The Apocalypse Crusade 3: War of the Undead Day 3

by Peter Meredith

  “Have the Air Force send another recon plane over…”

  “I already did and I have the photos. They were just uploaded and…and it’s not pretty. You should be getting them any second.”

  Phillips pulled out a second phone, this one twice the size of his Smart Phone and twice as smart as well. He checked the secure feed and saw that something was being downloaded and decrypted. The phone buzzed seconds later and displayed the first of a dozen photos. With his eyes not as sharp as they used to be he couldn’t tell exactly what he was seeing. “Were they overrun? I don’t see a sizable IP force in these pictures.”

  “The first few frames are shots taken an hour ago,” Ed answered, the normal belligerence in his voice gone, replaced by something akin to sadness. “The Air Force has had planes over the Quarantine Zone since dawn, trying to pinpoint the larger concentrations of the IPs. They fly over the ‘Bubble’ every thirty minutes or so. As you can see from those first shots, the IPs are coming in dribs and drabs. So the next few frames don’t make much sense to me.”

  The next frames showed the same hilltop, only now, there were bodies in uniform scattered everywhere on top of it.

  Ed waited a minute before saying: “The only thing we can think of is that a group of IPs came up through the forest on the eastern side of the perimeter. That’s where the brush is thickest. But how they managed to come all the way around without being seen is still a mystery.”

  Phillips didn’t believe this for a second. “And where are they now? To overrun the perimeter in broad daylight would take five thousand of them, and I’m pretty sure, they would still be lingering over the feast.” Just saying those words turned his stomach and he had to pull his eyes from the picture. “Sorry, Ed, but these weren’t zombies who did this and they weren’t civilians, either. Those soldiers killed each other. The question is: why?”

  They both knew there were only two answers: either the men had turned on their officers; a mutiny in effect, or the Com-cells had been introduced into the camp. With all the horrible repercussions of the latter, they both hoped for a mutiny.

  “Thanks for the heads up, Ed. If you can stay on point with the Air Force Recon guys, that would be great. I’m going to need a count of the bodies within the perimeter. If I had to guess, we’re missing at least half of the men who had been on that hill top.”

  Ed hung up with a murmured goodbye. For close to a minute, Phillips stared out as the capitol whizzed past the window. With his mind caught up on the pictures, the beauty of the city was completely lost on him.

  He was still staring when he spied the dome of the capitol building rising up over the trees. A minute later, he was on the grounds of the White House, and five minutes after that, he was in a storage room in the basement sitting on a folding chair that creaked under his weight whenever he shifted position. The room made no sense unless they were down there with the sole purpose of hiding from someone.

  Surrounding him on their own little chairs were the seven members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Secretary of Defense, and Marty Aleman who was standing, uncomfortably smiling down on General Phillips as though he were a principal about to discuss truancy with a naughty boy.

  “It seems that an issue has come up that may have an effect on your dispositions,” Marty said, speaking to Phillips and ignoring the others in the room.

  “If this is concerning the ‘Connecticut Bubble’ having been overrun, let me assure you that I know already. As much as I…”

  Jumping up, with a scrape of metal, the Secretary of Defense interrupted: “When the hell did that happen? Why the hell wasn’t I kept in the goddamned loop?”

  Before Phillips could answer, Marty stepped between the two men with his hands out. “This is, uh, bigger than that I’m afraid.” That had everyone’s attention. “There have been reports of attacks in Hartford.”

  “Hartford, Connecticut?” the Secretary of Defense asked. Instead of answering, Marty lifted his eyebrows as if to say: Is there another Hartford? “Right, sorry,” the secretary mumbled. “Has this been confirmed?”

  Marty nodded, solemnly. “Since the initial call, there have been six more sightings of zombies within the newly walled city. Three of them with still pictures and one with video.”

  “Since the initial call?” Phillips asked. “When the hell did that call come in and why didn’t you tell me? Wait! You knew before the jump! What the hell? You knew before the jump and yet you let them jump anyway. Why?”

