“Take your time, this is extremely important.”
“Yeah, okay, it looks like around the orange swirls some of the zombies are trying to go off in different directions, you know? But most of them are just…well…uh…just stopping.”
“Henry, please repeat that last thing you said,” Becks requested as she felt her heart beating even faster.
“Yeah, sure. Around the orange swirls the zombies seem to be stopping, like hanging around like they aren’t sure where to go. And we’re checking the Western Front now, hang on, it looks like they may be stopping along there, too, ‘cause between the orange heads and the army guys mowing down the herd zombies, they are making like a line of a big buffet of bodies and zombies eating.”
“Becks, what does all this mean?” the commanding general finally asked, obviously out of patience. “What are you thinking?”
“Godzilla!” she replied with complete sincerity and confidence.
Chapter 17
At the moment Becks shouted, “Godzilla,” only one other person on the planet had a clue as to what she was talking about. That person was not Cam, or Margo, or Sticky Pete, and it sure as hell wasn’t any of the generals at West Point, who suddenly wondered if they had put a lunatic in charge of the volunteer troops.
No, the only other person was the corporal in charge of the Hudson Valley battle map, who immediately lit up with an expression of surprise and glee as he quickly hobbled over to the map.
“Can it be done? Can it possibly be done?” the corporal asked with great excitement to no one in particular, and everyone at once.
“Has everybody lost their minds?” the commanding general bellowed. “Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on!?”
“General, I think I have a plan,” Becks began, but then made the general wait while she ordered the four squads to fan out across the highway to continue to do what Margo and her marksmen had started. “Remember when the corporal was moving all of those plastic figures across the Hudson Valley map this morning?”
“C’mon Becks, get to the point, we don’t have time for—Godzilla!” the general said, as the light finally dawned. “Like zombie lemmings! But can you get the entire herd to turn?”
At that morning’s briefing at West Point, a little Godzilla wind-up figure had activated and marched itself right off the cliffs of the palisades. As Becks faced the massive herd, the image of that little monster figure plunging over the steep, rocky precipice expanded like a giant movie screen playing over and over in her mind’s eye. If they didn’t have the personnel and firepower to stop and kill the herd, maybe they could get the herd to destroy itself by redirecting it toward the cliffs.
“I don’t know if we can turn the entire herd, but even if we can get a good chunk of them to start moving toward the cliffs, it could make all the difference in the world.”
“What do you need?” the general asked, hoping against hope her plan had a chance.
“Well, I don’t know about Captain Lennox, but we could use more of everything here—more PDZs, more troops, ammo, some heavy-duty vehicles,” Becks said as if she was ordering groceries.
“The last load of PDZs will be there shortly, and we have directed every volunteer who shows up at the gates to head straight to your location.”
“You got any boats?” Becks asked, literally crossing her fingers.
“Plenty, but we can drive the volunteers there faster,” the general stated, and then figured he had better look to his staff to make sure they nodded their heads in agreement, which to his satisfaction, they did.
“No, I need the boats to come down the river and make a hell of a lot of noise near the steepest, deadliest section of cliff you can find!”
“Roger that! Give ‘em hell, Becks!” the general said, and then began spewing a remarkable, nonstop series of orders to just about everyone, twice.
The corporal carefully studied his map and found a deadly section of the palisades that would be the perfect “jumping off point,” so to speak, and relayed the coordinates to Becks and Lennox. For Lennox and his men, the target section of cliff was due east. For Becks, she needed to head south and east, but in either case, it wasn’t very far. Becks then asked Henry what the terrain between the herd and the cliff was like, and after a few minutes she heard that it was mostly trees, a few small roads, and a couple of houses, but no walls or fences that would impede the herd. A runner was sent to get a hastily drawn map from Henry.
