by Alex McHale
I looked him over. A little heavy-set from sitting and playing Xbox all day, but a few months in the wild would take care of that. We could use another shooter, and anyone who wanted to go with us might be crazy enough to fit in.
“OK, when we head back to the Wild, if your command OKs it, you can join our merry little band.”
“Cool beans!” He turned to his laptop, printed out a release paper and signed it.
“There you go. Cleared of quarantine. Go over to North Fort and draw quarters, and you’re expected at Building 4387 at 0700 Monday morning for inbriefing. Have fun, and stay off the MP blotter.”
I banged open the door to the Quarantine Block. “PACK IT UP! TIME TO ROLL! E.R. Rogers, here we come!”
Steak. I wanted some serious steak, and the best place to get it was in Steilacom. I had drawn a GSA van and we piled in. I called ahead and made a reservation for five. Ahmed went his own way, wanting to go to a mosque for Friday prayers.
The steakhouse was in a large, converted Victorian-era house. We made our way upstairs, Red peeled off to hit the bar and we headed to our table. “Stay away from the real firewater, Red!” I called after him.
“Well, look who came in out of the rain! How nice to see you, Sergeant Agostine, Sergeant Hamilton, Ms. O’Neill. And who is this gentleman?”
I stopped short. Dr. Morano sat at a table by the window, laptop in front of her. Her two bodyguards sat at another table a few feet away.
“Where is that young lady, Specialist Mya? Ohhhhh, that’s right, I read the report. Such a tragedy.” The smile on her face didn’t reach her eyes.
I wasn’t fast enough. I shot out my arm to grab Brit, but she launched herself at Dr. Morano, catching her in a headlock and trying to bang her head into the table. The two fell to the floor, and the bodyguards’ table crashed over as they leapt up and drew their pistols. Ziv punched one in the back of the head with a set of brass knuckles that he had hid form the airport security guys. The other pressed his pistol against Brit’s head. Doc and I had out guns out and pointed at him.
“TELL YOUR BITCH TO STAND DOWN!” yelled the bodyguard.
“DROP THE FUCKING GUN!” I yelled back at him.
Brit held dead still. She could feel the barrel of the pistol pressed against the nape of her neck. Beneath her, Dr. Morano spoke through smashed lips.
“Johanson, put it away.”
He stood and holstered the pistol. Brit started to get up, then banged the doctor’s head off the floor. The bodyguard started, and Brit stood up and put her hands up in the air. “It’s OK, you trained dog. I’m done.” Then she hawked up some phlegm and spit on Dr. Morano’s steak.
“Did you have to spit on her steak? That might not have been the best idea.” We were driving north on I-5, having grabbed Redshirt from the bar and hightailed it out of there before the local cops showed up. maybe introduce that they were driving north first so it doesn’t seem like they started the discussion at the restaurant.
“Nick, I’ve done a lot of things that seemed like a good idea at the time. Spitting on her steak seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Yeah, but I think somehow we’re going to pay for that. I don’t think old Delta Force boy is happy with you punching him in the head, either.”
Ziv snorted. “Some men, they need to be punched. It keeps them, what is the word? Humble.”
Chapter 20
We were at a bar in downtown Seattle, far enough away from the bases so we weren’t surrounded by uniforms while we knocked back a few beers. Brit went over to the bar to get herself a drink and lay a trap. Far enough away that if someone interesting came her way she could talk to him, close enough to us if she needed mutual fire support or extraction under heavy fire.
She didn’t have long to wait. I could overhear the conversation but I pretended not to notice. A guy in uniform, badges piled high on his chest, sidled up the bar and leaned in. He looked about twenty years old but was wearing Sergeant Major rank. Zombie Airborne wings with a star, Air Assault, Pathfinder, Combat Infantry Badge with a star, Ranger, Sapper and Special Forces Tab over a an Airborne Zombie Combat Command patch. He had more stuff on his uniform than our whole team put together.
“Hey Good-Looking, is heaven missing an angel? Because I want to turn you in for the reward!”
Brit laughed. “You’re retarded.” He looked crestfallen, but waded in for another try.
