by J. Thorn
“Foxtrot, sir?” A Marine lance corporal had both his hand and his eyebrows raised.
Ainsley cleared his throat. “The designation for the new Zulu type is ‘Foxtrot November’. Work it out in your own time.” The heavy brow of the Marine started working up and down while Ainsley carried on. “It is believed that this represents a new adaptation of the virus – occurring in areas that have long been totally infested. So there’s at least a chance we’ll face them in Chicago. Martin and Wesley have kindly dropped in to brief us.” He stepped aside.
The two newcomers, scanning the room, now looked briefly to each other. The soldier straightened up. “Well… they’re fast – much faster than Romeos, or runners. Faster than any I’d ever fought. They also seem to have much more agility and body control. And they don’t appear to feed – only to infect.”
Another Marine raised a hand. “Don’t feed, sir?”
Ainsley chimed in again. “The theory from the bio blokes is that it’s an adaptation – when there are few enough living remaining, this ‘infect-and-run’ behavior gets the infection into the last remaining pockets of survivors.”
“Bohica,” mumbled another Marine. Bend over – here it comes again. Several of his teammates laughed aloud.
Wesley, the UKSS noncom, took a step forward. He didn’t look like he was finding any of this funny. “Just a single one of these things,” he said, fighting a quaver in his voice, “took down both of the men in my station before they even realized what was happening. They never had a chance... And before we knew it, it had turned ten, twenty, fifty more…”
Under his breath, one of the Marines whispered, “Motherfuckers shoulda learned to duck… Security dudes, jeesh…” This drew barely stifled laughter from MARSOC and Alpha both.
Wesley gave the room a venomous look. Handon didn’t look best pleased, either, and spoke sharply. “It’s not just security service guys, you comedians. USOC’s lost people, too. My team’s PO attachment bought it when one of these things leapt onto a fast rope dragged by a moving helo. And they may be responsible for taking out the SEAL team that was wiped out to a man yesterday.”
This seemed to drain the humor from the room.
Martin looked more circumspect, but added quietly, “I lost my whole platoon. One of these things got loose in our lodgings. Most of my men never made it out of bed.”
Gunny Fick stood, removed a stub of cigar, and concluded: “So you motherfuckers be advised: field reports indicate that the difficulty of making a headshot on a Foxtrot is about like the difficulty of hitting a regular Zulu – squared. They’re coming fast, they’re running and jumping – and with the implacable intention of turning you into a flesh-eating freak, who will kill and eat your own friends, probably in seconds. Under those conditions, only complete dead-eye dicks, who also have pure liquid nitrogen running through their goddamned veins, can make that shot. Which had better describe you fucking smart alecks.”
* * *
“…Another concern on this op is going to be the danger of ‘Robert Neville’ types still breathing air in Chicago.” The commanders had been trading off for over an hour, and Fick was now taking a turn. Frankly, the Marines had a bit more experience zombie-fighting in more places, and in more varied terrain, than had Alpha. Also, since each group had lived its own personal ZA, their slang didn’t match up perfectly.
Ali raised her hand. “Robert Neville types, Gunny?”
“Yeah, you know, from I Am Legend. That guy living all alone in New York. I think in that other book they called ’em LaMOEs – Last Man on Earth. A long-term survivor, holed up with a lot of firepower… and very accustomed to shooting first and asking questions never.”
“Copy that, Gunny.”
Ali sunk low in her chair and pushed her hair behind her ear.
“Accordingly, it’s going to be full body armor along with the bite suits and face shields…”
* * *
“Let’s talk exfiltration and extraction,” said Ainsley.
“Thank fuck for that,” muttered Henno, along with several similar sotto voce sentiments.
“You all know how critical this target is believed to be. Frankly, it’s a lot more important that we get the data out than that we get ourselves out.” He let that grim reminder of their duty sink in for a few seconds. “The plan is this: we’re jumping in with a powerful radio transmitter, with encrypted burst data capability, as well as the batteries to power it. When we’ve secured the NeuraDyne servers, we’re going to try to send all the data out on the air straight away. But there may be paper documents, samples, chemical solutions, slides, X-rays, or other materials we need to get out as well.”
Handon removed his soggy cigar stub from his mouth and jumped in. “Plus, some of you sons of bitches may have ideas about getting home yourselves.” Most of the men grinned. The dynamic between Handon and Ainsley was actually a pretty good example of the complementary roles of officers and senior NCOs, with the latter as combination big brother and enforcer.
