by David Spell
Ramirez heard footsteps and saw two sets of legs approaching him. They were wearing camo pants and combat boots. More gunshots rang out from the direction that he’d come, just as a young white soldier cautiously stuck his head inside the vehicle, pointing a gun at him. When the soldier saw that he wasn’t a threat, Israel felt himself being released from the seatbelt and gently pulled out of the shattered pickup truck.
After hearing the automatic gunfire, Lieutenant Colonel Clark had led his three hummers to the corner of Brookhaven Road and Peachtree Road, where they could get a better view of what was happening. Less than a minute after getting in position, a white Dodge Pickup came racing into view, several hundred yards south of them.
“I’m guessing he’s the rabbit,” Sergeant Jackson commented over their headsets.
“I think you’re right, Sarge,” the colonel agreed. “I wonder who’s chasing him?”
At that moment, the cartel’s two military vehicles burst into view, their top-mounted machine guns blazing at the fleeing pickup. The nine National Guard soldiers did a double take. Were these comrades of theirs chasing a bad guy? In seconds, however, the fluttering Mexican flags attached to the captured humvees signed the gang members’ death warrants.
“They’re flying Mexican flags!” First Sergeant Gonzalez exclaimed over the intercom.
Clark had no idea of the cartel’s presence in Buckhead but he knew that American soldiers would never fly the flag of a foreign nation on their vehicles. He also knew that many government vehicles and weapons had been lost during the bio-terror attacks.
“Light ‘em up,” the colonel ordered his two machine gunners.
Immediately, .50 caliber and 5.56mm rounds ripped into the two hummers. Clark’s team also had a grenade launcher mounted on one of their vehicles, but its ammo was limited and it was only for use in the most extreme of situations. The machine gunner on the lead cartel vehicle managed to get off one last burst before a .50 caliber round blew his right arm off at the shoulder. The dying man collapsed back inside the hummer.
The colonel and his troops watched in horror as the fleeing Dakota pickup was struck and lost control, flipping and rolling over multiple times. The lead Mexican humvee had been targeted by Corporal Whitmer and his Browning .50 caliber machine gun. Besides taking out the machine gunner, one of the over two-inch long, half-inch wide projectiles had also struck the driver, Melon, in the head, exploding it and removing it from his shoulders, splattering DC and the Mexicans in the back seat with blood and brain matter.
Driverless, DC’s hummer veered to the right, jumped the curb, and went airborne into the parking lot of the Brookhaven MARTA station. The parking lot of the Metro-Atlanta Transit Authority was half full of abandoned vehicles whose owners had been downtown after the bombs had infected the city weeks before. The out-of-control humvee slammed into a red Ford Mustang, knocking the sports car into a gray Volvo wagon parked next to it.
Private Jason Pearson, Sergeant Jackson’s gunner in the third National Guard hummer focused the fire of his M249 light machine gun on the second cartel vehicle. The 5.56mm rounds tore through the unarmored body of the humvee, striking all four occupants. Their machine gunner was struck twice in the left leg, ripping open his femoral artery, and spraying the interior of the vehicle in red.
The Mexican driver of the stolen military vehicle tried to take evasive action to get out of the line of fire. He saw a driveway to his left, a Bank of America, and jerked the steering wheel in that direction, hoping to turn around and flee back to the safety of the cartel-controlled area.
The wounded man was going too fast, however, and his own wounds slowed his reaction time down. As he attempted the left turn into the bank parking lot, both right tires struck the curb, throwing the hummer into the air and onto its side. The vehicle slid to a stop directly in front of the bank.
“Gonz, set up your hummer in the middle of the street so Merchant can cover both directions with the grenade launcher,” Clark ordered over the radio. “You and Long check on that pickup. See if there’s anybody alive in there. Jackson and Pearson check the hummer by the bank, me and Whitmer will take the one across the street. After we secure the scene, let’s police it up. We’ll take all the guns and make sure no one else can use those humvees.”
