by Ryan Cecere
“Derek Hanson, D.H.S”
Tuesday, October 14, 2014
Training Facility, Syracuse, NY
2100 Hours
Bravo Squad breached into the office. Their ears rang. Smoke filled the air. MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!
The squad starts firing until they are cut off by the shouting of Hold your fire! Hold your fire!
All the gunshots come to a stop. There’s silence. From the other room, the team could see the silhouette of their leader through the thick smoke. Finally it cleared and Derek Hanson entered. “Attention. Line up, maggots, let’s evaluate your performance.”
Bravo Squad lined up, keeping their heads straight. Derek surveyed the room. He examined the bodies on the ground for paintball kill shots. Next, he made his way around the President’s desk. There, he was unhappy with what his eyes showed him. “Private Johnson!” Derek yelled.
“Step forward…”
Private Johnson, the newbie, not cut out to be in this line of work, stepped out of line. He gulped.
Derek got close to his face. “Private Johnson, can you explain to me and everyone else why the fuck the President of our great nation was shot in the face? If I recall correctly, the mission was to save him from the insurgents who took him hostage. Not go rogue.”
“I didn’t go rogue, sir,” Johnson stuttered.
Derek got nastier. “Boy, do you speake’ de English? This ain’t no game! You just killed the damn President. Remember soldier, that’s your ass.”
Derek was the most respected agent the President knew. With a former military background, he was asked to join the Department of Homeland Security five years back. There was one phrase all the Presidents Derek had worked for since being in service all agreed on: He puts the fear of God in you. The President had asked Derek to set up an elite team that would operate under the radar. Derek himself not only got the opportunity to pick who he wanted and to train them the way he likes, but he was in charge. This was his squad, there would be no mistakes. If you made a mistake—especially a terrible one—he’d make a sure fine example out of you.
“We can’t have those mistakes in the field, understood?” Derek continued. Johnson nodded. “Hope you’re not tired, private, it’ll be a long night.” Derek turned to the rest of the squad. “Squad dismissed. Everyone except you, Johnson. You got cleaning to do.”
A half-an-hour later, Derek returned to his office to disassemble and clean his weapons. An alert came on the screen. He was able to see the oval office in a blur behind the ‘Accept’ or ‘Decline’ call screen. He accepted the call and stood in salute. “Mr. President, sir, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“At ease, Agent Hanson,” the President said. “I don’t have much time to go into detail, but there’s an important mission I have for you.”
In the background, Derek heard one of the Secret Service Agents speaking, noticing a disturbance. “Mr. President, the White House is falling! We have to get you to Air Force One immediately!”
“I understand,” he told the Secret Service Agent. “Agent Hanson, with your skills and your squad, the United States of America rests in your hands now. I must go. I have forwarded the briefing on your mission.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” Hanson saluted.
“Oh, and Hanson? Don’t let me down. I’ll keep in touch.” The screen blacked out.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Derek opened up the mission message on his communicator. First things first about Derek, he is not one to get chills sent down his spine. As he read the mission log, he felt his hairs stick up. He had seen his fair share of horror while on the battlefield, but nothing, nothing prepares you for his new mission.
2300 Hours
The Humvee engine roared as it sped down the deserted road. Derek road in the passenger seat, his M4 locked and loaded. Johnson was in the backseat, wondering to himself what this mission was. Just like him, none of the other members of the squad had been briefed on the mission. None of them wanted to speak up to ask about it. Agent Hanson wouldn’t speak and they all feared him. Derek craved for people to fear him.
Four miles up the road the Humvee came to a halt. A couple of cars that were crashed into one another were blocking the road.
“Johnson, Silva, take two men and move those fucking cars out of the way.”
Everyone except the driver exited the vehicle. Derek looked around, standing by the car as Johnson, Silva and two other squad members started to clear the path.
Rustling sounds came from the woods on both sides of the road. Those were followed by moans, groans and grunts. UHHHHHH…
Derek whistled to his men. Without question, the four of them returned to him, going into their battle formation. He squinted at the shadows by the trees. In packs, zombies emerged from both sides of the road.
“What the…,” Johnson said in low tones.
“What’s going on, sir?” Silva asked.
“This is our new mission, men. Aim for the head and prepare for a fight.”
The zombies closed in on the squad. Derek waited. The members all waited for his signal. Just as the group of zombies were within ten feet…
“FIRE!”
Epilogue
Journal Entry #9
It’s been seven days since the world-wide outbreak that plagued humanity. For seven days
I’ve been searching, scouring this part of the East Coast for my brother who was assigned to a different unit within our organization. Our mission was to prevent an unknown group of scientists who’ve been experimenting with biological weapons on imprisoned soldiers for use on the battlefield. But now, I’ve lost all contact with my organization. Before losing contact with them, I was assigned a new mission. My mission is now to take out a certain target that is working with the Department of Homeland Security—who is responsible for releasing the virus and causing nothing but pain and misery. For causing the end of humanity. I need to find my brother. We need to stop this.
Neversink Reservoir, Day 7
Not only did the mask hide his identity, but it also represented who he worked for.
