by John Holmes
Before I could butt-stroke him in the face, Jonesy grabbed my arm.
“Don’t do it, man. Ain’t worth it!”
I spit on the deck as the LT walked away back forward.
We had set up a shoot house on the back deck of the barge made out of crates. We were using .22 blanks in our modified M-4s, and had set up some targets, cut-outs with infrared and red chem lights where zombie eyes would be. Some of the Infantry guys moved them around, raised and lowered them randomly. Earlier that night, we had done the same for them.
I stood back and let Ahmed lead the stack through the door, followed by Redshirt, Jonesy and Mya. Several shots cracked out, then a yell from inside. I stepped inside to a scene of chaos, and yelled “STOP!” just after watching Mya fire a burst directly into Redshirt and the department store dummy I had gone ashore and looted today. Ahmed and Jonesy had cleared the room and advanced into the next corridor, and then one of the Infantry dropped the mannequin directly on Redshirt, simulating a Zombie attacking from above.
Specialist Mya stood there, shocked. Brit was laughing hysterically. “Hahaha, I know where you got the idea for that one!” I told her to suck it and shut up if she wasn’t going to help. I pulled Mya aside while Doc helped Redshirt out from under the dummy. Ahmed and Jonesy continued to clear the rest of the shoot house for practice.
“OK, calm down, and let’s go over what just happened.”
“I--- I … fucked up.” In the harsh light of the boat lights, she looked down at the deck. Redshirt came over, looking equally crestfallen.
“No, actually, you didn’t. You did exactly the right thing. Your boy here was dead. It’s pretty damn rare that you can get jumped by a Z like that and he hasn’t chomped on your neck in a second or two.” She turned to look at Redshirt, who had a freaked-out look on his face.
“You killed the Z and saved your partner from turning into one by killing him, too. At least turning into one fast. Tell me, what happens to someone who is bitten in the neck by a Z?”
She recited from the Army Field Manual, FM 3- 84: “Subjects bitten on the extremity will become infected and turn within one to two minutes. Bites to the torso, less than one minute, depending on proximity to the heart and the main arteries. Bites to the neck in the vicinity of major arteries result in infection within ten to fifteen seconds.”
I nodded at her. “So you did do the right thing. If you had hesitated, you would have been facing two Zs coming right at you. Just remember, when shooting an infected person who hasn’t turned yet, you have got to stop the blood flow, either with a head shot or a heart shot, right away, or the infection will spread. Go for a head shot if you have the time, with a burst. These little hot .22 rounds don’t have the tissue disruption that a bigger, faster bullet has.”
She looked like she was calming down, but she still shook her head. “It just happened so fraking fast. I panicked. I wasn’t trying to kill him.”
Self-doubt, one of the biggest killers on the battlefield, and I knew she had to snap out of it, quickly. “Listen, Specialist Mya, you did the right thing by instinct. Trust yourself and you’ll live. Doubt yourself and you’re dead. You can do this, and you’ll save lives as a medic, too.”
I turned to Redshirt, who still looked sheepish himself, as well he should. He was trained for this.
“Now, Private Redshirt, you might be a great Injun tracker, but you need to know that threats can come from a three hundred sixty degree angle, anytime, anywhere. Buried under a pile of brush. Jumping down through a window. Out of a closet in an already cleared room. Both of you need to understand that. I don’t know how things are where you came from; out here in Z land EVERYTHING will be trying to kill you.”
“I understand, Sarge. I come from the reservation in New Mexico. We didn’t have much of a problem with Zs, mostly you can see them coming from a mile away.”
“Well, different place here, Red. The pre-plague population density means there are millions of them out there, and I don’t know about you, but I only carry a couple hundred rounds of ammo.”
I led them back to the shoot house. “OK, let’s do it again, this time, Redshirt is point, then Mya, then me, then Brit.”
Later that night they were to learn an even harsher lesson.
