by Mike Fosen
“Can you make a break for it?” Matvei asked, already fearing the answer would be no.
“Negative!” the voice shot back. “We have heavy contact on all sides. This was one big motherfucking convoy.”
Another large explosion could be heard over the radio.
“Brownwood, do you copy?” Matvei asked several times before getting an answer.
“That was close!” the mercenary on the other end said. “They have an Abrams tank parked right out in the open, and it’s putting a beating on us.”
Matvei winced at the news. He didn’t even recognize the voice that he was talking to. The commander of the operation was probably already dead.
“How many of our people are still alive?” he asked.
“I have no fucking clue, Captain,” the man responded. “A rifle company cut us in half, and we are pretty scattered. And from what we can tell the soldiers are just shooting anybody they capture. Our main base of operations was the Brownwood Coliseum, and they have already taken that. They must not have liked what they found. There are probably twenty or thirty of us holed up in this huge church south of the highway. We did put up a good fight when they first tried to storm us, and now they seem content to sit back and shell us. I think there is still another group of us at a Mormon church south of town.”
“And weapons?”
“We have a couple of RPG-7’s and a SPG-9 recoilless rifle left,” he replied. “That’s it for heavy stuff. Those and our PKM machine guns are the only reason we are still talking. It’s looking like they are preparing for another assault, and I’m thinking I’m gonna try and make a run for it. Later boss, good luck to ya.”
With that the radio went silent for the last time.
A group of men had gathered around Matvei to listen in, and they were now silent.
“Shit,” Matvei cursed. “Well, it looks like we can cross Brownwood and its two hundred men off the map.”
“What now, Captain?” Raul asked.
“We continue to my place,” Matvei ordered. “This changes nothing for us. Let’s move out and keep our heads down.”
30
September 14
Day 20
Dark and turbulent clouds raced in from the west, and gradually the wind picked up. It started as a slight breeze that soon began to bend small trees and toss around loose garbage strewn in the deserted streets. In a shadowy alley in the downtown area of Joliet, a piece of darkness split away and emerged as a human figure. Pausing next to a boarded up old building, the figure looked around to make sure he was alone. Looking up at the dilapidated structure and then the front door, he moved forward and took hold of a weather beaten board barring the entrance. With a crack of wood and the protesting squeal of nails, the board was ripped free. The man then reared back and booted the door open. Pieces of the door jamb scattered onto the landing on which he stood and were swept away by the winds of the approaching storm. Checking again to make sure the noise did not attract attention, he turned and made a hand gesture towards the dark alley. Soon, several figures stealthily approached and entered the now open doorway.
Once all were inside, the door was closed, shutting out the stiff wind whipping into the building. The figure told the others not to move. Walking with sure and confident steps, the figure walked to a nearby cabinet and opened a drawer. Within moments, the scraping sound of a match was heard followed by the light of a candle, which illuminated the immediate area. The others now took a look around and could see that they were all in an old and vacant church.
One of the men stepped forward. “Father Kettle, is this the church you spoke of?”
Kettle looked at the speaker and then at the rest of the group. There were eight in all and every one of them a natural born killer.
“Yes,” he replied. “It has been a very long time since my departure. You all know what happens to the soul when left outside of God’s healing touch. It begins to wilt and decay. The same has happened to this church in my absence.”
Kettle began to walk toward the altar at the other end of the church and looked over his shoulder as he went. “Make yourself comfortable; I have to retrieve a few belongings.”
Passing the altar, Kettle went into the rear of the dusty church after pausing to light a few candles on the altar first. He entered his old personal living quarters, and stopped when old memories assailed him. It was as if the last several years had never happened, and he was still a respectable member of this city. Walking over to a small altar that was his personal area to pray to his God, he momentarily hesitated to look at the large, unremarkable cross that was on it. He reached down and gave the entire thing a shove, pushing it to the side, sending the cross clattering to the floor. Ignoring the object of his faith, Kettle crouched down into the thick dust and spider webs that had collected over several years. His fingers searched for the familiar grooves that he knew like the back of his hands, quickly locating them. Prying up the loose floorboard, Kettle realized his hands shook with anticipation. Reaching into the void underneath, Kettle pulled out an older 12 gauge pump shotgun wrapped in cloth and two boxes of buckshot. Next was a bundle of clothing. He picked up the bundle and the shotgun, walked to the bed, and tossed them both onto it.
Unfolding the bundle, Kettle shook off what little dust had settled onto them. He looked at his old preacher attire with a mixture of joy and anticipation. Slipping the robes over his head, he then moved back to the hole and pulled out an old, tattered book. Moving back to his bed, Kettle sat upon it and tentatively traced his fingertips along the cover of the book. Opening the book with almost holy reverence, Kettle gazed down upon pages of pictures and newspaper articles placed inside. Page after page he turned, each filled with photos of women, some older, most disturbingly quite young, criminally young.
Kettle looked at each and remembered what each photo meant to him.
