TWENTY-FOUR.
As the light of day faded, the convoy of Humvees roared down the road, scattering rubbish. The streetlights were off. Rotting corpses swung from the poles in the mounting twilight. Feasting birds scattered at the approaching diesel roar.
Captain Lee had built a career on honesty. He held nothing back in his intelligence reports. When asked, he gave his opinions without the sugar coating. He didn’t believe in putting lipstick on pigs. He’d made captain because of it. He’d been held back from further promotion because of it.
He was going to tell Prince everything. He’d already submitted a report, but even that didn’t contain half of what he’d seen. He’d shared the facts, but he had to make the Colonel see the horror. Right now, First Battalion was scattered, ineffective and losing ground by the day. They needed to pull their forces back into a defensible position and build their operations from there. They could take the city back, block by block, using overwhelming force and killing the infected without mercy. The stakes involved survival of an entire city, and there wasn’t much time. The inmates were inches away from running the asylum and putting it to the torch.
As night fell, they approached the onramp that would take them onto Concord Turnpike. The road was supposed to be reserved to official traffic, but the police and their vehicles were gone, the rows of barriers smashed and flattened. The emptiness was unnerving. The silence made Lee think of Afghanistan. The calm between attacks.
Without being told, Murphy slowed the vehicle and cut the headlights. The men put on their night vision goggles, which rendered the dark landscape in a thousand shades of phosphorescent green. Nobody in sight. In the distance, headlights moved quickly along the turnpike, too fast for military. The vast fires of Boston glowed a brilliant green on the horizon. The Humvee’s tires thudded across the smashed barriers. Lee held his carbine propped in the open window. Foster swiveled the .50-cal in the gun turret, sweeping the area for threats.
Behind them, the other two Humvees did the same.
“Do you believe in prayer, Captain?” Murphy asked.
“Not really, Mike.”
“Could you try? I really don’t want to die here.”
“I believe in good planning, but that doesn’t work either. It’s all on us.”
“That’s not very reassuring.”
“Really? We’ve gotten this far.”
They pulled onto the turnpike and took off their goggles. The headlights flashed on. After a mile, they passed the first flaming wreck on the side of the road. Still no visible threats.
“Your prayers seem to be working, Mike.”
Light flared in the side view mirrors.
“Way to jinx it, Captain,” Murphy said.
The headlights in their rear were approaching fast. Lee remembered the top speed of a Humvee was fifty-five miles an hour.
“We can’t outrun a civilian vehicle,” he said. “And we can’t shoot unless they’re hostile.”
“We won’t know they’re hostile until they’re right on top of us.”
“We should stop. Set up a defensive formation.”
“Fire some warning shots? If they don’t stop, we light them the fuck up.”
The light gleamed bright in the side views.
Lee shook his head. “No time.” He picked up the phone on his field radio. “Rebel Three, this is Rebel Six. What have you got, over?”
“Rebel Six, this is Rebel Three. Vehicles approaching fast. Five hundred meters. Over.”
“You are authorized to use lethal force to respond to any threats. Over.”
“That’s a solid copy, Rebel Six. Over.”
“Take no chances, Rebel Three.”
“Don’t worry about us, s—what the fuck?”
They’d misjudged how fast the vehicles could catch up to them. Lee heard the .50-cal hammer over the roar of an overstressed engine and found he wanted to pray after all. He flinched at the ear-splitting crash of metal. The car shattered against the two-ton military vehicle and burst into flames. Rebel Three lurched and rolled in a series of bangs.
He cursed himself for his stupidity. Here he was on his way back to preach to Prince, but even he didn’t get it. The rules of engagement no longer mattered, only force protection. He should have declared the highway a free-fire zone and taken the consequences.
Behind him, Rebel Two’s machine gun swung into action. Tracer rounds burst in the dark. A smoking car swung off the road. A truck raced past to catch up with Rebel One.
“We got company,” said Murphy.
