If it hadn’t been for Sgt. Richardson’s quick thinking at closing the side door before they bolted behind the garage for cover, the billowing exhaust fumes would probably have drawn unwanted attention. Richardson was sure the smell of the fumes had drifted to the street and the two air guards had probably smelled it, and that is why the Stryker FSV momentarily paused. After the armored vehicle departed, Arn and her team moved back to the garage entry. When the fumes had cleared enough for them to enter, they discovered a family of three inside the vehicle with one end of a hose attached to its exhaust pipe and the other in the partly opened rear window. The team assumed the family must have contracted the plague and feared they would turn into zombies. Except the family hadn’t realized that suicide by carbon monoxide asphyxiation wasn’t going to prevent them from turning into the living dead. Arn and company departed in search of another vehicle, leaving the zombie family trapped inside the car.
A few more residences away, the team saw a Stryker sitting near the road. Unsure of why it was sitting there, and with a bunch of zombies lurking around it, Arn decided to err on the side of caution. She moved her team around the back yards of the residences and onto the rear of the property that the Stryker was on, and came upon the destroyed barn.
There was another small group of zombies wandering around in the back of the property. The zombies immediately smelled the approaching team and went after them. Arn didn’t want the living dead from the front of the property being attracted by gunshots, let alone making their presence known to whoever was in the Stryker. She ordered the use of knives against the half-dozen zombies. As they moved through the half pack of zombies, blading them through the eye socket to puncture their brains, Arn came to one with a chewed off face and a bite-ravaged body. It was one of the 3-2 SBCT. There was a corpse of a soldier on the ground, too. That soldier had been nearly cannibalized to the bone, leaving little left to be reanimated.
Arn figured the Stryker had crashed into the barn, collapsing it, and the two Stryker soldiers must have perished in the process of getting the vehicle out from under the debris. She didn’t know there were two other bodies buried under the rubble. The reanimated Stryker soldiers were not visible. However, her conjecture didn’t explain why the vehicle was sitting on the edge of the roadway in the front of the residence. Nor why the other Stryker had gone up the road toward the second armored vehicle and then back the way it had arrived shortly thereafter.
There were eight or so zombies around the Stryker and on the road, and no vehicle air guards doing over watch. Arn and her team repeated the killing process without incident, although Spc. English nearly got bit when a zombie tripped him up and he fell. Richardson came to his rescue. With all the living dead dispatched, the team cautiously approached the eight-wheeled vehicle.
It was too good to be true. The Stryker was abandoned. But why? Arn wondered. Had it been damaged to the point it was undrivable? After all, it had crashed into the barn and was still decorated with broken pieces of lumber. It was the optimal transportation. The Stryker could run on four or eight wheels. It had a range of 300 – 330 miles with a top speed of 60 mph. Plus this vehicle was equipped with a M2.50 caliber machine gun as the main armament for the remote weapons station and a M240 7.62mm machine gun for its secondary weapon. Even if the weapons were inoperable, the vehicle was secure enough to be impermeable to the living dead, as well as heavy and powerful enough to run over a small herd. After a quick undercarriage inspection revealed no damage, Arn and team decided to see if the vehicle was drivable. Most of the vehicle’s electronic systems were on, though the vehicle’s engine was turned off. Spc. English was the designated driver, since he was one of the armory’s personnel who drove their medium tactical cargo vehicles. The vehicle started without a problem. English slowly moved the Stryker off the property and turned it to the direction they needed to be headed. Arn stood in the rear air guard hatch watching their surroundings as the truck picked up speed. Without incident, they would make it to Middletown, New York, in a little over four hours.
***
Without incident, Spc. Emery would have made it to his Cooper Road home in Fishkill from Stewart ANGB in under thirty minutes. It wasn’t just the living dead that had hindered his short trip; it was also the living.
The main roads leading to and from the base had been mainly clear. Emery believed it was because of all the active combat fire happening around the area to prevent the living and the zombies from breaching the base. However, after he crossed over Route 87, traffic on the inbound side of Route 84 began to grow heavy. There were still people in cars who believed they could get to the air base for safety.
