ZNIPER: A Sniper’s Journey Through The Apocalypse.

by Ward III, C.

  “Wait, you flew all the way here from Africa? The epidemic is there as well?” Stephan asked unbelievingly.

  “Yup. From the sounds of it, it’s all over South America as well. Not long before it hits Europe and Asia.” He grimaced.

  “You said you landed at Grayling. Why did you leave?” asked Kevin, wanting to know if he’d made the right choice by not going there.

  “Well, I figured it was FUBAR when I called in, requesting to land. Flight LN269 didn’t get a response from anyone. Anywhere. I did a couple of circles around the airbase, and it was dark, but I could see some movement, so I lined her up and touched down. I was greeted by some real winners. And by winners, I mean weekend warrior wannabe warlords who happened to be there when World War III had started. I picked up on the mafia-type ‘public protection’ scheme right away and didn’t want to be a part of it. You know the bit: We’ll protect the neighborhood for a fee. If not, we’ll burn your house down,” Lt. Murphy said.

  “I played along with them just long enough to acquire some stuff to get me home. Then, last night I snuck off base. Was doing pretty good for a while until I ran into—literally ran into—a herd of infected. Damaged the Hummer pretty bad and got myself bit in the process of trying fix it. I’m better with planes than trucks. I should have just stayed in Africa,” he said with a hint of sadness.

  “Is there anything we can do for you?” Stephan asked.

  Before he could answer, a low, rumbling noise could be heard in the distance.

  “Awww, shit, not again.” Gaylen spat.

  “What is it?” Stephan asked.

  “Listen. There. It’s getting louder. They’re coming this way. We need to move. Now!” Gaylen said, her voice quivering with fear.

  “What’s going on?” Lieutenant Murphy demanded while trying to sit up.

  “Psycho biker gang. Chaos-anarchy type. Not friendly in the least bit.” Gaylen bounced on her feet, obviously terrified.

  “Does this thing run?” Kevin asked.

  “We should just run for it on foot!” Gaylen yelled while having flashbacks of her friends being killed and tortured.

  “He can’t run. They’ll come right to this military vehicle like a kid to an ice-cream truck. Just like we did. We can’t let them get the Lieutenant’s stuff. Who knows what kind of damage they would cause with it!” Kevin tried to explain.

  Stephan was already in the driver’s seat, trying to find the ignition key. “Where’s the damn keys to this thing?”

  The rumbling of the pack of hodgepodge motorcycles was getting closer. “This thing sputtered out on me getting off the highway. It might start, or it might not. It’s a military vehicle; it doesn’t have keys. Look on the dash, left of the steering wheel, for the engine starter switch,” Lt. Murphy said.

  The HMMWV engine turned over a few times. “Give it a second. It’s a diesel. Now try again!” Kevin said hurriedly.

  The engine turned over, then sputtered a few times and died.

  The roar of a couple dozen exposed engines closed in on them. Gaylen was ghostly white, screaming for them to run. Lt. Murphy yelled for her to get in or get out of the way, but she couldn’t hear over the deafening noise.

  The hodgepodge of two-, three-, and four-wheeled motored vehicles came to a slow stop only a hundred yards from them. They revved their engines once, then, in unison all went quiet.

  “Well, well, well. Is that our little Gaylen? We meet again, girl. I’ve got a bone to pick with you, honey. You killed one of my men with a screwdriver. That’s just rude,” said one of the bikers, presumed to be the leader since he was centered in the front row. He kicked down the stand, dismounted his bike, and then stood next to it.

  Stephan tried the engine again with the same results. Cursing loudly. Kevin pulled Gaylen behind him and shouldered his M4. “Sir, I’m going to ask you to stay where you are, and no one will get hurt. We have no problems with you,” Kevin yelled back.

  “Nor I any problems with you, good sir. But her…” The biker leader pointed a dirty finger at Gaylen. “She’ll be coming with me.”

  From behind Kevin, he heard a metallic slap of a lid slammed shut, and then a familiar mechanical cocking sound. At the same time, the Hummer engine caught. “Move!” Lt. Murphy yelled.

