by Ben S Reeder
“Reloading!” came a voice from behind me, and I repeated the call as I grabbed another magazine from the cargo pocket. Suddenly, two men came up and knelt down beside me, guns up and blazing. A hand fell on my shoulder, and Adams pulled me back toward the breezeway.
“Come on!” he yelled over the sound of gunfire. “Get us outta here!” I nodded and headed into the breezeway. Adams was beside me with his pistol up. He’d attached a suppressor to the bulky sidearm, and he reached up to flip up his NVGs once we got into the dimly lit interior.
“They’re getting back up!” I heard someone behind us call out.
“Switch to semi-auto and go for the head shot!” another voice replied. There was a moment of silence, then I heard the single pops of semi-automatic fire. I clicked my light on again and kept my eyes to my right, looking for the shine of duct tape against the jamb. When I got to the long hallway that ran lengthwise under the stands, I uttered a curse. Somewhere in the dark, I’d taken the wrong turn, and I’d come out the wrong breezeway. A glance to my left revealed the red exit sign for the south doors, so I must have stopped short in the dark after I’d shut the power off. Turning to my right, I headed north. The sound of combat boots on concrete came from behind me, and I felt my shoulders twitch a little. Silence was as much a shield as darkness, but we also had to hurry.
Movement in the hallway ahead of us pulled me up short, and I pointed the light ahead of us. A woman in a dark colored shirt with Greek letters over her right breast turned to face us, and I could see something dark glistening on her face. Without a word, Adams brought his pistol up and pulled the trigger. The gun coughed in his hand, and the woman dropped with the left half of her skull missing.
“Turning right in the main breezeway. Zak is in the house,” he said into his radio as we pressed forward.
“Falling back, Captain,” someone replied. The gunfire was almost constant now, and I heard someone call out “Reloading!” behind us. Two more yelled it in quick succession, then I heard the sharper sound of pistol fire and curses. I picked up the pace, jogging along until I came to the next breezeway. I skidded to a stop and poked my head around the corner, then jumped back as teeth snapped together less than an inch from my nose. This time, I didn’t scream like a little girl. I managed a more manly expletive as I jumped back, then Adams’ right hand snaked over my shoulder and his gun barked again. Something wet sprayed my face and when I opened my eyes again, I could see more zombies shuffling toward us, backlit against the opening of the breezeway. The bulk of them were on the far side of the door we needed to get to, but the balance was shifting with every second on that. The captain took a step to my left and kept firing. His first two rounds dropped a zombie apiece before I could bring the H&K up. With the optical sights and the light from behind my targets, it was a lot easier to line up shots. I pulled the trigger and shifted my aim as one went down, then had to line up on the second one again when it didn’t go down the first time. The third and fourth went down with one round to the head each, and the right side of the fifth one’s skull disappeared on my second try. Beside me, Adams was firing methodically, sweeping from the left side of the hall, while I aimed for the center. Someone stepped up on my right and started unloading rounds from a suppressed pistol as I found my bullet count climbing through the mid-twenties. When I dropped the mag and called out that I was reloading, he put a hand on my shoulder.
“Wait for Adams to reload, son,” he said, and I nodded to him. When I heard the next mag drop, I brought my rifle up and took aim. Three heads were in my scope, and I pulled the trigger three times, then the breezeway was clear for the moment. I went forward and checked the door on my left, breathing a sigh of relief when I saw the shine of duct tape next to the handle. Gunshots still rang out behind us, then I heard shouting. Adams and the man with him went back to the main hallway while I stayed at the door. More gunfire erupted, and men came barreling around the corner. Two stayed at the intersection and kept firing in both directions while Adams and the older man helped another soldier into the breezeway with another man them.
“Clear south!” someone called
“Contact north!” another voice said.
“Mason, see what you can do for Vasquez,” Adams called out, but the man pushed him away and stripped his vest off.
“No, sir,” Vasquez said. “It’s no use. I’m bit. I’m already starting to turn, I can feel it.” He reached down and unclipped the straps of his holster from his leg, then unbuckled it from his hip and handed it to the older man.
“I have your back,” Adams said grimly as he slid a fresh magazine into the butt of his pistol. Vasquez shook his head and pulled a pair of grenades from the vest at his feet and stuck his index fingers through the pins, then looked over his shoulder. When he turned back, his face was twisted into a parody of a smile.
“I got this, sir. I’ll keep ‘em off your back, you get the colonel outta here.” He turned and headed for the corridor, then turned and stood there, facing north, chest heaving as he waited.
“God go with you, son,” the older man said softly.
“Go!” Vasquez yelled, then he pulled his hands apart, yanking the pins from the two grenades and running out of sight. The two men at the intersection ran toward us. I pushed the door open and stepped into the utility room. As Adams and his men crowded into the small room, I tore the tape off the door, and it closed with a satisfying click behind me. A heavy whump! went off outside a second later, and I closed my eyes, thinking of Vasquez’s courage. If I got bit, I couldn’t hope for a better example of how to go. It took some shoving and squeezing to make it to the trap door.
