by Mark Tufo
Wasting no time, he went about setting five half-pound C4 charges. One was affixed to each propane tank on the four travel trailers; he buried the last brick of C4 and placed the cooler over the disturbed soil.
Each C4 block had a radio frequency detonator embedded in the soft putty surface. They all worked on the same frequency and would detonate at the same time. One push of the button on the small plastic remote would unleash hell on anyone in the vicinity. Cade made certain the devices were armed and put the little black box in the cargo pocket of his ACUs.
Cade was in the act of placing the dead bodies around the cooler when he heard the distinctive sound of Harley Davidsons… a lot of them. Luckily for him the road leading to the campsite was potholed enough to slow their approach. He knifed his way through the brush keeping a low profile. Given all of the engine noise, Cade didn’t need to worry about stealth. He made it back to his hide before the bad guys arrived. The bikers dismounted and gawked at the three dead men. Cade had hastily arranged them on the folding camp chairs around the booby trapped cooler. In death they appeared to be shooting the breeze over beers.
A large number of the Nomad Jesters were crowded around the seated dead men when Cade remotely detonated the charges. There was an initial ear splitting WHOOMPH. Cade burrowed face-first into the fine silt, his head protected by the tactical helmet. The immense heat from the exploding propane tanks warmed his back. Now secondary explosions boomed. The two Humvees were fully engulfed. The ammo onboard started cooking off. The steady pop, pop, pop of various calibers of bullets discharging filled the air. Every trailer down below was now in the process of becoming a molten pool of aluminum. The propane tanks were of the larger variety and added more fuel to the fire. It was no surprise that no pleas for help or screams came from ground zero. Burning bodies and body parts were strewn everywhere. The human toll appeared to be immense. He had no remorse for the biker’s “old ladies.” Cade considered anyone associated with this crew to be less than human; even though he hadn’t seen the big redhead’s demise, he was satisfied. Whoever had said “Revenge was a dish best served cold” hadn’t seen an inferno like this. Cade watched the flames lick towards the row of fallen motorcycles; they had been knocked down like dominos from the blast. One by one the bikes caught fire. The heat from the flames warmed his face even at this distance. Cade thought about Harry and Duncan; they were probably beside themselves wondering what was happening.
The radio was on the lowest volume setting so he turned it up a notch.
“Come in, come in. Are you there Cade?”
It was Harry’s voice.
Click, Click, was Cade’s response. He policed up his pack and weapon and then took a different route back to the two men waiting for him.
His leather jacket was starting to catch fire when the man came to. He knew the popping sounds that he was hearing weren’t due to enemy gunfire; still he kept his head down as he crawled away from the immolated Humvees lest a stray bullet do what the booby-trapped camp had failed to do. Richard Ganz was blessed that he had to piss when he did. Several of his lieutenants also stopped to provide security. He was a survivor and always would be. Save for a few bruises and a wicked headache he was unscathed. Richard Ganz swore to himself he would track down the son of a bitch that took out his second-in-command and most of his foot soldiers, even if it killed him. The redhead wasted no time; he started barking out orders to his surviving underlings.
Chapter 160
Day 2 - Detour around Fayetteville, North Carolina
Carl was getting used to the basics of driving the race tuned production truck. It was borderline dangerous how fast he could drive the thing while off road and still feel in total control. They had made the decision to take a hundred mile detour around Fayetteville to avoid the majority of the traffic and the growing number of undead.
The route took them west and then north. Route 1 sliced through a rustic town. A green sign at the entrance read “Aberdeen - founded in 1893. Pop. 3900.” It appeared that nearly all were not of the living, breathing variety. They passed the old train station that was now a tourist site. A static red caboose sat on the grounds. Stranded on the roof of the train car was a blonde boy, his arms waving frantically. He was dressed in shorts and tank top and appeared badly sunburned. Undead were crowding around the wheels of the converted caboose, reaching upward towards him.
Raven noticed the boy first and elbowed her mom, while wildly pointing in his direction.
“Look Mom, look on top of the red train. We need to help him. Uncle Carl, stop…”
“We can’t risk all of our lives for a stranger, sweetie,” he said looking past Brook at his niece.
Grimacing at the sight of Carl’s wrecked face, Brook said, “Put yourself in that boy’s shoes Carl…” her voice trailing off, her eyes boring into his.
“Sis… you always did bring home the strays.”
“Come on Carl. It’s two against one. Turn this beast around.”
Raven added, “He really needs our help. Come on Uncle Carl.” She could have talked her way into Disneyland with the look she gave him.
Slightly crestfallen, Carl maneuvered the orange Raptor back towards the tourist trap. Dirt, gravel and rocks spewing from the tires pelted the small group of walkers. They didn’t flinch or seem affected in the least.
The boy was pacing back and forth from one end of the caboose to the other. It was a large train car that housed a gift shop and snack bar.
“That roof is at least fifteen feet from the ground. The little guy would probably get hurt from the fall or pounced on by those monsters the minute he hit the ground,” Carl said.
“Then we need to lure as many of the dead away from the boy that we can and double back and somehow get him to jump into the truck bed,” Brook retorted, seeming to want to stay in the middle of the action.
