“Apache One Two, the route is good to go. Over.”
Thank you, God. “Roger, good copy. Maintain current position. We will move to you. Over.”
“Wilco, One Two. Out.”
“So we’re going another way?” Guerra’s Humvee driver asked.
“Don’t sweat it, kid. You’re gonna love it,” Guerra said.
He stepped out of the Humvee and jogged up to the MRAP at the head of the convoy. He showed the map to the rig’s driver and explained the new route. Guerra then gave the order to turn the convoy around. Slowly, the soldiers got the entire column turned around and headed down East Canal Street. They turned left on Hanover Street, which would take them to the new bridge. At the intersection, they linked up with Stilley’s and Tharinger’s vehicles, which were pulling security near the other avenues of approach. Both men worked their vehicles back into their previous positions in the convoy with practiced ease, a skill they had gained while overseas.
The convoy moved down Hanover Street, rolling toward to the bridge. It was blocked at the far end by a traffic accident, but Guerra judged the obstruction wasn’t as bad as on the other bridge to the north. There were reekers on the other side but significantly fewer than at the larger bridge.
The five-tons pulled ahead and started pushing the wrecked vehicles aside. The reekers began shuffling toward the commotion. They came in small enough numbers that soldiers were able to pick them off easily. The only problem was that the five-tons were pushing the cars into other stranded vehicles, and moving past the blockage became more difficult as the cars started hanging up on each other.
One five-ton shoved several vehicles at once toward the center of the roadway. As Guerra was wondering just what the hell the driver was doing, the truck drove onto the shoulder… then disappeared off the side of the bridge.
“Whoa! Did we just lose a truck?” his driver asked.
“Get us up there,” Guerra said. “Let’s check it out. Hurry!”
The driver stepped on the gas and steered the Humvee to where the M939 had disappeared. Guerra let loose a sigh of relief when he saw the truck hadn’t been lost, after all. It was bumping its way up the other side of the ravine, the soldiers in the bed hanging on for dear life. The driver had found another way over the creek, allowing the convoy to bypass the blockage and come up on the other side of the road where the guardrail began. There was no need to waste more time trying to clear the wrecks at the end of the bridge.
“Lead five-ton, this is Apache One Two,” Guerra said into his radio handset. “Thanks for finding an alternate route, but next time, let me know what you’re up to. I thought we’d lost you. Over.”
“Roger that, One Two. Sorry for the worry. Over.”
Guerra acknowledged the response then told the convoy to put their vehicles into four-wheel drive and follow his lead. The newly discovered route would be impossible for an average vehicle to negotiate, but it wouldn’t be an issue for the military vehicles.
Guerra’s driver stopped the Humvee, put it into neutral, then shifted the transfer case to four-wheel drive. He eased the Humvee down into the ravine then drove the up the far side of the embankment and onto the flat ground of the shoulder. Reekers surged toward the vehicles, and the turret gunner in Guerra’s vehicle opened up with a short burst, cutting most of them down with the .50 before they could even get close.
But one made it all the way up to the driver’s side of the M939 and was clawing at the vehicle. The driver’s door flew open, and the corner caught the reeker in the head, sending it sprawling to the ground. As it slowly tried to get back up, the driver slammed the door, turned the wheels of the five-ton in the zombie’s direction, and rolled forward until the rear tires of the truck squashed the reeker like a bug. The soldiers in the truck’s bed cheered.
“Holy crap, did you see that, Sergeant? That was hooah as fuck,” Guerra’s driver said.
“Yeah, that was pretty hardcore, if I say so myself. Remind me to buy that guy a beer.”
More vehicles came up behind the Humvee, and they crept forward to give the rest of the convoy enough room to move up the hill. Meanwhile, the turret gunners and soldiers in the beds resumed picking off the reekers in the field of wrecked automobiles near the bridge, taking them down as the corpses made their way toward the convoy. Guerra didn’t like all the noise, but it was unavoidable. Once the last vehicle made it to the other side, Guerra gave the order to move out. The intersection of Hanover and US 39 was just a few hundred meters away, and the shoulder proved to be the fastest way to travel.
