Dead Storm: The Global Zombie Apocalypse

by Nicholas Ryan

  “Yes,” Bram said. He stood with military rigidity. Around the three men a dozen aides were huddled in corners talking quietly on their phones. The mood in the room was dire and funereal.

  “The Russians are our last hope to contain the spread of the infection into Europe,” Korvelis said. “Asia, I am afraid, is already a wasteland. But my sources tell me the Russians still fail to truly understand the lethal threat this new enemy presents. Through back channels in Moscow I have been told – off the record, of course – that their military is contemptuous of the challenge. I fear they will fail and be repulsed.”

  “Which means Western Europe is in danger,” Jean Laurier added.

  Amos Bram nodded.

  “And so we must prepare to fight,” Korvelis said. “We must come up with an urgent plan to defend our NATO members and the millions of civilians that are in the path of this contagion. We have little time. We have nothing to give us heart – and yet we cannot meekly allow ourselves to be slaughtered by this abominable plague.”

  Amos Bram narrowed his eyes. “What do you want from me?”

  “I want a war plan that I can present to the emergency meeting that has been called by the French. I want you to tell us how we can best defend our homelands, our people, our Europe,” Konstantinos Korvelis’ expression filled with raw emotion and his voice became a plea. “We are lost without a way to fight back against this infection, SACEUR. We are putting our hope and our future into your hands.”

  Bram’s features stayed fixed, but behind the unblinking eyes his mind began to race. Was such a plan possible? Was there any way that Western Europe could be saved from the relentless spread of the plague? China’s massive army had been humiliated behind prepared defenses. Bram had less resources, and those assets were spread across more than twenty countries who were all held together by a tenuous alliance.

  “What about support from the NAC?”

  “That’s my task, General,” Korvelis put some steel into his voice. “It is your job to present a plan that can work, and it is my challenge to convince our member nations that the action you propose is our only chance of survival.”

  The American General nodded his head. He shook hands with the Secretary General and then the Chairman of the Military Committee. As he made to leave the room, Konstantinos Korvelis gave a final warning.

  “Be quick, Amos,” it was the first time the Secretary General had ever uttered the American’s Christian name. “And be right. We have only one chance. We’re counting on you.”

  ZAMIIN-UUD BORDER CROSSING POINT

  MONGOLIA-CHINA BORDER

  The heat rose up from the featureless bowl of the earth so the soldiers in the Russian trenches sweated like victims in a fever ward.

  The Russian artillery, several kilometers to the northwest, opened fire suddenly. The smoke from their muzzles turned the sky behind the lines dark and scarred. The self-propelled howitzers on the rise to the left of the lines barked and boomed, crashing their shells into the far away swarm of approaching undead. But without the counter-fire of a conventional enemy, the one-sided barrage seemed to fill the battlefield with a kind of eerie foreboding.

  General Apalkov held binoculars to his eyes and studied the distant smudge of haze that denoted the approaching undead horde. He scowled, then grunted grudging approval as a new salvo of artillery fire landed precisely on target. The earth beneath his feet trembled.

  “They are strange bastards, these undead,” he set the binoculars down and flicked a sideways glance at Nathan Power. “The artillery tears them to shreds and yet they still come on. They do not deviate. They do not shy away from the barrage. It is… unsettling.” Apalkov hated to admit it, but it was true. He had never faced such an enemy. The relentless and resolute drive of the infected towards his positions carried a kind of eerie menace.

  Nathan Power said nothing. He snatched up the binoculars and focused on the dust cloud that hung suspended over the approaching undead army. It stretched right across the horizon; a billowing plume of dirt kicked up by shuffling feet that made the skyline look like it was rimmed with smoke.

  Then a breath of wind swirled the haze away from the horizon to reveal a vast tide of rotting, decomposing corpses in tattered rags. Under the lens’ strong magnification he could make out snarling faces. They came without order or organization; just a surge of densely packed bodies like a vast phalanx. A loose chain of individual figures ran in advance of the undead horde like the skirmishers of an ancient army. The millions of trampling feet were given a macabre marching rhythm by the relentless drumming thunder of the artillery.

