John F. Holmes

EVEN ZOMBIE KILLERS NEED A BREAK

Zombie Killers: Cadence for the Dead

C-130 rolling down the strip,

Zombie Killers on a one way trip.

Mission not secret, destination Dead Zone

We all know we ain’t never coming home.

Stand up, hook up, shuffle to the door,

Jump right out on the count of four.

If I get bitten on the old drop zone,

Put a bullet in my head and ship me home.

PART I

Chapter 1

Losing a friend is hard. When that friend was one I thought of as my brother, it was even harder. The helo thundered upriver, back to Firebase Castle. I kept seeing Jonesy in my mind, swinging away at the Zombies with that big piece of metal he always carried, leading them away from us so we could board the chopper and get to safety. Ahmed’s bullet ripping through his heart.

It seemed to happen in slow motion, in my mind anyway. In the movies, you get shot, you fall down. No blood, no gore. In real life, this sucky, post-apocalypse life anyway, you can see the blood splash out. It looked black in the light of the full moon. Again and again it replayed in my mind.

I sat leaning up against the wall of the CH-47. Brit was wrapped in a blanket and Doc was keeping an eye on her. Ahmed was up front with the pilot and SPC Mya was cleaning her weapon while she yelled nonstop in Redshirt’s ear, trying to be heard over the sound of the turbine engines. She was trying to keep him awake until we landed at the base and he was admitted to the hospital.

Below me the waters of the Hudson River reflected the silver moonlight. I started to shake, my hands clenched tightly together, and I threw up over the edge of the ramp. The vomit immediately blew back into the compartment from the powerful downdraft of the rotors, and the crew chief shot me a dirty look. Screw him.

We had been hurt, badly. Lt. Carter, attached to the mission, was dead, in a stupid, suicidal charge against a crowd of Zombies. My friend and teammate for the last two years, Jonesy, had saved my life again, and had paid the full price for it. I could never pay him back now.

I knew what we had to do. After we had dropped off Redshirt and Brit at the base, we needed to head back and recover Jonesy’s body. Zombies never eat corpses. They will only chew on you as long as you have a spark of life in you. Ahmed’s shot had punched out his heart, and I knew Jonesy would still be lying there.

Doc made his way over to me and handed me a helicopter crewman’s headset. I put it on and plugged into the intercom system so we could talk.

“Nick, we can’t bring Redshirt to the hospital. As soon as they realize that he’s immune to Zombie bites that kid is going to turn into the world’s biggest guinea pig. They will keep him just healthy enough to produce blood for lab tests for the rest of his life.”

In the fight yesterday at West Point, Private First Class Redshirt, a Navajo kid who had been attached to the Zombie Killers, had gone down swinging in pile of zombies, and we had though he was lost. He showed up later, all torn to hell and bitten in several places, but still alive and uninfected. Doc had told me that he was only the third person he had ever heard of who was immune to the zombie plague, and the other two had gone missing.

“Tough on him. Sometimes the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one.”

“Bullshit. If you believed that, you would be back in the real Army instead of scouting around out here.”

I knew he had me. The kid had done good and become a member of the team, and I knew what would happen once the Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases (USAMRIID) got their hands on him. They would sic their pet zombies on him and keep trying to figure out why he didn’t get infected, and he would die soon enough from whatever other diseases developed in their rotting mouths.

“OK. He stays, but Mya is going to have to look after him. You, me and Ahmed are going back for Jonesy’s body tomorrow, if we can get it.”

He nodded and unplugged from the intercom. We touched down on the island as the sun rose.

Chapter 2

Brit complained, but she had to stay. We needed her whole. And she needed serious antibiotics after her wound had opened up and she had fallen in the river. By the next night, she had a raging fever. It had finally broken, but she had been left exhausted and wrung out. Even her complaints had seemed like something she felt she had to do. She drifted off into a deep sleep and the PA at the medical tent had kicked us out. Redshirt was recuperating in another tent, away from the eyes of the medical personnel, guarded by Specialist Mya.

We set off downriver that afternoon, with the boat crew gunning the engine at full blast. I knew they felt bad for leaving us. If they hadn’t had to return to base for repairs, Jonesy and Lt. Carter would still be alive. I didn’t blame them, though; equipment broke down. It couldn’t be helped.

The military ran operations on a shoestring. When the Apocalypse happened, many of the bases and depots that held spare parts for the military had been overrun. In the few years since then, there wasn’t anyone making anything except the simple basics, like weapons and ammunition. Even our uniforms were patched and mended over and over. That and irregular maintenance (or, in most cases, no maintenance at all) had taken its toll on anything mechanical. The boats waiting for us at West Point had suffered an engine fire and an explosion, causing casualties. They had been forced to return to base, leaving us to duke it out with a horde of Zs.

The dock where we had fought as we waited for the helicopter pulled into view. Zombie bodies were scattered all over, from our rifles and the airstrikes. We pulled up to the dock and climbed out, weapons at the ready, but there was no movement in sight.

Ahmed kept watch with his sniper rifle as Doc and I searched for Jonesy’s body. He lay where he had fallen, sprawled flat on his back, iron bar still clasped in his hands. Doc unwrapped a body bag and we tipped him over into it.

“Damn, Jonesy, you stink.” My eyes were watering and I felt like throwing up. Two days in the sun and he was almost unrecognizable. At least his eyes were closed. The blood had dried black on his uniform around the hole in his heart made by Ahmed’s bullet. He had always been too big to wear body armor.

“I know, right?” said Doc. “Maybe you should take a bath every now and then, Brother.”

It was either that or bust out crying. It’s just how you deal with it sometimes. This man had been my friend, as close to me as my own brother, or closer. We shared untold danger and saved each other’s lives too many times to count, and here I was about to zip up the bag and close him off from the sunlight forever. Doc motioned me aside. “I’ll do it.”

I turned away, but I still heard the zipper as he closed it. Goodbye, Brother. We each grabbed a handle on the body bag and tried to lift. “Damn, he’s heavy” grunted Doc. Ahmed slung his rifle and came over to give us a hand, and we pulled him over to the boat. The boat crew helped us get him onboard and we headed back upriver. Not a soul or a Zombie in sight.

We buried him on the south side of Bannerman Island, just above the shoreline, so his grave got sunlight all year long. Brit stood with me and held my hand while one of the infantry sergeants, a lay preacher, spoke over the grave. He prayed for salvation of Jonesy’s soul, who apparently had died doing the Lord’s work. Brit squeezed my hand tight to keep me from interrupting him.

As far as I was concerned, God had turned his back on the world, and I can’t say I blamed Him.

Chapter 3

I sat in the tent, cleaning my rifle, feeling vaguely depressed and incredibly bored. Doc lay on the cot next to me, leafing through an old Maxim magazine he had found in the ruins. On the cover was some actress who looked vaguely familiar. He reached the centerfold and flipped her open, then held her out for me to see.

“Does this look familiar?”

“Somewhat. One of those reality TV show or something.”

He laughed, pulled out a red marker and quickly scribbled on the picture, then held it back to me. He had reddened her eyes and put blood around her mouth.

“Holy crap!”

Doc burst out laughing. “Thought you might recognize her that way. Now if I could just find a yellow highlighter to draw in where you puked all over her. Ha ha ha!”

Redshirt sat up in his cot and Mya leaned forward.

“Come on, Doc, tell us the story.”

“Yeah, let’s hear it!”

I shot him a dirty look but he gave me the finger.

“So some bonehead gets the idea that we should scout out Malibu. Why, I don’t know. Reports of some civilian survivors holed up in one of those mansions or something. So we parachute on the grounds of this mansion, me, Nick, Brit, Simmons, and, um…” he trailed off.

“Rabinowitz.” I prompted him.

“Oh yesh, the Rabbi. I wonder how he’s doing?”

“I heard he’s getting around good on his new leg.”

“Cool.”

“Get back to the story, old timers!”

“Shut it, Kids. So anyway, we are scouting this mansion, everything is cool, no signs of life til we get into the kitchen. There, sitting at a table, is a woman with her back to us. Nick puts his hand on her shoulder, and says, “US Army, we’re here to help!”And this zombie jumps up, turns around and launches herself at him! I haven’t ever seen Nick move backward so fast. Just before she gets to him, he pops off a shot that catches her through the jaw and blows off the back of her head. She falls on him, spraying him with her blood and brains, and he throws up all down her back.”

“Screw you, Doc!”

Red and Mya were laughing. “Wait, it gets better. Every time, for quite a long while, whenever we shot a Z, someone on the team would yell, US ARMY, WE’RE HERE TO HELP!”

I was laughing too. It’s funny how things that were so terrifying at the time turn into funny stories down the road.

The tent flap was drawn aside and a sergeant from Operations came in.

“Nick, the Battalion S-3 is on the horn. They’ve got a new mission for your team.”

“OK, be there in a few minutes. Doc, start doing Pre-Combat Checks and Inspections. Red, you up for this?”

“I’m OK, Chief.”

“Alright. I’ll see if Brit can get away from the medics yet on my way back.”

I headed out into the bright June sunlight, feeling a little better.

Chapter 4

Inside the Ops tent, the computers were driving the temperature higher. Blue Force Tracker, Intel source trackers, artillery, plasma screen for briefings and more than a dozen radios to stay in touch with the various patrols on the shore and boats transiting the river. They all combined to generate a heat that the floor fan did little to dissipate.

I walked past a table where the liaisons from the other services had set up shop. We had one each from the Navy, Air Force and Coast Guard, and I made a note to get with each of them after I found out what this mission was.

At the Current Ops section, I took the microphone from the Ops Sergeant and called Task Force Liberty Ops.

“Liberty Main, this is Lost Boys, over.”

“Lost Boys, this is Liberty Main, wait one, over.”

After a minute, Major Flynn came on the line. After asking me how the team was doing, and getting my assurances that we were OK, he expressed condolences over us losing Jonesy. Then we got down to business.

“Nick, how do you guys feel about an airborne insertion? Over.”

“Friggin hate the idea, over”

I could almost hear him laughing.

“Well, tough crap. We need you to drop on a target, over.”

“I could say no, over.”

“You could, and I could draft you back into the Army again, over.”

He had me by the balls. I knew that Doc and I could disappear back into the woods, and Brit would go with us, but dammit, I liked what we were doing. We were, in our small way, making a difference.

“OK, send me a target with an OPORDER, over.”

“It will be in your inbox. The Navy wants back into New York, and we are going to do a hold and clear as soon as they identify a target facility. You guys will be jumping in first, giving a report, then waiting for the Airborne to drop. You will get relieved by the Navy. Over.”

“Understood. I’m going to need ammo and other refit, over.”

“Draw what you can from the Infantry. We’re tight up here. Liberty Main, out.”

I let out a deep breath. We were going to need a palette of ammunition, water and construction materials. Replacements for some of the weapons we had lost. Maybe another trooper, perhaps that big redneck sniper from the Infantry company. I headed over to the liaison table to talk to the other branches and see what support we could get from them.

Chapter 5

It’s funny how you can hate a job and love it at the same time. Part of me wished we were back in Stillwater, rebuilding the house and growing some food. Another part wouldn’t have missed this for anything in the world.

I had just stepped outside the Ops tent, back into the bright sunlight, when an old-school air raid siren started to wind up. Soldiers started scrambling for their fighting positions, manning machine guns and other heavy weapons set up around the island. As I passed the howitzers, I saw their crews franticly spinning the elevation wheel, lowering the barrel so it pointed out over the river. Three of them were levering the hand spike at the rear up in the air, getting ready to spin the cannon left or right. One had been set up on each side of the island, dragged there by the lone Humvee that had been brought down on the barge. Barricades made of empty ammunition boxes filled with dirt had been piled high in a circle around them, leaving just enough clearance for the barrel to direct fire on targets in the river.

I jumped down into the firing position next to our tent, joining Ahmed and Doc in the trench. We had an MK-19 40mm automatic grenade launcher. Normally useless against zombies, it would be great against anything coming across the river at us.

“What’s up?” I yelled over the sound of the siren, which was winding down.

“No idea!” answered Doc. We sat patiently, doing the old soldier thing of hurry up and wait. Not for too long, though. From around the back of the island came one of our assault boats. At the same time, I caught glimpse of a long, low shape cruising up the river, a couple of hundred meters away, about halfway between us and the far shore.

“ATTENTION, UNIDENTIFIED CRAFT. THIS IS THE UNITED STATES ARMY. STOP AND PREPARE TO BE BOARDED.” The words boomed out of a loudspeaker mounted on one of the turrets of the old castle and echoed across the water.

The boat, or ship, or whatever you want to call it, didn’t stop but turned toward us. It was about forty feet long and looked like someone had taken an old fishing boat and welded steel across the deck to make a primitive armored ship. On the front, a slit had been cut to make room for the barrel of some kind of automatic weapon. Probably a light machine gun looted from some National Guard armory. Through my binoculars, I could see a line of skulls strung across the bow.

I handed the binoculars to Doc. After a few seconds of looking, he handed them back to me and spit on the ground in front of us. “Ugh. Fucking Reaver jerkoffs.” I couldn’t stand them either. Zombies I killed without passion. They were what they were. People trying to survive I left alone if they let me alone, and helped them out when I could. Cannibals we shot on the spot, if there was evidence of it. Mad Maxes though, were scumbags who preyed on other survivors. Looting and stealing, killing just for the sheer fun of it. Many of them were criminals who hadn’t really been able to function in the real world anyway. They loved the mayhem the Zombie Apocalypse created. Some people called them “Mad Maxes”. Others called them “Reavers”. Didn’t matter what you called them, they had no place in society if we were going to claw our way out of this mess.

“Look at that shit, they even have a frigging pirate flag hanging off the ass end.”

Apparently someone in command at the base had noticed it too, because I heard a cheer go up around me and turned to look. A makeshift flag pole had been set up on the highest point of the island, and up it ran the stars and stripes. At that, the ship started to turn away and the guys in the assault boat put it into high gear.

The guy in the next hole yelled, “Hell yes, there’s a new sheriff in town, Scumbags!” just as the ship started firing at the assault boat with rifle and a smattering of machine gun fire. Ahmed leaned forward, put his eye to his rifle scope and shot the man who was working the heavy gun on the back of the craft. The assault boat swerved away under full power.

Doc racked a round into the 19 and started walking grenades toward the ship but they were just out of range. Tracers were already reaching out to it from the .50 caliber set next to us when an enormous CRACK came from the western howitzer position, and the ship exploded in a muffled BOOM that echoed across the water. A high explosive round with a point-detonating fuse, fired over an open site from the 105 mm howitzer, had impacted on the steel plate welded to the back deck and blown the ship in half. The front half started to burn, while the rear sank quickly into the water. As we watched, burning figures jumped from the wheelhouse into the water. Ahmed shot them as they fell, muttering a prayer for mercy as he fired.

The assault boat moved in after the front half had slipped beneath the water, leaving a patch of burning oil on the surface. I watched them through my binos as they went from body to body, pulling each one up to check for signs of life, to see if we could get a prisoner. They turned back empty.

Chapter 6

Someone, I don’t remember who, once said that all warfare is logistics. That never held more truth than when fighting Zombies. One on one, maybe, you can beat a zombie, though they are strong, and once they start attacking, they never, ever stop. More than one, unarmed, you’re dead, or even worse, joining their ranks, if your heart doesn’t give out fast enough. A baseball bat or some other kind of knocker, you can hold out for a while, but having more than a few around you, you’re going to get swamped, like Jonesy when he went down fighting at West Point.

The key to beating zombies is equipment and keeping your distance. Ammunition, working weapons, and most important, a solid defense. I’ll sit all day behind a concrete wall and poke zombies through a murder hole with a spear, provided too many bodies don’t pile up and they start climbing over the wall. After that happens, of course, you’re screwed.

With that in mind and not knowing where our destination was, Doc, Brit and I sat down and started working on a packing list. It was going to be an airborne insertion, and I had no faith in the Navy coming to pull us out in time, so I wanted a pallet to be dropped with us. Screw that, I wanted two pallets, each a duplicate of the other. I was pretty sure we would have to settle for one, though.

What we came up with, after more than an hour of deliberating and arguing was:

• Ammunition:

— 20,000 rounds of .22 magnum ammunition for our rifles, preloaded into 50 round magazines

— 1000 rounds of 7.62 for Ahmed’s rifle

— 2000 rounds of straight .22 for our pistols

— 3 spare rifles and 3 spare pistols

— 1 case of thumpers

— Three AT-4 anti-tank rockets. If we needed to blow a hole in the side of a building, we were going to need to do it fast.

I wasn’t sure we were going to get that much ammo, much less the magazines, but I left that up to Brit to try to wheedle it out of the fat supply sergeant up at Fort Orange.

• Demolition Supplies:

— 5kw Generator, along with a spare parts set. Electricity was a huge combat multiplier.

— 20 gallons of gasoline. I was sure we would be able to scrounge more, but I didn’t want to count on it. Along with that I added 3 empty 5 gallon fuel cans, and a fuel filtering unit. A lot of the gas you could scrounge from cars had gone bad with water contamination. I also added a hand-cranked fuel pump and 20 feet of rubber hose.

— Six 100’ extension cords

— 3 drills, along with screws, hammers, and nails

— 2 sledge hammers and two axes

— 500 feet of ¼” steel cable, in 50’ lengths. We had found this useful strung up either ankle- or chest-high. It often stopped or seriously delayed a horde of zombies.

— 2 electric saws-alls, along with a gasoline-powered demolition saw

— 5 lbs of C-4, along with blasting caps. I let Doc deal with that. I don’t like explosives, never did, but I wanted the ability to drop a building if I had to.

— 10 sets of halogen worklight bulbs. I could probably scrounge lights themselves, since there were hardware stores all over the city, and lights were the last thing looters went after. Night vision equipment was great but I wanted the ability to light up any field of fire we had. It would save ammunition and fighting in the light is always better for morale.

— Two 15’ collapsible assault ladders. In the city, many of the older buildings had floors that more than twelve feet apart. They could also be used to span an alley between roofs.

• Portable water purification unit., along with 30 gallons of water in 5 gallon cans.

• Three cases of MREs, along with 5 rolls of toilet paper. Never forget that.

Brit finished making a copy of the list and sent it by e-mail to the S-4 section at Fort Orange.

“I’m probably going to go up there to make this happen myself,” she said, “but I know a supply sergeant who owes me some, um, favors.” She shot me a guilty look, the “we need to talk” look. I nodded at her.

Doc pulled out his Garmin and brought up the local hardware stores. “Well, looks like we have to go raid a Home Depot. According to the GPS, there is one in Fishkill on Route 9. I’ll see if I can get some air support and fly in instead of a boat mission.”

“I’m going to go over the Infantry, see if we can get a couple more guys for this mission. I think Killian and two more riflemen would be good. They can make their own fire team. Let’s plan on doing the scrounge mission tomorrow at noon. You know the drill, pre-combat checks and inspections.”

We broke up and went our separate ways to start getting ready. Brit followed me on my way over to the Infantry Command Post.

“Nick, we need to talk.”

I hated those words. I’d rather hear a full horde screaming the zombie moan than hear a woman say that.

“OK, Brit, go ahead.”

She took a deep breath, then laid it out flat.

“Until you and I can go riding off into the sunset together, I’m not going to be with you. We can’t. You’re the team leader, and I may love you, but I expect all of us are going to die, sooner, rather than later. Maybe we can call it quits someday after this zombie thing and we can rethink it, but for now, you know we can’t. You have way too much responsibility to think of only one person.” I took off my work glove and brushed a strand of hair off her face, then ran the back of my hand across her cheek. She closed her eyes.

“Maybe someday, Brit.” She nodded and opened those blue, blue eyes. There were tears in the corners.

“Maybe someday, Nick.”

Chapter 7

“Mya, Redshirt, before we roll out, you have to go attend quarterly mandatory briefings. Sexual harassment and suicide prevention.”

“I already know how to sexually harass someone.”

Mya shot him a dirty look and asked me, “Why do we have to do these things if we’re attached to a super special unit?”

Brit laughed. “Because you’re regular Army pukes. Ha ha, sucks to be you!”

“Brit, Doc is giving a class to the Infantry in avoiding plague infection in Zombie Combat. You just volunteered to be his demonstrator.” Now I was the one on the receiving end of the dirty look.

“Let’s go, we have to finish mission prep tonight for tomorrow’s hardware store run.”

“Good. I need more saline solution for my contacts. Can we raid Walmart tomorrow too, Oh Fearless Leader?”

“Nope, quick in and out. You’re going to have to wear your birth control glasses. Maybe you should wear them now to keep the infantry guys off you.”

“Now why would I want that?” she said and batted her eyes at me.

“Bite me.”

“Someday.”

They followed me out of the tent. Mya and Redshirt were heading over to the ops tent to get their class and Brit and I went to join up with Docs’ class, which was already in session.

“Great, our demonstrators just showed up. This is Nick Agostine and Brit O’Neill. Nick, Brit, we were just going over the basic background on the plague.”

I made a “carry on” motion and he picked up where he left off.

“As you were taught in basic training, we don’t know the exact nature of a zombie infection. We do know that it operates on a cellular level, animating tissue where all prior electrical activity has ceased. However, it causes massive degeneration of neurons, so brain tissue and nerves are dead, except for the most basic functions in the hypothalamus. Why that survives, and a desire to eat living flesh, is unknown.”

A private sitting in the first row raised his hand. Doc nodded to him.

“Is that why when we shoot them they don’t feel nothing?”

“That’s correct. Also, the oxygen their muscles need seems to come from some kind of metabolic reaction in the virus itself, not through respiration. Their skin, which feels slightly slimy, is covered with some kind of organic growth which aids in respiration. One reason why Zs don’t like water.”

After answering several more questions about the nature of the Zombie infection with a couple of “We don’t know”s, Doc moved on to the combat phase of the class.

We spent some time alternating between various methods of defense against a zombie attack. Most of them were based on throws from jujitsu. The best defense against a zombie that gets inside your guard is to get it off you as quickly as possible. One serious problem, though, is often the decomposition of the corpse leaves you with an arm or a leg in your hand after you’ve tried a shoulder throw, with the thing still trying to take a chunk out of you.

We demonstrated how an upward strike would break a zombie’s jaw if you hit hard enough with the palm of your hand. I reminded them how hunching your neck up in your kevlar collar would prevent any cuts, and so would the issued, detachable hood that was part of our issue uniforms now. Joes often liked to throw away equipment that was hot and bothersome, but in this case, it could save their lives in a close fight.

I was demonstrating how to do a break away, acting as the Zombie, when one of the guys up front said “I’d like to have her bite my neck!” Brit walked over to him, made a “let’s go” motion, then promptly went apeshit, biting and clawing all over him. He tried hard to defend himself but she finally stepped back with his blood on her face. He had half a dozen serious scratches and one bite mark on his cheek.

“Oh my God, what the fuck is wrong with you?” yelled the burly infantryman, holding his hand to his face.

Doc stepped in between them.

“Private, if you can’t stop one girl you outweigh by more than a hundred pounds, what the hell are you going to do against a zombie your size, who has infection-fueled strength and could probably break you in half?”

He turned the guy around to face the rest of the group. The wound on his cheek was bleeding profusely.

“Let this be a lesson to all of you, especially you kids who haven’t been in a zombie fight yet: If that had been a real zombie attacking him, he would either be dead or reanimated right now, and attacking you. Think about it. We’re not playing games here. This isn’t basic training or the playground. Nor is it Army Combatives, where you are trying to choke someone out or subdue them. This is kill or be killed, in every single encounter. Now, partner up and TRY TO DRAW BLOOD!”

I walked over to where Brit stood wiping the blood off her face, and handed her my canteen to wash up.

“I think you’re getting a little slow in your old age, Brit.”

“Kiss my ass, old man” she said, and grinned a bloody grin.

Chapter 8

We had air transport for our equipment-scrounging trip. To get it, I had to promise the Infantry they could go along to get some Zombie fighting experience. While we were running around Home Depot with shopping carts and pallet jacks, they would form a perimeter and fight a holding action against any Zs that showed up. Then, after we had loaded up on the CH-47, they would conduct a fighting withdrawal back onto the choppers. That would give them some combat experience and leave us free to do our scrounging.

Or that was the plan. It was interrupted by an MH-60 from the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment that came flaring in for a landing as dusk settled on the river. Two guys I recognized as Operators from Special Forces Operational Detachment (Delta) jumped out, followed a short, good-looking woman in ACUs. No combat gear or weapon, just a bag slung over her shoulder.

Doc stood next to me as we watched them exit the bird, the two Delta Operators acting as bodyguards as they made their way to the command post.

“Should we run and hide right now? That woman is bad news.”

“I know who she is, Doc. Doctor Morano from the Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases. We’ve met before. Long story.”

She walked around the command post and made a beeline for where our team had set up our hooches. I headed her off before she ran into Brit and a gunfight started right in the middle of the camp.

She waved off the body guards as we approached. “Stand down, this is the guy we’re looking for.” The two of them immediately shifted their attention back to scanning for threats.

“Dr. Morano. Here to get someone killed, I presume.”

She smiled at me. “Nick, so much with the drama! I see you’ve joined forces with Sergeant Hamilton. You two make a good team, running around playing white knight.”

The first time I had seen her had been at Bagram Airbase, at the prison. I had signed for two prisoners who had been turned into gibbering idiots by her attempts at “biological interrogation.” The other two I had turned over the day before were dead, due to “natural causes.”

The last time I had seen her had been just outside Buffalo. She had asked me to join her team of bio-researchers who were capturing zombies and experimenting on them. Her exact words were, I think, “collateral damage to civilians doesn’t matter. We have more important things to do.”

She smiled her sweet, evil smile at me.

“I heard your team tends to run into concentrations of infected on a regular basis. I have an experimental vaccine I want you to use the next time you encounter a large group of infected.”

“Are you sure? That doesn’t sound very evil.”

“You enjoy your job, Sergeant Agostine. I enjoy mine. How are we any different?”

I laughed. “You enjoy killing people and causing pain. I enjoy beating the enemy. I don’t enjoy killing.”

She gave me a blank look. Frigging sociopath.

“Enough with the verbal chit chat.” She handed me a bandolier of 40mm grenade rounds for the M-203.

“These have been modified with an aerosol spray containing a skin contact serum. If you fire it over a crowd of infected, it should work within a few minutes. Those who are fresh corpses may be cured. Those who have decomposed past the point where life is possible, or who suffered life threatening wounds in their initial infection, should just drop.”

Doc took them from her and looked them over. There were five of them.

“So what’s the catch? I don’t trust you, Ma’am. What if I refuse to do it?”

“Doctor. If you refuse, these two gentlemen will shoot you dead on the spot.” The bodyguards glanced at Doc and I, and I knew those guys would drill us through the head at a single word, probably a prearranged code mixed into a sentence so that we didn’t have time to react.

She had us, and there was nothing I could do about it. “What’s to stop us from just dumping them in the river after you leave?”

“There is a transponder in each one that will tell us time of firing, location, etc. I may be evil, Nick, but I’m not stupid. In fact, I’m actually a genius.”

“No, you’re actually a sociopath. OK, we’ll do your dirty work, Dr. Morano.”

“Please see that you do. I’d hate to have you killed.”

“I doubt that you would hate it.”

“No, you’re right, I’d probably record it and play it over and over.”

That was one crazy evil woman. She turned and walked back to the helo that was spinning up again. One of the Delta guys looked back and gave us a thumbs up. I gave him the finger.

Specialist Mya came up behind us. “What was that all about?”

Doc handed her the bandolier. “Go get yourself a different weapon with a 203 launcher on it. We need you to replace Jonesy’s firepower anyway. Then go practice with a half a dozen HE rounds into the river. Take Redshirt with you and have him show you what to do.”

She looked at the rounds in the belt. “What about these?”

“Those” I answered her, “are a potential cure for the infection. We’re going to fire it over a crowd of zombies and see what happens.”

Her eyes got wide. I could see her professional interest as a medic had been piqued.

“Coool!”

We were cleaning weapons an hour later when we heard a blood-curdling scream of agony carry across the island. Doc, Brit and I jumped up and ran as fast we could in the direction of where Mya and Redshirt had been lobbing 203 rounds into the river.

She lay on the ground, with Redshirt standing there ten feet away from her. We were the first to get there. Doc made to push past him, but he tackled Doc and threw him to the ground.

“DOC, NO!” he yelled. “It’s poisoned! Nerve agent!”

Doc’s face went pale and he stood. The rest of us halted where we were.

Mya lay on the ground, twitching in agony. She had vomited and her back arched in spasms, her scream fading as her jaw opened and closed. Beside her a 203 round lay on the ground, one of the ones from the bandolier LTC Morano had given us.

Brit pulled her pistol from her leg holster and shot Mya through the heart, twice. She arched one last time and fell still.

“She said she wanted to check out the shells with the medicine in them, see how they worked. She took one out and I guess she handled it wrong or something. Next thing I knew, she staggered and yelled at me to run, said it was nerve gas and then said something like V, then she fell to the ground and started vomiting and she screamed once.” V meant VX, a nerve agent. As a medic, Mya knew what was happening to her.

He turned around and threw up in the bushes. I handed him a canteen. The Infantry guys showed up and Brit motioned them back. Doc filled them in and they filed away. This part of the island would remain off limits, along with her corpse. We wouldn’t even be able to bury her.

“She saved your life, Red. You would have been dead if you tried to help her.”

Doc came up. “VX nerve agent. Bad shit, Nick. Persistent oil-based. If we had fired that and it had misfired, or blown back at us, we could have all been wiped out. What the fuck were they thinking?”

“They were thinking they needed to do a field experiment, and they didn’t care who happened to get burnt in the process.”

I looked back at Mya lying dead in the moonlight. I would file a report back to JSOC, and I’m sure we would see LTC Morano again. I had an urge to wrap my hands around her throat, but we would have to be very, very careful around her.

Chapter 9

“GO! GO! GO!” The back ramp was down before we hit the ground. A swirl of dust and ash obscured the LZ, lifted by the rotor wash of the other CH-47. The Chinook had touched its back wheels down sixty seconds before us, dropping off two squads of infantry, then lifting back off. One more squad and a heavy weapons team filled the canvas seats in our chopper, along with the rest of the Zombie Killers. As soon as the ramp touched, the guys filed out in two lines, breaking left and right to add to the perimeter. Then the heavy weapons team carried out their M-249 SAWs and the head-high tripods they were mounted on, along with crates of extra ammo. The infantrymen quickly started pushing debris into some kind of perimeter, unraveling concertina wire in a big loop around the front doors of the Home Depot and pounding stakes to hold it into the parking lot.

The heavy weapons team had four M-249s that they set up to cover likely areas of approach. Each light machine gun was mounted on a tripod which held the weapon roughly five and half feet off the ground, just about the average height of a zombie head. Yeah, aimed shots were better than automatic fire, but sweeping a packed mass of a zombie hoard with a couple hundred rounds a minute at head height, if you’ve got the ammo, can work wonders. The Infantry worked hard to push any moveable cars to create channels for zombies to be herded into and machine gunned. Already single shots were popping off from the Designated Marksmen teams, taking out a few Zs that were stumbling around on the road.

The doors of Home Depot were shattered, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Sometimes a closed storefront would hide a pack of zombies that had become trapped in the store. This one had been hit by looters, but I was pretty sure that we would be able to find everything we needed. I led the way in the stack, followed by Brit, Doc and Redshirt. We all carried shotguns for quick snapshots down the aisle. Ahmed stayed outside with the two Infantry guys we had picked up, Corporal Killeen and Specialist Desen, doing some very long range sniping.

We moved through the front of the store, coming up dry. That was the easiest part. The hard part would be going down through the aisles, with limited visibility, making noise stumbling over debris and trying to keep our footing. Stepping into the first aisle, we snapped on head-mounted and weapon-mounted flashlights. Even in bright daylight, the store was dark and gloomy. We could have used NVGs but if you looked back at the bright sunlight at the front of the store they tended to blank out.

Down the center aisle, we split into two teams; Doc and Redshirt together in one and Brit and I in the other, and headed in separate directions. We would meet back in the front of the store after confirming ID.

Brit led the way, shotgun at the ready. The flashlights created a jumpy, dancing pattern of shadows, and my heart was pounding.

“Are you up to this?” I whispered as I noticed her favoring her leg that had been wounded a few weeks before.

“Suck it, Fat Boy” she whispered, without looking back at me. I grinned in the darkness. She was okay.

We had made it through the tools section, moving aisle by aisle. Brit poked a small periscope with a PVS-14 NVG attached to it around each corner, looking for the faint heat signatures a zombie gave off. Shining a light down the aisle could miss something hiding in shadows. Looking around one corner, she held up one hand, palm down, then two fingers, then a walking motion towards herself. Okay, two zombies, ambulatory, moving toward us. I brought my shotgun up to my shoulder and put my knee on her back to let her know I was ready.

As soon as I felt her move, I swung past her right and turned left down the aisle. My flashlight swept up the floor to center on the head of the right hand zombie and I fired twice. I heard Brit’s gun boom next to me at the same time. Her first shot spun the left hand zombie, the second shot taking off the back of its head. Mine was also down, but still trying to crawl forward with half its face blown off. I walked up and hit it in the head with the weighted stick I carried.

“CLEAR, two zulu down.”

“Roger, two zulu down.” came Doc’s response over the radio.