Route 84 remained relatively clear of vehicles on the outbound side all the way to the Newburgh-Beacon Bridge that spanned high above the Hudson River. He hadn’t made it half the way across when he believed a large horde of the living dead was running directly toward him. He had to get across the bridge and no damn zombie horde was going to stop him. He depressed the gas pedal and sped up, charging toward the oncoming pack. The zombies moved out of the way. At least that is what he thought, until one person stood in his path attempting to wave him down. He realized the running zombies weren’t actually zombies but the living, fleeing in panic from some unapparent threat. It wasn’t until he neared the end of the bridge, almost to the toll plaza, when he understood the significance of what he had witnessed.
There was a huge pile up of cars blocking both the inbound and outbound lanes near the outbound toll plaza. Some of the vehicles were on fire. The living dead were everywhere, feeding upon their victims. The living were fleeing in all directions, trying to stay alive. He attempted to find a way around the congestion, but the zombies took notice. If he wanted to get through, he knew he needed to clear the way, and that meant engaging the enemy as well as getting some of the cars out of his path. Emery squeezed over the front seat and into the back to get to the roof hatch and the pintle-mounted M249 light machine gun on top of the roof. He checked the cartridge box that held the 200-round belt of 5.56x45mm NATO ammunition. It wasn’t a full belt, but he believed if he used the ammunition frugally there would be enough to eliminate the oncoming threat.
Even being prudent with the ammunition he didn’t have enough to expeditiously eliminate them. Heads made for small targets, and there were many. When the ammo belt went dry, he changed to his M4 carbine with its 30-round box magazine. Luckily, there had been several discarded full magazines on the floor of the front passenger seat, for he had only one full magazine remaining from the armory. By the time Emery had eliminated all the living dead, he was down to a magazine and a half of ammo, and there was still another eight miles to go.
With the zombies being cleared from the immediate area, he knew it was prudent for him to get the blocking vehicles out of his way before more threats showed up. However, the impasse proved to be too challenging. He had quickly come to the realization that the only way through the condensed motor vehicles would be by foot.
By dusk Emery had reached the abandoned Verplanck Tenant Farm House, which had been used as a visitor center for the Stony Kill Farm Environmental Education Center. He took refuge there until dawn. He was now less than 4 miles away, and had no way of contacting his wife to tell her he was almost home. Cellphone service was now nonexistent.
It took Emery until midafternoon to get to his residence. The curtains were drawn and the doors were locked. Seeing the house had not been breached, he had high hopes that his wife and child were safe. He found both of them in the bedroom.
His four-year-old daughter Melissa seemed very content making a meal out of her mother. Her protruding, over-filled belly was proof. She had eaten a good portion of her mother’s torso. However, seeing and smelling fresh meat was more appealing to her. Emery was sickened to the point of vomiting from the discovery he had made. He quickly fled to the dimly-lit kitchen and threw up in the sink. He heaved several times, wondering how he had expelled so much when he had eaten so little the
night before.
Eating was still on little Melissa’s mind. She shambled into the kitchen, groaning, with outstretched arms. The weight of her consumed mother slowed her attack. Distraught and teary-eyed, Emery raised his M4 and took aim. “God, forgive me,” he sobbed and then pulled the trigger. It was a clean shot to the forehead that blew out the back of his daughter’s skull.
Emery had not given much thought to his dead wife. He sat on the kitchen floor weeping over what he had done, and for the guilt he felt at not getting home sooner. His reanimated wife crossed the threshold and lunged toward him before he noticed her presence. If it hadn’t been for her stumbling across their dead daughter, she would have seized him before he could react. Emery grabbed the carbine that lay next to him, and let loose with a barrage of bullets. His wife did a macabre dance of death, but none of his bullets had struck her in the head. When the gun went dry she came for him again. Emery grabbed an 8” chef’s knife from the wood knife block upon the kitchen counter, and drove it hard through his wife’s right eye.
