Zombie War: An account of the zombie apocalypse that swept across America

by Nicholas Ryan

  “Anything else?”

  “Drills,” McMaster said. “We drilled in the line formations until the men were comfortable and adjusted to the din of battle, and trained to watch for command signals. It was parade ground stuff – things we hadn’t reviewed since basic training. Since this battle it has become the approved way to manoeuver troops into a defensive position and to form them up for combat.”

  I tried on a wry smile. McMaster looked like he might punch me on the nose. He found nothing at all about this moment in America’s military history amusing. “History repeats itself,” I offered. “The lessons of the past re-learned.”

  “Yeah,” McMaster grunted. He still looked like he wanted to punch me – maybe just for the satisfaction it would give him.

  “Coming back to the battle at the fort,” I changed the subject to distract him from any brewing violent intent. “Did the zombie attack just peter out, or were they driven off?”

  “They were slaughtered,” McMaster said grudgingly. “But it still wasn’t over. They didn’t just retreat to lick their injuries. They didn’t flee the field carrying their wounded under a cover of smoke or anything remotely familiar. They just died. And those that weren’t killed in the initial battle, were finished off throughout the night. In the morning, we burned the remains. Now, all that’s left is this rusted old fort, and thousands of shattered broken bones, burning in the dirt and dust.”

  KNOXVILLE, TENNESSEE:

  278TH ARMORED CAVALRY REGIMENT HEADQUARTERS:

  While I sat and waited for the Colonel to arrive, all I could do was focus on the hat that sat on the polished surface of the desk.

  It wasn’t an ordinary hat – it was a military headpiece as famous as the bicorn worn by Napoleon, or the feathered war bonnets worn by red Indians.

  It was a Cavalry Stetson.

  The acorn band was a black and gold weave, just below gold crossed sabers. The winged eagle above the sabers, designating a ‘full’ Colonel, was silver. Like I said it wasn’t just a hat: it was an iconic image of the Cavalry, and America’s military heritage.

  Colonel Chip Biggins’ office was large and utilitarian. Behind the desk was the American flag, and a view of barracks buildings through a large window. The rest of the office was uncluttered. Everything was in its place, and there was nothing that did not belong, or serve a purpose.

  When the Colonel came into the room, he glanced at me quickly and then went around behind his desk. He had a fistful of papers in his hand. He set them down, and then stared at them for a moment as though their presence somehow bothered him. He scowled, and then moved the papers into a drawer. Finally I had his attention.

  I leaned across the wide space of the desk and we shook hands. “Colonel. It’s nice to meet you.”

  Chip Biggins’ expression was stern. He reminded me of one of those old portrait photographs of a grim man staring out at the world with a fearsome expression darkening his features. His eyes were hard and wary. He had light brown wavy hair that was beginning to turn grey, and a fleshy face. The sun had browned his skin so that his eyebrows looked almost invisible. He stared at me for a long second and then said, “Pleasure.”

  That was it.

  I sat back in my seat. I had my notebook in my lap and a page of prepared questions. Colonel Chip Biggins glared at me like he was almost daring me to open my mouth.

  He was an intimidating man – a big barrel-chested body and huge forearms. He swayed in the leather chair like it was a rocker.

  “Colonel, I wanted to ask you some questions about your unit – the 278th Armored Cavalry Regiment. SAFCUR II – General Winchester – told me in a recent interview that you and your men were instrumental in developing tank tactics against the zombies during ‘Operation Conquest’.”

  Colonel Biggins nodded. “We did our job,” he said obliquely, and then lapsed once more into silence.

  I have the utmost respect for our fighting men and women, but they’re difficult subjects to interview. Men like Biggins are guarded when dealing with the media – partially because of mistrust, and partially because of matters of operational security. I had thought by mentioning SAFCUR II’s name, Biggins would be a little more willing to talk.

  Apparently not.

  “Can you tell me about the tactics you developed? How were they different from the normal tank tactics that would be employed against conventional armies?”

