by Jason Winn
Fortress Pentagon
Copyright © 2017 by Jason Winn
All rights reserved, including rights to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form.
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events or real people is strictly coincidence.
Cover art by Heidi Sutherlin
ISBN-13: 978-1974329007
ISBN-10: 1974329003
Web: www.JasonWinn.com
Also by Jason Winn
The G Crisis
Tanked
(The Moonmilk Series)
Madison Mosby and the Rose Widow
Madison Mosby and the Moonmilk Wars
Dedicated to our future zombie overlords, please convert me last.
Contents
Part 1: Get to the Chopper! 1
Part 2: Fortress Pentagon 7
Part 3: The 100,000 Horsemen of the Apocalypse 19
Part 4: The Battle for Fortress Pentagon 25
Part 5: Get to the Bunker 33
Part 6: Get to the Helo 47
Part 7: The Rockets’ Red Glare 55
Epilogue: Closure 63
About the Author 67
PART 1
Get to the Chopper!
“Get to the chopper! Get to the chopper!” That’s what they kept screaming. Marines, like me, call helicopters helos. Army pukes call ’em choppers. Civilians don’t care to know the difference, especially when they’re being chased.
They all needed Major Charles "Chuck Wagon" Brielander to get them to safety. My Sea King helo sports the presidential color scheme. It’s an amazing aircraft—leather interior, onboard encrypted communications, extended fuel capacity, defensive systems, and enough weapons in the back locker to invade Panama.
After things really got bad, I spent a week lifting survivors out of D.C., taking them to what’s left of the FEMA aid stations. It’s was incredible how fast things went to shit. I saw survivors running from a few hundred yards away, shooting, swinging bats, screaming. Sometimes they’re dragging someone. who’d been injured. Sometimes they limped. Sometimes they crawled. For some stupid reason, I always thought I’d see a smile when they got onboard, that never happened.
“…there it is!”
“…keep moving, run…”
“…don’t stop, get up, get up…”
“…she’s dead, leave her!”
It tears a man up to see them with dead kids or old people. I understand. I'm a human being, not some action movie hero. Back then I still believed I was going to see my family again. It’s impossible to let your kids go. I would probably try to save the little ones and grandma too, even if I knew they’d been infected. I read once that the same sort of thing happened during the Black Plague. Mothers getting infected from children they tried to comfort.
The corpses that were healthy adults before death aren’t so bad. They reminded me of war dead. They had a fighting chance. That’s what I told myself, anyway. The forty-year-old gentleman with a gut, blood pouring out of his shoulder—he’s not going to make it. Sorry sir, you should have been a little faster, maybe paid attention to the news when they said wash your hands and stay away from other people with that flu.
Sometimes they held wounds. I stopped letting those people on. This shit will change your picture of humanity. That’s the new ticket to ride: make sure all of your blood is still in you. Before the outbreak, the only way you got on my bird was if you had the proper clearance. Otherwise, please see the friendly, trained killers at the security fence for a full interrogation and beat down.
After a while I had to say, “if you’re wounded, you’re on your own. I can’t have you turning on me while we’re in the air.” I had to shoot one woman with bite marks on her leg as she charged the door. Her husband didn’t seem to mind. He pushed her body out of the way to make room for the others.
Flying a Sea King is hard enough under normal circumstances. Having a goddamn infected maniac trying to bite you or the other survivors at three thousand feet is a little more than the Corp trained me for.
The last injured person I took on went by the title of Commander and Chief. Christ, yesterday was fucked up. Who do you shoot when the President of the United States jumps up and starts trying to attack his security detail? That’s not a scenario they prepare one for at the James J. Rowley Training Center: “Today, cadets, we’re going to go over the myriad scenarios in which you will have to cut the zombie president’s hand off and throw him out the door of his own helicopter. Pay attention, there will be a quiz later.”
