Dead America The Second Week (Book 12): Dead America, Heartland Pt. 5

by Slaton, Derek

  “Not much in the way of traffic,” Herrera reported. “You boys should have smooth sailing today.”

  “Ten-four,” Johnson came back. “But I have to admit, those sound like famous last words.”

  “In that case, I got a favor to ask of you now,” the Corporal said. “Something goes wrong today, it’s your job to make sure my last words are something more badass than that.”

  Johnson laughed. “You got it, buddy. Be safe.”

  Herrera replaced the CB to its holder as he headed into a residential neighborhood. The nose from their engines attracted dozens of zombies that quickly flooded the previously quiet street. He kept up a brisk pace, not wanting to run the risk of being slowed by a horde if they showed up in front of him.

  He got to the main turnoff and made a sharp right, and winced at the sound of some muffled yelling in the back. “My bad, fellas,” he muttered, “my bad.”

  He rumbled down the street, with hundreds of corpses coming out from every side street and yard. He sped up a little more, feeling the window of opportunity getting smaller with each creature that staggered into view. Zombies began to lunge towards the vehicle, only to bounce off of it. One reached out with its hand, only to have it ripped clean off by the front grill.

  The two stores were a block ahead on the right, one on either side of the road. Herrera pulled the CB back and changed the channel.

  “Okay, I’m taking the first one,” he said. “You guys set up across the street.”

  “On it,” came the reply from the other truck.

  The Corporal turned into the parking lot and noted it was sparsely populated, for now. There were only a few dozen roaming around, spread thin across the large area. There was even one attempting to push a shopping cart, with a cluster of them tangled in a series of carts in the return setup in the middle of the lot.

  Herrera quickly drove around to the back, parallel parking against the building. He made sure to leave enough room to be able to pull back out after this particular mission was complete. He grabbed his rifle off of the passenger’s seat and rolled down the window, climbing out to the roof. As he worked his way back to the container, a hand came up from the hole in the top.

  Gilbert grunted as he struggled to pull himself through the hole, so Herrera headed over and grabbed his arm to help him out.

  “Little reckless there, don’t you think?” the Private asked with a sour expression.

  Herrera glared at him. “You’re one to talk.” With the ex-Sergeant sufficiently subdued, the Corporal laid down and stuck his arm down in the hole. “Come on, let’s get you boys out.”

  Between the two of them, they helped the remaining five troops up onto the roof of the container. They also hauled up several duffel bags filled with ammunition. Once everyone was ready to go, they hopped over to the roof, which was only a few feet away but several feet up. The troops hoisted each other by lacing their fingers together and giving a leg-up.

  Herrera and Gilbert were the first two up top, and the Corporal turned to help the next soldier up.

  “Corporal,” Gilbert said from behind him.

  Herrera ignored him, reaching down to grab an arm.

  “Corporal!” Gilbert snapped. “You need to see this!”

  Herrera sighed as he finished pulling the last man up, and turned, heading over to the Private who stood at the front edge of the roof. “Yeah, what is it?”

  He froze at Gilbert’s side. In the time it had taken them to unload, the couple dozen zombies in the parking lot had exploded to several hundred, with a lot more coming up behind them.

  “Jesus,” he breathed.

  Gilbert rubbed his forehead. “Looks like the Captain’s plan worked.”

  “Looks like we have a lot of targets to take out,” Herrera said.

  The Private sighed. “Want me to get started?”

  “Have at it,” the Corporal said.

  Gilbert pulled out his rifle and took aim at one of the zombies in the cart return pen and fired. The creature slumped over into one of the carts, a rotted meal on wheels.

  “One down,” the Private muttered, “thousands to go.” He took aim and fired again, thinning another one from the herd. The troops joined him at the edge, fanning out in a line, taking a moment to gawk at the thickening horde as it began to cover the asphalt.

  Herrera joined them, taking a long look at the sight ahead. It was easily approaching a thousand zombies.

