by John Ringo
“What about my troops?” Faith said. “Hocieniec has been through as much as I have. Januscheitis and the Iwo Marines nearly as much. They need time off, too.”
“They’re training the Phase Three Marines and their junior NCO instructors and having boatloads of time off while doing so,” Lyons said. “And they sort of own the NCO club at Mayport. I don’t think any of them have bought their own drinks since the landing. And what they’re mostly doing is telling ‘Lieutenant Faith’ stories. Faith, can I at least get you off of this horrible little patch of swamp? Figure out what to do later?”
Faith looked around. The island was hers, all hers. But it was not the gentle Eden she was looking for. There were no horses. There were no friends to have her back. And it really was a horrible little patch of swamp.
“How are we getting out?” Faith asked.
“The Hampton is right off-shore,” Lyons said. “And I’ve got a RHIB.”
“Gah,” Faith said. “Subs. I’m terrified of subs.”
“Faith, you’re terrified of everything,” Lyons said. “You’re terrified of failure and strangers and new people and public speaking and infected. A very short sub trip is minor.”
“Are you saying I’m a coward?” Faith asked angrily.
“No,” Lyons said, looking honestly puzzled. “But did you think that people like myself and General Montana and . . . well, everybody that was on that painting don’t know that? You react to fear by being angry. It’s your gift. So do all the people on that painting except maybe your mom. I don’t know her at all. Did you think we didn’t get that? We’re the same way.”
“I . . .” Faith said. “No. I thought . . . Seriously?”
“Ready to go?” he asked.
“What about the stew?” Faith said.
“It’s raccoon,” Lyons said. “Which tastes really horrible. On the other hand, the galley on the Hampton is pretty damned good. And they’ve got flush toilets. I’m dying for a Hollywood shower and a flush toilet. And I understand the first meal back is steak and lobster.”
“Steak?” Faith said, her mouth starting to water. Lobster in the Caribbean had become something of a staple. But steak was a new one. She couldn’t remember the last time she had fresh beef. “Where’d they get steak?”
“Florida turns out to have more cows than Texas,” Lyons said. “And Lieutenant Chen had rifles.”
“What are we waiting for?”
* * *
“How did your reconnaissance of the island go, Lieutenant?” Colonel Hamilton asked when she reported in.
“Fine, sir,” Faith said. “I discovered some interesting things about infected lifestyles which I’m not sure how to apply, sir.”
“After you get off your thirty-day leave, I want a detailed report,” Hamilton said. “We’ll add it to our general intelligence summary. That is after you get off leave.”
“I’m not sure I need thirty days, sir,” Faith said. “I’m not sure what to do with thirty days’ leave, sir.”
“Persons on leave can travel space available on any vessel in the U.S. military, Lieutenant,” Hamilton said. “We have a regular ferry flight to Gitmo leaving and returning every three days so feel free to visit your parents. You can grab a boat from one of the cleared marinas and go travelling around. You can sit by the pool and read. You can go scavenge in Jax. Hell, if you found that you are evolved for submarine travel, we have a regular run to England and you can go visit King Harry. I’d say you could take the Hampton to the Pacific but that bastard Montana is trying to shanghai you. World is your oyster, Lieutenant. Then I need you back with your headspace and timing in place. Since we have all these Marines, gear and transport, our mission creep has gotten extensive. We’ve got multiple missions coming up and I need good officers for them. Oorah?”
“Oorah, sir,” Faith said.
“Welcome back, Lieutenant.”
CHAPTER 21
Retired Master Gunnery Sergeant Evan Walters was up on his roof waiting for the Wolf Squadron relief forces. Two days ago, there had been an announcement on the FM band that “Forces of the U.S. Naval Services” were beginning clearance in the Lejeune operational area. Starting yesterday, there’d been a rattle of fire for most of the day, occasionally punctuated by the boom of either a 155 or an Abrams. He was guessing Abrams. From the sound of the fire, 40mm, Ma Deuce and small arms—he’d guess amtracks with the troops up and out giving cover fire from the side. And that might mean he was going to get a chance to meet Shewolf.
