ridden shithole they called the Middle East. Jonesy, picking his nose and flinging it at Ahmed, trying, and failing, to piss him off. Doc Hamilton, that big bald ex-biker who was our medic, stood with his back to me, watching towards the river. Syzmanski, the newest guy, who had shown up at the river fort one day a month ago on the run from the FEMA camp outside Albany. We didn’t ask what he did to get him on the run and he never told us.

After twenty minutes the guards switched out and I stood to take my turn. After a few minutes of watching the road, I heard a blood-curdling shriek erupt from inside the perimeter. As I turned back toward the sound, the Engineer dude came tearing past me, pants hanging low, half of a zombie kid holding on for dear life trying to chew a chunk out of his ass. I stood open-mouthed as he ran past. He was trying to knock the thing off him with an unfolded E-tool, probably the one he had been using to take a crap. Jonesy stepped forward, faster than me, and swung that big steel rod he carries right at the guys’ legs. Down he went, and then Jonesy was beating the brains out of the Z before it got a chance to scream.

“Everybody up! Weapons Hot! Doc, check him out! AND SHUT HIM THE FUCK UP!”

The team was up already in a 360 perimeter. Doc Hamilton ran over to the Engineer, who lay on the ground yelling “OH MY GOD!” over and over. The Doc took one look at his wound, stood up, pulled his suppressed .22 and shot him in the head. The guy flopped once more then lay still. I stood in shock for a few seconds at the speed of the whole thing, then snapped out of it.

“Doc, take his tags, any personal effects; Jonesy, you and Syzmanski bury him. Then split his equipment up around the squad.”

I had screwed up. I hadn’t assigned anyone to keep watch over him and now the guy was dead, killed by a stupid mistake. He had probably just dug a cat hole and not checked the brush or tall grass around him. Like I said, Zs are animal-smart. It had probably waited for him. Damn, just goddamn. I hung my head down and watched them dig a quick, shallow hole and roll his body in it. You just assumed that someone who had survived this far in the post-plague world would know you never went anywhere alone and you always checked out the area you were in.

Brit walked over to me, wanting to know what to do next.

“Hey Chief, it could have happened to anyone. You can’t babysit everyone and it was the chain of command that saddled us with him. Are we Charlie Mike?” She was asking if we were continuing the mission.

“Yeah, I suppose we have to. Just a sucky way to go.”

“I know, Nick” she said, then punched me as hard as she could in the shoulder. “Now suck it up and let’s go. You know it’s a hard world we’re living in.”

“Yeah, I know… if you can call it living.”

Chapter 4

“Empire, Empire, this is Lost Boys, over.” I let go of the hand mike and waited 30 seconds. Stupid radio watch back at Fort Orange was probably stuffing his face.

I tried again. “Empire, Empire, this is Lost Boys, over.”

“Kilo 39, this is Gulf 38, use proper radio procedure, over.”

“Yes, because the Zombies are listening over the secure net, over.”

There was a long silence. I pictured the fat fobbit running to his commander. Sir, those stupid civilian scouts are on the radio again, they are being mean to me.

“Lost Boys 6, this is Empire 6, SITREP, over.”

Great, the Task Force Commander, LTC MacDonald, aka Jackass. We love each other. Actually, we frackin’ hate each other. Mutual disrespect based on numerous incidents of his stupidity and incompetence.

“Well, Empire 6, we lost our Engineer asset, over.”

“What do you mean lost, over.”

“Lost, gone, finished, dead, over.”

“Dead how, over?”

“Cessation of heartbeat due to interdiction of cranial matter by copper and lead alloys, over.”

“Don’t be such a fucking smartass, Agostine.”

“Empire 6, please use proper radio procedure, over.”

The line was quiet for a full minute. I pictured Jackass smashing things in the TOC. He was notorious for throwing things at subordinates. I couldn’t help messing with him. I knew the fact that he needed me and my people and couldn’t do anything about me sent him ballistic. I was actually trying to get him to have a stroke.

“Lost Boys 6, this is Empire 6. What happened to your engineer, over.”

“Bitten by a zombie, we had to neutralize him, over.”

“Way to fail on the job, Lost Boys 6. I’ll make sure you write his wife, over.” God, that man was a prick.

“Can do, Empire 6. Are we going to get another asset? Over.”

“Negative, no air assets available. Continue Mission, Lost Boys. Out.”

Had to get the last word in. Jerk. I stuffed the hand mike back in Syzmanskis’ rucksack and turned off the SINCGARS radio.

“I think you two should kiss when next time you meet. Just give him a big, wet sloppy kiss.” called Brit over her shoulder as she moved to take up point. “Give him a reach-around.”

“Such a pig.” I muttered.

“OINK OINK!” she called back. We moved out down the broken road.

Chapter 5

We stood over the Route 4 bridge and watched the water flow underneath. It was clear, clearer than I had ever seen it before. Clear and toxic. Not as bad as downstream, but there was a sheen of oil slick across the top. Millions of gallons of heating oil, industrial chemicals, toxins released by houses decaying. The engineers testing the water figured it would be close to a hundred years before it was drinkable. The streams draining into the Hudson were almost as bad. Who would have thought clean water would have been an issue after the Zombie Apocalypse? Another thing the movies got wrong. We knew of one good well on the east side of the river, a mile south of here. A hand pump into a deep well, but in a few years the ground water would be contaminated by rusting gas tanks and underground oil tanks. From here on out we would have to hump our water, which is heavy as shit. On a hot spring day in Upstate NY, humid as hell, humping seventy pounds in a pack, you wind up soaked to the bone with sweat in about ten minutes.

Jonesy and Hamilton stood pissing into the river.

“Damn, Jonesy, This water is cold.”

“Deep, too. You can’t play jokes like that on a brother, Doc!”

Brit rolled her eyes at both of them. “Boys.”

I took point, walking down the west side to the lock. We ran into two Zs stumbling down the main road. The first went down from a head shot from my rifle. The second was walking away, upwind from us. Brit took her out with a shot to the back of the head and we stepped around the still-twitching corpse. Doc flipped the first over and took a picture of her face for the National Database. It would go in the missing file, where the software would try to match her face. Not much, but it sometimes answered survivors’ questions. Maybe a one in a hundred got photographed, and one in ten of those got ID’ed. Better than nothing, I guess.

A quick note about our rifles: They’re standard, Army issue M-4s that have been rechambered to take a .22 caliber Long Rifle round, with a bit more charge than a regular .22 LR. Instead of the usual combat load of 180 or so .227 rounds in a regular M-4 load-out, we each carry 600 rounds of .22 Longs in 50 round magazines. We could also use them in our pistols and if we have to, we could use scavenged .22 rounds. It’s impossible to find any .227 rounds anywhere but .22’s are still pretty common in the ruins of sporting goods stores and gun shops. One thing you need when fighting zombies is ammo, and plenty of it. No one is that good to hit a Z in the head every shot, and, especially in combat, it is more like 3 or 4 rounds before you put one through their heads. Another thing they got wrong in the movies.

~ N.A.

We heard the howling long before we got there. It grew slowly with each step we took. It seemed to sink right down through our teeth into our bones. The Zombie Moan.

Jonesy stepped up to the edge first and looked over.

“Hollllllyyyyyy shit, Nick, come get a look at this.”

I tapped Ahmed on the shoulder and he took my sector, looking back down the road. I walked over to the edge of the canal lock and looked into the water ten feet below. It was filled with Zs, floating, standing on top of each other, clawing at the concrete wall. The doors of the lock were closed and they had wandered in there from the town. Hundreds of them. Packed in, rotting, bloating. They saw us and started in a surge towards us, piling on top of each other, pushing each other down into the water. Jonesy started popping them in the head with his pistol but I told him to stop and not waste ammo.

“Damn, Nick, this shit creeps me out. What are going to do about this?” I noticed his accent had gotten softer and he was more serious, like it always did when we were discussing a fight.

“Leave it. Take pictures of the canal doors, check out the pump house and the electric machinery, get pics of everything, spray the crap out of the electrical system with the silicone. We gotta keep the stuff in working order but the Zs are going to be Lieutenant Colonel Jackass’s problem.”

“Do you want to open the doors? Let this shit drift into the river?”

“Fuck no. Do that and when we get back to the COP in Stillwater they’re going to be crawling all over the wall. We’re upstream. They can’t swim but they can wash up.”

He shook his head and spit on the Zs trying to climb at us. “Didn’t think of that. This here city boy can’t get directions straight, you know me.”

I walked back to the guys, picked my ruck up off the ground and rummaged for my Nikon.

“Hey Nick, check it out!” Brit pointed and we caught sight of a bald eagle soaring high overhead. The wildlife was coming back strong but I hope it didn’t eat too many of the fish from the river.

“No doubt, the plague was a good thing and bad thing. Make the best and drive on.”

Brit bumped fists with me. “Make the best and drive on.”

Chapter 6

“Know what I’m pissed about?”

I sighed as we walked along the river road. Here it comes, I thought.

“I’m pissed that we’re never, ever going to go to the stars. This killed it. Right here.” Brit gestured to the potholes in the road, the ruined house we were walking slowly passed, eyes peeled for Zs.

“Why Brit, I didn’t even know you had such ambitions,” said Ski. Doc walked past, made like he was tightening down the chinstrap on his helmet and hunched his shoulders with an oh no look. Jonesy started whistling and pretending to be interested in some flowers on the side of the road.

“Well, Ski, you don’t know shit about me. For example, what did I do before the plague?”

“I dunno. College girl who banged football players?”

She stopped in midstride and smacked him as hard as she could upside his Kevlar. “DAMN, BRIT, OW!”

“You’re right, but you deserved that anyway, jerk. I was an engineering major. I was going to go to the stars. Or build in space, anyway. Do you understand me? I was going to design space habitats. I wanted to design the first habitation on the moon. It’s all gone now, Nick. All gone.

She started crying, tears rolling down her cheeks, and lengthened her stride. Then she sat down in the road, screamed as loudly as she could and started pounding on the pavement in front of her with her war hammer. The guys walked around her, ignoring her screams and frustrated pounding. After a few minutes, she stopped, slung the hammer over her back, picked up her weapon and resumed the march.

“Hey babe, you OK?”

She looked at me. I knew her backstory. Living in a college campus, in the ruins of Syracuse University. Doc and I had found her holed up in a cafeteria, on one of our first scouts. Six months, living on canned food and having the most god-awful amount of traps around her, drinking rainwater from barrels on the roof. Going slowly crazy with no one to talk to, dodging Zs every day to get wood for a fire. She had nearly taken my head off with a baseball bat and Doc had needed to sedate her to get her calm enough to talk to us. Even now, I wasn’t sure she had completely gotten over it.

“I’m OK. I just got to thinking, you know, about before.”

“Keep that up, you will go crazy. You can’t think about before. You know that.”

PTSD. Crazy. Traumatized. We all are, we all have it. How can you watch the death of almost everyone you loved? OK, for most of us, everyone we loved? How can you watch civilization, or most of it, crumple around you in a month and not go crazy? The Snap, we called it. For a minute, for half an hour, whatever it took, sometimes you just grew so goddamned bitter and angry and felt such a deep sense of loss you broke down and screamed at the world. For some, they broke and never came back. Walked off and were never seen again. Someone like Jacob, he went off into his own world of denial. Thinking this whole thing was a dream. For others, like Jonesy and Ahmed, growing up in the ghetto and in the middle of a war, life honestly wasn’t much different now. Maybe better. They could shoot who they needed to shoot without repercussion, and for the most part, no one cared what color your skin was or which side of the war or city you’d been on. Just that you were alive.

Brit, she was the same story. I knew she had been a straight 4.0 student. Smart as hell. All she cared about now was living life in the right here and now, because the Zombie Apocalypse had stolen her future. Like it had stolen everyone else’s.

On point, Jacob held up his fist, dropped to one knee, cut his hand sideways then pointed forward. People, not Zs. We all dropped down and took up firing positions, a quick hasty ambush set up along the road.

We heard them long before we saw them. Horses. HORSES. At least two, coming along at a trot. No one had horses anymore, or more like no one used them for transportation. If a horse got within a hundred meters of a Z, it bolted. Flat out took off running like its ass was on fire, regardless of who or what was on its back, and often ran until its heart burst from exhaustion. Back in the secured zone, I heard, they still used them for farming, but out here they ran in wild herds that were impossible to come near. They had gotten even wilder and ran from humans, too, now. I would kill for a freaking horse to ride, instead of walking.

“OK, time to earn my leader’s paycheck.” I stood up out of the grass and stepped into the road, weapon pointed down but safety off.

“HALT.” I spoke forcefully, and the two enormous horses slowed but kept plodding towards me until their riders could get a good look at me, then they were reigned in. Two men sat astride them, shotguns pointed in my general direction, threatening but not directly so. They looked like just about any post-plague refugees—secondhand clothes, heavy leather jackets to keep off Zombie bites, chaps to guard their legs from bites, heavy gloves. These guys were cleaner than most, but damn, they smelled. Something I hadn’t smelled in a while. Yep, these guys were farmers. Manure clung to their heavy rubber boots. Their noses were immune to the smell, but it burned my nostrils as they got closer.

“Mighty presumptuous of you to be telling us to halt on our own road. We’ve got no tolerance for scavengers here. Though from the looks of you…” He eyed my uniform, with the American flag, the black and red Z patch on my right shoulder and the Task Force Liberty patch on my left shoulder. I saw his eyes read the “US ARMY” stenciled on the front of my black armor.

“Your road? I thought this was a county road.”

The older one, a grey-haired dude with a scarred face, laughed out loud. “Ha! A scavenger with a sense of humor!”

“We’re not scavengers.” I lowered my weapon and put it back on safe. “Nick Agostine, United States Army Irregular Scouts.”

“Irregular scouts?”

“Yessir. We work for the Army, but we aren’t actually in the Army.”

“Funny line of business. So, I suppose you’re just scouting out here all by your lonesome? Good way to get killed.”

I whistled once, low, and the rest of the team stood and stepped out onto the road. Five of them stayed on guard, weapons pointing out or back down the road. Jonesy stood next to me, M-4 looking like a toy in his massive hands. What good that would do if the frigging huge horses decided to trample his ass, I don’t know. The two horses were gigantic and stood rock still. The riders seemed more taken aback than the horses but they recovered quickly.

“I see,” said the older man, who introduced himself as Dave. “Well, maybe the rest of the world is catching up with us. Knew it would happen eventually. Hang tight while we dismount and talk for a spell.”

Dave, his brother Alan and their families lived on a fortified farm a mile inland from the river. We had come across people like him before; tough farmers who had busted their asses to fence off a couple of dozen acres, fortified their houses and generally held their own. Farms that were a combination of small fortress and house stood off in the fields, usually farther from. What was unique about these guys was the horses. They didn’t even flinch when we came near them, just flared their nostrils. The two of them were out on what he called “Z patrol,” basically riding around a few miles from the farm, looking for stray undead that might have stumbled their way.

“So what’s with the horses? How come they aren’t running screaming, actually letting you ride them? How do they handle being around Zs?”

“They hate ‘em, but not like normal horses. I had a hobby horse farm, imported these guys from Belgium. These two were bred for war. They were bred to carry a man in full armor and they make a hell of a plow horse. You can ride them into a crowd of Zs and they will stomp flat anything in their way.”

I eyed them enviously. To ride instead of walk!

“Are they for sale?”

“Not on your life, Sonny.” Alan leaned a little closer to his shotgun and kept a wary eye on the rest of the team.

“OK, but can they breed? Do you have foals?”

“Ayup. Got four foals and a couple of yearlings on the farm, another two on the way. Maybe we can do some horse trading, eh, Sonny?” Dave seemed to find this uproariously funny and laughed out loud.

Brit stood stroking their noses while I called in to LTC Jackass. His immediate response was for us to “seize the horses” when I explained to them they were Belgian war horses, definitely not afraid of Zombies. I told him to piss off, then suggested maybe we could buy them. After his usual temper tantrum bullshit, we finally got him to agree to look into the Army contracting to buy horses from the farmers in the future. I could imagine the Colonel pissing all over himself with happiness. The man who brought mobility to the army again! It would get him promoted, for sure. I bet he was already walking around in his stupid Stetson hat and spurs like some demented 19th century Cavalryman.

“Sounds like a real winner you got for a boss, there,” commented Dave as he spit some tobacco juice out on the road and climbed back in the saddle. He had swapped Jonesy some fresh jerky from his saddlebags for a can of dip.

“You have no idea. When time comes to actually trade with him, make sure you have people watching your back. It’s all about him, and what’s good for him.”

He nodded his head as Alan snapped at his reins and started plodding off. “It always is with people like that, isn’t it?”

Chapter 7

I was hungry again, but I’m always hungry. Most people left alive in America are always hungry. We have been for years. Even when I get enough food, and I usually do now, I’m still haunted by the ghost of hungry. That first two years, when there was no food anywhere. Stores looted, farms trampled and torched, refrigeration gone, no food distribution system, animals like deer and cows hunted almost to extinction. I’ve eaten deer, possum, cat, dog, rat, mice, woodchucks, pigeon, just about anything with meat on it except for humans. The Zs were just an added burden. How many people got eaten by zombies because they had to leave a safe hideout for food? Thousands. Millions, maybe. Hunger will drive a man to do just about anything, including risking a zombie attack just to get something to eat. Matter of fact, I think most of the ammo expended in the last few years wasn’t aimed at Zs but at other people, fighting over food.

The animals were coming back, at least in our neck of the woods. Skunks were filling a lot of empty positions in the food chain because no one wanted to risk eating them and we had eaten all their predators. Having the Army around, or what was left of it, pushing their way back up the Mohawk Valley gave us regular access to MREs when we went on mission, and we always took more than we would ever need to stock up. The Restored US Government was a fragile thing. We all hedged our bets. I’m never going to starve again, not if I can help it. Even now, everyone’s diet sucks. We don’t get enough of the things we need, like fresh vegetables and vitamins. Another thing they got wrong in the movies. Maybe on the way back we would stop at Dave’s farm and trade for some food stuffs. I stopped and marked out their location in the battered Delorme Atlas of New York that I carried in my ruck. It joined a host of other marks on that page; safe houses, weapons caches, clean water, heavy Zombie infestations. This had become my Bible.

We approached Fort Edward the next morning after spending the night in some trees, slung in hammocks. Not a fun way to sleep but it kept the Zs away, and we couldn’t find a good house to hole up in before dark. Hopefully tonight we could sleep in a farmhouse I remembered from before the plague. We would have to put some miles on us, though, because I did not want to linger in the Glens Falls area. As it was, getting a good look at the rail bridge wasn’t going to be fun.

Creeping slowly forward toward the lock, weapons at the ready, I expected something similar to what we had seen in Schuylerville. The lock at Fort Miller, ten miles south, had been a wreck. The doors had been torn open by some violent flood of the Hudson sometime over the past few years. We had photographed it and moved on.

The southern lock to the Champlain Canal was an important one. From here, we could sail up to Lake Champlain, open up the mines in the Adirondacks again, farm the fertile lands of Vermont. It was all about reclaiming the country, one little slice at a time. Sure, the canals were old school, but they worked or were easy to make work again.

As we came up the road and turned a corner we could see that, at a distance, there were Zombies wandering around the lock area, scavenging through the bush for small animals. We could see maybe a few dozen and knew there were probably more that we didn’t. More than we could reliably take down before the howling started. Time to think a way to get them away from there.

I gathered the squad around me and explained the plan. “We’re going to have to do a runner.”

“Oh, hell no.”

“Oh, hell yes. Ahmed, your turn.” The only person exempted from the roster was Doc Hamilton. Our medic stayed with us at all times.

A runner was just that. One of us stripped down of all gear except a silenced .22 pistol, then took off like a bat out of hell through the Zombies, firing as he or she went, then hauled ass away from the rest of the team or some variation thereof. The idea was to get the Zombies to chase you, lead them into a blind alley or something, then cut back to the team. It was dangerous. Iinsane. And a huge frigging rush.

Ahmed took a minute to consult the map. We agreed on a place to meet if he wasn’t back in an hour, divided up his gear among the others. He kissed his rifle and handed it to Brit.

“Take this, you godless American whore, and guard it with your life.”

“I will, you son of a motherless camel turd,” she replied, and kissed him on the forehead.

Ahmed gave her a hug, knelt and said a quick prayer to Mecca, or to the radiation-filled crater that used to be Mecca. Then he took off running, straight through the crowd of Zombies, yelling “Allllllah Akbarrrrr!” at the top of his lungs and taking pot shots at them. We joined in with our suppressed rifles after they had turned to run after him, trying to cut down the odds, but stopped firing as soon as they blocked him from view. They disappeared down the road, moving at a fast jog, the ones that had functioning legs. Like I said, Zombies can move quickly when they have to.

Jacob and Jonesy quickly dispatched the two immobile Zs that were crawling off in the direction Ahmed had taken. We broke out the cameras and started photographing the canal lock doors, which were open, allowing a flow of water to come pouring out. That was good, because it meant the canal was still a through route, it hadn’t become blocked somewhere further upstream. The machinery was trashed, but mainly we were looking for structural damage.

We had been at it for twenty minutes when Ahmed came tearing ass around the corner back from the direction he had run, yelling at the top of his lungs and followed by several hundred Zombies. We immediately hit dirt, getting as out of sight as we could while the river of Zs hurtled by. We could smell the awful stench that always accompanied the dead. Next to me, Brit started to vomit, but I clasped a hand over her mouth. I would let her choke before I let her make a sound. She struggled a bit but swallowed it back down.

The last Z passed and we ran in the opposite direction. Time to put some distance between us and the crowd and fort up, if we could. Ahmed was on his own, and we would see him again. Oor not. He knew where to meet us.

We ran.

Chapter 8

We ran. Uphill, away from the canal, heading for the woods and overgrown farmland. You can outrun a Zombie horde, but we had full packs on and the day was hot. We needed to get to a place to go to ground and wait for Ahmed. He had picked out a ruined house we could see on top of a hill about a mile away. Zs don’t like to go uphill,and I was pretty sure every zombie in Fort Edward was chasing Ahmed south down River Road.

We made it into the doorway of the house, stacking and clearing it. Jonesy kicked in the ruined door with his huge boot, or tried to. He rebounded off the steel door and started hopping up and down, cursing under his breath. I reached over and turned the knob on the door. Unlocked. I shot him a shit-eating grin and he gave me the finger.

We lined up, and Brit went in first, followed by Jacob, me, then Ski. Doc Hamilton and Jonesy stayed outside, covering our backs. We each piled in and swept our sectors, scanning the living room. Brit, the first one in, fired two quick shots into the figure sitting on the couch, and the skeletons’ head exploded into a cloud of dust.

“Whoops,” she muttered under her breath, then broke right with Jacob to continue to clear the ground floor. Ski and I went up the stairs checking each of the bedrooms. We didn’t need to surprise each other coming around a corner.

“CLEAR!” I yelled downstairs. “CLEAR” came back up to me. “Checking basement!” I heard the basement door kick open, then after a minute, “ALL CLEAR”.

“FORT UP!” I yelled, and Jonesy and Doc came in through the door. We grounded our rucks upstairs and each of us started ripping two by fours out of the walls. Doc took a battery-powered screw gun and started putting them up on the front door. He started laughing as he did it.

“What the hell is so funny?”

He laughed again. “It’s just like playing Black Ops, fighting zombies!” I laughed too, stupid idiots. I loved these guys.

Jonesy and Ski were hammering the stairs down, each wailing away with a sledge hammer, knocking out steps. If the doors or windows were breached, we would climb up a rope ladder to the upstairs. Trapped, but safe, and it always gave us time to think of something else.

When we had forted up as best we could, we settled down to wait for Ahmed or the Zs, whichever came first. Brit walked to the skeleton she had popped as we came in through the front door. She pushed the rusty shotgun away from the couch where it had fallen out of the skeleton’s, cold, dead hands, then sat down next to it.

“Sorry about that, Skeletor, but I couldn’t take any chances. It was either you or me, and I was faster. Better luck next time.” Then she put her feet up on the coffee table, closed her eyes, and went to sleep next to the shattered bones.

