A Place Called Hope (Z-Day Book 2)

by Daniel Humphreys

  Infected can’t get past it, he realized. Even if they were able to climb, there’s nowhere to grab on the bottom of a boat. They’d slide right off.

  Against human opponents though, aluminum and fiberglass might as well not even be there. Several of the boats had holes shot through them, the fiberglass wrecked by the impact of high-speed projectiles.

  On the side of the office building closest to the river, a paved ramp led down to a boat launch. To the north, the rough road that Sandy walked on turned into paved blacktop.

  The line of boats ended on either side of the ramp. The occupants of the compound had rolled a van over onto one side to block off most of the opening at the top of the ramp. A truck with a snowplow attachment on the front seemed to serve as the mobile portion of their gate. At the moment, it sat open, and a crumpled form lay on the ramp in a growing pool of blood. A couple of other survivors crouched on the ground nearby. They looked as though they were attempting to provide first aid.

  As Sandy drew closer, a man standing in the bed of the pickup truck saw him and shouted a cry of warning. At once, the heads of the people crouched on the ramp jerked around to stare at him, and still others popped up from behind the wall of boat hulls. He saw at least three gun barrels pointed in his direction, though there were sure to be more.

  “Don’t shoot!” He put his hands up high and wide. “Don’t shoot—I’m a doctor!”

  March 11, 2026

  Camp Perry, Ohio

  Z-Day + 3,066

  Pete was long-accustomed to feeling old around NCO’s. Some people looked like babies when they were clean-shaved, after all. But the machinist’s mate working on his leg seemed younger than most.

  Finally, Pete gave in to his curiosity. “How old are you, Samuels?”

  The E-3 looked up and grinned. “Nineteen, Major. My dad and I were on a scuba boat when the wave hit. Navy picked us up after the first few weeks and we’ve been with them ever since. I signed up on my 17th birthday.”

  Pete nodded. He was still trying to find his mental footing back among the surviving military, but back home, there were certain things you didn’t ask unless someone volunteered. The children of Samuels’ generation, if everything worked out, might not suffer from that same widespread phobia, but for now, it was endemic. He forced a smile onto his face and settled for, “Good man.”

  “Thank you, Major.” The machinist’s mate held up the leg and said, “Very impressive if you don’t mind me saying, sir.”

  Pete smirked. “The legs, or that I was able to keep from getting munched while wearing them?” The kid turned red, but Pete laughed and waved it off. “I’m messing with you. Yeah. I got tired of waiting around for the VA to get me an upgrade, so I sprung for my own. I was worried you wouldn’t be able to do anything with it.” The prior week, a zombie’s—if that was even the right term to use anymore—spear had come within six inches of biting into the flesh of his truncated thigh. It had missed flesh but damaged the mechanism of his prosthetic enough that he'd spent the rest of the battle hobbling around like a pirate on his other functional leg. Pete had lost his legs years before, and the Marines had put him out to pasture. The no-kidding zombie apocalypse was enough of a reason for the remaining brass to bring him back.

  “Well, luckily, the joint is titanium and stainless steel, sir. From a mechanical standpoint, there was no damage. The supporting anchor points are cracked, though. I used epoxy where I could to build the structure back up, but I had to use some longer bolts in a couple of spots.” He showed Pete where the anchors had poked through the tan-painted outer ‘skin’ of the prosthetic. “I ground them down and sealed the metal. It’s not pretty, Major, but it should hold together for you.”

  “I’m too old to worry about pretty, son.” Pete accepted the prosthetic. After hobbling around on the old-school ones he’d kept for spares, he was looking forward to getting back to the high-end Ottoblocks. He sat down and rolled the leg of his pants up and made the switch. The boot on the repaired prosthetic wasn’t as dirty as its twin, but they’d match, soon enough. If the grass had been overgrown at Camp Perry before the military had returned, it was a distant memory now. The press of hundreds of boots and the wheels of tracks had ground it into wet mush.

