The Rising Horde, Volume Two (Sequel to The Gathering Dead )

by Stephen Knight

  ***

  “We’ve got two CUCVs full of five-five-six and seven-six-two rolling our way,” Jaworski told McDaniels. “Another two hundred thousand rounds of ammunition. Be here in six hours, give or take.” He turned and pointed to the wall displays that bore a tactical representation of the situation brewing in Odessa. “Odessa’s got it coming. The mandatory evacuation orders didn’t go out until yesterday, for Christ’s sake. Lots of time for thousands of folks to get out, but thousands more are going to have to shelter in place. Not a lot of food left in stores, not a lot of supplies, almost no gas or diesel. And now, they’re asking for our help.”

  “Orders?” McDaniels asked.

  Jaworski looked at him and smiled grimly. “In three days, we’re going to miss every bullet we fire today as if it was our favorite child. Ammunition conservation is what we need to concentrate on. Otherwise the only things we’ll be engaging the zeds with are clubs, knives, pots and pans, and salad shooters.”

  “So, Colonel, you saying we shouldn’t be helping the police and other agencies in the city?” Rawlings stood nearby with his arms crossed over his chest.

  “I’m saying this task force was put together to conduct a specific mission, and that mission has not yet been accomplished.” Jaworski looked around the operations center. “Or am I the only one here who realizes that?”

  “We’ve got ten times more civilians at the gates,” Haley said. “They’re getting more insistent, especially now that a stench comes walking in from the desert every ten minutes or so. The external security units usually take them down out of sight, but every now and then, one of the sniper units in the towers hits one when it closes to around eight hundred meters from the highway. It’s kind of tough to hide that, so a lot of the folks out there know what’s going on. And they’re getting desperate.”

  “My orders stand, Colonel Haley. No more civilians are to be allowed inside this facility.” He fixed the Ranger battalion commander with a sharp glare. “Is that clear? Any need for me to expand on that statement?”

  “No, sir.” Haley’s face was blank and emotionless, but McDaniels didn’t doubt he felt like he’d just been punched in the gut. No one wanted to turn their backs on fellow Americans in distress.

  Jaworski nodded and flipped through some pages on his iPad. “According to the S-4, we’ve got about four months of provisions. If we lean that out, we can go almost a year without food and water resupply. Of course, a year out here surrounded by the stenches is probably going to be the longest year of our lives, if we just so happened to make it through.”

  “And what then?” asked Major Carmody, the aviation commander.

  “Well, we’ll be so thin that all of us will be able to fly out on a single Chinook,” Jaworski said. “But I realize that’s not an answer to your question. The low down is, we don’t know yet, Major. That’s up to echelons above reality to figure out. And not to change the subject, but do you have a transportation point to take the scientists and VIPs if the walls come down? Not to mention the data and whatever drugs are available?”

  “Yes, sir. We go straight to Fort Carson in Colorado. We refuel on the way at Bliss, or in flight if the resources are available. And there are supply caches all along our route, including refueling equipment. It’s been camouflaged, but we have their locations, and we’ll be able to find them even at night.”

  “You have the GPS coordinates of every cache?”

  Carmody looked offended. “The Night Stalkers don’t depend on GPS, sir. We depend on lat-long, a hand-held map, a compass, and a clock to get to where we need to go. That high-tech stuff is strictly for kids.”

  Jaworski grunted, and McDaniels had to hold back a grin. As a member of Air Force Special Operations, Jaworski was one of those “kids.”

  “Just so long as you can get them out of here if the balloon goes up. How many shipments of the vaccine have you delivered so far?” The Chinooks had been running on an almost continuous cycle, with one departing the facility every four hours.

  “Close to four hundred thousand doses, Colonel. As fast as it can be processed and packaged, we toss it onto a Hook and get it out of here. Again, it heads to Carson for distribution. Where it goes from there, I don’t know.”

  “You flown any of these missions yourself, Rusty?” McDaniels asked. Carmody was known as “Rusty Carbody” among the task force troops.

