The Lieutenant chuckled. “Z-Day; that’s a good one. The brass has been resistant to any zombie or undead-related terms for the enemy. They're infected with a pathogen, end of story.” Pete snorted and shook his head. Ross glanced at him and smiled. “Well, on the bright side, Captain Matthews, most of the PowerPoint Rangers got munched.
“GenPharm is a bit over two hundred air miles from Camp Perry, well within round trip range of a chopper. So, a couple weeks back, we inserted onto the roof. We attempted to find the research, but it’s behind a security door with some pretty serious access controls. Rather than blow it and damage the research, we regrouped. So — still got your badge?”
Miles blanched. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I do. If it even works for this door you’re talking about; it doesn’t sound like anything I ever accessed.”
Ross shrugged. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. We’re going to take some more exotic explosives in with us this time around that won’t be as destructive if we need them. The ideal situation, of course, is to have you badge us in.”
Miles shook his head as he realized the level of forlorn hope the SEALs were talking about. “You hacked government databases to find somebody with a swipe card?”
“IRS, anyway, yeah. We started going through everyone who’d received payment from GenPharm’s tax ID number. Most of them we could eliminate based on where they lived. If there are any survivors in Cincinnati, we haven’t been able to spot them. But lo and behold, the search program some of our tech guys whipped up found something interesting.” He glanced at Pete, then back to Miles. “Not only was there a Miles Matthews with a rural address listed as GenPharm IT; NSA radio intercepts had marked a possible survivor in the same area who, son of a gun, had the same last name and address. So maybe, just maybe, there was a good chance the first Matthews survived.”
Miles frowned and looked at Pete who was beginning to turn red. “NSA, Pete? What the hell is he talking about?”
His uncle just shook his head. Finally, he said, “Nights I can’t sleep and get to feeling down, I get on the CB and just . . . talk. Haven’t heard a soul in years, but sometimes I think I hear something out there.” He glared at Ross. “So what, NSA was just sniffing through the spectrum and recording everything?”
“Apocalypse protocol, ‘Uncle Pete’,” Ross said. “All the systems went into automatic. It’s amazing how well you can catalog survivors given radio traffic.”
“So we’re not alone?” Miles said.
“Not by a long shot, but there are no major settlements close enough to be of interest. They tended to be in the less densely populated areas up north and out west, for example.” Ross shrugged. “Of course, we’re just basing that on satellite pictures and radio intercepts; smaller settlements pass under the radar. But either way, it’s thin.”
“Ah,” Miles said. He fell silent as he considered what to say next. The appearance of Tom Oliver, bearing a load of plates and bottles, rescued him from further conversation. The faces of the SEALs brightened at the sight of the food, and for the moment, everyone turned their attention to the serious business of lunch.
“I shouldn’t let you boys drink on duty,” Ross said to Foraker and Janacek. “But I find myself unwilling to cast any shadows on such a fine occasion.”
Foraker grinned and said, “Much obliged, Lieutenant.” Janacek just grunted and kept eating.
“So,” Pete said, putting his burger down for the moment. “What’s your story, Ross?”
Ross chewed his bite for a long, uncomfortable moment, then said, “You want to know where we were on Z-Day, is that it?”
Pete shrugged. “I was home, myself. Didn’t have much to worry about till friends and family started pouring in, telling crazy stories. Course, the zombies started trickling in not too long after, so I started believing pretty quickly.” He grinned and jerked a thumb at Miles. “Raised this one since he wasn’t much more than a pup, so I saw my share of monster movies. Kid ate ‘em up. So I don’t have any aversion to calling them what they look like. I never was the best officer as far as the politically correct admin crap.”
Ross took a sip of beer. “There were sixteen of us in all. I was second in command behind Commander Mike Jameson, who was, if I dare say it, one of the finest men I’ve had the honor to serve with. I fall short of his example every day.”
“I’d object to that notion, sir,” Foraker interjected. “You do just fine.”
“So you say,” Ross said. “We’ll agree to disagree. Anyway, we were doing deep recon in Ukraine. Russians were getting a little frisky, and there was a concern they might make some sort of move to take advantage of the first wave of the outbreak.