  Need to suggest they start hauling some gravel back on every home supply run, he mused. Pete got his pant leg down around his ankle and eased off of the table. “Mighty fine work, sailor.”

  The kid beamed. “Glad to help, Major.”

  A fist pounded on the door to the make-do shop—really just a couple of trailers strapped together—before another enlisted rating stuck a head inside. “Major Mathews, General Vincent needs to see you ASAP, sir.”

  He didn’t know if he should feel nervous or relieved. He’d been here for almost a week, and busy-work or debriefings from curious intelligence officers had taken up the lion's share of that time. Now, it seemed, he was actually going to get to meet the man who was running the show. If the legends were even halfway close to true, it was sure to be an interesting experience.

  “On my way,” Pete replied, saluting the runner. He was still rusty with military protocol, but he hoped it was like riding a bicycle. He headed toward the door with a nod to Samuels. “Keep up the good work, kid.”

  Chapter 4

  March 11, 2026

  Camp Perry, Ohio

  Z-Day + 3,066

  He wasn’t sure what to expect from the general’s office, but the initial impression Pete got was a positive one. The room was small and Spartan. American and Marine Corps flags hung from poles in the rear corners of the office. The wall behind the desk was bare, save for a picture of a younger-looking General Vincent shaking hands with a man in a suit. After a moment, Pete recognized General James Mattis. The picture must have been after he'd taken over as Secretary of Defense.

  Vincent followed his eyes and offered up a thin smile. “Right before I deployed as support to the anti-ISIS fight in Syria. Have a seat, Major.” He indicated one of a pair of chairs crammed into the small space in front of the desk. Pete sat.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “We should have had this sit down a bit earlier, but I’ve got a few irons in the fire.” Vincent grinned, and the lines around his eyes creased into the expression. In person, he didn’t look like much—average height, slender build, and gray hair. His voice, though, seemed to come from deep inside of his chest. Even at a normal pitch, it filled the small office.

  Yeah, Pete could see why his guys would run through walls for him. He returned the smile. “No worries, sir. I hope I’ve been of use to your S-2 shop.”

  “You have,” the general confirmed. “That’s partly what I wanted to talk to you about. We’ve got some issues, and I’m hoping your experiences might be helpful.”

  “Absolutely, sir. Anything I can do.”

  “We’re not going to hold Perry on a permanent basis. It’s not equipped for our needs, to be honest, and given the proximity to larger urban areas, the location is far from ideal. For now, it’ll do, because it’s a secure seaport, we’re staying. Your community, Hope, is step one. It’s the first link in a chain of surviving communities, and from there we need to head west. Our final phase one goal is the Mississippi River. If we hold that, it simplifies our supply routes. We can come up through the Gulf rather than having to go up the East Coast and over. Given that the majority of the survivor communities we’ve been able to identify are in the Midwest and Central plains, having a secure beachhead to link up with them is vital. That becomes even more critical now that we have time pressure.”

  Pete grimaced. “The advanced ones.”

  “Exactly. We’ve cleared out the major infestations around Camp Perry and your community, but there are still plenty of them out there—and they’re starting to clump together.” Vincent sighed and rubbed a hand across the bristles of his scalp. “Which brings me to the logistical situation. Our normal clearance methods are still viable because the advanced ones still flow toward noi
se, but we’re starting to suffer mechanical losses with our chopper fleet. You know about the one on the run your nephew made; we almost lost a Marine detachment this morning. So we’re scaling back the scope of our operations until we can figure out alternative options.”

  Pete nodded. “Well, if we’re lucky, some of the sites I pointed out for Colonel O’Neill will bear fruit.”

  “I’m certain they will, but we still need to look to the future. The choppers aren’t going to last forever. We may have something that might work even better, without the mechanical issues. Which is why I’d like you to put a team together for an extended operation.”

  “Whatever you need me to do, of course,” Pete replied, “but, without refusing the order, sir, surely you have combat-experienced officers that your Marines are familiar with. Hanratty, for example.”