  The Colonel stopped swinging back in the big padded seat. He leaned forward and clasped his hands together on the desk, forearms resting on the polished surface like he was about to deliver a lecture… or a sermon.

  “Let’s start at the start,” he said. His voice was deep and gruff. “Even though the 278th is referred to as an Armored Cavalry Regiment, its make up is actually an Armored Brigade Combat Team.”

  “Is there a difference?”

  The Colonel nodded. “There is,” he said. “The ABCT structure we operate under now uses a few less vehicles, but it gives us more flexibility and the ability to deploy more efficiently. The ABCT is a modular unit. The change in structure is to enhance our ability to be deployed to overseas theaters of action quickly.”

  I nodded and wrote everything down. The Colonel paused and waited. When I looked up again, he was staring at me impatiently.

  “Don’t you take shorthand?”

  I shook my head. “And normally when I do these kind of interviews people prefer me not to record the conversation. That’s why I have to write everything down and then decipher my notes when I get back to a hotel.

  “Inefficient,” Biggins said. “You got a phone?”

  I nodded.

  The Colonel grunted. “Then record the conversation. I’d rather take a chance on you catching something off the record than you writing everything I say down wrong.”

  I dived into my pocket for my cell phone, and threw the notepad down, glad to be rid of it. I set the phone down on the edge of the desk and started recording. The Colonel looked grimly satisfied. His eyes flicked to the office door, as though he was reassuring himself it was closed and we were completely alone.

  It was… and we were.

  “Chariots,” the Colonel said.

  I blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You asked about the tank tactics my unit developed to fight the zombie horde. I’m giving you the answer. Chariots.”

  I did a double take. “Can you tell me more?”

  Biggins got up from his chair and paced around the room. Every step was measured and precise. It was like he was marching on a parade ground. He circled the office twice, and stopped beside the American flag. I turned a little in my seat until I was facing him, and then slid the phone closer across the desk.

  “You’ve probably heard this before,” Biggins explained, “but the fact is that we were forced to rethink all of our tactics when we went up against the zombies. Normal tactics no longer applied, because the circumstance was different, and because our enemy was vastly different from those we had beaten before.”

  “So you turned to history?”

  “Of course,” Biggins conceded. “Every commander knows the history of warfare – the tactics of the great strategists that shaped the world we live in. In every aspect of this conflict, it was the lessons learned from the past that allowed us to fight an enemy from our future. The tank tactics we employed were no different.”

  “But chariots?”

  Biggins looked bleak. “Why not,” he shrugged. “When I was first approached by SAFCUR II, and told about ‘Operation Conquest’ my team and I went back through time, looking for comparative scenarios that were similar to what we were facing. Tanks first appeared on the battlefield during World War I, and they had some military success. But their biggest success was the shock value.”

  I was listening, but not understanding. The Colonel’s explanation seemed a contradiction.

  “But what use was shock value when you’re fighting an enemy like the zombies? They couldn’t be shocked. Not i
n the same way. You couldn’t affect their morale, right?”

  “Of course,” the Colonel snapped. Maybe my interruptions were affecting his train of thought. I decided it was better to sit quietly and shut my mouth. I sat back and stared up at the man.

  “That’s why we kept going back through time. Finally we explored the great ancient battles – and that was where we found the real key to success.”

  He paused for a moment, like maybe he was waiting for me to nod my head or mutter some sound of sudden understanding. But I had learned my lesson. I kept quiet. The Colonel went on.

  “The tanks employed in the First Great War were against an enemy that was entrenched. The other problem with focusing on the First War for our ultimate strategy was that the early tanks in theater were few and far between. So we went back to the first ancient battles where chariots were employed. In ancient times, chariots were used against tightly packed infantry formations. But they were used in a specific way.”

  I couldn’t help myself. “Which was?”