We met back up at the front of the store, then each team peeled off to get the assigned items, Brit pushing a shopping cart and me a pallet. Outside, the firing was picking up, going from occasional shots to almost continuous single shots. We ran down the aisles, throwing things we needed into the cart and onto the pallet while keeping an eye out for any Zs we might have missed.

“Do we have everything?” I asked, slightly out of breath from pushing the heavy cart as fast as possible.

“I need new mechanic’s gloves.”

I held up a pair in her size. “I grabbed you a pair. Let’s get the hell out of here.” She nodded and we walked out into the bright sunlight, followed a minute later by Doc and Redshirt.

Outside it had evolved into a full-fledged firefight. Zs were piling up on the perimeter, climbing over bodies to get at the fresh meat shooting at them. The machine guns were hammering out a steady symphony of bursts, waiting for a cluster of Zs to show themselves over the pile. Brass lay all over the parking lot.

I grabbed the Infantry Platoon Leader where he was directing fire and shifting people and yelled in his ear.

“SIR, WE ARE GOOD TO GO!”

“ROGER THAT!” and he shouted for his platoon sergeant, making a whirling motion with his hand over his head. Then he popped smoke right in front of the pallets and shopping carts. While we waited for the birds, the team secured all the loose items in each pallet or cart with a tarp, duct taping them down heavily. Once on board, the crew chief would strap them down.

Now came the hard part: Withdrawing under pressure. As the helo set down, we joined the perimeter, firing along with the Infantry at the massive horde pouring out of the city of Newburgh. Next to me a young trooper panicked, trying to reload his magazine as a Z came straight at him. He dropped the weapon and turned to run but tripped on the broken pavement. I shot the Z coming at him, but another was right behind him. It grabbed his ankle and started to viciously bite on his leg, dragging him out of the perimeter. His scream was cut short as Redshirt put a burst into his chest. A stream of tracers from the machine guns tore through head level of the crowd of zombies, but a bullet caught another trooper in the back of the head as he stood up to swing his knocker at them. He fell forward on his face and lay still.

We shortened the line as each squad peeled back into the choppers. As the heavy weapons crew collapsed their tripods and ran into the last chopper, we followed them in. I counted off the whole team, getting a thumbs-up from each, then boarded myself. The last squad practically fell onto the ramp, getting a hand up from the guys already aboard.

As we lifted, zombies rushed the helos and the crew chief opened up with his minigun. A hundred rounds a second, and only a few fell to head shots. More fell from limbs being torn off.

We flew out over river. Across from me, a young kid stood up and staggered over to me.

“I HOPE IT WAS WORTH IT, YOU MOTHERFUCKER!” he yelled at me. I guess one of the guys who had died was a friend.

“I DON’T KNOW IF IT WAS OR NOT!” That took the wind out of him, and he sat back down, tears running down his face.

Truth was, I didn’t know.

Chapter 10

The mood in the Infantry was ugly when we got back. They helped us unload our supplies, but little was said. The company commander called me, the platoon sergeant and the platoon leader aside and asked what had happened. When we got to the part about the two soldiers who had been lost, he said nothing but his eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched.

“I’m sorry about that, Sir. I know you guys were supporting us.” It sounded contrite, but I wasn’t sure what else to say. This was a new company, most of them new privates straight out of basic training at Joint Base Lewis-McChord outside Seattle.

He nodded. “It’s OK, Nick. You and I have both been around this fight long enough to know that people are going to die. They’re dead because of their own mistakes and lack of training.” At that, he looked hard at the platoon leader, who flushed red.

“Can’t always stop a man from panicking, Captain. It happens. Most of these kids have never dealt with a zombie horde. Hell, some of them might not have even seen one outside the rifle range at Basic Training. Isn’t that why you sent them with us on this scrounging raid in the first place? Two men dead, but it might save a lot of lives later.”

He was silent for a minute, then he nodded his head toward me. “I’m going to make sure none of them has a problem with supporting your team in the future.”

“Thanks, appreciate it.”

He walked away and climbed on top of a pallet that was sitting by the LZ. He waited ‘til his guys had all stopped what they were doing and he had their attention.

“Listen up. We lost two soldiers today. Good guys. Dietrich and Coburn. They were friends of yours. They were your friends and my soldiers. I know you’re upset by what happened, but they are dead. Get that into your heads. This isn’t Call of Duty, and you don’t respawn. Soldiers die, and in this shitty war, some of you will die on almost every mission we go on. I hope not. I really, really do.” He paused for a second and took off his glasses, rubbing them on his T-shirt and then putting them back on.

“Just remember this about your buddies. They aren’t zombies, stumbling around in the dark with their souls trapped in a rotting body. Sergeant Agostine’s soldier did the right thing by shooting Coburn. If not, he would have been a danger to all of you if he had turned Z while inside the lines. He saved your lives. Don’t hold it against him, or the rest of his team. Your job is to go where you are told and kill what you see. You did that today, and I’m proud of you.” He paused for a minute to let that sink in, then he pointed back to me.

“Their job is to go alone, unsupported into infected territory, and get information so that more of you don’t die when we do assault into hostile territory. The information they bring back is worth more than its weight in gold. If they need our help, they will get it. What they do out there alone will save your lives.”

He jumped down and walked back toward the Command Post. I saluted him as he walked past. There are officers, and then there are leaders.

We spent the rest of the day packing everything onto two pallets. We had grabbed two of most things, because I had seen a chute failure often enough on cargo drops in Afghanistan, and if we lost one, I wanted back up. We would jump with as much ammo as we could carry and stack the pallets with them too.

At 1900 I headed over to the CP for a mission planning session. All the service reps were there, and a Lt. Commander was leading the briefing. He jumped right in.

“As you know, the Navy holds Portsmouth Naval Shipyard in Maine and Guantanamo Bay in Cuba as the only bases on this side of the Atlantic. Bermuda is still holding steady, but it’s 600 miles off the coast and doesn’t have the port facilities we need. We have a carrier strike group based out of Portsmouth, but we need a deep water port that can hold the whole fleet if necessary.” He used a laser pointer to illustrate each of the places he was talking about on a large map of the east coast.

“Naval Intelligence wants reconnaissance of each of the large ports on the East Coast. Yesterday we lost contact with a scout team in Philadelphia, presumed overrun. We also have teams set to go into Jacksonville, Florida, and Baltimore, Maryland tonight and tomorrow, respectively. ”

I interrupted him. “Sir, do you know what team that was? Who was in charge?”

“Let me check my notes. Um, JSOC IST 3. Doesn’t give any names.”

“Ok, thanks.” The Zombie Killers were Joint Special Operations Command Irregular Scout Team 1. I knew who led Team 3; in fact I knew all the guys on it. Correction, I had known all the guys on it.

He continued on. “We need your team to go check out the New York Container Terminal on Staten Island. The usual drill.” He tacked up a black and white photograph of the terminal, a wide open area with cargo cranes and warehouses.

“I’ve been there before” I said. “Back in ’04, prior to going to Iraq, to familiarize ourselves with container operations. Nice wide open space. For a minute I thought you were going to drop us into Manhattan.”

“We thought about it, right up until Team 3 disappeared.”

“Nice. Why not insert from boats? Seems like it would be a lot easier.”

The Infantry company Supply Sergeant chimed in.

“Gas shortage, and a boat shortage. We’re having a real hard time getting gasoline for the patrol boats, and spare parts, too. Aviation fuel we have a shit ton of, courtesy of the Navy.”

I chewed that around for a bit. “OK, but how do we get out?”

“Well, if the facility looks useable, based on your report, you will be relieved by a reinforced Marine Rifle Company from the USS New York flying in on Ospreys. From there, the Navy will expand its presence in the city and you will be retasked.”

“What if the place is unusable?”

“Then the same Ospreys will pick you up and take you back here to FOB Castle.”

“How long can we expect to be on the ground before pickup?”

He turned to the Marine sitting in the front row. He leaned back and said “Just give us a call, and we’ll come get you.”

“Right, and the check is in the mail. You better.”

Chapter 11

I hated flying. I didn’t mind helos, but a plane? No fraking way. Just ordinary flying turned me white with fear. Tonight we were bucking violent winds, the tail end of a storm front that had blown through.

The C-130 lurched in another downdraft. Beside me, Brit threw up her hands in the air and screamed at the top of her lungs, “YEEEEHHHHHAAAAAA! We’re on a goddamn roller coaster from Hell, Nick!”

I bent forward and stared at the floor in front of me, trying to ignore her, whispering a prayer for safety as we lurched through the sky. Across from me, Ahmed slept. Doc was reading a medical textbook. Redshirt looked out the window as we flew down the Hudson River Valley from Albany.

I took a minute to study the three new people on our team. Corporal Killeen and Specialist Desen were two regular Army infantry soldiers whom I had picked out to accompany us, out of the half dozen volunteers we had gotten. Killeen was the big redneck sniper who had been shooting with Ahmed on the boat when the airborne trooper was killed. Desen was his spotter. The two went everywhere together, and with the wide open spaces of the cargo terminal, I wanted some longer range hitting power. He carried an M14EBR-R, a modified M-14 rifle that fired the heavier 7.62 round and had better range and hitting power than our M4A2s (the M4s firing .22 magnum rounds). I had watched him shoot on the barge, and he was good. The only thing I wanted to know was where he was able to find dip. I knew guys who would kill for it, and here he was, spitting in between the seats when the C-130 crew wasn’t watching. His partner, Desen, was one of those small, wiry guys who looked like he never ate anything and could run your ass into the ground. He chain smoked on base, but I knew a guy like that could make himself so unseen a whole zombie horde could walk right past him.

Directly next to them sat our newest civilian Zombie Killer. He had shown up on the island at dusk the day before, paddling a canoe from the far shore of the river. Sascha Zivkovic, or “Ziv,” so he called himself, said he was looking to kill Zs. He claimed he had been surviving up in the Hudson highlands and had heard the gunfire and come down to investigate. He looked like a tough character, and had readily agreed to come with us to the city when I explained what we about.

“We’re going to be jumping into the City. What experience do you have with airborne operations?”

I already knew he was tough if he had been surviving this close to the hordes in the city, but I didn’t want someone with no jump experience getting hurt on a static line drop. In answer, he rolled up his sleeve to reveal a tattoo of a parachute with the number 63 on it. Over it were several Cyrillic letters, and over that, an old scar I recognizes as a crudely sewn-up bullet puncture.

“Serbian Army. 63rd Parachute Battalion. Bosnians, Croats, Zombies, all the same.” he said in a thick eastern European accent.

“OK then, I guess you’re qualified. Ever jump with a T-11 chute?”

“Six hundred and fifty two times. Eleven times into combat in war.”

Jeez, where the hell did we find these guys? I guess it figured though, war veterans survived where others didn’t. We knew the world could go to shit any time, and half expected it.

I introduced him to the team, and shook their hands in a reserved, standoff manner. When he got to Brit, he stared at her for a minute, left her hand hanging, then turned to me.

“You have woman on your team?”

“Yes we do. She is third in command, after myself and Doc.” Out of the corner of my eye I could see Brit starting to get angry. Not a good way to start off, brother.

“She is soldier? Maybe lesbian. They make good fighters. Very angry.” He eyed her up and down, and she glared back at him.

“I’ll cut your effing balls off! Lesbian, my ass. Nick, dump him. We don’t need him.”

“Ha, she has spirit. I like that in woman.” He grinned at her, showing bad European dental work.

Problem was, we did need him. I tried to smooth things over before one of them knifed the other.

“Yes, Brit is a damn good soldier and I have every confidence in her. She has saved me more times than I can count. Is it going to be a problem?”

He spoke after a moment. “No, no problem. This is America, I forget sometimes, you are not old country.” After that he had said little, just pitched in and helped organize the pallets for loading on the C-130.

Now he sat across from me, eyes closed, ignoring the bumping ride of the plane. I hoped he would be an asset to the team. We could use a good fighter to replace Jonesy, but the attitude toward Brit might be a problem. That and he might be full of shit about his combat experience, but I didn’t think so.

The ride smoothed out as we approached the city, passing through the tail end of the front. The crew chief came back to lower the ramp prior to the pallet drop, and gave me a “six minutes” sign. We stood up, a tough thing to do with chute and equipment, and staged ourselves at the jump door on the side of the plane, doing the usual pre-jump checks. I was jump master, so I went out last, making sure everyone had a good exit. If anyone held up at the door, I wanted to be able to kick them in the ass. Being last out, I could also watch how the others landed. We were jumping onto a park about 500 meters east of the container facility. Jumping onto hard concrete was a good way to get a broken leg. The team used static lines instead of jumping off the back ramp because Brit and Ahmed had only gone through a rushed, one week airborne qualification jumping from helicopters up at Fort Orange. Good enough to get them out the door and onto the ground without breaking their necks, but that was about it.

The pallets went out first, off the back ramp. They would drop directly onto the port grounds, showing an IR beacon so we didn’t have to haul them from the Drop Zone. A slow turn back out over lower New York Harbor and the pilot lined up on our DZ.

Over the rush of air from the slipstream and the droning engines, the Crew Chief yelled to me “THIRTY SECONDS!” I felt that icy knot build up in my stomach, happened no matter how many times I had done this before, and then the light turned green.

Chapter 12

One thing I loved about the Zombie Apocalypse, and I won’t deny it, was how dark it got at night. With very few places using electricity, you could see the stars burning in the night sky. They distracted me for a moment as I looked up to check my canopy. Then I looked down and counted chutes. We were dropping from 500 feet above ground level, and that ground came up awfully fast.

One, two, three… I reached six. Dammit! Below me in the moonlight I saw a body plummeting towards earth, spread eagle, his chute a tangled mess. His reserve chute came out, but he still hit hard, with a sickening crunch I could hear from several hundred feet away.

As soon as I was on the ground and had gathered up my chute, I jogged over to where the figure still lay prone. Doc was already bent over him, giving him a quick once over. Around me, the team gathered in a circle, pulling 360 degree security.

“It’s Desen. Compound fracture of the right leg.” grunted Doc as he worked to cut off Desen’s pant leg. He untied his boot, then put on a rough splint. “We’re going to have to carry him.”

He lay there groaning as Doc shot him up with some morphine. “Don’t worry about it, trooper. You just sit tight and we’ll get you out of here once we’re done with the scout.”

Ziv came over and looked down at Desen, then turned to me.

“If he compromises us, we kill him, yes?”

In the darkness, I doubt he could see my expression, but I’m sure he could tell from the tone of my voice how pissed I was.

“He’s my troop. I decide what happens to whom. Got it? Now get back to your position.”

“Sure, boss. Whatever you say.” He shuffled back to his position in the circle. What the hell? Yeah, sometimes we had to do things that you wouldn’t consider in the old world. But you don’t freaking talk about it right in front of the guy.

“OK. Ahmed and Killeen, you two carry him, the rest, split up his gear. Let’s go.” Way to start off a mission.

We set off towards the Northwest. In our NVG’s we could see the infrared strobe from the two pallets that had dropped down before us, directly onto the container yard. Brit led on point, stopping every few hundred meters to listen for any Zombie howls. The place was eerily silent, and I hoped it would stay that way. The day before, a US Navy destroyer, the USS Reuben James, had bombarded the other side of Staten Island for more than an hour with its 76mm main gun. Hopefully the noise had drawn off most of the Zs present. They were scheduled to provide Naval gunfire support if we needed it, but small caliber Naval guns didn’t have much effect on zombies. Rumor had it that the USS New Jersey, one of the old Iowa class battleships, was being refitted to fire 16 inch BB rounds. Last year we had scouted and raided the Watervliet Arsenal, with engineers stripping out all the machine tools and sending them back west. Meanwhile, we made do.

Brit made it to the gate at the container yard without encountering a single Z and we quickly cut a hole in the fence. Each of us slid through, dragging Desen on a collapsible stretcher.

“Brit, Ahmed, Red, you scout out the closest building. Clear it, and then report back to me. Killeen, Ziv, and I will go to the next closest. Doc, stay here with Desen, be ready to move to whichever we decide forts up best.”

Brit and her team took off running towards a building that looked like it was the operations center for the place. We passed them just as Ahmed fired into the door lock with a loud cough and they piled into the first room.

Our target building was a large garage. I didn’t expect much trouble there, but I wanted to keep an eye on Ziv and Killeen.

The first door we tried was open, and we cautiously stepped into the deeper darkness. Through my NGVs, I immediately saw the softly glowing heat shapes of two zombies stumbling towards us, attracted by the noise. I sighted down my rifle to shoot, and my optics were suddenly obscured by the bright heat source of a warm, live body. I felt, more than heard, one of my team members run past me.

I dropped my rifle barrel down to the floor and watched as Ziv rushed them and swung left, then right, knocking them both across their skulls with a three pound hammer. He spit on them and muttered something, then came stalking back to us.

Ignoring Ziv, Killeen and I continued to sweep the rest of the building, coming up empty.

“Outside, let’s go.” I kept my voice tight, but I was furious.

In my ear, Brit’s voice crackled over the radio. “Building clear. Three Zulus down. Looks like a good place to fort up, over.”

“Roger, be there in two mikes, over.”

“Roger, out.”

We stepped outside and I stopped Ziv.

“Ziv, hang on a second.”

He stood silently. Killeen kept walking, not wanting to be part of the conversation he knew was coming.

“Let’s get something straight. We aren’t glory hounds. We’re not here to kill every zombie on earth. We’re here to scout. That means doing the job quick and at the least risk to ourselves. I know you have been living on your own, surviving for years now, but we are a team. Do you understand?”

“Are you coward, Nick?”

Was this guy shitting me? Coward? I took a deep breath.

“No, Ziv, I’m not a coward. No one on this team is, but we have one job to do, and I want every one of us to come back alive. That means you work as part of a team, or I leave your ass here on Staten Island. Do you understand me?”

He snorted, then sighed. “Yes, I understand. You Americans, such technology whores, so weak. But I will do as you say.”

“Good. You’re a good fighter. We can use you, but go off on your own again, and I’ll put a bullet in you. True story.”

“It’s been done before, and I am still here.”

“Me too, Ziv. Listen, we need you, and the time for lone wolf is over. This conversation is done.” I turned my back and left him standing there.

I keyed the mike to raise Brit. “Brit, take Red, get over to the pallets, get the supplies, see if you can get some transport running.”

“Roger that.”

“Ahmed, you and Killeen have overwatch. Ziv and I will be there in a minute to start forting up. Tell Doc to keep an eye on Desen.”

I headed over towards the office building, not looking back to see if Ziv was following. In the East, the sky was starting to lighten.

Chapter 13

Sunrise brought a wind, like it always did. The air was full of pollen, and Brit started sneezing as she pulled up in a pickup truck, the back filled with supplies from the two pallets. We had included spare car batteries, a foot pump, Fix-A-Flat, gasoline, everything needed to get two or three vehicles running. She had found a fairly new Ford F-300 pickup with a winch on front. She knew what to look for.

We quickly unloaded and started forting up the building. It was two stories, and we started by boarding up the windows with plywood and two by fours. The generator, running quietly with a special muffler, had sandbags around it to further dampen the sound. Doc ran an air-powered nail gun, tacking up the plywood. The sound of hammers would carry too far in the summer air. Ahmed ran a steel escape cable from the roof out to the nearest building while Red and Ziv worked on demolishing the stairway up to the second floor.

On the roof, Killen sat in overwatch with Brit on the spotting scope, watching for Zs that might come stumbling into the yard. Occasionally a muted pop came from the end of Killeen’s rifle, and I could hear Brit calling out spottings. She leaned over and called down to me “Hey Nick, this guy really can handle a rifle. I think I might like him to show me how he handles his gun.” I gave her a salute and she started sucking on her finger. Grrrrrrrr.

We took a break at 1200 and sat down to figure out our next step. Our mission was to see what shape the container yard was in. From first look, it was a wreck. Next to some of the cranes, I could see the bow of a half-sunken freighter rising over the edge of the docking area. That we already knew about from satellite recon, and it was the Navy’s problem. Our interest was in the cranes themselves and the loading bays for the trucks. We had been tasked with getting a complete rundown on how workable they were, and I expected it to take about two full days. If we had the time.

I expected the undead would start showing up tonight, so we had to hustle.

“OK, we have two things to accomplish. Desen is stable, and he can shoot. He stays here. Killeen, he’s your teammate, you keep an eye on him. Ahmed stays here, so the two of you can provide rotating overwatch. Red is staying also.” He was currently up on the roof, keeping an eye out. “Start into shifts, Red and Ahmed, Killeen and Desen.”

Doc spoke up. “I’m not sure Desen is up for it. I think he might have a broken rib, but I can’t be sure without an x-ray.”

“I’m alright. I can fight.” said Desen, then started coughing. “Ow. Fuck, that hurts. Someone gimme a smoke.” Brit handed him a cigarette and he drew it down to the filter, then lay back and passed out.

“Like I said, Desen is out of it.”

“OK, then. Can you three handle providing overwatch on the gate area and cover us as we scout?”

Ahmed nodded. “We can do that.”

I turned to Brit and Ziv. “You two will be coming with me. First things first, the cranes. I’m not sure how we can tell if they’re working without any power, but we can inspect the cables and machinery. Ziv, do you have any engineering experience?” I wanted to bring him into the team. His loner attitude bothered me, and the more useful I could make him, the better.

“In parachute regiment, we learn how to build things so we can blow them up. Mostly bridges, some buildings. Machinery, no.”

“OK, well, if you see anything out of place, anything, let one of us know.” I turned to Brit.

“Camera, pictures of EVERYTHING.”

“You betcha, Chiefarooney.”

Ziv barked out a laugh, short and harsh. Brit shot me a “sorry” look.

“OK, check your ammo, make sure you have water, any extras you want to bring. SP is in fifteen mikes. Poop or piss or smoke, whatever you gotta do. Remember, we won’t be more than 500 meters from the fort. Stay away from the edge of the docks, I’m not jumping in after anyone. Again.”

Chapter 14

Doc jumped up and said “1200 BBC news!”

Ahmed spoke up. “Can we get it on the SINCGARS down here?”

“No, we would have to use the Harris radio if they were broadcasting on those freqs, but they aren’t. Brother this comes courtesy of the US Navy, broadcasting on the AM radio. Just started last week, up and down the east coast. Lady and gentlemen, AM 890, WUSN!”

He walked over to the pickup truck and turned on the radio. We gathered around just as he tuned it in.

“…the BBC News. The Allied Expeditionary Force launched its first area-clearing drive. British, Free French, and Spanish Exile army units started moving forward from Gibraltar into Southern Spain. Latest reports have them driving ten miles and establishing a defensive line. General Sir Richard Trask, Allied Forces Commander, said casualties had been light, and were on timeline to be in Madrid by September.

A Russian nuclear submarine surfaced outside US territorial limits in Hawaii on Tuesday, requesting asylum. This is the third Russian Navy unit to sail to the United States after the fall of Vladivostok two months ago. The Russian government in exile has issued a general order for national military units to turn themselves into the nearest Allied military base.

In Asia, United States surveillance satellites detected three nuclear detonations in the Himalayan Mountain region of southwestern China. All communication with official Chinese government sources have ceased since these detonations.”

I watched Ziv’s face as we listened to the broadcast. His normal expressionless mask was turning into a deep scowl.

“…merican Airborne troops have launched directly from securing the Mexican oil fields to an Airborne assault to secure the locks of the Panama Canal Zone. The 82nd Airborne Division, supplemented by elements of the 3rd Canadian Light Infantry Division landing by ship, are fighting their way through Panama City. Casualties are reported to be heavy.

Other American forces are reported to be making progress in an effort to approach New York City, reaching the Military Academy at West Point. A rail line has been reopened between Albany and Buffalo.”

Brit jumped up and waved her arm in the air. “Hey, that’s us!!!! Woot woot, Zombie Killers in the house!”

We all grinned at her antics, then Doc shushed us. “Shut it, you foolish woman!” he snapped as Brit continued doing a war dance around the truck.

“…nited Nations Agricultural Bureau has forecast another year of food shortages, despite intensive planting in the Pacific Northwest of North America and the United Kingdom. UN estimates have placed the total world population at five hundred million, worldwide.This has been the World News from the BBC.”

Ziv had walked away before the news ended and sat at the doorway. I walked over and sat down next to him.

“Guess you haven’t had much news over the last few years, huh?”

He sat smoking a cigarette, then taking a swig from a flask. Ordinarily I would have said something about the alcohol, but not right now.

“It is all gone, no?”

“Europe? Yeah, pretty much. England is OK, they took in a lot of refugees in. There were some pretty bad riots a year or so in, but they have it under control now. Some of the Scandinavian islands, parts of Denmark. Africa, is, well, Africa.”

“Serbia?”

“No one has heard anything out of Central Europe in two years. Did you have a lot of family there?”

He nodded. “We Serbs have big families.”

Standing up, he ground the cigarette out and capped the flask, then started checking his weapons.

“Well, at least all those bastard Croats and devil Bosnian pagans are burning in hell now. I always thought I would go back and we would finish the job, but God has beaten me to it.”

I had nothing to say to that. As far as I could recollect, the Serbs had as much blood on their hands as any of them, if not more. Whatever. That feud was ended, after a thousand years. Death and the Zombie Plague treated everyone as equals.

Chapter 15

In the end, the container yard was a bust. Not a Z to be seen, and our main objective, the cranes that lifted the containers from the ships to the trucks, sat mute. From everything we could tell, they seemed in good condition, but I couldn’t answer the Navy’s main question of whether they worked or not. I had brought up that specific point when we were getting our mission brief, but I was told to just do my best. Of course, when I reported this, they blew their stack.

“Swabbie six niner, this is Lostboys six, over.”

“Lostboys, use proper callsigns, over.”

I ran my finger down the Signal Operating Instructions that I had taped to my forearm.

“Ah, Rapier seven two, this is Lostboys six, over.”

“This is Rapier six, you are sending unsecure, please authenticate, over.”

Great, the frigging admiral in charge of the Navy Task Force was sitting off New York Harbor, and he wanted me to send different word codes to make sure I was really me. Who the hell else would be calling him? Plus, he was a jerk anyway, which I knew from personal experience.

“Rapier six, I authenticate your daughter has a birthmark on her right breast, just below her nipple, over.”

Brit shot me a dirty look. I grinned at her. “Hey, you weren’t the only one to have a good time in Bermuda last year.”

The radio stayed silent for a minute, then the fleet executive officer came on. “Roger, Lost Boys, this is Rapier five, I also can confirm. Send your traffic, over.” Ha ha, that would be Captain Reynolds. Fighter pilot, good guy, and man, could he drink.

I gave them the quick lowdown on the terminal. The loading docks were all secure, buildings looked good, but we were unable to determine if the cranes worked without power, as we had said in our initial briefing.

“Lost Boys, this is Rapier Six. What do you mean you can’t determine if they work, over?” He sounded pissed.

“I mean without a massive generator to tie into the power infrastructure, there is no way to determine. They look functional, over.”

Captain Reynolds came back online.

“Lost Boys, what is your tactical situation, over?”

“Rapier, we are secure at this time. When can we expect exfill, over?”

“Twenty- four to thirty-six hours, unless your situation deteriorates. QRF is tied up in Philadelphia, over.”

Great. Would have been nice if they could have come and get us right away.

“This is Lost Boys, twenty- four to thirty-six, out.”

I gathered the team around. Killeen was up on the roof, pulling overwatch.

“Well, here’s the deal. The Marines can’t get here for a day, day and half. If we sit tight, nice and quiet, there shouldn’t be much of a problem. Nearest residential area is more than half mile away and I think our sniper teams have already cleared out the local Zulus.”

“A lot less than usual.” observed Ahmed. “Something doesn’t seem right. This was a heavily populated area. The number of wanderers alone should be in the hundreds.”

Doc chimed in. “I remember the evacuation out of the City didn’t cover Staten Island, since the Goethals Bridge had become jam-packed with crashed vehicles on day one of the plague. Place was a madhouse. Boats running out, gunfights, riots. Army just basically wrote it off after day three.”

“Well, regardless, it seems quiet here. We’ve hunted the whole compound out, killed maybe another six Zulus outside the gate. Doc, how is Desen doing?”

“Seems OK so far, but he needs proper medical attention. I’ve splinted the leg and given him antibiotics and painkillers, but the longer he doesn’t get it set properly, the bigger the chance of infection and improper healing.”

“Keep an eye on him. Position improvement, overwatch from the roof. Soon as it’s dark, sleep rotation. I’ve got a weird feeling, but hopefully by this time tomorrow we’ll be turning this place over to the jarheads.”

Killeens’ voice crackled over the radio. “Sarge, we got movement, human heat sources, vehicle noises and engine heat. Two vehicles, no, three. Stopped about three hundred meters back. Looks like scouts moving up either side of the street. I count two scouts and eleven in the main body. One vehicle mounted weapon.” I could barely understand him between the southern drawl and the dip in his mouth.

“I copy, be there in a second.”

Everyone had heard the transmission and started scrambling to fighting positions inside the building. I headed up to the roof, followed by Ahmed. Along the way, I told Red to be ready to go out and do a meet and greet, bring Ziv as a body guard. We had done this before, encountered survivors, and it could go three ways. One, they welcomed us with open arms and wanted our help. Two, they were indifferent and went their own way. Three, well, three was to be avoided at all costs.

Chapter 16

At my signal, Doc launched a flare from his 203. It burst into light directly over the main body of intruders, and they immediately went to ground behind wrecked cars. It slowly drifted down and burned out as it lay on the pavement.

When it was out, Redshirt crept forward, followed by Ziv. Now the hard part. They knew we were here, next move was up to them. We waited a few minutes, but they did nothing.

Red stood up and yelled out “UNITED STATES ARMY!” at the top of his lungs. The response was a shot from one of the scouts. Red grabbed his chest just as Ziv tackled him, and they both fell to the ground as the machine gun on the vehicle opened up, along with scattered rifle shots.

Rounds started skipping across the pavement where they had fallen, and Ziv picked Red up in a fireman’s carry, dashing back to the cover of some cars. Killeen and Ahmed started firing, trying to take out the machine gunner. The vehicle accelerated forward, and the front of the building was shattered by dozens of rounds.

Doc placed a high explosive round directly onto the cab of the truck, and it exploded with a muted crump. Flames burst out of the engine compartment, and the truck swerved, crashed through a storefront.

Shots started coming at us on the roof, aimed at the muzzle flashes of the sniper rifles. Dust flew from the wall in front of us as several zipped past, making flat, cracking noises. I fired back a long burst, hitting one of the scouts who had risen to fire at Ziv. Beside me, Killeen grunted and fell back.

“Nick, they are pulling back!” yelled Ahmed. We fired a few more shots at them, but I could see them running down the street, leaving a half dozen bodies and the burning pickup truck. I called for a cease fire over the radio. No need to waste ammo and there was going to be a shitload of zombies attracted to the noise of that firefight.

“Check on Killeen!” I yelled as I raced down the stairs, then scrambled down the ladder to the first floor.

I waved at Brit to follow and told to Doc to go check out Killeen. We headed out the door toward where Ziv was carrying Red back to the building and helped put him down on the ground.

Brit ripped open his body armor and started feeling for blood. “Ow, dammit, that hurts,” grunted Red. She shone a flashlight onto his chest where a big purple bruise was spreading. A red mark showed where the ceramic front plate had been driven into his skin.

Brit kissed him on the cheek and yelled in his ear “Suck it up, you puss!”

“Ziv, Brit, get him inside.” I started to run back, but Docs’ voice came over the radio.

“Nick, Killeen is dead.”

Chapter 17

“Roger, understood. You want us to reconnoiter the approaches to the Verrazano Bridge, see if it is serviceable, Lost Boys out.”

“Well now, ain’t that just a bullshit mission.” Brit said through a mouthful of #12 MRE, Penne pasta with vegetarian sauce.

Ziv stared at her. “How can you eat that crap? It tastes like cardboard.”

“You should see what it tastes like when I poop it out. Same consistency, too.”

“Maybe someday I will.”

“Over my dead body, Troll.” He did kind of resemble one as he sat there grinning with his bad European dental work and massive shoulders.

Doc laughed. “I think you’ve met your match, Brit.” Then he noticed the black bag with Killeens’ body in it. He sat for a moment watching Red digging a grave for him over by the fence, then got up to go back inside and check on the two unknown intruders whom we had found still breathing. One was barely alive and the other was babbling in a fever. We had no medicines for them. Or, more like none I wanted to spare for them.

“Obviously we aren’t going to walk there. It’s a few miles. We can take Highway 278 across the island, but I’m afraid that even if we can get there, getting back again will be a problem. We’ve got the gangbangers to worry about, and whatever Zulus get stirred up and traffic jams.”

We had patrolled down the road about a quarter mile, checking out the buildings and looking for any hidden observers left behind by the intruders last night. The road got progressively more jammed as you got out to the highway, and I was sure the eastern ramps to the Goethel’s Bridge over to Jersey would be a massive cluster.

“So, we have a mission from higher which can be done by us, take a day or so, and likely get the team wiped out. Plus we will have to leave two people behind with Desen. Doc and Red, probably, so that leaves me, Brit, and Ziv to recon through 12 klicks of one of the most densely populated areas of the country.”

“We’re good, but we ain’t that good, Nick.” said Brit. “Ever read Band of Brothers? What Major Winters did when they wanted him to send out a useless patrol?”

Ziv grunted, and said “Yes, he told his higher that he had done mission, but not send patrol. We often do this in Serbian war when commanders are stupid.”

“Wow, he can read, too!”

