The Zone: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (Infection Chronicles Book 1)

by Ellis, Tripp

  Ferris looked over the grid. He put his finger up to the virtual display and scrolled through the map. His eyes squinted as he tried to get his bearings. “Here,” he pointed, finally.

  “That’s about seven or eight clicks to the west,” Steele said. “What is that building?”

  “Residential home. Riviera Oaks Estates,” Ferris said. His tone was smug.

  “And you are sure what we’re after is inside?”

  “Yes, I’m positive.”

  “Tell me about the structure. Entrances, exits?”

  “Typical home. Front door, back door, service entrance.”

  “Right, typical.” Steele didn’t know anyone who had a servant’s entrance to their home. And it certainly wasn’t typical for the average American. Steele swallowed his disdain. He could put up with this smug asshole for a day if it meant getting rich.

  “Why can’t we move the LZ closer?” Delroy asked. “Seven clicks, plus target acquisition in three hours is cutting it close.”

  “If Mitchell deviates from the flight plan it’s going to raise eyebrows,” Parker said.

  Steele zoomed the display into a 3D street view. He examined the property from every angle. Then he moved inside the home.

  Ferris’s jaw dropped. “How can you see inside my home?”

  “We got all the cool toys,” Delroy said with glee.

  “Where is the target within the house?” Steele asked.

  “Master bedroom. Upstairs.”

  Steele navigated through the palatial estate. The imaging technology had an 85% structural accuracy rating. You could see rooms, stairs, furniture placement. You could even see the paintings on the walls. The imaging database was updated every six months to a year, so the scans were fairly accurate.

  “The Supreme Court ruled this kind of imaging technology unconstitutional,” Ferris said. “It’s a fourth amendment violation.”

  “Tell that to the corporation that owns us,” Steele said.

  “Where’s the extraction point?” Parker asked.

  Steele pointed at the screen. “Here. About seven clicks northwest of the target.”

  “That’s pretty rough in through there, sir” Parker said. “That area is littered with herds of infected.”

  “It’s what we’ve got,” Steele said. “One more thing. Shut off your tracking chips. We don’t want the friendly folks at Z-SOC picking up our movements inside the zone.”

  Every soldier was fitted with a tracking chip inserted under the skin. The tags transmitted location, identity, and biometric data—heart rate, respiration, blood pressure, along with a complete medical history. The chips were extremely valuable when it came to locating wounded soldiers, identifying remains, and tracking troop movements. But they weren’t always reliable. It wouldn’t be unusual for entire platoons to go off-line. Tampering or disabling a tracking device was subject to disciplinary action. But that didn’t stop soldiers from turning them off. Uncle Sam didn’t need to know your whereabouts all the time. Especially if you were going to access an unauthorized zone.

  “We head out at 0400 hours, so get some rest,” Steele said.

  “What about me?” Ferris asked.

  “Get him a bed roll, he can sleep on the floor,” Steele said.

  “The floor?” Ferris shrieked.

  “I’ll sell you my bunk,” Delroy said with a grin.

  “How much?” Ferris asked.

  CHAPTER 6

  “CHANGE OF PLANS,” Mitchell said, standing at the foot of the CAV’s loading ramp.

  The combat aerial vehicle was perched on the tarmac. It was like a flying tank. Construction and design was a joint venture between HK and Genomedyne. The craft could deploy twenty soldiers into the field and provide close air support with 2, 30mm rotary cannons. Twenty four, x-27 rockets could demolish an entire city block. The composite armor plating could withstand a direct RPG hit—unless you were unlucky enough to take a hit in one of the four exhaust ports of the Hughes and Kessler engines. The HK engines were pumping out a massive 500,000 pound-force of thrust per unit.

  With vertical takeoff and landing, the CAV replaced the helicopter as the preferred method of troop deployment in the field. It also excelled at taking out tanks, and replaced the A10 Warthog. The Army was snapping these things up as fast as they could make them.

  It was still dark, and the air was cool. Steele, Parker, Delroy, and Ferris approached Mitchell.

  “What kind of change?” Steele asked, trying not to get pissed just yet.

