He and his unit had saved these civilians from certain death. They had nowhere left to run, and were surrounded by the infected. Now, Peterson thought, he would have to save them again, but this time not from zombies, but from their hopelessness, from themselves.
A hell of a lot harder to do.
Commander Peterson had allowed himself and his elite Special Forces team to be distracted from their mission. During the outbreak of the epidemic, even after he saw it with his own eyes, he still couldn’t believe it. How was it possible for a dead person to come back to life and attack the living? At first, it was too much for the mind to absorb. When he received orders from the highest of military command to infiltrate a classified lab which had become cut off from the world, and save a scientist, Dr. Winthrop, a genius who may hold the only answers, Peterson felt the job was a one-way ticket. A suicide mission.
Then he encountered these civilian survivors, facing certain death, and he just couldn’t turn his back. He had ordered a momentary redirection of their purpose. Save the civilians.
He knew logically the mission he’d been ordered to do was more important. If he succeeded, possible answers to this global epidemic may be found. If so, hundreds of thousands of people would live, maybe countless millions, maybe everybody.
But Peterson had a logic all his own. The means don’t equal the end. Coldly ignoring the helpless people who crossed his path, in order to save others, was a contradiction to him. The means is the end. He couldn’t be compassionate to some, while ignoring the deaths of others. That just wasn’t who he was.
He stole the moment and addressed the people.
“There is still hope,” he said with assurance. He had a great skill for public speaking. His words sounded like truth and carried with them authority and compassion. He never put himself above other people, or made anybody feel less of themselves. His voice made people want to listen.
“I will start by telling all of you who we are, for those who do not know. I am Commander Jacob Peterson. I am the leader of Shadow Team Alpha One Pride. My team and I have a variety of military skills and expertise. All of us were originally from different U.S. armed forces. We were brought together by the Department of Defense to engage in combat missions which are particularly sensitive in nature.” Peterson looked over to a muscular, shirtless black man receiving first aid on a gurney.
“This is Sergeant Armstrong, Marine Commando Force.”
Armstrong was sitting up on a rusty hospital bed with a stained mattress. When the chopper crashed, he got cut bad. His face contorted in pain as a woman, known by the locals as Nurse Dee, stitched a deep, foul puncture wound on Armstrong’s left thigh. He clenched his teeth in pain.
Despite all the hardship he had experienced growing up in a ghetto of the South Bronx, Armstrong managed to develop a big heart. He found a home in the U.S. military, a place where he felt needed. Eventually, he discovered that he wasn’t just good at being a soldier, he was great.
Armstrong was six foot three and two hundred eighty pounds. He had the muscle tone of a linebacker, and the eyes of a trained killer. He was known for his unexpected bright smile, which would light up a room. It was a contagious smile. When the shit went bad, however, he became a whirlpool that sucked in light. His eyes became predatory. And, just like his smile was contagious, when he was angry, everybody nearby could feel ripples of danger in the air. Only those who knew him well dared speak to him in moments like that. Otherwise, they might as well be taking their lives into their own hands.
He bit down in pain. “Pleased to meet you, folks.”
The nurse eased the needle back into his flesh and curled another stitch.
Commander Peterson directed the crowd’s attention to another soldier who stood off to the side, alone and staring at nothing in particular with wide, angry eyes.
“That’s Corporal Cash, Green Beret, Army Special Forces.”
Cash had a deep scar running cheekbone to chin, and a handlebar mustache. He was on the shorter side, but his muscular shoulders and thick body made him look taller. He was a crude man and by nature had nasty manners. He just couldn’t help it. Cash was the most fearless fighting soldier of them all, but he was reckless and unpredictable, making him a problem at times. He was brutal, a weapons expert, and fearless in the face of death.
Cash’s eyes were opened wide, as if frozen in a state of shock, anger, and insanity, and his face and hair was grimy with days of sweat. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing his muscular arms and a set of tattoos. One tattoo was a nuclear mushroom cloud.
