by J. L. Bourne
Larry coughed again, shooting crud inside his face mask. After a spell of cursing and changing masks, he asked, “What plans? We might as well be on a Martian outpost. Without a rescue party, we’ll be blocks of ice in a month or two.”
“Yeah, maybe so, but I ain’t giving up either,” Crusow replied, a little louder than he wanted. Taking himself down a notch, he continued: “It’s true we’re low on fuel, but I have a plan that might work.”
“We’re listening,” Bret said.
“I’ve modified the Sno-Cat to run on biodiesel. This means that more of the remaining regular fuel can be used to keep this place at least warm enough to support life, say fifty degrees. We’ll need to start sleeping in our cold-weather gear to conserve fuel and we’ll need to start chopping off the outer limbs of this facility. We’re spread out now as it stands and that wastes a lot of juice. Larry, you and Bret are going to need to suck it up and move into the crew wings and seal off your areas of the outpost.”
“Wait a goddamned minute!” Bret yelled. “Why do we need to move here? Why not the other way around?”
“Listen! Either you two move in with us, or you freeze! I control the heat, the darkness, and the light, and I’ll be shutting you down in forty-eight hours. It’s nothing personal—I need to be near the equipment and I’m not moving to the military wing with you and Iron Lung here.”
Neither Larry nor Bret responded. They knew the hand they were dealt. Crusow could see their eyes shift. They were both military and both were likely calculating a way to regain some leverage. Crusow didn’t trust them, and probably never would.
After a moment, Larry coughed and asked, “We’re lower on biodiesel than we are on the regular stuff. How are you going to make enough to keep that Sno-Cat full?”
“This is the part that gets a little weird and maybe dangerous. We’ve been brewing the biodiesel with old cooking oil up to this point. We’re getting low because I’ve been running one of the generators on it to conserve the good stuff. I think I may have found a source of animal fat that might give us enough fuel to run that Sno-Cat a hundred miles, inside thin ice, and maybe, if there are any out and about and within portable radio . . .”
Bret interrupted, “If you’re talking about killing the sled dogs, I’m all for—”
Crusow cut Bret off mid-sentence. “No, we’re not killing the dogs. We might need them. Stop worrying about food, Bret—we have enough stored here to last us a while with everyone gone or dead. There’s not really enough fat on those dogs to get us enough fuel needed to make any sort of difference anyway.”
“Well, what is it then?” Larry asked impatiently.
Crusow made eye contact and said, “We’re gonna have to rappel down the gulch and have a reunion with some of our old friends. Some of them were overweight. The fat on them has been frozen and preserved. There’s probably a few hundred pounds worth at the bottom. We’ll be able to make enough diesel to get the hell out of here and, if lucky, some to spare.”
“You are ape-shit crazy, Crusow,” Larry said.
“Maybe so, but unless you can think of a goddamned better way to keep these generators running with enough fuel in reserves to run that Sno-Cat off this ice shelf, I’d keep your mouth shut. Besides, you’re too weak to make the trip down the gulch and back up even once, so you have no say. It’s over two hundred feet, mostly straight down. We’ll need two people at the bottom to rig the bodies to the ropes and two up top with the dogs to pull them up.”
They all looked at each other, waiting for someone to say something about the plan. Crusow didn’t give them any time to think about it.
“Okay then. Which one of you bastards is going down there with me?”
One week from Oahu
Saien and I have learned at least some of the routine of submarine life. We understand the hierarchy of privilege and although I had sea legs from my time serving onboard navy ships, it is a culture shift serving onboard a submarine. I have been helping out in the radio room, mainly for selfish reasons. I have used the access to dispatch communications back to the USS George Washington, letting my Hotel 23 family know I’m okay. So far, no one onboard has voiced opposition.
The most recent message from John:
“Tara sends love”
Although only three short words, even these brief dispatches really help. I’ve been gone less than two weeks; it seems like longer. Without email, it takes me back to a time where communication was more personal, more valued.
I wonder how many young adults of the “me generation” died during the outbreak while checking the signal on their smartphones or posting an inane update to their social network pages?
It probably went something like:
OMFG, they’re breaking down the door!
As self-centered as those kids were, I still wish they’d survived. I’ve unfortunately put a lot of skinny pant–wearing creatures into the dirt from whence they came since all this started.
A few days ago, the captain briefed me on our mission on the island of Oahu. I’m honestly not surprised at the details, just at the risk we will be taking for limited return on our investment. According to military intelligence, the nuclear strike on Honolulu was successful, resulting in a total annihilation of the city and outlying suburbs.
Larsen seems overly optimistic that the nuclear strike on Hawaii was somehow more effective in exterminating the undead than the one on the mainland United States. He’s betting that the mass of creatures was in Honolulu at the time of detonation. In my professional opinion, this is a careless assessment. He is the captain of the boat and I’m only a consulting guest, but I was not shy in offering my dissent on the matter.