Calling her four captains together, she devised a plan to keep Margo and Sticky Pete’s divisions stretched out along the front line to continue inflicting catastrophic brain injuries on the zombie swarm. Any additional volunteers that arrived would also be put to the task. The other two divisions would head east through the woods and try to start drawing the herd in that direction. The snowplows would then form a moving wall to protect the troops where they could, but if the herd headed directly for them, as they’d seen before, even the heavy trucks would be useless.
Becks made a general announcement that they needed air horns, whistles, boom boxes, anything to make noise, and lots of it. As soon as the runner returned with Henry’s map, Becks started to head directly into the woods to make their way to an access road that led south, and hopefully was currently relatively clear of zombies. Before she got more than a dozen steps, however, a strange sound filled the air, faintly noticeable even over all of the gunfire, groaning, and shouting that was echoing for miles around. There was something about this sound that seemed to somehow penetrate through all of the other noise and interference. Something oddly familiar, almost primal…
It must have been drawing nearer, as the sound grew in intensity and became unmistakable, causing both divisions to stop in their tracks, and the other two divisions to cease firing.
“That has to be Cam!” Becks said, shaking her head, wondering what that lovable dope was up to now.
From across the median of the PIP came Cam tooling along in the ice cream truck, headed straight for Becks, with that catchy, music box-like song blaring at full volume. Backtracking to meet him on the road, Becks had no words; she simply raised both arms in the air in WTF! exasperation. Cam turned off the music before he spoke.
“Hey, babe. I mean, Commander Babe,” he began, but quickly stopped the facetious tone when he saw one of Becks’ eyebrows raise. He knew from experience that meant she was moments away from DEFCON 1 status and was about to go nuclear on his ass. “So anyway, remember those videos of the zombies dancing and how they reacted to music? And remember that study that the Russian guy did with music that made the zombies cry?”
The vague, but accurate, scientific references got Becks thinking and the eyebrow returned to DEFCON 3; still dangerous, but she would at least listen.
“Go on.”
“Well, I heard you call for things to draw the herd’s attention, and what kid growing up in New York didn’t gravitate toward the ice cream truck song?” Cam finished and then watched as both of Becks’ eyebrows now furrowed into a deep thought line between her eyes, as she was transformed from Commander Truesdale into Dr. Truesdale in a heartbeat. She remained silent for several moments before she finally spoke in that researcher/physician persona.
“So, your supposition is that the familiarity of the ubiquitous ice cream jingle will engender activity in the medial pre-frontal cortex of the herd members, and draw them like a magnet, based upon fond childhood memories being enlivened by the biochemical interaction with the ZIPs’ network in that region of the brain?” Becks asked in all seriousness, getting “lost in her science” as her parents used to say.
“Exactly!” Cam chimed in, not having a clue, but going with it.
“Brilliant!” Becks replied, leaning forward to give Cam a hug.
Becks then hopped in the passenger seat and directed Cam to the front of the column. It was rough going in an ice cream truck that was not exactly built for off-roading, but as it was also constructed to survive the daily onslaught of hord
es of little kids, it held up just fine.
When Henry confirmed that they had gone far enough south on the access road that they were now behind the leading edge of the herd, Becks cranked up the ice cream music and ordered her troops to start making a racket. Tense minutes passed without any change of movement to report, so Becks asked Combat Headquarters to order a temporary cease fire, so that the only noise—other than from the herd—would be from her troops and that cloying, repetitive ice cream song.
It took a couple of minutes for all of the shooting to stop, but once it did, even Lennox and his men on the Western Front could hear the tinkling strains of the happy tune. Suddenly, everyone was thinking back to their favorite ice cream treat and how they used to run down the street after the trucks, clutching their nickels and dimes.
A minute passed as if it was an hour. Two more minutes crept by and Becks wanted to scream with all of her pent-up anxiety, and the incessant ice cream music ringing in her ears. Cam gripped her arm and mouthed the word, “Patience,” and nodded his head with confident assurance, but she couldn’t stand it much longer and soon asked Henry for a “sit rep.”
