by Rockow, B.
The Age of Zombies
by
B. Rockow
This book is dedicated to the U.S. Armed Forces. Your sacrifice makes everything possible.
Chapter One
Bury It In Your Dreams
“Big Boy, look up there on the mountainside,” Jones said. “Something’s scurrying across the brush.”
Chuck “Big Boy” Williams situated his binoculars in front of his eyes to get a better view. Big Boy rode with Jones on every mission. They were best friends ever since they went through basic training together at Fort Benning. They were proud to be Bloody First soldiers, members of the U.S. Army 1st Infantry Division. Jones and Big Boy had served together in all of their tours. Big Boy’s name was appropriate. He was a towhead farm boy from eastern Kansas. And he loved his food. He stood just under six foot, and weighed in at over 250 pounds.
Big Boy could make out some movement, but couldn’t tell what it was. Situations like this required special care. A convoy mission this important couldn’t be spoiled. Not for any reason. Especially not for some hajji with a grudge. An ambush right now could spoil months of tactical and logistical planning.
Big Boy turned around and signaled for the driver of the HEMTT A4 transport truck trailing behind their Humvee to stop. He wanted to scout the mountainside before approaching. The mountain wasn’t more than three hundred yards ahead. They couldn’t afford to trudge ahead with the risk of an ambush. Jones brought the Humvee to a halt. He peered back at the HEMTT A4. Wimpy was in the driver’s seat; Rodriguez rode shotgun. Jones just shook his head.
“Get your ass over here, Wimpy,” Jones hollered. “There’s damn good reasoning to this precaution.”
Carl “Wimpy” Wampler hopped out of the cargo truck. He didn’t stand much more than five foot five inches, and couldn’t have weighed more than one hundred and twenty pounds. For what he lacked in size, Wimpy made up in sheer warrior spirit. His face was chiseled and handsome, but the good looks were just a mask that stood between Wimpy’s insane fearlessness and the world. His eyes belonged in Afghanistan. They were like rare blue jewels flecked with gold that one would find deep in some cave. Even though the convoy’s interruption was an annoyance for Wimpy, he walked over to Jones and Big Boy with a charming smile plastered on his face. He wanted some action.
“We spotted some movement on the mountainside up ahead,” Jones said. “I want you and Big Boy to drive the Humvee back about a mile and circle around the otherside.”
“And your dumbass is just gonna be a sitting duck,” Wimpy said. Nobody ever said Wimpy was a shy man. He didn’t even flinch when insulting Jones.
“Wimp’s gotta point,” Big Boy chimed in.
Jones just smiled. He loved his fireteam, even when they pissed him off. “You know, Wimpy, I really enjoy considering your perspective.” Jones paused, reached into his sleeve, and pulled out a cigarette. “But I can’t help but think that I’m taking advice from a grunt that’s more fucked up than a left handed football bat.”
Without cracking a smile, Jones lit his smoke. He blew his first drag right into Wimpy’s grinning face. Jones motioned for Rodriguez to join the conversation. Up until this point Rodriguez had been making his way around the perimeter of the vehicles to ensure that there was no imminent danger. Rodriguez joined the team and reported the all clear.
“Rodriguez, I want you to post up by the dragon wagon and watch for anything that moves,” Jones continued. “Big Boy and Wimpy are gonna take the Humvee around and scout the mountain up ahead. Now if you grunts had a mealworm’s weight of gray matter in that skull of yours you’d recognize the importance of our mission. There’s no room for failure.”
“Hooah, mealworms!” Wimpy shouted with laughter.
“Roger, Sergeant,” Big Boy said with a nod. He hoisted his M16 up and prepared for the ride.
Rodriguez silently assented to his Sergeant’s charge, and made his way back to the HEMTT A4.
Staff Sergeant William Jones of the United States Army was a no nonsense man. He stood six foot even with a rugged yet agile frame. He had a pair of deep blue eyes, and kept his brown hair very short. Jones could win a bar fight just by clenching his fists; and in fact, he had accomplished this once while in basic training at Fort Leonard Wood. Jones caught a guy by his thumb after dodging a right hook, and squeezed it so hard it broke right in half. His eyes cut right through the bullshit in a person no matter how thick. He considered it one of his finer skills.
