“Wake up Major Maxwell and his men. Have him meet me in my quarters.”
“Yes, sir,” said the XO as the captain left the compartment.
I wish to hell I knew why those guys were on my ship, he thought. Creepiest sons of bitches I’ve ever met, and all very hush-hush. He shook his head; it didn’t matter. He had other things to worry about.
“Get me the Nimitz on a secure channel,” he said to one of the ensigns that clearly didn’t have enough to do. “Stand down SAR.” He glanced at the monitors showing the flight deck,
where the sun was finally slipping over the horizon.
Don’t worry, commander, he thought. We’ll bring you home.
****
El-Harab Fishing Village
2045 Hours Local Time
Barker looked around the interior of the small home he’d been brought to by his rescuers. No different than he’d imagined a poor Libyan house would be like, it had stone and brick walls
that were crumbling with age and haphazard construction. It was small, maybe three or four rooms at a guess, but not bad; he’d slept in worse places during SERE training years before.
After arriving on land and making their way into the village, he’d shuffled through the door along with the other men, pretending to be celebrating a good catch, and hadn’t seen much
of the village or anything else, for that matter.
The home was small, and he could smell the tantalizing aromas of something cooking in another room. His host, the trawler’s captain, had left him in the front room to talk with the other men and his sons while he went to explain things to his wife. Or so Barker thought, given the man’s poor English. None of the other fishermen spoke even that much, and his Arabic had been exhausted with the ‘shukran’ he’d used when given the jumpsuit. They continued to try, but at this point his caveman brain had taken over and he couldn’t get past the delicious smells coming from the kitchen.
Fortunately, his host had finished discussing the matter, and soon his wife and daughter were passing plates among the men seated on the floor. Barker had no idea what the food was
called, but it smelled and looked delicious. The trawler captain motioned to Barker to eat, pointing at the plate of dough and sauce, saying bazin. Whether that meant food, or was the name
of the dish, Barker was beyond caring.
After the meal of bazin, asida, and a thick black tea, everyone left, and the captain sent his family out of the room. Barker and his host sat back on the elderly chairs in the living room, drinking a strong mint tea that Barker thoroughly enjoyed. Though he was anxious to get back to his ship, he knew his best chance of that happening was in the morning, when the trawler went back out to sea, and now was as good a time as any to broach the subject.
“John,” Barker said, sitting a little straighter and pointing to himself. After a pause he pointed in the general direction of his host, not wanting to appear rude.
The man nodded. “Tareq,” he said, pointing to himself. “Tareq Warfalla.”
Barker smiled. “John, John Barker. Hello.”
“Hello, John,” said Tareq, though he didn’t smile.
“Tareq, why are you helping me?” he asked.
The other man looked thoughtful for a moment, and Barker wondered if he’d understood, but then Tareq spoke in his halting English. “We ... not like Qaddafi. We want peace.” He leaned toward Barker, obviously concerned that his message was getting through. “Peace, yes? No fight?”
Barker nodded. “Yes, peace. We want peace, too.”
Tareq nodded in return. “Good. Peace, yes. No killing.”
Another pause, and Barker spoke up again. “Will you fish tomorrow?”
Tareq looked at him, nodding. “Yes, we fish. Early. Ashruq. Sunrise? We ...” He spoke in rapid Arabic, trying to find the English words to fit what he was saying. “We take you back in small boat,” he finished, motioning with his hands to indicate a circular craft.
My raft. They’re going to take me back out and leave me where my guys can pick me up.Perfect!
“Thank you, Tareq. Shukran.”
“Al’afw, John.” He yawned, and finished the last of his tea, standing up and tossing a tattered blanket towards the pilot. “Laylah sa'īdah. Goodnight.”
Barker wasn’t sure he’d be able to sleep, what with the tea and being shot down, but the chair was comfortable, the door was locked, and most importantly, none of the Libyan military
knew he was here. He checked to make sure his radio beacon was still active, knowing it was transmitting an encoded signal. If the Libyans knew exactly what frequency to look for, they
might eventually triangulate his position, but finding the right frequency would be finding a needle in a stack of needles - virtually impossible.
He determined that he would rest for a few minutes, but would be ready to go when Tareq arose for the morning’s fishing. Just a few minutes…
****
El-Harab Fishing Village
0245 Hours Local Time
It wasn’t the shouting that woke him, it was being tumbled out of his chair by the rush of people through the door of the small home. Barker picked himself up, automatically going into a defensive crouch at the number of men packed into the home and their raised voices. Somewhere, a child cried and was swiftly shushed. He saw Tareq out of the corner of his eye, talking fast with one of the men from the boat.
As he approached, he could see the fear in the crewman’s eyes, even if he couldn’t tell what he was saying. Tareq repeated a question, and the crewman answered the same way, though a bit calmer, and Tareq shook his head in obvious disbelief.
Barker laid a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “What is it?” he asked.
Tareq looked up at him, and his face was pale, paler than Barker had ever seen anyone, to say nothing of his dark-skinned friend of the past few hours. His voice was low as he spoke. “I
did not believe ... he says, he says ghilan attack the village.”
