Even Zombie Killers Can Go to Hell

by J. F. Holmes

  To my surprise, it was Doug Cahill who spoke first. “If we’re going to be crashing enemy lines and going toe to toe with a horde, I’m your man, Colonel. I honestly hate this sneaky peeky shit, and Brit was a good woman.”

  “Is,” I answered back flatly.

  “Is,” he agreed.

  “Shona?”

  “Of course.”

  “Boz?”

  “Gotta die sometime, Nick,” he said, and spit out a stream of tobacco.

  “Elam?”

  “As Allah wills it, we will succeed, or not,” he answered, with his usual fatalism.

  I ignored Ziv and turned to what I considered Cahill’s civilians. “Jonas? Mary?”

  They looked at each other, then Mary said, “Lord’s work to beat the Devil, isn’t it?” and she smiled.

  Jonas said, “I go where she goes.”

  That left Vasquez and Badger, who merely answered with “Semper Fi!” and “All the way!” respectively. I’m pretty sure Hildebrand would go anywhere for a story like this.

  I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding, and walked back to Brit. Sitting down, I placed her wild-eyed head in my lap, holding it steady, thankful someone had duct-taped her mouth shut.

  “I’m going to save you, beautiful girl, or I’ll die trying. Fight it. Fight it as hard as you can.” For a second I thought the real Brit, that girl I’d met so long ago, stared back at me, then the moment passed and the insanity returned.

  Chapter 319

  There was a lot of planning to do and decisions to be made. First, what to do about our current mission? Screw them, I didn’t care. Get Brit cured, then worry about that.

  The lab was a chance, and that’s about it. We’d have to get whatever data we could, and we needed a team of scientist and medical people to be there. Fuel, emergency generators, all that would have to be brought in, but there’s no way that could be dropped into a hot LZ, undead or human enemies regardless. Of course we could have the Air Force level the place, but that would kinda defeat the purpose.

  The lab was in Frederick, Maryland, a ways northwest of DC, though I’d never been to it. I took out my battered atlas, the one I’d been carrying for ten years, and laid it on the ground. With a pencil, I traced marks I’d made of known undead concentrations and MR forces, but it was a year out of date. We’d pushed their main line of resistance down the 81 corridor and then broke it. Still, there might be plenty of armed hostiles between our forces and Fort Detrick

  “Shona, Boz, let’s think this out,” I said to them, and we stared at the map.

  Major Lowenstein traced her finger down the highway between DC and Frederick, MD. “It’s about forty miles, and we only held the flank there on the drive to DC. Not enough manpower.”

  “How do we get back to DC?” asked Shona.

  “I think, when the word goes out that Brit O’Neill needs help, there’ll be a flight here in hours,” I said grimly.

  “That’ll get us back there, but there’s no way you’ll get a helo over to Detrick. The First Infantry Division CO is a tight-ass with his equipment. Ask me how I know,” she said. Before joining the Scouts, she’d been a mechanized infantry captain, commanding a company of Bradley Fighting Vehicles.

  Boz chimed in, “Can you blame him? We’re strung out as it is. Everything’s getting worn out.”

  “Which is another reason,” I answered, “we’re not going to helo in. Shona, still know how to drive a Brad?”

  “Does a bear shit in the woods?” She grinned back at me, making the dragon tattooed over her burned face writhe its wings.

  Boz laughed but said, “Is there such a thing as undead bears?”

  “I hope to hell not,” said Shona, “no way I could outrun them.”

  “Good, then the rest of us just have to outrun you!” Boz grinned.

  Our good mood was broken by a howl from Brit, and we all turned to see Ziv stepping back from her bound form. The gag had been taken off and she was screaming. The Serb was ashen faced, and for once in his life, looked scared.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” I asked him, furious. Doc Swan had told us that the less agitated she was, the slower the infection would spread, and here he was getting her all worked up.

  “I just wanted to talk to her, to tell her that, to tell her…” and he slowly stopped, head hanging low. And it finally hit me how much this must be hurting him, how long his unrequited passion for Brit must have tortured him. Not that I gave a shit.

  While Doc tried to calm her down again and reset her gag, I walked over to him as he sat on an old stump. “Ziv,” I began, then, “Sasha.”

