Everyone listens in stunned silence.
“We scrambled everyone on the base. By then it was already starting to hit the news networks. It was happening in London, New York, Atlanta, Chicago... everywhere. People were starting to panic. Cars flooded the highway from Oceanside, trying to get to the base for protection and medical assistance. We set up an armed blockade at the entrance to try and maintain control of the situation. But it was too late for some of the people outside. A number of them must have been sick or something. They turned into those things. Then they started attacking each other in the streets. We tried to evac as many civilians as we could on boats in the harbor, but within an hour we lost control over the perimeter. It was a goddamn bloodbath after that.”
Captain Kellogg leans back on the desk and swipes a hand down his face.
“I watched a lot of people die today,” he says. “Those things just ripped them apart. When we knew we couldn’t hold the base, we fell back to Camp Pendleton North. We managed to hang on to the airfield for a while, but it wasn’t easy. Nightmare Two and Nightmare Three both took heavy casualties.”
As much as the guy always seemed like a cocky motard, now he just seems... scared. I think I liked him better before.
“I wanted to stay with our other platoons and defend the base but I received orders straight from Washington. Right now the top priority is to extract key personnel and evac them to a secure facility in the hope that they can figure out how we stop whatever this is,” the captain explains. “It might be our last best chance to keep the human race from being wiped off the fucking map.”
Figures that the congressman would find some sort of excuse to get his kid out of the shit. Probably going to pin a bunch of medals on him after all this blows over, too.
“You guys are probably one of the last full platoons we’ve got left, so you’re it,” says Kellogg. “A Super Stallion will airlift you to Las Vegas. The drop point will be the rooftop of The Palace Hotel. Your objective is to locate the targets and get them the hell out of there. To the best of our knowledge, they are still alive. They secured themselves in a conference room on the first floor of the facility, but they can not hold up there forever. Time is of the essence, gentleman. To speed up our operational tempo, the fire teams will split up to cover each of the three stairwells and work your way down to the last known locations of the targets.”
He pauses for a moment to glance around the room. Maybe he feels guilty for the orders he is giving us. It could be that he doesn’t think we have a chance in hell at making it out alive. Something about the look on his face gives me a very bad feeling about all of this.
“Satellites show a lot of unrest in the area. There will probably be a lot of civilians looking for help. Do what you can. However, our primary objective is to extract the key personnel,” he lifts the small stack of folders off the desk and opens them up. “We’re spread too thin already to take anyone else.”
Captain Kellogg leaves the floor to Will and passes the files over to Gunny. Will looks around the room at the faces of the men in his platoon.
“This is it, guys,” Will says. “I know you’re the best damn team in the military, but now it is your chance to show everyone. The world will be watching us, gentleman. This is real hero shit. Let’s make sure we don’t fuck it up.”
Will nods to Gunny who closes up the files and comes to the middle of the room to address our team. Gunny plans most of our ops. He is a real hard-ass but the man knows his stuff.
“Listen up, Marines,” Gunny says. “As the Captain said, it’s a real shit hole out there right now. The nation is currently under martial law, so you’re cleared hot to engage anyone that impedes the mission.”
Gunny flips open the file and retrieves a photo from the folder.
“We have three civilians that we need to locate and extract.” He pauses and holds up a photo of a woman with red hair and glasses.
Mac whistles softly.
Gunny pauses and gives Mac a stern look.
“What?” Mac says. “She’s hot.”
“Quit fucking around,” Sarge tells him.
“Dr. Claire Davies,” Gunny says. “She was checked in to room 946.”
“Dr. Ahmed Shah,” he holds up another photo of an older dark-skinned guy with thick black-rimmed glasses. “Room 1231.”
“And Benjamin Winters.” He holds up the last picture of a dark-haired guy that could pass for a fashion model with his expensive looking haircut. “Room 2268.”
None of them look like they could be worth all this effort. That’s the job, though. We risk our asses to protect people that mostly don’t deserve it.
