by M. Lorrox
When Master Sergeant Vega approaches General Riley for new orders, he is on the line with General Campbell at the Pentagon Field Command Center.
General Riley motions to acknowledge the marine’s presence and to signal for him to wait. “Goddamn it, Campbell, we can’t operate without proper communication. Get a team in the air, and triangulate these signals!”
“Yes, sir. Any additional commands to send to Joint Base Andrews? We’re sending a bird to refuel and to tell them to aim their microwave relays toward the Pentagon.”
“Great, but don’t stop there. Every time a helo becomes available, send them to another area base of operations to tell them to set up comms. I don’t have enough resources to set up full command here, so have everyone connect with you at the Pentagon Field Command Center… Keep the two Gold Tops stationed there though. I might need them.”
“Very well. We could also pull you out from there and bring you here, I mean—”
“Campbell, if I wanted out, I’d say so. This is where the threat is, and I’m going to handle it.”
“Understood. Godspeed.”
“Mmm-hmm. I want operational updates every fifteen minutes. Riley out.” He sets the phone-like handset down and waves Vega over to him. “You have your teams ready?”
“Yes, sir, we’ve got two strike forces geared up and ready to go.”
“You don’t look geared up. Are you planning on some beauty rest this pleasant evening?”
“No, sir! I’ll be your command defense and supervise the strike forces, sir.”
“Very well. Come with me.” He leads the marine over to the southwest corner of the roof. He points past a park, straight down the road to the south. “You see that building spanning the road? Just to the west of it, away from that odd curved building, is the only main exit from the L’Enfant Plaza Metro that hasn’t been sealed. It’s in a glass structure, but it won’t be for long.”
He spins to his right and points almost exactly in the same direction that the corner of the FAA building points, due southwest. “The building to the west of the glass structure is the Postal Service HQ. It’s on an elevated road, L’Enfant Plaza SW. Send the squad with the 50-cal. to the roof there. Aim right down the stairs to the metro, blast the glass, and stop the flow of zombies. Are you with me so far?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The others in that squad will sharpshoot zombies from their elevated position on the side of the roof.”
“Understood. And the other squad?”
General Riley drops his hand and turns to Vega. “The squad with the 50-cal. will be slow to get into position. The other squad will find different elevated firing positions, as quickly as they can, and bring relief to the ground forces already slugging it out down there. When they hear the 50-cal. firing, they leave their positions, resupply the ground forces, and set up a perimeter of mini-claymores around the outside of the ground-level exit. After the claymores are down, the resupplied ground forces will take back over, and both strike forces return here for new assignments.”
“Bring the 50-cal. back?”
General Riley sucks on his lip while he thinks. “No, grab a squad of soldiers from the ground to take over. Until the zombies stop coming out, that gun keeps firing.”
“I understand, sir. Begin the operation?”
“I want status reports every ten. Get it done.”
“Yes, sir.” Vega salutes, gets saluted down, then runs over to the strike forces to begin the mission.
Riley grabs the binoculars that hang at his chest and brings them up to his eyes. Zombies still stream out onto 9th Street SW—where he can see them. About half are gunned down, but the other half are getting away. LAZoRS have containment, now we stop the flow. Then we clean up. We are not going to lose this one... We cannot.
The ambulance carrying Prime Minister Hamid ibn al Zaman takes a corner, and then it turns off its sirens. The driver glances into the mirror where he can see the inside of the back of the ambulance. “You done yet?”
A paramedic leans over Hamid, takes a breath, then pulls hard on the handle to a ratchet strap. -click- He leans up. “Yeah. He’s not going anywhere.”
The driver swallows his nerves. “Did you give him a sedative?”
“Look, you do your job, I’ll do mine. He was already out, so I just gave him a fuck-ton of benzos—muscle relaxers. I wouldn’t be surprised if the old vamp is out for a couple days.”
“You’re not going to OD him, are you? Could that kill him?”
The paramedic ignores him.
The driver sighs. “He will wake up, right?”
The paramedic crawls into the front passenger seat and scowls. “Like I said. You do your job.”