“Ghilan?” said Barker, shaking his head. “What is ghilan?”
The crewman began babbling again, but Tareq silenced him with a look, then spoke. “Ghilan are, I think, dead?” He looked over at his crewman, who just shrugged, not speaking any English. “Yes, dead. They attack.”
Barker couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Wait, what? You’re saying something dead is attacking the village?”
“Not something, John Barker,” said a new voice entering the room, and Barker spun around to find a much older man looking him square in the eye. Square-shouldered and what
some would call lantern-jawed, the man had a commanding presence with his dark brown eyes and deep voice. “Someone.”
Tareq whispered in Barker’s ear. “Hassan. He is elder.”
Barker noticed more than a slight family resemblance between his large host and the elder.
Father? Uncle? Somewhere in there, anyway. He extended a hand. “Elder Hassan, thank you for your village’s hospitality.” He had no idea how much English the other man spoke, but
what could it hurt to go all out?
Hassan smiled in return, taking Barker’s hand in both of his. “Aalaamu alaikum, John Barker. Peace be with you. We are glad to provide.”
Barker remembered some of what he’d picked up in the briefings. “John is fine, sir. And peace be with you.” They broke the handshake, and he motioned to the rest of the men, still
agitated though much quieter. “What is attacking? You said someone, not something? How can someone who’s dead be attacking?”
Hassan shook his head. “I do not know, John. I have not seen them myself - I was not here, or I would have led the defense, you understand,” he said, looking intensely at Barker, who nodded as though that was, indeed, understood. “But for the last few nights, we have been attacked by what Tareq and his brothers are calling ghilan ... in English, ghouls.”
“Ghouls?” Barker was mystified. “What, like ghosts?”
“No,
these are flesh and blood. As real as you or I, but they do not feel pain, they do not stop until we cut off their heads. The first person to encounter them was a young man. He,” Hassan paused, visibly grinding his teeth and clenching a fist. “He was my grandson. Only eleven years. The monster grabbed him while he was herding, and ... it tore him apart. He is
dead because I was not here.”
“I am sorry for your loss, elder.”
“Do not feel sorry for Kazim. He is with the Prophet now. But for the rest of us, there is still work to be done.” Hassan looked around at the men, then back to Barker. “We are not warriors, John. We are fishermen. We cannot fight these ghilan alone. Will you help us?”
Barker knew the absolute last thing he should be doing is getting involved in a firefight in the middle of hostile territory, regardless of who he was defending against. Still, he didn’t have
much choice, either - not if he wanted a ride out in the morning. “Do you have weapons? Guns, anything? Hell, even knives or a pitchfork?”
Hassan grinned, his teeth glinting in the low lighting. “I said we were fishermen, John -not peasants.” He turned to Tareq and spoke in Arabic, then motioned for Barker to come with
him. He moved quickly for an older man, and Barker was nearly jogging to keep up with the elder’s long strides.
Soon, they were at the edge of the village. Away from the water, Barker thought absently. The close streets and homes of the village had given way to the unending desert darkness. There
were a few lamps on tall poles scattered around, but their light was feeble, at best. Not a very defensible position. No high ground, just flat desert with a few bits of brush here and there. If only we could get some height…
Tareq approached with his brothers - the crewmen from the fishing trawler - and motioned toward their right, speaking quickly. He handed Barker a long rifle and a small canvas
sack of ammunition, then began passing out other weapons. From his own experience, both back home and as a military man, Barker recognized more than a couple AK-47s, the SKS rifle that he’d been given, and what he thought was an RPK machine gun. Peasants? No, definitely not,but no way in hell are these guys just fishermen, either.
Hassan turned to Barker. “Tareq says there are two of them at the southwest corner. We go!” He began running, and Barker had little choice but to keep up. Even so, the elder was still
faster, and arrived at the corner of the village first.
Barker scanned the small area lit by the lamp above the last house, and saw nothing. Noticing a stack of crates near the home, he slung the rifle across his back on its strap, shoving
the canvas bag into one of the many pockets of the dirty jumpsuit he still wore. He ran over to the crates, and was relieved to see they were relatively new, and would likely hold the weight of what he had planned. “Hassan, over here!” he said, hoping his voice would carry without attracting any unwanted attention. When the others moved to join him, he pointed to the roof of the structure. “We need high ground. That’s the only advantage we’ll have.”
Hassan was already nodding, having devised Barker’s intentions. He spoke to Tareq and his brothers, three of whom ran off back to the village, leaving just Tareq, Hassan and Barker.
“We will tell everyone to stay in their homes, no matter what they hear. Then, we will defeat these monsters,” Hassan said, motioning to Tareq as he began climbing the crates. Tareq ran to the door of the house, calling through it to the occupants.
Barker followed Hassan onto the roof, taking up a prone position at one corner and readying his rifle. He slid the stripper clip in, slamming the bolt home. Yeah, folks, stay inside.
