“Wow,” Estrada said.
“Where the hell did that come from?” Gogol said.
Kelly scanned the horizon until he found what was causing all the commotion. There, silhouetted against the rising sun, one man-sized target stood alone in the desert.
“Is that a zed?” Roberson asked, giving voice to Kelly’s unspoken question.
“Can’t tell. Too much backlight washing it out,” Gogol said.
“Crazy Hank?” Kelly kept the binoculars to his eyes, squinting against the brightening dawn as he struggled to make out the figure’s features.
“I’m going to say yes to that,” Estrada said. “One stench, about eight hundred meters out, just standing there like a store mannequin.”
“But where did it come from?” Gogol asked again.
“If it came from your ass, you’d know,” Roberson said. “What’re we going to do about it, Kelly?”
“Hank, can you confirm with a hundred percent certainty that’s a zed out there?”
Estrada hesitated for a long moment before answering. “Not a hundred percent, no.”
Kelly scanned the rest of the area, but found nothing terribly remarkable. The landscape was pancake flat, so if anything else was out there, they would have noticed it. “Can you make the shot from here?”
Estrada sounded offended. “What do you think, Kelly?”
“I think my eighty-nine-year-old grandmomma could make the shot, but I’m not so sure about you.” Kelly got to his feet and dusted off his battle dress. “Okay, let’s notify Hercules. We’ll need to roll up on it to get a better ID. Roberson and I will head up, while Estrada and Gogol hold back. When we identify it as a stench, it’s all yours, Hank. Do try to hit it on the first shot this time.”
Estrada only snorted. He’d been servicing targets with one round for almost his entire military career as a Special Forces sniper. That was why he was called Crazy Hank; not because he was insane, but because he was able to make the craziest shots in the world and use only one round to make a kill.
Kelly called it in and briefed the operator in the TOC of his intended plan. It seemed to be only one stench, so the threat to the Special Forces element was low. Just the same, Hercules advised him that an aviation asset would be uncaged and onsite in less than five minutes, and that the remainder of Special Forces Operational Detachment Alpha Zero-Three-Four would be linking up with the element as a backup force. Kelly thought it was all overkill, but everyone wanted to take a swing at the piñata. So long as the 160th didn’t send out a Chinook full of Rangers and SEALs to fastrope right onto the stench’s head, it was fine by him.
He and Roberson rode on their motorcycles toward the figure while Gogol and Estrada held back, the latter stretched out over his ATV, ready to punch the target’s ticket when the order was given. Kelly kept his eyes open behind his sunglasses, but didn’t see anything even remotely threatening as the two Special Forces soldiers brought their bikes to a halt about fifty yards from the target.
Roberson made a face when he caught a whiff of it as the light desert breeze changed for a moment. “Christ, that fucker’s ripe.”
Kelly dismounted and gently leaned his bike on its kickstand; the dry desert soil was hard enough to support it. He walked toward the stench slowly, his modified M4 in both hands, ready to snap it up and fire at the first hint things were going to turn south. The zombie didn’t seem to notice him, and there was a fairly good reason for that. It had apparently caught fire at some point, and its eyes were gone, as were its ears and a good amount of flesh. It reeked of cooked meat and rot, a combination that Kelly found to be incredibly disgusting. Obviously, the ghoul was so badly damaged that it couldn’t sense him, and it apparently hadn’t even heard them approach on their bikes.
“Tack Four-One, Tack Four-Six. Target is definitely a zed. You want to take it down? Over,” Kelly said into his radio boom-microphone.
Estrada’s answer was immediate. “Tack Four-Six, Tack Four-One. Roger that. Would be good if you were to halt your advance and hold your position. Over.”
Kelly stopped and waved his left hand. “Tack Four-One, roger. You’re cleared to engage—”
Before he had finished speaking, Kelly heard a slight zip as the rifle round sped past him and slammed into the ghoul’s right eye. The zombie collapsed to the ground immediately as the seven-six-two millimeter bullet fairly decimated its skull. He sighed and turned back to where Estrada and Gogol waited in the distance and gave them both the finger.