The driver takes another turn, then he checks the GPS on the dash. “It just makes me nervous.”
The paramedic buckles in and tosses a piece of gum into his mouth. “Which part?”
The driver looks at him in awe. “Maybe this whole thing.”
The paramedic shrugs. “Eh, whatever. Music?” He turns on the radio, and pop music blasts through the speakers. He smacks his gum and sighs. This is gonna be a looong ride.
On the ground floor of the National Museum of Natural History, zombies continue to bash against the doors to the cafeteria. A pair of vampires at each one keeps pressure on the barricades, but with every passing minute, the doors’ hinges become weaker, and it’s only a matter of time before the doors are knocked loose.
Frank, Jennifer, and the other chaperones pick up the slack with the vampire kids, lining them all up, setting up a buddy system, and retying all their little shoes with double knots. Katlyn puts the finishing touches on a batch of Molotov cocktails by adding the wicks and stoppering the tops, and she bundles them up for transport, wrapping the bottles in cloth napkins to keep the glass from breaking. Jambavan makes sure that all their gear and emergency equipment is accounted for and assigns chaperones to carry it. Korina rests and plans, playing out the different scenarios in her mind.
Skip hunts through the large kitchen facilities for any clue to the whereabouts of the utility tunnel. What’s his face? Maintenance guy, he would totally have known about the tunnel. But nooo, zombies had to bash in and trap us.
The pipes Skip saw earlier along one wall don’t lead anywhere, and now he finishes checking the rest of the main kitchen’s area, finding nothing. He sighs and doubles back to start methodically checking the closets and storage areas connected to the kitchen. I just know that unless it collapsed, that tunnel is still here, somewhere.
He opens the door to a large pantry, and the first thing he notices are more pipes dropping in from the ceiling and then running along the wall. He follows them, and they lead around a corner, then through a wall—right next to a large metal door. He grows excited as he approaches it. He slides a waist-high storage rack out of the way, then he twists and tugs on the doorknob, but it’s locked.
He looks at the yellow crowbar in his hand and smiles. I’ve always wanted to do this... He stabs the flat part of the crowbar into the doorjamb, and he goes to town. In less than a minute, he has the door open.
Past the door is a stairwell leading into a sort of basement. He finds a light switch, but there’s few lights, and the shadows soak into the room from all around. Here and there, various piles of old building supplies block the way—spools of electrical wire, boxes of light fixtures, stacks of floor tile. The pipes, Skip, follow the pipes.
He follows them to another wall and another door. This one isn’t locked. He opens the door and fumbles for a light-switch—there isn’t one. His eyes adjust, and he spots a string hanging down. He pulls it, and a bare bulb clicks on.
Squinting, Skip looks around. It’s a small room, only six feet square, but the walls are bare; there aren’t any doors. His hopes and his eyes settle to the floor, only for him to realize that the floor isn’t flat.
There’s an old metal plate with a handle on one end and hinges on the other. He lifts it, and it crea
ks open. Moist and stale air billows up, but Skip ignores it. He sees a ladder leading down, and about ten feet below, a tunnel leads off in one direction. This has to be it!
He sets the crowbar on the floor beside the trap door, and he climbs down. At the bottom, he looks into the darkness of the tunnel. Pipes diminish into the black. He touches one of the pipes and immediately recoils his hand. It’s hot... That means these are still used! The tunnel MUST still connect on the other end! He fishes a quarter out of his pocket, and he skips it down the length of the tunnel like a rock on a lake. When he hears the coin hit the ground and start to roll, he smiles. The sound he hears travels from very far away.
He’s climbing back up the ladder before the coin settles to a rest.
When he tells Korina that he’s found a tunnel, she just about kisses him—in his mind anyway. Katlyn does though, in real life.
Skip leads Korina to the trap door, and then he leads her back to the group where she explains her plan to safely get everyone out of the cafeteria and into the tunnel. “If the zombies follow after that, at least it’ll have bought us time. If they do engage us in the tunnel, we’ll have the advantage that they won’t be able to surround us.” Korina looks at the eyes watching her. “Questions? Volunteers?”