“It’s going to get tight down there, and hot,” I said as I lifted the metal hatch. “We’re going to have to stay single file most of the way. Some of the pipes are really hot, too.” Six pairs of eyes looked at me, none of them showing more than a hint of the grief I knew they were feeling. It was Adams who broke the silence.
“Okay, Stewart, you lead. I’m behind you, Colonel Schafer, you’re behind me. Mason, Carter, then Jackson on the back end. Suppressed sidearms, people.” Rifles were slung and the other Green Berets pulled bulky pistols similar to the one Adams had been using. “Stewart, shuck that Blackwater rig and put on some real gear.” He handed me Vasquez’s tactical vest with a look that brooked no argument. The Blackwater rig, as he’d called it, was lighter but I suspected it wasn’t as well armored. The vest he’d handed me felt like it weighed three times what I was taking off. I grabbed the radio and did a quick check of the pockets for anything useful. Most of what I found was gear that I’d find in the military vest, but the left chest pocket yielded a wallet with some cash and ID. Once I’d shrugged into the camo vest and buckled it into place, he handed me the holster to strap to my leg.
“”Draw it,” he said once I finished buckling it to my leg. I pulled the pistol and held it up, barrel pointed at the ceiling. “H and K Mark twenty-three Mod zero. Mag release, slide lock, safety, all ambidextrous. Twelve forty-five caliber rounds in the mag, if you’re smart, one more in the pipe. Suppressor and LAM, or Laser Aiming Module. Activates when you put your finger on the trigger. Suppressor screws on counter-clockwise, and she field strips like the old Colt M1911. You don’t put your finger on that trigger unless I tell you to. This pistol shoots better than you do, so if you miss, it’s your fault. You got that?”
“Yeah, I got it. It’s heavy.”
“Get stronger. Suppressor on, then lead the way.” He turned away and I fumbled the clunky suppressor onto the threaded barrel, then slipped down into the hole. The rest of the team followed me, and even the colonel hit the ground with a bounce. I led them back the way I came, then past the McDonald Hall access hatch. Now we were into new territory. The safety lights mounted in the ceiling kept us from stumbling too badly, but they were few and far between, and not even the military flashlight could completely dispel the darkness, and the smell only reminded me I was under several feet of concrete and earth. I cou
ld just imagine the shuffle of feet above me as zombies wandered the MSU campus, searching for food, never knowing that a veritable buffet was walking right under their feet.
The walk seemed to take forever as we made our way through the dusty tunnel, past off shoots that I knew led to some of the dorms. Sweat started to trickle down my face in the oppressive heat. An eternity later, we came to a dead end. I reached out and tried the door, but the knob stayed firmly in place. I looked to Adams and hefted my pistol, but he shook his head.
“I had keys to all the doors when I worked here,” I explained. He gestured to one of the men behind us, and one of them shuffled forward to kneel by the door. He pulled a slim case from his pocket and drew two tools out, then went to work on the lock. A few seconds later, he was pulling the torsion bar to the side and the door opened onto another utility room and cooler air. The steps heading up to ground level was as welcome a sight as I’d ever seen, and I made a beeline for them.
“Where are we?” Adams asked.
“Greenwood Laboratory School, just across the street from Hammons and Hutchens Halls.”
“Where is that compared to the parking garage by the big performing arts hall with all the glass and the fountains out front?” the colonel said.
“About a block south and a couple of streets west of there. There’s a church between here and there. Last couple of big churches I saw weren’t pretty.” The colonel’s face fell and he nodded.
“I know, son. We had to deal with that ourselves. And you’re right, it wasn’t pretty.” The rest of the team nodded at that and made some affirmative sounding noises, which made my respect for them go up a notch or ten. I’d only seen it from a distance. They’d probably seen it much closer.
“Well, if it’s all the same to you guys,” I said, “I’m heading my own way after we get outside. Nothing personal, but our last meeting didn’t end well, and you know where to go from here so it’s not like you need me.” Six pairs of eyes suddenly shifted away from me, and someone cleared their throat. I was about to head for the door when the colonel stepped in front of me.
“Keyes ordered him to kill you and the girl with you,” he said sternly. “So don’t be too hard on Captain Adams or his men. He saved your life.”
“And he just saved ours without knowing that, sir,” Adams said. “I think he’s more than earned the right to be as hard as he wants.” Schafer scowled at Adams over that, then turned to me.
“I can’t argue with that. If you want to go your own way, I have no issue with you doing that. But, you did save my life and the lives of my men. You’re a damn fine shot and you’re cool under pressure. The least I can do is offer you a place on one of the evac choppers.” My heart skipped a beat at the offer. I couldn’t even bring myself to feel guilty about being tempted. Besides, it was one thing to be tempted. It was another thing entirely to give in to it.