I’d hate for someone to get shot thinking they’re one of these ‘ghouls,’ whatever they-
Dear God in Heaven, he thought. Just what the hell is that?
He felt rather than saw Tareq slam down onto the roof between him and the elder, unable to tear his eyes away from the walking nightmare that had just entered the yellow glow of the
lamplight. The horror that approached had strips of desiccated flesh and tendon hanging from its bones. Patches of hair still stuck to its nearly-stripped skull, and the few gusts of wind that blew snapped its tattered remnants of clothing back and forth.
But it was the moan that chilled him to the bone. Whether it was a freak of coincidence - a breeze shifting across some pipe somewhere - or an actual sound from the creature, he couldn’t
tell, but he knew, knew in his soul, that what he was looking at could not possibly be real.
He knew it, because zombies don’t exist. They can’t exist. People are either dead, or they’re alive, his mind gibbered to him. They’re alive, or they’re dead. But this thing is moving,
so it must be alive, but it’s rotting oh God it’s rotting and moaning and it must be dead... its alive but it must be de—
The slap cracked loud in the night air, and he knew he’d feel a bruise on his cheek for a week, but his head was clearing, and he glanced over at Tareq, who at least had the grace to
pretend the slap hurt his hand as much as it had Barker’s face. He felt sanity returning in a rush, and shook his head to get rid of the last dregs of crazy.
“Shukran,” Barker muttered, for what felt like the hundredth time in eight hours.
“Al’afw,” Tareq whispered, grinning. “What we do now?”
Barker looked back out at the shambling monster moving toward them, and set the rifle into his shoulder. “We kill it,” he said, shouldering the butt of the rifle and taking a breath. A
held breath and a squeezed trigger later, and the crack of the rifle sounded loud against the night.
What was left of the zombie’s skull shattered, spraying backward from the impact. Barker turned to the other two men as he glimpsed another form moving into view. “Shoot them in the head,” he said, pointing to his own melon for emphasis, then turning back to see the new zombie take a hit to the chest from Hassan’s shot. Hassan said nothing, but simply racked the bolt on his own rifle, and fired again, this time striking dead on.
Or ‘undead on,’ in this case, thought Barker, and tried to ignore the slightly crazy laugh that crept out of his throat as he saw more slow-moving nightmares emerging from the darkness.
I just hope the others can hold out, too.
****
El-Harab Fishing Village
0415 Hours Local Time
The zodiac crunched ashore as the 6-man SEAL team leapt out, two men pulling it further up the beach to prevent it getting washed out by the tide. They caught up with the rest of
the team, all of whom moved fast through the low scrub brush and up-and-over the dunes. It only took them a few minutes moving at speed to be among the homes and streets of the village, and they could hear occasional rifle or other small-arms fire coming from the edge of the village ahead.
Maxwell paused by the side of one structure and raised his night-vision device, pulling out the beacon tracker. His hand-signals to the other members of the team were swift and sure,
indicating less than 1 click - one kilometer - to the target, in this case one Commander John Barker. Lowering his NVD once more, his vision of the landscape went a soft green, marred only
slightly by the bright spots of the tall lampposts. The team slowed as they approached the last line of homes, and there was a click in Maxwell’s ear.
“Alpha Six, Alpha Four.” Alpha Four, call sign for one Jonas Kozac, was on the extreme eastern edge of their advance. “Multiple contacts acquired. Be advised, friendlies up top.”
“Roger, Alpha Four. Weapons free. Defensive positions, and stay frosty. Alpha Two, you’re with me, we’ll get the package. Call out to friendlies; no accidents, here. Move out,”
replied Maxwell. Their desert camouflage made them nearly invisible in the pre-dawn hours, and he hated the thought of one of his team getting shot by some scared civvie.
The team crept forward slowly at that point, taking cover as they co
uld find it, until they were all within sight of the last row of houses. Maxwell and Alpha Two moved west, towards the
beacon from Barker’s last known position. As they approached the last house in the village, Maxwell marveled at the number of walkers laying dormant nearby. Spotting the crates that
Barker and the others had used to climb up to the roof, Maxwell nodded.
Smart guy. He touched Alpha Two lightly on the shoulder, indicating he was moving, and they both ran for the crates, making almost no sound, even with their boots on the gravel.
Certainly not enough for the guys on the roof to hear, now deafened by who knows how many gunshots. Maxwell called softly upward. “Friendlies on your six!”
“Clear!” came the reply from above, and Maxwell and his cohort climbed up, kneeling at the edge of the roof. Maxwell saw what could only be his target, Commander Barker, motioning to his comrades-in-arms that it was okay, and the other men joined them. They moved stiffly, having been in the same position for at least a few hours, obviously. Barker greeted him with an outstretched hand and a quiet voice.
“Commander John Barker, USS Forrestal,” said Barker, then motioned to the two men next to him. “This is Elder Hassan, and Tareq. I’m hoping you’re here for me, because you wouldn’t believe—”
Fight the MonSter: Find a Cure for MS Page 10