by Mark Tufo
President Clay gave one last salute to the men in front of her and then approached the operator that had retrieved the football hours earlier. She reached out and removed the Captain’s bars from Mike Desantos’ uniform, replacing them with the silver two star cluster of a Major General’s rank.
Mike remained stoic. He saluted the President, turned and reentered the waiting helo. Engines spooled up and the four birds leapt off of the beautiful country club-like grounds and accelerated to maximum speed, heading for another much needed aerial refueling before setting waypoints for Atlanta.
Chapter 162
Day 2 - Fort Bragg, North Carolina
Their vantage point afforded them a view of the north gate and watchtowers. A large brown wooden sign with the words "Fort Bragg, Home to the 82nd Airborne and Special Forces, Welcome" carved into it loomed next to the entrance. Three fifty-foot tall guard towers spanned the front of the base with a fifteen foot tall chain-link fence capped by razor sharp concertina wire ringing the entire facility. There were hundreds of the walking dead milling about or trying to gain entrance; the moaning was loud enough to be heard at their semi-secure location half a mile away. The blood slickened grass in front of the fencing was littered with the bodies of fallen undead; some still moved and clawed their way mindlessly towards the living. Every few seconds one or two of the undead would suddenly collapse, unmoving, felled by the snipers in the towers.
Fort Bragg was a huge base sprawling over several thousand acres. From one corner of the base thick black smoke curled up into the crystal clear blue sky. Very far off, what appeared to be a large cargo or transport plane orbited, belching solid streams of red tracers groundward. It appeared that unbroken chains of light anchored the plane to the ground. This effect was due to the high rate of fire coming from the multiple Gatling guns as they rained tracer bullets down into the masses of undead. Thankfully the wind was at their backs, as it helped to drown out the incessant, maddening sounds coming from below; also it helped carry the zombies’ rancid odor elsewhere.
Brook opened the emergency medical kit Carl had procured from the store in Laurinburg and was busy dabbing Neosporin on her brother’s face. She was not new to this; Brook was an ER nurse back in Portland and knew how to treat all but the most severe of wounds. She had picked out the bits and pieces of small buckshot and glass she could get ahold of with the cheap tweezers that came with the kit.
“Ow… take it easy Nurse Ratchett!”
“Then quit yer movin’, gunslinger,” Brook said in her best Rooster Cogburn.
“Hey, I got the job done didn’t I? Last time I checked that monster stopped walking.”
“OK. Good shooting Tex,” Brook conceded as she finished her field surgery.
She left Carl's face exposed. It would heal much faster in the open air, but it had immediately started to bleed again after the antibiotic was applied.
“In an hour or so it should start to scab. Just keep away from the walkers. The last thing you want to do is get any of their saliva in your open wounds.”
Brook asked the boy if she could put some antibiotic on his burn. The boy silently looked at her.
“What’s your name?”
In fractured English dripping with a Russian accent the boy said “Dimitri” and nothing else.
Resigned to the fact that he had been through a hell of an ordeal on top of the gift shop back in Aberdeen, she figured he would get over the sunburn.
While Brook had been tending to her brother’s mangled face, Raven stood watch. There were a few of the walking dead but they largely ignored the little group and instead were drawn to the gunfire and display of aerial firepower.
Carl had parked the Raptor at the base of a tall white water tower; it was elevated and provided an unobstructed view of the north side of the base. Because the tower and its associated outbuildings were protected by the same type of fence as the base, forced entry was necessary. One push with the brush guard of the Raptor made the locked gate spring inward. Once the truck was inside of the chain-link fence, Brook leapt out and coiled the remaining pieces of the newly broken chain around the two halves of the gate. One or two of the walkers wouldn’t push it in, but a large mass of them was another story.