Ziv laughed at her. “I am from foreign country, not stupid, Little Girl.”

“Great, now you two kiss.” I held up my hand to Ziv as he looked at me with a shocked expression and said, “But she is your woman!” Brit made a gagging sound.

“It’s just an expression. It means ‘let’s get on with what we were doing.’”

“You Americans with your slang.”

As far as Mid-Atlantic Command knew, we rolled out bright and early the next morning, made it as far as the interchange for I-278 and US 440, and had to turn back due to blocked roads. We actually used the time to clean our weapons and get some sleep. The last of the unknown shooters died just as the first Marine Osprey came thundering in and a squad rushed out the back.

Doc packed up his aid bag and stripped off his gloves. Before he had slipped into unconsciousness, the man had bragged about being a Crip, how they ruled the island, motherfuckers were going to pay, yadda, yadda.

I had seen it before. Gangs were often the only organized, well-enough armed and ruthless enough group to cope with the zombie outbreaks in an urban environment. They took what they needed to survive, from whoever had it. They often kept slaves and we had been seeing more and more of them turn cannibal as food got scarce. We negotiated with them when they were stronger than us, until we came back with more firepower. Sometimes they actually welcomed us.

Either way, it was the Marines’ problem now. I met their company commander as he walked across the container yard.

“Nick, I relieve you!”

“I stand relieved, Bob.” Another one of my buddies from our vacation in Bermuda.

“Looks like you had some trouble. Sorry we couldn’t get here sooner, Team Four was getting hammered in Philly.”

“We handled it. Local gang bangers running the show here on the Island. Looks like they had done a pretty good job of cleaning out the zombie problem, but I bet they will come back here with more firepower than that probe last night.”

“We can handle it. I’ve got a reinforced Rifle Company. We are going to hunt this place clean over the next month, zombies and scumbags alike.”

“Yeah, well there might be some regular civilians holding out, too. Seen it all before.”

“Agreed. Heard you lost a man. Sorry about that.”

I nodded, and then we both turned towards the dock area. A beautiful sight waited for us. A giant Roll On /Roll Off cargo ship was pulling up to the pier, pushed by a tug. Beyond it stood the knife-edge silhouette of the Reuben James.

“My company is going to hunt Staten Island. That ship contains the entire vehicle compliment of the 1st Brigade, 1st Armored Division. They are going to roll hot right over the Verrazano Bridge and shoot the shit out of Brooklyn, all the way to Floyd Bennet Field. Rangers will be dropping in next week to secure the airport, and the Old Ironsides tanks and Brads are going to roll up the Belt Parkway. Welcome to Forward Operating Base Killeen, Nick!”

I wanted to cry. I really did. My mind flashed back to the zombie hordes overrunning our position in the weeks of the plague, the madness of trying to survive alone those first months. I watched at the Marines set up a temporary flag pole and saluted as Old Glory was run up.

Brit came up to me as I stood there, watching them lower the ramp off the ship.

“Nick, check it out! New orders. WE’RE GOING BACK TO CIVILIZATION! HOORRRAAYYY!” She started dancing around me, chanting, “Clean sheets, bathtubs, clean sheets, bath tubs!” as I read the iPhone she handed me.

FROM: CDR@TFEMPIRE.MIDATLCOM.MIL

TO: LOSTBOYS6@ TFEMPIRE.MIDATLCOM.MIL

CC: LOSTBOYS5@ TFEMPIRE.MIDATLCOM.MIL; S3@ TFEMPIRE.MIDATLCOM.MIL; J3@JSOC,MIL; JFOPS@NAVY.MIDATLCOM.MIL

SUBJ: TDY of JSOC-IRST1

Nick, you and your team are being assigned temporary duty at Joint Forces Base Lewis-McChord as train-the-trainer instructors for Basic Training Cadre. Expect to be out of the field for 2 to 4 weeks. Bring your whole team, including attached elements. You can also be expected to be debriefed by the people at the Center for Army Lessons Learned.

Orders will be waiting for you at Fort Orange in Albany, then C-17 back to SeaTac. Try not to burn down the entire city of Seattle.

Major John Flynn

Acting Commander

Task Force Empire Shield

PART II

Chapter 18

The interior of the C-17 Globemaster was packed to the limit, filled with reclaimed electronics, car parts, gold bars, all the loot of the modern world to keep the light of civilization burning. Reclamation teams followed the path of the Army, disassembling cars, recovering precious metals, siphoning gasoline. It was shipped to depots and sorted. The jewelry was melted down into ingots for easy transport, the gasoline and oil fed into fuel blivets.

We sat on either side, our gear piled at our feet. Taking off, the pilot had performed a sharp, twisting climb to avoid random potshots, leaving my stomach somewhere behind. I tried to sleep, but I was drawn to the small window as we chased the setting sun.

Below me, the flat plains of the Midwest stretched out. The great rivers, the Ohio, the Mississippi, the Missouri had all broken their banks and flooded great stretches of the countryside. Here and there in the darkness below gleamed one or two spreads of lights, fortress towns that somehow survived. Ship lights gleamed on the Great Lakes, moving to Buffalo from the railheads in Green Bay, carrying supplies and troops to New York. I remembered how it all looked, the great spread of lights where Chicago, Detroit, St. Louis had all been. Now they lay faintly shimmering in the moonlight, reflections of the billion shards of broken glass that lay like sand on the beach.

We approached the Columbia Federal District, once known as Washington State, with the bulk of Mount Rainier shouldering its way above the clouds, and touched down in the light rain that always seemed to hang in the air. The pilot’s voice came over the intercom. “Welcome to SeaTac airport. There is a shuttle bus to JBLM at the USO desk. Please go through customs and declare all weapons. Thanks for flying Zombie Air!” Very frigging funny.

I lifted my Alice pack onto my back, picked up my duffle, followed the rest of the guys down the ramp and into the closest building, where an Airman stood with a clipboard. He took a copy of each of our orders and ran our CAC cards through a reader.

“I see you guys are coming from the Wild Wild East. When was the last time any of you were here?”

“Doc and Jonesy, I mean, Doc and I were here last year. I’m pretty sure SPC Redshirt was here pretty recently.”

“I was just here for Basic Training, never saw anything outside the base,” said Redshirt.

“OK, well, then you have to understand some things have changed. You are going to have to wait two days in quarantine and all personal weapons have to be left here to be reclaimed when you fly back out.”

“What the hell? Since when?” I went everywhere armed. We all did.

“Well, bad riots last year in response to the government-forced resettlement plan. Under the federal emergency mandate, personal firearms and weapons are not allowed in the Columbia Federal District unless you are part of a law enforcement agency. In addition, all personnel arriving from areas not under federal control must remain in quarantine for prevention of spreading reanimation virus.”

He sounded like he was reading from a bad movie script and looked bored as hell. We were tired and suffering from jet lag so none of us argued with him about it. Just grumbled and bitched as we started pulling guns, knives, grenades and various bludgeons from holsters and pockets. The more stuff we dropped in the amnesty box, the bigger his eyes got. When we finally finished, the box was filled to the top.

“You know,” one of the two Military Policemen standing there said, looking at all the hardware we carried, “you all think you’re so badass rolling in here with all this. How freaking bad can it be out there? I think you’re all so full of shit it isn’t even funny.”

I ignored them and kept dealing with the Air Force sergeant. He was about to lock the box and hand me the key and a hand receipt listing all the items when I heard a commotion behind me.

“Oh shit, she’s turning!” yelled Doc, and he swung Brit, who twitched and spasmed, screeching and howling at the top of her lungs, toward the MPs, who reacted like a grenade had been thrown at them. Brit sank her teeth into the hand of the one who had called us full of shit, and he screamed like a little girl. His partner fumbled to load his pistol while the Air Force sergeant dove under the table, dropping his clipboard.

The scene was absolute chaos for a second, until Brit abruptly stood up and started laughing.

“Who’s full of shit now, you pogues?”

“You freaking bit me!!”

“Didn’t even break the skin. Wimp.”

Ziv had stepped in front of the other MP, who had finally managed to load a magazine in his pistol but hadn’t racked the slide. He stared him down, then sidled past and out the door. Brit passed them, laughing, and the rest of us filed out.

Outside, Doc passed us each one of the weapons he had grabbed out of the lock box in the confusion. I took my .22 automatic and slipped into my coat pocket, feeling a lot better, and we boarded the shuttle bus to Joint Base Lewis-McChord.

Chapter 19

Brit put Game of Thrones back in the DVD player and hit play, then started chowing down on popcorn again.

“How many times are you going to watch this?” Red, Doc, Ziv and I were playing spades, and Doc and I were losing, badly.

“As many times as it takes. Gotta see my girl burn shit up with her dragons. Plus I got the hots for Captain Tightpants.”

I threw a spade down on diamonds, but Red cut me with the Big Joker. That kid had all the luck, and he put it to good use.

“Play again? Make it a thousand.”

Doc threw his cards down. “No, I’m tired. Gonna hit the rack.”

“I’m going to head over to the front desk, see if we can get out of here any sooner.”

We had been in quarantine for more than a day now, and it was getting boring. I could see Mount Rainier in the west, and I knew that Seattle, with all its civilization, was only an hour away. After being out in the wilds for two years, we all wanted to get to it.

The Specialist at the desk was playing Call of Duty and ignored me for a minute. I stood patiently until his match ended.

“SPC Esposito,” I read off his name tag, “how the hell do we get out of this place early?”

“You really want to get out of here early?”

“Sure do. You know none of us has the plague. We’ve been out in the wild for two years, and I want a fraking steak.”

“Simple. Take me with you. I’m a clerk now, but I’ve got a tour in Iraq as an 11B and a tour in Afghanistan as an MP.”

I looked him over. A little heavy-set from sitting and playing Xbox all day, but a few months in the wild would take care of that. We could use another shooter, and anyone who wanted to go with us might be crazy enough to fit in.

“OK, when we head back to the Wild, if your command OKs it, you can join our merry little band.”

“Cool beans!” He turned to his laptop, printed out a release paper and signed it.

“There you go. Cleared of quarantine. Go over to North Fort and draw quarters, and you’re expected at Building 4387 at 0700 Monday morning for inbriefing. Have fun, and stay off the MP blotter.”

I banged open the door to the Quarantine Block. “PACK IT UP! TIME TO ROLL! E.R. Rogers, here we come!”

Steak. I wanted some serious steak, and the best place to get it was in Steilacom. I had drawn a GSA van and we piled in. I called ahead and made a reservation for five. Ahmed went his own way, wanting to go to a mosque for Friday prayers.

The steakhouse was in a large, converted Victorian-era house. We made our way upstairs, Red peeled off to hit the bar and we headed to our table. “Stay away from the real firewater, Red!” I called after him.

“Well, look who came in out of the rain! How nice to see you, Sergeant Agostine, Sergeant Hamilton, Ms. O’Neill. And who is this gentleman?”

I stopped short. Dr. Morano sat at a table by the window, laptop in front of her. Her two bodyguards sat at another table a few feet away.

“Where is that young lady, Specialist Mya? Ohhhhh, that’s right, I read the report. Such a tragedy.” The smile on her face didn’t reach her eyes.

I wasn’t fast enough. I shot out my arm to grab Brit, but she launched herself at Dr. Morano, catching her in a headlock and trying to bang her head into the table. The two fell to the floor, and the bodyguards’ table crashed over as they leapt up and drew their pistols. Ziv punched one in the back of the head with a set of brass knuckles that he had hid form the airport security guys. The other pressed his pistol against Brit’s head. Doc and I had out guns out and pointed at him.

“TELL YOUR BITCH TO STAND DOWN!” yelled the bodyguard.

“DROP THE FUCKING GUN!” I yelled back at him.

Brit held dead still. She could feel the barrel of the pistol pressed against the nape of her neck. Beneath her, Dr. Morano spoke through smashed lips.

“Johanson, put it away.”

He stood and holstered the pistol. Brit started to get up, then banged the doctor’s head off the floor. The bodyguard started, and Brit stood up and put her hands up in the air. “It’s OK, you trained dog. I’m done.” Then she hawked up some phlegm and spit on Dr. Morano’s steak.

“Did you have to spit on her steak? That might not have been the best idea.” We were driving north on I-5, having grabbed Redshirt from the bar and hightailed it out of there before the local cops showed up. maybe introduce that they were driving north first so it doesn’t seem like they started the discussion at the restaurant.

“Nick, I’ve done a lot of things that seemed like a good idea at the time. Spitting on her steak seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Yeah, but I think somehow we’re going to pay for that. I don’t think old Delta Force boy is happy with you punching him in the head, either.”

Ziv snorted. “Some men, they need to be punched. It keeps them, what is the word? Humble.”

Chapter 20

We were at a bar in downtown Seattle, far enough away from the bases so we weren’t surrounded by uniforms while we knocked back a few beers. Brit went over to the bar to get herself a drink and lay a trap. Far enough away that if someone interesting came her way she could talk to him, close enough to us if she needed mutual fire support or extraction under heavy fire.

She didn’t have long to wait. I could overhear the conversation but I pretended not to notice. A guy in uniform, badges piled high on his chest, sidled up the bar and leaned in. He looked about twenty years old but was wearing Sergeant Major rank. Zombie Airborne wings with a star, Air Assault, Pathfinder, Combat Infantry Badge with a star, Ranger, Sapper and Special Forces Tab over a an Airborne Zombie Combat Command patch. He had more stuff on his uniform than our whole team put together.

“Hey Good-Looking, is heaven missing an angel? Because I want to turn you in for the reward!”

Brit laughed. “You’re retarded.” He looked crestfallen, but waded in for another try.

“Hey, cut me a break, I just got in from the wild East Coast!” Doc choked on his beer and sprayed some out on the table. I shot him a look that said, shut it! This was going to be good.

Brit rolled with it, making her eyes open wide. “Really? Oh, my gosh! You were actually out in the Wild?” She rolled the neck of her beer between her breasts. His eyes never left the beer.

“Yeah, you might have seen us in the news, couple of weeks ago. Of course, our faces were blacked out, you know, Special Forces. We were the ones up at West Point. You know, that picture that was in ‘Merika Today.”

She leaned over and put a hand on his arm. “Oh, I bet that was some pretty bad stuff. Did you see some action?” She flipped her hair back over her shoulder.

“Hell yeah! There were zombies all over the frigging place! We got overrun. I was the last man on the chopper, held them off with the butt of my rifle. See this?” and he rolled up his sleeve to show a small scar on his forearm. “I got a Silver Star and three purple hearts for that action. Bad shit.”

“Ohhh, what unit did you say you were in?” she breathed out in a husky voice.

“Well, I’m not supposed to say, but you might have heard of us. I’m with the Irregular Scouts. We go where no one else will.”

By this point, we were all trying hard not to burst out laughing. Doc actually got up from the table with his hand over his mouth, and even Ziv had the ghost of a smile on his craggy face.

“Oh, that sounds dangerous! That’s the kind of man I’m looking for!”

His eyes lit up, and he leaned in further toward Brit. “Really?”

“Yeah, I got a thing for tough soldiers. Matter of fact, I wouldn’t mind showing you a thing or two! You know, support the troops and everything.” As Brit started to lift her shirt, the look on the guy’s face was pure amazement at his luck.

“Hell yeah!” he started to say, then cut it off when he saw the still livid scar across Brit’s abdomen.

“Yeah, I need a man who can take care of me. You know, when I come home tired and SHOT!”

His face had turned a bit green, and we all burst out laughing. “Whoops, I forgot about that! You see, I got SHOT. In NEW YORK. Before we went to WEST POINT.” She pulled her shirt down and pulled up the leg of her shorts.

“OMG, I totally forgot about this one! I got SHOT. In the LEG. When I was in NEW YORK. Before we went to WEST POINT!” We were all rolling on the floor, laughing our asses off. The guy turned and ran out of the bar as the whole place erupted in laughter.

I loved that woman.

Chapter 21

I stood in front of the auditorium, drinking coffee, trying to get the projector to work for our PowerPoint presentation. Doc sat at a desk, feet up on a chair, snoring loudly. We were both trying to get past our hangovers and get down to work.

Our job over the next few weeks was to pass along the lessons we had learned about fighting zombies to instructors at the Fort Lewis Basic Training unit. Since the plague, Fort Lewis had turned into a giant training ground and headquarters for the Army, and there were now thousands of troops being cycled through every month. Knowledge from the field was passed on through the Center For Army Lessons Learned. We were being used to give firsthand experience the instructors would pass on to the recruits.

They filed in, a group of captains, lieutenants, staff sergeants, sergeants and corporals. Most of them had combat patches on their right sleeves, only a few of them red Zombie Combat Command patch. It was considered “cooler” to wear a patch earned by fighting in Iraq or Afghanistan. Anyone could fight zombies. They all had a patch, though. The Army had learned, finally, that you don’t train your troops with inexperienced leaders.

We got past the standard introductions, all the wanker-measuring, all the street creds. Then, in answer to a question from one of the guys, I told them about our detachment.

“Well, you all know what a mess things are out there in the wild, and how hard it is to get trained replacements on a regular basis. Anyone left out in the wild is obviously a survivor, used to living in areas that are infested. So the Irregular Scout Teams are composed of Regular Army, Reservists and civilians.” From the back of the auditorium Brit let out a yell. “That’s me, sucking the taxpayer’s tit!” The guys (and not a few ladies) laughed.

“Keep the comments from the peanut gallery down, please.” I continued on.

“Currently there are six”

“FIVE!” yelled Brit.

“Yes, sorry, five Irregular Scout Teams. Our business is a bit hazardous. We have had a roughly, um, three hundred percent casualty rate over the last year.”

A Captain in the first row spoke up. “Three hundred percent? Is that a bit much?”

“Sir, we do a very dangerous job. We’re out there all alone, trying to avoid zombies and people who would just as soon shoot us as welcome us. Last two missions, we lost, um, let’s see…” I added them together in my head. Ski, Jacob, Jonesy, Mya, Killeen dead, Redshirt, Brit and Desen wounded. “We’ve had 5 KIA, and 3 WIA. For an eight man team, that’s 100% casualties. IST-4 was wiped out to a man last week in Philadelphia.”

I turned my attention to the rest of the crowd. “We’re here today and for the next couple of weeks to help you understand a little more about fighting zombies, using the information that teams such as ours can bring you, and help you pass the info along to your trainees. We’re all volunteers, so whether we live or die, we will get you the information you need to do your jobs.”

Redshirt started a PowerPoint briefing, and a collective groan arose from the crowd. “Shit, not PowerPoint!” said someone in the back row. I grinned an evil grin and said, “Next slide, please!”

A picture of multiple undead appeared on the screen and I launched into the spiel I had been working on all night.

“First off, we’re not here to talk about the “why” of the Zombie Apocalypse. It happened, and no one knows why. Nor are we any closer to figuring out what a zombie actually is. Our job is to kill them. Actually, your job is to kill them. Ours is to scout areas you may be going into so that you don’t get your asses handed to you.”

“The very first thing your troops need to remember is that you are smarter than a zombie. Well, some of you. We’ll leave the junior officers out of this for now.” That brought a laugh from the crowd.

“The reason most people die out in the wild is they don’t use their heads. If you just use some freaking common sense, you can live out there. My team members back there, the two civilians,” I said, indicating Brit and Ziv, “did it for two years.”

Then we got down to the serious business. How zombies found you. Where they concentrated. How to avoid them. How to kill them. How to avoid getting killed or turned by them.

“I see all of you are wearing the new multicam uniforms. Notice the heavy kevlar panels sewn into the sleeves. Yeah, they are annoying, but if you cram your arm into a zombie’s mouth and let him chew on that for a few seconds, it will give you time to shoot or smash their brains. Just don’t inhale when it splatters back at you. Also, the hoods attached to the blouse can and will protect your head and necks from being bitten.”

After a break, Doc moved onto a session about emergency battlefield medicine.

“The one thing I can tell you, the one thing you must get these kids to understand, is that an infected soldier will turn into a Z quickly and break your lines. Many of you have seen that. As leaders, don’t be afraid to neutralize a former soldier of yours. There is no room for compassion.”

That didn’t sit well with the crowd. One of them raised a hand. “What if we, you know, cut off an arm or leg or something?”

“Are you willing to take that chance with the rest of your soldiers? In the middle of a zombie swarm? No. just shoot him. You will be doing him and your soldiers a favor.”

We finally broke for lunch. It was going to be a very long day.

Chapter 22

When I woke up it was pitch black. I tried to sit up but a strap was across my chest and another held down my legs. I lay back as the incredible stench of zombie hit me. Rotting putrid meat smell, and I gagged, trying not to throw up.

I lay there for several minutes, trying to figure out what was going on. I heard nothing. If there were Zs close by, if I smelled them that strongly, I should have heard them by now. I did hear something. Someone was breathing regularly, the deep breathing of sleep.

Last thing I remembered, Brit and I had been eating dinner at the mess hall on North Fort Lewis When you find yourself in tough situation, the number one rule is to not panic.

“Damn,” I muttered to myself. “No towel.”

As I said that, I heard a door open in the darkness and bright lights flickered on, just as I closed my eyes. I blinked them open after giving myself time to adjust, then lifted my head to look around.

To my left, strapped to a table just like I was, lay Brit, out cold. In front of me, accompanied by one of her goons, stood Dr. Morano.

“Nice shiner you got there, Bro. Can’t say it helps your looks,” I said to the Delta Operator. His right eye and jaw were black and green where Ziv had punched him at the restaurant two days ago. He started toward me, but Morano put her hand up.

“Sergeant Agostine, so glad to see you’re awake. Did you have a good sleep?” She smiled at me, but I could still see the red marks around her neck where Brit had tried to choke her. She started washing her hands leisurely at the sink.

“I actually feel like crap. Nice place you have here.” It was a lab, with several other tables and, over in one corner, a pile of severed body parts, including a head that kept snapping its jaws. The red eyes stared at me. “Actually, I think you need a new housekeeper.”

“I admire flippancy in the face of adverse conditions. Don’t worry, Nick, I’m not going to kill you. Or Ms. O’Neill, either. We live in civilized times, do we not?” She walked over to a cart with several instruments loaded into it, picked up a needle and a bottle, examined the contents and withdrew some clear liquid into the needle. She swapped out the used needle for a new one

She walked over to Brit. “For example, you’ve merely inconvenienced me. You haven’t killed anyone I love or who works for me, so why should I kill you, or any of your associates? Your little girlfriend here, however, did embarrass me at the restaurant the other night.” she said, wiping an alcohol swap around the corner of Brit’s right eye.

“What about Specialist Mya? She’s dead because of you.”

“Ah yes. Well, the nerve agent wouldn’t have worked on zombies anyway. It didn’t in the lab, but I thought it might in a field experiment. I can’t help it if your troops have no discipline, Sergeant.” She put on a pair of gloves.

She stood with her back to me, and moved so I couldn’t see what she was doing. I kept straining my neck to see. She stepped back and threw the needle into a disposal chute.

“Johanson, let’s go. Nick, before you swear revenge, or whatever your stupid moronic code of honor demands, remember this: I can get to you anywhere, any time. The Army needs me and my program, and they give me carte blanche to do whatever I want. I’ve arranged a nice little vacation for you and your friends in Denver. Please do have a good time.”

“Revenge? For tying me and Brit up like this? This is all you’ve got?”

“Oh, no. She’ll see what I’ve done. Or, should I say, she won’t.”

“What did you do?”

She laughed, and her bodyguard smirked. “Nick, never go up against a Sicilian when death is on the line!” Then she unstrapped my arms and stepped away. The whole time, her goon kept his .45 rock-steady on my face. I didn’t move a muscle; I knew those Delta guys could shoot. She walked out, and he gave me a shit-eating grin as he backed out the doorway. “See you later, Sucker. You should watch what you eat.”

The door clicked shut just as Brit started to wake. She groaned as I sat up and unbuckled my leg strap. I quickly ran to her table and unstrapped her, helping her sit up.

“Nick, what the hell? Where are we?”

“Dr. Morano’s lab, I think. Are you OK?”

She nodded, went still, blinked a few times, put her hand over her right eye, moving it further away and then closer. She turned to me. I could see the bright blue of her eye had become dull and the pupil was cloudy.

“Nick, I can’t see out of my eye! She blinded me!”

Chapter 23

“You can’t see anything?”

“I can see perfectly out of one eye, but nothing out of the other.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No, not at all. I am going to kill that bitch!” She started up off the table, and I sat her back down.

“No, no you’re not. Listen to me, Brit. She could have killed us any time she wanted to. Made us disappear. I’ve seen it happen. Look around you.”

She did, and took in the medical equipment, the pile of rotting body parts on the floor, the Zombie head still snapping at us. It looked like some kind of medieval torture chamber. On the wall hung one those crappy inspirational posters.

I took her face in my hand and turned her good eye to me. She was furious and I had to stop her right here, right now. “Brit, listen to me. We have to move very, very carefully from here on out. We are on her turf. As long as we are in Seattle and around the big Army, we can’t do anything to her. Do you understand me?” She glared at me.

“Brit, you have got to understand. I swear to you, we will deal with her, someday, in our own way, but if we fight her here, we will lose, and I’m not losing anyone else if I can help it. Especially you.”

A tear rolled out of her good eye. The other one sat blankly, staring and lifeless. “I’m going to kill her, Nick. Soon.”

“Soon, Brit. I promise. Now let’s get out of here.”

We made our way out the door and down a long corridor. Several doors were set on each side, looking like cells, with an observation window set in each one. As we passed the first door, something crashed into it with a loud bang thump, making us jump back. I went over to the window and slid back the little door.

Inside, a zombie was backing up to rush at the door again. He was wearing shredded Army ACUs, with dried blood coating the pixelated surface. His lower jaw had been torn or cut off, and a large hole gaped where his larynx had been. Brit pushed me aside to get a look, just as it crashed into the door again.

“She cut his voice out. He was soldier. Look at his patch.” I peered in again, and saw what she was talking about. On his left sleeve was the Screaming Eagle of the 101st Airborne Division. The entire division has been wiped out to a man, after air assaulting in Washington, DC to evacuate critical government personnel. That was two years ago, in the middle of the chaos. Their Forward Arming and Refuel Point in Virginia had been overrun by panicked civilians trying to get onto the helicopters, stranding all three brigades at the barricades surrounding the Capitol. Doc had told me of being in the TOC in Manhattan, listening to the units drop off the net as they were overrun, one by one. I had heard from the other teams who scouted that area that they had come across piles of bones where they had sold their lives in a running gunfight against the millions of zombies who swarmed out of the cities on the eastern seaboard.

How Dr. Morano had gotten one of them out to the west coast, I didn’t want to know.

“Nick, we have to kill it. He was one of us, not some goddamned freakshow experiment!” She started to open the door, gripping the handle tightly. I pulled her off and further down the corridor. She struggled, and then let me pull her way.

It was the same at each of the doors we passed. The Zombie inside would charge the doorway as we went by. Each of them held a ragged, bloody, rotting form in the remains of an Army uniform, several of them with obvious wounds to their heads. Experiments.

The last door held the worst. Lying there, listlessly, was the remains of Specialist Mya, the medic who had been killed by nerve agent back at Firebase Castle in New York. Her body, which we had left on the island a few hours after she had been accidently killed, was bloated but still recognizable, pushing against the remains of her uniform. The Z which had been her crawled slowly across the floor toward the door, arms twitching and flailing as it dragged itself across the floor towards me.

“Holy fuck!” yelled Brit. This time I didn’t stop her as she flung open the cell door. The thing which had been our teammate seemed weak, not in control of itself, but its eyes still glowed that insane red. Brit walked over to it and stomped as hard as she could on the thing’s head, cracking its skull. It twitched once or twice, then lay still.

“Oh Girl, I am so sorry we left you out there in the rain. We didn’t know. We didn’t know. We thought you were dead.” Brit kneeled in front of the cooling corpse, ignoring the blood that soaked her jeans.

“She was dead.” We both started at the sound of Dr. Morano’s voice.

“All soldiers now sign a release authorizing the Army to use their bodies to best effect in order to combat the zombie plague. Don’t you know that? It’s a small clause, buried very deep in their draft papers, but oh, so useful to me.” She had a little smile on her face. Such a beautiful woman, and rotten to the core. “As a matter of fact, Ms. O’Neill, even your civilian contract with the Army has the clause. Do me a favor, please, and leave your body whole when you do get killed. Nick, please don’t shoot her in the head.”

She turned and walked out. Her bodyguards, who had been standing with guns drawn on us, followed her out and up the stairs.

When we got to the front of the building, Ahmed and Ziv were waiting, engaged in a staring match with an armed security detachment at the front doors. They waited until we had passed. Ziv made a gun out of his hand and pointed it at Dr. Morano, who had stopped behind some plexiglass security doors to watch us go, and mimed pulling the trigger. She smirked and bowed.

Chapter 24

We had to get out of town, but I wasn’t sure how to go about it. We were TDY here at Fort Lewis to provide instruction to cadre but there was no way we were going to stick around in Dr. Morano’s turf. She could reach out and touch us anytime she wanted, and I didn’t know how long I could hold the team from going after her.

We pulled back in through the gate at JBLM just as my cell rang. It was the duty officer at the training unit. I pulled over and talked to him for a minute, then spoke to the team.

“Listen up, guys, I have to go to a punishment enforcement over at the Basic Training Unit. Doc, see what you can do with Brit’s eye. Ziv, you’re coming with me. None of us are going alone anywhere until we can get out of this place.”

I dropped them off at the Troop Medical Clinic, picked up my dress blues and drove over to the Basic Training Division on North Fort. I left my GSA car parked outside the Headquarters and went inside to find the duty officer who had called me.

“Nick, what is this punishment enforcement thing you speak of?”

“Well, I don’t know how they handled disciplinary action in the Serbian Army, but things are pretty strict here now.”

“In Serbian Army, sergeants would beat you if you talk back to them. We take care of trouble ourselves.”

“Yeah, well, you can do that in the US Army now, especially out in the wild. It didn’t use to be that way, before the Zombie Apocalypse. NCOs were pretty much stripped of their disciplinary power. Tell me, how did you handle sexual harassment?”

“Pah, no women in Serbian. Useless.”

“Yeah, well, don’t let Brit hear you say that.”

He considered for a minute, the muttered something under his breath that sounded like “she-devil.” I laughed and told him not to let her hear him say that, either. Then again, maybe she would take it as a compliment.

“Here on post, Universal Code of Military Justice is applied but it’s not like the old one. They changed it two years ago to allow corporal punishment. Two senior noncoms and a junior officer are allowed to decide punishment for a variety of charges if the soldier is found guilty by a majority of NCOs in his unit by secret ballot. Charges are read, evidence given, guilt decided and punishment administered the same day. The ones who decide the punishment can never be from the convicted unit. I got called in to sit on a punishment enforcement.”

“What did this soldier do?”

“Two of them. One for theft. Broke into a bunch of lockers at night, went through people’s wallets stealing new dollars. He was found guilty. Another NCO, a drill sergeant, was found guilty of aggravated sexual harassment.”

I changed into my dress blues and walked over to the table set up in the Company Orderly Room. A 2nd lieutenant and a master sergeant were already sitting, going over the case notes. I introduced myself and then asked them what we had.

“OK, well, the private was found guilty of theft, breaking into soldiers’ lockers at night while he was on Firewatch. Someone caught him in the act.”

“So, no other witnesses? That’s a tough one, one person’s word against another.”

“No, we have a witness. The whole thing was caught on a monitor. That and the soldier that caught him beat the crap out of him with a garbage can when he tried to run for it. Dumbass.”

“Easy enough, then. Twenty lashes, reduction in rank, cut off of rations.” Every soldier in the military was given an extra allowance of ration cards to send home to his family. It was a way of keeping them happy, knowing they were doing something to help out their families, and provided them an extra enlistment bonus. Cutting them off would bring shame to his whole family, which was often more effective than physical punishment.

“Agreed. Now, about the drill sergeant. This is his second time, but there was no proof the first time, or not enough, anyway. This time he was stupid enough to try his crap in front of two females. Actually put his hand on one of them, squeezed her ass. They reported him right away.”

“He’s gotta go” said the Master Sergeant.

I nodded my head. “Agreed. No room for that. We need every single gun we can get, and this tool is going to ruin unit effectiveness and cohesion.” I never understood that. You always got further with a woman by showing them respect than trying the old one out of a hundred likes it, so I’ll try grab-ass on a hundred and one women.

“OK,” said the LT. He turned to the first sergeant of the Basic Training Company, who had been standing by. “Top, have the company fall in to witness punishment.”

Outside was one of those constant drizzling rains that always seem to be happening at Ft. Lewis. The entire basic training company, some two hundred soldiers, had assembled in a box formation around a concrete pillar set in the pavement.

The first soldier was walked over to the post, had his cuffs attached to the post, and his platoon sergeant gave him a quick twenty lashes to a measured drum beat. Though we NCOs have the power once again to administer punishment, it has to be us who give it. After the tenth strike of the whip, blood started to run down the private’s back, but I’ll give him credit, the kid didn’t scream once. He would either turn into a great soldier or be out of the Army soon enough. Nobody likes a thief. He would be held back until his wounds had healed and he could be recycled into another class.

Next, the drill sergeant was brought out. He stood in front of the entire company and I walked over to him. He wouldn’t look me in the eye. No combat patch on his sleeve, no Combat Action Badge. I wondered where he had been hiding out the last two years.