I hadn’t been able to sleep so I was walking the deck. Dawn being only two hours away, I took a mug of coffee from the tug captain and headed back to where I knew Mya and Redshirt were pulling guard over our packs.
As I got closer, I could hear music coming from somewhere. In the moonlight, I could see Mya’s head nodding to the beat of some headphones stuck in her ears. Next to her, Redshirt snored.
I came up behind them, and grabbed Mya by the neck, throwing her onto the deck and ripping the headphones off her, followed by her iPod. She lay there, stunned, and I kicked Redshirt awake, hard. His eyes opened and crossed as he looked at the barrel of my pistol two inches from his nose.
“WHAT. THE. FUCK!”
I was pissed. Regardless of WHERE we were, guard duty was sacrosanct. Sleeping on guard duty was an offense punishable by immediate death, carried out by the senior officer or NCO present. By the Universal Code of Military Justice, rewritten last year, I could have, and should have, shot Redshirt right there.
I holstered my pistol and sat back then placed SPC Mya’s iPod on the deck and smashed it under my boot.
“Hey!” she shouted. “You can’t get those anymore!”
“I suggest you shut the hell up and listen, Specialist. Do you understand I have the right to kill PFC Redshirt right now? And have you whipped? Or vice versa, depending on whose fault it was? In fact, I think this is your fault more than his. You let him fall asleep.”
He didn’t say anything, merely hung his head. She stared at me. I think reality had just bitten them both in the ass, very hard.
“You never, ever sleep on guard duty. I don’t care if we are in the middle of Seattle, in the safe zone. NEVER, EVER. Do you understand me?”
They both mumbled something and I blew out a long breath.
“I’m not going to shoot you. Or have you whipped. This is as much my fault as it is yours. I shouldn’t have put both of you noobs on the same shift together. Just understand, from here on out, there are no second chances. If it happens again, you’re done. Mya, go to bed.”
She got up and walked away without looking back.
“I thought they taught you better in Infantry school, PFC.”
“Uh, they did, Sarge. One kid fell asleep in basic training, on fire watch at night. They had him whipped in front of the whole company and drummed him out. Put him outside the gate. I guess I was just worn out from the training today. It won’t happen again.”
“If it does happen again, I will shoot you. Do you understand? If you let your partner fall asleep, you will get whipped under UCMJ. You’re lucky this isn’t on dry land, because it would have been far worse. I should have you both whipped for a first time offense.”
“Would you have really shot me, Sarge?”
“I’ve done it before, Red. Three times, but not in the last year.. I’ll do it again, if I have to. So would Doc. Brit wouldn’t even think twice about it. You’re lucky it’s not her who found you. I will not let my team be killed by someone’s stupidity. We all make enough mistakes, myself included, to die easily out here, and none of us are going to let the rest of the team down if we can help it.”
He nodded, and I could see him wondering what the hell he had gotten himself into.
Chapter 59
Our boats hummed through the night, over the still river water. I kept my head down and a bandanna over my face. Ever since the plague, more and more areas had been turning back into wetlands, without the constant maintenance on causeways and dikes, and that meant more and more mosquitoes and bugs. Most people didn’t know it, but malaria had been a big problem in the States, even as far north as Canada, right up until the mid-20th century, and it was going to come back and be a pain again soon enough. T
hey were all over and I didn’t want to catch more than my share in my teeth and up my nose as we scooted across the water.
As we raced along, I thought back to the scene at Firebase Castle a few hours before. Night had just fallen, and the chopper that had been flying up and down river the past few nights flared in for a landing on a cleared LZ. Two guys in civilian clothes had hopped out, one of whom I recognized from my time in Afghanistan.
The Effing Press. They were greeted by LT Carter, who ran over to them with a giant sucking sound and started shaking their hands. He stood by their extra camera equipment and yelled for me as the Huey thundered back up river.
“Sergeant, get a detail together and move this equipment down to the boats!”
I cupped my hands around my mouth and yelled back. “NO FUCKING WAY!”