  “Who’s the FNG?” Mitchell asked, surveying Ferris.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Steele said.

  FNG was short for fucking new guy. Nobody liked them cause they were inexperienced. And more likely to do something stupid—like get everyone killed.

  “I don’t like new guys. Besides, can’t do it today,” Mitchell said.

  “That’s not an acceptable change,” Steele said.

  “We lost a CAV yesterday. RPG fire in sector 7. That area is heavy with gang activity. It has got everyone a little rattled, and everything is coming under increased scrutiny. If I deviate from my flight plan at all, it’s going to raise eyebrows.”

  “What’s your mission objective?”

  “Sector 7 recon.”

  “Steele, what the hell are you doing here?” Colonel Briggs’s voice rumbled. He was marching toward Steele with a scowl on his face.

  Ah, shit, Steele thought. Just what he needed. He cringed, then spun around to face Briggs, giving him a sharp salute.

  Briggs didn’t return the gesture. Ferris hung his head and tried not to get himself noticed by the Colonel.

  “Lt. Mitchell asked me to provide additional support for his mission,” Steele said.

  Mitchell’s face went red.

  Briggs’s eyes narrowed. “Is this correct, Lieutenant?”

  Mitchell hesitated. Then he stammered, “Yes, I thought it would be prudent to have some extra support.”

  Briggs shifted his gaze back to Steele.

  Steele just smiled. “My guys are getting a little restless sitting atop that wall, day in and day out. I figure a little time in the field will boost morale and keep them sharp.”

  Briggs glared at Steele for a moment. Was he going to go for it? His eyes flicked over the rest of the squad, then back to Steele. “Carry on.” He was too preoccupied with Steele to notice Ferris.

  “Yes, sir,” Steele said, with another snappy salute. This time Briggs returned the gesture then marched away.

  “You’re an asshole, Steele,” Mitchell said.

  Steele and his squad climbed the ramp into the CAV. Within moments, the HK engines roared to life. The air beneath the exhaust ports blurred with heat distortion. The flying tank lifted into the air and lumbered forward, cresting the containment wall.

  The city was in ruins. Shattered glass and crumbling concrete. Roadways pocked with craters from bomb blasts and rocket fire. Most of the damage was done by the Army trying to contain the hordes of infected. The damage was worse around the perimeter. Less so in the interior of the city.

  At first, 90 miles of chain-link fence, topped with razor wire, was erected around the city. It was a stopgap measure until the concrete containment wall was built. Before the chain-link fence, it was sandbags, troops, tanks, and proximity mines.

  The action was swift and decisive. It was a miracle they were able to contain the virus. In the early days, it was ugly. No one was allowed in or out, and at that time, there were still plenty of uninfected. Throngs of people tried to evacuate the city, only to be turned back by the Army. More often than not, forcibly so.

  The CAV flew low and slow over the city. Steele always had an eerie feeling entering the containment zone. The ghosts of 4 million people haunted him. Innocent casualties were always a part of war, but never to this scale. He tried not to dwell on that aspect. After all, had the virus spread across the country, it would be 300 million dead. It was easier to frame things that way. Put the tragedy in a
nice, neat little box and store it away. But setting foot in the containment zone always opened that box.

  The CAV slowed and descended upon a rooftop. An old warehouse on the east side of downtown. The ramp lowered, and Steele and his squad filed out. Within seconds, the CAV lifted off and continued on its trajectory. The short delay would have been barely noticeable to anyone tracking the CAV on radar.

  Steele dashed across the roof and took cover behind a large HVAC unit. The team followed. No sense in being careless. If roving gang members were taking pot shots at CAVs with RPGs, then they wouldn’t hesitate to snipe at ground troops. The latest intel indicated that power had been consolidated into the hands of a few rival warlords within the containment zone. By all reports, they were well armed and outfitted, having scavenged equipment and munitions left behind.

  Steele’s eyes scanned the rooftop and fixed on the roof access door. He signaled Delroy to advance toward the door. Delroy was there within seconds. Steele and the others followed. But the door was locked.