Carl aimed the truck’s brush guard at the zombies and turned on the truck’s stereo; he scanned the FM stations finding nothing. Next he tried the AM stations, still nothing. Then he punched the CD button hoping that a disc had been left in the changer. After a brief pause, four long drawn out tolls of a church bell spit forth from the ten speaker system, followed by AC/DC’s heavy metal song Hells Bells. That got the undivided attention of the undead; they nearly broke their necks trying to locate the source of the music.
The railway museum on the far side of the gravel parking lot began to disgorge more of the ghouls; they were attracted to the new meat in the noisy vehicle.
A portly walker, stomach bloated and distended, entered the truck’s path and was promptly introduced to the bumper. Like a pudgy bowling ball the zombie bounced and rolled, knocking down three other walkers in the process, finally stopping face down in the dusty gravel. Carl whirled the truck into a complete one eighty, and for good measure, took the opportunity to drive over all of them.
Brook had ahold of the grab handle on the roof as the truck’s suspension absorbed the bodies. Raven had nothing to hang onto and bounced around the interior like a rag doll. Brook powered down her window and started hooting and hollering at the walkers, further enticing them to follow.
They hesitated long enough to let some of the undead get tantalizingly close, and then Carl gunned the truck forward a few more feet. It proved to be a smelly game of cat and mouse but it was working. The stink was becoming unbearable with the windows down. Pinching her nose to ward off the stench, Raven joined in on the chorus of catcalls. The orange Ford Raptor acted like a rolling Pied Piper, leading the rotting stinking corpses away from the kid on the roof.
All of the solitary walkers that got in the way were promptly mowed over. Carl charged through a particularly large group of the creatures with the truck, but it proved to be too much and a number of them became wedged underneath.
“Oh no. Please shake loose… come on!”
Carl turned the steering wheel hard to the right, throwing the truck into a series of tight donuts. Several dizzying revolutions later the corp
ses that had been stuck in the undercarriage were expelled. After being reduced to a bunch of skinned carcasses, one stubborn zombie miraculously arose and slowly limped after them, dragging one mangled leg behind it.
The undead had discovered the open door of the caboose and were now cramming themselves inside. This left the outside, for the time being, virtually zombie free. Because of the music and commotion many more walkers streamed from the Railroad Museum, their moans almost drowning out the AC/DC and the Raptor’s growling engine. Ignoring the truck, they all headed for the stranded boy.
Brook racked the slide on the shotgun and then gestured by pointing her finger towards the backside of the caboose.
“Go around back. It looked like there were less of those bastards back there.”
Carl plowed the truck through a small mob of undead between them and the stranded kid. One of the ghouls cartwheeled up onto the hood of the 4x4. The windshield buckled from the impact, black hair and blood staining the glass. In the rearview mirror Carl saw the ghoul land hard, roll and lay still. Carl threaded the truck through more walkers and pulled alongside of the train car. Brook poked her head out of the window and yelled for the boy to jump.
His terrified face made an appearance over the edge. A moment later he reemerged. With a display of amazing courage, he leaped and cleared the space between the roof and the truck bed. He landed with a clatter, ending up sprawled facedown.
As soon as the boy landed in the truck the walkers changed direction and continued their relentless pursuit.
Too many zombies had accumulated in front of the truck for them to drive forward. The monsters were frantically crawling over each other to get into the vehicle. The ones nearest pounded on the windows with their bony hands. Brook shot a newly turned female zombie in the face and watched her drop, dark blood seeping into the gravel. She chambered another round and with a pull of the trigger dispatched one more stinking corpse. I think I may have found my calling, Brook thought as she dramatically blew the smoke from the barrel of her stubby shotgun.
While Brook was dispatching undead, the boy found his footing and peered into the truck’s rear window to see who his rescuers were. Carl threw his head around to look out the rear window of the truck. The boy screamed at the sight of the bloody, buckshot- and glass-peppered face staring at him. All he could see were white eyes and teeth. If it weren’t for the glass separating the boy from the thing looking at him, he would have jumped out of the truck’s bed. Much to the boy’s amazement the zombie spoke.
“Stay down and hold on to something,” Carl yelled through the glass at the top of his lungs. Wide eyed and openmouthed the boy silently nodded and disappeared from view.
The truck’s transmission whined as their speed reached thirty miles per hour in reverse. Carl whipped the wheel around while inadvertently hitting the brakes, resulting in a perfectly executed bootlegger’s reverse. It looked like he knew what he was doing.
The boy bounced off of every side of the truck bed before finding a hand hold, muffled exclamations and groans punctuating each impact.
Dodging walkers and wrecked cars they made for the highway. At the interstate they turned left on the final push towards Fort Bragg and hopefully safety.
Carl looked at the gas gauge as the sign urging them to “Return to Aberdeen Soon” flashed by. “Over my dead body,” Carl said in response to the request on the sign. Noticing they still had a half of a tank gave him a reason to be somewhat grateful.
Brook reached behind her and slid open the rear window. “My name is Brook. Don’t worry, everything is going to be OK. Hold on and keep your head down and we’ll pull over as soon as it’s safe,” she yelled to be heard over the road noise and rushing wind.
