CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Forty
Forty-one
Forty-Two
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Books By Jeremy Dyson
Rage of the Dead
Jeremy Dyson
RAGE OF THE DEAD
Book Three of the ROTD Series
Copyright © 2018 Jeremy Dyson
Dartmoor Books
Edited by Sarah Dyson
Cover Design by Covers by Christian
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 0-9903984-4-7
ISBN-13: 978-0-9903984-4-8
For Eliza
One
I never signed up to be a hero. It wasn’t because I wanted to defend my country either. As far back as I can remember, my father wanted me to follow in his footsteps and join the Air Force. So, as soon as I was old enough, I joined the Marines instead just to piss the old bastard off. He’s a real pain in the ass. The funny thing about it was my grandfather was a Marine, and my father joined the Air Force just to piss him off. That’s probably where I get it from. Being a stubborn asshole just runs in the family.
Joining up doesn’t seem like the best idea now that I’m freezing my ass off up on this godforsaken mountain in Pickel Meadows, California. Hell on a hill— that’s what the old guys at base camp called it. It’s cold enough to make me miss being back at Camp Pendleton. Hell, I’d rather be back in The Stan.
Even though we already went to that godforsaken goat country, our company commander still sent our platoon up here for more mountain combat and survival training before redeploying us back to Afghanistan. Of course it snowed the whole goddamn time we’ve been here. Command probably just sent us to piss us off so we’re ready to kill some goatfuckers when we get the chance. It is what they would call boosting our morale. That’s their logic. They want to be sure every man in this recon unit is more than ready to kill.
Some guys of Nightmare Company are happy to be back stateside, but I have been counting the days before I ship out again. I just can’t take all the bullshit here. First world problems. All that trivial crap. If people here had any idea what the fuck the world was really like for everyone else they would probably have a hard time sitting through their fake ass reality television shows. Not like that will ever happen. The media keeps everyone in a brainwashed bubble so they can go about their meaningless lives. At least until the shit hits the fan.
“Just a few more hours,” Rodriguez consoles us.
“I can’t feel my toes,” gripes Harding.
“Suck it the fuck up, Marine,” Rodriguez tells him. He gives the kid a hard look so he stops complaining. It isn’t easy around here when you’re the Fucking New Guy. PFC Corey Harding just happens to be the FNG, which means everyone gives his ass a hard time. But Sarge isn’t just doing it to be a dick. Sergeant Pedro Rodriguez is probably the best team leader in the whole battalion because he expects a lot from everyone on his squad. He knows he can count on us to make sure he gets home to his wife so he can make more kids.
That’s a joke.
See, Pedro has like six little motherfuckers running around his house already. After he found out about the last one, I told him to use a damn condom already, but he said he is trying to have a lot of kids to properly live up to his Mexican stereotype.
“Pedro. You married a white girl,” I reminded him.
Pedro just laughed. When we are in combat situations he is all business, but he is also my very good friend. We screw around on a daily basis.
“She makes good tamales, though,” he said. “That makes her like half-Mexican, at least.”
“Her name is Melissa,” I told him. “That’s like the whitest white girl name there is. Besides, aren’t you in the wrong line of work then? You should be fucking mowing lawns or something.”
That cracked him up pretty good. Some people would probably get all offended by our conversations, but there is a reason those kind of people don’t serve in the Marines.
“Seriously,” Harding slips off his boot and lifts his leg up so we can see his foot. “Does this look like frostbite?”
“Hardcore,” says Mac. “If you keep whining like a little pussy these guys are going to start calling you Softcore instead.”
Everyone gets a good laugh at that one, except Corporal Gibson. He has his headphones in and I can faintly hear the hip hop bleeding through the speakers. Can’t blame Gibby for needing to block out the stupidity now and then. Normally, Deshaun is singing or joking along with the rest of us, but he has been quiet all morning. The battery in his phone is running low and he is probably dreading the possibility that he will be stuck up in the mountains without his music and have to listen to Arnes the rest of the day.
“Maybe we should get Doc Noonan to shove a thermometer up his ass,” Arnes suggests. “See if he is really as cold as he says.”
“Fuck you, Arnes,” Harding laughs.
“Just looking out for you, kid,” Arnes smirks.
I blow into my hands to warm them and watch the cloud my hot breath makes in the cold air. I’m not used to weather like this, being from Texas and all. It doesn’t agree with me in the slightest. I don’t get paid to like it, I just have to do it.
“Going to be eating steaks tonight, gentleman,” Rodriguez says. “Just hang in there.”
“And head back to Camp Margaritaville tomorrow,” says Arnes.
“Got that right, brother,” Rodriguez agrees.
“We should hit up Wildcats,” Arnes suggests.
