We sat in relative comfort for eleven hours until I heard the helicopter. It came from a little off our port bow. They had called us a half hour before requesting our coordinates. We could still see the storm, but it was way off to the south. The bird flew in and we told them to get the crew on the container first. Bob had cut the engines when they called us, so they were able to pretty much land on the tops of the containers and they didn’t need to drop a line. Good thing too as the post storm static in the air and from the rotors could kill somebody that touched a line.
My friends were on board the chopper and it was our turn. It was when Bob told me he wasn’t coming that I wigged out.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Well, I’ve set the course correction software, and everything should be ok, but what if something happens?”
I pointed toward the Runner banging with a renewed fury on the porthole of the port hatch. “Are you fucking certifiable? This is our chance to get off this death tub. Set it and forget it. Let’s book!”
“No. No I need to stay. I’ll get this bitch past all the rigs, set it on a heading that will beach her someplace in Mexico, then call for a pickup.”
There was no talking him out of it. I heard footsteps on the roof of the bridge and knew my guys had arrived. I heard a shot, and that freaked me out a little until they knocked on a roof hatch, and I let Alvarez in.
He was all smiles. “Time to go kids.” Then he looked at Babe’s covered corpse.
“You lookin’ at my smoking hot chest?” I asked flexing my pecs.
“Meh, not bad, but check this out.” He flexed his right bicep.
“Gay,” we both said at the same time as we burst out laughing and hugged in the most manly of ways.
I looked at our dead friend. “Sorry Babe.”
“He would have loved your fucking witty banter,” Alvarez said sadly.
In the end, he couldn’t convince Bob to come with us either. I left through the hatch in the roof and my guys were all smiles. Babe had been the last to die. Captain Pedersen was up on the roof, tied to a spinning radar mast, twice killed. He did make it out, just not alive. I hope his family made it.
I boarded the helicopter with Alvarez right behind me and we left that fucking death ship behind.
An hour and twenty minutes later, Atlantis was in sight. My home looked no more the worse for wear because of the storm, but there was something new. A big black helicopter, definitely military, was on the eastern helipad. A second bird, also military, came out of nowhere and told us to land as quickly as possible. This one was a gunship. Was the military going to take our home and turn it into another research facility complete with dozens of undead like the Majestik Maersk?
We landed on the larger, western helipad and disembarked from the bird. There were armed soldiers there, but they were all smiles and handshakes and their weapons were slung. We walked down the steps to the main deck, toward the galley. I wanted a fucking sandwich.
There were new crates of shrink wrapped food and water and pallets of more shit being moved with a forklift. All the soldiers smiled and waved. We got to the galley and when we entered, Austin and a bunch of the Atlantis brass was on their knees, hands behind their heads with weapons on them. Kat was there too, which I thought was weird.
The smiles on the soldiers vanished and their weapons were on us. We were disarmed, and told to get on our knees as well, where they zip tied our hands behind our backs.
Two minutes later, a small contingent of military came strolling in. One looked like a general, all authoritative and shit. He stood there, hands clasped behind his back, obviously pissed. “Well hello!” It hadn’t been said by the general, but by somebody else. I knew the voice. I looked left and there he was.
Lynch.
Dude was like herpes: Nasty and pops up when you least expect it.
He strolled over to us and looked at Ship, then at the general. “Ya know, I shot this guy once,” he said, thumbing at my buddy, “like our zombie antagonists, he didn’t stay down. But everybody knows that’s not why we’re here.” He stood in front of me and pointed at me, but looked at absolutely everyone else. “That’s why we’re here.”
“He’s a mechanic,” Austin said.
“Au contraire! He’s important. He’s an important mechanic, and he has to come with me. Now.”
“I’m sorry folks,” the general said, “but if what this man,” he pointed to Lynch, “says is true, then this man,” he pointed at me, “could very well be the most important man on the planet. Sergeant, stand him up please.”
One of the buzz-cut douche bags helped me stand and the general told him to raise up my pant leg.
