by Bowie Ibarra
Being out here on foot in this mess was getting too dangerous, even for heavily-armed soldiers.
“So no one here can hotwire a car?” Spc. Noble groaned.
“You watch too many movies,” Sgt. Arnold said, embedding a bullet in the head of a nearby Viral.
The thoroughfare transitioned to a quaint residential section. The streetlamps were still on, but most of the lights in houses had been switched off. Where there was light pouring through the windows, Fireteam Arnold could detect no movement inside. Driveways were empty of vehicles. In some instances, leftover luggage and suitcases sat in spots beside where a vehicle probably used to be, too much for owners to pack when they had evacuated to wherever they felt was a safer place to be.
The trio of AWOL soldiers heard a scream. They darted their heads around to try to locate the source.
Just fifty yards ahead, a small gang of ghouls had gathered on the front porch of a small home, rubbing their hands all over the door in an attempt to get inside. There were a couple of lights on, revealing the pristinely white bricks and pale green trim and well-manicured lawn. More importantly, the lights revealed a human form in the window.
The house was still occupied.
“Are we going to assist, Sergeant?” Noble asked.
Sgt. Arnold let out a deep breath. His team was well equipped and well armed. Ammunition for their HK416s was still plentiful. They were on their own, but at this point they still had the capacity—and the means—to help. It was definitely going to be a long night.
“Are we French or something?” he said. “Of course we’re going to assist.”
The team exterminated the menace within seconds, dropping all Virals that had surrounded the house with quick, clean headshots. Sgt. Arnold counted nine in the front and back yards. But ghouls that had followed them all the way up Riverside continued lumbering down the sidewalk, and he knew the ruckus would surely draw another crowd, probably larger, that would lay siege to the home.
In an effort to minimize the number of Virals that could see or hear them, he tried to communicate with whoever was inside the house from the backyard, while Noble and Knight stood watch from behind the bushes.
“Sgt. Arnold, United States Army. Who’s in there?”
The back door cracked open an inch.
“I’m in here,” a male voice said.
“Hello, sir. We just thought we’d help you out, sir. I hope you’ll consider taking this opportunity to evacuate you and any family you have to a FEMA center, for your own safety.”
“Thank you, Sergeant, but we’re doing just fine here.”
“I hope you will consider the suggestion, sir. They’re not going to stop coming. And you might want to keep the lights low. I think these... Virals... were drawn to it.”
“Zombies.”
“Whatever you please, sir.”
“I’ll take it under advisement.”
The man did not give thanks or say goodbye. He simply closed the door.
Sgt. Arnold was not going to stay and argue. The safety of his own charges was more important.
He rejoined his team and they continued down Riverside.
* * *
The fireteam reached the mouth of Riverside spilling onto IH-35 at around 0145 hours. Exhausted, they were ready to find a place to hide and rest. The aggression of the scattered Virals was getting peculiar. Noble even thought she saw one of the ghouls make a clenched fist, as if to try and punch her, before she shot it in the head.
The team advanced toward an office building where a car had crashed into the brick exterior. The engine was still running and the lights were still on.
“What do we have here?” Knight asked. Seven bodies were scattered around the car. All had been plugged with a bullet to their heads, with one exception. A zombie had been hit by the car and its legs were crushed between it and the brick wall. It clawed frantically at the empty air in an effort to escape. As the team moved closer, it snapped at them with its teeth.
“This door’s been kicked open, guys,” Noble said, observing the wooden front doors of the office building left wide open. She also noticed spent shells of an automatic weapon. “And looks like Rambo beat us here.”
“Knight, get this car shut off,” Arnold said. “We don’t need to attract more attention.”
Knight followed the order, sitting in the front seat. He switched off the ignition, and looked at the interior. “Hey, ya’ll. Check it out. This car actually has a deck for an eight track.”
“What?” Noble asked.
“Yeah, talk about retro—”
He didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence. Cloaked in the darkness of the back seat, a zombie clambered over and pounced.
Knight screamed as the ghoul set forth on his neck. Trapped in the front seat, Knight did not have many choices. But despite his chances, he still needed to make one.
The creature’s teeth were inches from his neck when Knight decided he could not escape and would have to wrestle it. He turned in the driver’s seat and gained a grip on its head. He didn’t dare reach for his sidearm or another weapon, or risk losing control of the monster. He slammed the creature’s head down on the armrest. It twisted awkwardly. Afraid to punch the monster and expose his hands to its teeth, Knight instead jabbed both his thumbs into its eyes. Whitish fluid oozed out.
It was an opportunity to jump from the vehicle. Panting in fear, he turned to watch Arnold and Noble plug the flesh-eater with several shots from their weapons. Knight shook his head, trying to pull himself together. His hands were soaked in eyeball fluid. Beneath the fingernails of his thumbs was white material that reminded him of the exterior of a boiled egg. He looked away and gagged, wanting to wipe his hands on anything but his clothes. He did anyway, on his pants, and shook his head again trying to shake off the nausea.
Sgt. Arnold approached him. “You all right, soldier?” He trained his HK416 as subtly as possible, sadly considering the possibility his charge was bitten.