  Kevin yanked Gaylen out of the way, pulling her forcibly by the arm. He shoved her toward the passenger-side door, telling her to get in. Kevin brought his rifle up, but before he could acquire a target, Lt. Murphy opened fire with a M249 belt-fed machine gun, sending 5.56mm bullets flying at a cyclic rate of one thousand rounds per minute. Kevin watched as men flew off their rides. Some jumped over the bridge railing, falling to the pavement below.

  Kevin was about to start hitting targets when he noticed the Lt. wasn’t hitting anyone. He had purposefully aimed high over their heads, then aimed low toward their motorized transportation after all riders jumped out of the way. Within seconds, the entire two hundred round drum was empty. “Reloading!” Kevin took that pause in the chaos to jump into the back of the HMMWV, yelling, “All in! All in! Go, go, go!”

  While they were sluggishly gaining speed heading west on Route 55 toward Lake City, Kevin and Lt. Murphy watched out of the back as the trees and bushes along the road swayed and bent over when Grays came pouring out toward the highway overpass.

  THE WALL

  I walk my post from flank to flank...

  Having only ingested one cup of lukewarm instant coffee, Grumpy irritably wrapped his Battle Belt around his waist, looking into the mirror at several new gray beard hairs. Absentmindedly, he did a belt sweep from front to back to ensure the four mags (two Glock and two AR) hadn’t gone missing in the last twelve hours. Some days, he would grab a magazine just to be sure the top 5.56 round was stacked on the right side, confirming a twenty-eight round magazine. As his hand automatically swept forward and across the rigid surfaces, he noted that the direction of the mags was still facing bullet-tip forward. He did this every day, just in case Murphy trolled his kit while he slept to impair a split-second life-or-death reload, which would, in all probability, never happen since they hadn’t seen a Gray or any raider probes in weeks.

  Lifting the heavy daypack off the floor, which was filthy and needed to be cleaned, he sat the burden on the most uncomfortable refurbished folding chair in all of the safe zone. He inspected the pack for extra recharged batteries, spare ammo, a surplus of snacks, appropriate entertainment for surviving a long boring night—be it a loaner book from the library or crossword puzzles—along with a bulky, still-sealed individual first-aid kit. While on the thought of trauma, he reached behind the batbelt to ensure his tourniquet was not lying behind the bed again but in fact was still properly secured in the CAT-T holder and easily accessible for one-handed application in the event of amputation.

  As he tossed the single point rifle sling over his neck and shoulder, he slightly tilted the ejection portside of his rifle up toward the candlelight, pulling the charging handle back to see the glint of brass, confirming there was indeed a round in the chamber—just like he did yesterday and the day before that, knowing that the rifle was ready for duty. He would check the gear a few more times on the way, because the monotonous wall-watch days ran together, creating an uncertainty if he had yet to complete the simplest of tasks today…or was that yesterday?

  Off to work… One more day closer to getting off the wall. Luckily, his walk to the Town Defense Force building was just two short blocks from his overcrowded dwelling. The TDF building was an old antique furniture store named The Shabby Little Vintage Shop and was flanked by an old barbershop and video-rental store, both of which were now used for TDF supplies and the Quick Response Force. Strategically located right in the middle of town for rapid response to any attacks from any direction and also conveniently located one block from City Hall.

  Toward the west end of the building and next to the original storefront window was a large dry-erase board used to assign daily guard duties. Using the natural lig
ht coming through the window, he ran his finger down the duty roster until he spotted his name: GRUMPY. He wasn’t sure how he got that nickname; he was generally a likable person. Mostly. It could be because he often gave constructive criticism of unnecessary risks and offered unpopular security-upgrade solutions to the not-so-enthusiastic occupants of this town. Maybe he was grumpy at times to certain people, but they could piss off.

  It seemed like he was starting at GP4, which was a guard post on the north end of the town’s wall. It wasn’t a bad spot to start the shift. At that post, there were interesting outlying areas to observe through binoculars, which was an easy way to kill time before twilight faded into complete darkness. If he got lucky, he may spot a deer or other wild game. By reporting that to the forage team, the reward could be fresh protein for tomorrow’s community dinner.