  He looked at me, grief in his face. “Sasha,” I said again, sitting down next to him. “This wasn’t my fault. She knew what she was doing when she went back after that girl.”

  “I know,” he said simply. “It is what she is. Stupid redheaded devil woman. You know,” he continued, lighting a cigarette and drawing deeply, “she told me once that my feelings for her were, how you say, overcompensation, so I did not get hurt again.”

  “Say again, over?” I asked.

  “She say, I have had both my families die, and do not want to get hurt again, so I worship her because I cannot have her.”

  I sat there, astounded. This was a deeper conversation than I’d had with Ziv in the more than eight year I’d known him.

  “Anyway,” he said, “fuck my feelings, and fuck your feelings too, Nicholas Agostine. She is still my friend, and I would kill you, but you are best man for planning, and best man to save her. I will do whatever is needed.” Then he stood up and walked away.

  Badger, who’d been monitoring the radio, waved the handset in the air to get my attention, and I hurried over. “Who is it?” I asked.

  “Call sign is Valkyrie Six,” said the infantryman, “dunno who he is. It’s on the JSOC freq, could be anybody.”

  I grabbed at the mic and squeezed it so hard I thought it would break. “Valkyrie, this is Lost Boys. Make it quick, we’re on a deadline.”

  “This is Valkyrie, heard what happened,” came back Colonel Alex McHale’s voice, scratchy and weak. “I have an MH-60 at your position in two zero mikes. They were supporting the Rangers at Redstone, over.”

  I almost wept and couldn’t answer him for a minute. When I finally keyed the mic again, my voice was raw. “Can they get us to DC, over?”

  “Negative, but there’s a C-130 bringing the Rangers out, can hold on the runway for you to get there.”

  “Understood, we’ll be ready,” I answered, holding up two fingers, then making a zero sign with my thumb and forefinger. Shona understood immediately, as did Cahill, and they started readying the guys. “What about helo support in DC, over?”

  “Negative, that’s Regular Army, over.” About what I expected anyway.

  “Understood, Alex. We owe you one.”

  I almost thought I could hear the stress in his voice over the radio, but it was probably just my imagination. “Just save her, Nick. Valkyrie out.”

  Handing the handset back to Sergeant Badger, he asked, “So what’s the plan, Colonel?”

  “We’re going back to DC, and from there to Fort Detrick by vehicle, hopefully armor. And anyone that gets in our way, living or dead, is going to eat a world of shit.”

  Chapter 320

  Time pressed down on me, and I refused to look at the body bag we’d sealed Brit in. It freaked me out to see it squirming around, so I buried myself in planning. No plan survives contact with the enemy, so you build contingencies into it. Thing was, we didn’t have a lot of assets or options.

  We needed transportation and intel. I didn’t know dick about the layout of the base, or anything about what was there. If it was anything like most of the pre-plague populated areas, the place would be swarming with undead, even a decade a later. Maybe we could handle that, maybe not, but avoiding crowds of Zs was something we knew how to do. I was going to rely on Cahill for fighting a horde if it came to that.

 
The Mountain Republic guys, or hell, even any survivors who’d made it this far, would be some tough bastards, so that meant armor, tracked, or an up-armored truck or three. Two Strykers would be great, but they’d be in a lager behind some serious security. Probably up-armored Humvees would be all we could get, but I needed to place some calls. I motioned for Shona to come with me, and we unbuckled.

  Making our way past the Rangers, I noted that there were a few empty spots in the canvas jump seats. Most were sleeping; others had that haunted look that came with intense combat. More than a few wore bandages covering light wounds. Three body bags lay on the floor, and I stepped respectfully around them. When we’d landed at Redstone, buildings still burned and dozens of bodies littered the runway area. This C-130, along with another, had brought a full regular infantry company and a platoon from the reconstituted Rec & Tec corps to start reclaiming the facilities. Americans fighting Americans. What a waste. Their two stripped-down gun trucks were strapped to the center aisle, with bullet holes through the fiberglass and a spray blood on the windshield.

  The cockpit opened to my knock, and I let myself in. It was crowded, but they made room for me at the communications panel. Raising my voice over the roar of the props, not as bad as back in the crew compartment, I said, “I need a secure line to the JSOC Operations Center at Griffiss Air Base.”

