by Rounds, Mark
“I thought that epidemiologist, Grieb, at Fort Lewis said that animals couldn't be infected and so were not a vector,” said Phillips.
“The vet, Captain Stutesman, said that normally it wasn't an issue,” said Twitchell. “But she thinks that some of the rabbits and other small game that are able to cross the perimeter may have been previously captured and/or kept by infected individuals and then, as the Infected became weak and careless, they escaped and were subsequently recaptured here.”
“Is she sure?” asked Phillips. “I'd hate to have to restrict any food source right now.”
“It's only a guess so far,” replied Twitchell. “She has asked that any game captured be turned in for testing, but people are resisting.”
“What about the security situation?” asked Col Phillips.
“We have two more gaps in the wire,” said Twitchell. “We found them during standard foot patrols. AFOSI doesn't think they were open more than a couple of hours.”
“Dang this long perimeter,” said Col Phillips. “That may be the other vector for infection. I have been reading the reports and I'll bet there are some personnel on base who are covering with Slash. Since we parked most of our vehicles due to the fuel shortage and I have at best, a thousand or so shooters total, there is no way to have eyes on all parts of the fence all the time. And I wouldn't have that many, if it weren't for the privately-owned weapons on base.”
“Yes, sir,” said Twitchell.
“I am ranting again, aren't I?” asked Phillips.
“I am afraid so, sir,” said Twitchell diplomatically.
“Any good news?” asked Phillips.
“A couple of items, sir,” said Twitchell. “There is a report out of the University of Idaho that shows a promising palliative treatment for the Plague.”
“In English please, Twitchell,” said Col Phillips
“There is a potential replacement for Slash when treating the Infected, sir, without its side effects.”
“When will it be available?” asked Col Phillips. “Going to the Gym to visit the Infected is harder every time I go.”
“Nothing specific, sir,” said Twitchell, “but it has been given top priority.”
“Along with all the other top priorities then,” said Col Phillips wryly. “Anything else?”
“Staff Sergeant Martin had a baby boy,” said Twitchell. “Mother and son are doing fine. The father of the child is shaping up nicely in the militia. Being a father can do that for you.”
“So we keep holding on and pray for a miracle,” said Phillips, who paused for a moment and then got down to business. “Alright, then let's try to make our own miracles, shall we? We have a recon patrol rolling at dusk looking for supplies and usable assets. I also seem to recall, from our last recon, that there are still people operating the Reardon Grain Growers operation west of the base. Arrange for Captain Stutesman, the vet, to go look the facility over in her capacity as Public Health Officer. If the place looks safe, give her authority to buy as much grain as they will sell for cash. I realize that will be precious little grain but we can try. Also have her offer medical care, Plague testing, safe refuge if they feel they have to run. Maybe we will get lucky?”
July 7th, Tuesday, 11:14 am PDT
Reardon, WA
Capt Jennifer Stutesman got out of her Humvee in front of the Reardon Grain Growers building. There were people inside and they had sensibly fortified the entrance with some plywood and sandbags. She had traveled the fifteen miles in a convoy of three Humvees. One was rigged out with a canvas top and held a fire team from the 92nd Security Forces Squadron. Her vehicle was set up as a command vehicle with a driver, radio operator, and a medic. The final vehicle was a M1026A1 scout version of the Humvee. Up top in the ring mount was an airman with a M240 machine gun. She had argued against such a heavily armed convoy until she was shown the intel reports from Moscow about the marauding bands of Infected.
“I am Captain Stutesman, United States Air Force Public Health Officer,” said Jennifer in her best command voice. She was Jen to her friends and really her main job was to be the vet for the working dogs on the base. There were a variety of dogs ranging from drug and bomb detection dogs to guard and sentry dogs. But every Air Force Vet was also the base Public Health Officer so here she was to inspect grain.
“Go away,” said the voice inside the building. “We have nothing to sell for money.”