LT Carter stopped his sucking up for a minute to come over to talk to me.
“What is your problem, Sergeant?”
“Sir, what is the point to this mission? We are a recon element, not a goddamned circus.”
“Sergeant, the mission is to show the world that we are returning to the places that mean something to America. This camera crew is going to help us show that.”
I shook my head in disgust. “They are going to get us killed.”
“Sergeant, you will protect these men with your life, if need be. Their mission is more important than any one man. Do you understand?”
“Oh yeah, I understand that those douchebags are going to get themselves and us killed and or eaten. They aren’t going.”
“I’ll load their equipment myself if I have to.”
“Fine. Have fun. Arrivederci. Whatever.”
“When we get back to Fort Orange, Sergeant, I’m bringing you up on charges of insubordination and dereliction of duty.”
“How about we get through this mission first, and then we see what’s a sucky attitude and what is reality!”
I turned my back to him and walked away. A little later I saw him yelling at Redshirt and Mya to load the equipment into the boats, and the Navy boat crew giving him shit about the extra weight.
So here we were. My team was in one boat, and the LT, Mya, Redshirt, the reporter and his cameraman in the other. I knew the “reporter” from my days in Afghanistan. He had done a couple of embeds, then managed to alienate and piss off just about everyone in the military with his crappy reporting and misdirected crusades, and spent the rest of the war “reporting” from Singapore. I wasn’t surprised he had survived. Cockroaches always do.
We cut the engines and shipped oars about two hundred meters from the remains of the dock, but let the current carry us slowly there. As we drifted up, we all watched through our NVGs for signs of Zs. I saw one stumbling through the parking lot, then hear a muted phut from Ahmed’s rifle and the figure went down. We backed water with our oars for a few minutes to see if anything else came out, then tied up to the dock.
The team fanned out, rifles ready, scanning the parking lot to see if there were any other Zs waiting around. We set up a small perimeter while the packs were unloaded, then the second boat pulled up and started unloading the camera crew and their gear. They made too much noise and I ignored them. I noticed Mya and Redshirt had immediately moved away from the LT and over to where Brit and Jonesy held part of the perimeter. They weren’t stupid.
The plan was for us to wait for daylight before moving uphill towards the main campus. Unfortunately, no plan survives contact with the enemy, and in this case, the enemy was us. Or, to be more specific, the asswipe reporter and his cameraman.
A high intensity light suddenly lit behind the team, silhouetting us all. It shone full on the LT, who stood next to the reporter, bedazzled look on his face, while the guy shoved a microphone at him. That lasted all of about two seconds before Brit turned and fired a burst that shattered the camera, the light, and the cameraman’s shoulder. Chaos erupted.
“YOU STUPID ASSHOLES!”.
“That bitch shot me!”
“Sorry, I was aiming for the camera!”
“Not helping, Brit!”
“Sergeant Agostine, get your men under control!”
The cameraman was rolling on the ground, screaming. The LT was yelling and the reporter had pissed himself, from what I could smell. The rest of the team stood silent, scanning the perimeter. Waiting.
I walked over to the wounded man; Mya was already putting a field bandage on his wound. She whispered “Right through, he’ll be fine.” I squeezed her shoulder, whispered “good job” to her, then stood up and slapped the LT across the face. He stopped yelling.
“Sir, shut the hell up and LISTEN!”
He fell silent, eyes wide, then he heard it too. The moan. They were coming.
I whistled once and made a circle in the air with my hand. We fell back to the dock and started firing at the figures that were beginning to stumble down the road towards us. Some were actually running, smelling the blood from the wounded cameraman.
I banged the end of a green flare on the ground and it shot into the air. Out on the river, I heard the engines of the boats roar to life, and breathed a sigh of relief. The first one pulled in thirty seconds later, and we threw the cameraman and reporter in bodily. I was right; he had pissed and shit himself. Next went Mya and Doc, then Redshirt.
“Get in, Sir.”
