by Dave Lund
Jake winked at the crowd, which chuckled politely in return.
“The systems are all computer controlled. Those computers are connected to other, similar facilities around the United States. Of all those facilities, this one and the one in Texas are the only two that have survived and have survivors living in them. We believe that the Chinese and Koreans were attempting to hack this facility via that network. We physically disconnected the servers from any outside connection. The servers all rebooted and are running. We don’t know how all the systems in the facility work, but thankfully the issues with the lights, air systems and everything else have become reliable. That is why we think the systems came back online and why we believe they will remain online for the foreseeable future. Until we find a survivor that has an idea as to how the computers control the facility, we’ll work hard to keep the status quo and keep us all safe.”
The crowd clapped.
“Now, the new procedures so we don’t have another Yama Strain Sanchez infecting our protected survivors. All aboveground working parties will be strip-searched by selected persons before they are allowed re-entry. Just as we quarantine our new friends before they’re allowed to take up residence here, we will check each of us for our protection. No one is exempt. Any time an aboveground party returns, a male and a female will conduct physical examinations on the returning members, of the same gender, of course, before they are allowed entry back into the facility.”
The applause was slower than before but still there.
“I know some of you have no desire to return topside. I understand and respect that decision. Others are happy to go topside any chance they get; I understand and respect that decision as well. We have many jobs and a place for everyone here, and we are committed to helping you. Today, though, we need twenty volunteers for a special detail, an important detail of honor to help in the respectful cremation of our fallen citizens, our fellow residents and friends.”
Hands were raised around the room.
“Thank you all so much for volunteering. Check in with Sarah in the back of the room for the details. In a few minutes, I ask all of you who are not assisting with the detail to join us in the cafeteria. The kitchen staff has prepared a special lunch in remembrance of our fallen friends. Thank you.”
Jake gave a curt nod and walked off the stage, the crowd applauding shortly before the room erupted in conversation and movement. The volunteers made their way to the back of the room as instructed. Their day was just beginning, and it wouldn’t involve the bland sheet cake that the rest of the residents were going to eat.
As the hall cleared, Sarah addressed the volunteers, thirty in all. “Thank you for volunteering. The task is honorable work, but the work is going to be hard. The victims’ bodies have already been moved to the blast door, and we need help carrying them outside. Once outside the hangar, we have a location to the west of the hangar chosen where some of the detail will dig a shallow mass grave. We have acquired some jet fuel from the tanks and have some other material that we’ll be using to start the funeral pyre in that grave.”
Much to Jessie and Sarah’s surprise, none of the volunteers balked at the task, the plan, or asked to be excused. All of them were resolute in the need for the work to be done.
Jessie spoke up. “Don’t forget that we will all be strip-searched upon returning. Some privacy partitions are already in place in the hangar constructed out of the office cubicles, and we will do our best to have some small portion of modesty.”
“What if someone is bit?”
The question that no one in the assembly had asked, but everyone had thought, was finally said out loud. Erin replied first. “Then that person will be put down.”
No one spoke for a few moments. The comment was cold and without feeling, but they knew it was the only answer. A few months before, such a concept would have been outrageous to the point of lunacy. In this new world owned by the dead, it was expected.
Work Party, Groom Lake, NV
“East of the hangar, between the taxiway and runways we’ll start by digging a shallow grave. I have to apologize, but all we have are these folding army shovels. I wish we had a backhoe or even full-sized shovels, but this is it, so this is what we’ll use. According to the number of bodies that we have, we’re guessing that a hole about ten foot by ten foot will work if it’s about three feet deep. The rules are simple; everyone digs. When you’re on break, you really aren’t on break. You can sit and rest, but your rifle will be in your hands, you’ll be facing outwards, and you’ll call out for any zombies you see. We’re not going to have another damn Typhoid Mary here.”
Erin interrupted Jessie, “Brit the bitch!”
Jessie glanced at Erin and continued. “Once the hole is dug, we’ll douse the bodies with the fuel and light it.”
No one else spoke. Some in the small group nodded; others were now a bit annoyed at what they had volunteered for, but now that they stood in the hangar next to the stack of their dead friends, it would be impossible for them to shirk their duties at this point.
“I have no idea how hot the fire has to be to burn bone, but we’ll try. When we’re done burning the bodies, we’ll all take turns shoveling the dirt back into the hole and finishing the burial. Any questions?”
A middle-aged man who appeared to have lost a lot of weight recently spoke up. “Who’s going to be checking us before we go back inside? Are we checking one another?”
Sarah spoke up for the answer. “Good question and, no, our greeter guards are in a meeting right now discussing the procedures for the searches. By the time we’re done, they should be ready for us.”
“If there’s nothing else, everyone grab a shovel,” Jessie said. “I’ll be right behind you with my FJ, water, and snacks, and we’ll meet over at the worksite. Sarah is going to mark off the edges, and then we can all get to work. The faster we get started, the sooner we’ll be done.”
General grumbling faded behind her as Jessie walked to the FJ, loading two blue jugs of water and a box of protein bars from the storeroom.
Nellis Air Force Base, NV
“Chief, no one is here. It appears that there were some survivors, but they’re gone now.”
