A Place Called Hope (Z-Day Book 2)

by Daniel Humphreys

  A few of the rowdier types whooped. The old hands just frowned and gave the craft on screen an appraising view. Pete could understand that sentiment. It was one hell of a long shot, and there was way too much they didn’t know about the lay of the land for his taste. But he was a Marine, old or not, and he’d be damned if he was going to lay down on a mission that had the chance to give them such a decided edge. “Questions?”

  Master Sergeant McFarlane raised a hand, and Pete nodded in his direction.

  “Major, what is the security situation on the ground? I can see fences indicated in the satellite overhead.”

  “Overhead is not the best. I’m given to understand that this image is from some point after Z-Day, but it’s not recent. There should be a perimeter fence around the base proper, as well as the facility itself. We’ll be inserting a small team beforehand. They’re responsible for accessing the facility, verifying that the prototypes are, in fact, still there, and clearing the building. At that point the rest of the unit will deploy—then and only then. We’ll need to hold the building only long enough to retrieve the Orcas and any other associated material.”

  One of the helicopter pilots raised a hand.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name yet, Lieutenant,” Pete replied.

  “Brumley, Major.”

  She had an East Texas twang, and the look on her face indicated she wasn’t sold on the entire venture. You and me both, sister. “Go ahead, Brumley.”

  “How are we getting the cargo out? I hope you’re not expecting us to fly out the vehicles themselves, because that’s far from ideal for any number of reasons.”

  “Not at all. Part of the design intent was for the craft to be airmobile. The control and cargo module is removable from the lift bag, and both will collapse into a shipping configuration. They’re within sling lift spec for the Sea Hawks. Four prototypes, eight loads. You’re looking at four round trips before extraction. It’s a hundred miles to the coast, give or take. Call it six to seven hours, depending on refueling and turnaround time.”

  “Closer to six, Major,” Brumley said with a predatory grin. “There’s a reason why they sent us. Ain’t no one better.”

  Pete grinned back. “Oorah, Lieutenant. Flying them out on their own raises its own set of issues. We don’t have up-to-date intelligence on any stored helium on site. There might be sufficient amounts for test flights, but it’s doubtful that would suffice for long-term operations. So upon confirmation that we’ve completed our mission, another lucky team of Marines from the base on Galveston Island gets to go cross-country to secure the National Helium Reserve in Amarillo. Could be worse. We could have gotten stuck with the shit end of the stick and gotten that mission.” He paused for the requisite chuckle. “At least we’re getting a nice cruise out of the deal.

  “While the Sea Hawks are flying the cargo out, we hold the building. The Little Bird will remain on station for close-air support and medevac as needed. If you were wondering why we brought so much ammo, well, there you go. Lord willing, we won’t need it. First slide.” He traced a line southeast from Palmdale, onto Los Angeles itself. “We’ll be close to LA, but the terrain should work to our advantage. The main artery through the mountains is I-5, and given the time of day the outbreak kicked off, it should be obstructed with vehicle traffic. The zombies—pardon me, zulus—should have congregated downhill. Intel believes we’ll see medium to heavy levels of infected presence. We have the DPV and other herding methods to draw them away from the base as much as we can, but the ongoing helicopter traffic will draw attention. Most of it will be over mountains or parkland, so the population should be minimal.” Pete nodded toward the rear of the room at the Navy personnel. “As a plus, the Lucas is well-equipped to give us real-time overhead prior-to and during operations. Not to mention fire support. Kill the screen.”

  Pete leaned the pointer back in the corner and turned back to his people. “I’ll be straight with you, Marines. There’s a whole lot of what-if and guesswork here. We’ll know more once we’re offshore and can get some drone recon. But hell, if it was easy, they wouldn’t have sent us. Dismissed.”

  As the room started to clear, Pete realized that the captain of the Lucas, Tamara Wilhite, stood at the back of the room with another, shorter woman. He stepped forward to greet them. “Captain, apologies for missing your dinner invitation yesterday. I’ve been buried in the ops plan.”

