by Mark Rivett
“Captain is gonna be pissed.” Pam looked over the requisition orders and shook her head.
“He will understand.” Carl replied. “Shit’s bad out here, real bad. There won’t be many more runs after this.”
They emerged into the courtyard where ten soldiers stood, rifles in hand, next to the three Humvees. Sergeant Keal had dressed himself in combat fatigues and wore a cap on his head. The convoy crewmen who had remained with the vehicles appeared uneasy – the throngs of desperate civilians replaced by armed and hardened soldiers.
“What’s going on?” Private MacAfee asked Carl.
“Change in orders. Hope you like changing diapers.” Carl answered, hoping to keep the mood light.
Sergeant Keal intercepted Carl on his way to the vehicles and lowered his voice. “I hate to ask, brother, but we could really use some ammo.” Carl was no small man – tall and extremely fit by any standard – yet the enormous Sergeant made him feel tiny by comparison. “You’re heading home to get re-supplied. We aren’t.”
Carl looked at the DDC soldiers who stood glaring at him from behind the Sergeant. He wondered how many knew that they were being sentenced to death: maybe all, maybe none. Carl imagined how difficult it might be to command under such circumstances. Food was scarce, and the world was crumbling around them. Even the most disciplined and loyal soldier could turn on his commanding officer. If he didn’t acquiesce to the Sergeant’s request, it could make the military’s abandonment of the DDC obvious. If the soldiers weren’t in the loop, there’s no telling how they would react to that revelation. “We’ll give you everything we can spare, but, we need enough to get back.”
Sergeant Keal nodded and turned to his men. “No civilians get within twenty feet of these vehicles.” He bellowed. “The Doc says who goes and who stays.”
The soldiers fanned out and created a perimeter around the convoy, as civilians from all over the DDC began to gather around.
“Everyone, unload all the ammo you can. Keep enough to get back, but everything else goes,” Carl ordered.
The convoy team looked back in confusion, then to each other in astonishment.
“That’s an order!” Carl growled.
Chapter 13
The bridge of the USS Ronald Regan bustled with activity. Monitors blinked with information as crewmen communicated through headsets. They coordinated a bewildering array of activity throughout the entire strike group and surrounding civilian fleet. Huge plate glass windows framed the skyline of San Diego. Dr. Henry Damico stood—file folders in hand—waiting patiently for his opportunity to speak to Admiral McMillan. The Admiral had taken control of the supercarrier and accompanying strike group long ago, and his days were constantly filled with responsibilities that would have crushed a lesser man.
Admiral McMillan had a look of grave concern. He stood staring out the bridge windows, his hands clasped behind his back. Henry followed the Admiral’s gaze to the grim scene that sprawled before them. The remains of numerous civilian ships and a few military vessels floated in scattered wreckage. Their shattered hulls were illuminated by the fuel infernos, munitions explosions, and oil fires that burned orange atop the ocean waves. The Mexican army had been driven off – but at a cost. U.S. Navy vessels maneuvered between ships and wrecks, dispensing aid to civilians where they could. Scores of animated corpses flailed in the waves helplessly, as their moans carried on the wind.
At the onset of the Zombie Apocalypse, the United States had its strike groups deployed all across the world. When the American military withdrew its forces to protect its home soil against the zombie threat, foreign allies who had relied on their protection were plunged into chaos. Millions of refugees flooded from one country to another, and opportunistic governments justified annexation of long-coveted territory in the name of humanitarian aid. Imbalances in military strength were leveled by the undead onslaught, and entirely new methods of insurgent and asymmetrical warfare sprang into existence.
Global war ultimately did nothing other than swell the ranks of the undead. Where a wave of terrorist bombings might once have resulted in the tragic death of thirty or forty civilians, those civilians would now rise as ghouls, and magnify the effects of the attack a dozen fold. Conventional and drone air strikes might obliterate entire terrorist cells or manufacturing facilities, but they’d also create a new nest of walking dead who would in turn, multiply like locusts until entire countries were consumed.