As the lead vehicle turned right onto US 39, Guerra spotted the Hershey Park Drive sign on the corner. Just across the intersection was the south end of Giant Center, which had been converted into a FEMA camp. The parking lots were covered by a field of tents and trailers. At one point, there had probably been several thousand people there. When the infection started to spread, it had found a rich, fertile seed bed from which to erupt.
As if to prove his thoughts were correct, a sizable group of reekers appeared across the way. Several runners broke away from the horde, sprinting toward the convoy. Several of the dead were shriekers, kids who had died from the initial infection or from reeker bites. Even though their tormented howls were made faint by distance and the shell of the truck cab, Guerra still shuddered a bit when he heard the plaintive cries.
“Keep moving, people,” he said over the radio. “Go as fast as you can, and don’t stop or engage the reekers unless you have to. We can’t afford to attract any more attention to ourselves. Over.”
Several “rogers” came back as the convoy snaked around the corner and moved south down Hershey Park Drive. The path was littered with abandoned cars to the point that the roadway was virtually impassable. The surrounding area was mostly open fields, so the convoy went back into four-wheel drive and moved off the road. The going was slow but steady, and they were able to achieve Phase Line BLUE at the intersection of US 39 and US 322/Paxton with relative ease, much to Guerra’s relief.
“War Eagle Six, this is Apache One Two. Over.”
“Apache One Two, this is War Eagle. Over.”
“War Eagle, we are BLUE. I say again, we are BLUE. How copy? Over.”
“Apache One Two, I copy BLUE. Over.”
“Apache One Two, out.”
*
The Lakota element had already departed the airfield by the time the convoy had radioed in Phase Line BLUE. The Chinooks climbing out to their initial cruise altitude of five hundred feet when he got the call.
“Lakota One One, this is War Eagle. Over.”
“War Eagle, this is Lakota One One. Send. Over.”
“Lakota One One, Apache One Two is BLUE at this time. Over.”
“Roger, good copy, War Eagle. Lakota One One is kickoff at this time. How copy? Over.”
“I copy kickoff at this time, Lakota One One. Over.”
“Roger. Lakota One One, out.”
With the pilots accelerating to one hundred fifty miles per hour, the flight was going to be fast and short. They would catch up to the ground convoy then fly on to the objective. The idea was to have the convoy arriving a few minutes prior to Lakota’s arrival. Guerra would radio Hastings to let him know that Apache had set up the outer perimeter security before the birds landed in the rail yard. Hastings leaned over and shouted to the crew chief, asking how long until time on target. The crew chief spoke briefly to the pilot over the intercom then held up both hands, fingers spread—ten minutes.
“Apache One Two, this is Lakota One One. Over.”
There was no reply. Hastings tried again, and once more, received no response. He checked to make sure he was on the right frequency and that he was still plugged in to the radio. Verifying he was set, he gave it another try. “Apache One Two, this is Lakota One One. Over.”
Guerra came back. “Lakota One One, this is Apache One Two. Over.”
“Apache One Two, we are ten mikes out. How copy? Over.”
&nb
sp; “Roger, I copy ten mikes out. We are not on the objective yet. Estimate five mikes to arrival. Over.”
Hastings gritted his teeth. That was not what he wanted to hear. He’d hoped that Guerra would already be in the process of setting up. “Roger, Apache One Two. Give me a call when you’re set. Over.”
“Lakota One One, Apache One Two. Wilco. Out.”
If Guerra needed another five minutes, then Hastings figured they would be just getting set when the Chinooks arrived. But that would be a perfect world circumstance, and there was nothing perfect about operations during the zombie apocalypse. It was cutting it a little too close, Hastings thought. He leaned over and got the crew chief’s attention then told him to slow their approach so the ground convoy would have time to get in place. The crew chief relayed that to the pilot then gave Hastings with a thumbs-up. Hastings returned the gesture and leaned back in his web seat. There was nothing else to do but enjoy the flight and wait for Guerra to do his job.