  She laughed. He’d met her in passing when he’d boarded the ship and, much like on the Georgia, barely left his room afterward. “Understood, Major. We’ll have time to figure out our coordination before we reach the coast. I’d like to give you an overview of our drone capabilities, if possible, so you know what to expect in terms of recon support. At the moment, I wanted to apologize to you. My intel section has been monopolizing one of your people, so I figured I’d take the moment to introduce you two.” She indicated her companion. “Major Matthews, Anne Guglik, late of the CIA. I’m headed back to the bridge. We’ll meet at your convenience, Major.”

  Pete shook the other woman’s hand as the captain left the briefing room. “Glad to meet you, Agent Guglik. For what it’s worth, damn good work on the overheads.”

  She dipped her head. “I’m a good chunk of what’s left of the CIA. Command staff rolled us together with surviving NSA elements and gave us carte blanche to recruit our own team. We’re starting to lose satellites, and we can’t move them around much, if at all, but we do what we can. Sorry I missed the briefing, but I think I provided most of your information. I’d say I know the tune if not the words.”

  Pete raised an eyebrow. She had a hint of a Slavic accent, which went with the white-blonde hair and fair skin. “And you’re out here? Why aren’t you back running things?”

  She smirked and gave him half a shrug. “My section runs smooth without me. I was a field agent before, and I’ve got the skills your insertion team will need to bypass Lockheed’s security. I’ve never been to Skunkworks, but I’m familiar with the type of systems in use there.”

  Pete grunted in surprise. “Persistent locks? I figured they’d be electronic, easy to bypass. Power should be long out, and I didn’t see any solar panels.”

  “The card readers should be out, yes, but all the external access doors, and some critical internal ones, have automatic physical locking mechanisms that activate in case of power loss. I’ve picked a few locks in my day. Ross and Foraker tend to lean more toward explosive breaching.” She glanced at the map of the facility and grimaced. “Anything more than a mouse fart out there, and we’re hosed.”

  “You’re acquainted with the SEALs, then?”

  She smiled wryly. “Been on a few excursions with them in the past, yes.”

  Pete reconsidered her accent, and the meal he’d shared with the SEALs when they’d first come to Hope. “You were with them in Sevastopol,” he guessed.

  She looked surprised. “Told you about that, did they? It wasn’t half as fun as it sounded.”

  Pete laughed. “It sounded like hell, but I’ll take your word for it. Well, that’s good. You and the SEALs make up most of the insertion team. I’m putting one of my people in as the fourth.” He considered how to describe Charlie, and settled for you, “He has some skills, as well.”

  “Civilian?”

  “Yeah. But he’s been out of safe zones more than not for years. And he’s cleared more buildings than anyone I know.”

  “Interesting. Where can I meet him?”

  “He said something about heading out to the bow. I’d imagine you can find him there.”

  “Normally, someone tells me there’s a civilian on a mission like this, my hair stands on end. But I’m getting the sense you’re more confident about his presence than mine.”

  Pete squirmed, uncomfortable with the observation. “Maybe so. But I know him. And I just met you.”

  She smiled. “Even more interesting. And no worries. I’d be worried about your qualifications for this mission if you weren’t le
ery about me. If you have concerns, I’d recommend talking to the SEALs.”

  He composed himself and stared at her. “I might just do that. I’m sure they’ve got some interesting stories.”

  “Oh, you don’t know the half of it, Major.”

  March 26, 2026

  Aboard the USS Jack Lucas

  Z-Day + 3,081

  Charlie leaned on the top wire of the guardrail and took a deep breath. After being stuck on land for nearly a decade, the sensations of the ocean were intoxicating. The lake had been nice, but this was so much more it overwhelmed his senses. The ship headed south, cutting through brilliant cerulean waves with nothing but ocean and the horizon before it. The occasional gull swooped through the skies overhead, and every now and then, he saw dolphins leaping and cavorting to either side of the bow.

