by M. Lorrox
The white dude grabs a pair of machetes, and the black dude lifts out a pressure-treated 4x4 that has a lathe-carved handle. He holds the heavy weapon with one hand and shakes his shoulders out. “She’s your ride; which you want, front or back?”
The white guy shuts the trunk and glances in the direction the crowd runs from, and he sees that the zombies aren’t far behind. Goddamn it. “Front.”
The black guy climbs on the trunk and takes a low stance. He pulls up the pantlegs of his camo-patterned cargos while the white dude jumps on the hood and pushes his short sleeves up to his shoulders. “Come and get it motherfuckers!”
They start bouncing the car on its shocks.
People running from the zombies deflect to either the front or back, but the zombies don’t. As they rush the car, the men slice and bash them back to the ground.
The black guy swings the massive bat into a zombie’s skull, and its whole body catches some air. He opens his mouth wide, screams, then hisses with his tongue out. “Ahhh! EAT MY WOOD! Who wants some?”
There are still over twenty-five thousand zombies inside the Pentagon, and they have two exits. One is above ground, where a tank blew a hole in the south wall for Charlie’s grand entrance. This hole grows smaller by the second as soldiers execute the exiting zombies and add their corpses to the already waist-high pile.
The other exit available to the zombies is underground, at the Pentagon Metro station. Here, there are no soldiers stationed, and the zombies flow out and down the metro tunnels. The station is a transfer point, where the Blue and Yellow Lines connect. The Blue Line heads north to Rosslyn—another transfer station where it connects with the Orange and Silver lines—and south to Pentagon City and other stations in Virginia. The Yellow Line out of the Pentagon heads into DC, to L’Enfant plaza, another transfer station, where all but one of DC’s metro lines merge.
General James Roland Riley, who commands the military forces at the Pentagon Field Command Center, wishes there was only one hole—the one his men made. That one isn’t a threat. The other one, however, with connections to almost every commuter line that runs through Virginia, Washington DC, and Maryland, could crumble what’s left of the United States of America. While General Riley consults with the President over the phone, he motions with his free hand, and his current protégé, Captain Rickman, rushes over.
Rickman doesn’t stand as tall as General Riley, and as a new captain, he’s inexperienced. He is however, dedicated and cool-tempered—the latter an obvious contrast to his role model.
“Yes, I understand sir, but… Yes, I understand.” Riley covers the mouthpiece of the phone. “Get policemen, troops, whoever you can in DC, to set up a quarantine from M Street North to M Street South, from the Potomac on the west, to 8th Street East.”
General Riley removes his hand and speaks into the mouthpiece. “Yes, I completely agree.” He covers it again and peers at Rickman with contempt. “Now! Send those orders and get back here, damn it.”
Rickman bolts away, grabs another soldier, and relays the orders while General Riley uncovers the mouthpiece. “Sir, yes. We’ve alerted all area airports that we’re initiating Standing Order Zom-Air… Yes, all civilian aircraft should be grounded... Sir, yes, I can put Apaches in the air to patrol, but I need your permission to grant them firing authority.”
“General, only after radio warnings, and then after warning shots. Exactly as per the order, understood?”
“Yes, sir, perfectly. Give me a moment.” He covers the mouthpiece again. Rickman is standing ready to receive new orders. “Spin the Apaches and put them on patrol along the beltway. They have firing authority pursuant to Standing Order Zom-Air.”
He nods, then he rushes to relay the orders.
“I’m back.”
“General, most of the DOD is now lost to us, including the Joint Chiefs and the secretary of defense. During this emergency, I’m granting you authority over all our military forces. Whatever you need, we can arrange.”
“Thank you, sir.” Maybe I can get a word in now. “I’m concerned that holding the quarantine only around downtown will be too difficult. We have limited ground forces in the area; most of our resources are focused out west along The Line. If we wait for reinforcements from Quantico and we lose quarantine, it’ll be all for naught. It may be extreme, but you might want to consider expanding the quarantine to encompass the entire district and the suburbs. That way, we can—”
“General, the quarantine must be as small as possible while still being effective. The population in the area has exploded in the last six months—you’re suggesting I abandon ten million civilians.”
“Sir, if the Z escape the quarantine, we might lose the whole country. We have to prioritize containment over protecting the civilians in DC. This may be our only opportunity to contain this threat.” He swallows. “We could deploy the new, LIDAR Anti-Zombie Robot System from the Army Research Laboratory.”
“…Approved, around the same, small perimeter.”
General Riley covers the mouthpiece and yells over his shoulder, “Green-light ARL’s LAZoRS at quarantine! Cancel all troop deployments inside quarantine!”
Rickman and the radio operators forward the commands.
He uncovers the mouthpiece. “We’ll set up the system along the quarantine. That’ll hold containment, and it’ll open our troops up to hunt down any escaped zombies.”
“General, promise me you’ll do everything you can to protect the American people. Our future is in your hands.”
“Absolutely sir, we will contain the threat, and when we have the means, we’ll rescue every single civilian we can. This is not America’s swan song, sir, far from it.”
“-sigh- I hope you’re right... My team is going to -FFFFFF!-”
Tomato Potato Co.
PO Box 51368
Durham, NC 27717-1368
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by M. Lorrox
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Tomato Potato Co. Rights Dept., PO Box 51368, Durham, NC 27717-1368.
Edition: First Blood
ISBN: 978-1-947130-06-7
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