“Our intel tells us that the last known location of the targets was in a conference room on the ground floor,” Gunny continues. “That was several hours ago. Since the cell towers went down, we have had no further contact. There is no way to know if they are still inside or if they are even still alive. I don’t care if we have to clear every room in The Palace. We will find them.”
Gunny pauses to pull out another paper with the layout of the hotel. I can barely make it out from my seat, but it wasn’t like they had a lot of time and resources to plan this operation. We will likely have to adapt and improvise our way through this shit show as usual, so it probably doesn’t matter much if we know where we’re going or not.
“After we insert through the rooftop and secure the top floor. Will and I will set up shop in this maintenance room with the roof access. Each team will proceed down one of the three fire stairwells and head to the last known location of the targets,” Gunny says. “When we hit the ground floor, you will have to work your way through the casino floor into this walkway to the mall. You’ll find the door to the conference room there. Once you make a positive ID on any of the targets, move them immediately to the maintenance room for extraction. The Super Stallion will be on standby at Nellis Air Force Base to get us out as soon as we complete our objective.”
He pauses again to look around the room to make sure everyone looks to be paying attention.
“Get in and out as quickly and quietly as possible,” Gunny reminds us. “Speed and stealth, gentleman. Keep a low profile. No fucking around... and I want suppressors on those rifles.”
“Just one more thing,” Kellogg says. “Any sound you make will just draw more of those motherfuckers, so I suggest you do not engage them unless you have to. They may seem like they aren’t much of a threat alone, but you draw a crowd of them and shit can get out of hand real goddamn quick.”
Captain Kellogg paces across the front row of the desks.
“I know some of you will have a hard time engaging unarmed civilians,” Kellogg says. “Do not hesitate. These things, whatever they are, they aren’t people anymore. You can empty a mag into one of the motherfuckers and it will just keep coming. Headshots are the only way to drop them.”
He pauses to let all of the information sink in. The room is completely silent. It doesn’t concern me too much. The reality is we try for headshots much of the time now anyway since our enemies often wear similar body armor as us, and we always have to worry about somebody with a bomb strapped to their chest. I’m pretty sure we will be able to handle whatever the hell these dead things are just fine.
“Any questions?” Kellogg asks.
“How do we know if they’re hostile or not?” asks Mac.
“If they try to bite you, shoot ‘em,” says Gunny. “If they appear disoriented, shoot ‘em. If they do not respond to verbal communication, shoot ‘em. And if you’re still not sure, just shoot ‘em anyway. We can’t afford to take any chances out there.”
The captain looks around the room at the faces of the men once more.
“I just want to say, I have full confidence that you will complete this mission,” says Kellogg. “When the General told me he needed some volunteers, I said I know my guys would volunteer to be the ones to do it because nobody is tougher, more determined, or better prepared to do this job.”
Nothing like being “voluntold” to do a mission. Only in The Suck. Nobody complains, though. These guys might seem like a bunch of cocky assholes to some people, but every single one of them will stick together through anything.
“Let’s gear up then,” the captain says. “We step off in fifteen Mikes.”
After he dismisses us, a murmur fills the air as the platoon files out of the room into the hallway.
“I better call home,” Sarge says. He eyes the phones on the wall where a few guys are dialing anxiously. “I need to see if Melissa is okay.”
“Something is wrong with the phones,” says Sergeant Lowe.
“I can’t get through either,” complains Corporal Eddie Carrasco. He makes up the other half of our platoon sniper team as the spotter for Sergeant Lowe.
“Fuck,” says Pittman. He slams the receiver down. “The fucking phone lines are all fucked.”
“Gibby,” Sarge says. “You got a signal on that thing yet?”
Corporal Gibson checks his phone, then looks back at Sarge and shakes his head.
Sarge collapses onto a bench in the hallway. He props his elbows on his knees, clasps his hands together and hangs his head. For a long moment, he just stares at the floor. The thought that he can’t get in touch with his wife must be killing him.