“Z-Day,” he nodded to Miles, “comes, and things went to hell in a hand basket. Exfil was a cruiser just off of Sevastopol. Thankfully the Russians were too damn busy to care much about us. It took some of the heat off of us with the infected, but not enough.” Ross raised his beer and toasted the table. “Absent companions.”
“Absent companions,” Pete echoed, and drank as well.
Sevastopol? Memories of his college literature classes bubbled up, and Miles murmured, “‘into the valley of death, rode the six hundred.’”
Foraker half-smirked and half grimaced. “‘All that was left of them, left of six hundred.’ Horses would have been nice; we walked and did our best ‘Ten Little Indians’ impression.”
“Sixteen of us were in on the initial helo insertion. Nine made it to the ship.” Ross stared at the table, though Miles doubted he saw it — his voice came from somewhere far away. “If there’s any consolation, we made sure they wouldn’t succumb to the infection. We couldn’t pull their bodies out, but we could do that little thing for them. After that? It’s all kind of a blur. We spent the last few years re-consolidating our assets. Loss rates for the Army, particularly in CONUS, were near total as best we can tell.” Ross took another sip of his drink and kept staring at the table. His voice held an uncertain tone. Miles wondered if he’d ever tried to string the entire story together before. “Same for the bases in Europe. The population density was just too high. Any organized resistance went under less than a month after the second stage of the infection kicked in.
“Middle Eastern units got out as long as the air support and evac kept coming, but the draw on the Air Force was too much. They started losing refueling flights to pilot error, I suppose from fatigue, which spread things even thinner. The last flight out of Bagram had dozens of infected clinging to the landing gear as it took off. Hanratty’s got stories that’ll turn your hair white.”
“All things considered being in the Ukraine wasn’t so bad,” Chief Foraker offered with a dark laugh.
“Right. So the naval forces made out better than ground-based ones, for obvious reasons. We still lost quite a few ships to out of control infections. We fell back on Diego Garcia at first and tried to figure out mission protocols. We never got any consistent orders out of civilian leadership; the failsafe plans and fall backs didn’t work out. As best we can tell, the bunkers intended to ensure continuity of government were all compromised. We’ve been doing the best we can, clearing islands here and there to get a foothold established.”
“Well,” Pete said. “Regardless of how long it took, I’m glad y’all made it.”
“Same,” Miles agreed. “It may not look it, but a lot of folks here were just barely clinging on. This . . . This gives them something, at least. Something bigger than walls and farming, and sleeping in rooms with boarded up windows.”
“So, let’s cut to the chase,” Ross said. “Will you help us?”
The answer was obvious, but for some reason Miles had trouble putting it to words. Tish would be furious, of course, but this was about more than his own self-interest; it was about the potential survival of the human race. If the infection was no longer a concern, things would just be so much easier. A scratch or a bite wound would no longer be a death sentence. They could concern themselves with living and not just survivi
ng.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m in.”
Chapter 15
The morning was crisp and cool as Pete made his slow ascent up the ladder to the Crow’s nest.
A few hours into Miles’ planning session with the SEALs, he’d sent a runner to tell the kids to call it a day. With all the hubbub in the settlement, he doubted they’d have paid much attention, anyway. On any other day, he would have been frantic with the post unmanned, but the presence of their new arrivals had eased that worry. He’d spent the rest of the afternoon and evening with his family — and with his feet on the ground, for a change.
His grand-niece’s excitement at his presence had left Pete feeling ill at ease. More often than not, he was a couple of hundred feet away from her, but there was a palpable difference to being close at work and just plain being close.
The bed had been a nice change, as well. As he stepped up to the observation platform he gave the woods to the south a sour glance. Maybe now that they had external support, he could figure out a casual way to mention that there was a horde of zombies loitering in the tree line.
Dear US Marines, please carpet bomb my dark forest. Thanks, Pete Matthews.