I went upstairs and built myself a snipers perch, looking downhill towards the lock. I figured it was about maybe eight hundred meters. I started picking off random Zs who were wandering around, excited by the noise of the chase, using Ahmed’s rifle. While doing so, I thought back to the wild, panicked nights of the plague. My Guard unit falling apart at the barricades, getting overwhelmed by the civilians trying to get out of the city, the Zs already mixing in with them. Me rushing back to my house to get my family and run. My wife coming at me in the kitchen, a hunk of our kid’s arm in her mouth, hands ripping at me like claws. I swung the butt of my rifle so hard I broke the plastic, and I kept swinging ’til the thing that had been my wife lay on the floor, a bloody pulp, and I ran. I don’t know how I made it through the following months but here I was, years later, letting thoughts of that night ruin my aim. I wiped away the tears and kept shooting, a steady fire that knocked down a good dozen before I got tired. Remembering did no good for anyone.

Around dusk, Ahmed showed up, dripping wet. We had watched him through binos, pulling himself up out of the water at the edge of the river. Dangerous shit, that. You never knew what, exactly, was swimming or floating around there anymore. He immediately gave me a SITREP (Situation Report, to all you civilians), changed into dry clothes, then passed out on an upstairs bed. I typed up a report for Task Force Empire, attached the pictures from today, hooked my iPhone to the SINCGARS radio, and did that magic shit the commo guys had come up with. No cell towers? No problem! They ran it through our FM radios. Don’t ask me how they did it, but it worked.

I called the guys around. “Ahmed is done in so we have to stay here tonight. You know the drill. Two men on watch, staggered hours. Weapons loaded, on safe. I have the one to three watch, divide up the rest, Brit. Light and noise discipline.” They all answered in the affirmative.

Brit stayed behind while the others went to get something to eat out of their packs.

“Nick, I’m sorry about today, the vomiting. I’ve never had that happen before. It was just so freaking disgusting.”

“It happens. Get past it or you’re going to be off the scouts. I almost had to choke you to keep you quiet today. Understand? If you can’t hold it together around Zs then you are a risk to the whole team.”

She nodded her head. For once, she looked contrite. “I got it. I know what you gotta do what you gotta do. I’ll handle it.”

“You did a great job nailing Skeletor today, even if he already was dead. You’re a part of this team, Brit. Now go get some more sleep. I’m sure you’re beat. Before you do, though, remind everyone that Ahmed gets to sleep the night through.”

“Can do, Nick.” Then she leaned over and kissed me full on the lips. I wiped my face with my sleeve and muttered “Ugh, girl germs!” just loud enough for her to hear me as she walked away. She shook her hips at me, slapped her ass and went into the bedroom.

We settled in for the short May night.

Checking out the canal locks

Chapter 9

The must have pushed the sounds to us. Way off in the distance, I heard the pop-pop-pop of a firefight going on. It seemed to be coming from the north, just a faint echo of gunfire. The rounds were sparing, like someone was trying to take head shots, but then they rose in a crescendo, faster and faster, followed by fully automatic fire. Then it stopped dead. If the wind hadn’t been blowing from the north, I doubt I would have even heard it.

Doc was sitting next to me on watch. “Somebody just got overrun.”

“Ya think?” He had heard it too, and knew what the final burst of meant. You don’t use automatic weapons on zombies. Most of your rounds would be wasted zipping through their bodies. It was a panic burst; they were so close there was no time to aim, their hands were almost on you.

“Where do you think?”

“I dunno. Not Glens Falls, the city is too close. Maybe Lake George. The mountains do some funny things with sound, carry it down through the valleys. Tells us one thing, though. There’re people out there.”

“There’s always people out there, Nick. No matter how bad things get, there are always survivors somewhere. Hell, you know we’ve been monitoring radio traffic from the north end of Lake Champlain. Apparently the frogs from Quebec are still around. And organized.”

“Yeah, I know, I’ve heard it. People like those farmers we met today. They were pretty friendly, but I worry about some of the hard cases we might meet. Make sure from here on out everyone is on their toes in regards to Zs and Mad Maxes.” “Mad Maxes” was our term for people who had turned to looting and killing of anything that got in their way in order to survive. Not really fair to the original Road Warrior, but that’s pop culture for you. The worst thing was to get caught by one of those groups that had gone cannibal. Think to yourself, oh no, not in America! Cannibals? I don’t care where you are. Get people hungry enough and some of them will start eating whatever, or whoever, they can find. In the years after the plague, there was hunger enough. If we caught them, we shot them on sight.

Then I heard another sound, much closer, that made me sit bolt upright, wide awake. Coming back up River Road, just starting to be visible in the NVGs, was the horde Ahmed had led away this afternoon. They had started back to their territories but they must have smelled us when the wind shifted to the north.

“Go wake everyone up, bring everything upstairs. It’s going to be a turkey shoot but it might get tight. There’re a lot of them.”

Doc climbed down the rope ladder and I settled down with the sniper rifle. Ahmed was better than me at this, and when he got up here, I would let him take over. I started a slow, steady round of shooting. By the time Ahmed put his hand on my back, my shoulder was sore and my eye hurt from straining at the night scope. There were a good twenty Zs cooling on the ground in a trail. That trail, though, pointed directly to us.

“Do we run?” asked Brit.

“Not at night. Too big of a chance of us getting separated or someone twisting an ankle or breaking a leg. Nope, it’s fight night.”

We all settled down to our firing positions, knocking glass out of the upstairs windows. Knockers, something to beat in a Zombie’s head with, whatever was each person’s preference, stood stacked at the top of the ruined stairs.

The danger was twofold. First, this was just the start of a swarm. The city of Glens Falls and its surrounding area was a city of around thirty thousand people before the plague. Average actual turned-into-zombies rate was around sixty percent, though that could vary. It was dependent upon evacuation, how well the populace was armed, how many people died from being eaten versus reanimated. Figuring around half the Zombies from that population were still ambulatory, we might face nine thousand zombies, not the hundred or so coming at us now. And you thought math never did anyone any good. It made me freak out.

The second thing we were afraid of was enough of them would get into the house and swarm what was left of the stairs, to form a pile which could reach up to the second floor. That’s what the knockers were for. Hopefully not.

“Suppressors?” asked Ski. Suppressors wore out, another thing they never showed in the movies. The heat of the rounds being fired off wore out the sound-absorbing metal fibers inside. We had to choose quiet now versus quiet later. However, they did reduce the range and accuracy of our shots. The rifles we carried were military issued M-4 carbines, re-chambered for a hot copper jacketed .22 Long round, but they didn’t have a lot of range to start with. Thing is, with Zs, you don’t necessarily need heavy duty, hard hitting rounds. Accuracy was the word of the day, and the more ammo you could carry, the better.

“For now. We don’t need half the Z population of the Glens Falls metro area coming down on us. Wind might carry the gunshot sounds anywhere. Just remember to shoot high to compensate for the drop if you’re out past 100 meters. Better yet, wait till you see the reds of their eyes. ”

“Ok, Chief.”

We waited while Ahmed kept firing. In a few minutes, the horde came in range of the rest of us and we opened up. The Zs finally got worked up and started running toward the house. The scream started, that Zombie scream that ran right through your teeth and made your gut tense up. Coming from a hundred mutilated throats, it gave us all the chills and we started to sweat.

“Keep it steady, guys. You’ve all done this before. Aim, Fire. Aim, Fire.”

Zombies were dropping, but not fast enough. It’s hard enough to shoot them in the head. At night, while they were moving, very tough. About every fifth shot went home, maybe less as they got closer and started running uphill at us.

They crashed into the front of the house and we started firing down into their heads. They were going down but I heard one of the windows smash open and they poured into the house. Behind me I heard Doc open up with his shotgun. Noise wasn’t an issue anymore with the screams.

“Hey, I can use a little help here!” he yelled. Jacob ran back from his window and started firing down into the crowd of Zs that were trying to claw their way up the remains of the staircase. Most fell into the basement but they were starting to pile up.

Outside, there was no movement. Inside, they were piling higher and higher. The rest of the team grabber their knockers and started smashing downward on the Zs trying to climb the pile. One arm reached up and grabbed Ski around the ankle, started to drag him down into the mess. I dropped my bat and grabbed his arm and pulled as hard as I could. Jacob grabbed his other arm and the two of us lifted him clear of the pile and back up onto the floor. Next to us, Brit fired a full magazine of fifty rounds into the crawling mass, knocking down the last one as it tried to pull itself onto our floor.

Silence, except for our ragged breathing. I heard weapons being reloaded, stood up. Sweat was pouring off me and I felt my hands starting to shake.

“Give me an OK!” In turn, each of the team members called out their last name, followed by an “OK!” except for Ski.

He sat there, looking at a rip in the leg of his uniform. Under the rip, teeth marks were outlined with a small welter of blood rising up.

“Oh, fuck my life,” he whispered.

Jacob grabbed Doc by the shoulder and almost pushed him into Ski. “Doc, check him out! Do something for him! Will a tourniquet work?”

He whipped out a quick tourney and tied it off around Ski’s leg, high up, then placed his shotgun above the wound and pulled the trigger, blowing off most of the leg just below the knee. The loud BOOM echoed in the house, almost drowned out by Ski’s scream. He fainted. Doc lit his hand torch and cauterized the leg to stop him from bleeding out, then started cutting away at the ragged flesh. Just after he finished, Ski woke up and grabbed at Doc, then started pulling at the wounded stump, causing the blood to flow again.

“Let it go, Doc. Just let me go. Payback is a bitch. I gave in once, just once when I was so damn hungry I couldn’t take it anymore. I ate part of man I killed in a fight. I couldn’t help it, I was starving. Just let me go, Brother.” His voice sank, and we all shrank back away from him, horrified by what he had just admitted to, that thing that we were all scared of doing when we were starving. Ski never told us what he was on the run from, just always had that haunted look in his eyes.

Doc stepped forward and stuck a needle in Ski. Ski’s eyes rolled back and his breath let out.

Just like that.

Chapter 10

“Empire Hammer, Empire Hammer, this is Lost Boys, Fire Mission, over.”

“Lost Boys, this is Hammer, Fire Mission, out.”

“Suppression, over.”

“Suppression, out.”

“Grid, Kilo November seven niner eight three, niner four two zero, over”

“Grid, Kilo November seven niner eight three, niner two four zero, out.”

“I say again, Grid seven niner eight three, niner four two zero, over.”

“Grid seven niner eight three, niner four two zero, out.”

“Time on target 0920 hours, over.”

“Time on target 0920 hours, out.”

“Hammer, this is Lost Boys. Understand we want suppression along a five hundred meter line on either side of that grid, 5920 mils map north. Hammer everything east of the river, over.”

“Understood, Lost Boys. You want to perforate every Z east of the river along that line. We’ll get back to you if we can range that. Hammer out.”

Damn, but I loved professional artillerymen. We had given them an hour to work out their solutions, pre-fuse the BB rounds, and rehearse. Suppression, in this case, meant a couple of volleys of rounds fired along an azimuth, in this case running roughly along the route we needed to take to get to the railroad bridge. The rounds themselves were based on the old claymore anti-personnel mines. High explosive packed with thousands of ball bearings that detonated about thirty degrees up in the air. They were directional, meaning that the ball bearings would scatter in an arc downwards and out. Any Zs standing out in the open would catch a high velocity BB in the brain, hopefully, and it would clear our path. I wished we could have used this last night but arty rounds were at a premium, and I had coordinated this with the Battery Commander at Firebase Horse last week through e-mail.

“Lost Boys, this is Hammer. We can range that, but after this you are on your own. Mike Tango Oscar, Suppression, linear target, four guns two volleys, five iterations along line. Stand by for shot, over.”

“Mike Tango Oscar, Suppression, linear target, four guns, two volleys, five iterations along line. Standing by for shot, out.”

The Message To Observer told us how many guns would be firing what, and that enabled me to confirm they were shooting what I needed. Firebase Horse sat in an old field just north of Saratoga Springs, or what was left of it. The wide open parking field gave the Battery open, clear fields of fire and a solid base for their 155 M-777 howitzers to sit on. It also provided a place to run patrols, clean out Saratoga of anything useful and provide fire support to anywhere between Glens Falls and Albany. The sucky part was that it sat on the edge of the fallout from the reactor at the Navy Power School in Milton. It hadn’t suffered a total meltdown, but the area west of Saratoga and southeast across Saratoga Lake up to the river had taken some fallout. Most was washed away, which is why we were OK in Stillwater, but I trusted the Army NBC guys as far as I could throw them while wearing a MOPP suit.

At 0918, Hammer came back in the radio.

“Shot, over”

“Shot, out.” I answered. Meaning the Battery had fired.

“Let’s go!” I told the team, and we shouldered our packs. Behind us stood the farm house where we lost Ski. A trail of really dead Zombie corpses led from the river to the house and inside stank to high heaven. We had waited all night for more to come from the city, but with the break of dawn, nothing showed. We buried Ski in the back yard with a rough cross over his grave. While I was digging his grave with Jacob, the others took turns cranking the handheld generators which charged our radio and other electronic devices.

We started jogging downhill to where the Route 4 bridge crossed over the canal.

“Splash, over.”

“Splash, out.”

I motioned for the team to hit the ground. I trusted the artillery guys but I’ve seen too many rounds stray off target. A mistake on the gun line transposing numbers. A mislaid gun. The wrong charge. Plus, those BB’s came out of the rounds at a tremendous velocity and I didn’t need a ricochet wounding anyone.

The air just above the river erupted in sharp flashes of light and then a second later an ear-splitting CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK repeated. One platoon of four howitzers, two volleys, then they shifted fire, walking it up the line I had given them.

After a minute Hammer came back on the radio.

“Rounds Complete, over.”

“Rounds Complete, OUT.” And I stuffed the mike back into Jacob’s ruck.

I waited till the rounds stopped cracking, then an additional 30 seconds.

“GO GO GO” I yelled, and we ran, straight across the bridge and into the clouds of dust raised by the impact of thousands of high-velocity steel balls into brick buildings.

Chapter 11

We moved in bounding overwatch, one team walking, weapons at the ready, while the other rushed fifty meters. Then we switched. The walking team was the shooters, charged with hitting any Zs that were still standing or had been sheltered in houses during the bombardment.

Route 4 ran through the center of the village. At one time it held shops and houses. Now, like so much of the rest of America, it was a ruin. You could tell a lot about a village by what kind of ruins were there. The older small towns held up the best, except where they had had natural gas utilities. Broken lines, storms bringing down still-live electrical lines, lightning, all combined to start massive fires that raged through whole towns and even cities. The older towns in the northeast, built before the advent of modern firefighting systems, had fared better; brick walls, slate roofs… but still, better was a relative term. Most of the cities and larger towns in America had burned to a crisp, fires raging out of control for weeks. The southwest, from what I had heard, was a ghost town.

Everyone wore gloves and kneepads and had reinforced the knees of their uniforms because everywhere you went, there was smashed and broken glass. I don’t know why, but when the plague hit, it seemed like everyone must have gone on a rampage. Correction, everyone did go on a rampage. Looting and riots everywhere. To walk down any street in America was to listen to the sound of glass crunching underfoot. Most of had scars all over our hands from putting them down somewhere with broken plate glass. We had to be careful because even a small cut left untreated could lead to blood poisoning or tetanus. Two Missions ago we had lost a guy who had tried to tough it out when he stepped on a nail. He died in the base hospital a few months later. He died from asphyxia, his body broken and dislocated from the severity of the muscle spasms he endured.

We almost made it to the first rail bridge before we came across any Zs. There had been a few in the street, mowed down by the artillery. There had been one big mass in the center of town. The Zs had been in the middle of tearing apart what remained of a person. What idiot had been dumb enough to walk through the middle of a town in broad daylight? Maybe it had something to do with the firefight we heard last night. A shattered AR-15 lay on the ground next to the bloody mess. The Zs were all down, perforated with dozens of holes. Bad for this guy, good for us. He had drawn the locals into the kill zone.

We turned left onto the bridge. Once there, Brit broke out a four point rappelling harness and snapped into a thirty foot length of climbing rope. Doc and Jonesy, the biggest guys, launched her over the edge of the bridge, furiously snapping pictures, while the rest of us pulled security. She swung back and forth, trying to catch every angle, then yelled for them to pull her up. We repeated the process on the second bridge abutment, then started running back towards the canal lock.

In the middle of Route 4, several Zs had stumbled out of houses, wandering in that hesitant way when they smelled a living person but weren’t sure if one was close. Each team took time to shoot them in the head, aimed steady shots while the other team ran their fifty meters. We knocked down three before I stopped and pulled out a thumper. I set the timer for twenty minutes, placed the little box on the ground, then kept running.

Thumpers were little speakers hooked up to cheap MP3 players. Start it running, and depending on what track you pick, you get either an instant or set delay before it starts playing an obnoxious loud rock, rap, or otherwise bass-heavy, rhythmic tune. They were called thumpers after the way the worm riders had called the sandworms in that old sci-fi book Dune. The thumpers there were stakes with clappers set in to the sand, and their rhythmic thumping attracted the giant sand worms. Point is, the Zs would come running and stand around while the song played out, looking for the source of this evidence of living beings. Each of us carried two in our packs. They had saved our lives more than once.

When we had gotten a good distance away but could still see where I dropped the Thumper, we all grounded our packs for a rest. Right on time, twenty minutes, 50 Cents’ “In da Club” started blaring. Heavy beat ringing out from the cheap speakers. They came swarming, milling around in a mass, trying to locate the source of the sound. Had to be more than a hundred by the time the song looped back and started playing again.

I grabbed the mike from Jacob’s ruck. “Hammer, this Lost Boys, execute Fire Plan Bravo, over.”

“Lost Boys, this is Hammer, Fire Plan Bravo, out.”

I waited for shot and splash, and we watched BB rounds crack overhead, right on the spot I had planted the Thumper. Three volleys, landing on a pre-plotted grid. My GPS had told me where to drop the thumper, on coordinates I had worked out from Google Maps and shared with the artillery.

We watched the Zs get cut down. Fighting Zs is easy, you just have to be smart about it. It’s when you fight stupid that you die.

I yelled “I love it when a plan comes together!” and mimicked lighting a cigar.

“Old Balls! You would remember that show,” shouted Brit at me, over the crump of the distant artillery.

Chapter 12

It wasn’t an ambush. More like what the Army calls “meeting engagement”. Basically, we bumped into each other.

We were humping through the woods, avoiding Fort Ann, traveling on the east side of the river. We had our eyes peeled for Zombies, not for people. I think the sight of armed living people froze Jacob for a split second, but that was all it took. They opened fire, we opened fire and attempted to break contact, hauling ass backwards the way we came. Rounds were flying through the brush as each of us let off a magazine in the direction of our attackers and then peeled back ten meters. When the last person had burned a full mag, we tore off across an open field til we got to the next tree line, then grounded.

“OK, give me a SITREP, everyone sound off.”

“Jacob, I’m OK. I got zinged in the arm.” He was looking at a slight trace of blood where a round had scratched him. Doc was already checking him over.

“Ahmed, I got two on the way back while you were all peeling back.” Ahmed had been at the rear of the column and had taken the time, as we rushed past him, each in turn, to drill two of the attackers.

“How many?”

“I saw at least a dozen.”

Jonesy spoke up. ”Where the hell is Brit?”

Then we heard her scream. Loud screams, cut off in mid screech. I tore off across the field, just as Doc wrapped me in a bear hug and tackled me to the ground. A shot zinged overhead, right where I had been running a second before.

“Nick, NO! We are outnumbered and right now that will get you killed!” He held me tight despite all my struggles to get free, until I had calmed down. Meanwhile, Ahmed had boosted himself up into a huge oak tree, and was sighting with his binos, looking back the way we had come.

“I see her. She is being carried… they have disappeared into the woods on the far side of the next field.”

We moved cautiously to the sight of the firefight. Three bodies lay there. One was dead, another was bleeding out, clutching his groin as his life drained out of a severed artery. He shuddered, then lay still. The last sat against a tree, a little further back, wheezing from a punctured lung, blood pooling in his lap as it ran out from under his dirty T-shirt.

I approached the one up against the tree, slowly, my rifle pointed at his chest. I could hear him wheezing and he was getting paler by the second. A rusty revolver was held limply in his hand. I kicked it away. H gave no protest. He was fat, had a double chin. I knew what that meant. He was a cannibal. No one had that kind of access to fresh, fatty meat anymore in the wilds. No one except those who had crossed the line. He had prison tattoos on his hands. I knew by that where they had taken her, but I needed to know for sure before we committed to a course of action.

“Doc, we need to question him. Help me.” I pushed the man over onto his side, the wounded side. Immediately, his breathing increased and he groaned. Doc waited for him to exhale before slapping a piece of MRE bag onto the wound and taping it up.

I poked him in the head with my gun barrel until he showed some signs of consciousness. I wasn’t in the mood for being nice.

“Wake up. Where are they taking her?”

“Huh…. What? Hurts.”

I nodded to Doc, and he gave him a shot of morphine. The mans’ face relaxed and he came back around a bit.

“Your buddies. They captured one of our people. Carried her off. Where are they taking her?”

“Fuck you. A female? Bet she’s going to taste good… when they’re done raping her,” he rasped.

My eyes blazed over red, and I kicked him in the wounded lung as hard as I could, heard a rib snap. The man screamed in pain over the morphine.

“You’re going to die, and you can do it hard or easy. Tell me, and it’s easy. Don’t, and it will be hard. Your choice.”

The man tried to catch his breath. Doc grabbed my arm and pulled me aside.

“Nick, chill out. You’re going to kill this guy.”

“Doc, he’s a fucking cannibal. I am going to kill him. We don’t have time to play games here. If we can catch them before they get wherever they are going we have a good chance of getting her back. Otherwise, she’s dead, if she isn’t already. His life isn’t worth hers.”

The man was coughing up blood now. I walked over and whacked the butt of my rifle across his nose. He cried out in pain and started cursing me again.

“AHMED, COME OVER HERE!”

“Listen, shitbag. Ahmed was a torturer for the Taliban.” Standing behind the man, Ahmed’s eyes shot up. He had been no such thing. I ignored him. “He is going to fuck up your last hours on earth so bad you will beg me for death. Doc here can keep you alive for hours while Ahmed rips you apart. Tell me, and it’s quick and easy, I might even let you live. Don’t and he goes to work.”

“OK, the p-prison.” He started gasping for air and bleeding from the mouth again.

“Great Meadows?”

He nodded his head.

Damn. Great Meadows was a few miles north of here, a New York State maximum security prison. We had to get to her before they got there or we would never see her again.

“Let’s go!” I yelled, and I ran. Ahmed passed me, on point.

We left the wounded man on the ground. I let him live. The Zombies would not.

Chapter 13

“Nick, hold up. Wait a minute, let us think this through before we, how do you say, do something rash…” Ahmed had stopped in front of me and was pulling out a Google map printout of the area.

“Let me show you a trick we pulled on you Americans time and again in my country. We know where they are going, and they are carrying a prisoner. They may have wounded with them. Judging by the shape those others were in they are likely to be overfed and out of shape. They are also probably following the main road back to the prison. We can get ahead of them here…” he pointed to a spot just south of the prison, where a road crossed over the canal “…and ambush them. If we continue to chase them down we may run into an ambush ourselves.”

“OK, Ahmed, you’re a better strategist than I am. Let’s go for it. If we haul ass up through the woods on this azimuth we can get behind them. But we have to run.”

And run we did. Weapons at the low ready, we pounded along, maintaining a steady pace that ate up the ground. The woods were free from undergrowth but we still took a chance. Out here in the countryside, the Zombie presence shouldn’t be that much. What I was worried about were others from this cannibal group who heard the sound of gunfire, and who might be heading this way. Chance we had to take. We rotated taking point, going by compass bearing in a straight line across overgrown fields and stands of trees.

At one point off to our left, through a break in the trees, we saw them moving up the road. We stopped to count and get a better estimate of their numbers. There were seven left. Two were carrying Brit slung up on a pole. One had fallen behind, obviously wounded. As we watched, the tail man turned and shot the one lagging behind. Six left.

“Well, I guess they’re going to be moving faster now.”

We got into position just a few minutes before they got there. We went to ground on the north side of the road junction, just inside the tree line. Doc scanned for Zombies in our back area, pulling security.

“Ahmed, this is going to be on you, mostly. Our Z guns aren’t going to have much range and we can’t risk hitting Brit. It’s up to you with the sniper rifle. Let them get close so Jacob and I can get some too. Drop the two carrying Brit, Jacob will work in from the left, me from the right.”