It is my personal opinion that we should keep our Chinese interpreter on board and task him to operate the boat’s onboard SIGINT collection gear in order to provide self-protection and any warnings of Chinese military activity. There is a high probability that, if we leave him on the island, we might lose our interpreter to the creatures while we transit west to China. Also, there is no guarantee that Kunia’s sensors are still viable this long after Hawaii went grid-down and dark. The biggest gamble is that we have no idea the current status of Kunia. Most of it is underground and it could be flooded, overrun with radiated dead, or caved in by a stray nuclear warhead. We just won’t know until we go boots on the ground on the mainland; a plan I’m not willing to endorse right now, or ever.
Maximum pull-ups: 5
Push-ups: 65
1.5 mile treadmill run: 11:15
I hope the treadmill keeps working. I am spoiled by the luxury of running for exercise instead of for life and limb.
21
Southeast Texas
“Billy, is that what I think it is?”
“What?”
Doc activated his laser and pointed it a few hundred meters out, into a field. “That.”
“Looks like someone took a plow and just started pulling. I can’t really tell through the NODs.”
“The map says the drop should be there. Let’s break off and hit the field. Stay close.”
“Roger.”
Both men hopped the fence and stayed low, heading for the scarred terrain ahead. The wind shifted and they caught a foul whiff from the swarm in the distance.
“Goddamn that stinks and I’ll never say it doesn’t,” Doc said under his breath. “One hundred meters out. Looks like our drop hit there and was dragged away by the chute. Let’s see where it goes.”
“I’m following you—let’s spread out a few meters though, okay?” Billy said.
“Okay, spread out, stay in visual, and get eyes on me every few seconds. I’ll do the same.”
“Sounds good, moving.”
“Move.”
They followed the gouged trail for a quarter mile to the top of a shallow ridgeline. As they moved closer, they heard what sounded like laundry flapping on a summertime clothesline. Peering over the top of the hill, they observed the target. A pallet wrapped in packing pla
stic sat tipped over on its side with a ripped chute streaming out in a straight line like a crazy comet tail.
The flapping noise must have drawn the creatures in the days and weeks since the drop came to a rest here. A couple dozen of them stood below the ridge in hibernation, waiting for anything alive to set off the primitive trip wires. Doc knew this by the way they stood like stone sentries. They arrived expecting food, only to shut down in order to conserve whatever energy source they utilized. This mystery was perplexing. Doc suspected that they derived energy from something other than the dwindling food source they hunted and consumed.
“How do you wanna handle this, Billy?”
“Well, we could stay back here and start dropping them in a certain order that will keep them sleeping. I’ll start on the east group, you start on the west, and we’ll meet in the middle. With any luck, we can have them all dropped before they hear anything much louder than that flapping parachute. Our cans should muffle us this far out. We can even take a few steps back if we need to. At this distance point of aim and point of impact will be the same. Aim for the forehead anyway.”
Doc knew Billy was pimping him about his point of aim.
“Okay, I like it,” said Doc approvingly. “It’s dark, they can’t see us, but we can see them. I say we go for it.”
“Just give the word.”
“I’m west, you’re east, engage after me.”
“Roger.”
Doc looked down the length of his carbine through the optic, noticing the glare of moonlight off his suppressor. He slapped the magnifier over, enlarging his sight picture. Sure enough, they stood like terrible gargoyles in the night. He thought that they might sway ever so slightly in this condition but could not be sure. No one spent enough time close enough to test the theory.
Deep breath, slow release, both eyes open, kill.
Bam.
As soon as Doc dropped his first creature, Billy Boy followed. Billy already sighted his first target and was just waiting for the suppressed sound of Doc’s before he put the ghoul to the ground.
FUMP, FUMP, FUMP were the noises of the rounds hitting the rotting skulls. They slowly and deliberately took their shots. One Mississippi, FUMP, two Mississippi, FUMP. Their plan was working; the creatures were staying in hibernation. They were down to only six remaining when Doc took his next shot. Pulling the trigger, Doc knew instantly something was different. A strange sound resonated, as if he’d just shot a street sign or a car. Doc had heard of this before, but never had it happen. Some creatures had metal plates implanted from previous injuries before the world went to hell. The creature was thrown to the ground. Doc used his magnifier to get a better look. It was returning to its feet.
Doc turned to continue shooting his targets. FUMP.
The creature, now back on its feet, was very irritated. It began to call out, moaning, waking the others. It moved quickly, reacting to sound, even the suppressed sounds of their carbines. It started moving up the ridge toward them.
“Keep on yours, Doc, I’ll keep dumping lead into this one.”
“All right, Billy, handle it! It’s fast!”
The creature continued to advance up the hill at a startling speed. Doc was right—it was faster than the others. Billy continued to take shots at the creature, missing most of them.
“Reloading!”
“I gotcha, do it,” Doc said.
Billy dumped his empty mag and reached behind him for his fresh one. In high-stress situations, Billy always performed well because he told himself what to do, based on his training.
“Push, pull, rack, bang,” he whispered aloud, executing what he was thinking.
After pushing the mag into the mag well, he pulled it to verify it was seated. He racked his M-4 charging and pulled the trigger. A bang sent the titanium cranium tumbling permanently down the hill in an awkward and tragic pose.
“Close one,” said Doc. “That thing would have been up here with us, hanging out and telling jokes, if you’d have waited another few seconds.”
