Z-Day (Book 3): A Place For War

by Humphreys, Daniel

  “You sure about this?” Kendra said. “These guys had you at gunpoint not that long ago.”

  “So did you, once.”

  She shook her head. “Fair enough. It’s going to be weird, you know. In the old days, somebody went on a trip, you’d call or text. We’ve been together for so long I don’t know what to do with myself if I need to talk to you.”

  “We can always use the radios, I’m sure.” It won’t be the same, but it’s better than nothing.

  “It won’t be the same,” she echoed unknowingly. He smiled.

  “Better than nothing. Are you still going back to Kellys Island with the others?”

  “That’s the plan.” She hesitated, with a look as though she had more to say, then moved to the bedside table.

  The St. Croix people had tucked all the visitors into the same area in an old resort hotel. Like the rest of the island, it was beginning to show its age, and there were telltale stains here and there that hadn’t washed out. It was still one of the nicer places Sandy had slept in a long time. With a working power grid, the only non-functional amenity was the flat screen television, and they’d all stayed busy enough that they were ready to collapse when they returned to the room, anyway. The little nightstand Kendra dug through now still held a Gideon Bible, protected from the elements over the years and still in readable condition. He’d never been much of a believer and wasn’t prone to moments of whimsy, but something about that struck him as incongruous and meaningful.

  Kendra returned with a plastic cylinder that, on first glance, looked like an atropine injector. He’d carried three of them out of his lab when he’d left, so long ago. The devices carried specially-programmed nanomachines that neutralized the ones spread by the infection. You didn’t have much time after a bite or scratch, depending on the severity of the wound, but the counter injection could save you.

  He’d used the first on himself, not long after the outbreak, and the second a few years ago, on Kendra’s brother, Jason. The fact that his son’s uncle still lived was a good sign, but he had no way of verifying if the third and final device remained viable.

  “I didn’t even know you brought it,” he said. She pressed it into his hands, saying nothing. “I won’t take it,” Sandy insisted. “I want you to have it. I can’t bear the thought of you or Pat…” He left the thought unsaid.

  “No, Sandy. You take it, and you keep it close. If it all goes to hell, and you get hurt, you use it, and you come back to us.”

  “I can’t make that promise, Kendra. What if it doesn’t work, or I need to use it on one of the other people?” He made a face. “In all honesty, I should probably give it to the research teams, to see if they can do something with it.” It was the longest of long shots—and if it didn’t work it, the act of breaking the seal would render the syringe useless.

  “It’s for you, Sandy.” Tears brimmed in her eyes. “I can’t lose you.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

  That settled, he kissed his wife and son goodbye and stared at the door before forcing himself to take the first step. Bag over his shoulder, he stepped out into the hallway. He jumped, startled, as he realized that he and Miles had exited their rooms at the same moment. Sandy closed the door behind him. The other man blinked at him for a moment, then followed suit. They stood alone in silent regard under the unaccustomed electric lights of the hallway.

  “All set, Doc?”

  Sandy swallowed and said, “I think so. You?”

  “No time like the present.”

  Another moment of silence, then something unspoken passed between them. Miles nodded and turned to head down the hallway and toward the unknown.

  Sandy hesitated for the barest of moments before he, too, followed.

  May 26, 2026

  Naval Station Galveston—Gulf of Mexico

  Z-Day + 3,142

  “We had to put in a bigger generator,” the Corps of Engineers sergeant explained. “And another inverter to handle the outputs, but it should work.” He shrugged, then adopted a mock-Scottish accent. “I’m a heavy equipment operator, not a stereo guy! Sergeant.”

  Coop shook his head, but he couldn’t hold back his chuckle. For an Army guy, Niles was all right. Especially since he’d helped airlift their asses off the roof at Lockheed Skunkworks. “Come on, Jake. You and I both know you guys tested it…”

  Sergeant Niles shared a look with the other men on his crew, then grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, you got me. They pump pretty good.”

