Aliens Versus Zombies
Page 3
CresNal frowned. “All of them? Have you looked for a communications malfunction?”
“Yes, sir. That was the first thing we checked. All equipment on this end is functioning correctly. Either all of the equipment on the ground is malfunctioning—which is highly unlikely; it was all tested before they left—or something is preventing all four squads from responding to repeated hails. We checked for jamming or other interference, and there doesn’t appear to be any. The most likely explanation is that the squads are unable to use their gear.”
FronCar spoke, finally. “Sir, I request permission to send down a larger contingent of several platoons to investigate, in case there was unexpected military resistance.”
“What about their locator chips?” CresNal asked.
“They’re still functioning, however the readings indicate that the men are either stationary or wandering aimlessly. Definitely not normal behavior for trained troops, under the circumstances.”
“Very well, Commander. Make sure they are better equipped this time as well.”
“I plan to, sir.”
* * * *
Platoon Regulator BlexJasp signaled to the fifty-four soldiers and two subregulators under his command to mount the three six-wheeled armored vehicles and head toward the city. The craft the previous squad had landed in appeared undamaged but abandoned.
Homing in on the subcutaneous nanochips of the ten missing men led the oversized platoon to a section of town near the outskirts.
As they pulled up in front of the large single-story structure, rows of shelving stocked with various unrecognizable goods were visible through the shattered display window and front door. It appeared that was how the squad had entered the building.
BlexJasp checked the heads-up display on the inside of his helmet visor. The HUD showed the location and movement of the chips.
He gestured to Subregulator FligJeen. “Send a squad of your men around the back and have them look for an entrance there or blow a hole. Have a second squad wait by the door on the left, and a third by the front door until we hear from the squad in the back. Then have all squads enter simultaneously. Send Subregulator ChibNorl and the other three squads across the street to clear those buildings, in case of snipers.”
FligJeen nodded sharply in the Drahtch form of salute and said, “Yes, Regulator!”
“Go!”
FligJeen took off at a trot to relay the orders to ChibNorl. It took less than a minute before the six squads were off on their respective sorties.
Another minute and the three squads penetrated the building. Regulator BlexJasp strode toward the entrance to the building in time to see a large number of energy blasts through the window opening. By the time he entered the building, the fight was over.
He approached FligJeen for a status report.
“Regulator, we subdued all fourteen of the indies. It was madness. They were unarmed, yet they charged us as if we were as well, even while we were shooting. Are they all insane?”
BlexJasp shook his head. “I don’t know, but it sure sounds that way. What about our men?”
“One was bitten on the arm before the indigene could be shot. It doesn’t appear serious.”
“Have the medic give him an antibiotic and antiviral, just in case. We don’t know what nasty bugs these creatures might be harboring, or whether they’re even compatible with our biology, but better to err on the side of caution.”
“Yes, Regulator.”
“And what of the earlier squad? I see their transponders are no longer moving.”
“That…that would be better shown than explained. Please follow me.”
The two men walked toward the back of the building, where most of the action had occurred. Body armor, helmets, and shredded bloody clothing lay strewn across the floor, along with large bones recognizable as coming from Drahtch arms and legs. The dead indigenes in the area appeared to have distended bellies.
“Are you telling me…”
“Yes, sir. It appears that way. The men have been dead for hours and the transponders are in the bellies of these disgusting creatures.”
“Disgusting is certainly the word for it.” BlexJasp took a deep breath and let it out. “Very well. It appears we’ve accounted for the entire squad here. It’s time to check the other squads to see if there might be any survivors.”
“Yes, Regulator. Although, if this is any indication of what the indigenous population is like on this planet, I wouldn’t hold my breath on that count.”
“I agree. But we have to verify, anyway. Make sure we monitor all of the sensors closely from here on out. We don’t want to end up like these men.”
* * * *
BlexJasp reported the findings from the first location. Then the platoon visited the other three landing sites and tracked down all of the transponders. Afterward, BlexJasp reported in with the sad news that all transponders had been accounted for, with no survivors. Every last subdermal transponder had been found in the gut of a dead indigene.
He was ordered to return to the command ship with the platoon and to bring an indigene corpse for examination, pending further orders.
* * * *
CresNal and Battle Commander FronCar sat in the Viceroy’s opulent ready room, along with the Chief Military Strategist, YuvStilp. An argument was already in full bloom.
FronCar, commander of all the ground forces, said “I disagree, sir. We came here expecting to have to bombard the planet from orbit to subdue the indies. That is still the best approach, in my opinion. We can do that without losing a single soldier. If we continue with the ground-based approach, we may salvage some infrastructure, but we stand to lose a lot of good men.”
YuvStilp shook his head. “No! Preserving the infrastructure will put us months, if not years ahead of schedule for colonization. So what if we lose a million troops? That’s why we brought them along. We would have expected to lose at least that many in a full-on invasion once we destroyed the major defenses and cities and got to the ground-level mop-up phase. As long as we make sure our forces are large enough and well-enough equipped, we shouldn’t have any serious problems.”
