“We’re fucking surrounded!” After that, the chatter of a .50 cal drowned out the rest of the transmission before the airwaves went silent.
The shit show had officially started, and they all had front row seats.
“Yo, ice those deadheads walking up on us!” Guerra shouted.
The turret gunner opened up on the small group of reekers making their way across the bridge. The first burst didn’t take them all down, but the second left the remaining ones horizontal. Guerra could see them writhing about on the asphalt, still trying to slither toward his men by using whatever appendages they had left.
“Keep an eye on our six,” Guerra yelled. “There may be a lot of them coming our way!”
*
Hastings watched the ramp of the Chinook come down as the bird descended and hovered above the train engine. The crew chief gave a thumbs-up, and Hastings gestured for his men to move out the back and onto the top of the train. The pilot was holding the hovering helicopter so low that the step down was minor.
Man, these guys are good. I thought they were talking shit when they said they would land us right on top of the trains. Hastings followed the last man off the aircraft. The rotor wash was terrible. He felt as if he were walking into a raging hurricane, and he chose his footing carefully. Once on the train, he turned back to give the crew chief a thumbs-up. The crew chief returned the gesture with a huge smile.
As the helicopter lifted off, Hastings and his men dropped into crouching positions. Hastings had seen men get blown right off their feet while tending to sling loads under CH-47s, so he knew the climb out would be tough. Once the Chinook had departed, Hastings looked up and saw Guerra’s vehicle stationed up on the Sixty-Third Street bridge. The gunner manning the .50 in the Humvee’s cupola was firing continuously at targets Hastings couldn’t see, but he knew what they were. Hastings became aware that he could hear a lot of gunfire from the surrounding area. It sounded like many of the major offensive actions he had been in overseas.
No. It sounds just like Manhattan. He knew his guys were fighting for their lives. Yet just a few hundred meters away, he and his group didn’t see a single reeker anywhere. Fuck it, I’m not complaining. I’ll take it like this all day long.
Hastings keyed his mike. “Bravo Team, Lakota One One. Let me know when you’re up. Over.”
“Roger, we’re inside the engine,” the Bravo Team lead responded. “The engineer is going through the start-up process now. Over.”
“Good copy. Out.” Hastings got to his feet and looked over the side of the engine.
All the members of his team had climbed down to the walkway. Some were attempting to get inside, while others had assumed security positions around the locomotive. So far, so good. Hastings clambered down the engine’s side and stepped onto the walkway. By the time he joined them, the men had managed to get the narrow door leading into the engine open. He turned sideways so he could step inside.
Just as he put a foot through the doorway, a massive explosion roared through the air.
*
Guerra felt as well as heard the explosion, and both he and his driver ducked down, even though they were inside an uparmored Humvee. The turret gunner dropped into the back and crouched behind the seats. To Guerra, the explosion had sounded a lot like an improvised explosive device going off. He’d only distantly encountered two while pulling duty in Iraq, but he hadn’t forgotten the noise they made.
Startled, he looked to the south as a huge fireball climbed into the sky. Pieces of fiery debris rocketed upward, passing the fireball’s expanding vortex ring. The debris flew high into the sky then arced back toward earth, trailing smoke.
“Fuck me! What the hell was that?” Guerra shouted.
The men in the Humvee all looked at each other for a split second. Then the turret gunner stood up in the cupola again and went back to laying down a steady stream of hate and discontent from the .50 cal into what had turned into a wall of reekers trying to make their way across the bridge. The wreckage and the fact that the bridge was narrow were to their benefit; otherwise, reekers would have had a much easier time waltzing up to the gun truck.
Guerra keyed his microphone. “Stilley, what’s happening down there? Over!” He looked out the Humvee’s side window.
As the mushroom cloud continued rising—it was beginning to break up, drifting off in an easterly direction—he saw a wall of flames lapping at the sky and casting black angry-looking smoke across the horizon. Whatever had happened, it hadn’t made things any easier downrange. The gunfire wasn’t stopping.
After waiting a few seconds for a response, Guerra keyed his radio again. “Apache One Three Alpha, report. Over.”