Lynch pointed to my leg bite scar, “Ta-daaaa!” He put his hands up like a ref signaling a touchdown. “Pick six bitches!”
“Son, you’re going to have to come with us.”
My friends who were not privy to my little secret were astounded. Austin just had to ask, “What the hell is that?”
“That, my friend, is a bite by one of the carriers of this plague. Death to absolutely everyone on earth that we know about except this man. Oh, and I bet he didn’t tell you that he’s a convict. He would have two years and change left on his sentence if he hadn’t escaped.”
I harrumphed. “Dick. I didn’t escape, I was let out. And any crime I committed is probably not nearly bad as what you did and still do on a daily basis. Douche.”
Lynch shook his head and punched me in the stomach. Ship, Alvarez, Kat, Greg, and Zero all tried to stand up, but the soldiers were less than kind to them.
Lynch had hit me hard, and I was unprepared for it so I was heaving. Prick was in good shape and knew how to hit.
“Pussy,” he said.
“Fuh…fuck y…”
“Fucky? What the hell is fucky? Doesn’t matter. Colonel, should we get this show on the road?”
Yeah, so he was a colonel, not a general. How the hell was I supposed to know?
“Enough. Don’t strike him again.” He looked around the room. “Anyone trying to interfere will be shot.” And with that he just up and walked out with his little security detail.
“C’mon bud,” the sergeant said and moved me toward the door. I wanted to hold my aching belly but my hands were tied behind me.
Ship started to stand and one of the soldiers butted him in the noggin with his rifle. Ship shook it off like the Hulk and stood. Every barrel of every gun in the room was instantly on him.
“Ship, don’t. I’ll be fine. I’ll be back soon and these assholes will pay for it.” The sergeant raised his eyebrows. “The ride, dumbass.”
He smirked. “Let’s go.”
“Do let’s,” Lynch agreed. He had his pistol pointed at Ship. “Just one more thing.” He raised the weapon, a little higher.
The sergeant put his hand on Lynch’s arm roughly and Lynch looked at him sideways. “Not why we’re here.”
“I need to shoot this asshole to see if the bullet will bounce off.”
“Do that and you’re dead one second later. We got what we came for. The colonel doesn’t need you anymore, and if you hurt anyone else I’ll fucking shoot you. If I don’t, somebody else will.”
Although the guy had a weapon on me, and had me zip tied, I liked him instantly if for no other reason than he pissed all over Lynch.
“We’ll re-visit this conversation, Sarge ole sock.” He holstered his weapon.
“Do let’s,” the sergeant mocked.
Fifteen minutes later, I was watching my friends assemble on the deck of Atlantis as I was shuttled to who-knows-where in a black helicopter. At least they hadn’t killed anybody. Ship had his tree-trunk arms folded and Alvarez had his arm around Kat trying to console her. Before the bird banked and I lost sight of them, I noticed that Kat had a defiant middle finger extended toward the chopper.
Read on for a free sample of Convoy 19 a zombie thriller.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my family; Do
nna, my wife, Danielle, my oldest, and my twins, Richy and Chloe, without whom this story would never have been written. I took their daily antics, zombified them, and stuck them in here for you to read.
Thanks Mom and Pops. Mom for her cookies, Dad for his ammo.
Thanks J.R, FF, and Sara. Zombie Fiends for sure.
Thank you, Dawn. You made this better.
Thanks to George. If there were no George, it is likely there would be no flesh eating zombies at all.
Thanks to all the folks who insisted get this book published. Honestly, I wrote it for fun, but their constant pleadings and threats finally got on my nerves so much I sent it off to see if my publisher would like it. Most of these crazy people can be found on zombiefiend.com or homepageofthedead.com.
Also, a big round of applause for you. Yeah, you, reading this right now. I hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Without you this whole thing is pointless. Thanks a million.