“I am authorized to offer medical care and Plague testing,” answered Jen, “in exchange for grain or fuel.”
“Do you have Slash?” asked the voice inside.
“We use Slash to treat Plague sufferers in our custody,” said Jen. “We do not carry it off the base. If you have someone who is suffering from the Plague, we can provide medical care in exchange for grain.”
“I am coming out to talk,” said the voice. There was some shuffling like someone was moving furniture away from the entry door and then a middle-aged man with thinning gray hair came out with his hands in plain view.
“Come forward,” said Jen, her hand resting on her holstered M-9. She knew that Senior Airman Hightower was covering the man with his M240, but one had to be careful. “How can we help?”
“I’m Harvey Dunham,” said the man as he approached the Humvee. “I used to manage the elevator here and I guess I still do. Most of the farmers who own the grain in the silos haven't been in contact for a while. I have some to trade.”
“What do you need?” asked Jen neutrally.
“I have my wife and three kids holed-up inside,” said Harvey. “I think me and the kids are clean, but my wife is infected. We’ve been using Slash to keep her infection under control, but we’re running out.”
“Where do you normally get the Slash?” asked Jen. She had been briefed to be on the lookout for Slash users and pushers in the area. The Colonel hoped to be able to dry up the supply on base and get all the Infected of base out in the open and quarantined.
“Look, if I tell you, they’ll kill me,” said Harvey, wringing his hands.
“Ok, let's move to safer ground,” said Jen. “Why haven't you been able to get Slash lately?”
“I have been trading grain for Slash for a couple of weeks now with some … folks in Spokane. They demand two hundred bushels of grain for each dose. They will only sell me two or three doses at a time and they haven't been around in a couple of days.”
“So we are talking six hundred bushels of grain?” asked Jen somewhat incredulously. “That's close to two tons. How do they haul it out?”
“They have an old ton and a half Dodge truck,” said Harvey. “They were trading real hard for fuel but I don't have any.”
“I need to get on the radio and get confirmation for a squirrelly idea I have,” said Jen. “What if we offered to take you and your family in, feed you, provide housing, take care of your wife in the base hospital where she will get a carefully controlled Slash dosage? You will all be safe; would you be up for that?”
“What about all the grain?” asked Harvey.
“That's the hard part of my idea and why I need my boss to OK it,” said Jen. “We have a lot of people to feed on base; you could help and get some peace besides. How much grain do you figure you have here?”
“The far silos are mostly empty,” said Harvey, “they have been pilfered some. I don't look much because it's mainly local families around here who steal some of the grain and beans.
“But I am a Christian ma’am; I try to help out when I can. So, while I would like to take you up on your offer, I couldn't leave and let these good people stay here.”
“How many people are we talking about?” asked Jen.
“There were thirty-seven souls in church Sunday,” said Harvey. “I suspect there are probably fifteen or so unbelievers that are also around. Attendance in church has been pretty good since the Plague started, but we take care of everyone whether they come to church or not.”
“Here is my idea,” said Jen. “There is a rail
way siding near the base. If we took in everyone in your group, and then unloaded all the grain, beans, and whatnot from the silos into those hopper cars that are sidelined over there, and rolled them to the base, we could save the grain and all your friends. But I can't make that commitment without talking to my boss.”
“I'll wait for the call, ma'am,” said Harvey.
Ten minutes later after a hurried consultation with Col Phillips, Jen deployed her team and began doing a survey of the grain.
“Captain Stutesman,” said Staff Sergeant Finkbiner, the fire team and ground element leader, “there are at least twenty thousand tons of grain and beans here. I have no idea how we can move them.”
“The Colonel and I have a cunning plan,” said Jen with a wink. “We are going to load up one of those hopper cars over there on that siding and we will use a Humvee to push it slowly along the track, then stop it at the siding near the base. We can use front end loaders and dump trucks to get it into storage in the hangars.”
“I can think of about a dozen ways that this can go wrong, ma'am,” said Finkbiner.