*
Guerra’s convoy continued to make good time using the shoulder of the road and, in some places, going cross-country for short distances. Once the convoy got close to the objective, smaller groups split off at predetermined points. Tharinger’s section would exit off of US 322 at Grayson Road, where they were to continue down the street to secure specific intersections and points. Stilley’s contingent would continue a bit farther to secure the southern end of Grayson Road at the intersection with Paxton Street. The rest of the convoy took the exit dubbed “Sam’s Exit” due to the presence of a Sam’s Club that overshadowed the ramp. Guerra stared up at the side of the building, featureless beneath its tan paint and lacking windows. The large consumer goods store shared the same parking lot with a Wal-Mart. The road actually terminated farther down onto Grayson, right in front of the rail yard. They couldn’t cover all of the streets, but they could guard the likely avenues of approach. Some of the vehicles in Guerra’s group would be responsible for driving up and down portions of Grayson Road to clean up any reekers that might come out of the surrounding buildings or slip through once the helicopters landed and the trains started making noise.
When they reached the Grayson Road exit, small groups of reekers that had previously been aimlessly walking around on the side streets took notice. Guerra watched the shambling figures slide past as his Humvee sped past. Finally bearing down on the objective, he felt his guts begin to tighten. He had to remind himself that even though he’d already lost one man, the convoy hadn’t run into anything they couldn’t overcome. All they needed to do was stick to the plan, remember their training, and not lose their shit at a bad moment.
Speaking of guys losing their shit… “Apaches One Three Alpha and Bravo, give me an up when your teams are in place. Over,” he said over the radio. He hoped the call would give Stilley and Tharinger a quick pulse and let them know that, even though he wasn’t with them, he was still watching them.
“Roger that, Apache One Two,” Stilley replied immediately.
Tharinger took a few seconds to respond with a quick “Roger.”
“Apache One Three Bravo, put down the Nintendo and get back to work. Over,” Guerra said.
“Roger, Apache One Two.”
A few seconds later, Guerra watched in his side mirror as Tharinger’s element dropped back and took the Grayson Road exit. The guy was on his own, and Guerra hoped the most exciting thing he had to look forward to was the batteries failing on his handheld game.
A mile down, Guerra’s team pulled off of the highway, driving on the ramp’s shoulder. The ramp turned 90 degrees hard right and ended in the parking lots for Wal-Mart and Sam’s Club. As expected, multiple traffic wrecks and abandoned cars and trucks littered the area, along with several decaying bodies. It looked as though there had been a mad rush by looters to stock up on whatever they could get their hands on. Some vehicles sat with their trunks still open and full of items. More goods lay scattered around on the ground—food, water, clothing, even the occasional big screen TV, which would always come in handy at the end of the world. The parking lot had also become a buffet for the reekers.
Guerra’s driver turned left and headed to the intersection with the Sixty-Third Street bridge, which crossed over part of the rail yard. Some abandoned cars were on the bridge but nothing that couldn’t be ignored or pushed out of the way. Guerra heard distant gunshots in the north, where Tharinger was setting up. Obviously, they’d run into something while getting squared away.
Guerra was about to pick up the radio handset and get a report, but shots suddenly rang out nearby. He leaned forward in his seat, pulling his M4 closer. The vehicles in his group were already working on dealing with the reekers they couldn’t avoid. While the gunfire was necessary to preserve the immediate safety of the troops, over the longer term, the noise could develop into a liability, luring dozens, hundreds, or possibly even thousands of reekers to their location. That was one of the reasons why he was positioned at the bridge. It was a high-speed avenue of approach that the reekers could potentially use and right above the rail yard where the main effort would be arriving shortly.
No sooner had the gunfire ended at his location than it erupted to the south. Stilley’s team had made contact and was engaging reekers as well. They probably heard his big mouth.
Tharinger’s voice came over the radio. “Apache One Two, this is Apache One Three Bravo. Over.”
“Apache One Three Bravo, this is One Two. Send it. Over.”
“Apache One Two, we’re up on this end. Over.”
“Roger, One Three Bravo. Good to hear. Out.”