Chapter 1
“Almost home,” Sergeant First Class Carl Harvey whispered under his breath, as he accelerated his military Humvee through the dark, rubble-strewn city streets. The windshield wipers, moving at full speed, barely cut through the torrential downpour that was so uncharacteristic of San Diego weather. Carl leaned forward in the driver seat struggling to lead his convoy of military vehicles home. The interior of the hummer was a noisy cacophony of confusion. Terrified sobs and screams from the civilians who sat in the back of his vehicle, mingled with the constant squawking of communications across the combat network. The .50 caliber machine gun mounted above him drowned the havoc in sporadic thunder and death.
A swarm of living dead was close behind. Carl had often wondered at the horrifying phenomenon that drove undead to gather in groups. Individually, they were dangerous, but easily dealt with. In groups, however, they could work themselves into frenzy. Hundreds, even thousands of rotting cadavers sprinted after the convoy like a ravenous marathon.
Agitated for long enough, a boiling swarm of zombies might pursue prey for miles until they were distracted. Carl knew that if he were to stop driving, the howls of the hungry dead would raise to a crescendo as they engulfed the convoy. He blinked away the mental image and pressed on the accelerator.
Harvey’s responsibilities as point driver – the lead vehicle of the convoy – were measured in split seconds – instantaneous judgment calls that led the convoy through the mayhem of a city consumed by the undead. A wrong turn, break down, even a flat tire, would cost lives. Having grown up in northern Michigan, he had learned to drive in an unforgiving crucible of weather that was encouraged and supported by a culture and family that loved everything about cars. Now, as the country struggled to survive a living nightmare of death risen to devour the living, he couldn’t help but remember the blizzards he had experienced in his youth. A relentless, high-intensity storm, where no one respected the law, cars being abandoned and debris littered every inch of the road. On top of all that, an armed hostile civilian or flesh-eating monster could, and often did, jump out at you at any second.
Carl Harvey was in his late-twenties, but the stress of the last year had aged him. His dirty-blond hair was cut military short and was beginning to show flecks of gray. His jaw was always covered in stubble. He walked and talked as if he was half soldier, half truck driver, and extended a cool aura of confidence that made him a natural leader. He was the kind of man that made other soldiers believe that, whatever shit the world threw at them, Sergeant First Class Harvey knew what he was doing, and he would get you through it. Aided by the obscenely high attrition rates among the convoy teams, he vaulted quickly through the ranks.
“Approaching Interstate 8, five miles east of US Naval Station. We’ll be home in no time boys.” Specialist Pamela Grace sat in the passenger seat speaking into her headset-mounted microphone. A laptop computer sat on a dashboard-mounted tray in front of her. Her words seemed to calm the civilians somewhat. As point vehicle communications expert, she was connected to an extensive network of communications, satellite feeds, and minute-by-minute reporting. This gave her a picture of how to get the convoy where they needed to go, without leading it straight into a roadblock, hostile civilians, or a swarm of flesh-eating dead who would stop at nothing to consume the living.
With a gentle spin of the wheel, Carl expertly turned his Humvee up an onramp onto a yellow-lit highway that would lead them to their destination. The machine gun fire gradually dropped from a sporadic thunder to a periodic rattle.
“What’s that?” Pam covered her microphone and sat up abruptly.
“What? SHIT!” Carl quickly pushed down on the accelerator before he slammed into a dozen figures huddled on the highway. Gore and body parts launched in every direction, smearing the windshield with thick gouts of blood. The civilians in the back screamed in horror.
Convoy drivers had been trained to neither slow down nor swerve, but rather to accelerate when something – living or dead – crossed the path of their moving armored vehicle. Swerve and you risk losing control or crashing; a very bad thing in the best of circumstances, a death sentence in most. Slow down unexpectedly, and you risk being rear-ended by the Humvee on your tail, ending up with a carcass on your hood, or giving an armed attacker with nothing left to lose that extra second he needs to put you in his crosshairs. It was best to use the Humvee’s kinetic energy to plow through anything that didn’t have the wherewithal to stay out of the convoy’s way.