Cash turned toward the townspeople, “Don’t you worry. We will wipe them all out. Every last one of those walking bags of motherfucking pus.”
Cash had chewing tobacco in his mouth; a large wad of it was apparent between his cheek and gum. He spit, and his stream of brown saliva sailed through the air and hit the ground.
Peterson knew Cash had become unhinged some time ago, and that he was progressively growing harder to control. His body was fine, but his mind wasn’t clear. Peterson was concerned about him personally, but was also concerned about his mental reliability and, therefore, his capacity to do his job right.
Cash was a man who was trained to kill, had been tested in combat for twenty years, and was soaked in the blood of the enemies of the United States. He always had seemed to be a simple-minded man. He was built for a very few things…a good-looking woman, a good stiff drink, and combat. He never seemed to go much deeper than that. However, something more, something deeper, was breaking inside of him. As Peterson watched Cash struggle with himself, he no longer seemed like such a simple man.
Peterson didn’t let his concern show. Instead, he smiled. “Cash is a good example of why you shouldn’t chew tobacco.”
Peterson pointed his finger at a black man with an afro and continued, “This is our resident scientist, Dr. Washington.”
Dr. Washington was a slender black man who oddly resembled a civil right activist, like he was once a Black Panther or something. Over the past seventy-two hours Peterson had come to learn that the man was extremely intelligent; brilliant, in fact. This would make him admirable, if it weren’t offset by his shrewd and odd character. Peterson couldn’t help notice how out of place he looked. But he wasn’t a soldier; he was a government scientist who was along for the ride.
Dr. Washington was becoming tougher as time went by. His smooth skin and over-pronunciations had become harsher around the edges. He was bending to the situation, not breaking. This surprised Peterson, who had counted him out, from the first second he had laid eyes on him, as a dead man.
Dr. Washington took the stage, as he did whenever he could find the chance. He strolled over to the corpse of the mailman and looked down upon it.
As if issuing a warning, Dr. Washington addressed the people. “That is what you would look like if you choose suicide by shotgun. He opted for a blast through the mouth because that is the easiest way to shoot while reaching for the trigger at the same time.” The mailman’s head was almost entirely gone. It was a gory and sad site. “However, there is more to it. He decided to destroy his own brain.”
Peterson was confused.
What the hell is his point?
“I used to believe in the saying that it’s not how you die, it is how you choose to live,” Dr. Washington continued. “But I think this man came to a realization.” Dr. Washington crossed his arms and put his finger on his chin. “If you choose to die, make sure you don’t come back.”
His words visibly disturbed the crowd.
“Shut your mouth, Washington,” someone interrupted.
It was another soldier, who was only twenty years old but looked even younger. He was in great shape, and had a strut like a cowboy as he stepped forward. Just about three days ago Private Callahan was the fucking new guy, a cherry soldier who hadn’t even seen any action yet. He had adapted very quickly and had proven his place in battle.
“This is Leading Petty Officer Callaha
n, Navy Seal, also known as Johnny-Boy,” Peterson said with a smile.
Johnny-Boy looked down at the corpse of the mailman. “I am sure he was a good man.” With a look of contempt, he then turned to Dr. Washington. “Keep your philosophies to yourself because nobody is interested.
Washington just returned a smug grin. “Anything you say, rookie.”
As part of his training with the U.S. Navy Seals, Private Callahan was required to learn about classified infiltration and extraction tactics. During this time he learned about Commander Peterson, because he was the man after whom every infiltration case study was modeled after. In the armed forces Peterson was known as a master of battlefield improvisation, tactical creativity, and turning certain battlefield defeats into victories. In other words, Peterson was a living legend amongst all the Special Forces. Johnny-Boy wanted to be just like him one day.
When the infection broke, Johnny-Boy discovered, to his amazement, he was assigned to Peterson’s command. He was going to serve the living legend. He literally got down on his knees and made a prayer and a promise.