FronCar’s face tightened at the other’s cavalier write-off of a million of his men. “Sir,” he countered, “wiping out what, from orbital observation, appears to be tens of millions of these demented indigenes could take many years and subject our colonists to ongoing danger that whole time. If we engage in orbital bombardment of all the major and minor cities, we could reduce the number of indigenes by eighty percent or more. That would also leave us with all two million of our soldiers to defend our colonies against them. So what if we have to replace their infrastructure with ours? We were planning to do that anyway.”
YuvStilp stood, enraged, “I already told you, preserving the infrastructure would allow us to concentrate on other priorities. We—”
“Stop bickering like gestating females!” CresNal admonished. “You both make valid points, but we can’t follow both courses. I suggest that we begin by attempting to clear the indigenes at the ground level to preserve the infrastructure, if possible.”
A suggestion by the Viceroy was tantamount to an order.
“We don’t have to clear the entire planet all at once. We’ll start with one city, then expand outward as we settle the colonists. Once we clear one continent, things should go easier. We can do much of that using low-flying attack craft. It would appear the indigenes no longer possess the ability to operate air, space, or ocean-going vessels. This means our colonists should be safe from attack once we clear the first continent. If, however, this approach doesn’t work, we can always fall back on the orbital bombardment approach. But I want you two to find a way to make it work. Clear?”
Both men nodded, however YuvStilp did so with more much enthusiasm than FronCar showed.
* * * *
FronCar sat on his bunk and leaned back against the wall. He massaged his temples for a moment to relieve the tension there, and then stretched
out and let his eyes wander around the room.
There wasn’t much to look at in his spartan quarters. This was an officer’s billet, a senior officer’s at that and, as such, he’d earned the larger space that went with the position. It had a desk and chair for work, a private bath—an extreme luxury aboard a warship, three seats surrounding a small table for entertaining visitors, and some hidden compartments for clothing and personal items.
It was a working man’s quarters, not a frilly luxury flat, like the pompous ass of a viceroy had. Devote a lifetime to the service of the Emperor and this is what you got.
Finally, his eyes lit upon the only real item of personal meaning in the entire room: a framed 3D image of a beach with waves lapping against the pale white sand. The blue-green sea was topped by a pale blue sky, with lightning visible in the distance.
One of the early probes sent to this planet had sent back this and millions of other images and videos more than twenty years ago. Part of preparing for an attack was understanding the opponent’s military strengths and weaknesses. The Drahtch had no plans to converse with the indigenes, so no thought was given to really understanding their language. Just enough to issue the surrender ultimatum and translate the response.
FronCar had always thought that was a mistake; understanding an enemy’s language provided a basis for understanding how they thought. However, it wasn’t his call. He just followed orders.
After nearly five decades of serving the empire and living the structured life of a soldier, FronCar had been ready to retire and finally make a life for himself. The peaceful image of that beach struck a chord within him. Suddenly he couldn’t stand the idea of spending the rest of his life in the overcrowded warrens of a city on Draht. There were no unspoiled beaches—or unspoiled anything—left on the Drahtch homeworld. The only opportunities for expansion existed on other worlds.
When the opportunity presented itself to lead the ground contingent of the military forces heading to Planet 2383, he cashed in all his favors to make sure his name was near the top of the list. He even did some behind-the-scenes plotting to move his name higher up the list.
When the name at the top met with an unfortunate accident, FronCar was in.
He spent two years preparing for the mission, and then eighteen more drilling his men constantly so they’d be prepared for battle when they arrived.
The plan was to bombard the hell out of the planet, drop his men in to clean up the rag-tag survivors, and then spend the last four decades of his life basking in the glow of that beach, or one very much like it. Forty years of peace and quiet after seventy-plus years of dedicated service. Was that too much to ask for?
Instead, that MemKar-damned political appointee second-cousin-to-the-Emperor planned what looked more and more like it would be a long drawn-out ground campaign that would suck years of his life and the lives of thousands—perhaps tens of thousands—of his men.
Battle Commander FronCar took a deep calming breath and let it out slowly. Then he stood, straightened his shoulders, and went back to work.
Chapter Three
October 14, 2030.
Chick Daniels opened his eyes and panicked.
He lay flat on his back, in pain, and blind. He rubbed at his eyes, hoping against hope. They were slick with…blood?
No, no, no! Please, God, no…
After an all-too-long moment he saw a glimmer of light, and then another. He kept rubbing.
“Whoa, Sarge! Stop rubbing. You’ll just make it worse.”
“What? Make what worse? Wh-what happened to me?”
“Hang on. You’ve got motor oil in your eyes. Try not to blink until I rinse it out with some saline. It might sting a little, but keep your eyes open. Okay?”
“Y-yeah. Okay.”
Fingers raised his left eyelid. Warm water bathed his eyes and splashed onto his cheeks. After a few seconds, daylight penetrated the gloom. He repeated the process on the right eye.
“Okay, you can blink now.”
He did, and the view cleared.
The medical corpsman peered into Daniels’ eyes. “How’s your vision? Can you see all right?”
