“Get in,” he said, and I did. He followed me, and I looked at the kids, who were hugging each other, sitting on one of the benches and crying softly. The door slammed and Remo shouted for Kinga to go.
I sat down next to Chloe and Tim sat next to me. “Brick and Ray-Ban?”
I looked at my boots, nodding my head side-to-side slowly.
Tim put his head in his hands and sobbed. “All we wanted was gas.” It occurred to me that this was the first time Tim had lost anyone he really cared about since this thing had started. Sure, everybody in Baldy was chow, and his family were undoubtedly gone, but this was the first time a comrade that he had spent time with, had bought it. The first time someone who he’d saved the life of and had been saved by, had been claimed by the dead. He hadn’t even seen a zombie up close until a few weeks ago.
Remo sat down across from us and pulled something out of his shirt pocket, offering it to Tim. It was an individually wrapped tooth pick.
Tim took it.
Boring
Joint Base Jackson-Gray was not as deserted as Tim’s Sentinel Satellite would have led us to believe. At least not now. Several corpses were shuffling towards us from an open hangar as we pulled in. Kinga took them out with the MRAP.
We got there just as the afternoon cool began to hit us. It had been hot during the day, but it was getting cold at night. I didn’t know that the southwest could get chilly in the summertime until I had experienced it in the attic in Utah.
Here in Arizona it was friggin’ hot in the day time but really nice in the late afternoon. The heat of the day must drive the zombies inside as well as the humans, because when we showed up at JBJG, there were no zombies (or strippers) waiting for us at the gate. There was no gate either; it had been smashed down from the inside. Whoever had left, had left in a hurry driving something enormous, as the tube steel gate was crushed and bent like a pretzel baked in the crazy factory.
This did not fill me with confidence, but we needed an aircraft. We had also decided to bag the idea of a helicopter in lieu of a large plane. The helicopter would need to be a flying gas tank in order for us to make it the fourteen hundred or so miles to Atlantis, and there was still no guarantee of making it. We would have to take too much fuel, and then our operational range would drop because of the weight of said fuel. Tim calculated a hundred and sixty miles per tank instead of the two hundred we thought we had if we took a gassed-up Chinook helicopter. He didn’t know how big the fuel tank was, or the miles per gallon the bird averaged, he only knew the range of a full tank.
JBJG had a bunch of planes though, and while Tim could only fly a couple of them, he had been training in a C130J, which the base happened to have. It had two actually, but one was in pieces in an open hangar. The other one was very much not in pieces, and very much not in a hangar.
It had two very undead SOBs in the back of it when we got there though. They stumbled down the ramp when we pulled up next to it. Kinga backed over them with the MRAP, which was becoming one of our best zombie-dispatching tools. When we cleared the area from the safety of our truck, we got out and stretched.
“We’re going in that?” Richy asked pointing into the back of the empty plane.
“Yeah,” said Tim. “Yeah I hope so.” He looked nervous.
“Cool!’
Kinga and Remo walked the perimeter of both our vehicle and the aircraft. They both went up the ramp and checked the rear area out too then Kinga came back out and told us to follow him. We came to the nose of the plane, and there were seven truly dead people and sporadic spent brass on the tarmac. The dead looked like they had been infected by the wounds on them. They also had holes in their heads. Somebody had shot them.
Kinga pointed to the plane. “Look.” He nodded at an open window, hinged-out, on the top-side of the nose. “Somebody was in the cockpit and fired on these ones.”
Chloe looked at the glass panels when she leaned toward Kinga. “What if he’s still in there but, you know, less alive?”
“We’ll have to check. We can’t get in through the cargo hold, the bulkhead door is locked. We’re going to have to go in through there.” He motioned toward the window that everybody was now staring at. He cupped his chin, feeling his stubble. “How we getting up there?”
Richy actually raised his hand. “Drive your truck around,” he said to Kinga, “climb up on the roof and look in.”
“Uhh, yeah, it’s my truck, but good idea.” I took a swig of my water.