  Phillips’ seething anger couldn’t be ignored and nor could it be brushed away with the usual sort of vagaries that Marty had perfected in order to keep his secrets. This was the Theater Commander and, as such, he should have been informed. But he hadn’t been for a reason.

  The Chief of Staff for the Army, General Heider had been the one to suggest bringing him back to Washington in order to break the news. “He’ll talk to the press if you don’t bring him in,” Heider had explained. “I know him, he’ll raise a big stink. The man is a Boy Scout.”

  Marty was seeing that Holier-than-thou attitude in person. “Look, General Phillips, I know your reputation. You’re one of the good guys…maybe one of the last of them. You see things in stark black and white when there are, actually, shades of grey for everything. I know that it’s hard for you to imagine but this is a shade of grey.”

  “Condemning my men is a shade of grey? Leaving the entire eastern perimeter wide open is a shade of grey? How on earth is that a shade of grey?”

  Finally, Marty took a seat in one of the folding chairs and then gestured for Phillips to sit as well. When he did, losing a portion of his anger in the process, Marty explained the delicate nature of society and how it was wholly built on trust.

  “Money being a fine example,” he said. “A dollar is only worth a dollar if everyone believes it to be worth a dollar. Laws only work if everyone believes in the government’s right to pass them and enforce them. Civil society works right up until you can no longer trust your neighbors…or your government.”

  “Dropping my men into a known infected area is a prime example of losing trust,” Phillips said and was surprised when Marty began nodding in agreement.

  “Yes, exactly, but by the time we found out and were able to alert the planes, the jump would have already commenced…on live television. If we had stopped it, the American people would have seen a few thousand measly parachutes. They would have then found out how their government had messed up, yet again, and dropped soldiers into an infected zone. How much trust would they have in their government then?”

  Phillips shrugged. “Probably the exact right amount of trust.”

  “Yes, they’d have very little,” Marty agreed. “Do you know, right now there are people killing each other in Pittsburg over cans of tuna? Do you know that Baltimore is practically a police state? Did you know that about a third of Newark, New Jersey is on fire? Those people looting and murdering don’t trust their government. Those people don’t trust that their society will make it another week. What would have happened if we had aborted the jump and explained that we fouled up, yet again?”

  The general dropped his eyes instead of answering. His mind painted a picture of runaway panic filling the streets of every major city. The death toll would certainly be higher than the twelve thousand men he had dropped into Connecticut.

  But Marty wasn’t done. “What would have happened in Hartford? A quarter of a million people suddenly finding out that they’ve built a wall to keep the zombies out and now they’re trapped inside with them instead. The bloodshed would’ve been atrocious.”

  “They know now, don’t they?” Phillips asked.

  “No, and it’s not surprising since the good citizens of Hartford saw the jump on television just like everyone else in the country. They still have trust in their government and they want to have trust in their government. For the most part, they are on the wall or holed up in their homes, praying. But when they do find out there’s going to be trouble. It’
s why we have a new mission for the Eighteenth Airborne Corp…and no, you’re not going to like it.”

  2—The Quarantine Zone

  Thuy was down to a plodding jog, her breath ragged and her head dizzy, but she was fresh as a daisy compared to Courtney Shaw. With the heavy radio strapped to her back, Courtney was in agony with every step.

  She had asked Specialist Jerome Evermore to take it for her, but he had said: “Fuck that. What good is a radio?”

  The question that Courtney had to ask herself was: what good was she without a radio? She couldn’t shoot a gun all that well and she wasn’t in the best shape, and no one would ever look to her for leadership. Her natural skill was with the radio.

  But, oh boy did it hurt. With every step, it dug into the small of her back, and the strain on her shoulders was beginning to wear her down. Still, she ran on.

  There were others in the forest, running. Sometimes they were mere shadows among the trees, while at other times they strayed close. But never too close. Trust had been murdered on that hilltop. Soldiers now looked at each other, not as brothers but as possible enemies, because no one knew who was infected and who wasn’t.