I will serve this man to death.
“I’m Private Callahan, but call me Johnny-Boy, everybody else does.” He said to the townspeople. “You have all been through a lot. You have lost loved ones. You have watched your town collapse. I can’t imagine how you must be feeling. If any of you need anything, please don’t hesitate to let me know. I will do my best to help.” Just then, there was an odd scraping noise, and Johnny-Boy looked to see what it was.
Sitting alone was a female soldier. She was sliding her combat knife on a sharpening stone, lost in the rhythmic movement, distracted from everything and everyone. She was taller and stronger than most men, and better looking than most women.
“That’s Corporal Sharon Desmond, Army Ranger,” Peterson spoke out. He sounded concerned. She didn’t acknowledge him, or anyone else there, and just kept sharpening her knife.
“As you can see, we are all tired, just like you. However, there is one thing we are not, which is hopeless. Before we encountered you we were in the process of fulfilling a mission. It is classified, but considering the circumstances I think you all have the right to know.”
CHAPTER 5
Peterson paced as he addressed the people, who were sitting together as an audience before him. “My team and I are in pursuit of what may possibly lead to an answer to this infection. It’s no sure thing. It’s a long shot, as a matter of fact, but we’re it. There is a government scientist who knows something important about this epidemic. We’re going to rescue him.”
“Rescue him from where?” a civilian spoke out.
“He is believed to be in his laboratory, not too far from here.”
“And he has the answer to this infection?” another person asked with hope.
“That’s what we’ve been told,” Peterson answered.
“You are the only ones left responsible for rescuing this man?” a woman asked in amazement. “How can this be?”
Derek spoke up, having put the pieces together. “You were on your way to this island when your helicopter crashed in our town, and instead of going on with your mission, you stopped and saved us. Isn’t that right?”
Peterson nodded, then took a deep breath, dreading what he had to say. “The time has arrived for me and my team to move forward again. We wish we could do more for you, but at this point, your future, your survival, depends upon the strength of each and every one of you, as individuals, and as a group.”
“You’re leaving us?” a voice of despair rang out. It was an older woman, ragged with dirt, sweat, and pain. “We can’t make it without you. Well die for sure.”
“Be silent.” Nurse Dee stepped forward and stared down upon the scared woman, who fell quiet.
“We understand,” Nurse Dee said to Peterson. Her voice was assured, strong. “You’ve done more for us than any of us could have asked.” Nurse Dee turned toward the civilians. “We were dead for sure, weren’t we? But now we are alive. We have a safe place to hold out, we have some food and water, and we have each other, and that’s because of these soldiers.”
Murmurs of agreement came from the townspeople.
“They risked their lives for us.” The nurse paced in front of the group. “Now we have to help them, support them in succeeding in their mission, in any way we can. We have a damn hard fight ahead of us, but together we can do it. These soldiers showed us that these zombies can be beaten in a fight. So fight is what we’re going to do.” The nurse turned and addressed Peterson. “You just let us know what we can do for you, Commander. We’re here for you.”
Peterson didn’t only respect her strength, he liked her. He couldn’t help himself. She was a beautiful woman with guts and courage. Peterson didn’t realize it, but he was gazing into her eyes. She was gazing back.
“Thank you, Nurse Dee,” Peterson said. “God knows we can use all the help we can get.”
*
Commander Peterson approached Cash with caution. Cash had become gravely unpredictable. Peterson had tried and tried again to help Cash regain his senses, but nothing seemed to work. He couldn’t give up. He had no alternative. Cash was his soldier, under his command, and that made Peterson responsible. Peterson stayed an arm’s-length away.
Cash spoke first. “How can it be, Commander? People rising from the dead?”
Peterson was about to respond with some bravado answer, telling Cash that in all his years of combat he had seen worse, or that it would be okay, they would find a solution. But Cash was turning to him as a leader, desperately needing an answer for the sake of his own sanity, and a simple answer wouldn’t do.