Jones had served his country for eight years in Iraq and Afghanistan. This was his fifth tour. Few matched the Sergeant’s ability to spiff up a squad and navigate it through hostile terrain. He was decorated and respected, and although he executed commands with laser precision, he inwardly quarreled with the decisions that were made by pay grades higher than his own. Jones turned down several opportunities to become “top hat” or First Sergeant and be on his way to a post as a Commissioned Officer.
He just couldn’t see himself behind a desk. His body thirsted for the desert and its wars. His mind found refuge in the company of his squad. But as much as Jones found fulfillment in combat, there was still a pull to go back home, or at least have home follow him to some base in Germany or South Korea.
Jones had a family now. His wife, Vanessa, had given birth to a beautiful girl that was about to turn six years old. Her name was Emma Jo, after a great grandmother on his father’s side. He missed Emma Jo terribly. She kept him sane in the worst of combat, and warm under the lonely stretch of Afghanistan’s nights. She was a beam of rainbows and heart fuzzies. Jones often wondered how something so precious could have sprouted from such a rotten seed. He laughed at himself for thinking that.
Harder yet for Jones was the fact that Vanessa was pregnant with their second child. She was due in three months, and this time she was going to give him a son. Jones figured he’d be back stateside in less than two months, so he wasn’t too worried about missing the birth of his son. He just had to get through a couple more missions.
Jones tried to keep Vanessa out of his mind. War was easier that way.
She was his high school sweetheart, and still as sexy as the day he met her. In his quiet moments, when the stress of battle and his duty as a sergeant relaxed, Jones imagined sneaking up behind Vanessa and grabbing her breasts. She would squeal and laugh everytime he did that. They had a playful relationship that was good for Jones. She was the one person in the world that could soothe his battle wounds.
Jones shook his head, and purged the image of his wife from his mind. Vanessa didn’t belong here right now.
“You’re brooding,” Rodriguez said. He was always keen on what Jones was feeling.
Jones lit another cigarette and walked over to the cargo truck. “You know Rodriguez, if you would’ve stayed back in the Bronx, you could’ve apprenticed as a psychic.”
“I fucking hate psychics,” Rodriguez said. “Those vile monsters. Back in the barrio, those cockroaches hole up in any damn place they can. Sure, the first reading’s free. ‘Lemme see your palm, tu mano, gratis, gratis,’ they say. Next thing you know they’ve got you shelling out the last of your bodega money just to find out who’s the next slug in your stars.” Rodriguez snapped himself out of his rant. He stood at attention and scanned the dusty plain that hugged the desolate mountainside. No sign of movement.
“Never heard you so incensed, Private Rodriguez. I kinda like it.”
Rodriguez kept his head steady as he scanned the field. “My mother sank into a pit of debt by the promises of these monsters.”
“Then let’s let bygones be bygones,” Jones said. “I’m gonna post up in the truck and study my maps. There’s still many a leg ahead on our
little journey. And I’m not about to get our asses lost like Bilbo Baggins up in this fucking Misty Mountain paradise.”
Rodriguez cracked a smile. Up ahead he spotted the Humvee circling the backside of the mountain. Twenty five minutes passed before they emerged from behind the mountain. Wimpy parked the Humvee and hopped out. Big Boy followed with his usual gusto. The two grunts scanned the mountain before starting to scale its side. They took every precaution in the book as they worked their way up its natural paths. Step by step they monitored the ground for any movement, and they checked in with Rodriguez to make sure that he hadn’t spotted anything outside of their view.
“Rodriguez, this is Wimpy. Roddy, this is Wimpy,” the walkie sounded out. “Over!”
“Roger, Wimpy,” Rodriguez said. “This is Roddy, over.”
“Roger, Roddy. Scaling the mountain and haven’t spotted a thing. What’s the view like from your position?”
“Roger. No movement whatsoever.” Rodriguez paused and concentrated on what he saw through the binoculars. He followed the silhouette of a couple boulders that were strewn on the side of the mountain. “Carefully approach the boulders at twelve o’clock. We need a full clear before the convoy rolls ahead. Over.”