Master Gunnery Sergeant Walters had heard a lot of fire in his time. Twenty-five years in the Corps in every fucking shithole in the damned world, he got out, got a good civilian job on the Post and there’s a fucking zombie apocalypse. Wouldn’t you know it.
He’d figured that if there was one place that wouldn’t fall, it’d be Lejeune and the surrounding areas. There might be a Marine in the world that when he got out put away all his guns. There were fuckers who got out then went on TV sobbing about “give peace a chance.” Happened. Didn’t personally know any, and every dude he knew had an extensive gun collection as well as beaucoup ammo.
Not enough for this shit. Naked zombies were fucking everywhere. Half of them sporting moto tats. Turned out that having a base area full of really in-shape fuckers turned into zombies was the worst of all possible worlds.
He’d never even gotten sick. Wife three, and the best of the lot by far, not so much. Gladys had just died. He’d buried her out back. By then it was pretty apparent calling a funeral home wasn’t much use.
The last act he’d performed in his civilian double-dip job was the only act he’d ever performed of which he was truly ashamed. He worked in a logistics job. Hell, he knew where stuff was stored from just being a master gunnery sergeant. So he’d gone over to one of the warehouses, loaded his truck with MREs to the top of the cover and driven home. That was shortly after Gladys passed away. He’d told Colonel Adams, his boss, who had just nodded and said: Good luck, Gunny. He couldn’t approve it, obviously, and it felt a lot like stealing. But the MREs weren’t going to do anyone any good sitting in a warehouse.
The base had finally gone free-fire. Too late and, with everybody fucking turning from the little intel he got, there was no way to maintain control. Then the whole area had settled down to mostly quiet. There was fire for the first week or so. He could hear the mobs of zombies any time someone fired. Then the fire would stop. You could crush a house he supposed with enough bodies. He conserved his rounds and laid low.
He had some seeds. He knew that they were hybrids and would only be good for one planting. But they were potential food. The house had a privacy fence in the back yard. He snuck out, quiet like, and did a good solid garden. Gladys had been the gardener but he’d worked on it enough with her he knew the drill. He put out snares and got some rabbits for stew.
Water. Cistern system hooked up to the gutters in the back. Cistern was a design he’d seen in Africa doing one of those fucking “hope and change” missions. Pretty good system. Needed some TLC but he had water. As long as he was quiet.
Then all he had to do was wait. The zombies had to die off sooner or later, or somebody would be able to break out. Somewhere.
The zombies didn’t die off. Figuring at some point there’d at least be helos he chopped a hole in the roof in the garage and went up to stand sentry from time to time. Build some intel.
Zombies ate fricking everything. Humans were omnivores. They ate rats. They ate cats. He saw one get into a tussle with a coon and win. The rats should have been bad. No traps and all that food and dead bodies and shit. Nope. Because they were all getting eaten by the zombies.
He had a wind-up radio. And it kept working. All the “official” bands went silent, fast. Then it was just ham radio operators and crazies all over the place. Most of the crazies didn’t last. You couldn’t be entirely bughouse and keep up a generator and security to keep broadcasting. Some of them held in there. He was a personal fan of the dictator o
f CUBAFLORATAMP. Fucker was bughouse in a funny sort of way.
Then, one day in January, bored and sort of scanning around he heard the word “Devil Dog.” So some Marine . . . what the fuck?
It was, allegedly, an official radio station of the United States Government. Devil Dog radio, broadcasting out of Gitmo. And it had news, at least if you believed it. Lots of news.
Devil Dog, Anchors Aweigh and Voice of America. Voice of America was like listening to PBS crossed with conservative talk radio. It had the voiceovers from “news reels” as actions happened. And they’d apparently gone back and made ones covering the creation of “Wolf Squadron.”