  A man to their right went down, screaming about his ankle. “It’s broken! Son of a bitch. Hey, stop, please. I hurt my ankle.” No one stopped. What if he was only faking? What if he had been secretly turning into a zombie this entire time? What if he waited until you got close and then tried to take a bite out of you?

  Those who fell out were left behind and quickly forgotten.

  Everyone went east with the same purpose. They had to get past the new perimeter before it was fully formed or they would be trapped once again. Some soldiers got lucky and managed to slip through where the holes were miles wide. Other soldiers were in great shape and ran for all they were worth. Some of these were able to steal through the smaller gaps in the line before it solidified.

  Most of the soldiers were neither lucky nor fast. When they came up on the men of the 82nd they were given the choice between going back the way they came or being shot. Fear of the zombies drove men beyond devotion to duty and even patriotism.

  They were desperate to escape and dozens of firefights broke out all along the line.

  Thuy’s little group halted a few hundred yards back from one battle that raged along a quarter mile of forest. “Who is going to win?” she asked Jerome.

  “How the hell should I know?”

  “Because you’re a soldier. Which side has the bigger guns?”

  He rolled his eyes and answered: “It’s not about who’s got the bigger guns, well at least not in this battle. I don’t hear any 240s or fifty-cals and, thank God, they aren’t bringing in artillery. They’re all using the same basic gun type, which is good.”

  “Good for whom?” Thuy insisted. “Who’s going to win? If it’s the men on our side of the line, then all we have to do is follow them when they move up. But if it’s the other men then we need a new strategy.”

  Jerome sat still for a minute, listening to the ebb and flow of battle as two highly trained groups of soldiers fought, using tactics well known to each. “We’re going to lose,” he answered, picking up a rock and flinging it in anger. “They have much more ammunition. You can hear our guys conserving their ammo. It’ll be over in a minute or two.”

  “They also aren’t acting as a coordinated force,” Courtney said. She had turned on the radio and was listening to the terse commands and the sitreps through a headset. “Those paratroopers are doing it right. They’re bringing up troops from other units.”

  “What units?” Thuy asked.

  Courtney shrugged. “I don’t know. Charlie company or something like that. Two platoons are moving west…wait, they’re asking for smoke. What’s that mean? And what’s a soup sandwich? And what’s a butter bar?”

  Jerome had been in a squat and now he eased upward trying to see through the trees. “A soup sandwich is just like it sounds—you know, everything is all messed up, and a butter bar means a second lieutenant. It usually means they don’t have much experience. And the smoke…there it is! The smoke is used to mark a position so you don’t accidentally shoot the wrong people.”

  Thuy saw the blue smoke rising above the trees. It was strange to her that the most technologically advanced army in the history of warfare used such a simple signaling device. It seemed like something a cavemen would use. “Maybe we can use this to our advantage. Do you have any thing that turns smoke blue?”

  He pointed at his web gear, where two canisters were hooked. One had a green mark on top and the other, red. “This is all I have.”

  “Do the colors have meaning?” she asked. “Is red danger and blue equal to friends.”

  “No, the colors are interchangeable,” Jerome said. “They can mean whatever you want them to mean, but friendly units have to know their meanings, too or they’re, you know, meaningless.”

  “It’s the nature of all forms of communications, Mr. Evermore,” Thuy said. She turned to Courtney. “Find that butter bar. Find out where his men are situated; I need to know his boundaries, if that’s what they are called. Maybe we can play on his inexperience and slip through the lines. Mr. Evermore, everyone on that radio seems to have a bit of a twang to their voice. Can you impersonate someone from their state.”

  He cleared his throat and drawled out: “That’s a ‘firmative, ma’am. That’s how they talk, y’know. Everythin’ is: y’all this and y’all that. We gots us some op-four north of our po-sition. Let’s po-lice up this here area.”

