Plague of the Dead

by Z. A. Recht

  Denton couldn’t hear the response. The radio could be set to broadcast replies through a speaker so soldiers could hear responses in the heat of combat, but the General had turned that function off, using the handset like a telephone in the relative safety of the headquarters tent.

  “Good,” Sherman said. “And be ready with the rest of that squadron. I may need to call in a real strike at any time. Have them hot and ready to fly. Out.”

  The General replaced the handset and sighed, rubbing his temples.

  “Sir, Denton’s here, as per request,” Dewen reported.

  “What? Oh, yeah. Denton. Let’s take a walk, son,” General Sherman said, leading Denton back out of the tent. The photographer craned his neck at the screens the Satcom soldiers were working on, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever it was they were looking at. Of course he and the other soldiers in the convoy, as well as the soldiers left in Suez Base, had been briefed on what was coming their way—an entire city’s worth of infected carriers—but he wanted to see for himself. Before he could register anything useful, he found himself outside.

  General Sherman heaved another heavy sigh and pulled a cigar from his breast pocket. He took his time lighting it. Denton stood next to him, hands in his pockets, saying nothing. The general puffed on the cigar until the cherry glowed red, and he blew a contented cloud of smoke into the darkening sky.

  After a moment Sherman said, “Denton, there’s a hellstorm headed this way.”

  “I know.”

  “You sure you want to be here when it hits?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Why?”

  “This is where I’ve always been, General. Right in the middle of the shit. Now here I am, right in the middle of the biggest shitstorm of them all, and there’s no way I’m missing the show,” Denton replied.

  “You could be back home, having a cup of coffee and watching it on the evening news,” Sherman said.

  “I help make the evening news, General.”

  “Why? Why is war so interesting? Why is seeing thousands of infected people being gunned down something newsworthy?”

  “Are you trying to say you don’t want anyone taking pictures of what’s going to happen here, General?” Denton said, narrowing his eyes almost imperceptibly.

  “Not at all. I’m asking why you would want to take pictures of it in the first place. I don’t make the regs. I just follow them.”

  “Someone’s got to show the world, General.”

  “Call me Francis. Or Frank. You’re not enlisted, after all.”

  “Alright, Frank. Someone’s got to show the world. Like you said, tonight thousands of people are going to die. I don’t know what all this is about them getting back up once they’re dead, but if they really do then we’ll see thousands of people die twice tonight. That’s something that has to be recorded somehow. We wouldn’t have history if no one bothered to report it.”

  “You’d glorify the massacre of these people?” Sherman asked.

  Denton felt his stomach churn, and anger boiled within him.

  “I don’t know where you get your ideas, Francis,” Denton snapped, “But I’m no dirt-digging stereotypical journalist. I’ve watched just as many soldiers bleed and die as you have over the years. The only difference between you and me, Frankie, is that you make the wounds. I show the world the wounds you’ve made.”

  That seemed to hit the mark. Instead of taking the bait, however, General Sherman let a smile spread across his features.

  “That’s what I wanted to hear, son,” he said. “You can stay for the shitstorm if you want to. You have my blessing.”

  Denton was taken aback. He hadn’t expected this after the general’s other comments.

  “Thanks, General,” he managed.

  “No problem,” replied Sherman, puffing on his cigar. “And just one more thing before you go back to the line.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’d like to clarify something. There will always be folks who will be willing to go out of their way to ‘make wounds’ on the souls and bodies of their fellow people. I’m not one of them. I’m here to wound the sinners, not the innocents.”

  Denton managed a grim smile and said, “The people coming at us tonight aren’t all sinners, though.”

  “It’s a unique situation, son,” Sherman said. “It can’t be helped.”

  “No moral quandaries?”

  “No,” Sherman said. “They’ve been drafted by the enemy. There’s only one real course of action—kill them, or be killed.”

  “Then we’ll kill them,” Denton said. “And we’ll let God sort them out.”

