Z Force 1: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (Infection Chronicles Book 2)

by Tripp Ellis

  Steele dropped the hard-ass act and grinned. “Nice work.” Then he stomped over the corpses and marched to the APC. He knocked on the bulkhead.

  Parker released the lock and swung the ramp open. She jumped down, and her eyes went wide as she scanned the field. Then she sighed and pouted. “You guys get all the fun.”

  Brandi scooted out of the APC, her hands still bound behind her back. She looked normal. “When are you people going to untie me? I’m fine.”

  Steele pulled her close and looked into her eyes. He held her eyelids wide. They were still crystal clear. No ruptured blood vessels. No sign of infection. He had never seen anyone go this long without turning.

  Steele’s face tightened. It was against his better judgment to let her go. Not worth the risk. “24 hours. If you are still you tomorrow afternoon, I’ll cut you loose.”

  “Ugh,” she sighed. “This is total bullshit. Look at me. Do you really think I’m infected?”

  Steele’s eyes narrowed.

  “You have my permission to kill me if I show the slightest sign of infection. But until that time, take the ropes off.”

  Steele knew he was going to regret this. “Turn around.”

  Brandi’s eyes lit up. “Oooh, I like it from behind.”

  Steele slit the ropes with his blade. They dropped to the grass, and Brandi rubbed her wrists in relief.

  Her bright eyes flashed back over her shoulder. “Thank you, Major Steele.” She blew him a kiss and sauntered toward the Magnum truck, hobbling over corpses.

  He shook his head and wondered what the hell he was thinking. He hoped this wasn’t going to come back and haunt him.

  Steele lifted Chloe up from the back of the APC and held her on his side. He didn’t want her walking through the swamp of bodies. A brain-dead lurker biting on impulse was still deadly. He’d seen lurkers twitch and gnash their teeth for hours after brain death.

  “I can walk on my own, you know,” her sassy voice said.

  “I know you can, Private Taylor,” Steele said with a wink.

  Chloe lifted an eyebrow at him. “Major, we need to talk about this rank thing. I should be progressing much faster.”

  “Oh, really. And what do you think would be an appropriate rank for you?”

  “Well, I’ve given it a lot of thought.”

  “Have you?”

  “Yes, and I think a rank of anything less than General would be unacceptable,” her tiny voice said.

  Steele chuckled. “General Chloe Taylor. It’s got a nice ring to it.”

  “Yes it does.” She smiled.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Steele said. Then he extended his hand to Susan and helped her step out of the APC.

  “We’ve got a little problem.” Her face was tight with worry. “I’ve lost the signal.”

  Steele’s eyes tightened.

  “I was just watching it, then it disappeared.”

  “All three of the tracking chips?” Steele said.

  “Yes,” she said. “We’ve lost the president.”

  23

  The president had seen better days. He looked like he had been a little roughed up. Two Red Viper soldiers drug him down a dingy concrete hallway and shoved him into a holding cell. The president smacked the ground. His hands were zip tied behind his back—he wasn’t able to break the fall. His cheek whacked the concrete. He grimaced with pain—his abdomen was still inflamed and swollen from the surgery. Flopping on the ground hadn’t helped.

  The soldiers slammed and locked the heavy metal door behind him. There was no way in or out of the cell, except through that door. It looked like an old storage room. It was dirty and grimy. A cockroach scuttled across the floor and disappeared into a crack in the wall. This was a far cry from the Oval Office.

  The president shuffled to the corner and sat with his back against the wall. A few moments later, he heard a woman’s muffled voice yelling in the hallway. He couldn’t make out exactly what she was saying. But she wasn’t happy.

  The door unlocked, and the woman burst into the cell. She was wearing tactical fatigues like the others. The single, bare-bulb overhead cast long shadows below the brim of her cap. Johnson could barely see her eyes. This had to be Cassandra Rawlings—the leader of Red Viper.

  Her jaw was square and her face was tight. She had an athletic frame, and gave off an intimidating vibe. She was all business.

  Two soldiers stood guard at the door behind her.