Emery collapsed back to the floor. Overwhelmed by the loss of his daughter and wife, he could not bear to live. He reloaded his weapon, and then placed the barrel of his carbine under his chin and pulled the trigger. However, as he did the barrel shifted. The 5.56mm bullet ripped through the side of his face, missing his brain. Emmett Emery would die from blood loss an hour later. Seven minutes after that he would return as one of the living dead.
***
The living dead were everywhere, just not as many in the rural populated areas, as Arn had surmised. There were some zombies that got in the path of the vehicle, but there were no hordes to deal with. The few zombies that had the misfortune of getting in the Stryker’s way were mangled under the large steel-belted tires, and spat out the back in a twisted mess as it rolled over them. The trip had already taken six hours, and they had only made it to the Delaware Water Gap Recreation Area north of Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania, when the vehicle slowed to a stop along Federal Road just twenty feet from the turnoff to Dingmans Campground. Spc. English was slumped over in his seat, sick and sweating profusely. English had not told his captain or sergeant that he had actually been bitten back in Parkton.
When Richardson tried to give English some water because he was complaining of extreme thirst, English became panicked and fearful, as if the water was poisoned. His water fright struck Arn as peculiar and alarming, and then she remembered observing the zombies along the dam’s waterline. It was as if they had an aquaphobia. Was English’s agitated state over the water related to the zombies’ bizarre behavior at the Pretty boy Dam? she wondered.
Arn and Richardson discussed what needed to be done about the specialist. They both agreed that he was infected; the proof was the bite wound on his arm. However, neither wanted to execute him. He was a member of the 69th Regiment and had survived the siege of the armory. English also had been an important mission member in their fight for survival. No, they both agreed. No killing Spc. English.
They didn’t want to leave the specialist sitting on the roadside up against a tree. The least he deserved was a place where he could be comfortable for whatever amount a time he had left. Seeing the large campground road sign that stated there was a general store, they left him inside the log cabin store with his M4 carbine in his lap.
“Nár laga Dia do lámh,” Arn said to him in Gaelic before she left: May God not weaken his hand. Spc. English understood his fate was now in his hands.
Richardson simply told him, “Faugh a Beallach. See you on the other side, kid.”
***
Just before the turn off to Route 84 East in Matamoras, Pennsylvania, Arn and Richardson had no choice but to stop and refuel the Stryker. Even in four-wheel drive mode, the trip had consumed nearly all 53 gallons of diesel. It was a risk getting out in an urban area, but if Arn wished to get to Lebanon Springs after they made it to Middletown, they had to refuel. It took longer than they wanted. Richardson had to hook up the vehicle’s high-power generator to the station’s pumps, because there was no longer electrical power. With the exception of two living dead, which Arn dispatched, there was no horde of zombies to deal with. They were underway in less than an hour. They reached Richardson’s home shortly before dusk. The family SUV was gone, but there was a note from his wife on the inside of the entry door. His family had bugged out. They had received a call from the commander’s office at Camp Smith, the military installation of the New York State Guard in Cortlandt Manor near Peekskill, offering her refuge, as she was a spouse of a New York State Guardsman who had been called to active duty. They had left for the military installation on the second day of the outbreak.
Captain Arn told Richardson they should go to Camp Smith immediately. It was only 35 miles northeast via US-6 E. However, Richardson knew Arn was anxious to get home, especially since she had not been able to reach her family after cellphone service went out. Richardson knew if there was a chance of his family surviving the plague and the zombie uprising then it was at the military base. He took Arn home and went on to Camp Smith alone.
***
Arn came home to find her father inside the house, sitting in the dim candlelit living room, very much alive, and not a zombie. He had become ill and, according to news reports before the electrical blackout, he had signs of the zombie virus: extreme fatigue, profuse sweating, high fever, extreme thirst, and dehydration. He had exiled himself from the basement so he didn’t put his wife and granddaughter at risk. But he had not died and had not turned into a zombie. He didn’t know if it was the luck of the Irish or if he had just contracted a different viral infection, but whatever it had been, it had passed.