  “Yes, sir. It’s not a tough run, but it’s not exactly the most scenic one, either.”

  “How are things to the north and west?”

  Carmody thought about that for a moment. “Not too bad, actually. From what we see, things are pretty normal, other than the evacuation traffic coming in from the east. Still lots of activity, but it doesn’t seem to be… well, that.” He pointed to a whiteboard that bore the legend TEOTWAWKI in brown erasable marker: The End of the World as We Know It.

  “Give it some time,” Jaworski said. “At any rate, the zeds are finally here. Are we ready? What have we overlooked? What do we need that we don’t already have?”

  “Do we have sufficient non-organic air support?” McDaniels asked. Jaworski had been handling that aspect of the mission.

  “We do. We have AC-130Js, pretty much every attack jet in the inventory, and even B-52s on standby. The gunships operate out of their home base in Canon, New Mexico. They can be here within an hour. We’d need three hours for the B-52s, but the rest is pretty much fifteen minutes out—F-15Es, F-16s, even some old F/B-111s. We can definitely move some serious mud when the time comes.” Jaworski pointed toward one section of the TOC. “Tactical air controllers are on staff twenty-four hours now, and I know that you Special Forces types can quarterback engagements as well, so we should be good to go on that.”

  “Unless we lose a resource, like an airfield,” Carmody said.

  Jaworski nodded. “That’s true, but a lot of folks are going over the lessons learned from the fall of Fort Campbell. And they’re implementing a lot of the procedures we have in place here, including the trench system filled with accelerants to fry the bastards.”

  “Everyone is going to need gas masks or some sort of respiration system,” the ranking doctor from the cash said. It was the first time he had attended one of Jaworski’s soirees, and McDaniels was happy to see he didn’t wait to be recognized before speaking. “Once the trenches are set on fire, they’ll start emitting some hazardous fumes that can come into the facility. I mean, one of the core components to the mixture is benzene, right? That’s a powerful carcinogen.”

  “Roger that, we have that in hand,” Jaworski said. “Colonels McDaniels and Haley have been slapping me across the head with MOPP manuals for the past week. I don’t know what’s in them, but they sure as hell hurt when they hit your noggin.” There was a patter of laughter. “Thanks for bringing it up, though. We do need to take an inventory of those items and make sure we have enough for everyone in the camp.” He consulted his iPad again. “And according to our last census, we have almost six thousand people here. We do not have an inventory of their supplies, so we need to figure out how we’re going to get around that. There’s a preacher named Clarence Gribble who is apparently their main advocate. I’ve asked him to try to get a handle on what the civilians have, since over the next few months, it’s going to become communal property, whether they know that or not.”

  “You need some manpower to make that happen?” Haley asked.

  “If I do, I’ll be sure to come to you.” Jaworski turned when one of the TOC operators called out to him.

  “Message from the Odessa LNO, sir. Local law enforcement is asking for help.” The operator sketched out the circumstances that had been reported to him. Jaworski listened, his face a blank mask. The joviality McDaniels had noticed during their first meeting so many weeks ago at the Pentagon had died long ago. He had been surprised to discover the lean Air Force officer, a man who could fall asleep on a moment’s notice no matter what was going down, was actually one tough SOB when it came down to
it.

  “Advise the Odessa police we’ll provide intelligence support and help them coordinate their responses, but our troops will not be getting directly involved. We have to pay attention to our own mission now.” Jaworski looked at McDaniels. “You should probably recall the liaison officers, Colonel. Bring ’em back and put them on duty.”

  “Roger that.” McDaniels knew refusing to help the Odessa PD was pretty much a death warrant for the city. The police force wasn’t large enough to take on the thousands of necromorphs that would be appearing throughout the day. Within twenty-four hours, the city of Odessa would be overrun.

  SPARTA would be the final remainder of human civilization in the area. It was a sobering thing to consider, and McDaniels found he did not have the courage to dwell upon it for long.

  3

  Night fell.