  Cassandra marched toward the president, holding a detection wand. She waved it over his body. She scanned his chest, abdomen, each leg, and both arms. When the device passed over his hand it signaled an alert. She grabbed his wrist and jerked it toward her. Then she took his hand and rubbed her thumb over the skin between his index finger and thumb. She felt the subtle bulge of the microchip implanted in the fleshy dorsal pad.

  From her utility belt, she unsheathed an angry blade. A black, titanium nitride coated, 5 inch, stainless steel tactical knife. It had a triangular grooved grip and serrations by the hilt. It was so sharp, just looking at it would make you bleed, or so it seemed.

  The knife point gouged into Johnson’s flesh. He grimaced and stared her down. Cassandra dug around for the transponder chip. Bright blood flowed. The subdermal implant was encased in silicate glass. She pried it out with the tip of the knife. Then she handed the implant to one of the soldiers. She wiped the blade on her pants leg and sheathed it.

  Cassandra activated the detection wand. She waved it over the president’s face. It sounded an alert once again. She handed the wand to one of the soldiers who exchanged it for a pair of pliers. Cassandra smiled and waved the pliers in front of Johnson’s face. It was the first time Johnson had seen an expression other than a scowl from her.

  “Tell me which tooth has the chip, and this will be much easier for you.”

  Johnson eyed the pliers taunting him. His face tensed.

  “I’m perfectly happy pulling every single tooth you have,” Cassandra whispered. “I think I’d enjoy that.”

  Fort Ramsey was a mess.

  Delroy barreled toward the main gate in the Slinger Magnum. The monster engine rumbled. Chloe and Susan rode up front. Steele and the others were huddled in the truck bed. Delroy mashed the brakes, stopping short of the entrance. His face was filled with trepidation.

  Fort Ramsey was one of the largest military posts in the United States. It was home to X Corps—a major formation of the United States Army Forces Command (FORSCOM). It was home to the First Army Division, 1st Cavalry Division, the 12th Engineer Brigade, 2nd Armored Division, 2nd Cavalry Regiment, 501st Battlefield Brigade, and many more. There were 96,212 enlisted personnel, and 7,321 officers, along with 7384 civilian personnel.

  All of them were now infected.

  A 20 foot high, chain link fence, topped with razor wire, surrounded the perimeter of the base. Inside, the infected roamed about. The base was a sprawling complex that covered 165,000 acres. It was like a small town. The roads had names like Battlefield Boulevard. Detonation drive. Shock and Awe Street. Steele had been on base a few times before. He had a vague recollection of the layout.

  Delroy had stopped the truck at the George S. Patton main gate. The 1st Cavalry Division was headquartered by the airstrip on the opposite side of the base. With any luck, there would be a CAV prepped and ready on the tarmac. But there was no guarantee. And they would have to go through thousands of lurkers to get to it.

  Delroy hollered out the window. “What’s the plan, Boss.”

  “Shock and awe, Delroy,” Steele said.

  “That sounds good, Chief. But we don’t have too much shock, and we don’t have too much awe.”

  “Have you been on base before?”

  “I was stationed here for a few months after basic.”

  “Get us to the airstrip.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Delroy slammed his foot to the floor. The tires squealed. Clouds of white smoke billowed from the wheel wells. The Magnum launched f
orward. It crashed through the guard rail and plowed over the gate fence. Delroy blasted down Normandy Avenue, mowing over every lurker in his path. Heads smacked and shattered against the thick black grille guard. The truck was high enough off the ground that the grille guard was in perfect alignment with most skulls. If the initial impact didn’t incapacitate them, the crushing tires would.

  Infected blood spattered across the hood and front quarter panels. After a few blocks of mayhem, the front of the white truck was almost solid red. Infected slop speckled the windshield. Delroy hit the wiper blades, but that only smeared the blood. It was almost impossible to see through the windshield.

  Delroy lowered his tactical goggles and hung his head outside the window to navigate. “Get some of this,” he hollered with glee. Bodies slammed against the grille in a rhythmic cadence.

  PING.

  SMACK.

  SLAM.

