Just when he thought there was no comfort left in the world, Meghan’s hands, no longer restraining Kim, found their way to Neil’s shoulders. She touched him lightly, massaging his tensed neck and soothing his doubts and fears, even if only for the briefest of moments. She leaned forward and whispered, “Thank you.”
Epilogue
1Escape, desperate and imperfect, led to as many new questions as old answers. The reeking siege had been broken, but spreading out before them was all the doubt and peril a city of the undead could muster.
As they waded further into the fetid depths of the infection’s grip, the sense that they may have traded the punishing frying pan for the voracious fire struck all of them. There was much more to escaping than simply getting away, and that fact was becoming more apparent with each nervous breath. Was being on the run any better than hiding and waiting? Only time would tell. But how much time did any of them have?
The one certainty for all of them was that this was not the end. Nor was this the end of the Infection. This was simply the conclusion of the first stage of the epidemic...act one. Can the Infection be contained? Perhaps the second act, Containment, holds the answers.
Perhaps.
BOOK II:
CONTAINMENT
Prologue
He was a soldier. It wasn’t just his job or even something as distracting as a career. No, he was a soldier through and through. In other cultures and in other times he would have been called a warrior...a warlord. He would have been clad in clanging, war-beaten armor and carried a finely honed but often used sword. He would have been riding a stout steed through valleys in search of the good fight, and perhaps the good death.
As it was, his armor had been exchanged for camouflaged Kevlar, his steed was currently an unarmored Humvee, and his sword was a .45 caliber Colt 1911 semiautomatic pistol at his side. No matter. It wasn’t clothes, weapons, or transportation that made a warrior what he was.
His earliest memories were of watching Sunday morning war movies with his father and transforming the cornfields and backyard wildernesses of his youth into dangerous battlefields for his friends and him. With wooden, metal, and plastic guns and swords, they would range far and near, fighting sometimes amongst themselves and sometimes against invisible hordes of Germans or Rebels or some other attackers who threatened the realm or its people. It was all about fighting the good fight and usually dying the good death. Trying to outdo one another’s death scenes was always an engaging pastime.
His joining the Junior Reserve Officer Training Corps years before most of his peers were even introduced to the organization was no surprise to anyone. Also not surprising was his acceptance to West Point and his subsequent commission in the U.S. Army.
He progressed through the ranks, but by pure chance flavored with very bad luck, he missed his opportunity to command troops in the field of battle time and time again. Grenada, Panama, Kuwait, Kosovo, Iraq, and Afghanistan. He always seemed to arrive after most of the real meat of the event had already been chewed.
And then he was posted to Fort Richardson in Anchorage, Alaska. It was by no means a step down for him; in fact, it was actually a promotion, but it just seemed so far removed to him. It wasn’t quite the Arctic Circle posting threat used by many a Commanding Officer to get the attention of subordinate officers, but it was close. He couldn’t help but feel benched.
Sure, units from Forts Richardson and Wainwright were regularly deployed to Iraq and Afghanistan, but those deployments would invariably involve others. He would and did visit those units in their temporary foreign homes and review their assignments and successes, but then he would board the big military “commuter” jet and come back to the frozen north. He could feel his destiny slipping further and further away from him every day and all he could do was watch the distance grow.
Weeks and then months and finally years passed with no change...no hope. He was wiling away his time in nearly complete inactivity.
And then early this morning he was roused from his slumber by a phone ringing at his bedside and then a not too distant siren outside his window.
The caller was a flabbergasted first lieutenant. He began to deliver random details about a violent “disturbance” in Anchorage that had all the trappings of a terrorist attack or a full invasion by hostile forces. The junior officer didn’t have much in the way of firm facts, only the disjointed reports from field security personnel and the media. The colonel found himself spending more time trying to calm the young man on the other end of the phone than getting information. And then the line went dead.
When his cell phone proved equally as worthless, the colonel went to his garage and got on the wireless radio set in his car. He, of course, was already driving himself to his command post by that point.
He never made it. The security checkpoint across Ship Creek into the Elmendorf side of Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson had been overwhelmed sometime earlier. By the time the colonel was leaving his house, the chaos was spreading like spilled paint across both sides of the combined military installations. The greatest disturbance seemed to be in the new housing developments just inside the Elmendorf main gate. Several teams of Military Police officers had responded and were engaging the attackers. The colonel listened as the battle unfolded.
There were two sergeants commanding perhaps a dozen troops. They hadn’t been ordered to the scene; they’d heard pleas for help and responded. He heard crisp claps of sidearms as the officers stood their ground. The more energetic and desperate voice of an M4 assault rifle soon joined the conversation. There had been screams in the distance through all of this, but then there was a screech of terror and pain that originated from someone wearing one of the radio sets. One of the military police officers was down...and then another and still another fell. They were being forced back on their heels and away from their vehicles. And then the colonel heard one sergeant tell the other that he and his men were out of ammunition. The colonel yelled at the radio to get the men out, but it was already too late. Their voices were gone, replaced by choking, gurgling, dying.
