Rotter Apocalypse

by Scott M. Baker

  “I just realized,” said Ari, “that means we may not see each other for a while.”

  Natalie saw the concern in Ari’s eyes. “Don’t worry. This doesn’t seem anywhere near as dangerous as what we’ve already gone through. I’m sure we’ll all be back here before—”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” bellowed a voice from the other end of the dining hall. A tall, burly, African-American colonel in Army ACUs stood in the center of the door. “I hate to break up this merry gathering, but it’s time to deploy. Gather your gear and be on the Parade Ground in ten minutes. Choppers are coming in to fly you to your respective units. God help anyone who comes to me and says they missed their flight. I want to see asses and elbows, people.”

  A bevy of excitement broke out as those assigned off of the Rock jumped up from their tables to bus their trays and head back to their quarters to get their gear. Doreen stood up and nudged Ari, “Come on. We don’t want to be late.”

  “I thought we’d have more time,” Ari responded.

  “I’ll take those for you.” Natalie stood and crossed around the table.

  “Don’t you have to hurry?” Doreen asked.

  “No. I’m taking the ferry over to the Beachhead later tonight.” Natalie hugged Doreen. “You be careful. Don’t do anything foolish.”

  “Have I ever?” Doreen hugged back. “Good luck.”

  Natalie moved over to Ari. “That goes for you, too. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  Ari wrapped her arms around Natalie and embraced her, holding her for several seconds. “I love you. Take care of yourself.”

  Doreen took Ari by the arm and led her across the dining hall. Ari kept her gaze on Natalie until they disappeared into the corridor.

  Once her friends had left, Natalie piled all the garbage onto one tray, and then stacked the two empty ones underneath. She waited until the commotion had died down before taking the trays up to the counter. As she headed back to her quarters, she felt a sense of optimism. When Dr. Compton had first arrived at their camp talking about the Zombie Virus vaccine and using it to fight back, she had considered him delusional. Now she knew better. Too many people around here were too optimistic about the prospects of success. She could feel it as well.

  Tomorrow morning, humans would engage the living dead for the ultimate control of Earth.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Two hours after sundown, everyone still remaining in Gilmanton gathered in front of the warehouse to say their final goodbyes.

  Earlier that morning, Robson, DeWitt, Roberta, and Caswell had helped move the fourteen survivors to the community along Suncock Valley Road. They had stayed for five hours, patrolling the neighborhood to make sure there were no rotters or squatters and helping the others settle in. Roberta had found a house at the end of a cul de sac that had been vacant during the raid, so the gang had not bothered to smash its windows or break down its doors. Once his team had unloaded the supplies, Robson had tried to offer some advice to the tall man, whose name was Jim, on how to survive. Jim had listened politely, although it had been obvious to Robson that he was not interested, so Robson gathered his team and headed back to Gilmanton.

  Once back at the warehouse, the group packed the remaining vehicles for their upcoming trips. The camp followers had asked if they could take Price’s black Hummer H3. Robson had agreed, seeing it as the perfect irony that their former captor’s vehicle would now be their means to salvation. Robson had made sure that each woman had their own weapon, plenty of ammunition, and extra rations. Of the two groups who were going their separate ways, Robson knew these four had the best chance of survival, and would also have the roughest time. After making their farewells, and after an emotional and tearful goodbye with Linda, the four women climbed into the black Hummer and set out north.

  Robson had decided to take only four vehicles to decrease the amount of gasoline they would need to scrounge while on the road: his military-style Humvee, the Humvee Tibor had converted to accommodate the vampires during daylight, the RAV-4, and the Forester commandeered from the storage facility. Each vehicle contained an equal share of food, medicine, ammunition, and canned gasoline in case they became separated. Robson would drive the lead Humvee. Linda, Cory, a smarmy teenager with dark hair down to his neck that he refused to trim, and Magda, a young woman from Germany on vacation in the States who became trapped when all flights were grounded were riding with him. Roberta would follow in the RAV-4 along with Gary, a middle-aged man who had lost his glasses during the apocalypse and had trouble seeing, and Ed, a Marine whose unit had been overrun by rotters outside of Albany and who had been on his own until captured by Price’s gang. DeWitt would drive the Forester and would take the last two camp survivors, a middle-aged Japanese woman named Yukiko whose nose remained disfigured following a beating at the camp, and an African-American male who refused to give his name. Robson had begun to refer to him as Clint. Dravko, Tibor, and Caslow would bring up the rear.