“Kelly!” Roberson shouted suddenly, and he raised his rifle. Kelly spun around and saw the desert floor shifting beside his right foot. A pallid hand reached up from beneath the dried earth and latched onto his ankle. With a grunt, Kelly half-jumped, half-stumbled away from the buried ghoul and brought his rifle to bear. As the stench clawed its way out of the sand, he fired two rounds into its head. Behind him, Roberson opened up. Kelly turned and saw two more ghouls rise out of shallow graves. He sensed more movement, and from the corner of his eye, he saw three more stenches emerge from the desert. As he ran for his bike, he spotted variations in the soil. At least a dozen stenches had buried themselves out there, and they were rising from their sandy hide sites with snarling moans.
It’s a fucking ambush!
“Let’s get the fuck out of here!” Kelly shouted to Roberson. He hopped onto his bike and fired it up, then yanked it around in a tight turn, kicking up a rooster-tail of dirt.
Roberson did the same, and he accelerated away with Kelly close behind. But then, the earth moved to Kelly’s right, and before he could do anything further, a spindly arm lashed out and tangled itself in the aluminum spokes of his bike’s front wheel. Kelly only had time to pop the motorcycle into neutral before he went flying over its handlebars.
***
McDaniels had just finished shaving in the latrine when he heard one of the Little Birds suddenly crank to life to the north, which meant something was going down. He wiped the remainders of shaving cream from his face, pulled on his BDU blouse, grabbed his gear, and hit the door as the Little Bird—an MH-6, the unarmed variant—buzzed past, bolting to the southeast. Soldiers and civilians alike emerged from tents, trailers, and buildings to watch the helicopter as it screamed toward the rising sun.
McDaniels pulled on his headset and switched on the radio. “Operations, this is Hercules Six. Is something going down? Over.” As he spoke, McDaniels struck out for the tactical operations center.
“Hercules Six, this is Operations. Sir, you’d better get over here. We have an engagement going down outside the wire. Over.”
“Ops, Hercules Six. On my way.”
Two minutes later, McDaniels pushed open the TOC door and rushed to his station. Gartrell was already there, as were Rawlings and Carmody. As he slid into his chair and traded his personal radio headset for the lighter version used inside the TOC, Switchblade and Jaworski ran in, followed by several other troopers.
“All right, talk to me,” McDaniels said, looking around the TOC. “Internal Security?”
A first lieutenant with the Ranger battalion shot him a thumbs-up. “We’re good. It’s happening outside the wire, sir.”
“Aviation?”
“One MH-6 has jumped out to provide recon for an ODA slice operating as ES, Colonel.”
“Got that. External Security, give it to me.”
Rawlings stepped forward. “A slice from ODA Zero-Three-Four reported a single stench, but couldn’t establish complete VID. They rolled up on it to check it out, and something went south from there. We’re waiting to hear what it is, Six.”
“Somebody call the Green Berets and get it from them right now,” McDaniels ordered.
***
Kelly hit the ground on his back and cartwheeled onto his face before he could stop himself. When he came to a rest, he was halfway on his knees with his ass sticking in the air and his face in the dirt. He didn’t seem to be hurt, but he’d lost his rifle during his brief flight, and he couldn’t s
ee it in the scrub brush around him. Something cracked nearby, and Kelly shouted when a stench collapsed to the ground right next to him. He flipped over onto his back and pulled his Mk 23 SOCOM pistol. Just in time. Another stench ran toward him, and Kelly fired at it twice. He struck it in the chest both times, but the heavy impacts of the .45 caliber rounds didn’t even slow it. The zombie fell to the desert floor when its head exploded, and Kelly heard the report of Estrada’s M24 sniper rifle a moment later.
Roberson rode up and braked to a halt a few feet from Kelly. He shouldered his M4 SOPMOD rifle and took down two more zombies shambling toward them.
“Dude, are you hurt?”
Kelly felt a twinge in his left ankle, but he wasn’t going to cry over it. “No, I’m good.”