  Delroy rocketed the truck past Westmoreland Boulevard. Past Schwarzkopf Street. Past MacArthur Lane. He swerved left on Blitzkrieg Boulevard, heading north toward the airstrip. Duke and Earl were hanging over the sides of the truck bed, batting at lurkers. Heads exploded like melons as the truck streaked by.

  “Holy shit! Did you see that one?” Duke’s face was alive with excitement. His latest swing had broken a lurker’s neck. The thing was still staggering around. Its head was dangling like a sack. The ghoul was practically headless. It took a few more steps, then collapsed. “Shit, I ain’t never had this much fun.”

  This may have all been fun and games, but Steele knew the commotion was going to attract more lurkers. The team had to get in, and get out, fast.

  Delroy bulldozed the truck to the airstrip. The tires squealed as he angled the truck onto the tarmac. The air field wasn’t as congested with lurkers as the streets had been. The Magnum bowled over several ground crew and a few pilots that were stumbling around. Delroy streaked past rows of F-45 Raptors parked on the tarmac.

  The Magnum’s engine roared. Delroy weaved around a CX 190 cargo jet that had plowed off the runway and slammed into a row of Raptors. It must have been attempting to take off when an outbreak occurred onboard. As he rounded the massive tail assembly, a row of CAVs came into view.

  A wave of relief washed over Steele. Delroy whipped the truck around to the aircraft. The tires screeched to a halt. Steele leapt from the truck bed, drawing his sword. He hit the ground hacking and slashing at a few lurkers that were loitering near the CAV. Then he ran up the back ramp.

  Inside, he skewered the skull of a lurker lingering inside. He grabbed the body and tossed it back down the ramp. He made sure the cargo area and cockpit were clear. Then he headed back down to the tarmac.

  Parker escorted Susan and Chloe to the CAV. Brandi followed. Steele motioned them aboard and they climbed the ramp.

  Delroy was circling around in the truck, mowing over any lurkers that came too close.

  Steele could hear the hordes of infected approaching. Their shuffles and snarls were echoing off the buildings and hangars.

  “Delroy,” Steele yelled.

  Delroy pulled alongside him and threw the truck in park. He didn’t even bother to shut the engine off. He hopped out, and Duke and Earl followed. They sprinted up the ramp, into the CAV. Steele brought up the rear, and hit the button to raise the hatch. The hydraulics whirred, and the ramp slowly lifted.

  Lurkers were beginning to filter onto the tarmac from the alleyways. But that didn’t really matter now. Everyone was safely aboard the CAV. Once the back ramp locked shut, they would be completely safe. There was no way that even a horde of infected could threaten a CAV.

  “Not too shabby. Right Major?” Delroy said with a grin.

  “Not bad?” Duke said. “Hell, that was bad ass.” He high-fived Delroy again. “Shit, this is my brother from another mother.”

  Earl felt a little left out of the bro-mance.

  Steele rolled his eyes and climbed into the cockpit. Hordes of lurkers had surrounded the craft. They were bouncing off the hull. Steele powered up the CAV. The massive Hughes & Kessler engines rumbled to life. But there was one small problem. The fuel-cell was almost empty. This thing would be lucky to make it past the perimeter of Fort Ramsey.

  24

  The infected horde had grown. With an empty fuel-cell, Steele and the team weren’t going anywhere. To make matters worse, they were stuck inside the CAV. There was no way they could fight off this many infected.

  Their only hope was to make it to another CAV and hope it had a full fuel-cell. But once that back ramp came down, a flood of lurkers would rush in. They might be able to hold off the first wave. But beyond that, it would be hopeless.

  Steele climbed out of the cockpit and checked the weapons locker. It was fully stocked with 12, RK 709 assault rifles, 4 RPGs, a case of thermal grenades, proximity mines, C9 plastic explosive, a dozen 9mm handguns, and a slew of magazines. Steele tried to work out a plan in his head. It would be a long shot, but it might be possible.

  It was maybe 40 yards to the next CAV in line on the tarmac. It would take seven seconds to lower the back ramp. During that time, a wave of small arms fire could suppress the forward row of lurkers. Thermal grenades could be lobbed to the rear, and used a clear path to the next CAV.