  At 1745, Victor, the TDF commander, gave a quick brief of any expected incoming or outgoing security patrols, any pertinent information gathered over the past twenty-four hours from outside the town, and any upcoming scheduled training opportunities, several of which caught Grumpy’s ear. The advanced training was completely voluntary. Most voluntary off-duty training was ignored by the defense force guards. Grumpy saw the training as an opportunity to expedite getting off the torturously mind-numbing wall duty. After his shift leader gave a quick update of guard post changes or updates, they were released to take over the duties and responsibilities of the town defense.

  Right at 1800, he arrived at GP4. One minute later, and the guy being relieved would have been bitching up a storm for him being late. It’s not like he had anything else to do, but at the twelfth hour of duty, guards were ready for some personal downtime. The off-going guard reported that all was quiet and he hadn’t seen a thing all day as he quickly climbed down and walked back toward town. Grumpy climbed the ladder to the top of the shipping container that composed this section of the wall.

  About a month back, someone had had the intellect to build a protective wall around the small downtown area. A large distribution facility located halfway between Lake City and the next town over provided all the shipping containers they could possibly use. Transporting the forty-foot steel boxes and setting them in place had been a real chore.

  The mechanics and engineers attempted to mount trailer axels to the boxes and pull them, but after a few failed attempts, they ended up leaving the shipping containers on the semitrucks. Daisy-chained together with straps and rope, a medium-size farm tractor could slowly tow about a dozen semitrucks at once. A large crane and forklifts would have made placing each shipping container in place a cinch. Instead, they struggled to lift, push, and tug each box into position using haybale forks attached to farm-tractor buckets. Over time, the process was refined, and the defensive perimeter wall continued to expand outwardly, offering more and more protected acreage inside the safe zone.

  A quick glance around the sandbag-fortified bunker ensured all the standard guard-post supplies were accounted for: an ammo can with extra ammo, binoculars, road flare, whistle, and an old poncho in case it started to rain. He sat his daypack and AR15 in the corner, had a seat on a warped plastic milk crate, lifted the binos to his face, and began surveilling the area. As he was glassing the burnt-out buildings surrounding the perimeter and the dark, shadowy tree line nearby, distracted by the beautiful autumn-tree colors, his mind started calculating the night’s guard-shift schedule. Each duty spot was only thirty minutes, which was just enough time to get settled in, give a good look around, and then it was off to the next post. The shortened post time reduced eye fatigue while scanning, reduced complacency, and reduced the possibility of falling asleep on post. A guard who was caught snoozing was usually rewarded with a full week of hard labor.

  After this post, he would slowly walk the distance of the wall between here and GP5. After GP5, he’d walk back to the Town Defense Force HQ building, looking for anything suspiciously out of the ordinary on the interior of town. Back at HQ, he would be on the Quick Response Force for two hours, which translated to a nap in the “Ready Room” while waiting for an emergency.

  While daydreaming about the schedule, a rattle from below startled him, causing him to jump off his milk-crate stool and drop the binoculars. It took him a second to realize that his thirty-minute post was up already, and now Joe was there to relieve him. A couple of deep breaths calmed his nerves. Joe laughed as he climbed up the ladder, knowing Grumpy nearly soiled himself. At that exact moment, an unseen white-tailed deer in close proximity gave an extraordinarily loud alarm snort that echoed off the shipping containers, causing Joe and Grumpy both to duck while reaching for their weapons.

  It wasn’t uncommon for deer to be this close to town, which was why they kept an eye out for them. But to have one whistle was a reason to be cautious.

  “Something spooked it,” Grumpy said while scanning the area using the four-power magnification of the ACOG atop his AR15.

  “Us maybe? Being too loud?” asked Joe nervously.

  Giving Joe a sideways glance out of the corner of his eye, Grumpy could tell Joe was shaken. “I doubt it, man. Haven’t had one haul tail like that lately.”

  They both sat, crouching in silence for a good five minutes with their guns up, scanning near to far, then back again. Joe covered the left sector, and Grumpy covered the right.

  “Well, I don’t see anything. Keep your eyes and ears open. I’m going to start my rove down to GP5. I’ll go slow; if you need me, blow the whistle, and I will come running back,” Grumpy offered.

  Joe nodded, relaxing his rifle, then picked up the binoculars that Grumpy had previously dropped.