First Sergeant Gonzalez’s driver, Private Lawrence Long, parked in the middle of Peachtree Road, allowing Private Merchant to swing his Mk 19 grenade launcher in either direction if they were attacked. Gonzalez and Long rushed over to the overturned Dodge Dakota. Lawrence carefully poked his head inside, his M-16 ready if needed.
“One male, First Sergeant, hanging from his seatbelt,” the private said, as he pulled his head out of the pickup’s cab. The young soldier lowered his voice. “He opened his eyes and looked at me but he’s in bad shape.”
It took both of the men to get the injured driver out of the truck. Gonzalez stood and called Sergeant Jackson’s driver, Corporal Lisa Scott, on the radio and asked her to join them. She was the team’s medic, having just earned her emergency medical technician certificate before things started falling apart.
“Sergeant Gonzalez, he wants to talk to you,” Private Lawrence said, still kneeling beside the small Hispanic man.
Single gunshots echoed around the empty intersection as the rest of the National Guard troops secured the scene. Securing the scene meant that every criminal, even those who were clearly dead, received a bullet to the head. Clark’s team was not taking any chances on any of their foes coming back as zombies.
Gonzalez bent down next to the dying man. He had a gaping wound where a machine gun bullet had hit him in the back and exited near his right shoulder. Blood was seeping out of the side of his mouth and there was no telling what type of internal injuries he had sustained in the crash.
A weak hand grabbed the first sergeant’s sleeve and the young man’s eyes opened. He began speaking rapidly in Spanish, with an intensity that surprised Gonzalez. After listening for thirty seconds, the sergeant realized that he was getting some very important intelligence information. Ricardo grabbed for the small notebook he kept in his cargo pocket and started writing, not wanting to miss what he was hearing.
Corporal Scott came running up, her medical kit slung over her shoulder. The young blonde soldier started assessing the injured man, even as he kept talking to Gonzalez. In the middle of a sentence, however, Israel grunted, exhaled, and was dead.
Sergeant Gonzalez sat back on his haunches, stunned by what he had just heard. Lisa started CPR, hoping to bring the dead man back. She had taken the time to put on rubber gloves and she only performed chest compressions on him, the zombie virus making the breathing component of CPR a scary task. After several minutes, however, he was still dead and the young corporal stopped her attempts to revive him. She sighed, dropping her bloody gloves on his chest.
In ten minutes, the two enemy humvees had been set on fire and the National Guard convoy was heading north, back to their home base. All of the enemies’ weapons had been confiscated and the bodies left in the vehicles to be consumed by the fire. Eight zombies, drawn by the noise of gunfire and the car crashes, had quickly been eliminated by Clark’s team.
Buckhead, Atlanta, Wednesday, 1630 hours
Jorge Quintero had not seen Antonio “Tony el Tigre” Fernando Corona manifest that much anger in a long, long time. After hearing his lieutenant’s report, the cartel leader cursed in Spanish and English for a full five minutes before flipping over the heavy glass coffee table, spilling a half-consumed plate of rice, beans, and tortillas onto the carpet, along with an open bottle of beer and two empties.
Corona walked towards the balcony, pausing in the dining room, breathing deeply. A cherry wood cabinet containing expensive china stood against the wall. The previous owners of this apartment had impeccable taste, Antonio had noted more than once. Without warning, he grabbed the side of the tall cabinet, wrenched it forward and released more of his stress as the glassware and china broke into a th
ousand pieces on the hardwood flooring.
Tony the Tiger spun around, eyes blazing, and pointed a finger at Jorge. “Kill them. Those two sentries failed you, me, all of us. Slowly, painfully, make them an example for the others.”
Jorge paused before answering. “No, señor. We can’t kill them.”
The cartel leader crossed the room in two strides and stood eye-to-eye with his second-in-command, a furious expression on his face.
“What did you say?” he roared. “How dare you tell me ‘No!’”
Quintero knew how far he could push, even as he smelled the beer and the spicy food on his boss’ breath. He had earned the right to say ‘no’ once and then try to explain his position. He also knew that if Antonio issued the order again to kill the two men, Jorge would go and have them executed immediately.
