by David Spell
CONTENTS
Title Page
Chapter One - Starting Over Again
Chapter Two - Hostile Intentions
Chapter Three - The Thin Blue Line
Chapter Four - The Prodigal Returns
Chapter Five - Taking Ground
Chapter Six - Hope Deferred
Chapter Seven - New Enemies, New Friends
Chapter Eight - Homecoming
Chapter Nine - Heading Out
Chapter Ten - Prepping for Judgment
Chapter Eleven - Unleashing Hell
Chapter Twelve - Change is Here to Stay
Climbing Out of the Ruins
David Spell
Volume Five of the Zombie Terror War Series
This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to events or persons, living, dead, or fictitious are purely coincidental. Some actual locations are used in a fictitious way and the descriptions included here are not meant to be accurate. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.
Cover photo by Ahmadreza Heidaripoor. Used through Creative Commons CCO.
Copyright ©2018 by David Spell. All rights reserved. Published in the United States by DavidSpell.com.
To Charlie and Pat
Thank you for being great examples.
I don’t say it enough but I love you!
“Ruins, for me, are the beginning. With the debris, you can construct new ideas. They are symbols of a beginning.” Anselm Kiefer
“And your ancient ruins shall be rebuilt; you shall raise up the foundations of many generations; you shall be called the repairer of the breach, the restorer of streets to dwell in.” (Isaiah 58:12)
“They shall build up the ancient ruins; they shall raise up the former devastations; they shall repair the ruined cities, the devastations of many generations.” (Isaiah 61:4)
“When we rebuild a house, we are rebuilding a home. When we recover from disaster, we are rebuilding lives and livelihoods.” Sri Mulyani Indrawati
CHAPTER ONE
Starting Over Again
Hartwell, Georgia, Wednesday, 0805 hours
A group of thirty-five decaying, rotting zombies heard and then saw the silver four-door Toyota Tundra pickup as it rounded the curve, stopping seventy-five yards away from where they congregated in the roadway halfway between the truck and a rundown apartment building. As one, the group began growling and snapping their teeth together, shuffling towards the vehicle. Three figures quickly exited the truck and began engaging the infected. The driver, a muscular man clad in black, used the door as a barricade, firing his suppressed Colt M4 rifle over the top of it, making a head shot with almost every pull of the trigger.
The front passenger was a young, fit, African-American male carrying a camo-painted, scoped AR-15 rifle. A young white male exited from behind the passenger seat and brought his AK-47 to bear on the Zs who were intent on killing and eating them. In less than a minute, eighteen of the creatures were sprawled on the pavement, bullet holes in their heads.
The remaining seventeen zombies did not care or even notice that their companions had been shot, the crack of the gunshots only stirring them to a greater frenzy to get to their three victims.
“Reloading,” Anthony Robertson, the black Marine corporal said, dropping the empty thirty-round magazine from his rifle and smoothly slamming in a fresh one from the web gear on his chest.
The other man who was firing beside Anthony, Travis Thompson, was not as effective at making head shots as the other two men. His AK soon ran empty as well, and he let his companions know that he was reloading. He dropped the empty magazine to the pavement and jerked a full one from a side cargo pocket on his pants, promptly dropping it, too.
Travis cursed out loud, made sure his muzzle didn’t sweep his friends, then bent down to recover the loaded mag, finally managing to get it into his weapon. The Zs were now twenty yards away, only eight of them still standing.
Chuck McCain sighted over the driver’s door, his six foot-two inch height making it easy for him to brace his rifle on the metal of the door. The two-hundred and twenty pound former SWAT officer was deadly efficient, taking his time and missing few shots. When his rifle finally locked open, the remaining three infected were inside of ten yards. McCain’s reload was a blur, his right thumb hitting the eject button to drop the spent mag, his right hand then grabbing a full one from the pouches on his armor plate carrier and inserting it into the firearm, his left hand hitting the slide release to send the bolt forward chambering a fresh 5.56mm round. In less than two seconds the rifle was back at his shoulder, pointing towards the threats.
McCain held his fire, though, letting Anthony and Travis make the last shots. “Scan the area,” Chuck told the two younger men.
As the supervisor for the Centers for Disease Control Enforcement Unit in Atlanta, the big man had been involved from the very beginning when the zombie virus had been deployed by Iranian terrorists in the United States. He knew that the infected’s strongest two senses were their smell and their hearing. Chuck’s rifle was suppressed but the other two men’s weapons were not. If there were any more Zs in the area, they would soon come running.
The low-income apartment complex was in front of them on the left side of the road, around a hundred and fifty yards away. McCain saw movement in the parking lot and seven more infected were coming their way, these moving much faster than the group they had just taken out. Chuck pushed the magnifier into place in front of his EOTech site, allowing him to make long distance shots.
These Zs looked mostly Hispanic, and were not as decayed as the first group, Chuck observed. In fact, McCain realized, the two fat zombies in the new group had been standing in the middle of the street two days earlier when he and Elizabeth had arrived. One of them still had on his cowboy hat, the other hefty Z wearing a belt buckle as a big as a normal dinner plate.