“Hey, cut me a break, I just got in from the wild East Coast!” Doc choked on his beer and sprayed some out on the table. I shot him a look that said, shut it! This was going to be good.
Brit rolled with it, making her eyes open wide. “Really? Oh, my gosh! You were actually out in the Wild?” She rolled the neck of her beer between her breasts. His eyes never left the beer.
“Yeah, you might have seen us in the news, couple of weeks ago. Of course, our faces were blacked out, you know, Special Forces. We were the ones up at West Point. You know, that picture that was in ‘Merika Today.”
She leaned over and put a hand on his arm. “Oh, I bet that was some pretty bad stuff. Did you see some action?” She flipped her hair back over her shoulder.
“Hell yeah! There were zombies all over the frigging place! We got overrun. I was the last man on the chopper, held them off with the butt of my rifle. See this?” and he rolled up his sleeve to show a small scar on his forearm. “I got a Silver Star and three purple hearts for that action. Bad shit.”
“Ohhh, what unit did you say you were in?” she breathed out in a husky voice.
“Well, I’m not supposed to say, but you might have heard of us. I’m with the Irregular Scouts. We go where no one else will.”
By this point, we were all trying hard not to burst out laughing. Doc actually got up from the table with his hand over his mouth, and even Ziv had the ghost of a smile on his craggy face.
“Oh, that sounds dangerous! That’s the kind of man I’m looking for!”
His eyes lit up, and he leaned in further toward Brit. “Really?”
“Yeah, I got a thing for tough soldiers. Matter of fact, I wouldn’t mind showing you a thing or two! You know, support the troops and everything.” As Brit started to lift her shirt, the look on the guy’s face was pure amazement at his luck.
“Hell yeah!” he started to say, then cut it off when he saw the still livid scar across Brit’s abdomen.
“Yeah, I need a man who can take care of me. You know, when I come home tired and SHOT!”
His face had turned a bit green, and we all burst out laughing. “Whoops, I forgot about that! You see, I got SHOT. In NEW YORK. Before we went to WEST POINT.” She pulled her shirt down and pulled up the leg of her shorts.
“OMG, I totally forgot about this one! I got SHOT. In the LEG. When I was in NEW YORK. Before we went to WEST POINT!” We were all rolling on the floor, laughing our asses off. The guy turned and ran out of the bar as the whole place erupted in laughter.
I loved that woman.
Chapter 21
I stood in front of the auditorium, drinking coffee, trying to get the projector to work for our PowerPoint presentation. Doc sat at a desk, feet up on a chair, snoring loudly. We were both trying to get past our hangovers and get down to work.
Our job over the next few weeks was to pass along the lessons we had learned about fighting zombies to instructors at the Fort Lewis Basic Training unit. Since the plague, Fort Lewis had turned into a giant training ground and headquarters for the Army, and there were now thousands of troops being cycled through every month. Knowledge from the field was passed on through the Center For Army Lessons Learned. We were being used to give firsthand experience the instructors would pass on to the recruits.
They filed in, a group of captains, lieutenants, staff sergeants, sergeants and corporals. Most of them had combat patches on their right sleeves, only a few of them red Zombie Combat Command patch. It was considered “cooler” to wear a patch earned by fighting in Iraq or Afghanistan. Anyone could fight zombi
es. They all had a patch, though. The Army had learned, finally, that you don’t train your troops with inexperienced leaders.
We got past the standard introductions, all the wanker-measuring, all the street creds. Then, in answer to a question from one of the guys, I told them about our detachment.
“Well, you all know what a mess things are out there in the wild, and how hard it is to get trained replacements on a regular basis. Anyone left out in the wild is obviously a survivor, used to living in areas that are infested. So the Irregular Scout Teams are composed of Regular Army, Reservists and civilians.” From the back of the auditorium Brit let out a yell. “That’s me, sucking the taxpayer’s tit!” The guys (and not a few ladies) laughed.
“Keep the comments from the peanut gallery down, please.” I continued on.
“Currently there are six”
“FIVE!” yelled Brit.