“Then get the fuck up and get on your bike. This is stench central, man!” Roberson fired three more shots, and Kelly flailed to his feet. He was totally disoriented. His bike gurgled nearby, and an armless zed crawled toward him, moaning, still covered with dusty earth.
“You must be the fuck who flipped me over,” Kelly said. He put a round through its face, and the zombie fell motionless to the desert floor. He hobbled toward his idling motorcycle—yeah, the ankle was definitely messed up—and looked around for his rifle. He saw it lying a few feet away, and for a moment, he was torn between going for it or his bike.
“Come on! Move your ass!” Roberson shouted. He fired several shots in rapid succession, and Kelly heard a snap! as a round from Estrada’s rifle flashed past.
An MH-6 made a high-speed pass at forty feet, practically right over Kelly’s head, attracting the attention of the zeds. The zombies turned away from Kelly and stared after the aircraft for a moment as it executed a hard tight turn. He seized the opportunity to muscle his bike upright, mount it, and kick it into gear. Roberson spun his motorcycle around as well, and they accelerated away from the zombies.
Kelly heard Hercules calling the unit for an update, and in the near distance, two Humvees bounded across the desert, heading in their direction. Estrada continued to fire at the ghouls behind Kelly and Roberson, with Gogol peering through his binoculars, spotting targets for him. Kelly risked a glance over his shoulder and saw the stenches going down, one by one. Estrada was performing as expected—one shot, one kill, bang, dead.
***
McDaniels, Gartrell, Switch, and Rawlings went out into the field to inspect things first hand. Since the traffic on Route 385 was fairly impenetrable, they flew out of the complex strapped to the pods of an MH-6. That type of flight was a first for McDaniels, and though the ride lasted less than two minutes before his boots hit the Texas desert, he thought it great fun.
The traffic on Route 385 was horrendous. Moving northerly at a snail’s pace, thousands of cars, trucks, tractor-trailers, and RVs rolled toward Odessa. Hardier vehicles, such as motorcycles and sturdy SUVs and pickup trucks had a better time of it; they departed the highway and simply charged across the desert itself. McDaniels was surprised to see one heavily laden pickup towing a boat through the middle of the desert. He pointed it out to Gartrell, who was strapped to the pod beside him. The sergeant major only shook his head.
As the Little Bird descended, McDaniels saw the Special Forces team walking through the engagement area in pairs. At least thirty bodies lay amidst the scrub brush, and the Green Berets were securing the area, making certain that all the stenches were combat ineffective and that no more lay in wait elsewhere. Then, the Little Bird’s spinning rotors kicked up a cloud of dust, and McDaniels could see nothing more. He felt the tiny helicopter bounce on its skids, and he and Gartrell unstrapped and hopped to the ground. Joined by Rawlings and Switchblade, they hurried away from the helicopter as it lifted off again and climbed to establish a right-hand orbit over the area.
“Somebody want to fill me in on what happened?” McDaniels asked when he approached the captain who commanded the alpha detachment.
“Yes, sir. Sergeants Kelly and Roberson were physically on-scene when it went down, backed up by Sergeants Estrada and Gogol over there at the ATV. Hey, Kelly! Roberson! Get over here!” The young officer waved at two men standing near one of the dead zeds. They waved back and started walking over. One of them was limping, and his face was scratched up.
“Sir, that man there, did he come in contact with a zed? How did he get injured?” Gartrell asked, pointing at the limping soldier.
“One of the zeds hit his motorcycle, sent him over the handlebars and face-first into the dirt,” the captain said. “He says he never came into physical contact with any of the necromorphs, and all of his injuries were sustained during his fall. It’s just road rash and a sprained ankle, Sergeant Major.”
The two soldiers saluted McDaniels. The Special Forces captain introduced him to the men,
Roberson, a light-skinned black man, nodded. “I know who the colonel is. I saw you speak during a formal dinner at Bragg on Martin Luther King Day. Good to meet you face-to-face, sir.”