Ainsley went on. “As you’ll have guessed, we can’t just fly off the top of the building again. The closest place a fixed-wing aircraft can land to extract us is here.” He lased the map at a little island just off the edge of downtown, sticking out into the lake, and connected by a thin land bridge at its northern end. “This is Northerly Island Park – formerly Meigs Air Field. From 1948 it was a little single-strip airport. In 1994, Mayor Richard M. Daley announced plans to close the airport and build a park in its place. There was some sort of palaver involving the state legislature, and in the end Daley bulldozed the runway. However, in 2003, we know that a small commuter aircraft made an emergency landing on the grass next to the demolished strip. After effecting electrical repairs, it took off safely again.”
Drake chimed in. “It won’t be the smoothest take-off you’ve ever experienced. But my pilots have seen the sat imagery. And they’re confident they can get in and out again. As you know, the bird for this op doesn’t have the endurance to linger, and there’s nowhere safe to land and hang out – so as soon as you jump, it’s going to do a 180 and race back to the flattop to refuel. At the Greyhound’s max cruise speed, it’s a hair over 2.5 hours each way. So that’s a minimum of five hours you’re on your own. When you ring, the bird will go out again – empty, if you’ve got the goods and need extraction; full of Marines if you need assistance. Either way, it comes down on the island airstrip.”
“Wait a second,” Predator said, his palm making a move for his forehead. “There’s still the small matter of getting ourselves to the freaking airstrip.”
Ainsley nodded. “Two-point-eight miles over surface streets. You’ll hardly notice it.”
Predator went ahead and executed that face-palm maneuver. Juice joined him. Imagining that three-mile run out in the open, through an urban center, surrounded by virtually unlimited attackers, they were both pretty much thinking the same thing:
Welcome to the Mogadishu of the Dead – Population: us.
And around them the ship sailed on through the night, toward the Dead New World.
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Alpha team returns in
ARISEN, BOOK TWO – MOGADISHU OF THE DEAD
A world fallen – under a plague of 7 billion walking dead
A tiny island nation – the last refuge of the living
One team – of history’s most elite special operators
The dead, these heroes, humanity’s last hope, all have...
Fans of the bestselling AR
ISEN series are calling it “a non stop thrill ride”, “unputdownable”, “the most original and well-written zombie novels I have ever read”, “riveting as hell – I cannot recommend this series enough”, “the action starts hot and heavy and does NOT let up”, “astonishingly well-researched and highly plausible”, “non-stop speed rush! All action, all the time – got my heart racing”, “A Must Read, this book was a hell of a ride”, and “may be the best in its genre.”
Humanity will return in
ARISEN, BOOK SEVEN – DEATH OF EMPIRES
There is a place where nightmares are real. It is a dark and terrifying place, hidden from the world we know by borders that only the most unfortunate of souls will ever cross.
James Halldon woke up in the dark, alone, without any food or water, without a clue where he was, and with no memory of where he came from.
It only got stranger…
Readers are calling the bestselling DIARY OF THE DISPLACED series “fast-paced, thought-provoking and thoroughly entertaining”, “utterly compelling from beginning to end”, “a fantastic book – gripping from the very first couple of lines”, “ghosts, zombies, London buses and even an evil nemesis. What’s not to love?!”, “truly magnificent”, “the best book I’ve read in a long time”, “one of the finest-written stories you will ever read”, “a brilliant series – right up there with Neil Gaiman and Clive Barker”, and “simply perfect… absolutely enjoyable from start to finish.”
They are the most capable, committed, and indispensable counter-terrorist operators in the world.
They have no rivals for skill, speed, ferocity, intelligence, flexibility, and sheer resolve.
Somewhere in the world, things are going horrifyingly wrong…
Readers call the D-BOYS series “a high-octane adrenaline-fueled action thrill-ride”, “one of the best action thrillers of 2011 (or any year for that matter)”, “a riveting, fast paced classic!!”, “pure action”, “The Best Techno Military Thriller I have read!”, “Awesome!”, “Gripping”, “Edge of your seat action”, “Kick butt in the most serious of ways and a thrill to read”, “What a wild ride!!! I simply could not put this book down”, “has a real humanity and philosophical side as well”, “a truly fast action, high octane book”, “Up there with Clancy and W.E.B. Griffin”, “one of the best Spec Ops reads I have run into”, and “hi-tech and action in one well-rounded explosive thriller.”
Book Description
His name is Jimmy. He's twenty-two, skinny, and still a virgin. He has no friends. He lives with his grandma and works at her used bookstore. He’s a self-described loser.
This is your hero.