The force of the impact jolted the rain-soaked gunner out of his mount. Sergeant Miguel Ramos dropped down into the cab from his position and cursed. “What the hell?”
“More dead. Civilians know not to cross into the street by now,” Pam assured them both. As the situation across the country worsened, one of San Diego’s main arteries, Interstate 8, had been blocked off for strictly military purposes. The road served as a valuable pipeline connecting the various pockets of survivors scattered around the city to the US Naval Base. The U.S.S. Ronald Reagan, Nimitz-class supercarrier, and its accompanying battle group floated offshore collecting supplies and refugees. For over two months, the battle group had been filled with survivors from every reachable corner of California. The convoys were an essential component of a much bigger picture, whose focus was to survive an Armageddon no one had anticipated or planned for – the rise of the living dead.
“There comes a point when the threat from the walking dead is greater than the threat from us,” Miguel grumbled curtly. He made the sign of the cross over his chest, pulled his stocky body back into the gun mount, and resumed scanning for targets. As the lead gunner, he was responsible for defending the convoy from constant onslaught – a job that seldom lent itself to looking at the bright side of things. No one knew how many unlucky innocent civilians found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time when a convoy passed by. The saying “from behind a .50 cal everyone looks the same”, was common among gunners who would return to the Naval Base with the gnawing guilt in the back of their mind about something they had seen on a mission. Was that shadow an animated corpse or some teenager running for his life? Was that an attacker or someone trying to flag the convoy down for help? There were millions of questions like this that were probably best left unanswered.
The six-vehicle convoy had been making trips to and from the Naval base all day and well into the night, each time loaded up with civilians and supplies from Defensible Detention Centers. DDC’s - as they were called - had originally been set up as medical screening clinics all over the country when the outbreak first hit. As the outbreak grew, the clinics became more like detention facilities where those that had been screened were urged to remain to avoid infection. When the centers began to overflow with desperate people, the military had stepped in to provide security and supplies. Now that the entire country - indeed the world - was beset by the incomprehensible epidemic of cannibalistic undead, the decision had been made to evacuate the North American continent. Every convoy trip into the hell-torn st
reets of San Diego had cost lives, but had also saved countless more with the food, medical personnel, and supplies they brought to the fleet.
“Control, this is convoy nineteen. Entry code: Alpha, Alpha, Tango, Alpha. We’ve got supplies and about thirty civvies that need offloaded, ASAP.” Grace’s voice always sounded monotone when she spoke through the communications network to the command center. The sandbag fortifications, gun towers, and bright yellow lights of the naval docks slowly loomed into view through the blurry windshield, and the sounds of the Naval Base defenses echoed off the buildings.
“Negative, convoy. Entry code rejected. Do not pass checkpoint or you will be fired upon.” The casual voice of an officer in some comfortable office somewhere came back through the Humvee speakers. The civilians in back shuddered in terror at the thought of their struggle for survival within the DDC’s, meeting a violent end mere walking distance from salvation.
Sergeant First Class r Harvey slammed on the brakes and the screeching tires of every vehicle behind him could be heard above the rattle of gunfire. His heart thumped into his chest. He knew his drivers were good, but rain-slicked streets made stopping on short notice a roll of the dice. Two Blackhawk helicopters hovered into position to block their entry to the docks. The menacing war machines looked like birds of prey, hungry to strike a defenseless target. A glance in the side mirror confirmed that the ravenous silhouettes of their pursuers had not given up the chase. Time was a valuable commodity.
“Repeat, Control, entry code for convoy niner one. Alpha, alpha, tango, alpha!” Pam spoke clearly back through her headset.
It was moments like this that he was reminded how lucky he was to have Pam as his communications expert. Had it been him speaking to Control, he would have screamed obscenities in impotent frustration, until the entire convoy was buried beneath a mountain of zombies. Despite the gravity of the situation, Pam always maintained a calm demeanor.
Chaos Theory: A Zombie Novel Page 21