  On the low rise to their left, the officers in charge of the self-propelled artillery pieces adjusted range and gave the order to fire. The sky filled with the percussive sounds of fresh thunderclaps and the vehicles disappeared in a whorl of kicked-up dust.

  They were Koalitsiya 2S35-1 howitzers with a 152mm gun installed on an 8x8 truck chassis, serviced by a crew of five operators. The weapon fired up to sixteen rounds per minute. The howitzers began their mad music of death, and on the horizon, the earth erupted in a series of volcano-like explosions. The officers watched the first howitzer shells plunge murderously into the heart of the horde and were grimly satisfied. Shells began to fall upon the undead like hail.

  Down on the open plain, soldiers in their trenches prepared themselves and checked their weapons. They were nervous. The ground around them shook from the recoil of the heavy artillery and the drumming, stomping pound of undead feet. The recruits looked at each other anxiously, and saw raw and rising fear in each other’s faces. All that stood between them and the millions of infected was a thin coiled line of barbed wire, the razors glinting like tiny blades under the dazzlingly bright sunlight.

  “The closest undead are within two miles,” one of General Apalkov’s aides said unnecessarily. The man’s voice was tight with strain.

  Apalkov grunted. “Get the Mi-28’s in the air. I want them over the battlefield in ten minutes.”

  The artillery continued to fire. A column of trucks suddenly appeared from between a saddle of low mounds and raced towards the perimeter trenches. They were old Ural 4x4 light cargo vehicles, their rear canvas tarpaulins removed and the flatbed trays crowded with kneeling troops.

  General Apalkov gave a boyish gleeful cheer and turned smiling to Nathan Power. “Not quite cavalry,” he shrugged, “but in the circumstances, they should be effective.”

  As Power watched on, the column of vehicles jounced towards the army’s flank, kicking up a long plume of dust in their wake. There were fifteen trucks in the convoy. They dashed out onto the open plain and then sped broadside to the approaching undead horde, cutting across the face of the infected phalanx. The troops in the back of the trucks opened fire with automatic weapons and the front ranks of the undead began to fall.

  For long moments the opening skirmish was smothered in fresh billows of orange haze. Power could hear the heavy coughing sounds of gunfire above the revving truck engines. The vehicles reached a point on the right flank and turned around suddenly. They came back again, driving through their own dust, and once more the men crowded on the flatbeds blazed away at the undead.

  Then the first helicopters appeared in the sky overhead, flying line abreast. The Mi-28 Havoc’s were angular brutal beasts; otherworldly in appearance. They arrived like a low black cloud, their 30mm autocannons spitting tongues of flame. The air seemed to shake. Grey puffs of smoke peppered the sky and small explosions ripped up the ground. The helicopters broke formation and hung in the air like great ancient dragons. Rockets flew from their under-wing missile racks.

  The Mi-28’s had most recently seen action in Syria. The pilots were combat veterans. They swooped like vultures on the dense press of infected and tore their ranks apart.

  But still the undead came on, relentless, unwavering and single mindedly savage. They howled at the sky. They snarled and hissed. They saw the men in their trenches through the haze of swirling dust
and they gathered themselves like a vast wave, surging closer.

  All across the plain the helicopters and truck-mounted troops sniped and gnawed at the edges of the vast tide while behind the thin ribbon of barbed wire the main army waited. They were poised in their trenches, their weapons aimed. Machine guns were scattered along the line, their dug-in positions reinforced with sandbags.

  The advancing undead began to step over those who had fallen or been blown to shreds. Blood and gore turned the baked earth to brown mud.

  “Fire!” General Apalkov saw the front lines of the undead horde come within long range of the infantry. A few seconds later, as if reacting to his growled order, the troops in the trenches unleashed their first furious fusillade. A new sound joined the chaotic clamor – it was the unmistakable meaty ‘slog’ of bullets striking flesh. All along the front the undead staggered and stumbled and fell. The battlefield became a solid wall of sound. Smoke blotted out the plain.