  2102 hrs_

  With the loud humming of controlled voltage, the floodlights on the west bank of the Suez Canal came online, illuminating the battle lines in a kind of ghostly, flickering white light.

  Beneath the floods were the soldiers, hunkered in their foxholes. Their rifles were aimed at the bank beyond, shifting barrels nervously in the diffuse light. Their line stretched off into the darkness in both directions. No one spoke out loud, but here and there came a whispered query.

  “Where are they?”

  “They’re coming soon.”

  “Keep your eyes open.”

  “Anyone got a smoke?”

  “Those things’ll kill you, man.”

  A new sound grew above the hum of electricity—the sound of distant chopper blades cutting through the night air. They grew closer. Some of the soldiers craned their necks back, squinting beyond the brightness of the floodlights, trying to fix the aircrafts’ position.

  With a shuddering roar, two helicopters flew over the defensive line towards the eastern desert. They stayed within view, and pulled about, circling. One of the choppers was large and bulky, slower than its companion, but deadly in its own right. The UH-1 flicked on its own spotlights, trying to pinpoint something on the ground out of view of the soldiers on the bank of the canal.

  “What’re they doing?” asked one trooper.

  “Quiet! Just watch,” said another.

  The second helicopter was painted as black as the night it flew in. Narrow and vicious in silhouette, it stabilized and dropped closer to the ground, facing away from the defensive line.

  “What’s the Apache doing? Are they landing?”

  The sound of a magnified voice loomed out through the darkness. The Apache pilot was speaking to someone on the ground.

  “Civilian! You are entering a containment zone! You must submit to decontamination before proceeding! Stop your vehicle and dismount!”

  The Huey had fixed its spotlights on something behind one of the sand dunes. The soldiers on the line were shifting now, curious as to what was going on.

  The Apache backpedaled in the air, keeping its weapons trained. Whatever it was that they were focused on was moving.

  “Civilian, halt! You are entering a containment zone! Stand down now! This is your final warning!”

  Now the soldiers on the line could hear a new noise. The sound of a diesel engine drifted to their ears, and grinding gears followed. Someone was driving toward them. They steadied their rifles.

  The Apache circled overhead, pulling over the canal and positioning itself above the soldiers. The Huey hovered over the target, spotlighting it. For the first time, the soldiers noticed the rope and harness dangling from the side of the Huey. They were trying to get the driver to climb onboard.

  The driver wasn’t having it.

  A semi truck burst over the crest of the nearest dune, spraying sand in a wide arc. The gears ground again, and the truck accelerated towards the waters edge. It was clear the driver had no intention of stopping.

  A screech from overhead drew the attention of the soldiers and for a second they were bathed in the orange light of ignited propellant from the rear end of a Hellfire rocket. The Apache had fired.

  The truck wasn’t built to take a missile to the front grille. It exploded, sending metal shards flying in every direction. The soldiers
ducked into their foxholes as the remains of the vehicle came clattering down on the sand and with splashes in the canal.

  Brewster raised his head slowly, adjusting his helmet as he peered over the edge of his hole. The ruins of the truck were on fire on the eastern bank. He grinned, nodding his head and turning to look at Corporal Darin next to him.

  “Now, that had to be a foreign truck,” he said. “Sure wasn’t built Ford tough.”

  Sitting on a pile of sandbags behind the foxhole, Denton spoke up.

  “You don’t feel sorry for the driver?” he asked.

  “Hell no, man. The guys in the Huey tried to lift him out of there. The dumbass was running dead-scared.”

  “The stuff he was running from is right behind him,” Denton said, pointing.

  The Huey had circled the debris of the truck twice before its spotlights flicked off into the distance, once again illuminating ground beyond the view of the soldiers. The Apache joined it, and the pair flew further east. They began to fire at the ground, hovering in the air as they did so. The Apache let fly with more rockets, and the soldiers could hear the dull thumps of the distant explosions as the Hellfires hit and detonated. The two choppers were raining death from the sky.

  “I hope they leave some for us,” Brewster said.