The kid thumbed at Kinga. “But he was driving.”
I burped. “I let him.”
We followed the kid’s plan, and it worked out with a little finagling. There’s a detachable ladder on the side of the MRAP, and we were able to get on the roof and use that to get up to the window. I held the ladder while Kinga climbed up and peeked in the window with his flashlight. Remo stayed with the kids.
Kinga banged on the fuselage three times and waited a moment. “Clear.”
“So I guess the shooter made it?”
“He made it out of here at least. Hold the ladder tight, I’m going in. Check-check,” he said into his mic.
“Green,” was Remo’s one-word answer. Guy had found his pithy switch again.
Kinga made it in, and called for us to come through the back to meet him. I passed the ladder to Remo, and climbed down using the non-detachable ladder on the rear. We made our way up the ramp and looked at Kinga as he waved us in. Tim sat in the chair on the right and began fiddling with stuff. “See if there’s a manual in there, please.” He pointed to a small locker. Inside was a plethora of shit, including several manuals, all of which I passed to Tim.
He began to read, and he didn’t stop for six hours. In the interim, we backed the truck near the plane. Tim had figured out how to close the rear ramp, and we had two fortresses to spend the night in. The kids and Kinga in the MRAP, Tim, Remo, and I in the plane
I didn’t think we needed a watch, but Remo woke me up at about three AM for mine. “Last watch is yours. Get us up at first light and we’ll walk the runway.”
I had no idea what walk the runway meant, but I was not about to tell Remo that. Actually, now that he’s reading these journals, he’ll find out, so sorry, Remo.
I moved up front to the cockpit. Tim was asleep in the pilot’s seat with a manual in his lap. He woke up and smiled groggily when he saw me.
“You’ll be able to fly this, yeah?”
“I’ve already flown one. I’ve taken off with an instructor, and sort-of landed.” I looked at him hard, and he let out a sigh. “I wouldn’t worry about landing. We’re going to have to bail.”
“Uhh what?”
“Do you think I’m going to able to set this thing,” he spread his arms wide, “down on an oil rig?”
“Wait, you mean like jump out of the plane? Skydive?”
“I don’t think the MARSOC guys will call it that, but yeah.”
I swallowed hard.
“What about the kids?”
“Both certified skydivers, I already spoke to them. They have over one hundred jumps. I was thinking we jump at about forty thousand feet.”
He looked at my nervousness and laughed out loud. “Relax, Mr. Airborne, I’m just kidding.” He frowned. “I mean they could be certified, I don’t know, but I didn’t ask them.” Bastard actually shrugged. “The plan is easy: We fly in at about forty feet above the water as slow as possible. Open the rear ramp, pop a chute, it catches the air, and we drop to the water safe and sound.”
I visibly relaxed. “Good plan.” I glanced out the window and saw a couple of things shuffling around on the runway in the moonlight. “If they let us leave.”
Tim followed my gaze. “Afterthought. I don’t want to hit them if possible, but I don’t think they would do much to us if we’re taking off. We’ll just turn them into strawberry jam, as you’re so fond of saying. We will have to check the runway for anything that could pop a tire before we take off.”
That’s what Re
mo meant!
Tim picked up a clipboard and passed it to me. “Someone, probably the guy who shot the dead on the runway, already completed a pre-flight check. It’s dated about four months ago. At least I think so, I’m kind of unsure of the present date. The plane is good to go and already fueled. There are a couple of things I want to look at, but I think we’re good. I’m a little uneasy at why the clipboard is here as is the aircraft, but the pilot didn’t take off.”
“Yeah, me too, now. Thanks for that. Get some sleep then, tomorrow should be interesting.”
He stood, cracked his neck, and strode to the fold-down bench-style troop seats in the cargo area of the plane opposite Remo, who was on the deck of the plane. Tim looked at the lawn-chair type seats and also opted for the deck. Stretching out, he gave me thumbs up, rolled over and went to sleep.