Fourteen hours ago, the big man was just lying there on the floor of my helo, call-sign Marine One. Bandages clung to exposed wounds on his arms. The gauze sagged, soaked with blood and sweat. He gasped for air, surrounded by exhausted, blood-covered agents. He’s the same man who, three weeks ago, shook hands with the Chinese president on television and joked about who was better at golf.
I landed on the South Lawn at 6:22am. Floodlights, powered by generators, cast ghastly shadows across the grass. President Kline and his Secret Service detail limped across the South Lawn, firing weapons in all directions at the wave of charging monsters. I think a few of the rear guard gave their lives for their country as marauding bands of the infected attacked the ones that ran out of ammo. They loaded the president into the chopper. It was probably the first time a sitting president boarded his helicopter without a salute.
One agent shouted something about the first lady and pointed back to a door with an awning. I couldn’t hear everything they were talking about. Another agent tapped me on the helmet and shouted, “We can’t wait for the other group! Take off now Major.”
Metal from the White House fence parted in several places. Anyone could see that Whiskey Hotel had been overrun. Corpses lined the manicured lawns where press conferences and Easter egg rolls once took place. The newly infected stumbled over piles of rotting humanity. Makeshift bunkers and barbwire-wrapped barricades slowed their ghoulish advance. I could only liken the scene to aftermath pictures of D-Day.
I looked back at the White House as I powered up the rotors. There she was, the first lady, two steps out of the same door the president appeared from. Her face shrouded in agony, eyes still framed by those black designer frames she always wore. Her arms outstretched as if she just reach the helicopter forty yards away. A person flew out of the door and tackled her. The thing ripped away flesh from her neck as a lion would eat a gazelle. Blood shot across the grass. Her legs kicked. The assailant looked up at me. It was Josh Kline, the first kid, her son.
“We’re in! Go! Go!” someone shouted. We took off. The last agent aboard looked back and sprayed three blood-covered people with his MP5 submachine gun as they ran across the lawn toward the helicopter. They jerked backward and fell to the ground, twitching. I hope they were sick and not just people looking for help. I didn’t give them a second glance. That agent’s sure to have nightmares for the rest of his life. Then again, I guess we all will if we live long enough to go to sleep again.
It felt good to have the president aboard one more time. Right over the Potomac, that feeling changed. I guess he just sprang up off the floor and went batshit. I didn’t see it. The security detail described it later. He grabbed a female agent. Everyone was yelling. Someone produced a knife and hacked the president’s hand off.
Black blood shot all over the leather chairs and the windows. The smell never went away. Better to wait for it to dry and flake away than waste water cleaning it up I thought. He had a grip on that big female agent that almost killed her. His Texas A&M graduation ring had turned inward and left an imprint on her neck.
The poor bastards had no choice but to kick his snarling corpse o
ut the port-side hatch. The ragged protection detail looked like a wedding party forced to watch the groom murder the bride. It’s only fitting that we were over Arlington Cemetery at the time. Rest in peace, Mr. President. It was an honor to serve you. I voted for you.
In a few days D.C. would join the ranks of New York, Baltimore, Richmond, and Philadelphia—all property of the living dead. I turned off the wide-scan radio after that. I didn’t want to hear about any more cities being overrun.
Up next – Fortress Pentagon
PART 2
Fortress Pentagon
"Chuck Wagon, helo fuel is being convoyed from Fort Belvoir," the Pentagon's radioman said. "There's food and a bed here if you need it. Over.” I turned the radios back on when the fuel gauges hit the half way point.
A drone picked me up on radar after I dropped the secret service team off at Andrews last night. I couldn't see it up there, circling at 20,000 feet, but I knew it was there. The operator must have been glad he scored such a cherry MOS after everything went to shit. "Who’s a glorified videogame player now?" He must have thought.
"Chuck Wagon copies all. What's the ETA on the fuel convoy? Over."