McDaniels snorted, remembering. “Damn, Roberson, that was like ten years ago.”
“Yes, sir, it was. And at the time, you were the only black alpha det commander in the entire Army, if memory serves.”
“Your memory is sharper than mine, Sergeant Roberson.” McDaniels looked at the shorter white man who stood beside Roberson. His face was scraped along the left side, and if he hadn’t been wearing his helmet and dust goggles when he took his spill, the damage would have been even greater. “You must be Kelly?”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, I must’ve missed the MLK shindig, but I’m sure you were awesome,” Kelly said with a grin.
“You kiss ass,” Roberson said.
“Oh, look who’s talking.”
“Guys, square yourselves away,” the captain said.
“It’s all right. Some good-natured bitching is part of the job,” McDaniels said. “Okay, Kelly, you first. What happened here?”
Kelly retold the events from his perspective. The story didn’t last long, as the engagement seemed to have been short. While the stenches had the element of surprise, they hadn’t been able to sustain their momentum, and a combination of sniper fire coupled with precision fires from the rest of the ODA had ended the incursion within five minutes. Roberson corroborated the high points of Kelly’s account, though he did add some color commentary regarding Kelly’s impromptu attempt at flying.
“So both of you were danger close during the engagement?” McDaniels asked.
“Yes, sir.” Kelly shuffled his feet and looked embarrassed. “Uh, I didn’t do a proper area reconnaissance, sir. I should have noticed the variations in the soil where those things had buried themselves, but I was fixated on the zed itself. I hadn’t been aware they could, uh, do ambushes and the like.”
“In other words, you were complacent, which means you were stupid,” Gartrell said in his best senior NCO voice. He speared Roberson with his gaze as well. “That goes for both of you. Tell me, did you curtsy for the zeds when they popped out of the ground like a bunch of prairie dogs?”
“No, Sarmajor,” Kelly said.
“You’re supposed to be special recon experts. You might want to keep your core competencies close at hand during the coming engagements.”
“Yes, Sarmajor.”
“The Sarmajor’s obviously right,” McDaniels said. “You guys got sucked into it like a couple of amateurs. Let’s not repeat that, all right? Captain, that’s something I expect you to see to personally,” he added, ensuring at the ODA commander was on the hook as well.
The tall officer nodded, his face a blank mask. “Roger that, Colonel.”
McDaniels turned to Rawlings and Switch. “Guys, anything from you?”
“I’m good,” Switch said.
“We should take a look around, and see what we can see,” Rawlings said. “Is anyone taking pictures?”
“Yes, sir, we’re seeing to that.” The Special Forces captain pointed up at the orbiting MH-6. “And the Night Stalkers are doing the same fr
om the air.”
“Great. Yeah, I agree with you, Rawlings. Let’s take a look around,” McDaniels said.
The necromorphs had buried themselves in the soil during the overnight hours in a vaguely circular pattern. The stench, which Kelly and Roberson said had appeared to be deaf and blind, had stood in the center of the formation. Tires tracks in the dust showed that one of the soldiers had ridden right over a buried zombie without realizing it. They had stopped twenty feet apart, with one of them—Kelly—closer to the center than the other. McDaniels walked to the center of the formation and looked down at the burned zombie, then slowly turned in a circle, taking in the entire area.
“Fucking bastards are getting smarter and smarter,” he said to Gartrell.
“And our guys are getting dumber and dumber. This isn’t looking so great for us,” Gartrell said.
“I doubt they’ll be making that mistake again,” McDaniels said.
“How the hell did they get here?” Switchblade scanned the horizon through his binoculars. “Don’t we have the entire area under satellite surveillance? And aren’t we running the UAVs every two hours for local coverage?”
“They must have come in during the night,” Rawlings said. “The necros don’t show up very well on infrared unless there’s a huge concentration of them. Thirty or forty zeds? They wouldn’t even read. And if they’d buried themselves in between the UAV flights, I can see them getting close to us without anyone knowing.”
The Rising Horde, Volume One Page 26