By his side, a diverse group of survivors, including a cop, a prostitute, a drug dealer, and even a newborn baby. They're crossing the country on a crazy and comical post-apocalyptic adventure, following the infected as they migrate west. That's right—these zombies don't just stand around waiting to be stimulated; they're on a mission, and what is guiding them awaits Jimmy and his fellow survivors at the end of these dead highways.
But along the way, Jimmy may discover something even greater.
His place in the world. Finally. Even if everyone else is gone.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Dead Highways: Origins
Book 1 in the Dead Highways Series
Copyright © 2013 by Richard Brown
Published by Incendiary Books
All rights reserved.
For more information about the author visit: www.richardbrownbooks.com
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Other Books by Richard Brown
Dead Highways: Origins (Book 1)
Dead Highways: Passage (Book 2)
Titanic with Zombies
Contents
Book Description
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
The Adventure Continues . . .
Chapter 1
March 10, 2012, was the day the apocalypse began.
But we’ll get back to that later.
Chapter 2
February 13, 2012, was the day before Valentine’s Day, and I (your loyal guide, Jimmy) was at the gun shop.
Guns Unlimited.
I wasn’t there to get a present for my imaginary girlfriend. I wanted a gun for myself—needed one, just in case things got worse.
The biggest problem was I knew nothing about guns. I'd never held a gun before, let alone fired one. Sure I'd seen plenty of guns on TV and in movies, but how much of that was just camera tricks and special effects? How many times would I have to shoot someone to make sure they stayed down? But first I needed to know—
“Where do you put the bullets?” I asked, thoroughly examining the pistol Ted handed me. The gun was cold and heavier than I expected.
Ted was the owner of Guns Unlimited. He was a rather large man with equally large hands. His skin was darkly tanned and he had freckles everywhere, more than I think I'd ever seen on one person. I found myself staring at them curiously, even while he did his best to ease my anxiety and answer my stupid questions.
He took the gun from me. It looked like a toy in his hands.
“See this,” he said, pointing at what looked to be a button or switch of some kind on the left side of the gun, near the top of the handle. “Push it to release the magazine.”
He demonstrated and then handed me the magazine.
“And so the bullets go in here?”
He looked at me like I was an idiot.
I suppose that was fair.
“You sure you want to buy a gun? I mean, you've thought this through?”
“Yeah, sure.”
He looked at me like I was a liar.
“Okay then, hang tight.”
He turned around and walked through an archway to the rear of the store.
“I really appreciate your help.”
“It's no problem,” he said from the back storage room. “We all have to learn from someone. My dad taught me when I was young.” Ted returned to the counter with a small box of ammunition. “I could sell you a gun even if you have no clue how to use it. I could let you shoot yourself in the face, and my hands would be clean. But that's not good enough for me. I want a clean conscience, too. So I take gun safety very seriously. I really hope you're listening. I don't want to see on the news that you committed suicide. You ain't depressed or anything, right?”
“No sir. Though it might be hard to shoot myself if I can't figure out how to load it.”
“I'd say it would be difficult to shoot someone else too, assuming you must. You said you wanted the gun for protection.”
I nodded.
“Well then, since an unloaded gun is about as useful as a pecker on a priest, I guess you'll need a crash course. Follow me.”
He led me across the store and through a heavy wooden door to an adjacent building. The building was colder than the store and had a funny smell. Later I would know the smell as gunpowder. To say I was out of my element would be an understatement—I stuck out like a headless man in a hat store.
Ted explained to me that this was a gun range, a place for people to come and practice their marksmanship. Ten dollars for a half hour was the current rate, but freckle face was happy to let me shoot a few rounds for free.
There were six stations with a maximum shooting distance of fifty feet. Ted set my target up at half that. He showed me how to load the magazine, and then outfitted me with a pair of earmuffs and protective eyewear.
“Is all this really necessary?” I asked.
“Yes, it’s the law.”
“Like wearing your seatbelt?”
Ted pointed out the different parts of the gun and then took a few shots downrange to demonstrate.
Holy crap!
I still didn’t know why I had to wear the goggles, but I was glad I had the earmuffs on.
Ted had put two holes in the paper man-shaped target right between the eyes.
Next, it was my turn. He handed me the gun.
“Always keep the safety on until you’re ready to shoot,” he said. “Did you pay attention to how I was holding it?”
“A little.”
He helped me into the correct position. “Go ahead and take the safety off. Then aim and pull the trigger. Try to hit the target in the chest.”
“Shouldn’t I try and hit the head like you?”