If any of this shit was for real, he wanted to have Shewolf’s babies. And her sister sounded like a badass for being Navy.
Then one day they had an interview with “Gunnery Sergeant Tommy J. Sands.” Son of a bitch. Gave his background, which was right, and it sure as hell sounded like Tommy.
It became his regular schedule. Devil Dog did a Marine and combat-clearance news focused broadcast at 1700, very “Oorah! Oorah! Target rich environment! Oorah!” Anchors Aweigh was Navy focused—logistics, supply, sea-lanes, heavy fire power—at 1800. Then VoA at 1900 covering mostly the civilian side and international news. It was like the 1940s in a lot of ways. He was pretty sure that was deliberate on the part of whoever was running the radio stations. What was happening with Wolf Squadron and in the world as they spread out. There were other groups sort of organizing. Once Devil Dog started broadcasting, the ones on coasts were reporting the arrival of U.S. subs with vaccine and other supplies. Shit was happening. They were coming back, finally.
But for a long time it hadn’t at Lejeune. He got that. They were having to build up forces. They reported that they’d cleared Blount Island and were getting equipment into gear. Smart move. Right on the water, full of gear, probably low infected density. He grinned when they had a radio show about Shewolf’s fourteenth birthday party. Fourteen, man. Fucking fourteen. Hell, he’d have turned a wrench to get that girl a tank. And Seawolf was interviewed. All she wanted for her birthday was to have a good repair and support facility for her helo. Just like her. Focused, dedicated, smart. If this was a scam, somebody was being very consistent.
Then the word that they had cleared King’s Bay and secured the special weapons. No more on those than that but he’d been sweating all the SWs lying around. Most people couldn’t get them to work but some crazy fucker had started this whole thing. Could happen. And if he was trying to ensure the U.S. didn’t come back, he’d nuke Lejeune right after Mayport.
Parris Island, working north. The announcement had given survivor numbers, high, then, curiously, announced a change in how survivors were handled. “In all future cases where military personnel are recovered, they will be subject to evaluation and/or retraining to determine competency for exercise of rank in post-Plague conditions prior to being given any authority over personnel or units of the United States Armed Forces. Until such evaluations shall be completed, all such persons are to be treated with the respect due their rank but as civilians in terms of authority. This holds for civilians, officers and NCOs of any rank, service or position pre-Plague.” There was also exactly zero mention of Shewolf or her pack.
Then the announcement that Wolf Squadron would be conducting “retraining, small scale clearance and local operations in the Jacksonville area” “for a minimum of thirty days.”
What the fuck had happened at PI? It sounded like a shake-up in the chain of command. But Wolf was still doing weekly fireside chats. In one of those he’d specifically stated that as a person born in Australia he was ineligible to run for President and “in the words of General Sherman, if nominated I shall not run, if elected I shall not serve.”
The radio shows always came after the action. So now it looked like the action was starting at Lejeune. Nearly a month and a half after PI, which was odd. But he was willing to take it.
He was up on the roof scanning by Mark One eyeball when he spotted the helo. Armed up Seahawk, armed up more than any Seahawk he’d ever seen, flying fucking pillbox. The nose was painted with shark’s teeth. Which was nonregulation as hell. And it was one regulation he’d always found stupid.
Then the tracks finally came into sight, the music blaring. And they were . . . Jesus. The lead was electric blue with a dragon eating zombies on the side. Big “USMC” on the front and “SEMPER FI” on the side. The others were pimped as well. American flags. Eagles. One of ’em had “Visualize World Peace” with a belching cannon firing at zombies.
The troops, who were in MarCam at least, saw him up on the roof and waved. He waved back. He figured they were doing clearance and as long as they weren’t shooting at him he could wait till the zed density dropped a bit then break out himself.
He’d hardly noticed the zombies gathering around. They were swarming in, drawn by the sound of the music and the tracks. The tracks didn’t even slow down. They were moving at about six, seven miles per hour, fast jogging pace. They’d fire up some of the infected but mostly they just kept moving, running over any that got under their treads but not even maneuvering for that.