“Colonel, I’m all misty eyed with gratitude for the offer. I really am. There’ll be tears later on, I promise. But I’d be breaking my last rule of survival if I took you up on that. Rule twenty two: Watch out for your family and your friends. So, thanks, but no. I’ve got people waiting for me. I can’t let ‘em down.”
“I understand, son. A man has to keep his promises.” He stuck out his right hand and I took it. His grip was like iron, but he didn’t play the squeeze game most macho guys seemed to. “It’s too bad you enlisted in the Air Force. You’d have made a damn good soldier.”
“Thank you, sir. Let’s get you out of here. I don’t know about you, but I have places to be.”
“Hoo-ah!” one of the Green Berets said softly.
Chapter 11
Homecoming
You never know what events are going to transpire to get you home.
~ Og Mandino ~
The back streets of Springfield were empty on my trip home. From the looks of things as I’d made my way east across National, something had drawn every zombie and ghoul in the area to Plaster Stadium. My bet was that the something was Mike Deacon. He’d done almost as much to help me get home as Adams and his team had before we split up at Greenwood. I had five extra magazines for my SOCOM riding in my assault vest and a handful of First Strike rations in the rucksack on my back. Most importantly, at least to me, I had two challenge coins in my pocket, both passed to me when I’d shaken hands with Adams and Colonel Schafer. Between the two of them, I’d probably be set for drinks for life if I ever set foot in a bar again.
For the first half hour, I could hear the sound of helicopters lifting off and the faint rumble of diesel engines, but as I walked down Lombard Street, those sounds became fewer and fewer. Gunshots peppered the night, and the smell of smoke was on the cool breeze that came out of the southwest. As I got within a hundred yards of Glenstone, the last large road I had to cross on the way home, I heard the sound of metal and glass hitting something hard, and the boom of a transformer going up. When I came up beside a store specializing in fur coats, I could see a long swath of darkness to the south of me. Cars were nose to tail heading north along this stretch, but the southbound lanes were mostly clear. There were still no zombies or ghouls in the area, at least that I could see or hear, so I crouch-walked across the empty lanes to the narrow gap between a Mazda and a Cadillac. There wasn’t enough space to squeeze between them, so I jumped on the Mazda’s hood and crossed it in two steps before I jumped across to the trunk of a sedan. Then I was jumping back down on the concrete and hustling between two squat stone buildings. My path took me through the dusty driveway of Glenstone Block and by the fire-gutted remains of the building that used to house the tile and stone store. From there, I crossed the railroad tracks and found myself in a storage yard.
Even though I was in decent shape, I had to stop and take a break for a few seconds. It was one thing to walk five miles, it was another to do it hauling thirty pounds of gear and ammo. It had been a good four years since I’d had to do that.
“At least it’s cooler than Baghdad,” I said softly after I took a pull from the straw of my camelback. Then it was time to move again. Without a vehicle, I could cut between houses and across lawns, which cut a lot of distance off my trip. Without a ton of zombies wandering around, I could move a lot faster as well. Ten minutes later, I was cutting across Barnes Street and heading down the driveway of someone’s house, then climbing the back fence and heading out between two houses at the end of a cul-de-sac. I didn’t bother to read the street sign as I crossed the street that T-ed into the cul-de-sac. It was what was beyond it that I was heading for. Once I hopped the short fence in the back of the next yard, I was off the streets, and into undeveloped brush. This was Carver Park, and it ran almost all the way to Oak Grove. No houses, no people, just pure landscape between me and the road for about a quarter of a mile.
Once I was out of sight of the road and street lamps, pitch darkness ruled the night, so I pulled out my flashlight and turned it on. The red light was just enough to see by and to avoid getting poked in the eye by any low hanging tree limbs as I kept heading due east. I finally broke out into an open field, which made the going much easier until I got to the far side. A little searching revealed the trail I’d found a year before that led out to a vacant lot on Oak Grove. From there, it was less than three blocks to my street, but unlike every other trip home, I wasn’t going to be aiming for the front door.
Instead, I passed my street and took a small drive that ran between two other houses off of Oak Grove into another small park nestled in the center of the block. If you didn’t know about it, you might miss it. The street lamps were still working here and the neighborhood still had lights on, which made navigating without the flashlight a lot easier. With a bittersweet feeling, I unlatched the back gate to our yard and slipped inside. Our shed was on my right, with the big oak tree that I’d built Amy’s tree house in on my left. The house was dark and quiet, but I wasn’t taking chances. As quietly as I could, I went around to the side of the house and peeked over the fence at the front y
ard. Karl’s truck was backed up against the front door, and Porsche’s was in the driveway with Cassie’s Wrangler behind it. I didn’t see any vehicles along the street that I didn’t recognize. One of the neighbor’s cars was halfway through his garage door, and I could see movement in the car itself. A bicycle was laying in the middle of the street, and I didn’t want to look too closely at the asphalt under it, for fear that the dark spot under it would resolve itself into a blood stain and drag marks.