by John Ringo
“Roger that!” the private said, hurrying off without asking who the fuck Randall meant.
* * *
A brief flurry of motion caught Copley’s eye, and he watched Astroga rush in and start frantically yanking drawers open before seizing a sheaf of papers. Captain Flamenco had just begun speaking, so Copley looked back at the officer, ignoring the obvious sounds of a keyboard tapping and a laser printer humming. It was taking the captain a long time to say exactly nothing.
Nope, no idea where you are supposed to be, Nope, not in contact with higher. Yep, you can shoot zombies now. Yeah, you can have fuel, if there’s any left. No, I don’t know if there is any left, didn’t I just say that? No, there isn’t any ammo. Now go away and let me do my job.
Copley looked towards Astroga again but kept his peace as the private scribbled on the paperwork and snapped it to a spare clipboard before running out again. Mr. Radio Watch finally wound down as he completed his litany and returned to his own radio.
What the fucking fuck, Copley said to himself, looking around for anything useful.
Glancing over at the lone private who was reading at the opposite end of the tent, Copley noted that the book was a trashy sci-fi paperback with a chain-mail-bikini-wearing elf on the cover. He couldn’t compete with that, so Copley made a quick decision to try the officer again.
“Sir, I know that you’re very busy, but I need to report about the civilians that we had to shoot, and the huge number of zombies,” Copley said. “And the banks are fighting each other and the cops are shooting the bankers and…”
“Do I look like a banker, Sergeant?” the officer said angrily. “Do I look like a policeman? Do I? No, no I do not. I have one job and I’m doing it. I’m guarding this channel and recording the hell out of this radio traffic. Now get the hell out.”
“Sir, yes sir.” Copley answered, saluting.
He looked back over at the private, but that wise man had only raised the book a little higher, blocking any view of the room.
It was time to move on down the road.
* * *
“May I assist the General in the meantime?” Randall asked.
“I do not speak to specialists,” the general replied.
Randall started to open his mouth, then closed it before pointing out that the general just had. They waited in silence until Astroga came running back with a clipboard in her hand. She circled behind the general then held the clipboard out around his side.
“General, sir, some important paperwork, sir,” she said. “Promotion orders and a fuel delivery order, sir.”
The general signed the papers without looking.
Astroga then stepped around, ripped the specialist rank off of the velcro patch sewn onto Randall’s armor and slapped on a sergeant rank. It was slightly askew, in keeping with the overall fuckedness of the situation.
“May I present Sergeant Randall, General?” Astroga said. “Recently promoted.”
“May I assist the General?” Randall repeated.
“I require a piece of string,” the general replied, eyeing the sergeant’s new patch.
“String, sir?” Randall croaked.
“The order seems clear enough, Sergeant!” the general barked. “Get me a piece of string!”
“Yes, sir, General, sir!” Randall barked in reply, snapping to attention. “Private Astroga!”
“Specialist,” Astroga said, slapping his old rank on her armor.
“Specialist Astroga,” Randall continued. “Secure a piece of string for the general!”
“Roger that, Sergeant!” Astroga said, snapping a salute, then scuttling off.
“Where are you from, Sergeant?” the general asked, still standing at parade rest and looking into the distance at nothing.
“Plattsburgh, sir,” Randall answered, trying not to think about his family back home.
“Good town,” the general said. “Lovely people. How has your day been?”
“We fought our way out of Washington Square Park last night against heavy resistance, sir,” Randall replied. “Had to go hand-to-hand to break contact. Met up with the MRAP and picked up a few more survivors, General.”
“Good to hear, Sergeant, good to hear.”
Randall realized the general wasn’t really hearing a word he said. He wasn’t even sure the officer was on the same plane as the rest of them.
“Your string, General,” Astroga said, trotting up. The white nylon string was internal line pulled from parachute cord and about a meter long. “I hope it’s long enough, sir.”
The general took the string and inspected it.