Foster got off a few rounds but missed. The truck was going too fast. He walked his fire forward, guided by the tracers. The truck pulled up alongside the Humvee’s right and slowed. Lee saw naked, mutilated men swarming across the truck bed, clashing crowbars and golf clubs against the battered chassis. One of the crazies threw a colorful object that struck the rear of the Humvee.
Water balloon. Lee smelled piss. Infected piss. The Klowns lobbed grappling hooks like pirates. One hooked onto Lee’s window. Its connecting chain pulled taut. A man tried to jump onto the Humvee but missed and became road kill. A baseball struck Lee in the chest. He grit his teeth against the flash of pain and the stars that sparked in his vision.
A shrieking devil was about to throw a bright yellow water balloon straight at him. Lee sprayed the back of the truck on full auto, draining the magazine in seconds. Laughing bodies spilled and smashed against the asphalt rushing under their feet. When his rifle clicked empty, Lee pulled out his 9mm and unloaded it into the driver’s cabin.
Foster found his mark. He lit up the truck back to front with a deadly metal rain. The vehicle crumpled like tin foil, riddled with smoking holes. The figures capering along the truck bed exploded. The windshield burst with a splash of glass. The truck disintegrated.
The Humvee door wrenched off with a crack as the shattered truck spilled off the highway.
Lee blinked into the darkness. “Shit.”
“That was a little close,” Murphy said, gripping the wheel.
“Bring us alongside Rebel Two, Mike.”
Mike glared at his side view mirror. “Problem!”
Lee stood and leaned out of the vehicle. The wind howled past. He saw muzzle flashes burst in the dark. Rebel Two was demolishing a souped-up Trans Am at point blank range. On its other side, a tractor trailer roared on eighteen wheels. The truck was black. A woman had been chained to the grille like a freshly killed deer. The trailer’s flank showed a smiling family eating hot dogs.
“Fire your fifty!” Lee ordered, but Foster was already on it, sending hot metal downrange into the grille, which began to blow steam. His next rounds smashed the windshield.
The laughing driver wrenched the wheel. The giant rig swerved into Rebel Two.
“No!” Foster screamed.
The truck struck the Humvee with a metallic clap and enveloped it, jackknifing before the trailer rolled, flaring sparks and shards of metal. Rebel Two disappeared.
Murphy brought the Humvee to a stop. He was drenched in sweat.
Lee keyed his radio. “Rebel Two, this is Rebel Six. What’s your status, over?”
Nothing.
“All Rebel units, this is Rebel Six, how copy? Over.”
Dead air.
Murphy turned in his seat. “What now, Captain?”
Lee reloaded his rifle and chambered a round. His hands were shaking.
“What now?” the sergeant repeated, shouting.
Lee took a deep breath. His body was shaking from excess adrenaline. He was exhausted; he’d never been so tired. He wanted to lie down on the road and take a long, long sleep. “Now,” he said, “we go back and look for survivors.”
TWENTY-FIVE.
Rebel One approached Hanscom at a crawl.
“Nice and slow, Mike,” said Lee.
“Roger that,” Murphy said, eyeing the Mark19 tracking them from one of the guard towers.
“Foster, let go of the fifty and grab a seat. We d
idn’t come all this way to get killed by our own guys. They’ve got some itchy fingers over there.”
Foster dropped out of the gun turret and sat next to Philips, the only survivor they’d found among the wreckage of the escort vehicles. Philips hugged his broken ribs and moaned.
Soldiers crouched behind sandbags between the Hescos. They glared at Lee over the barrels of their rifles. Scared kids. Lee counted three M240 machine guns. Bodies littered the ground around the perimeter, drawing flies in the heat. The air smelled like death. Death and defeat.
One of the soldiers stood, rifle at his shoulder and aimed. “That’s far enough! Exit the vehicle slowly!”
Murphy parked the Humvee and cut the engine. Lee stepped out of the vehicle with his hands in the air.
“Captain Lee?”
“I’m glad you’re still here, Sergeant Diaz. We couldn’t get through on the radio.”
“We’ve had a situation here.”
