The Apocalypse Chronicles (Book 2): New World [Undead]

by DeLeon, Jon

  Joe chuckled.

  The commander asked Joe, “Is something funny?”

  Joe’s cockiness showed openly. “They’re attacking trees now. How dumb can zombies be?”

  The whole room shared his sentiment, laughing all around. The commander sported a smile himself.

  “Okay, okay, that’s enough, everyone. Are there any questions?

  “Are we going to have any air support?

  “Yes, the Black Hawks will have fire authority after dropping their teams off.”

  The room was silent except the noise of a soldier adjusting his seat in the metal chair. They had all run this mission already. It was simple at this point.

  “Everyone, report to your squad leaders in thirty. Dismissed.”

  The chopper was approaching its island target. It was easy for Joe and the rest of the team to know where they were going. The black oil fumes were still covering the landing zone. They actually appeared to be thicker than they had been when the surveillance photo was taken. The Black Hawk pilot came over the helmet radio.

  “I thought the commander said that cloud was going to be gone by the time we arrived.”

  “I guess not,” Joe answered. “Do you think the rotor wash will blow some of it away?”

  “Not sure, I’ll try it though. After infil, I’ll buzz it and see if it has an effect.”

  “Roger.”

  Just five more minutes and the chopper was hovering over the smoke. Under the helicopter, a clear patch of ground appeared, blown clear by the choppers wind wash.

  “Go! Go! Go!” Joe commanded his troops out of the Black Hawk. Black ropes unfurled out the side, and men rappelled down. Joe took one look to the west, where another team was rappelling to the other side of the road, and slid down the rope himself. As soon as the last man was on the ground, the chopper pilot pulled higher into the sky.

  “Captain Feller?”

  Joe put his hand to his ear to better hear the call from the pilot. The buzz of the engines almost drowned out the call.

  “Captain Feller?”

  “This is Captain Feller. On ground, over.”

  “Captain Feller, negative on wind blast runs. The smoke is too thick. Experiencing engine clogging, over.”

  “Fire-support capability?

  “Negative. Zero visibility, and the zombies aren’t reading on thermals.”

  Joe cursed under his breath. “Roger.” Something was wrong about this whole thing. Joe’s sixth sense was screaming at him. They were just zombies though. This wasn’t a war zone. He shook the doubts from his consciousness.

  The pilot came back over the radio. “Find that fire causing the smoke and extinguish it, and you’ll get your air support. I’ll stay close by.”

  “Roger. Out.”

  This mission just became a lot worse. The light still made it through the smoke, but just barely. It felt like twilight. Joe was reminded of when his brother, Kurt, and he would play the local golf course as teenagers. They would hop on just as the sun was setting and try to finish as many holes as possible before it got too dark. Usually the last hole they played was a game of luck with finding their balls. That was the feeling now. He could make out shapes and general images but not specific details. Whatever was causing this smoke needed to be found and doused, fast.

  “Let’s hurry, men. Spread out and move forward. I don’t want to be stuck on a zombie-infested island without any support in this haze,” Joe shouted out his commands. He then thought to himself: The mission was supposed to be as simple as securing a bridge after dropping practically on top of the damn thing.

  Joe called the other fire team commander. “This smoke is going to make bridging an issue, plus I don’t like having no air support. You and your team, hold position and clear those trees. We’ll move forward and extinguish whatever is burning and regroup at the bridge. Roger?”

  “Aye aye,” the response chirped through the radio.

  Joe laughed, thinking, okay, Navy. “On me!” Joe commanded. “Let’s find the source of this smoke and stop it.”

  “How are we supposed to put it out?” asked Martinell. Joe had grown to like him over the last months of fighting. He was a good kid.

  “Hopefully it’s a small fuel leak and we can just bury it, suffocate the fire in the process. Worst-case scenario, we set charges near the source and detonate. It would be dangerous, depending on the source, but it would exhaust all the fuel quickly.”

  Martinell and the other eight men all nodded their heads.

  “Martinell, you’re on point. Move out, let’s this get done and get out of this place.”

  Martinell took the first position as the fire team moved out in a small column. They marched toward the thickest part of the smoke cloud.

