Deadly Eleven

by Mark Tufo

  Cade finished by saying , “I figured no better time than now. Hopefully this contagion thing will blow over.”

  Glancing at the ID card the trooper looked at the three of them one at a time, pausing for a tick while locking eyes, then said, “I’m going to let you pass. Just remember to drive safe,” then looking directly at the boys he added, “and be careful around the water, fellas.” He glanced at Cade. “Wait here a moment while I speak with your friend.”

  The trooper continued down the line of vehicles that had begun to form behind Cade’s Sequoia. Seeing as how the truck was full of guns and ammo, Cade couldn’t wait to disengage from the officer and get moving. He tensely watched the trooper in his side mirror as he slowly walked towards Rawley’s Bronco.

  Rawley had patiently observed the stop unfold; he now removed his sunglasses as the trooper closed the distance with his truck.

  The radio on the passenger seat came to life.

  Quick and to the point Cade said, “We are going camping on Mount Hood at Timothy or Trillium Lake if he asks you,” and then it went silent again.

  Rawley provided his identification and received the same stock informative lecture, followed by the same questions from the officer. Because of his tattoos and long hair, his driver’s license received more than a cursory inspection. Rawley informed the officer that he was going camping with the guys in the truck ahead of him, gesturing with his thumb towards the camping gear which fortunately was shielding his rifle from view. Rawley got his driver’s license back and the trooper indicated he could follow Cade and the boys through the roadblock.

  Cade waited as the trooper returned to the Sequoia. Behind him the drivers in the cars that were lining up started honking intermittently. The trooper reached in the window and handed the ID card back to Cade and then queried him about his service.

  Downplaying his role, Cade said, “I did a tour in Iraq, nothing worthy of a medal. I was mostly in the Green Zone.”

  After a short pause he got a heartfelt “Thanks for your service, son,” and with a tip of his stiff brimmed hat the older trooper exclaimed loudly enough to be heard over the honking, “you… and you!” pointing at the Sequoia and the Bronco, “carry on!” and waved them through. He then faced the unenviable task of telling the rest of the drivers in queue that I-84 was now closed.

  Wasting no time, Cade started the Sequoia and hurriedly pulled away from the roadblock.

  Rawley threw the trooper a quick smart ass salute as he rolled past him heading east away from the city of 1.2 million.

  Chapter 143

  Day 2 – Interstate 84 Roadblock

  Trooper Gary England stood his ground as each person in front of him pled their case. His stature was imposing to most, and people usually listened to what he had to say. Today the people he was trying to reason with were attempting to flee the unknown carnage unfolding twenty miles to the west in Portland, Oregon. Bottom line, he was holding court with anxiety, panic and pandemonium.

  An attractive young woman in denim shorts and a tank top shrilly dressed him down.

  “You are not listening to me. My daughter is four years old and she is sitting in that car in the hot sun,” she said while wildly stabbing her manicured nail at a black Mercedes.

  “And you, lady, are not hearing me. I repeat, no one is getting through. The city is under forty-eight hour quarantine.”

  A balding middle-aged man and his wife started whining about the idiots in the city looting and rioting.

  “I want your badge number!” the half-drunk wife bellowed. She obviously wasn’t used to being told “no.”

  The trooper did his best to try and turn around the fifteen or so people who got out of their cars to “help” with the lobbying process.

  Like a clap of thunder, the sound of approaching V-twin engines drowned out all conversation. Scores of bikes pulled up on both sides of the group of people trying to gain passage into the gorge.

  Most of the outlaw bikers were flying their colors. Greasy leather jackets were emblazoned with the “Nomad Jester” patch. It had a devious looking jester wearing a floppy hat with round tassels on the end. Instead of a silly smile on its face it wore a devilish sneer; across its chest was an AK-47 held at port arms.

  Trooper England, his hand on his Beretta, stared down the lead element of the pack.