  He took aim and fired his first shot. This was going to be a long day.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Bill gently applied the brakes, slowing the massive vehicle towing eight boxcars behind it. The few straggler zombies that had managed to wander onto the train bridge were obliterated upon impact, evaporating into a fine red mist.

  The screeching of metal on metal screamed out over downtown Spokane, and floods of creatures congregated at below the bridge. As soon as the train lurched to a complete stop, Bill hit the button on his walkie talkie.

  “All right vehicles, you are clear for departure,” he said.

  Two box cars in the back unlatched their giant doors, the sides falling down to the ground to create a ramp. A pair of giant armored personnel carriers rolled out onto the bridge, heading up the shoulder towards the east.

  The lead one hit a grassy knoll, rolling down it rapidly to the street. It picked up speed, plowing through dozens of zombies attracted by the noise of the train. The creatures easily bounced off of the armored vehicles, some crunching beneath the strong wheels.

  As they peeled off down the street, the zombies slowly lumbered after them, drawn towards the rumbling engines. The APCs stopped at the next intersection to give them time to catch up, and then turned towards the apartment pickup zone to keep the bait fresh.

  The apartment complex came into view and the vehicles skidded to a stop out front. A giant marble table shoved out of the way and Copeland headed out to meet them.

  The driver of the lead vehicle popped his head out of the window. “Those things are a block behind us, headed our way.”

  “Then let’s not waste any time getting them on board,” Copeland replied, waving his hand.

  A few troops emerged from the backseats of the vehicles, running to the doors to assist helping people out through the jagged door hole.

  “We’ll handle it, Sergeant,” the driver said with a firm nod. “You do what you gotta do.”

  Copeland nodded and then slipped back inside, waving to his team. “We’re heading out the back,” he said. “Let’s move.”

  The quartet ran through the building, reaching the back exit quickly. They stopped and Copeland peeked through a slit in the door, seeing the tail end of a zombie line moving past the alleyway and out of sight. They sat for a few seconds, and he peeked again, noting one of the last stragglers catching up to the pack.

  He pulled out his walkie talkie as he gently closed the door. “Captain, this is Sergeant Copeland, come in.”

  A few moments passed before Kersey came back, “What’s your status, Sergeant?”

  “Civilians loaded up, my team is preparing to move,” Copeland replied. “My troops ready to rendezvous?”

  “The coast is clear,” Kersey said, “just waiting on your order.”

  Copeland nodded to his team. “Okay, preparing to move,” the Sergeant confirmed into the radio. “What’s the status on the Apache?”

  “In the air, just waiting on your signal,” the Captain confirmed. “He will be patched into this channel, so call it when you need it.”

  The Sergeant nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Please send the other troops to the intersection now.”

  “They’ll be there,” Kersey assured him. “Good luck, Sergeant.”

  Copeland put his walkie talkie away, and nodded to his men, who had their weapons checked and were ready to roll. They pushed through the back door silently, gently closing it behind them and stepping as lightly as they could to get to the edge of the building. Copeland peeked around the corner, n
oting that the last of the zombies were about twenty yards up the road, with none in the opposite direction.

  He lifted a hand and motioned for the trio to follow him, and they took off quickly through the street, down a block to the meeting point. As they approached the intersection, they kept their weapons at the ready, eyes all over, but there were no hostiles within range.

  Fifty men from the train moved quickly from the other side, stopping in the middle of the intersection.

  The Sergeant raised a hand to get everyone’s attention, and then began speaking quickly. “Listen up,” he said, keeping his voice level so they wouldn’t attract attention but that everyone could hear him. “Everybody on me, and stay on my ass. We’re gonna be moving quickly. Nobody fires until we get to the bridge. Last ten soldiers across, turn and defend it with everything you got, but listen for that Apache! Rest of you clear the island. Now let’s move!”

