Ethan turns to Gentarra. “It better be good.”
“WE’VE GOT MOVEMENT!” crackles in Travis’s earbud. He sweeps the area with his rifle. Mounted to the top, a computer screen shows the infrared layout of the building. No humanoid shapes, only the cold, blue outline of structures. Warm red flashes.
Can’t be a vector. I spotted orange and red. People. Live people. Travis raises his right hand and balls his fist to signal his team to freeze. We need all the live people we can get. Or at least we don’t need to turn any more into undead.
He waves his arm, giving silent commands. Two soldiers break off and circle around the building. Travis secures his lower body against the concert wall. “US Military! We’re collecting survivors. We offer you safe haven.” If conscription’s safe.
The empty air hangs heavy around him. No matter what, I can’t get used to the quiet. No power wire hum. No passing cars. No dogs barking. Nothing. A dead world. “We offer food. Shelter!”
“Sir, why won’t they answer?”
“Would you trust, if you’d been out here for ten months?” If they won’t come in, we’ll have to push them outside the wall.
“Orders, Sir?”
I get we don’t need rats behind our wall, but they don’t have to be conscripted. “Same as they were yesterday,” Travis calls out again. “We are the US Military. We’re here to help.”
No answer.
“We push them out, so the construction crew can move the fence through.”
Gunfire.
Short, quick burst from an M16.
My troops. Fuck, I hope they aren’t killing the living. Travis signals for two men to remain and cover this position, while he moves the squad toward the noise.
He rounds the corner. His two soldiers stand over three dead vectors.
“SITREP.”
“One of the living ran across here to that building, and before we could follow, these three popped out.”
Trap? They’ve no trust for us. Ten to one they assume we abandoned them. “Fan out. There could be more vectors.”
“What about the people, Sir?”
“They’re free to move past the line.” Travis stops in front of the door. He leans his head in to amplify his words. “If you don’t want to go back with us, it’s your right. We’re clearing this area. Anyone unauthorized, once we build the fence, will be fired upon. Come back with us or head north.”
Any port in the storm, even if the storm means permanent military enlistment.
In the dark of the building, a shape lumbers forward. Travis glances at the scope. The being displays red and orange. “We need help.”
The person moves close enough to reveal a feminine shape. “You’re building a wall?”
“Across the state. Once complete, it will be a vector-free safe zone. We’ll focus on retaking more of America back from the undead.”
“What do you do with us?” she asks.
Unsure if she’s scared, bait in a trap, or slow, he keeps the barrel of his rifle high enough to put a bullet in her abdomen. It won’t kill her immediately.
“Nothing. Unless you come with us.”
“Is there a price? Every time someone promises safety, they require something.”
I guess we do too. “If you come with us, you’re expected to join the military. No one can be a civilian anymore.”
“What do you mean? My friends. We’re tired. I don’t have much fight left.”
“No one can sit on the sidelines. We’re at war with the undead. We’ll feed you, clothe you and give you a warm bunk. You’ll join and train and become soldiers. Everyone’s a soldier now.” Travis uses the voice Hannah once cooperated with before her tween years.
Whispers. Out of Travis’s earshot.
“What if we don’t want to be soldiers?” another voice asks.
“Head north past Highway 75. You can live how you want.”
“Are you taking it back?”
“America. We are.”
“Colonel Travis, the brass isn’t happy their expert in dealing with vectors is out in the field leading a search and tag platoon.”
“You forget your place and my rank,” Travis snaps. Damn newbies. Putting the civilians in uniforms doesn’t make them soldiers.
“Sorry, Sir.” The Private snaps to a salute.
“Do you have a report for me, Private?”
“I was ordered to bring you to the temporary command center, Sir.”
“Get these people to processing. And give them a few days to recover before you put them into basic training. Many we recover have endured more than we’ll ever have to.”
“I fought the vectors, Sir,” the Private adds.
“You have to shoot your mother? Your child? Scavenge for food? Starve? Run for days? No. We’ve had full supplies and gear, remember that those people fought with nothing.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Travis slips into a jog. His team escorts five people, emaciated and in garb, making them impossible to discern from the undead. The Private directs the civilians to a tent.
Lieutenant Browns salutes Travis. “Sir, honored.”
“They’ve kept you close to the brass since we abandoned Fort Wood.”
“They’ve scattered all the troops from Fort Wood to less experienced units. They think we were out there chopping up vectors on a daily basis.”
“We were as protected as they were on their ships.”
“At least they’re listening to you about retaking the land, Sir.”
“I’m moving too slow. But if vectors get past us, then we’ve no safe space,” Travis says.
“Miami will be difficult.”
“I’m cutting it along the same latitude as the highway. And building a fence along the south edge. We move in and clean out block by block, building by building, room by room. Then we have a land base. The troops will love to get off the ships.”
“The brass supports you. Then demand it’s completed faster,” Lt. Browns says.
“Tell them to get off their asses and lend a hand. Five more men and we put up twenty more feet of fence a day. The city needs troops to guard both sides as the team places barriers.”