Jambavan raises his hand. “I’m fast. I can take one of the doors.”
Korina nods. “Okay. Then after, you’ll take up our rear in the tunnel, just in case any zombies follow.” She looks around. “We need another volunteer for the other door.”
Katlyn swallows and steps forward. “I can do it, and then I’ll blaze the kitchen.” She looks at Skip and gives him a nervous smile. He notices the soft features of her face, then he remembers the strength those features hide, and he nods back.
Korina stands. “Very well, but before we go, let’s have some torches. Katlyn?”
“On it.” She jogs into the kitchen where she has her raw materials.
“Jambavan, help her.”
“Yes, sir.”
Korina catches Lance’s eye. “Hey, can you rig up something to collapse on the trap door?”
“Yes ma’am.” He runs into the kitchen as well.
Korina turns to face the others in the cafeteria—the people she was sent to protect. “Alright everyone, we’re moving out in just a minute. Chaperones, is everyone ready?”
A few say “Yes,” and many nod. Overall, the response isn’t what Korina would have preferred, but she goes with it. “Good. I’ll lead the way…once we have torches.”
Everyone is ready to go, but they’re forced to wait. Skip finds Jennifer in order to find Minnie—she’s hugging onto Jennifer’s leg. “Minnie, we’re headed to the castle.”
She peeks out. “I’m scared, they’re loud.”
Behind them, the zombies still bang on the doors.
“I know, but it’ll be okay. We’re about to go on an adventure, would you like me to carry you or would you like to walk?”
She lets go of Jennifer’s leg. “I’ll walk. I need to protect Valentine.” She reaches out and takes Tommy’s hand. “Tommy and I will stay together.”
“Fair enough.”
With the only flashlight, Korina leads the way into the tunnel. A few chaperones are given torches, and they light them as they pass through the kitchen. When the last child is in the tunnel, Frank runs back up the stairs, through the pantry, and to the kitchen. He lights the wick on a Molotov cocktail and sets it on the counter near the door to the cafeteria. Then, he opens the door and shouts out, “We’re ready!” He turns and runs to the basement, then descends the ladder into the tunnel.
Jambavan and Katlyn press so hard on the tables to keep the doors to the hallway shut, that both the vampires are nearly horizontal. She looks at him. “On three?”
He nods. “One.”
“Two.”
“Three!” They both let go and are nearly tripped by the skidding tables that are launched behind them. Katlyn makes the kitchen door first. She grabs the Molotov and stands aside. Jambavan is a split second after her, and as soon as he’s past, she throws the Molotov onto the ground and runs behind him.
The glass breaks, and the thickened fuel forms a pool of burning gel on the ground. Flames shoot up three feet, and thick smoke from the burning mixture pours into the air. When Jambavan and Katlyn make it to the pantry on their way to the basement, zombies rush into the kitchen and into the flames. Their legs catch fire, and they are confused. They look around—trying to find their prey while their clothes burn, and then they just pick a direction and run.
Jambavan jumps down the steps to the basement three at a time. In the small room above the tunnel, he jumps through the open hatch and skids his hands along the sides of the ladder to maintain control. Katlyn starts to climb down after, then she pauses and pulls the trap door’s handle, but it doesn’t budge.
She looks up. “Come on!” The trap door is tied to a rack Lance loaded with building supplies with the express purpose of being heavy. She tugs again, but she can’t tip the rack. “I can’t close it!”
Jambavan starts to climb back up. “Let me try!”
She takes a deep breath, squeezes the handle tight, leans back, and while she leaps forward—throwing her body weight into the effort and tugging at the same time—a flaming zombie enters the small room. Katlyn’s momentum tips the rack, and it falls onto the metal door. Her momentum was so great that she also hits her face on the side of the concrete wall. She lets go of the handle, and she falls.
Below her, Jambavan sees her falling. He jumps off the ladder and catches her, landing like a cat on the ground below. “Are you alright?”
She holds her face—her nose is broken and bleeding. “Thanks for catching me... You can put me down.”