He snorted to himself as he plopped down into the wheelchair. No, this wasn’t the sort of thing you could just tell someone about. It was so far beyond the level of their experiences since Z-Day that few would take him at his word without seeing for themselves. Hell, he saw it every night and he still half-doubted it in the light of day.
Pete stared south and thought about digging out the spotting scope. Heck with it, I’m doing it, he thought and began to roll toward the footlocker where he stored the Newcon. As he stopped, he realized the nest was vibrating — someone was climbing up the ladder. It was too early for his charges to be showing up, so it was someone else. He rotated the chair and faced the hatch. “Now I thought for sure people were exaggerating,” Hanratty said, “but this is a pretty nice observation post. Morning, Captain. Mind if I join you?”
Pete waved a hand in acceptance and the young officer clambered up. He was of only average height, but he still had to stoop. Finally, he settled for taking a knee and extended a hand.
“Adam Hanratty,” he said. “Since we haven’t had a formal introduction. From what I hear, Lieutenant Ross was pretty impressed with your boy last night.”
“Pete Matthews,” he replied, shaking firm and fast. “He’s my nephew, and he’s a damn good kid. Don’t go and get him killed, all right?”
“He’ll be in the best of hands,” Hanratty assured him, and Pete snorted.
“That may well be, but no plan survives contact with the enemy. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be the enemy.” He cocked his head to one side. “Got a lot of professional respect for SEALs. Participated in quite a bit of inter-service rivalry, as well, of course. All things considered, I’d rather him accompanied by a platoon of Recon Marines, but beggars can’t be choosers. Particularly nowadays.” Pete fell silent and glanced to the south. Maybe Hanratty would be receptive to what he had to say. The problem, of course, was the approach. “Tell me, Captain Hanratty,” he said. “What kind of hardware y’all got back up? I know Camp Perry wasn’t big as far as heavy equipment goes, but you’ve got the LAV running still. Anything heavier?”
The other man hesitated, and Pete could tell he was trying to decide how much to say. Good; it meant he wasn’t so naive to completely trust them. Pete had never had the honor to serve under him, but General James Mattis, former commander of the 1st Marine Division, had once commented, “Be polite, be professional, but have a plan to kill everybody you meet.” Hanratty had learned that lesson, even if from organizational osmosis.
“Nothing too heavy. We got a few Abrams tanks back up and running, but they’re resource pigs and over-armored for the task. There aren’t a ton of surviving fixed wing pilots, so the majority of our air consists of helicopters.” Hanratty gave Pete an even stare, and he could tell the other man was trying to discern the reason for his interest. “It’s sufficient for our needs, Standard clearance doctrine is to use noisemakers to bunch up a herd, then make sweeps with gunships to reduce their numbers. That usually creates a big enough time window to throw up field expedient fortifications. CONEX containers, usually, on top of raised berms. Engineers whipped up some with access doors in the side, we usually pack them full of ammo. Once the attack helicopters are out of ordnance, we start ringing the dinner bell at our fort and draw the rest in.” He shrugged. “If we need to ammo up, we’ve got a few helicopters with those big psyops speakers on the side. Play anything loud enough and it will draw them away.”
Pete blanched. “Gah, that’s . . . Oof.” He was silent as he tried to find the most diplomatic term for what he thought of the tactic. “Inefficient as hell. Hasn’t anyone done the math?”
Hanratty cocked his head to one side. “How so?”
“Well, sure, it’s a lot of sound and fury, and ooh-rah gung-ho bullshit. But how about just digging some angled trenches and fill them up with half the fuel you’re using to run the choppers. Then sound your dinner bell from a device inside the trench lines and light ‘em up when they start falling in. No fuss, no muss. How many times have you guys done this?”
Hanratty sighed and began rubbing his forehead. “We’ve been doing it for years, getting supplies from islands and the coast. You have to understand, on islands especially, thorough sweeps are the name of the game. All it takes is one infected to start a new outbreak.”
“Well,” Pete said, and thought about it for a moment. “I imagine it’s good for morale. But bullets don’t grow on trees, Marine.”
