As both men reloaded, Moose approached. “Gimme a SITREP on our Zulus.” SITREP was short for SITuation REPort, the military way of asking, “What is going on?”
“I took out over a dozen on my side,” Owens said.
“Same on mine, but there is a shitload more coming, Captain,” Fox answered. His hands were shaking as he fumbled the next magazine into the magazine well of his M4.
Moose saw how scared shitless Fox was. He reached his hand out and steadied the young corpsman’s arm. “Calm down, Fox. SAR bird will be here shortly.”
A high-pitched scream emanated from behind. All three men turned quickly to the group behind them. The woman with the small child was pointing to the hangar with one hand and covering her mouth with the other. The young girl was clung to her side, crying and desperately holding onto the woman. Two more men on either side of her stood with panicked faces.
Before he turned, Moose could hear the undead approaching. As he faced his enemy, his heart sank.
Zombies poured out from either side of the hangar.
Moose glanced at his watch. Ten more minutes. There was no way in hell they were going to survive. Not with these odds. Zombies were scattering out, about fifty yards away. The undead were spreading out as they rounded the sides of the hangar, forming a decayed procession headed right toward them.
The Seahawk, which had made a wide sweep on the left side of the hangar, swung back around behind of them, swooping into position, the minigun erupting once again. Hot lead flew at the oncoming horde of zombies, ripping, tearing, and exploding various body parts and bespattering the alabaster walls of the hangar with crimson splatter.
The brass from the minigun plinked behind them, scattering spent shell casings as the electric Gatling gun worked its magic.
And then the roar of the GAU – 17/A stopped.
The undead did not.
A rolling tide of zombies crawled, dug, and lumbered their way over the bodies of their deceased cohorts, and continued to move en masse toward Moose and his crew. Owens did not wait for an invitation to begin. He started taking well-placed shots at the oncoming multitude of Zulus. Fox hesitated for a moment and then followed suit, squeezing off rounds. Sergeant Marcus even stepped forward and began to line up headshots.
No sense in the kids having all the fun, Moose thought absently, and brought up his rifle. It took him three seconds to zero in on his first target, a man in khaki shorts and a bloodstained t-shirt. Fresh blood dripped from its mouth as he eyed him through the ACOG scope on his rifle. Moose lined up the shot and squeezed the trigger. The zombie fell, and he moved to his next target.
Squeeze, breathe, next target, repeat. It was strange how training kicked in without notice. Moose let his muscle memory take over shooting duties.
A familiar voice crackled in Moose’s ear. “Nightingale Seven to Moose. Guns are dry. Hale and Swamp Thing are requesting to rope in and assist.”
Moose lowered his rifle and keyed his throat mic. “You guys have a better view of what’s coming. If you think we need the firepower, then send ‘em on down.”
No sooner had Moose finished his transmission and brought his weapon back up, MA2 Hale and Swamp Thing fast roped in behind the group of survivors. With a fenced-in area to their back, the rear was not covered adequately, but Hale and Swamp Thing immediately turned and began engaging targets to their six o’clock. More sporadic gunfire popped.
Shit, we’re surrounded. Great, Moose thought.
Fox and Owens continued to fire more 5.56mm rounds at the oncoming horde. The zombies were not thinning out. Two would stagger forth when one fell, making a difficult situation nearly impossible.
“Reloading!” Owens called out. He dropped the magazine from his M4 and patted his vest for another. He was down to his last pouch of two magazines. Sixty rounds stood between him and a horrific, painful death.
Fox changed mags, as did Sergeant Marcus. Marcus was down to his last mag, and Fox had the one in his weapon and two more.
But the undead just kept coming.
The sound of the chopper combined with the roar of the minigun and the steady staccato of gunfire drew more and more Zulus on their position. Before they knew it, the group as a whole had inadvertently retreated at least fifty feet.