Down below, bodies were piling up four and five deep outside of the gates. Three cars had just driven up to the entrance and the occupants hurriedly piled out. The volume of gunfire increased; eight people in all were fighting for their lives. A short, stocky man fired his pistol point blank into the throng of walkers. Several fell, but their sheer numbers overwhelmed him. Even from this far away his shrieks were audible as the man was eaten by the undead. Two ghouls fought over his entrails, playing a sickening game of tug of war. His death created a momentary diversion. The rest of the group huddled near the closed gate, pleading desperately to be let inside. Gunfire rained down from the guard towers in a renewed frenzy. The advancing walkers fell in bloody heaps here and there. A lone soldier fumbled with the locks. Finally the gate parted wide enough to allow five of the survivors to enter. The undead overwhelmed the last two men. The monsters tore them limb from limb, the ghouls fighting over each appendage like dogs wrestling over a prized bone. Hair raising, blood curdling screams lasted a few short seconds only to be drowned out by the ever-present moans coming from the rotting mass of walking corpses. Brook shook her head in dismay for those men that hadn’t made it, but thought it was commendable that the soldiers were risking their own lives for a handful of living breathing citizens.
Carl pointed at the group of abandoned cars and told Brook his incredibly dangerous but well thought out idea.
“Do you see the black car in the back, the one pushed up against the red truck that’s lodged next to the fence?”
“Yes what about them?” Brook went along trying to figure out where he was going with this.
“Did you ever watch the Dukes of Hazard?” Carl asked, looking at his sister.
A look of knowing apprehension crossed Brook’s face. “Are you going to try and jump the fence?”
“Not exactly. I think with the number of those things on the ground down there, we can drive over them and up onto the back of that black car and use it as a ramp…”
Brook cut him off. “Even if you drive up onto those cars and reach the fence, those stinking fuckers will tear us apart like they did those poor souls a minute ago.”
Ignoring her, Carl continued. “We will be up out of their reach, and then I will make a stirrup with my hands.” Putting his hands together, showing Brook what he meant. “Then after we crest the stalled cars you three can climb right over.”
“A lot can go wrong.”
“Do you have a better idea Sis? The way I see it, things are only going to get worse across the country. That means there are millions of those things between here and Oregon. At least once inside maybe we can hitch a ride on one of the helicopters to someplace safe.”
“Go through the sunroof,” said a voice from out of nowhere.
Everyone turned their heads at once and looked at Dimitri.
“What did you say?” Carl asked.
“Go through the sunroof…” this time barely audible but with a distinctive Slavic accent, he was a shy kid it seemed.
“Hell of an idea kid,” Carl replied, his head nodding up and down in agreement.
Everyone piled into the Ford pickup before Carl started the noisy engine. Slowly he backed through the gate; Brook closed it after them and reentered the vehicle. Goosing the powerful motor, Carl followed the access road back to the main artery leading to Fort Bragg. The guard house had long ago been abandoned and the entrance had been shored up with concrete jersey barriers. The front grass and flower beds were fully covered with vehicles of all shapes and sizes. Scores of the undead had clambered up onto the raft of idle cars, fallen into crevices between the gridlocked vehicles and then became trapped. Charting a course through the hundreds of walkers, Carl found his makeshift ramp. The black Ford Crown Victoria was nos
ed into the back of a host of smaller vehicles that were in turn nestled up to the red truck. The snipers above had apparently favored the area behind that particular group of cars as their killing grounds. Undead were stacked upon each other, three feet deep, like cordwood.
He slowed the off-road vehicle to a crawl, put the truck into four wheel drive and locked the differential. Brook pumped shell after shell from the Mossberg through her open window putting down the nearest threats, pausing only to reload. The knobby front tires bit into the putrid flesh pile and powered up onto the back of the Crown Vic. The car’s roof creaked and the windows simultaneously exploded; the truck settled in but kept moving forward. From the pockets in the sea of abandoned cars, undead reached up, grasping at the moving vehicle. Chunks of rotten meat the size of softballs spewed from the rear of the Raptor. The mud flaps were covered with a sheen of blood and other fluids.