  The artillery changed the point of their barrage, firing on the flanks of the attack and pushing the edges of the vast tide inwards, as though into a funnel. The attack helicopters turned in tight circles and criss-crossed the sky, firing until their autocannons were starved of ammunition. A second wave of helicopters swept in from the northwest.

  On the low rise where the self-propelled artillery was positioned, the crews worked their weapons like men possessed, unable to see the fall of their barrage behind a perpetual cloud of dust.

  General Apalkov grunted with grim satisfaction. He ordered the troop-laden trucks back through a breach in the barbed wire. He wanted the infantry dismounted and positioned along the front line.

  “It’s time for the armor,” the General turned and gave the brusque order to one of his staff. “I want them to attack the left flank. Our tanks must be hungry today, Viktor,” he felt himself caught up in the blood-stirring moment. So far the undead had offered him nothing but target practice and he was emboldened. “I want them to chew their way through the enemy and cut their assault in half.”

  “Sir?” The aide had been flinching away from the loud thunderclap of an artillery salvo and had not understood the order.

  “The tanks, Viktor! Send them forward!”

  “But General, if we deploy the tanks they will need to cut through our own lines to reach the enemy. The men in the trenches… the barbed wire… The defensive perimeter will be disrupted. They cannot pass through the breach the trucks used – it is not wide enough.”

  “Do it!” Apalkov screamed at the aide.

  Red-faced, the officer turned and relayed the order to a radio operator. The T-90 tank commander, waiting patiently behind the front lines, suddenly leaped into action. He had forty of Russia’s heavy tanks under his immediate command and another forty-eight held in reserve on the outskirts of Zamiin-Uud. They formed up into a column four vehicles wide and trundled across the open plain, casting great rooster-tails of dust in their wake.

  “We must fight on the front foot,” the General admonished his aide, still seething that his order had been questioned. “You worry about our perimeter being broken open by the tanks. But with a bold and daring thrust we can prevent the infected from reaching the line at all.”

  The T-90’s were vast steel beasts, and the terrain was a flat featureless moonscape. They burst through a sector of barbed wire as startled infantry scrambled out of the way. The tanks formed up into rigid parade-ground lines and surged forward. They crashed into the flank of the undead horde at forty kilometers per hour, their machine guns adding to the murderous hail of fire and their engines roaring. They cut a vast swathe through the massed bodies and bulldozed the undead aside.

  “That’s the way!” Apalkov exulted and punched his fist into his open palm. “Tear them to pieces!”

  Watching in silent, rising alarm, Nathan Power first saw the undead swept beneath the charging tanks, and then saw the mangled section of barbed wire barricade that had been torn open to permit the attack. Startled infantry were scrambling back into their trenches. For a hundred yards, the defensive perimeter was thrown into disorganized mayhem.

  The undead swarmed around the Russian tanks like water around an outcrop of rocks. The tanks began to slow as if the ground beneath them had turned to thick mud. General Apalkov felt the first chilling stab of alarm. One of the tanks abruptly stopped. Then another. The rest of the T-90’s moved like old men laboring through waist-high treacle. One by one they became bogged and stranded on a shoal of undead bones and bodies.

  “Tell the men on the perimeter to replace the crushed barbed wire!” Apalkov blustered. His fear turned to dread and then panic. “Quickly, man! Before the undead can pour through the gap and reach the trenches!”

  It was too late.

  As if on cue, a sudden roar filled the stilled silent aftermath of the tank attack. The undead saw the silver strands of wire and they saw the helmeted heads of the soldiers just beyond. The mad insanity of their infection turned them into howling berserkers. They charged.

  On the low rise, General Apalkov and his staff watched with rising horror. The roar torn from the throats of the undead was deafening and unnerving. A machine gun opened fire from the left flank of the line, butchering through the dense press, but more undead instantly filled the gap. The sight of the soldiers seemed to incense the infected.

  The first of the ghouls struck the barbed wire and became instantly entangled.