When I was alone, I thought about Ship. I thought about Kat. I thought about all my other friends on Atlantis, and how I desperately wanted to get back there. I hoped they were all OK. I couldn’t wait to call them on the radio when we were in range. I really couldn’t wait to see them. I wanted to introduce my new friends to my old ones, and tell everybody what the country looks like a year into this mess. I wanted to fix stuff again. I wanted to feel safe.
I heard a thump outside and looked to see if it was one of the dead ones. It was. There were a bunch of them out there now. Eight or ten, and they were just milling about. I couldn’t see what they looked like, just shadows really. I could see a brightening in the east and knew it was almost time to rock and roll.
I thought about the folks we had lost. I wondered if my family and friends went fast, or if they were still alive and fighting the dead. The sun peeked over the horizon and hit me right in the face. It was pretty, and I felt its warmth immediately. I sighed and went to wake Remo. He was sitting on his bench rubbing his neck.
“We’ve got company,” I told him.
“How many?”
“Just a few that I can see.”
“Rogue One, this is Two,” he said into his mic, “how copy?”
Kinga’s tired voice replied instantly, “Two, One, five by five, over.”
These guys could carry on a conversation using nothing but numbers apparently.
Remo said something unexpected right then, and it was hard for me not to smile. “How’re the kids, over?”
Let’s pretend, Reader, you understand that every communication these guys, or any military guys, have via a radio ends with either over, or out when they are done speaking. I’m tired of writing it every five seconds, and if you haven’t caught on by now, you’re dumb. For a great demonstration of this, see the nineteen fifties movie Them if you can find it and have power. Great flick about giant ants in the New Mexico desert.
“Up and rearing to go. We’ve had some hostiles knocking for about an hour. Nothing to worry about yet.”
“Copy that One, we see and hear them.” Actually, I could hear them now. “We’ll reveille and get on mission. Call you back in ten.”
I woke Tim, not knowing what the hell reveille was. He sat up immediately, rubbing his arm where the lion had tried to relieve him of it. (I must admit, I never thought I would write a sentence like that.) Tim looked rested, even though he had only gotten a few hours of sleep on a floor.
We prepped the inside of the plane as best we could, but that was just trying to clean up the shit the zombies had left behind. I didn’t want the kids sitting in any of that crap, or having it get on any of us. There was a push broom stuck between two metal braces and I used that. It was still a bit messy.
I was sitting down on one of the fold-outs, finally noticing that the plane had a bit of a death odor to it, when Remo tapped me on the shoulder.
“Time to make the donuts.”
WTF? Did he just say that? The guy had made a joke? Right then, the weirdest thing happening was not that there were dead people trying to eat us.
I nodded, and began to check over my gear. I had one full mag in my rifle, one full mag in reserve, and a mag with four rounds in it. I had a total of seven rounds for my sidearm. Shit was getting bleak, but hey, my knife was beautiful.
I told Remo I was ready, and he called Kinga. “Rogue One this is Rogue Two, we are ready for Operation Tow Truck.”
TWO jokes! The time/space continuum was broken! Rips in the fabric of reality and shit.
“Rogue One copies. Commencing drag-away. Call you back when we’re far enough away.”
Huh. Decidedly un-military talk, but hey, what do I know?
He called back in ten minutes and told us we were clear. Tim lowered the ramp, and we walked the runway, side-by-side until the pus bags decided to come back. There were nine of them, Kinga had run over another few. We dispatched them quickly, one of them getting almost close enough to grab me before Remo shot it. After we dragged the bodies off of the runway, we met Kinga and the kids at the plane.
It took fifteen minutes to load everything from the MRAP into our new ride including the kids. I drove my beauty to the open hangar and parked it about fifty feet away from the maw, not wanting to go in there for hell or high water. I had previously written a note and put it in a plastic baggy, which I attached to the door handle with a zip-tie:
To whoever finds this vehicle: It’s yours now. Don’t be a dick and use it to hurt people. This thing is completely zombie proof, but it isn’t a tank. Medium arms fire can penetrate the glass. You’ll never get a flat tire, and it runs on diesel. I wish you the best of luck, but if you’ve made it this far, luck has been on your side. Hope it doesn’t run out.