“Sergeant Dwayne Owens, you have been found guilty of three counts of aggravated sexual harassment by a group of your peers, and you are a disgrace to the NCO Corps. Your punishment is to be the following.” At this, I reached out and removed his drill sergeant hat from his head and handed it to the Master Sergeant who stood next to me.

“You are hereby discharged from the Military Forces of the United States of America. Your service record will be sealed, and you will be barred from serving in any of said military forces. These soldiers are entrusted to your care and development, and you have betrayed that trust. In addition, your file will be marked for any future employer as discharged for sexual offense.”

As I spoke, I used my knife to cut off his rank and unit patches and let them fall to the floor.

“Mister Owens, you have one hour to leave this military installation. You will be provided transportation back to your home of record.”

I hated it, but it had to be done. It was one thing to mutually joke and smoke with female soldiers of equal rank out in the field. It was a whole other thing to be in a basic training environment and use your authority to take advantage of impressionable young women who were scared of that authority.

The first sergeant uncuffed him, and he walked away, head hanging down, in the direction of the Headquarters Building. The entire company watched him go. Not a few of the female soldiers had a smile on their faces.

While I was on my way back to the billets to meet up with the rest of the team and plan our way out of JBLM and Dr. Morano’s reach, my phone rang again. It was Doc.

“Listen up, Nick. We got orders for the entire team to fly out to Denver and join in the big push that III Corps has on, trying to take back the Denver metro area.”

“What the hell, that’s a straight-up Mech Infantry push! What use would we be there?” Then I thought back to what Morano said to us in the lab. Have a nice vacation in Denver, she had said.

“I know, but it does get us out of here. Either way, orders are orders.”

Chapter 25

We rode a troop train out of Seattle, headed for the front lines outside of Denver. Like all soldiers, we slept, played cards, got bored. I used the time to get to know our newest guy, Specialist Esposito.

“Not what you were expecting, was it? Heading to the front lines.”

“I’m getting out of the office, that’s all I give a crap about. I was turning into a zombie myself, doing admin shit all day. I spent half the time trying to get my stupid CAC reader to work. I mean, really, who is going to try to hack our networks now?”

“Nobody, but you know how the Army is. Once something is in place, it will never be taken away, only added to.” He seemed like a decent guy, and it would help that he had combat experience in Iraq and Afghanistan. Different fight, but experience was experience. We did the usual “where were you in `09, what FOB were you at, did you know so-and-so.” It was military guys’ way of sniffing each other’s butts, like two strange dogs getting to know each other.

As the train clattered over the mountains of Idaho and Wyoming, I thought about our problem with Dr. Morano. One way or another, I was glad to be out of her immediate reach. Payback would have to come, and it would be a showdown to the end. You can’t leave enemies like that, ones who were willing to kill without conscience, alive and able to strike at you. We would have to be very careful, though. This wasn’t some jumped-up jackass of an officer who had it coming and nobody around him cared less. I had read about some of her research and she was a big shot, a favorite of the powers that be. The fact we were on our way to the front lines was proof enough of that.

We rolled out onto the northern plains, sweltering in midsummer heat. Above us, regular flights of Kiowa Scout helicopters started to appear. One of the few things getting priority of manufacture was the small, lightweight observation copters. They could cover a lot of ground and ran regular patrols all over the countryside. Any figure or groups of figures that didn’t respond to interrogation with some sort of signal showing they were human was immediately engaged, either through a lightweight chaingun mounted on the nose, or rifle fire from the observer/sniper who rode alongside. They would land several hundred meters from the Z and hop out to take the headshot. Shooting accurately from a hovering helo was something you did in movies, not in real life. If it was a group, and they were advancing quickly, the team would do what was called a “skip and shoot;” landing, shooting, pulling back several hundred meters, then landing again. If things got out of hand, quick reaction rifle squads were scattered every seventy five miles or so, in remains of large towns, and could be there within a half an hour by Blackhawk or two hours by truck. A real horde of several hundred, or even more, would be led by the scout helo flashing lights and playing sound to attract them to a designated “kill zone” where troops had established permanent fighting positions and would be waiting for them. The kill zones were set up every hundred miles or so, depending on terrain features, and had preregistered artillery, deep ditches and palisades. They had been used a lot in the first year of the war to stabilize the Dakotas and cut down on the number of hordes wandering about. Now we held the northern Great Plains along the I-90 corridor. We had patrols as far south as Kansas and a mechanized infantry division sitting outside of Omaha shooting anything that stumbled out of that ruin. We also had four divisions getting ready for the push into Denver, one mechanized and three light infantry. In California, we were massing wheeled infantry in the mountains, getting ready to try and take back the Imperial Valley with all of its agricultural potential, and the Navy wanted San Francisco Harbor back. They were tired of being holed up in San Diego, and the Marines were itching to get into the fight, training constantly at their bases in Hawaii. The brief and bloody fight against the secessionists in Utah had devolved down to mopping up in the mountains, and the sensible people in Salt Lake City had thrown out the “Emergency Council of Elders” after they had vowed to fight the government “to the last saint.”

In the small picture, our picture, Third Corps (III Corps) had established a cordon around the greater Denver Metropolitan area and was preparing to take the city. The government needed the rail lines and transportation infrastructure as a forward base for taking back the rest of the country, and there was talk of moving the capitol there after everything was cleaned out. For now, though, there were estimated to be close to a million undead gathered there. Our job was to first scout the airport.

“Why don’t we just drop a neutron bomb on it?” asked Red, who had been looking over my shoulder as I read the intel updates. “You know, just fry their asses, and leave the buildings standing and all that.”

“Tried it already, in Los Angeles. Didn’t work. Just left a bunch of pissed-off, radioactive zombies.”

“Damn. Well, what about, you know, carpet bombing it or something? Blow the hell out of them, leave a lot less for the Army to clean up. I know you won’t kill a lot of them that way, but it will sure mess up a bunch.”

“Won’t leave the buildings intact, and we need to take Denver so it can be reoccupied. The Air Force carpet bombed… where the hell was that?”

“Reno” chimed in Doc, who was pretending to sleep in the seat across from me.

“Yeah, Reno, Nevada. Pounded the whole place flat. Carpet bombs, fuel air explosives, Napalm, everything. All that, a small city, and it STILL took three weeks for a full division of troops to declare the place a hundred percent secure.”

“So, let me get this straight. We’re still scouts, right?”

“As far as I know, yes.”

“And we’re going to scout an area we can’t bomb and has a million Zs in it?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“Damn, White Man, I should have stayed on the reservation.”

I laughed. “Red, don’t worry, this will be a piece of cake compared to New York.”

Just then, the train hit a rough patch in the rails and my coffee jumped in my hand, spilling the hot liquid on my uniform. Damn, what a way to start.

Chapter 26

Somewhere in Wyoming, the train ground to a halt and an announcement came over the intercom.

“All troops, this is the train commander. Air scouts are leading a zombie horde, about one thousand strong, toward our position. All troops will mount rooftop firing positions and engage targets. Estimate contact time is ten minutes.”

Brit let out a whoop. “Hell yeah, I was getting bored watching Red moon over all those buffalo. He’s had a hard-on for the last two hundred miles.”

“I’m a Navajo. We screw sheep, you stupid paleface squaw.”

“OK, OK, quit it and gear up, you two.” We checked weapons and ammo and moved into the aisle. Doc still pretended to sleep. I slapped his boot and he grunted, rolled over into a more comfortable position and started snoring. Esposito finished loading his rifle and then asked “What’s with him? Isn’t he going to help?”

“He’s just faking it. He’ll be down here with his medkit in case someone gets injured.”

A ladder had been pulled down from the roof and soldiers were climbing up through a hatch. We made our way up onto the flat roof of the train. I had wondered why the car was so low, and I saw that several feet had been sawn off the roof and a parapet placed around it. The car was still low enough to pass under tunnels and bridges but provided an elevated, protected firing platform. There was even an overhang to prevent Zs from climbing up.

As we crowded over to the southern side of the train car and took up firing positions, the helos thundered overhead. I looked out over the open plain, which was shimmering with heat waves. White stones stood at various intervals that I judged were every hundred meters or so, and piles of picked-over bones lay around them. Hundreds of thousands of bones, and the smell coming off them reminded me of a slaughterhouse.

“What’s with the rocks and the bones?” I asked one of the regular train security personnel, who was directing the placement troops along the parapet.

He laughed. “Those are for estimating range. You don’t think we just stopped here at a random place, did you? This is a regular ambush place. We do this about every fifth train ride.” He leaned over the edge and pointed to the ground below.

“See that?” I leaned over myself and saw a deep ditch dug along the tracks, which approximated the entire length of the train. It too was filled with bones, but it made it impossible for any Z to even get close to the train cars, much less climb them.

“Every couple of weeks the air scouts come across a wandering horde and lead them back to this place or a few others we have along the rail line. Then we just let the troops on board shoot the piss out of them. Plus, we got that,” and he gestured towards the last rail car.

“Is that what it looks like?”

“Yep. 100 kilowatt FIRESTRIKE Laser. Made by Northrup –Grumman. We just start at the back of the horde and work our way forward, frying the crap out of them.”

“I want one!” said Brit, who had been listening in.

“Fat chance, Lady. We have an extra diesel electric locomotive hooked to the train to provide power for that sucker. Still, it smells like a good old pork BBQ when we get done.”

In a few minutes, I heard the zombie howl come drifting over the wind. Brit looked over and gave me a thumbs-up. Ahmed settled more comfortably behind his scope. On my left, Red looked a little nervous. I couldn’t blame him, after what he went through at West Point. Espo tapped a magazine against the rail, then seated his patrol cap a little further back on his head.

Ahmed shot first, a flat crack coming out of his rifle, unsuppressed for once. Damn, that was loud. I reached into my sleeve pocket, pulled out a set of foam plugs and squeezed them into my ears. I’d rather have my hearing than compensation from whatever agency managed to succeed the Veterans Administration.

I felt the engine powering up for the laser, and toward the back of the horde, individual Zs started to burst into flame. Some only smoked as they moved out of the laser’s aimpoint. I guess it took a second or two for the full heat effects to be felt. Thank God the wind was blowing away from us, or I think I would have puked from the smell of burned flesh.

The horde resolved itself out of the heat waves, running toward the train, drawn by the sound of the gunfire. At five hundred meters, the designated marksmen opened up, dropping them with every other shot. At three hundred, some of the guys joined in. At a hundred and fifty meters, everyone else opened up, and at a hundred we started firing with our .22 magnums. At this point, there was a continuous roar coming through my ear plugs and the whole train deck was vibrating. I could barely see anything through my sites, just fired whenever I recognized the pattern of a face.

“CEASE FIRE! CEASE FIRE! STOP FIRING YOU STUPID JACKASSES! AMMO AIN”T CHEAP!” The train crewman kicked the back of our feet and we stopped pulling our triggers. The roar of shots dropped away. Spent brass cartridges lay all around us on the roof and I could smell the cordite. I loved that smell, but killing was hot work. I took a very long drink from my camelback.

In front of us there was a pile of steaming, burning corpses. Some still crawled toward the train and a couple of snipers took individual shots. Every now and then one would pull itself upright and then it would drop in a spray of blood from its head. The nearest zombie corpse lay ten feet from the train tracks.

“OK, before you go back down, police up all the brass!”

“You have got to be shitting me,” said one of the soldiers.

“You think brass grows on trees? There are ammo crates by the ladder, make sure you sort by caliber!” Damn. I pulled off my patrol cap and started putting .22 shells in.

As we filed back down, I asked the trainman what would happen to any stray ZZss.

“A squad will be coming in by air in the next thirty mikes. They’ll take care of any leakers.”

Doc sat up as we took off our gear and stowed it overhead. “What did I miss?”

“We just whooped a whole buncha zombie ass!” said Brit. “I could get used to this big Army stuff.”

“Don’t get used to it.” I said. “You know when we get to Denver it’s going to just be us all out on our lonesome. The Lost Boys are who they call when they need to know, but are too scared to find out.”

“Hell, yeah!” Brit and Red exchanged high fives, and she started to do a sexy dance in the aisle to the catcalls and hoots of the troopers around us. Then the train started up again with a lurch, and she fell on her ass.

Chapter 27

Dust and mud. That’s what being a soldier is about. Cold, too, usually, but thankfully it was midsummer. Another thing that always bothered me about zombie TV shows. Being in a survival situation is, well, dirty. You never see the hero scratching his crotch because he hasn’t showered in two months and he has heat rash. You never see the hero reporting in to his commander and the commander’s nose wrinkling up because the hero smells like a few weeks of rotten ass due to being on the run all the time. Or the zombie brains and blood and guts that are splattered all over his uniform, which smelled rank long before they got splashed.

Thankfully, this time, it was just dirt and mud. Dust first, then mud, after a thunderstorm had dropped an inch of rain on FOB Griffin, about 20 miles north of the front lines around Denver. The rain had turned the road in between the tents, already stripped of any vegetation by passing trucks, into a clay that gripped my boots. Every few meters I had to stop and scrape the mud off my boots onto whatever was handy. By the time I got back to the trucks, I was covered in mud splatters up to my knees. Screw it, it’s just something you get used to after a while in the field.

Our two gun trucks were sitting on the remains of a parking lot, thankfully. Brit, Red, and Ahmed were welding a Z-catcher, an angled iron “V”, on the frame of 06. Ziv and Espo worked on mounting a M-249 SAW in the turret of 07. Once we had signed for the trucks, Red had gone to work with a can of paint and a stencil, blocking out the old bumper numbers that said “4 ID HHC-04” and “4 ID HHC-13” and stenciling them with “JSOC-IST 1–06” on my truck and “JSOC-IST 1–05” on Doc’s.

I took a minute to review the operations order in my hand. It was short and to the point. Lengthy op-orders had gone out the window with the zombies.

1. SITUATION

a. Enemy forces.

1. Expect upwards of five hundred thousand infected in the greater Denver Metro Area. Over flights of airport show scattered activity.

2. Significant hostile surviving population has been reported in outlying areas.

b. Friendly forces. JSOC-IST 1 will be operating in support of Task Force Bronco.

c. Attachments and detachments. None.

2. MISSION: On order, JSOC-IST 1 will conduct a tactical reconnaissance of the Denver International Airport to determine runway and facilities conditions.

3. EXECUTION

Intent:

a. Concept of operations.

(1) Maneuver: Conduct intelligence gathering at Denver Airport.

(2) Fires: TF Bronco will dedicate one battery of 155mm Paladin Howitzers in direct support.

(3) Reconnaissance and Surveillance: See attached aerial photographs.

(4) Intelligence: See attached aerial photographs

(5) Engineer: None

(6) Air Defense: N/A

(7) Information Operations: N/A

b. Tasks to maneuver units: Coordinate passage of lines with JSOC-IST 1

c. Tasks to combat support units.

(1) Intelligence: None

(2) Engineer: None

(3) Fire Support: Coordinate suppressive fires for ingress and egress.

(4) Air Defense: N/A

(5) Signal: See attached SOI

(6) NBC (Nuclear, Biological, Chemical): Possible radiation hot spots due to failed nuclear strike southwest of Denver Metro area.

(7) Provost Marshal: N/A

(8) PSYOP: N/A

(9) Civil military: TF Bronco elements will make all efforts to rescue Survivor Civilian Populations (SCP).

(10) As required

d. Coordinating instructions.

(1) Time or condition when a plan or order becomes effective: 0001 Local

(2) CCIR (Commander’s Critical Information Requirements): Suitability of Airport facilities for flight operations.

(3) Risk reduction control measures: None

(4) Rules of engagement: None

(5) Environmental considerations: None

(6) Force protection: None

(7) As required

4. SUSTAINMENT (formerly Service Support)

a. Support concept: JSOC –IST 1 will use organic TF Bronco assets.

b. Materiel and services. JSOC –IST 1 will use organic TF Bronco assets.

c. Medical evacuation and hospitalization: 934th Aero-Med Company will be on standby to support all combat operations.

d. Personnel: JSOC –ST 1 and attached Airforce elements.

e. Civil military: N/A

f. As required.

“Who wrote this shit? It looks like it was written by a first year ROTC cadet,” scoffed Doc.

Blah blah blah. Again, we were off on our own with little support. Not that a battery of Paladin 155mm howitzers were something to laugh at, but I had already spoken to the Task Force Fire Support Officer. The conversation went kinda like this:

“Don’t expect shit from me.”

“Roger, Sir, won’t expect shit.” He wasn’t being a jerk, just explained to me that he had literally thousands of standard high explosive rounds but few if any of the new firecrackers, the ones that sprayed ball bearings all over their blast radius.

“The fighting down in Mexico in the oil fields took up a lot of the production priority, and the chemicals used to produce the high explosive are in short supply. We can fire regular shrapnel rounds all day long, but you know they don’t do much against Zs.”

So, as usual, off again on our own. We did have one attachment, an Air Force sergeant who specialized in Flight Operations. He walked up to the team as I was reading the Operations Order.

“Uh, hi, my name is Sergeant Ozturk. Call sign “Wizard.” I’m looking for some Special Operations guys, uh, IST-1 or something. Have you seen them?”

He was talking to Brit, who had taken to wearing a red bandanna around her head. Said it made her look more like a pirate with her eye patch. I was ignoring it until we actually rolled out of the base.

“Well, looks like you found us. What are you, some kinda general or something with all those stripes on your arm?”

“Uh, no, I’m just a technical sergeant.”

“Well, OK, are you like one of those PJs? A parajumper?” He was getting a little red in the face, because as she questioned him, Brit poked him in his rather large stomach several times.

“Um, well, no. You see, I know how to run airports. I’m supposed to go with you guys to check out the airport.”

She turned to face Red. “Hey Red, do we have a trailer we can use to haul Mister Dunkin Donuts here out to the airport?”

I stepped up, and told Brit to cut the crap. “Welcome to the Lost Boys, Tech Sergeant. Soon as we get you checked out on the weapons on the turrets, you’re free to stow your gear in the back.”

“Uh, I dunno, I’ve never fired any kind of automatic weapon. I think I might just get in your way.”

Brit rolled her eyes, and I shot her a dirty look. The rest of the guys pretended to be busy. “Well, how about that M-4 you’re carrying. Can you use it?”

“What, this?” he said and slung it off his shoulder, sweeping it around in a wide arc that flagged most of the team, holding it by the grip with his finger on the trigger. It had a magazine in, too. I smacked the weapon down toward the ground before Ziv could buttstroke him. He looked very embarrassed.

“Well, uh, I fired it a few times in Basic Training. At least a whole magazine. They don’t give much ammo to us Air Force guys since the Army needs it.”

“Don’t worry about it!” I said, with a forced grin. After all, it wasn’t this guy’s fault. Like everyone else, he went where the military told him.

“Tell you what, Brother Zoomie Guy. You just ride in back and let us do the shooting. I assume you know how to do your job?”

A look of relief passed over his face. “Yeah, sure, airports I know.”

Chapter 28

I lay there on the hood of the HUMVEE, trying to get some sleep, wrapped up in my poncho liner. Tomorrow was going to be a big day, and we had to get up at 0500. I stared up at the stars in the clear, high plains air, and tried to force myself to sleep, but it eluded me again. I could take the Ambien Doc kept in his medkit but I hated it. It never felt like sleep then, just like a period of blackness, and I woke up even more tired.

When I finally did drift off to sleep, the dream started again. I was standing in the kitchen of my old house, dressed in full combat gear, my rifle slung over my shoulder. Outside the window I could see a horde of zombies pressing against the glass. There was no sound in the dream; there never was. It just happened over and over in the same way. I reached for my daughter, who was playing on the kitchen floor. Just as I did she crawled away from me. Always she crawled away, and I could never pick her up. What happened next in the dream was almost a repeat of what really happened that day, except that day I never got to see my daughter.

I looked up, and my wife stood there, blood dripping down her face, a large gash ripped open in her neck, blood splattered down her side. In her hand was our daughter’s leg, still wearing a pink sock. She reached for me, and in the dream, I wanted to go to her. It was such a powerful urge that I could never resist it, and I always woke with a jump as she bit down on my shoulder.

In reality, I had moved faster than that. I had swung the stock of my M-16 as hard as I could at her head, and kept swinging until her head was a bloody pulp and the plastic rifle had shattered apart in my hands.

Tonight was no different. I dreamed the dream again, and woke with a start just as the predawn light was filtering into the sky. I looked at my watch, 04:23, and tried to wrap myself a little deeper in the poncho liner. Thirty-seven minutes of sleep was thirty-seven minutes of sleep, any old soldier knows that, but I was afraid of drifting off into the nightmare again.

On the roof of the truck, Brit lay wrapped in the green half of a Gortex sleeping bag. I listened to her moving around restlessly. She probably had her own nightmares to deal with, too. A year spent living on the deserted campus, dodging zombies, scrounging for food. I knew she had been a physics major, smart as hell, and I wondered if she would ever shed her new, post-apocalypse persona of a “live life to the fullest, devil may care” hedonist. Probably not; there was no going back to our old lives. Still, I looked forward to the day when we could put our guns down, I could pick up a hammer and a saw again, and maybe build a new life with Brit.

A muffled ripping sound came from the top of the truck, and Red, who was lying on the other side of the turret, made a puking sound. “OH MY GOD, WHAT IS THAT SMELL?”

Brit laughed and said, “That, ladies and gentlemen, is why they call it a fart sack!”

Ziv, who was sitting watch on top of the other truck, laughed out of the fading darkness. “You are pig, Woman, but I like you.”

“OK, screw it,” I said, looking at my watch again. 04:37. “Everyone up, thirty minutes to shit, shower and shave.” Muffled groans sounded from inside the cab of the HUMVEE, where Ahmed was curled around the doghouse radio mount. I have no idea how he slept like that. Ziv shook Doc in his sleeping bag on the other hood, then jumped down and kicked the little pup tent the Air Force guy had set up.

“Time to make donuts, Fat Boy!” he yelled inside the tent flap, and laughed at the cursing that came back at him.

“Time to make the donuts, you foreign pig. Get it right.”

Well, I guess morale was OK. As the sun came up, I broke out the handy wipes and cleaned yesterday’s dust and sweat off of my face, armpits and crotch. Then I shaved with cold water, using my canteen cup and the truck mirror. Through the cab of the truck, I could see Redshirt applying camouflage to his face, making a series of vertical stripes from forehead to chin.

“Hey Red,” I called through the window “putting your war paint on?”

“Yes I am, Sergeant. Today is going to be bad shit. I can feel it in my bones.”

“OK, but just don’t get caught up in the irregular part of Irregular Scouts. You’re still a part of the Army, unlike Brit, Ahmed or Ziv.”

“I got you, Boss. I just have a bad feeling about today, and I want to go to war properly, if you know what I’m saying”

“Just keep your coup stick in your ruck sack, OK?”

“You got it. Coup don’t count on zombies, and I’m a Navajo, anyway. We ain’t the same, you know.”

I looked around and the guys were acting pretty serious. Ahmed had unrolled his prayer mat and was kneeling east, in the direction of the radioactive crater that was Mecca. Ziv was sharpening the large machete he wore strapped across his back. Hell, it wasn’t a machete, it was a small sword. Esposito worked on his new .22 magnum M4-a3, getting used to the action and practicing feeding the long stick magazine into the well. Doc was cleaning his shotgun and Brit sat on the roof of one of the trucks, staring at the sun coming up over the Great Plains. I watched her for a minute, her red hair gently moving in the faint morning breeze. She saw me looking and looked back at me, a small smile on her face.

“OK, let’s go! SP in five mikes, lock and load once we get outside the gate. Brit, you’re driving 06, with me as TC and Red on the gun. Tech Sergeant Ozturk, you will be riding on 05 with Ahmed driving, Doc as TC, and Ziv on the gun. Try not to touch anything. Espo, you are in 05, and you are Sergeant Ozturk’s personal bodyguard.”

Red climbed into the turret and I handed him up a can of ammo for the MK-19A2. He laid the belt of 40mm shotgun shells in the breech. The –A2 was a standard 40mm automatic grenade launcher. The shells, however, instead of being grenades, were oversized shotgun shells which fired about a hundred steel pellets in a killing range out about a hundred meters. It made the barrel useless for firing the grenades after a bunch of shells destroyed the rifling, but who needed grenades against zombies anyway? I was happy to have the extra firepower for once.

“Ugh, this thing moves like a pig with all that extra armor and the steel zombie catcher on the front.” Brit tested the brakes a few times, resulting in a jerky motion that threw Red around in the turret. He kicked her in the shoulder. “Hey, quit it, Squaw! That shit hurts!”

“Quit screwing around, let’s go.” I told her, then keyed the handmike on the radio as we rolled through the gap in the concertina wire at the front lines.

“Griffin Main, this is Lost Boys Six, SP this time, mark, over.” As I talked, I looked out the window. Hundreds of Abrams main battle tanks, their main guns replaced with short, stubby shotgun cannons, Bradley Scout armored personnel carriers, and the troop carriers, the real killers. Bradley chassis with the turrets removed, and even old M-113 APCs, all with a steel wall about three feet high welded around the top. The troops rode on them, firing over the sides, unreachable by any zombies and protected from potshots Reavers or other uncooperative civilians might take.

The radio crackled back right away. I appreciated a TOC that was awake at all hours. “This is Griffin Main. Lost Boys, SP 0542. Happy hunting, over.”

“Lost Boys, Roger out.”

Chapter 29

The highway was clear all the way to the airport. We occasionally caught a Z with our front bumper. OK, Brit occasionally swerved to catch a Z with the steel V on the front of the truck. By the time we pulled up to the airport fence, the front end was covered with dark splashes of zombie blood.

“You’re cleaning that off at the wash rack when we get back.” She stuck her tongue out at me as we bounced over a ditch, and she wound up biting it. “Serves you right,” I said.

We got onto the runway and hauled ass, pushing the trucks up as fast as they would go, braking to a hard stop in front of the tower facility. I had Brit drive into the front doors, smashing them aside, then pulling back. We parked one truck in front of the doors, blocking access.

“OK, you know the drill. Me, Doc, Brit and Donut, and Espo, we’re going in. Ahmed, you, Red and Ziv maintain the perimeter with the trucks. Keep 05 driving around so nothing sneaks up from behind the building.” Ahmed for long range shots at random Zs, Ziv on the 249 for suppressive fire and Red on the 19 for close-in action.

The tower offices were dark, only illuminated by the morning sunlight filtering through the dirty windows. I didn’t expect much Zombie activity in here because the airport would have shut down early in the collapse, and the employees would have fled. I was right; we encountered nothing. Still, by the time we got to the tower stairs, I was soaked in sweat from adrenaline that flooded through me each time we kicked a door open. Brit and I took turns being the first one through each door, and it got nerve racking. At one point, Brit actually fired at a life sized safety poster pinned to a wall. Three rounds of .22, two of them hitting right in the posterized Flight Attendant’s forehead.

“Great shot!” She looked sheepish. “You’re starting to make this a habit, you know” said Doc, laughing at her.

“Hey, better alive and feeling stupid than dead.”

I called back to Ahmed with all clear in answer to his query about the shots, and we moved up the stairwell of the tower. When we got to the top, the Air Force Sergeant went to work. He pulled out a large, heavy box from his ruck.

“What’s that?” asked Espo.

“Capacitor, with a built-in modulator. Gives me a few minutes of 120 volt AC. Allows me to check out the electronics, computers and stuff, see if they’re still working.”

“You mean like the radar and stuff?”

“No, the radar isn’t here at the airport. That gets run by a FAA regional center, can’t remember where the one is for this local area. No, all the info for the flight traffic controllers would be fed here by a data uplink from there. We’ll have to set up a mobile radar unit to run this field.”

Lights powered up around us, screens flickering to life. “Looking good, looking good,” he muttered under his breath.

“Uh, Nick?”

“Yeah, Doc?”

He was standing at the tower windows, looking westward through a pair of binos. I raised mine to look.

“Oh, damn.”

From around the terminal on the opposite side of the airport came several thousand zombies. Hundreds more streamed from around the edge of the building.

“I guess the recon flights missed that horde.”

“I guess so.”

Down below, Ahmed started firing at the horde but his hits were lost in the crowd. A long stream of tracers reached out and started slapping into the front, rounds skipping off the tarmac into them. A few fell, but like all unaimed, automatic fire, the hits were mostly wasted. Blowing holes through the undead didn’t stop them.

“Ahmed, get up here with those guys and blow the stairs!”

He didn’t answer, but the firing stopped. Then I heard one of the truck engines start again through the open tower window, and 06 raced out onto the runway. It moved down the front of the horde, and I heard the bang bang bang of the automatic shotgun.

“Ziv and Red took the truck, said they would buy us some time to rig explosives. I am coming up.” I acknowledged, but I knew what Zivkovic and Redshirt didn’t. Zombie crowds didn’t break in the face of heavy weapons. Red was too inexperienced, and Ziv had been fighting a running, hiding battle for the last two years on his own.

“06, get your ass back here.”

“Little busy right now, Nick!” came back Red, over the firing of the gun. I did see the truck start back, though, as the crowd of undead flowed past it, despite the dozens mowed down by the gunfire and smashed under the truck. They quickly outdistanced the Zs and skidded to a stop in front of 05, adding a further blockage to the doorway. I couldn’t see what happened after that, but the gun started firing again.

“Nick, I need a few seconds more to set this charge!” yelled Ahmed up the stairway. Then Redshirt piled into the room and fell to the floor.

“Where the fuck is Ziv?” I yelled at him.

“He stayed to cover us!” He was out of breath and crying.

“Goddammit! Ziv, get your ass up here!” I yelled into my headset.

“My country. It is gone.” And his next words were drowned out by the zombie howl and the firing of the gun. “… will give you time. Ahmed, you heathen bastard blow the stairs!” Then a long string of curses in Serbian and the gun fired nonstop.

Screw that, I wasn’t going to lose another team member. I looked over the windowsill as the firing stopped and shifted to single shots from Ziv’s 9 millimeter.

“Ziv, drop in the turret, now!” He had drawn his machete and was hacking at the arms reaching for him as he stood on the roof. They were climbing onto the hood and over the pile of parts from the Zs he had shot down already. He stood there swinging the machete with a mad look of battle rage on his face. As I watched, he kicked one more in the face as it lurched onto the roof, then dove face first into the turret opening.

I yelled to the team. “Grenades, on three!” On the count of three we threw them over the edge in front of the parked vehicles. Brit held hers a bit to cook it off. Five grenades went off, four on the ground, one in the air. The crowd of Zombies were knocked back by the shrapnel and concussion, and the sharp explosions rocked the uparmored HUMVEES, bursting tires, knocking off a sideview mirror and scoring the windows.

I yelled into the radio as we poured fire into the quickly recovering Zs. “Ziv, out of the turret, across to the other one and drop through, then out the side door into the building!” I saw him struggle out of the turret and crawl across the roof, then roll off into the gap between the trucks. I had hoped he would be able to jump it. Then I saw the side door open on 05, and he struggled in. Ahmed appeared on the other side of the truck, pulling open the door and grabbing Ziv by the strap on his body armor. He pulled him across the back seats and out the door. As he dragged him in, I saw a streak of blood left on the ground.

“Red, Espo, go get him, let Ahmed blow the stairs. Doc, get the kit, he’s wounded.” Doc was already opening up his medkit. The two others charged out the door and down the stairs. They returned with Ziv, blood running down his leg and onto the floor, just as the demo charge went off and wrecked the landing below. Doc set to work immediately, first checking for other wounds, then cutting open his pants leg.

I knelt next to him. “No more hero shit. We thought you were dead, Brother.”

“I thought I was dead too. For a while I felt like it. Ah, dammit, that hurts!” Another Serbian curse as Doc pulled a piece of grenade shrapnel from his upper calf.

Brit jumped up. “That was mine! Mine went off in the air, how frigging cool! Must have gone through the turret opening and hit you in the leg! Can I keep that?”

He glared at her. “If you were daughter I would beat you with belt. Impudent wench.” He threw the bloody piece of metal to her.

“YES!” She took it off the floor and put it in the extra grenade pouch where she kept her “mission souvenirs.”

I sat down, opened up an MRE and started to heat it. That whole episode had left me drained.

“Sergeant Ozturk, what’s the deal with the equipment? Is the airport OK?”

He leaned over his laptop. “Well, the runway is in good enough shape for C-130 or C-17 operations. They have rough field capability, but I wouldn’t land a 757 or C-141 on here. Too many cracks in the pavement. The electronics are good to go. We can set up a data link to a mobile radar unit and run flight ops from here. I already sent the report up to the Air Liaison at Corps.”

“OK, great. At least something went right this time. Going to be a long night, People. Get some chow, start the watch rotation.”

Brit leaned over and swiped the candy out of my MRE. She turned to Ziv, who was staring stonily at Doc as he bandaged his leg. She ripped open the packet of candy and poured it out onto Ziv’s lap.

“Here, you grumpy old man. Skittles make everything better!”

Chapter 30

The sun rose over a horde that had grown to several thousand, and they packed the stairwell and the bottom floor of the building. We didn’t shoot them in the stairwell because we didn’t want a pile to start that the Zs could climb and reach us. The smell, however, was bad enough to make us want to vomit, and we were caught between the smell coming up from the stairs and the smell wafting in through the window.

At first light I got on the radio to update the TOC on our situation:

“GRIFFIN MAIN, THIS IS LOST BOYS, AND WE ARE STILL SURROUNDED, OVER.”

“ROGER, LOST BOYS. IS YOUR POSITION STILL SECURE, OVER?”