  “Don’t worry,” Denton replied. “There’ll be plenty for everybody.”

  The choppers soon stopped firing. They hadn’t run out of targets. They’d run out of ammunition. The two aircraft roared over the defensive lines once more, this time vanishing into the west. The sounds of their blades grew distant, and then faded altogether. The battle was left to those on the ground.

  Silence.

  In the quiet, the soldiers felt themselves growing nervous. Whatever the helicopter pilots had been firing at was still out there, beyond the dunes, out of sight, but coming closer. Safeties were flipped off and equipment rattled as they shifted in their foxholes.

  “Hold your fire,” whispered Sergeant Major Thomas, the grizzled veteran, as he ran up and down the line checking his men. He held a weathered Colt 1911 in one hand and a flare gun in the other. “Wait for them to crest the dune. Get a good sight picture before you hit ’em. Aim for the head! Remember to aim for the head!”

  Minutes passed. The soldiers began looking back and forth at one another. Where was the enemy? Why hadn’t they crossed into sight? What was waiting out there, beyond the comforting ring of brightness the floodlights provided?

  Brewster wiped sweat from his forehead and pressed his eye back up against the night sight of his rifle, gritting his teeth.

  Denton sat silently, rifle across his lap, camera around his neck, waiting.

  Commander Barker nervously tapped his foot against the sandy ground, scanning the dunes with his eyes. He checked his watch and folded his arms, then checked his watch again.

  Colonel Dewen chewed on the end of an unlit cigar, grimaced, and spit out a piece of tobacco. He went back to chewing.

  Inside the command tent, the Satcom troopers had finally synched with the spy satellites.

  “Quick! Quick! Pull up a view of our area, infrared, zoomed-in,” said the lieutenant in charge. “Sharpen! Sharpen it up! Where are the carriers?”

  The image flicked into focus, and the officer’s face drained of blood. “Oh, shit.”

  Sergeant Major Thomas looked over his shoulder at the small tarp General Sherman and the other brass stood under. The General nodded.

  Thomas holstered his pistol and held the flare gun out at arm’s length, aiming over the canal at the dark expanse beyond. He fired. The flare whizzed into the sky, leaving a light trail of white smoke behind it. It popped a moment later, bathing the desert in warm orange light.

  —And illuminating the teeming horde of infected just beyond the perimeter of light.

  There were tens of thousands of them, a mob the likes of which the world rarely saw, pushing and shoving one another like an army of agitated ants. The carriers closest to the defensive line seemed to notice it for the first time as the flare drifted overhead. They roared at the defenders.

  “Hail Mary, full of grace,” Corporal Darin whispered, sweat trickling down the back of his neck.

  They charged.

  The soldiers opened fire, hundreds of rounds thudding into the bodies of the carriers. Dozens fell, rolling down the sandy slopes of the dunes, but hundreds more ran over the bodies towards the water. Machinegun emplacements went full-auto, emptying drums of rounds at the infected. Here and there a head shot dropped a carrier permanently, but most of the shots went rogue, knocking a carrier to the ground only to have it rise up again minutes later.

  “Ammo!” soldiers began to yell from their holes. Runners sprinted up and down the line, dropping satchels of magazines into the holes of the troopers who needed them.

  “Backblast area clear!” yelled a man, aiming an AT-4 anti-tank rocket balanced on his shoulders. He fired, and the rocket blast cleared an area of infected, sending many flipping into the sky and leaving an open, blackened pocket that soon filled in again as the hordes advanced relentlessly.

  The carriers had reached the minefield. They were packed shoulder-to-shoulder and every mine that had been buried began to detonate as the teeming mass ran forward, blasts enveloping them. The ones in the ranks further back kept coming, detonating mine after mine. Some of the carriers were enveloped in fire, running aimlessly about, trying to bat the flames down. Their anguished howls echoed over the canal and in the ears of the defenders, but they kept firing. And the horde kept advancing.