  Right after sundown, once all the gear was packed away and the survivors were on board, Robson called his people together for one last briefing.

  “Remember, our primary goal is to find a location that can be easily secured. We want to avoid all population centers. I plan on stopping every couple of hours so we can give everyone a chance to stretch their legs.” To Dravko and Tibor, he added, “We’ll find a place where we can safely hole up during the day.”

  “Thanks,” answered Dravko.

  “You all know the direction we’re heading. Each vehicle has a radio, so if for some reason we get separated we’ll try to regroup. If we don’t, then you’re on your own, and I wish you the best of luck. Any questions?’

  None.

  “Good. Load up. I’ll be back in a minute.” While the others climbed into their respective vehicles, Robson crossed the warehouse parking lot to where Simmons and Wayans stood.

  “I guess this is it,” said Simmons.

  “I guess so.”

  “Where are you heading?” Wayans asked.

  “Northwest. We’re going to follow the back roads as much as we can to avoid heavy population centers. Until the survivors are on their feet physically, we’re vulnerable on the road. The first place I find that makes a halfway decent encampment, I’m setting up shop.”

  “Makes sense,” said Simmons.

  “Who knows? If we’re really lucky, maybe we’ll find our friend Windows.”

  “That’d be friggin’ nice.”

  An awkward silence followed. Finally, Robson said, “Guys, thanks for everything. I never would have been able to pull this off without your help.”

  “I wish we could have done more,” said Simmons, who offered his hand.

  “You did more than enough.” Robson shook the hand, and then pulled Simmons in close and wrapped his left arm around his back.

  Robson broke the hug and offered his hand to Wayans. “Sorry you took a bullet for us.”

  “I’ve gotten hurt a lot worse for less noble causes.” Wayans shook his hand, and then offered a fist bump. “You friggin’ take care of yourself.”

  “You can count on it.” Robson bumped fists with Wayans. “Good luck.”

  Walking back to his Humvee, Robson slid into the driver’s seat. “Are we ready?”

  “No,” said Linda. “But we don’t have a choice.”

  Starting up the vehicle, Robson pulled away from the warehouse and headed for the parking lot exit, waving to Simmons and Wayans. Once out onto North Road, he veered left and accelerated, passing the rectory. The other vehicles in the convoy fell in behind him at one-hundred-foot intervals. He kept his gaze on Gilmanton until it was no longer visible. This moment reminded him of the last time he had departed Fort McClary for the run down to Site R.

  Everyone remembered how badly that had turned out.

  BOOK TWO

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Provisional Joint Chiefs of Staff at Alcatraz had devised a simple method of conducting Operation Lazarus,
the clearing of revenants out of San Francisco. They had established four RCZs, or Revenant Collection Zones, where the living dead would be herded for PDS, or Permanent Death Status. Each RCZ had to be large enough to contain vast numbers of revenants, had to be on relatively open ground, and had to be of minimal importance to the city’s infrastructure to minimize collateral damage. The four RCZs that had been chosen were Golden Gate Park, TPC Harding Park, the runways of San Francisco International Airport, and Candlestick Park Stadium. Ten days prior to the initiation of Lazarus, helicopters placed battery-operated loudspeakers on rooftops in a 360-degree radius around and at a half-mile distance from each RCZ. These speakers played music that lured the revenants away from the residential areas and toward the zones. Five days prior to Lazarus, helicopters had moved these speakers inside the RCZs. Today, the four armored units assigned to the collection zones, twelve tanks in total, would herd stray revenants back to their respective zones for PDS.