They came up in a gaggle. No security, just moving quickly down the road. I figured they felt safe, being only a few miles from their home ground. We waited until they had turned toward the bridge and were strung out in a line in front of us.

I heard Ahmed’s rifle utter a loud cough next to me, and the lead guy carrying Brit fell to the pavement. The other one carrying her dropped a second later, still staring at his partner. I fired two rounds into the lead man. Jacob opened up on the rear. My target went down firing wildly into the ground, emptying his rifle into the dirt. Jacob shifted aim to his next target, but rounds started coming back at us, zipping overhead, firing high in panic. Ahmed shot once more, The last man knelt and aimed a pistol at Brit, who lay trussed on the ground.

“Let me go or the bitch gets it!” He cocked back the hammer. It was quiet for a moment.

“Fuck it, I know you ain’t going to let me go! I’m damned anyway!” he yelled and shot Brit from five feet away. All three of us hit him just as he fired, spinning him around.

“BRIT!” I yelled. “DOC! GET UP HERE!” And before anyone could stop me, I was up across the road and running to her. As I ran up I put a three round burst into each of the figures lying on the ground. I dropped onto the ground next to Brit and ripped open her armor, searching for a wound.

Above her knee was a bloody hole where she had been hit in our initial firefight. It had clotted over but blood was seeping from under her shirt, just under the edge of her armor. She was breathing really fast through her nose, Duct tape was slapped across her mouth. I ripped it off so she could breathe better, but her face was white. She was going into shock.

Doc shoved me aside hard and got to work, ripping open his aide bag and cutting away her shirt.

“Anything else?” he asked me as he rolled her onto her side to look for an exit wound. Nothing. He stuck a tampon in the entry wound and pressed my hand against it to hold it there. He punched an IV into her arm and started forcing fluids into her.

“I’m going to work on her, but she has some internal bleeding. We gotta get her back to the CASH at Fort Orange. Hold this up in the air.” He handed me the IV bag. He meant the Combat Support Hospital at Task Force Empires’ main base down by Albany.

“I got it, Doc. Just keep her stable while I get them on the horn.”

“Valkyrie, Valkyrie, this is Lost Boys, Nine Line Follows, over.”

I called two more times before the RTO called back asking for the MEDEVAC info. Behind me I heard Brit moaning and Doc trying to reassure her. “It fucking hurts, Doc. Gimme some morphine. Oh my God, this fucking hurts so damn bad.”

Jacob handed me a piece of paper with the 9 line info written out.

“Line One: Grid X-ray November 7834-9873”

“Line Two: Frequency 2200, Lost Boys 6”

“Line Three: One Bravo” Urgent Surgical, this told the surgery team to be standing by.

“Line Four: Alpha, none” meant no special medical equipment

“Line Five: Alpha, one” One litter patient

“Line Six: Papa” - Possible enemy troops in area, approach with caution

“Line Seven: Orange Smoke” marked the pickup area

“Line Eight: US Military”

“Line Nine: Open flat ground.”

The RTO repeated it back to me, confirming what I sent. Then he asked me who it was. I knew the guy on the radio, a kid who was a pretty good med surg nurse. We knew he had a real name but we’d called him Quesadilla for so long we didn’t remember it anymore.

“It’s Brit, and she’s pretty bad, Quesadilla.”

“Roger that, Nick. I’ll rush it. Out.”

I sat holding Brit’s hand while waiting for the call back. It came almost two minutes later, but it seemed to be eternity. She was mumbling something as Doc pushed the IV fluids into her.

“Lost Boys, this is Empire 6. Mission denied, over.”

“WHAT THE FUCK! WHAT DO YOU MEAN MISSION DENIED, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE?”

“You heard me, Lost Boys. We don’t have the air assets to pick up your soldier. Recommend you find alternative Evac. Over.”

“WE ARE IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE AND SHE IS DYING, YOU PRICK!” I was screaming into the microphone now.

“I’m not risking a valuable air asset to pick up your little whore, Agostine. Empire 6, out.”

I slammed the mike into the ground and screamed my frustration at the sky.

Chapter 14

I sat and held Brit’s head in my lap. She was moaning softly. Doc had shot her with some morphine, but being gut shot, the pain was intense. He couldn’t give her anymore or else her blood pressure would drop.

“Nick, what are going to do? We can’t stay here. There’s going to be Zs and those guys’ friends are going to come looking. ” Ahmed and Jacob stood guard, watching the tree line and down the road. Doc stood over me.

I stared dully up at him. Brit was dying. I could feel it. I had seen it far too many times. The only thing I was thinking now was whether to make it quick for her, and if we would have time to bury her. I wasn’t going to leave her for the animals, human or otherwise.

“Come on, Nick, we gotta move. Zs will be showing up here lickety-split.”

I took my pistol and put it over her heart. She was unconscious. I sat for a second, completely undecided and denying what was happening. Pictures of our times together over the last year flashed through my mind. Finding her at the school, travelling back to the Finger Lakes, our scouts together down the valley. Nights on watch, shooting the shit. Keeping each other warm on cold nights. We had been together for a long time, and saved each other’s lives over and over again.

“Doc, I can’t do it. Stick her.” Doc nodded and reached into his bag for a needle.

Then the radio crackled into life.

“Lost Boys, Lost Boys, Valkyrie 6, over.”

I grabbed the hand mike from Jacob.

“Valkyrie 6, this is Lost Boys, over!” Valkyrie 6 was Major McHale, the Air Ambulance Company Commander.

“Lost Boys, we are ten mikes from your position. Pop smoke when you have us in sight.”

“DOC! MEDEVAC INBOUND, five mikes!”

“Nick, we have other problems. Coming down the road.” I looked up to see Ahmed firing at a group coming down Route 4 on the other side of the canal. They scattered and started returning fire.

“Valkyrie, be advised, we are under fire. Hostiles are on the other side of the canal, across the bridge, about three hundred meters west of my position.”

Another voice came over the radio. “Lost Boys, this is Foe Hammer 9. Keep your heads down, boys.” Then I heard that wonderful ripping sound of a 30mm cannon, and the road across the bridge erupted in a cloud of dust and explosive rounds going off. The firing stopped.

“Foe hammer, good effects. LZ cleared. Thanks, over!”

“Lost Boys, this is Foe Hammer, anytime. Foe Hammer out.”

I heard the rotor blades of the MEDEVAC thumping their way up the valley, and threw an smoke grenade.

“Valkerie, Orange smoke, over.”

“Roger, I copy Orange smoke.”

A battered UH-60 came thundering up the canal, flared, and set down to the right of the smoke. I grabbed the IV bag. We helped the Flight Medics set her on the litter, and I squeezed her hand one more time, and she gave me a weak grin. As they strapped her in, I ran over to the pilot’s side. Major McHale slid open the window. I reached in my hand and grabbed his, showing him how thankful we were for his disobeying orders. He yelled to me over the rotor wash.

“Your team saved my life, Nick, when we went down over in Pittsfield. I repay my debts.”

“What about Colonel MacDonald?”

“Screw that shithead. He needs me more than I need him.” He looked down, listening over his headset, gave me a thumbs-up and shut the window. I ducked down and ran away to the side as he powered up. The UH-60 thundered up into the sky and I watched them tip over and head back down the canal, the rotor wash throwing up spray, the Apache providing top cover leading the way. I followed them with my eyes until they disappeared around a bend.

“Is she going to make it, Doc?”

“I don’t know, Nick. She has internal bleeding, so she is going to have to go straight into surgery. Fortunately, it was a small caliber bullet, .25 I think. I don’t think it hit any bone and shattered. I give her a fighting chance.”

“That’s all she would ask for, Doc, a fighting chance. It’s all any of us have ever got.”

We shouldered our packs and moved on out across the bridge.

Chapter 15

I opened up my iPhone and downloaded all my messages. Nothing on Brit’s condition yet, but I knew as soon as she was out of surgery they would call us on the radio. At the top of the list, with a HIGH PRIORITY and REQUEST RECEIPT, was the FRAGO that I had been expecting.

FROM: CDR@TFEMPIRE.MIDATLCOM.MIL

TO: LOSTBOYS6@ TFEMPIRE.MIDATLCOM.MIL

CC: S3@ TFEMPIRE.MIDATLCOM.MIL; J3@MIDATLCOM.MIL; JFOPS@NAVY.MIDATLCOM.MIL

SUBJ: FRAGO 16 OPORDER 17-034 OPERATION HAWKEYE

REFERENCE: ENEMY ACTIVITY

TASK ORGANIZATION: IRREGULAR SCOUTS / TF EMPIRE / U.S. ARMY / MIDATLANTIC COMMAND

1. SITUATION: Concentration of Anti-American Forces vicinity Grid NF 4523-8734

2. MISSION: Determine Strength, Activity, Location of suspected Anti- American Forces in and around NY State Correctional Facility Great Meadows vicinity Grid NF 4523-8734

3. EXECUTION: NLT 201707130300 unit will provide information to higher command to facilitate neutralization of Anti-American Forces at designated location.

4. SUSTAINMENT: None

5. COMMAND / SIGNAL: PER OPERATIONS ORDER 17-034 APPENDIX B

Our original mission had been diverted, of course. LTC Jackass saw a chance for action and glory. For once, however, we agreed. I hate cannibals. I had to laugh at his “Anti-American Forces”. Someone was still stuck in the desert fighting hajis.

We were already sitting in a hide site across the canal from the prison, waiting for daylight. Doc, Ahmed and Jonesy were sleeping while Jacob and I kept watch. As the light slowly filtered into the east, we all woke for stand-to, making sure no one had sneaked up on us in the night, no Zs had stumbled into our area. We hadn’t seen one since the day before; apparently our friends across the canal had been doing a pretty good job of clearing them out.

Every half hour I called Valkyrie to check on Brit. Late in the morning Major McHale came on the horn.

"Lost Boys 6, this is Valkyrie 6, your 5 element is out of surgery. Doing OK, sedated. Will fill you in tomorrow, over."

I said a silent prayer of relief and tapped my head with the hand mike while letting out my breath. Then I gave a thumbs-up to the rest of team. They all grinned back at me.

Feeling like I had just gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson, I went back to watching the prison.

"Are you crying, Nick?"

"Fuck you, Jonesy."

“You seem to be a little stressed, Nick. Why you be cursing so much?”

“”I got your stress right here. I’ll be fine once we get to shoot someone.”

As I watched through my binos, I saw a truck which had been parked across the front gate of the prison rumble to life and roll back across. An army LMTV, the cab chopped off and armor plate welded across the front, pulled out and drove off down the road to the county prison. In the back were a group of women, dressed in orange prison jumpsuits. They stopped midway and the women, about a dozen, climbed off the back. One man with a shotgun jumped down from the remains of the cab. They headed to a field that was showing some corn sprouting up through the rows and started pulling weeds. The truck continued down to the county prison and returned with two dozen more men and women. They looked like concentration camp survivors, all skin and bones. The original group of women looked almost healthy in comparison. I counted a total of six guards, armed with shotguns, rifles, and M-16s. As I watched, one of them occasionally whipped one of the workers. The truck returned to the county jail and started making trips to the backside of the prison. I counted five trips before the truck returned to the prison.

I handed the binos to Doc. He studied the scene for several minutes.

“Tell me what you think, Doc.”

“OK, the first group of women you saw are the party girls. Either voluntary or not. Fed better, not whipped so often. The others are slaves and meat.”

“Agreed. I counted three dozen civilians in the close field and 5 truckloads to the back fields. Make that a total of around a hundred thirty or so. Figure they have a back entrance to let the guards out to the back fields. Same number of guards per civilians, makes it around thirty guards out back. No idea how many are in the prison itself but you have to figure at least double that number. So, figure maybe a hundred cannibals.”

“Anti-American Forces.”

He snorted. “Whatever. Time to settle in and watch for a few hours. Later today we can head over and check out the county jail. Obviously being used as a slave pen. What I can’t figure out is they should be all stirred up by the helicopters and the gun fire yesterday, yet here they are, acting like nothing happened. ”

“I don’t know. Then again, tough as these guys might be locally, the heavy-duty shit might be outside their experience and they probably don’t know what to do other than go on about their business.”

“Well, either way, as long as they sit still and don’t unass the place. I assume patrols go missing on a regular basis.”

We took turns watching and noting routines. The only break in the boredom was when a zombie stumbled from the tree line next to the field. I watched it run at the workers, who kept right on working. I wondered why they didn’t break and run, or why the guard didn’t shoot it. The Zombie grabbed the nearest worker, who started to fight. I watched the guards gather around the fight. The man finally went down under the zombie. I could faintly hear him screaming. One of the guards finally clubbed the zombie on the back of its head when it started to stand up from chewing on its victim.

As I watched this drama, I caught some movement at the edge of the field. One of the healthier-looking women was running for the woods. The guards turned at a yell from another prisoner and shot her down as she ran. Then they started whipping the other prisoners.

“Nice people.” I commented to Doc. He grunted an affirmation, then took his turn at the binos while I ate some lunch.

In the evening, we moved across the bridge and got as close as we could to the county prison. Unlike the state prison, with thirty foot high concrete walls, the county jail was surrounded by chain link and razor wire. Two guards sat in towers, and around the fence were piles of skeletons. It looked like a Z swarm had broken itself on the fence a while ago. I wondered who had won that one.

The state prison was surrounded by 20’ high concrete walls. Guards stood in each of the towers. As I watched in the night vision scope, the guard in the closest tower was joined by another figure, and the two of them started having sex right there in the tower. I’ll give him credit for enthusiasm but it meant their security was shit.

I wrote all this up and shot it back to TF Empire with pictures. The return e-mail came back quickly.

FROM: S-3@TFEMPIRE.MIDATLCOM.MIL

TO: LOSTBOYS6@ TFEMPIRE.MIDATLCOM.MIL

RE: FRAGO 16 OPORDER 17-034 OPERATION HAWKEYE

Nick, move back and find a place to watch the fireworks. Stand by to provide observed corrections to fire support if necessary. Hope you enjoy the show.

MAJOR JOHN FLYNN

S-3, TF EMPIRE

Chapter 16

“Nick, Empire Six is on the horn. He wants a prisoner to interrogate.”

“Tell him I said to piss off.”

“Empire Six, this is Last Boys Three, our six element says to piss off, over.”

I grabbed the hand mike from Doc. “You asshole.” He laughed and told me he hadn’t transmitted. Everybody is a frigging joker.

Turns out before he launched this op, Colonel Jackass wanted us to interrogate a prisoner. We had given him a pretty good writeup of the situation. However, he didn’t want to “launch on unconfirmed Intel”. His words. My words were “you big puss,” but I wasn’t stupid. I was going to deal with him in my own time. I gave him the “Roger that” and started to plan.

We still had two hours of darkness left. I didn’t like the idea of snatching a prisoner. It was dangerous, and I couldn’t figure out how we were going to do it. Everyone was locked up tight in the jails or guarded in the fields. We had already seen that the guards didn’t go anywhere alone, even when taking a dump, when they were outside the prison. They only slacked off when they were behind the walls. Getting one alive would be next to impossible. At the least, it would involve some kind of fight, which would draw attention from even more guards. As far as just “taking someone down” it’s not like the movies at all. You don’t just sneak up on someone, tap them on the head, drag them away and then wake them up with a gentle slap on the face. More likely than not, if you hit someone hard enough to knock them out, you are going to fracture their skull or at least cause a major concussion. Which, all and all, makes for a useless prisoner. Since they never travelled alone outside the prison, we would have to kill one to snatch the other. That would blow the element of surprise for any attack tonight.

Jonesy ambled over after exchanging watch with Ahmed. “Nick, this isn’t going to work. Ain’t no way we gonna get prisoners to question. They might screw off up in the towers but outside the wire? Them bastards got their shit wired tight.”

I shook my head. “Gotta agree with you, brother from another mother. Ain’t going to happen.”

We had already had two killed and one wounded on this mission, so I did what any good subordinate does when confronted with impossible orders from above with no relevance to the situation on the ground: I ignored them.

We waited until daylight, then I called into Empire Six.

“Empire Six, this is Lost Boys, Over.”

I told him we had captured a prisoner, and before he expired, he told us that yes, they were cannibals, and yes, they were in the prison, and no, he didn’t know how many of them they were.

“What do you mean he didn’t know how many of them there were?”

“Well, he died.”

“Did you get to question him first?”

“For a bit. He pretty much confirmed what we knew already.” Damn, this jerk was making it hard to lie to him.

“How did you get the information out of him?”

No way was I going to let that pinhead fulfill his dark fantasies by giving him torture tales.

“Better you don’t know, if you get my meaning, over.”

“Roger that, Empire Six, out.”

God, he was an insufferable prick. Another FRAGO came in from the S-3. If possible, they wanted us to secure the county jail. I calculated up the odds. We had only seen guards in two of the towers there and at the gate to the jail. That we could do. H Hour was at 0300. We moved out to a better observation position so we could keep an eye on the jail and the prison. It wouldn’t do for whoever was coming for the prison to get a surprise if we could avoid it.

“Jonesy, quit that shit. Just kill it.” We had settled down on the edge of the tree line. A Zombie with no legs was pulling its way toward us through the forest. Its lower jaw was missing, probably a survivor of the Z wave that had broken over the jail. Jonesy was baiting it, letting it get close then low crawling to a different position.

“I’m just doing PT with my battle buddy here, Nick.” I could see his grin in the moonlight.

“Just kill it already. Have a little bit of compassion. That was someone’s mom once.”

“OK. You just one big bad teddy bear, Nick.” With that he pulled his .22 pistol and popped two rounds into its head. The Z sank to the ground, the weird red light in its eyes slowly fading.

At 0259, H-1, Ahmed lined his rifle up on the guard in the tower at the jail. I lay next to him, watching through my NVGs and counting down quietly. 3, 2, 1.

At 0, all hell broke loose. Ahmed’s first shot dropped the guard in the tower. At the same instant, a bolt of light shot into the truck parked in front of the prison. It exploded with a dull CRUMP, lifting off its axels and landing a dozen feet away, burning brightly. A Hellfire missile fired from an Apache miles way had impacted at exactly 0300. From behind another hill, another Apache rose up from where it had been waiting and started pumping 30mm chain gun rounds into each of the towers in turn.

The Hellfire explosion had washed out my night vision goggles for a second. Ahmed’s also, spoiling his shot at the second guard. I flipped off my NVGs but the jail itself was still in darkness. I flipped them back down again and saw the other guard sprinting for the building where the slaves were kept. Ahmed’s second shot splintered the doorway next to him as he dove in. Three figures rushed out from the guard shack at the gate to stare at the fireworks. The five of us rose. In a steady walk, we advanced across the field towards the jail, shooting as we went. All three fell before we were halfway there. As the last one went down, we heard automatic gunfire and screams erupt from the slave barracks, and the inside was lit up with a strobe light of gunfire.

We broke into a run, even as three CH-47s from the NY Army National Guard thundered overhead. Two stopped over the prison courtyard and started spilling troops from the back, fast roping into the courtyard. The third touched tail on front of the prison gate and a heavily armed squad ran out the back. As soon as the last man was clear they powered up and lifted to the back side of the prison, probably droping off another squad to cover the back exits.

I saw all this out of the corner of my eye, but I stopped when I heard a .50 caliber open up. If you have ever shot a .50 or had one shot at you, you know immediately what it is. A stream of tracers hammered into one of the Chinooks dropping troops inside the prison yard and it immediately hauled ass away from the courtyard, fire erupting from one engine and two guys dangling from the ropes in the back. I stopped and stared for a second, watching it head south in a trail of smoke and flame before hitting the ground, hard. One guy had hung onto his rope and I watched him bounce off the ground with a bone-crunching thud. The second Chinook let loose a stream of fire from a side mounted minigun and something in the courtyard blew up in a flash, hidden by the thirty foot walls. Gunfire started swelling in a rapid crescendo inside the walls as the guys from the 108th Infantry went to work, routing out cannibals. The squad in front of the gate hosed the opening with short bursts of suppressive fire from a 240B machine gun. I started to run toward the downed chopper but Doc slapped me back to reality by hitting my shoulder as he ran toward the jail. The gun fire inside the slave barracks had changed to single shots, but the screams went on.

Ahmed threw a flashbang through the open doorway. I looked away, opened my mouth and cupped my hands over my ears. A second after the grenade went off, my ears still ringing slightly, we piled through the door.

Chapter 17

The scene before me was pure chaos. Pools of blood ran out of jail cells. Two-thirds of the way down the corridor a figure was turning towards us. I only caught a glimpse of him as I turned to scan my sector, the right corner of the room. I was coming back around, lining up my sights just as he fired. Doc fired back from over my shoulder as an enormous hammer whacked me in my kevlar helmet. I fell to the floor, stars running crazy circles in my eyes, and everything going double for a second before snapping back into place. The rest of the team advanced down the corridor, scanning each cell for potential hidden bad guys. Then I blacked out.

I came too with Doc kneeling over me, shining a flashlight in my eyes. I immediately started to try to get back up but he pushed me back down with a knee on my chest.

“Slow down there, Killer! Take a break and sit for a minute. You took a round upside your helmet and got a pretty good whack. You’ve been unconscious for a few minutes, started to get worried about you. We need to go check out the slaves, see how many we can save. Here’s a souvenir for you.”

He handed me my helmet. On the top left side was a long, shattered groove. An inch downward and it would have blown the top of my skull off. I felt really weak for a good minute or two.

Jacob, standing guard at the door, waved in a figure dressed in US Army Multicams. It took me a few seconds for my eyes to focus in the glow of the chemlight he was carrying, but I recognized Captain Horatio David, from C Company of the 2-108th Infantry. I guessed it was his guys who had raided the prison. Behind him, two medics hurried in, moving towards the sounds of screaming and moaning coming from the jail cells.

“Hey Nick, you doing OK?”

“Yeah, Horatio. Took a round to the Kevlar, I’m a bit jiggly right now. Don’t move around so much. How’s your boys?”

“Two dead, seven injured, one critical. The helo going down was tough but they managed to get out of the bird after it hit, before it went up. I’m going to have that jackass Colonel crawling up my ass about losing a helo. And he’s going to be all over your shit for not telling him there was a heavy automatic weapon in there.”

“Screw him. What were we supposed to do, crawl inside the jail? Sorry about your guys.” I was pretty sure I would know them but I would wait til later to find out their names. I didn’t need any more grief right now.

“Such is war, Nick, such is war. I know you couldn’t have gotten in there, and there should have been a predator over flight. Not that we can get them anymore. We’ve got one of the 47s sitting down outside to take off the refugees here once we do a full count and assess their medical condition. Here, let me give you a hand up.” He pulled me to my feet, where I stood a bit shakily for a second. Then I took a deep breath and walked out into the night air, into a scene from hell.

A good quarter mile to the south of me was the burning wreckage of the CH-47. No one came close because onboard ammunition was starting to cook off, sending rounds through the air. To my left, the jail was burning in several places, including the shattered towers. The devastated truck at the front entrance had burned itself out except for the tires, but a cloud of acrid smoke drifted off into the night. As I watched, one of the CH-47s lifted from the courtyard and headed Southwest, back towards Albany, escorted by one of the Apaches. There went most of Charlie Company, along with their wounded. I hoped the wounded would make it.

Captain Davis came up next to me and watched it go, and in a minute, Doc was standing next to us, and gave us an update.

“We have fourteen dead, another twelve wounded, forty-two unwounded. Mostly women and children. Could have been worse, Nick.”

I knew he meant that it could have been worse if we hadn’t rushed the barracks, but he knew it would eat at me that we hadn’t saved them all.

“OK, Horatio, can your platoon organize the Evac? My team has to be long gone from here before the Zombies come crawling toward the sound of the gunfire.”

Captain David and his RTO

“I’ll do you one better, Nick. It’s going to take a few minutes to get organized. Have the bird give you a lift a couple miles north, say to a mountaintop just outside Ft. Ann, where you can rest up for a while.”

“Sounds good, Brother.” I followed Doc, Jonesy, Jacob and Ahmed into the back of the chopper while Cpt. David conferred with the pilot. Once I sat down on the canvas seat, I closed my eyes and immediately fell asleep.

Chapter 18

We never got off the ground. The rotors spun up, then spun down. I woke up with a start, sensing the change in pitch. The crew chief lowered the tail deck and motioned for everyone to get out, so I unsnapped my harness, grabbed my ruck, and shuffled down the ramp.