“No, Sergeant, I will be the last one to get on the boat, fighting off the demons while you load your team.” Was this kid for real? Demons?
Around us the firing increased, joined by the 240Bs on the boats. They scattered their bursts head high, hoping to catch the Z, but most of their bullets tore right through. My team tried to drop them with head shots, but it was tough to do in the dark.
“OK, suit yourself!” I turned and waved the rest of the guys in, and they piled in the second boat. The LT looked at me, then turned and ran for the boat as fast as possible, passing Brit and Jonesy on the way. Ahmed and I backed towards the dock, firing as we went, then jumped in as it started to pull out. We landed in the bottom of the boat and Ahmed’s rifle hit me in the back of the head, making me see stars.
While I sat there, trying to clear my head, I heard Brit on the radio, finishing up a call for fire on Priority Target AA3427, which we had marked before leaving the base that night. We had over twenty of them pre-plotted, but I hadn’t expected to need them right away.
I watched as the night was split open by the CRACK CRACK CRACK of variable timed rounds bursting over the parking lot, sending thousands of ball bearings through the several hundred Zs gathered there.
Chapter 60
Dawn found us pulling back up to the barges tied off at Firebase Castle. A trauma team was waiting for the cameraman, but Doc had already done a pretty good job of stopping the blood flow. One round had shattered his shoulder blade, and it was painful, but he wasn’t in any danger of bleeding out.
The reporter pretty much ran off the boat, and Brit tracked him with her rifle as he jumped off without looking back. I stopped her from taking a shot at him, but only just. He had almost gotten us all killed, and pretty much blown the mission, for now.
LT Carter slunk off toward the base Command Post, a tent with the American flag flying over it. I knew that we would have to “talk” later, but maybe some time for him to think about what had happened would be good. Meanwhile, I had another mission to plan. Well, same mission, different plan.
“Hey Nick, how long are we going to be here?”
“We’re going to try again tonight, so get some sleep.” Muttered grumblings as they pulled out their pop-up tents, or wandered off to find someplace dark to hide out and catch some shuteye.
I headed over to the Fire Direction Center for the Artillery, and I brought Jonesy with me. As we walked, I told him my latest idea.
“J, I want you to find an M-203 and put it on your rifle. Then find some grenades, pull the explosive head out so you have just the propellant charge, and try two things: Rig up a thumper to the shell, and see if y
ou can get it to survive getting kicked out of the barrel. Try and see if you can rig a flash bang, or if you can actually find some for a 203, that would be great too.”
I had been thinking about how the bright lights of the camera had brought the Zs running. If we could rig up a distraction, concentrate them en masse, then rip the crap out of them with some firecracker rounds, it would make our job of going through West Point a helluva lot easier. Once a Z got stirred to activity they would stay active for a few days, hunting for fresh, live meat. So for the next couple of days, West Point was going to be crawling with active Zs. Don’t ask me how it worked, that’s just the way it is, and I planned to take advantage of that. Before we were going to do a sneak and peek, now we had to do something different.
I hopped up into the artillery FDC trailer and sat down with the Fire Direction Officer and the FDC Chief, a Staff Sergeant I knew well. We had been coordinating artillery fire all the way from the ruins of Syracuse.
“First, I just wanted to say thanks for the quick reaction last night. I know it was early in the morning, but the crews were right on it.” I did appreciate it. There is a difference between waking a gun crew up, with all the slow reaction time that implies, and having them ready to throw rounds downrange at a minutes’ notice. It could mean our lives.
I took a seat at the map table and said “Here’s what I’d like to do …” We sat and worked out the details for an hour, until I was sure the Artillery guys had my plan down tight.
My next stop was the CP, but along the way, I met LT Carter coming down the trail, back toward the boats. I stopped short and stood aside to let him pass. He knew where I was going, and why. I was surprised when he stopped too, and I got ready for the verbal abuse I fully expected.
It never came, though. He stood for a second, and I took a good look at him. His eyes were red, and his face looked pale and drawn.