He had known his daughter Cullin would return, no matter what. She would not leave Casidhe motherless. So he had waited. He had been right.
Arn’s mother and daughter were alive and well in the basement, and that is where they would all stay hidden and locked away. She had enough food, water, and sundry items to last a family of four for three months, and solar power to keep their bunker lighted.
***
Sergeant Richardson made it to Camp Smith, but the military base had been abandoned. He did not find his wife and son anywhere on the installation, but he did find his SUV in the parking lot. For whatever remaining days he had left, he would make it his sole purpose to find his family. He left the base with a full stock of food and water, and a lot of weapons and ammunition.
***
Capt. Jenny Moore and co-pilot Amy Hellinger got 1st Lt. Earlman and his 2/75 RGR REG to the Fort Detrick drop zone. Earlman and his warfighters along with the 3-2 SBCT, including the one unit that Air Force National Guard pilot had parachuted into Parkton, would join the Marines of B Company, 4th Light Armored Reconnaissance Battalion to defend MRIID in hopes that the doctors there could develop an antiviral. Fort Detrick would fall less than 24 hours later.
Thunder Two-Three and Three-Three successfully made it to Schriever Air Force Base in Colorado Springs. Upon disembarkation, Watson spent three days at the base with the rest of the flight crew, and a whole lot of other military personnel and their families, sequestered in a hangar that had been set up as a quarantine area. Once he was cleared, he was then sent to the Cheyenne Mountain Air Force Station. He never saw any of the flight crew again. He didn’t know they were not going to Cheyenne, but staying at Schriever in its underground facilities.
Along the 25-mile bus trip to the mountain, Watson didn’t see any living dead, though there was a high military presence along the route. Later, he would discover from a corporal in the Colorado Army National Guard that the Colorado Springs area had no outbreak, though the guardsman had heard rumors there had been a few reports of infections and they had been expeditiously dealt with.
The crackpots and conspiracy theorists would have had a field day with what was happening at Cheyenne Mountain. After being boarded at a heavily guarded checkpoint three-quarters of the way up Norad Road, and having everyone’s identification checked
that had been issued at Schriever, the bus continued on. The official, guarded entrance station was about 1.5 miles away from the famous mountain entrance, the north portal. Halfway from the guarded entry was the Cheyenne Mountain Fire Station, which was being utilized as a base camp for A Company, 1st Stryker Brigade Combat Team, 4th Infantry Division from nearby Fort Carson that had been assigned as force protection for the mountain complex. Upon reaching the legendary entrance, the one that had gained most fame from the replica used in the television series “Stargate SG-1,” of which Watson had been a fan, he disembarked at another checkpoint.
Seeing the north portal entrance for the first time, Watson had expected to be wowed at its grandeur, but he wasn’t. It was in disrepair and only foot traffic was being allowed through it. Watson didn’t know that in 2013, there had been a mudslide that deposited 7,200 cubic yards of mountain debris in front of the entrance. Although the 721st Civil Engineer Squadron from Peterson AFB had cleared the majority of the debris, there was still much repair work to be done before vehicle traffic no longer had to be diverted to the south portal.
After being processed at the guarded entry, and being assigned a sleeping accommodation and a duty assignment suited to his military occupational specialty of truck driver, he was allowed into the parking lot area where a billet area of tents and trailers had been set up for all non-Air Force personnel and their families.
Day one at the facility was mundane. And as in some cruel punishment for his total disappointment in the north portal entry, he was duty assigned to dump truck driver, helping the 721st with their repair work. Day two at the facility was better. He was re-assigned as a driver of a medium tactical cargo vehicle transporting supplies from Peterson AFB.
Apoc Series (Vol. 1): Whispers of the Apoc [Tales From The Zombie Apocalypse] Page 19