  The land was wild, unforgiving, and corrupted. The sea, though. The sea was pristine and pure, and one could almost imagine that the last eight years had been nothing more than a bad dream, bearing witness to this blue vista.

  After the submarine, the close quarters below decks felt almost luxurious. But being outside on the ocean was so, so different from endless green and decaying buildings. The burning heat of undiluted sunshine, the brush of the salt mist on his skin, and the rhythmic vibration of the engines through the deck led him to close his eyes and feel. It was like the trip across the lake, but dialed up to eleven, and without the threat of falling shamblers. “Zulus,” he muttered to himself. No matter what his preferred term of use, he needed to conform to the terminology of the people around him. He’d seen the confusion that could arise in the heat of the moment, in all his years training up the scavenging crews. Charlie didn’t want to contribute to an even greater disaster on the opposite side of the damn country.

  He shook his head and sighed. He’d bought into Pete’s vision of the mission when he’d had to, back home, but after the briefing, seeds of doubt were sprouting. He’d spent some time there on vacations, and had recognized the area when Pete had referred to it earlier, but until he’d seen the maps he’d forgotten how densely populated that part of the country was. If anything, the Midwest had spoiled him with the tendency toward the occasional island of homes and businesses in a sea of green. Central California was a sea of buildings. Pete had a good point about the mountains and jammed interstate blocking off the easy access north from greater Los Angeles, but the area around their objective wasn’t exactly the middle of nowhere. The population of Palmdale itself had to have numbered in the tens of thousands, all of them ready to slam down on the Marines like a tidal wave. Fences? Hell. Fences had presented no obstacle back home. But Pete knew that and still seemed to have confidence in the mission, so maybe the firepower of the Marines was enough to tip the scales in their favor. In that, he had to lean on Pete’s judgment, no matter how much the thought raised his hackles.

  If he’d had his druthers, the best way to do this would have been to sneak in and out, but when he considered the size of the cargo, he couldn’t fathom how they’d have been able to get out quietly. For better or worse, Pete’s plan was the best way to approach the mission. And, he considered as he turned and looked over one shoulder, from what Pete had said, the pair of wicked-looking gun turrets on the bow of the ship would be providing fire support in addition to the small helicopter gunship they’d brought along.

  He’d never run a salvage op this risky, but he’d never had this big of a payoff at the other end, either. As the saying went, “No risk it, no biscuit.”

  Charlie turned his head back to the south. He closed his eyes and savored the fresh air. He had a few days of peace left until they reached their destination, and he supposed that he might as well enjoy it while it lasted.

  A raised voice overcame the rush of the wind. "You Chuck?" He turned to look over his shoulder again, trying not to let his annoyance show. There were enough people on the ship that alone time was pretty much an impossibility, but his daydream of isolation had been pretty close.

  The speaker was a short, lithe woman with blonde hair in a close-cropped pixie cut. She wore combat boots, heavy khaki slacks, and a tank-top. As he glowered at her, she slid her mirrored sunglasses down and regarded him with ice-blue eyes. “You’re the one they call “Silent Charlie,” right?” Her voice had a hint of an accent to it, though he couldn’t place it. Charlie gave her a marginal nod and turned back to the sea. Maybe it was rude, but hell. Eight years!

  The newcomer imitated his silence and eased up to the rail beside him. He watched out of the corner of his eye as she poked her sunglasses back up on her nose. The visitor imitated his position, starting forward toward the horizon. Beads of spray began to build up on the lenses, but if it bothered her, she made no move to clean them.

  He waited a long moment and realized that his visitor was perfectly happy not to move. Annoyed, he muttered, “Yes.”

  The blonde cocked her head and raised an eyebrow. “Enchanted. Anne Guglik.”

  “It’s Charlie.”

  She grinned. “My apologies. Some of the Marines said your handle was Chuck. I have to admit, I’ve heard worse.”