“Good job, Sergeant,” the general said, careful to only address Randall. “I would write you a commendation but time precludes that. Ask me for anything but time as Napoleon said.”
The general turned, and with the careful deliberation of a drunk who was determined to navigate a perfectly straight line, navigated back to his vehicle. The clunk of the driver’s side door punctuated the night as he climbed back into his Humvee. He started the truck and nearly backed over the twosome before negotiating his way through the barricades in an equally bizarre fashion.
“What. Just. Happened?” Randall asked, carefully. “In all of the questions I’ve got about this little scene, near the top is where did you find promotion papers on an instant?”
“They were in the database in the TOC,” Astroga said. “There really was a captain there, but he was busy ignoring Sergeant Copley so I had to improvise. Remember, you guys are arty: I’m admin. And I got us authorization for ten thousand gallons of diesel,” Astroga continued happily. “If we can find a fuel point, that is.”
“Ten thousand?” Randall said incredulously. “Ten thousand!”
“Generals never look at paperwork,” Astroga said. “We can probably trade it. Hell, we can probably trade the authorization for something.”
“There’s no way that this promotion is going to stick…” The new sergeant shook his head.
“Sure it will,” the new specialist replied. “I’ve got the signature of…”
She squinted at the signature.
“Brigadier General William Bickel, deputy commander, JTF Empire Shield. Even if we make it back to 258th, they’re gonna have to respe—”
“What the fucking fuck?” Copley said, walking up and looking at Randall. “Why is your rank sideways? Why does it say ‘sergeant?’ And when did Astroga make specialist?”
“Want to be a staff?” Astroga asked. “I’ve got two more blank signed promotion orders.”
“WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK…?”
* * *
The eastern sky was starting to lighten as they turned the corner from Broadway onto Wall Street. Though littered with abandoned cars and debris, the roads had been mostly deserted, apart from the occasional group of infected. They had also passed a heavy firefight between two groups of unknown actors.
Both Copley and the TC had looked to Smith, who had just shaken his head. Operating on NVGs and IR headlights, the combined Army and contractor group had mostly ghosted by. At one point the MRAP had taken some fire but it was an MRAP. The light rounds had just bounced off as they drove by. That really brought home the feeling that something important had shifted. Their “presence” mission was well and truly screwed. And if the City was this bad, how bad was it back home?
Ahead, yellow lights blazed, creating an island of normalcy.
Inside the perimeter, everyone exited the MRAP, and most of the contractors headed down a ramp into a brightly lit carport under the skyscraper.
“Too much!” Astroga looked at the logo on the side of the building and laughed. “My dad has an account at Bank of the Americas. I wonder if the ATMs are up?”
“Stick a sock in it, Specialist,” Randall said. “Worf, what are we gonna do now? Do we stick with the truck, stay here or what?”
The bank’s security had set up a strong point by completely blocking streets at a one block radius from the front doors of the ban
k. Generators were running floods that had half blinded them as they drove in, and there was a degree of purposeful bustling that reassured Copley.
In the background, the junior specialist was scribbling in her green notebook.
“Item number two hundred and thirteen,” Astro muttered. “The Specialist shall not attempt to make ATM withdrawals during a zombie apocalypse.”
“Don’t let Astro wander off,” Copley replied with a grimace. “I mean, seriously, sit on her. She’s got the attention span of a baby duck. And stick close to the corporal running this rig. It doesn’t roll without my say. Threats of violence are authorized.”
A string of suppressed rifle shots, still recognizable as outgoing fire, popped from the barricade and all three troops spun towards the sound.
“One infected,” a voice announced from a speaker. “Clear.”
Randall and Astroga pivoted back towards their sergeant in unison, looking the question at him.
“Yeah, I know,” he said with a grunt. “Just stay frosty and keep the truck here.”
“You’ve always wanted to say that, haven’t you?” Astroga asked. “‘Just stay frosty, Astroga.’ Or, wait, am I that Hispanic chick…? Does that mean…?”
