Left With The Dead

by Knight, Stephen

  “Hooah,” Leary said.

  McDaniels relayed the information to CW3 Keith, who rode in the Humvee behind them. “If we get separated, take that route. Over.”

  “Roger, Terminator Six. We’ll be with you, over.”

  The convoy broke through the infested area and charged past a manned barricade. McDaniels was surprised to see two M2 Bradley Infantry Fighting Vehicles mixed in amidst the M1114 Humvees. Army National Guard soldiers wearing full MOPP IV gear—the accoutrements a soldier would don in the event of a nuclear, biological, or chemical attack—stared down at the three Humvees from atop their own vehicles.

  “Poor bastards,” Gartrell said. “They feel safe because of the hardware, but it’s not going to help them.”

  “Maybe we ought to tell ‘em,” Rittenour said.

  “Maybe you ought to sit back and enjoy the ride, troop. This vehicle is not stopping,” Gartrell said.

  Ahead, a fire raged unabated as a fashionable Midtown West apartment building burned, filling the street with pungent, thick smoke the color of coal. Unarmed civilians stared at the Humvees as they tore past, but the dead hadn’t made it this far yet. Despite the uncontrolled fires, the uniformed soldiers manning the corners, the perpetual songs of sirens mixed with the throbbing basso beats of helicopter rotor blades, the residents of this part of New York City thought they were safe for the moment.

  McDaniels shook his head. A moment was about all they had.

  The dead hadn’t made it to Central Park yet, at least not in sufficient force. Still, the fair citizens of New York City had heard the helicopters, and they knew the jig was up. As the three Humvees roared through the park, armed soldiers and NYPD were using all the tools at their disposal to keep the citizens at bay. They were using non-lethal force, McDaniels saw. No one wanted a rising to occur here, not in the middle of an evacuation. Just a few members of the walking dead could spawn dozens of fellow walking corpses.

  A television news van was off to one side of the intersection of the 72nd Street Transverse and East Drive. The Humvees were a mess, having driven over and through pretty much everything the dead could throw at them, and judging by the viscera smeared across the windows, McDaniels was certain the convoy was not a pretty sight. The TV cameras immediately swung in their direction, broadcasting the image out to millions.

  The Humvees accelerated through the intersection and past the news crew without slowing down. They wound their way through the vast park that sat at the heart of one of Man’s greatest cities, a city that was slowly being consumed by a kind of nearly untreatable cancer.

  And the only thing that kept it from being completely untreatable sat in a Humvee not more than three feet from one Cordell McDaniels, Major, United States Army Special Forces. Doctor Wolf Safire, the brilliant biochemist that had started the renowned pharmaceutical company InTerGen over two decades ago. McDaniels’ bosses said that Safire might have a cure, or a vaccine against whatever it was that caused those bitten by the dead from turning into one of them. And that was why he had been pulled out of his normal work at Army Special Operations Command and dispatched with First Sergeant David Gartrell to link up with Operational Detachment Alpha OMEN in New York City. He would oversee the rescue of the scientist and his thirty-something daughter, and ensure they were placed on a dedicated transport that waited for them in one small portion of Central Park’s Great Lawn. McDaniels hadn’t even thought to ask why him. Not only was it against the heritage of service he embraced—one did not question lawful orders, especially in the special operations community. And if there was a man who said he might be able to stop the rising tide of the dead, then McDaniels would run through an erupting volcano naked if that’s what it took to get him to deliver. And McDaniels had his own family to worry about. Though the Big Apple was the general nexus point in the United States, there were catastrophic infestations in Europe. No one knew exactly where it had started, but all indications seemed to point to somewhere inside Russia. McDaniels had been on the task force assigned to discover the outbreaks etiology. It seemed that someone had come across some long-forgotten relic of the Cold War and tampered with it. True or not, what had been released was first reported in Russia, and within weeks, Russia went dark. Satellites showed the legions of the dead moving across the nation, heading for both Europe and China. It was the double attack on capitalism the old Soviet guard might have dreamed of, but the soldiers had an entirely different perspective. They weren’t in it to destroy capitalism. They were in it to eat people, and it didn’t matter if those people were Russian, German, French, Polish, or Chinese.

