by Jake Bible
“Clear, sir,” the Team Mates of DTB Two reply.
“Good,” Stanford nods and steps back.
“DTB One,” Cole starts. “Unlike my colleague here, I’d like to take a moment and thank you for allowing me to be your new Team Leader.”
“Fucking suck-ass bitch,” Stanford mutters, making the room smile until the glare from Commander Lee wipes the smiles off everyone’s lips.
“As I was saying,” Cole continues. “Thank you for the privilege. I plan on earning it.” He takes a deep breath. “Unfortunately, I don’t think our first mission with me as TL will do much towards that. We are humping it all the way down to Sector One and the first pyre.”
Before the groans can begin, Commander Lee takes over.
“Silo Team Alpha has not checked in,” Commander Lee says. Any thoughts of protest from DTB One stops with that statement. “A Runner from the Fort Collins outpost was due six days ago to give us their status. We have heard nothing. I dispatched Silo Team Beta yesterday. Their mission is to get to Fort Collins ASAP and gather information, then send a Runner back to Sector One. If needed DTB One will move out and join them.”
There are more than a few surprised looks directed at the commander.
“Yes, I know it’s the first time a Denver Team will be sent out into the Plains,” Commander Lee says. “But we aren’t fucking around here. The Mayor gave you only a hint of what’s coming. Every move we make from here on out will affect the lives of those in the Stronghold now and those yet to be born. Are we understood?”
“Yes, sir,” the room replies.
“TL Lafferty?” Commander Lee nods.
“DTA, you know your assignment,” TL Lafferty says. “So let’s not waste any more time.”
“Dismissed,” Commander Lee says.
The Teams all stand, salute, and head to the barracks for their kits.
Chapter Four- SNAFU
As soon as DTA passes through the main gate of the wall their mood changes. The jokes, the lightness, the casual attitudes are tempered as they walk down the road known as the Turnpike. To either side of the Turnpike are row after row of houses. Most are empty due to the less than secure nature of the area, but winding barricades and wire fencing are set up here and there to supplement the older fortifications along the original perimeter.
Within a mile, the houses thin out and they come to the first of the checkpoints at the original perimeter.
“Morning,” a sentry says, nodding to TL Lafferty. “Good luck, sir. Every person counts.”
“Every person counts,” TL Lafferty says, nodding to the man.
“Hey, Scotty,” Val smiles at the sentry, a man she’s known since kindergarten. “Scotty?”
“Mate, Baptiste,” Scotty replies. “Good luck.” Then he turns his attention towards the horizon, dismissing her instantly.
“Get used to it,” Bobby says. “The sentries keep it formal with DTA. You know, in case we don’t make it back.”
“Oh,” Val says.
They get to the next checkpoint and the next, and are finally outside the original perimeter and out into the unsecured area between the Stronghold and Denver. The Team splits into two squads of five, with each taking a side of the Turnpike. Bobby takes point in the left squad with Clank, Alastair, Tiny D, and Hawks bringing up the rear. The right squad is led by Diaz, and then Duster, Junior, and Val with TL Lafferty right behind her.
On the other side of the Turnpike in the far two lanes is a row of cables, all stretched taut and vibrating as a cable trolley is slowly lowered down the mountain while another is being winched up to the Stronghold. Val had noted how the winch jocks were completely indifferent to the Team as they walked by the first station on their way out. She’d never seen that attitude before as part of DTB, but chalks it up to what Bobby had said.
Val is less than pleased with having her TL on her ass for the entire march, but she shoves the discomfort aside and focuses on her job. Her carbine is held across her body, barrel down, the side of the butt resting against her right bicep, her right index finger just outside the trigger guard. In a split second, she can have the M-4 to her shoulder and firing with a minimum of effort. The rest of the Team holds their carbines in similar positions as they continue their march.