Moose didn’t realize how far back they had moved until he felt the hot brass from Hale’s M4 bouncing off his back and legs. He quickly turned, noting their position. Luckily, Hale and Swamp Thing had been engaging targets across the runway, nearly fifty yards away. As Moose looked back front, the mass of zombies had grown once again. The fire from the back of the hangar had now spread to the sides and top. Smoking hulks of disease-infested undead appeared through the flames, oblivious to the inferno. The newest wave of Zulus were moving quicker, almost inhumanly fast, making headshots problematic.
“Irradiated Zulus!” Moose yelled, taking his eyes off the scope on his OBR.
“I’m out!” Sergeant Marcus hollered.
Fox reached into his magazine pouch and pulled the last two mags he had. He looked at Marcus, a grim expression on his face. Marcus grabbed the last thirty rounds he would have and shoved it into the magazine well. Fox did the same.
Owens sidestepped until he was beside Moose, never taking his eyes off target. “Captain, I think we are shit out of luck.” Owens held back tears. The next thing he was going to say meant almost certain death. “Recommend we have Chief Shupe land and pick up the survivors. The Chinook is going to take too long to get here, and we are fresh out of options.”
Moose pulled the ACOG away from his eye. An overwhelming feeling of dismay came over him. As much as he hated to admit it, they were hopelessly outnumbered and running low on ammo. A quick glance at his watch revealed they still had seven minutes left before extract. With the uncanny speed of the irradiated undead, they would never make it that long. The civilians, however, were their priority.
He knew what he had to do.
It is my duty as a Pararescueman to save lives and to aid the injured.
They still had a chance to escape.
I will be prepared at all times to perform my assigned duties quickly and efficiently
He wasn’t going to make it.
Placing these duties before personal desires and comforts
But he could still save them.
These things I do, that others may live
The pararescue motto rang in his head like a thousand voices over the years. The cries of men and women that he couldn’t save. The blood cleansed from the floor of many a Pave Hawk. All the pats on the back, the lonely rooms that he’d sat in after missions gone bad. The crying after losing a soldier, the feeling the exhilaration of saving a fellow airman. All the people he’d had contact with over the years spoke to him. They told him what to do.
With a heavy heart, he keyed his mic. “Nightingale Seven, land behind us and prepare for civilian exfil. We will stay behind and provide cover for SAR extraction. We have a hell of a lot better chance at staying alive than these people do.”
“Copy that, Moose. Sitting the bird down on your six.” Chief Shupe replied, his tone low and depressed. He knew what was coming.
As the Seahawk landed behind them, Fox and Owens dropped their rifles. The M4s were no longer of any use, completely out of ammo. Each man drew a sidearm – a Beretta M9 9mm – and began taking potshots at the still-advancing Zulus. The pistols were nearly useless, but as long as they had a weapon in their hands, they felt like they were still making progress. Owens stepped back to assist Moose, firing the last of his 9mm rounds.
As soon as the wheels touched the ground, Moose and Owens corralled the group in a hasty retreat as best he could. One by one, they helped the weary survivors into the Seahawk.
A wayward zombie grabbed Owens by the back of his vest and brought him to the ground. As Owens fought to get the creature off him, another attacked, biting him in the leg. He howled in pain and instinctively kicked at the leg biter. One after another, zombies pi
led on him, killing him within seconds.
More undead stormed closer.
Sergeant Marcus dropped his rifle and began hand-to hand combat with several irradiated Zulus. Even if the undead did not kill him, the radiation that he was exposed to would have. It was a horrible way to die. Sergeant Marcus fell to the ground, fighting his way through impossible odds. The last thing he saw was the Seahawk lifting off the ground. He closed his eyes as the first zombie took a chunk of flesh out of his neck.
Blood poured from the wound, but he did not scream.
He let the warm blanket of unconsciousness take him over.
Fox tossed his M9 aside. He was out of ammo, and he didn’t figure on any dropping from the sky. He drew his Ka-Bar from its sheath and held the knife in a white-knuckle grip. He stepped back and saw that Sergeant Marcus had fallen, as had Owens. A dozen or more zombies were piled on top of him. He gritted his teeth and steeled his nerve. The undead would not win the day, even if it meant that he would have to sacrifice his own life to save others.