  He considered for a moment, then guessed, “You’re her. The CIA agent.” One of Del Arroz’s Marines had returned from the mess and whispered, face shining with excitement, that he’d seen her. The stories the Marines had told after that point had bordered on the improbable and insane, but as he looked at the implacable face of the woman next to him, he couldn’t help but wonder what kernels of truth had been in the tales. “I didn’t see you in the briefing.”

  Guglik gave him a mock salute with her pointer finger. “Got it in one. And no need to hear it. I read the whole ops plan before your friend Pete did. Hell, I helped provide most of the intel for it.” She gave him a grin full of white teeth, but the expression was more predatory than friendly. “Looks like you and I get to have some fun. We’re on the point team with the SEALs.” He gave her another once-over and tried to keep the doubt off his face. He must have failed because she jabbed the finger into his chest. “I could assume the same about you, Chuckles.”

  Charlie shrugged. “You’re alive. That says a lot.”

  “Still, let’s get this over with.” She fixed him with a stare, and the sight of his own bemused expression in her mirror shades turned from funny to disconcerting. “Wave hits, I’m in Crimea coordinating intel with a unit of SEALs. Our SEALs, as a matter of fact. Anything I say that you don’t like, you can always verify with Foraker.”

  Charlie cocked his head to one side. Her accent. “You’re Russian?”

  “Bite your tongue. My parents were Ukrainian expats. I grew up in Manhattan. So yeah, despite being a girl, I spoke the language and had a pretty solid record with the Agency before things went to hell.” She pulled off her sunglasses and gave him an angry stare.

  It didn’t faze Charlie a bit. If anything, the glare was better than the reflection. At least it made her look human. “That’s great and all, but what’s your experience operating in the Wild?”

  “The ‘Wild’?”

  “Outside of a safe zone.” He patted the rail. “Without all the nice toys.”

  “I jumped ship in New York Harbor and swam to shore a couple of weeks after the outbreak. Those ovaries big enough for you, Chuckles?”

  He raised both hands to stave off her fury. “Hey, I’m just saying.” He frowned. “Swam to shore?”

  Guglik put her sunglasses back on and turned away. “I’ll be the first to admit that it wasn’t my best moment. We got word of some survivors on Ellis Island during the cruise over. We diverted, but by the time we got there, they’d had their own outbreak. For lack of orders, the captain of the Murphy dropped anchor in the harbor. My parents—the rest of my family—lived in the East Village.” She shrugged. “I asked for a chopper. Request denied. What can I say? I lost it.”

  Charlie smiled sadly, though he didn’t think she could see it. His fellow survivors in Indiana had adopted a standard when talking about the
past. You didn’t ask questions because everyone had lost someone. Some more than others, but they’d all suffered. If you wanted to talk about it, you brought it up yourself. Maybe it was dysfunctional, but what good was it to elicit more anguish? “My wife and my son,” he murmured into the ocean breeze. “I lost them. We always called it Z-Day.” He clenched his scarred right hand tighter on the rail. “I didn’t know what to do, without them. For a long time, I broke. I wanted nothing more than to be dead, but I guess fate had other plans. First time I met Pete—Major Matthews—he knocked my ass out and dragged me into his kid’s Jeep. I was so out of it I would fight anything that so much as looked at me. I don’t know how they even knew I was alive, I was so covered in filth.”

  “The rumor mill is accurate, then.” She didn’t sound surprised. He supposed if she’d been involved with the planning of the operation, she was privy to Eberman’s work, as well. She probably knew everything about him already, from his shoe size to his blood type.

  He wiggled his hand, showing off the twisted scarring. “Seem to be, yeah. `Course , when I got back into my right mind I realized that not getting bitten was the name of the game. I’m immune, but I’ve also got years of experience avoiding contact and getting into places. If you want somebody at your back who isn’t going to raise a ruckus, I’m your guy.”