  He didn’t waste any time, turning on his heel and sprinting towards the bridge. His fifty-three man team followed suit, though a few struggled to keep up with the long strides of the giant Sergeant.

  As they ran the four blocks to the bridge over the river, several dozen zombies began to emerge from the side streets and alleyways, attracted by the sound of so many stomping feet on pavement. They staggered towards the main road, but weren’t fast enough to reach the troops tearing up the asphalt.

  As they approached the bridge, there were a dozen or so creatures milling about. They turned towards the horde of troops as their footsteps echoed towards them on the concrete, and began to stagger towards their hopeful human buffet.

  Rather than stop and shoot, Copeland lowered his shoulder and slammed into the first one he came across, delivering a linebacker type hit. The creature tumbled to the ground, the men behind the Sergeant dodging it and leaping over it as it struggled to get back up. One of the last ten soldiers in the line paused briefly to shoot it point blank before turning around in a defensive position.

  The bulk of the group rushed across the bridge, knocking any straggling zombies left or right out of the way for the final men to deal with in their defense of the area. It didn’t take long to get the whole force across to the other side, with the final ten men setting up their effective firing line overtop of scattered unmoving dispatched undead.

  As they took position, most of them blinked with eyes as wide as saucers at the several hundred zombies coming out of the woodwork to their location. One soldier began to fire, and then the rest shook out of their momentary reverie of fear to join them. Unlike the sharpshooters, however, many bullets hit torsos or even air, going high. The number of missed shots increased as the horde moved across the bridge, some of the men panic firing against the overwhelming force of nature headed their way.

  The men behind them scattered across the large open field that held a couple hundred zombies scattered about. Bullets flew as teams of five broke away and fanned out, systematically taking the corpses down. Two teams of five rushed off to the other two bridges jutting out on the other side to hopefully cut off other hordes from joining in the fight.

  Copeland led his team of four towards the pavilion to make sure there wasn’t a threat there as well. He kept his assault rifle raised and drew his walkie talkie, mashing the button.

  “Apache! Apache! Apache!” he demanded.

  There was a crackle as the pilot replied, “Inbound.”

  The Sergeant clipped his radio back to his belt, and gripped his rifle properly with two hands again as they reached the pavilion. It was a huge facility that could hold hundreds of people, and even more zombies who didn’t care about personal space or fire codes. Copeland’s biggest fear was that someone would have thought it would have been a good place for civilians to hide, only for it to go horribly bad. Clearing an island of zombies with fifty men would be hard enough without an undead convention in the middle of it.

  They rushed the bank of glass doors, a fair amount of movement inside. The Sergeant muttered obscenities under his breath, and picked up the pace.

  “This could be fuckin’ bad,” he grunted as he pumped his legs. He knew they wouldn’t be able to fire in that direction without risking shattering the glass, which would free god only knew how many creatures from within.

  Within ten yards of the doors, he noted that the ones in the middle were unlocked, and a few zombies were pressing against it. One of them managed to push against the latch bar, and it began to open.

  “I got the doors!” Copeland screamed, and barreled through a duo of corpses right next to the glass, slamming himself against the doors. He dug in his heels, pressing his forearms against the frames, holding the doors shut while simultaneously giving all of the corpses inside something to look for.

  The two zombies he blasted through regained their footing and took a step in his direction, but Dawson and Mack were on them instantly, shoving them to the ground and firing into their foreheads at point blank range.

  “We need to secure these doors!” Copeland bellowed, the effort of holding them shut beginning to show on his face as his forehead broke out in sweat.

  With nothing in the immediate vicinity that could help, Dawson pulled a handful of zip ties from one of his utility pockets. They were usually for securing prisoners, but he hoped they’d be enough to hold the door handles, at least for a little while. He looped five of them around the handles, which allowed the Sergeant to let off a little.

  Copeland slid down to the ground, letting out a deep breath as he relaxed. Moss and Mack jogged around the pavilion building, making sure the rest of the doors were locked up tight.