“ROGER THAT, UNTIL WE RUN OUT OF FOOD AND WATER. ESTIMATE THREE THOUSAND PLUS IN HORDE. AIRFIELD STATUS REPORT BEING SENT NOW, OVER.”

“UNDERSTOOD, LOST BOYS. STAND BY FOR THE CAVALRY, OVER.”

“GARRY OWEN, LOST BOYS, OUT.”

The Iraqis, when we fought them in the Gulf, called the Abrams tank “Whispering Death” on account of how quiet the turbine engines were. In any case, we would never have heard them over the sound of the zombies moaning below us.

What we did hear was the sound of the case shot being fired by the tank cannons, a rolling boom that echoed across the airfield first thing the next morning. We had waited, dozing on and off, and trying to ignore the sounds from below. When the first volley of tungsten pellets cut through the horde like the proverbial hot knife through butter, we jumped up and crowded around the window to watch. Hundreds of bodies fell, in four huge swaths. The next volley came twenty seconds later, aimed along a different axis, cutting apart more zombies. Then the Abrams charged across the field. They hit almost forty mph in the short stretch, and plowed into the milling crowd of bodies, firing as they went. The drivers started spinning their tracks, knocking down Zs and grinding them into the airport tarmac. When they had gone completely through the horde, they spun on their treads and charged back in, the tank commanders firing their own MK-19a3s into individual clumps. I don’t think anyone who has ever seen an Abrams tank charging full on into a crowd will ever forget the sight.

We had been watching the fight and cheering the tanks on, but we all ducked down beneath the sill of the window when a stray pellet came ricocheting into the tower, sixty feet above the ground, and pinged off Redshirt’s kevlar helmet, knocking him down. He gave a weak thumbs-up and an “I almost peed myself” look, and we all laughed. When we looked back, after the cannon fire had stopped, a dozen armored personnel carriers had joined the fight, forming a circle with the tanks. Soldiers on top of the APCs fired individual shots as the Zs rushed at them. When the pile threatened to get high enough where the zombies might come over the top, the tracks peeled out and pulled backward fifty meters, and the slaughter resumed. They had done this countless times in the battle for the northern plains and operated like a well-oiled machine.

I let the team join in, shooting from behind the horde. Wasting ammo, but it had been a long day and they needed to blow off steam. Sometimes shooting things was the best way.

Half an hour later, a platoon of infantry was clearing the building below us. The rest of the dismounts in Mechanized Infantry Company were walking slowly through the pile of zombie bodies, firing individual head shots into any that showed movement. The guys downstairs advanced into each room behind plastic riot shields, forcing the zombies back, and the line behind them fired with pistols at the zombies’ heads.

“SERGEANT AGOSTINE, ALL CLEAR!!!” yelled the lead trooper as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

“COMING DOWN!”

Ziv refused a medical chopper, instead moving supported into the truck, where he climbed into the back seat. The rest of us loaded up and rolled out.

Red called down from the turret. “Sarge, this gun is screwed. The feed tray mechanism is jammed all to hell.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just cover things with your rifle, and keep your eyes open. There have got to be leakers from the infantry attack.”

“Roger, Chief.”

We rolled up the highway, back toward the forward line of TF Bronco. I was half dozing, listening to the road pass under the big treads of the truck tires and keeping my eyes open for any threat. I was tired and so was the rest of the crew, but sleep would have to wait.

“Oh shit!” yelled Brit, and I felt the truck start to tip off to one side. The road had crumbled underneath the weight of the truck, and we started to fall off the side down into a dry streambed. Flash floods over the past two years, without maintenance crews fixing the back fill, had undermined the blacktop.

I reached back and grabbed Red’s legs and pulled as hard as I could. We hadn’t had time to practice rollover drills, and I hoped Red remembered from Basic. He slid off the strap holding him up and fell inside just as we went completely over.

I don’t remember what happened next. I woke up to Red cutting my seatbelt. I fell out of the truck and onto him. The truck itself was lying on its roof, the wheels were still spinning, a cloud of dust settling around us.

Brit lay on the ground, unmoving. Red had pulled her out first. As he dragged me over next to her around the front of the truck, I screamed. My collar bone grated together and I felt like I was going to puke. The world swam in and out of my vision, going grey.

“Sarge, Brit seems OK, she’s just out cold, still breathing. There are bunch of Zs coming down the wash. I’m going to head them off. Doc is trying to rope down here, but the road edge is really crumbly.”

“O-OK. Something in my shoulder, it’s messed up. Give, give me my pistol.”

Red chambered a round and pressed my .22 into my left hand. Then he ran out of my field of vision. I heard him start to fire.

I think I passed out for a few seconds. When I woke up, three Zombies were coming around the back end of the truck. Damn, damn, damn. I raised the pistol and started snapping off shots. It was hard to aim, and my vision was blurry. I hit one in the head and it went down, but the other two came closer. One made it to Brit and I emptied the magazine into it. It fell backwards, away from her.

I felt an incredible pressure on my ankle, and then a hot, burning sensation. I looked down to see the last one, a little girl with her face rotted off, had bitten me just above the top of my boot. She kept biting, chewing her way into the muscle, her broken teeth sinking deeper. The pain was a red hot poker shooting up my leg.

Chapter 31

I screamed and reached down, swatting at the creature with the empty pistol. I could feel the infection burning into my leg. It was like a hot piece of steel, still glowing red, shoved into my leg.

The thing’s head exploded, and the round continued its flight to bury itself into the ground, carrying a trail of bloody red mist. I didn’t look to see where the shot had come from. I reached across my shoulder and tore the tourniquet off my body armor. Kicking the corpse of the zombie off me, I wrapped the tourniquet tightly around my leg, just below the knee and a few inches above the wound. I twisted it as hard as I could, feeling it cut into my leg. Then I ripped open the leg of my uniform.

A raw bite mark was in my calf, just above the top of my boot. Dammit all to Hell! It burned like someone was pouring raw alcohol on it. I let go of my leg and crawled over to Brit, who was still unconscious, and lay down with my head on her chest. Waves of nausea came over me and actually felt my eyes roll back into my head.

I woke up to a slap across my face.

“Nick, wake up,” said Ahmed. He slapped me again and I threw a wild punch at him. He sat back, easily avoiding it. He still kept his pistol trained straight at my head.

“He is awake. Not a Z yet, either.”

Doc leaned over me, blocking out the sun. “Nick, you got the TQ on in time, but you know what we’ve gotta do. I’ll make it as painless as possible. Here, bite on this.”

Ahmed gently put a canvas strap into my mouth. “Go for it,” I mumbled. How bad could it be? My leg felt numb already.

“OK, I can’t give you anything for the pain.”

I spit the canvas strap out and yelled “Just shut the hell up and do it!” I looked over at Brit, who was awake, sitting up against the side of the rolled over HUMVEE. She looked back at me, tears streaming down her face. I smiled.

“It’s just a flesh wound, Babe,” I said, and reached for her hand as Ahmed put the strap back into my mouth.

Good thing he did, too. Doc cut into the muscle of my calf with a razor blade, in a neat circle around the bone, slicing through ligaments and blood vessels. I bit down hard on the canvas strap, so hard I felt like my teeth would break. I screamed into it, a soul-wrenching scream I tried to keep inside of me, and squeezed Brit’s hand so hard I thought I would crush the bones.

“Almost there, Nick.” Doc reached a bloody hand out and Ahmed handed him a small, battery-powered Mikita grinding saw from his medkit. It whirred to life and I could feel the vibration as he cut into the bone. My leg was a dull throb that pounded up my body.

The last thing I saw was Doc lighting the torch he carried, bending over to cauterize the blood vessels. I felt the thud of the chopper blades as the MEDEVAC helo thundered down onto the road bed overhead, and smelled my burnt flesh. Before I passed out again, I heard Brit.

“Doc, tell me he’s going to make it.”

“He’ll live, if he doesn’t go into shock.”

She squeezed my hand and whispered in my ear, “Live, dammit.”

The world fell away from me, and I fell with it.

THE END.

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All work copyrighted 2013 Think On Productions and John F. Holmes

THE WARTHOGS OF IRREGULAR SCOUT TEAM 5

by

Ryan Szimanski

Chapter 1

“You know what sucks about the zombie apocalypse?” I thought to myself as I walked alone through the rain. “No more comfort foods. I miss pretzels.”

I had just gotten out of my two days of quarantine after being flown by a variety of Navy and Air Force craft from Mid-Atlantic Command’s current area of operations near Baltimore back west to Seattle via Green Bay, Wisconsin, Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, and some field in Idaho. It was my first time in the Pacific Northwest and it had been raining ever since I jumped out of what I strongly suspect was a restored C-47 Skytrain.

“God this place is just as bad as England; rain every day, and not a single zombie to kill,” I said to no one in particular.

It was just as well, I didn’t know anyone around here anyway. Everyone living who I cared about was still back in the wild wild east trying to survive.

I decided to walk into the first bar I saw. “Why couldn’t the Army give me a car or something, I’m supposed to be genuine war hero aren’t I?”

Then I thought maybe this bar has pretzels; before this whole apocalypse thing started bars used to have pretzels.

I walked in and surveyed the room. No pretzels were in evidence, but as I peered into the shadowy far corner I saw something even better, and more unexpected, people I knew!

They sat behind a table talking to each other; each had their back up against a different corner wall, talking in hushed tones. Neither one had their back to an entrance, good defensive thinking, they couldn’t be attacked from behind, but they were so engrossed in conversation that they did not notice when I came in.

“Nick Agostine! Brit O’Neill! I can’t believe you’re here! I thought you were somewhere in New York,” I said excitedly as I walked towards them with my arms open, as if to embrace them. As I got closer they looked up at me and we were able to make each other out a little better.

I stopped and asked “Brit, what’s with the sunglasses, indoors at night? You didn’t get bit by a vampire did you, because there’s no way I’ll ever take you out to dinner if you’re a vampire.”

She just sat there, surprised to see me, and apparently speechless, so I filled the awkward silence. “The only reason I ever wear sunglasses indoors is when I’m checking out the ladies. Are you eyeing me up?”

She took off her glasses, revealing a very surprising sight; one of her eyes was just as green as ever, only it was glaring at me angrily, the other was a lifeless, milky white color. She stood up, punched me hard in the arm, and just spat out “pig” as she got up and walked purposefully towards the exit.

I started to follow, rubbing my arm, trying to apologize for my poor choice of words. “Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t know. What happened?”

Before I could catch up with her a beat up Slavic looking guy I didn’t recognize who had been sitting at the bar shouldered past me, glaring, and went after her. He was followed by a Native American looking kid, and Ahmed, who I recognized as being on IST-1. These first teamers never go anywhere alone, good survival strategy. I wish I had my team with me.

I turned around to look at Nick, questioningly, as Doc Hamilton came over from the bar with three glasses and sat down at Brit’s place at the table. Nick just said “Don’t worry about her, a little not so friendly fire, don’t ask. Have a seat; it’s good to see you, Szymanski. What are you doing here?”

I sat down and Doc passed me a glass. I asked, “Do you know if they have any pretzels here?” he shook his head negative, and dejectedly I turned to face Nick again “It’s a long story, what are you doing here, and its Szimanski, sa-man-ski, not siz-man-ski, that was a guy on your team. They are completely different; one is Polish for son of Simon, the other means Simon’s son, I forget which is which.”

They both laughed at that. “Jeez, you’re a little defensive all of a sudden; people must mispronounce your name a lot. Either way, it doesn’t matter, I doubt anyone is left who speaks Polish, they were one of the hardest hit places in Europe.”

“We’re on vacation, stop being so morbid.” Doc reprimanded Nick, and then he turned to me “We are here to train army instructors. We just finished a scout of Staten Island, what’s your excuse for being here?”

“Oh I heard about that, glad you found usable facilities, Baltimore was a bust more or less. I also heard about your recent heroics at West Point, I’m sorry to hear about Jonsey. Now who will I play Call of Duty with? Oh by the way, how is Rocket taking his loss?”

They glanced at each other, and then back at me and in unison asked, “Who is Rocket?”

“He was your team dog. Oh never mind. Do you wanna waste an hour listening to my story or not?”

“Yea sure, we have nothing better to do,” Nick said.

“Try not to sound so excited.” I said sarcastically. “So you know how Team 5 has been working with Mid-Atlantic Command? About the same time you were going into New York, Team 3 was going into Philadelphia, Team 6 was checking out Jacksonville, and we were sent into Baltimore, same purpose as you, to find a new port for the anchor heads to dock their toys. We had recently finished a real tough mission scouting out Fort Dietrick. Another bust, the brass thought that might be where this whole thing started, you know that used to be the base of the army’s biological weapons program or something like that. Anyway the place was burned down; they thought we could find a way to access the lower levels of one of the research buildings or something. No joy. We took some losses, including our CO. That one I’m not upset about.”

“I thought Captain Anderson was a highly qualified leader, what happened?” Nick asked.

“Well he certainly gave that impression, Special Forces, couple of combat tours, years in the service. Imagine my surprise when I realized he couldn’t fight his way out of a wet paper bag. Turns out he lied about all his qualifications. Apparently no one back at HQ ever bothered to check and see if he had any credentials. Things started to turn sour and all of a sudden he starts blabbering about how he was only some kind of Tech Sergeant in the Maryland Air National Guard. Turns out that’s why he insisted on calling out team the Warthogs, because that’s what he used to work on, the A-10’s based at Martin’s AFB. I wanted us to be the Wolverines, so much cooler, I mean how the hell am I supposed to impress women if I tell them my team is the warthogs, nobody gets that, Wolverines is a movie reference…”

“We know, you need all the help you can get with the ladies, get back to the story, what was wrong with Captain Anderson, how did your missions go, and what are you doing here.” Interrupted Doc, somewhat impatiently.

“Cap’n Crunch died under mysterious circumstances, may have had something to do with the gunshot wound to his head he sustained shortly after telling us he was a fraud. We couldn’t access the lower levels, the access point was completely blocked by tons of rubble, and we had to fight a running battle back towards a LZ. The plague could very well have originated there, it would explain where it comes from, and why the East Coast fell so fast. We may never know for sure. After that debacle, somehow I ended up as team leader, we boated into Baltimore, and now the brass wants me to…”

“Wait, you got to boat into Baltimore? We had to jump in because there isn’t enough boat fuel; we lost a man because of that,” said Nick agitatedly.

“Sorry to hear about that, but my team rides in style with me at the helm, we may not have been around as long as you first teamers, but we get the job done… sort of. The boat, I should stop calling it that, the destroyer that took us in runs on jet fuel, that’s how they managed it, crazy stuff, two jet engines makes for a smooth ride. Anyway, I digress, the reason I’m hear while my team is still back east is because the brass wants me to go on tour and talk about our mission to Baltimore. They’re going to try and pass me off as a genuine war hero.” I leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “Wanna know why?” They nodded, slightly annoyed that I was drawing it out so I quickly continued, “To sell war bonds. Can you believe that shit! The reason I’m not with my team is because some old fogy thinks its 1944 and wants to raise money for the war effort by parading me around and having me tell my war stories. Do you know why they chose me? Not because I’m a real war hero, because I used to be a tour guide at a museum. They think I will have dynamic public speaking skills. Can you believe that shit?”

Nick and Doc both laughed loudly at this revelation, even though I knew they would not be amused if they were in my situation.

I waited for them to calm down then continued. “Since I have you two as a captive audience, I am going to practice my speech on you, but first you have to promise to buy lots of war bonds…”

Chapter 2

My story begins in Baltimore, the only home I had ever known. I had just graduated college… over a year ago, with a degree in history, and was still living at home with my parents, no combat experience, unless airsoft counts, only a part time museum job, no prospects for the future, pretty typical of my generation I think.

When the outbreak hit I was actually excited, I didn’t have to become an adult, I could just play real life Left 4 Dead! I had a plan; I actually thought I was prepared for this. That didn’t last long.

Anyway the government had finally admitted that the increasing amount of strange “incidents” was caused by the living dead. That’s all I needed to hear! I jumped into action, tucked my Colt .45 into my waistband under my jacket, left my family, who were packing things into the car, headed out the door, and started walking towards the city. That was not my smartest plan.

I lived in Dundalk, a suburb of Baltimore, about 7 miles from the city’s center, but only 1 mile from the sea. My grand plan, which I had thought out for years, ever since I was elected an officer in my school’s Humans vs. Zombies club, was to head towards the city, to where the Navy kept some of its supply ships docked. They were a part of Military Sealift Command. I figured I could convince them to let me bring my family aboard, and then we would be safe and protected by the government.

Turns out I wasn’t the only one to think of that plan. The plague was already spreading through the city and thousands of people were swarming towards the waterfront to try and find passage on a ship.

I thought for sure the big military cargo ships would have room for us; but they had already pulled out, along with any civilian vessel that could get underway. So all I could do was watch the parade of various sized watercraft sail towards the Atlantic.

Now the entire waterfront area was crowded with panicking people, some probably already infected, many soon to be infected, and me. I heard screaming, people were running and pushing. The undead were starting to reach the edge of the group. No one knew where they were going, they just went. I turned to run for home, under normal conditions I could make that run in five minutes tops, but now I was stuck in the middle of a crowd.

I shouldered my way out, drew my gun. The infected were getting close. I took aim and squeezed the trigger, nothing. I examined the gun in my hand which a moment before had given me a sense of security. Then I noticed I had not chambered a round yet. I grabbed the slide and gave it a tug, it did not budge. It had been a while since I cleaned my gun; it just sat in a drawer in my room.

People were running past me now, someone in front of me got tackled. A pair of real live zombies jumped on top of him and he was missing flesh before the three bodies hit the ground. I was in shock. That’s when I was hit; someone ran right into me and knocked me down. I finally yanked back on the slide and got it to chamber a round. Then the sun was blocked out. I looked up and there was a zombie standing over me, getting ready to attack.

I fired into its chest. He dropped, but started coming at me on the ground. I aimed again, but the slide had locked back, jammed. I started crawling backwards, tugging on the slide; finally it released, chambering another round. I fired it into the creature’s face and his head slumped forward at my feet. I got up, zombies were all around.

I don’t know how I made it out, but that was the first time I ever ran a 4 minute mile. I learned a few lessons from that encounter too, never go anywhere alone, clean your weapons and keep a round in the pipe, and of course, don’t run into a panicking crowd in a city when zombies are attacking. I won’t be making those mistakes again.

Chapter 3

By the time I got back home the family was already packed up and had a rough plan. I grabbed my pre-packed bug out bag and went along for the ride because I was still upset my plan had fallen apart.

The bulk of my extended family lives in the suburbs of Baltimore. They managed to coordinate something of a family wide evacuation plan before we lost internet and phones. The entire family loaded everything they could into cars and converged on a Pizza Hut buffet on the other side of the Mason Dixon Line. I didn’t even know those existed, wish it had been open.

From there we began to caravan north to the old family farm in rural central Pennsylvania. It was the least populated place anyone in the family owned, and we could hold up there until things calmed down.

It would be a tight fit for the two dozen or so of us, and none of us were used to the primitive living conditions, but we only needed to leave Baltimore for a few days until the government moved back in so it would be okay…

This was all during the first wave of refugees, no one knew where to go, and the government had not provided any information other than stay in your homes and wait to be rescued. People fled in all directions. It’s true, the roads were pretty bad, but not as bad as they would become, not a standstill yet. If anyone blocked the road they were moved out of the way and so the lanes were kept open.

The trip should have been 4 hours at most, but this time it took us 2 days. Otherwise it was relatively uneventful. There were even some restaurants that were still open at this point. They were crowded, but it was worth it for hot food. We beat the infection to Altoona, Pennsyltucky, the closest population center to the farm, and even managed to buy some stuff at the Super Wal Mart back before it was closed and looted.

From there we went to the farm. It started small, just family; we stuck to our own property and didn’t try to interact much. That lasted maybe two weeks, by then we were going crazy from being cooped up together. That’s when we heard the plague was spreading, not being contained, that the government didn’t even maintain any forces in our area. That’s when we realized things weren’t going back to the way they were. The end of the world did not come quickly.

We argued for a couple of days, but eventually we decided we could not survive on our own. We started trying to make contact with anyone left nearby. In the process we cleared out a lot of zombies, we were lucky, they were spread out and weren’t numerous. We were still amateurs. We looted the places that were empty and met new people along the way. We loved being out of the house. It was dangerous and hard work, but we loved it, and I dare say we were doing a good job of it.

The people of my generation bore the brunt of this work. Our parents, the baby boomers were too old; after a while they finally started to step aside and let us have a go at it, all it took was the apocalypse to get our fair chance.

We fortified as best we could, we tried to become self sufficient, and succeeded in a few areas.

As we found more survivors we started to build a small community, and everyone did their part. We lost some, and it felt like we were scratching our existence out of the rocky soil, (seriously, who farms on the side of a rocky mountain?) but we must have been doing pretty well because eventually the army sent us some Special Forces guys to help out.

We must have been fairly successful as far as communities go to warrant government attention again. There were not a whole lot of Special Forces guys willing to jump back in and get cut off to help a group of people develop and stay safe until the military could make its way all the way back east.

The Green Berets trained us to better defend ourselves, they helped us build better infrastructure, dig wells, that sort of thing. The best part was they were able to call in airdrops, it wasn’t like ordering stuff off of Amazon, we couldn’t get anything we wanted, but if there was something that would help us become more self sufficient, a new water pump, ammunition, seeds, the SF guys would get it dropped in for us.

Those of us who were young and strong had the easy job, everyone else worked the fields, cooked and dug in. we just had to pull perimeter security, go on raids. You know the fun stuff. That was mostly me and my cousins, Ethan, William, my brother, and a few others, plus some younger people we had picked up along the way.

We really became good once the SF guys taught us irregular warfare techniques. They trained us as best as they could and were able to equip us a little better. I memorized the Zombie Survival Handbook and FM 999-3&4. I thought it was to help us stay self sufficient, but really it was so we could participate in the operations being planned in the Mid-Atlantic region. Not necessarily reclaiming land at this point, but a lot of infrastructure and heritage had been abandoned that part of the country.

The thing that stuck with me the most from their training, it wasn’t a technique or an exercise or a strategy. One of them told us at the beginning that he would train us, but in order to survive we would have to have “The Right Stuff”. This wasn’t something he could teach, we had to have it.

I asked him what that was and he said, “It’s sort of an unshakeable belief in your own infallibility. That’s what the right stuff is. That you’re immortal, that you can do anything that is thrown at you.”

I really took that to heart. It was difficult at first; the best I could do was emulate John Wayne. He once said, “I’m the stuff MEN are made of.” That worked for me and soon I started pushing myself harder and soon I was stronger, tougher, and smarter than I ever thought possible before.

That’s when I started loving myself, and hating everyone else, well almost everyone. No one could keep up with me anymore except my cousins Ethan and William. They were the only two who had taken the “right stuff” ideology to heart. Everyone else just existed while we were truly living. One of my female relatives started sleeping with one the SF guys; she was bored and young, and he was an alpha male, but still it was hard to stomach. Some gave up on life and are still buried there, that hurt too. The rest were just waiting to be rescued. I hated them all.

I didn’t get completely disillusioned until the army finally came back East. When Mid-Atlantic Command was formed they sent a company to secure our area. They gave us the choice of either staying put, with their support, or being resettled back West, where it was safer. Everyone in the community, my family, the community I had helped build, that I had defended since day one, chose to leave the home that had kept us alive and go west. I let them, to hell with them. Ethan, William, and I stayed with the SF guys.

We were all transported to their new forward operating base, still under construction at this point. The civilians were put on a flight west. The three of us who chose to stay were put to work building the base until we could be assimilated into the army somehow. It was on a broad hill somewhere in Northern Virginia or Central Maryland, it was called FOB Ripken. The runway and some defenses were already in place. We helped clear shrubbery out 100 yards, dig a perimeter trench, and used the dirt to fill sandbags and Hesco Bastions. We filled the open ground with booby traps, and barriers until it looked like Omaha Beach. This would be our base of operations.

That’s where we learned about the Irregular Scouts. Captain Anderson was there talking with new recruits like us trying to put a team together. We joined right there on the spot. That’s when we became members of JSOC (Z) IST 5, the Warthogs, one of the teams attached to Task Force Raven, Mid Atlantic Command. The team was comprised of former Mid Atlantic residents because we knew our way around the areas we would be scouting. I’m glad nobody still cared about that old rule that relatives couldn’t serve in the same unit, because I would have died a long time ago without my cousins.

For our working up period we ran patrols out of FOB Ripken, mostly on foot, but sometimes we got Humvees. We did collect items and scout areas but the main reason we were out there was to cull zombies and anti-American forces out of an increasing safe zone around the FOB. During daylight hours we would complete objectives, and hunt zombies. We had a few nighttime operations too; those were mostly ambushes to take out Reavers.

Once a reasonable safe zone was established we started doing longer, more dangerous missions. That of course culminated with the debacle at Fort Dietrich. After that we had to rebuild the team, with Ethan, William, and I as the only founding members left. More simple missions, building up for something big we all knew must come soon.

Chapter 4

Now I was in charge of the team, not because I was a natural leader or anything like that, but because nobody else wanted the job, and if I didn’t take it the Army would saddle us with another Anderson, or worse. I have a lot of respect for a lot of the military personnel I’ve met, but too high of a percentage can’t handle the pressure of combat and our job was too dangerous for us to survive another leader like that.

We were all crammed into a Seahawk helicopter, with all of our gear, which wasn’t that impressive. We were flying towards the USS Sterett, a Navy destroyer which would be our base of operations for the Baltimore scout mission. All we knew at this point was we would finally be going back, not as part of an invasion force, not yet, but on a scouting mission for something.

Ethan had pulled up a picture of Sterett on his Smartphone before we left FOB Ripken. Her Wikipedia page gave us an idea of what to expect. Her picture gave the impression of a big, sleek, grey, clean ship, with very few visible weapons. Guided Missile Destroyer was her classification, DDG 104. I was concerned, her missiles, lone antiaircraft Gatling gun, and anti submarine torpedoes would do us no good. She only actually had one gun that could provide us with fire support and I don’t think BB rounds come in sizes smaller than 155mm.

I was surprised when I finally saw her. She was nothing like her old wiki pic. As we circled the ship, which was sailing north up the Chesapeake Bay, just past a collapsed span of the Bay Bridge. I looked at her modifications with a certain degree of relief that she could actually help with my mission.

Her hull was painted a camouflage scheme, but rust and scorch marks and even battle damage showed through the old faded coat of paint. The most notable modifications were the sandbag emplacements all over the main deck. They protected new machinegun, mortar, and grenade launcher positions, as well as the battery of 155mm artillery. Four guns, one on each side at the bow just behind the ships lone five inch mount, and one on either side at the stern next to the vertical launch tubes for the missiles. Judging from the uniforms as we lowered it looked like they were manned by marines.

We touched down on the landing deck aft and quickly jumped off the helicopter, happy to be able to stretch our legs again. We were greeted by three men in uniform. The one with the most gold on his shoulder boards and grey in his hair stepped up and asked “Which one of you is Zehmanski?”

I replied, “Its Sa-man-ski sir, I’m the one you’re looking for.”

He replied, “I’m the skipper, Commander Owen. This is Lieutenant Simpson, commander of our Marine detachment,” he gestured towards the tall dark skinned woman in Marine camo to his right, “and this is Command Master Chief Aquia, my senior enlisted man.” He said gesturing to the big, older sailor on his left. “Chief, detail someone to show these men their bunks and the mess deck. Mr. Szimanski, will come with me for the mission briefing.”

I followed him through a quick acting watertight door and down a series of mostly empty corridors, then up some ladders into the superstructure to his cabin. He personally delivered the briefing to the three of us, me the chief, and the marine officer, while we sat on his couch.

“This ship was designed to escort carrier battle groups with missiles and a crew of 400. Today, counting the Marines we have around half that many crew on board, and a fraction of the missiles we should carry. We spent most of our time before the end of the world patrolling the Indian Ocean for pirates. Since the plague hit we have shot it out with the Chinese Navy near the west coast of Panama and sailed around the Horn. Recently we have been patrolling the East Coast on the lookout for anti-American forces, especially ones using watercraft, and supporting littoral operation like this one. The Navy needs a port somewhere on the East Coast for the fleet to use. Your team will scout out port facilities on the Patapsco River as far north as Baltimore to see if a usable facility is available in our sector. The other irregulars will be scouting other facilities. You will receive support from this ship and its embedded Marines.”

He went on to discuss the details of the operation before letting me rejoin my team on the mess deck. Hot food, the thing I was looking forward to most on this mission, next to a hot shower. My only disappointment was that the mess steward didn’t have any pretzels on board. Well, to be perfectly honest the thing I was looking most forward to were the clean, showered, female sailors (female Marines scare me).

The rest of the team was in our berthing compartment. William, my wingman on this “operation,” and I had just sat down next to a group of presumably showered ladysailors and started to introduce ourselves. I had tried using Ethan as my wingman in the past, but on more than one occasion he introduced himself as an amateur gynecologist.

Just then the chief came over to us and said, “We just spotted some survivors on the Eastern Shore, they don’t seem hostile. Skipper wants to know if your team wants to accompany the devil dogs when they make contact.”

“Sure,” I said. “We’ll be on deck in 15 minutes after we are geared up.”

“RHIBs are on the Starboard side,” he said.

“Ribs? I don’t see any barbeque,” William asked.

“It stands for rigid hulled inflatable boats” chief informed him contemptuously. “They’re on the top deck, right hand side you lubber.”

We walked down a passageway to the empty berthing compartment that had been made available exclusively to the Warthogs in order tell the team to grab our gear. The guys were joking among themselves; I was contemplating the upcoming mission and our equipment. I had yet to brief the team; there hadn’t been time for it yet.

The seven of us were not exactly the best equipped unit. Task Force Raven did not have access to the kind of stuff that I heard was available elsewhere, and us irregulars did not have first pick. We mostly scavenged and traded for our stuff rather than wait and pray that we would be issued the good stuff.

I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, a ball cap, and running shoes instead of boots. I had a MOLLE vest that was actually pretty high end compared to most of our gear. Ethan and William, who were animatedly discussing the pros and cons of knee pads, were dressed much the same as me. Each had an AR-15, 9mm pistol, and crowbar where I had a Beretta Storm 9mm carbine, 1911a1 .45 pistol, and a machete. I’m 6ft even, 170lbs and they were each taller and broader than that, but I was faster.

William was a shade of tan no one else in the family could ever achieve, curse our northern European heritage. He was only 16, which may have made him the youngest person fighting for the army. I heard rear echelon positions accepted people younger than him, but I don’t think any combat units did. William was also our designated marksman with his scoped AR. He didn’t always hit the target, but he was more accurate than any of us.

Ethan had a Mohawk like the 101st used to wear, he was the team medic. He had been training to join the Air Force Pararescue Jumpers, but the end of the world prevented him from ever joining up. Even so he had the most medical experience on the team. He didn’t always apply the Band-Aid on the right spot, but he stopped the blood flow better than the rest of us.

In the bunk across from me, quietly checking his gear was Corporal Walls. He had been one of Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children once, but when all this had started he was in the Maryland Defense Force. He was one of the few survivors from that group, and quite contrary to the cliché he was happy to have survived when the rest of his unit made their last stand. The gear he had on made him look like he belonged in Nam, an M1 carbine, .45 colt, Kabar, E-tool, web gear, a butt pack, and OD BDUs. He had the stuff from reenacting, who the hell reenacts the Vietnam War? Walls was our communication guy and had to carry the one radio we had. He was the only one who knew enough terminology to reliably get us support on mission.

The only one of us truly at home aboard ship was Baublitz. He was a Damage Controlman in the Coast Guard. Tall and skinny, he was our team’s version of MacGyver. He carried a tool bag in addition to his own AR, and with them he could fix anything we needed. He spoke with a nasally south-Baltimore drawl and almost never stopped talking. At the moment he was talking at Bull, who probably wasn’t paying attention.

Bull was already suited up and was doing a set of pushups between the rows of bunks. He was something of an enigma. He was a big muscular guy, with a little too much paunch for someone who had been surviving the apocalypse. He had just wandered up to the FOB a couple of missions ago and joined up. He didn’t talk much about his past, or anything else for that matter, but he was proficient enough and we were short enough on manpower that we kept him around. Bull was from Canada, but what he was doing this far south I don’t know; I thought Canada was making out okay, not as well as England, but not as bad as most places. I liked to make up back-story for Bull. My current line of thought was that he was a mercenary of some sort, but he did this for fun, not compensation, at least that must be why he hadn’t given me a bill yet. He carried a silenced MP5, fire ax, and 9mm pistol. He was usually on point when we were trying to be stealthy.

The last member of the team was Markus; he was on the other side of the compartment practice trusting his bayonet. Markus was crazy, he had a girl in every blue zone, and attractive ones too, ones who I would have thought were out of his league. He genuinely thought he was a reincarnated Roman Legionary. He carried one of those old trench shotguns that actually had a bayonet lug; complete with an old 2ft. bayonet which he used quite often. His other weapon was an actual gladius. Like I said dude is crazy, great at close quarters stuff, but still crazy. How the hell does he get so many women? I tried to take him as a wingman before, but he always ended up with every girl we hit on, sometimes more than one at once.

Chapter 5

We got in one RHIB, with a couple of navy guys. Lt. Simpson and two squads of Marines were already in the water in the other boat.