Chapter 161
Day 2 - White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia
The four Special Ops helicopters put down on the meticulously manicured lawn that separated the granite and marble architectural marvel from the thirty six-hole golf course. The Greenbrier in West Virginia was built in the fifties and was totally remodeled during Reagan’s years in office. Originally a country club, it was now the seat of power for the U.S. government. It held vast underground caverns and stored everything two hundred people would need to survive for three years. An aquifer ran under the property and the air inside was scrubbed and constantly replaced every twelve hours. Rumor had it that during the Cuban missile crisis in 1962 President Kennedy took refuge here.
The Greenbrier was where de-facto President Valerie Clay now presided over the United States.
Captain Mike Desantos, flanked by the surviving members of his Delta Team, ducked his head and rapidly covered the distance from the Black Hawk to the group awaiting them.
President Clay was flanked by her Secret Service Detail. It consisted of four fit looking men with SCAR machine guns at the ready, heads swiveling on the lookout for any threats. Each man had an earpiece and the obligatory dark sunglasses.
Valerie Clay was still getting used to being POTUS. She reached out her hand only to be greeted by textbook salutes from the operators.
Well, I am the Commander in Chief now. President Clay reciprocated to the best of her ability and then got down to business.
“Captain Desantos, you were tasked to retrieve the football because we have reason to believe the Chinese released the virus. Currently eight of our carrier groups are at sea. What is most distressing is that they are all being shadowed by the Chinese Navy’s new submarine fleet. They have near silent hunter killers and have already used them to sink one of our boomers. I and the remaining brass believe this may go nuclear. As much as it’s not the American way to strike first, it might be our only option.”
“I know it’s probably way above my pay grade, but how bad has China been affected by the virus or whatever it is?” Mike queried the new President.
“Just between you and I, we have lost all contact with our human intelligence on the ground. China has gone quiet as has most of the Asian continent. On the last nighttime pass our Keyhole satellite relayed imaging indicating massive power outages, even in Beijing. The last contact with our eyes on the ground was day one of the infection here stateside. He indicated the government had gone underground and most of the population was being confined to their homes. The most chilling intel he forwarded was that he had observed Chinese death squads shooting and bagging anyone in the streets.”
“First of all, with all due respect, Madam President, the death squads were culling the infected... right?”
“No, our man said that the majority of the people killed in the first wave were all healthy citizens. The government knew how virulent the bug was that got away from them. Knowing how ruthless the Chinese are, they were just being proactive. Hey, they’ve done it before… albeit on a much smaller scale.”
“Well then, why on earth would they want to attack us with their superbug, why not just use a nuke or an electromagnetic pulse?”
“As the saying goes soldier, misery loves company. The agent, we’ll call him Buddha, mentioned the city of Xinxiang as being the epicenter of their outbreak. Curiously enough that’s where a major bioweapons lab is located. His Intel also suggests that they sent sixteen credentialed Chinese national couriers with diplomatic pouches to multiple cities in the continental United States. Four of the couriers apparently arrived in DC just hours before the first confirmed cases of what the CDC in Atlanta has taken to calling the “Omega Virus.”
“What does the CDC have to say about this Omega Virus?”
President Clay put her hands over her face for a short while. When she brought them down and looked at Mike she was speechless for a moment. Tears welled in her eyes as she recounted the staggering numbers of dead and infected Americans.
“The Center for Disease Control estimates the CONUS will be depopulated by ninety-five percent…”
“Forgive me Ma’am. You said depopulated. Didn’t you mean repopulated… by the walking dead?”
“They assume that the risen
will lose their ability to walk as they decompose and therefore after a few weeks they won’t be able to infect any more of the population,” the President said, staring off towards the 18th hole.
Mike noticed that she had developed the thousand yard stare a person acquires when they had seen too much in too short a time.
“You know that old saying, what is the definition of assume?”
The new President testily answered, “Assuming makes an ass out of you and me… what is your point, soldier?”
“Until I see one of those dirty walking corpses die from anything but a bullet to the brain, I will take nothing for granted.”
“I agree. For now your main objective is containment, followed by securing all of the information about Omega that we can,” President Clay said.
“What are my orders now?” Captain Desantos asked.
“I need you to take your team to the CDC in Atlanta and collect any living personnel, the research notes and any samples they have archived and then escort them to Schriever Air Force base. Use force if necessary. Capture, don’t kill.”
“Yes Madam President, anything else?”
“I have bad news. While you were in transit from the White House I was informed of Fort Bragg’s dire situation. The base is surrounded and under siege and waiting for a full airlift. Any personnel that get out before the undead overrun the base are going to rendezvous at Schriever AFB. The 50th space wing controls all the Department of Defense satellites from that location. We are going to reestablish the United States government and the CDC in Colorado Springs.”
Her last few words garbled together as Mike thought about his family and unborn son. Hopefully they all would be reunited soon. In a moment of clarity he also thought about Brook and Raven. They were like family to him. An icy fist hit him in the gut as he calculated the odds of all of them surviving.