  The solution for shore-bound zulus ignoring the barges had the benefit of being simple and practiced. Fleet had retrofitted several heavy lift helicopters into gunships, mounting psychological operation speakers on them to entice zulu into tighter swarms, or away from defending units on the ground. They’d used dialogue and scream effects from horror movies, but if any noise would do, Coop had always been a fan of doing it with some style.

  He inspected the massive speakers hanging off newly-installed mounts on the shack in the center of ‘his’ barge and gave Niles an approving nod. The amplifier they’d hooked up to drive the things was immense and not exactly an off-the-shelf stereo unit, but the line-in, volume control, and power button were neatly labeled.

  “Some of the locals were a little ticked about the speakers,” Niles said. “They’ve been using the football field to grow crops, but they’re still holding out hope they’ll be able to put grass back in, someday.”

  Coop cocked his head to one side and frowned. “Football field?”

  “Texas A&M, LoPresto. Aggies?”

  “Oh.” He shrugged. “I’m more of a hockey guy—go Caps.”

  The other man shook his head in mock horror. “It’s unnatural, playing a game on ice. Where you from, Marine?”

  “Maryland.”

  “Yeah, all right, not much in the way of good football up that way, I suppose.” Niles glanced at the speakers, then turned back to Coop. “Since you’re keeping them on the main boat, we went ahead and pulled out two pairs. Figured we’d put them up, bow and stern. Should make for a nice surround sound experience. You guys might want to pack some earplugs.”

  “I’ll leave you to it, then,” Coop said. He stepped back up onto the dock but didn’t make it far before running into McFarlane. The senior NCO had his arms behind his back as he studied the modifications to the barge.

  “Don’t ever say the Corps can’t change, eh, Coop?”

  They’d blasted tunes on thunder runs in Iraq, back in the day, but McFarlane was right—boats were usually for straight-out assault or covert insertions. And neither really worked with psychological warfare. “Think they’ll be loud enough, Sergeant Major?”

  “They’re certainly big enough,” McFarlane noted. “You figure out a playlist, yet?”

  The Sergeant Major’s insight surprised Coop, but he supposed it shouldn’t have. The other man wasn’t much older than he was, after all. “I’ve got a few songs in mind. I figure I’ll open it up to the unit, take suggestions.”

  McFarlane grinned. “When you start it up, I’ve got dibs on the first song. I’ll get it to you before we kick things off.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Any hints?”

  “Oh, none at all. I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  May 27, 2026

  USS Ohio, Gulf of Mexico

  Z-Day + 3,143

  The interior of the submarine was louder than Pete had expected it to be, but then, the boat was getting old.

  Aren’t we all.

  Most of the popping and creaking was due to the fact that the captain of the Ohio had surfaced the boat. They were several hours from making port at Galveston, but they’d come close enough to bounce a signal off of the dedicated receiving station on the island to speak to the forces further north.

  The lieutenant on bridge duty stuck his head into the sonar room off the bridge where Pete had set up shop. “We’re raising the ESM mast now, Major. Your video conference should
be up in a few minutes.”

  He nodded and turned back to the small computer station set aside for communications now that higher-tech options such as satellite and ELF broadcasts were no longer an option. In a way, it was ironic—the submarine represented the pinnacle of mankind’s technological achievement, and he was about to enter a video chat with the comparative bandwidth of mid-90’s dial-up.

  The center of the screen lit up, and a pixelated picture of General Vincent the size of an index card appeared on the screen. “The video is a bit choppy on my end, Major—how’s your audio reception?”

  “Reading you loud and clear, General.”

  “Good. How did it go on Genesis?”

  Pete consulted the notes he’d jotted down on a scrap of paper. He didn’t need them, really, but he always liked to list things out in some semblance of logical order. “Better than expected, sir. The suspicions about the site in eastern Missouri were, if anything, understated.” He paused. It was damn hard to make eye contact over a video chat when it was a struggle to even see the other person’s eyes, but he gave it his best shot. “Frankly, General, we hit the jackpot.”

