“Have any of these fuel systems been deployed in the field, Frank? Like we have here with just a fence, no protected perimeter?” I said.
“Negative Christmas Tree. You’re the first.”
“Well, there might be a problem with keeping them out where walkers can congregate. Lieutenant can you fill Frank in on what we’ve seen today?”
“Sir, we have observed walkers arrive from all directions and congregate at the natural gas end of the fuel cell system. From the roof, my men can’t smell any gas leaks. I sent a man down to ground level, he reported no smell of gas there either. There is the constant hissing from the gas moving from its tank into the system. Zeke seems to be drawn to it, sir.”
“Understood Christmas Tree. I will have somebody look into that. Anything else?”
Bill and I exchanged looks.
“Nothing else Lambeau, Christmas Tree out.”
Around 10:30 PM, I reconfigured the satellite feed covering Wisconsin to download a new IR image once per minute. I wanted to see the yield from the mining of Mauston. I hooked the HDMI output of my laptop up to our big screen TV, which thankfully still worked. With the lights down to a minimum, Ruth Ann and I along with all the soldiers off duty gathered around the TV for the show.
First I showed the crowd the glowing dots from Camp Christmas Tree for perspective, then traced southeast about 120 miles to where the Dells / Mauston area is.
We did not have to wait very long.
At the first new glowing dot, the soldiers cheered. Then, with each new image, the glowing dots moved in a slow wave extending further and further northwest. The horde was marching right through the densely laid minefield. As their front ranks detonated mines, the following ranks just kept walking. We saw a widening line of dots that ultimately stretched west from the Wisconsin River all the way to the hills of the Driftless Area almost ten miles away.
The ripple of dots began showing a bulge that slowly formed into a wedge shape pointing along Interstate 90/94. As the horde marched deeper into the minefield the width of the glowing dots shrunk. The dead, without any kind of cognition, were forming up behind a spearhead of their leading edge. While some dots winked in and out to the east and west of the horde’s advance, the brightest glows continued to be along the Interstate.
Unbeknownst to us, helicopters on Lambeau Field’s orders were orbiting the area from high above. With night vision gear they shot video zoomed in close enough to see individual ghouls get thrown like bowling pins and pinballs combined. One of my guys sent me an email with a clip from the helicopters cameras. I put it up on the TV and my guests howled with approval.
After putting the live feed back on I wandered over to the kitchen. I found Ruth Ann there nursing some tea. I joined her.
“The carnage is horrible,” she said. “But those aren’t people. We’re doing them a favor.”
“Yes, we are.”
“Is it cutting down the size of CB?”
“Definitely, but I don’t think it’s doing as good a job as our friends here think. The dead are lining up to follow a path of least resistance. Further from the highway that place will be dangerous for years.”
“How many do you think we’re getting?”
“I don’t know yet. My code is thrown off by the constantly moving wave of detonations and heat differences caused by the explosions. I won’t be able to give an accurate number until daylight.”
“We should leave Doug. Leave now before the hordes come back.”
“We talked about this hon. We made it through once, we’ll make it through again.”
“I don’t think so babe. I hope I turn first so I can bite the shit out of you.”
“Hon, if you turn first you will have no problem at all getting shit out of me. I’ll do it all by myself.”
We went to bed.
On Sunday (Day 39), the thinning optimizer placed the size of TC at 1.1 million and CB at 2.5 million. About 800,000 zombies had been immobilized in the minefield last night. I zoomed into the satellite images south of Mauston and saw a veritable moonscape of small densely packed craters. I subtracted some consecutive images from each other and saw pixels changing everywhere. As expected, many zombies weren’t completely de-animated but neither could they move around much.
In my mind’s eye, I could picture a scene from Soylent Green someday taking place north of the Waterpark Capital of the World. I could imagine front loaders moving slowly across the moonscape scooping up wriggling zombies and dumping them into waiting dump trucks. What would be done with all that organic matter? I don’t know but I bet if we put enough of them together in one place and wait sixty million years, we’ll strike oil.
I was talking the numbers over with Bill.
“We started at over six million in two hordes. When they combine, we’ll be down to 3,600,000 in one horde after eleven days of non-stop attacks,” I said.
“And to get down that far we left fifty square miles uninhabitable due to land mines. We’re wearing out our people and equipment. Brandt is telling me he is hearing of more and more downed helos and planes. This kind of sustained action requires repair and replenishment. Seems to me the spare parts department at Sikorsky factory is closed.”
“You know it’s going to shift back onto your shoulders don’t you? I don’t mean you personally, but ground troops. It’s going to shift back onto you guys.”
“It always does, but why do you say that?”
“The whole concept of the TOs are to thin, right? Well, once the hordes are thinned to the point that low density means dropping bombs is ineffective, we’ll be back to door-to-door and hand to hand. By “we” I mean you, no offense.”
“None taken. I actually wouldn’t mind being out in the field again. There’s only so many times I can strip and clean my weapon. My men are restless. You’ve got a nice house and all, but we’d rather be on the move. No offense.”
“None taken. Ruth Ann is convinced we’re screwed by staying here.”