  Every step quickly became a struggle. The air was dousing the group with unburned oil in the form of a black steam. It caked their uniforms. Each soldier had to tie rags over his face to just breathe without chocking on the black oil. Tears of black ran down some of the men’s faces as their eyes rejected the liquid. The air burned the men’s eyes and nostrils. The toxic smog became hotter with every step the column took toward the source. After 250 meters, Martinell called, “Hold!” from the front. Joe ran up to where he was crouched, looking at the dirt.

  Joe took a knee by Martinell and looked up at the young man. Martinell began motioning with his hands. He pointed two fingers at his eyes and then pointed those same fingers at the ground. Joe followed the path to where his fingers ended up pointing. He saw what had caused Martinell distress.

  The ground had a clear cut through the mud heading to the source of the smoke. The ground had been plowed deep. These could be only one thing: drag marks. Drag marks seemed strange. Maybe something had been sent sliding along the ground during the bombing. Maybe someone had dragged something before this whole zombie thing happened. Maybe Joe was grasping at straws. Whatever caused these marks, the mission didn’t change.

  Joe looked up at Martinell. Martinell was scanning through the fog, trying to pierce the cloud with his eyes, attempting to see anything other than the oily fog. Joe hit him on the shoulder, getting his attention. Joe gave him the hand signal for “follow me.” Joe took point as the column moved forward cautiously. Joe was following the drag marks.

  About fifty meters further into the smoke, Joe and the column of men found the source of the fire. Set in a semicircle was a ring of oil tankers. Each was leaking fuel from its tapping spout into a pit in a steady stream. At the bottom of the ten-foot-deep pit was a raging fire. About thirty tanks fueled the fire. This was not an accident of any kind. This fire was built. Something was wrong. Joe broke the radio silence.

  “Bravo team, come in.”

  The radio chirped as the leader of Bravo came over the radio. “Bravo. Report. Did you find the source?”

  “Yes, but something’s wrong. We are marking the coordinates for a bombing run. We are exfilling now! Keep your eyes peeled. I think we may have walked into a trap.”

  “Zombies that set traps? Are you kidding?”

  “Negative. It looks that way.”

  Bravo’s response was a four-letter foul word.

  “Roger. We are coming to you, and we are getting off this island. Alpha out.

  Joe then called the helicopter, relayed all the information and arranged for the exfil boat.

  Joe had taken two steps before he heard the chatter of automatic rifles coming through the smoke. The click-and-clack was muffled but definite. Joe gave the “HOLD” sign and got back on the radio. “Bravo, report! Bravo, report!”

  “THEY’RE COMING OUT OF THE TREES! OUT OF THE F-ING TREES!”

  The gunfire increased in intensity.

  “Bravo, say again.”

  Silence

  “Bravo, say again!”

  There was no answer.

  The sound of gunfire was still ringing out. Joe strained to see through the smoke. Somewhere out there, Bravo team was fighting for their lives.

  B
ravo’s leader, a tall, slender captain named Perld, yelled to his men, giving the order to move out of the trees and head for the road.

  Immediately after Perld yelled the order to move out, the trees started moving. Bravo team had held their positions as the trees started to shake, dropping coconuts to the ground. A high-pitched whining combined with the sound of grinding choked out everything else. The air was thick with the sound, even thicker than the smoke. Then as the auditory assault reached a painful crescendo, it stopped. Everything stopped shaking, except the legs of the men in Bravo squad. One of the men, farthest from Captain Perld, deep in the trees, yelled out to his commander, “Sir, what is this?”

  In response, the trees around him burst. A zombie came flying out of every tree close to the man. The undead descended on the man. He only fired one shot before three zombies had sunk their teeth into him.

  The two men closest to the poor man currently being enjoyed as a buffet were the first to raise their rifles. They opened up with automatic fire. Their guns blasted. The zombies were ripped to shreds from the discharge. As the guns fired, the trees next to the men exploded with zombie assailants pouring out of them as well. The two men were soon the center of zombie feeding circles.

  As the men attempted to survive, the other two men of the fire squad opened fire. The pattern continued. The gunfire ringing out from their rifles set off the trap. The undead came flying out of the hollowed-out palm trees like they were shot out of cannons. Soon the spatter of gunfire and screaming zombies were all that could be heard. Three of the men, somehow still alive, had gotten back to back and were doing all they could to survive.