“Travis. We’ve been through a lot since Afghanistan. I followed your orders and have never spoken about Hannah.”
Is this the blackmail speech? “I’ve always trusted you, Browns.”
“There’s been an earthquake.”
“Where?”
“Missouri. The epicenter under Caruthersville in the Boot Heel.”
“What was the magnitude?” Travis asks.
“8.1.”
Travis soaks in the information. “They would have felt it in St. Louis. In 1812, it rang church bells in Canada.”
“Travis. Sir.”
“I’ve no means to do anything for her.”
“I was informed there was a Military base near Memphis still in operation.”
“I thought Fort Wood was our Alamo,” Travis says.
“They’ve lost contact with the base. You’re to lead a team to check it out.”
“Why?”
“You’re experienced in the field. I thought you should know before they brief you.”
Travis pats Browns on the shoulder. “Glad I pulled you out of that foxhole, my friend.”
In the makeshift command center, cramped with computer stations, two other Full Bird Colonels examine a map of the lower Mississippi River valley.
Travis never met these men before. Most of the officers he encounters lack field experience. Too many chiefs and not enough Indians.
“Colonel Travis. You’re quite the cowboy.”
“Have we met, Sir?” Travis asks.
“No. Colonel Wilde, and this is Colonel Patterson. We’ve been assigned to accelerate your progress.”
“The brass isn’t too happy with you having your boots on the ground. You’re their most experienced officer when it comes to dealing with the vectors,” Colonel Patterson says.
�
��I sat in an office while good soldiers and helpless civilians were butchered. I won’t stand by again,” Colonel Travis says.
“In the last week, you’ve only advanced a fourth of a mile.”
“It’s a mess for sure. First and foremost is the safety of my teams. People are a vanishing resource. Each one I lose only makes the enemy stronger,” Travis says.
“We’re aware. You’re relieved of this operation,” Colonel Wilde says.
Oh, hell no. You desk jockeys will risk my men needlessly for a better status report. Heinlein was onto something when he suggested officers only rise from the ranks of the enlisted. “Sir?”
“We’ve been able to keep several spy satellites functioning and under our control. We’ve set this one to pass over the ground quake’s suspected epicenter,” Colonel Patterson explains. “We get a flyby every four hours. These photos show how a few vectors have gathered, and more pour in, attracted to the central point of the quake.”
“Epicenter?” Travis feigns knowledge of the tremor. Officially, he has none.
“Were you not informed?” Colonel Patterson asks.
“No. I’ve been in the field.” Being a soldier.
“The New Madrid fault line activated. The initial quake registered an 8.1. Subsequent aftershocks have been less frequent. Some of our scientists speculate a much larger quake is building, like in December of 1811 and again in late January 1812, which is beneficial to us,” Colonel Patterson says.
Not to the poor, living survivors.
“Much of the Ohio River valley has leveled. A second massive quake will eliminate most of the structures west of the Mississippi,” Colonel Wilde continues, placing picture after picture of the same location, only in each image, more and more vectors arrive. “We estimate, on this growth, there will be two million soon. Even those on the east side of the Mississippi are drowning themselves to get across.”
“It’s the noise. Earthquakes generate a frequency humans can’t hear,” Colonel Patterson adds.
“Do we have a seismologist to analyze this data?” Travis asks, picking up the last picture. “How many more aftershocks will occur?”
“They’ll diminish, and those vectors on the outskirts will return to milling about until something else grabs their attention, scattering, and we lose this opportunity,” Colonel Wilde says.
“Or they’ll stay as a herd of millions. Their march in any direction will devastate the landscape. Nothing will be left to restore when we finally reach this section of the country,” Travis says.
“We’ve considered options. Fire a ballistic missile from one of our subs and eliminate the threat,” Colonel Wilde says.
“We can’t nuke a fault line,” Travis says.
“We’ll never get another chance to take out so many vectors in one shot,” Colonel Patterson says.
“You launch a tactical nuke at a fault line, it will activate the fault. You could set off every fault line in the country all the way to California, and even some we don’t know about,” Travis says.
“The seismologists are examining the data, but there’s little danger of the bombs activating the fault line unless the explosions occur underground,” Colonel Wilde says.
“We could drop thermite and cluster bombs. Burn the fuckers out,” Travis suggests.
“It’s a lot of fuel with little support.”
“We lost contact with the base at Memphis. Part of it has burnt, but satellite photos show intact fuel tanks and support buildings,” Colonel Wilde says.
“I remind you gentlemen of the reports of the Russians using nukes in the first days. Now they have a plague of radiated vectors roaming the countryside. Those undead caught in the blast won’t die from radiation. They’ll scatter and destroy the countryside. You’re also contaminating a major source of fresh water that flows into the Gulf of Mexico. The jet stream will carry radiation to the New England states. You’ll contaminate half the country. The half we’re working to retake.”
“A herd of millions of walking dead people will destroy half the country,” Colonel Wilde says.
