by J. F. Holmes
“We’re especially interested in where this Marine Expeditionary Unit went to ground, right here,” he said, of course, putting his finger right on Tunis, south of Sicily. “We’ve had zero communications with them after the second plague, so we don’t even know what’s going on there. Their LHA is grounded in the harbor, and satellite shots show activity, but no radio contact.”
“Why haven’t you just driven a carrier right past there? I’m sure the Marines would take a break from eating crayons and swim to it.” Another kick from Brit.
“We have, and it took fire from the shoreline, anti-tank missiles. We didn’t want to get any closer.”
“So you’re going to drop a five-man team into that shithole?” I asked, sarcasm heavy in my voice.
He nodded his head but said, “You’ll get full air and naval support, and if our men are being held someplace, the Ranger Battalion out of Gibraltar will come in.”
I’d heard that song and dance before.
****
Now, sitting at the dinner table, I forced my mind to put that mission away and focus on the next few days, when Ziv’s voice broke through my thoughts. “I cannot wait to get back to the field, get good MREs instead of your, what do you call this crap? It is not cooking!”
The room fell deadly quiet, then Brit said, with a wicked smile on her face, “Your personal food might be a bit salty, Sasha, since I pee in it on a regular basis.”
“Not salty enough,” he grunted, handing her the bowl, “please piss more.”
And the room broke up with laughter.
Chapter 313
I hated flying, I really did, but sometimes it was cool as shit. The warm summer air, the occasional light on the horizon glimpsed through the lowered ramp, the mental exercise of getting ready to jump.
At the head of the ramp, the Jumpmaster waved at my team, not wanting to alert the Rangers, who still had a half an hour to go. We stood up and shuffled to the ramp, burdened down by packs, weapons, and ’chutes. I could barely move, and I glanced back to check on the rest of the guys, counting heads. Ziv and the reporter were just behind me in a tandem rig, and I asked myself again why he was with us. Whatever, as long as he didn’t get US killed. I liked the guy, but mission was mission, and I kind of regretted bringing him. He wasn’t going to get the story he thought he was getting.
Behind me were Sister Mary, paired with Sergeant Badger, and Jonas, hooked up to Vasquez, to make the weight more even. There’d been no time to send them to even an abbreviated jump school. Then Brit, Doc Swann, Sergeant Yasser, Cahill, and Shona. I hadn’t wanted her to come, because she’d never really recovered from the shrapnel wound, but she really wanted to get back out into the field. Boz brought up the rear; he was an experienced parachutist, and I could trust him to keep an eye on things.
A dozen men and women, stepping out into the black night. The flying scared me, sure, but I honestly lived for this shit, despite whatever assurances I gave Brit. She knew it, too. To venture out into the dark world and see what had become of our civilization. It sure as hell beat the comfortable middle-class life I’d been headed for, getting old and fat.
Our pallet went first, shoved off the ramp, and I counted ten, then ran – or tried to run – after it. Always that first ‘oh shit’ step, when nothing came up meet your foot, and then you were falling, wheeling through the air.
We’d jumped high, almost ten thousand feet, and the air whistled thinly past my ears. As soon as I jumped, I rolled onto my back and tried to count the dark shapes exiting the ramp but gave up. Rolling back, I spread my arms and legs, and looked at the horizon, or what I thought was the horizon. It was so damned black out, except for way off in the distance, a forest fire burning in the mountains.
The altitude counted down on my wrist, and at a thousand feet, I pulled my cord. The opening shock hammered at me, and I took a second to look down. We were on course; the lighter shade of the concrete runway showed faint in the moonlight. It also showed our pallet, smashed on the ground, a cloud of dust rising from it. Shit. So much for that equipment.
Behind me and above, dark ’chutes blended into the night sky, but I still couldn’t count them. It was time to pay attention to my approach, and the ground rushed up at me faster and faster. I landed like I always did, my good leg extended as a shock absorber, avoiding hitting my prosthetic. It was good enough to jump with, but my stump was still sore from that idiotic pissing contest of a road march with Cahill, and I landed, as always, like a sack of potatoes.