When it became impossible to manage the U.S. domestic crisis without drawing on resources allocated to foreign countries, the U.S. called its military power home. Countries whose entire self-defense strategy had for decades been based on an implicit American presence became resentful enemies. Countries like Japan were completely dependent upon U.S. military aid to manage not only a densely packed population ideal for undead contagion, but encroaching foreign powers looking for resources to exploit. Suddenly, old allies became instant enemies, and the complex web of interconnected military and political relationships became obsolete. Nearly every country on earth was now at war with every other country in one form or another. New, unimaginable alliances were formed overnight, and then dissolved the next day only to be reformed and dissolved again in the span of a week. Every new conflict expended irreplaceable resources and personnel.
While nations scratched and clawed at one another to survive, one clear victor emerged above the fray: the undead. Technology and discipline was simply no match for legions of monsters that required no food or supplies, had no morale, or no sense of self-preservation. Henry was acutely aware of the desperate predicament the world was now in – and felt intense empathy for the Admiral who was tasked with managing that crisis twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
“The captain of the Chancellorsville is requesting permission to scuttle his ship, sir.” A specialist spoke up and relayed the communiqué to the Admiral.
“Speaker,” the Admiral ordered.
Instantly, the sound of labored breathing came through the bridge communications system. The Admiral spoke. “Captain Leopold, this is Admiral McMillan. What’s the situation?”
“Hey, Ed…” rifle shots and frantic yelling echoed in the background, “we can’t get things under control over here. I’ve gotta put her down.”
Dr. Damico knew exactly what had happened…because it had happened countless times before. The Mexican attack had resulted in some deaths onboard the Chancellorsville. The dead rose as zombies to attack and kill more of the living. In turn, more dead rose to consume the ship in a hellish nightmare that spread like wildfire. Sometimes, a ship’s crew could get the situation under control. Sometimes, they could not. Standing orders were to deliberately sink a boat that could not be brought under full control. The resources required to retake a ship were simply not available, and rescue attempts often resulted in infections spreading to other ships after operations were complete. Dr. Damico knew all this because this policy had been his own recommendation to Admiral McMillan several months ago. The cold hard math said that the policy was saving lives. No one really knew the lives it cost.
“Okay, Bill, you’ve got six hours. If you can’t get things under control, put her down.” Admiral McMillian’s icy gray eyes met Dr. Damico’s, and Henry could see the resentment stirring beneath them. Captain Leopold was a good friend of the Admiral’s.
A voice from behind the Admiral spoke up. “Six hours! There are three congressmen and a senator aboard the Chancellorsville!” A half dozen government officials sat at a long table behind the Admiral, appraising the situation. Not all congressional representatives had been able to be evacuated, but through luck or connections, a handful made their way to the fleet, took up residence, and resumed politics as usual. The remnants of the American government were scattered about naval vessels and remote locations in isolated parts of the world. Although the U.S. was essentially in a state of undeclared martial law, these statesmen were operating under the pretense that they still possessed some power. W
hile political news might have once made headlines, the entire concept of politics had been completely eclipsed by the crisis at hand and the military efforts to manage it.
The resentment in the Admiral’s eyes melted into white-hot fury as he turned to address the politician who had spoken up. “Yes, sir. Three congressmen, one senator, sixty officers, three hundred and forty enlisted, and about four hundred civilian refugees along with about two thousand tons of food, munitions, and supplies.” The Admiral glared at each of the legislators, for the one who had spoken up. The Admiral still considered himself bound by military structure, and thus, technically answered to the men who sat behind him. He made no secret of his utter contempt for their perpetual stupidity. A very long list of government failures had been written since the onset of the zombie apocalypse, and senators and congressmen existed in a unique new social position: half pariah, half leader. Every civilian and soldier felt a grudging respect for the representative institutions that the country they loved was built upon, but they also felt a hatred for the men and women who had defaced those institutions with ignorance, brinkmanship, and shameless self-interest.