“The superswarm is across an unfordable river. It remains a natural barrier. And ones east are being drawn to the Mississippi River. From St. Louis on down, the water is becoming a mass of corpses.” Colonel Patterson says, “General Powel has authorized us to eliminate this threat. You’ve the experience, Travis. Where do we go from here?”
“Bomb New Madrid. Two B-2 Spirits should eliminate the threat.”
“Excuse us, Colonel.”
Travis examines each picture, waiting for the pair to return. He hopes they authorize his Blackhawk option.
“If I had known it was going to be fifteen minutes, I’d have used the head,” Travis says.
“Sorry, Colonel. We were checking the seismologist’s data,” Colonel Wilde says.
“General Powel worries about activating the fault line with conventional bombs. And jet fuel is at a premium. The base at Memphis has a stockpile of napalm.
“Send Blackhawks. They refuel. Bomb the undead, return to the base and refuel again before heading back to the Gulf,” Travis says.
“Burn them out. Even if they spread fire, it lacks radiation,” Colonel Patterson says.
“Better to utilize the napalm on the vectors and not have any accidents or civilians who might loot the base,” Colonel Wilde says.
“Colonel Travis, the base has a scientist. We need him here. He has vital information about the vectors. Search the base, recover him and return, post haste.”
“This brainiac have a name?”
“Dr. Ellsberg.”
“Lt. Browns, will the helicopter crews be loyal to me?” Travis asks. He and his once trusted aide speak in the open field next to the tents.
“I’m attempting to get the roster. They’re going to send a carrier to the mouth of the Mississippi River. From there, the choppers will move north to Memphis. They’ve the fuel to travel a few hundred miles more. You’re expected to refuel at the base after you load cargo nets with the napalm.”
“That’s a gamble,” Travis says.
“More like a bad video game.”
“If the fueling tanks at the base are damaged, the crews won’t return, even if they complete the mission. Do the men know this? It should be a volunteer assignment.”
“They won’t warn them,” Lt. Browns says.
“What’s the logic?”
“There’s no logic in any of this, Sir. The base went dark. The earthquake drew millions of vectors from the city north, and they overran the base. The main structure burnt to the foundation with some evidence of civilians looting. The Marines stationed there stood valiant. Some made a run for the Desoto Bridge to escape into Arkansas. Satellite shows Humvees reaching that far.”
“The quake will have thinned many undead. We land and refuel with little vector interaction.” Travis plots his mission in his head.
“They can’t cross the Mississippi River.”
“No. They’ll move into it. But it will take a lot more than an earthquake to pull them back. Even our choppers might not be loud enough if we move now. I need my crew on my helicopter.”
“What if they get orders to shoot you down?” Browns asks.
“I’m counting on being across the Mississippi by then with a reason to do a fly-by inspection.”
“Order them back, say you’re remaining in a hover to check something, give yourself a good head start before they figure out you’re not returning,” Browns suggests. “Colonel, what if I go search for your daughter? That way you can order the other choppers not to fire.”
“Her location’s classified. I can’t. If this goes south, I don’t want those survivors, or her, at risk.”
“And not bringing your daughter back here is safer?” Browns asks.
“I trust you, but there’s no prize in it for you to do this. You should remain here. Have those soldiers on my chopper be my people. I wouldn’t ask anyone else to face a court-martial. Under our new Juni
ta, I’m sure we’d face a firing squad.”
THE ANCIENT, WOODEN, high back chair reeks of piss and dead blood. The men dig handcuff bracelets into Chad’s wrists. They take turns punching him in the face.
Chad spits blood. “You didn’t even ask me a question.”
“This isn’t about information.”
The two men drive fists into his stomach.
“What we have here is a way to operate, and you’ll conform.”
“I’ll conform. There’s no need to…”
They punch him again.
Chad feels his pants fill with warm wetness. “I gave in when we ran across your men. I ended my friend. We don’t want trouble—just to be safe.”
“We all want to be safe. But we need you to understand if you don’t follow the rules, the next beating will be before the group. And I’ll make it the old man.”
The two men uncuff Chad. As they drag him from the room, Walter winks at him as they force him into the chair.
Protect the baby.
They toss him in a holding cell. Chad skitters across the rock floor, landing next to an older woman in a blood-dotted, white dress and a gash in her forehead. “They beat women here?” He doesn’t bother to adjust the crumpled heap he’s become.
“Not yet. I was in a car accident. They interrogated my companion and tossed me in here. You smell like piss.”
Chad’s voice changes with the swelling of his jaw. “I was informed of the rules. We don’t follow them, and they’ll beat them into us.”
“It’s not all. Sex is one form of currency here.”
Ethan never allowed rape. Chad clinches his stomach.
“Not quite rape. It’s all willing, but if you need certain items, then sexual favors become mandatory.”
“How do you know, if you’ve been locked in here?”
“They informed me of my options to get out faster,” she says.
“I take it you choose to remain chaste?”
“Spreading my legs for survival’s not an issue for me, but not for some low-level perfunctory,” she says. “You’ve a name?”
Don’t say anything about your community. “Chad.”
No Room In Hell (Book 3): Aftershocks Page 32