  The general cocked his head to one side, appearing to gather his thoughts. “And if this were a straightforward recon mission, you’re absolutely right. But based on the stories I heard about you from the early days of the outbreak, this is right up your alley.” He picked up a folder and handed it to Pete. “Have a look.”

  “You’ve been talking to Foraker,” Pete guessed as he accepted the documents. “He’s a SEAL, you know. And I’m pretty sure we were both drunk when we started sharing stories.” General Vincent gave him a Cheshire Cat smile and indicated the folder. Pete opened to the first page and started reading. Halfway down, he raised his head and stared. “Holy shit, sir.”

  “Welcome to Operation Icarus, Major.”

  March 11, 2026

  Forward Operating Base Hope—Southwestern Indiana

  Z-Day + 3,066

  Blood pulsed into the vacuum tube under the watchful eye of the Navy corpsman.

  In less than a week, Charlie had grown to despise Doctor Michael Eberman. The fact that he passed this simple task onto one of his subordinates was icing on the cake.

  He must have made a face because Kevin Walsh favored him with a crooked smile. “One more, Charlie.” He swapped out the full tube and inserted an empty one into the basket at the end of the butterfly valve.

  Charlie just grunted. Even though he had his voice back, silence was such a long-ingrained habit that he still hoarded his words like a miser.

  On Z-Day, Charlie and his family had been on the road for a fall vacation. They’d made it less than an hour from home before another car slammed into theirs and flipped it over. When Charlie had come to, he’d been hanging by his seatbelt while the thing his wife had become gnawed on his fingers. He made it out of their wrecked vehicle, only to learn that the infection had claimed his son as well.

  Surrounded by chaos and confronted with the destruction of his family, Charlie snapped. He screamed himself hoarse and kept screaming until his damaged vocal cords gave out.

  His story should have ended there as so many others had on Z-Day. Though his mangled hand teemed with the plague that had brought civilization to a halt, Charlie never turned.

  Other survivors found him and coerced him to a place of safety. Over time his wounds—mental and physical—healed, and he forged a new life. The fact of his immunity wasn’t a secret, but it hadn’t been a fact he’d advertised, either.

  Only at the moment when the entire community faced destruction had he given up on the pretense of hiding. Charlie stood alone in defense of a group of children, holding a narrow catwalk against dozens of evolved shamblers. At the start of the outbreak, they were clumsy and stupid. Now, they exhibited raw animal cunning, agility, and the ability to use tools. The attacking swarm’s tool of choice on that day had been spears tipped with heads of infected bone. Each wounded survivor fell and rose again as part of the horde. The community teetered on the brink until the arrival of a Marine helicopter gunship devastated the attackers and set the surviving—however that definition worked with a reanimated corpse—shamblers on the run.

  Before that, though, one of the tainted weapons had wounded Charlie. And while he still proved to be immune to the infection, the strain had changed. Less than a day later, the wound on his side and his vocal cords had both healed.

  He didn’t feel any different, but the line of puckered flesh on his hip was a constant reminder that he was. The fact that the gray lines of infection shot through the scar affirmed that fact whenever he saw it. One of the community’s younger members, Alex Worthington, had commented that this could be Charlie’s superhero origin story. No such luck. Despite the rapid healing his body now displayed, his hair was still shot through with strands of silver and he had the same mid-forties paunch he’d carried for the last few years.

  Even worse, with the return of the military, his existence was no longer his own. Charlie’s secret was out, his worst fears realized. The surviving elements of the CDC had reduced him to a guinea pig.

  Eberman was young enough that he couldn’t have been very senior in the organization on Z-Day. From his attitude, you would think he’d been running the place.

  As Walsh removed the butterfly valve and taped a bandage over the wound in Charlie’s forearm, the good doctor graced them with his presence and picked up the rack of filled tubes. “Excellent,” he said. “Sooner or later we’ll figure you out, Charlie.” Eberman’s tone was right on this side of accusatory, as though Charlie knew the secret of his blood and refused to share it.