  “In dense formations,” Colonel Biggins declared like it was significant. “The first chariots were formed up wheel-to-wheel and unleashed on the unsuspecting infantry. They ripped through the ranks and shattered the enemy formations. They weren’t about delivering a platform that killed thousands of soldiers, they were impact weapons that broke apart columns and left them exposed for the infantry that followed the chariots into the breach.”

  “And that was the inspiration for the tank tactics you employed – the tactics that won the Battle at Rock Hill?”

  “It was,” Biggins said. There was an air of grim satisfaction in his voice. He stepped away from the flag and dropped down into the big leather chair.

  ‘Zombies are the most lethal enemy America has ever faced,” the Colonel said emphatically. “You can’t demoralize them – but you can immobilize them. Do that, and they become target practice. A running zombie is a hideous, terrifying threat, and a critical danger to everyone. A crawling, broken zombie is a sitting duck. We needed to develop ways to rob them of their speed and their ability to move.”

  “You crushed them?”

  “Absolutely,” the Colonel said. He stopped for a moment, and bit his lip. The silence in the office stretched out. Finally he lowered his voice to a confidential level. “We FUBARed them,” he hissed.

  I knew the expression, but I wondered whether the Colonel could be tempted to say the words, knowing they were being recorded.

  I frowned. “I… I don’t understand…”

  “Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition,” Biggins said, wrapping his tongue around the words with a kind of relish. “That’s what we aimed to achieve and, by God, that’s exactly what we did.”

  There was another long pause. I did and said nothing to fill the awkward silence. I was content to listen to the Colonel explain the tank tactics in his own time. He gave me a look that suggested he didn’t much like me.

  “We practiced new tank formations,” the Colonel explained. “We rehearsed driving across open fields with our tank elements close together in long impact lines. It took some time, because the concept was totally foreign to every man who has ever driven a tank, but eventually we got it. Eventually we were able to take the field in long solid lines of armor that swept down on the zombies and took advantage of their greatest weakness.”

  I sat up. “They have a weakness?”

  “Of course,” Biggins said, then leaned across the desk and dropped his voice to a whisper again. “They’re mindless, and they’re insatiable. They can’t help themselves but attack sound and movement.”

  “So what happened?”

  Biggins pointed a big gnarled finger at me. “First, you need to understand that the tank tactics we used would never have succeeded without the support from artillery,” he cautioned me. “The massed bombardment we used was like nothing ever witnessed in the history of warfare before – every piece of equipment the Army had available was drawn up and opened fire in a barrage to reduce the enemy’s effectiveness. That had to happen before the tanks could roll.”

  I had heard mention of artillery fire being effective against the undead before. Now this Colonel of an Armored Cavalry Regiment was reinforcing the claim. “What use was the artillery?” I asked. “Why was it so essential?”

  “Casualties,” Biggins said simply. “The whole plan depended on being able to wear away at the enemy’s efficiency and effectiveness. The artillery fire killed tens of thousands of zombies. The barrage of air burst shelling ravaged the undead. And those who weren’t destroyed were severely disabled. Only when we had saturated the area around Rock Hill did I set the tanks rolling.”

  “You destroyed the towns?”

  “Every one of them,” Biggins was unapologetic. “We flattened every structure that lay before us. We leveled the ground – had to. The zombies infest urban areas. They congregate in numbers around the towns. I wanted a flat-earth policy. There could be nowhere for them to hide, and no obstacles in the way that would disrupt the formations of armor. It was vital.”

  I rubbed at my forehead, trying to imagine the awesome power of a vast artillery bombardment, and the impact it would have on buildings and roads. “How long did your artillery fire on the area around Rock Hill?”

  “Twenty four hours – solid,” the Colonel said. “Through the night, the sky was lit like the world was on fire, and the sound shook the earth under my feet.”

  “And then you sent in the tanks the following day?”

  “A few hours after sunrise,” he said.

  “Can you tell me more about that, please? I’d like to know what tanks you used, how many… what the result was… everything actually.”

  Biggins leaned forward and rested his elbows on the edge of the desk. He laced his fingers together. He stared at me.