“The chicks at that other joint are hotter,” Mac says.
“What place?” says Arnes.
Corporal Mackenzie looks at me because he can’t think of the name. Mac is smart as hell but he suffers from CRS. That stands for can’t remember shit, which can be a good or bad thing, depending on your perspective. Mac knows I will remember because I, on the other hand, have been cursed with a photographic memory. I never forget anything, even the things that I want to forget.
“He means Dollhouse,” I say.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Arnes says. “They don’t even take all their clothes off there.”
“Just stating a fact,” Mac says.
“Better watch it, Mac,” I say. “Arnes won’t tolerate any unflattering remarks about Georgette.”
“Damn straight,” smirks Arnes. “That’s my gal.”
>
“I thought Sally was your gal,” Harding says.
“She is,” says Arnes. “Back at home.”
“Banging every willing Whiskey Tango Jody back in the trailer park,” adds Mac.
“As long as they ain’t liberal shitbags like you, Mac,” Arnes grumbles.
“Is she hot?” Harding asks.
Arnes pulls the infamous prom picture of him and his high school girlfriend from his chest pocket. She broke it off with the dumb bastard during our last deployment but he still carries the photo on him at all times.
“Put that damn thing away, dawg” Gibby says. He pulls off his headphones when he sees Arnes holding the photo. “You’ll scare the kid.”
“Don’t pay no attention to them, baby,” Arnes says to the photo. “They just jealous they ain’t never had someone as good looking as you.”
Arnes smiles as he holds out the picture for Harding to see.
“Ain’t she something?” Arnes asks.
Harding flinches at the sight of her. Might be the most terrifying thing he will see for the rest of his life. Lucky for him, Arnes is too busy staring at the photo to notice the horrified expression on the kid’s face.
“Yeah,” Harding stammers. “She looks... nice.”
The guys quiet down for a moment and salivate at the thought of a hot meal, or maybe getting a lap dance. It’s been a long, cold couple of weeks up here. Digging out trenches in the snow. Practicing casevac operations on sled gurneys. God knows how many miles we hiked up and down the mountain trails on snowshoes. Then they stick us up here with some tents and rations in the freezing mountain temps. They know we will manage. Marines make do.
“You hear that?” Rodriguez says.
We all turn to look at him and listen. I hear the loud diesel truck engines accelerate up the steep dirt roads.
“Thought they weren’t picking us up until this afternoon?” says Mac. He barely glances up from the copy of For Whom The Bell Tolls that he is reading. I tried asking him about it yesterday, but it sounded boring as shit so I just stuck to reading Penthouse.
“You complaining?” Arnes asks.
“Start packing up your shit, Marines,” Sergeant Rodriguez orders us. “Sounds like we might be getting out of here early.”
I resume breaking down my white tent. It blends in well with the snow but reeks so badly of feet, ass, and nuts that it would probably draw every hostile for miles if this was an actual combat zone. Then I grab my pack and begin stuffing my few personal items inside as I watch the team of old LMTV’s rumble into the camp. Our company commander, Captain Cal Kellogg, hops out of the passenger seat of the lead vehicle.
“Shit,” grumbles Mac. “Special K is here.”
Trying to figure out how anyone ever saw Captain “Special K” as fit for command is a total mindfuck. The guy is just too stupid. Probably got hit too much when he was playing football in college. Maybe I resent the fact that he didn’t do anything to earn this command, but I also have zero confidence he will not get us killed if we see any actual combat when we ship back out.
“You believe this shit?” Gibby says. “Motherfucker comes rolling up here in full battle rattle.”
“Somebody better tell the captain we’re not in Afghanistan yet,” I joke.
The captain surveys Nightmare platoon as he talks with our platoon commander, Lieutenant Will Reasoner. Luckily, we didn’t get stuck with a complete dumbass as our Lieutenant. Will was smart enough to get into any Ivy League college. Probably could have had any career he wanted, but decided he would rather do something with his life other than sitting behind a desk all day. It takes balls to do that. If I had the opportunities he had in life, I doubt I’d still choose to be here in The Suck.
The two officers are joined by Gunnery Sergeant Lewis Rocco. Everyone in the squad just calls him Gunny. He is the oldest member of Nightmare One and has been in the Marines since before the War on Terror had even started. The guy has seen everything, unlike the rest of us, and Will relies heavily on his combat experience.
Rodriguez joins Sergeants Colin Lowe and Micah Strong, the leaders of the other fire teams of Nightmare One, and they make their way to the conference near the vehicles. Colin is the platoon scout sniper and everyone calls him Hollywood because he will probably star in his own action movies someday. Micah pretty much always sports a shaved head and a serious expression. After two tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan, he came to the disheartening conclusion that he is fighting for the oppressors instead of against them. I’m the first to admit he probably has a valid point there.