“She might be right. Your fortress has a second floor with holes that are way too big. I would be more comfortable in a medieval castle with arrow slits. These glass windows up here, they will go in a heartbeat if the dead press against them.”
“How is that going to happen? We’re on a second floor.”
“It can happen. If they’re motivated, they’ll climb on top of each other. It can happen.”
I parted from Bill almost too disturbed to work on what I needed to do for the day.
Fortunately, what I needed to do was easy. Lambeau field needed web hosts and database systems to be able to share data more effectively. I took two physical servers out of the rotation of those working on the thinning optimizer without losing any functionality. Each had twin CPUs with four cores each. This is almost like having sixteen computers on just the two boards.
It goes up even from there. I fired up a “virtual computing” environment allowing multiple make believe computers to run on one physical computer. This works because only some of the make believe computers will be busy at the same time. The benefit of having all the make believe computers is that each can be handed over to its own web master or administrator who would then be free to screw it up without breaking all the other make believe computers.
In all, I instanced one hundred sixty make believe computers and sent the access details up to Lambeau.
This task, though important, only took a few hours of my time. Once I had the first make believe computer set up I could walk away while the others built were automatically.
Ruth Ann was out hunting with some of Bill’s men. We finally figured out what happened to all the animals.
They’re still out there.
They had evolved to avoid all sorts of predators more intelligent and faster than the undead. Wherever the undead were, animals weren’t. Why didn’t we humans think of that?
In her absence, I watched the merging of TC and CB. It was exactly like watching simulations of galaxies merge. As I expe
cted, the axis of march shifted in the direction of the bigger horde. In a little over three hours it was done. The combined horde was christened Chicago B2, or CB2. It was headed right back at us.
From the time TC passed us to the time it merged with CB to make CB2, the Twin Cities horde had gone from 1.6 million to 1.1 million or a decrease of about a third. CB2 had to march back up along the same path route to get back here. It stands to reason, I thought, that we could expect about a third to be killed off before CB2 got here, right?
So, running the numbers to make myself feel better I estimated that CB2 would number about 2.4 million by the time it walked onto my lawn.
I didn’t feel better.
A half an hour later the thinning optimizer spit out an opportunity. CB2 had forked a smaller group that stayed to the west of Decorah Lake. They were now bunched up especially tight against the bluffs and were being left behind by CB2. Barely twenty minutes later planes began bombing this splinter. Helicopter gunships that arrived after the planes had left engaged the remaining dead with Gatling guns and missiles. It would be ground troops next, exactly as Bill and I discussed earlier in the day.
“See?” I said to myself, “down to 3,400,000 already.”
Things were looking up.
Except they weren’t.
The center of mass of CB2 was heading northwest at an average of more than two miles an hour, double the speed of the hordes marching over fresh ground. Maybe they could tell there was nothing left alive where they were so they could move faster. Maybe they were getting hungrier. Nobody knew.
The reality was we would have a far shorter time to prepare for CB2 than we expected. Bill and Ruth Ann seemed quite sure we wouldn’t survive CB2. My own self-doubt grew by the hour.
It certainly didn’t help that walking dead were, in dribs and drabs, appearing out of the tree lines and fields that surrounded us. When the soldiers on the roof let them get close, they invariably headed for the back of the house. Something about the fuel cell system was drawing them in.
That evening an event took place that unsettled things even more. I was in the kitchen enjoying some tea with Ruth Ann and Bill. I hadn’t had the courage yet to tell them about the increase in CB2’s speed. I had to tell them, it was critical that I did, and I was about to when I got an email from one of my guys in Lambeau. It said I should look the output of the thinning optimizer’s last run for Wisconsin.
“Endres at Lambeau wants me to take a look at something,” I said, opening a laptop at the table. “Let’s see what Jay’s got in the box, shall we?” I said.
“Who is Jay?” Bill said.
“Who was Jay. Jay was this guy who went around surprising your parents and grandparents with diamond rings and llamas.”
“Oh. That explains everything. So what does Jay have in the box?”
“A llama.”
“Doug, you’re confusing us,” said Ruth Ann impatiently.
“It’s the next thinning operation in Wisconsin. It isn’t for CB2. There’s another horde on the move. The thinning operation is for the Mequon area. On I-43.”
“What? That’s on the lakefront.”
“Yeah, a horde has formed up and left Milwaukee. It’s heading north on the highway that leads straight to Lambeau. It’s 90 miles from Door County.”
“That puts the horde there on Thursday,” Bill said.
“That’s not all that’s happening on Thursday.
“What now?” said Ruth Ann.
“CB2, it’s walking twice as fast as we’ve seen it before. It will be here too on Thursday. Around the same time in fact.”
Bill’s eyes grew wide.
“Shit Doug, we have to get out of here.” Ruth Ann demanded.
“OK hon. I’ll ask Frank to schedule a pickup when I talk to him in the morning.”
“About fucking time,” Ruth Ann stormed off.
Bill left to brief his men.
When I talked to Frank on Monday morning (Day 40), he was not in a good mood.