In the first few years of the apocalypse, it was thought that melee weapons were the way to go. They were quiet, didn’t need to be reloaded, and almost anything could be turned into a weapon of some sort to crush skulls or pierce brains. The quiet part was the biggest factor in the couple of years after Z-Day. Noise attracts Zs and the last thing survivors want is more Zs.
However, melee weapons have one serious drawback. They require close combat. Which meant that just one mistake and a survivor is taken down under a pile of hungry Zs. A slip of the foot, a dropped baseball bat, even something as mundane as a muscle cramp, and it’s all over. The casualty rate was so high for the survivors that couldn’t master melee weapon combat that firearms were considered again, despite their noise and need of an ever dwindling ammunition supply.
Some of the more skilled survivors were proficient with bows and crossbows, but that takes a skill set and strength that not everyone has. The pros of firearms became apparent, but the reality of the cons wasn’t something that could be overlooked. The main con was not the noise, but the wasting of ammunition, as well as friendly fire. Where there are guns, there are gun deaths, pure and simple. An accidental drop, a jumpy trigger finger, a dark night and skittish shooter, all led to casualties that could have been avoided.
So the Teams were created, making sure firearms were in the hands of those that were trained to use them. Everyone was required to train, and serve in some capacity, but only the best of the best were taken into the Teams. They understood that anything other than a headshot to a Z was a waste of effort and ammunition. As the Teams progressed and were trained over the years, they became based on the Special Operations Forces Teams that existed pre-Z. This meant less people were needed for a stronger fighting force, freeing up others to do their service and then go back to helping rebuild society within the Stronghold.
Because of the risks taken, and the personalities needed, the Teams became the celebrities of the culture. There was no higher honor in the Stronghold than being a Mate on a Team.
All of that goes through Val’s mind as the reality that she is marching with the cream of the crop, top of the top, the pinnacle of Teams: Denver Team Alpha, Dead Team Alpha, DTA.
A small grin creeps across her lips.
However, the grin is quickly gone when TL Lafferty speaks up behind her.
“Time to man up, Baptiste,” TL Lafferty says and the Team comes to a halt as one. “Two o’clock. Small group of Zs down there and it looks like they found a coyote carcass.”
As the sound of her words drifts down with the wind, the dozen or so Zs that are busy ripping at the unfortunate canine stop and turn their heads towards the Team. Slowly, they get to their feet with noses raised, smelling the freshness of the meal that has marched right to them.
“You can take them, right Baptiste?” TL Lafferty asks as she removes Val’s carbine from her grip and helps her ease her pack off. “All you need is your magic blade, is that correct?”
“I never said that,” Val mutters, a little pissed at the way she’s being treated. Hazing is one thing, but putting her life at risk to prove a point is a whole other.
“What was that, Baptiste?” TL Lafferty asks, putting her hand up to her ear and leaning in. “Something you’d like to share?”
“No, sir,” Val says and pulls her blade from its sheath.
She walks towards the shambling Zs that struggle against the uphill slope and various rocks and scrub brush that lie between them and the tasty, tasty flesh. Val watches them, sizing up the weakest to strongest. Her training instantly assesses which Zs need to go down first. She looks for clues such as broken fingers, a leg being dragged, shattered teeth, or in one Z’s case, no bottom jaw. That one can
wait since it has no biting power.
The blade in her hand is just over twenty inches long, curved with the end wider than the part closest to the hilt. The grip is soft, well worn leather with steel knuckle guards, making it not only an excellent slashing and stabbing weapon, but also packs one hell of a skull crushing punch. She remembers the day it was given to her by a woman that was gone from her life more than she was present.
Val pushes the thoughts of her mother away and prepares for the fight at hand. Her mind works out each move, mentally choreographing her attack and defensive responses just as the group gets within a few feet of her. She rolls her shoulders and her neck, savoring the crunch and pop of nitrogen bubbles trapped within the joints. The Zs at the front of the group hiss at her, showing her their rotten teeth and putrid mouths.
Then she moves.