Even though I can believe the captain might just have showed up ready for battle because he is an imbecile, the sight of him makes me uneasy. I can’t leave this place fast enough, but I have to wonder what could be going on. The military doesn’t just decide to pick you up early for no reason. Something must be up. It’s not my business to ask questions, I just do what they tell me. With my pack and rifle slung over my shoulders, I wait with the rest of the team while Rodriguez gets our orders.
“What do you think is going on?” Harding asks me.
“Somebody probably fucked up,” Arnes says, even though nobody asked him. That’s typical Arnes for you. Always running his mouth.
“If somebody fucked up it was probably you,” Gibby jokes as he ties the laces of his boots.
Arnes gives him a hard look but just shakes his head and picks up his pack.
“It’s probably nothing,” I tell Harding. “At least we’re getting out of here.”
Sarge leaves the conference near the trucks and shuffles back toward us, his boots crunching through the layer of snow. Judging by the creases in his brow, it seems like he is leaving the meeting with more questions than answers.
“What’s the word, Sarge?” Mac asks.
“There’s been some kind of attack or something,” Sarge says.
“Probably the fucking North Koreans,” Arnes concludes.
“Where?” Mac asks.
“Here,” Sarge says. He stares blankly at the empty space a few inches in front of his face.
“Where’d they hit?” I ask him.
“Everywhere,” he says.
“What do you mean everywhere?” Gibby asks.
Sarge continues to look lost. I’ve never even seen him like this. The fact that he is hitting a wall tells me something really big has gone down.
“Sarge?” I actually have to wave a hand in front of his face. It takes a few seconds before he snaps out of it.
“I don’t know anything more than that,” Sarge shakes his head as he scoops up his pack. “We’ll get our orders when we get back to base camp. Pack the rest of this shit up. We’re Oscar Mike in five.”
Two
We climb in the troop hold of the LMTV along with Sergeant Strong and team three. The truck rumbles down the rocky path as we start the anxious drive down the mountain. The hairpin turns and steep drops unsettle my empty stomach and make me glad that I had nothing for breakfast this morning.
Gibby tries checking his cell phone for news, but the mountain is a huge dead zone. The other guys left their phones back at base, figuring they’d have no use for them out here without a signal.
“Must have been the fucking Taliban,” says Corporal Lester Pittman. He runs point for team three. Les holds the battalion record for most insurgent goat kills during our last deployment.
“Nah, man,” Arnes says. “They don’t have the resources. Had to be the Nips, man. We should have nuked their goddamn asses when we had the chance.”
“Shut the fuck up, Arnes,” Sarge says.
Arnes takes a look at the tense face of Sergeant Rodriguez and leans back in his seat.
“Just want to find out who we get to go fuck up,” Arnes mutters.
Most of these guys have not seen much actual combat. By the time we went through training, the operations in Iraq and Afghanistan were winding down. We mostly acted as a security force or trained hajjis not to death blossom when bullets st
art flying. It was like finally getting put into the football game during garbage time. But that might all change now.
At the same time, a lot of these guys are just worried about their families. They want to know that their loved ones are okay. That’s one of the good things about not having a lot of people to care about. I can’t say I would really care too much if my old man eats it, but I know the bastard is too hard and mean to be killed.
We climb off the trucks at base camp and the platoon files into a classroom. While we wait to be briefed, I collapse into a chair behind a desk like the kind I used to carve swear words on in high school. The guys begin speculating what kind of attack could have happened. Some of them say nukes. Some suspect it’s some kind of biological attack. It’s all just noise to me. I realize none of them know anything yet. A few minutes later the door swings open and Captain Kellogg walks in with a stack of file folders in his hands. We all stand and salute.
“At ease,” Kellogg says.
He situates himself behind the desk and seems to think for a moment how he should begin. The platoon is unusually quiet as they anxiously await for the company commander to proceed.
“This morning the President declared a nationwide state of emergency,” he finally tells us.
We listen as he tries to explain what is happening, even though it sounds like nobody knows what the fuck is happening. There is some kind of outbreak all over the country. There are large-scale riots happening in every major city. State and local police have been largely unsuccessful in maintaining order anywhere. It’s a widespread clusterfuck.
“Listen,” he finally says as he tosses the reports down on the desk. “I’m going to drop the official bullshit for a minute and lay it all out for you. Before dawn we got reports of vagrants outside the main gates at Camp Pendleton. An MP was attacked and suffered bite wounds so severe that it killed him. Several minutes later, that MP got back up and bit the first responders on the scene. Within an hour, there were six more reports of similar activity from personnel on base.
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