by J. J. Fowler
The communications network was silent for a second before a voice came back. “Sorry, convoy. Proceed.” The Black Hawks lingered for a moment before reluctantly breaking off in separate directions to patrol the perimeter.
The gunfire from the convoy stopped, as more robust firepower from the docks took over defense of the area. Two Abrams tanks flanking the entry to the docks thundered away at unseen targets. Their big cannons were ideal for obliterating large pockets of walking dead before they gathered in numbers that would be difficult for the tower gunners to handle. Machine gun nests were staggered in a half dozen towers inside a chain-link fence topped with razor wire. They rattled away at roving bands of zombies that approached the dock perimeter. Sniper groups sat on roofs scanning the area for lone wandering corpses that somehow made it through the defenses. The docks were—at least for now—the safest place in the city. Carl allowed himself to relax. Whatever was following them, could not get past the Naval Base perimeter – for now.
Sergeant Ramos plopped back down into the cab before closing the hatch to the gun mount. “What the hell was that all about?”
“Command has its head up its ass as usual.” Pam removed her helmet to let her short brown hair fall. She was a good-looking woman, in great shape, and possessing a self-assured confidence that commanded attention. Her technical knowledge, ready sidearm, and relaxed demeanor, made her equal parts librarian, geek, and action hero. She was the best communications expert in the convoy teams, and Sergeant First Class Harvey and Sergeant Ramos were both happy to have her on their team.
The convoy rolled to a stop inside an enormous warehouse stocked with people and supplies. Every driver, gunner, and support personnel of the six-vehicle convoy poured out of their Humvees. They were desperate to stretch their legs, eat, and grab a smoke. Harvey, Ramos, and Grace—familiar with the ballet of logistics around them—never ceased to be amazed at the organized chaos taking place. Civilians were escorted from the convoy and entered medical checkpoints, where they were thoroughly examined before moving on to a series of additional checkpoints. The exhaustive screening—in addition to ensuring no infected made it into the fleet—was designed to distinguish people with uniquely beneficial skill sets, from the rank and file who had little to offer the fleet outside of hungry mouths. Meanwhile, forklifts moved every imaginable type of supply onto ferries, destined to venture into zombie-infested waters to deliver precious cargo to the battle group and accompanying container ships off shore.
Mechanics, reminiscent of a NASCAR pit crew, instantly took to maintenance on every vehicle in the convoy with incredible efficiency. The lead convoy team stood wondering quietly, with everything going on around them, how the walking dead had gotten the better of the United States Military.
As usual, Captain Sheridan approached the group to give a de-briefing and issue new orders. “Good job, soldiers. Here’s your next rendezvous point, and...” Captain Sheridan glanced about his paperwork before handing two slips of paper to Pam. “…here are your acquisition orders.” His finely pressed uniform and intellectual-looking glasses were a sharp contrast to the three disheveled soldiers standing in combat fatigues.
Miguel sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Another run?”
“Cap, how many more of these we gonna do?” Protocol had long since fallen by the wayside, and Grace cut right to the issue on everyone’s mind.
“Another one down, Cap.” A mechanic covered in grease interrupted Sheridan’s reply. “There’s a police spike strip tangled in the suspension of number four. The axel’s warped… the transmission housing is cracked… hell… I don’t even know how it made it back here. It’s done.”
“A police spike strip?” Captain Sheridan looked the mechanic straight in the eye before turning to address Carl.
“I don’t know, sir. It’s pretty rough out there. Any cops trapped outside the DDC’s aren’t above doing whatever they can to hitch a ride…they get pretty pissed when we don’t stop,” Carl answered.
“Specialist…” Sheridan looked at Pam, addressing her question: “you’re going to continue to make runs until your vehicle is broken down, out of gas, out of ammunition, or the Admiral says we’re pulling out--whichever comes first. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Pam pretended to look over her new requisition orders.
“Get some chow and some rest. You’ve got two hours. Dismissed,” Captain Sheridan ordered. He softened. “There won’t be many more runs after this, and remember…you people are saving lives.”
Chapter 2
Dr. Henry Damico’s heart thumped in his chest as he made his way through the crowded steel corridors of the USS Ronald Reagan Super Carrier. The sound of battle was ominous – muffled by the thick steel hull of the warship that served as guardian to otherwise defenseless tens of thousands of civilians. Mothers and fathers hurriedly escorted crying children through passages to assigned quarters, fearful looks in their eyes. As invincible as the carrier seemed, more than one warship had succumbed to the tenacious Mexican military and their relentless guerrilla tactics. As the former Health and Human Services Assistant Manager, it had been a very long time since Henry had put his hands to work inside a hospital. However, doctors, particularly medical doctors, were in desperately short supply. He was going to help if he could.
