by Dirk Patton
Their delay in reacting was what I expected. Letting the momentum of my attack carry me I spun an elbow into the temple of the guy on my right and he dropped like a marionette without the strings. The third guy grabbed my arm as shouts of alarm came from the group in the hall. I turned into his grasp and crashed my forehead into the bridge of his nose, sending him sprawling to the tile floor.
I turned to meet the charge from the hall just in time to absorb a flying tackle from the first cop through the door. He wasn’t as big as the first three I’d already put down, but he hit me squarely in the chest with his shoulder and drove me back onto the large table in the middle of the room, arms locked around my mid-section.
Up to that point Dog had obeyed and stayed out of the fracas, but seeing me tackled was more than he could take. The cop screamed when Dog clamped down on his leg and began dragging him off of me. When his grip loosened I hit him in the face three times, fast and hard, then he was on the floor holding his face and moaning as the rest of the squad flooded the room.
As I scrambled back to my feet I saw the first Taser raised and heard the pop when it fired. The darts couldn’t penetrate my vest and I reached for the cop who had fired the device but never got my hands on him. There were now eight more Security Forces pushing in on me and two more Tasers fired, one of them finding exposed skin on my right arm.
The jolt of electricity hurt like hell and made my head spin, but I was able to grab the wires leading from the barbs embedded in my skin back to the battery pack in the butt of the Taser, ripping them loose. The current stopped surging through my body, but the jolt had slowed me. Four of them charged in, trying to bury me under their mass.
I was ready for them, jumping back to clamber across the table and open some space, but the table must have been weakened when I was first tackled onto it. This time it collapsed, dropping me flat on my back with four cops piled on top of me. I could hear Dog’s snarls then a yelp of pain and I fought harder, gouging an eye, squeezing a pair of balls hard enough to feel one of them pop, but more cops rushed in and the fight went out of me when a handheld Taser was pressed against my neck and triggered until I couldn’t move.
16
Rachel flushed the toilet in the latrine, exited the stall and began to wash her hands. Looking up she saw her reflection in the mirror and paused, staring into her own eyes. She was upset. Happy for John, yet distraught for herself. She had always known there was a possibility he would find Katie, but deep down she’d never believed that the woman could still be alive.
Now, just when she was starting to believe that John was hers… Damn it! She had no ill will for Katie. That wasn’t it. She just felt like her heart had been broken. Not intentionally, and she realized it was no one’s fault other than her own for allowing herself to fall in love with a married man. John had never led her on. He’d been candid and upfront since the day she’d met him in Atlanta, but that didn’t make her ache any less for what could have been.
What did she do now? She loved him, but she knew that once he got Katie back she wouldn’t be able to stay around. There was nothing that could be done about her feelings, and the thought of seeing John every day but not being able to touch him was not something she could live with. But what the hell did she do? It wasn’t like she could just pack up and move to a new city to start over. That world was gone.
She would help John do whatever he needed to do to save Katie, then she’d be on her way. Somewhere. Somehow. With a sigh, she looked down at the running water and the thought hit her that maybe Roach had already killed Katie. For a moment the idea gave her some comfort, then she got mad at herself for even thinking about the other woman’s death being a solution to her heartache.
Turning the water off, Rachel was reaching for a paper towel to dry her hands when the sound of a disturbance from the hall made her pause. The first thought that went through her head was “infected”, but after a couple of seconds of listening to the shouts and sounds of a fight, she knew this was something else.
Rachel quickly stepped across the room and was almost hit in the face when the door was suddenly pushed open. Captain Blanchard dashed through the opening and before she could utter a sound, he grabbed her and clamped a hand over her mouth.
“Shhhhh….” He hissed softly in her ear and after a moment she relaxed a notch and nodded her head. Blanchard slowly removed his hand and turned to face the door as it finished closing.
“What’s going on?” Rachel whispered in his ear as the sounds of fighting continued to grow.
“The Air Force is trying to arrest the Major by order of the President. He’s not going quietly.” He whispered back.
Rachel immediately stepped forward, but Blanchard grabbed her arm and held her. “We can’t help him if we’re in the cell next to his.” He said, staring into her eyes. Finally she nodded and he released his grip.
The sounds of the brawl continued on for what seemed like forever, finally stopping as quickly as they had started. After a few moments Blanchard stepped to the door and cracked it open half an inch, peering through with one eye. He watched for a long time, then waved Rachel over to join him. He motioned at the opening and moved aside so Rachel could see into the hall.
No less than a dozen Security Forces cops were clustered around the door into the conference room, all of them trying to see what was happening inside. Movement amongst their legs caught Rachel’s eye as Dog slipped through the crowd. She hissed his name as loudly as she dared, his head turning in her direction. She spoke his name very softly and he moved down the hall towards the latrine door.
Rachel was concerned as she watched Dog approach. He was unsteady on his feet and favoring both left legs. When he reached the door she darted her eyes up to make sure none of the cops were looking in her direction. Their attention was still focused inside the conference room and she quickly stepped back and pulled the door open far enough for Dog to slip through.