  Captain Perld had recognized what was happening and knew, despite his greatest desires, he couldn’t help his men. If he fired his weapon, the trees close to him would explode with the undead. Perld had lain down in a prone position to avoid getting hit by a stray round as the men fought. This was worse torture for him than anything, watching his men fight for their lives, unable to help. He had to report what was happening, or it would happen to the next group.

  As Captain Perld grinded his teeth in agony, his problem was solved. The radio attached to his pack chirped static and then a loud, demanding voice. As soon as Captain Feller’s voice came over the radio, “Bravo, report! Bravo, report!” the trees next to Captain Perld erupted with zombie assailants. Perld’s prone position gave him the second to get his message out before the zombies found the source of the noise.

  “THEY’RE COMING OUT OF THE TREES! OUT OF THE F-ING TREES!” He screamed over the radio and opened up with his M16.

  “Bravo, report! Bravo, report!”

  The only answer was the gunfire raging through the smoke. Someone was still fighting. A few seconds later, everything stopped. Silence reigned.

  Joe put the handheld radio away. Alpha needed to get moving. Joe waved for everyone to follow him. They took off at a light jogging pace, covering twice the ground of a normal walk with each stride. They were moving quickly to get to the exfil point. They were moving too quickly. Joe heard the cracking a split second before the ground gave way.

  In their haste, they had walked onto a pitfall. The ground had been dug out from underneath, leaving only a small patch of dirt supported by pieces of wood. On the way to the source, they had maintained separation. Because of this, their combined weight hadn’t been on the trap at once. On their fast-paced journey back, the group’s spacing had become too close.

  As the trap sprung, all the members of Alpha fell, grabbing at the air, into a twelve-foot-deep hole. Joe shook his head, clearing the ringing out of his ears, and looked around. The walls had been hand dug at an inward-sloping angle, making climbing out impossible. The round enclosure had a set of tunnels leading out of it. Joe had an idea what these tunnels were for. “360 security!” He yelled in a terrified tone. Joe and his men formed a circle with their backs to each other, looking outward, waiting.

  The tunnels started humming. The rhythmic tones of screaming came echoing out. The noise grew in strength, stinging their eardrums. They were under an audio assault. Next, foul smells hit Alpha squad. It was a breeze of death and decay coming out of each tunnel, an air cannon of putridity. Then the real attack began. White teeth and exposed bone glowed in the dark of the tunnels and the underground pit. Alpha opened fire. Their only chance was to clog up the tunnels. Screams and gunfire reverberated off the walls of the room. Bullets tore through greenish, rotting skin. Heads exploded, and limbs detached. Magazines and bullet casings hit the floor as Alpha unleashed all they had. After two minutes of pure mayhem, everything stopped.

  It was a pause in the battle.

  “Check ammo!” Joe called out loud in the silence. Everyone’s ears were ringing, and they could barely hear him.

  Because of this, they did not hear the grinding of bone against rock. The walls around them erupted in dirt and undead tunnelers. A new set of tunnels had been made. Again Alpha opened with everything they had. The blasts were deafening in such a small area.

  These tunnels were twice as large as before, allowing two zombies to walk next to each other. Alpha poured all they could into the fight. One man threw a perfect grenade, collapsing a tunnel but killing himself in the process. The blast had followed the tunnel and sent a shock wave in a concentrated column right back at him.

  As the men fought a losing battle, their ammunition began to run low. The circle of men became smaller and smaller. Soon it was only Joe and Martinell left. They were back to back, spinning in a circle of death, keeping the undead at bay. The zombies pulled back to regroup for their finishing offensive.

  Their time was running out. Martinell ran out of ammo first. Joe handed him the last mag of handgun ammo he had.

  “This is it,” Joe said.

  Martinell looked at Joe with a determined look in his eyes. “Sir, we need to get out of here.

  Joe just looked at him, his face saying, it’s not happening.

  Martinell had other ideas. “Sir, you have long arms.”

  Joe was confused. “So?”