Outside, a Blackhawk had just touched down. After the rotors stopped spinning, two figures climbed down. Here came LTC Jackass with his faithful sidekick Command Sergeant Major Peters, aka Poncho. They strode over with the Colonel holding his Cavalry Stetson firmly on his head, as if the motionless helo would blow it away. I’m surprised he didn’t have his spurs jingle- jangling. CSM Peters was carrying an M-14 with more scopes, flashlights and targeting devices than an M-1 tank. He aimed it this way and that, starting at every sound coming out of the pre-dawn darkness. Twice he flagged me with his weapon, swinging it in a wide arc that pretty much covered my whole team. We cringed backwards, as we could see in the light of the burning chopper that his finger was on the trigger.

Colonel Jackass stepped up to me and tried to stare me down. I put my finger alongside my nose and blew snot out onto the ground in front of him. He leaned forward and got two inches from my face, the firelight making him look like some kind of red cherry tomato.

“Sergeant Major, arrest this man!” Peters started to sling his weapon and reach for me. I stepped back and got ready to deliver a full force punch to the Colonel’s face. Or his throat. I couldn’t decide which. My arm was stopped by Doc, who had come up behind me.

“Arrest me? For what?”

“It was your negligence that got that helo shot down tonight. I ordered you to get information on the prison.”

“What were we supposed to do, crawl over the walls? Keep trying to take prisoners until we were dead?”

“You were too busy worry about your little whore to do the job properly, Agostine!”

“You’re a piece of shit!” I lunged for him but Doc and Jacob grabbed both my arms and wrestled me back. Then Peters finally got around to unslinging his weapon. He had it halfway up before Ahmed had his pistol pointed at his face from a few feet away. Jonesy had his pistol pointed at the Colonel, in that stupid sideways gangbanger pose I had been trying to break him of.

Captain David stepped in between us all, and put his hands up, motioning for everyone to lower their weapons. CSM Peters didn’t lower his rifle until Ahmed had put his pistol back into its holster. The Sergeant Major was sweating like the pig he was. “Calm down, Gentlemen. We’re all on the same side! Right, Nick? I’m sure the Colonel, once he gets eyes on the ground situation, will understand the risk assessment on that kind of recon. Isn’t that right, Sir?” said Captain David, interposing himself between us and the Colonel.

Jackass stared at Jonesy, who had a big, evil grin on his face. Then he snapped out of it and started backing off to his helo. “Yes, sure Captain. I’ll just do a flyby of the prison. Good job here. Get loaded up and get your men out of here.”

“Piece of shit pissed his pants when I drew on him. Dumbass cracker.” Jonesy laughed loud and hard.

Captain David ordered his guys to give us up some ammunition for our rifles and some more clean water. “Nick, I suggest you and your team start humping it out of here before he finds his courage again and orders his crew chief to light you up with some machine gun fire for insubordination.” Then the guys and the former slaves climbed into the CH-47 and rose into the sky, silhouetted against the faint dawn.

We jogged down the road for three miles, a slow steady pace, even though we were all exhausted. I spotted a two-story building on the side of the road. Around it was a ring of skeletons where a zombie wave had fought to get into the building. We slow-walked through the ground floor, clearing each room. When we got to the stairs, we found them hacked and shattered, which was a pretty standard way of keeping zombies out during the plague time. There were more skeletons clustered around the bottom. Most had neat round holes in their skulls.

“Nice shooting,” muttered Ahmed, picking up a skull and examining it. Long blonde hair still clung to it in patches. He put it back down gently.

Beside the stairs was a battered aluminum extension ladder. It looked like it had fallen over instead of being placed down. Way I figured it, someone was looting, used the ladder to get to the second floor, and it fell. The noise from the ladder falling must have been like a dinner gong for the local Z population.

“Shall we?” said Doc, with a motion to the ruined stairway, and he set the ladder back up. We climbed up while Jonesy and Jacob stood guard below.

We found another skeleton lying on a couch in an upstairs office. This one was clad in expensive Gortex hunting camouflage. The latest generation night vision goggles hung around his neck and he had a full set of top-of-the-line body armor. Across his chest lay a fancy tricked-out AR-15, the civilian version of the M-16, with rails, scope, flashlight, handgrips, all the toys. The top of his skull was missing and blood stained the wall behind the couch. There were a couple of hundred brass casings and magazines on the floor of the window next to the couch, piled around the top of the broken staircase. The bolt of the weapon was locked to the rear on an empty magazine.

Saved one for himself. Better that than dying from thirst while the Zombies waited for you outside. “All that fancy-shmancy gear and you died from being stupid, Buddy. That’s what you get for working alone,” said Doc as pulled the boots off the skeleton and tried them on, after pouring alcohol all over them. “Nice fit! Just broken-in Bellevilles!” Yeah, the Army supply system sucked that bad. Our uniforms were patched, boots worn-out, gear jury rigged. The one thing that they could give us in quantity was ammo and weapons, which was good enough, I guess.

The rest of the guys came upstairs. We pulled the ladder up after us and settled down to get some rest. I logged into Facebook on my iPhone after Ahmed got the radio set up and went to our secret Scouts group. I posted a long rant about what an asswipe LTC Jackass was; then I showed the guys the picture Brit had posted. She was sitting up in a hospital bed, making a stupid duck face and flashing fake gang signs.

She was definitely going to be OK.

Chapter 19

1200 hours. I flipped on the speaker of the SINCGARS and turned the volume up to be barely audible.

“Time for the news, boys.” Each day at 1200 hours, the commo guys at Fort Orange rebroadcast the news. We ate it up like candy.

“…istening to the BBC World Broadcast. The Royal Navy today intercepted a refugee fleet from Northern Russia when the fleet tried to run the guard and avoid quarantine. HMS Sheffield was damaged by a missile fired from a Russian destroyer. Casualties are unknown at this time. The fleet was destroyed by a low-yield nuclear weapon. A statement issued by the King’s spokesman affirmed England’s commitment to safeguarding the United Kingdom from all threats.

”The Grand Committee of the House of Lords convened at Oxford again today to hear the case against the King's prerogative powers and sidelining of Parliament. In their thirteenth straight vote since the Emergency started, the Lords overwhelming supported the continued exercise of His Majesty's war powers as defined in the Constitution.

“In North America, elements of the US 82nd Airborne seized control of the Bermudez oil field in southern Mexico in an airborne assault. Heavy fighting was reported by our embedded correspondent in a three-way battle between US forces, Mexican cartels and undead.”

“YEAH, GIT SOME, AIRBORNE!” yelled Doc, a former 82nd paratrooper.

“Shut it, I’m trying to listen,” I told him.

“Shut it yourself, you dirty nasty leg.”

“…Japanese Defense Forces lost contact with their last garrison on the main island of Honshu but have declared the island of Shikoku to be cleared. Japan and Singapore remain the only parts of Asia with a functioning government.”

“This is the BBC World News.”

I clicked off the radio and thought about how many billions were dead, yet we still fought on. Stubborn humanity, I guess. I never thought of quitting, even at the worst of times. I guess the quitters were all dead by now.

We rested an entire day, cleaning weapons, taking care of minor wounds, getting as cleaned up as we could. My head was still a bit woozy after taking that round. And we were all starting to smell like ass after a week in the field. Captain David had dropped off several cases of ammo, both for the sniper rifle and our .22s. We had burned through more than I had wanted. Loading magazines was a pain in the ass, but it had to be done. Click, click, click.

Jacob sat down next to me later that evening. He had his pistol in his hand and I assumed he had just finished cleaning it. I could tell by the look on his face that he wanted to talk.

“Nick, that shit yesterday. In the prison cell block.”

“Yeah, what about it, Jake?” I wasn’t sure where he was going with this, but if the guy needed to talk, he needed to talk.

“I can’t get it out of my head. This is one hell of a nightmare I’m in. I wish I could wake up.”

“Well, if you want to talk about it, how about you put the pistol away first.”

He looked at it like he was seeing it for the first time. “Oh, yeah. Sorry.”

Talking with Jacob was tough, because, even though he performed well in the field, he really believed that he was in a dream. I asked him once what he did before the plague and he had laughed. He told me he was an accountant. Wife, two daughters, white picket fence around his house on Long Island. I couldn’t square it with the dirty, unshaven gunslinger who sat next to me. Then again, I don’t think he could square it with himself, either.

“I keep seeing all those women and kids, the ones we didn’t get to in time. I close my eyes and there they are, right there. I can smell the gun smoke from that guards’ rifle.”

“We all have a tough time dealing with it, Jacob. It’s what makes us human.”

“What I can’t get over, Nick, is how real it seemed. I know I’m in a dream. I have to be in a dream. Otherwise, Jean and the girls are dead. Or even worse, undead.”

We were treading on dangerous ground. I’ve seen guys lose it in the field before, both in Afghanistan and here. One minute they’re fine, and then snap, they break. The toughest guys out there. Everyone has a breaking point. I think Jacob was approaching his.

He sat silently for a moment while I thought of how to answer him, but before I could, he stood up.

“One way or another, Nick, it’s not a place I want to be. Either I come out of this nightmare or the nightmare is real.”

“Maybe you need to talk to Doc, see if he can give you something to help you sleep.” I started to get up, meaning to get Doc, but he shook his head no and walked over to the ruined stairway. Before I could stop him, Jacob had jumped down and run out the front door of the building. I called for the others. We grabbed out gear and climbed down after him, but by the time we got out the door, he was long gone. I stopped at the door and told everyone to go back to bed. We would find him in the morning, or not. Most likely not.

As we watched the sun rise at stand-to, we heard a single shot echo through the woods.

We found him just down the road. Leaning with his back against a tree, a picture of his wife and kids on his lap, his pistol still in his hand. He had waited ’til dawn so he could see them one more time. The four of us dug him a deep grave, shouldered our packs and started walking.

“Hey Nick, you think Jacob is in a better place now?” Jonesy dropped back as Doc replaced him on point and walked beside me. He could tell I was in a foul mood. Three men killed, Brit wounded. This was a tough mission and it was getting to me.

“I don’t know, J. Maybe this is a nightmare, and he managed to get out of it. Lord knows I wish the old world would come back.”

“I don’t. Old world, I got shit on by the man. Five years in a state pen like that joint we just cracked, all because I beat the crap outta some dude that raped my sister. I like this world, Nick. I am the right hand of justice, and I can serve it out like jelly on a cracker. Just not on you crackers. YEAH, I MEANT YOU, DOC, YOU CRACKER-ASS BIKER!”

Doc flipped him the finger over his shoulder, not taking his eyes from where we were going. I actually smiled a little and Jonesy dropped back to talk with Ahmed. I felt a little better.

Who knew, psychotherapy from an ex-con?

Chapter 20

We headed out down the railroad tracks, both for survey and to keep off the roads. Walking down railroad tracks were a bitch because the rail ties never seemed to land under your foot. It made for a more tiring walk, but on either side of the grade was swamp and mud. It was hard keeping on our toes with the sun beating down on us. When you hump a rucksack, you sweat. I don’t care how hardcore you are, humping a ruck is hard work, and we were soaked in sweat before we had gone a mile. So much for being clean.

As I walked slowly along the tracks, scanning my sector for movement, my mind wandered. Half paid attention to what was going on around me. It had to, or we would be dead. The other half thought back, remembered, dragged up conversations with people long dead, replayed events in my mind. I tried not to think about before the plague. Some things are too painful. Instead, my glance crossing over Jonesy’s pack as I did a slow turn to walk backwards for a few meters, checking our six, I thought of how the team had come together.

It had been at the FEMA camp on Grand Island, just west of Buffalo. The Feds and the Army were just gearing up for Task Force Empire, and Doc and I had reported into the base, reactivated under Presidential executive order to our old ranks. Everyone who ever served, up to age 65, was reactivated and automatically made part of their old branch of service. In theory, anyway. I had made contact with a small “clear and hold” unit that had airdropped into the high ground just west of Schenectady. They had flown me, along with a dozen others, to the Seneca Army Depot in the Finger Lakes. While waiting for assignment, and starting to chafe under the usual Army chickenshit rules, I had run into Doc, whom I knew from way back. Together we came up with the idea for the scouts and pitched it to a Major we knew in the Infantry. We resigned the next day and we were hired as Irregular Scouts. Next thing we knew, we were on a UH-60, flying over the ruins of Buffalo on our way to the camp on Grand Isle.

I stood in front of the ragged group of civilians and looked them over. A sadistic-looking little man wearing a drill sergeant hat was barking at them, trying to get them to stand in ranks, doing the usual “YOU’RE IN THE ARMY NOW, MAGGOT” crap. Most of them looked at him with contempt. These people were the survivors. They had lived through the plague and everything after, volunteered to serve. Maybe some were there for three hots and a cot, but I doubted it. They had carried the other ninety percent milling around the FEMA camp who sat in their tents, relieved the government had finally gotten there so they could kick back. Deadweight. I had seen them as I walked through the camp, the vacant looks on their faces. The ones who had been carried through the plague by the fighters. The same fighters who stood before me in this group.

I stood for a minute, then whispered to Doc “Watch the big black dude.” The sergeant had gotten in his face, or more like his chest, and was yelling obscenities up at him, ending with “DO YOU HEAR ME, BOY?” At which point, the black guy punched him as hard as he could in the face. The sergeant went down for the count, flat on his back. The other around them laughed, until they heard the rattle of bolts being drawn back and rounds being chambered in the rifles of the Military Police team nearby.

“HOLD IT!” I yelled at the top of my lungs, and walked forward to address the crowd. Doc knelt down and checked out the sergeant, who was trying to sit up, holding his face. I told the Military Police team to stand down, which they did, staring angrily at the group.

“My name, for those who care, is Sergeant First Class Nicholas Agostine. Just so you know, the Army you just volunteered for isn’t the kinder, gentler Army anymore. You, black guy, what’s your name?”

He stepped forward. “Jones. LeShaun Jones.”

“Well, Jonesy, you aren’t back on the block anymore. Those guys” and I motioned to the three soldiers who were helping the Drill Sergeant sit down on a bench, “will shoot you for something like that. Matter of fact, they probably are going to shoot you, just as soon as I leave here, to make an example out of you. I don’t have to explain to you how cheap life is nowadays.”

Most of them acknowledged what I had said. Jones just stood there and glared at me.

“Can you run? Or is that all just muscle?” I asked him, poking him in the chest. Holy crap, this dude was big.

“Yeah, I can run. Bet yer ass.”

“Good, because I’m taking you with me.” I turned my back to him and faced the crowd again.

“Like I said before, my name is SFC Agostine. This is SFC Hamilton, my team medic. I’m recruiting a few volunteers to serve on my scout team. Our job is to go out and be the eyes and ears of Task Force Empire, the Army’s push back into New York State. It’s going to be dangerous as hell, but we will be on our own, detached from the regular army bullshit, not even part of the command. Our actual overhead is Joint Special Operations Command, or JSOC. If you’re interested, Doc and I will be over here for the next few minutes. Think about it.” I pointed at Jones. “You, come with me if you want to live.”

We walked away, Jones following, and sat down on the steps of ruined library building. A dozen people walked over to us and we formed them in a line, interviewing each one. We had picked out six of them, all tough, competent survivors, when a vaguely familiar, dusky-skinned man stepped up to me.

“Name?”

“Ahmed.”

“Last name.”

“If I told you, will you torture me again, Nick Agostine?”

I looked up from the laptop where I had been punching in people’s names and shielded the sun from my eyes. I recognized him at once. He had been on our capture list for months in Afghanistan, leading a band of independent tribesmen who fought us and the Taliban with equal ferocity whenever anyone trespassed into his valley. At one time, he had been a member of the Taliban but had gone off on his own, disgusted by their attacks on children. He had hated America with equal vehemence for an airstrike which had killed two of his own children. We had him in custody once, but the last I heard, he was in Guantanamo Bay Prison.

“Ahmed Yasir. What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I am signing up for your team.”

I closed my eyes for a minute. Doc stood next to me, his pistol in hand. Ahmed stood calmly, arms folded. I opened my eyes and took the man in. He was dressed in ragged street clothes, three days growth of beard. Trying to blend in with the crowd. There were more than enough assholes who had let the plague be an excuse to take out their racial prejudice against whatever group they hated.

“I meant, what are you doing in America?”

“As for what I was doing in America, well, I was guest of your prison system. The great Satan has fallen far lower than anything I could have hoped to have done, and I actually like it here. I am here, my country is gone, and Allah has given me an opportunity to slay demons. I will never be able to go back to Afghanistan. There are plenty of demons to slay here.”

I thought for a minute. Ahmed Yasir was one bad-ass mofo and my company had spent months chasing him. I hadn’t really tortured him, just beat the crap out of him when we finally caught him. Payback for the men I had lost. Still, I had a lot of respect for the bastard. He fought fair, as fair as anyone could fight in that dirty little war.

I held out my hand. “Welcome to the Zombie Killers, Ahmed. Screw me or any of us over and we’ll cut your balls off.” He looked me in the eye, nodded, and shook my hand.

That was more than two years ago, and at last count, we had had something like five hundred percent casualties, dead, zombied or wounded. Now, excepting Brit, we were down to the four of us who made the core of the team and she was out of action for a while. I kinda laughed to myself as I walked, thinking of an old pop culture reference.

Jonesy heard me and asked what I was laughing at. “Time for some more Redshirts, Jonesy.” I told him. Yeah, I felt every injury and death my team had suffered but sometimes, screw it, you just gotta laugh at death. Civilians, they never understood.

Chapter 21

The Z jumped me out of a doorway. I was walking point as we made our way into Whitehall. I had done a quick peek around the corner, seen that it was clear down the street and moved forward. The doorway was on the edge of the building that I had just looked around, and the Z had been huddling in the doorway. It sprang up on me, immediately going for my throat and knocking my rifle out of my hands. I hunched my neck up in my collar, jammed my forearm into its mouth, and swept the legs out from under it. I landed with a nasty, bone snapping crash on top of it and started hammering the things’ head into the pavement. It bit down even harder on the woven Kevlar sleeve of my uniform jacket, pushing the steel strip sewn into the sleeve into the flesh of my arm with a bite like a steel trap. All that kept running through my head was don’t tear, don’t tear, don’t tear. My right hand was trying to reach for the hammer I wore slung on my belt and the weight of my pack was threatening to tip me over. I hunched down even further in my collar and turned my face away from the clawed fingers. One scratch and I was screwed. It might take a minute for the infection to get me, but Doc would have put a bullet in my head long before that. I gave up on the hammer and started scrabbling around for a rock or something on the street. I came up with a piece of broken asphalt and hammered it into the thing’s head over and over. It finally stopped moving but its jaws stayed locked on my arm. I pulled out my K-bar knife and worked it into the jaw, cutting away, careful not to get any of the body fluids on my exposed skin. It finally let go when I cut the tendons to the jaw and I rolled away, onto my pack, shaking like a frigging leaf.

A burning-hot brass cartridge casing spun through the air and landed in my collar as I lay there catching my breath, and I scrabbled to pull it out. I saw another fall to the ground in front of me and bounce off the pavement and looked up to see Doc standing there.

“A LITTLE HELP!” He stood next to me, had been there the whole time, firing methodical shots into a crowd of Zombies advancing up the street, a milling, chaotic mass. Ahmed and Jonesy faced the other way, firing back down the way we had come.

F’ing surrounded. I jumped up and joined Doc firing at the Zs, which were closing in quickly. More piled out of buildings on either side.

This was just the situation we tried to avoid, being run down by a horde of Zs in a town where anything could pop out at you. We had made it most of the way through town and were just a few hundred meters short of the canal lock, the end of our mission. That’s the way it always happens.

“ACTION RIGHT, MAKE FOR THE CANAL!” I yelled, and we all turned and concentrated our fire on the Zs between us and the water. As we fired, we ran at them. Every few shots we would connect with a skull and one would fall. Ten meters away from the closest ones, we dropped our weapons in their slings and pulled out our pistols, firing shots at their heads. Then we charged them, swinging our bats and steel rods and hammers as fast and as hard as we could. In a few seconds we were through them, dropping our Z knockers and hauling ass for the water, followed by a crowd of Zs charging after us. We gained a few yards and as we reached the edge of the canal, we dropped our packs, vaulted the low railing and dove straight into the water.

It closed over my head and I started to sink down. I reached the mud at the bottom and kicked upwards. My eyes were screwed shut. Deep water over my head terrifies the shit out of me. I broke the surface and tried to tread water before going down again. I crossed the canal in a series of bounds, pushing off the bottom to get air from the surface of the six foot deep water, gasping as much air as I could before sinking back down. I made it the fifty or so feet across the canal, getting more and more tired. I almost didn’t make it but a huge hand grabbed me and pulled me out of the water as I sank the last time, just short of the edge,. I lay there gasping for breath. Beside me, the guys were catching their breath too. Jonesy stood up and yelled across the water at the Zombies clustered at the edge of the canal.

“HEY YOU! SHITHEADS! THROW MY PACK OVER! I AIN’T FINISHED READING MY BOOK YET!”

We all burst out laughing. Jonesy looked hurt.

“What? I was reading World War Z. I wanted to know how that shit turned out.”

Chapter 22

Damn. Our packs sat where we had grounded them. The zombies were tearing through them, infuriated by the smell of living humans on them. As we watched, they scattered our extra ammo, rations, clothes, everything.

“Jonesy, please tell me you still have the radio.”

He pulled it out of the frame that it rode in on the back of his plate carrier and turned it over. Water poured out of it. He saw the look on my face.

“Well, it might work once we dries it out, Nick.”

“Yeah, it might. OK, how are we doing for ammo?”

I was alright, with a dozen full magazines. Doc and Jonesy were down to three mags each and I quickly cross-loaded so we each had six. Ahmed had about two dozen rounds left for his sniper rifle. We each had about fifty rounds for our .22 pistols and each of us had an MRE and some water stuffed in our assault packs.

“Well, we’re alright on food and water for the next day. Ammo should be fine if we avoid getting in the shit like we just did. We have one more set of locks to check out and then we can call for EVAC. Let’s move a mile or so down the road and then take a break. Take turns trying to dry out your clothes, and cleaning weapons, fifty percent security. Half an hour each.”

The mile went quickly, but we ran into three Zs that had been attracted by the commotion on the other side of the canal. We shot them, cleanly, and, even if I had my camera anymore, I wouldn’t have bothered taking their pictures. Not worth the time and effort anymore. From here on out, it was finish the mission, nothing else. We settled down in a bunch of trees, just off the side of the road. Doc and I took first watch. Jonesy quickly set about stripping the radio after he had cleaned his weapon, drying each part as best he could and laying the circuit boards out in the sun. Then we switched off, and last thing I did was reassemble the radio and test it out.

“Empire Main, this is Lost Boys, radio check, over.”

I pictured the commo geeks sitting high on Prospect Mountain over Lake George, barricaded in their little fortress/van. They had been air mobiled in a few weeks ago to coordinate coms and provide retransmitting capability to any of the teams operating in the southern Adirondacks. Our SINCGARS backpack radios would never reach back to TF Liberty, so they relayed the signals of all the teams operating in the area via microwave transmitter, line of sight to the big tower at Fort Orange. I wouldn’t want their job; endless hours of boredom punctuated by terror when you had to go out of your armored van to service the antennas or take a dump, or run the 20 feet to your armored sleeping trailer.

“Lost Boys, we read you Licken’ Chicken, out.” Great, the radio was still working. I wasn’t looking forward to having to hump all the way back to Fort Orange through Indian Country if we weren’t able to call in a helo for evac. Another couple of hours and we were done, and we would be riding that sweet chopper back to Fort Orange for mission debrief, and we would get to see Brit again.

We moved out, single file, slowly threading our way to the canal locks. I hated the end of missions because that’s when guys got killed. You get slack, looking forward to what’s next; hot showers, good food, getting laid. Drop your guard. I wasn’t going to let that happen.

“Yo, Jonesy, stay on your toes. Now isn’t the time for slacking off.”

“Yo, Nick, shut the hell up. I know what I’m doing. Man, you more nervous than an Infantryman at a queer convention. Don’t know whether to run or join in.”

We made it to the locks without incident. The three of them pulled guard while I checked out the machinery and looked at the gates. These looked like they had been smashed with high explosives and lay twisted open at each end. Weird, but nothing the Engineers couldn’t fix.

“OK, Boys, that’s it. Homeward bound!”

I rang up TF Liberty TOC and gave them my final report, accompanied by pictures from my iPhone. I requested an EVAC as soon as possible. That’s when LTC Jackass came on the horn.