“I’m a bit busy, Sergeant G. What’s up? Over.” Stilley’s loud voice was bracketed by a hellacious fusillade of gunfire.
A fucking nuclear bomb goes off in his area, and Stilley asks me what’s up? Guerra had to hand it to Stilley. The soldier was a fuck-up most of the time, and Guerra had even wondered occasionally if the man was mildly retarded, but when shit got serious, Stilley was as solid as they came.
“One Three Alpha, you might’ve noticed the big boom in your area. Did you have anything to do with that? Over.”
There was a long pause, and then the sound of heavy gunfire came over the radio once again. “Well, fuck me, no one told me there were POL storage tanks down here,” Stilley said. “I guess we shot one… or maybe two. Over.”
Guerra wished there was a way he could reach through the radio, because if he could, he’d be squeezing Stilley’s neck so hard he’d be talking in a coarse whisper for the rest of his life. “Is everyone all right over there? Over.”
After another long pause, Stilley came back with “I don’t think any of us are all right at the moment, One Two, but none of us are dead yet, if that’s what you mean. Over.”
And this is why I’m fairly certain he’s retarded. “Apache One Three Bravo, send SITREP. Over.”
Gunfire erupted over the airwaves as a microphone was keyed for a moment before it cut off. A couple of seconds later, the gunfire came back again, accompanied by Tharinger’s voice. “We got a shitload of reekers down here, Sarge, and they ain’t slowing down. Over.”
“You up on people? Over.”
“Yeah, far as I know, all is good. Over.”
“Roger. Let me know if anything changes on your end. Out.”
*
The crew chief leaned over and tapped Ballantine on the back. Ballantine looked back, and the crew chief held up ten fingers and mouthed, “Ten minutes.”
Ballantine gave him a thumbs-up and keyed his radio. “Papa Zero Three, this is Blackfoot One Seven. Over.”
The Special Forces guy, Slater, responded after the second call. “Blackfoot One Seven, this is Papa Zero Three. Send it. Over.”
“Papa Zero Three, we’re ten mikes out. How copy? Over.”
“Good copy, Blackfoot. The welcoming party is ready and waiting for you. See you soon. Over.”
“Roger. Out.”
Ballantine wasn’t sure what to expect when he got on the ground, and he’d said as much to Hastings during planning. They had only briefly met Slater, and not only did the man look dangerous, he’d acted as though he might not be all there. Ballantine wasn’t sure if they could trust him or not. He just hoped that things were as Slater had told them.
The aircraft banked hard and came around in a two-hundred-seventy-degree turn and began to descend. Ballantine looked out one of the small side windows and saw the other Chinook landing on the clearly marked helicopter pad outside of what looked like a typical military facility. Ballantine wondered where the hell his chopper would land if the other bird was bogarting the pad. He turned and looked out the back of the Chinook just as the crew chief finished lowering the ramp while babbling to the pilots over the intercom system.
Ballantine couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The pilot had lowered the rear of the Chinook right on top of the train engine, and the crew
chief was waving at them to get off. Having no other choice, Ballantine got to his feet and herded the troops out of the helicopter and onto the waiting train. The Chinook bobbed gently as the soldiers piled out, and Ballantine had a moment of queasiness. He’d never enjoyed flying, not even on big commercial jets. Buzzing around in helicopters was actually pretty low on his list of things he liked to do in life. At least it was only a two-foot step-off to the top of the train engine.
Once the soldiers outside had started making their way down, Ballantine swallowed and hopped out of the hovering Chinook. That’s one small step for mankind, one giant leap for me.
As soon as he was clear, the Chinook pulled off the target. Ballantine hunched over against the rotor wash, which died down quickly as the twin-rotored Chinook hauled ass out of there.
Once the aircraft climbed out, he keyed his radio. “Gunslinger, Blackfoot One Seven. I’d appreciate it if you’d orbit close by, just in case we need a quick pickup. Over.”
“Blackfoot One Seven, good copy. Give us a call when you’re ready. Over.”
“Roger. Out.”