“Do you believe in God, Cash?” Peterson asked.
Cash shrugged his shoulders, still gazing into nothingness. “I used to when I was child. My mother always took me to church on Sunday. I guess I kind of liked it. But I am not sure if I liked it because I was praying to God or just getting away from my bastard father. He was a drinker, Commander, with a temper like a raging bull. When he beat me I was happy because I knew at least in the moment he wasn’t beating my mother. I wanted him to beat me, and keep beating me, so my mother did not have to be hit again.”
Cash turned to Peterson. “I’m not sure if God exists, but the Devil sure as hell does.”
*
Shadow Team Alpha One Pride were gathered together around a table, in a circle that blocked out the civilians and created a boundary of privacy. They were examining a map.
“Commander.” Dr. Washington’s tone was direct and sharp. “Is this really such a wise idea? You’re saying we should move toward, and, if I understand you correctly, back directly into town? To the same mass of zombies we just barely escaped alive from?”
Armstrong crossed his arms in front of his chest and clenched his teeth. Everybody in the team knew what Armstrong was going to say even before he did. He had been saying it for many hours already, and the more time went by, the more stubborn and zealous his position had become.
“We can’t leave them behind.” Armstrong’s baritone voice was serious, and scratchy from exhaustion. He looked over to the civilians. “Plus, we are all safer here.”
Though Cash was becoming half-mad, Armstrong was becoming nuts in a much more dangerous way—he was having a change in ideology. Armstrong was a lifelong Special Forces soldier who had lived and died upon his vow to defend the U.S. Constitution, who carried out every mission without blinking an eye, and proved his loyalty by killing countless enemies. Now, it seemed he was abandoning his ideology, his vows and loyalty. This was a sign of a mind that was breaking under the stress.
Armstrong was like most others in this way. When the unimaginable happens, most minds are never the same again. What separates people is just a matter of how much their minds have bent, or broken altogether. Much worse than Armstrong’s shunning Peterson’s plans was that his new ideas were not grounded in the orders to carry out the mission, and everybody knew it.
Now
, in the midst of the chaos, Armstrong’s mind was transforming. He was acting like a different man.
Johnny-Boy had once admired Armstrong. He wanted to learn from him, and admired his service to their country. When things started out, Johnny-Boy was a rookie, and Armstrong was a soldier with a reputation which had traveled widely as one of the deadliest fighters in the armed forces.
Now, however, Johnny-Boy looked at Armstrong with dislike. Armstrong was questing Peterson’s ideas and, to Johnny-Boy, this was sacrilegious.
“And how about the matter of our mission?” Johnny’s voice bit with mockery as he addressed Armstrong. “Maybe we should give up on our mission, give up fighting, and any remaining hope of launching a counterattack against these creatures, or infected, or zombies, or whatever the hell you want to call them. With all due respect, Sergeant, you are acting like you have lost your wits.”
Peterson interrupted. “We have gotten the civilians to safety. It is something we should all be proud of. Now it’s time to continue our mission.”
“Everything has changed now. These people will die without us, and you know it.” Armstrong was abrupt and disrespectful.
Peterson shot Armstrong a look of caution, and Armstrong stared back. “Do you remember New York, Armstrong? I was perched halfway out of the Black Hawk. We were skimming over skyscrapers. The thumping of the rotors was deafening and the wind was whipping my face. You were sitting across from me, watching the chaos. Thousands and thousands of people were infected and swarmed like ants on the city streets, winding and turning, crawling in all directions. A fighter jet echoed off the city buildings and drowned out the sound of the helicopter. You remember the thunderous explosion that followed? The jet crashed into the Empire State Building, nose first. It seemed almost impossible. I looked over to you, Armstrong, and you know what I saw?”
Dead and Back (The Zombie Crisis--Book 2) Page 3