Daniels nodded. “It still stings a bit, but I can see.”
“Good. I’ve got some ointment that’ll help with that. Your eyes should be right as rain by tomorrow. Are you hurt anywhere else?”
“I don’t think…wait. My hip.”
The corpsman turned his head to the side to look. “Yep. There’s some blood. Turn on your side so I can get a better look.”
Daniels did so and the corpsman used his knife to cut open the pants over the wound to get a better look.
“Yep. Not too bad. A little shrapnel; not deep, not too much bleeding. You’re lucky. Hang on a minute and we’ll get a stretcher over here.”
“I’m still a bit woozy. Wh-what happened?”
“IED. Two dead, two injured, including you.”
“Shit. Who?”
“Keeley and Bremmer dead. Wojohowicz lost a foot. He’s stable.”
“God damn this place!” Daniels closed his eyes for a moment, shook his head, and then reopened them. “I’ll be so happy when we get the fuck out of this hellhole.”
The corpsman took another look at Daniels’ eyes. “You sure you’re okay? Do you know your name, where you are?”
“Yeah, yeah. Byron Daniels. Afghanistan. Kandahar province.”
“Good. Just another day in the shitty neighborhood. Right, Sarge?”
“Yeah. I’m sick of this place. Nothing but death. They kill us, we kill them. We’ll never kill enough of them to end this.”
“I hear ya. You just lie there for a mo while I round up that stretcher, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Do what ya gotta do.”
The corpsman jogged away.
After he left, Daniels looked up at the sky and squinted at the harsh sun. “God? Are you listening? Can we make a deal? If you get me out of this place alive, I promise I’ll lay down my weapons and never pick one up again. I’ll be a model citizen. Love they neighbor and all that. Deal?”
God was silent on the issue.
* * * *
May 2034.
The quintet had learned to move mainly at night to avoid being seen. The Zoms may have lost most of their ability to reason, but they still had basic animal needs. They had to shit, piss, eat, and sleep—generally at night—the same as any other human being. As a result, despite their qualms about it, nighttime was actually safer for normal humans. After all, even if the Zoms were awake, their night vision and sense of smell were no better than before the plague.
Tonight the group slipped down an alley toward a sporting goods store the next block over. They were low on ammo and Moose’s pistol had begun to jam intermittently. Rather than risk it in a pitched battle, it made sense to just get another one—or two, or five.
The trip so far had been quiet. Jesse Jefferson took the opportunity to say something he’d been thinking about since Daniels and Chrissy had returned from the Hungry Shopper. He spoke softly.
“You know, I think maybe it’s time to get outta Dodge. Grab a minivan or SUV, cram it with food and stuff, and get the hell outta here. If what you two saw was actually aliens, then we’re in big trouble. If it’s not bad enough that we have to duck Zoms all the time, how are we supposed to duck aliens, too, with spaceships and shit?”
“Dunno, Jesse,” Daniels said. “But if the aliens are here, who’s to say they aren’t everywhere? Besides, we’ve done well enough here so far. There’s still plenty of canned food in the stores. Who knows what the next town’ll be like. Maybe it’s been looted.”
Jesse shrugged. “Maybe, but at least that would mean more people. We haven’t seen anyone around here in months.”
“Yeah, but other people might not want to share. It’s a case of the devil you know versus the one you don’t. At least we know what to expect here.”
“Do we? Do we know what the aliens might be up to?”
They reached Sporty’s Sporting Goods and broke the lock on the back door. Their entry was less noticeable than if they’d gone in through the front.
While working their way toward the counter that had guns and cartridges locked away, Moose Villa started chuckling.
“Something you’d like to share with the class?” Chrissy asked.
“Heh. I was just wondering whether Zoms, you know, do it. Sex, I mean.”
“Yeah, we figured that out.”
“Sure! Why not? As far we know, everything works like before, except for their brains. They bleed when they get shot, they die, so why not sex?”
“What an image!” Chrissy said with a grin. “Two Zoms goin’ at it.”
Chick Daniels laughed, flashing the smile that had earned him the nickname “chick magnet” in his younger days. Maybe his hair was going gray now, and there were crow’s feet beside his world-weary ice blue eyes, but his smile was still as youthful as ever.
“Oh…my…God!” Chrissy exclaimed. “Can you imagine pregnant Zoms running around? Or zombie babies?”
Peter chimed in. “Talk about ankle-biters!”
That pretty much ended any serious conversation for a while.
* * * *
FronCar entered the Medical Hub. As always, he was in awe of the scope of the place. Surgical theaters, state-of-the-art diagnostic bays, research facilities, prosthetic/bionic device manufacturing modules, and much more. The place had hundreds of people working in it, with beds and equipment to treat nearly a thousand patients simultaneously. Under intense battle conditions, that often was barely enough. The soft pale blue glow of the walls gave the facility an ethereal quality that softened the otherwise sterile feel.
FronCar walked down four flights of stairs to the diagnostic bay where Fleet Commanding Medical Officer ZemBleth awaited. FronCar was a soldier, after all, not some lazy civilian who needed to use the lift.