Carl maneuvered the truck up the metal Matterhorn. The smaller compact cars collapsed under the weight as the truck kept creeping towards the perimeter fence. Sniper fire again picked up in intensity. A large pack of walkers milled on both sides of the abandoned cars and trucks, and they began falling in greater numbers. The Raptor’s huge off road tires sank into the roofs of a Honda Civic and a tiny Mini Cooper; the truck wallowed, seemingly stuck while the entranced horde crushed inward. Dimitri was lying on the back seat, not wanting to see what he was hearing outside of the steel cocoon. Raven held her nose and kept her eyes glued forward, imposing a mental blindfold on herself. The sounds of the dead drowned out the straining power plant as Carl coaxed the truck over this last hurdle; they had just been in the trough, now they all faced the crest of the sea of vehicles. A blood and gore smeared, yellow Hummer2 sat sideways. Its boxy body was smashed up against the imposing razor wire topped fence. Burnt rubber and the smell of hot oil from the overworked engine intermingled with the sickly sweet smell of death. As the bright orange truck scaled the Hummer2, Carl opened the electric moon roof. Brook retrieved the two empty duffel bags they had stolen from the Bi-Mart. The final obstacle was the razor sharp coil of concertina wire looming above them.
“Get ready to go out through the moon roof when I say go!” Brook yelled over the laboring V8 as she held on for dear life. A spontaneous cheer sounded for the survivors. The soldiers on the ground moved along the inside of the fence line to receive them once they safely made it over. The truck lost out to gravity and ground to a halt at a forty five degree angle. Its spinning tires had left dark black rubber marks along the side of the yellow Hummer2 it now rested atop.
Brook crawled out through the moon roof with Raven and Dimitri close behind; she draped the two empty duffel bags across the concertina wire before putting her hands clasped together in front of the kids. Raven stepped up and Brook launched her over the top of the wire. The soldiers on the other side handily broke her fall as the entire group broke out with another boisterous round of cheers and applause. Dimitri had to be put over the top forcibly by Brook. He was kicking and screaming; he obviously didn’t like heights. The young boy fell into the hands below. His landing was harder than Raven’s and he cried out in pain. Considering their unraveling situation at the base, saving the two kids provided inspiration for the besieged troops. The loud cheering continued.
Meanwhile Carl struggled to force his large frame through the opening in the roof. He steadfastly urged his sister to go on without him. Brook pulled unsuccessfully on his outstretched arms before she finally relented and continued on. She leapt from the roof of the truck aiming for the shredded black bags. She landed partially on top of the hastily covered razor wire and bellied over, suffering severe gashes on both arms and torso, before tumbling safely amongst the soldiers below.
Specialist Jack Bowers watched the proceedings through his high powered scope. His brow furrowed when he got a clear look at what was trying to wriggle through the sunroof of the high centered 4x4. It appeared to be one of the infected. The trigger pull of his rifle was set to two and a half pounds and his finger currently held it at two. Breathing in and then slowly exhaling, he readied for the shot. High caliber ammunition was in short supply and since no one was in immediate danger he backed off the shot, leaving the kill for the troops on the ground. Pretty fluid movement for a walker, he thought as he watched the thing clamber over the wire, waiting for the volley of gunfire that would end its miserable existence. The soldier shuddered at the thought of coming back as one of them. He would rather use a Claymore mine for a pillow than walk the earth in search of human flesh.
Carl had fared much better when he dropped into the store through the skylight. This time he fell awkwardly, the soldiers all standing back not wanting to touch the bloody scab-faced thing coming over the fence. Not certain if he was infected or not, they let him fall to the ground.
“He’s one of us! He is not infected!” Brook shrieked as the soldiers brought their arms to bear. Carl’s ankle was bent at an unnatural angle; he let out a yelp of pain, followed by a profanity-laced tirade.
“Would it have been too much to ask of you to break my fall? Goddamn, motherfucker, shit…! I think my ankle is broken!”
The man nearest to Carl slowly lowered his rifle. “That’s the least of your problems. You should see your face.” The rest of the soldiers, knowing full well that the undead didn’t curse, put their muzzles down and rushed to his aid.