  Charlie gave him a blank stare and tried to resist the urge to punch him in the face. The doctor was short and a little pudgy. A near-decade of zombie apocalypse was a recipe for community fitness, but he had somehow managed to avoid it. Charlie supposed that he’d been hiding in the rear with the gear while the Marines and sailors struggled to hold onto some semblance of the world before.

  “Come back on Friday,” the doctor instructed. If he was picking up on Charlie’s antipathy he didn’t let on. “If I’m still coming up empty on your immunity, we’re going to track down the equipment to do a bone marrow biopsy.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Charlie said. His returned voice was still a new enough experience that it startled him. “Might be out on a salvage op.”

  Eberman frowned. “I’ll need to talk to Captain Hanratty about that. You’re too vital a resource to risk.”

  Charlie smirked. “Talk all you want. I don’t work for Hanratty. Or you.” He stood up and gave Walsh a nod.

  “Now, wait just a minute—” Eberman grabbed Charlie’s arm, then froze as he realized he’d overstepped his bounds. Charlie was a bit over average height, but he still had a good six inches and fifty pounds on the diminutive researcher. In Charlie’s case, it was almost all muscle. He lifted his other arm and curled his hand into a fist.

  “Gentlemen!” Walsh inserted himself between them and plucked the rack of vials out of the line of fire. The quirk of Charlie’s chemistry that made him immune also rendered the infection inert, but the medical staff still treated it as a potential biohazard.

  If slow shamblers could become fast and intelligent, after all, who knew if his immunity would hold out, or for how long?

  Charlie jerked his arm out of the doctor’s grip and headed for the door. “We’re through here. I’m done playing pincushion.”

  He slammed the flimsy door behind him, cutting off whatever Eberman had to say. Rampaging shamblers had overrun the community’s clinic and made a mess of the place. While it was being repaired, the military had brought in a temporary trailer for Eberman and the rest of the medical staff. The few uninfected injured were staying at the Matthews’ house.

  Charlie smirked to himself and wondered what Pete would have said about that if he hadn’t left. His friend was an anti-social grouch at the best of times. Him finding a half-dozen medical cases camped out in his bedroom would make for great entertainment. Not that Pete slept there, much.

  He shielded his eyes and looked up at the observation post on top of the grain bins at the center of the settlement. In yet another change, he caught flashes of camouflage uniforms. As recently as last week, Pete and his class of yo
ung trainees would have been up top, keeping an eye out and sniping the occasional infected. No more. The newly-arrived Marines banished the kiddie crew to the ground and set up shop as the sole occupants of the ‘Crow's Nest.’

  Charlie was well aware that the sense of security they’d had before last week had been an illusion. The infected had been massing out of sight for who knew how long and had rushed the fences when they recognized an opportunity. Any complacency he felt should have been gone, but he couldn’t help but wish he could take a step back.

  Might as well wish all this never happened. And there is still good in the world.

  He sighed and headed for the cafeteria. In the old days, you got cookies and juice when giving blood. As the medical trailer lacked both, he figured he’d see what was available for lunch.

  There’d been more changes in the community’s largest building, as well. A quarter of the old equipment barn was still in use as a school, but the kitchen area had expanded to scale up meals for their new population. Most of them were Marines or Navy, but quite a few were civilians, as well. Charlie had always kept to himself, but from what he understood, they were survivors brought along to help serve as labor to relieve the pressure on the various bases the surviving portion of the military had set up on ships and secured islands.

  After however many years of existence on a tropical island, he had to wonder how much southern Indiana appealed, but there didn’t seem to be a shortage of new faces. Maybe they got tired of eating fish.

  He stepped into line and glanced over at the classroom area. With the additions the island people had brought along, it was more packed than was usual, but there were two heads, in particular, he was looking for. After a moment of searching he found them, and nodded in satisfaction. He’d found Tasha and her brother Dylan on his last scouting run. The kids had a story of survival that in many ways was worse than anything the rest of the community had experienced. They’d been making it with their grandfather, in a remote, isolated cabin, until a group of human raiders had happened upon them.