“So can the Colonel, but it will fix our food problem on base for months,” said Jen.
Their discussion was cut short by a burst of machine gun fire from the M240. Finkbiner had moved his Assistant Gunner up to the gun position while they did their survey. Both Jen and Finkbiner took off running and as they rounded the corner, they saw their fire team deployed in a hasty defense around the vehicles with the drivers in their seats ready to extract if needed.
Harvey was on his porch with a mini-14. Crouching next to him was a boy who looked fifteen carrying a Winchester SXP shotgun.
“What do you have, Hightower?” shouted Finkbiner as soon as he got close enough to the Humvee to be heard.
“There were several infected people, Sarge,” said Hightower from up in the turret ring. “They are pretty far gone, mostly naked and really thin. I fired for suppression and they ducked behind the grain elevator.”
“Harvey,” said Jen when she caught his eye, “you know those folks?”
“Nope,” said Harvey. “We’ve seen them skulking around the edge of the woods for the last couple of days, but usually at night, and never that many.”
Just then there was an outburst of gunfire from the west. From the sound of it, there were a mix of shotguns, big game rifles, and some pistols.
“That's from Haney's place,” said Harvey looking worried. “He and his family and some friends live in some houses on the west side of town. Good neighbors. Billy and me are going to help.”
Jen looked at Harvey and his son. They weren't packing much ammunition and if Harvey got killed, her deal would likely go south as well.
“Not alone you aren't,” said Jen, reaching a decision. “Sergeant, mount up the patrol. Let's see if we can break this up!”
Thankfully, they had trained for such an event. The canvas came off the troop carrier Humvee and the M249 Gunner clipped a lanyard to the rear roll bar, making an improvised gun mount. His assistant stayed in the back, readying additional ammo.
The grenadier and Staff Sergeant Finkbiner hustled to Jen's vehicle. The grenadier popped the top hatch and took a ready position there. Finkbiner jumped in beside the medic, lowered the window and took a firing position while the medic focused out the other side. The radio operator began calling for Catskill Control, the Officer on Duty at the base.
“Take us forward slowly, Sergeant,” said Jen nodding to Finkbiner. “Command vehicle in the lead with a gun vehicle on either side.”
“Yes, ma'am, said Finkbiner, who then spoke into the mike proffered by the radio operator. “Standard formation; take it forward slowly.”
They rolled around the corner of the granary and saw what looked to be a small farm compound with a couple of outbuildings, two smaller houses and a larger main house. It was from here that the gunfire was originating.
Jen was stunned for a moment when she saw the mob of Infected surrounding the buildings. There had to be close to a thousand of them.
“Harvey!” shouted Jen through the window. “Get in the flatbed truck and provide supporting fire for the M249. You'll get eaten alive if you go out there on foot!”
Harvey, who was as startled as the Air Force detachment, nodded and grabbed his son's shoulder. They both jumped in the back of the Humvee, training their weapons to the outside of the formation.
“Open fire,” said Finkbiner calmly into the microphone. “Conserve your ammo and fire away from the structures.”
The two gunners began firing short bursts into the mob, looking for the highest density areas. The range was fairly short, less than a hundred yards so the M203 grenadier began firing HE grenades into the portions of the mob nearest the vehicles.
The Infected turned as if commanded by one voice and charged the formation. The machine gunners switched to long bursts, threatening to overheat their barrels, but they still came on. Finkbiner deployed his M-4 out the window and began firing short bursts when he had a clear shot, while the medic used his M-9 out his window.
“Back it up!” shouted Jen into the microphone as the first Infected reached the hood of the lead Humvee. The vehicle lurched to the rear and then backed up smoothly as the driver gathered his wits. The other two vehicles also began backing away.
Jen was surprised by the first Infected that popped up in her window as she tried to direct the patrol's fire. The driver, thinking fast, drew his M-9 from his shoulder holster and reached in front of and across his startled commanding officer and emptied his magazine into the young infected man who had managed to grab the frame of the Humvee. He fell away but there were two more to replace him. The driver's quick reaction allowed Jen to bring her M-4 to bear, and she began firing, dropping one Infected after another. But still they came.