“Yes, sorry, five Irregular Scout Teams. Our business is a bit hazardous. We have had a roughly, um, three hundred percent casualty rate over the last year.”
A Captain in the first row spoke up. “Three hundred percent? Is that a bit much?”
“Sir, we do a very dangerous job. We’re out there all alone, trying to avoid zombies and people who would just as soon shoot us as welcome us. Last two missions, we lost, um, let’s see …” I added them together in my head. Ski, Jacob, Jonesy, Mya, Killeen dead, Redshirt, Brit and Desen wounded. “We’ve had 5 KIA, and 3 WIA. For an eight man team, that’s 100% casualties. IST - 4 was wiped out to a man last week in Philadelphia.”
I turned my attention to the rest of the crowd. “We’re here today and for the next couple of weeks to help you understand a little more about fighting zombies, using the information that teams such as ours can bring you, and help you pass the info along to your trainees. We’re all volunteers, so whether we live or die, we will get you the information you need to do your jobs.”
Redshirt started a PowerPoint briefing, and a collective groan arose from the crowd. “Shit, not PowerPoint!” said someone in the back row. I grinned an evil grin and said, “Next slide, please!”
A picture of multiple undead appeared on the screen and I launched into the spiel I had been working on all night.
“First off, we’re not here to talk about the “why” of the Zombie Apocalypse. It happened, and no one knows why. Nor are we any closer to figuring out what a zombie actually is. Our job is to kill them. Actually, your job is to kill them. Ours is to scout areas you may be going into so that you don’t get your asses handed to you.”
“The very first thing your troops need to remember is that you are smarter than a zombie. Well, some of you. We’ll leave the junior officers out of this for now.” That brought a laugh from the crowd.
“The reason most people die out in the wild is they don’t use their heads. If you just use some freaking common sense, you can live out there. My team members back there, the two civilians,” I said, indicating Brit and Ziv, “did it for two years.”
Then we got down to the serious business. How zombies found you. Where they concentrated. How to avoid them. How to kill them. How to avoid getting killed or turned by them.
“I see all of you are wearing the new multicam uniforms. Notice the heavy kevlar panels sewn into the sleeves. Yeah, they are annoying, but if you cram your arm into a zombie’s mouth and let him chew on that for a few seconds, it will give you time to shoot or smash their brains. Just don’t inhale when it splatters back at you. Also, the hoods attached to the blouse can and will protect your head and necks from being bitten.”
After a break, Doc moved onto a session about emergency battlefield medicine.
“The one thing I can tell you, the one thing you must get these kids to understand, is that an infected soldier will turn into a Z quickly and break your lines. Many of you have seen that. As leaders, don’t be afraid to neutralize a former soldier of yours. There is no room for compassion.”
That didn’t sit well with the crowd. One of them raised a hand. “What if we, you know, cut off an arm or leg or something?”
“Are you willing to take that chance with the rest of your soldiers? In the middle of a zombie swarm? No. just shoot him. You will be doing him and your soldiers a favor.”
We finally broke for lunch. It was going to be a very long day.
Chapter 22
When I woke up it was pitch black. I tried to sit up but a strap was across my chest and another held down my legs. I lay back as the incredible stench of zombie hit me. Rotting putrid meat smell, and I gagged, trying not to throw up.
I lay there for several minutes, trying to figure out what was going on. I heard nothing. If there were Zs close by, if I smelled them that strongly, I should have heard them by now. I did hear something. Someone was breathing regularly, the deep breathing of sleep.
Last thing I remembered, Brit and I had been eating dinner at the mess hall on North Fort Lewis When you find yourself in tough situation, the number one rule is to not panic.
“Damn,” I muttered to myself. “No towel.”
As I said that, I heard a door open in the darkness and bright lights flickered on, just as I closed my eyes. I blinked them open after giving myself time to adjust, then lifted my head to look around.
To my left, strapped to a table just like I was, lay Brit, out cold. In front of me, accompanied by one of her goons, stood Dr. Morano.