The first picture, he recalled, was of a woman taken only a year after he first started his church. Kettle was a very charismatic speaker and naturally drew a crowd. He’d taken a few theology classes and became an ordained minister. He came from money; his mother had married up, and this allowed him to purchase a building and open a non-denominational church. News of his sermons spread, and the ranks of his followers grew exponentially. Seeing her picture again, Kettle was reminded of how full of bad thoughts she was and how she needed and had even pleaded for him to purge her of those evil thoughts. What a shocking discovery it was for Kettle to find that doing the Lord’s work was so gratifying. As weeks and months went by, he carefully picked out the weak and vulnerable women of his congregation for more personal “prayer” sessions. Sometimes they would resist, but only briefly.
Kettle gave a little chuckle, thinking how he had so easily talked respectable women into his bed by playing on their faith. It wasn’t like they didn’t want it to happen. They were all dirty whores and would burn in Hell anyway. Next Kettle saw the newspaper headlines, which took up the greater bulk of the entries in the scrapbook.
“Local pastor arrested on sexual assault charges,” the first article stated. “Dozens of women come forward regarding the church sex scandal,” the next read. “Several minors allege being victimized by local preacher,” read yet another.
As Kettle sat there reading the stories, in his mind he could still hear the cries for forgiveness from his blessed subjects.
So much time has been lost in the work of the Lord, Kettle lamented, but now the day has finally come.
* * * * * * * *
Was it the roar of the huge zombie horde that shook the makeshift barrier wall on which we stood, or was it the heavy rains and wind that made it shudder and sway? Regardless of why, there were so many infected flowing at us from the west that it covered the entire killing fields to our front. The portable light towers provided just enough light to make out the ghoulish figures descending upon us, but darkness still obscured the faces of all but the very front ranks.
“Fire at will!” Jack screamed.
<
br /> At that, a much louder sound roared in response, that of thousands of rounds of ammunition ripping into the moaning, undead nightmare that was descending upon us.
The first wave was pulverized into a red mist that reminded me of how an old Civil War battle must have looked with the long line of soldiers walking right into a wall of steel and fire, like the stone wall at Fredericksburg that saw charge after charge of Federal soldiers walk straight into a hail of lead and fail to break the Confederate line. Immediately after the first wave of zombies fell, their place was filled by new targets. I watched as the zombie horde closed the remaining fifty yards of open space in what seemed like mere seconds and crash into the wall with tremendous force. Several wood platforms were raised behind the wall, as guard towers of a sort. Unfortunately, there were not nearly enough for all of us. Many, including myself, were forced to stand on the vehicle barrier itself in order to have a place from which to attack. Several guards to my left and right were unprepared for the collision, lost their balance, and fell screaming into the horde. They were instantly set upon and torn apart, eaten alive.
With the zombies now at point blank range, head shots were much easier to make. I immediately noticed, however, that most of our guards, who were not armed with semi-automatic magazine fed weapons, had to stop frequently to reload. The rate of fire slowed dramatically after the first few volleys. Bolt and pump actions could be heard working as I reached for a fresh 30-round mag from my web gear, slammed it home into my rifle and slapped the bolt release. The Reflex scope allowed me to quickly put the orange triangle on the head of a zombie and pull the trigger with such speed that my magazine emptied again in seconds. Making a quick transition to my Glock pistol, I dropped several zombies who had come dangerously close to overwhelming the guy to my immediate left, who was reloading a .38 revolver. The man gave me an acknowledging nod, snapped closed the cylinder and resumed firing. There were just so many zombies trying their best to kill us, and I again cursed the fact that we never could get the manpower to build any sort of trench around the perimeter, with steep banks and maybe filled with combustibles.
The largest group was hitting us from the west and were wrapping around the entire west end of the safe zone. They obviously didn’t understand flanking tactics and always just took the shortest direct route at us. Stephen realized this, pulled many of the guards from the east perimeter and formed a reserve in the center rear of our lines. I had to give him credit, as our short interior lines would allow him to quickly deploy reserves to the weak spots. Looking back at the newly acquired reserve units, basically everyone who could fire a gun or swing a bat, I was actually surprised that they had not run off for the false shelter of the school. Maybe they also realized that if we did not hold here that they were all done for. Even little children ran back and forth resupplying the men and women on the front line with more ammunition and water. Nonetheless, we were burning up the ammo way faster than it could be replaced, and all too soon many had no choice but resort to hand-to-hand fighting.
Our weakest part of the perimeter, the front gate located on our north side, began to be overwhelmed. During another reload, I watched Stephen lead a dozen people from the reserve to the gate area. Along with the help of his rifle, they were able to thin out the crowd and better seal off the gate by driving three trucks up to it and parking them alongside.
“We’re holding for now!” I yelled, reassuring the man next to me who was again reloading.
“I’m down to my last box of shells,” I heard him respond.
“Well get your shovel ready for some head busting,” I said and pointed to the tool that was near his feet.
Looking out at the seemingly endless horde in front of me, I couldn’t stop the feeling of dread swelling inside my gut.
* * * * * * * *
Sgt. Henderson burst into Councilman Lewis’ office in a panic. “Boss, we have a major problem!” he said breathlessly.
Lewis just sat there at his desk still holding his bloody nose in a handkerchief while Sgt. Henderson gasped for air.