  The old SAC base, reactivated, had become a hub for the Scouts and other Spec Ops missions, sitting as it was between the Capital in Syracuse and the DoD HQ in Albany. It took a few minutes, but I got the duty desk on the satcom. After establishing who I was, they got the Operations Officer, Lt. Colonel David. He’d come a long way from the young infantry Captain who’d saved our asses outside the prison in Comstock.

  “Hey Nick,” he asked, “what do you need?” It was great to talk to people who just helped without giving you a bunch of shit.

  “I need you to patch me through to Sergeant Major McIntyre up in Vermont. She’s got some information I’m going to need.” If anyone knew their way around Detrick, it was her. She’d been the former top enlisted there before she retired, and she was a good friend of Brit’s.

  “Check, but it’ll take a bit. Standby.”

  As I waited, the sky ahead grew slowly darker, and the ride began to get a bit rougher. God, how I hated flying, especially in a post-apocalypse bird that hadn’t seen a regular overhaul in ten years. Hercs were good planes, no doubt, but they’d been worn out to hell and back.

  I heard Cassandra coming over the line, probably a phone patched through the HF radio, really scratchy. “Hey Nick, what can I do for you? I know about Brit, I’m sorry.”

  “She’s not dead yet. We’re going to take her to Morano’s old lab and see what we can do for her,” I answered back, anger in my voice at the injustice of the world. “I just need to know where it is; once we get set we can patch a radio to the scientists in Halifax.”

  “They still doing that viral research there? We need to just stay the hell away from the plague,” she answered.

  “It’s our only hope; there’s no way we can get her there in time, and they don’t even have any kind of cure. I’m hoping we can identify whatever it was Morano was taking to prevent her own infection.”

  “Well, it’s under the HIV Dynamics and Replication building; that was the cover. Lab area was in sub-basement three. Nick,” she said, pausing, “it’s a pretty slim chance. Almost impossible.”

  “Never tell me the odds,” I answered, and broke the connection angrily. Even as I did, I felt the plane tilt to the right, and the view out of the cockpit, a solid wall of nasty cloud, started to slide slowly to the left as we turned off our course.

  “HEY!” I shouted, “What the hell are you doing? GET BACK ON COURSE!”

  The pilot, a grizzled Major, was having a heated conversation with someone over the radio, and the co-pilot, a very young Captain, said to me while she flipped switches, “There’s a severe line of thunderstorms ahead, so we’re going to have to land until they get ahead of us in DC. I’ll have to ask you to return to the cargo deck, Colonel.”

  “Assault Flight Niner Three Seven, you are cleared to alternate at JBBP, over.”

  “Roger, control, this is Niner Three Seven, understood, Joint Base Bragg Pope, commencing turn –” and he was cut short by the barrel of my pistol pressing into the back of his head.

  “Stay on course for Andrews, Major. This is a tough plane, we’ll deal with it,” I said calmly.

  The turn continued, both pilots with their hands on the controls, but I could see that his knuckles were white. “I don’t know what the hell you’re thinking, son,” he said, ice in his voice, “or what you think is so important, but it’s not worth killing dozens of people, including yourself.”

  “Ever see The Princess Bride, Major? It’s true love. NOW TURN THE DAMNED PLANE!” I yelled and shoved the barrel harder into his neck.

  He grunted and, at his co-pilot’s look, nodded, muttering, “As you wish.” The plane turned back left, headed for the black wall of clouds, now lit by flashes of lightning.

  "Load, Flight…” he called over the intercom, “Severe turbulence we can't get around. Make sure all is secure back there. You have about four minutes before we hit the cell. You're gonna want to put a couple of extra 25K chains on the trucks."

  I keyed my own squad radio, hoping someone was listening. “Shona, get your ass up to the cockpit, now,” I called, and heard her acknowledge.

  Ahead, the sky seemed to be a version of Dante’s hell.

  Chapter 321

  Major Lowenstein opened the cockpit door just as the plane caught a huge downdraft, and she flew up off her feet, then down on her ass. I couldn’t tell if she was more surprised by that, or the gun in my hand.

  “Colonel, what the hell is going on here?” she asked, picking herself up.

  Before I could answer, the pilot snapped, “Your CO has lost his shit and is putting this aircraft in danger!” even as he fought the stick.

  “We have to get to Washington, no matter what,” I said, suddenly feeling stupid and desperate.