  Grumpy could walk on top of the shipping containers all the way over to GP5, which would give him better visibility of the area, but there was absolutely no cover up there. One of their guards had gotten herself sniped by raiders a few weeks back over by GP2. One time, a kid tripped and then fell off on the wrong side of the wall, then had to stealthily and painfully walk all the way around to the side gate on a busted ankle using his broken rifle as a crutch. Yeah…no thanks, he thought.

  So, hand over hand, he climbed down the wobbling makeshift ladder that would end up killing someone someday. Planted firmly on the ground, he took a long pull of water out of his canteen, adjusted his rifle sling, did a quick gear check, and then started a nice, slow, stealthy walk eastbound toward GP5.

  A patrol every thirty minutes equaled forty-eight patrols a day, carving out a nice foot trail between the guard posts. Even then, as the sun was setting, it was easy for someone to put their head down and daydream while easily walking and getting hypnotized by the passing tan, red, and plum rust colors of the rigid metal siding. But that deer incident had made his Spidey-senses tickle his neck hair.

  Almost halfway to GP5, he did a little tactical pause, just as he had every one hundred yards since he’d started his rove from GP4. Grumpy took a knee, caught his breath, closed his eyes for better hearing concentration, and inhaled deeply. That’s when he smelled it: a putrid, rank smell of disease and filth that he had almost forgotten existed. The buttstock of his rifle instinctively went into his shoulder pocket, his nonfiring hand slid farther up onto the handguard, and he found the selector switch with his thumb, ready to disengage the safety.

  Something heavy hit the opposite side of the wall with a loud thud. Then another. And another. And another. Soon followed a frantic scraping sound, comparable to an angry dog clawing its way through a door. The noise resonated, piercing right through him. The vision of a raider clan climbing over the nine-and-half-foot container wall using makeshift devices filled his thoughts, but the smell slapped him quickly back to reality. Grays were outside the wall.

  Is it on top of the wall? Grumpy could hear it directly above him. He could smell it deep in his throat. The aroma stung his eyes. He dared not move. The Grays’ pinpoint pupils, caused by intracranial pontine hemorrhage of the frontal lobe, could not see well at that time of day, but their hearing was borderline sonar wit
h acute tracking abilities.

  The Grays were apex predators hunting the clean souls of the earth with the singular purpose of spreading disease. This one sensed that Grumpy was near. It inhaled deeply, searching for a trace of scent, but the infection in its lungs caused it to bark out a series of spasmodic, demonic coughs. It leapt from the wall and then landed, heavy and disorientated, no more than ten feet in front of Grumpy. For the first time ever, a gigantic late-stage Gray was unrestrained inside the safe zone.

  Staring at the massive, grotesque, deformed figure, Grumpy had a hard time concentrating. Even in the fading light, he could easily see the black ink-like fluid pulsating under its clear skin armored with thick, scabby layers. These things closed in quick, tackled, clawed, and bit until its victim passed out, covered in pus and virus, to never wake up sane again. Distance was the best defense, and right then, Grumpy had none. As soon as he moved, the beast would hear him. If he remained still, eventually the Gray would smell him or worse—it could escape into town.

  With the wall to Grumpy’s back, he could only go left or right. He chose the right, the familiar way which he had just recently traveled, knowing it was free of trip hazards. The barrel of the AR came up smoothly until the buttstock planted in his cheek, acquiring a sight picture of the tritium-illuminated red chevron-shaped reticle center massed on the monster of a Gray, selector switched to semi, and Grumpy started squeezing the trigger in a rapid cadence while simultaneously sidestepping to the right, quickly gaining distance.

  About a dozen 5.56 millimeter green-tip NATO ball rounds traveling 2900 feet per second punched into the protruding vertebrae area of the beast’s backside before it spun around to zero in on him. The part of the human brain that signals pain did not exist in Grays; they would continue to operate until an ample amount of physical damage was dealt to disrupt biological integrity. It focused in on Grumpy and began its charge.

  Grumpy put five more rounds into its upper chest as fast as he could accurately squeeze them off. The thing stumbled and fell to the ground in a heap. His sights tracked it as it fell with three more rounds slapping into the side of its gray, hairless skull at point-blank range. Continuing to back up, gaining distance from the disease splattered everywhere and leaking all over the ground, Grumpy drew his attention toward the top of the wall where the Gray had first appeared.