“Just keep the truck here till I tell you,” Copley said with a shake of his head.
* * *
Tom Smith got out of the back of the Army vehicle and counted heads. His brother ducked low as he stepped out, but his tall niece still managed to knock her head again. Her heartfelt cursing was more colorful than he would have guessed, even after all that had transpired so far.
“Motherfucking son-of-a-bitch fucktards suck!” Faith said, holding her forehead. “This is why I said we should bring fucking helmets! Where’s the helmet store, Gravy?”
“If you weren’t the Jolly Green Giant it wouldn’t be a problem,” Sophia replied. But even the mild harangue sounded tired. It had been a long day and night.
The bank security leader motioned to Durante, who was trailing the little family group walking down the ramp.
“Get everyone inside, do a gear and ammo check,” Tom said. “Grab some food and stand by. I need to check status.”
“Jump time?” the sanguine security specialist replied.
“Maybe,” Tom said, assessing the new people in view. The National Guard members, and the truck, were potentially useful. “I need to check with Bateman, and I want to talk to the PD. I think that Matricardi, hell—all the players, will be in motion after last night. Did you see who was in that scrum we passed?”
“Overture’s people for sure,” Durante said, looking thoughtful. “Couldn’t tell about the others. Check out the plates on that Suburban.” He hooked a thumb at strange SUV in the bank’s garage. The plates had a three-digit number under the legend “NYC Official.”
Before Tom could respond, Rune trotted up, looking both immensely relieved and annoyingly cheerful. He was wearing an equipment belt with pistol, machete, Taser, reloads and a radio over his suit. Instead of an M4, he was wielding an iPad and a thermos.
“Welcome back, Boss! How was the concert?”
“Voltaire was great,” Smith said with a crooked smile. “The mosh pit was a little too intense, though. In order, I simultaneously need coffee and a SITREP, then a bathroom and a change of clothes. After that I’ll wing it. And no, you can’t say ‘I told you so.’ My brother beat you to it.”
“Never crossed my mind,” Rune said, smiling back broadly. “At no point during the entire disaster that was last night did I ever even once think the words: Told you this was a very bad idea, Boss. You have a priority message from Bateman, you are supposed to call the second you return. You also have Joanna Kohn on the premises, asking for evac. She bears…interesting news. Short version is that the secure police area got hit last night and casualties among the families are very high. We’ve got her and her crew stashed in training room one.”
Rune looked over Smith’s shoulder at the hulking six-wheeled armored vehicle.
“Nice ride. Can we keep it?”
Tom looked meditative as he accepted a thermos cup from the shorter man.
“Going to try,” Tom said. “Find out who is senior and bring him over. I think there is a sergeant in charge.”
Rifle fire popped a short distance away, and a verbal all clear sounded. Smith recognized the voice as belonging to one of his department.
“Zombie clearance on Wall Street,” Tom reflected aloud. “Might be that time.”
* * *
“We’re out of time!” Bateman’s voice was coming through clearly on the speaker phone. “The damned bitch just turned, right in front of me. She had been vaccinated and everything. The driver is dead, and garage is full of zombies—you can hear them right through the steel, growling…”
To Tom’s ears, his boss sounded more annoyed than scared, but the whimpering in the background suggested that not everyone forted up in the Park Avenue townhome shared his equanimity.
“Roger, Boss,” Tom replied. He waved a hand over his head to get the attention of his team. “I’ll flush a pickup team in some armored trucks to come get you right now. There have been some serious developments and I need to run the main effort from here. I can brief you in detail when you get in, but you need the top line information now. Ready?”
“Go,” the CEO replied.
“Power grid is down,” Smith said, sticking to basics. “Not temporary loss. Down.