  With his titanium composite fist, Steele punched in the locking mechanism. It crumpled like tinfoil—the benefits of bio-mechanical parts.

  Delroy pushed through the door, his weapon in the firing position. The team funneled into the stairwell behind him, with Steele bringing up the rear. He pushed Ferris along, who fumbled over his own footsteps.

  They spiraled down the metal switchback staircase, descending into the darkness. Once the door closed behind them, the stairwell was pitch black—apart from the beams of tactical flashlights mounted to their weapons. These types of dark nooks and crannies were prime hiding spots for lurking infected.

  Floor after floor, they cleared the area with textbook precision. These guys were pros, no doubt about it. Ferris stood out like a sore thumb.

  When they reached the first floor landing there was a woman lurching around in the darkness. Delroy’s flashlight spotted her face. Her eyes were blood red, and she snarled and hissed—clearly infected. Delroy’s finger instinctually gripped the trigger.

  CRACK!

  Muzzle flash lit up the stairwell. The woman’s head exploded. Dark, greenish-red blood splattered the white walls. The shell casing pinged and danced across the concrete floor. The woman’s body smacked the ground with a wet slap. Thick, sludge-like blood oozed from what used to be her head.

  Delroy grinned from ear to ear, feeling rather accomplished. “I ain’t never shot one that close before.” He pulled out his mobile and snapped a picture of the body.

  “Damn it, Delroy. Why don’t you announce our presence to the world?” Steele said. You could hear the eerie groan of other infected in the building as they began to stir.

  “What was I supposed to do? Kill it with my bare hands?”

  “That’s what I’d have done,” Steele said.

  Delroy shook his head and picked up the corpse. He handed his mobile to Parker. “Here. Take my picture.”

  “Knock it off,” Steele said.

  “Oh, come on, Major.”

  “This isn’t a goddamn trip to Disneyland.”

  “Just one pic?” Delroy looked like a sad puppy dog, pleading for a treat.

  Steele nodded. “I see that mobile again, I’m gonna shove it up your ass.”

  Parker snapped a shot. The camera flash was blinding. Then she handed the phone back.

  Delroy blinked several times from the flash.

  “Feel like taking point now, dumb ass?” Steele asked.

  “Not really, sir,” Delroy said. “I can’t see shit.”

  “I really think I should have a gun,” Ferris said.

  Steele just stared him down, then pushed through the stairwell door into the hallway. His flashlight beam washed across a dozen infected. They staggered toward him, feet shuffling against the concrete. They wanted only one thing—to feed.

  CHAPTER 7

  THERE WASN’T MUCH consensus on what exactly happened. What caused the virus or where it came from. None of that really mattered anyway. What mattered was that these things had an insatiable need to gnaw on human flesh. Lurkers, roamers, stiffs, bone bags, and biters, were just some of the affectionate terms for them. Most people avoided the term zombie. It implied something supernatural, and nobody really wanted to deal with that. It implied there was no hope. The idea that it was man made was more comforting. If man had made them, man could cure them. But, perhaps, that was just wishful thinking.

  Steele wasn’t concerned with curing anyone. He was focused on killing, which could be accomplished in one of two ways. Decapitation, or destruction of the brain. The virus was thought to be transmitted by exposure to bodily fluids—blood, saliva, mucus. But nobody knew for sure. The general rule was don’t get bit, and don’t get fluids in your eyes or mouth. More than one soldier had joined the shuffle club by blasting a hole in a biter’s head and getting blood splatter in the eye.

  Steele lowered his tactical goggles that rested on his helmet. Then he reached behind his head and unsheathed a twenty inch sword from his back. It was affixed to his tactical vest. The black, carbon steel blade was duel edged and razor sharp. Teeth-like serrations near the hilt gave it a menacing look. The blade flared, then tapered to a piercing point.

  Steele twirled it with precision as the herd of ghouls advanced. With the skill of an expert swordsman, Steele slashed and hacked his way through the mass of infected. Twirling, spinning, slicing. Blood spattered the walls. Heads were sliced clean off, smacking to the ground like rotten pumpkins. Bodies crumpled. Steele reached the end of the hallway leaving a trail of corpses. He made it look effortless. He wiped the blood clean on his pants leg, twirled the blade around and sheathed it.