  Natalie sat in the commander’s cupola of an M1 Abrams tank designated RCZ4/3, the third tank assigned to Revenant Collection Zone 4, or Candlestick Park Stadium. Their tank idled on the southbound lanes of Route 101, a thousand feet from the interchange with Interstate 280 and across from the remnants of a burned out Jack in the Box. She had anticipated that hordes of the living dead would be swarming the highway. Instead, only a dozen or so were visible, most on the side streets paralleling Route 101 and blocked from getting to the tank by concrete barriers separating the highway from the surrounding neighborhoods. One rotter lay two hundred feet ahead, its legs crushed into pulp, its arms stretching for the vehicle. Another, a female in a gray business pants suit stained brown with dried blood, stood in front of the tank, scratching at the glacis plate, its dead eyes fixed on Natalie.

  Something from inside the tank grabbed her leg. Natalie cried out, and then realized with embarrassment that it was Lieutenant Hendricks, the tank commander. He motioned for her to put on her Combat Vehicle Crewman (CVC) helmet. When she did, Hendricks asked over the integrated communication system, “Jumpy?”

  “A little,” she admitted.

  “It’s only natural,” Hendricks said reassuringly.

  “Listen to the lieutenant,” Corporal Preston said from the driver’s seat. “First time I did this it literally scared the shit out of me. Thank God the smell from the dead was so bad no one noticed.”

  “Lovely image.” Hendricks shook his head. “I’ll toss my cookies later.”

  “You know it’s the truth, man. You were there.”

  Hendricks waved for Natalie to come inside the tank. She crawled down from the cupola and closed the hatch. The lieutenant spoke to them both.

  “All right, listen up. Units One and Two are in position. They’re going to patrol the neighborhoods around Candlestick Park to lure the revenants to the stadium. We’re going down the 101 to pick up stragglers. Think of us as a heavily fortified Pied Piper for the living dead.”

  “I have a question,” said Preston. “How come we don’t have a gunner?”

  “Because we don’t have a working gun,” Hendricks explained. “All the tanks in the unit have been cannibalized of everything except the drive gear to repair those going into combat.”

  “Great,” Preston huffed. “We’re in a fucking expendable.”

  “Get used to it,” said the lieutenant. “Miss Bazargan, we—”

  “Call me Natalie.”

  “Natalie, wear your M50 at all times.”

  “What’s an M50?”

  Hendricks made a visible effort not to roll his eyes. “It’s your gas mask.”

  “Why do we need a gas mask?” Natalie asked. “The virus hasn’t gone airborne, has it?”

  “It blocks the stench,” Preston answered. “It’s the worst thing I’ve ever smelled, and I worked in a slaughterhouse one summer.”

  “Can the chatter,” Hendricks ordered. “We’ll be moving out soon, so get ready.”

  The three crewmen got into position and waited. Natalie peered through her optical periscope. The business suit rotter still clawed at the front of the tank.

  * * *

  Ari and Doreen sat in the back of the fifth and last CH-47 Chinook helicopter in line along with thirty-eight other soldiers. They still traveled over water, with the coastline a few hundred feet ahead of them. After a few minutes, the Chinook slowed, swung its tail around one-hundred-and-eighty degrees, and lowered the rear ramp. They hovered over Ocean Beach at an altitude of two hundred feet and were descending. She could see the San Francisco Zoo in front of them and, to the right and off in the distance, TCP Harding Park.

  When the ramp touched the sand, a stout second lieutenant biting down on an unlit cigar centered himself in the center of the ramp. “Haul ass, ladies and gentlemen. What the hell are you waiting for? This ain’t no fucking beach party.”

  Everyone inside the helicopter stood and double timed down the ramp and onto the beach. Master Sergeant Napier, their platoon sergeant, stood fifty feet away, directing everyone to the fifteen-foot-tall escarpment that separated the beach from the main road. The troops that had deployed before them had already taken up position and waited. The Chinook raised its ramp and flew away. Ari and Doreen knelt by the cement stairs leading up from the beach while Napier made his way down the line, pausing every twenty feet to issue orders.

  “Don’t fire unless Lieutenant Nowack or I give the order. We don’t want to lure the revenants away from the zone. And keep your heads down until the PDS is over.”

  After Napier moved on, Ari leaned closer to Doreen. “What’s the PDS?”