“Well, it’s just a few so far,” Henry reported with no further explanation after taking at least five minutes to respond.
“A few so far, what?” Beck shouted, starting to lose her cool.
“Oh, yeah, sorry. I mean just a few zombies have turned and are leaving the herd and coming your way. But, ya know, when I say a few, you know I mean a few hundred, right?” Henry concluded, feeling satisfied as though he had just delivered a comprehensive report, but then remembering there was something else he wanted to add. “Ya know, you ought to drive down a ways and maybe start pulling some of the back end of the herd your way, too.”
This was real music to Becks ears, as it meant that at least some of the herd had turned!
“Henry, I need you and all of the observers to watch this herd like a hawk. If a zombie so much as sneezes, let me know!”
“Do zombies sneeze?” Henry asked like the inquisitive child he was, but after one of his friends elbowed him in the ribs and called him a “stupid dork,” he realized his commanding officer was not being literal. “Yes, Sir…Ma’am, we are on it!”
Cam slowly drove further south about a quarter of a mile. It was a bizarre-looking parade with the ice cream truck in the lead, followed by the worst looking—and sounding—marching band in history. Whistles, air horns, even pots and pans, created a surreal cacophony of unconventional instruments. But it was working, as at first dozens, then hundreds, and then even thousands of herd members paused and tilted their heads at the sound of the music and noise, and then slowly turned and started shuffling toward it.
Of course, some of the more fit zombies did more than shuffle, and within ten minutes the first arrivals reached Becks’ troops, but they were quickly and easily dispatched. Becks hoped that before too much of the herd turned, the boats would take over making noise, but when she checked with HQ, she found that most of the vessels were ten to twenty minutes out. Still, they should be able to continue making noise, and when a reasonable amount of zombies had made the turn and started heading in their general direction, they should still have plenty of time to outrun the leading edge and get to safety.
Then everything changed in the blink of an eye.
“You are going to have a lot of company, real soon,” Henry reported, as the stress in his voice made it crack. “The way you came in, you know, will be full of zombies in a few minutes, so your people should start heading south. Now. Fast!”
Apparently the “orange swirls” had been doing their job creating turbulence, as the PDZs were wreaking havoc within the core of the herd. Like a weakened iceberg suddenly giving way, the herd splintered into huge sections. While some still tried to continue to press forward, others tried to go west, and some even did an about-face and started heading south again. By far, however, the bulk of the split herd was now pouring into the woods to the east of the PIP toward a couple of hundred troops and a few snowplows, and a man and a woman in an ice cream truck.
Becks ordered the snowplows to head south in single file and knock down anything or anyone in their path. She told the soldiers to stop making noise, and stay on the non-herd side of the plows and double-quick their asses south beyond the herd, and not to stop for anything until Henry told them it was safe. She was not about to lose anyone in her first real command. And that went for Cam, too. Especially Cam.
“Cam, I want you to get on one of those snowplows and get the hell out of here,” Becks ordered, but didn’t expect it to be easy.
“Hell, no, Commander. No can do!” Cam said in a manner that Becks had only seen on a couple of other occasions. It was his “concrete wall” demeanor; that rare moment in the life of Cameron Everett, when neither heaven, earth, nor a zombie herd could make him budge. “The ice cream song has to keep playing until the boats take over, or the herd could just start wandering off in some other direction again.”
“Yes, but I can drive the truck while you—okay, never mind. I know when I’ve lost,” Becks conceded, as she saw her words were going nowhere.
“Look at it as a win,” he replied with that damn, charming smile. “You and me together, turning the tide for humanity, while serving three flavors of soft ice cream and a variety of frozen treats on a stick.”
“Just shut up and keep driving,” Becks said, unable to suppress a smile.