Over where the other bird had set down, his men were moving to secure a perimeter around the immediate area. As soon as Ballantine was on the ramp that ran along the locomotive’s side, he let out a long sigh. Another flight, safely completed. He turned to find himself face to face with Master Sergeant Slater.
“Nice entrance there, Big Sarge,” Slater said. While Slater smelled better than the last time they’d met, the NCO still had that same look in his eyes that Ballantine found unsettling. “Good to see you again. It’s Ballantine, right?”
“Yeah. Didn’t you say you weren’t going to be seeing us again?”
Slater shrugged. “Hey, who knew.”
“How ya been, Sergeant?” Ballantine asked.
Slater shrugged again. “You know, saving the world again. Same shit, different day. Come on inside. I traded that Prius for this badass rig. Whatcha think?”
Ballantine regarded the towering locomotive engine for a moment before following Slater inside. The cab wasn’t tiny, but it was tighter than Ballantine had thought it would be, considering the size of the train. “Not bad,” he said. “Is everything already loaded, or do we have more to do?”
Slater looked at Ballantine with a blank expression before responding, “It’s all loaded, along with the people from the facility. We just need that driver. I take it that’s the guy over there pulling all those knobs and pushing buttons?” Slater jerked a thumb toward Lieutenant Munn, who was working to bring the train to life.
Slater was smiling, which put Ballantine a bit more at ease—though the Green Beret still looked like a crazy motherfucker to him.
“Yeah, that’s the guy,” Ballantine said.
“Good deal. Let me know when we’re ready to roll. I need to go take care of a few more things.”
Ballantine wondered what else the Slater had to take care of, but he didn’t care enough to inquire. “No problem. We should be ready to roll in about twenty mikes, according to my man.”
Slater shot him a thumbs-up and another winning smile then walked off.
Ballantine called over the radio to the team pulling security outside the train. “Give me a status. Over.”
The reply came back quickly. “We’re good, Blackfoot One Seven. Just a few reekers in the distance moving this way but nothing to start shooting at. Over.”
“Roger, remain in PZ posture. I’m going to call the birds in to pick up your team since everyone from the facility is on the train already. We should be rolling here shortly. Over.”
“Good copy, One Seven. You won’t get any complaints from me. Over.”
Slater returned and asked, “Everything tracking?”
Ballantine nodded. “Yeah, it’s all good. I’m going to call the birds back in to pick up my team, since your people are all inside and ready to go. We were expecting to be on the ground a lot longer. Thanks for having all of this squared away.”
“Don’t mention it. It’s the least I could do. Hey, do you have any chow on you? Some of the people have families with them, and they haven’t had much to eat lately. They could sure use it.”
“Let me ask my guys,” Ballantine said. “I’m sure we can scare up some pogie bait, if not a few MREs. These are Guard guys, after all.”
Slater and Ballantine chuckled together. Ballantine found he was starting to warm up to the man. He didn’t trust the SF guy just yet, but the guy moved up a notch in Ballantine’s book for asking about food for the families.
The train began making more and more noise, and Ballantine started to worry the racket would attract reekers. He keyed his radio. “Gunslinger, this is Blackfoot. Over.”
“Go ahead, Blackfoot. Over.”
“Need birds on the pad for exfil of my team in two-zero mikes. Over.”
“Good copy, Blackfoot. Birds will be down in twenty minutes. Over.”
“Roger. Team will be standing by for a fast load and takeoff. Blackfoot, out.”
Slater grinned at Ballantine. “You aren’t wasting any time, are you? Can’t say I blame you. We got hit pretty hard the other day, and we’re all ready to get out of here”—he slapped the side of the locomotive—“as soon as this pig is ready to roll.”
“Yeah, I’m ready to get this show on the road and get everyone back to the base.”
The train began to roll backward. Surprised by the sudden, if minute, motion, Ballantine turned to the engineer.
“Testing the brakes,” Munn said. “Got to make sure we can stop once we start going.”
Ballantine grunted. “Just keep doing what you’re doing, sir.” He looked back at Slater. “Well, looks like I need to get a move on. Let me see if I can round up that chow before we pop smoke. We’ll be in orbit until you get underway, then we have to link up with the main effort at the rail yard and escort the other trains and the ground convoy back. I’ll see you back at Indiantown Gap in a few hours, I imagine. First round’s on me.”