“So we’re up to a million, is that right? They’re headed right at us.”
“Yeah, they are south of Sheboygan right now. The optimizer called for a strike about 20 minutes ago.”
“I know. Planes are heading out now. There aren’t a lot of them. Most of our birds are grounded for maintenance. We’re calling for more planes from carrier task forces in the Atlantic but the ones they can spare don’t pack the same punch. A RORO resupply ship is bringing replacement parts so we should be back to full fixed wing strength in a day.”
“And helicopters?”
“Same. Most are down for maintenance. We should be back up to strength in a day. We’re not going to be able to throw much at CB2. The horde marching on Lambeau takes precedence.”
“Frank… This makes my request more urgent. We want to be evacuated.”
“Now? You’re kidding me, right Walter? You busted our chops to stay out there in the middle of nowhere and now you want to bug out? I’ve got a quick answer for you. No.”
“Why not?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Milwaukee A is bearing down on the only protection 300,000 Americans have, our forces are depleted and in need of rest, repair and resupply, and you know what else?”
“What?”
“You’re too important. The results coming out of Christmas Tree are too vital to be without right now. We can’t afford it. Not just here. You’re computers are identifying strike opportunities across half the country. You’ll be fine.”
“Frank you committed to keeping us safe.”
“And at this moment you are safe. The horizon on which we can plan is getting shorter and shorter. Right now, you’re staying put.”
The conversation with Frank ended abruptly.
The first raid on MA (Milwaukee A) took place at Port Washington, Wisconsin. There was a choke point there between the Milwaukee River to the west and Lake Michigan to the east. It destroyed the town.
The need to cut down the size of MA was so acute that all the Milwaukee River crossings were destroyed. Even though the river was fairly wide, about 80,000 undead crossed the waterway. They would likely lose their connection to the horde and be cut off from it when the river made a turn west. The smaller group would be dealt with later after the immediate threat was eliminated.
The raid further reduced the threat of MA to about 800,000, the thinning optimizer reported. If Lambeau could bring to bear enough assets against MA, the refugee camp had a chance of surviving.
“If Lambeau is throwing everything it has at defending themselves, what is left for us?” Ruth Ann observed.
I knew the answer but didn’t voice it out loud. I raised my estimate of how many of CB2 would arrive on my lawn.
Bill said, “I don’t see why they would expend many resources on CB2 when it’s marching over ground that’s already been trampled. There is very little chance there is anything our way worth saving except us.”
“We ought to talk about strategy Bill for your men when CB2 gets here,” I said. “There is no way your weapons will keep them off of us. If your men do fire it would draw more towards us even the fuel cell seems to be.”
“I told you Doug. These second floor windows will be the first thing to give out. If they start climbing over each other, they will pour in here like ants on a picnic lunch.”
“Lovely analogy, Bill. Thank you for that,” Ruth Ann added.
“When CBA gets close we have to shut off the fuel cell whether Lambeau likes it not. Our lives depend on it. When that happens, Bill, are you prepared to say no if Lambeau orders you to keep our systems running?”
“Doug, I won’t answer that. I am a soldier. If given a lawful order I have to obey it.”
“You’re human too. Hell you are practically my insurance man. Our life insurance plans with the same company as the house. You cause us to get killed your company is going to be out millions.”
“Actually that’s not quite right Doug. Our policies have exceptions for acts of
God and war. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, OK?
“You are not being very comforting right now Bill.”
CB2 was north of Tomah already.
At the fork where I-90 and I-94 split, with I-90 heading due west, Lambeau tried something new and cheap to divert some undead from continuing on I-94 towards us.
Three Blackhawks suspended a man each just above and just out of reach of the face of the advancing horde. Armed only with bullhorns and guns they tried to get the zombie’s attention. They were to play the part of the Pied Piper in trying to steer rats into the forests and rough terrain near and past Fort McCoy.
The bluffs overlooking the I-90, as it got closer to the Mississippi, were perfect for squad-sized teams to lay in ambush with mortars. Firing mortars would not make loud enough noise for the dead to localize. Lambeau hoped to cut the number of dead down with a “death of a thousand cuts” if you pardon the expression. If the dead vectored in on a squad, it could melt into the landscape.
The bridges over the Mississippi at French Island in La Crosse were the most significant bridges in the Midwest Administrative Zone to have been destroyed so far. French Island still functioned as a refuge. With no bridges connecting to it, the Mighty Mississippi kept French Island safe.
It was forty-two miles from the fork of the interstates to French Island. Lambeau expected that the number of dead killed off along the route would be sufficient so that the remainder would not pose a significant threat to the refuge. Just the same, ground troops were ferried into the airport there from Camp Ripley, the winter warfare training center in Minnesota.
With my high-resolution satellite feed we could watch the progress of the diversion attempt. Again, I connected the images to our big screen TV. This entertainment, updated each minute, provided important relief to the tension of the long wait for CB2.
“Check it out, the helicopters are hovering right over the fork!” a soldier named Chris Evans said.
Get Off My L@wn - A Zombie Novel Page 15