  Doreen shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  * * *

  Hendricks checked his watch. “It’s time.”

  Preston revved the M1, and its Honeywell turbine engine roared to life. The noise excited the business suit rotter. It clawed frantically at the glacis plate. The Abrams lurched forward, knocking the rotter over backwards. Natalie watched through one of the vision blocks as it disappeared under the tank. Preston approached the rotter with the crushed legs, steered right, and ran over the body. The rotter exploded beneath the treads like a package of ketchup. Straightening the tank, he headed for the highway interchange.

  “Why aren’t there any vehicles on this section of highway?” Natalie asked into the CVC’s microphone.

  Preston answered. “Some fucktard in a semi-trailer came off of the 280 overpass too fast and dropped his tanker onto the 101. Damn thing exploded and closed the highway in both directions. It’s clear on this side of the interchange, but the other side is packed tighter than a fat guy’s colon.”

  “Quit giving a Goddamn tour and pay attention,” snapped Hendricks. “The road ahead is blocked.”

  “Roger that.” Preston accelerated the M1 and aimed for the center lane of the congested highway. “Let’s give the fat guy an enema.”

  Natalie peered through her periscope. Beyond the charred debris from the exploded tanker, abandoned vehicles clogged all three lanes of traffic on both sides of the highway, as well as the breakdown lanes. Natalie braced herself for a collision. Instead, the M1 barely slowed as its treads dug into a taxi cab and an SUV that sat in the center and passing lanes. The Abrams’ front end lifted momentarily, and then its sixty tons of steel and armor brought the tank crashing down on the two vehicles, crushing them under its weight. A shower of shattered glass cascaded across the road. The Abrams rolled along the taxi and SUV until its treads caught the hoods of the next two cars in line. The crunching of metal was audible even over the roar of the turbine engine.

  “Natalie,” said Hendricks.

  She keyed her microphone. “Yes?”

  “I need you to keep watch for an open wooded area off to our left. That’s our exit.”

  “Roger that.”

  They rolled across the third set of vehicles in line, jostling Natalie, causing her to bang her helmet against the interior hull. “How far ahead is it?”

  “About a mile, so sit back and e
njoy the ride.”

  * * *

  Ari had been waiting over fifteen minutes for something to happen when she heard a commotion off to her left. Napier went down the line again. “The extraction of our people from the RCZ has been completed. The Air Force is coming in now to perform the PDS. We’ll be moving out shortly.”

  When he moved on, Doreen asked Ari, “Any idea what he said?”

  Ari shook her head.

  Their squad leader, Corporal Mesle, moved closer to the two women. “It means the tank crews have lured as many revenants as possible into the collection zone, and the B1s are on their way to napalm them.”

  “Aren’t we too close?” Doreen asked.

  Mesle shook his head. “We’ll be fine, unless the Air Force drops short. Then we’ll have bigger problems to deal with.”

  “That’s not very comforting,” said Ari.

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Mesle. “Even the Air Force can’t screw this one—”

  “Here they come,” a voice called out farther down the beach.

  The three B-1 bombers approached the zone. Their wings swept forward and their bomb bay doors opened. Descending to an altitude of one thousand feet, the bombers passed over the beach in a V formation and continued southeast. Once over TPC Harding Park, each aircraft released a string of seven-hundred-and-fifty-pound Mark 77 incendiary bombs that tumbled toward the park. As each bomb struck the ground, the one-hundred-and-ten-gallon mixture of kerosene-based fuel combined with benzene ignited, dousing the area and the surrounding Lake Merced in a napalm-like fuel gel mixture. From their vantage point on the beach, the troops saw the fireballs billow above the tree line and devolve into the familiar thick black smoke. What they did not see was that the oxidizing agent added to the compound kept the gel burning, and white phosphorous allowed it stick to the living dead. Fire consumed the dry, leathery flesh like kindling and ate its way through muscles until the revenants lost all functions in their limbs and collapsed. Under the intense heat, tissue vaporized and fat melted. Protected by the skulls, it took longer for the brains to fry, forcing the revenants to lay motionless in one massive heap for several minutes until permanently dead.