"Eight hours." The radio man paused to talk to someone on his end. "Chuck Wagon, Command is requesting you proceed to the secure LZ here in the west parking lot. You'll see three other choppers parked there.”
"Copy that, Pentagon. See you in a few. Chuck Wagon out."
The Pentagon, the last stronghold in the metro area, was my next port of call. Andrews Air Force Base was a mess. Three planes had gone down while trying to land. Tower said that the only air traffic possible now was helicopters and surface roads. There might have been other pockets of survivors in the area, but they didn't have radios or didn't know how to use them.
I wove through plumes of smoke curling into the air. The rotor blades pushed away black clouds from unattended fires raging through the suburbs. The scene made the L.A. riot footage from the ’90s look tame. Small packs of zombies roamed the streets. Some were on fire.
Boats choked the Potomac, trying to sail around floating debris. From my altitude, the river looked like a child's bathtub filled with muddy water, toy cars, and stiff action figures. A huge yacht listed to one side and burned.
Approaching the Pentagon LZ, I saw a school bus barreling down I-395. It swerved and dodged wrecked vehicles. Every pothole jolted it higher into the air.
"The wheels on the bus go up and down, up and down."
An overturned armored car cut the bus's trip short. It struck the armored car's bumper. The bus fishtailed and flipped over on its side. It rolled like a Twinkie, flinging off pieces of its delicious pound-cake casing in all directions. The cream-filling people inside had to have perished. Damn.
"Pentagon, you've got a yellow bus out here with fresh casualties. About two clicks south of the 14th Street Bridge."
"Copy that, Chuck Wagon. We'll add them to the list."
I came to rest in the parking lot next to two Black Hawks and a news helicopter. The latter's hull looked like it had gone ten rounds with Godzilla. The paint was scorched off, the metal bent and curled from small-arms fire. Desperate survivors had a funny way of trying to get our attention. So far, I've been lucky.
Machine-gun fire replaced the drone of my rotor blades. Utility uniforms from all branches lined a perimeter made of overturned vehicles, security barricades, and furniture. Shouts mingled with gunfire. Tired soldiers jogged with ammo cans to the front line in the afternoon sun.
"Contact ten o'clock!"
"I got him!"
"Grenade out!"
The pop of a grenade’s concussion rolled over the parking lot. Hoots and gasps followed.
"Major! Major! Over here." A marine staff sergeant ran over and saluted. He looked winded, stressed. “Staff Sergeant Lewis. I’m your escort. Command needs a debrief on the president.”
“Your name tag says Eldridge,” I said.
“We’ve had to improvise, adapt, and…”
“Overcome. That’s for sure,” I said. “Understandable given our situation. Lewis, lead the way. How bad do they think this is?”
“I don’t ask those questions, sir.” He turned and grinned, tapping the rank insignia on his shoulder. “Above my pay grade.” I wondered if his rank had been improvised as well. Who gives a shit.
We double-timed it through the lot. Men walking on the roof caught my attention. They chatted, pointed, and looked through binoculars. Laundry fluttered like streamers under open windows. Tents marked “aid station” and “field command” dotted the wide expanse of asphalt. I didn’t want to know why they were burning a big pile of clothes to the north. I hope those are clothes.
“Sir, you’re going to have to get cleared by medical. Anyone coming in from the infected zones has to get checked out.”
“Fine.”
After a quick trip to the old doctor’s tent under the Metro station shelter, I was given a clean bill of health. “Try to get some rest, Major,” is all he told me after his battery of tests, which consisted of taking my temperature and listening to my chest with his cold stethoscope. He nodded to Lewis and I was allowed to leave.
The armed men at the doors nodded to me, and we went inside the Pentagon. The dim halls stank like garbage left out in the sun.
“Woof!” I said. The stench bored into my nostrils. It seemed to coat everything from the floor to the glass-case-lined walls to the ceiling tiles. The military trophies inside each case got to breathe clean air. Lucky plaques and photos.
“The smell, right, sir?”