The first one loses its head as Val slashes out, letting the momentum carry her into a spin as she drops low, coming to stop on one knee, the blade slicing the second Z mid-thigh. That one tumbles on top of her and she stands and tosses it over her back as the next three come at her. She pierces one skull, twists the blade, pulls it back and brings it around in a circular swipe, decapitating the next Z.
As the rotted head falls towards the ground, she catches it on her foot and kicks it into the face of the third Z, antagonizing the monster so it lunges forward at her. She sidesteps and brings her knee up into the Z’s gut, bending it over her leg. She rotates her arm and jams the blade into the back of the thing’s skull, stilling it instantly.
Five down with seven more to go, Val steps around the fallen undead and rushes the next wave. She lowers her shoulder and rams the first two Zs, sending them spinning to the ground. She drops to her knees, sliding in the dry dirt, and cuts the legs out from under one Z, then another. Her momentum is stopped by a patch of loose gravel and she tucks and rolls forward, coming up and jamming the blade into the guts of a comically surprised Z. Putrid internal organs spill from the thing’s abdomen as Val slices upward, bringing the blade out of the Z’s shoulder, splitting it in half.
She kicks the dissected Z to the side and whirls on the next couple, but she misjudges the distance and a Z grabs her and chomps down on her forearm. Luckily, the reinforced material in her uniform keeps the Z’s teeth from puncturing anything, but the force of the bite makes her cry out and she loses her grip on the blade.
“Diaz,” TL Lafferty says.
The man, amused at the show, nods and raises his carbine to his shoulder. A few quick squeezes of the trigger and the remaining Zs fall headless to the dirt. One more shot and the head of the Z clamped onto Val’s arm turns to mist.
Val spins about, her eyes filled with fury, and she glares at Diaz. She bends down and retrieves her blade, slowly making her way back to the Team, piercing the skulls of the fallen, but not stilled, Zs that litter the ground.
“I had them,” she snaps as she wipes her blade on her uniform and sheathes it. “Only one got through and I would have taken it down.”
“Only takes one to get through,” TL Lafferty says. “That’s why we use M-4s only. This isn’t a Beta Team. There’s no room for mistakes with our missions. You thought you knew fighting before, you don’t, but you’re going to learn.”
TL Lafferty holds out her hand.
“With all due respect, sir, but you have got to be shitting me,” Val says. “You saw what I can do? This Team is stronger with that blade on my hip than without.”
“This Team is stronger knowing you won’t waste time playing patty cake with the undead instead of putting a piece of lead into their brains,” TL Lafferty says. “It took you minutes what only took seconds for Diaz to do. Your way is not an efficient use of force.”
“Saves ammo,” Val counters.
“Kevin and his crew keep the armory stocked with ammo,” TL Lafferty replies. “And we have caches all up and down the Turnpike as well as in each Sector in Denver.”
“Caches?” Val asks. “I never had to use a cache with DTB One.”
“Welcome to the grown up world and DTA. We shoot the shit outta things, Mate Baptiste,” TL Lafferty says. “Now get in line so we can make up the lost time.” She smiles at her Team. “Double time, people! Let’s fucking march!”
There are no groans or complaints, but if looks could kill, then every Team Mate would have murdered Val right there on the spot for the double march.
***
Three hours at a full jog, with the late spring sun beating down on them, and DTA is ready for the words that come out of TL Lafferty’s mouth.
“Hold up, people,” she calls. “Fifteen minutes. Take some shade, pop a squat, and drink some H2O.”
The Mates don’t have to be told twice and all slow down to a walk, leaving the road for a grove of pines just a few yards off to the side. Behind them, set way back from the road, is an old, crumbling hotel with the ghost of an outline of a small golf course next to it.
“Still weirds me out to think how people used to just travel from place to place,” Diaz says. “No worries about Zs, no worries about fucking crazies or cannibal traps. Just get into one of those car things and go.”
“I could use one of those car things,” Duster says, looking over at Val as he sits down, his back up against a pine.