“Lost Boys, what is your current food, water and ammunition status, over?”

“Empire, we are at about one day of rations and twenty-five percent on ammo. Maybe less, over.”

I waited for an acknowledgement. Nothing came.

“Empire, Empire, this is Lost Boys, over.” I repeated this three times. No answer.

OK, sometimes commo goes down. America was still pretty screwed up. A lot of crap we were using was dragged out of prepositioned stores sitting on a ship off Diego Garcia or something. Not the newest, top of the line stuff. Still, it was a little unsettling. I gathered the guys around.

“Here’s the situation. No coms, no helo. I trust this guy, the TF Empire commander, as far as I can spit. What do you think?”

Doc advised that we wait for later tonight, see if we could get commo up then. Ahmed had nothing to say. Jonesy was of the opinion LTC Jackass was setting us up for failure.

“Nick, that sumbitch has had it out for you ever since you countermanded that order he gave outside Saint Johnsville, when he wanted to level that village with artillery and you were convinced that there were civvies living there. You made him look bad, and this whole pissing in his pants thing over at the prison. That dude don’t like you nothing at all.”

“Jonesy, he may be an asshole but he’s still an Officer in the US Army. He can’t just leave us out here high and dry.”

“Wanna bet? I seen plenty of mothers like him in prison. Always out for himself, and if you make them look bad, they gonna stick a shiv in you fast as they can.”

“OK, well, we’ll try to call in tonight. Meanwhile, let’s put some mileage between us and Whitehall, try to find a place to lay up for the night.”

We had jogged a kilometer or so down the road when we heard a ripping sound, followed by a POP, then a rumbling series of explosions that knocked us all to the ground. Or it would have, if we hadn’t all dove to the ground the second we heard the rocket coming in.

A Multiple Launch Rocket System, or at least the battery at Fort Orange, fires the MGM-140A - Block I rocket. It has an unguided range of roughly one hundred kilometers and carries almost a thousand antipersonnel bomblettes, each about the size and explosive power of a hand grenade. The explosions leveled the entire center of town, including the lock area where we had been standing less than twenty minutes before.

I stood up after a few minutes and looked at the cloud of dust and smoke rising behind us.

“That sonofabitch.”

Chapter 23

We all stood, watching the dust settle. Well, Jonesy, Doc and I stood and watched. Ahmed continued to scan the area.

“Pretty impressive, no?” asked Ahmed, though his eyes never left the surrounding trees. “None of you have ever been on the wrong side of American artillery before. You should try being in a cave while it detonates directly overhead. I have seen men go insane.”

His comments shook us out of our stupor.

“OK, well, um, oh fuck,” I said.

“Yeah, that about sums it up, Nick. Where to now, fearless leader?” Doc hunched down on the ground, pouring water into an MRE heater.

“Well, I can think of one place we’re going to wind up eventually.”

“Yep, back at Fort Orange.”

“It’s going to be a bitch to sneak in there.”

“We’re not going to sneak in there. We’re going to walk in there in the middle of the night, just like we we’re coming back from a mission. But we can cross that bridge when we come to it. Meanwhile, we have to get through the next couple of days. We have a few hours of daylight left. Our first objective is to go back to the prison, see if there is anything we can scrounge from there. At the least there has to be water, and we might be able to get some useable ammo.”

“What about getting our packs back?”

“I doubt, after what just dropped down on them, we would find anything useable. Plus, you know there is probably unexploded ordnance lying around.”

“Agreed,” said Doc. “I lost my aide bag back there, so I don’t feel like patching any of you up with my sewing kit. That and I’m just getting dried out.”

We started down the road, in an airborne shuffle that ate up the meters at a steady pace. I was tired, worn out by all we had been through in the last two days, but I reached down inside myself and ignored the blisters being generated by my wet boots, the burns I was getting in my crotch from the wet uniforms pants chaffing my skin raw. I was on a mission, now. One was to rescue Brit. The other was to deal with LTC Jackass. I didn’t know if I even needed to do both. Brit was probably in no condition to be moved from the hospital, and as far as she knew, the team was lost, cut off from coms. Hell, Jackass or his ass-sucking Sergeant Major would probably feed her some bullshit about us being overrun by Zombies in Whitehall. He was a sneak and an asshole, but I don’t think he would have the stones to make Brit disappear right out of the hospital so she was safe for now. I just hated her thinking we were dead.

We spent that night up in the trees, slung in our hammocks. We carried them in our assault packs because if you got separated from the team, you would never be able to fortify, or even defend, an old house by yourself. Up in a tree, you could hold out as long as you had ammo and water, and if you were smart, move from tree-to-tree to give you running room. Hell, even moving to a different branch on the far side of a tree and dropping down might give you enough of a head start to outrun a zombie horde.

In the south, a column of smoke was highlighted by the setting sun, matched by its twin to the north. The helo at the jail still smoldered, and behind us, something had caught fire in Whitehall and burned through the night. Below us, a steady stream of zombies, animated corpses of those killed in the jail battle, stumbled on through the night, attracted by the fire on the horizon.

Ahmed tapped me on the leg and I awoke with a start, but I didn’t move. In the stark brilliance of the full moon, I could see stream of zombies had died down to a lone figure, limping along on a shattered leg. It dragged the remains of a rope, entangled in military issue web gear.

“Do it!” I whispered, but the figure below us stopped at even that quiet remark. It looked up, the eyes glowing a dull red, and Ahmed’s pistol coughed twice. The figure crumpled to the ground. I waited to see if anything else turned up and then drifted off to sleep again.

In the morning, there were no zombies around. We climbed down and I went over to the corpse. As Ahmed and I had suspected last night, it was an Infantryman, one of the those who’d been hanging off the tail end of the helo as it crashed. His guys must have missed his body in the rush to Evac. He must have still been alive but the zombies had gotten to him. We tried never to leave a man behind unless it risked other lives, but, more important, we tried not to leave a man to wake up undead. Every soldier who fell in battle, bitten by a zombie, was given a round to the head. Horrible, gruesome, but there was no way I wanted to become an undead, and we all felt the same way.

I stripped him of ammo, which fortunately was for our modified M-4s with the hot .22 long rounds, not regular .223 military issue ammo, About one out of every three guys in a unit carried the newer, rechambered rifles. Smoke grenade, flashbang, two frags. Water in a Camelbak that we wouldn’t touch, in case it was contaminated. I pulled one of his dog tags off his right boot and slipped it into my pocket. We spent the next hour building a cairn of rocks over his body and set out on the road again. Rest in peace, Brother.

Chapter 24

The next two days were a blur. A haze of encounters with Zombies, lack of sleep, hunger, and pain. My feet were raw where my boots had been wet. My extra socks were back in my ruck, somewhere in Whitehall, and the pair I was wearing had holes in them. Doc had patched the blisters with duct tape after they had burst, but the skin had started to slough off around them. The others weren’t in much better shape. It was eighty kilometers from Whitehall to Stillwater, where we would go to ground at the Combat Outpost. Home for all of us most of the time except for Doc. He ran a clinic at Fort Orange so he was back and forth a lot.

We needed time to refit and rest, and I was completely focused on getting there. We had run out of water a few hours ago. The summer sun was draining the sweat from our bodies. In a little while, we would take a break to filter some river water, but for now, step, step, step. Each time my left foot hit the ground, a bloody footprint was left behind. I knew Jonesy, for one, was hurting just as bad, the pack on his back had rubbed two bloody sores on his waist since the pack frame didn’t fit on his back.

To pass the time and take my mind off the burning pain in my feet, I asked Doc to tell me about the fighting at Seneca Army Depot. Rumor of it had spread east through the little groups of survivors spread throughout the state.

“Well, things started to get bad right around September. The Guard was pulling out of the NYC area, and things were pretty much falling apart all over. You remember that time, Nick.”

“Yeah, my unit got overrun just outside of Albany. I think we could have held, but we had an absolute boneheaded chain of command. No tactics, just RESCUE THE CIVILIANS! And STAND FAST TO THE LAST MAN! We got outflanked by infected just coming down south from the ’burbs, and our position was a line across the Waterford Bridge, instead of a hedgehog on high ground behind barriers. We were stacking them up like cordwood, trying to hold a lane open for uninfected civilians, when all the sudden the guy next to me goes down with a Z on his back. Then it turned into a madhouse.”

I had run. I admit it. The whole mess had turned into a brawl, with hand-to-hand fighting and every man for himself. All I could think about was my wife and kid, ten miles behind the lines. I ran to them like I had never run before, and I was too late. I would never, ever forgive myself for that.

“I remember that week. I wound up on a chopper pulling troops out of Governor’s Island, just off Manhattan Island. Our unit was the last one out Manhattan, just barely made it to the ferry pulling out of the pier. I caught a CH-47 to Stewart Airbase, then a C-130 to Seneca Army Depot. I had been awake for three days, just doing what I could for the guys over and over.”

I stopped him for a second. “What do you mean, ‘for the guys?’ You’re a medic. You of all people know once someone gets bitten they’re done for.”

“Yeah, I euthanized more than a few of the guys who were infected. Know what that’s like? Someone begging you to save them and you stick them to take them out before they turn into a Z and go after you? Yeah, dozens of those. What I was talking about, though, was the wounds from the fighting.” Yeah, I knew what it was like. I’d done it myself. He knew that, but I let him talk through it.

“What do you mean, the fighting?”

“Man, it was a battle. Thousands of civilians trying to get off Manhattan, the bridges blocked with smashed cars, infected running wild, tunnels flooded. Here we were holding onto the piers, trying to evacuate as many civilians as possible, and they were storming the barricades. Remember how NYC was pretty much “a gun-free zone?” Apparently not. Pistols, shotguns, AKs, AR-15s, hell, even some heavy automatic weapons that some douchebag Russian Mafia guys from Brighton Beach started opening up on us. I was treating gunshot wounds left and right. It made Afghanistan look like a picnic. People with the highest standard of living in the world fell the furthest, I guess, when they realized their money wasn’t going to save them. In the end, we just pulled out, firing into the crowd to keep them off the last boat.”

He shifted his ruck on his back, but kept talking.

“You know, Nick, guys like us, veterans, we all knew the world could go to shit at any moment. I actually feel bad for the civilians who lived in a comfortable, peaceful world. They forgot how easily civilization can fall apart and that the barbarians were waiting at the gates. Hell, take away a man’s food and threaten his family and his survival, and he is the barbarian.”

I knew what he was talking about. After the general collapse of the military units and police, the world had turned, in many places, into a person-eat-person world. Small communities did better than the larger ones, but unless your village was more than a day’s walk from an urban center, you got overwhelmed with refugees trying to beat your doors down.

“So what happened at the Depot?”

“OK, so I get there on a C-130 and the engineers are just finishing building the walls. Huge dirt berms, with a trench dug in front, angled so people on top could fire down into a kill zone. Howitzers converted into muzzle-loading shotguns, with charges and ball bearings piled in, individual rifle positions every few feet. The north wall was about fourteen kilometers, the south wall about eighteen. Right between Seneca Lake and Cayuga Lake. The north wall was more heavily manned because we had refugees from Rochester and Syracuse and zombies, all trying to climb the wall. The Guard had pulled back behind the walls and scattered units from Fort Drum were flying in by helo. Man, I heard there was a serious last stand by some Infantry guys at the airfield at Drum, keeping Zs off the runway so that last C-130 full of dependents could get out. You should have seen the parents, Nick. The shocked look on their faces. The kids, they dealt with it, like kids do.”

“The day after I got there, this huge mob of zombies, must have been thousands of them, came moaning right up toward the north wall, chasing some civilians, maybe a hundred of them. I saw it from an observation tower, maybe fifteen miles off, watched it through binos. I thought we were done. We saw them coming, and next thing I knew, the loudspeaker is yelling “INCOMING!” and “DOWN DOWN DOWN!”, and a C-130 flies over and drops this huge, parachute-dragging bomb out the back deck, and WHAM! I swear to God I thought it was a nuke. It wasn’t, it was one of those twenty-thousand pound bombs they developed in the Gulf War. Just BAM! And everything was gone, refugees, Zombies, everything. Later, I went out on a patrol to look for survivors and I noticed more than a half dozen craters at various distances from the base. Apparently they had done this more than once.”

Doc rucked on, lost in his thought. I could think of a time or two myself when I had wished the Air Force had dropped a big-ass bomb at my beck and call. Water under the bridge, though.

We turned the corner of River Road, and I noted how our corn was coming in, growing in the field on our side of the river. I had planted it a month ago, using precious diesel to run a scavenged tractor to plant twenty acres. Green stubs were just showing up through the ground. I was tired of eating canned food and stale MREs. Now if I could only get my hands on a cow… foolish pipe dream. Most of the cows around here had died from infections they got when the electric powered milking machines had shut down. The rest had been eaten long ago.

As we moved past the edge of the tree line, what was left of the house came into view. A small, faint column of smoke still twisted into the sky.

Doc pulled up short next to me, followed by Ahmed and Jonesy.

Ahmed spoke first. “JDAM, Joint Direct Attack Monition, guided bomb, maybe about five hundred pounds. Probably delivered by an F-18 off the USS Abraham Lincoln. Someone really does not like you, Nick.”

I stood dumbfounded. The windmill that provided our electricity still spun in the gentle wind, but the house itself was a mass of lumber blown to Hell and gone.

Chapter 25

“Well, now what?” Jonesy stood kicking through the rubble, looking for his own stuff where his room had been. Everything was scattered and gone. Even the safe in the basement, where we had kept our extra weapons, hidden under the cement slab of the floor. I had thought that might be OK, but the crater extended past the basement, and water from the river had flooded into the crater.

“That asswipe is gonna pay, Nick. My entire collection of games is gone.” Jonesy held up the shattered remains of his Xbox.

I sat down on a rock, looking out over the river. I was tired. My feet hurt. My back hurt. I was worried about Brit. I wasn’t sure where to go next. Well, scratch that. I knew where to go next. I just wasn’t sure what the plan was. First things first, though.

“There’s nothing here for us, guys. You know what we have to do. First things first, though. We need rest and resupply. Time to head to the cache.”

We had spent last summer building an extra fortress, a “go to hell” meeting place about a mile away, built on the top of a knoll, deep in the woods. Cinderblock walls, parapet and a small cabin inside that could sleep six in bunks. Water supply from a hand pump-operated well, firewood stockpiled, enough food for a year, extra ammo we had been stealing every chance we got, replacement weapons that had been “destroyed or lost” on previous missions. The only way in was through a tunnel covered by a grating that had to be unlocked or an aluminum ladder buried in the wood a hundred meters away.

We made a way slowly through the woods, keeping an eye out for Zs that might have been attracted by the house being bombed. Only one, the remains of an incredibly fat woman, missing an arm. She came stumbling out of the woods, swinging her remaining arm at us. Jonesy swung his steel bar at the things’ head, yelling, “THAT’S FOR MY XBOX!”

Ahmed eyed him strangely. “She did not touch your Xbox!”

“I know, but I feel so much better now!”

While we rested at the fort, cleaning our weapons, Doc tending to the various small injuries that crop up after being in the field for a few days, I took stock of our situation and conferred with Ahmed. I sat with my feet propped up on a bench.

“Those are nasty weapons, Nick.” He made a motion of gagging. “Maybe you can march into the FOB and you can knock everyone dead from the smell of your nasty feet.”

“Haha, very funny.” I continued drawing out a plan of base in the dirt.

“The hard part, Nick, is we don’t really want to shoot our way into the base. As much as I used to enjoy fighting you Americans and the Taliban both, Allah has told me to kill Zombies. And bad guys, of course. Those silly Fobbits do not deserve to die because their commander is an ass.”

“I agreed, Ahmed. You’re forgetting something, though. No one knows we are dead. I doubt LTC Jackass is going to run around trumpeting he had us killed. In due course, I’m sure he’ll announce that we were “lost” or something, but I bet he gives it a week or two. So, we can just walk in the gate, but we will have to move fast.”

“No, that will not work, Nick. As soon as you come in the gate, the base commander will be notified. Then we will be up shit’s creek, because he will run, or have us arrested on some kind of made up charges. Somehow.”

“Well, if we can get in touch with Brit, I’m sure she can get us in somehow.”

I was waiting to hear from Brit. If we had gone off the net or gone missing, she was under orders to call us at 1000 hours each day on a predesignated freq. I hadn’t heard from her yet, but she could have been fed a line of crap by the Chain of Command. It had been almost two weeks since she had been wounded so I’m sure she was mobile around the hospital.

It took two more days to hear from her after we had set up an OE-254 antenna to extend the range of the radios.

“Blue this is Red, over.” That was her calling us. Nothing to give away anything, on the off chance anyone was listening. We were using the team colors from Halo.

“Red, go.”

“Blue, you were reported dead. SITREP, over.”

“Four pax OK, base gone. Break.”

“Need knock at Orange two days, over.”

I waited for her to figure it out. In two days, she would have to help us get into Fort Orange.

“Time, over”

“Fourteen, Moby, over”

“Fourteen, Moby out.”

OK, so it was cheesy code, but someone may have been listening. Our electronic warfare assets were stretched thin, mostly down in Mexico where the 82nd was fighting for the oil fields. I was more worried about someone at the commo shed overhearing Brit talking to us, so we kept it short and coded.

“Fourteen” meant “1400 hours,” or 2 PM. She would subtract twelve off of that to get the real time, or 2 AM. “Moby” meant “on the south side of the base”. I had stolen it shamelessly from the Moby song “Southside”. We had other code words for the cardinal directions, other things we memorized. I was just glad she was doing well enough to help us out, and she would be coming out with us one way or another.

That afternoon, we moved back down to the river. Two of us each hauled on steel cables that had been pegged to the river bottom in a shallow area and pulled two fourteen foot aluminum canoes from the riverbed, where we had sunk them with rocks. We flipped them over and cleaned out the mud and silt that had accumulated over the last few weeks while we were gone, then waited for night to descend on the river so we could start paddling downstream.

Chapter 26

Two days later found us lying in the mud of a drainage ditch. Overhead, the stars blazed away like nothing I had ever seen when the world was full of light. I watched the International Space Station trace a slow arc overhead, an endless coffin, and thought of Brit. I wondered if she would ever get to those stars.

Lying in drainage ditches in a post-Zombie world is hard to do, because you never know what is lying in the ditch with you. We all were tensed up, ready at any moment to grapple in a death grip with a zombie that had been hiding under the leaves. Fortunately the area had been cleared pretty well when the Army established Fort Orange. Still, it kinda made your balls crawl up inside of you as you crawled along, poking in front of you with your knife in one hand and your pistol in the other.

The Fort itself was located at Albany Airport for use of the runway, and the center of the base was the Joint Forces HQ of the New York National Guard, a modern, two story building. The glass had mostly been replaced by sandbags and a berm had been bulldozed around, with guard towers every hundred meters or so. Impressive, until you realized how understaffed Task Force Empire really was. The towers were often not even manned in the day time, just supplemented by a roving patrol. After the local area had been cleared, no one expected a zombie horde, and Firebase Mohawk, located ten miles westward, could easily lay down an effective barrage of BB rounds. Around it had been cleared a good field of fire for three hundred meters. Crossing it was going to be a problem, and I wasn’t sure how to deal with it until I came across this ditch. We had been inching our way through it for more than an hour, and we were now within a quick sprint of the berm. That last stretch was going to be a bitch, since it was just under a tower. What I was counting on was lax security and Brit. It had been more than six months since there had been any incident around the Fort, except for civilian survivors showing up at the gate every now and then. I had considered trying to disguise ourselves and talk our way onto the base, but we were too well-known. Instead, hopefully Brit was borrowing a little from the ancient Chinese military genius Sun Tzu: “All warfare is deception.”

At 0221, an orange fireball climbed up into the sky on the other side of the Airfield, followed by a thump that I felt in ground before I heard it. Alarms started wailing, and I knew that attention would be drawn there for the next twenty minutes or so. We waited past that time for everything to calm down. After an hour, the adrenaline from the explosion wore off and hopefully people got sleepy.

At 0325, we crawled slowly down the drainage ditch to where it ran up to the berm. I heard voices in the tower above us. Brit had come over to the base of the tower and was talking to the Fobbits on guard duty. Most likely, one was asleep at this time, worn out by trying to watch in the direction of the explosion, and the other was distracted by Brit. More likely, there was only one on duty anyway. We snipped our way through the wire, threw a blanket over the concertina wire and rolled over the berm, Doc pulling the blanket after him. We crawled under a tent, one I knew contained spare supplies and had no one in it. After fifteen minutes or so, Brit joined us.

I wrapped her in a bear hug and started to squeeze. Damn, she felt good!

“Whoa, ow, ow, calm down there, Idiot! Surgery, gunshot, hellloooo!” I put her carefully down and kissed her full on the lips. She touched my unshaven face gently, then pushed me away and punched me as hard as she could in the gut, right under the plate of my body armor. I doubled over, and gasped out, “What the hell was that for?”

“For letting me get shot, you stupid ass. How does it fraking feel, huh?” The guys were laughing as I tried to catch my breath. “Did you like my little diversion? Rubber band around a grenade, put it inside a can of diesel fuel earlier today. Not bad timing wise, if I do say so myself.”

“What did you say to get the tower guard’s attention?”

“I told him I had the hots for him and made a date for when he gets off shift in the morning. ’Cause, you know, I’m EASY! Hell, any piece of ass in this place could wrap this whole camp around her finger.”

After I recovered, we made our way casually through the tents to the Officers’ trailer park. No one paid attention to us in the dark. Doc and Ahmed had moved off to the motor pool to get us some transportation, and I expected them along any minute.

We stopped around the corner from the Jackasses’ trailer, and ducked down as a figure in PT uniform and shower shoes came down the graveled walk, carrying a rifle and a towel and shining a flashlight on the ground in front of him. As he passed us, Jonesy’s arm shot out and hit him on the side of the head, knocking the figure out cold. Our old friend Sergeant Major Peters.

“Pray for the right things, and the Lord will hear you!” rumbled Jonesy, and he quickly stripped the SGM and left him lying butt-naked on the ground, hog-tied with duct tape over his mouth. “Thank you, Jesus, for happenstance! I hope the mosquitos eat him alive.”

“Are you done messing around?” I asked. Jonesy laughed again. “After you, Nick.”

“Boys and their stupid games,” muttered Brit, but she spit on the still-unconscious figure anyway, and kicked him once, hard, with her combat boot, in the ribs.

We turned the corner, made sure the coast was clear, and were about to kick the door in when it opened. A young female soldier stepped out, kissed the Colonel, then walked away. I heard Brit mutter “rank climber” under her breath. The Colonel stood in the doorway watching her go, scratching himself. He went to shut the door, but a huge hand clad in a combat glove stopped it.

“What the hell?” he exclaimed, and then my arm wrapped around his neck in a sleeper hold. I choked him until he stopped struggling, and we taped his mouth, zip tied his hands and feet and threw an empty sandbag over his head. As we finished, Ahmed pulled up in a battered HUMVEE. We slung jackass into the back, hid him under some tarps, and piled in.

At the front gate, we stopped for them to raise the barrier. No one ever stopped anyone leaving the base. The Sergeant of the Guard, an E-6 I knew pretty well, came over to me.

“Damn, Nick, I thought you guys were dead! Came by to pick up Brit, huh? Glad she’s out of the hospital.”

“As Mark Twain once said, reports of our death have been greatly exaggerated. We’re on our way south, start scouting for the push downriver.”

“Well, you guys be safe out there. Shoot ‘em in the head!”

“Always do, Sarge, always do!” Ahmed gunned the engine, Jonesy spun the turret around to face forward, and we rolled out the gate.

Chapter 27

We threaded our way down Route 7, swerving carefully around the wrecked cars. This stretch wasn’t too bad, since it ran from one populated area to another. No one was trying to get between those. The traffic jams were bad just outside the small towns, when people realized that the locals weren’t going to let them in or there was no gas for sale. Come into a valley in front of a small town and there would be a pile up like you wouldn’t believe. Many of the cars would have bullet holes in them too, where they tried to run the barricades the locals had set up. 90% of the time they had to deal with so many refuges that the locals ran out of ammo, and they couldn’t defend themselves when a horde of Zombies came through. If they did admit refugees, they quickly overwhelmed the resources of the town; anarchy set in with the same result. Only here or there were towns and villages able to put up a coherent defense and hold out, and even then many times starvation did them in, a year later. Twelve months after the plague started, ninety percent of the east coast was either infected or dead from violence and starvation.