Slater clapped his hands. “That’s what I’m talking about! You’re on, lightfighter!”
*
Hastings wanted to leave as soon as possible, as the explosion and fire, not to mention the gunfire, was sure to attract the attention of reekers for miles around. He wasn’t even sure how long his guys could hold off the reekers that were already there. “Bravo team, how long until you’re ready to roll? Over.” Looking out the windows of the locomotive engine, He could see that the situation seemed perilously close to deteriorating. There was a lot of fighting going on.
“Lakota One One, the driver says we’ll be ready to go in fifteen mikes. Over.”
“Roger, good copy. Break. Apache One Two, this is Lakota One One. Over.”
“Lakota One One, this is Apache One Two. Go,” Guerra said.
“Apache One Two, we’re fifteen mikes out from exfil. When you see the birds take off, begin your exfil. How copy? Over.”
“Roger, Lakota One One. Good copy. We need to get out of here. I don’t know how much longer we can keep this up. Over.”
“Understood. Lakota, out.” Hastings switched to another frequency. “Gunslinger, this is Lakota One One. Over.”
“Lakota, this is Gunslinger. Over.”
“Request exfil in fifteen mikes. Over.”
“Lakota, this is Gunslinger. Roger, we’ll pick you up from the top of the engine. Over.”
“Good copy, Gunslinger. Lakota, out.”
The train driver looked over at Hastings. “We’re ready to roll, sir. Just say when.”
Hastings nodded. “As soon as I get an up from Bravo team, we’re out of here.”
*
Guerra wasn’t sure how much longer the ground convoy could keep the reekers from overrunning them and the rail yard. Everywhere he looked, zombies were shambling about. Streets that had been empty when they arrived were filled with what looked like a parade of reekers—ghouls everywhere and in every flavor: fast, slow, runners, shamblers, screa
mers, moaners, and completely mute. Young, old, big, small, fat, skinny, they were coming out of the woodwork, and there seemed to be more runners than usual. Those were the toughest, since they moved so fast. They had to be either killed or disabled from a distance because, up close, they could do some real damage.
He keyed his radio. “All Apache elements, Apache One Two. Fall back to your vehicles, and get ready to roll on my call. Over.”
The sounds of gunfire were transmitted as the troops quickly keyed their mikes twice. He hadn’t heard from some of the vehicles in a while, but hearing shots fired from where he knew they were supposed to be was a good sign. Smoke and fire continued to fill the sky from Stilley’s end of the road, as did nonstop machine-gun chatter. It was safe to say that they would end up shooting their barrels out by the time the mission was over. While they had brought spares, there wasn’t any time to stop and swap them out.
Guerra watched as one of the MRAPs responsible for patrolling a section of Grayson Road ran over a horde of reekers while the .50 caliber in its turret shot the ones farther down the street. The size of the vehicle was a benefit, as it could take punishment and still clear the bodies falling underneath it as the driver gunned the engine.
“I’m gonna need some ammo!” the gunner in Guerra’s vehicle yelled.
Guerra was glad they brought all the ammo Hastings had insisted on because they were going through it quickly. He reached back and started popping open the lids on the .50-caliber cans. He pulled out the belts and handing them off to be passed up to the gunner’s assistant. The last fifteen minutes had to be the longest Guerra could ever remember.
We need to get the fuck out of Dodge and soon. Come on, fuckers. Get those trains moving.
*
Through the window of the Chinook, Ballantine watched as the second aircraft attached to his element recovered the security team and lifted off in a cloud of dust. He had told the crew chief to ask the pilots to fly a racetrack pattern around the train until it had backed out onto the main track and started moving north, so they orbited for a few minutes as the train slowly moved past the rail switch. One of the soldiers who had remained with the train to provide security jumped off the engine and ran to the switch, where he grabbed a crank and manually moved the switch rail. The troop ran back to the engine and climbed up onto it as the train started rolling again. It switched over to the new track without any problem.
These Dead Lands: Immolation Page 29