“Hey, TL,” Clank calls. “We gonna hoof it back up? Or do we get to take the trolleys?”
The Team looks over at the far lanes of the road and the caged trolley being winched up the mountain. They had already passed two switching stations, each one making them jealous of the people riding inside. DTB is already down the mountain with their Reclamation Crew. DTA had to endure their jeers and taunts as they rolled by.
Passengers going uphill are from small RCs bringing their hauls back to the Stronghold after stripping houses, buildings, and cars for whatever useful materials they can find. The passengers in the trolleys going down are the relief shifts hoping to catch some scraps for a little extra ration tickets. None are big enough to warrant having a Team dispatched with them, so many of them look ten kinds of freaked out and glance longingly at DTA.
TL Lafferty watches the trolley for a minute until it’s lost behind a row of boulders that divide the two sides of the road. She stretches and glances back at her Team.
“How we return is entirely up to Mate Baptiste,” she says. “I’ll let her decide.”
“I vote for the-” Val begins, but is cut off by shushes and growls from her Team.
“It’s a fucking trick,” Clank says. “Don’t say a word or we beat you to within an inch of your life and leave you right here for those Zs.”
Val nods, getting used to the ribbing and animosity. She looks past Clank to the old golf course and the few Zs wandering aimlessly in the high grass. Having been up and down the mountain more times than she can count, she immediately recognizes two of the Zs as regulars.
Regulars, as the Teams call them, are Zs that refuse to leave a specific spot. They may go after prey, if it gets close enough, but only the scent of fresh blood will pull them from their chosen area. The two regulars Val recognizes each wear torn and tattered shorts and t-shirts. One even has the remnants of a shredded straw hat stuck to its head. Val is pretty sure bodily fluids have glued the hat in place permanently.
“What do you think keeps them there?” Val asks, changing the subject from her foibles to something every Team loves to speculate about.
“That guy in the white shirt is looking for his puppy,” Junior says. “The thing got out and now he’s all torn up about it.”
“What the fuck do you know about puppies?” Duster asks. “You have never seen a live dog in your life.”
“I’ve read about them,” Junior says. “There’s like a million books where some kid loses his puppy. What the fuck was wrong with people pre-Z? How do you lose a puppy?”
“You can read?” Hawks asks Junior, her face completely serious.
“Fuck you,” Junior says.
“Junior has read every
thing,” Bobby says quietly. “He’s checked out every book in the library at least twice.”
“More like three times,” Junior says as he takes a swig from his canteen. “Except for those self-help books. What the fuck are those about? People didn’t know how to help themselves?”
“Or keep from losing puppies,” Alastair says. “Am I right?”
“Yeah, no wonder they all fucking died when Z-Day hit,” Junior laughs. “Puppy losing self-helpless fucks.”
“Hey,” TL Lafferty snaps. “Respect for the dead.”
“Sorry, sir,” Junior says. “Every person counts.”
“We always remember,” the rest say together.
They all grow quiet, each lost in their personal thoughts, all eyes studying their surroundings, ever prepared for danger. Then as one, they stand and stretch, lift their packs, and walk back to the road. Fifteen minutes are up.
“A good pace,” TL Lafferty says to Bobby and Diaz. She looks up at the sun. “I want to be at the locale before sundown.”
“Yes, sir,” the two men respond.
They set out at a brisk jog and the others fall into formation, eyes sharp, and carbines ready. It’s an uneventful march.
They watch the trolleys go up and down the mountain across the Turnpike. They pass the switching stations where trolleys are unhooked from one winching rig and hooked to the other so they can continue their journey.
Even the Zs cooperate, and for the most part, leave them alone. A couple groups come at them here and there, but nothing they can’t dispatch with a few suppressed shots to heads. Shell casings are carefully gathered after each attack and they move on, ready to hit their endpoint.
But that’s the deceptive ease of the Turnpike. It lulls people into a false sense of security. It’s a whole other world once they start to penetrate the sprawling wasteland of Denver proper.