  “So, Dad, what’s going to happen to all those people outside?” Lenny sat across the small table from McDaniels in the D-FAC, chewing on a lobster roll with a side of fries and cole slaw. His shotgun was propped against the table beside him, just as McDaniels’s rifle stood on its butt right next to him. Belinda sat next to Lenny, her long blond hair pulled into a ponytail. She picked at a salad, and her blue-green eyes were nervous, always moving, looking from Lenny to McDaniels and back again. Lenny was apparently unaware of the panic that raged deep inside her.

  McDaniels took a bite from his Reuben sandwich and chewed it for a long moment. When he swallowed, he took a sip of Coke and looked at Lenny with a sigh. “They can’t come in, son. We don’t have room for them.”

  “So where can they go?”

  “West. It’s the only place for them to go now. New Mexico, Arizona, California… those places are still relatively safe. Texas isn’t, not any longer.”

  “But most of them are stranded out there,” Belinda said. There was a hushed quality to her voice, as if she feared someone might overhear their conversation. “They don’t have any gas left. They were trying to get to Odessa, and now the dead are heading for Odessa. How can they go anywhere, and still be expected to survive?”

  “The next stop for the dead is every town in the area, and then they’ll probably press on westward as well. The only chance those poor bastards outside have is to run like hell.”

  Belinda looked down. “It seems like they could still come in here.”

  “They’d consume our supplies and reduce our ability to care for ourselves and complete our mission, Belinda. It sounds cold-hearted, but at the end of the day, our mission takes precedence. That’s how it has to be.”

  She didn’t say anything more, only looked down at her salad.

  “Dad.” Lenny looked deeply conflicted, and for a moment, all McDaniels wanted to do was to hug him and tell him everything was going to be okay. But that would be a lie, and Lenny already knew the chances for things getting nasty were very, very high.

  “There’s no other way, son,” he said gently. “Not only do I have my orders on this matter, the reason behind that order is absolutely logical. We can’t give up anymore than we already have, and we’ve been telling the people outside the wire that for days. A lot of them chose to stay and wait for us to change our minds, and that was the wrong thing to do.”

  “So it’s okay to let them die?” Lenny asked.

  The question hit McDaniels sideways, even though it shouldn’t have. He took another bite of his dinner and chewed it thoughtfully. A long time ago, in a dusty, mountainous land filled with people who on any ordinary day might be his enemy, he had let a boy live… and he’d lost soldiers under his command as a result of that decision. Years later, on a crisp fall day in New York City where smoke hung in the air and the necromorphs were taking down the entire metropolis, he’d let the zeds kill a mother and her child. And only days ago, he had done the unthinkable—he had killed a wounded toddler. His morality hadn’t even been a speed bump. He’d simply aimed his rifle and fired the killing shot.

  And following that reverie, it dawned on him that he and David Gartrell had somehow, inexplicably, traded places in the cosmos of morality. It was a damned odd circumstance, and McDaniels was surprised he hadn’t contemplated it earlier.

  “Dad?”

  McDaniels came back to the present. Lenny looked at him from across the table with eyes that were still so damned innocent. He was still a good boy, even though the world was falling down all around him.

  McDaniels shook his head. “No. It’s not okay to let them die. But that’s what’s going to happen.”

  ***

  The tent was nothing special, Gartrell thought, just like all the countless others inside the wall, though it did have nice wooden pews that had apparently been uprooted from a church on the outside. And there was the great cross at the far end, from which hung the effigy of J.C. himself. Gartrell sauntered past the pews and right up to the cross. He looked at it for a long time. The icon did nothing to inspire him, did not help him retain his strength as it had in the past. He felt no build of confidence, no gentle reassurance that all was in God’s hands, no rapture. No matter how hard and frantically he searched, Gartrell found no remaining vestiges of his faith. He had moved past all that in the subway tunnels beneath New York.

  All he felt was a faint sort of self-loathing.

  How could I have been so stupid to believe in you? How could I have been so damned blind the entire time?