  “Lay it on me.”

  “GenPharm’s original plan was to disable the nanomachines at some point after the outbreak fulfilled its intended purpose. To that end, they erected a central transmission site on Taum Sauk. That site is pretty much dead-center to the odd area of effect we noted.”

  “They built in a kill switch, but never used it? Why?”

  “Unknown. And, as we’ve noted, sometime between then and now the signal that kept them out changed. There could have been an accident or equipment failure that prevented the team from activating the kill switch before being overrun. Without a closer look, it’s impossible to say.”

  General Vincent was silent for a long moment. “Thoughts?”

  Pete crossed mental fingers before speaking. When he’d recruited Miles and Sandy to go to the broadcast site, he’d neglected to mention that he’d not gotten official sanction for the plan.

  “When we kick off Gateway, I’d like to insert a small team to the site, with technical assets, to see if we can activate the kill switch.”

  The general made an expression that Pete thought was a grimace. “That’s a lot of moving parts, Major. What’s your contingency?”

  “We’ve already reserved Orca 3 for command. I’d like to take it, and my team, to Taum Sauk while the attack is underway. It’s quiet, and the noise and light from the battle should keep us from drawing any attention along with us en route. We check it out, then extract when we complete the mission.” He paused for a moment, then said, “In the event of an engineering failure, the site is still within range of the search-and-rescue helicopters we’re staging near Cape Girardeau. We’ll have to hold out for a bit, but if the tech guys are right, the north and south side of the site should still be a safe zone. We can withdraw in either direction and wait for evac.”

  “If this works …” Vincent frowned.

  “We could end this thing without having to burn half the country to ash, General.”

  “Even if that doesn’t pan out, I want your team prepared to recover any broadcast equipment, frequencies, that sort of thing. We’ve had some success herding them with the signal we intercepted, but if we can do a deep dive into how that communication works, find out what we need to do to enhance the exclusion effect, we can set up some sort of moving platform to herd them away from areas we’d like to recover. On a tank chassis, perhaps. Being able to push them away simplifies the process of building fortifications.”

  “Absolutely, sir. We should have more than enough cargo space in the Orca to pull it off. And if we need to make multiple trips, we can do that as well.”

  General Vincent was nodding on the screen before Pete finished speaking. “Approved.”

  “I’ve got my tech staff lined up, and either option should be well within their capabilities. I’ll need a half dozen Marines—maybe even Ross and Foraker if they aren’t otherwise tasked.”

  “Once Gateway kicks off, they’re spoken for. But we should have plenty of manpower for you to choose from. Let me fill you in on how things stand in Galveston…”

  April 21, 2018

  Outside of Ironton, Missouri

  Z-Day + 185

  Thunder cracked in the darkness, and Molly opened her eyes.

  She listened for a moment, then frowned. The thunder continued, but there was no lightning, no patter of raindrops on the roof. They needed rain in the worst way. She and Dave had spent much of the last few weeks finding barrels to hook up to the farm house’s downspouts. The well, in theory, had plenty of capacity to keep the greenhouse and the crops they’d planted for the contractors watered along with their own needs. One of the few things they’d been unable to find on their salvaging missions was a well pump that would work with Dave’s system. The current pump worked fine, but its remaining lifespan was uncertain, particularly if they kept it running as hard as they had been the past few months.

  Molly was quickly coming to appreciate the sense and comfort in multiple layers of contingency plans.

  Thunder, in the night, followed by the creaking of the floor in front of the guest room the Metzes had given as her own.

  Throwing the covers aside, she tip-toed into the living room. When she let her eyes adjust, Dave’s shadow was evident. He stood beside the front door, the curtain cracked enough for him to look out with one eye.