Door closed, he moved past her and sat down with a slight whimper. Rachel kneeled next to him and ran her hands over his body, but failed to find any injury. She rubbed his head and pressed her face to his, Dog letting out a long sigh.
“What did they do to him?” She asked. “I don't see anything, but something’s wrong.”
Blanchard knelt next to her and placed a hand on Dog’s head, giving him a moment to accept the contact before also checking him over for injuries.
“They must have used a Taser on him.” He finally said after a thorough inspection. “He’ll be OK in a bit. Just feeling the after effects at the moment.”
Rachel wrapped her arms around Dog’s neck and held him for a few moments, then stood up and glared at Blanchard.
“What are we going to do? Did they arrest the Colonel, too?”
“I don’t know. He had left the room to have a conversation with Admiral Packard. I’m sure they will if they can find him, but if he’s got a heads up they won’t have an easy time of it.” Blanchard said.
“That’s good, but what are we going to do? We have to help John.” Rachel said, anger threatening to boil over.
“We’re going to wait until there’s not a small army of Air Force cops standing just down the hall, then we’re going to get out of here and round up a few platoons of Rangers. Once we have some combat muscle behind us we’ll get the Colonel and Major back.” He said.
Rachel was momentarily surprised. She had always seen Blanchard operating in his role as Colonel Crawford’s aide. That job required him to maintain a calm and diplomatic demeanor, and she had never looked at him as a leader of rough men, despite the Special Forces tab he wore on his uniform. Apparently there was more to the man than she had given him credit for.
“OK,” she said, giving him a smile. “Two months ago I didn’t know what a Ranger was, but now I think they’re about the best people on the planet!”
Rachel looked down when Dog stood up and shook. He was steady on his feet and looked like he had gotten past the shock of the Taser.<
br />
“Will the Marines help? John knows one of them and…”
“All the Marines got sent to Texas to secure an oil refinery. That may or may not be another problem. I’m supposed to be coordinating air support between them and the Air Force. I’m a little worried this turn in events may leave their asses hanging out in the wind.” Blanchard said, shaking his head.
“Besides,” he continued. “This is going to be a little tricky. The President has the authority to do what she’s doing, no matter what any of us in the military think. She is the Commander In Chief.”
“So you think this is OK?” Rachel glared at him.
“That’s not what I’m saying. I know the facts, and if times were normal… Well, let’s just say nothing is normal any longer. We have a President who was a political appointee. There’s no Congress, no media, no public opinion, no international partners, nothing to guide or temper her decisions. In effect she has unchecked power as long as the military will follow her orders. That’s not the way it’s supposed to work.”
“Then why is the Air Force arresting John?” Rachel didn’t understand what Blanchard was trying to explain to her.
“It’s General Triplett who is following the orders of the President. It’s not an Air Force thing; it’s an officer following the oath he took. I know Colonel Crawford and Admiral Packard were already concerned about President Clark and were prepared to refuse orders they felt weren’t in the best interest of the country. But there will be officers that will follow the President blindly. This is quickly becoming one hell of a mess, and I only hope it doesn’t end up with the complete fracturing of the military and two armed camps facing off against each other.”
17
Master Gunnery Sergeant Matt Zemeck stood atop a hastily erected barricade that surrounded the Texaco oil refinery outside of Midland, Texas. It was late morning, the sun hot on his shoulders as he held a pair of binoculars to his eyes, surveying the scrub desert spreading out to the south. Next to him, standing in an identical pose, Marine Colonel Jim Pointere cursed as for the fourth time his binoculars lost focus for some mysterious reason.
“Here, sir. Use mine.” Zemeck held them out, taking the Colonel’s in exchange. Pointere looked through them, grunted his thanks and scanned the horizon.
They couldn’t see the approaching herd. Yet. But it was coming. It was being watched on satellite and from drones that were tracking the mass of infected humanity. Arrival of the leading edge was expected at about 1900 hours, or just before sundown. And right behind that leading edge were more than two million bodies determined to kill every living thing in their path.
“Bravo platoon will be making contact in about 5 minutes.” Zemeck said.
Bravo platoon was comprised of 35 Marines spread across four Humvees and four, eight wheeled LAVs or Light Armored Vehicles. Their unenviable job was to decoy the herd away from the refinery by distracting the front ranks of infected and leading them in a safe direction. No one knew if it would work, but it was an idea courtesy of Army Major John Chase and was the Marines’ only hope of saving the vital infrastructure so it could continue to provide fuel.
The sheer numbers of the infected precluded any successful armed resistance. The infected, once zeroed in on prey, don’t quit. They can’t be scared off or their will to fight broken like a normal army. All that can be done is to kill every single one of them, and while Zemeck knew his Devil Dogs were the best fighters on the planet, they didn’t have enough men, rifles or bullets to kill over two million attackers.