“Oh. Okay.” He sets her down, then he picks up the burning torch that was left for them a few feet into the tunnel.
She makes sure her nose is straight, then licks the blood collecting on her lips. “Let’s go.”
Vincent de Villablino, high councilor and chairman of the War and Defense Cabinet, reclines in a hospital bed and looks out the window. His wounded leg is lifted and supported by wires attached to a rack above the bed. As Eddy is about to knock on his door, he beckons the two boys to enter.
“I heard you and the nurse in the hallway. Neither Wollstone nor Zaman are here?”
Eddy shrugs. “I guess not. Maybe they were brought to a closer hospital? Because they were more seriously wounded?”
“No. I was there when they were each taken away. They were to be brought here… This is not good.”
Eddy puts his hands in his pockets. Enrique pokes him, and then Enrique moves into the best attention stance his wounds allow. Eddy follows suit.
“My name is Enrique, sir, I am squire to Flying Eagle of the Council Guard. I am here to serve.”
Eddy swallows. “My name is Eddy sir, Sadie and Charlie Costanza’s son. Until they return, I will also serve.”
Vincent nods. “Good. We need an accurate list of the elders here at the hospital. We must assume that Wollstone and Zaman are in danger, and we may need to act. Go, collect names and room numbers, and inform them all to be ready for emergency meetings.”
Eddy nods. “Are they healthy enough, sir?”
“Go.”
Eddy and Enrique spin on their heels and leave the room. In the hallway, they formulate a plan. They’ll start at opposite ends of the vampires’ wing, get some paper, make lists, and meet back up in their own room in ten minutes to compile the information.
When General William Campbell introduces Major General Hecate to a platoon of thirty-two hardened soldiers from the United States Army Special Forces—the Green Berets—most of them wonder if the pressure has finally gotten to the eccentric general and if he has snapped.
She stands to his side. Big boots, green-tipped spiked hair, and oodles of Victorian-style steampunk leather wraps around her. Shiny buckles hold each of her garments’ straps tight.
The gene
ral next introduces the troops to Hecate’s team—the vampire knights—who are to be the Special Forces’ squad leaders. The Green Berets confirm in their minds that the old man has completely lost it.
General Campbell smiles at them. “Now you all remember who the enemy is, and good luck…” He throws a thumb over his shoulder at the vampires. “Oh, and stay out of their way if you know what’s good for you.”
He walks off, and Major General Hecate steps into his place, but she faces away from the troops. “Knights, gimme a row, and space out.”
Her eight knights all line up. Hecate turns and smiles at the soldiers.
One of them snickers. Knights? Spaced out? Is this chick for real?
She takes a breath and decides to use her kung fu voice, which is really, really, really loud. “LISTEN UP! Form squads behind my men! One demo man per squad, if any of you are them! Three gunners, or whatever, each squad! MOVE IT! MOVE IT! MOVE IT!”
The thirty-two Green Berets shoulder their disbelief and line up.
Hecate turns to face them. “You heard Campbell. We’re going in, and we’re not coming out until the metros are clear! We’ll blow the exit from the Pentagon, then we’re moving through the tunnels to the next stations; the zombies’ spread must be stopped. Bring plenty of mags for the initial assault, but be sure you also have a bladed weapon. Fix bayonets if ya got ’em, or get a sword or something. We move on the Pentagon Metro in five minutes. You’ll find your squad leader there. Now move out!”
The soldiers disperse and grab supplies. Coach, the husky knight with the bushy mustache, moves up to Hecate’s side. “Sir?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you require a weapon?”
She looks at him like he has eight heads. “I’m good.”
“Just checking.”
As he jogs off toward the rendezvous point—his metal armor and weapons clanging at his belt—Hecate slips a small leather satchel from her back. Inside, she has a canteen, and she takes a drink of blood from it before replacing it on her back. Then she pats her hips—one side, then the other—and she finds the largest pouch that dangles from her utility belt. She shakes the pouch, and something metal inside it sort of jingles. There you are, you Ol’ Snakeys. Ready for some killin’?