  The sky overhead was dark with smoke from gigantic fires. South of 14th Street, New York was an inferno, an intentional blaze started by the military in hopes that it would contain the army of the dead and prevent it from advancing north. And in a small measure, it was a successful gamble; even the dead couldn’t soldier on when all their flesh had been burned to a crisp and tendons and ligaments could no longer move muscle and bone. But there were gaps between the fires, gaps filled with soldiers and policemen that were being overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of the walking dead. There were tens of thousands of them in lower Manhattan, and they avoided the flames by using the subway tunnels, by massing at roadblocks in such numbers that they overwhelmed the defenders, and in some instances, by walking into the East and Hudson Rivers and walking upstream. McDaniels had heard reports on his way in that a group of the walking dead had emerged from the East River and was headed for the United Nations building. He had chuckled at that. Finally, something would devour the United Nations before it could envelop the world in leftist glory.

  But the fires had also blackened the skies with thick smoke, smoke that was driven northward by the prevailing winds. This had curtailed aviation operations. Even though McDaniels’ convoy had a helicopter escort, it was by sheer chance that the proper flight crew from the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment had been in the area and was open to tasking. The pilots flew their small MH-6 Little Bird without doors and usually operated at an altitude of 40 feet above the deck, at night, in all weather, so flying in smoke wasn’t a show stopper for them. For the rest of the aviation community, however, the smoke was thick enough to hamper general aviation missions. That was why the assembly area at Central Park had been set up. VIPs and their dependents were to make it to the Park and, upon identity verification, they would board a helicopter or tiltrotor bound for greener pastures.

  That was the idea, anyway. McDaniels looked out the window at the smoke-tinged afternoon and wondered just how many aircraft would wind up burying their noses in the dirt because their pilots couldn’t fly by instruments.

  Shapes moved amidst the trees as the Humvee sped up East Drive. McDaniels straightened in his seat and looked out the gore-smudged window, trying to make sense of what he saw. Were those people, or...?

  “Holy mother of God,” Gartrell said. “Freaking stiffs in Army BDUs!”

  McDaniels felt a deep chill envelop him. “Call it in as a black flag actual. Leary, step on it. We’re out of time.”

  “You got it, major.”

  Excerpt:

  CITY OF THE DAMNED

  By Stephen Knight

  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004Q3RIHK

  PART ONE:

  SEPULCHRE

  [Prehistoric man] knew that life was uncertain and sometimes short, that death was inevitable and sometimes abrupt. Every time he set out for the hunt he was aware that some day...the end would come with a slash and an outpouring of blood. It is not difficult to understand why...he should have come to the conclusion not merely that blood was essential to life, but that it was the essence of life itself.

  —ANTHROPOLOGIST REAY TANNAHILL

  CHAPTER 1

  “Ellenshaw says he’s coming with us.”

  Mark Acheson looked up from the map he had spread across the Humvee’s hood. Four rocks pinned it to the sheet metal, preventing the dry breeze from carrying it away. Julia McGuiness’s
eyes were unreadable behind her dark sunglasses.

  “Really.” Acheson wiped a hand across his forehead. It was damp with sweat, which wasn’t surprising, given that they were in the middle of Bumfuck, Arizona. “Did he say why he wants to violate the rules of engagement?”

  “He just asked me to let you know he’s coming along,” Julia said.

  Cecil Hayes grunted and shuffled his feet. Rivulets of sweat ran down his bald head, making his black skin glisten in the hot Arizona sunlight. “Man should be in the TOC, havin’ himself a stay-cation.”

  Acheson pushed his sunglasses up on his thin nose, and glanced back at the big GMC RV that served as the team’s tactical operations center. The windows were tinted, so he couldn’t see anyone inside.

  “I’ll talk with him,” he told Julia. “Sharon, you continue with the brief.”

  Sharon Thompson nodded. “Roger that.”

  “Acheson walked away from the Containment Team and headed for the RV. His boots kicked up dry dust that was snatched away by a breeze so arid it could have come from a hair dryer. A large German shepherd trotted across the desert, and it bounded toward Acheson when he separated from the group. His tongue lolled from one side of his mouth as he pranced about Acheson, sniffing and huffing. Acheson patted the dog’s head.