“Yes, sir. I’m fine, sir,” Knight replied, refocusing.
Sgt. Arnold looked him over. He was relieved to find no signs of a bite.
“So much for not attracting more attention,” Noble said.
Creatures were gathering. They were scattered, but numerous, and they were beginning to congregate.
The team assembled at the busted door.
“Look,” Sgt. Arnold said, pointing at the ground. Bloodstained footprints left a trail, providing a clue to where the gun-toting person was headed.
“Knight, watch the door. Noble, at my back,” he said. He was assuming the casings on the ground outside were military, and was really hoping to avoid a gunfight.
They followed the bloody trail.
It led from the lobby to a dimly lit hallway.
Sgt. Arnold called out, “Sgt. Arnold, United States Army. Does anyone here require assistance?”
He never put his weapon down. It remained aimed into the hallway. He placed every door somewhere in his vision. He pictured the old targets of friendlies and enemies that were used on the shooting ranges. But any target he might face now had the real potential to shoot back.
“Army?” a male voice replied.
Sgt. Arnold took aim, standing very still. “Yes. Come on out. We’re your friend here.”
Unless you’re bit.
“Thank God,” said Specialist John Parcells, revealing himself slowly from a closed office door. “I need some sleep.”
* * *
Within the course of thirty minutes, the fireteam had re-secured the front door and settled into an office space at the rear of the building, away from the highway, in an effort to have minimal light that might attract attention. It was the office of a computer repair corporation’s regional manager. The paraphernalia hanging from the walls and on the desk was dork nirvana, featuring Star Wars models and Doctor Who videos. Knight was perusing the toy models and videos with keen interest. A Trekker himself, he was familiar enough with the respecti
ve mythos of the toys represented that he couldn’t resist taking a gander.
Sgt. Arnold and Spc. Parcells were engaged in information sharing.
“So what you’re saying is that you have a code for some special device that you don’t have right now?” the sergeant queried.
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“And this device is… what, exactly?”
“I cannot say, Sergeant. It’s classified.”
“So you know what it is, you just can’t tell us.”
“Correct, Sergeant.”
“Just drop the formality, son, and give me something I can work with here.”
“Sounds like a bomb to me,” Noble said, who had been listening intently to the conversation. “A suitcase nuke? Dirty bomb?”
Parcells gulped. “I cannot say.” It reminded him of the childhood game of hot/cold. He wanted to tell them that they were warm—not hot—but not cold, either. They were wrong, but they were warm.
“Holy shit,” Sgt. Arnold muttered, reading Parcells like a book. He figured if he hadn’t hit the nail on the head, he was at least close. “And these shitheads that hijacked your Hummer have it?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“But the device is hidden in the Hummer?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Well concealed?”
“Don’t exactly know what you would consider well concealed...”
“To lose is to win,” Knight butted in. “And he who wins shall lose.”
“Knight? What the fuck?” Noble asked.
“Sorry. Just quoting this episode of Doctor Who,” he said, holding a DVD case of the British sci-fi television series. “It’s from the episode entitled The Five Doctors. See, this guy named Rassilon had set up a—”
“Knight, shut the fuck up. Seriously,” Noble said. “Before you lose what little sex appeal you have left.”
“Whatever,” he said, inserting the disc in the rebooted computer so he could watch the episode.
“Can you track it?” Sgt. Arnold asked. “They certainly wouldn’t pack a Hiroshima Special without a GPS.”
“Yeah,” Parcells said, pulling out a small, handheld global positioning device. A small blip on the screen revealed the exact location of his entrusted cargo. The coordinates weren’t too far away.
Sgt. Arnold chuckled. “You know you’re in pretty deep shit having misplaced that thing, right soldier?”
“Yes, Sergeant.” He shrugged his shoulders, afraid to make light of the dire predicament.
Arnold and Noble shared a glance as the familiar Doctor Who theme sounded softly from the computer speakers.
“Parcells, my boy, we’ll help you find it after we’ve all had some shuteye. Just hope those fucks don’t find it and set it off first.”
“My thoughts too, Sergeant.”
“And turn that shit off,” he said to Knight, “and get some sleep.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
6:00 AM
South Point Apartments
Heavy gunfire and several explosions shook Mike Runyard and Keri Lawrence from their slumber. The movement of heavy vehicles was heard all around. These weren’t the sounds of heavy vehicles Mike and Keri were familiar with, dump trucks and street sweepers. These were distinctly different sounds of clinking and cold iron. Mike even thought he heard some vehicles with caterpillar treads.
“What the hell’s going on?” Keri asked.
Cautiously, they stepped outside.
All around them, National Guard soldiers were establishing fenced perimeters and erecting towers.
“It’s FEMA,” Mike said. “They’re setting up these apartments as a camp for refugees.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
6:06 AM
Perimeter of State Capitol near Congress Street
Fireteam Nickson was stoked and ready to go, liked caged and hungry tigers about to be released into the wild. If they had been wearing American football-style shoulder pads, they probably would have been striking them with their fists—or if they had swords and shields, would have been clanging them together.