“Travis, cover our sides and our rear. Don’t let anything sneak up behind us. Anthony, you feel up to making some long-distance head shots?” McCain challenged the young Marine with a slight grin.
The corporal looked at the man in black, easily twenty years his senior, and smiled. “I think the question is, are you up to it, sir?”
The forty-four year old federal law enforcement officer shrugged. “Let’s see who can take down the most. I’m sure a young Devil Dog like you won’t have any trouble out-shooting an old street cop like me.”
Travis did what Chuck said, looking behind the truck and scanning the woods on both sides of the road, making sure that no infected got behind them. He had heard the conversation between his two companions, though, and couldn’t help but smile.
Travis remembered a men’s retreat at his dad’s church a few years before. The guest speaker was a retired Green Beret who had brought the Bible to life for the fifty men in attendance, but who had also organized pushup contests and relay races in the parking lot between sessions. After the conference, Travis’ father, Pastor Ben Thompson, thanked the speaker for his ministry but had questioned him on the PT contests.
The old soldier had laughed. “Pastor, you know that when you have two or more men together, they’re going to want some competition. Men are competitive by nature and the pushups and sprints were just a small way to engage them on a physical level so that they could engage on a spiritual level.”
Now, Chuck and Anthony are going to have a competition to see who can kill the most zombies, Travis thought with a grin.
The Zs had closed to a hun
dred and twenty yards, rushing towards what they hoped would be an easy meal.
“I’ll start on the left; you start on the right,” McCain said, raising his rifle.
His first shot hit one of the obese Zs just under the cowboy hat, puncturing his forehead. Anthony rushed his first shot and missed. His next round took one down, but his third round went wide of the mark.
Chuck’s first three pulls of the trigger exploded zombie heads before he missed one of the moving creatures. McCain adjusted, however, and quickly dropped two more. The corporal made a good shot on a fast-moving zombie and all was quiet again.
“Sorry, Marine,” Chuck grinned broadly. “Five to two. I think the old guy just took you to school.”
Anthony just shook his head in disgust. Every Marine is a rifleman and none of them take getting outshot gracefully.
“Okay, that was good shooting, but those things weren’t firing back at us, either. That changes the dynamics of any gunfight. I’d like to see how good you shoot when there’s lead coming at you from the other direction.”
Chuck nodded, unsnapping and removing the black kevlar helmet from his head. “You’re right. I did two tours with a Special Forces A Team in Afghanistan as a police liaison. I saw my share of return fire and it does change everything.”
The young corporal nodded at the big man with new respect. “Nice work, Chuck.”
The three men watched their surroundings for another ten minutes but no other zombies appeared. “Let’s head back,” McCain said. “Elizabeth and I need to hit the road.”
Hartwell, Georgia, Wednesday, 0830 hours
McCain stopped the pickup in front of two beautiful brick homes. Ridge Road was an isthmus that dead-ended into Lake Hartwell, a quarter of a mile further down. The two-story structure on the left was less than fifty yards from the lake and was where Anthony lived with his parents, Leroy and Betsy. Betsy was in the last stages of her fight with ovarian cancer. The zombie infestation and subsequent evacuation of much of the east coast had eliminated any possibility of Anthony’s mom receiving medical treatment for her disease.
When Iranian terrorists had unleashed the bio-terror virus on the United States eight months earlier, the American President had declared war on Iran and unleashed the full fury of the US military on that rogue nation. The war was over within weeks, with Corporal Anthony Robertson seeing significant combat as Tehran was leveled. When it was clear that the fighting was over and Iran would never be a threat again, Robertson had requested emergency leave to return to Georgia to be with his parents before his mom died.
Right after the corporal had gotten home, however, the last three big terror strikes had been launched. Atlanta, Washington, D.C., and New York City were hit by simultaneous car bombs and suicide bombers. The explosive devices had all been packed with the normal shrapnel of screws and ball bearings, but these bombs had also been loaded with the zombie virus and radioactive waste.
The attacks had killed thousands and created thousands of new zombies that swept up and down the east coast and westward, deeper into America. The communications and power grids went down a few weeks later, increasing the chaos as survivors tried to flee to safer areas. Police officers quickly abandoned their posts, choosing to get their own loved ones to safety. With no one to stop them, packs of zombies and bands of robbers now roamed the countryside, looking for victims to prey on.
With the loss of communications, Anthony was unable to contact the Marine chain-of-command to find out where he should report. Along with his father, Leroy, his friend, Travis, and Travis’ dad, Ben, the four men had kept watch on their neighbors’ homes, protecting them from both zombies and looters.
Travis had served as his father’s youth pastor at the Hartwell Community Church. The younger Thompson also ran one of the largest lawn care businesses in the area. Travis still lived with his parents across the street from the Robertsons. The Thompson’s home was also on the water on the opposite side of the narrow isthmus. His mother, Angela, helped care for Leroy’s wife, trying to make her last days as comfortable as possible.