We reached the bridge over the Hudson where the highway turns into Hoosick Street, just as the sun was rising in the East. The sky was light above the hills, but down in the river valley, it was still covered in shadows. As we pulled up to the barricade that stretched across the bridge, Jonesy let loose with a burst from the 240B machine gun in the turret to call the Zombies, aiming it out over the water. The gunshots echoed through the dead city on either side of the river, and immediately on the other side of the barrier the Zombie moan started, first one, then more as they started to stumble toward the sound of the shots. All along the Hudson, all the way down the river to Newburgh, Army Engineers had built a barricade across each bridge, a ten foot high barrier that stretched across the width of the bridge. There was a lockable, heavy wooden gate that could be opened to let vehicles through, and a ladder on either side that would allow people to climb up and over. Sensors and cameras were embedded in the barrier to let the troops in the Operations center know if anyone was passing through. These walls were put up to keep the Zombies on the east side of the Hudson from crossing over to the west side and re-contaminating any cleared areas. The same was true for the bridges over the Mohawk River and just about any other major bridge. It was SOP for the Army when they went in to clear an area. Either build it, or blow it, and isolate an area. Zombies can cross water, but don’t like to, so rivers made a great barrier to them.

I jumped out and climbed the ladder, up into the tower that overlooked the rest of the bridge, being careful to keep out of the camera angles. There were a dozen Zs there already, and more were moving west onto the bridge. Their red eyes glowed faintly in the shadow of the hills, and that annoying, harsh moan was starting to get to me. It made me want to puke, and my nerves were getting jangled. I yanked out the power cables that ran to the solar collectors. Now no one was monitoring the bridge. In a couple of hours, a patrol would come out by Humvee or chopper and find the damage, but we had time. The monitors failed at a pretty good rate.

Brit was climbing down slowly from the truck. I could see she was still hurting from her wound, and I didn’t want her to tear any of her surgical staples. The sooner we got her back to a clean environment, the better.

Ahmed was, as always, pulling security, looking back down the highway to keep an eye on our rear. Doc and Jonesy hauled LTC Jackass out of the back of the truck, dumping him roughly on the ground. I took his hood off and ripped the tape from his mouth. He immediately started cursing all of us, telling us how he was going to have us arrested, shot, thrown in Leavenworth.

I let him rant a little to remind me why we were doing this. Then I pulled out my .22 pistol and pointed it at his face. That shut him up, but I’ll give him credit. He pissed his pants again, but still looked me in the eye.

“Lieutenant Colonel MacDonald, you tried to kill me and every member of my team. You were going to let Brit die. You bombed our home. As far as I’m concerned, you are responsible for killing more than thirty civilians when you shelled St. Johnsville, despite me telling you that there were civilians holed up there. You’re going to do it again, next chance you get. All for your glory.”

He started to argue but I slapped tape back over his mouth. I didn’t want to hear his excuses. Jonesy and I carried him up the ladder, walked across the top of the wall, and dropped him into the waiting arms of the Zombies. I’m not even sure he screamed.

“What, no long speech or convoluted plot to torture LTC Jackass?” asked Doc.

I made a cutting gesture across my throat. “Screw that. I hated those movies where you have someone in your sights, and you take time to talk to them, or leave them tied up someplace to save them for later, then they get away. As far as I’m concerned, you have a chance to kill someone who needs killing, you go ahead and do it. Just like Captain Mal says.”

“Damn, Nick, you are one stone-cold prick. And you gotta stop watching Firefly reruns,” said Jonesy.

“Jonesy, you weren’t there in St. Johnsville. I said thirty civilians. It was adults and about twenty-five children, from what I could tell from the amount of body parts. Kids. Toddlers. They’d held out for almost two years, and fought so damn hard to protect those children. Along comes that asswipe and he just levels the town. He had me arrested when I tried to countermand his orders over the Fires Net.”

Below me, the Zs we gnawing on the still-struggling LTC Jackass. He gave one last thrash, then died.

“I had to go in there for “effects assessment” because that asshole had to try out his new toys, see how well they did. Do you know what a couple hundred steel bearings do to a three year-old?”

I leaned over and spit on the still corpse of LTC Jackass, watching. I didn’t have long to wait. It struggled to stand, collapsing on one chewed off leg. Funny, but as soon as you were dead, the Zs often left you alone. It was as if they just wanted your life. That to me was even scarier than them eating your brains.

I leaned over and put two .22 rounds into the ranger brush cut of the fresh Zombie and it crumpled to the ground.

“What the hell did you do that for?” asked Doc.

“I may be a prick, like Jonesy said, but I’m not that much of a prick to leave him like that,” I said. “Next stop, Firebase Benedict.”

We rolled south on Interstate 787, taking the lane cleared by the Engineers. Occasionally we drove over a Zombie that had wandered onto the highway. The truck had an inverted V of metal welded onto the front, kinda like an old “cow catcher” that trains had on in the Old West. Hit a Z, and it got tossed to one side.

Brit drove, happy to be doing something after being confined to a hospital bed for more than two weeks. Every now and then she would see a Z on the road ahead, stomp on the gas and swerve to hit it. One splattered up and over the hood, spraying the windshield with blood. She laughed hysterically and hit the wipers.

“What the F is wrong with you, woman?” I yelled, trying to hold onto the radio mount so I didn’t get banged around. HUMVEE’s aren’t full of soft round leather curves. They are full of sharp, metal angles that will beat the crap out of you.

“I like to see them pop, and you gotta have some speed or else they just get crumbly. Hit them hard enough, and they pop.” She laughed maniacally, her deep, evil-villain laugh.

“You seriously need to get laid, woman!” yelled Jonesy from up in the turret.

“Ya think? How about it, J, you and me? Once you go white, you never go, ah… damn, nothing rhymes with white!”

“Where do I pick a number?”

“Get in line, Superstud.”

It was all good. My team was back together again.

Chapter 28

Jonesy kicked me in the shoulder.

“Hey Nick, where the hell is the dog?”

“What dog?” I made a swirling “he’s crazy” motion next to my head and Brit smirked.

“The dog, man. Rocket. We had a dog when we started out on the last mission.”

“Jonesy, for the last time, there was no dog. Doc, can you please give him some more meds? He’s starting with the dog thing again.”

“Nick, quit fucking with me. WE HAD A DOG.”

“I am not messing with you, Jonesy. I don’t know why you think we had a dog.”

“Yo, we had a dog, and his name was Rocket, and he was with us when we left the house.”

“Any of you remember a dog?”

A chorus of no, nope, I would have eaten it, negative.

“You all are crazy. We had a dog.”

Jonesy went back to scanning for targets up in the turret. Every now and then I could hear him mutter I KNOW WE HAD A DOG.

Stress. It gets to people.

PART II

Chapter 29

We pulled into Firebase Benedict an hour later. The base itself sat on the remains of the Port of Albany, which had burned down to the ground in a firestorm early in the Apocalypse. The ground was crisped black where it hadn’t been dragged up by the bulldozers berming up the base. The oil had soaked into the ground, making it a nasty mess.

Something they missed again in the Zombie movies. When civilization breaks down, it breaks down. Like I said before, things burn. When industrial facilities were left unattended, whether through negligence or arson, they lit up like a torch. I remember watching from the hills as the columns of smoke rose above the cities. The fuel oil and other flammables burned for days on end. Around us, as we pulled in, the pipes and tanks lay at crazy angles, melted and sagging. All the ports on the East Coast, the Gulf area, the refineries had burned for days and days on end. In the Gulf, oil platforms still burned. Wellheads had been pouring oil into the water until the Navy had detonated nukes right over the wellheads, fusing the seabed. I’m pretty sure the fish from the gulf area would be glowing in the dark for a while, but better than billions of gallons of oil gushing into the water.

The guys at the gate were processing civilians onto the base for a work detail. Outside the gate, enclosed in another berm, was a tent city run by FEMA. Civilian refugees lived in the tents, waiting to get resettled back west, or just recovering from the ordeal of the last few years. I stayed out of the camps with a passion. Many of them were sorts of zombies themselves who were overjoyed the government had finally come to save them. Forced to survive, they dropped everything as soon as someone came along to “rescue” them. They came in by ones and twos, in small groups, following the helos broadcasting a “FOLLOW ME” relief message as they flew around the Hudson Valley and the surrounding areas.

Many stayed out there. We ran into them occasionally, like the farmers up by Schuylerville. They didn’t need anyone to come rescue them, and I liked hanging with them. However, we needed rest, food, ammo, medical care for Brit and direction on where to go next. Our house was destroyed, and I didn’t want to hang out with the Army for too long.

We were in the chow hall when a UH-60 came thundering down onto the pad, and in a few minutes, Major Flynn, the Task Force Empire Operations Officer, walked into the tent, followed by a squad of Infantry. They spread out to cover every angle, and he walked up and sat down at our table. You could have heard a pin drop.

“Morning, Nick.”

“Morning, John.”

He looked around for a second, and then took a deep breath.

“I’m only going to ask you this once.”

I noticed Brit sliding her hand towards her leg holster, and one of the troops started to raise his M-4. I held up my finger, she slid her hand away and Major Kelley shook his head toward the trooper. He lowered his rifle, but I could see him eyeing Brit. She stared back at him.

Major Flynn started again. “LTC MacDonald disappeared off Fort Orange sometime last night. Your crew rolled out of the gate there sometime early this morning, and no one remembers you coming onto the base at all. We’ve had a Predator following you down from Troy, all along 787, and the cameras on the Hoosick Street Bridge barricade mysteriously short circuited just before we picked you up with the UAV. A team sent to check out the site reported a huge crowd of zombies pushing up against the barricades.”

I thought furiously. Down 787 from Troy. So they hadn’t seen what had happened at the barricade, and there was nothing they could prove. Time to play my cards close.

“So, like I said, I’m only going to ask you once. Did you have anything to do with LTC MacDonald going missing?”

I lied straight to his face, and he knew it.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. We came to pick up Brit.”

“Kind of funny when you were reported dead a few days ago.”

“Well, we are kinda hard to kill, I suppose. Why don’t you ask his toady, SGM Peters? They’re never too far from each other.”

“Kinda funny that you mention him. Apparently, also last night, someone broke SGM Peter’s jaw and gave him a concussion. Strange coincidences, wouldn’t you say?”

“Sir, you’re sitting talking to me on a base constructed in a major American city which has burned to the ground, after we were overrun by dead people who came back alive and wanted to eat us. Nothing surprises me anymore. If the Pope turned out to be the Navy SEAL who killed Bin Laden, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Brit actually laughed, and a small smile broke on Major Flynn’s hard scowl. He sat back on the bench and studied all of us for a minute. Then he stood up, and motioned for his squad to follow him.

“I didn’t like that asshole either, Nick. Next time, be more careful. We almost caught you in the act. In fact, to ensure there is no next time, you’re going to have some company on your next mission.”

“Like I said, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Check your e-mail, new mission orders in there. Take your time to get rested up, and next time Jonesy punches someone in the head, tell him to take off his rings first. FYI, I’m acting commander of the Task Force now, so keep your shit wired tight.”

I shot a quick look at Jonesy, who glanced down at the big rings on his right hand. Major Flynn laughed and walked out the tent, followed by his goons.

Chapter 30

FROM: CDR@TFEMPIRE.MIDATLCOM.MIL

TO: LOSTBOYS6@ TFEMPIRE.MIDATLCOM.MIL

CC: S3@ TFEMPIRE.MIDATLCOM.MIL; J3@MIDATLCOM.MIL; JFOPS@NAVY.MIDATLCOM.MIL

SUBJ: FRAGO 21 OPORDER 17-034 OPERATION HAWKEYE

REFERENCE:

TASK ORGANIZATION: IRREGULAR SCOUTS / TF EMPIRE / U.S. ARMY / MIDATLANTIC COMMAND

1. SITUATION: Unknown conditions at United States Military Academy

2. MISSION: Determine strength of infestation of grounds USMA. Determine usability of facilities. Examine Bear Mountain Bridge and NY State Military Facilities at Camp Smith.

3. EXECUTION: NLT 20170815100 unit will provide information to higher command on location conditions. Travel will be downriver using TF Empire Naval Elements, with insertion of team onto USMA grounds on west side of Hudson River.

4. SUSTAINMENT: None

5. COMMAND / SIGNAL: PER OPERATIONS ORDER 17-034 ANNEX B

We gathered in the Firebase Ops tent and I cleared off a table, spreading out a set of 1:100k maps of the Hudson Valley, from Albany down to just above New York City. Various things were marked out on the map.

“OK, listen up. This is the best and latest Intel we have from over flights, recon patrols, and refugees.” I handed a pointer to Captain Featherstone, the Firebase Intelligence Officer.

“First up, environmental issues. We’ve got a red zone here—” and he pointed to an area in northern Westchester County “—where Indian Point Reactor had a full meltdown. The area downwind, due east mostly for 20 miles, is a hot zone. I know you’re not going that far downriver, but any Zs you meet south of, say, Bear Mountain Bridge, are going to probably be hot. That means ANY contact with them and you can get secondary radiation poisoning. So, MOPP suits in that area.”

The crew broke out in laughter, and the Captain got a puzzled look on his face. Jonesy filled him in.

“No offense to your fobbitness, Sir, but ain’t no way we are going to wear them things. Middle of summer, wearing full chemical gear, and we gotta run from Z? We gonna drop after a hundred meters sprint and we be dead anyway. Plus, you ain’t got one my size. Then again, I be running free and crazy, and the rest of them guys get eaten! Hahahah! OW! You white she-devil!”

Brit had punched him as hard as she could in the shoulder.{1}

“OK, I’m just letting you know the dangers. Next, Newburgh on the west and Poughkeepsie on the east, major, major infestations. Also, there is a horde of strays moving south down from Fishkill towards Camp Smith. Estimate ten thousand plus. They should be past the Camp Smith AO by the time you insert. We’ve got a Predator watching them, so we’ll let you know if that changes.”

“Yeah right” Doc muttered under his breath.

“What?”

“Nothing!” he said brightly, and he smiled at the Captain. I drummed my fingers on the table and motioned for the S-2 to continue.

“Right, then. Next is refugees and other human activity. Recon tangled with a hold out here, just south of Catskill. Tried to bring them in and they were fired on. Lost one KIA and two wounded.”

I was up in the air about the “bringing them in” part. Official policy was establishing contact, provide supplies, and talk to them about coming into the refugee camps. Thing is, few people who had survived the last few years wanted to be part of the big government anymore. My team left them alone, but some of the team leaders were a bit pushier Problem is, they often pushed back. Sometimes it’s still the wild, wild east.

“We expect that there are others in the mountainous areas in the Catskills, and up in the Taconic Hills. Down by the river, though, not much expected. Everyone was pretty much starved out. That’s all I’ve got.”

“What about West Point, Camp Smith, all the areas we’re going to be humping a ruck?”

“What about them?”

“Do you have any Intel?”

“Isn’t that why you’re going there?”

“I guess so. Thanks.”

“No problem.” Apparently my sarcasm went right over his head.

The Operations Officer stepped over, and took up the briefing.

“In support of ongoing recon operations, we’re moving a two-gun, 105mm Howitzer section by barge down to Bannerman Island to establish a blocking position and Combat Outpost, COP Castle. Attached will be an Infantry platoon and Engineering Squad, plus a commo detachment for signal relay.”

“Your team will be inserted by gunboat at this point—” and he tapped the map on the west bank of the River, “—just above the lower landing at the West Point grounds. Your objective is to recon the grounds of the US Military Academy, check and see if the place can be used.”

“Can I ask you a question? Why West Point? There are a lot of better places to fortify, and it’s not really much of a strategic place anymore. I don’t think the Zombies will be sailing up the river anytime soon.”

Ahmed answered me. “It’s like this, Nick. Of course in today’s day, there is no need for fortifications as such. However, it is a very powerful symbol to the American people. A sign that things are getting back to normal as such.”

The Ops officer nodded. “Pretty much. You’re going to put your asses on the line to make a statement. Nothing new.”

“Better than being fed a line of bullshit. Thanks.”

“No problem. Your other objective is Camp Smith. NY Army National Guard base. We’re interested in the barracks, arms rooms, backup generators, etc. The base is a lot smaller, more easily defended than West Point. Let us know how habitable it is.”

“Isn’t that a little close to Indian Point?”

“Over flight sensors say that it’s safe.”

Brit snickered and he shot her a dirty look.

“It’s a simple in and out. No more than three days on the ground.”

“So was the last mission. Brit got shot, and we lost three team members.”

“Well then, this should be a vacation for you. See you in a week. The boat leaves at 0700.”

We broke up the meeting, and each of us went our separate ways. Scrounge ammo, eat a good meal, take care of equipment, catch up on Power Point Ranger’s cartoons, update Facebook status, call home from the Verizon Phone Tent, let the world know we’re still alive.

Chapter 31

“Sergeant Agostine! Sergeant Agostine!”

I stopped and turned around. A squeaky new 2nd LT came striding over the dirt towards me, followed by two equally new privates. He was dressed in brand new multicams. I felt like a dirtbag compared to him, with my leather jacket, scuffed kneepads, and three day growth of beard. In other words, he stood out like a sore thumb compared to the slightly used look of the post-Zombie Army.

“Yes Sir, um, Lieutenant Carter? What can I do for you,” I said, trying to be pleasant despite having a headache.

“Well, for one you can stand at attention when I address you, Sergeant.”

“I could, if I had a pole stuck up my ass, Bub, which I don’t.”

That brought him up short, with a look of shock on his face.

“Excuse me?”

“Sir, I’m part of the Army, but not in it. Nor do I have time to play rules and regulations. I have a boat to catch. So, how about we start off again, on the right foot?”

His face took a minute to catch up with the thought train, and then his jaw closed shut. He heard a snicker from behind him, and turned to glare at a Specialist behind him, a young female with an aid bag slung over her shoulder.

“Um, ah, OK, Sergeant. I’ve been assigned to your recon of West Point. Myself, Specialist Mya-” the medic nodded “-and PFC Redshirt will be accompanying you.”

I laughed out loud. “PFC Redshirt? You have got to be kidding me.” The male soldier, flushed under his bronze Native American skin, and the Lt. started getting angry again.

“He’s Native American and a good soldier. What is your problem, Sergeant? There is no place for racism in this Army!”

“No offense, PFC. Grab your gear and meet me down by the river. We’re leaving in fifteen minutes.”

“We’re leaving when I’m ready, Sergeant, which won’t be for another thirty minutes.”

“We’re leaving in fifteen minutes, with or without you, Sir.” And I turned and walked away.

I knew what had happened. Major Flynn had given me a babysitter because he didn’t want any other incidents happening, so he saddled me with the Son of Jackass. It never stopped. The world had gone to hell, but the bullshit survived.

They were there when we pulled out. I knew that the Captain of the Gowanus Bay , the Army Tugboat (look it up on Wikipedia) scheduled to deliver us downriver, wasn’t going to wait on a couple of stragglers. She had a schedule to keep that was influenced by the tidal nature of the river, even here, more than a hundred miles north of the ocean.

I sat on the square bow of the lead barge, boots off, relaxing, actually enjoying the day and the decent weather. We didn’t get to relax much here in Zombieland, but with a full platoon of Infantry riding shotgun, I loosened up a little. Brit sat next to me, cleaning the new M-4 we had picked up for her. Her way of relaxing, I guess. Behind us sat the howitzers, one to each barge. They sat center deck with supplies in crates stacked all around. Short, ugly 105mm cannons, with a range of eleven and a half kilometers, they would be able to cover both sides of the shore to a few miles inland. I liked having them at my back, but where we were going, up in the Hudson Highlands, they wouldn’t be able to provide fire support. As far as the Infantry guys were concerned, they were going to set up an outpost to cover the mouth of the river, regulating any traffic moving on it, and providing fire support to the patrols that would start making their way down the Hudson River Valley. We were just along for the ride.

Brit eyed a group of Artillerymen who had stripped down to t-shirts and were moving boxes of howitzer rounds under the direction of one of the boat crew. She licked her lips.

“Didn’t getting shot take a little wind out of your vag?”

She gave me a dirty look. “I didn’t get shot in the vag. I got shot in the gut, which hurt, thank you very much.”

“Hey, we did rescue you, you know.” I could tell by the tone in her voice that she was still a little bent out of shape.

She mimicked me in a high whiny voice. “We did rescue you, you know,” then said, “Next time, not that there will be a next time, don’t stop to have little chat with the bad guy. Just fraking SHOOT him.”

“OK, I will.”

“Fine.”

“FINE.”

She assembled her rifle and slunk over to the guys on the work detail. Suckers.

“Sergeant Agostine.” Oy, here it comes again.

The new LT came over and stood before me, blocking the sun.

Here it comes, I thought.

“Sergeant, I didn’t appreciate your little game back at the base. I know, here comes the new LT, haha, let’s mess with the new guy. Well, I don’t appreciate it, and I’ll remind you who the ranking officer on this scouting expedition is.”

I waited.

After a few seconds of silence, he went on. “I know that you have tons of experience, having survived out there for the last few years on your own, but maybe it’s time to let the professionals take charge.”

He glared down at me, hands on his hips. He was starting to sweat in his uniform, but I said nothing.

“So,” he continued “I think its best if we address the team and present a unified command, let them know that we understand each other. I will, of course, listen to your advice, but the decisions rest with me. Also,” he said, glaring at Brit as she chatted up the work detail “I will not have fraternization between my team and the other elements of this command.”

“Seriously? You know, Sir, you had me going right up until that point. No fraternization! Really? Might as well try curing the zombie plague as tell Brit to keep it in her pants. ”

He stared back down at me. “Some things are an abomination to the Lord, Sergeant.”

Oh great, another holy roller. There was a large segment of the population who thought the Zombie Apocalypse was Judgment Day, and we were living in the end times. Not so much out on the frontier, because you quickly realized that the dead were, well, the dead, and Jesus wasn’t coming, and everyday life still was a lot of hard work. I just couldn’t believe we had gotten rid of one pain in the ass to get saddled with another.

“LT, lets’ get something straight. Doc, Brit, Jonesy, Ahmed and I are a team. We have been fighting and surviving out here in Indian Country for a few years now while you’ve been sitting back in Candyland playing Chutes and Ladders. You can try to order the team around, but you’ll learn quick that trying and doing ain’t the same thing. Maybe you can earn their respect by being as good as they are, or at least Itrying to learn from them, but coming off all high and might isn’t going to cut it.”

I could see him getting red with anger, so I tried a different tact.

“OK, let me ask you this, LT. How many times have you been out in Zombie Country?”

“Uh, well, this is the first, except, of course, when we go through the combat course at Officer Basic School.”

“Please, give me a break. They drop you kids off in an enclosed area, with snipers all around, and let you play in the woods for a few days, hunting barely mobile Zs. You don’t know shit, and like as not, you’re going to get yourself and someone else killed.”

“I’ve got plenty of schooling, Sergeant, and with the Lord protecting us, I’ll be able to serve my country in its hour of need.”

I snorted and started pulling my boots on. “And when the shit hits the fan, Jesus is going to come rescue you riding a T-Rex and firing an Uzi, while Ronald Reagan supplies Close Air Support with a shotgun and a bald eagle. Honestly, keep far away from me, and we’ll do just fine, LT.”

“I’ll forgive you for taking the Lord’s name in vain, but remember who is in charge, Sergeant.”

“Aye aye, Scuba Steve.”

He stomped away and I resumed carving a small dolphin for Brit, flicking the shavings into the water, but my good mood was gone.

Chapter 32

We cruised down the Hudson, passing the ruins of small towns. Burnt-out shells of buildings traced their way down to the waterfronts and ragged figures stumbled through the rubble. Zombies attracted by the rumbling of the diesel engines as the tug towed our two barges through the water. We passed one fortified farm with the stars and stripes flying over the house. The tug captain blew a long blast on the air horn and a group of people came down to the waters’ edge and waved. Maybe a dozen survivors, living on a walled farm. Tilled fields stretched off toward the woods. The tug’s zodiac boat went over the side, and a squad of Infantry, with Doc along for the ride, went cruising over to them. They would spend an hour or so with them, assess their needs and try to convince them to relocate to the FEMA camp upriver. I doubted they would go, though. We would meet back up with the team further downstream, after Doc had done what he could for them with medical treatment.