Henry’s mind dwelt upon the events that had lead up to the insanity raging off the coast of San Diego. The absurd conflict had, for months now, cost far too many lives and resources that were already in short supply. Anticipating their inability to maintain order in the face of the undead epidemic, the Mexican government had abandoned its civilian population. Overnight, the vacuum of power had been filled by drug lords, brutal gangs, and ruthless murderers.
When the coastal cities of North America began evacuations, some difficult protocols had been put into place. One such protocol prohibited evacuation clearance to any individual with a violent criminal history. This common-sense strategy was designed to ensure that civilian refugee population required as little internal security as possible. It had been anticipated that the well-armed criminal networks throughout the region would not sit idle, while critical resources were transported to navy cargo ships. It had not, however, been anticipated how insane their reaction would be. A brutal organized crime element immediately added their strength to the surprisingly well-armed Mexican military.
Caught without their wealth, trapped within a country drained of food and medical supplies, and drowning in an ocean of flesh eating undead, Mexico declared war on the US and Canada in a vain hope that they could use their military strength to steal some of the resources they would need to survive. Many gang members were themselves Mexican ex-military. This meant that what the senseless criminal enterprise lacked in rational leadership, it more than made up for with the skills and knowledge to wage asymmetrical war.
Despite being hobbled by thousands of refugees, evacuation efforts, and desertion, the U.S. Navy still managed to crush each raid with brutal efficiency – inflicting grossly disproportional casualties on their attackers. At this point, it was pure desperation that drove the Mexican military to continue to throw themselves against the implacable might of a far superior force. The absurdity of the war was a bloody waste in almost every conceivable way, but hopelessness drove men to do reckless things.
“Pass?” A marine dressed in fatigues holding a shotgun stood between the doctor and the entrance to the ships hospital. The young soldier attempted to express a demeanor of authority, but Henry could see within his eyes, the same fear that everyone else wore on their sleeve. The marine’s duty as hospital security included some nightmarishly unthinkable things that made a part of Henry long for the luxury of ignorance. Would this soldier have to kill a doctor who had been trying to save the life of a wounded fighter pilot, only to be rewarded with an infected bite? Would he have to put his shotgun to the head of a patient – perhaps a fellow serviceman – who couldn’t come to terms with their own infection and pleaded despe
rately for mercy? Or would he have to give an order to quarantine the entire hospital, as a swarm of living dead rose up to attack the doctors and civilians who were only there to help? If history was any indication, every one of those things was a distinct possibility.
“Pass?” The marine asked again.
Henry was indistinct from any of the other civilians that rushed through the corridors - middle-aged, out of shape, dark-haired. The only thing that set him apart in any way was the fact that he was moving against traffic – into the mouth of danger, not away. He had gotten used to how the bridge security recognized him as an advisor to the Admiral and waved him into restricted areas with a smile and a nod. Here, in the bowels of a ship crewed by over four thousand men and women, he was just another civilian that the military had asked to help in a desperate time. It took a moment for Henry to comprehend the soldier’s question. “Uh, pass…” he fumbled around through his pockets, “here it is.”
The marine glanced over the card that identified Henry as a civilian military advisor and cocked his head. He had, no doubt, noted the top-level security clearance on the identification card that would most certainly stand out from the rest of the medical staff. He handed the pass back to Henry, nodded, and stepped aside.
Henry entered the hospital, which had an atmosphere that sharply contrasted with the rest of the ship. Within the steel corridors, military personnel and crewmen bustled to their posts amidst refugees who scurried back to their housing accommodations. Here, there was absolute silence and a tension that hung like a fog. Medical staff stood rigidly with a thousand-yard stare that would give even the most grizzled veteran the chills. They stood waiting by ER equipment and empty beds with fear rising in their gut for the first casualty to arrive. Each of them was anticipating horrifically wounded men and women that they would attempt to save amidst a commotion of screaming, crying, and begging. Undoubtedly, someone would rise from the dead and the marine security force would spring into action – maybe just in time, or maybe a little too late – and a doctor or nurse would get bitten.
Henry made his way to the front desk and a short, red-haired woman in a Navy uniform greeted him. She recognized him from his numerous information requests and his assistance during times like this. Without a word, she handed him a small plastic bag of markers, pens, and lipstick, then took him by the arm and escorted him to a large area blocked off by white curtains.