“Then give me a sitrep, Sergeant.”
Diaz approached, but he didn’t lower his weapon.
Lee frowned. “Would you mind pointing that somewhere else?”
The sergeant lowered his gun as he stepped in front of Lee. “Sorry, sir, but we’re going to have to check you and your men for infection.”
“And how—” Lee started.
Diaz punched him in the stomach and retreated, rifle raised again. Lee stepped back with a gasp. Murphy and Foster stiffened but wisely didn’t move.
After several moments, the sergeant lowered his gun. “You’re clear.”
If Lee had laughed at the pain, he’d be dead. He nodded as he caught his breath. “Good to know.”
Diaz shook his hand. “Ouch. Forgot about the body armor.”
After the others were cleared, the soldiers at the checkpoint visibly relaxed.
“So what’s the situation?” Lee asked.
“The base is in lockdown. The Colonel’s dead.”
The news struck Lee like a second punch. “How?”
“Not sure, Captain. The command post is sealed up tight. The scuttlebutt is he shot himself. What the hell happened to you?”
“Concord Turnpike has been turned into an Indy 500 for homicidal maniacs. I lost good men out there.” He ground his teeth in a sudden fit of rage. His boys had survived crossing half the Afghan bush only to die on an American road. “Report to Major Walker that I’m here and need to see him ASAP. Then get my men a hot and cot. One of them needs medical attention. See to it.”
“Wilco, Captain. And by the way, uh, sorry about sucker punching you.”
“Let’s say I owe you one, Diaz.”
The sergeant saluted and grinned. “Glad you’re back safe, Captain.”
Within minutes, the Humvee rolled into the base. Soldiers milled about without orders. They passed one sitting on the ground and crying into his hands. Lee spotted two men climbing over one of the Hescos and disappearing. The Humvee parked near the command post.
“Major Walker in command,” Lee said. “Christ, this couldn’t get any worse.”
Walker was a politician. He was a fantastic administrator but a terrible soldier, and about as inspiring as white paint on a white wall.
Murphy nodded. “Embrace the Suck, Captain.”
The Suck. The Army version of SNAFU. They were pioneering new territory in Suck right now. Lee wanted to say more, but he’d already said too much. A good officer didn’t bitch down the chain of command. He bitched up. He needed to find Walker and do some bitching.
Leaving his men at the Humvee, he entered the trailer that served as the battalion command post. The place stank of fear and flop sweat. He saw the same haggard faces at their workstations, but the usual frantic pace had slowed to a crawl. The men were going through the motions. They grimaced at the sound of the door opening but otherwise ignored him.
Walker stood with his back to him, studying the big board. Lee glanced at it and noticed the tactical situation had changed. All units had left the Greater Boston core and were converging on Hanscom. All were listed as in contact with the enemy. First Battalion appeared to be in retreat. Lee had missed a hell of a lot while he was out in the field.
“Captain Lee, reporting to the commanding officer as requested, sir.”
The major turned and greeted him with an enigmatic smile. “Ah, Captain. It’s good to have you back. You’re exactly the man I wanted to see.”
Lee smelled a rat but knew better than to show it. “That’s a mutual sentiment, sir.”
Walker led him into the Colonel’s office. Though the body had been removed, the room smelled of ammonia and the tang of a recent gunshot. The major sat at Prince’s desk and motioned for Lee to grab a chair opposite. Lee noticed a large pink circle on the wall behind Walker’s head, obviously from where Prince’s blood and brains had been hastily scrubbed.
“Where’s the body?” Lee asked.
“We’ll take care of him. There will be a service at twelve-hundred.” The major opened a drawer and produced a bottle of Jim Beam and two glasses. He poured two fingers into each.
Lee was about to say it was a little early for a drink but decided, what the hell. He was still wondering what Walker’s game was. “To the Colonel,” Lee said, raising his glass. “He was a good man.” He tossed back his drink while Walker sipped at his.
“He was a good man,” Walker said. “He just couldn’t…”
“Couldn’t what?”
