Fortress Pentagon

by Jason Winn

  “I reached the White House at approximately 06:30 local time. The president and his security detail fought through resistance to get to the helicopter.”

  “Charlie, pull up the last known images of the White House. Sorry, go on, Major.”

  “The president appeared very ill and the security detail was covered in blood.” A screen behind me lit up with a view of the White House grounds. I thought it best to spare the room the details of the first lady’s son eating her.

  “I lifted off, headed southwest. Right as we got over the Potomac, it happened.” I paused, going over the events in my head—the sound of a brawl in the passenger compartment, shouting. I didn’t see anything except the very end. When they cut his hand off and pushed him out the hatch.

  “Major, major!”

  “Huh? Sorry,” I said.

  “Why were you headed southwest? Camp David is north of the city,” the pudgy sailor probed me again.

  “Sir, I had to circle around the city, following the beltway north. There’s too much smoke to navigate the city at night. I had to consider the safety of my passengers.”

  That shut him up.

  “I flipped on the autopilot hover and went back to the passenger compartment. I witnessed Agent Peterson being strangled by the president. Her face was blue. They were fighting with the president, trying to get him off of her. He looked to have incredible strength.

  “Agent Javier, I think was his name, freed her by cutting off the president’s hand with what looked like a butcher’s knife. Black blood went everywhere. A third agent opened the port side hatch and shouted to ‘get him out of here!’” I closed my eyes as I said those words.

  The SOC was silent, save for the fans. “She kicked upward. He flew backward. Another agent hit him with a shoulder and the president flew backward through the hatch. I tried to raise General Bates to report the situation, but no one answered up on that frequency.”

  There was a long pause in the room as people started breathing again. “Then where did you go?” President Dayton asked quietly.

  “Andrews was the only place to roger up. I dropped the agents off there, refueled and decided to go see if I could find anyone else.” I looked each person in the eye. There weren’t but twenty people in the room. “But I didn’t see any more survivors. Your radio man contacted me after a drone saw me.”

  “Did any of the agents exhibit symptoms after being exposed to the president’s blood?” An Asian man with fight surgeon insignia on his chest asked.

  “No sir.” I replied. “For what its worth, the only people I’ve seen who have become infected did so right after they received wounds where they bled.

  The man nodded, sat back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling.

  People started to grumble and whisper.

  “…Christ…”

  “…we’re it, people…”

  “…no more options…”

  “…fight to the last man and for what?”

  “Gentlemen, nuclear may be our only option,” Dayton said. Nuclear? “Communications with allies have deteriorated to random chatter. Whatever this thing is, it has gone global. National infrastructure is failing by the hour. We do not have the ordinance or manpower to launch a conventional attack on the infected. The current containment protocol for the major metropolitan areas is a stopgap at best.”

  “How do you propose we do that, Mr. President?” A man with a very think southern accent asked. “The football is lost. Did he have it with him, Major?”

  “I didn’t see it,” I said. “It looks like a suitcase, right?”

  “Somewhat, yes.” He turned back to the room. “So that’s out, people.” He stood up. A patchy beard clung to his oily complexion. “The authentication system installed last year is biometrically secured, so even if we did have the codes in the football, you can’t launch. We have the keys still, but the president needs to be physically here to launch, using the keys. The last person who had administrative override died and had to be incinerated two days ago.” He pointed to where I think those clothes were burning in the parking lot.

  “We still have contact with the carriers Reagan, Stennis, and Truman. I recommend we do what we can to form a secure corridor to the Chesapeake Bay. We evacuate as many people to the carriers as possible. At sea we’d be able to better defend and feed ourselves. The carriers are nuclear, so we’d have all the power we’d need.”

  Heads nodded up and down. Getting to the Bay, thirty miles east as the crow flies, would be near impossible, I thought. The roads were impassable with burned out hulks of vehicles. Thirty thousand people weren’t going to fit comfortably in four helos parked in the lot out front.