  “What is it?” she whispered. She didn’t know why she bothered, but there was something tense in his stance. “A storm?”

  “No,” he said, his voice as low as hers. “That’s gunfire and lots of it.”

  A voice behind her made her jump, but it was only Anne. “What is it?”

  “Get Hatch, and get up to the attic, Annie. That’s machine gun fire—and the only people around these parts with that sort of firepower are our friends up on the hill. If they’re shooting like that, something must have gone wrong—” He hesitated, then pulled the sleeve of his robe back.

  His arm, Molly realized. “Does it hurt?”

  “No. Not like before.”

  “So, the safe zone must still be okay. If it’s fine, what are they shooting at?”

  He stared back out the window, then cursed under his breath. “I’m seeing flashes to the southwest. That’s Bob Chandler’s place.”

  “Why would they attack him?” Anne wondered.

  Dave shook his head. “With that guy’s personality, who can blame them?” He turned and gave them all a serious look. “All three of you get down into the cellar. If they’re coming for one of the households, it’s very possible they come for the rest of us next. It could be they decided not to reenact feudalism with a bunch of Missouri farmers.”

  “Come on, Molly,” Anne said. “If you open the doors for me, I think I can get Hatcher down the stairs without waking him up.”

  She hesitated. “I want to stay and help. I’m a better shot, now.”

  Better was a polite way of putting it—she’d improved from awful to mediocre, but Dave was far too tactful to point that out. “I’d like to avoid a fight if I can, but if it comes to that, I don’t want to have to worry about you three. If the shooting starts, you huddle downstairs and wait for it to stop.” He fixed Anne with a stern look. “When it stops, run for the woods. It might be hard to keep Hatch quiet, but you have to do it.”

  Looking at the of them, Molly got the impression that Anne wanted to protest. She sighed and nodded, then said, “Adonai Ori v’yishi, mimi ira.”

  Molly blinked, but Dave apparently understood his wife, because he smiled and urged again, “Go, both of you.”

  She followed, close at Anne’s heels. Outside, the waxing crescent of the moon cast a subdued glow, but after over six months without electric lights, Molly had no trouble negotiating the gray shadows of the farmhouse.

  Anne swept Hatch and a blanket up into her arms. Molly waited for him to cry out, but he was so deeply asleep
that he didn’t even stir.

  Wish I could rest that well. Most nights, it didn’t take much noise at all to snap her out of fitful sleep, worried that the ephemeral wall holding the monsters at bay was no more.

  She took the lead now. In the kitchen, she held the door leading to the cellar. Cool, damp air wafted into the room as Anne padded down the silent stairs. The heavy treads bore the obvious stains of age, but the original builders had constructed them so solidly there wasn’t the slightest hint of squeak from any of the steps. Molly pulled the door closed behind her, worried that the darkness would be too much, but the window wells around the perimeter let in enough light to guide her so long as she stepped carefully.

  The original cellar had been little more than a hole carved in the dirt, intended to hold the coal bin and a few canned goods. That part—along with the angled egress doors that led to the backyard—still existed, but over the years, the family had expanded and finished the area under the house. Cinder blocks formed the perimeter wall and linoleum covered three-quarters of the floor. Only the oldest part, around the stairs leading up and out, was still dirt floor, and even that was hard-packed and dry.

  Shelving units against the block wall held canned goods. The winter had dented the levels a bit, but a comforting variety and amount remained. An old sofa covered in a quilt sat between two of the shelves, and Anne eased down onto the side closest to the way out to the backyard.

  Molly was too wound up to sit. She paced back and forth, drawn to the windows at the front of the house. Finally, unnerved by the silence, she murmured, “What did that mean, what you said upstairs?”

  The springs in the couch squeaked as Anne shifted Hatch’s head to her opposite shoulder and leaned back. “It’s Hebrew, dear. It’s from the book of Psalms, and it means, ‘the Lord is my light and my salvation—whom shall I fear?’”