Aymond nodded. “Thanks, Hammer. What about supplies?”
“That they’ve got. It looks like they raided half the base. Damn near a pallet of XM193, like fifty cases of MREs, various M4s, magazines, those massive trauma bags the PJs take on their helicopters, and some other random stuff. Chuck is taking an inventory. We’re clear to move inside though.”
“Roger that, Hammer. Not many Zeds coming our way, which is surprising. You tell the others to lock it down and head inside, I’m going to check with Chuck and take a look around. Tell the others team meeting in thirty mikes.”
Hammer didn’t respond. He just walked off to complete his task. Five minutes later, the entire team crowded into the conference room that the PJs had been using as a supply cache, each of them digging through bags and crates of gear, turning on electronics, night-vision goggles, and tactical lights to see if they still worked, and making notes along the way to help Chuck with the full inventory. They didn’t have the complete mission-profile load-out containers that the SEAL teams had in California, but this was better than what they’d had on their trucks.
“Hey, Chief, check this out. It’s a shortwave radio. My dad used to play with one when I was a kid. You could pick up broadcasts from Europe sometimes. This one has a hand crank to power it up.”
“Does it work, Gonzo?”
“Not as hard as his mom’s crank works,” was called out from the back of the room.
“Fuck you, Chuck! How many sailors did your sister fuck before the clap became applause?”
The rest of the room laughed as Gonzo spun the handle on the radio until it lit up, static coming out of the speakers. “Whoa, everyone, shut the fuck up.”
“...secured underground facility, food, shelter, clean water. All survivors are welcome at Groom Lake, Nevada. You can make a radio out of parts from disabled cars, tune...”
The radio transmission faded out to static.
“Get it back, Gonzo!” Chuck was no longer lobbing insults at his teammate’s mother; genuine excitement filled his voice.
Gonzo slowly spun the dial, as he paced around the room, trying to find a spot to regain the signal. After a few minutes, the static faded, and the limited energy from turning the handle had been used.
Aymond nodded. “That’s like what we heard on the HF weeks ago. I thought it was bullshit. Any of you been to Groom Lake?”
“Do you think we’ll find aliens, Chief?”
“No, Happy, I doubt it, but I don’t think we’re too far away from it. OK, Gonzo, you, Chuck, and Happy finish up with this inventory. First we recon the rest of Nellis, and then it’s time we visit a top-secret base.”
Snyder, TX
Amanda left the fuel cap on the half-full saddle tank of the semi-truck open. Using one of her spare T-shirts from the supplies, she soaked it in diesel and stuffed it into the tank. The fuel tank of her MRAP was topped off and the cap back on. Dead surrounded the trucks, all of them pawing at the metal sides, trying to get to a fresh meal. The flies were like nothing Amanda had ever experienced. Her shemagh was wrapped tightly around her head and face, sunglasses pushed tight against her eyes, but the flies still found their way into her ears and mouth. Between the diesel fumes and the flies, she could barely breathe. She tossed the hose on top of her MRAP and used some 550-cord to tie it onto the turret handle. She didn’t want it in the vehicle stinking up the interior with diesel fumes, although she still had to deal with the fuel spilled on her clothes, which burned against her skin as she sweated. Climbing between the vehicles one last time, Amanda lit the soaked T-shirt sticking out of the semi-truck’s saddle tank with her lighter and quickly pulled herself up the side of her truck and into the cab, leaving the turret hatch open, hoping to air it out a little. She would have to change pants soon, but now was not the time. The MRAP in gear, she drove forward, nudging away the dead clawing at her vehicle, some falling under the bumper, others knocked to the ground. She had no time to waste.
Frustrated, Amanda drove faster, running over the dead as she did so, u-turning out of the parking lot to go west before turning north on Highway 84. The mass of the dead were near the semi, so she accelerated quickly, watching in the rearview as the gas tank on the semi-truck spewed flames out of the open filler neck. The dead appeared to ignore her as they zeroed in on the fire like moths to a bug zapper.
They like fire. I like fire. I like that they like fire.
The Compound, Saint George, UT
The group members had been warned that they might not want to watch, but that if they did watch, they would have to be perfectly quiet. The captured attacker from the previous night lay on a folding table completely nude, shivering in the cool air, his hands and feet tied and also tied to the table. The end of the table was propped up on the edge of the fire pit, which had the prisoner laying with his head low at a modest angle and his feet above his head. He writhed against the restraints. A rope around his waist kept him from raising his hips off the table. A black T-shirt served as a blindfold. Chivo had two buckets of water, a dish towel soaking in the cold water of one. Bexar had a hose that was fed from the rain cistern, which had surprisingly good water pressure. Chivo gave Bexar very specific instructions; he was to help hold the towels tight and be quick to refill the water buckets.
Guillermo and a couple others watched from about ten yards away. The group’s medical bag sat at Guillermo’s feet, his presence and the bag standing by at Chivo’s request.
“OK, Frank, this is your first and only chance. What is your group leader’s name?”
“Fuck you, spic!”