  Somebody shouted that that was a stupid idea. The room erupted into a shouting match. No one saw me leave. I needed to check my aircraft in case I needed to bug out. Following orders is my job, but the situation was deteriorating faster than a rabbit gets fucked. The SOC guards were kind enough to show me a shortcut back outside.

  Up next…The 100,000 Horsemen of the Apocalypse

  PART 3

  The 100,000 Horsemen

  of the Apocalypse

  I did the best I could to see that all systems were go in spite of having no ground crew. The Sea King is an amazing piece of machinery. Mine benefited from the best crews in the world, so she’d last a little longer than the Channel Four news heap over there. Everything seemed good to go. The fuel convoy from Belvoir was still three hours away. I had at least two hours left in the tanks. I slumped down in the pilot’s seat and tried to catch a few Zs.

  “Major, Major!” Some one shook me. I don’t know how long I was out. “Major.”

  “Yeah.” I forced my eyes open. It was dark out. I looked up to see Lewis shaking my shoulder.

  “Major, they need you again.” He said. He coughed and his forehead was covered in sweat.

  “What now?” I started to get up.

  “No, they lost contact with the surveillance drone over D.C. Control thinks it ran out of fuel. They need aerial recon. Command is wondering if you can go up and do a few laps around the perimeter and see if there are any surprises coming. They’ve already cleared you to launch. You have night vision?”

  “Yes.”

  “Airman Yang is right there ready to help you take off.”

  I looked through the canopy to see a small man holding two flashlights. That’ll work. Bright lights lit up the perimeter behind Yang. Men continued to fire at threats on the other side.

  “Want to come along for the ride, Lewis?”

  “Thought you’d never ask, sir.” He grinned like a little boy being handed a double scoop on a hot day.

  “Good man. Sit in the co-pilot chair and don’t touch anything. Here, take notes.” I handed him a map of the area and a pen.

  “Yes sir.” He watched with his mouth open as I flicked switches and knobs to get us going.

  The rotors spun up. Trash and dust swirled around Airman Yang as he started to wave his arms upward, signaling I was clear to lift off. Lewis’s eyes got wide enough to light up the cockpit. He braced himself like some one about to slam into a parked car.

  “Whoa, shit.” I heard him groan.

  “You gonna be ok?”

  “Think so, sir. Been a while since I’ve been up.”

  “Just don’t puke on the consoles and you’ll be fine.” I said. That’s all we needed. Maybe Lewis was better suited on the ground.

  A few minutes later we were in the air, circling what I now referred to as Fortress Pentagon. Fires did the job of the dark street lights. Smoke blocked out the moon and stars. Visibility was limited to a few miles. I felt like I was flying through an active volcano.

  “Is that Regan National?” Lewis asked, his voice cracking through the intercom system.

  “Correct. Haven’t heard a peep out of them for a few days. If you look closely you can see a bunch of infected on the runways down there.”

  “Oh shit. I see ’em” Lewis said. He pressed hi
s head against the canopy. He coughed again, a little harder than last time.

  “You feeling okay, Staff Sergeant?” My hand slid across the grip of my pistol.

  “Yes sir, I got a lung full of smoke before I came over to you.”

  We turned south, flying down the Potomac. The river below flowed black. Refugee boats continued south, trying to escape the city. Old Town Alexandria, to the west, was a sad sight. The beautiful colonial buildings lay in a coma, their lifeblood of civilization drained by the outbreak.

  Clusters of people, both healthy and infected, meandered through the streets. No place to land, no way to pick up the survivors. How can I tell the difference between infected and healthy at six thousand feet, you ask? One chases the other. I’ll let you figure out which is which based on that fact.

  “Where you from Lewis?”

  “Milwaukee.”

  “That’s a wild town. You ever get to a bar called the Safe House?”

  “Can’t say that I have. I left there before I could get into bars.”

  “Let’s get through this first and maybe I’ll buy you a Spy’s Demise.”

  “Sounds good, sir. How about you, where you from?”