“Copy that, Roddy. Wimpy and Big Boy are on the case. Modern day grunt Sherlock and Walter, over.”
“Ten four, Walter. But I think you meant Watson. Over.”
“I don’t have time for books. I’m busy fighting crime. Watson is over and out.”
Rodriguez steadied his sniper rifle on the boulder just in case something happened to stir. In the short six months that Roddy had been in combat, he had been part of his fair share of missteps. Nothing that resulted in casualties, fortunately. But he learned that close calls rattled his conscience bad. It’d take several nights before Roddy would be able to shake off an ambush. He knew that if he had to send a brother home in a casket draped in the red, white, and blue, there’d be no solace for his soul.
Just then a figure darted through the low brush about thirty yards above the two scouts. Roddy startled at the commotion. A cloud of dirt kicked into the air, and before Roddy could take a breath he steadied his M24 Sniper Rifle and took a shot.
“What the flying fuck!” Wimpy shouted through the walkie. “Roddy, have you spotted a hajji?”
“Damnit all,” Roddy said. “Whatever I just picked off wasn’t no hajji. I jumped the gun.”
A rodent tumbled down the hill and stopped just in front of Big Boy. It looked like a guinea pig more than anything, but with cuter ears. Its body was unscathed, but it didn’t move. Big Boy picked up the critter and turned towards Roddy. He dangled it from his thumb and forefinger like a kid and who just caught his first bass. “You’ll take the first bite,” Big Boy said into the walkie; he grinned from ear to ear. “We’re roasting this thing tonight, Roddy. Hooah!”
“Roger that, Big Boy,” Roddy replied. “It’s a pika. Cute little guy. Probably scared him to death.”
“You killed pikachu,” Wimpy said. “I can’t believe you just killed pikachu, Roddy. You are one sick individual.”
Everybody laughed. Big Boy tossed the pika down the mountain. The two scouts continued their approach of the boulders up ahead with levity in their step. Their spirits were high. Even in the middle of the forsaken territories of Afghanistan, the young soldiers could flash over to happier, more innocent conversation. Even a grunt needed to laugh.
“We can’t let these hajjis get all Team Rocket on us,” Wimpy said. “We gotta remember who we’re fighting for! Hooah!”
“Roger that,” Roddy said. “We’ve gotta avenge pikachu’s death.”
“Next pair of hajjis we come across will know not to mess around with my pokeballs,” Wimpy said. “I’ve got a pair of masterballs, and I’m not afraid to use them.”
“Alright numbnuts,” Roddy said. “You two are approximately ten yards to the boulders. What’s your visual?”
“Nothing special,” Big Boy said. “We’ll split up and flank the boulders from either side. Over.”
“I’ll keep my eye on the prize,” Roddy said. “Don’t want another pikachu getting sassy. I’ve got you both covered. Over.”
In battle humor becomes the most exquisite form of escape. And it doesn’t matter what form it comes in. Over the past few months this squad had grown close. They ate, shit, showered, laughed, and killed together. There were a few times where they’d come close to being killed themselves. To say that they were brothers wouldn’t really do their bond justice. The war had bound them by equal parts blood, honor, and sweat. There wasn’t a secret these men could keep from each other. There wasn’t a stain that you could spot on their friendship.
The Afghan skies hovered above the men and mountains like a smooth blue crystal. Sometimes Roddy thought he was on some distant planet, like he was a grunt stranded on a far out world found in the sci-fi books of his youth. A surreal mood would wash over him as he steadied his aim on a target, peering down the barrel of his sniper rifle. He wondered how these missions would be remembered a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand years from now. He wondered if this convoy mission would have even the most insignificant impact in the course of civilization. If, perhaps, this one forgettable day could somehow fit into the jigsaw of destiny. He wondered if in some future world, when humanity had colonized space, they would look back at America’s war in Afghanistan as a relic of brutal and hoary origins; a past not to be forgotten, but to be remembered as the twilight of human strife.
Roddy took a deep breath and cleared his mind. This wasn’t a time for fantasy. When he returned back stateside, he would have plenty of time to finish up his novel.