Anthony and Travis opened the truck doors to exit the Tundra. The Marine held out his hand to Chuck. “Good luck, Mr. McCain. And congratulations on getting married.”
McCain smiled, shaking the young man’s hand. “Thanks Anthony. It was good meeting you. I’ll be praying for your mom. And for what it’s worth, I got lucky back there. I know that no one outshoots a Marine.”
Robertson laughed. “You sure did!”
Chuck and Travis shook hands, but Thompson lingered for a moment in the truck. “I’m sorry I missed a lot of shots back there, Mr. McCain. I got flustered and dropped a magazine while I was trying to reload. You and Anthony were both so smooth.”
McCain shook his head. “Nothing to apologize for, Travis. You did fine. Making head shots with an AK at that distance is tough for anyone, even with good optics. And remember, Anthony and I do this stuff for a living. The only advice I’d give is to practice, practice, practice. Use empty mags and work those reloads. It’ll get smoother, I promise.”
A hundred yards further up the road on the left was the Mitchell home where Chuck and Elizabeth had spent the previous two days. McCain pulled into the driveway, stopping in front of the house. The front door opened and Elizabeth rushed out, a concerned look on her face. She was dressed and ready to go in her gray cargo pants and black combat boots, with soft body armor over the outside of a green long-sleeve hoodie, bearing the logo of the Northeast Georgia Technical College where she had lived and worked as a guidance counselor and administrator.
Beth was wearing a 9mm Glock 19 pistol in a hip holster and her web gear, containing magazine pouches, a first-aid kit, and a flashlight, was strapped on over the body armor. A Smith & Wesson M&P AR-15 completed the package, hanging from a sling across the young woman’s chest.
Chuck’s wife of thirty-six hours had shoulder length light-brown hair, pulled back in a ponytail. She was a petite twenty-eight year old that McCain had rescued from kidnappers over a month before. After Chuck had killed the four murderers and would-be rapists and saved the young woman, they had sought cover in an abandoned house for almost three days as a vicious snow and ice storm blanketed the area. Elizabeth and Chuck had had a lot of time to talk as they waited for the storm to break. By the time McCain had finally gotten her back to the Northeast Georgia Technical College, where she lived with over eighty other survivors, the couple realized that they had fallen in love.
When Chuck had rescued Beth, he had been on his way to look for a clue as to where his daughter, Melanie, might be. She was dating Brian Mitchell, the young couple having met at the University of Georgia in Athens, where they were both students. When the zombie virus had been released on that school some months before, McCain was able to make sure that the couple fled before the campus fell to the infected.
Brian had driven Melanie to his parent’s beautiful lakeside home northeast of the small town of Hartwell. Chuck had last spoken to his daughter over three months earlier. As thousands of zombies were surging in every direction on the interstate system, McCain had urged Brian’s father, Tommy, to flee the area. Tommy had assured Chuck that they would be packing up and heading for his parent’s farm near Hendersonville, North Carolina. Melanie was supposed to have called her dad back with the address of where they were going, but the communication grid had failed.
Chuck and Elizabeth had found the Mitchell’s home on Monday, meeting Ben and Travis Thompson and Leroy and Anthony Roberts as they were manning a roadblock in front of their own residences. When McCain identified himself, Pastor Ben had given him an envelope with the address and a hand drawn map of where the Mitchells were going. Tommy Mitchell had also enclosed a key to his home in the envelope, as well.
As Beth and Chuck had sat in the sunroom, overlooking Lake Hartwell on Monday afternoon, McCain had gotten the courage to ask Elizabeth to marry him. Thankfully, she had enthusiastically said, ‘Yes!’ Pastor Ben had performed t
he wedding on Monday evening in a candlelit service in the Thompson’s living room.
“How’d it go?” Beth asked, opening the driver’s door of the pickup.
“We got ‘em all,” Chuck answered, exiting the vehicle. “At least, all that we saw. There were a lot more than the group you and I encountered driving up here on Monday. Remember those two really big Mexican zombies near that apartment complex?”
She shook her head. “I only remember there was a big one in a cowboy hat. I was kind of focused on getting us out of there.”
“That was one of them. I’m guessing we took out over forty Zs. Thankfully, when we leave, we’ll turn off before we get to that apartment complex. I mapped out a route where we’ll just skirt the downtown area of Hartwell. Then you’ll drive us around the east side of the lake into South Carolina on Highway 29.”
Beth nodded thoughtfully. “That seems like a long detour out of the way. Wouldn’t it be better to head back towards Lavonia and just jump on the interstate over there?”
“Yeah, you’re right, it’s longer, but I think it’s gonna be safer. We know Lavonia was completely overrun when those thousands of Zs swept through. We only saw a few on Monday when we got to Hartwell, except for that group near those crappy apartments down the road.”
Elizabeth accepted her new husband’s reasoning without a second thought. She was learning that in tactical matters, he was rarely wrong.
“Our packs are ready to go,” the young woman said, tugging a black stocking cap over her head. “They’re just inside the front door. I gathered up all the food that would fit in them and there was a pack of bottled water in the pantry that we can take with us.”