Not today, assholes.
The first zombie got to within five feet of him. Fox reared back and prepared to jab the creature in the forehead, when the zombie’s head inexplicably snapped back. A single bullet hole appeared in the front, brain matter and coagulated blood flew out of the back. Fox looked back to see Moose gripping his 1911 .45, the slide locked back. It was his last round.
Fox nodded to Moose.
Moose subtly motioned back.
Hale and Swamp Thing backed up until both were standing nearly back-to-back. Hale’s M4 was out of ammo, as was Swamp Thing’s. Both men were engaged in a combination of hand-to-hand combat and pistol firing, the latter of which lasted through fifteen rounds each.
Hale pulled a small tactical tomahawk from his belt and began swinging the hatchet like Thor swinging Mjolnir. He drove the spiked end of the tomahawk into one zombie after another, cracking skulls like rotten, blood-filled eggs.
Swamp Thing resorted to breaking necks, grabbing one unfortunate soul after another. One hand under the chin, and one hand on the forehead, followed by a meager twenty pounds-per-square-inch of force to the right and upward seemed to do the trick.
“Moose, we are squared away. Recommend you and the boys hop on board. We will take you somewhere safe until exfil can get here. We still have five more minutes before SAR bird is on scene,” Chief Shupe’s voice said over the radio.
Moose heard his voice, but did not register the recommendation. There was no way the Seahawk had enough fuel to hover for five more minutes; the survivors would never make it back out to the USNS Mercy, or any other ship for that matter.
“Negative, Chief. You don’t have enough fuel, and you know it. Get these people out of here. We can handle ourselves. Charlie Mike, Nightingale Seven.”
Cool as a cucumber nearly all the time, Chief Shupe raised his voice in an uncharacteristic fashion. “Dammit, Moose! There’s no reason you boys have to die out here! Now get in the damn chopper!”
Moose never heard him and neither did Fox. His radio and earpiece lay on the ground beside the chopper. As the Seahawk mercifully took off, he stormed forward and grappled with the first zombie he saw, a grungy-looking man with long white hair and a New Orleans Saints jersey. With all the precision of a special operations warrior, he grabbed his Ka-Bar knife, thrust it into the forehead of the Saints zombie, and twisted.
The creature fell, and twenty more took its place.
* * *
Three Days Later
CW3 Shupe sat in the galley of the USCGC Mohawk. He wasn’t hungry or thirsty, and he couldn’t bring himself to eat what little he had in front of him. Food was in short supply, so he knew that he needed to eat, but his stomach thought otherwise. He’d made two successful trips to the mainland since losing Moose and his team, but nothing seemed to take the edge off. There was no alcohol to be found on the ship, and he couldn’t bribe his way into getting another ZBRA team to risk their lives for some much-needed firewater.
“Mind if I sit, Chief?”
Shupe looked up to see a man standing in front of him. He looked familiar, but he couldn’t place his face. He sported a goatee and short-cropped hair. In the days before the end of the world, he might have been mistaken for military, but the way things were nowadays, a beard didn’t necessarily mean you weren’t. The man looked to be in his mid-thirties. He was dressed in MultiCam with an M4 across his back, barrel pointed downward. Shupe made a halfhearted gesture for the man to take a seat.
The man sat his tray down. A nominal amount of scrambled eggs, one piece of bacon, and a single slice of toast made up his meager breakfast.
“Wow. I don’t know how in the hell they expect us to make all these missions with what little they are feeding us.” The man picked up the lone slice of bacon and admired it. “The last bacon on Earth. I hope like hell we plan on raiding a pig farm before long.”
Shupe stirred his oatmeal absently. “I suppose you’re on one of the ZBRA teams, cowboy. I hope you don’t mind losing friends.”
The man stabbed at his eggs. “Powdered eggs, too. Damn. And to answer your question, yes I am supposed to be riding along with one of the teams.”
Shupe looked up. “Well, I hope you don’t have any family that you plan on coming back to.”