Colonel Pointere had hoped that the refinery could be shut down and abandoned until the herd passed, but was disappointed to learn that it takes days to safely shut one down that is operating at full capacity. There simply wasn’t time to evacuate ahead of the herd’s arrival. But the shutdown process was underway, and it was up to the Marines to hold back the tide of infected long enough for the workers to shutter the plant and escape. Once the herd was no longer a danger they could return and restart the production of fuel.
“How many Ospreys are up?” Pointere asked.
“We’ve got two flying cover for our guys.” Zemeck answered. “Sure is nice to be staging out of a gas station.”
Pointere, a man of no more words than absolutely necessary, grunted again in acknowledgement. Lowering his binoculars he turned to face Zemeck.
“You trust this Army Major knows what he’s talking about? There’s a chance this will work?” He asked.
“He knows his shit, sir. If it weren’t for him my head would be decorating some jihadists wall in sand land. But this was an idea, not something anyone’s tried before. What he does know is that we can’t hold the herd back. Too damn many of them, and not enough Marines or ammo.”
The Colonel stared at him for a few moments then nodded his head in understanding.
“You’ve got to tell me the story sometime.” He said.
Before Zemeck could answer a voice came over his radio earpiece. Pausing, he lifted his hand to his ear to make sure he heard the communication clearly. He listened for a couple of moments before turning to Pointere.
“Bravo platoon in contact, sir. They’re lighting up the leaders to get those fuckers’ attention.”
Pointere grunted, did a quick pat check of the twin combat knives strapped to the small of his back, then resumed looking to the south through the binoculars even though the action was too far away for him to see.
“Let’s go see what’s going on,” he said after a few moments. “Everything’s quiet here. Let Captain Simon know we’re going.”
“Yes, sir.” Zemeck answered, making a call on his radio as he turned to follow the Colonel.
Five minutes later they were on board an Osprey, the rotors spinning up a maelstrom of dust and debris as they reached take off speed. The pilot took exaggerated care in every movement once they were clear of the ground, the hulking refinery close enough to present a hazard if he didn’t pay close attention. Moving clear of the facility he fed in full power and transitioned to forward flight, the aircraft streaking across the desert.
Once they were in stable flight, Pointere and Zemeck moved forward into the cockpit, the Colonel crowding in with the pilots and Zemeck eclipsing the hatch with his bulk. Directly in front of them a massive dust cloud was clearly visible on the horizon.
“Jesus Christ,” Pointere breathed. “How many does it take to stir up that much dust just from walking?”
The question was rhetorical, and Zemeck didn’t bother to answer. He well knew how large the herd was, having seen it on sat imagery as well as video feeds from orbiting drones. But no matter what you see on a video screen, no matter how good the image is or how large the screen, nothing prepares you for the sight of several million infected all moving together.
Pointere spoke an order to the pilot who fiddled with some controls on the radio. Moments later the voices of the men in Bravo platoon came over speakers mounted in the ceiling of the cockpit. No calls for help or any indication of problems, but one of the Marines was being a little too talkative and flippant about the whole situation for the Colonel’s taste.
“Who is that?” He asked, turning to Zemeck.
“That would be Lance Corporal Bradley, sir.” Zemeck replied. “I’ll take care of it.”
Stepping out of the hatch, Zemeck activated his radio and placed a call to the offending Marine. The conversation was short, and Bravo’s voice traffic died down to nothing more than the exchange of essential information.
“I’ll have a conversation with him when we get a moment, sir.” Zemeck said.
Pointere grunted his response and leaned forward for a better view as the vehicles of Bravo platoon and the front edge of the herd came into view. The vehicles were no more than a hundred yards in front of a group of charging females, spread out and driving due east in their attempt to change the herd’s direction.
As they moved across the desert, gunners fired occasional bursts to knock down the fastest females and keep
those behind them interested. But the million dollar question was would the body of the herd turn to follow the head. Could a mass of infected this large be tricked into following the leader?
The pilot started to slow, intending to go into a hover to observe the operation, but Pointere told him to keep flying south over the herd. Adjusting some controls he put them back on a southerly course, nothing visible below other than dust and a sea of raging humanity. It took a long time to reach a point where the infected weren’t a solid mass of bodies. The pilot checked an instrument and let the Colonel know the herd was nearly six miles long.
“OK, take us back to the front.” Pointere said after a moment’s thought.
Once they were turned and heading back, Zemeck checked the Osprey’s compass. Their heading was only a few degrees to the east of due north. The infected beneath them were stretched out like a fat snake, and if Bravo platoon’s efforts were working he expected to see a bend in the snake as they approached the leaders of the herd.
But that bend wasn’t there. Thousands of females were sprinting out ahead of the herd, chasing after the Marines on the ground, but the bulk of the infected were staying on course.
“Why aren’t they taking the bait?” Pointere asked, eyes glued on the action below.
“I don’t know.” Zemeck answered. “Maybe we’re not making a big enough distraction. Maybe we can’t make a big enough distraction. This is all theory.”
“If it’s a bigger distraction that’s needed, let’s give them one.” Pointere said, turning to the pilot and telling him what he had in mind.