“Señor, you ordered me not to kill any more of our men because they did something stupid. You said we don’t have any soldiers to spare. I beat them really bad already. I punished them. Juan’s arm is broken and Rafael’s jaw is dislocated and I knocked out some teeth. Plus, we lost an eight-man patrol. If we execute Rafael and Juan, we’ll be down ten men.
“Forgive me, Jefe, but they didn’t know any better. The little traitor, Ramirez, has borrowed vehicles before with my permission so this wasn’t unusual. They shouldn’t have been drinking while they were working, but most of our men are usually drunk or stoned so that’s hard to enforce.
“My suggestion, señor, is that we tell everyone that you were going to have them executed, but after hearing the whole story you graciously decided to let them live. Everyone is expecting them to be put to death but we really do need every soldier. If you let them live, it’ll inspire even more loyalty in the rest of the men.”
Corona continued to stare into Jorge’s eyes, processing what he had just heard. After a few minutes, he backed up and sat down heavily on the sofa, motioning for Quintero to sit, as well. Antonio exhaled and nodded at Jorge.
“Very well, I’ll accept your recommendation. But you let them know that if they screw up again, I’ll turn them into zombies.”
“Gracias, señor,” Quintero said.
“Tell me what you think happened up there,” Antonio changed the subject. “You said our two humvees had been stripped and torched?”
“Sí, Jefe, I think the military did it.”
“The military? The National Guard hasn’t shown us anything. Those black gangsters who joined us said that they killed some of the soldiers and the zombies killed some more. The Americans don’t want to use their regular military because it goes against some of their laws. That’s just another reason why they’re so stupid and we can’t be stopped!”
Jorge shrugged. “We found .50 caliber machine gun casings and 5.56mm brass laying in the street. I know that the gringo citizens love their guns but I don’t think too many people outside the army have .50 cals. Our vehicles were shot to pieces. Whoever hit us took everything. They carried away all of the guns and set the hummers on fire. The bodies were pretty messed up by the time we got there but it looks like the soldiers executed our people by shooting them in the head.”
“And you said Ramirez was dead when you got there?” Corona asked.
“Sí, he was lying in the middle of the road. The truck he stole was upside down and he’d been shot in the back.”
“So, he could’ve talked to the gringos and told them about the virus?”
“I suppose, señor,” Quintero conceded, “but it really doesn’t matter. We know that the Americans will come eventually. That’s why you were wise when you said we needed every man. We’re going to have to fight the gringo federales or maybe some SWAT teams but I think it’ll be a while. They’re still busy fighting the zombies. Maybe we should send back to Tijuana and ask for more men?”
Tony the Tiger looked thoughtful, his earlier fit of rage over. He currently had close to two hundred gang members with differing levels of skill and experience. In his heart of hearts, he knew that in a prolonged siege with the American law enforcement or their military machine, he would eventually be defeated. He was embarrassed to have to ask his uncle for more men, but he knew how to frame the request so that his Uncle Pepe would give him whatever he wanted.
“Put together a small team, maybe six or eight good soldiers. You handpick them and send them to Pepe. I’ll write a letter for them to give him. When my uncle hears how much we’ve already accomplished and how this city is ours for the taking, he’ll send us an army. Let’s also send him ten of the women. Uncle Pepe has a soft spot for gringo women.”
“Bueno,” said Jorge, with a knowing smile. “We only have the one hummer left. Should we let them take it back to Tijuana?”
“No! That is my personal humvee,” Antonio said. “Pack the girls into a van and send an SUV with them. The gringo police are still active in some states and it would be better not to attract attention.”
The stolen hummer was the one that the black gangster, DC, had presented to the cartel leader. It was armored and had a light machine gun mounted in the turret. Corona would keep the military vehicle handy in case he needed to make a quick exit.
“No problem, señor. We have plenty of SUVs and vans to choose from. I’ll go put a team together. When do you want them to leave?”