  One of the biggest bikers he had ever seen dismounted a black Harley. The behemoth extended the kickstand with his scuffed black leather boot. The red-bearded outlaw squared up with the trooper. He didn’t offer his hand to the law let alone a modicum of respect.

  “Just as I have been telling these fine citizens, the City of Portland is under quarantine for the next forty-eight hours.” Hitching up his gun belt the trooper added, “You all need to turn around and go ho....”

  Before Trooper Gary England could finish his sentence, a fifty caliber bullet traveling at 2800 feet per second entered just below his left eye socket. His head became a pink mist that covered the travelers around him with tiny pieces of vaporized brain, blood and pebble sized flecks of bone. Time seemed to stand still for the people clustered around the man. Then people gathered their wits and chaos broke out. The shrieking started with the drunk lady first. Most everyone made for their cars in an attempt to escape the menacing gang.

  Three hundred yards away the former-Marine scout sniper turned outlaw biker put down his Barrett sniper rifle and high fived his buddy.

  As if on cue, the rest of the gang attacked the innocent people with fists, knives and guns. Men were not spared. One biker decapitated the whiny middle-aged man with a machete. While his lifeblood pumped from the stump of his neck the assailants dragged his drunken wife away kicking and screaming. She was flex cuffed and thrown into a civilian Hummer2 driven by one of the biker’s old ladies.

  The massacre was swift and complete. They spared the mom that had been in the trooper’s face, two teenage girls who had just witnessed their parent’s murder and a twenty-something redhead hitchhiking with an elderly man. They were all trying to flee the madness in Portland and this is what they received in return.

  Had he arrived two minutes sooner the man would have found himself in the middle of a massacre. While he watched helplessly two of the bikers held up the little girl. Even as she struggled valiantly the big red-bearded animal gutted her with his machete. Duncan hadn’t witnessed anything like this since his first tour in Vietnam. The mom wailed on her hands and knees, cradling the remains of her little girl as the bikers laughed.

  It took a three-point turn for him get the wide, long bed pickup pointing in the other direction on the narrow two lane road. Trying to literally put the scene in his rear view mirror, he raced east on the old scenic highway.

  Chapter 144

  Day 2 - Fort Bragg, North Carolina

  The moment President Odero had called for nationwide martial law, secure smart phones rang and vibrated across the country as operators were mobilized to return to post. The Tier-One operators all had secure encrypted phones utilizing government satellites to keep everyone in constant contact.

  Mike Desantos was on the phone with his base commander, Major Phillip Link, giving him a situation report.

  “Sir, the call has been made; all of the active shooters have been ordered RTB. Half of our active Alpha Teams are in the ‘Stan, and days away. Coronado is calling in all of their support personnel, SEAL Teams One and Ten are on deployment but most of the other teams have formed up and are on base. I just received word that the East Coast garrisons are doing call backs. SEAL Team Six is still in Afghanistan hunting HVTs. We recently received a sit-rep from them, they want an exfil ASAP. Their last transmission indicated everyone in the Middle East is going to meet their seventy two virgins pretty soon. Almost all of the civilian communications are down. At least we have our satellite comms up and running for our operators.”

  Cutting his subordinate off Major Link said “Captain Desantos, I need to see you ASAP. I have a high priority mission for yo
u.”

  “Right away sir, give me five mikes.”

  Captain Desantos walked across the base from the north entry to have a face-to-face with his commander. He was summoned in after knocking on the door to the air-conditioned communications room.

  Captain Desantos saluted his superior and was greeted with the same, followed by an “At ease” coming from Major Link.

  “What do you have for me sir?”

  Straight and to the point, Link said, “POTUS (President of the United States) is incommunicado and has been since 03:00 EST.”

  Mike’s face blanched at the news. “Last known location?” he asked.

  “1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Apparently he thought he would be safe there… ride it out with his family,” the Major said, shaking his head. “All comms are down in the district. Our NSA bird sent back images of Marine One sitting on the south lawn. The walking dead are on the grounds and no living beings have been seen in the vicinity since communications ceased.”