“Hearts and minds, Brother!” I yelled after Doc as they sped away. He stood up in the boat and thumped his chest in reply.

A lazy half hour passed. I dug out some lunch and headed back toward the barges. At the end of the first barge, a sandbagged .50 caliber machine gun position was hosting a curious competition. Ahmed, with his Draganov, and an Infantry Corporal with a Barrett .50 caliber sniper rifle, were going shot for shot, plugging at the figures on the shoreline. The flat CRACK of Ahmed’s .30 caliber rifle was followed by the big BOOM of the Barrett, alternating with each other. Behind them, another soldier kept score.

“What’s going on?” I asked when they had stopped to reload their weapons.

The Infantry sniper, a big redneck, spoke first.

“Ah gots a bet with yer A-rab buddy fifty dollars who’s the better shot.” He spat a big wad of chew out of his mouth and put another chunk in his cheek. Ahmed looked at me with a faint grin, then they both rested their rifles back on the sandbags again, pressing their cheeks to the stocks of their rifles and scanning past the scope to get a broad view of the shore.

“What’s the score?”

“Dead even. Seventeen each. Haha, get it? DEAD EVEN!” The kid cracked up laughing.

“Yeah, haha, very funny.” He looked like he wasn’t a day over sixteen, freckles under the dirt on his face and a wispy fail of a mustache, but he had a Combat Infantry Badge and jump wings with a skull on them, meaning he had survived an airborne insertion into an infested area and fought his way out. The Airborne did that sometimes. Jumped into the remains of a city to secure something important, historical items or critical infrastructure, secured it for later pickup if they couldn’t carry it out, and then had a running battle to the nearest safe Evac zone. The world was a hard, hard place. A few years ago, he would have been trying to save up for a car, mayve figuring out what college to go to, trying to bang his girlfriend. Now he sat here counting headshots to Zombies, cleaning his rifle and digging into an MRE. Girls were a pipe dream.

I sat down and ate my tapioca pudding while they continued to shoot. We were passing a small rise on the left bank, topped by an old stone church. There didn’t seem to be any Zs, but Ahmed and the soldier continued to scan the shore.

“I got movement up on that there church. Cain’t really see whut…”

The soldier keeping score grabbed at his throat just before we heard the shot. A spray of blood misted from his neck and then started to spurt as I rolled over backwards, behind the sandbags. I crawled over to the kid while the rifles cracked out rapidly. A figure jumped over me and racked the bolt on the .50, then started pumping rounds downrange, THUMP THUMP THUMP, the discharges from the half-inch shells pounding my ears. The deck tilted as the tug’s diesels cranked up, and time changed. I saw brass cartridges fall in slow motion on the deck around me and I pressed my hand to his neck, and started pulling at the bandage pouch on his vest. I felt like I had all the time in the world as blood spurted out between my fingers, and his feet drummed on the deck. I ripped at the plastic cover of the bandage, but by the time I got it out and shook the wrapping free, he had fallen still, and the blood no longer pulsed under my hand. “GODDAMMIT!” I yelled, and pounded my hand on the deck. The new medic pushed me aside and started compressing his chest but stopped when she saw the exit hole on the back of his neck.

We turned around a bend and the guns fell silent. I stood up, covered in blood, and looked down at the pale, lifeless body. Survived the Zombie Apocalypse, fought who knows how many battles, and he was popped by some nut job Mad Max scumbag. Joking one minute, dead the next.

The medics zipped him up in the body bag. Next time we pulled into shore, he would be buried with honors in a deep grave to keep the Zs from digging him up, and we would fire three volleys over him. Tonight, the guys in his squad would divvy up his stuff and auction it off. If his family were still alive, someone would call them. Not enough people anymore in the Army to do casualty notification in person. In a few days, once they got the satellite coms up and running, someone would post on his Facebook wall that he was gone, and messages would be posted all over the Internet. Six months from now, only his family and friends would remember him. I hated war. I hated death. So tired of it.

The medic leaned over the edge of the barge, trying to reach the water to wash her hands clean of the blood, then vomited.

“Well, Ah got him.”

“No, I think I got him.”

“Bullshit, both of you, I lit him up with the Ma Deuce.”

We sailed on downriver.

Brit’s drawing of the Airborne Trooper’s Zombie Wings.

Chapter 33

Overhead, a battered old Huey helo thopped its way downriver. As it passed, the Doppler-distorted message boomed from loudspeakers, repeated over and over:

“THERE IS HELP IN ALBANY. GO UPRIVER. THERE IS HELP IN ALBANY. GO UPRIVER. THERE IS HELP IN ALBANY.”

I was reminded of the scene from that old sci-fi movie Blade Runner where an airship droned over Los Angeles, telling people to “move off world, to a new life in the colonies”. I laughed at the irony. Here we were, thirty years after Blade Runner, and instead of exploring new worlds, we were fighting over the scraps of the old. I understood what Brit felt, about the stars.

The chopper droned away southward, down the valley. This had started last night, several trips up and down the valley by a blacked-out Army helo. Today several boats had passed us on their way north; ragged, battered pleasure boats packed, overloaded with people. They were a sorry lot, emaciated, in ragged clothing and armed with a variety of rifles, shotguns and clubs, and when they pulled up to the tug, they made as if to swarm the boat. They were met with a burst of machine gun fire into the water in front of them, and a loudspeaker from the tug, telling them to stay back fifty feet.

On the lead boat, a man yelled across to us. “Let us aboard! We have women and children, and we’re almost out of gas!”

The Infantry Platoon Commander wasn’t having any of it. Another burst of fire hit the water, and the boats backed off. He wasn’t taking any chances of these people infecting his soldiers with tuberculosis, cholera or some other communicable disease. Unlike the farmers that Doc had visited yesterday, these people looked dirty and desperate, at the end of their rope, and who knew what they were carrying.

“There is a food and medical care in Albany, at the port. We can leave you gas.”

We threw them a couple of cases of MREs and left twenty gallons of gas tied to a float. They took it without a word of thanks and motored off upriver. We hadn’t seen anyone else, and night soon arrived, so we dropped anchor in the middle of the river, just north of the ruins of Poughkeepsie. Tomorrow we would arrive at Bannerman Island and start setting up the Firebase.

I stood and picked up my rifle. “OK, let’s do it again.” Muttered groans sounded from some of the team, especially the new medic, Specialist Mya. She wasn’t used to the kind of repetitive, muscle memory training that we were doing.

“Sergeant Agostine, I think the Specialist has had enough. It’s not really her job, after all.”

I turned to where the Lieutenant stood in the darkness.

“With all due respect, Sir, you’re wrong. This is exactly what she needs to be doing. We’re going to be going through buildings in West Point. She and Redshirt need to be part of the team. Redshirt is doing good, but I need to know she isn’t going to shoot one of us in the back.”

“She’s a medic, Sergeant. She will be treating any wounded, not engaging in any gunfights.”

God, this guy was being a stupid git.

“She’s a solder first, Sir. We all fight. Including you, so I wish you would participate in these exercises.”

“I’m perfectly qualified in Close Quarters Combat.”

“That may very well be, but you need to become part of the team. We all know how the other is going to act. I don’t know how you are going to act.”

“I’ll be fine, Sergeant. You just do what NCOs do, carry out my plans and train the men.”

Before I could butt-stroke him in the face, Jonesy grabbed my arm.

“Don’t do it, man. Ain’t worth it!”

I spit on the deck as the LT walked away back forward.

We had set up a shoot house on the back deck of the barge made out of crates. We were using .22 blanks in our modified M-4s, and had set up some targets, cut-outs with infrared and red chem lights where zombie eyes would be. Some of the Infantry guys moved them around, raised and lowered them randomly. Earlier that night, we had done the same for them.

I stood back and let Ahmed lead the stack through the door, followed by Redshirt, Jonesy and Mya. Several shots cracked out, then a yell from inside. I stepped inside to a scene of chaos, and yelled “STOP!” just after watching Mya fire a burst directly into Redshirt and the department store dummy I had gone ashore and looted today. Ahmed and Jonesy had cleared the room and advanced into the next corridor, and then one of the Infantry dropped the mannequin directly on Redshirt, simulating a Zombie attacking from above.

Specialist Mya stood there, shocked. Brit was laughing hysterically. “Hahaha, I know where you got the idea for that one!” I told her to suck it and shut up if she wasn’t going to help. I pulled Mya aside while Doc helped Redshirt out from under the dummy. Ahmed and Jonesy continued to clear the rest of the shoot house for practice.

“OK, calm down, and let’s go over what just happened.”

“I—I… fucked up.” In the harsh light of the boat lights, she looked down at the deck. Redshirt came over, looking equally crestfallen.

“No, actually, you didn’t. You did exactly the right thing. Your boy here was dead. It’s pretty damn rare that you can get jumped by a Z like that and he hasn’t chomped on your neck in a second or two.” She turned to look at Redshirt, who had a freaked-out look on his face.

“You killed the Z and saved your partner from turning into one by killing him, too. At least turning into one fast. Tell me, what happens to someone who is bitten in the neck by a Z?”

She recited from the Army Field Manual, FM 3-84: “Subjects bitten on the extremity will become infected and turn within one to two minutes. Bites to the torso, less than one minute, depending on proximity to the heart and the main arteries. Bites to the neck in the vicinity of major arteries result in infection within ten to fifteen seconds.”

I nodded at her. “So you did do the right thing. If you had hesitated, you would have been facing two Zs coming right at you. Just remember, when shooting an infected person who hasn’t turned yet, you have got to stop the blood flow, either with a head shot or a heart shot, right away, or the infection will spread. Go for a head shot if you have the time, with a burst. These little hot .22 rounds don’t have the tissue disruption that a bigger, faster bullet has.”

She looked like she was calming down, but she still shook her head. “It just happened so fraking fast. I panicked. I wasn’t trying to kill him.”

Self-doubt, one of the biggest killers on the battlefield, and I knew she had to snap out of it, quickly. “Listen, Specialist Mya, you did the right thing by instinct. Trust yourself and you’ll live. Doubt yourself and you’re dead. You can do this, and you’ll save lives as a medic, too.”

I turned to Redshirt, who still looked sheepish himself, as well he should. He was trained for this.

“Now, Private Redshirt, you might be a great Injun tracker, but you need to know that threats can come from a three hundred sixty degree angle, anytime, anywhere. Buried under a pile of brush. Jumping down through a window. Out of a closet in an already cleared room. Both of you need to understand that. I don’t know how things are where you came from; out here in Z land EVERYTHING will be trying to kill you.”

“I understand, Sarge. I come from the reservation in New Mexico. We didn’t have much of a problem with Zs, mostly you can see them coming from a mile away.”

“Well, different place here, Red. The pre-plague population density means there are millions of them out there, and I don’t know about you, but I only carry a couple hundred rounds of ammo.”

“OK, let’s do it again, this time, Redshirt is point, then Mya, then me, then Brit.”{2}

Later that night they were to learn an even harsher lesson.

I hadn’t been able to sleep so I was walking the deck. Dawn being only two hours away, I took a mug of coffee from the tug captain and headed back to where I knew Mya and Redshirt were pulling guard over our packs.

As I got closer, I could hear music coming from somewhere. In the moonlight, I could see Mya’s head nodding to the beat of some headphones stuck in her ears. Next to her, Redshirt snored.

I came up behind them, and grabbed Mya by the neck, throwing her onto the deck and ripping the headphones off her, followed by her iPod. She lay there, stunned, and I kicked Redshirt awake. His eyes opened and crossed as he looked at the barrel of my pistol two inches from his nose.

“WHAT. THE. FUCK!”

I was pissed. Regardless of WHERE we were, guard duty was sacrosanct. Sleeping on guard duty was an offense punishable by immediate death, carried out by the senior officer or NCO present. By the Universal Code of Military Justice, rewritten last year, I could have, and should have, shot Redshirt right there.

I holstered my pistol and sat back. I placed SPC Mya’s iPod on the deck and smashed it under my boot.

“Hey!” she shouted. “You can’t get those anymore!”

“I suggest you shut the hell up and listen, Specialist. Do you understand I have the right to kill PFC Redshirt right now? And have you whipped? Or vice versa, depending on whose fault it was? In fact, I think this is your fault more than his. You let him fall asleep.”

He didn’t say anything, merely hung his head. She stared at me. I think reality had just bitten them both in the ass, very hard.

“You never, ever sleep on guard duty. I don’t care if we are in the middle of Seattle, in the safe zone. NEVER, EVER. Do you understand me?”

They both mumbled something and I blew out a long breath.

“I’m not going to shoot you. Or have you whipped. This is as much my fault as it is yours. I shouldn’t have put both of you noobs on the same shift together. Just understand, from here on out, there are no second chances. If it happens again, you’re done. Mya, go to bed.”

She got up and walked away without looking back.

“I thought they taught you better in Infantry school, PFC.”

“Uh, they did, Sarge. One kid fell asleep in basic training, on fire watch at night. They had him whipped in front of the whole company and drummed him out. Put him outside the gate. I guess I was just worn out from the training today. It won’t happen again.”

“If it does happen again, I will shoot you. Do you understand? If you let your partner fall asleep, you will get whipped under UCMJ. You’re lucky this isn’t on dry land, because it would have been far worse. I would have had you both whipped for a first time offense.”

“Would you have really shot me, Sarge?”

“I’ve done it before, Red. Once. I’ll do it again, if I have to. So would Doc. Brit wouldn’t even think twice about it. You’re lucky it’s not her who found you. I will not let my team be killed by someone’s stupidity. We all make enough mistakes, myself included, to die easily out here, and none of us are going to let the rest of the team down if we can help it.”

Chapter 34

Our boats hummed through the night, over the still river water. I kept my head down and a cloth over my face. Ever since the plague, more and more areas had been turning back into wetlands, without the constant maintenance on causeways and dikes, and that meant more and more mosquitoes and bugs. Most people didn’t know it, but malaria had been a big problem in the States, even as far north as Canada, right up until the mid-20th century, and it was going to come back and be a pain again soon enough. They were all over and I didn’t want to catch more than my share in my teeth and up my nose as we scooted across the water.

As we raced along, I thought back to the scene at Firebase Castle a few hours before. Night had just fallen, and the chopper that had been flying up and down river the past few nights flared in for a landing on a cleared LZ. Two guys in civilian clothes had hopped out, one of whom I recognized from my time in Afghanistan.

The Effing Press. They were greeted by LT Carter, who ran over to them with a giant sucking sound and started shaking their hands. He stood by their extra camera equipment and yelled for me as the Huey thundered back up river.

“Sergeant, get a detail together and move this equipment down to the boats!”

“NO FUCKING WAY!” I yelled back.

LT Carter stopped his sucking up for a minute to come over to talk to me.

“What is your problem, Sergeant?”

“Sir, what is the point to this mission? We are a recon element, not a goddamned circus.”

“Sergeant, the mission is to show the world that we are returning to the places that mean something to America. This camera crew is going to help us show that.”

I shook my head in disgust. “They are going to get us killed.”

“Sergeant, you will protect these men with your life, if need be. Their mission is more important than any one man. Do you understand?”

“Oh yeah, I understand that those douchebags are going to get themselves and us killed and or eaten. They aren’t going.”

“I’ll load their equipment myself if I have to.”

“Fine. Have fun. Arrivederci. Whatever.”

“When we get back to Fort Orange, Sergeant, I’m bringing you up on charges of insubordination and dereliction of duty.”

“How about we get through this mission first, and then we see what’s a sucky attitude and what is reality!”

I turned my back to him and walked away. A little later I saw him yelling at Redshirt and Mya to load the equipment into the boats, and the Navy boat crew giving him shit about the extra weight.

So here we were. My team was in one boat, and the LT, Mya, Redshirt, the reporter and his cameraman in the other. I knew the “reporter” from my days in Afghanistan. He had done a couple of embeds, then managed to alienate and piss off just about everyone in the military with his crappy reporting and misdirected crusades, and spent the rest of the war “reporting” from Singapore. I wasn’t surprised he had survived. Cockroaches always do.

We cut the engines and shipped oars about two hundred meters from the remains of the dock, but let the current carry us slowly there. As we drifted up, we all watched through our NVGs for signs of Zs. I saw one stumbling through the parking lot, then hear a muted phut from Ahmed’s rifle and the figure went down. We backed water with our oars for a few minutes to see if anything else came out, then tied up to the dock.

The team fanned out, rifles ready, scanning the parking lot to see if there were any other Zs waiting around. We set up a small perimeter while the packs were unloaded, then the second boat pulled up and started unloading the camera crew and their gear. They made too much noise and I ignored them. I noticed Mya and Redshift had immediately moved away from the LT and over to where Brit and Jonesy held part of the perimeter. They weren’t stupid.

The plan was for us to wait for daylight before moving uphill towards the main campus. Unfortunately, no plan survives contact with the enemy, and in this case, the enemy was us. Or, to be more specific, the asswipe reporter and his cameraman.

A high intensity light suddenly lit behind the team, silhouetting us all. It shone full on the LT, who stood next to the reporter, bedazzled look on his face, while the guy shoved a microphone at him. That lasted all of about two seconds before Brit turned and fired a burst that shattered the camera, the light, and the cameraman’s shoulder. Chaos erupted.

“YOU STUPID ASSHOLES!”

“That bitch shot me!”

“Sorry, I was aiming for the camera!”

“Not helping, Brit!”

“Sergeant Agostine, get your men under control!”

The cameraman was rolling on the ground, screaming. The LT was yelling and the reporter had pissed himself, from what I could smell. The rest of the team stood silent, scanning the perimeter. Waiting.

I walked over to the wounded man; Mya was already putting a field bandage on his wound. She whispered “Right through, he’ll be fine.” I squeezed her shoulder, whispered “good job” to her, then stood up and slapped the LT across the face. He stopped yelling.

“Sir, shut the hell up and LISTEN!”

He fell silent, eyes wide, then he heard it too. The moan. They were coming.

I whistled once and made a circle in the air with my hand. We fell back to the dock and started firing at the figures that were beginning to stumble down the road towards us. Some were actually running, smelling the blood from the wounded cameraman.

I banged the end of a green flare on the ground and it shot into the air. Out on the river, I heard the engines of the boats roar to life, and breathed a sigh of relief. The first one pulled in thirty seconds later, and we threw the cameraman and reporter in bodily. I was right; he had pissed and shit himself. Next went Mya and Doc, then Redshirt.

“Get in, Sir.”

“No, Sergeant, I will be the last one to get on the boat, fighting off the demons while you load your team.”

Around us the firing increased, joined by the 240Bs on the boats. They scattered their bursts head high, hoping to catch the Z but most of their bullets tore right through. My team tried to drop them with head shots, but it was tough to do in the dark.

“OK, suit yourself!” I turned and waved the rest of the guys in, and they piled in the second boat. The LT looked at me, then turned and ran for the boat as fast as possible, passing Brit and Jonesy on the way. Ahmed and I backed towards the dock, firing as we went, then jumped as it started to pull out. We landed in the bottom of the boat and Ahmed’s rifle hit me in the back of the head, making me see stars.

While I sat there, trying to clear my head, I heard Brit on the radio, finishing up a call for fire on Priority Target AA3427, which we had marked before leaving the base that night. We had over twenty of them pre-plotted but I hadn’t expected to need them right away.

I watched as the night was split open by the CRACK CRACK CRACK of variable timed rounds bursting over the parking lot, sending thousands of ball bearings through the several hundred Zs gathered there.

Chapter 35

Dawn found us pulling back up to the barges tied off at Firebase Castle. A trauma team was waiting for the cameraman, but Doc had already done a pretty good job of stopping the blood flow. One round had shattered his shoulder blade, and it was painful, but he wasn’t in any danger of bleeding out.

The reporter pretty much ran off the boat, and Brit tracked him with her rifle as he jumped off without looking back. I stopped her from taking a shot at him, but only just. He had almost gotten us all killed, and pretty much blown the mission, for now.

LT Carter slunk off toward the base Command Post, a tent with the American flag flying over it. I knew that we would have to “talk” later, but maybe some time for him to think about what had happened would be good. Meanwhile, I had another mission to plan. Well, same mission, different plan.

“Hey Nick, how long are we going to be here?”

“We’re going to try again tonight, so get some sleep.” Muttered grumblings as they pulled out their pop-up tents, or wandered off to find someplace dark to hide out and catch some shuteye.

I headed over to the Fire Direction Center for the Artillery, and I brought Jonesy with me. As we walked, I told him my latest idea.

“J, I want you to find an M-203 and put it on your rifle. Then find some grenades, pull the explosive head out so you have just the propellant charge, and try two things: Rig up a thumper to the shell, and see if you can get it to survive getting kicked out of the barrel. Try and see if you can rig a flashbang, or if you can actually find some for a 203, that would be great too.”

I had been thinking about how the bright lights of the camera had brought the Zs running. If we could rig up a distraction, concentrate them en masse, then rip the crap out of them with some firecracker rounds, it would make our job of going through West Point a helluva lot easier. Once a Z got stirred to activity they would stay active for a few days, hunting for fresh, live meat. So for the next couple of days, West Point was going to be crawling with active Zs. Don’t ask me how it worked, that’s just the way it is, and I planned to take advantage of that. Before we were going to do a sneak and peek, now we had to do something different.

I hopped up into the FDC trailer and sat down with the Fire Direction Officer and the FDC Chief, a Staff Sergeant I knew well. We had been coordinating artillery fire all the way from the ruins of Syracuse.

“First, I just wanted to say thanks for the quick reaction last night. I know it was early in the morning, but the crews were right on it.” I did appreciate it. There is a difference between waking a gun crew up, with all the slow reaction time that implies, and having them ready to throw rounds downrange at a minutes’ notice. It could mean our lives.

I took a seat at the map table and said “Here’s what I’d like to do…” We sat and worked out the details for an hour, until I was sure the Artillery guys had my plan down tight.

My next stop was the CP, but along the way, I met LT Carter coming down the trail, back toward the boats. I stopped short, then stood aside to let him pass. He knew where I was going, and why. I was surprised when he stopped too, and I got ready for the verbal abuse I fully expected.

It never came, though. He stood for a second, and I took a good look at him. His eyes were red, and his face looked pale and drawn.

“Sergeant, I, um…”

I stood there with my arms folded. He started to turn red.

“Sergeant, uh, I’m sorry.” He sort of mumbled it under his breath.

“What, Sir? I couldn’t hear you.” This was great.

“Don’t be an asshole, Sergeant. I know I screwed up.”

“Pretty much.”

“Lesson learned, then.”

“I’m not the one you need to apologize to, Sir. You need to apologize to the team.”

He stared at me for a minute, then looked at the ground.

“Sir, you put their lives at risk and blew the mission because you wanted to make the front page of a paper. You’re lucky none of them pushed you off the boat last night on the way back. None of the boat crew would have cared. You put their lives at risk too, by forcing them to come back for us. You’re actually lucky that camera guy is alive, because Brit wasn’t shooting to disable him. We don’t do that; she was just off her game because she’s still recovering from a gunshot wound. By all rights, he should be dead.”

“I know, I know. I just got my ass reamed by the CO.” He meant the Infantry Company Commanding Officer, who had overall command of the Firebase.

“Really? What did he say?”

“Uh, he said I should suck my thumb and let you change my diaper when I crapped myself, and that I wasn’t in charge of shit.”

I laughed out loud, and he cringed. “Sir, this is real life now. Learn a few things and you can be in charge. I don’t know why you’re out here with us, instead of learning the ropes on a line platoon, but if you stay alive, you will learn a good bit and be better off for it.” In fact, I did know why he was with us; because Major Flynn was punishing me for what he suspected happened to LTC Jackass, but I wasn’t going to say that.

“I guess so, Sergeant. Do I have to apologize to the whole team?”

“If you want to live through our next encounter with Zs, it’s probably a good idea.”

He did apologize. Everyone took it well, except for Brit, who called him a dumbass and some other pretty abusive things until I told her to lay off. Like I said, we worked for the Army, but we weren’t part of it.

We set out again later that afternoon but without all our gear. This time was killing time. The boats pulled up off the landing, about one hundred meters. A large crowd of Zs was milling around the parking lot, stepping on the remains of the ones the firecracker rounds had shredded last night. The guys started popping shots at them, but hitting a target the size of a head from a hundred meters away, on an anchored boat slowly rising and falling is almost impossible. Only Ahmed was scoring hits on a regular basis. I let Redshirt and Mya the LT continue to fire, though, because they needed to get accustomed to shooting at real dead targets instead of pop ups.