  Steele could divide the squad into two fire teams. After the initial push out of the CAV’s, Alpha team would take the lead, and Bravo team would secure the rear. Together they would form a circle and take out lurkers from every angle.

  Theoretically, it might work. But it was a disaster waiting to happen—and Steele knew it. It would take a team of highly trained operatives to make that work. And he only had three trained operators. He’d never forgive himself if anything happened to Chloe.

  Sitting and waiting the horde out wasn’t really an option either. They were already way behind schedule. The president could already be dead by now, Steele thought. Nuclear warheads could already be inbound from Russia. This whole rescue mission might be pointless anyway.

  But Steele knew there was a solution to every problem. Usually it was staring you right in the face. You just had to open your eyes and see it. And Steele finally did.

  He climbed back into the cockpit and fired up the thrusters. The CAV lifted into the air. It pitched and rolled. Steele hovered the craft 10 feet above the ground. All four thrusters were in the vertical position. The air beneath the engines rippled with heat distortion. Not only were they producing an insane amount of thrust, the heat was scorching. Steele angled the CAV around in a circle. The massive engines incinerated everything below them. Flesh blistered and charred. Bodies burst into flames. Huge swathes of lurkers were fried to a crisp.

  Steele glided the CAV around until the entire horde was nothing but ash. About that time, the fuel-cell drained. The engines wound down, and the CAV plunked on the tarmac.

  Steele climbed out of the cockpit and dashed to the weapons locker. He grabbed a rifle, pistol, and as many magazines, grenades, proximity mines, and C9 as he could carry. The rest of the squad did the same. Then he moved to the back of the cargo area and hit the ramp release button. The ramp disengaged and lowered. Seven seconds later, they filed out of the CAV and dashed across the tarmac to the next in line. Hopefully its fuel-cell was charged.

  There were several straggling infected roaming about. A few quick rounds from Steele’s RK and heads exploded—a crimson eruption of blood splatter.

  The makeshift squad loaded into the new CAV, and raised the ramp behind them. Steele climbed into the cockpit and powered up. The moment of truth was at hand. The display illuminated, and the system booted up. It took a few seconds to return a full diagnostic. The flight computer communicated with every aspect of the ship. If something was faulty, the system would know about it. The startup sequence displayed functioning components in green. Faults were marked in red.

  All systems were green. The fuel-cell was at 95% capacity.

  Steele powered up the thrusters, and the CAV lumbered into the air. Soon For
t Ramsey was a distant memory. But where they were going was anyone’s guess.

  “Susan,” Steele yelled. “Did you pick up the signal?”

  She made her way to the cockpit from the cargo area. “The last coordinates I have for him are here.” She pointed at her mobile display.

  Steele punched in the GPS data into the CAV’s guidance system. “Do you think—“

  “I don’t know,” she answered. Susan knew what he was going to ask. She didn’t even want to think about the president being dead. “Could be just a glitch.”

  “A glitch?”

  “He’s gone off-line before.”

  “For how long?”

  “A couple of days.”

  Steele lifted his brow at her, incredulous.

  “We knew where he was, of course. We just didn’t have his signal. What can I say, technology is not perfect.”

  Steele knew that all too well. “Tell me about it.”

  It reminded him that he needed to take his meds. The neural interface was causing his skin to burn. Or, at least, to feel like it was burning. He was starting to feel like one of those charred corpses he left back on the tarmac. And with the way things were going, he might not ever get that faulty neural interface replaced. His only hope was a robotic facility or an advanced med-pod. But that wasn’t high on the priority list right now. They needed to find the president, or their wouldn’t be an America left.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out his Neuromodix. He popped off the cap and gulped several down.

  “What is that?” Susan asked.

  “An angel and a devil, all rolled into one.”

  25

  The president looked like he had spent 12 rounds in the ring with a heavyweight. His eye was black. His nose was broken. His skin was purple and green with bruises and dotted red with abrasions. His lip was split. Blood trickled from his mouth.

  Cassandra Rawlings’ knuckles were red and raw. She shook her hand, grimacing from the pain. She had probably broken a bone in her hand from punching him so many times. But her pain was nothing compared to what the president felt.