  His heart was pumping, blood rushing through his veins. A spike of adrenaline. It felt good to get back in the action. For a moment, Steele forgot all about his pain. Nothing says stress relief quite like chopping off someone’s head with a razor sharp blade.

  Delroy and the others stood bug-eyed and slack-jawed. They knew Steele was good, but they had forgotten how good. This was a reminder.

  “Let’s get moving,” Steele said.

  “On second thought, I want a sword,” Ferris said.

  Steele marched through the building. The team fell in line behind him. It was an old warehouse converted to residential lofts. Overpriced cracker boxes with hardwood floors, minutes from downtown. Exposed brick and ductwork were aesthetic choices. The lobby was decked with abstract art from local artists, complete with inflated price tags. Paintings that would never sell, even without the apocalypse.

  Steele crept through the lobby and held up his fist, pausing at the main lobby doors. He scanned the street in both directions—it looked clear. But looks could be deceiving. Hordes of infected could be lurking in an alleyway or around a corner. A clear street could turn into a river of shufflers in an instant. There was a lot of ground to cover, and not a lot of time. They had better get moving if they were going to make it back to the extraction point in time.

  “Stay invisible,” Steele said, then slipped into the street. The others followed. Steele hugged the wall and dashed to the corner. The cross street was clear. He darted across the intersection, hugging the wall of the next building. Steele balanced speed with caution, moving at a good pace.

  After a few clicks of running like this, Ferris was sucking wind. He huddled over his knees, gasping. “Hang on. I gotta catch my breath.”

  Steele slowed up and shook his head. He gritted his teeth and marched back to Ferris. Steele grabbed him by the collar and pushed him forward. “Keep moving.”

  “Just give me a minute.”

  “We don’t have a minute to spare.”

  “You need me, remember,” Ferris said. “Nobody gets shit without me.”

  Steele’s eyes narrowed, scowling at Ferris. He didn’t like it, but it was true. He needed him, for now. “Fine, you’ve got a minute.”

  “Holy shit,” Delroy said, eyes bugging out.

  Steele followed Delroy’s gaze, wonderi
ng what he was getting worked up about. Across the street was a red car, covered in three months of dust and pollen.

  “That’s a ’63 split window Corvette coupe,” Delroy said in awe. He started toward it, but Steele put a hand on his chest, stopping him.

  “Don’t get distracted.”

  “That’s just a damn shame. Perfectly good car like that going to waste in here.”

  “Everything goes to waste in here,” Parker said.

  “I’m gonna buy me one of those,” Delroy said, beaming. “And a Porsche. I’ve always wanted a Porsche. In fact, I want a garage full of classic cars. What about you Parker? What do you want?”

  “With the way the world is, I want an underground bunker. Fusion powered with a stockpile of food, weapons, and medical supplies.”

  “No, I mean something fun.”

  “What could be more fun than surviving?”

  Delroy shrugged her off. “What about you, Major?”

  “Don’t go spending your money before you earn it. It’s bad luck.”

  “How did you get so rich, Ferris?” Delroy asked.

  Ferris was still wheezing. “I have one guiding philosophy. Money isn’t everything, it’s the only thing.”

  “I hear that,” Delroy said.

  The sound of a bottle clinking across the pavement startled them. Delroy snapped his weapon into the firing position. The sound was coming from around the corner. Delroy’s finger gripped the trigger, just waiting to take out a lurker.

  A disheveled little girl stumbled around the corner and stepped into his sights. She froze and stared back at Delroy. Her face was dirty, and her clothes were tattered. She was maybe 8 or 9 years old. She had curly brown hair and brown eyes. Steele pushed Delroy’s weapon down. The little girl turned and ran back the way she came.

  She ran. That was something that lurkers didn’t do. Stagger, lurch, plod, trudge—yes. Run—no.

  “I don’t think she was infected,” Parker said. There was just a twinge of concern in her eye.