Elsewhere, other security teams were standing up to the onslaught. Some were actual police units and others were merely scratched together battle groups of willing and available soldiers. Each group of soldiers, men and women, boys and girls, stood their ground only to be absorbed by the growing menace.
The colonel ordered any stragglers not actively engaged to evacuate off of base if they were able, or to gather at the Armory. From the airdrome training area, helicopters could ferry his troops to a safer staging area so that they could regroup, reorganize, and then hit back. More to the point, the colonel could get airborne and get a better look at what the hell was happening. All he knew at this point was that everything that stood in the path of the chaos, whatever it was, was destroyed.
As he climbed into the open door of the waiting Blackhawk helicopter, he could hear the staccato chatter of small arms fire down the road.
He’d wanted to be a soldier all his life. He’d wanted to take charge of men in combat. Right now, he was getting his wish and then some. Was this how it always was at the opening stages of a war? Was this how it was during the tense early moments on December 7, 1941 at Pearl Harbor or on June 25, 1950 at the Thirty-Eighth Parallel on the Korean Peninsula?
Anxiety mixed with adrenaline and was then stirred into testosterone to form a very potent elixir. He went to the cockpit and lifted one of the radio headsets, putting it on his bare, greying scalp.
He spoke into the microphone. “You been in the air much today?”
Both pilot and co-pilot nodded without looking back.
“Have you seen what’s going on out there?”
Again, his question was met with nods.
“Well, what is going on out there? What have you boys seen?”
His question was followed by first static popping over the headsets and then the pilot spoke for both of them. He said soberly, “I’m not quite sure what I’ve seen
today, sir. I’m not so certain that I trust even my own eyes anymore. I can say that I’ve seen enough now to convince me not to look down anymore. I’m just gonna sit here in this bird and stay in the air as much as I can.”
They were in the air by then. The colonel, along with a lieutenant and a squad of combat-ready infantrymen, were all crowded into the rear of the aircraft. The colonel felt a twinge of guilt for commandeering one of the few vehicles that could actually transport people to safety, but he had to get an idea about what was happening. He wasn’t quite sure what purpose the young lieutenant or the other soldiers in the aircraft were to serve, but they were with him and could be used if necessary.
In no time at all—in fact the proximity of the uprising surprised him—they were over the expanding edges of the chaos. And almost at once, the colonel could understand the pilot’s unease. It wasn’t just bad on the ground below; it was horrific. Innocent fleeing people weren’t just being attacked or even killed; they were being ripped apart. With flailing arms and desperate shrieks muted by the helicopter’s turbine engine, the scurrying, terrified unfortunates below would be wrestled to the ground by packs of clawing, biting attackers. In just seconds, their hands’ and arms’ defensive gestures melted away, ebbing along with their lives. And then the attackers would move on to their next quarry.
They passed over a group of three Humvees parked bumper to bumper straddling a major thoroughfare. The twelve soldiers climbing out of the vehicles appeared well armed and ready for anything. The colonel instructed the pilot to position himself in such a manner that the helicopter could provide support. It was all for naught though.
When the human surge reached them, the intervention of automatic weapons had virtually no impact. The deluge spilled over and engulfed his soldiers despite their best efforts, and they met with the same grisly end as all of those caught by the flood. The colonel had seen enough.
“Get us outta here pilot. Let’s get over to the staging area on the other side of the Knik.”
“Yessir.”
The pilot nosed the graceful bird away from the burning and chaotic military base. They passed over the vehicle-choked Glenn Highway which was the only northern route out of the city. As if a switch had been thrown and an order given, people began to abandon their idling vehicles en masse. Many looked up at the helicopter overhead, imploring them for help with their outstretched hands and their pleading eyes. They ran and they screamed, but in the end, there was no escaping the murderous wave. Following the roadway north, the pilot ferried the colonel to the makeshift field headquarters near the Knik Bridge.
The Knik Arm was a watery limb originating from the Cook Inlet. Its fingers splayed themselves across the flats that separated Anchorage from the Matanuska-Susitna Valley and the northern two thirds of the state. Across the waterways there was a single concrete bridge for motorized traffic and a single railroad trestle. He couldn’t ask for a better position to defend. The attackers would be funneled by the mountains on either side down the single road leading to the bridge. If they wanted to have a fight, he’d be willing to deliver. It seemed almost unfair to him. He would be able to concentrate all of his firepower onto a relatively small patch of land. It had the potential to be a very rich killing ground where his limited heavy weapons could have the biggest impact. Approaching the solution as a simple military problem helped him to remain clinical and unemotional.