  “Might I help you, sir?”

  The voice startled Gartrell, and the man behind him retreated a step when Gartrell whirled. He was a tall, thin man wearing black—the preacher who went by the name of Gribble. Gartrell knew he was the primary proponent for the civilians inside SPARTA, and represented their collective voice in pretty much all matters. While the two men had not been formally introduced, Gartrell knew him on sight.

  Gribble apparently knew him as well. “Well hello, Sergeant Major. What brings you here?” Gribble indicated the long tent.

  Gartrell stared at the man’s oversized hands for a long moment. “Those are some pretty impressive lunch grabbers, Reverend.”

  Gribble laughed politely. “Thanks. I’ve never heard them described in exactly that way before.” He turned toward the altar next to Gartrell. “I’m just setting up for the next round of services. The civilians seem to prefer worshipping here instead of with the military chaplain. No offense, it’s just that my services are more… well, what they want.”

  “Not watered down like the military ones,” Gartrell said. “Not diluted to the point to where no one is going to get annoyed. No fire and brimstone, right?”

  Gribble looked at Gartrell thoughtfully. “I hadn’t thought of it exactly like that, but I guess you could put it that way. To be honest, it seems the military chaplain here isn’t interested in saving souls as he is in maintaining the status quo. And he’s a Catholic, too; surprising that he isn’t more motivated by the words of God.”

  Gartrell grunted and regarded the cross on the wooden mount. Jesus returned his gaze with an agonized, unblinking stare. “Where did this come from?”

  “From my church in Odessa. Along with the pews and pretty much everything else that you see here. One of the InTerGen folks is a senior member of my parish, and he arranged for everything to be brought here.”

  “Really. Who’s that?”

  “Does it matter? I don’t want him to get into any trouble.”

  Gartrell shrugged. “No. It doesn’t matter.” He turned toward the tent entrance when he heard a muffled report in the distance. It would be one of the snipers engaging a target in the desert.

  Gribble heard it as well, and he looked at Gartrell with concerned eyes. “They’ll be here soon, won’t they? The necromorphs. Or stenches, as you call them.”

  Gartrell nodded. “Yep.”

  “How many? Do you know?”

  “Tell you what, if they came from Hell, then Hell’s probably a pretty empty place right now,” Gartrell said.

  “That doesn’t sound very encouraging, sir.”

&nb
sp; “I’m an enlisted man, I work for a living.” Gartrell pointed at the rockers and bars insignia at his collar. “You call officers ‘sir.’ Me, you can call Gartrell. Or Sergeant Major, your call.”

  “Do you have a first name?”

  “Dave.”

  “Is there something I can do for you, Dave? Is there anything you might… you know, need to talk about? Something you might need to get off your chest?”

  Gartrell thought about that, long and hard. Was there something he needed to get off his chest? The reverend just had no idea what he was asking for. It was almost funny, and for a moment, he thought he might burst out laughing.

  Then more gunfire sounded in the distance, and the moment of possible mirth passed.

  “I guess not,” he said. “Sorry to have wasted your time. You might want to get ready for things to start going downhill, Reverend. We’re about to make full contact with the stenches, and it’s not going to be very pretty.”

  “Is that what you came here to say?” Gribble asked.

  “Probably not. But it’s all I’ve got.” Gartrell looked up at the cross. “But if you’ve got some pull with J.C., you might want to ask him to drop by and help out a bit. Or at least stay the fuck out of my way.”

  “Perhaps you’d be better off letting him take the lead, Dave?”

  Gartrell snorted. “I tried that. Look where I wound up—trapped in the armpit of Texas about to be surrounded by a few million or so hungry stenches looking to make me their next meal.”

  Gribble started to respond, but a strident tone blared across the camp-wide address system. It was followed by an announcement: “All ISRT to the perimeter. Stand by for contact. All ISRT to the perimeter. Stand by for contact. All operations personnel report to the TOCs. All operations personnel report to the TOCs.”