  “What are the rules of engagement?”

  “Shoot to kill any undead on sight no matter who they may be. POTUS and all VIPs must be rescued at all costs. If there are any casualties amongst them, then documentation is necessary. Take any credentials from the bodies and obtain DNA swabs and digital video to confirm their identity and condition. Protect you and your men at all costs,” the Colonel said while patting the operator on the shoulder.

  “I’ll take two teams of six. Have the Night Stalkers been briefed?”

  “Yes. They will be ready in thirty mikes. Two 160th SOAR Black Hawks with Apache support.” The Major paused and adjusted his black beret before saying, “It’s bad out there… worse than any of our war gaming scenarios suggested. Watch your six, Cowboy.”

  The two men exchanged salutes.

  The red phone on the commander’s desk chirped. An MP made it very clear the perimeter needed fortification and he wanted to call McCord AFB to request that a Spectre gunship be brought on station. The Spectre was a close air support modified AC-130 with multiple weapons proven to be devastating against enemy forces on the ground.

  “I’ll make it happen, in the meantime keep me updated!” Major Link barked as he hung up.

  At SOCOM headquarters, Fort Bragg, North Carolina, MPs were checking identifications at the double gate in front of the compound. Cars and SUVs full of soldiers and family that usually lived off of base were lined up for blocks. The first priority of the guards would be to quarantine the injured and ensure none of the infected got inside.

  Overnight, several hundred walkers had amassed around the perimeter having been attracted by the commotion and halide lights. The snipers in the guard towers had orders to confirm with thermal imaging if their targets were in fact walking dead before engaging them. The undead didn’t have the same heat signature as the living. The newly turned did show up as almost normal for the first few minutes, therefore any questionable targets also required a visual identification.

  Dawn broke and the day wore on as hundreds more of the infected streamed across the highway from the hospital and the surrounding businesses. Bodies of the infected were bulldozed into mass graves as fast as the snipers and tower guards could put them down.

  Mike had checked his phone for personal messages. One was from his wife Annie, saying she was en route with their two girls. Annie was pregnant with Mike’s first boy. Mike thought, Only two more months of being the only male of the household. Message number two was Cade. Mike listened intently, hung up and called each of the three gate houses. He left orders to look out for anyone fitting Brook’s description as well as anyone that was with her. They were to let them in and contact Mike immediately. Cade’s family was his family, as far as Mike was concerned.

  Private First Class Chillcut had his hands full checking identities and making sure the infected were kept outside of the wire. Things at the south entrance were getting hairy.

  Back to back, staccato reports of automatic gunfire came from his left, and the third vehicle in line failed to move forward. Inside the car, one of the soldiers had turned and attacked the other occupants of the Ford Taurus wagon. The driver shrieked as her head was pulled towards the backseat, her undead husband’s teeth sinking into the soft part of her neck ripping free a mouthful of flesh. He then turned his attention to the crying baby in the car seat. The baby’s wailing intensified as the monster tried to wrest it from the car seat.

  Seeing this happening through his thermal scope, the sniper in the nearest tower opened fire. The bullet entered the ghoul’s head at the base of the neck, causing it to slump over the baby.

  Having just bled out, the mom in the front seat reanimated and began banging on the driver’s side window. Bursts of gunfire from the soldiers at the checkpoint killed her. The troops rushed to the car to check for survivors. The first to arrive at the vehicle’s open window could hear muffled cries escaping from under the dead ghoul. Afraid of what he would find, Private First Class Chillcut reluctantly pulled the corpse off of the infant in the car seat, and then screamed “Medic!” at the top of his lungs. The orphaned baby kept screaming; miraculously she was unhurt.