“Triage,” she said, as she made eye contact that was meant to convey both her need that he perform his assigned duty and her apology that he had been assigned that duty. She then turned around sharply and headed directly back to the desk from which she originated. Dr. Damico lifted a curtain to enter the small square room.
He looked around. Security presence was strong in the triage area. While the main hospital had perhaps one armed marine for every ten medical staff, here stood merely a dozen marines… each conveying the same quiet intensity of the man who had checked Henry’s identification. Each one of them was armed with a shotgun, but for practical purposes—would be using a suppressed pistol to do the dirty work of ensuring the dead didn’t become the living dead.
The eerie stillness was broken only by muted explosions outside the ship’s hull and the murmurs of a civilian nurse who stood next to him. Henry looked over to the woman – or perhaps girl, would better describe the thin, blonde-haired figure that stood penetrating the wall with a wide-eyed stare. She was far too young to have completed any serious medical training, and would have likely been a first or second year student had her education not been interrupted by the undead.
She gripped the plastic bag of writing implements tightly in her hands and tears poured down her beet-red face. “X can’t be saved,” She shook her head subtly. “O is priority,” she nodded. “W can wait,” she nodded again. “B is bitten,” she shook her head again before reciting the triage prioritization system to herself over and over again.
A nearby army medic jumped at the sound of a blast outside. He closed his eyes enduring a silent anxiety, as a gentle shockwave sent vibrations through the entire carrier. Henry looked over to the man, who appeared to be around the same age as the young woman. He too stared at the wall…but in complete silence. His uniform indicated that he had been trained to deal with some extremely bloody things, but his nerves had gotten the better of him. He clutched a red marker in his shaking white knuckles.
Henry turned to the young girl. “I’m Doctor Damico,” he said placing his hand on her shoulder. “If you have any questions or need any help, you just ask me okay? What’s your name?”
“I won’t remember the letters! What if I give someone an X who should be an O? What if I give someone a W who should be a B?” Her voice was shaking and eyeliner ran down her face in a wet mess.
“You’ll do fine. You just ask me if you aren’t sure. What’s your name?” Dr. Damico asked again.
“Audrey,” she answered.
“I’m Doctor Damico,” he repeated, in case she hadn’t heard him. “You’ll do fine, okay?”
Audrey nodded.
Henry smiled, and then turned to the Army medic. “How are you doing, son?”
“I’m okay,” he said with staged confidence.
“What’s your name?”
“I’m…” the sound of another explosion outside vibrated the ship and the young man’s eyes fluttered “I’m Private Tobias, sir.”
“Have you done this before, Private?” Henry asked.
“No, well, yes sir… in a compromised DDC but not aboard a ship,” Tobias replied.
“Okay then, you have an idea of what to expect. If you need a hand or have any questions, you just ask me, okay?”
“Yes, sir,” Tobias nodded.
Henry felt the tension within the room diminish slightly. Even the military security seemed to walk easier knowing there was an experienced doctor in charge. In truth, as much as he had wanted to help fellow triage staff, he had acted more for his own sake. He always felt better and performed better when he knew someone was relying on him. Certainly, the wounded would rely on him to do his best to save their life, but it wasn’t the same. Henry wasn’t so much a natural leader as he was a natural authority – he always projected a confidence in his decisions, even when he didn’t feel that confidence himself. His heart slowed at the thought that—whatever the next few hours brought—the men and women in this room would be looking to him to inform their decisions.
He fished into his pocket, pulled out his cellular phone, and flipped it open. The cellular networks had been down for months, and even if they had been up, the aircraft carrier itself was impervious even to the most sophisticated electronic signals. Still, he thumbed through his contacts to the name of his wife – and punched the letters into his clumsy text message.
“I love you Kelly,” he typed before hitting send. The message wouldn’t send, but he had to go through the motions anyway. He hadn’t seen or heard from his wife in far too long, and the vague hope that maybe she’d get his text was enough to give him a small measure of comfort.
The chaotic shouting and hurried noise of the first arriving casualties echoed through the hall outside. Rescue helicopters were beginning to land, deploy their bloody cargo, and then take to the air again in a cycle that would last through the rest of the battle and well afterward. Henry could feel his adrenaline rise in terrified anticipation and he turned to look at Audrey and Private Tobias.
“We’ll do fine. I’ve got your back,” he reassured them. “Ready?”
The two nodded back.
Convoy 19 is available from Amazon here.
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