  “Fairbanks, Alaska.” It hurt to say that. I hadn’t heard a thing from my wife Mandy in two weeks.

  “Nice. I heard everybody up there flies.”

  “Pretty much. I was flying a Cessna before I could drive. You ever been up there?”

  “No sir.”

  At the Woodrow Wilson Bridge, we turned west. When we got to the Mixing Bowl, I had to struggle to keep from shitting myself. The intersection of Interstate 95 and the Capital Beltway looked like the Boston Marathon times ten, but replace the healthy runners with rotting, infected crazy people. I swear I could hear them over the blades.

  The tangled mess of overpasses, ramps, and interstate pavement pulsed with movement. So many people, it was hard to pick out an individual. The mob crawled north, toward the city. Toward Fortress Pentagon.

  “You have anything on this that can shoot those things?” Lewis asked.

  “Negative, we’re defensive ordinance only. From the looks of it, none of them are carrying stingers, so I can’t do much.” I switched back over to the Pentagon’s radio channel.

  “Pentagon, come in. This is Chuck Wagon, over.” Nothing. “Pentagon, this is Chuck Wagon, over.” I turned to Lewis. “Staff Sergeant, this the right channel?”

  Lewis leaned forward and squinted at the radio. “I think so.”

  “Lewis, get back there and start loading up. Weapons locker is in back.”

  I handed him the keys. He scurried back into the dry-blood-covered passenger area. We turned north and headed back to the Pentagon. I followed I-395 North. The highway pavement rippled and undulated with bodies.

  “Lewis, how long ago did they lose contact with the D.C. drone?”

  “Maybe two hours ago.”

  I shuddered thinking about this many infected amassing in such a short amount of time. I pushed the throttle. Fortress Pentagon could be in serious danger of being overrun. Time to stop hunting and start running.

  Up next…The Battle for Fortress Pentagon

  PART 4

  The Battle for Fortress Pentagon

  The approach to the Pentagon made me shiver. Half the perimeter lights were out. Muzzle flashes sparked everywhere. My night vision showed a small group crashing the barricades from the north.

  “Oh, shit,” Lewis shouted.

  We descended. The altimeter counted down, a thousand feet, eight hundred feet, five hundred feet. The parking lots sprawled out in all directions as we came in. Adrenaline shot through me.

  This is it, I get to see the end of the world. I get to die with my boots on, emptying a clip into people I swore to protect.

  “Pentagon, come in. This is Chuck Wagon, over.”

  “Chuck Wagon, this is Pentagon, go ahead.”

  “Can I get a sit rep? I see lights out in the LZ.” Four hundred feet.

  “Affirmative Chuck Wagon. We lost two more generators.”

  “Pentagon, you’ve got a hoard of infected headed north on the interstate, over.”

  “Copy that, Chuck Wagon.”

  “Let me be real clear. The infected force is massive, estimate a hundred thousand plus. You’ll need air support to take them out.” Two hundred feet.

  Sparks from metal scraping against asphalt danced everywhere in the north lot. The muzzle flashes started to move south, away from the sparks.

  “Lewis, the perimeter is about to be breeched! Lock and load, we’re coming in hot! Grab one of those safety harnesses and open the starboard hatch.”

  “Yes sir. Uh, which side is that?”

  “Right side, come on!”

  The open-hatch indicator light blinked red. One hundred feet. Fresh, smoky air filled the dirty aircraft. I switched on my landing lights to help the men who were falling back see a little better. Fifty cals mounted on Hummers were barking away. Flames danced from barrels that glowed red.

  I shot a look back at Lewis. He had the harness on backwards, but it would probably hold him if he fell out. “Hook onto that grommet on the door!”

  Lewis managed to get that right. “Shoot anything that isn’t ours.” He raised an MP-5 and opened fire. Fifty feet. Night vision showed the infected advancing slowing, but they had breeched the north barricade. The group was a colony of ants compared to what was marching toward us to the south. We’re in the shit now.