“Nice shiner you got there, Bro. Can’t say it helps your looks,” I said to the Delta Operator. His right eye and jaw were black and green where Ziv had punched him at the restaurant two days ago. He started toward me, but Morano put her hand up.
“Sergeant Agostine, so glad to see you’re awake. Did you have a good sleep?” She smiled at me, but I could still see the red marks around her neck where Brit had tried to choke her. She started washing her hands leisurely at the sink.
“I actually feel like crap. Nice place you have here.” It was a lab, with several other tables and, over in one corner, a pile of severed body parts, including a head that kept snapping its jaws. The red eyes stared at me. “Actually, I think you need a new housekeeper.”
“I admire flippancy in the face of adverse conditions. Don’t worry, Nick, I’m not going to kill you. Or Ms. O’Neill, either. We live in civilized times, do we not?” She walked over to a cart with several instruments loaded into it, picked up a needle and a bottle, examined the contents and withdrew some clear liquid into the needle. She swapped out the used needle for a new one
She walked over to Brit. “For example, you’ve merely inconvenienced me. You haven’t killed anyone I love or who works for me, so why should I kill you, or any of your associates? Your little girlfriend here, however, did embarrass me at the restaurant the other night.” she said, wiping an alcohol swap around the corner of Brit’s right eye.
“What about Specialist Mya? She’s dead because of you.”
“Ah yes. Well, the nerve agent wouldn’t have worked on zombies anyway. It didn’t in the lab, but I thought it might in a field experiment. I can’t help it if your troops have no discipline, Sergeant.” She put on a pair of gloves.
She stood with her back to me, and moved so I couldn’t see what she was doing. I kept straining my neck to see. She stepped back and threw the needle into a disposal chute.
“Johanson, let’s go. Nick, before you swear revenge, or whatever your stupid moronic code of honor demands, remember this: I can get to you anywhere, any time. The Army needs me and my program, and they give me carte blanche to do whatever I want. I’ve arranged a nice little vacation for you and your friends in Denver. Please do have a good time.”
“Revenge? For tying me and Brit up like this? This is all you’ve got?”
“Oh, no. She’ll see what I’ve done. Or, should I say, she won’t.”
“What did you do?”
She laughed, and her bodyguard smirked. “Nick, never go up against a Sicilian when death is on the line!” Then she unstrapped my arms and stepped away
. The whole time, her goon kept his .45 rock-steady on my face. I didn’t move a muscle; I knew those Delta guys could shoot. She walked out, and he gave me a shit-eating grin as he backed out the doorway. “See you later, Sucker. You should watch what you eat.”
The door clicked shut just as Brit started to wake. She groaned as I sat up and unbuckled my leg strap. I quickly ran to her table and unstrapped her, helping her sit up.
“Nick, what the hell? Where are we?”
“Dr. Morano’s lab, I think. Are you OK?”
She nodded, went still, blinked a few times, put her hand over her right eye, moving it further away and then closer. She turned to me. I could see the bright blue of her eye had become dull and the pupil was cloudy.
“Nick, I can’t see out of my eye! She blinded me!”
Chapter 23
“You can’t see anything?”
“I can see perfectly out of one eye, but nothing out of the other.”
“Does it hurt?”
“No, not at all. I am going to kill that bitch!” She started up off the table, and I sat her back down.
“No, no you’re not. Listen to me, Brit. She could have killed us any time she wanted to. Made us disappear. I’ve seen it happen. Look around you.”
She did, and took in the medical equipment, the pile of rotting body parts on the floor, the Zombie head still snapping at us. It looked like some kind of medieval torture chamber. On the wall hung one those crappy inspirational posters.
I took her face in my hand and turned her good eye to me. She was furious and I had to stop her right here, right now. “Brit, listen to me. We have to move very, very carefully from here on out. We are on her turf. As long as we are in Seattle and around the big Army, we can’t do anything to her. Do you understand me?” She glared at me.
“Brit, you have got to understand. I swear to you, we will deal with her, someday, in our own way, but if we fight her here, we will lose, and I’m not losing anyone else if I can help it. Especially you.”