Markus scratched his crotch and looked at Baublitz who was talking at Bull about something he had recently made on a lathe. Bull clearly wasn’t interested so Markus interrupted. “Man my dick itches.”

Baublitz looked over at him. “Why are you telling me that?”

“Because I need to know if your mother has crabs.”

Ethan weighed in with his quasi-professional medical opinion. “As your medic I advise you to re-watch the Army’s Instructional video on spotting and preventing venereal diseases.”

“Baublitz you should tell your mom to do the same,” Walls said.

William asked Ethan “Do you have a pamphlet or something for him to give his mom?”

I only laughed as we motored through the calm brown water a couple hundred yards from the Sterett, now barely making headway in the channel, towards the Eastern Shore farmers who were waving to us from the shore. We scanned for threats, both from zombies, and from other humans.

As always the Marines hit the beach first, thirty seconds before our boat slid up beside them on the shore. I jumped out followed by the rest of the team. The LT announced herself. “United States Marine Corps, Lieutenant Simpson, identify yourselves.”

An old patriarchal looking fellow responded, “I’m Clayton Robins from Rock Hall, y’all can call me Clay. These are my family and other folks from around here. We mean you no harm. Y’all are the first soldiers we’ve seen since y’all pulled out two years ago.”

At that the LT went over to talk to him and some other older folks. My team and the Marines began to fan out in a perimeter. I walked over to the younger group and started talking to them; they seemed to be about my age, mid twenties, but with my beard I was the oldest looking. Some kids ran up and I gave them a candy bar from one of my pouches, they ran off fighting over it.

We made introductions and talked cordially. I asked how they were making out, asked if any were in need of medical attention, if they had anything they wanted to trade, or needed. But it seemed like they were doing a pretty good job of surviving on their own. They had managed to fortify this peninsula, Eastern Neck, and were pretty safe and well supplied. Ethan was looking over some of the older people, performing routine medical checkups.

One of them, Marion, seemed to be their spokeswoman. She looked both disarming with her pigtails, twin dimples, and smile and tough as nails with her arms, which were thicker than mine from years of farm work. She asked, “Are you a Marine? Because you sure aren’t dressed like the others, where is your camouflage?”

“No I’m a zombie killer, I’m on Irregular Scouting Team 5, we go in alone ahead of the army and collect information on future objectives.” Then I leaned in to whisper out of earshot of any devil dogs, “We have standards.”

“Is the army coming back soon?” she asked.

“No,” I replied. “We are continuing up the Bay on a separate mission. Anyone who wants is free to come with us and we’ll relocate them back west where it’s safe.”

“No, I don’t think anyone will go for that, we are doing just fine here on our own.” She answered without a second thought.

“I can see that.” I have nothing but respect for the people who chose to stay behind. “You’re farmers, right? I know you do agriculture things, but what about livestock? Also do you have any pretzels?”

Nope, sorry, no junk food left. We have goats and cows for dairy, for meat we have rabbits…”

“Rabbits!? You can get meat off rabbits?”

“Let me show you one of our rabbits.” She sent someone to collect one to show to me. He came back with his hands empty, but behind him was a rabbit the size of a medium dog!

“HOLY SHIT! Why is that rabbit so big?”

Marion said “It’s called a Flemish Giant; our largest are around 50 pounds, they were bread specifically for food.”

“Do they make good pets?”

“Oh yeah, like cats, they don’t make noise, can be litter trained, and eat only when they’re hungry.”

“That is the coolest animal I have ever seen! Any for sale?” I asked. We had a pet Beagle, Trooper, but he was with the rest of the family wherever they were. He was small compared to this monster though. My girlfriend back in college had had a pet rabbit, but it was much smaller than the beast that was currently in front of me devouring succulent dandelions.

“One of our does just had a litter a few weeks ago, I’ll trade with you,” she said. “Let’s go check ’em out.”

By now the area had been thoroughly searched for threats and was found to be clear. The farmers had made a nice safe place here. We began to mingle with the locals; we had about a half hour left until we had to be back on the boats. Ethan and William were trading ammunition for bottles of moonshine, Markus was being led away by a beautiful girl in Daisy Dukes, Walls was socializing with some of the marines, Baublitz was elbows deep under the hood of an old truck trying to fix something, and Bull was admiring some homemade weapons. I walked over to the rabbit hutches with Marion.

Twenty minutes later and we were all back at the boats. 8 Reeses Cups bought me a tan baby rabbit no bigger than a smoke grenade. I put it in the dump pouch I had on my pistol belt. For sentimental reasons I decided to name her Penny, after my girlfriend’s rabbit. I hoped she was still alive and had managed to keep her Penny rabbit alive, too. I pushed that thought out of my head and turned to get in the boat. It had been months since I last thought about her.

“Is what you are doing important?”

I turned to see Marion approaching with a bag over her shoulder.

“I like to think we save a lot of lives by putting ours on the line, I like to think we make a difference.”

“I want to join.”

I held out my hand. “Welcome aboard. You’ll probably be dead within the week.”

She took it without batting an eye. “You might, but I’ll make it.”

She had the right stuff, and I had a full squad for the first time in a months.

Chapter 6

When we climbed back aboard Sterett I grabbed Ethan before he could disappear below decks. “Gimme the moonshine.”

“I bought it fair and square,” he said.

“The ammunition you bought it with is team property, so is the moonshine now.”

“You don’t even drink, what are you gonna do with it?”

“Listen. William still has two jars, go split it with some of the off duty marines or something. Just remember, salt water makes a poor lubricant.”

He grumbled but relinquished his loot. Everyone started walking below, I grabbed Marion who had stopped to stare at some shirtless marines as they moved ammunition to a jury rigged ready locker by one of the after guns.

“Been a while since you’ve seen a chip n’ dales performance?” I teased her, then mentally kicked myself for not calling them the village people instead.

“No I’ve never seen a cannon that big before, does it work on zombies?”

“Depends on the ammunition, come with me.” I said as I led her to the other side of the ship where Chief Aquia was chewing out a group of sailors for some offense. I said “Chief, can I have a second?”

“What do you need, shipmate?” he asked, seamlessly transitioning from his drill sergeant voice to a slightly more congenial tone.

“I picked up a new team member and I need some equipment. Do you have anything to spare?”

“You know how bad it is for the army, it’s ten times worse for the navy, we’re scraping the bottom of the barrel.” He said matter-of-factly if not apologetically.

I pulled the jars of moonshine out of my bag and passed them over.

“Well shee-it why didn’t you tell me you had a still, come with me.” The chief said as he examined his new acquisition.

He led us below to a small locked compartment and pulled out a ring of keys. “We do have small arms on board for just in case, but like I said they aren’t top of the line.” He pulled the moonshine out of the bag, slid them into his uniform cargo pockets, and passed me the bag. “Feel free to take anything that will fit in this in addition to a rifle.”

I was struck by how similar this situation was to that scene in Boondock Saints. Marion and I walked into the compartment, which was stocked with tactical stuff; most of it outdated, and began rooting around. “Chief,” I called out the door. “I know you said your stuff is outdated, but what in the world are you doing with an M-14?”

He stuck his head inside the door “The skipper used to let the guys go swimming back when we were after pirates in the Indian Ocean before all this bullshit. We had a gunners mate in one of the boats with that on the lookout for sharks. Go ahead and take it, no one is going get a swim break any time soon.”

“No thanks chief, it’s a little hefty for our line of work.”

Instead I passed Marion am AR chambered in .22 and began putting the magazines and a few boxes of ammo into the bag. I managed to sneak in some 5.56 to replace what Ethan and William had traded, and some 9mm for my carbine. There was no .45 for my sidearm. I also grabbed a pair of M9 pistols and some mags and ammo for Marion. I could also use the mags in my carbine, so I grabbed a few more.

I loaded some other gear and a camelbak into the bag, thanked the chief and headed back to the mess deck to see if there was any chow left or lady sailors for that matter. I hoped Ethan and William didn’t already have the pick of the litter. Then I thought what’s the point, Markus has already made his rounds, and I certainly don’t want his sloppy seconds.

Discouraged by that thought, I decided I wasn’t that hungry yet. On the way back to our berths I ran into Markus, so I did what any good commander would do in this situation and decided to conduct a little experiment.

“Hey Markus, I’ve got some stuff to do, would you show Marion around and introduce her to everyone.” I did not get the impression that Marion was the type of person to be easily seduced, but I wanted to see how she would react to Markus’ advances anyway.

I stopped in our compartment, dumped my gear on the floor, and changed into my running shorts. Sterett was designed with hangers for two helos, but due to shortages she had only one. The extra space was set up as a makeshift gym. It was actually pretty well stocked with equipment and I jumped on a treadmill for two hours of Zen.

Before all this started I was a cross country runner, I ran marathons and those obstacle races like Tough Mudder and even a zombie themed race called Run for Your Lives. Now running was pretty much the only way I could unwind. I don’t care what Mel Brooks says, it’s not good to be the king.

Chapter 7

After I ran my leisurely 13 miles I decided it was time for a nice hot shower. I went to the head, set my cell phone alarm for 3 minutes and jumped in under the water. The one good thing about only having half the normal crew was that I could take twice as long for my Navy shower.

From there I got dressed, the usual, jeans and a t-shirt, loaded .45 tucked in its holster out of habit, and headed for the mess deck. On the way I passed Baublitz lying under some sort of machine, maybe a dynamo, or condenser, while a sailor passed him tools. Bull had been in the hanger/gym power cleaning an absurd amount of weight.

I went out onto the main deck and Ethan and William were there with Marion helping her get a feel for her modified rifle, and taking practice shots at zombies on the shore. The two of them were ribbing each other constantly.

I crossed to the other side of the ship and stepped through another door. In the corridor I ran into Markus just as an attractive female marine (I know, I didn’t know they existed either) shook her head and walked away from him. I asked, “Markus, where did you get that black eye?”

He said, “Man, I don’t wanna talk about it,” and turned to walk in the other direction.

That was the first time I had ever know a woman to reject him, well I guess it was the second time that I knew of, because I had a pretty good idea who gave him the shiner. As soon as he was out of sight I laughed for good long while.

This mission had been more of a vacation so far, it was the longest I’d gone without being threatened by a zombie or Reaver in at least a year. I was just starting to feel good and believe that I was a great leader. On the mess deck Walls was reminiscing with some other Marines about his time at Gitmo. I walked over to the serving line. There was a salad bowl on the counter that reminded me I was supposed to do something… but what?

“Oh shit! I left that rabbit in my gear several hours ago!” I exclaimed as I grabbed a literal handful of salad and ran from the compartment amid stares of confusion.

One of the stewards yelled after me “You can’t take food from the mess deck!”

The door of our berthing compartment was wide open. I went in and began to frantically search, waving a leaf of lettuce around. “Here bunny bunny bunny, who’s a good bunny rabbit?” no response (do rabbits ever respond?) Penny wasn’t where I had left her, in the dump pouch of my MOLLE vest heaped on the deck. I couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

After searching our berthing compartment and finding no sign of Penny I decided she must have gotten out. I walked to the open door and wondered if she could even jump over the knee knocker. She must have been able to. I started to search around the passageways and opened doors to see if I could find her.

Eventually I reached a dead end with an open hatch in the deck, I was thoroughly lost, and not even sure if rabbits could use ladders, but I went down anyway. There was only one door, it was closed, and I opened it. Inside it was dark and didn’t smell like the rest of the ship, and then I saw eight red points light up in four pairs. They started moaning.

I jumped back through the door and went to close it, but the zombies were already coming out. A marine guard slid down the ladder screaming “Don’t open that door!”

Too late. I don’t know where he had been, but he certainly wasn’t where he was supposed to be. We both drew our pistols and started firing. We got off two rounds a piece, maybe three, and dropped the first two zombies, but the rounds that missed started to ricochet around the compartment. If we had hollow point rounds this would not be an issue, but we did not.

I don’t know if the guard was hit by a ricochet and stopped shooting, or if the ricochets just made him cease fire and that’s how the zombies got to him, but one way or another he went down under a zombie. I started moving backwards, but tripped over some nautical device which was protruding from the deck. The fall knocked the wind out of me and my .45 went flying.

As I struggled for breath I fumbled for the Gerber pocket knife in my back pocket. Just as I retrieved it a zombie dropped on top of me. I swung the knife into his forehead and put a divot in its putrid skin but the blade did not penetrate. Stupid, stupid, that part of the skull is one of the thickest, I knew that.

I was holding it by the neck with my left hand and it was using all its weight to push itself closer and closer to my exposed neck. Too bad I didn’t have one of those uniforms with the Kevlar sewn in and the neck guard.

This time I swung the knife at the corner of the skull. The blade buried three inches deep, directly behind, and at a right angle to, the eye socket. I tried to pull it out, but it was stuck. The last remaining zombie stood up and began to move towards me, then the marine guard stood up and also began to shamble in my direction.

I pushed the body off and stood up; looking frantically for a weapon as the two zombies came closer.

Just then a pair of boots dropped through the hatch overhead and landed with a sickening dry crunch on the first zombie’s chest. Attached to the boots was Ethan, who drove his heel into the zombie’s face repeatedly, until it stopped moving.

He was immediately followed through the hatch by William’s boots, which were attached to William, which put down the marine zombie, this time with a squishier sound, made by crushing a still juicy corpse.

“Have you guys seen my rabbit?”

“Yeah, Marion grabbed it when you went running. Did you see what she did to Markus’ face?” Ethan said as he scraped coagulated gore off his boots.

Chapter 8

“What the hell were you doing poking around my ship Zimanski; you cost the life of one person, and endangered countless others…”

“Its SA-manski sir, the Z is silent.” I interrupted his cliché speech. I’m sorry, but I can’t stand clichés when zombies are involved.

“Dammit man, those zombies were for Dr. Morano. Do you have any idea what she’ll do to me if I don’t deliver her specimens?” said Commander Owen angrily.

“Yes sir, I’ve heard stories about her, I will find you some more live zombies.”

“They can’t be just any zombies. They have to be long dead. Something about the closer she can get to patient zero the better her chances of synthesizing a cure.”

“I will take care of it, I owe you one.” I said even though I had no idea how I would wrangle a group of ‘old’ zombies, while still carrying out my mission. I pushed that thought to the back burner.

After I was dismissed I decided to mess around on the internet. It was still a few hours until we would be close enough to Baltimore to begin the mission.

I pulled out my laptop to check my emails. Damn, another one from Mom. It was filled with the usual stuff; my baby sister was dating another soldier, the family was trying to find a way to get her medically disqualified from military service. The army was still more or less all volunteer, but there was definitely a lot of pressure to join up. My sister cannot handle pressure. That should be enough to medically disqualify her; I guess that’s why she is seeing a shrink. Dad lost more weight; I don’t know if that’s good or bad at this point, my younger brother is trying to become an officer in the chair force. Probably the best place for him if he intends to serve. I doubt he had developed the right stuff.

I replied to the email, “We’re still alive.” That’s all I ever had the patience to write. I made a mental note to inform Ethan and William of the news from home.

The one good thing about the end of the world is there isn’t any spam any more, well I should say there aren’t any spam emails anymore. All the Nigerian princes must have been killed, and girls don’t really care how long your penis is when you’re one of the last men on earth.

That said there is still spam. Lots of spam, in fact I bet the company that makes spam is making a killing. The army recently re-released C-Rations. Apparently MREs are too difficult to manufacture, so C-rats are making a comeback. Yuck. I used to like spam too, but after a month of eating it day-in and day-out it started getting old. We always ended up with new C-rats instead of leftover MREs. That was the only new thing we ever seemed to be issued.

Next I did something I had not done in a very long time. I went on the missing person’s database and began filling in information in the various fields.

Sex—female

Race—Caucasian

Hair—blond

Eyes—green

Age—20-25

Last known location—Austin TX

Identifying marks—scar on bridge of nose

I had no picture of her anymore so I hoped my memory served me correctly. I started scrolling through the mug shots of dead zombies. It was disgusting, and I hated myself for doing this again, it had been months since I had last searched.

Sometimes soldiers had time after a firefight to take pictures and upload them here. Sometimes you saw who you were looking for so you didn’t have to hold on to hope anymore. I could never find her.

Chapter 9

I was about a hundred pages into my missing person’s search when I heard a series of splashes. I ran up on deck. The ship was passing under the Francis Scott Key Bridge which spans the Patapsco River near where it empties into the Chesapeake Bay. It is almost directly above where Francis Scott Key watched the first battle for Fort McHenry and wrote the Star Spangled Banner. I had not seen the bridge in two years.

On our port side, falling astern was Fort Carroll, the island fort designed by Robert E. Lee before the Civil War. On our starboard side was Sparrows Point, site of the old Bethlehem Steel Mill. It was one of the places we would be inspecting. During World War II more liberty ships had been built there than anywhere else in the world. Hopefully it could be used for that again.

Another splash stirred me from my reminiscing. I looked up; the bow of the ship was just passing under the shadow of the bridge. The bridge was covered with the undead, looking down at the first fresh meat they had probably seen in years. Some were jumping, despite their usual aversion to water. Most hit the water harmlessly, but a few hit the deck. They landed with a bone crunching splat of congealed black goo all over the forward portion of the deck.

Standing at the very bow of the ship a sailor stood repeatedly dropping a weighted piece of line into the water. He was sounding the channel, making sure it was deep enough for us to pass through.

As I watched, fascinated that he could continue to perform his essential task while we were in essence being bombed by zombies, one of the falling zombies fell right on top of him, breaking his spine.

The sailor broke the zombies fall just enough that it was able to continue to function. It bit into the paralyzed sailor then started to wander further aft. I pulled my pistol and rushed forward as the first zombie was joined by a second, the reanimated corpse of the sailor.

I swear I cannot make this stuff up; the undead sailor must have had a bullseye on his hat because another zombie landed on him, luckily with enough force that it killed both the falling zombie and the sailor zombie. Now only the first zombie remained for me to shoot.

As the ship continued sailing under the bridge more and more undead jumped onto the deck or into the water. I grabbed Marion, who was in the garden, a plot of potted plants (try saying that ten times fast) on top of the forward vertical launch tubes, letting Penny eat leaves off one of the plants. I pulled them back towards the superstructure as the shadow of the bridge overhead chased us and the splat, splat, splat of zombies grew nearer.

A marine on a .50 caliber machine gun amidships opened fire on the zombies on the bridge. His rounds knocked loose a support girder that plunged towards the ship. It landed alongside with a big splash. There’s no telling how much damage it would have caused if that hit the ship.

An alarm sounded, followed by an announcement over the ships 1MC, the ship wide PA system. “All hands clear the main deck. Set condition Z throughout the ship.”

We ran into the forward superstructure and I grabbed the nearest sailor, “How do I set condition Z?”

“Close all watertight doors,” he said

“Z has nothing to do with zombies?” I asked.

“No sir, it’s just the highest level of watertight integrity, condition X is the lowest.”

Slightly dejected that there wasn’t a special condition for zombies, I dogged the quick acting watertight door behind me and began to head for the bridge. The number of splats from zombies hitting the deck was increasing in frequency. I mounted the last ladder to the bridge when the ship groaned and shuddered, throwing me off the ladder and onto the hard deck.

The ship stopped moving forward. Marion picked me up and we continued to the bridge. Commander Owen was calmly ordering the quartermaster at the helm “Full Astern.”

I asked, “What happened?”

He responded, “We’ve run aground, I was afraid of this. The channel is normally kept dredged out so that deep drafted ships like ours can safely navigate, but it’s been two years since this harbor was dredged and the channel must have silted up. We are going to have to change our plan for getting into the harbor.”

As he said that the ship jerked free and started to move backwards. Once we were no longer under the bridge he ordered, “All stop. Drop anchor. Lieutenant Simpson, have your Marines sanitize the deck and post an anchor watch, I don’t want any of them climbing aboard… unless they are very old,” he added for my benefit.

We went to his cabin to redraw our plan. “I had wanted to put this ship in the most central point between your objectives so our artillery would be in the best spot while your team was using the helicopter. I’m going to have to keep the ship out here unless we find a deeper section in the channel. I am going to use the helo’s dipping sonar to measure the channel depth and drop navigation beacons for us to use, assuming there is enough of a channel. In the meantime you can borrow the PBR to start your mission, and we’ll assist if possible.”

“Understood,” was all I could get out before we were interrupted by gunshots on deck.

“Commander, there are so many zombies in the water now some are climbing the anchor chain.” Said Lt. Simpson as she entered the bridge.

“Chief, give me a full pattern with the K-guns. Mister Szimanski go with the Chief, you should get a kick out of this.”

We walked out on deck; chief walked up to one of the sailors whose rating may have been torpedoman, and said, “Time for you to earn your pay, Skipper wants a full spread.”

“Aye Aye.” He responded and ran off.

Chief Aquia walked me to the side of the ship and simply said, “Watch this.”

On each side of the ship groups of men were hoisting what looked like black 55 gallon drums onto K shaped devices mounted on the deck. Once all of them were in place an alarm sounded, followed by a loud series of popping sounds. The cans were shot about fifty yards from the ship and began to sink. After a brief time in the water they exploded with a massive muffled boom and shot towering geysers of water into the air. Within seconds, scores of zombies started floating to the surface.

“What just happened Chief? Were those Depth Charges?” I asked.

“Yes they were. We brought em back from retirement recently to help protect ourselves against underwater zombies. The gases released by the explosion shoots up the zombie’s tight little rigor mortised asshole and fills it up. That makes it buoyant enough to float up where we can see it.”

The marines manned the rails all around the ship and started methodically shooting the impotent floating zombies.

Chapter 10

While the Seahawk helicopter hovered over the channel, using its dipping sonar as a sounding device the eight of us began to navigate the rope ladder from Sterett to the PBR below.

Chief Aquia kept repeating “Hands on the vertical, feet on the horizontal!” as we climbed down.

When Markus yelled “Shit you just stepped on my fingers!” at Baublitz I knew he had not been listening to the chief. He was really off his game. I was beginning to think sticking him with Marion had been a bad idea, funny, but not smart now that I needed him at a hundred percent.

In peacetime Arleigh Burke class destroyers like Sterett each carried two rigid hulled inflatable boats. Wartime shortages, combat losses, and normal wear and tear meant that there were not nearly enough RHIBs to go around. It was necessary to have fast, armed boats assigned to the big destroyers, especially when they were performing inshore missions like Sterett.

To fill the gap civilian boats were converted for military use and dubbed PBRs. Patrol Boat River, like the old Vietnam era craft made famous in Apocalypse Now. I could not tell what type of civilian pleasure boat this one had originally been. It was painted OD green, the cabin had been chopped off and replaced with some posts amidships over the wheel, shaded by camouflage netting. There was a twin .50 cal mounting sunk into the deck forward of the cabin, a Mark 19 grenade launcher at the stern, and an M-240 SAW mounted on each side of aft of the cabin. This particular craft had a blue stripe painted on the bow, similar to a coast guard stripe.

Then I noticed the word Pabst was scrawled in cursive behind the blue stripe. I grinned at that. Behind me on the ladder Ethan laughed as he realized the other meaning of PBR.

Some crew members on deck, under the watchful eye of Chief Aquia lowered the rest of our gear down to us and we pushed off from Sterett, still anchored in the channel, a short distance from Fort Carroll.

From the bridge wing where he was monitoring flight operations Commander Owen saluted as our motor fired up and we pulled away, towards the north bank, and our first objective. Marines on deck, manning their various guns, waiting for us to call in a fire support mission, waved as we left.

It was a short bumpy ride from the ship to Sparrows Point, our first objective. This area had been a major industrial site for most of the twentieth century, but in the years leading up to the plague it had gone through a series of bankrupted owners, and finally been fenced in and shut down for good.

Satellite images showed very few undead in the area despite its proximity to the former major population center of Baltimore. That’s why it was our first stop; hopefully the harbor equipment that had once been used for everything from unloading iron ore to building, repairing, and scrapping large ships were left intact when the peninsula was abandoned.

The sea was choppy and the speed at which Chief Warrant Officer Magann was driving his boat did not help any. Marion and Markus were both looking green. When Marion leaned over the side to throw up, Markus ran to the opposite side to do the same. An auspicious start.

Besides CWO Magann at the helm impassively standing behind a pair of Oakley shades there were three other sailors on the PBR. PO1 Ramsey was at the stern gun, she looked like she was in her early teens, but when she gave an order, by god I jumped to it. PO1 Dillon was fidgeting with something concerning the motor while Baublitz looked on, and PO3 Gill sat high in the forward gun tub scanning for threats as we approached the shore.

No threats were in evidence as we pulled up to a pier. The eight members of IST5 jumped off, covered by the crew of the PBR. As soon as we were off, CWO Magann pulled away about 100 meters to wait for our signal.

Because we would be using the PBR as a base of operations for this mission as we criss-crossed from one side of the river to the other checking port facilities we left most our gear on the boat. We had just enough that if something went wrong and we were stranded here for a day or two we could continue the mission.

Chapter 11

Marion being the untested newb was taking pictures of the facilities, guarded by Ethan. I couldn’t hear the joke Ethan must have told, but judging by Marion’s insulted expression and Ethan’s own look of self satisfaction I assume it was sexist.

William and Walls had climbed to the top of one of the dockside cranes to be our lookouts. William called down “I don’t see any walkers anywhere.”

Bull and Markus began to search further into the overgrown harbor front part of the facility. They also reported no biters in the area.

Baublitz and I were inspecting the dry dock and one of the cranes, well he was inspecting that; I was just standing there trying to act leaderly.

After thirty minutes or so Baublitz gave his report. “The dry dock is in good enough shape, but none of these cranes look like they’re any good. I would need power to know for sure, but I doubt any of them will ever work again.”

“Alright, let’s move into the steel mill and see if there’s anything there worth scavenging before we head out.”

For those of you who have never been to a facility like this you can’t imagine how big it is. It was about 3 klicks inland from the dry dock to the steel mill (the only reason I am any good at mile to kilometer conversion is because of the number of cross country races I used to run). All we saw were old, rusty warehouses, completely empty, and other industrial type buildings. All of them were completely cleaned out of all but the biggest most immovable equipment. This wasn’t the work of looters though; all this had been done before the end of the world. The Navy wouldn’t have much use of these facilities.

Just then Bull, who had wondered ahead on point, came tearing around a corner, sprinting at top speed.

I knew it was only a matter of time until we ran into the undead, lately, I had almost forgotten this was the zombie apocalypse.

The thing that followed him around the corner wasn’t a zombie though; to my surprise it was a dog, a big feral dog. I looked on in amazement as it leaped at Bull’s exposed back.

BANG! The shot from William’s rifle shattered the silence. His round hit the beast in the center of mass and it dropped harmlessly with a howl of pain.

The howl was answered by several more, all around us. I began to consider our options. We couldn’t flee, we were too far away to have a chance, we couldn’t call in any kind of support, the feral dogs were already too close.

“Circle up!” I yelled as the team began to form a perimeter in what once must have been an alley between warehouses.

Dozens of big mangy dogs appeared from the buildings, and at each end of the alley. I don’t know if they had been left behind the fence like junkyard dogs to protect the abandoned property once upon a time, or if they had sought refuge from the undead at some later date, but they seemed to be doing well. They must have been feeding on the wild squirrels and rabbits that had undergone a massive population boom in recent times since zombies couldn’t quite seem to catch them.

The dogs eyed us from all directions, baring their fangs and growling, a low rumbling growl. Then at once they charged.

We were unaccustomed to hitting anything moving this fast and our first shots were wild. As they got closer, and we remembered we didn’t have to aim for the head we began to score hits.

The quiet zips of Bull’s silenced MP5 on full auto and the loud booms of Markus’ shotgun mixed with the steady bangs from the rest of our carbines. As they quickly closed the distance our circle collapsed in on itself as we reflexively retreated.

As they reached point blank range the dogs jumped at our throats. Markus skewered one on his shotgun mounted bayonet, Ethan had already drawn his pistol and was pumping out 9mm, William was still getting off measured shots, Baublitz emptied his AR into one a few feet away and drew his pistol. Walls’s .45 pistol boomed repeatedly, a dog Marion shot continued into me and knocked my carbine out of my hands. A second mutt dove on her, but Bull, who had been swinging his ax like Paul Bunyan gave the beast a powerful kick in the ribs that lifted the animal clear off of her and sent it yelping.

Just like that the attack ended. The remaining dogs retreated warily, and we began to back off towards the waterfront, shadowed by a few of the big beasts.

Nobody threw up this time as CWO Magann deftly navigated us away from the area.

Chapter 12

The useless scout of Sparrows Point had only taken a couple of hours to confirm what I had been afraid of all along. As we sat in the boat for the short trip to the Dundalk Marine Terminal, our second stop, and the most likely to be profitable, we reloaded mags and patched up cuts and scrapes.

This was the site of my near demise two years ago when the outbreak was just becoming public. It was weird to be so close to home. As far as I knew no military force had been back here since then.

The satellite images showed a large number of dormant zombies in the area, but hopefully with naval gunfire they could be cleared out safely. The overhead view of the facility showed mostly flat asphalt covered with rows upon rows of once brightly colored cargo containers and parking lots.

My plan was simple yet elegant. The terminal was a big square about a klick on each side that jutted out into the river with water on three sides. I traded one of the two M9 pistols I had bought from Chief Aquia to CWO Magann so I could borrow his MOLLE vest. The swabbies had special vests that had both bullet proof inserts and flotation inserts that cancelled out the weight of the armor. His vest also had the additional armor around the neck, groin, and sleeves that my vest lacked. Since there was a good chance I would end up in close proximity to zombies, or in the water I wanted a little extra insurance.

Walls was on the radio with Commander Owen coordinating a pair of fire missions. He signed off and almost immediately Sterett’s 5”/62 caliber bow gun began dropping HE rounds over our heads, one round every other second, scoring hits on the far side of the facility where we were.

While the shore bombardment was going on Walls pulled me aside. “Owen said IST3, the team in Philadelphia, has been out of contact for 24 hours. Our mission is currently being reevaluated. He said to continue on mission here, but we may get new orders later tonight.”

“I don’t believe for a second that IST3 is in trouble. Remember it wasn’t that long ago that the first teamers, IST1, were reported missing, presumed dead only to turn up again within the week. They walked right into base like nothing was wrong and continued with a new mission.” I almost shouted to be heard over the explosions from the high explosive shells.

“Yeah well they weren’t in the middle of Philadelphia when they were reported missing or Baltimore for that matter.”

The shelling stopped and we turned to watch the shoreline. Sure enough, zombies started wandering into the area to investigate the noise. The sound of their moaning and their stink assaulted our senses. All in all maybe a hundred curious zombies showed up, a fraction of the total estimated to be in the area.

“Alright, let’s get this over with,” I said with resignation.

Gill began to rack back the cocking mechanism of his twin fifties.

“Don’t shoot, you’re more likely to disable them than kill them, and we don’t want them disabled,” I said.

The PBR motored in towards the edge of the seawall.

“Why am I the one doing this again?” I asked.

“Because you’re always talking about how you’re a marathon runner,” said Ethan.

“Because you have no real authority,” said William.

“Because you want all the glory for yourself,” said Baublitz.

“Because you’re trying to impress Petty Officer Ramsey,” said Markus.

“Because you’re the only one in the Army who wears running shoes instead of boots,” said Walls.

“Because you’re an idiot,” said Marion.

“Yeah,” grunted Bull.

“I hate you all,” I said as I climbed up onto solid ground. Then I did my best impression of Sloth from The Goonies and yelled at the top of my lungs, “HEY YOU GUYSSSS!”

I took off running for the other end of the facility followed by the nearby zombies, which were worked up by their first smell of living human in years.

As I ran I squeezed off a few shots from my 9mm as they got close but for the most part I had outdistanced the group at the shelling site in no time at all. The trouble was all the zombies who had not been drawn to the shelling started popping out from behind shipping containers and crane legs as I ran past and I had to dodge and weave furiously to avoid their grasping hands.

More than once stealthy zombies came within inches of dragging me down but my luck held and I was able to dodge, shoot, or outrun all of them.

Less than three minutes later I was about to take a long walk off a short pier. After running all out I was beginning to tire, but the horde, now several hundred strong, was not tiring. They were catching up. My first biathlon was only halfway over however. I dove headfirst into the brown water.

The vest worked just as advertised and I popped to the surface just in time to see the fastest of my undead competitors complete the first stage of their biathlon and begin the water event.

I started swimming away from the edge of the seawall as fast as possible as more splashes sounded. I turned out towards the center of the river, swimming diagonally away from the point I had jumped from.

Luckily zombies are not nearly as good at swimming as they are at running. Only one got close enough to grab at my foot before sinking. Relatively few zombies bothered to chase me in.

From behind me I heard the PBR come racing up to fish me out of the water. They had dropped the rest of the team off to perform our mission as soon as the zombies had gone after me and then sailed the length of the terminal to grab me.

No sooner was I out of the water than CWO Magann radioed the signal to Sterett. A sound like thunder cracked overhead followed by the sound of rain on an aluminum roof as the 155mm guns Sterett was carrying fired their BB rounds and thousands of ball bearing fell on the heads of would be zombie track stars.

From the PBR the petty officers joined in with their guns adding to the cacophony of noise and carnage on land.

I handed Warrant Officer Magann the sopping wet MOLLE vest. “I believe this belongs to you.” It fell to the deck with a wet thump.

Chapter 13

The Dundalk facilities had been more or less intact according to Baublitz. The team had fought a steady stream of zombies in my absence despite my diversion. The site is just too close to a former population center.