I disengaged my ’chute, letting it drift off in the light breeze, dropped my night vision, and took a knee, scanning for targets, weapon up. Around me, people touched down, some expertly, others with a muttered curse and a thudding sound. I heard one sharp, stifled cry of pain, and thought, shit, broken ankle. Last thing we need.
Movement to my front caught my attention, and I saw something lever itself off the ground, eyes glowing brightly in the green haze. My laser danced across the face, settled between them, and with a muted cough, I sent a .22 Hornet round through the skull. No effect, so I fired again, then again. The light went out even as I heard another suppressed shot from behind me.
“Clear,” I called over the radio, and got similar responses, except for Boz, who reported one undead taken out. “OK people, Cahill, take your team and do a sweep of the immediate area. If you see undead, engage. Do NOT, I repeat, DO NOT engage living unless they’re a clear threat. My team, let’s break out the equipment, see what’s salvageable. Doc, find out who got hurt.”
“That was me,” she called back. “My fat middle-aged ass landed on a rock. Lots of cushion, so I’m ok.” There were muted laughs, and we set to work, half of us digging a hole on the side of the runway to cache supplies, the other half filling packs with ammo, food, and water.
We were on the ground and out in the field. It felt good, even the sweat starting to soak through my clothes as I dug. Our uniforms were packed away, but the jeans and thick long-sleeve shirts we wore were good enough to keep a bite off me. Wearing a uniform around here was as like to get you shot as not, and we’d assumed the ‘mercenary’ disguise we’d so often used.
That night we rucked almost five miles, putting distance between us and the LZ, stopping long before daylight started to show on the eastern horizon. A lot of it was up and over a ridge line; our experience showed that both people and undead usually avoided slopes, and we stuck to dirt logging roads. Once at the military crest, I called a halt, setting up deep in the woods occupying a ruined house. That and my ass was tired. Humping a heavy ruck and trying to stay alert will beat the shit out of anyone.
“Jonas, Sister Mary, what’s your experience tell you is in there?” I asked, motioning to what looked like an abandoned shack. Neither had night vision; both had turned down the offer. I guess they were just used to what they were used to.
The farmer said nothing, waiting for his partner to speak. After a bit, she said, “Could be some undead, though I don’t smell them. No people, either, ’cause I don’t smell any waste. Usually with an occupied place nowadays, there’ll be an outhouse, and we’re downwind, such as it is.”
And people wondered why we included civilians in the Scout Teams.
“Cahill, you and me, we clear it,” I whispered, almost smelling the fear coming off the man; this was way outside his experience zone. In the green glow, though, I saw him nod yes, as I expected.
I felt Brit’s hand touch my shoulder, and she said quietly, “Nick, I’m your partner for house clearing.”
“Not until you get used to your new hand,” I answered, and thought to myself, shit, wrong thing to say. If I’d mentioned breaking Cahill in, she’d have understood, but I’d been my usual dumbass self.
“I got it,” she answered icily. Whoops. There are minefields, and then there’s being married. Sometimes one is scarier than the other.
Chapter 314
I was pretty sure that Sister Mary, it was weird calling her that, pretty sure that Mary
was right, but we had to check anyway, and it was a good way to break Cahill in. I made a ‘you first’ gesture, and he ran past me, up the steps, and kicked the door in, disappearing into the blackness. I shook my head and charged in after him, trying to keep up. The door sprang back at me, and I shouldered it aside, weapon raised.
It wasn’t a big house, just three rooms, more of a shack really. Cahill moved fast, charging into the kitchen, the living room pretty obviously unoccupied. I watched his back, listening over the radio, hearing Shona call, “Clear out back.” Trust her to do what needed to be done without orders.
Cahill backed out of the kitchen, whispering, “Clear”, and we both froze, hearing a noise from inside the bedroom, the creaking of a board or a rusty bedframe. I put my hand on his shoulder, holding him in place.
