by Ts Alan
I didn’t know how many days I had been away from my friends, but I missed them. I missed my girl, I missed my dog, and I missed the outside world, or what was left of it.
I would rejoin them. I couldn’t bear not to. I packed some clothes and personal items into two large duffle bags, hoping the Humvee would be able to take me back to where I belonged the following day.
The Humvee was a total loss, at least to me. I’m sure the whiz kid could get it running, but he wasn’t here and I wasn’t mechanically adept. I had an idea, though. Jimmy had a bronze colored mini-van, an older model Ford Aerostar XL. It was in great shape and mechanically sound. It had to be. Not only did he use it for transportation to his part-time teaching job in Long Island, but it was also the band van.
I was lucky; it was parked on the street just a few buildings east. But if his car was there, did that mean Jimmy was home? The thought of breaking into Jimmy’s apartment and finding his decayed corpse was not appealing, but it had to be done. However, I couldn’t just kick in the door and grab the keys. Jimmy had been a close friend. I needed to pray for his spirit.
I sat on the floor with my Buddha incense burner smoldering in front of me. I chanted, “I find respite in the Buddha. I find respite in the Dharma. I find respite in the Sangha.” I raised my tingsha and chimed them, so Jimmy’s spirit would take note. I gave prayer, and then finished with, “May you find solace in the arms of your god. Aum.”
I didn’t find Jimmy’s corpse on the other side of the doorway, and I didn’t go searching. What I needed—a pair of silver keys on a small ring––was just inside his door inside a glass bowl, which sat atop a small antique wood dresser. There were also several single loose keys, one of which was an emergency key to my apartment.
A battery from an Army Humvee was larger, and more powerful, than a standard car battery; it had to be. I wasn’t going to be able to replace the one in Jimmy’s car with the one from the Humvee, it would burn out the Aerostar’s electric system, but I planned to jump start it using the Humvee battery. I just hoped Jimmy had a set of jumper cables in his trunk.
* * *
Traveling to the armory I wondered, how would I be greeted?
I had once given a shoot to kill order if I became a threat, and perhaps I was a threat, but the only way to know for sure was for the doctor to run more tests.
I had loaded Jimmy’s car up with items I’d probably never use: my laptop, my Nikon digital camera, CDs, DVDs, and other objects that were sentimental in nature. I also had a surprise for Max: a four-gallon Mr. Pickle container full of dry dog food, which had been given to me by Roman. The rats hadn’t chewed their way through the package as they had done with many others. Luckily, I had placed toilet paper, cereals, and other dry foods in containers, too.
I sang the “Plastic Jesus” song as I drove, inspired by the plastic Jesus that was glued to Jimmy’s dashboard.
As I turned left onto 23rd Street I was greeted by several half-mutes that seemed to be heading my direction. I stepped heavily on the gas pedal and sang the refrain, a slightly altered version that referenced using Jesus’ halo as a sight to make them scatter or splatter near and far.
I took a quick right onto Lexington. I barely made it to 25th Street when machine gun fire peppered the windshield. The armory was under siege. I hit the brakes hard and ducked as I put the car in park. As I exited I found myself caught up in a squeeze play. There were half-mutes coming from behind and an unknown number of assailants ahead trying to take me out.
Gunfire erupted from the armory’s roof in the direction of the 26th Street gate, which was open. I could see David and Julie stopping a group from entering. The group in front of me was trying to enter too. There were two of them at the gate, one with bolt cutters and the other with a machine gun. He was firing in David and Julie’s direction.
I grabbed my machine gun out of the Aerostar and eliminated the two charging half-mutes first, and then turned my attention to the men and rattled off a mag in their direction, hitting the man with the bolt cutters. More shots came my way, taking out the driver’s side window. Several ripped through the door next to me as I was crouched down. They came from the armory’s rooftop. My friends must have thought I was part of the attack force. I called over my radio.
“Kermit, David, anyone? The guy in the bronze van is me… J.D.! Stop shooting at me! Copy?”