I turned to Walls “Any word on the mission changing yet?”

“Nope.”

“Is the radio functioning properly?”

“Yep.”

“Alrighty then, one last place to search, the former Coast Guard Yard at Curtis Bay, straight across the river from us. I bet we can knock that out before nightfall.”

On the trip across the Patapsco we ate our C-rats. No amount of Kool-Aid powder could get the taste of spam out of my mouth, but at least I was full, despite losing my chocolate bar from the downdraft of the helo when it buzzed us as it continued to sound the channel. More good auspices.

At the bow of the PBR PO3 Gill was taking sounding, not that the PBR drew more than a few feet of water, but an aircraft carrier sure does. As we approached the old Coast Guard Yard he informed us “The deepest this water gets is 20 feet.”

“Yea another wild goose chase. Let’s just get out and see if anything is salvageable.” I answered.

We motored past the base one way, turned around and motored back the other. It was mostly burned out. The locks of the drydock, which was smaller than the one at Sparrows Point, were busted open. The place looked like it had been looted. Worse of all there were zombies all over.

“I’ve got a dozen Zulus by the dry dock,” howled Ethan.

“Score of Zebras by the satellite dish,” responded William

“Mob of Zippers by that warehouse.” said Marion.

“Come on that’s not even NATO phonetic at all. Pack of Zeds in the hanger,” said Dan

“Bushel of Zekes by that burnt out car,” said Baublitz.

“Legion of Zits by the flagpole,” said Markus.

“Zombies over there.” grunted Bull, not quite getting into the spirit.

It wasn’t worth getting out of the boat. As nightfall approached I decided, “Turn us around, let’s go back to Sterett. Marion, did you find anyone to watch the rabbit while we were gone?”

“I thought you did.”

“NO, you said you would.”

“I’m messing with you; I left her with one of the cooks.”

“If I find rabbit on the menu I’m gonna kick your ass.”

“She’s still too small to eat; I’d like to see you try.”

It was good she could still joke after a tough day like today. Everyone looked pretty dejected after repeatedly coming up empty.

It was dark out by the time we tied up to the destroyer’s stern, no point in hoisting the PBR back aboard since I had a feeling we would be using it again in the morning. Sterett was still anchored past the Key Bridge, but the helicopter was back on board.

Chief Aquia met us at the stern. “Captain wants to see you in his cabin, new orders.”

“Thanks Chief. Go get some chow and hit your racks, looks like we’ll be back at this again tomorrow,” I told the team.

Owen met me in his cabin. “Plenty of bad news tonight. I just got off the horn with Reaper 6; the admiral has given up on trying to find Team 3. They are officially missing presumed undead. He has a new mission for you too. It’s in the middle of the Inner Harbor, but if you do it right you’ll be able to get what the admiral wants and collect those zombies you owe me.”

“It’s been a long day; please tell me you have some good news to go along with the bad.”

“The Seahawk scouted out a usable channel for us. If all goes well we will be able to fully support you. If it doesn’t work neither one of us will complete our mission.”

Chapter 14

I am not a morning person, but the strange vibrations coursing through the ship, combined with the thudding noise over my head compelled me to get up ahead of my 0500 alarm. I strapped on my pistol belt and went to the bridge.

I made it up there just in time to look forward out the window and see the Key Bridge retreating behind us and a white bubbly wake extending from the bow out ahead of us.

That’s when I figured it out; we were sailing up the channel… backwards.

I walked to the starboard bridge wing where Commander Owen was looking through his binoculars, forward, towards the stern of the ship, which was now facing the burnt out skyscrapers of Baltimore.

“This is the first mission back there in two years.” He said without looking at me, gesturing towards the city.

“People used to say Baltimore is a city with Northern charm and Southern efficiency.”

We boarded the PBR by 0630, just as the sun was breaking the eastern horizon, over Dundalk. Sterett was ponderously feeling her way up the channel the Seahawk had mapped out.

“She’s a Coast Guard Cutter right? Have you ever served aboard her?” I asked Baublitz as we pushed. The sea was calm as glass, and the color of Dr. Pepper. Dr. Pepper used to go great with pretzels.

“Not exactly, she has been out of commission since the mid 80’s. She was a museum but I have been on before. When I was stationed at Curtis Bay us damage controlmen went over once a year to do volunteer work on the exterior of the ship.”

“Explain why we are doing this.” Ethan asked groggily as he poked around the ship’s wiki page on his Smartphone.

“The navy needs this ship. I don’t know if it’s to cannibalize parts, or to use as is, although I doubt it will still sail on its own, or if it’s for the scrap value, it was made in the 1930’s, I assume prewar steel is high quality stuff. God knows we aren’t building new ships, or forging new steel anymore. Besides it’s sure to be full of zombies so we can replace the ones you and William killed the other day.”

“You killed more than we did.” William said defensively.

“Yeah, but the ones you killed were the important ones.”

“Nuh-uh nuh-uh, the one I killed was fresh!”

By the time we got to the Inner Harbor the sun was already overhead. Zombies wondered everywhere. The landscape was worse than I had seen in any post apocalyptic movie, except maybe footage of cities after World War II.

“I heard the Air Force firebombed the city to try and contain the infection. They launched a massive B-52 Arclight raid on the northern part of the city, burnt it to the ground. Didn’t kill the zombies though, flaming zombies carried the conflagrations south and demolished the whole city.” Dan said.

I don’t know if that’s true or not, but it certainly seemed to be the case.

Our speculations were interrupted as we reached our target, the former Coast Guard Cutter Taney, a ship with an impressive service record through World War II, Korea, Vietnam, and now perhaps the Great Zombie War.

A lot of zombies were active in the area. I don’t know if they had ever gone dormant or if the helo flights yesterday reactivated them, but they were everywhere.

“Do you want to stand back and clear them from here, or do you want us to drop you off?” CWO Magann asked.

“If we try to shot them from here we will alert every zombie in the city before we finish. Get us as close as possible, cover us, and get ready to rig that tow line.”

Without answer Magann deftly brought the PBR under the stern of Taney and I clambered up over the side of the pier. Immediately zombies began to approach. We killed two dozen before Marion, the last person off the boat, was on the pier.

As the PBR pulled away and opened up with everything onboard I assessed the situation. The outboard side of the ship still retained its white paint, but the side I was looking at now was blackened and blistered. The fire must have reached the ship, but her all steel construction did not burn and the ship did not have a noticeable list. We might actually be able to complete this objective.

We ran for the brow, the gangway, mounted near the stern of the ship.

William went up first, and immediately began shooting at the zombies on deck. By the time I made it up he and Ethan had already cleared a beachhead.

Baublitz was right behind me. He stopped and saluted the stern where the flag should have been, then turned to salute me. “Request permission to come aboard sir.”

“Not the time.”

He stood there. Everyone was forced to stop on the brow, shooting down at the zombies gathering at the bottom.

“Granted god dammit! Get up here.” I yelled.

“Thank you.” He said as everyone rushed up after he had moved out of the way. Then Walls and Bull picked up the ramp and tossed it away from the ship, zombies and all.

From deep inside the ship a loud moaning rose up. I remembered how many people had flocked to the sea to try and board a ship when the plague first hit. Apparently a great number came here too even though the engine had been dead some thirty years. They were still here.

“William, Ethan, clear the deck and superstructure. Baublitz, close all hatches, make sure whatever is down below stays inside the ship, Bull, use your ax and cut these mooring lines, Walls radio Sterett and tell them we are ready to go, Marion help Markus rig a tow line.”

Everybody got to work and things seemed to be going well. With a groan Taney slipped her mooring for the first time in over a decade and began to drift with the current out towards the channel. We attached a thick hawser to the towing bit at the stern of the ship and passed it to the PBR below us. They began to sail toward Sterett, which was just backing into the Inner Harbor as Taney drifted out of her berth into the main channel.

Even as Sterett began to bring Taney’s lifeless hulk under control we heard a blood curdling scream. I looked around.

Ethan did the math first. “Where’s Baublitz?”

We were on the starboard side of the ship, watching the zombies on the pier below us. Marion turned first and headed for the port side. As soon as she rounded the superstructure the zombies were on her. No one could get off a shot.

She swung her M-4 with her powerful farming arms, like Davy Crockett and knocked the first zombie clear off the ship. But she overextended her follow-through and the second zombie was one her.

It ripped her throat out before she could scream, not that she would have. Bull rounded the superstructure and put a round in the zombie as it started to get off of her. Ethan shot her as she started to rise.

I turned and ran for the bow, up the starboard side of the ship. As I ran the football field length I heard more gunshots from the opposite side of the ship. I rounded forward part of superstructure just aft of the demilitarized gun mount and began heading in the opposite direction, towards the stern. Maybe a third of the way back a door to the crew’s berthing compartment was wide open. I grabbed the big metal bar and pulled it down to dog the hatch closed.

I turned and Baublitz was standing there, covered in blood, looking at me through red eyes. I fired once.

Chapter 15

Sterett’s RHIB brought over some Marines and Sailors to take command of the derelict Taney as she began her long, stern first journey to Bermuda. We were photographing corpses for the database and throwing them overboard without ceremony.

Marion and Baublitz were relieved of their equipment and lashed to some 55 gallon drums we found on deck. Walls punched holes in the drums with his K-Bar so that when we rolled them overboard they would fill with water to drag our friends down to Davy Jones Locker.

I was right about Marion not lasting the week.

The RHIB took us back to Sterett.

Chief Aquia was already waiting. “I’m sorry for your loss shipmate. Skipper wants…”

“To see me in his cabin, I know, I know.” I turned to the rest of the team. “You know the drill, grab some chow, steal some ammo from the leathernecks, I’ll brief you in 45 minutes.”

Commander Owen met me in his cabin again. “I’m sorry about your losses. I just got done informing Rapier 6 about your success. Dr. Morano is glad to have new subjects.”

“I don’t care what that bitch says…”

“It’s alright; calm down, the admiral has one more mission for you while we’re in Baltimore. You can thank the Lost Boys for this one.”

I looked at him confused and thoroughly drained.

“We are gaining ground, but public support is still low. Command wants you to do a little publicity stunt just like The Lost Boys did at West Point. All you have to do is take a picture. We’re retaking Fort McHenry.”

It was one of the most famous incidents from the great retreat. The Second Defense of Fort McHenry. Elements of the 29th Division had come in by chopper. The city was doomed and the army was pulling out everywhere. Everywhere except the fort.

Thousands of refugees from South Baltimore fled to the peninsula, one of the flattest, most open places in the city. The 29th set up a command post in the fort. At one end of the peninsula they set up defenses and a checkpoint to get civilians through. At the seaward side any seaworthy craft was commandeered to get people to safety. The trees were blown out of the way and an airlift rescued more people.

An EOD guy, Chief Nathan Little, slowed the zombies when he blew the Fort McHenry Tunnel. He lost his life, but he saved hundreds with the time he bought. It couldn’t have been more than an hour.

The Zombies reached the Fort and pushed through the outer perimeter in minutes. The last helicopters touched down on the forts flat ramparts to evacuate the troops. The 29th was ordered out so it could fight again.

They refused orders. They loaded children on the last birds out of there and fought to the last man. Eventually the zombies piled up so high in the moat that they were able to climb over the walls. The hand to hand fighting lasted for a few minutes.

Last anyone saw of the fort that day the flag was still flying. It was like Custer’s last stand, the Alamo, and the Fall of Saigon all rolled into one. Now we were finally going back, or at least six of us were.

Chapter 16

When I walked into the mess deck the mood was somber. Everyone was quiet, everyone except Bull for once. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.

“There are two types of soldiers.” He was saying as everyone else stared at their mystery stew. “Pigs and Hogs. Pigs are professionally instructed gunman; that would be you guys. Hogs are hunters of gunman; that’s me.” He caught sight of me. “Which are you?”

“Oh I’m the most dangerous type of person you’ll ever encounter in battle. I’m an amateur. PIGs and HOGs know what other PIGs and HOGs will do, but nobody can account for what an amateur might try. What’s in that stew? Where did Marion say she left my rabbit?”

“Penny is on the salad bar.” William said.

“They put her in a salad!” I said and turned to look. Sure enough she was in the salad bowl, eating a radish.

“As team medic it is my duty to inform everyone that you should not eat anything from the salad bar.” Ethan said authoritatively.

“As if you could. We’ve all seen Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Rabbits are ferocious, and this one will be bigger than those dogs we fought yesterday when she’s full grown.” I said to some anxious chuckling.

A few hours later and we were on the Seahawk flying towards Fort McHenry. Sterett, with Taney in tow, had anchored just off the peninsula. All of the artillery on Sterett was facing the fort, even the guns that had previously been mounted on the opposite side of the ship. “It has been a long time since a naval invasion has had a proper shore bombardment I thought to myself.”

I was in the cabin with the crew chief and the remaining five Warthogs. Commander Owen was talking into my headset. “Command wants this to be theatrical. That’s why we’re doing this at night. I’m going to be shooting star shells from the five incher, should look like fireworks, or bombs bursting in air, or whatever command expects. They want you to go in without fire support so the fort doesn’t get damaged. I’m guessing that is Morano’s idea. I don’t know what you scouts did to piss her off, but she seems to have it out for you. Regardless, I don’t intend to sit here with my thumb up my ass so keep your head low, get the picture, and the helo will circle back around and pick you up.”

“Thank you sir, I owe you big time if we get out of this.”

“Don’t mention it. Command thinks that with enough propaganda we can win this war. I don’t usually agree with the brass hats, but if they’re right I will light up the sky with so many shells Francis Scott Key will add another verse to the national anthem. Good luck Ryan”

There was nothing else to say. Ours is not to reason why ours is but to do and die.

“Thirty Seconds!” the crew chief yelled over the sound of the rotors.

I reached out and shook hands with my team. Ethan Szimanski, William Szimanski, Dan Walls, Markus Muth, Bull St. Pier. I closed my eyes Brian Baublitz, Marion Robbins. A star shell went off. The intense light showed through my closed eyelids.

“GO, GO, GO!”

We jumped out into the courtyard shooting.

The helo rose and flew to its holding pattern near the top of the peninsula. On the Patapsco side the PBR open up with everything they had. From the opposite side of the peninsula the Seahawk opened up with its minigun. Another flare went off. Deep booms in the darkness and flashes from Sterett told us the Marines were joining the fight.

The shadows from the multiple airborne flares danced cruelly all around us, playing tricks on our eyes. The flashes from our weapons going off added to the horror. The moaning was getting louder. The courtyard was full of sun bleached bones from long dead zombies.

Red eyes above yellow and white grins swayed back and forth as they approached from all direction. The rockets’ red glare burned above us. Bombs were bursting in air, releasing hundreds of pellets on the moat and ramparts.

Scenes from Dante’s Inferno seemed like paradise compared to what we were seeing now.

I pushed another mag into my carbine and hit the slide release. Bull was nowhere to be seen. Ethan and William, ever by my side were firing into the darkness. The moaning was getting louder. Walls had the folded flag, he ran to the flagstaff at the east end of the courtyard.

With the buzz of a chainsaw, Sterett’s Phalanx Gatling gun opened up. Grass and dirt and pieces of centuries old brick flew into the air as a million angry firefly-bees buzzed into the ramparts once gleaming. There was fire all around us as flares and tracers ignited parched grass.

They came through the gate, straight in front of the flag staff at the east end. Walls was frantically hauling the large flag up the old weathered staff. The moaning was getting loader. The old halyard creaked; it hadn’t been used in years.

Markus threw his shotgun like a centurion lobbing his pilum javelin. The two foot bayonet on the front lodged in a zombies chest feet away from Walls. It didn’t kill the zombie but it knocked the thing over and bought Walls more time to raise the flag.

Markus ran into the crowd coming through the gate swinging his gladius like Russell Crowe in Gladiator. The moaning was getting louder. It drowned out the sound of the helo as it circled around, calling in adjustments for the gunners on Sterett.

The BB rounds momentarily stopped the horde at the gates. Markus disappeared in the hail of tungsten and glory. Walls, who had just tied off the halyard was beating a zombie with his E-tool when a few errant BBs shredded his left leg.

We ran for him. Our rifles dangled useless and empty. They piled on top of him faster than the Ravens defense dives onto a fumbled football. Another salvo of BB rounds completed the devastation.

Now it was just the three of us. Ethan swung his AR-15 like a club. William stabbed the straight end of his crowbar into the closest zombie’s bright red eye. I fired my pistol until it ran dry with my left hand. In my right hand I had my machete, a kopis sword, the kind Alexander the Great and Hannibal Barca used. The two foot blade curved forward giving it the slashing power of a sword and the chopping power of an ax.

The ax came out of nowhere. I got my machete up in time to block it. I will never forget the look in Bull’s eyes as he came at me. They were not red, he had not been bitten, but they were dead. At some point tonight he had looked into the darkness and it had broken him. I’ve heard of soldiers losing it in combat like this. Honestly I was surprised we all hadn’t broken. We were in hell on earth.

He raised the ax over his head. I could not look away from his intense, lifeless eyes. Behind him explosions rocked the earth. It was night but the sun never shone so intensely. He bought the ax down with all his considerable strength.

Ethan tackled him with his full force. He was always the most agile of us from his days as a hockey goalie. Bull stumbled but did not fall. He raised the ax again. Ethan landed heavily on the ground and lay there gasping. The acrid smoke burned my lungs too.

William hit him hard across the back with his crowbar. Bull spun violently, throwing William off balance, but diverting his attention from me. That was all I needed to regain my footing. I swung my machete in a vicious overhand arch. Never in my life had I wanted to kill something so bad. The kopis blade made contact.

He blocked it with his ax as he turned back towards me. The shock of the hit reverberated all the way down my arm. I dropped my badly nicked blade and he dropped his ax.

I still had my empty 1911 in my left hand. I passed it to my right and gripped it by the red-hot barrel like some old time pirate. He was drawing a long curved knife but I dove on him before he could get it out. I hammered the end of my metal pistol grip into his face over and over again until Ethan and William dragged me to my feet.

The zombies were closing in and we had nothing left.

The helo came in low as the three of us readied ourselves for death in the courtyard. It blinded us with its spotlight. On the far side its minigun chewed threw the horde. Flares, fires, and artillery explosions formed the background. We stood there shielding our eyes. Later it would be said that we were saluting. The dead lay all around us. Above us flew the tattered Star Spangled Banner. The Copilot leaned out and snapped the picture.

The rotor wash blew over the rotted wood flagstaff which had stood just long enough. It fell into one of the burning buildings. The facsimile of Betsy Ross’s flag burst into flames. The Seahawk touched down just long enough for us to jump in.

Epilogue… Seattle

“Anyway our picture should be on the cover of the next issue of Time Magazine. William and Ethan decided to join a PBR crew since IST5 is being reconstituted. They didn’t want to serve under the new CO.”

“No wonder you are going to be making speeches. When you tell tall tales like that.” said Doc, who I did not think was still awake.

“My only question is how did the brass find out you could tell such a fanciful story?” commented Nick.

“Are you guys kidding me? Every word of that was true, beautifully poetic, but true. But I can’t help that I have a Liberal Arts Degree. In fact next week I sail for Hawaii to be the keynote speaker for the recommissioning ceremony for the Battleship Missouri.”

“It was good seeing you again, but we really need to head outta here. We start teaching tomorrow.” Nick said.

“Have you started the PowerPoint yet?” Doc asked.

“Nope.” Nick answered as they walked out.

I asked the bartender “Do you know anywhere I can find pretzels?”

He shook his head no and I walked out. I had to get back home and feed my rabbit. As I walked I pulled out my phone and began typing into the database.

Sex—female

Race—Caucasian

Hair—blond

Eyes—green

Age—20-25

Last known location—Austin TX

Identifying marks—scar on bridge of nose…

EAST BOUND AND DOWN

By

Alex McHale

The Evacuation of Manhattan, Z Day + 7

Chapter 1

Stewart Air National Guard base is a post 1996 relic of a joint Air Force / Army base that sits about 60 miles up the Hudson river from New York City. It was once a quiet regional international airport with a few second rate airlines , a heavy lift C-5 squadron on the Air Force side and a VIP helicopter detachment on the Army side. It was pretty disconnected from the rest of world, and a safe haven for senior military aviators to hang out and ride out the dogs days of the Hudson Valley summer to retirement.

Today, it was the busiest airport on the planet. Air Force heavy lift aircraft hogged the tarmac constantly coming and going. Their heavy engines rumbled the cracked pavement and rattled the Plexiglas windows of the bombed out terminal. LMTVs, HEMMET refuelers and maintenance teams scrambled in chaos like pissed off fire ants on an anthill. CH-47 Chinooks and their deep turbine engines and UH-60s roared all over the airfield, landing at PAX terminals and dropping off survivors from the Evac out of Manhattan.

“Clear two?”

“Clear”

“Rodger Starting Two” I pressed in, and release the starter button on the number 2 engine Power Control Lever.

Jackal flipped through some papers and hands me the mission packet “Looks like today is going to be a long one bro” he says with a smirk. I flip through the packet looking at a shitty Google earth picture of the intrepid. “They get the FARP (Forward Aircraft Refueling Point) set up yet?” I asked as I tucked the mission packet under the steel clip on my knee board.

“Almost, a bunch of Zs broke through the security barricade and overran that bitch, rumor has it the FARP guys stuck a flare in his HEMMET tank before they got waxed” Jackal said while packing a lip with chew.

One of our crew chief’s, “Slim” as we called him, keyed the mike from outside. With the ambient noise of the rotor system heard in the ICS he said “Yeah I saw that shit go down sir, talk about a bunch of fucking noobs…. The explosion was really cool.”

Slim was a bean pole of a SGT, standing at 6’7” he had to wear knee pads behind his gun even with the seat jacked all the way back as his long ass legs stuck into the side of the aircraft. He was a funny dude, he had “WARLOCK” spray painted on one side on his helmet visor, and a “Your mom sends me care” packages patch slapped across the other side. Slim is an avid World of Warcraft junkie with an addiction to blasting Zs, he was an awesome crew chief and could build a Black Hawk from the wheel s up if you gave him an aluminum block and a chisel, as an Wyoming native he grew up toting around a level action 30/30 before he would walk. Our other crew chief, SPC Thompson was as cherry as they come, but a good kid. Competent crew dogs were hard to come by, even at 19 and barely 120 pounds soaking wet Thompson knew how to dissect every avionics component he put his hands on and had the midas touch with the hydraulic system.

I advanced both engine control levels forward. The rotor system roared and the engines whined up in a furious roar and get your adrenaline pumping.

“Alright PCLs going to fly, rotor 100% bro, avionics are good, crew/pax.”

“Secure left rear.”

“Right rear.”

I looked back to see Thompson screwing with his seatbelt.

“Jackal you have the controls on the way out bro, I’ll take the radio calls, swap at palisades?”

“You got it Sir.”

“1-2 this 1-1 you guys ready to hit it?”

CW3 Jim Coffee was chalk two behind us, Jim was one of my most experienced pilots, a test pilot by day and a hippie by night. “Grim Jim” was from out west, up in Seattle Washington, back in Iraq he used to do Tai Chi on top of the Phalanx cannon every morning, and had gotten shot down 3 times as the sole survivor, hence his name. He was flying with WO1 “Buck” Baker, the FNG, fresh out of flight school.

“We are ugghhhhhh redcon 1.”

“Fucking new guys…” Jackal sneered and shook his head. “They always suck on the radios.”

“RodgO Calling tower” I tapped the radio selector switch on my ICS panel “Stewart tower, Voodoo 41, flight of two on bravo ramp, requesting present position departure to the south.”

“Rodger, Black Magic 41 you are clear for takeoff winds, 220 at 15 knots gusting 21.”

Jackal pulled in some power and we took off flying low over the airfield. The gigantic FEMA camp was packed full of civilians in temporary housing, aka the tent city, it was gruesome, piles of trash lay scattered everywhere while people slogged through the mud and swarmed LMTVs throwing out boxes of MRES, the smell of burning human remains and feces hovered over the camp like a pestilent smog, we cleared out of it and rolled down low over the Hudson River.

Chapter 2

The whole Valley looked dead, except for the columns of smoke rising over the urban areas. We overflew the Academy: West Point. It was in lock down mode, serving as a Tactical Operations Center for ground commanders in the Hudson Valley, fighting a holding action against the millions of zombies and refugees coming out of the City.

A pair of Apaches circled high over the top of Storm King Mountain, like vultures looking for some Zs to swoop down on. “64 traffic over the point this is voodoo 41 flight of two NOE over the river, we got you guys in sight, we’re no factor for you” I called a courtesy “heads up” call to them so they didn’t shoot near us or hit us when they fuck around and crash, as 64 Pilots love to do. “What’s up voodoo, yeah we see you guys, you guys headed down to the city?”

“RodgO fourteenth trip this week,” I pushed back.

“Good luck fellas, I hear it’s a mad house down there stay safe”.

“Thanks guys, you too. Good hunting.”

Jackal sped up to 150 knots over the water, the brown and grey burbles of the Hudson spit up at us. It was a choppy day, and the ribbons of oil and chemicals were bright and vibrant, reflecting like a rainbow like oil puddles you see in parking lots. We banked hard to the right and Jackal pulled the aircraft into a steep cyclic climb over the Bear Mountain Bridge and then cranked the aircraft over hard on the left and gave her a healthy nose down attitude, BONG BONG BONG! The radar altimeter was going off. Out of the side window I could see the Armored Personnel Carriers parked on either end of the bridge. I could reach out and touch them, almost.

200 feet…

100 feet…

75 feet…

25 feet.

The aircraft lurched back up, I felt the pull and hard sink of 2G’s as he leveled her back out. The Rotors and engines whine happily as they spun up while increasing speed.

“…annnnnnnnd level.” He said with a smirk, “oh look at that bro 15 feet! New record!”

He was a sick fuck, but he was one hell of warrant officer, my unit instructor pilot. Jackal was a crusty infantry E7 from back in the day; he was in a Long Ranger Reconnaissance Team and was the dude in Iraq with the black patches on his ACUS and a goatee, he had 20 years in the military and had the “I don’t give a fuck” attitude. HE had learned to fly helos after 15 years in the Army, passing the flight exams with ease. He pushed the “I’m a pilot I’ll get away it with” card to the max. He rolled his sleeves up when he flew and rocked his standard issue Oakley half jackets under his flight helmet with a black superman patch on his helmet visor. He was going to get out before the Zs rolled in, he wanted to be a science teacher and move back to Vegas to retire. So much for that plan!

“Alright Lex you have the controls bro, I got the radios.” I took the controls and brought us back up over the mountains; there was a cliff face just adjacent to the Nuclear Power Plant that I loved to fly down.

“Coffee man! Tune up 770 on your ADF.” Jackal said on internal.

“Jackal I swear if It’s more of that right wing Sean Hannity shit I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

“Nah bro check it out.”

I pushed my switch down on the ADF and grinned in approval as “all along the watch tower” came on over the radio. The city skyline started to come into view; it was a warzone. The skyscrapers were crumbling, some were on fire, the Empire State Building’s lights were all Red for what Jim thinks means “stay the FUCK away” the City was a mad house of Reavers, Zs , Looters and freaked the fuck out civilians.

“Alright drop down over the water, let’s mix it up, over the bridges, watch for jumpers, lets head around the lady, down over wall street, around the Harlem River, Yankee stadium and we’ll approach the pier to the east.”

Flying over the city was fraking awesome, but a mad house of helicopter traffic. The Marines had their damned hands in everything ruining it for everyone as usual. They operated the evac of most of Long Island and had set up shop at JFK, flying people out to the ships.

“Kennedy Tower Voodoo 41, flight of two 60’s south bound at the face, requesting a south east bound transition over wall street, to the Harlem.”

The controller came back to in a heavy Brooklyn accent. “Yeahh uh Rodger that 41, approved as requested, report Lady remain below 500 ft. Heavy helicopter traffic in the vicinity of Ft. Hamilton, and the Intrepid.”

“41 copies all.” Jackal took was taking some action shots with his iPhone as we came around the Statue of Liberty. “WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT!?” Slim laughed over the radio, I looked over that the Statue of Liberty and was shocked. “Some mother fucker spray painted a fucking mustache on the Statue of Liberty.” Thompson was arching over his chair tying to get a good look.

The sound of the secure radio double beep popped on in my helmet “Hey Lex you guys see that, looks like someone tagged up the Lady!”

I replied “Haha yeah man, that’s fucking hilarious. But seriously…. What a bunch of dicks.”

“I would have painted a big fat penis on it.” Spc Edwards blasted over internal.

“I’ll paint your mom with mine” Jackal shot back over internal “You don’t fuck with ’Merica!”

“Dude that guy doesn’t get a Black Hawk ride out of NY, what a doucher.” I replied.

You could see the fires and Zs in the streets, the ground guys were putting the smack down on the Zs. Burst of .50 cal, the rapid fire of 240s, were lighting up the streets, the body parts, and bright red clouds of mist exploded throughout the horde. Some navy cats in a PT boat were doing a drive by along the Wall Street helipads. I brought us down for a close look.

“Now that’s fucking gangster,” Slim said as he held his GoPro camera out this window. The PT boat had the M260 30mm chain gun on it, the same one that’s on the Apache; they were blasting the crap out of the Zs on the piers. They were massing on the pier, running full speed off the docks and falling into the water. Pieces of zombie flew over all over the place; the round exploded upon impact, turning the crowd into a killzone.

“Mind if we join in, Sir?”

“Hell yeah man! Light those bitches up!” *CHHHHCHHHHCHHCHHCHHHCHHCHHCHHCHHHHCHHHH

Slim’s 240 rained down 7.62 justice upon the mob of Zs. “Think I can set one of them on fire?” I asked Jackal.

“Hahah Idk bro, be careful don’t get too close to that 30mm.”

I sped up and tucked the nose, threw in some pedal and swooped about 30 feet over the mob, Jackal flipped the safety switch and I punched about 10 flares into the crowd. “yyyyyyyyyyyyyyup…” Slim keyed. “Anything?” I keyed back.

“Yyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyup…………. oh yeah BAHAHAH ohhh yeah!!” I couldn’t see as we had already flown past them.

“Are they burning?” I asked Slim again.

“Meh. I think you got the hedges that were next to the mob, maybe you got a couple, I wasn’t really watching.”

“Hahahah than why did you say yup?”

“Oh, I just saw a huge fat guy get ripped limb from limb by a couple Zs on the subway tracks and then get hit by a train.”

I just kept flying… “DUDE did you get it on camera!?” Jackal said.

Just then the radio beeped again. “1-1, 1-2: Did you guys just SEE fat guy get mauled and then hit by a train?” Buck said over internal. Jackal just looked at me and laughed in his usual way, and I keyed the mic shaking my head with a grin and said “As if your day couldn’t get any worse. Oh look there’s my train!”

Chapter 3

We flew low over the east side and over Yankee Stadium. Inside there were the remains of some survivors and what looked like a FEMA camp. Just then some tracer fire came straight up at out windshield from inside the stadium. I banked the aircraft to the left hard “1-1 taking fire from the 12 o’clock, I think it came from inside the stadium.” I felt the “plunk” noise of the aircraft taking hits, “1-1 taking hits”

I did a small cyclic climb and then pushed us over banking right then left, dropping more altitude it was a hailstorm of incoming fire now, not just from around the stadium, but from around the streets, and on top of roof tops. I ducked behind a couple of skyscrapers as an RPG round flew past my nose and impacted the MetLife building next to me, exploding and sending glass flying out in from of me and down towards the streets.

“Get us out of here sir,” Jackal said in a cool and collected voice, “you are clear around to the left.” Slim backed me up hanging out the window shooting his 240.

“I’ve got a technical 6 o’clock shooting at chalk 2,” Thompson said as his 240 belted out brass onto the canvas seats. “1-1, 1-2 how are you guys looking?” Jim keyed over internal .

“We’re alright man we took a few hits, I’m going to have our crew dogs take a look when we land at the pax terminal, how about you guys?”

“Yeah, we’re alright we took a few his, but our systems are green right now.” Jim sounded as casual as always, coming from a dude who has gotten shot down and shot up more than most pilots I know, it didn’t’ surprise me. “Man and I thought Detroit was bad,” I said over the radio.

Jackal smiled and said “When did the City turn in fucking Compton bro?”

“When the Reavers took over Ft. Hamilton, prolly” I said.

“Anybody want some bacon?” Slim held up a greasy plastic bag up over the center console and Jackal and I looked at each other. “Come on… you know you want some… baconbaconbaconbacon.” Jackal looked back at him and said “Where the hell did you get bacon?”

Slim was feeding the greasy strips into his mouth clutching the ends of the meat with his long gangly fingers and replied while chewing. “Well the store got the bacon from a Pig, I got it from the store and then smoked it in the barracks… It’s smokey deliciousness is amazinggggrrrrrr nom nom nom.”

“I’ll have some.” Thompson stuck his hand in the greasy bag.

“Take your gloves off first rookie, you’ll get em all fucked up,” Slim said while munching on. “Dude that smell delicious! Hook a brother up Slim” Jackal received the greasy bag, handed me a slice.

“Awwwwwww yeahhhhhhhh,” I said in delight.

We pulled in short final over the water and started our approach to the helipads where the civilian crowd was waiting. “Man look at this place.” I said while putting adjusting my approach angle. The people were rioting, screaming and yelling, pushing each other over and trampling over one another. They were climbing on up on fences and trying to get on helicopters; there were a barges over flowing with people. There were people in business suits, people with bags, children, holding pets, babies, the elderly, homeless, foreigners and tourists alike.