I was a hundred yards away from the aircraft when it started up. It’s a fat plane when you’re standing behind it, and I liked looking at its butt. The C-130 has four props, and they started quickly. I could feel the wash from this far out. They were loud, but the area was clear and I was enjoying my stroll. I saw Remo dart out of the plane and look around for a sec before he saw me. He waved his right arm frantically, pointing at me. I assumed he wanted me to hurry now that the vehicle had started up, so I started jogging toward him. I was perplexed when he raised Kinga’s EBR, aiming it at me. Even more so when he pulled the trigger.
L.A.P.E.S
I’m unsure if anywhere in these journals I’ve ever written I felt the bullet go right past my head. You probably know by now, if you’ve put in the time to read all off this stuff, that I’ve actually been shot in the head. Grazed is the word, as it didn’t penetrate my skull, but did leave a significant scar. I was shot at pretty much on a daily basis for a while, and I’ve returned fire too. Being shot at sucks. Being shot is worse.
Hopefully you are reading this while both of us are sitting someplace safe, where the infected can’t get to us. You’re probably also thinking to yourself that these journals are bullshit, and I’m playing myself up to look cool. I’m not. Wait. No, I am cool, I’m just not amping up the story. Everything I’ve written has really happened. More than likely you have just shot me in my zombie dome and are reading this, but I really do hope it’s the first option.
Regardless, take your hand, make a flat palm, and move it quickly past your ear. Don’t hit yourself or it stings, I know this because I just did it. Do it a few times and you’re bound to hear the sound of your mitt whipping past you. Take that sound, add a whining sssssssssoooo to it, and that’s the sound of a .308 round almost drilling you in the melon. Now add a half pound of shit to your drawers, drop to the ground, and the experience is complete.
Now, as previously discussed above, I am cool. I do not cower, or faint, or plead. At least I haven’t yet. Not that any of these things make one cool. It’s how you act during the times when those actions are not being performed but should that makes you fashionably attractive.
So Remo shoots at me, I drop to the ground fumbling for my weapon, and he shoots again. This second time I feel more than hear a bit of a thump behind me. Keep in mind that about two hundred and fifty feet in front of me is a freshly started C-130J Hercules aircra
ft, and it’s loud. I glance at the thump and see two infected, one about fifteen feet away, on its back sort of rolling around. The other is also on the ground, on its front, just touching my boot. It has a hole in its right shoulder that if wasn’t spewing infected fluids, I would be able to put a broomstick through. It is a Runner, and it is exceptionally messed up.
Now these damn things, Runners, really don’t give a shit about pain. However, where their dead cousins are not bound to the same results of trauma and injury other than to the brain, these speedy sons-of-bitches will drop or fall over or in some other way go down when shot. At least usually. What they will also do is expend their very last energies in an attempt to rip into any living thing in close proximity until death comes. Actually, proximity has nothing to do with it. They’ll bleed out trying to get to you if you’re a half a mile away. Also, once they expire, they tell death to take a hike, get up, and come for you. Slower, but significantly more durable.
The point is, this horrid thing that had its nasty paw on my Altama Desert boot had no intentions of doing anything other than playing jump rope with my lower intestine. Having a deep rooted love for, and burning desire not to share any or all of my innards, and not wanting to supply the equipment for a game of rope jumping, I hastily withdrew my size thirteen from its vile grasp. It attempted to stand and the top portion of its noggin popped straight up in the air, the creature stiffening and collapsing on to the exact spot I had just scuttled away from. I looked behind it and noticed a few of its undead counterparts making their way toward me from the hangar I refused to enter prior. The other Runner was still lying on its back coughing blood, Remo’s shot having taken it center mass.
Conspiracy Theory (The Zombie Theories Book 2) Page 22