“How’s my ass look through that scope,” Big Boy said. “You can tell I’ve been working my glutes, can’t you Roddy?”
“Last time I checked, your ass looked like ten pounds of hammered cow shit in a five pound bag,” Wimpy said. “Roddy, the coast is clear. There’s nothing in, under, or around this boulder. Over.”
“Roger that,” Roddy said. “I’ll let Sarge know. You two come on back now. I’ll keep my eye on your asses. Your sweet, sweet asses. Over.”
Before Roddy turned around, three roaring bangs echoed off the mountainside and ricocheted through the valley. This time the cloud of dirt wasn’t from some pika. Roddy reacted quick and steadied his gaze through the scope of his M24. Big Boy was hit and on the ground. Wimpy readied his M16 and let loose a burst of gunfire. Two large, cumbersome figures completely covered in desert fatigues emerged from the ruckus and dust clouds. They both wielded a pistol and a bowie knife.
One of the brutes lunged towards Big Boy’s limp body. The enemy caught the soldier’s arm, and dug its face into Big Boy’s abdomen. Roddy unleashed a round from his M24. It zipped through the warm Afghan air and kissed its target right where it counted: a headshot. The towering figure collapsed to the ground and started to tumble down the mountainside.
“Hooah, hajji!” Roddy shouted. “Round two!”
By this time Sergeant Jones had started the cargo truck and readied his arsenal. He wasn’t going to let any of these good men down. Especially not Big Boy. They went back too far for Jones to lose him like this. “Hop in, Rodriguez! We’re going for a ride!”
Roddy ignored the command just long enough to send another round whizzing from his M24. His mark was off. The second enemy was running full speed down the path chasing after Wimpy. Roddy couldn’t tell who was running faster, but by any estimation Wimpy was huffing down the mountain quicker than what science would say the human physique allows. The problem was that the huge figure behind him was gaining ground. Roddy let another futile round loose from his rifle. He hopped up from the dirt and into the truck.
“Accelerating to warp one,” Jones said. “Let’s take this starship into overdrive.”
Jones revved the engine and sped off the dirt path towards the mountain. Wimpy was still running for his life. The beast that trailed him was much bigger than Rodriguez first tho
ught. As the truck got closer to the mountain, both occupants of the truck were stunned at what they faced. The beast wasn’t more than a stride or two from catching Wimpy. They both hoped that this was the last one.
“Kill the fucking demon genie!” Wimpy hollered. “This shit’s crazier than Alladin!”
Jones brought the truck to a halt, and Roddy hopped out ready with an M4 carbine. Wimpy dove for cover, and Roddy let a burst of rounds rip. The freakishly massive enemy combatant fell to the ground with a bloody abdomen and thighs.
“What is that thing?” Roddy said with a shaky voice.
“Doesn’t matter much to me what it is,” Jones said. He took a swig from his water canteen. “Roddy, Wimpy, go check on Big Boy. This fucker’s mine.”
Jones stepped forward and stood above the freak. He estimated the enemy to be about seven and a half feet tall, with a body that weighed at least six hundred pounds. Not a shred of the monster’s skin was showing. Only its eyes could be seen. They were black and beady, and in exorbitant pain. Jones steadied his M9 pistol on the beast’s head. Jones didn’t care where this thing came from. He didn’t care where the other one came from, either. But he knew damn well where they were headed.
“Straight to hell for you, motherfucker,” Jones said.
“Your seed cursed,” the enemy said. His voice was gruff and thick with some Eastern European accent. “My shadow follow you forever.”
“You pile of Eurotrash,” Jones said. “Your shadow’s not getting any further than the ditch I’m gonna dig just for you. Your memory’ll rot out in the middle of this wasteland.”
“Death mine,” the enemy said. “But death won’t save you.”
With those last words Jones emptied three rounds into the monster’s skull. Gunsmoke curled up from the dead body. Jones grimaced as the Afghan sun beat down on him. He wondered if these two enemies were some sort of military experiment. Jones had never seen human beings this big. Curious, he kneeled down and lifted the bloodstained balaclava veil from its face.