  “I’ll have to trust you on this,” Thuy said, basically dismissing him as an officer might. She didn’t know Jerome Evermore very well, but what she did know hadn’t impressed her. Sure, he was brave and could fight, but he also talked too much and in her experience, people who talked too much had a tendency to think too little.

  She needed quiet in order to formulate her plan. She also needed information. Where were the boundaries between units? Who sounded tough and confident and who sound uncertain? Who was moving and from what direction? She needed information in order to exploit it.

  This was one of the few times in her life, Thuy found herself without something to write with and so she cleared away the leaves and brush from the forest floor and found a sharp stick.

  Courtney began reading her a list of call signs: Black Finger 1, Black Bear 1 and 2, Black Knight 1 through 4. Then, from slightly further away, were Apple 2 and 3, Banana 1 and 3 and Apricot 3.

  There were others on the net, men using names instead of call signs, men cursing each other, and men in obvious fear. These were usually hushed and snapped at by the more officious sounding soldiers.

  Thuy listened intently, looking for a pattern, looking for weakness in the sound of people’s voices and how quickly they answered. “Tell me, Ms. Shaw, where do you think Black Finger 1 is?”

  Courtney had been scratching in the dirt as well. Now she looked down at her notes for a moment before standing in order to compare what she was hearing with the actual lay of the land.

  “See that smoke?” There was a brush fire going, ignited by tracer rounds. It wasn’t a life threatening blaze just a smoldering haze that drifted up two hundred yards to the right of their position. “Black Finger mentioned that there were friendlies in it and not to shoot there.”

  “Perfect,” Thuy said, grinning. “We need to angle in that direction. And Mr. Evermore, I’m going to need that ‘twangy’ voice of yours ready.”

  Jerome stood and cracked his back, saying, “That’s an ‘firmative, Black Knight 1.” Black Knight 1 was clearly the officer in charge of the area; the butter bar that had been referenced earlier. “How’s that?”

  Thuy gave him a thumbs up, a gesture she incorrectly associated with soldiers, and then moved out, creeping through the underbrush. The firefight was no longer the battle that it had been. It had tapered away to a few men trading shots with the majority of the firing having drifted south.

  To Thuy, it sounde
d like snipers on both sides going at it in a dangerous battle of expert shots and as they got closer and closer, she was sure that even then she was being targeted. Soon, her fear got the best of her and she froze behind a tree.

  To Jerome, it sounded like a bunch of scared kids shooting at shadows. When Thuy faltered, he took the lead, angling across the front of the formation to where the smoke was thickest.

  At the rear of the group was Courtney, walking in a hunch, still with the headset on her head, listening to the different conversations going on. The soldiers were excited. They had repulsed the enemy and now they were bragging, boasting of their kills, or just jabbering, happy to be alive. In the middle of this was Black Knight 1, trying to rearrange his lines as units were repositioned to deal with new threats. His voice had risen as he moved men here and there so that a radio wasn’t needed to hear him a hundred yards to the south.

  “Maybe we should hold up a sec,” Courtney whispered. “They seem a little confused about what’s going on. If we’re not careful, we might blunder into them and get shot.”

  “Let me listen,” Thuy demanded. She was so focused that she didn’t see it as rude at all that she snatched the headset off of Courtney’s head.

  “Move back to your left Black Knight 2,” a voice said. “Black Knight 2? Move to your left…Come in Black Knight 2!”

  Thuy’s dark eyes flew open wide. This was it. This was their chance to slide through the lines, but only if they were quick. “Mr. Evermore! Black Knight 2 hasn’t responded. Ask them: to the left of what? Hurry, quick!”

  Jerome crawled back to the two women and grabbed the mike. “To the left?” he asked in a country mumble, hoping that his voice could pass as anyone’s. “To the left of what? I got me some smoke all around us.”

  “You got what, Black Knight 2? Say again?”

  “I got grey smoke all around me and I swear I had fellas shootin’ from front and from behind. Where the hell did you send us, LT?”