Once on the ground, he ordered a contingent of soldiers forward to stall the attackers. He needed to make certain that he had the necessary time to implement his plans. As a precaution, he was having engineers wire the bridge with explosives. If they couldn’t stop the torrent with firepower, then they could take away their lone avenue for advance. The blocking force was rushed forward and told to hold at all costs. They needed to have enough time to organize the defense and prepare the bridge for demolition. If the uprising couldn’t be stopped at the bridge, then the colonel wasn’t quite sure where it would be able to be contained.
He was just getting over to the mobile command vehicle when a young junior officer appeared with a wireless headset. “Sir. It’s the governor, sir.”
The colonel nodded and took the headset. “Sir, this is Colonel Frost.”
The governor’s voice was strained and worried. “How bad is it, Colonel?” he asked bluntly,
A pregnant pause followed. The colonel scanned the control center that hopped and buzzed with the intensity of a beehive. The activity to the untrained eye would perhaps seem random and chaotic, but to the colonel it was purposeful and orderly. Multiple radios chirped and hummed as reports came in from all over the adjoining military installations. The details and the locations varied but the consistent message they all delivered was the need for help and evacuation. Most of the reports, the colonel surmised, were not good as control continually slipped further and further out of reach.
“Well sir, I’m not entirely sure yet how bad it is, but I can say that it will take extreme measures to get things back under control. We are organizing a defensive line at Knik. At this point, we’re not entirely sure what is happening to be perfectly frank, sir. Richardson is a complete loss. I believe Elmendorf is too.”
“Are the dissidents targeting the military installations specifically? Could it be extremists trying to cripple our infrastructure?”
“Sir, the...disturbance moved into Elmendorf and Richardson because civilians from Anchorage ran there for protection. It appears that all of this started in Anchorage and just followed the people. I’m afraid that Anchorage may be in as bad a state as the military bases, sir.”
“What are you suggesting, Colonel?”
“I’m not suggesting anything, sir. I’m merely pointing out that I think that this all started in Anchorage and is just spreading.”
“Can you stop it, Colonel?”
The colonel...the warrior, wanted to growl to the politician that he and his soldiers were capable of anything. He was on the verge of doing just that when he looked around at the nervous and scared faces that were running about all over the makeshift command post. Men and women, some young and others not so young, were doing their best to get a handle on the events that were unfolding just up the road. There were some sitting quietly being treated for seeping, horrible wounds to their arms, hands, and even faces. The sedatives to calm their fears and lessen their pain had stolen whatever fire had been in their eyes before.
The colonel took a deep breath and then began, “Sir, I’m not even sure what ‘it’ is that needs to be stopped. There were things happening over there that I can’t even begin to describe to you. Atrocities, really, being committed by what appeared to be normal people driven to some state of insanity. I don’t know really what is going on. What I can say, though, is that we are going to stand strong here along the Knik and—”
“Colonel, use whatever means you deem necessary to hold your line. Do you understand?”
“Sir, I would like clarification on what exactly you mean by that if I may.”
“Colonel, before we lost contact with the civil authorities in Anchorage, the ranking officers communicating with my staff here in Juneau told us that there were mass atrocities being committed. We can’t allow this to spread. You have my full support in whatever decision you make to stop this but I want it stopped. Do you understand?”
“Sir, are you authorizing me to use—”
“You use what you feel you have to use to stop this. We have to regain control and if it requires bringing down the fires of hell, well you do it then.”
“I understand sir. I have limited resources at my disposal, but I think what I have will certainly discourage them.”
“Good. We’ve contacted Eielson and authorized them to scramble some support for you as well. Those jets should be arriving soon. Use your discretion as to how to use them. Keep me updated, colonel. I am getting on the phone with the President right now. I only hope that you are successful so that we can focus on sorting this mess out and putting
things back to right again.”
“Yessir. We will do our best, sir.”
“Colonel, I don’t want just your best. We need you to be successful. This isn’t about politics or careers here. This is about survival and you are our last best hope for that. Do you understand? You are all that remains between the people of this state and whatever is happening in Anchorage. We are all counting on you and your men to stop this.”
The colonel was nodding and looking back at the soldiers around him. He took a deep breath and said simply, “You can count on us, sir.”
“Thank you, Colonel. I hope to be able to sit down with you when this is all over and hear about how you solved this problem for all of us.”
The connection was broken and the colonel took off the headset, handing it back to the young man still standing at his side. He looked again at the wounded people being treated. The young officer anticipated the question that was forming and said, “Sir, our medical staff—what’s left of it that was able to be evac’d—are treating the walking wounded here, sir, and the more serious cases are further back.”
“How many so far?”
“Of the most serious cases, a couple of dozen, sir. The less severe injuries, I’d estimate double that number.” The young man wanted to say more but stopped himself short.
“What aren’t you telling me, son?”
Alaskan Undead Apocalypse | Books 1 & 2 | Infection & Containment Page 22