“He just couldn’t handle it. All of it.”
“Did you report it up the chain of command?”
Walker lit a cigarette. “Little problem with that. The chain of command is broken. Big Brother is dead. Infected and killed by an airstrike. Fort Drum has gone dark.”
Lee stiffened. “Drum’s in the middle of nowhere.”
“But we send our wounded there. We’ve been doing it from the start.”
“The incubation takes longer than we were told in some cases?”
The major shrugged. “That’s my theory. But I don’t know for sure. We’re all learning on the job here, right?”
Lee nodded. Something clicked. “That’s why you set up Harvard Stadium as a casualty collection point. Those were your orders. The Colonel had nothing to do with it.”
Walker smiled.
Lee added, “You were putting them into quarantine.”
“That’s right.”
Another epiphany struck Lee. “Keeping the ground troops out of the hospitals and destroying them by air. That was your decision, not Prince’s.”
Walker’s smile turned into a grin. “Now I’m impressed.”
“So was the withdrawal. You’ve been pulling our forces out of the theater a little at a time. Ordering them into a defensive posture. Telling the Colonel they were being forced out.”
The major stubbed out his cigarette and blew a stream of smoke across the desk. “They were forced out. Not all of them will make it back. It may be too late.”
Lee couldn’t believe Walker’s gumption. “You cut the civilians loose. You cut Boston loose. Christ, even our own wounded. The question is why.”
“Why do you think? Force protection, Captain. Extreme measures for extreme times. Consider this: We almost sent three companies of combat infantry into the city’s hospitals. Aside from what that would have done to morale, I’m not even sure we had enough bullets.”
“What would have happened if you were wrong?”
Walker shrugged again. “I would have been locked up, I suppose.”
“Locked up, hell. Prince would have had you executed.”
“The Army taught us to make decisions based on probabilities. I was probably right. If I was wrong, I would have died anyway. We all would. Better a bullet than them.”
Lee shook his head in wonder. “So what now? What do you intend to do?”
“You tell me. You’re in charge here.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean you’re going to have to take command.”
> What Walker was proposing was impossible. “I don’t understand.”
The major refilled their glasses. “The men need a leader. The men need command. Normally, I’d be happy to do it, but I’m not cut out for this. You are.”
“I appreciate your confidence, Major, but there’s no way it would get approved.”
“You know the saying, ‘The center cannot hold’? The center’s gone, Captain. We’re in the midst of wholesale collapse here. If we don’t get somebody in charge the men will believe in and follow, they’re going to walk away. They’re going to go home.”
Lee thought of the two soldiers he saw climbing over the Hescos. Desertion in broad daylight. He picked up his glass and eyed its contents. “So I’m supposed to promote myself to the rank of Lt. Colonel?”
“You still don’t get it. In the past five weeks, almost every guideline that was sent down from the Brass, all those endless PowerPoint presentations for the officers, was about unlearning our training so we can adapt as a military force. The only way to survive this is unlearn everything and start over. Military protocols don’t matter anymore, Captain, just leadership and survival. Preserving something before it all comes apart.”
Walker opened the breast pocket of his blouse and produced two silver oak collar insignia pins. He set them on the desk. “We lost the battle, Harry. If you don’t take command, we’ll lose everything.”
Lee picked up one of the pins. He would be dishonorably discharged if he put it on, maybe even jailed. Hell, maybe even shot. But who was going to shoot him? Walker was right. The Army was falling apart. The battalion was on its own, and it was unraveling fast. The men needed leadership, even if that leadership was technically a charade.
For Harry Lee, the mission was everything. It superseded even himself.
Had he heard everything, and was it the truth? Did the major have a game? Did Walker intend to lead through him? If so, the man was going to be severely disappointed.
Lee downed his drink. He closed his hand around the pin.
Walker smiled. “How does it feel, Harry?”
“Like I’m robbing a corpse.”
Walker smirked. “It might feel different.”
This Is the End: The Post-Apocalyptic Box Set (7 Book Collection) Page 23