  “Chuck Wagon, this is the Pentagon, come in.”

  “Go ahead, Pentagon.”

  “The president wants you to land in the center court yard and await his evac.” Let’s not go two for two. “Get on the deck as soon as you can. A-10s are entering your area of operation to deal with the threats to the south.”

  “Copy that, we’ll be on the ground in one minute.” My radar showed two blips at five thousand feet coming out of the northwest, headed south, doing about three hundred knots. Go get em, boys. “Pentagon, aren’t there trees in the courtyard?”

  “Negative, Chuck Wagon, they have been removed.”

  “Roger that,” I said. “Lewis, load up and sit down.” Lewis emptied his clip, reloaded, and sat down in a chair normally reserved for the president.

  “Aw, man, what is all this on the walls?”

  “Don’t ask,” I said.

  Light sticks waved on the ground in the middle of the courtyard. We touched down.

  “Pentagon, we’re on the ground. Give me a sit rep.” I heard the southbound A-10s scream overhead. “Is the president ready for evac? I’m starting to run low on fuel.”

  “Go ahead and kill your engines, Chuck Wagon. They’re coming out with the last of the chopper fuel now. The president is wrapping something up now. He’ll be out shortly.” Hurry up and wait.

  I killed the engine and got out of my chair. “Lewis, hand me one of those MP-5s and a few clips.” He did as he was told. I stuffed three heavy, thirty-round clips into my jumpsuit and slung the MP-5 over my shoulder. The onboard communication system still worked, so I grabbed a unit linked to the radio and snapped it to my belt.

  “No one gets on this bird unless I okay it. You understand?” He nodded and stood up. We both exited the helo and stood by the folding passenger steps.

  Gunfire echoed off the fortress-like walls. A handful of windows facing the courtyard glowed. I could make out people hanging out of some, trying to cool off or get some fresh air.

  Shadowy figures lumbered across the courtyard, rolling fifty-five gallon drums. I popped the fuel hatch and watched them start pumping with a Vietnam-era fuel pump someone probably stole out of a museum case. The thing had a little one-horsepower motor to move fuel from the drums into my tanks.

  “Where’s that fuel truck from the Belvoir?” I asked the closest fuel pumper. He wiped long hair out of his eyes and shrugged. Great.

  From the looks of things, they had enough fuel to top me off. But if this was the last of the local rese
rves, I was going to be the last bird out of here. If the survivors inside were lucky, the A-10s would slow the mob. But what waited out there? Where the hell would we go?

  I could tell the fuel team finished up when I smelled kerosene spilling onto the ground. “All right, that’s good, gentlemen.” They stopped and proceeded to roll the empty drums away. They vanished into the building.

  “Pentagon, come in.”

  Ordinance rumbled in the distance. Hope those A-10s are shooting straight today, I thought. The gunfire from the parking lots intensified. More explosions, and these were closer.

  “Pentagon, come in. This is Chuck Wagon.”

  “Lewis, that radio guy have any other duties?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so.” His narrow eyes scanned the doors leading into the courtyard.

  “Pentagon, come in,” silence. Fuck.

  “Lewis, get the rest of the ammo. There’s an open pack back in there some where. Put the ammo and a few extra weapons in there. We’re gonna have to go back in there and pull the president out.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Thirty seconds later Lewis pointed to the door closest to the SOC. This time we had flashlights. Screams and gunfire echoed through the halls. I won’t lie to you, I felt my legs shaking. Haunted houses are only fun when you know they’re fake. We were in the horror for real now. It takes no more than seven minutes to walk between two points in the Pentagon. If the infected had made it inside, it wouldn’t take them long to be right on top of us.

  “How do I tell friend from foe?” Lewis asked.

  “Time to think for yourself, Marine.”

  “This way.” He pointed down an empty hallway. “Sir?”

  “Yeah?” My eyes strained in the darkness. I pointed my pistol at doorways, flagpoles, and freestanding signs.

  “I should tell you something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m not a Marine.”