The gunfire from the south increased in intensity. It sounded as though a full-on battle was going on. The radio crackled to life, and Guerra could hear machine-gun fire in the background, though it wasn’t loud enough to drown out Stilley’s Foghorn Leghorn voice. But Guerra was sure a Boeing 747 at full takeoff power was quieter than Stilley.
“Apache One Two, this is Apache One Three Alpha. Over.”
“Apache One Three Alpha, this is One Two. Send it. Over.”
“One Three Alpha element is up at this time. How copy? Over.”
“Good copy, One Three Alpha. Keep me advised if you need help down there. You sound busy. Over.”
“Wilco. Out.”
Guerra pushed opened the Humvee’s door and stepped outside, holding his M4 at low ready. Gunfire was pretty constant all around him. It had started off sporadic but was picking up in intensity. He looked up at the soldier manning the .50-caliber machine gun in the Humvee’s cupola. The young man didn’t look down at Guerra, just stayed eyes out.
Guerra eased back inside the vehicle and picked up the radio handset. “Lakota One One, this is Apache One Two. Over.”
Hastings came back almost immediately. “Apache One Two, this is Lakota One One. Over.”
“Lakota One One, Apache teams are in position. Surrounding area is hot, but the objective appears to be free of hostiles. Bring the birds in. Over.”
“Roger, Apache One Two. We’re inbound now. Thirty seconds out. Over.”
Before Hastings could finish his transmission, Guerra heard the Chinooks on their approach. He looked north and saw the birds were barely above treetop level. Holy shit, those pilots aren’t fucking around. Dear God, please don’t let them hit anything. I hope they can see all the wires and shit around this fucking place.
The Chinooks banked sharply and turned in opposite directions. One headed to Guerra’s left, toward the southern end of the yard, while the other went right, rotoring on to the northern end. Guerra watched from atop the bridge as they slowed and transitioned into hovers directly above the train engines. After pausing to line up, the helicopters descended then lowered their ramps until the edges protruded just below the airframe. The pilots dropped the tails toward their target train engines until they almost touched the locomotives. They held their hovers steady, and except for the flashing rotors, they looked as motionless as prehistoric flies caught in amber. Men poured
out of each helicopter, right onto the tops of the trains. They climbed down to the walkways on each engine. Guerra was impressed. When Hastings had briefed them on the OPORD, there had been no mention of that kind of delivery. Guerra had figured the birds would just land, and the guys would run off. But what they were doing was a far better option and cool as hell to see.
Once the soldiers had disembarked, the Chinooks slowly gained altitude before pitching slightly nose-down. The CH-47s accelerated away much faster than Guerra had expected. He wouldn’t have been surprised if they were going two hundred miles per hour.
The soldiers tasked with security for the train crews moved to their positions, providing three-hundred-sixty-degree eyes all around their charges. No reekers were in the rail yard at the moment, at least none that Guerra had seen. It probably helped that the train yard was fenced with a healthy tree line along the northern side of the tracks.
Guerra saw a few zombies starting to walk his way from the other side of the bridge. The gunfire up and down Grayson Road was still going strong, which was giving Guerra some serious heebie-jeebies. It’s like they’re coming out of the woodwork or something. And why didn’t we see them on the Shadow feed earlier? Reekers didn’t hide, at least not intentionally, so he had no idea how they could have missed seeing them.
The sound of machine-gun fire exploded over the radio. “Apache One Two, we got a shit-ton of reekers coming out of the Sam’s Club and Wal-Mart! Over!”
Guerra didn’t recognize the voice. “Last calling station, this is Apache One Two. What do you mean? Over.”
“Apache One Two, I mean it’s like someone locked a fuck load of reekers inside the stores, and when the birds came in, they went ape shit. They’re pouring out of the buildings like ants. Oh fuck! On the left! Left! Watch your left side, damn it! Listen, One Two, they’ll be headed your way shortly. Get your people back in the vehicles!”
The sounds of nonstop gunfire and moans of the dead filled the radio waves. Everyone who was listening in would be able to hear it.
These Dead Lands: Immolation Page 28