No response came. I realized that I hadn’t turned off the radio when I fled Astor Place. The battery was dead.
The enemy at the northern gate had infiltrated the compound. A succession of bangs came from the roof, followed by several quick explosions on the street. David was using the Milkor, launching grenades at them, trying to repel the hostile force. For a moment the enemy retreated to the safety of cover, but five unknown assailants at my end were still trying to break through.
I reloaded and aimed at them, squeezing off a shot at a time, conserving bullets, but my aim was off. It was possible that the scope was off, but highly improbable. The M4 carbine was equipped with a Trijicon ACOG (Advanced Combat Optical Gunsight). The scopes, Sam told us, were equipped with BAC (Bindon Aiming Concept), which allows use of a both-eyes-open aiming method along with scope magnification sighting for rapid target acquisition in any light. Besides my eyesight was beyond any human, and I didn’t even need a scope. I had frequently practiced shooting the rifle at the GCC in the armory’s basement range, and I was always able to hit a paper target in the kill zone. I was extremely good at it. It wasn’t really my aim that was preventing me from proper target acquisition; it was that I was closing my eyes. Shooting a paper target was easy, shooting a man wasn’t. I had only killed someone once, and it was for mercy’s sake. I had never killed anyone before, no human at least, not even during the encounter at Astor Place. It had been David who had taken the two out. But the men were attacking my friends, attacking my home.
No one hurts my family.
* * *
Blowing the door off the armored command train car was not an option, mainly because we didn’t know what was on the other side of the door and our only explosives consisted of a few hand grenades, but that didn’t stop Sam and Joe from developing a plan. They had devised a way to duct tape two grenades together, secure them to the door, then string a wire, using the proper tensile strength, to pull the pins out simultaneously from a safe distance. It was kind of like a war film booby-trap using a grenade and a trip wire.
They decided the door should be breeched at the end of the car that was not connected to the caboose.
“No disrespect to Army and Marine Corps engineering, but you two are nits! It needs to be torched off for safety.”
“It’s a great plan,” Sam defended.
“Yeah,” Joe concurred, interjecting.
“Cutting the door off,” Sam continued, “would take too long—could be several hours.”
“Do you two have any idea what’s behind those doors? No. You don’t. It’s reckless and stupid.”
They both looked at me like I was an over-reacting civilian.
“Don’t even look at me like that,” I told them, shaking my head in disbelief to their ridiculous and dangerous plan. “Should I have Kermit explain to you why it’s wrong?”
“It’s not wrong; it’ll work,” Sam informed me once again.
When I told Kermit their plan, his response took on a military tone. David and I backed away slightly from the conversation to give Kermit room to express himself.
“That plan is ill conceived, dangerous, and will not be carried out. Do you understand, Corporal?”
“Yes, Master Sergeant,” he said, snapping to attention, then followed up with, “Permission to speak freely, Master Sergeant.”
“At ease, Corporal. You may speak your mind.”
“Master Sergeant, the plan is sound. Two grenades are enough to blow the door apart with minimal fragmentation. It will work.”
“I don’t doubt that your calculations are correct, but do you two have
any idea of the significance of this car or what might be stored in it?”
“Master Sergeant?”
“Can we surmise that this armored car was utilized by the Special Forces troops as their transportation car when they arrived by train?”
“Yes, Master Sergeant,” he affirmed, agreeing with Kermit’s assumption.
“Can we also surmise, Corporal, that this is the only armored car on the train that could be utilized by the troops as their command and control car during the operation of removing sensitive materials from our facility and its subsequent closure?”
“Yes. I believe that to be correct.”
I hadn’t seen Sam’s demeanor that way since the first few days after we found him.
“And were said troops armed during the operation?”
Sam paused ever so slightly in his reply. I had a feeling Sam knew where the conversation was headed next. “Uh, yes, Master Sergeant.”
“Since we have ascertained that said car is the only armored car and that the soldiers were armed upon arrival to the GCC, where do you think on this train that those troops would have stored their weapons and ammunition?”
Sam reluctantly responded, “That would be the armored car, Master Sergeant… I’ll get the torch,” he said with disappointment in his voice.