Chivo’s face showed no change, and with absolutely no emotional reaction, he gave a single curt nod to Bexar. Bexar pulled the soaking wet towel out of the bucket and placed it across Frank’s mouth, nose, and face. Chivo, bucket in hand, began pouring water on the towel.
“What is your group leader’s name, Frank. You can make this stop at any time, but only you can make it stop. What is his name? Just one name will make it stop.”
Frank’s body writhed against the restraints, his head jerking unsuccessfully back and forth, trying to escape the water. Chivo stopped the flow of water. “The name. Frank, only a name.”
Frank’s coughs gurgled. “Fuck you.”
Chivo nodded to Bexar and began slowly pouring water across Frank’s face, mouth, and nose again. Frank struggled, coughing. Chivo stopped, “You can end this, Frank. Only you can end this, and I want you to end this.”
“Fuck your mother!”
Chivo’s face was completely devoid of any expression. The insults didn’t matter, the torture didn’t matter; the only thing that mattered to Chivo was obtaining the objective. He poured water on Frank’s covered face.
“There is no end until you decide, Frank.”
Gasping against the towel, Frank called out, “Dan!”
“See, Frank, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Just a simple answer, and you could breathe again. Where is your hideout?”
“No, I can’t!”
Chivo nodded to Bexar, and the process began again, Frank struggling and gurgling. The waterboarding interrogation only took thirty minutes, but Chivo learned that the group’s hideout was less than a mile as the crow flies to the southwest. There were only four of them left, and they were in dire straits. Nearly out of water, nearly out of food, the only thing they did have was a serious amount of weapons and ammo, as the RPG attack the previous night had shown. Chivo left Frank tied to the table outside in the cool air, where he shivered more in fear than from the cool air. Walking over to Guillermo, he saw that the others had left, unable to watch Chivo’s enhanced interrogation techniques.
“OK, Willy, they’re close to here; they’re very well-armed, and they’re almost out of water and food. This is your firebase on an exposed hill, so it’s your choice. Do we kill them, or do we save them?”
Guillermo shook his head, his cheeks wet with tears from what he had watched. “It isn’t my choice. This requires a group vote.”
“Why don’t you make it snappy, I either need to get us geared up for an op or geared up for a peace offering between your tribes. Either one you choose, I need to get Frank up and work on becoming his best bud for either plan to work.”
Guillermo nodded and walked inside. Chivo gestured with his head, and Bexar followed to where Frank was tied to the table.
“You did good, Frank; you did really good, but understand you’re not out of the woods yet. I’m going to take you off this table and let you get dressed, but if you even think about attempting to fight or escape, my man here will kill you before your 50cc brain can even finish the thought. Do you understand?”
A very weak “Yes, sir,” was the response. Chivo looked at Bexar, who understood he was to provide hard cover. Like a bizarre felony traffic stop, Bexar pointed his rifle at Frank while Chivo cut him loose, handed him his clothes, and let him dress. Once dressed, Chivo zip-tied Frank’s hands behind his back and also to his belt to keep him from being able to move.
Brian walked out of the house alone and headed straight to Chivo, leaned into his ear and whispered, “No peace. Fuck them. They killed...those friends were our family; every person in this group is my family.”
Chivo nodded. Brian walked back inside the house. The burned-out shell of what was the workshop still smoked and smoldered a few yards away. First Chivo looked at Bexar and then to Frank. In one fluid motion, Chivo rotated, striking Frank on the side of the
neck with the back of his arm, on the common peroneal. Frank collapsed, dazed.
“Help me tie this fucker to the flagpole again; you and I need to chat, and I’ve got to leave to take care of something before we go take the fight to Frank’s group.”
Five thousand feet AGL, NM
Andrew descended and banked over the heart of Albuquerque. Massive destruction was all he could see with the naked eye. Using the binoculars, Andrew saw that some bridges had collapsed, but he saw no signs of any survivors. The dead owned the city. Not wanting to waste any more time, he and Oreo continued westward, loosely following I-20 so as to not get lost. Without proper pilot charts, there was no way for Andrew to know where all the airports were located and, just as important, where the tallest radio and communication towers stood. So for his safety, he tried to eyeball it and keep around five thousand feet above ground level.
Before the attack, his Garmin unit would give him the correct altitude above the ground, the altimeter on the dash set to mean sea level. At least he was still able to verify or reset that altimeter at most of the airports that he landed in as they had small signs near the runway with the field elevation. Finding those fields was more difficult than he would have liked, but keeping to his rule to only fly during daylight, Andrew scanned for landing strips. Not that he needed one at any given minute, but if something happened, he would rather land at an airport or private strip than on a highway or in a field. At an airport there was a chance he could scavenge parts from other aircraft to get flying again. On the dash, the indicated airspeed still worked, but without his Garmin, Andrew had no idea what his ground speed was; he didn’t even know how far he had flown except for making rough estimates with a road atlas. His Husky could climb, slowly, as high as twenty thousand feet, but Andrew had no supplemental oxygen nor any reason to fly that high. More importantly, the aircraft had a listed range of around eight hundred miles. That wasn’t a number he wanted to chance, so when he was roughly half full of fuel, Andrew was on the hunt for a landing strip in hopes of scoring some Avgas.