The man stopped eating. “As a matter of fact, my family went all to shit about two weeks ago. I’ve been trying to come to terms with it, but it ain’t working. I suppose I’m cut out for this kind of work.”
“You prior service?” Shupe asked.
Before the man could answer, a Navy Lieutenant dressed in navy blue coveralls hastily stuck his head into the galley. “CW3 Shupe?”
Chief Shupe stuck his spoon back into his oatmeal. Another mission to go out on, more people to try to save.
I can’t save myself. How the hell am I supposed to help someone else? Shupe thought as he turned to address the Lieutenant.
“Yeah, that’s me. Another sortie to fly?”
The Lieutenant hurried over to Shupe’s table. “Chief, we’ve been getting some unusual Morse code. We don’t know where it’s coming from, but we are attempting to triangulate as we speak.”
Shupe frowned. “And what has that got to do with me?”
“Well, it seems to be repeating your name, sir.”
Shupe stood up quickly. “Who in the hell is asking for me?”
“The message is repeating ‘CW3 Shupe’ and ‘Moose.’ Does that mean anything to you?”
Shupe grabbed his flight helmet from under his chair. His heart was pounding. How in the hell did Moose survive? Where the hell was he? He looked back to the man he’d been conversing with.
“You looking to ride along, cowboy? I got a buddy out there that needs some help,” Shupe asked.
The man was already tossing the remnants of his half-eaten breakfast into a trashcan. “Damn straight. I’ve been cooped up on this damn boat too long.”
Shupe smiled ever so slightly. “It’s called a ship, cowboy. You go fishing in a boat.”
The man smiled. “Duly noted. I take it that your name is Shupe.”
Shupe held out his hand. “CW3 Adam Shupe. What’s your name, partner?”
“Name’s Joe. Nice to meet you, Chief.”
THE END…?
FATHER OF MANY
I
Abraham Stone was a happy man. The life that had been laid before him he considered his crowning achievement. He had a lovely wife of thirty one years, his son Bobby, aged twenty-nine, and his beautiful daughter named Lucy who was twenty five. He paid his taxes, mowed his lawn, and complained about the government trying to take his guns as any good conservative would. He went to church every Sunday and Wednesday and gave money to charity. He was the model citizen, popular in the community with those who knew him as a lifelong friend, or just those who knew of him.
He had plans to take his wife, Muriel, out to dinner on a beautiful Sunday after the evening service. She had not been feeling
well the past few months and figured that an evening out to eat would be something for her to not only look forward to, but might make her feel some better as well.
He sat with her in the church pew, listening to his good friend Reverend Sage tell the sermon of the day as he contemplated his plans for the evening. He held Muriel’s hand a little tighter as Reverend Sage asked the congregation to bow their heads in prayer before they left for the evening. Abraham did so, his hand still clutched to Muriel’s as Reverend Sage asked God to take care of his flock and to bless them in His name.
Amen.
Abraham stood with Muriel, exchanged pleasantries with some of his friends and neighbors, and exited the church. After shaking hands with Reverend Sage, he and Muriel walked towards their car, Abraham’s silver Cadillac CTS. He never let go of Muriel’s hand on the way to the car and pulled her close as they neared the car.
“So my dear, I think it is time that we went out for a night on the town,” Abraham said. “I was thinking of dinner over at the Tuscan if you’re feeling up to it,” Abraham smiled as he held his lifelong friend and wife. “I hear they have an excellent chicken alfredo.”
Muriel had always had a weak spot for good Italian food, especially a well-made chicken and broccoli alfredo. Muriel looked to Abraham with a weak but well-meaning smile. She had not felt herself for the past few months, and she knew that he only wanted to make her feel better about her condition, which he did not know enough about to be as worried as he should have been. Muriel had been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor during a routine visit to the doctor for persistent headaches. The light and sound of nearly everything bothered her on bad days. Her bad days were coming more and more frequently now, though. As much as she wanted to spend the evening with her husband, she just could not bring herself to venture out tonight. She drew him closer and hugged him tight.
Six Feet From Hell: The Lost Chronicles (Book 1) Page 4