Then he saw the Abrams. It was pink with purple tiger stripes. On the side of the turret was “Trixie,” which was right, and a snarling teddy bear. Jesus. And the TC, who was turned to the rear with the turret covering their six, looked like she might be a teen. But, hell, all the troops looked that way when you were his age.
That’s when he realized why they weren’t stopping. They were being chased by all the fucking zombies in the world.
Then they stopped, laagering up in a formation they’d clearly used before. He figured he knew what was about to happen and put his hands over his ears.
The main gun belched canister down the road. He hoped they had checked for survivors in that direction. But it pulped the zombies. Pulped hell out of them. Staying was no longer an option. It was about to get hellish around the house when those decomposed.
Then it fired again. More pulped zombies. Cupola and coax. No more zombies. The music finished and the speakers cut out.
A guy got out of one of the amtracks, looked up at him, then gave him a thumbs up. Son of a bitch. It was Tommy. And the master gunny knew what was waiting for him at home. Better or worse than normal was the real question.
Fuck this. Area was clear and they were stopped. He wasn’t waiting for an invitation.
Gunny Sands had gone into his house, stayed about three minutes, then come back out carrying a single can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. He paused on the doorstep on the way out, pulled out a thermite grenade, armed it and tossed it through the door. There’d been a light rain the night before and they were due for more. Nothing should burn but the one house and if the gunny wanted to burn his own house, let him.
Faith had seen the guy on the roof and that he’d come down. Before Gunny Sands was out of the house, the guy came out his front door, left it open, in uniform and battle rattle, M4, assault pack over his back, “civvies” bag in one hand and buckling on his helmet. Fuck, another master gunnery sergeant who was probably going to go on and on about the fucking “unmilitary” fucking vehicles.
Sands saw him as he was coming out, the house already going pretty good, and walked over. The gunny popped the beer, took a sip and offered it to the former neighbor. They talked a bit, then walked over to Trixie. So maybe this wouldn’t be a disaster.
“Lieutenant,” Gunny Sands said, holding up the can after climbing up on Trixie.
He knew she hated carbonated beverages and alcohol. Beer was both. This was important. She took a swig and handed it back.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Sands said quietly. “Ma’am, this is my old boss, Master Gunnery Sergeant Evan Walters. Who is not a shit-head.”
“Glad to have you aboard, Master Gunnery Sergeant,” Faith said.
“I’m pleased to be aboard, ma’am,” the master gunnery sergeant said. He almost sounded nervous. “Ma’am . . . I had a radio. I’ve been
keeping up with Devil Dog. I just want to say it’s an honor to meet you, ma’am.”
“They exaggerate,” Faith said, grinning. She wasn’t sure which was worse; the people who couldn’t get their heads around her being a lieutenant or the fans. She hated attention. And liked it at the same time. “But thanks. Way better than the alternative.”
“I’d guess y’all’d be moving out about now,” the master gunnery sergeant said. “Mind if I catch a ride?”
“Load up on my track, Evan,” Sands said. “We can catch up.”
“When the gunny’s loaded we’re rolling,” Faith radioed, firing at an infected that was poking its head around a house.
The rolled out and left the house burning behind them.
“Tommy, I’m sorry about Charlotte,” Evan said.
“No, you’re not,” Gunny Sands said. “But I am sorry about Gladys. I take it she didn’t make it.”
“Died of the fever,” Evan said. “Buried in the back. Deep. The zombies never smelled her.”
“That’s good to hear,” Sands said. “She was one in a million. It’s a damned shame. It really is.”
“Yeah,” the master gunnery sergeant said. “Changing the subject. Which one, though. First, what’s up with the paint jobs? Second, what the hell happened at PI? Something happened. But it wasn’t reported. Wolf Squadron had been rolling hot to PI, then ‘thirty day plus stand-down.’ What the hell?”