“First thing in the morning. Make sure that everybody you pick can drive. I don’t want them to stop except to piss. If they drive hard, they’ll be home by Friday afternoon. And if Uncle Pepe moves fast, we could have some reinforcements here by next week.”
CHAPTER THREE
The Thin Blue Line
East side of Lake Hartwell, South Carolina, Wednesday, 1120 hours
There had been no more surprises as Elizabeth and Chuck drove around the large man-made lake. McCain hoped to make it to the Foster’s house before dark and to spend the night with them. Karen Foster was a nurse who taught Practical Nursing at the Northeast Georgia Technical College and was one of Elizabeth’s best friends. Karen had asked Chuck if he would make a detour on his trip to check on her parents and let them know that she was OK.
McCain had no desire to make any unnecessary stops, but he also had trouble telling beautiful women, ‘no.’ Karen was attractive but, more importantly, she and Beth were close. And Chuck owed her. Karen had nursed the big man back to health several weeks before, after he had been shot in the hip during an attack on the technical college campus. This detour was the least McCain could do after Foster explained that she hadn’t spoken to her folks in months. The Fosters had no idea if their daughter was even still alive, and Karen wasn’t sure if her parents had survived, either. Chuck had a letter from the nurse which he and Elizabeth would hand-deliver.
If the Fosters were still alive and their home was secure, Beth and he would ask to spend the night there. If everything continued to go well, they would be at the Mitchell’s farm and reunited with Melanie sometime tomorrow. But they still had a long way to go.
“We’ll be coming to a big intersection in less than a mile,” McCain let his wife know. “You’ll be turning left onto Highway 187. It’s a five-lane highway, running through whatever little town this is.” He glanced down at the map pages laying on his lap. “West Gate. For about a mile we’re going to be running the gauntlet of shopping centers, convenience stores, and restaurants.”
Elizabeth made the turn and they were both surprised at the lack of looting damage, and seeing nothing to indicate that zombies had swept through. They saw no broken windows, abandoned cars, bodies, or anything else to let them know that there were infected in the area. Even more surprising, the homes they passed weren’t boarded up and actually looked like people were still living in them.
“Now what?” Beth asked.
“Just ahead we’ll cross part of the lake. It looks the bridge is about a mile long. If we get into any trouble on the bridge, we’ll turn around and go back the way that we came, OK?”
Chuck made eye contact with Elizabeth in the rear view mirror. He
could see the uncertainty in her eyes, but she nodded. “Got it.”
Unlike the stretch of road that they had just traveled, there were several vehicles scattered across the bridge. They had to slow down and maneuver around them, Chuck suddenly realizing that they been parked in such a way to force approaching cars do exactly what they were doing: slow down as they were funneled into…what? he wondered. At least the vehicles all looked empty, he noticed gratefully.
Halfway over the bridge, he understood. A roadblock consisting of two police cars and two armed, uniformed officers awaited them.
“Not again!” Beth exclaimed. “What should I do?”
Maybe these were actual good guys, McCain hoped. Chuck and Beth were committed now. Backing up through the serpentine of cars would be difficult, especially if the two officers started shooting at them.
“You know the drill. Hands up, smile, and be prepared for fight or flight. I’ll get out and introduce myself.”
The Tundra stopped twenty-five yards from the two South Carolina State Patrol cruisers and the two young, fit men in their gray trooper uniforms, both holding rifles. One of them raised a bullhorn to his mouth.
“You in the truck, no sudden moves. Turn the vehicle off and step out with your hands up!”
McCain had already removed his rifle and helmet, but slipped his Glock back into the holster. He wasn’t leaving his pistol in the car again.
“You wait here, I’ll be right back,” he said, with a confidence that he didn’t really feel.
As he exited the pickup, he withdrew his badge and ID packet from his pocket, raised both hands, and stepped forward to meet the officers. These two didn’t fit the stereotype of fat, rural troopers, McCain noted. One white, one black, both muscular, their AR-15s pointed at him and Beth.