“Wait,” I whispered, and stepped cautiously forward. The noise wasn’t repeated, and that meant something. If it were an undead that was any kind of mobile, it would be hammering at the door, howling. That meant…
The SNICK of a break open shotgun being closed warned us both, and Cahill grabbed my harness, pulling me to the floor. There was a deafening BANG and a hole blew open in the door where my head has just been, and we both returned fire, putting multiple rounds through the door at chest height, and walking them across the wall to the far end. I fired single even-spaced shots a foot apart, but Cahill emptied his magazine.
While he cursed and swapped out the unfamiliar smaller .22 mag, I listened to see if we’d hit anything. I could have sworn I’d heard someone scream over the muted coughs of suppressors, a high-pitched wail.
“Stand by!” I called over the radio, and moved cautiously forward, pushing Cahill’s barrel downwards. He understood and waited as I approached the wrecked door. Inside, I heard a soft sobbing, almost more fear than pain.
“Brit, bring Doc Swan and Mary, need you in here ASAP,” I ordered and placed my hand on the door. Flicking on my tactical light, I shoved the handle off, standing to one side to avoid another shotgun blast, and trained my rifle on…
…a little girl, cowering on a bed, multiple bullet holes tracing the walls over her head. A rusty old single shot 12 gauge lay discarded on the floor, probably flung there by recoil. She screamed again and flinched when my light hit her, and I quickly swept it around the room, making sure it was clear. On another bed lay the desiccated body of a man who’d starved to death, probably her father.
I heard Brit and the rest come through the front door, and I called, “In here! Survivor!” They pushed past me, and I went outside, leaving them to their work.
Cahill met me outside on the porch, sat down, and started to light a cigarette. I reached over and pulled it out of his mouth, grinding it under my boot. Dumbass. Smoke and light. He just sat there in the darkness, not saying anything for a while.
Finally he broke the silence and said, “I’m not sure I’m cut out for this. We could have killed that little girl.”
“Yes, we could have. We might still have to,” I answered.
“What the fuck do you mean might still have to?” he exclaimed. I could hear surprise, confusion, and anger in his voice.
“I mean, Sergeant Cahill, that in order to complete our mission, we might have to smoke her. The Line really didn’t prepare you for this, did it?”
He said nothing, and I continued, “We may be out here for several weeks. If we leave her, she’s going to talk to anyone else who happens by, and we’re blown. If we take her, we have to guard her, and that takes at least two people, twenty-four hours a day. Hell, she looks so starved, we’d be doing her a favor.”
“But…” he said, then fell silent as the implications of what I’d said sank in.
“Listen, I don’t like it any more than you do. But there’s a lot of shit I’ve done that I didn’t like because, one way or another, we have to accomplish our mission.” That made me think of the first civilian I’d killed in this mess, though he had pulled a gun on me. Just a tired, frightened father trying to protect this family the best way he knew, and I’d splashed his brains all over his wife’s lap.
Cahill said nothing until Brit came out onto the porch. “How is she?” I asked.
“Round grazed her shoulder, just breaking the skin. She’s severely malnourished but, given some food and rest, she’ll be able to walk with us.”
“How long?”
I almost heard her thinking, then my wife said, “Give it a day. Doc is sedating her, and we’ll get a hot MRE into her in the morning. Then she can move. I figure she’s about twelve or so but looks a lot smaller.”
“Brit,” I began, but she cut me off with one word.
“No.”
“That’s what I thought, just checking. See if she has some decent footwear; we’ve got to cover about ten miles tomorrow night,” I said.
“Of course,” she answered and went back inside.
I turned to Cahill and explained, “Fortunately, I don’t have to make decisions like that very often. There’s the mission, and then there’s my wife, and my conscience. The mission will be over soon enough; the other two I have to live with.”
“You’re not – well, this isn’t what I expected, Colonel,” said Cahill.
“Call me Nick, and thanks for saving my life. I’ll repay you soon enough.” I offered him my hand.
Chapter 315
Three patrols went out at first light, one down to the valley behind us to watch our back trail, one to scout north-south along the ridgeline, and one forward to see what lay in our path, two men each. The rest of us took time to sleep and clean weapons.