The Staten Island ferry was capsized and on fire, and other boats were so overburdened with people, some people were latched on the rubber bumpers, dangling chest deep in the water. The military had brought in 18 foot T-Walls to make a secure LZ with C-wire on the top of it, they had a pretty extensive and fortified Entry Control Point, and but it looked like they barely had the crowd at bay. “Alright Jim, I’ll take the far right pad closest to the entrance.”

“Rodger that, I’ll come in right behind you.” The crew chiefs, hanging out their windows walked us in, “you’re clear down right”, “and down left sir”. I continued down looking out the left door, and down towards the ground.

A couple soldiers in full kit ran up to the crew chief and yelled into their mic boom, “WE’VE GOT 22 PEOPLE FOR YOU TODAY!”

“Okay, Thompson tell him to send them out, we’re at 1000 pounds of gas on the money.” The grunt signaled to with a wave of his arm, and the people started running out towards the aircraft. There were 11 people coming towards my aircraft, 4 young women that looked terrified as hell, and looked to be around my age in their mid twenties, there were three men in business suits, one of them with a briefcase and 7 other men of different ages and appearances, one of the dudes had a Marlboro cigarette hat on, an oil stained blue shirt and a had a mangled looking beard, he looked like a mechanic as his hands were covered in grease and looked oil stained. That and the motherfucker had a grease rag in his pocket. I thought the dope was going to have his hat blown off his head, but he took it off, hunched down and came into the rotor system, and buckled in on the front couch in a split second. That’s odd… must be a vet or something… back in ’Nam maybe, I thought to myself I turned back to look at him, and he gave me a hang loose sign and a toothless smile.

“Yo you check out that old joker in the back?” I looked at jackal, who was packing another lip. He stomped on the floor mic and said, “Yeah man, he’s totally outa of the ’Nam.” “Jim how many Pax you got man?”

“11, we’re full up.” Okay, winds look straight down the pipe, we’ll come straight up, fly down the street here and climb out over central park.”

“Rodg!” he said. “Okay man I’m coming up and out.”

“Alright man, you have the controls, take us home.” I looked over at jackal, he readjusted and sat up in his chair and put his feet on the pedals, I made the radio call to JFK tower and let them know what we were doing and we started to take off. “Shit man look at that crowd down there, that’s insane….” It must have been 5000 plus people, helicopters were all over the place, picking up people and dropping them off, split between Floyd Bennet airfield which was controlled by the Navy, and Governors Island, where FEMA and the CDC had set up shop.

Jackal pulled in some more power and dipped the nose to gain some airspeed, there were Zs fucking everywhere, the streets were jammed with taxis, buses and cars, some of them were on fire. I looked down and saw a family running from some Zs. The woman fell and dropped her child and they were just about to get over run by the Zs.

“SLIM DO SEE THE FAMILY BELOW US AT OUR 9.” I blurted out. “Slow back man” Jackal pulled back and decel’d us, “I GOT EM!” Slim shouted!

“Open fire on the Zs man, see if you can cover them.”

“On the GO!” Jackal came down in altitude, “2, 1 one, we’re going to try to cover this family of civilians making a run for the Safe Zone, maneuver to facilitate their movement watch your fire.”

“40 feet, no lower Jackal, scan for wires Thompson, keep us clear and back get the ones of the right.”

“Rodg.” I reached back and grabbed the M4 in the center console rack; we were at a very slow however and did something that was really stupid but I didn’t care.

“what the fuck are you doing Lex?” “Helping out Slim,” I racked a round in the M4, stuck my foot in the door arm Lock and started shooting at Zs. I caught one of them with a 3 round burst in a dead sprint, he stumbled and splattered over the hood of Car. “Reloading!” Slim said over the ICS. POP POP POP POP! I hit one in the shoulder tearing off its arm, and blew off its left knee cap.

The terrified family, looked up at us, they continued to flee down the sidewalk. We helped them out for another block where the made it to a ground patrol helping civilians towards the safe area. “Hey it’s cool and all that we tried to help them out but that was really fucking stupid and risky Lex,” Jim said over the radio.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Jackal spoke up over the radio. He looked at me and said, “I got kids man, 9 and 14, you bet you fucking ass I would have done the same thing. It was a risky fucking call but sometimes it pays off.“

“Appreciate that, hey bro we’re almost bingo, we need to roll NOW.”

“Hey 2, 1 we’re almost bingo man, let’s hit it.”

“Rodg!”

Jackal nosed over and flew us down a street towards central park. Jackal looked over to me and said “Hey man, I’m gonna take us up a little higher out of the buildings, this is Reaverl territo—’

Before he could finish what he was saying tracer rounds erupted all over the aircraft, a few rounds punched through my chin bubble and hit my dashboard displays, shattering them. The aircraft suddenly lurch hard to the right and strait down. I looked over at Jackal who was slumped over the controls, leaning up against his door. I pulled back on the cylic with both hands and hard as I could to get his body weight off of it and correct our soon to be smoking wreck.

“Jackals hit, GET HIM OFF THE CONTROLS!” I yelled. I grunted as hard as I tried to correct the aircraft attitude. Thompson unbuckled and reached up and pulled Jackal’s harness reel and pulled him back into the seat.

Rounds continued to hit the aircraft, the MASTER CAUTION panel lit up yellow, the #1 fire light illuminated and then an enormous loud BANG and concussion wave hit the aircraft inside of the cabin. Blood flew up to the cockpit on the center console.

I looked back, thinking that Thompson has shot the 240 inside the aircraft. In reality, we figured out later, a Rocket Propelled Grenade hit the back of the crew compartment, punching through the rear right cargo door and detonating over the APU accumulator and igniting the fuel line above the #2 engine. “FUCK!! What the fuck was that!” I shouted out.

The aircraft became a lot harder to control. I felt the flight controls get really sloppy. I wiped the blood of of Jackal’s MFD panel and saw that a #1 Hydraulic pump failure, Backup Reservoir low and #1 and #2 tail rotor servo failure and # 1 primary flight control servo failure… In infantry terms, I was all out of magic and smoke to make Miss UH60 Michelle the helicopter fly and I was barely keeping control, and was on fucking fire.

“MAYDAY MAYDAY MAYDAY, VooDoo 41 is hit and going down, in the south east corner of Central Park, 16 people on board…. Will call down and safe!” The radio exploded in chatter on the SATCOM when I broadcast it. I wasn’t listening, I was just trying to keep here strait and level and find a fucking place to land.

“Slim you alive?”

“Yeah I’m alright…. My head is fucking killing me…” he said. “Make the radio calls, talk to chalk 2, Thompson is the Number 2 on fire still?”

“YES SIR flames are at the cargo door now!!!” he said in a terrified voice.” The civilians strapped into the cargo seats were screaming. I felt a wiggling yaw in the rudder pedals, I was 85kts and had no choice, she was starting to yaw to the right a little bit more and more. I reached up with my right pulled the #2 fire handle on the engine which shut the fuel off, popped a fire bottle on engine number 2 saw the engine RPM drop. The cockpit was an array of warning tones and lights now. I dropped the collective and started an Autorotation and begin the emergency landing. If I didn’t we would spiral out of control and crash.

I left the number #1 on in order to maintain a power on auto rotation. I didn’t have single engine capability anyways, not with a full load of passengers. I would try to make it a gentle landing. I pulled back the #2 engine and pointed the aircraft towards and open bluff looking field with only few tree.

My heart was beating out of my fucking chest as the aircraft was barely staying up, the radios were exploding with traffic.

Jim’s UH-60 flew by the front of my aircraft above me and I looked down the ground rushing up towards the cockpit, the radar altimeter read 200ft… The Number 1 engine failed. now this shit was real…. 100ft….

I pulled in a hard decel and felt the aircraft start to sink 30 feet. Come on Michelle don’t fall apart on me baby come on!!!! I pulled in the collective and heard the low rotor horn go off

“HOLD ON GUYS!” I pulled the guts out of it and we hit the ground with a thunderous *CRASH*. My seat stroked down to the floor, the rotor blades flexed and smashed into the ground, and the transmission caved in through the back of the aircraft, my head hit the dashboard and I saw a stars and blacked out for minute. My face had hit top of the foam dash and I was bleeding from a gash under my left cheek bone. The rotors knocked off the tail boom and we spun around in a circle; I saw a HUGE fiery flame spurt around as the aircraft spun 90 degrees to the right… I quickly pulled the #1 engine fire handle and hit the extinguisher. It didn’t work, the fire was still on. We spun to a stop.

Chapter 4

I was alive. The crashed knocked the frigging breath out of me and my neck was burned and bleeding from the seat belt digging into me during the crash sequence. There was shit everywhere, there was brass and smoke grenades, charts and approach plates all over fucking place. Jackals dip bottle had spattered all over his windshield. I came out of the slow motion and entered into freak out crash mode.

“IS EVERYONE ALL RIGHT?” The old man in the back seat with the blue shirt, had already unbuckled, and crawled out Thompson’s window and was dragging Thompson slumped body out of the aircraft. I could feel the heat from the flames, and smoke was starting to obscure the cockpit.

“SLIM! Are you fucking alive?” I shouted as I started to unbuckle myself. A Zombie Jumped on top of my windshield and started to beat on the windshield. FUCK YOU MOTHER FUCKER!!!! I pulled out my M9 and emptied half the magazine in its face. I jettisoned my cockpit door, and tried to get up and out of it… I was in fucking pain all over, I was okay, my right knee was really fucking hurting but I powered through it and got out of the helicopter to help Slim, who was stuck in his harness and had blood all over his face. I hopped out, weapon at the ready, did a quick scan, reached in and pulled him out of the widow, his eyes’ were blood shot and he was bleeding from the forehead.

I looked to my right and saw that the fire was consuming almost all of the rear of the aircraft and passenger compartment. The Plexiglas widows were melted, the doors charred and I could feel the intense heat of the JP8 flame, the passengers, were all dead, the business man and two of the women were squished and disfigured from the transmission caving through the cabin ceiling, there was a severed arm and someone’s intestines strewn about on the floor in a pool of blood. One of the men in the hurricane seat was decapitated and the man next to him was burning and split in half. The Asian dude sitting next to Slim had a shard metal sticking out of his neck and was bleeding out, he was alive, but not for much longer, perhaps another minute max; he was clutching his leg that was bleeding profusely from behind the knee where I could see his bone sticking through. He looked over at us and then slumped down in his chair.

I was able to pull out Slim who was hacking and coughing. I ran around to Jackal’s door where I met the geezer pulling off the 240 from the mount. He looked at me and shouted “GET YOUR FUCKING BROTHER CAPTAIN I GOT THIS”.

I opened up Jackal’s door and jettisoned it. He was bleeding from this shoulder and had taken several rounds to his chest plate. I cut away his seatbelts, and started to pull him out of the seat “SLIM GET THE WEAPONS OUT OF THE AIRCRAFT!! I’M OVER HERE PULLING OUT JACKAL”

I got him out and dragged him away about 20 meters and set him up against a tree, where the crazy old guy had put Thompson. Slim came running over to me without weapons in hand the 240 slung around his waist, with a couple ammo cans. I saw Jim still circling overhead. “Pack his wounds, check Thompson and get ready for the Zs.” I sprinted back to the aircraft. It was still ablaze as I plugged into the ICS, and tried to push out on Guard on battery power

“Jim, we’re alive, Jackals hit but coming around, Thompson is critical.” Nothing… what the fuck was I thinking!? The aircraft was on fire and all the antennas are fucking toast. I reached in the back grabbed Jackals and my GO Bag and ran back out to where Slim was working on Jackal and Thompson.

The surviving civilian was already set up with the 240 conversion kit and everything… wtf!? I packed up jackal’s wound pretty good and the bleeding stopped, lucky for him his plate stopped the other rounds, but knocked him the fuck out. Thompson on the other hand was serious. He was bleeding from a gigantic gash on his leg. Slim was threw a tourniquet on, packed it out, and was working on a splint.

“Hey Old timer! Any Zs coming our way?”

“Negative sir, I hear them stirring though.”

“Who the hell are you?” I asked him while trying to dress up Thompson.

“Staff Sergeant Retired John Halaszynski. US ARMY and Nam ’73.”

“I knew it!”

“Don’t worry bro this ain’t the first time I’ve been shot down in a helicopter! HA HA HA HA!” The old coot was having a great time, from the look on his face. “Glad to have you aboard Ski, watch our six, man.”

“Rodger that! Let those motherfuckers come on my way!” The old dude was really loving this shit. I mean seriously they say in NYC you see everything, well they weren’t kidding. I pulled out my CSEL radio and got Jim on the horn over UHF guard “Jim, you copy? We’re down, 2 injured, come down and get us dude”

“Will do Lex, I have to kick these civis out man, or I won’t have the power.”

“Bullshit! You have a half a tank of gas bro you can take 5 more people!!”

“Rodger that, 64s are on the way btw bro.” he shot over the radio. We started across the field. Ski and I had jackal in a two man chair carry, and Slim was had Thompson over his shoulder.

“Awesome glad to hear, we’re PZ posture you should be clear down man.” The radio cracked again, Buck said something but I couldn’t understand it. Jackal started coughing “New guys always fucking suck on the Radio” he mumbled with a pale smirk.

“Zs incoming!” As if almost on queue a fucking horde of zombies started to make their way towards the crash site; Ski opened on the 240 and Slim and I started firing away. Jim was on short approach final but these motherfuckers were getting close. I could hear the identifiable gargle and growl of the zombies as they got closer.

“LOADING!” Ski shouted, as he changed belts on the 240. I hit a chick in a jogging suit, and they waxed a dude in one of those foam hot dog suits you see people on the side of the road. Dropped some club rat looking thug and popped the face off of some Hipster looking dude.

“Where fuck are we!? WHY ARE WE FUCKING SHOOTING?! FUCK WE CRASHED!!!” Jackal came out of his blacked out state, he freaked for a minute back pedaling in the dirt. “HOLY FUCK! Zs!!!” he said with great emphasis. “Can you stand?” I yelled over the sound of 240 fire. “YEAH I think so, he stumbled to his feet grabbed his suppressed UMP and started blasting Zs covering our Six. “LOADING”! I yelled as I slapped another fresh mag in my weapon.

“BOOM MOTHER FUCKERS!!!” Jackal threw a frag grenade at deep in to encroaching horde, sending body parts flying everywhere. ”Last MAG!” Slim shouted, his weapon jammed on the first round “FUCK ME!!!” he shouted.

I threw him mine “Here!” then transitioned to my M9. The zombies were within 20 meters of us. Jim swooped in, his door gunners blasting away cutting down the horde of Zs coming our way… “COME ON COME ON COME ON!!” He yelled over the deafening sound of the Black Hawk’s rotors. We loaded up Thompson, then Ski, Slim and I jumped on the aircraft the Zs were within 10 feet from the aircraft , we lifted off emptying out magazines on the horde. Jackal sent a burst through a terribly obese man, his stomach exploding onto the Z next to him. I unloaded my last magazine on a construction worker Z, the rounds punching through his hard hat that had somehow stayed on his head.

“FUCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!” Ski yelled as we took off, blasting away at the mob below us. I looked down to see a severed hand wrapped around Ski’s ankle He shook it off, and lit a cigarette. He Looked at us and yelled “DAMN I MISS THIS SHIT!” I went up on headset , looked at Jim, who turned around and said “You alright?

“Yeah….” I said out of breath. “I’m all right.” The rest of the flight was quiet, as we flew away from the central park the Apaches rolled in blasting 30mm and Rockets, then rolled out soon as we departed the park.

I met Jackal at the Aid Station when we got back. His bed was in the hallway. “What the fuck are you doing in the hallway?” I asked

“They kicked me out for slapping one of nurse’s asses” he said with his usual grin.

“Just one?” I said with a smirk.

“I got a few fractured ribs and a shallow GSW on the shoulder. Doc said it just missed an artery. Said I should be back and flying in a few weeks.”

“Good to hear bro, take it a day at a time, do you remember what happened when we got hit?”

“Nope, I just remember waking up and seeing that crazy guy in the blue shirt shooting fucking zombies and bleeding all over myself.” He paused for a minute looked down at this hospital bracelet and looked up at me with his serious Jackal face and said “Alex, I don’t ever want you to beat yourself up about what happened out there, you were able to put an aircraft down that was seriously fucked up. I don’t even know If I could have done the same. is Thompson Okay?”

“Yeah, funny enough he was actually In better shape that we thought, he should be good to go in 2 weeks, Oh and hey. I know you’re not supposed to have theses either but whose knows, maybe it will help.”

I cracked the top of a Sam Adams and handed it to him, put the others by his feet, raised my beer and said “Juambo!” which was “cheers” in Swahlili, meaning “brothers”. He smiled, klinked his beer and said “Juambo!”

SCROUNGING

by

Will Shaffer

Sacramento, California

Day Date Month Year

0900 Hours Local

Jake moved quickly and quietly through the suburban terrain. He had left his team on the roof of a convenience store a couple blocks back. He was out to forage a bit for his team and to also get a feel for the environment in the area. They had been inserted into the area to scout in preparation for a push to retake the agricultural area that the Sacramento Valley represented. The ability to grow more food would be a great relief to the American enclave that the Pacific Northwest had become. While the climate and terrain had made it naturally defensible, the growing season was restricted by the same. While surveillance of the area showed only moderate numbers of Zs, there had been a larger than normal presence of rogue survivor bands. Double-edged swords. Life was all about double-edged swords those days.

For his little excursion, which would have pissed the Task Force CO off, Jake traveled light. His clothes were fairly basic. Baseball cap, tactical “bite shirt,” blue jeans, and hiking boots. Tyr Tactical “PICO” plate carrier, “war belt,” and his rifle rounded out his gear. The plate carrier and war belt were a hodge-podge of different color/camo pouches that resulted from the previous few years of adapting to the Z War. Multicam, coyote brown, black, and olive drab pouches were all present on his gear, though Multicam was the predominant camo. Multicam had just become the primary camouflage pattern at the time of the The Fall and was “Tacticool” with SWAT Teams around the country at the time.

Wearing the plate carrier sucked. It was heavy. Front and rear ESAPI plates along with side plates came out to about twenty pounds of weight alone. The carrier, made of heavy Cordura nylon, weighed a couple more pounds. The pouches were weight. Then, the contents of the pouches added even more weight. Six rifle mags that each weighed a pound, two grenades that added another pound, a couple of smoke grenades, a heavy Strider fighting knife, medical kit, tactical radio, and other accoutrements of battle. While, some would argue that you could ditch the body armor in the time of zombies, the threat from the independent and rogue human groups threw a wrench into that concept. What good would the cool “bite suits” be if some hillbillie whacked you with a hundred year old .30-06?

As Jake moved, his eyes tracked in a tried and true manner. He scanned his surroundings then the ground in front of him every few steps. Moving like a “ninja” would quickly cease if stepped on a noisy “tattle tale” like broken glass or if he ran a nail up through his boot. As he moved, he let his senses work. For someone who had used to live in the Sacramento area, the absolute silence was unreal. There was no sound of airlines in the pattern for Sac International, no trains, no cars on the freeways or city streets. There were very little bird sounds, though more than a few birds about. Even the birds had learned that sound attracted Zs like little else would. The silence was a good thing from a tactical stance. Most Zs were not quiet. They groaned, shuffled, dragged legs, bumped into things, and stumbled about like drunks. If a Z was on the trail of something living, it’s howl could be heard at some distance. That howl would attract other Zs and before long, a herd would be on a single-minded hunt for some poor soul, or even a squirrel, that had gotten the attention of the Z. It often took days for the zombies to cease their chase.

In addition to the sound, Jake watched for movement. Some things moved naturally, like animals. People and Zs did not. Smell came into play. The Zs were really just pieces of slowly rotting meat, so they could be smelled at a distance at times. More than once, Jake had made the decision to bypass scouting a structure from the smell of death at the breach point. Either there were Zs inside or some purple-shirt-wearing church group had committed mass suicide. With all the horror Jake had seen in the previous few years, there were still things that bothered him to the soul. Dozens of healthy people drinking antifreeze in hopes that Jabba the Hutt would save their souls was one of those things.

Dogs. Dogs were one of the things that Jake feared. Untold numbers of dogs had run loose during The Fall. Large packs of feral dogs, whose keen senses kept them clear of Z hordes, would roam the countryside. They attacked with a viciousness and sometimes in numbers that seemed unreal. The military had standing orders to waste any dog packs on sight.

Focus! Jake snapped himself back into the moment. His mind had wandered as his body had droned on mechanically and instinctively. He found himself looking at a decent sized house that was relatively intact. No broken windows, no fire damage. He slowly moved around the perimeter of the house, which was a bit overgrown, but found little in the way of activity signs. He slowly made his way back to the front door and rapped softly on the door. He then took a knee and waited, watching “outboard” while he listened for sounds from the house. If a Z had been inside, the knock would have most likely sent the Z into a flurry of activity as it tried to find a way out of the house to the sound. After a few minutes with no sound, he slid his rifle around to his back. From his left side, he swept forward a pistol-gripped Remington 870 shotgun. The barrel had been sawed off just forward of the magazine tube, which made the gun very short. The shotgun was loaded with #4 birdshot, which was heavy enough to get through skull and tissue at close range but didn’t have the limited payload of heavier 00 buckshot.

With the shotgun in his right hand, he tried the door with the left. Locked. He let the shotgun dangle on the attached bungee sling and fished a small lock pick kit from his PICO. A little squirt of gun lube into the barrel of the lock and a minute of work defeated the lock. He carefully returned the kit to his vest before he pushed the door open. The door creaked uncomfortably loudly had he pushed it open as far as it would go. He covered swept the muzzle of the shotgun everywhere he could see, but failed to find any lurking Zs in sight. After a quick scan about inside, he stepped into the house. Once inside, he stopped and listened for several moments. He then pushed the door shut.

The house smelled old and dusty. It was a comforting smell that meant nothing had disturbed the house in some time. The house was dimly lit from the sunlight coming through the drapes of the various rooms. To counter the darkness, he pulled a Surefire R1 flashlight from his PICO and used it to light things up as he moved about. Four bedrooms, a large family/dining room, a kitchen, and a garage. All clear, but he stopped at the inner garage door. There was a sign posted on the door, addressed to “Sean,” that specifically said not to come out into the garage. The note said to read the note on the hall closet door.

Jake moved back slowly to the closet. The note there told “Sean” that his mother loved him dearly and his step-father could not be prouder of how the little boy had grown into a man. The note said that they had decided to take their own lives in the garage than become monsters. The closet held the step-father’s old seabag which had some basics, the canned food with the furthest out expiration dates, a medical kit, some maps, and two boxes of shells for the step-father’s shotgun. The note encouraged Sean to head to his aunt’s house in the mountains and ride out the storm there.

Jake pulled open the closet and found the seabag, closed up and intact. An over/under Browning double-barrel .12 gauge leaned up against the bag. He lifted the bag, which was fairly heavy from the canned foods it contained. The shotgun, fortunately, had a decent hunting sling on it. He carried those to the front door and set them down for a moment. His eyes tracked to the wall over and around the gas fireplace common of tract homes. Pictures. Pictures of a young single mother and her son. Pictures of a young boy and step-father on a fishing trip. Senior pictures and pictures of proud parents wearing matching college football jerseys with their son’s number. Sean and his parents. Jake turned and walked to the inner garage door.

He pulled the door open, which resisted slightly due to old packing tape around the door. The step-father had obviously wanted to keep the smell of death out to the house. There was hardly any odor. A couple years of hot summers and cold winters had contributed to the decomposition and a bit of mummification to the bodies. They had their backs to the door and faced the main garage door. They were sitting in folding chairs, the kind that you would take and set up on the lawn to watch a football game. Close to each other, what appeared to be the husband had his arm around the shoulders of the wife. A large portrait of Sean, kneeling on a football field in his uniform, was set up in front of the couple on a camping table. An empty wine bottle and two empty pill bottles sat on the table. They were wearing the jerseys with their son’s number. Jake closed and locked the door to the garage that had become a tomb. Jake stopped and picked up a writing tablet on the kitchen counter.

A few minutes later, Jake made his way out of the house and back to the “stop-n-rob” that his team had set up on the roof of. Toby dropped a rope down the roof access hatch and hauled the seabag to the roof. Jake wearily climbed up the roof ladder, burdened by the weight of his armor and on his soul. Once he saw that Toby had closed and secured the roof access hatch, he pulled the hunting shotgun from his back. He nodded to Toby, who quickly opened the seabag and began to inventory it. Jake began to pull off his gear.

“You took long enough.” Megan grumbled as she looked him over.

“Yeah, but I brought you a gift.” Jake handed her the shotgun, to which her eyes lit up. She had wanted a shotgun for building clearing for some time, but had yet to get her hands on her own. She quickly scurried over to Chris, who had been standing watch. In exchange for taking part of his watch, Chris went to work cutting the hunting shotgun down to something a bit more tactical. Meg chirped happily about the weapon the entire time. In the meantime, Toby had discarded about half of the load of canned food, which was past its’ expiration dates. They were left with some soup, some canned chicken and canned tuna, and a variety of canned veggies. The big score was a bottle of Tabasco sauce in the bag.

Meg, who now had a shortened over/under slung across her back, picked through the cans. She quickly went to work cooking a stew for the team. When she brought Jake his bowl of stew, she could tell that he was troubled, but had learned not to question her team leader. He was solid, but the weight of the world sometimes bore heavy on his shoulders. She sat next to him silently as he ate and fished her iPod from her BDU pants. She popped one ear bud into her right ear and one into Jake’s left before she started a playlist of music she knew he liked. He smiled modestly and tipped his spoon to her, silently thanking her for the meal. Once he finished, he settled back onto his makeshift bed of gear and covered his eyes with his hat, listening to the music and the quietly snoring woman beside him.

The new day normally would clear Jake’s mind. Normally.

* * *

Sean,

I hope that in finding this letter, you have not seen the troubles I have known in these dire days. Please, as they asked, do not go into the garage. Take my word that your parents passed peacefully with you in their hearts. Read their words and know that you were their world. I have not found many that have loved as unconditionally as they did.

I have taken the shotgun and supplies they left you. With hope, I am not leaving you unprepared. My team is tired, hungry, and sparsely equipped. We must forage for a good amount of our supplies, so with regret I must take yours. If you have made it this far, you ARE the strong and resourceful man your parents loved. In exchange for your supplies, I give you another task: Make it to Medford, Oregon. I will see that the debt is repaid.

Sincerely,

Painter, Jacob D.

Joint Special Operations Command - Irregular Scout Team-11, Fort Medford

* * *

THE GRUNTS

by

Specialist George Roy

Contributing Author

Corporal Phineas Thog

It was hot in the cockpit, despite the air streaming past at almost a hundred miles per hour. Flying up and behind the other UH-60 in the flight, the pilot could see the hot engine exhaust of the lead Blackhawk being blown downward by the rotor wash. The turbulence shook the bird, and he ignored the warning lights on the dashboard.

“Goddamned missing spare parts” he said into the headset when the copilot tapped the lights. “Can’t get a replacement until we get back to the Fort Orange, and there isn’t any at FOB Castle. We should be OK this flight.” He went back to concentrating on following the path of the Hudson River as it passed beneath them.

In the back, Staff Sergeant Mowers ripped off another piece of green hundred mile per hour tape and wrapped it around a hydraulic line that was leaking purplish orange fluid. He grinned at the trooper who sat on the canvas seat next to him, who looked like he was ready to puke. “Kid can’t be more than seventeen years old” he thought to himself.

The trooper, Private Henry Boudreaux, gripped the stock of his M-4, pointed down on the floor, and prayed a silent prayer with his eyes open. The crew chief held up his hand with one finger. One minute out, oh Jesus Christ save us. The helo tilted to the right, and the crewman on the other side opened up with his 240B machine gun as they circle the landing zone. With a flare they came down on the cracked pavement of the parking lot, and his squad leader, Sergeant Ramirez, punched him hard on the shoulder and yelled “GO GO GO!” in his ear. He unsnapped the crossed seat belts and grabbed the rucksack full of extra magazines for their rifles, then jumped to the ground, turned left, ran 5 paces and down, scanning for targets.

Sergeant Ramirez fell to the ground next to him as the Blackhawk increased power and lifted off, nose pointing back up river. Ramirez was yelling into his headset, giving a situation report to the company commander back in the TOC at FOB Castle. He glanced around, counting off the squad. One, two, three, six total plus him. They had hit the ground short of a full squad, as usual. He stood and pumped his fist towards the target building, then fell into the middle of the column as they rushed the front doors of the four story apartment building.

“Team one, GO!” he yelled, and the first team crashed through the yawning front door, clearing the lobby. One shot rang out as the second man in fired into a zombie that came down the stairway. The remains of the obese woman crashed to the floor.

“Up the stairs, to the roof!” They knew what to do, but his command reinforced the urgency. Boots pounded up the stairwell. As he passed the bloated corpse, Private Boudreaux vomited onto the boots of the man in front of him. Team One stayed behind, watching out of the doorway.

“Thanks, you asshole noob!” yelled Specialist Schride, glaring back at him over his shoulder as they hit the second flight of stairs. By the third landing, they were all out of breath. 75 pounds of ammo, water and food on their backs, plus a survival kit around their waist, weapon, and the extra ammo many of them carried in bags. That combined with the short rations everyone in America had been living on for two years combined to make them more tired than they should be. When they got to the top, one of them collapsed on the tarred blacktop, chest heaving, face red with exertion. PFC Johnson, the only woman on their squad.

“GET THE F UP!” yelled Ramirez, kicking the prone soldier until she rose to her feet. The others were already scanning their sectors, looking out over the tops of their ACOG sites.

“I GOT MOVEMENT. IT’S THEM!” PFC Johnson, on her second mission with the squad, was as keyed up as Boudreaux, and her voice cracked as she yelled it.

Ramirez barked at them “Make sure you ID your target! Remember what we came for!” He leaned over the parapet of the roof, and yelled into a bullhorn.

“CIVILIANS, MAKE FOR THE FRONT DOOR. RUN!”

A group of a half dozen civilians, dressed in ragged clothes and armed with a variety of makeshift weapons, ran toward the front of the building as fast as they could. Behind them, rotting figures started lurching quickly towards them.

Johnson open fire without orders from Ramirez, and her first shot hit one of the lagging civilians in the hip, sending him sprawling to the ground. He fell with a screech, and before he could rise, the zombies ripped him apart.

“God you stupid puta!” yelled Ramirez, and he smacked Johnson hard across the helmet, yelled “RUN” over the edge of the parapet, then started firing at the zombies. Downstairs, as the refugees cleared the door, Team One , the more experienced, disciplined fire squad, opened up, a rolling crackle of shots that started dropping zombies. More appeared at the edge of the woods, and the team rolled back from the doorway to follow the civilians up the stairway. They left a tiki bomb on a trip wire in the looby, set to spread a thousand steel pellets at head height. It detonated with a muffled BOOM as they rounded the second landing.

The civilians huddled on the roof as second team fired at a measured pace into the horde crossing the parking lot. POP POP POP.

First team took up a position over the stairwell, shooting downward into the zombies that were climbing the stairs. In a minute, the pile had grown so great that it blocked the stairway.

Ramirez popped orange smoke into the center of the roof, and the first Blackhawk thundered down, sucking the smoke into the updraft. It hovered over the roof and the crew chief hopped out and started hustling the civilians onto the bird. The last one in, a tough looking bastard with a crooked leg and scars on his face, looked around to make sure his group was all in, then hopped on himself, riding the edge like he had done it before.

The second helo dropped down onto the roof as the first circled around, firing into the horde. First squad piled into the open doors then turned and kept firing at the zombies that burst through the doorway of the stairs. Second squad fell back from the roof top to board the other side of the helo.

Boudreaux reached over and grabbed Specialist Schride by the carry strap on his body armor as he tried to clamber onto the UH-60. Rotting arms grabbed at him, and he howled in pain as jagged, rotten teeth tore through his leg. “Let me go you stupid fuck!” he yelled at Boudreaux and threw his weight back against the strap, breaking it free from Boudreaux’s grasp. The helo rose above Schride as he fell to the roof, and started swinging his rifle at the Zs clutching at him.

Ramirez grabbed the gunner and yelled in his ear, pointing at the roof as they spiraled away. The gunner nodded and opened up with a long burst of fire that shredded Schride as he stood.

When they touched down at FOB Castle twenty minutes later, a medical team had already moved the refugees off the landing pad. Ramirez jumped out of the helo, and walked across the pad, then slammed his helmet on the ground, screaming curses in Spanish. Johnson grounded her gear and slumped off towards the tents.

Corporal Snow, First Fire Team Leader, lit a cigarette and put it in Boudreaux ‘s shaking hands. “Welcome to the Wild Wild East, noob. You did OK. Not great, but OK. You’ll get better, but it’s gonna get worse.”

Copyright

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All work copyrighted 2013 Think On Productions and contributing authors.

Content

John F. Holmes
EVEN ZOMBIE KILLERS NEED A BREAK

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

PART II

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

THE WARTHOGS OF IRREGULAR SCOUT TEAM 5 by Ryan Szimanski

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

Epilogue… Seattle

EAST BOUND AND DOWN By Alex McHale

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

SCROUNGING by Will Shaffer

THE GRUNTS by Specialist George Roy Contributing Author Corporal Phineas Thog

Copyright