  “If I give you a boost out of here and you reach back down, I should be able to jump and catch your grip.”

  Joe looked up at the ground ceiling. It seemed plausible. The roof had lowered a whole foot where the tunnel collapse had occurred. “Can you hold me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Joe quickly dropped all his gear, so he was just in his bare uniform. He needed to lighten the load. He stepped onto Martinell’s knee and up onto his shoulders. Joe waved his arms as Martinell stood up. Joe reached up and grabbed onto a piece of wood that supported the ground near the edge of the pit. It was solid. He pulled himself out of the hole. Joe turned around, reached his hand out. Martinell took a few steps back and then began running.

  One step, two steps, Martinell planted and pushed with all his might. As he went airborne, a hand grabbed him. It wasn’t Joe’s.

  A zombie had come rushing out of the tunnel and dove at Martinell. He caught him midair. Martinell’s fingers had touched the tips of Joe’s, but he was too short on his leap. Martinell came crashing to the ground as Joe had to watch. The zombie tore into Martinell’s lower legs, its teeth digging through clothes and skin, and into bone. Martinell screamed and started fumbling with his pack. He looked up at Joe and screamed, “RUN!”

  Joe saw why. Martinell had pulled out the C4 plastic explosive they had planned to use to blow the fuel. He would go out fighting. Joe crawled backward away from the edge. He turned and took a few steps, running toward the beach. The ground became a wave under his feet. It lurched and dipped. All around him, dirt erupted into the air. The explosion followed the tunnels. Any weak point became a geyser of dirt, air and dead flesh.

  The concussion and moving ground threw Joe to the earth. He was already disoriented from the underground battle. This explosion threw him into complete confusion. Joe could only focus on one thought: Get to the beach. Get to the ocean.

  He crawled. He could feel the sand as his fing
ers pushed through soil. Crawling, just crawling. Joe was a zombie himself now. Blood ran from his ears, nose and eyes. He was fighting against becoming unconscious. He felt the cool lap of water on his fingers. With a couple more exertive drags, he was floating in the water. Joe began backstroking as best he could. He looked up at the sky, seeing the smoke floating away from that cursed island. The smoke billowed and played in his vision. Soon it was all he could see.

  Everything went black.

  CHAPTER 3

  The Russian Wilderness: Outbreak Day +65

  Twigs snapped underfoot as Kurt ran as fast as the terrain allowed through the dense Russian forest. The trees flew by like a blur as he ducked under branches and hopped over the occasional downed tree. Kurt was careful. He had trail run before and knew one wrong step could result in a broken ankle. If he slowed now, he would be dead.

  The zombie pursuing him was not nearly as agile, but it also hadn’t given up. Black, bloody ooze ran from its shattered ankles and a million cuts along its upper body. This man had been dead and buried for years, but the permafrost of the Russian soil had kept his body preserved. This natural mummy was now brought back to life and was hungry. Kurt had built himself a near-three-hundred-yard advantage. Hearing a loud snap, he turned around. The zombie was gone.

  Kurt got down on one knee. His heart was pounding through his ears. The thump-thump-thump deafened him and blocked out any noises from the surrounding forest. He had to focus on his breathing to calm his body. Eyes still darting all around, he rested for a few minutes.

  His breath and heart now back to resting rate, Kurt could finally hear it. The zombie was still out there. Its moans and screams were now different, muted, muffled. It sounded like someone gagging. Kurt slowly got up and walked cautiously toward the noise. After a short time, he reached his undead pursuer.

  The zombie was lying down on the ground, face first. It was scratching at the dirt, trying to crawl but couldn’t. Its right leg was broken at the knee. Kneecap and femur stuck out of the pale skin. The other leg of the zombie was shattered above the ankle, where the teeth of a bear trap now clamped down. It was trapped, literally. When it had fallen, its jaw had slammed into a rock, also shattering. The permafrost had preserved the zombie’s body, but this used-to-be-man’s bones were brittle. It now only had one jaw and was trying to scream but only could manage a gurgle. It saw Kurt and started crawling in his direction. Kurt took a step back. The zombie now was at the end of its leash, a few feet from its prey. Yet it still grabbed and clawed at the dirt underfoot.