  The carriers reached the razor-wire fences and ran full-on into them, slicing themselves to ribbons. As before, when the infected in front died, the ones behind kept pushing forward. The wire fences were a small obstacle, and were soon buried underneath the bodies of those they were meant to stop. The horde kept advancing.

  “Ammo! I need ammo!” the shouts rang out up and down the line. The runners doggedly tried to keep up, throwing satchels of ammunition to those who requested it, but they were tiring, and the ammunition stores were beginning to run low.

  The carriers had reached the water. They splashed into it, writhing, as they tried to push themselves towards the far bank. The canal was wide and deep and was the soldiers’ best defense. They focused on the carriers still standing on the far bank. The ones in the canal swiftly floundered and stopped moving, floating face-down in the water. More joined them every second, splashing in and drowning as they tried to cross.

  Soon the canal looked like a macabre logjam, with hundreds of floating bodies bumping in to one another as the firefight went on unchecked above them. The carriers splashing into the canal were pushing the bodies away as they thrashed about.

  General Sherman noticed a few carriers had managed to pull themselves on top of the floating corpses. They were dragging themselves across the surface of the water, using the bodies as floats.

  “Artillery!” he shouted. The radioman held a hand over one ear and began shouting orders into the handset.

  “Thor, Thor, this is Suez with a fire mission, over . . .”

  On the line, Denton found himself out of ammunition for his camera. The film rolls he had brought were used up and tucked tightly into his vest pockets. He let the Nikon rest around his neck, brought up the rifle Dewen had given him, and took aim.

  “They’re moving across the river!” Brewster shouted, noticing the same thing the general had moments before. He shifted his fire to the canal, picking his targets. Soldiers on the line joined him, and the infected crawling across the floating bodies began to fall off into the water. The soldiers were inadvertently helping the carriers build their bridge.

  A whistling noise filled the air, and heavy blasts rocked the soldiers as artillery rounds began to slam into the desert on the east bank of the canal, lofting carriers left and right. One of the infected was tossed end over end high into the sky, arcing over the canal and landing with a sickening thump directly in front of Brewster’s foxhol
e. He jumped back, startled, then thumbed his helmet higher and squinted at the body.

  “Fuckin’ A, man,” he breathed, then raised his weapon to his shoulder and resumed firing.

  The carriers were still madly scrabbling across the bodies in the canal. Some were more than halfway across. One of the soldiers pulled a grenade from his pistol belt, yanked the pin, and wound up to throw it. It slipped out of his hand and rolled back into his foxhole.

  “Grenade!” he yelled, pulling himself up and rolling out of the hole. His battle-buddy spun to look for the threat, saw his friend rolling clear, and had enough time to mumble a curse before the foxhole exploded in a shower of dirt and debris.

  The first of the infected put his foot on the dry eastern bank of the Suez Canal. A moment later, Denton dropped him with a shot to the forehead. The photographer was picking his targets, firing once every ten or fifteen seconds, sniping carefully. Dewen had only given him two magazines.

  The canal was boiling with carriers now. Their reinforcements seemed to be cut off as artillery continued to bombard the dunes, but there were already thousands past the protective curtain of indirect fire. Soldiers pulled themselves up and out of their foxholes to get a better angle, firing down into the infected.

  The second—and final—line of razor wire stood in the path of the carriers. This time they were going uphill, and they were less clustered than they were on the western bank. Many threw themselves into the slashing teeth of the wire, shrieking and pulling at it with their bare hands, trying to free themselves and only succeeding in tangling themselves further. What the razor wire began, the rounds from the soldiers’ rifles finished.

  The fire from the defensive line was becoming more and more sporadic. The soldiers were running dry. They settled for flinging hand grenades down the slope toward the wire fence, while the soldiers with ammunition remaining slowed their firing and picked their targets. Blasts cut through the air.

  One of the grenades bumped to a stop against one of the wooden support legs for a section of fence. It sat there a moment, rocking gently back and forth, before it exploded. The force of the blast lifted the section of fence and flipped its end over. It landed on top of a group of infected on the shore, knocking them to the ground and entangling them.