“Yeah.”
“They’re working on policing up the trash, but they think a few of the infected may have died in locked rooms. Security is going door to door trying to find them.”
“I guess the generators are out too, huh?”
“Correct sir, the remaining juice has been allocated to the secure operations control, the SOC.”
The hustle of feet told me that the building was crammed with people, civilians sleeping against the walls, government administrators and emergency responders doing what they could to manage chaos. I think I’ll sleep in my zombie-blood-soaked helo, thank you very much. On a normal day the place comfortably housed around 25,000 people. Take away the lights and AC, the place turns into a dark funk factory. Afghanistan smelled a little better, but not by much.
We walked through peculiar corridors. The thumping of combat outside faded away the deeper we cut into the building. Voices echoed from shadows. Flashlights bobbed and glared through the darkness. Lots of doors were closed. Some had hand written “do not enter” signs taped to them. I heard a repeating dull thud on the other side of one of those doors.
“Here you are,” Lewis said. Men with M16s flanked the double oak doors. They stiffened at the sight of an officer in a flight suit.
“They’re in the middle of a briefing, Major. You’re as safe as you’re going to get here, sir.” He looked down at my right hand, which was anchored to my Beretta M9. I hadn’t noticed.
“You can sit in if you like,” Lewis said. He pointed into the bright room that looked like a small mission control. Flags drooped in the corners. Flat screens lined the back wall. Some had aerial images of cities slowly turning below. Some were blank. A thin, white haired man in a football T-shirt stood in front of the flat screens. He waved a ruler at different screens as he spoke to a motley group of people wearing everything from uniforms to jogging suits. The room hummed with temporary lights and fans.
“Thank you, Staff Sergeant. I think I’ll be fine from here,” I said quietly.
Lewis turned on a heel and walked off into the smelly darkness.
“Drones,” the white-haired man said, “over New York are about out of fuel. We’re estimating a virus infection rate of over ninety percent. Bombers out of Mitchel Air Force base have just destroyed all bridges connecting Manhattan to the mainland.
“I’ll remind you all, the infection is preceded by a very high fever,
and then neurological functions deteriorate into a basic, predator-like state. No one so far has been able to detect a transmission vector. Body heat signature readings from the UAVs indicate the infection is reaching saturation levels in densely populated areas.”
The hum of the equipment stopped and the room went dark. My heart skipped. A few laptop screens glowed. The woosh of power coming back on filled the room. The screens flickered and returned to the views of slowly spinning cities.
I looked to the man’s right where a whiteboard had an alphabet soup of government agencies, CIA, FBI, DEA, FEMA, et al. Most had red lines though them. We’re fucked, so very fucked.
“What about waiting until winter and just let all these things freeze?” a man asked.
“It’s May, Roger.” The white-haired man said, sounding annoyed. “Waiting for them to freeze in winter isn’t an option. They’ll be no one around to celebrate your brilliant plan.”
“Was that Major Brielander from HMX 1 in the back there?” someone asked.
“Yes sir,” I said. The man at the front of the room stopped talking.
“Major, would you join the acting president up there and tell us what happened to President Kline while aboard your aircraft?”
The “acting” president? I guess word got back here that Kline had to be put down. I walked around desks until I stood next to the new president.
He turned and offered a handshake. “I’m sure you don’t recognize me, Major. I used to be Secretary of Interior. Frank Dayton.” We shook hands.
“Major, you’re standing in front of half the U.S. government right now. The other half has been sworn in at Cheyenne Mountain under the care of NORAD. They are the last contingency should this place fall.”
“Wow,” I said in a whisper.
“What happened to President Kline?” An old pudgy man in navy whites asked.
“Right. About thirty-six hours ago, General Bates from Whiteside command ordered me to halt civilian evacuations and pick up President Kline on the South Lawn at Whiskey Hotel. I was then to proceed to Camp David, where the president’s physician was waiting for him.”