  “Keep cool, Zeke,” he said.

  Zeke huffed again, then bounded over to a nearby Saguaro cactus and baptized it with a stream of urine. As Acheson stepped into the RV’s shadow, the door opened.

  “Hello, Mark.” Robert Ellenshaw stepped out of the RV. He wore the same dun-colored Army battle dress utilities as Acheson. He closed the door behind him and looked out across the desert, squinting against the harsh light. He slipped on his sunglasses.

  “Did Julia give you my message?”

  Acheson nodded. “Yeah. You’re not coming with us, Robert. It’s against the ROE.”

  Ellenshaw smiled tightly and ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “I authored the rules of engagement, Mark. You don’t need to remind me of them.”

  “Apparently I do. I lead the containment team in the field, while you stay behind and monitor things from the tactical operations center.” Acheson slapped the side of the RV with one hand. “Right here. You don’t go any further.”

  “Things are different this time out.”

  Acheson gritted his teeth and turned away. He watched Zeke prance around the desert before Nacho Delgado, his trainer, called to him. The German shepherd ran toward Nacho, bounding about like a huge puppy without a care in the world.

  Acheson watched Ellenshaw from the corner of his eye. The older man looked out across the desert. Beneath the placid expression on his face, Acheson detected a core of tension.

  “Helena can feel him, even with the sun high in the sky. Can you imagine just how powerful he must be, Mark? Even the strength of daylight doesn’t seem to weaken him any longer.”

  “You’re not field personnel, Robert.”

  “I’ve gone through all the weapons and tactics training.”

  “That was years ago. I’m not going to risk a breakdown in unit cohesion. You’re staying here.”

  Ellenshaw smiled grimly. “Osric is the big game here, Mark. He’s eluded us—me—for years now, taking a human here, a human there, growing his clan. We don’t know how many vampires Osric has spawned, but he’s had the time to organize a small army. It’s imperative that we bag him.”

  Acheson snorted. “So at the end of the day, it’s all about you? Osric’s shown you up, so you want revenge?”

  “I just want to ensure the job is done right.”

  “And we can’t manage without you? Horseshit. If the tables were turned, would you let me go on the hump with you?”

  “That’s enough!” Ellenshaw snapped. “I have my reasons. All I ask is that you respect them.”

  “Don’t make me laugh!” Acheson fought to get his temper under control. He shot a glance at the rest of the team, still clustered around one of the Humvees. They all looked back at him, and Acheson knew they’d heard the harsh rebuke in Ellenshaw’s voice.

  Ellenshaw faced Acheson directly, not intimidated by his greater height or his acrimonious demeanor. When he spoke, his voice was clear and crisp, as if he were lecturing a classroom.

  “I’m the head of this division, Mark. In conjunction with Washington, I make the rules.” He smiled tightly. “You’ll have full tactical control, as always.”

  Acheson turned away from Ellenshaw and punched the TRANSMIT button on the radio transceiver at his shoulder. “Team, this is Two-Six. Fall back to the TOC for turnout.” As the team members radioed their acknowledgments, Acheson put his hands on his hips and gazed out across the desert.

  Zeke sidled up to his side. Acheson reached down and scratched him between the ears. The dog stood still as a statue and stared at the horizon.

  Acheson checked every team member’s weapon to ensure they were locked and loaded. Once satisfied all was in order, he turned to a hard-shell backpack. He opened it carefully and inspected the tapered cylinder within. It was just shy of three feet long and made of a durable gray metal. Two handgrips were bolted to either side, and at the wider end was a single pin. Attached to the pin was a red streamer printed with the innocuous legend, REMOVE TO ARM.

  Acheson patted the cylinder almost lovingly. Nothing like a little fuel-air explosive to brighten up your day.