  “An Armored Brigade Combat Team like the 278th consists of about ninety M1 Abrams Main Battle Tanks, as well as ninety M3 Bradley Fighting Vehicles and more than one hundred M113 Armored Personnel Carriers. That’s a lot of steel, son,” Biggins explained. “And once it’s rolling, it is an unstoppable force. The Abrams weighs around sixty-seven tons. The Bradleys weigh about twenty-five. Hell, even the M113’s weigh more than twelve tons. It’s a massive amount of weight when it’s rolling. You run someone over with an Abrams, and they’re going to have a bad day, you know what I mean?”

  I nodded my head. “So you used the vehicles like a battering ram?”

  Biggins looked disappointed. He shook his head. “When you say it like that, you miss the importance of the tactic,” he scowled. “You miss the value of what we did, and why it worked.”

  “Okay, sorry,” I said. “Then tell me what I’m missing.”

  “You’re missing the combination of elements that worked together at Rock Hill to win the conflict,” the Colonel insisted. He got back out of his chair and leaned across the table like it was a wargames sand box used to explain tactics to new officers. Suddenly he became more animated, gesturing with his hands as he explained the battle.

  “Our artillery pounded the area around Rock Hill for a full day while we were drawing up the Regiment, and then we rolled out through Fort F-042 which was just south of Statesville on the I77. We had a lake on our right flank, and the AFV’s were spread out in a long line with the Abrams and Bradleys in front, and the M113’s two miles behind with troops in each vehicle.” The Colonel found a couple of rulers in his desk drawer and laid them out end-to-end on his desk to simulate the line of Abrams and Bradleys.

  “The fort was our Forward Operating Base and we had an LD two miles to the south. By the time we crossed that Line of Departure we were in formation and the battle really began.”

  “What happened once the zombies were engaged?”

  “It was like mowing the lawn,” he said suddenly. I looked up at his face. It was such a surprising analogy that I frowned. “What do you mean?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “When we swept south towards Rock Hill,
the undead were scattered and in disarray. The bombardment had been brutal. The ground was torn up and there were undead bodies thick in the grass. We mowed right over the top of them, just like when you mow your front lawn.”

  I tried to imagine the similarity. I couldn’t.

  “An Abrams will do close to fifty miles an hour. Imagine that,” Biggins said. “Imagine a sixty seven ton steel monster coming at you at close to fifty miles an hour. And then imagine having nowhere to run, because there is another one right beside the first one, and another Abrams right beside it. We swept the ground clean of undead and buried them in the dirt. The machine guns on every vehicle tore them to pieces, the tanks rolled right over them, and then the infantry in the M113’s, who were finishing off the remains after we had done with them, killed anything that still writhed in the dirt. Nothing could stand in our path.”

  I nodded, but something didn’t seem quite right to me. I wasn’t sure what it was. “But there must have still been tens of thousands of undead between your tanks and Rock Hill,” I said. “That’s a lot of bodies, and a lot of obstacles. You couldn’t have killed them all, surely.”

  Biggins made a face that looked close to a snarl. “They’re tanks, not cars or trucks. They’re not wheeled vehicles, son. They’re tracked vehicles that can’t be stopped. They move faster than the undead can run, and a pile of zombie bodies thirty feet high is not an obstacle. The tanks just run right over them.”

  “And then the troops in the Armored Personnel Carriers got out of their vehicles and killed the remains?”

  Biggins nodded. “We had the men in hazmat gear. The 113’s were a couple of miles behind. Anything that moved got sprayed with machine gun fire, and then the troops disembarked the vehicles and head-shot anything that hadn’t been crushed.”

  “Were the main guns on the Abrams firing? Can’t they fire some kind of canister shell?”

  Biggins nodded, then shook his head just as abruptly. “We removed all the main ammunition from the Abrams and the Bradleys before they went into combat. Every available space inside those vehicles was used for machine gun ammunition.”