Unable to find the target of his rage, the Admiral continued to address the throng of politicians. “Unfortunately, sirs, the brilliant Dr. Damico, has shown me some very alarming statistics—statistics which show very clearly that any effort to assist the Chancellorsville will likely result in an even higher cost in lives and resources. However…” the Admiral had a habit of pausing for effect, “I can send a helicopter to the Chancellorsville filled with marines who should have the situation under control in a few hours. At that point, we—and every other ship in the strike group—will take on numerous, possibly infected, survivors, while we off-load the cargo. Dry-docks aren’t exactly running at peak efficiency these days, and if the ship is too damaged to repair at sea, it will be sunk. I would remind our civilian leadership that any refugees – some of whom may be savvy enough to conceal infection –will need to be stowed in quarters, which may neighbor your own on this ship.”
The legislators went pale at the thought. They had largely experienced the rise of the walking dead from behind armed secret service and armored vehicles, and the prospect of bunking next to an infected civilian was terrifying. The constant need to explain common-sense policies that had been in place for months to people who were always ready to object or question - but rarely able to offer solutions - fanned the flames of resentments for the disconnected politicians. The largely accurate perception was that while the average American was bearing the brunt and enduring the cost of the undead crisis, government officials merely watched it from afar.
The Admiral paused for a moment, waiting for a reply from the civilian leadership. They merely gaped back at him with a helpless ignorance. “Dr. Damico, I assume your visit to the bridge is important?” The Admiral stressed the words.
“Yes, Admiral…” Dr. Damico began.
“Admiral!” A young technician manning a computer console stood up abruptly and removed his headset. “The USS Harry S. Truman’s been sunk off the coast of Hawaii.” The soldier looked as if he were going to vomit.
The command center of the carrier went silent the moment the news broke. There were once ten U.S. supercarrier strike groups. Three had their crews succumb to zombie infestation in the early days of the outbreak, and they now floated aimlessly through the oceans as titanic ghost ships crewed by thousands of mindless undead. Two more had been scuttled, unable to get undead outbreaks under control. The USS Harry Truman now marked the third supercarrier destroyed in naval combat. Of the original ten, only two super carriers remained.
“The Chinese, sir, they nuked her.” The technician braced himself as he relayed the news. Destroying an aircraft carrier – a ship possessing more resources, military personnel, and firepower than many entire countries – was a considerable task.
“God dammit.” Admiral McMillan whispered. His jaw clenched. “Tell the surviving members of the strike group to rendezvous at our coordinates.” Outwardly, the Admiral’s demeanor was hardened to the seemingly endless avalanche of bad news from around the world, but Henry had learned to read the man. He was troubled. He was in his element – a man born to rise through crisis and shine as a beacon for the solders around him. He had been ground down – questioning whether the hope he offered was an illusion. The Admiral’s name hung on the lips of those in the civilian fleet like a messiah. The man, tough as he was, was beginning to crumble under the pressure and the guilt of failures that piled up like sand in an hour glass.
“Yes, sir.” The technician nodded and sat back down.
Henry couldn’t help but wonder if the small bands of people on the mainland that no doubt struggled for survival behind barricaded doors, atop roofs, and huddled in basements, would give up their struggle against legions of the dead if they knew how dire things were. If an aircraft carrier could not survive the forces that assailed her, what hope did they have?
“Okay, Dr. Damico, I’m ready for it. What do you have for me?” The Admiral rubbed his eyes and turned to Henry.
Chapter 14
Dr. Rosenthal emerged from the school, leading a somber procession of children. Some had a mother and father holding them by the hand, others only a single parent. Many lonely boys and girls walked alone – orphans of a cruel world ruled by the undead. The morning sun was warm, and the military guards dripped with sweat. They stood with rifles in hand, walling off the civilian mob that shouted at the convoy.