  Once he sealed the FAE in its case, Acheson turned to Helena Rubenstein. Her pale blue eyes met his. Whenever he looked at her, Acheson got the impression she was a child trapped in a woman’s body. The fact she hailed from the cold metropolitan canyons of New York City was a source of amazement. With her strawberry-blonde hair and unblemished, tanned skin, she looked more like a waif from the San Fernando Valley. Acheson smiled at her and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. He knew she feared him on some basic level; her ability to see the true nature of a man revealed something to her that frightened her almost as much as those he hunted. More than once he had asked why that was, but she could not explain it. That he was used to dispensing violence as casually as she might order an alfalfa and vinaigrette salad was the closest analogy she had been able to draw.

  “What are you feeling, Helena?” he asked. He removed his sunglasses so she could see his eyes, so that she could see he was as human as she was, despite his skills.

  “Death is near,” she said. Acheson understood her to mean him, and he let go of her shoulder. Helena suddenly took his hand in hers. Her abruptness startled him; Acheson had never seen her move with such instinctive speed. She smiled at him.

  “I wasn’t talking about you,” she explained. “I know you would never hurt me.” She looked away as her smile faded. “I can feel him, Mark. I can’t feel any others, because his signature is so strong—it’s drowning them out, like white noise. All I get is... static.”

  “How close is he, Helena?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

  Acheson patted her hand. “Nothing to be sorry about. What you do isn’t exactly a precise science—”

  “Take care of Robert. I’m pregnant,” Helena blurted.

  Acheson blinked, totally caught off guard. “Uh—what...?”

  “I said I’m pregnant. You’ve got to take care of Robert.”

  Acheson was shocked. The thought of Helena having sex was something foreign, almost dirty, like sudden pedophilic urges. “Ellenshaw’s the father?”

  She nodded, looking away.

  “Well, ah... does he know?”

  Helena shook her head. “Don’t tell him,” she said. “That’s for me to do. Okay?”

  “I understand,” Acheson said woodenly. “I’ll make sure he stays here—”

  “No. This is his calling. This is why I haven’t told him. He needs to sanction Osric. To see it done. To take part in it.” Helena looked at him. “Don’t interfere with this, Mark. This is Robert’s... destiny.”

  Acheson sighed. He rubbed his e
yes and slipped on his sunglasses. His head started to pound. “Okay, listen, Helena. You get in the TOC and button it up tight. George and Phil will take care of you. I’ve given them orders to vamoose at the first sign of trouble. You’re not to interfere with them if they try to leave the area, understand? If the TOC comes under attack, they’re to get the hell out of here—”

  “I know, Mark. I won’t interfere.” She held his gaze for a long moment, her eyes unblinking in the harsh sunlight. “You’ll look after Robert?”

  Acheson nodded. “Yes.”

  She smiled, child-like and trusting. “Then I know he’ll be safe. And once Osric’s been sanctioned, Humanity will be safe.”

  “At least from Osric,” Acheson muttered, turning away.

  CHAPTER 2

  It began with the stories of El Cucuy, the Mexican equivalent of the Boogeyman.

  When the usual stream of illegal immigrants dried to a mere trickle in the Arizona frontier and the legends of El Cucuy were whispered more and more frequently—by illegals detained by the Border Patrol, even by the coyotes who smuggled them in—it served as a vector for the Group’s intelligence analysts. The poor wretches who were captured by the BP told grave stories of how El Cucuy set upon them, decimating them, littering the landscape with their corpses. No bodies were recovered, but the Border Patrol was quick to rationalize the rumored violence as cartel-related, though sometimes American groups such as the Minutemen were fingered as potential culprits. It was those veiled accusations which elevated the story into a newsworthy item, as Minuteman spokespersons vehemently denied involvement in the murder of illegals.

  But it was the rumor of El Cucuy which sealed the deal.

  If ever there was such a thing as the boogeyman, Osric was it. And so Containment Team 6 deployed to the deserts of southern Arizona, where the inhospitable landscape might possibly serve as a hiding place for one of Mankind’s greatest enemies.

  The road leading to the Santa Clarita copper mine had fallen victim to the elements decades ago after being abandoned in the 1920s. The annual monsoons had swept the remainder of the road away, leaving only jagged ruts and gullies behind. These were so extreme the team was forced to abandon the Humvees two miles from the mining area. They had no choice but to continue on foot, in the oppressive heat, carrying their gear on their backs.