“There was an attack on the NYPD secure compound last night where their dependents had been secured and it’s chaos right now. There were very confused gun fights last night, cops versus cops, cops versus contractors, gangs, you name it. As far as can be determined, city government and the Army have collapsed. I am looking at e-mails that say the Fed announced that we are suspending trading on the NYSE, the NASDAQ and the Chicago Board of Trade. Indications suggest London and Frankfurt are already there. Nikkei and Hang Seng no longer respond to inquiries. No responses worldwide. I urgently recommend that we get out. I can start the ball rolling while we extract your family. How say you?”
Tom waited while Bateman digested that. Finally, Rich replied:
“Handle is pulled.”
* * *
“Pull the fucking handle! Pull that motherfucker!”
Matricardi usually didn’t yell at his subordinates. But if ever there was a time…
The world had come apart around him, beginning with his own building in Newark. A bunch of “his” cops had actually had the nerve to try to force their way into his building. The guards reported that the cop in charge was spouting some fairy tale that he, Matricardi himself, was infecting the families of the police on Manhattan.
Matricardi had needed a few minutes to put the frame together, but the damage was already done. He mentally nodded to acknowledge Overture’s maneuver. Whatever arrangements that the Sicilian had on Manhattan were effectively dissolved, and his control of the New Jersey troopers was equally erased. His own cops were there to kill him!
Unfortunately for them, they hadn’t been fully aware of his precautions. The two dozen or so Newark PD who entered instead encountered his security staff. One side had better training and motivation and the other had numbers, heavier armament and the benefits of the defense. It was very nearly a wash.
In the end, the good news was that Matricardi remained un-arrested and alive, though his team paid dearly. Newark police had fought their way through much of his security, killing many of his expensively acquired and trained staff, and damaging or destroying most of the mob’s heavy weapons. The somewhat better news what that the cops had stopped trying to apprehend him, having retreated in numbers insufficient to muster even a corporal’s guard.
The bad news was that the entire population of East Orange appeared to have been infected and then elected to congregate around his building. Realistically, Matricardi knew that the zombies couldn’t coordinate; they were just two-legged beasts. The loud gunfire and the generator powered lights in
his Clinton Hill compound had likely served to attract them. However, the result was effectively the same.
Hundreds had beelined towards his facility. Maybe more than that.
There were already enough infected inside the perimeter of the fenced and belatedly darkened compound that movement outside the building and vehicles was dangerous. If they waited until more appeared, or until the police returned in greater numbers, the position would be untenable.
Matricardi looked around at the expensive facility and mentally shrugged. You couldn’t take it with you, so it was time to move.
Abandoning the compound meant that they would have to evacuate the immediate area. Matricardi had a plan for everything. In this case, the relationship with Bank of the Americas was about to pay off, so evacuation eastwards seemed to be in order.
Loading had proceeded mostly to plan, and the remaining two score Cosa Nova personnel were distributed among four large vans poised to depart, led by Matricardi in the foremost vehicle. There was the predictable last-minute backing and filling, cross loading and delays associated with any zombie apocalypse. Now the infected were trying to prevent the rear door on the boss’s van from closing.
If it wasn’t one thing, it was another.
Since Matricardi’s vehicle was number one in the convoy, it was blocking the gateway outside, and the remaining vans could neither pull around nor offer assistance to the currently issue.
“Put your back into it!” Matricardi understandably wanted to leave without any infected in his vehicle. Oldryskya certainly didn’t agree with all his opinions, but that one seemed pretty solid.
“I can’t close the door, Boss!” replied the junior mobster. “Their fingers are jamming the latch!”
Despite the danger of being pulled out by the infected, perhaps motivated by the very real risk of the lethal disapproval from his armed boss, he was really putting some effort into closing the door. However, he couldn’t open it wide enough for a really good slam without risking the loss of control and having it swing all the way open. The zombies, some at least, were actually pulling on the door. Oldryskya could see the grasping hands and wrists being damaged, even deformed by the frantic thudding of the heavy door. However, the infected weren’t yielding.