The younger man looked unconvinced. “It would surprise you what Uncle Sammy stashed away for a rainy day.” He shrugged. “Fuel isn’t a problem, and we’ve got ordnance for an army a hundred times larger than what we currently have.”
“Still. Hundreds of millions of them — how many thousands of us?” Pete shook his head. “Hell, we’ve been making pistol bullets out of reclaimed lead for a few years now. I still get nervous whenever I hear about any gun play out beyond the walls.”
Hanratty shook his head and smiled. “Maybe you’re right. Keep talking this way, Pete, and they’ll be bringing you back in and putting you in planning.”
“Good luck with that,” Pete snorted. “I’m too old and two legs short.” He rapped on one of the prostheses for emphasis.
Hanratty’s eyes twinkled. “You seem to get around all right to me. And unless I miss my guess, you’ve been staying active. We drove by your neighborhood school on our way in. Don’t tell me you didn’t participate.”
Pete crossed his arms over his chest and scowled. “Eight years ago, kid. I’m a lot creakier than I used to be.”
“Call me Adam, I get ‘kid’ enough from my First Sergeant,” Hanratty suggested. “I’m not talking about a front-line position. But if we designate this as a forward-operating base, there’s no reason why we can’t cycle troops through here for training. You’ve not only got combat experience, you’ve got experience surviving, as well. I’ve had boots on the ground for less than three months and I can already tell that there’s a world of difference here from what we had to face.”
“That’s up for debate,” Pete hedged. “Your Navy buddies have some pretty hairy stories to tell.”
“True enough, and I’m not saying we’re not hardcore, but I’d be stupid to pass up the opportunity to widen my knowledge base. There’s a difference between raiding islands and coastal warehouses for supplies and holding a position for years.”
“I’ll mull it over,” Pete said. “Can’t be much different than teaching marksmanship to a bunch of teenagers.” He waved his hand and indicated the workbench and cot. “Maybe with tactics I can spend a little more time with my feet on the ground.”
“Good, glad to hear it.” Hanratty glanced at his watch. “Don’t mean to rush, but I need to get moving. We’re rolling out in thirty.”
“Ross said you’re just dropping the
m off, last night. What time you think you and your troops will be back?”
The younger man shrugged. “We prepositioned some fuel about a hundred miles north of here for the helicopter. Figure six hours round trip, if all goes well. Be back in the afternoon.”
Pete looked at him in mute assessment. Finally, he said, “After dinner tonight, climb back on up. There’s something I need to show you.”
His eyes were heavy and his stomach was growling, but Vir was almost home.
The rumble of the big truck’s engine was almost too soothing. He’d lowered the driver’s window halfway and turned the heat off to try and channel a bit of cold air into his face.
It had taken him longer than he’d expected to search the warehouse for the items on the list. By the time he packed the back of the truck and the cab with as much as he could manage, the sun was down. Not trusting his own recall of the route back home without daylight, he’d spent another chilly night huddled on the roof of the warehouse. At first light, he’d fired up the truck and pulled out. To his amazement, he was still on track to return in the planned time frame.
Of course, as luck would have it, the falling roll-up door had landed on the truck with the radio. Vir spent an hour transferring the CB to the other truck before finding that the door had not only crushed the bed, it had damaged the whip antenna. Perhaps there were others about who could fix it, but Vir knew his limitations — he was a structural engineer. The vagaries of electronics were, more often than not, above his head.
He hoped the terrain outside of the walls was clear of biters because he wasn’t going to be able to let the guards know he was coming. If the walls weren’t clear — well, things might get a little sporty. His pistol and shotgun lay in the passenger seat, and his kirpan was in its sheath under his arm. One way or another, he had prepared for the worst.
He crested the last shallow rise and the eastern wall came into view. Here we go.
Vir kept the wheel straight and glanced to either side. The fields in front of the wall looked clear, for the moment. Nervous, he pressed the accelerator down a bit, and the truck surged forward. The stick figures on the walls began to resolve themselves into more recognizable shapes, and he saw them scrambling around. The covers came off of the Brownings on either side of the gate and the gunners raised the barrels to point at the approaching vehicle. So far so good, just the way Gary had trained them.
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