He had understood the point that seemed to have eluded him when I tried to explain it.
“Good idea, Corporal. And take Joe with you. Dismissed.”
I could tell that Kermit was not entirely comfortable at ordering Sam to stand down; after all, we were more like family instead of a military unit, but it was necessary. Sam was putting us at risk, no matter how adamant he was in the success of his plan. I was glad that Kermit interceded in such a harsh manner.
Sam had been right, cutting through the door took time, and he hadn’t cut the entire door away. Instead he cut around the frame of the barricaded window. We stood ready as the cutaway section fell inside the car, but nothing leaped out at us.
They were dead for a second time, both of them, one Corporal Battson and one Sergeant Littwin. The corporal was withered and emaciated, decayed with what the doctor liked to call cellular degeneration, as all of the undead would become. The corporal was a USABEIDCM soldier, dressed in his camouflage uniform and body armor, while the sergeant had been a Special Forces member. The sergeant’s body was not like the corporal’s. The sergeant had died from another cause. Though his body had deteriorated, it was clear that he been shot several times in the head and chest, the head wounds causing his demise.
Upon the wall was a nearly full rack of M4s, a few with grenade launchers, and on another wall was a nearly empty rack of what were the weapons the Special Forces soldiers had been using against the transmutes. There were also two larger machine guns, which looked familiar.
“Okay, Sam. Do what you do so well. What are these, exactly?”
He was momentarily shocked by my request, then realized I was serious.
“Those are Heckler & Koch MP5Ks like the ones we already have. They are a German design that utilizes the NATO 9mm Parabellum cartridge. And these beauties,” he said with glee and a smile, “are the 240 Bravo, adopted in 1977 by the Army to replace the M73 and M219 7.62mm machine guns, and the M85 .50 caliber. The M240 Bravo is a belt-fed, gas operated, medium machine gun, which fires the 7.62mm NATO cartridge. They have some serious stopping power. Some Strykers have them as a secondary armament. The Marines use a variant called a 240 Golf, and they mount them on top of their LAVs. But ours are better because the 240 Golf lacks a front heat guard and has to be modified if you want to use it as ground weapon.”
The last thing in the car truly amazed Sam, the two grenade launchers.
“Holy moly! I don’t believe it!” he exclaimed, as he opened the top box and pulled the weapon out. “It’s a Milkor M32 MGL with—with MEI mercury rounds.”
I said, “You mean a grenade launcher?”
“No. Not just a grenade launcher, a MGL; a multiple grenade launcher. They call this the six pack attack. This is state-of-the-art. It’s got a reflex sight, a quad sight rail and barrel and can shoot five different kinds of forty-millimeter ammo including high-explosive and thermobaric rounds. This is some extreme firepower.”
He was so excited he immediately opened the second box. “Yes! Yes! Yes! Unbelievable! This one’s got the MEI DRACO rounds,” he said, beaming with joy, as he showed me one of the grenade cartridges.
“Draco?” I asked, knowing I was setting myself up for another round of Sam’s explanations.
“Direct Range Air-Consuming Ordnance, DRACO.” His voice quivered slightly. “These—these are thermobaric grenades. Just one MIE DRACO will smash a sizable building into rubble!” He grinned with great enthusiasm and excitement, like a child inspecting his new toys on Christmas morning.
I couldn’t resist commenting, “And you wanted to blow it up.”
“Point well taken, Colonel Nichols.”
“Colonel, huh? I kinda like the sound of that,” I said, and then gave him a smile of satisfaction.
Sam tapped my collar brass with his index finger. The remark had been his attempt at humor. I suddenly understood. I had forgotten I was wearing part of R.D. Harmon’s uniform, though I wasn’t so keen on the crappy looking camouflage; black was more my color. I’d have to fix that.
I was glad the soldiers had locked them inside; no telling how much destruction they would have caused if they were used inside the facility. There may have not been a facility left.