Except for Specialist Daniel Talltree. He was the exception to the testosterone-fueled antics of his teammates. He looked as solemn as a funeral.
Cpt. Barrigan had some final remarks.
“Men, you will be responsible for general reconnaissance.”
“Understood, sir,” Sgt. Nickson said.
“Make me proud, boys. And be aware that there are traitors to the United States of America out there contributing to the anarchy we find ourselves in. They have no right to call themselves soldiers. Traitors are an enemy. You may deal with them appropriately.”
“Yes, sir,” they responded, in programmed unison.
The gatekeepers were prepared and opened fire on the Virals nearby. It was taking longer than ever to clear the gate just so they could open it for new arrivals and departures. The number of Virals was obviously growing despite operations to inhibit it.
The gate slid open, scraping metal on metal, creating a goosebump-inducing resonance. Fireteam Nickson passed through.
“All right, Talltree. Take point.”
Stoically, Talltree began following the very obvious (to him) trail Sgt. Arnold and his team made. The bodies of neutralized Virals spread in a discernable pattern revealed the direction their targets had traveled.
Fireteam Nickson moved just as precisely as their counterparts had, but with the added ability to move in two-by-two formation, firing and leveling the mounting opposition of Virals. Sgt. Nickson followed close behind Talltree, who in turn would trade positions with the “fire” man, Rodriguez, and the “assist” man, Garrison.
The chase was very easy for Talltree, who was initiated in the art of tracking by his father and grandfather in the Massena, New York area near the Mohawk Nation. The Talltrees had a tradition of tracking that stretched back even before the “white man” began his subversive conquest of his homeland. His family had even aligned themselves with French and Dutch settlers in an effort to garner favors. But the tradition of tracking was the same. Diluted through the ages, but the same.
Daniel Talltree had played many games that nourished his tracking skills. One of those games took place when he would play with his cousins. They would run into the woods to hide. They would have a twenty-minute lead before Talltree was sent out to find them. Accompanied by his father and grandfather, Talltree quickly picked up on the basics of tracking: footprints, crushed grass, broken bushes, body moisture like spit, sweat or urine. It was always fun.
Then he transitioned to animals: following trails, checking for eaten berries and nuts, blood trails, feces and urine. He eventually became a skilled hunter on Mohawk land.
Ultimately, he was utilized by local law enforcement to track escaped prisoners and fugitives suspected of hiding in local forests. Food, cigarette butts, beer, urine and torn clothes were clear markers. So many things provided clues, and his eyes were virtual eagle eyes on land when searching, his ears like a deer.
Despite protests from his family, he lent his services to the U.S. Army at the ripe age of eighteen, just three years ago.
Today’s travel was a piece of cake. The trail was easy to follow, and in no time at all the team was crossing the Congress bridge, blasting Virals as sunlight cut across the morning sky.
The trail led down Riverside and before long, they found a house with a large amount of bodies strewn around it.
Sgt. Nickson made a broad assumption and gave a command. “They’re in there, guys. We got them. Garrison, Rodriguez, get the back door. Talltree and I—”
“Wait,” Talltree said, seeing the real trail spreading down Riverside to IH-35. “They’re not there.”
“It’s worth a look, redman,” Sgt. Nickson said with impudence.
Talltree scowled.
The team advanced and Talltree reluctantly followed, looking at the true trail while considering other options.
Sgt. Nickson stood by the front door with Ta
lltree. When he received confirmation that Rodriguez and Garrison were ready on the other side of the house, Sgt. Nickson knocked on the door.
“United States Army. Open up.”
“We’re fine, sir,” came the reply. “You’ve already been by here.”
“See?” Nickson sneered at Talltree. He turned back to the door. “We need to speak to you about those men. Open up.”
“We don’t want any trouble, sir.”
“I said open up.”
The door clicked open and Sgt. Nickson dashed inside like lightning, training the sights of his HK416 on each inhabitant in rapid succession. The inhabitants—a husband, wife, and teenaged daughter—took frightened, defensive steps backwards, knees noticeably trembling. The father, a pathetic-looking bald man with an out-of-shape gut, clutched the edge of an endtable with whitening knuckles. He appeared to be trying to say something, but his lips were just quivering and no sounds came out.
“I have two men at your back door,” Nickson said. “I need you—” indicating the daughter, “to go let them in.”
“Ever heard the word please?” the young lady sneered. Teachers at Travis High school nearby were already familiar with her insolence. Sgt. Nickson was not, and the comment did not endear her to him.
“Andi, please,” the mother said, pinching the daughter.
“Ow,” the girl said. “You’re such a bitch.” She shrugged herself away and walked into the kitchen, headed for the back door.
Sgt. Nickson lowered his gaze. The girl, (called Andi by her parents, he made note,) had long, slender legs that rose to meet a hard bottom, emphasized by the way her jeans clung to every curve. The definition on her stomach displayed proudly through her tank top. Unlike her sloth-looking parents, she was in very healthy shape. There didn’t seem to be an ounce of fat on her. She probably ran track or something.