  The sky over Fort Bragg faded from a brilliant blue to a burnt orange as the sun set. Little did Mike Desantos know that the next twenty-four hours would be the most difficult of his entire life. He ran the impending mission through his head as he watched four black helicopters of the 160th SOAR (Special Operations Aviation Regiment) bleed off airspeed, flare at the last moment and softly land in tight formation on the tarmac.

  The show in the heavens was finishing its run with deep purples and blues slowly fading to black. Stars emerged, winking at those among the living willing to look up and imagine a world where the dead didn’t roam.

  Mike “Cowboy” Desantos walked with purpose to greet the Night Stalkers and bring the other eleven operators that would accompany him up to speed on this very important mission. He looked at the stars one last time and prayed to anyone listening to deliver his family to safety.

  A few hours later, Mike and his Delta Operators were fully kitted out and ready to undertake Operation Eagle Aerie. The Delta Team call signs were Zulu One and Zulu Two. The MH-60M Black Hawks were given the call signs Reapers One and Two. Three and Four were the AH-64 Apache Longbows.

  Walking towards the waiting flat black MH-60M Black Hawk, Mike bowed under the spinning rotor and thought, God help us all.

  Chapter 145

  Day 2 -South Carolina

  Carl turned right on State Route 17 that went east through downtown. At the intersection of Tadlock Road and State Route 17 they encountered a large group of the walking dead. The Denny’s on the corner had more than ten of them milling around near the front doors. Terrified early morning diners were trapped inside the restaurant. Their faces were pressed against the glass as they witnessed the mayhem outside. In the parking lot there was a small car high centered on a mound of dead bodies. The front wheels were off of the ground and spun freely trying to get purchase. Carl slowed the Escalade and crept past. Some of the walkers took interest and tried to follow, while others had just succeeded in breaking a window on the compact car and were attacking the young couple through the opening. Harboring a feeling of helplessness, Carl glanced at his sister and registered the slight side to side shaking of her head. Stopping to help them was out of the question; discretion had to be the better part of valor if they wanted to survive. Brook held Raven’s head in her lap as they passed by the gruesome scene.

  They narrowly avoided colliding with a fast moving, out of control pickup thanks to Carl’s quick reflexes. Instead it plowed into a string of parked cars in front of the Holiday Inn. Undead poured from the motel, swarming the ruined truck. After the near collision Carl recommended that Raven get buckled up in one of the back seats.

  Three Myrtle Beach Police Department Ford Crown Victoria cruisers screeched to a stop between the Denny’s and the motel. Without delay the zombies surrounded the police cars. In a scene that r
eminded Brook of the Rodney King riots in L.A., the three patrol cars roared away to safety, leaving the truck driver for dead. She supposed this would be the case in the next few days as society continued to disintegrate.

  The news helicopter flitting around the downtown area reminded Carl to turn on the radio and scan for a transmitting station. WKNB AM was the only one on the air. They listened as they drove. The female reporter said President Bernard Odero was in a secure location but Vice President Chauncey Lindstrom was still in the District of Columbia; Speaker of the House Valerie Clay was in a separate and secure location. She went on to report that the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta was working around the clock to find a counter to the virus. So far they knew the mortality rate was one hundred percent. Any bite or saliva contact definitely led to infection; the pathogen was isolated to the mouth and bred and thrived there. The speed of its introduction into the blood stream depended on the location and severity of the bite on the victim’s body. For instance, a bite on the neck near the jugular vein or carotid artery resulted in a quick death from loss of blood, consequently the time until reanimation was more rapid. Furthermore, she warned people to stay away from areas where large groups of people assembled, such as churches, hospitals and shopping malls. For quarantine reasons the main roads in and out of most cities would soon be closed as mandated by the CDC, Homeland Security and FEMA. Comfort centers had been established in some cities for the infected and their families.

  Carl said aloud to no one in particular, “I wonder how long the upper levels of government have been in their comfort centers?” He sarcastically added, “I bet those fat cats have caviar and champagne where they are holed up.”