“Well, do you plan on telling me what has you so worked up, Sergeant?”
Sgt. Henderson wiped away the sweat rolling into his eyes. “There is an unbelievably huge mob of infected at the wall! I don’t think we can push them back this time!” he blurted.
Lewis stood and walked to his window where he could watch the battle for himself. True to Henderson’s word, there was indeed a disgustingly large number of these so-called zombies, more than he had ever seen in fact, attacking the barrier. As it was, up to this point Lewis had never even been up close to one of these infected beasts himself.
“Sergeant,” Lewis ordered, “I need your men to send out the reserve supply of ammunition. And make sure all your buddies outside my office get off their ass and do something for a change."
“Sorry, Boss, but that hothead Mike took most of the remaining ammo after he punched you in the face,” Henderson replied. "And there was nobody outside your office just now."
Lewis stood there with a scowl on his face, looking at his reflection in the window and ran his finger along his nose. The break would heal badly and was beginning to turn purple with bruising, which was spreading to both of his eyes
“That asshole,” Lewis cursed under his breath. “I got something for his ass. I think it’s time for me to finally get some payback.”
Turning from the window, Lewis walked over to his locked document cabinet and fished out his keys. Unlocking it, he retrieved the AT&T Terrestar Genus Hybrid satellite phone that was included with the supplies that had been delivered by the 182nd Illinois Air Lift Wing out of Peoria. Lewis had been instructed on its use in case he needed to make contact in the event of an emergency. Powering it up, he hit the send button that gave him a direct line to the 183rd Fighter Wing of the Illinois Air National Guard based out of Springfield, Illinois. They had at their disposal an Air Wing of fifteen F-16 Falcons. He had been instructed by Capt. Marshall on the necessary protocol if he needed to call in air support for the safe zone.
Once Lewis heard the operator at the other end, he gave the proper identification and authorization codes when asked to identify himself. Finally, he was put in direct contact on the other end with the person in charge. Lewis next began to fabricate a story of how the safe zone, identified by the military as India-Lima-Sierra-Zulu-Zero-Niner, had completely fallen. He reported that all surviving civilians had been evacuated and accounted for at this time. He requested that they do a direct air strike on the safe zone itself, as it was now heavily infested.
“It’s a target rich environment,” he said into the phone. “The strike would kill thousands of infected and would allow me to get the civilians away safely.”
After the operator got the call back and again verified his name and location and that all survivors were evacuated, he stated that the jets would be scrambled within minutes.
Lewis paused momentarily after the line went dead and then smashed the phone onto the tile floor. With the fate of the safe zone now sealed, Lewis looked at Henderson.
“Follow me.”
Lewis led Sgt. Henderson down a long hallway away from the heavy fighting towards the east side of the property. They descended a staircase to ground level, and Lewis walked over to a locked janitor's closet. All along the wide hallway that led to various class rooms were pallets of FEMA MREs and medical gear, none of which Councilman Lewis had bothered distributing. Pulling out his keys, he unlocked the closet and proceeded to remove a large OD green canvas army bag full of supplies.
Cutting through the utility area of the school that contained the furnace and boiler rooms, Lewis and Sgt. Henderson reached the loading dock, as far removed from the fighting as possible. Lewis peered out through the small glass window in the door at the landscape outside. This area of the school had only the one entrance and the parkway was narrow, so no perimeter wall was built, the brick building itself being the only barrier.
“There are several o
f the infected bastards roaming around even here,” Lewis told Sgt. Henderson.
Lewis was deciding what his course of action should be as Sgt. Henderson stood next to him gulping air from the short jog.
“Say, Sergeant,” Lewis said as he opened the doors and stepped outside, “how fast do you think an F-16 could cover the 160 miles from here to Springfield?”
Sgt. Henderson followed Lewis with a bewildered look on his face.
“Um, I’m not sure, Boss,” he replied. “Why do you ask?”
“I would say pretty damn fast, and these infected are in our way. We need a distraction,” Lewis said as the infected began to converge on them.
Lewis put out his hand. “Give me your firearm,” he ordered.
Puzzled, Henderson drew his pistol and handed it to Lewis.
“Okay, here is how we are going to distract the infected,” Lewis continued, and promptly shot Henderson in the right leg.
Henderson screamed and grabbed at the bloody wound as the 9mm hollow point tore through his flabby leg.
“That a boy, scream as if my life depended on it, because it does,” Lewis sneered and fired a second shot into the other leg for effect.
“We can’t have you hobbling back for help,” Lewis coldly joked as the service door closed and automatically locked behind them.
“That’s much better. Now I don’t have to outrun all these infected bastards,” Lewis said with no remorse. “I just have to outrun you.”
Henderson fell to the ground now, still screaming, unable to walk as blood flowed heavily from the two bullet wounds. Lewis backed away, turning to shoot the two closest zombies and made his escape into a residential neighborhood. He chuckled when he saw that all the remaining nearby infected were now making a straight line for the doomed sergeant, who was fulfilling his role as a screaming zombie snack.
“And the planes should take care of those cops.”