  “I think that’ll hold,” Dawson said as the others returned.

  Copeland nodded and huffed, “Long enough to get someone to watch them.”

  “All locked up on this side, Sarge,” Mack reported.

  Moss motioned with his gun. “Same on this side.”

  Dawson extended his hand to help Copeland to a standing, just as four troops came over the hill, foring into a group of zombies. After dropping the last few, they turned towards the quartet.

  “You okay, Sergeant?” one of them asked.

  Copeland nodded. “Yeah, I’m good,” he said, and pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “But I need you to watch this door.”

  They inspected the makeshift zip tie lock, and two of the soldiers immediately moved to put pressure on the doors to help hold them shut. The soldier who’d spoken turned and saluted his superior.

  “We’ll take care of it, Sergeant,” he said.

  “Thank you,” Copeland replied, and led his team out from the shadow of the pavilion. He looked out over the battlefield, over small squads of men moving around with purpose, executing every zombie they saw.

  Screams and the staccato of panic fire suddenly broke out, and the quartet turned in the direction of the bridge they’d come in on. The horde that had followed them was over a thousand strong at this point, and closing in on the edge of the island. The firing line of men began taking steps backwards to try to keep a safe distance.

  “Shit, they’re going to be overrun,” Dawson blurted, and raised his weapon. But before he could even move, the sound of helicopter blades echoed in the air, getting closer and closer.

  Copeland looked up, and the giant Apache gunship approached from the east. A second after he spotted it, he honed in on the missiles dropping from the sides.

  “Incoming!” he screamed, and the missiles whistled as they flew.

  Most of the bridge troops in the firing line began to fall back, but a few were so caught up in their fight that they didn’t register the noise. The Sergeant watched helplessly as a missile hit the bridge, sending a massive fireball thirty feet into the air, bodies of undead raining down into the river and the island grass.

  The men that didn’t get out of the way were knocked back, one of them catching a large piece of shrapnel in his shoulder, piercing through his vest like butter. As the smoke cleared, several zombies emerged from it, excitedly pu
rsuing the dazed soldiers who’d been closest to the blast.

  Dawson and Copeland rushed forward, opening fire on the staggering ghouls, hoping to draw the attention of other soldiers nearby to help. Their bullets mostly hit torsos instead of heads, but at least the impacts helped slow the ghouls long enough for the men on the ground to gather their wits and start helping in their own defense.

  One zombie reached the man with the shrapnel, and Copeland watched helplessly as the man kicked it off, slowing it just enough for one of his comrades to shoot it in the face. He finally got within range to accurately fire shots, clearing out the last remaining stragglers who’d made it on this side of the bridge.

  “Mack, go see if anybody needs medical attention,” Copeland said as he surveyed the area, the immediate threat eliminated.

  Mack waved to his companion. “Come on Moss, I can use a hand.”

  Moss glanced to the Sergeant, who gave him a nod, and the two men rushed out to check the fallen. As they went, explosions racked the air as the Apache took out the other bridges on the other side of the island.

  Dawson let out a long, ragged breath. “Looks like we’re officially cut off from the outside world.”

  Copeland offered him a big smile and clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, Corporal, let’s go help pick off the stragglers,” he said. “This island is ours.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Johnson and Baker walked across the bridge just outside of Verdale, enjoying the closest thing to a day off they’d had and probably would have for quite some time. As they walked, there was a random shot from one of the troops on the bridge, taking out a creature that had wandered out onto the interstate.

  “This…” Baker began, stretching his arms above his head and reveling in the crackle of his spine. “This is spectacular, ain’t it?”

  Johnson grinned. “Man, you ain’t kidding,” he agreed. “No trying to catch a nap in the boxcar of a moving train. No fighting off small town quarterbacks turned homicidal psychopaths. No hordes of the undead trying to make us dinner. Just a lovely stroll in the sunlight while others do the heavy lifting.”