Beside me, Jonesy lined up his 203 launcher.

“Did you get any flashbangs?”

“Nope, but I did manage to work a thumper into a shell. Only about one in three survive the shot, so I brought twelve.”

“OK, I think we’ll only need two.”

“On the way!” He set the timers and fired six quick rounds into the parking lot. We waited a few minutes and I listened for the music to start up.

“Beastie Boys? REALLY?” The strains of “No Sleep Till Brooklyn” started filling the air. It sounded like three of them were working, each a second or two off the other.

“Hey, them white boys are the shit, Nick.”

We watched as more Zs started to shamble down the road to the parking lot. We waited half an hour, then an hour. It was a packed, milling mass, and we pulled back a few hundred meters and off the Gun – Target line, in case of a misfiring fuse. Nine hundred steel pellets would shred one of these boats, and us, in short order.

“Cockers, this is Lost Boys, FIRE AA4037, over.”

“Lost Boys, Fire, AA4037, out.”

Two minutes later the rounds started detonating over the parking lot. Sharp cracks, blinding even in the sunlight, left small puffs of smoke. We could see where the water on the edge of the river got ripped up by the BBs and a few even skipped across the water towards us.

“Lost Boys, this is Cocker, rounds complete, over.”

“This is Lost Boys, Rounds Complete, estimate two hundred plus rendered ineffective. Thanks, Lost Boys out.”

We pulled back in towards the parking lot. Blood and ooze ran down into the river, and here and there individual Zs stumbled about. Jonesy shot another four thumpers with their timers set to half an hour, an hour and six hours. Hopefully they would draw any more Zs down to the river.

The boats engines kicked out and we sped downriver, around to the south side of point, and tied off to the remains of the dock there.

This wasn’t going to be a sneak and peak anymore. The Zs were too stirred up for that, and no way were we going to go blundering around at night. This was going to be a balls-to-the-wall, run across campus, killing everything in our path, plant the flag and GTFO. With pics to prove it happened.

Chapter 36

We ran. Fast. Run. Stop. Aim. Fire. Run. We ran uphill from the dock, shooting everything that moved. One team up one side of the street, another up the other side.

There weren’t that many Zs but what there was made me sick. Many of them were in the tattered remnants of uniforms, both the cadets and regular soldiers, and it hurt to shoot at them. It was one thing to watch from five hundred meters away while the artillery pounded them, another to stop, aim, and place a .22 slug in the center of their faces from twenty feet.

We had made it almost halfway to our objective, Trophy Point, overlooking the Hudson Valley, and were just coming out of the tunnel leading to the parade field when we ran smack into group of Zs. They were headed in the same direction as us, coming from around a corner, and in an instant, we became a maelstrom of yelling, cursing, clubbing and firing, trying to break through without getting bitten. I hit one as hard as I could with my reinforced rifle stock, straight across the face and hopefully smashing its nose into what was left of its brain. I fired into another on the downswing, a quick burst that caught it in the throat, shoulder and leg. Beside me Jonesy was using his barrel like a club, probably ruining it forever, smacking it down on the heads of any Z that came near him.

We made it, almost. The Zs were slow to react, but by the time PFC Redshirt, bringing up the rear, tried to make it through, they were worked up to fury and he was buried under a pile of them, swinging his hammer as hard as he could. He went down with a fight and a yell. Mya started back, but Brit grabbed her and shoved her forward. She screamed at the crying medic, “He’s done! Let’s go!” and then took off running herself. The rest of us had turned and were laying down a suppressive fire so they could catch up. We smoked the few still standing Zs as they came at us but couldn’t see where Redshirt had fallen through the tall weeds. A quiet fell over the grounds as we made our way over through the brush which grew up over the parade field.

The LT and Mya looked visibly shaken, and Mya was crying steady tears. Brit stood next to me, and whispered in my ear.

“You knew that was going to happen. The frigging kid’s name was Redshirt, for Pete’s sake. I’m surprised he lasted this long.”

“Shut it Brit. I don’t care if he was predestined to get sacrificed to the great Zombie God. He was my troop.”

“Whatever. Just trying to make you feel better.” She walked away to scan part of the perimeter. It made me feel like an ass that I understood what she meant. People die in our business.

“OK, that sucked, and it’s going to suck worse trying to get back to the boat. Let’s get on with this mission, and stay on your toes. Jonesy, you had point, you SHOULD have seen them coming. Be more alert.”

“Warn’t nothing I could do, Nick. They just popped outta the doorway next to me. But yeah, sorry about that Injun kid. Hope you’re at your happy hunting grounds now.”

He led onward, across the field. Everyone’s eyes were peeled now and the LT hadn’t said a word since leaving the boats.

We got to Trophy Point without further incident. The cannons, captured from America’s enemies in our 19th century wars, were still there, lined up facing north against enemies that didn’t exist anymore. We stood in a row, unfurled a flag, and Specialist Mya took our picture. Propaganda for the civilians in the Secured Zones and the FEMA camps around the country. I hope it helped them get through the day.

Down below, we could see the shattered mush that was the Zs we had hammered with artillery. As we watched, another two rounds burst over the parking lot. The redlegs were pumping them in every half hour until we called stop. We watched until the smell was carried to us on a change of the wind, then set out, back across the field, but a different way than we had come.

The buildings themselves were shattered. It looked like some serious fighting had taken place, and many of them were burned out. I wondered how long they had held out, how long the ammo had lasted against the hordes from New York City. South of here was one of the most densely populated places in the country. Never mind the Zombies; the refugees would have stormed this place. It happened to every military installation near a major population center. The military represented hope, and places like Fort Bragg, close to major southern population centers, had been quickly overrun, their troops reluctant to fire on civilians until it was too late. West Point had been burned and picked clean. It didn’t leave me much hope for Camp Smith. It might have made great propaganda to have a picture of troops back at West Point, but from a military point of view, the place was useless.

We moved slowly past the fire-scorched stones of the cadet barracks. Up ahead, echoing between the buildings, we heard footsteps running quickly in our direction. Doc, now on point since we had another medic, held up a hand signal for “halt” and we all quickly dropped behind cover.

A blood-soaked figure came around a corner about a hundred meters away and continued down the road away from us in the direction of the boats. Ahmed raised his rifle to shoot. I put my hand on his arm, motioned for him to wait. Something didn’t look right. It moved wrong for a Z. Too fast. It was wearing the remnants of an army issue uniform. Could there be survivors here?

I stood up and yelled, “HEY! HEY YOU!” I know, too much noise, but the figure stopped and turned at the sound of my voice, started stumbling towards us.

He wore the remains of ACUs, ripped and shredded, and he was bleeding from a dozen wounds when he collapsed in the road in front of us. Doc walked forward, covering him with his rifle, then quickly slung it and reached for his aid bag, yelling for Mya to come forward. She came at a run, then stopped dead and vomited right there in the middle of the road. I had begun to think that maybe she was in the wrong profession if she vomited every time she saw blood. Brit said “Shit!” then jumped up and ran over herself. She too stopped dead and started drawing her pistol from her leg holster.

Doc reached up and slapped it out of her hand. By then I had made it up there, and I looked down at a bloody, but alive PFC Redshirt.

He had a half a dozen bite marks on his hands and other exposed areas, but it looked as if his armor had saved him from having his neck torn out. Doc was already cutting away parts of his uniform to check his wounds, and he yelled at Mya to give him a hand. After a few minutes, seeing the kid was in no immediate danger of dying, I pulled Doc aside and asked him why we weren’t shooting him dead on the spot, or sticking him with the Gom Jabbar and icing him.

“He’s immune. I’ve heard of it, but only two confirmed cases. Ever. One in England, and another in Southeast Asia before communications fell apart.”

“Really? No shit.”

“Really, yes shit. He’s still in a bad way, and those wounds can get infected. We have to get him back to the boats.”

Jonesy reached down with a hand, and slung the unconscious figure over his shoulders. We started off in a trot down towards the pier.

Before we got there, the radio Ahmed was carrying cackled into life.

“Lost Boys, Lost Boys, this is Castle 3, over”

The Firebase Ops officer was calling. I motioned for LT Carter to take the radio.

“Castle 3, this is Lost Boys, um, Lost Boys 5, over.” I knew he’d been about to say “Lost Boys 6” which was the call sign of the commander of a unit. I laughed a bit.

“Lost Boys, be advised, engine fire and explosion on number two boat, crew evacuated with injuries to boat one, boat damaged and rowing back to base, over.”

“Uh, roger, over.” I grabbed the mike from the LT.

“Castle, how the hell are we supposed to get out of here, break.” “Be advised we have one litter WIA, over”

“Understand, one litter WIA. Trying to arrange air Evac from Albany now, over.”

Great. You can’t make shit like this up. Everything that can go wrong, will go wrong, especially since spare parts and new equipment were almost impossible to come by.

“Lost Boys, be advised, Air Evac will be available in five hours. Find a good LZ and hunker down, over.”

“Castle, if that bird doesn’t show up, I am going to come back as a Z and eat you, over.”

“Understood, Nick. We will be there ASAP. Navy Close Air Support is on station.”

Around me, night was falling. I gathered the team around. We were going to have to make a stand.

I told them in one word. “Alamo.”

Brit said it for all of us. “F my life.”

Alamo

Chapter 37

As the darkness settled down on us, we made our way down to the dock. I wanted a long, open field of fire, a narrow approach, and, as a last chance, we could hit the water and swim for it. Not something I wanted to do, because the current here was swift and we would quickly get separated as we swept downstream.

Night fell, the stars came out, and a full moon quickly rose over the east side of the valley. Brilliant silver light flooded the landscape and reflected off the river. I got on the radio with the firebase and asked for on-call illumination rounds. Since they dropped from a base-ejecting shell eight hundred meters up in the air, they were fine. Actual fire support, firecracker or white phosphorus rounds to burn the Zs out was out of the question. The ridge of West Point blocked any low angle fire, and high angle fire, in this wind, wouldn’t be accurate enough. We didn’t need a high angle round getting blown a hundred meters off course and showering us with pellets.

The dock itself was made out aluminum, and the LT’s idea of ripping up the dock to make our own little island wouldn’t work. Even Jonesy, with his strength, couldn’t pry them apart. We discussed grenades, but I decided the risk of accidental injury at close range was too great and would call every remaining Z in ten miles. Besides, I hated grenades with a passion. Didn’t trust the damn things, never did.

“How’s everyone doing on ammo?”

“Down to about half,” said Brit.

Jonesy counted his magazines. “Seventy-five percent, but my weapon is shot. The receiver is cracked, where I hit some hard-headed booger. And I ain’t got no thumpers left.”

Doc was doing OK. “About half, also. Maybe two hundred rounds.”

Ahmed: “Forty-two rounds for my rifle, a hundred percent for my pistol.”

The LT and Mya were down to less than twenty-five percent each. I expected that, since this was their first op and they had been spraying rounds left and right with little fire discipline. I was tempted to cross-level ammo with them but they would waste it. We were out of thumpers altogether, too.

“Mya, give Jonesy your weapon. Stay back with Redshirt, make sure he’s doing OK, and if it looks like we’re getting over run…”

“… Jump into the water with him?”

“No, put a round through his head and jump in the water yourself.”

At that, Redshirt sat up, and demanded a weapon. Damn, this kid was tough! I gave him my pistol, and told him I’d save one for him if we got overrun. He laughed and said, “Bring it, Chief.” Then his eyes rolled back in his head, and he passed out again. I took my pistol back.

We waited for four hours before the first Zs showed up. They first came wandering down the hill, in ones and twos every few minutes. Ahmed quietly took them out from a long distance, setting his rifle on some debris and popping heads from five hundred meters out. The red eyes would flare briefly when the rounds hit them, then go out.

“Hey Brit.”

“Yeah, Jonesy?”

“Ain’t it true that redheads started the damn zombie apocalypse, stealin’ too many souls, an’ it just kinda got outta hand?”

“Kiss my ass, you big chocolate hunk of muscle.”

“You should have seen mah muscles, honey, before you redheads done brought the world to ruination. I ain’t had watermelon an’ ribs in forever!”

“You people.”

“What do you mean, YOU PEOPLE?”

“Zip it, both of you, and watch your lane.”

More started showing up and they started to get closer. The guys joined in the firing, less accurately than Ahmed, when they reached two hundred meters. We had a lull for a few minutes, then a huge, long moan wailed from behind the hilltop, and a horde came charging over the hill, eyes blazing.

“Uh, Nick, this kinda looks bad!”

“CASTLE, CASTLE, WE ARE UP SHIT’S CREEK, OVER!”

“Lost Boys, understand. Bird is on its way south, ETA thirty minutes, over.”

“Roger. Well, maybe we’ll be here, and maybe we won’t. Switching over to CAS.”

I switched freqs over to the Navy Close Air Support Channel.

“Stinger 52, this is Lost Boys 6, over.”

The answer came back choppy, thousands of pounds of thrust distorting the pilots’ voice.

“Lost Boys, this is Stinger, on station with short load. Expended most ammo popping hordes down the City. Enough for two runs. Over.” She had a sweet voice, and I imagined Scarlett Johansson in a flight suit. Reality was, she probably had gotten beaten with the ugly stick when she was a kid and was overcompensating by being a fighter pilot, but I would kiss her if she got us out of this.

“Understood, be advised, horde is about four hundred meters from IR strobe, azimuth twenty-two degrees. Strobe marks our position, do not drop on strobe. Hurry up, over.”

“Roger, four hundred meters azimuth 22 degrees. Standby.”

A minute passed, and then she came back over the radio. “Dropped, heads down.”

“INCOMING!” I yelled, and buried my face in my arms. A tremendous WHAM lifted me off the dock and set me back down, and I looked up to see a fireball rising in front of us. Bits of body parts flew through the air.

“Stinger, dead on, put one more just past it, over.”

“Roger that, then I’m out. Good luck, Lost Boys, next air on station an hour from now. Buy me a beer next time you’re in the City. Stinger out.”

The follow on JDAM blasted another hole in the horde, but they kept coming. We opened fire but more and more of the red eyes glowed in the moonlight, hundreds coming over the hill in front of us. The barrel of my M-4 was getting hotter as the bolt locked back on an empty magazine. Reload. Release the bolt. Aim. Squeeze. Shoot.

Fifty meters. They were coming closer, despite our knocking them down in rows. The bodies were piling up, and the Zs were screaming now, charging towards us, climbing over the bodies. I heard, over the scream, the thudding of chopper blades coming from up river.

Twenty meters. I could see the flashing navigation lights and a long stream of machine gun fire arched out of the night and into the horde, to no effect. The rounds shot through their bodies, only hitting their heads here and there, dropping a few. The rest kept charging at us.

Ten meters. I reached for another magazine, and there weren’t any. I pulled out my pistol and started taking single shots. The rotor wash from the helo threw off my aim. Next to me, Brit pulled out her crowbar and started swinging hard, smashing at the first Zs that grabbed toward her. Jonesy was swinging his iron bar in a wide circle, savagely knocking them down and cursing at the top of his lungs.

The helo came to a hover at the end of the dock, and I risked a quick glance behind me to see Doc and Mya throw Redshirt into the open doors. Mya climbed in next to her, followed by Doc, but the LT came running back to us, firing and charging into the melee, swinging his plastic-stocked rifle at the closest Z. I saw him go down as I smashed one in the head, swarmed by a dozen who immediately started tearing him apart. Ahmed ran backwards, firing his pistol until the slide locked back, then turned and jumped in through the open door.

Jonesy had been separated by more Zs and there was no way for him to get to us. He swung his bar again, clearing a space around himself, and yelled, “I’LLSEE YOU IN HELL, NICK!” and started moving away from the helo, swinging hard, smashing them down, leading them away from us. One grabbed his ankle, and he started to fall. A shot rang out from the helo, and Jonesy collapsed to the ground, shot through the heart by Ahmed.

Brit was bleeding from the stomach, blood staining her uniform where her stitches had ripped open. She flung her crowbar at the head of the nearest Zombie, then turned and ran, clutching her side. I followed close behind her, the Zs right behind us, howling and screaming. A gust of wind pushed the helo away from the dock just as Brit jumped for it and the door gunner opened up with his 240. I saw her fall into the water, slipping down between the helo and the edge of the dock.

In front of me, the door, and salvation, gaped wide open. Ahmed and Mya reached for me, hands held out, while Doc fired over my head, knocking Zs back from me.

I dove off the dock, and the cold river water closed over my head.

Chapter 38

Even with the full moon shining on it, under the surface was black as hell until a bright light stabbed downward. I could hear the thump of the helo blades coming down through the water. I unsnapped my gear and dropped my weapon as I sank towards the bottom, shrugged out of my body armor, kicked for the surface. Taking a deep breath, I turned over and dove for the bottom, trying to feel for where the current was running. Next to me another figure splashed into the water, and Doc dove down with me.

Fortunately, in the shelter of the point, the water was almost still and only about fifteen feet deep. I could see the bottom in the glare of the powerful spotlight on the helo, and after three dives I saw Brit’s body. I slapped Doc’s leg, and he turned and followed me over to her.

She had struggled half out of her armor, but floated unmoving, her eyes and mouth open, red blonde hair hanging in front of her face. I started pulling at her armor, my head starting to hammer for oxygen. Doc pushed me aside and cut it off where it had caught on her uniform. We each grabbed an arm and kicked for the surface.

The crew chief of the helo directed the pilot to set the tail end into the water, and we struggled up onto the lowered ramp, pulling Brit’s body with us. Doc pushed me out of the way, listened to her heart, then started to perform chest compressions. I pinched her nose and started forcing air into her lungs.

The helo rose in a smooth arc and headed north. Ahmed leaned out of the side door, firing steadily into the crowd of zombies until we were out of range. Mya was wrapping Redshirt in some blankets while holding up a new IV. The crew chief was hurriedly working on the wiring, where a short had sent sparks arching onto the floor. It smelled of blood, cordite and aviation fuel.

Brit suddenly coughed. A ton of water shot out of her mouth, then she vomited on me and started making choking sounds. Doc rolled her on her side and cleared her mouth out with his fingers, then started tying a bandage around her waist where her gunshot wound had opened up.

I sat on the deck of the helo and cradled her head in my lap as we thundered up river to Fort Orange. After a few minutes, she opened her eyes and said something I couldn’t hear over the roar of the twin turbines. I leaned closer.

“If you wanted to kiss me that bad, all you had to do was ask, you stupid ass.”

The End.

Or maybe not…

---------------------------------------------------

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank K for her editing and medical advice, and unwavering support. I’d also like to give thanks to every fan of EZKGTB who sharpshooted (sharpshot? Sharpshotted?) the chapters and waited patiently as each was published.

If you have enjoyed reading about Nick, Brit and the guys, please follow their further adventures on Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/EZKGTB

Also check out Power Point Ranger comics at www.pptranger.net and www.facebook.com/powerpointranger

Last, drop by and check out the guys at U.S. Army Zombie Combat Command!

Glossary

11B Infantryman

1SG First Sergeant, usually the highest ranking NCO in a line unit

1st CAV 1st Cavalry Division

40 MM 40 Millimeter Grenades, fired from a grenade launcher

5 Ton Unarmored Cargo truck

9 Line Request for MEDVAC

ACU Army Combat Uniform, the grey camouflage fielded by the Army in 2005

AFN Armed Forces Network (military television & radio)

AIT Advanced Individual Training, where you learn your job skill after basic training

Allah Akbar (sp) "God Is Great", shouted by the enemy as they attacked Americans

AO Area of Operations

Apache / AH-64 Helicopter Gunship

ARCOM Army Commendation Medal

BAH Basic Allowance for Housing (non taxable money soldiers get for living off base)

BC Usually Battalion Commander, a Lieutenant Colonel

BCT Basic Combat Training

Blackhawk / UH-60 Transport Helicopter

Bronze Star Medal

CAS Close Air Support

Chinook / CH-47 Transport Helicopter

CHU Containerized Housing Unit, basically a 10 x 20 trailer that housed up to 8 soldiers at a time.

Company 3 to 4 (or more) platoons

COP Combat Out Post, a smaller version of a FOB

Cordon Enclose an area

CQ Charge of Quarters - A desk manned 24 hours

CSH Combat Support Hospital. The first place a casualty goes to be treated

CSM Command Sergeant Major, the senior enlisted soldier in a large unit

DFAC Dining Facility

DOW Died Of Wounds

FA Field Artillery

Fart Sack Sleeping Bag

FOB Forward Operating Base

Fobbit A soldier who does not engage in combat

Gerber Multi tool (pliers, knife, etc.)

Green Beans A popular coffee shop on the FOBs

Grunt Infantryman

Haji GI slang for Iraqis

hesco Dirt filled barriers

Hummer, Humvee 4 wheel drive Armored Truck

IDF Indirect Fire. Mortars or Artillery

IED Improvised Explosive Device

Kevlar Helmet

KIA Killed in Action

Landstuhl Landstuhl Army Medical Center in Germany. First stop for serious casualties.

LZ Helicopter Landing Zone

M-14 Semi-automatic 7.63 assault rifle, usually used as a sniper rifle

M-16 5.56 mm assault rifle

M-1A1, M-1A2 Abrams Tank

M2, aka Ma Deuce 12.7 mm machine gun, mounted in a turret

M-203 40mm grenade launcher mounted under an M-4 or M-16

M24 7.62 mm sniper rifle

M240B 7.62mm machine gun, either carried or mounted in a turret

M249 5.56 mm machine gun, usually carried

M2A1 Bradley Infantry Fighting Vehicle

M-4 5.56 mm assault rifle, a shorter version of the M-16

M-9 9mm pistol carried by many soldiers

MEDEVAC Medical Evacuation (usually by helicopter)

MEPS Military Entrance Processing Station where you join the military

MGS Mobile Guns System, a 105mm cannon mounted on a Stryker

MI Military Intelligence

MK-19, Mark-19 Vehicle mounted automatic 40mm grenade launcher

MOS Military Occupation Specialty

MP Military Police

MRAP Mine Resistant Armored Patrol vehicle

NCOIC Sergeant in Charge

NVG Night Vision Goggles

OIC Officer In Charge

OP Observation Post. Usually a 2 or 3 man position in front of the main defensive position

OPCON(ed) When one unit is placed under another unit not normally in their chain of command

PA Physicians' Assistant

PAX Passenger Terminal at a military airbase

Pisser latrine

PKM Russian made medium Machine Gun

PL Platoon Leader (Usually a newly commissioned officer)

Platoon 4 to 5 squads

POG (or Pogue) See Fobbit, usually anyone not in a combat MOS

PSD Personal Security Detachment

PSG Platoon Sergeant (Usually a Senior NCO)

PT Physical Training

PTSD Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder

PX Post Exchange, the base shopping center

R & R Rest & Relaxation, either two weeks home in the States or a three day pass in Qatar

Rear Detachment Parts of a unit that remain behind at home base for administrative services.

RPG Rocket Propelled Grenade

SAW (M-249) Squad Automatic Weapon, a light machine gun firing the same ammunition as an M-16/M-4

SFC Sergeant First Class, senior NCO in a Platoon

Shi'ite. One of the two main sects of Islam. Majority of the Iraqi population

SITREP Situation Report

Squad roughly 8 to 10 soldiers

SSG Staff Sergeant, leads a squad

Stryker Armored, wheeled Infantry Carrier, carrying an Infantry Squad

Sunni One of the two main sects of Islam. Minority of Iraqi population, held power under Hussein.

TAC SAT Satellite Radio

TBI Traumatic Brain Injury, usually from an IED concussion

The Wire (outside) Going outside the relative security of a FOB

TOC Tactical Operations Center

Tree Line area where fields stop and trees begin. A preferred firing position

WIA Wounded In Action

WRAMC Walter Reed Army Medical Center, located outside Washington DC

Wrecker Tow Truck

WTF What The Fuck

Copyright

Look for new chapters, and discuss the story, on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/EZKGTB

EZKGTB@gmail.com

All work copyrighted 2013 Think On Productions and John Holmes

Editor’s Comments

1

ß she punches in the shoulder a LOT.

2

ß who said this?

Content

John F. Holmes
as Nick Agostine
EVEN ZOMBIE KILLERS GET THE BLUES

PART I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

PART II

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Glossary

Copyright

Editor’s Comments