The mask was made of metal, and black with the design of a dark blue-colored skeleton. The skeleton design didn’t show a sorrowful expression, nor did it show rage—it showed pure determination—symbolizing a man on a mission. He was not tall—but short, around five-foot-seven; not built nor skinny. He wore blue and black camouflage pants with a black T-shirt, boots and gloves. The shark tooth pendant around his neck wasn’t his. It was his missing brother’s.
For days he had been traveling the deserted roads and highways packed with abandoned vehicles, most destroyed, making him feel like he was in World War I or II… Or even III. Now he was in the woods.
His stomach grumbled and his mouth was so dry his lips wanted to crack off. His supply bag contained mostly ammo for the Barrett M98B that was slung across his body; along with ammo for the 9MM Beretta that was hoisted in place on the side of his belt. Other things within the duffel-bag included; first-aid, two empty canteens, a can of baked beans that would be his last meal for a while, and some accessories for his sniper and handgun; such as a compressor and laser-sight. There was also a bowie-knife attached to the bag’s side pocket.
The Masked Assailant (or “Wolf”—his codename within his unit—as he preferred to be known) finally found a river with no sight of them around. A good quiet place for him to rest up. He knelt down, cupping water into his hands, then, splashed it onto his face after placing his mask and duffel-bag—along with his guns—against the tree just a few yards away from him.
The sun was starting to crawl down toward the horizon, creating an orange cream shade in the mid-October sky.
Night was approaching.
With nightfall came uncertainty about your survival. Would you last until sunrise, or will you be bitten and turn into one of them? One of the undead…
A branch snapped somewhere close by. Wolf wiped the water from his face, turned his head slowly, eye-balling the distance be
tween him and his weapons. He didn’t know the exact pin-point of where the sound was coming from. His back was facing crowds of trees and bushes, so it could’ve came from any direction. After a week in this new world, he knew that there was never only one of the creatures—the zombies—lingering around. He reached out for his gun, but stopped himself. Sound will attract these things, he thought to himself. Better go quietly, otherwise I’m fucked.
Wolf grabbed his bowie-knife from the side pocket of the bag. He held the knife in the ready position. His eyes were peeled, ready to stab the first zombie that attempted to threaten his life.
The zombies weren’t like they were in Hollywood—slow. No. They were fast. The fuckers would sprint at you like a marathon runner.
Wolf wasn’t afraid of much, he was trained to be fearless, but when the dead got back up and ran after you with their only intention being gnawing your limbs off that scared him.
With no sounds from birds or other animals that lived in the forest, he was able to clear his mind in order to focus on where he heard the sound, maybe even hear its feet dragging or stomping along the dirt.
Moments later, he heard a faint moaning coming from his left side. He swung around and the rotted corpse of an overweight man with a grizzly beard wearing worn out, raggedy denim overalls was right in his face. The zombie’s meaty hands gripped firmly on Wolf’s throat. It inched its half completed jaw closer to his neck.
The odor of the decaying corpse was unbearable. Vomit traveled up his throat, pleading to come out, only to be forced back down.
He managed to break free, jabbing the bowie-knife into the brain of the zombie. It wasn’t like those cheesy zombie movies where their brains were mushy and easily accessible for a sharp object to penetrate—no. Wolf had to put a ton of effort and strength into getting the knife to pierce into its skin and dig far enough to reach the brain.
Blood squirted out, some got on his clothes.
Before he was able to retrieve the knife from the zombie’s skull…
Wolf was brought to the ground, his back smacking against it hard. An intensely sharp pain rose up his spine. Another zombie—that of an African-American woman—was already on top of him, eager to have him as a meal.
SHIT!
As he held the female zombie back, he searched for his knife. It was out of reach.
More moans, groans and gawks came from behind the trees. Suddenly, five more zombies came into view. Some slouched their way over, some moved faster. His only way out of this was to get to his guns and waste precious ammo.
He dug his thumbs into the female zombie’s eyes. Blood poured out of its eye-sockets, running down his fingers and hands like the flow of water in a river. Ugh! The female zombie’s body was then tossed to the side—still alive, but less mobile, and unable to see.
Wolf rushed over to the overweight zombie and grasped the bowie-knife. Another zombie grabbed onto his forearm, forcing him to release the knife so he wouldn’t suffer the same fate as the rest of these poor useless bastards.
He punched the zombie in the temple of its head, causing it to lose grip on him.
Without hesitation, he forgot about the knife and grabbed his 9MM. He took aim. The gunshots echoed throughout the woods. All perfect head-shots. One thing was for sure: out of everyone in his unit, he was the best shot.
More rustling of branches and leaves, with louder UHHH’s, came from all corners. Firing those bullets alerted more of them.
He saw the silhouettes of the undead approaching. With the current clip of ammo being his last, he had no way to fight them all.
Wolf grabbed his duffel bag and put his mask back on. Then, he disappeared into the woods, in a direction that seemed less infested than the others… Oblivious to the unknown.