“I’m sure she is fine,” I try to assure Sarge. “We’ll go handle this shit and get you home in time for tamales.”
Sarge exhales a loud, angry breath and shakes his head.
“If something happens to them...” Sarge trails off.
In the years I’ve known Sarge, I’ve never seen him afraid. Nothing ever phased him. No matter what might happen to him, he always knew his family was safe back home. But now he knows they are in danger and he is away, so there is nothing he can do. In spite of all that, I need him to get his head right. If he isn’t thinking straight out there it could be bad fucking news for me, too.
“Come on,” I say. “They’ll be fine. It can’t be as bad as they’re saying.”
“I sure hope you’re right,” he says.
“I’m always right,” I smirk. “Come on. Let’s get this shit done.”
Three
The rotating blades of the Super Stallion kick clouds of grey dirt into the sky as we crowd into the troop hold. As I strap in between Sarge and Arnes, my eyes scan the rest of the men of Nightmare One. Each one of them has their game face on. There is no shit talking or screwing around while we wait for the helicopter crew to prep for the flight. Everyone just looks calm to the point of being bored. That’s how we act when we’re all focused and ready. No one shows any indication of tension, but we all feel it.
I check my weapons and ammo again. Arnes rests his head against the wall and closes his eyes. Gibby puts his headphones in his ears and bobs his head in time with the music. Mac scrawls some notes in one of his journals. Harding munches on a protein bar, crumbs sticking to the corners of his mouth.
We all have our own ways to avoid thinking too much.
Sarge just stares at his hands, though. He has this tattoo of a wedding band on his finger that says his wife’s name in fancy lettering. I try to think of something to say to distract him, but I know it isn’t likely to work, so I just put on my sunglasses and stare out the loading door as we leave the ground.
The mountains below us disappear over the horizon, and as we cross the desert, the temperature inside the helicopter steadily increases during the flight. From the air, there is no evidence of chaos. The small highways surrounding Death Valley are mostly empty and quiet. Then again, there aren’t ever that many people out here. This forsaken desert is probably always this quiet.
It seems like the flight takes an eternity. Even traveling at top speed, we spend two restless hours cramped in the troop hold. Finally, as a helicopter crewman preps the ropes, a smell drifts into the cabin. Towering black columns of smoke reach for the sky, blotting out the afternoon sunlight as we descend toward the streets of downtown Las Vegas.
We get ready for insertion as the pilot steadies the helicopter. Sarge leads the way and fast ropes down to the rooftop of The Palace. I grab the rope next and wrap my leg and step off as soon as he is clear. The gusting desert wind pummels me as I descend to the roof, thirty-five stories above the ground. From up here, I immediately realize the situation is even worse than we could have ever imagined.
The streets of Vegas are teeming with people covered in blood. Flames engulf several of the buildings surrounding the casino. The toxic fumes burn my nostrils and make my eyes water almost immediately. My boots hit the rooftop and I run over to regroup with Sarge near a red access hatch on the surface of the roof. He stares out at the city, his gloved hand covering his nose and mouth to shield it from the smell.
“It won’t be as bad as they said, huh?” Sarge leans in to yell in my ear.
“Could be worse!” I yell back.
A general rule of thumb is that the situation can always get worse, but this time I am not sure how much that applies.
After the rest of the platoon ropes down, the helicopter peels away from the building and climbs back to the safety of the skies. As the pilot banks around to fly toward the setting sun, the sound of small arms fire erupts on the streets below. I’ve been in some chaotic situations but nothing like this.
“Team one,” Lieutenant Reasoner says. “Take point.”
“Arnes,” Sarge gestures at the hatch. “Pop that bitch open.”
We stack up on the door. Arnes twists the handle and yanks the hatch open with a grunt. He steps aside and leaves Harding staring at a staircase that descends into a darkened room. A light flashes and a fire alarm blares inside. The kid hesitates. I put a hand on his shoulder to urge him forward and then I come down the stairs behind him. He checks to the left and I scan the shapes in the darkness to my right. The room is cluttered with all sorts of tools, ladders, and shelves full of paint and cleaning supplies.