I sat with Doc Swan and Brit, talking with the girl, whose name turned out to be Shawna. She had a deep southern African American accent that I almost couldn’t understand. That and she was cramming her face full of MRE crackers, and constantly begging for more food. I knew that Doc and Brit wouldn’t let her overeat, but they did make sure she drank plenty of water. Pretty sure she was going to wind up with the shits later, but someone could carry her if it came to that. She didn’t look to weigh more than fifty pounds.
“My daddy, he done passed on three, four days ago,” she said between mouthfuls.
“He passed away, honey. Not done passed on,” said Brit, and I rolled my eyes. Kicking into Mom mode.
“Whatever, white lady. So I’s just been waiting for something to happen, and it did.” She seemed to have recovered remarkably from her experience with gunfire, but most kids were far more resilient than people gave them credit for. Brit looked at me, and I just shrugged, indicating wordlessly that the girl was her problem. She could be good intel on the local area, too. Then again, she’d slow us down. Or expose us.
“Can you tell us what it’s like down in Chattanooga, Shawna?” I asked.
Her eyes grew wide and she said, “You don’t want to go down there, no ma’am. Some bad people, and lots a walkers!” I had heard that term when we were in Florida last year; it came from that stupid TV show that had been popular right when the plague hit.
“Well, me and my daddy sometimes went to go trades some there, cause you cain’t eat tobaccker, but mostly we stayed up on the mountain here,” she said, then shut up because she’d shoved almost a whole MRE cracker in her mouth. As a small mercy, I handed some water to her.
“Like what kind of bad men?” I asked.
She pointed to my gun and said, “Bad men like you, wit guns and everythin’. Don’t take kindly to people like me. Showed up ’bout a whiles ago from up round the east sides of the mountains. Got uniforms. My daddy tole me to stay aways from there, though we used to trades. There’s good an bad in ’nooga, he said.” Between bites she continued, “They’s soldiers, got all brown and green clothes on, all mixed up crazy like.”
Mountain Republic troops wore old style BDU camo, so that sounded like our target, but I was curious about her “good and bad” comment. I’d been to the general area before the plague, and they seemed like decent enough people, lots of more conservative folks fleeing th
e increasingly liberal coastal areas. It was possible we might be able to find some allies.
We left her with Doc Swan, still eating like the starving child she was. Brit had that look in her eye that meant we were in for a serious discussion. Sitting out on the porch, we talked about what to do with the girl.
I decided to head her off at the pass. “Brit, this is a tactical decision, not an emotional one. I have to decide whether to take her with us, leave her here, or shoot her. She’s putting us at incredible risk.”
“You’re not going to shoot her,” she stated.
“I’m not?” I asked, just to goad her. It’s like poking the devil with a stick, but sometimes you just have to do it.
“Don’t be an ass, Nick. You’re not that kind of guy,” she said.
“Sometimes I have to be. I’ve shot people in cold blood before.”
She shook her head, red ponytail distracting me. “Not an eleven-year-old girl, you haven’t.”
“Brit, we have a mission to do. She’s a liability if she comes along, and if she stays, well, she’s going to blow our location, starve to death, or get turned by the next Z that stumbles by.”
She reached down to her leg, pulled out her pistol, and handed it to me. “Then go do it. You’re right, we have a mission to do, Captain America.”
I stared at the gun. It was a Walther P22, standard issue for the Scouts. A high velocity round that would punch right through the girl’s skull and probably out the other side, or rattle around a bit. She’d never know what hit her, and I was probably saving her from a hell of a death.
“I’ll use mine, thanks,” I said and stood up, ignoring the look of shock on Brit’s face, and went inside the house.
In the few minutes we’d been outside talking, Shawna had fallen asleep, probably just as much from Doc’s sedatives as from exhaustion. Kids were like that. Ziv sat on a chair in one corner, eating an MRE and cleaning his AK, getting ready to go out with Vasquez and replace one of the patrols.