  She reached up and gently put her hand over my gun, pushing it down. “Nick, you’re a good man, and you love Brit, but this isn’t the way.”

  “Too fucking late now, Princess!” said the copilot, just as a bunch of alarms started wailing. There was a violent shudder, and shouts came from the back. The pilot started barking orders, and I threw Shona into a seat, strapping myself in. With a curse at me and a prayer to the gods of the air, the crew started wrestling the plane to the ground.

  We pitched downward, engines roaring and the whole airframe shuddering. As we fell toward the earth, I seemed to wake up. What the hell had I been thinking? Would Brit want this? I looked over at Shona, and she stared at me. The gun lay on the floor where I’d dropped it, sliding around, so I kicked it over to her with the toe of my boot; she picked it up, safed it, and slid it into her cargo pocket. I nodded and closed my eyes. I’d done the wrong thing, made the wrong call, and innocent people were going to die for it. I closed my eyes, thought of my kids, and waited.

  “Sherriff,” called the navigator, trying to reach the aerial relay plane that circled the central East Coast, “this is Assault Flight Niner Three Seven declaring an inflight emergency. We are putting down at alternate field Zulu Kilo Tango, may require recovery assets.”

  Garbled words came back, but he seemed satisfied. The navigator and copilot started punching things into their computers and doing other airplane shit I knew nothing about, but the flight settled down a bit as we turned away, and the groaning of the airframe lessened.

  We broke through the cloud deck just over the ridge of a mountain, lined up on a stretch of highway. I knew what they were going for; a few years earlier we’d been one of the scouting missions that had identified structurally sound lengths of interstate to serve as emergency landing strips, though we’d been up in New England. Follow-up crews had splashed IR sensitive paint along the length; it woul
d appear either hot or cool in the pilot’s NVGs, depending on the time of day. Still not as good as landing on a lit field, though.

  When we touched down, it was like falling onto a feather bed. Despite the wind and the downpour, the pilot feathered the props and gently touched down, bringing the plane to a slow rolling halt. They went through the shutdown routine, rain beating furiously on the windows, then the pilot turned to me and said, “GET THE FUCK OFF MY PLANE!”

  Really, what could we do? I’d fucked up and put the whole plane at risk. “Major,” I started to say, but he just glared at me as he talked to his loadmaster over the intercom. I left the cockpit, and Shona followed.

  In the back was controlled chaos. The Ranger CO had ordered a perimeter of the landing site, good move, and her men were moving swiftly down the open ramp. My team stood out of their way, but I could see that they were geared up and ready to roll, without orders. Brit lay strapped to a stretcher in her body bag, squirming, and none of the Rangers looked as they filed past.

  When the Captain was done, I tapped her on the shoulder. “Captain O’Malley,” I said, reading her name tape, “we’re on a mission that can’t wait for this bird to get fixed.”

  “What the hell happened up there, Sir? Why didn’t we just divert?” she asked, suspicion in her eyes.

  It was Shona who answered for me. “None of your business, Captain. Just follow orders and you’ll be rid of us in a few minutes. Good job pulling security.”

  “We’re Rangers, Ma’am,” she shot back, voice oozing annoyance, “we always do a good job.”

  “Like I was saying,” I interrupted, “We need your vics,” I said, pointing to the two chained down HUMVEES, “and all the ammo you can spare.”

  “No offence, Colonel, but we don’t work for you,” she insisted, standing firm.

  I reached for a gun that was still in Shona’s pocket, not my holster. An iron grip on my arm, and she leaned in to whisper, “I got this, Colonel. Let me handle it.”

  I stared at the young officer, wanting to strike out at anything that stood in my way, but Shona must have made a motion to Doc, who came over and pulled me away. Looking back as I walked around the front of a truck, I saw Major Lowenstein put her arm around the shoulders of her fellow infantry officer and start talking urgently, with gestures toward the team. After a few minutes, she came back and directed Cahill’s team to start unchaining the trucks. Two soldiers dragged a couple of duffles full of ammo and ordnance, slinging them onto the trucks, and two more emptied diesel fuel into the tanks. Vasquez and Badger also liberated a few more five-gallon cans; they knew how precious fuel was going to be. Jonas and Mary collected more MREs and took as many batteries as they could from the Rangers.