“Clear,” Harding says.
“Clear,” I call out as I lower my rifle.
I walk over to the closed door across the room and flip the light switch as the rest of the platoon files down the staircase. The lights flicker on. At least we won’t be searching through darkened hallways.
“We’ll set up shop here,” says Will. He pauses while the alarm blares again.
An automated female voice informs us there has been an emergency and that we should remain calm and head for the exit while the cause is determined.
“Jesus,” says Arnes. “That’s gonna get annoying real fast.”
“Clear this floor,” Will orders us. “Let’s locate those civilians and get the fuck out of here.”
The platoon seems to settle into our cocky ass-kicking groove after our successful rooftop insertion, until something slams into the opposite side of the door behind me.
I pivot around and raise my rifle. Harding opens fire and peppers the door with a burst, punching holes through the solid wood. He pauses until he hears a groan on the other side of the door, then he pulls the trigger again. Fucking new guy.
“Cease fire!” Sarge yells.
There is another groan from the hallway. The door knob rattles, but it’s locked by a card reader. I look down and notice blood trickling beneath the frame of the door. There is no way whatever is on the other side should still be standing, but it bangs on the door again.
We stack up and I give Harding a nod to open the door. As soon as he turns the handle this guy crashes into the room. I open fire and manage to hit him a couple times, striking his arm and shoulder as he falls to the floor. There are several exit wounds on his arms and legs and a couple on the back of his blue polo shirt, which is turning purple as it soaks up his blood. Still, the guy groans and pushes his body off the floor. Sarge fires a couple rounds into his back to finish him off.
“Help,” the guy gasps just as Sarge pulls the trigger. The man collapses back onto the linoleum.
“Target down,” I say.
“Did that g
uy just say something?” Will asks.
We all heard it. Harding looks at me, not sure what to say. I exchange a glance with Sarge. We both know that guy was still alive when we shot him, but admitting it won’t do anything to change what happened.
“Negative, sir,” Sarge says. “We didn’t hear anything.” He claps Harding on the shoulder to tell him to forget about the fuck up. Harding keeps his eyes on the body on the floor.
Shit happens.
The fact that we might have just killed an innocent civilian is pushed aside when we hear another moan from the hallway. I raise my rifle and crouch down in the doorway, keeping most of my body behind the wall for cover. Using cover probably is not necessary, but I’m most comfortable sticking with the tactics that have been drilled into my mind for years. Gibby takes up a position at my six to cover the opposite end of the hall.
“Contact,” I call out.
“Don’t engage,” Sarge says.
Sarge steps out into the hall and spots the man in a tropical shirt trudging toward us.
“Show me your hands,” Sarge orders.
We might have fucked up already, so I’m sure Sarge wants to be sure this person is actually unresponsive.
The man moans and raises his arms as he staggers toward us. Streaks of blood trickle down his pale face. There is no doubt in my mind that there is something wrong with this guy.
“Drop him,” Sarge says.
I pull the trigger and the shot shears off a chunk of his bald head and he crumbles against the wall and slumps to the floor. Farther down the hallway several more figures shamble toward us. The sound of gunfire rings out behind me as Gibby opens fire in the opposite direction. Sarge raises his rifle as well and takes aim at a woman in a short red dress staggering toward us. Her gaudy hair and makeup are all fucked up.
“Ma’am,” he says. “Ma’am.”
She just snaps her jaws and keeps coming at us so we open fire. Our first few rounds hit her center mass, but she only staggers back a step before rushing forward again. I adjust my aim and open fire again, this time the chick hits the floor. Sarge takes aim at a maid about halfway down the long hallway and squeezes the trigger again. One of the bullets hits her in the face and she crashes back into the cart behind her and topples it to the floor.
ROTD (Book 3): Rage of the Dead Page 2