  “Now!” the call was taken up all along the Russian line. Men leaped to their feet and unleashed a fusillade of small arms fire. The undead fell where they stood. Many were shredded on the entanglements. The carnage was horrific. The undead were blown ragged; assailed by concentrated automatic fire from close range. Some were head-shot. The rotting carcasses piled up around the wire perimeter. Others had the flesh flensed from their bones, limbs shattered, chests torn open. Still they came on. The ghouls in the vanguard of the attack were crushed under the relentless momentum of those who followed. The barbed wire barrier collapsed.

  One of General Apalkov’s aides arrived in a four-wheel-drive. He had come from the artillery positions several kilometers behind the front. The man scrambled up the slope to the command post and stared in horror at the turmoil that raged along the battlefield. The trenches were lapped by smoke and overwhelmed by undead.

  The General too, stared down at the killing ground with rising consternation. The soldiers were quickly being overwhelmed. The fragile line was on the brink of snapping. Undead rampaged through the breached line. Apalkov stared aghast and impotent. Suddenly panic overwhelmed him. He turned wide-eyed and seized the artillery officer by the arm.

  “Get on the radio. Tell the batteries to pour fire onto the trenches!”

  “But, General! Our troops are down there, still fighting.”

  “They are lost!” Apalkov’s face was a wild mask. “We must break the undead attack with artillery.”

  The officer turned, appalled, and went in search of a radio. Nathan Power stood to one side and watched the grisly trench fight in silent frustration.

  The drivers of the transport trucks abandoned the infantry and scrambled aboard their vehicles. They fled the battlefield in a wild panic. It was the beginning of the end for the Russian Army.

  Apalkov saw the trucks flee and cursed. The Russian infantry broke.

  No infantry could have stood. The troops clambered from their shallow trenches and abandoned their sandbagged emplacements. The infected roared in frenzied triumph and ran amongst the routing soldiers. They slaked their insane thirst on Russian blood and guts. They savaged the men that fell, and howled like wild animals. The ground turned slippery with gore and guts. One young soldier stumbled and screamed pitifully for help until a ghoul slashed the boy’s throat open. Another young recruit, crying in terror, was set upon by three of the undead. They bickered over the slippery purple entrails of the boy’s guts while he still twitched. Some of the soldiers simply threw themselves down in the dirt and pleaded for mercy. They were
slaughtered to a man.

  General Apalkov sagged in horror. His face seemed to collapse. There was a new smell on the air now; it was the tang of freshly spilled blood, mingled with the stench of sweat and rotting flesh. The Russian guns fell silent and in place of their deafening clap came a rising wail of fear.

  The self-propelled artillery crews abandoned their guns and scrambled aboard their vehicles, keen to follow the fleeing trucks off the battlefield. Two of the heavy vehicles collided. One truck rolled end-over-end down the reverse side of the rise in a cloud of dust and smoke. Apalkov seized Nathan Power by the arm and dragged him towards a waiting UAZ.

  “Get in the jeep,” the General’s face was sweaty with panic. “The battle is lost. All we can now hope to do is escape with our lives.”

  Chapter 12:

  USS HALEY (DDG 137)

  NORTHERN MARIANA ISLANDS

  PHILLIPINE SEA

  Bud Slattery ordered the Haley to slow to bare steerageway and then strode out onto the starboard bridge wing with binoculars in his hands. The nearest island in the Northern Mariana chain slowly crept over the horizon – a lush green oasis against an achingly blue cloudless sky. Slattery studied the small strip of sandy beach and the tree-covered peaks. It looked like a scene from a holiday postcard. Encircling the beach, the island wore a necklace of white foaming water.

  A call from the destroyer’s Combat Information Center broke the idyllic tranquility.

  “Bridge, CIC,” said the Radar operator into his headset. “We have a surface radar contact. Range fifty-eight nautical miles, bearing zero three three.”

  Slattery slung the binoculars around his neck and stepped out of the warm sun, back into the gloomy cocoon of the bridge. He snatched up the handset.

  “CIC, this is the Captain. Any chance that your contact is a ghost or clutter track?”

  The horizon for a typical ship-mounted surface search radar was around thirty nautical miles. Haley’s sophisticated AN/SPY-1 radar gave her twice that distance, but in the early stages of development the powerful system had struggled to differentiate between clutter and real tracks at extreme ranges.