Then Jen heard a blood curdling screech as the M249 assistant gunner was dragged off the near side of the flatbed Humvee. Jen turned to engage, but couldn't get a clear line of fire without endangering the Dunhams who were also on that vehicle.
Bobby Dunham spun and saw the airman being pulled off and didn't hesitate. He leaned over far enough that any pellets he fired that missed the Infected would hit the ground and began firing all around the downed airman. In less time than it takes to say it, he had fired all seven rounds. The effect of double-ought buckshot at point blank range was decisive. Three Infected were killed outright and two more were wounded. The downed assistant gunner came out of his fear paralysis and pulled his M-9 and began firing.
Jen’s driver went forward and to the left, making a V with the two Humvees. The M203 grenadier fired his last HE round and then began firing 5.56 in short, suppressive bursts. In the shelter of the two vehicles, the assistant gunner regained the Humvee, grabbed his M-4, and began firing into the crowd.
With the pressure off the farmhouse, several of the defenders of that building came out and began firing on the group closing in on the Air Force patrol. They also employed homemade Molotov cocktails, and soon the air was filled the stench of burning flesh.
The mob, which initially had number close to a thousand, was now down to less than half of that. They all showed signs of being willing to carry the fight further. Then, as if by some secret signal, they all began to fade away heading for the cover of the tree line. Desultory fire followed them, but most of the patrol's ammo was expended, and the locals weren't firing at all, suggesting that they were near the end of their resources as well.
Then it was silent. The lack of sound was palpable, almost like a blow. You could hear people breathing, as if the patrol members had been holding their breaths for the entire battle.
“Get away from me!” screamed Harvey Dunham as he exited the Humvee and fell in a heap on the ground. It was then everyone saw to their horror that the assistant gunner had been bitten at least four times and there was blood pouring from all the wounds.
The airman looked at the wounds and then nodded to his comrades. He laid down his M-4 and walked o
ut in front of the Humvees and began stripping off his armor and what little ammo he had left.
Jen realized what he intended as soon as he pulled his M-9 out, seated a fresh magazine in the well and began to slowly point it towards his head.
“Airman! STOP!” shouted Jen. “That's an order! We can get you back to base and they can take care of you at the hospital.”
“Ma'am, I can't do that,” said Airman Turkel. “I watched drugs take out my father and then my brother. I joined the Air Force and got out of that poisoned place, but I promised myself I would die rather than start taking drugs like that. If I went back to the base, I would be a junkie inside of a week. We all know there is no cure. It's better this way. I've also got something to say, Sergeant Finkbiner, you are the best NCO I have ever served under.”
Before anyone could do anything. Turkel put his M-9 into his mouth and blew his own brains out. The only sound that followed was the sobs of Bobby Dunham, who, only minutes before, thought he had saved Turkel's life.
Chapter 20
July 7th, Tuesday, 4:42 pm PDT
Army National Guard Armory, Moscow ID
Connor Strickland set his M-1 Garand against the wall and sat on the floor next to it. He had arrived at the Armory not really knowing what to expect. He was wearing civilian clothes because they had long since run out of uniforms to issue. He did get an armband with the insignia of the 116th Engineering Company and a hat that had seen better days, and they did have a stock of 30-06 ammo that suited his M-1 just fine. This was his first real day of training so they focused on squad drills and weapons maintenance. It was finally over and he was just catching his breath before he started home.
“Why did you pick such a heavy beast?” asked Harold Gibson, who at seventy-one was probably the oldest 'private' in the Army. He had volunteered along with Connor and Tom Pederson on the Fourth of July. Harold had been a Marine NCO in Vietnam and was being fast-tracked because they needed NCOs badly. Harold was carrying his own mini-14 that was chambered for the military .556 round.