“I will pay you! I’ll pay you anything!”
“Please! Please take me out of here!”
“Why do you get to decide who goes?”
“We should draw straws!”
Sergeant Keal bounded atop the rear Humvee and shouted down the crowd. “Hey! Listen! Dr. Rosenthal is in charge here. Everyone quiet down!”
Dr. Rosenthal approached Carl’s driver’s side window and tapped on it.
Carl rolled the window down, and Dr. Rosenthal whispered, “Stay in your cars, we’ll load up the kids.”
“Is this gonna get ugly?” Carl asked.
“I don’t know.” Dr. Rosenthal replied, before motioning for one of the nearby soldiers to open the Humvee door and help the children into the vehicle.
Sergeant Keal took Dr. Rosenthal’s hand and hoisted her atop the Humvee with him. His brawny form stood behind her as she addressed the mob.
“Listen! Everyone! Listen to me!” Dr. Rosenthal’s voice was barely audible, but eventually the commotion quieted. “There’s good news! Good news everybody! The convoys are moving people out of the DDCs into the fleet. They can’t take everyone at once, so they’re taking children first.”
“Bullshit!” someone screamed.
“When do we go?” someone else yelled.
“What about us?” a third person asked.
The crowd began to incite again until Sergeant Keal bellowed at them, “Shuttup!”
The first vehicle was filled with as many children as it could hold. The DDC guards began filling the second.
“Another convoy is on its way to pick more of you up,” Dr. Rosenthal lied. “San Diego is a dangerous place, so we don’t know when it will arrive…but it will be here. Moving everyone out could take a few weeks, so we need to talk about cutting rations.”
The crowd responded with murmurs and shouts of anger, but seemed to accept the news. The promise of a ride to the fleet had been enough to placate them. They barely contemplated the additional more important point: the need to ration.
The second car was filling quickly, and Carl noticed a contrast between parents of the children being loaded into his convoy and the mob behind them. These parents knew: either they had guessed, or Dr. Rosenthal had told them in confidentiality. Staying in the DDC was a death sentence, and they were saying goodbye to their children forever. Mothers and fathers held back tears as they hugged one another. They tried desperately to appear strong and project a sense of hope to their children that they might o
ne day be reunited.
“Bullshit!” someone screamed! “They aren’t coming back!”
“Hey! What did I just tell you?” Sergeant Keal shouted again, scanning the crowd for the instigator.
“It’s okay, there will be room in the next convoy for more of you.” Dr. Rosenthal tried to keep the peace, but she was drowned out by the mob.
Carl watched a soldier close the door of the second car and open the rear door to his lead car. The soldier hurriedly began picking the children up and tossing them into the vehicle. During his third toss, he made eye contact with Miguel and whispered, “Get on that gun.”
“Shit!” Pam punched the communications link on her helmet. “Gunners, mount up right now.”
“They’re leaving without us!” Someone screamed as he dove toward the open Humvee door. A nearby soldier intercepted him, smashed him with his elbow, and knocked him to the ground, but two more people followed.
“They’re not just taking kids!” Someone yelled. “They’re taking everyone!”
The mob pressed in one overwhelming rush, and Carl froze in the face of a horrible realization. Could he order his men to fire on this crowd of desperate people – these civilians who wanted nothing more than to escape the horror around them? Would they follow that order if he gave it? If not, what would happen to his crew? To the children?
In the blink of an eye, Sergeant Keal jumped down from the top of the Humvee he’d been standing on, drew his pistol, and fired into the temple of a man who had gotten close enough to step into the vehicle. The man fell to his knees before flopping over on his side. The crowd silenced, and children began sobbing.
“Oh, my God!” Someone whispered in horror. The crowd recoiled, hundreds of terrified eyes locked on Sergeant Keal.
“This is not mob rule!” Sergeant Keal shouted at the silent crowd, his booming voice echoing like thunder. “This is not every man for himself! This isn’t your ride!”