“Yeah, I know, freaky. Not used to seeing them so aggressive.”
“Me neither. Let’s stay here at the top and watch for a minute or two. Might be some more down there. Don’t want any ankle biters, know what I mean?” Doc suggested.
“Yeah, I know.”
They waited. Minutes went slowly by with no movement. It was always like this after an encounter with them. Man wasn’t meant to see the dead walk. Man wasn’t meant to fight them either. Post-traumatic stress disorder was something that everyone suffered from these days, like the common cold. From the two-year-old that witnessed her mom being eaten by her father right before a SWAT rescue, to the old man that locked his wife in the basement because he didn’t have the heart to end her—they all suffered now, if they mustered the courage to remain living.
“Looks clear down there,” Billy said to Doc.
“Yeah, let’s get down. We have thirty minutes until we need to start humping back to Hotel 23 and before the sun gets us.”
As they walked down the ridge, Billy asked, “What do you think would happen if we didn’t make it before sunrise?”
“I think we’d get made and might find ourselves the recipient of a five-hundred-pound warhead. We’re obviously not welcome at Hotel 23.”
“I still don’t understand why this group would want the carrier nuked.”
“I have no idea, Billy, but I do know they can hurt us during the day. And don’t get Disco and Hawse worked up, but I’m not so sure they can’t go high order on us at night.”
“Yeah, I was thinkin’ it, just didn’t want to say.”
The pile of corpses at the bottom was a gruesome sight, with some still twitching. Both were careful to avoid getting too close—a bullet to the brain didn’t always mean the threat was eliminated. Even after trauma to the brain, the biting reflex was sometimes still present. Whatever caused the dead to rise didn’t give up easily; even severed heads required extreme caution.
Doc pulled out his blade and cut the strings holding the flapping chute to the drop. The fabric fluttered up into the darkness on the whim of a night wind. Doc thought of a man o’ war jellyfish as it drifted over the ridge area, dangling its stinger-like paracord strings.
There were white letters painted to the outside of the plastic wrap that held the drop together, but the elements and the wearing of time had made it unreadable. The drop rested on its side against a wedge of dirt. Doc swiped the plastic wrap with his blade, spilling the black hard cases onto the ground.
“Billy, get on perimeter while I check this out.”
“I’m on it.”
Doc started the unpacking process one box at a time, carefully, as if there might be booby traps in the containers. He listened for the action of Billy Boy’s carbine as he opened the containers—all quiet.
The first box contained a weapon that Doc thought curious, marked swarm control gun. The instructions were written in a simple manner, resembling the pictorial directions that one might find on how to operate a seatbelt in a commercial aircraft. The gun was somewhat cumbersome, requiring the user to literally wear it; an illustration depicted a man wearing the gun attached to what resembled a harness.
The other boxes that Doc inspected contained the compounds that were required to fuel the gun. According to the documentation, two different bottles attached to the gun. When the gun was actuated, it was supposed to expel a stream of foam at ranges of up to fifty feet. The two compounds mixed when exposed to the air and the foam would harden within two seconds. Doc read the cautionary note on the documentation:
WARNING: FOAM COMPOUND WILL HARDEN COMPARABLE TO CURED FIBER CEMENT/FIBER RESIN. USE EXTREME CAUTION WHEN AIMING. THIS FOAM WEAPON IS LETHAL.
As Doc continued scanning the instructions, he noticed a section mentioning the possible uses of the weapon.
—Immediate temporary immobilization of large groups
—Immobilization of moving vehicles and heavy armor
&nbs
p; —Freezes doors and other access points
—Chemical bonding of any material to another
Doc estimated the gear weighed about eighty pounds in all. There was nothing else in this drop. Doc called Billy over to discuss the cost versus benefit of humping the extra weight back to Hotel 23.
After looking over the gun documentation, Billy commented, “Man, if this thing can do what it says, I’ll hump it back myself. Our M-4s are good for running and gunning and the surgical wet work and all, but this thing might help against the likes of what we saw on that overpass. I wouldn’t mind having a fire hose that can shoot instant concrete on demand, would you?”
“Yeah. We’ll split up the gear and hump it back. But we’ll test it out another night. We’re losing night cover.”
After rigging the gear to their packs, they headed back to Hotel 23. Doc marked an X over this particular drop on the map, crossing it out. As they crested the ridge heading back, Doc paused.
Was that the sound of an engine in the distance?
He intended to ask Billy if he had heard it, too, but the wind shifted and the sound vanished like a fleeting thought.
22
USS George Washington
The carrier briefing room buzzed with brass. Admiral Goettleman and Joe Maurer sat at the table in front of the auditorium, facing the small group of officers and a handful of senior enlisted.
The admiral leaned over to Joe. “Make sure the doors are secure. There’s already scuttlebutt circulating about the deck plates.”
“Yes, sir.”
Joe sat up and told one of the officers in the front row to check the starboard doors before personally verifying the port and returning to his seat alongside Admiral Goettleman.
“All secure, sir.”
“Very well. Let’s get started.”
The admiral tapped the microphone button in front of him. “Thanks for coming today—not like you really had anywhere to go.”