Chapter 163
Day 3 - Outskirts of Boise, Idaho
The radio in Harry’s hand crackled to life.
“Harry, Duncan, anyone there? This is Cade.”
“Copy that, this is Harry. We have been trying to get ahold of you since we heard the explosions. What happened?”
“Someone had a gas leak,” Cade said, tongue firmly planted in cheek.
“Helluva lot of gas my friend. Are you OK?”
“Fit as a fiddle. I’m almost to your position. Did you two have any visitors?”
Harry replied, “The walkers have been arriving in trickles from the east. There is an immense wall of smoke in the direction of Boise. It looks like a forest fire… only there are white and black oily looking plumes roiling up.”
“Boise is on fire,” Cade said matter-of-factly, his real voice mingled with the sound emanating from the radio as he emerged out of the woods just feet from Harry.
He was greeted by back slaps and smiles. “Quite a few of those dirtbags met their maker; I guess we got a little retribution for our friend’s deaths. It still doesn’t feel right killing the living… considering how few of us there are left,” Cade said, his voice trailing off as he strode to a clearing to look east towards Boise.
Columns of different colored smoke dotted the horizon from north to south as far as the eye could see. In the failing light oranges and reds from the fires created a false sunset from the direction the sun always made its appearance.
“We have two choices. One, go back the way we came and cross back into Oregon then drive south to the Nevada border. Or…” he turned and pointed to Boise, “take our chances that we don’t run into anything fleeing the fires, living or undead.”
“I vote for Boise…” His movement was a blur; Cade drew the Glock 17 from his thigh holster and swept the muzzle towards Duncan. Six rapid shots later three undead lay still and bleeding from a double tap to the head each. Harry and Duncan, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, stared at the man who had just fired six bullets through the air that separated them.
“Why didn’t they moan before they got that gosh darn close?” Harry asked, white as a sheet from the sudden action and the proximity of speeding lead to his cranium.
“Good God damn shooting,” Duncan added in his usual raspy drawl.
Two of the cadavers looked as if they had been among the first undead to turn. They were fully into the process of decay. Their flesh was a mottled gray, covered with pustules and boils. Their hair had fallen out in clumps, giving them a punk rock look. Their clothing was that of serious hikers: boots, cargo shorts and Gore-Tex. The t
hird walker used to be a soldier. He had no hair but looked to have been dead only a day or two. He had a patch on his ACUs that read Paulson; his former rank was Corporal in the Idaho National Guard.
“I haven’t a clue why they didn’t moan like usual. I do hope, however, they aren’t learning new hunting techniques. We had better get going.” Cade walked to his truck. Harry had a hard time moving as he was still in a little bit of shock from the incident moments ago. His hands were also shaking from the sudden, intense rush of adrenaline.
They didn’t even bother to finish their vote. Duncan followed the Sequoia towards the smoke and flames. The road was clear for the first ten miles and then there were wrecks and clogs of stalled cars scattered here and there. No sign of living humans was evident. Deer, raccoon and other wildlife were on the move away from the direction the two vehicle convoy headed. The nearer they got to the city, the more of the undead they encountered. Some were blackened and sooty, flesh sloughing off of them, but still they walked. The crispy ghouls were reaching and swiping at the trucks as they passed, leaving slimy black traces anywhere they made contact.
Cade slowed up ahead and drove over two of the brittle walkers before stopping completely, engine still idling.
Duncan followed his lead. From the cab of the truck, Harry had to shoot two advancing walkers with his pump shotgun before he could safely call Cade on the Motorola. The men watched as Cade gophered his head up through the moon roof of the Sequoia. Four undead changed course and ambled towards the idling truck. Cade put them down with his M4; more were on the way from their front and sides. The undead started moaning as they drew nearer. Cade dropped his rifle, letting it hang on its sling and brought the binoculars to his eyes glassing the road ahead.
The radio chirped in Cade’s pocket. “What do you see, boss?”