* * *
I saw the doors of the armory open as Sam, Kermit and Marisol were trying to make their way out. They needed my cover fire, so I laid down cover fire. For a moment it worked; the enemy had taken cover, but I had expended my remaining ammo. I laid down more cover with my pistol, but still couldn’t get a clear shot at any of them. Then my pistol went silent. I was completely out of ammo.
I reached into the car and grabbed the two bolo machetes off the front seat, which were sitting next to my backpack. More shots pelted the vehicle, but this time they were from those who I had been shooting at. I quickly unsheathed my weapons. Another half-mute came from behind as I squatted behind Jimmy’s bullet-riddled car door. I stood up and with one fell swoop I decapitated it. Something truck me in the side, and it hurt. I had been shot, but my armor didn’t allow penetration. I could see Kermit and Sam trying to get Marisol to the Stryker. I had one choice left. I pulled the only hand grenade I had attached to my uniform and lobbed it at the closest enemy. The car ahead of me exploded in a roaring upheaval. I saw a person retreat, heading east on 25th Street. The grenade was only going to attract more creatures, but I didn’t have a choice. The sound of the Stryker’s main gun ripped through the air, cutting down the intruders and striking the vehicles at the north gate, sending them into fireballs. The roar of the gun was replaced by silence. The enemy was dead.
I slowly and cautiously made my way toward the southern gate; I carefully made my way past the burning wreck, watching for anyone who may be hiding. As I approached the gate, I saw the person I had shot, the one who had cut the lock from the entrance. I had shot him in the back of the head and the bullet had exited the front, ripping off most of his face. I have seen massive bullet trauma in my years as a paramedic, but this was by my hand. I felt ill. My need to vomit was halted by an eruption from the Stryker. The heavy caliber machine gun was at work again, this time cutting down half-mutes that were running through the northern gate and into the compound.
I had been correct. All the explosions had summoned them. More came from where I had been. First there were two, then three, all wanting me. I quickly entered into the open space of the armory’s defenses, unable to re-secure the gate. The Stryker went silent, but had not eliminated the threat from the north. There were five of them trying to surround me, but I was prepared, my bolos were like my bastóns, and I was a master with those weapons.
I took a balanced stance and when they charged. I stealthfully and method
ically spun around, slicing and dicing the half-mutes, body parts and blood flew in every direction. The deed was quickly done, the enemy lay slain, and I once again was soaked in body fluids.
I was surprised by the speed in which I dispatched the creatures. My swiftness and agility had never been so concentrated. Yeah, I was good, but not superhuman amazing. It had to be my transmute DNA. I would later find out I was correct. Doctor France said it had to do with fast twitch fiber, specialized muscle tissue capable of delivering rapid bursts of energy. He had discovered, having dissected a transmute in his lab—much to my dismay—that a transmute’s arms and legs contained nearly one third more of this muscle fiber than humans. I partially benefited, too, though not as much. It was another reason my metabolism demanded a greater intake of protein.
Work needed to be done to re-secure the armory. In Marisol’s elimination of the enemy, she had also eliminated some of the main gate. Burnt out vehicles blocked the exit ways and needed to be cleared, and of course, we needed to dispose of the bodies.
I wasn’t greeted like a triumphant Octavian returning to Rome after a glorious and successful campaign. I was greeted like an enemy of the state. Kermit and Sam immediately told me to place my weapons down, put my hands behind my head, and walk slowly toward the stairs of the main entrance. Marisol was outraged at my treatment and protested greatly. I told her it was all right, that the others were doing what was necessary for their own protection, but she refused to listen. She kept shouting and kicking at Kermit and Sam until Sam finally picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder like she was a ragdoll, all the while Marisol still kicking and screaming, being feisty and ferocious.
It was much later I learned from David that during my absence, Marisol had been so enraged at the fact that they had allowed me to flee after rescuing Ryan that she threatened to have Max perform his ballen fast trick on Kermit and Sam’s private parts if they did not immediately launch a search and rescue effort. She had become so emotionally distraught that Doctor France had to sedate her just to prevent her from leaving the armory in hopes of finding me on her own.