SPECIAL SNEAK PREVIEW
On the following pages you will find a brief excerpt from
END OF DAYS
Book 1 of THE PLAGUEseries…
THE PLAGUE: End of Days
Miles and Tiamade their way towards the G.W. Bridge in a hurry. On a normal day to walk from Central Park to the bridge was two hours alone, but this wasn’t a normal day.
Six blocks away, they arrived at the Henry Hudson Parkway, unharmed and undetected. Vacant vehicles were parked and scattered in all lanes. Not a soul or zombie was in sight as far as the eye could see.
“Oh, God… This is so sad,” Tia put her fingers to her lips, examining the bloody baby seat in the back of the station wagon. She pressed her head against the cracked window, gazing at her reflection. “I guess this is the world we live in now. What else do you know from watching a ton of zombie movies?”
Miles joined her side. “People start to get crazy—fighting others for food, water, supplies. Instead of banding together to overcome the situation, they make matters worse by turning into animals themselves, killing other humans. But this isn’t a movie. Maybe things will be different and people will come together as one to stop this from getting any worse than it already has.”
“How are we supposed to live, Miles? In this new world we can’t have babies. We can’t raise a family.”
“It’s all about survival. We just got to keep moving and hope for the best.” Miles put a hand on Tia’s shoulder. “I know we just met, but I promise I’ll help you get back to your family in one piece.”
“I appreciate that. I really do.”
Miles climbed on top of the hood of the station wagon. All he saw were cars stretched out and eventually disappearing into the blackness of the night.
“See anything?” Tia asked.
“Just a shit ton of cars we have to squeeze through.” Miles jumped off the hood and opened the car door adjacent from the station wagon. He began searching the glove compartment, under the seats and the trunk. Then he moved on to the next car.
“What are you looking for?”
“A flashlight. It’s really dark down there, even with the street lamps.”
Tia then joined him in search of a flashlight, and after just over a dozen cars searched, they came up empty.
Miles slammed the trunk closed. “How does nobody have a flashlight with them, let alone own a battery,” he said to himself.
Tia turned to him, “How is this the quietest area we’ve been to so far? It’s jam-packed with all these cars and yet there’s nobody, not a single person or undead creature-thing either. Where is everyone?”
“Good question.” Miles took a moment to himself. Then, “Okay, we need to forget the flashlight and continue moving. If we see a zombie then we duck and take it out without a sound. If we accidently attract more—especially since we are on a narrow highway—we’re fucked.”
Tia nodded, and Miles got his MP7 ready as they continued their way to the G.W.
Sgt. Allen Cooper hadn’t seen such a hostile crowd as the one in front of him in all his thirteen years in the service. His tank was front and center—behind the tank were his men and a blockade, preventing anyone from leaving.
Their orders were to secure all exits of New York so the outbreak wouldn’t spread. If anything got out of hand…he would be forced to open fire without hesitation nor question; no rhyme or reason.
The hostiles were shoulder-to-shoulder, bumping into one another, hollering and making threats. A thousand of them. Children cried in their mother’s arms.
“Let us through,” one man yelled.
“We have children,” a mother yelled.
“What about the rest of us, huh,” another said. “You’re just gonna stand there and let us die?”
“For Christ Sakes, man, let us out.”
“Help us.”
Sgt. Cooper heard enough. He raised his M4 and with force, yelled, “Everyone stay the fuck back or we will open fire. We have orders to secure this location and will not tolerate a hostile crowd. Stay calm and we will…”
“Stay calm?” a ginger-haired man stepped forward. “How the fuck do you expect us to stay calm? Are you blind? Do you not see what’s going on? People are
dying and you’re just there on your high horse acting all mighty and powerful because you wear that stinking uniform. You should be ashamed to be a part of such a disgraceful government.”
Sgt. Cooper hopped off the tank, accompanied by two of his men. He got up into the ginger-haired man’s face and said, “Sir, get back. This is your final warning.”
The ginger-haired man’s wife and daughter watched on. She pleaded for her husband to back off. “Gabriel, let’s just go. Please.”
Gabriel turned to his wife, “They won’t let us out of the city, and I’m not dragging my family back into that death zone.
“You might want to listen to your wife, sir. This doesn’t have to get ugly.”
Gabriel turned to Sgt. Cooper. “Fuck you,” he spat. Then, he turned back to the hostile crowd and at the top of his lunges said, “Come on people, are we really just going to let them run the show? Are we going to let them determine whether we live or die? You see what’s happening. Our friends and families, our co-workers and innocent strangers are dying and the military isn’t raising a finger to help. We need to fight back. Fuck them. It’s up to us. Who’s with me?”
The hostile crowd cheered, all behind him. Gabriel turned back to Sgt. Cooper.
“Better listen to these people, Sargent.”
Sgt. Cooper aimed his M4 at Gabriel. “Back the fuck up. Now!”
“I’ll meet you in hell.” Gabriel swung at Sgt. Cooper, knocking him to the ground in a daze.
The military aimed at the crowd. Gabriel stared them down. Sgt. Cooper got to his feet, pulled out his 9MM and pulled the trigger, and the gunfire reported.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to all who’ve participated in this project in whatever way, shape or form. Those people include:
Nikki