When the drone footage came into Command HQ, it quickly became evident that at least 75% of the herd had now turned toward the east. A cheer went up, but it was short-lived when they saw that the volunteers between the herd and the cliff were now running for their lives. The mood became even more somber when the ice cream truck was spotted driving back and forth along the access road, continuing to draw the massive herd right toward them.
“Uh, Becks, you might want to consider an evac plan,” the general suggested.
“Where are the boats?” Becks simply asked, determined to make this work, one way or another.
“They should be making some noise any second now,” he replied, and as if on cue Becks heard the blast of a horn from the river, but it was distant, and faint.
“They will have to do a hell of a lot better than that,” Becks stated.
“Here comes the company that Henry was talking about,” Cam said, as he stopped the truck and pointed.
It looked like the entire forest itself was moving, and as far as the eye could see from left to right.
“Shit. You’re going to have to try to move this truck closer to the river,” Becks said as her blood ran cold.
Cam didn’t need to be told twice as he spun the wheel and left the access road. They knew they were really painting themselves into a corner—or a cliff as the case may be—but the access road would be overrun before they could make it past the herd. And until they succeeded in getting this mass of zombie corpses to start hurling themselves off the cliff from the force of the undead humanity pushing behind it, there was too much that could go south, literally, as well as north and west. It had to be east, it had to be here, and it had to be now.
“What happens when we get to the edge? Want to have a picnic?” Cam tried to joke with a strained smile as they bounced and rocked through the woods, dodging big stones and fallen tree limbs.
“I’m afraid we will be the picnic,” Becks replied, making a mental note to save at least two bullets in her revolver. “Let’s see what Uncle Sam can do for us.”
Becks called HQ to see if their friendly, neighborhood chopper pilots could come and extract them.
“We will be the two idiots on top of the ice cream truck,” she added.
They were instructed to try to find a clearing or high point to facilitate their extraction, and their ride was scheduled to arrive in about fifteen minutes.
“It’s good to have friends in high places,” Cam said with a genuine laugh, clearly relieved that they were not going to either be eaten or drop off the
cliff.
Then the ice cream truck slammed to a halt and both Cam and Becks hit the windshield. The force was enough to bloody Cam’s nose and split Becks’ ear. Both were bleeding profusely, but only momentarily dazed.
“Oh, what fresh hell is this?” Becks asked, gingerly sliding out of her seat onto the ground to assess the situation. “Crap, we’re stuck on a pile of rocks. Who the hell puts a pile of rocks in the middle of the woods?”
Becks swore and kicked the side of the truck for good measure. Then she started looking for a sturdy branch to try to make a lever to lift the front end a couple of inches and see if they could back up. What they really needed was Cam’s muscle, but he was too injured to be of any help, or worse, be able to run.
Becks now deeply regretted not ordering that Cam should have been forcibly removed from the ice cream truck and carried away, screaming and kicking, if necessary. She dragged a sturdy-looking tree branch over to the front of the truck, jammed it under the axle and used all her strength to try to lift the wheel just enough for Cam to back it off the rocks. The branch immediately snapped, Becks hit the ground, and the back tires spun deeper into the dirt.
“I think we’re stuck,” Cam announced as Becks rolled her eyes.
“No shit. Let’s at least get you on the roof. Like now!” Becks suggested with some urgency, as a large section of the herd was already getting dangerously close.
That was easier said than done, as the numerous wounds in his arms and sides made it impossible for Cam to do the pull-up motion necessary to hoist himself onto the roof. Healthy, he could probably have done it with one hand just to show off, but in his current chewed-up condition there was no way he would make it without help.
They rifled through the contents of the crates and cabinets in the back of the truck, and except for a box of cones that had to be fifty years old which Cam called “dibs” on, there wasn’t much that would be of any help. Then Cam found a coil of rope, and Becks instructed him to tie one end around his waist as she scrambled to the roof. Before Cam could tie the rope, however, company had already arrived.
HVZA (Book 3): Hudson Valley Zombie Apocalypse [Project Decimation] Page 15