by Dave Lund
If we stay here we’ll die. If we leave we’ll die. But if we leave we might find other survivors; we might have a chance to help someone.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy coin, his team’s challenge coin, and set it on the desk. “Always Faithful, Always Forward.”
We have to go.
Aymond looked at the map and flipped through the pages; sunlight filtering in from the high windows was the only light in the room. The generators ran dry of fuel on the thirteenth day after the attack, or as they were calling it, Z-Day.
Z-Day. Fucking zombies … out of all the things to give a single fuck about in this world it had to be zombies.
He set the pages against each other and lined them up, tracing a line south towards San Diego. Aymond unfolded an old California driving atlas that they’d found in an abandoned vehicle near the camp housing and traced the route with his finger.
Dammed near five hundred miles … five hundred miles. Three fuel stops if we can keep things rolling well … but it never rolls well; I have to plan for five stops. How long will that take? How long will I be able to keep the guys safe?
“Hammer. Get your ass over here!”
Ryan Hammer left his half-assembled M-4 on his cot and walked to the Chief’s desk.
“Ryan, get your squad and sweep the immediate area then pull the sentries. Have everyone in here in an hour for a team meeting. Everyone.”
Hammer nodded, quickly assembled his M-4, and left to carry out his orders.
CHAPTER 5
SSC, Ennis, TX
March 2, Year 1
Chivo helped remove the catheter as gently as they could, which was still an exceptionally uncomfortable task for Bexar. Not solely because a section of tubing was being pulled out of his penis, but that another man was holding his dick while pulling a tube out of it, and Bexar could only grip the bedrails and grit his teeth. Eventually he was unhooked from all the monitoring equipment and freed from the hospital bed. Chivo pointed to a chair with a pile of clothes. Brand new ACUs, Riggers belt, t-shirt, underwear and socks, and a new pair of boots. His green blanket poncho and shemagh sat on the table next to Bexar’s AR-15, his pistol, big CM Forge knife and his go-bag. All of his gear appeared to have been cleaned and the pistol and rifle were loaded with a round in the chamber.
Chivo helped Bexar stand and shakily take the few steps to the chair where his new wardrobe awaited.
“Thank you Chivo … means goat, right? That can’t be your real name.”
“It’s real enough,” Chivo replied with a hint of a smile.
Bexar had to use the table to steady himself while dressing, threading the nylon belt through his belt loops.
“Wait, I remember now, you cut through my heavy SOE belt. This thing is a piece of crap.”
“Well mang, this will have to do. We did save your ass, you know.”
Bexar gave Chivo a half-hearted smile. A few moments later the stiff new boots were laced tight, his pistol holstered on his hip, and the big knife on his belt. Bexar slung his AR across his chest.
“Standing rule,” Chivo said, “you will always be armed. Keep your shit clean, keep it loaded, and keep it on safe or holstered and always be ready.”
“Ready for anything, ready to work, play, etc. … yeah, got it.”
“Whatever, just try not to overdo it. The stitches in your leg are still healing and a shit-ton of good it would do you to pop them now.”
Chivo handed Bexar a large plastic bottle. Bexar turned it over and read the label: “Norco?”
“Yeah, take two now and use them as needed. Just don’t take more than four a day and you’ll be healed up soon.”
Bexar did as he was told before dropping the pill bottle into his go-bag. The levity of getting him out of bed and dressed fell away from Bexar like a curtain had been drawn. Keeley, Jessie, his whole family was dead. Malachi is dead. Jack is dead. All the people whom he loved, all the people he’d promised to protect were dead. Bexar took a deep breath, fighting back the urge to cry. Push it down, bury it deep … sorrow, love, and pain are luxuries that are no longer afforded in the new world.
Bexar limped behind Chivo, out of the infirmary and into a brightly lit corridor that could have been the hallway of any corporate office in America. Ten minutes later Bexar was shown where his bunk was and where the mess hall was located. The tour ended in the command room where the President, another woman, and two other men he didn’t know stood. All of them wore mismatched military clothing, they were all armed, and they all huddled around a large glass table top that looked like a computer screen.
CHAPTER 6
MWTC
March 2, Year 1
The remaining members of the MSOT huddled around the Chief’s desk; nearly half the team had been killed. The near thousand people who had lived and worked at the training center were all either missing, dead, or reanimated dead, which were put down for good by the few still living.
“As you know, our recon patrols have found that we are practically isolated and abandoned. Comms don’t appear to be down, as far as we can tell, just that no one is answering on the other end of the line. Also, I’m sure you know by now that Chuck picked up a piece of a BBC shortwave broadcast yesterday that was a news report about the attack and the rising dead. We don’t know how old the report is, but we do know it is on a recorded loop. My point, gentlemen, is that we are done with the previous directive to shelter in place. Without contact from any in our chain, or anyone at all, for that matter, we need to seek them out, rescue if need be, and set a base of operations at a location we can maintain longer than this facility. My first choice is to point east and head home, but Camp Lejeune is the wrong direction for immediate information. Therefore, Twentynine Palms is our destination. If it is overrun, we will then proceed to Camp Pendleton. Then, if need be, The Recruit Depot and keep heading through to find any remaining Special Operations Command (SOCOM) elements at Coronado. However, I want each of your opinions and agreement on our plan of action.”
Aymond looked at each of his men individually. One by one they nodded approval. The last man, Chuck, summed up the team’s feelings: “Zero fucks left, Chief. Let’s roll.”
“Good. Wheels up in forty-eight hours. Put together the three best M-ATVs we have—pull parts off the others if needed. We have to assume that we are completely on our own, simply because we are. We are going to have to fuel at least three times if we roll all the way to Coronado, and there will be no fuel depots, no bowsers. We will be improvising, gentlemen, so creative solutions that work are to be expected. Assuming that the EMP affected the rest of the country, there will be no power but there will most likely be plenty of abandoned vehicles. With three trucks we’ll need nearly one hundred and fifty gallons of diesel for each fuel stop, if we run them dry. However, with zero support we operate with a reserve, never less than a quarter of a tank.”
Each of the men stood with the small notebooks they kept in their utilities pockets in their hands, taking notes.
“Hammer, you’re in charge of food. Assume worse case. Let’s call it fifty miles a day or less and we have to go all the way to Coronado, so ten to fourteen days on the road. Also assume that each stop is looted, overrun, or otherwise not a resource. Include needed water for each man and be sure to count it against the vehicle’s allowed weight.”
“Roger that, Chief.”
“Ski, you’re still on comms. Check the intra-team commo and the 150s in the trucks. Bring spare parts, batteries … be creative.”
Ski smiled with a thumbs up.
“Holmes, take care of your long rifle needs first, then you’ll still continue the role of team armorer. Spare parts, spare weapons—use your best judgment. What do we have mounted on the M-ATVs?”
Tom flipped through his notebook, “I know we have two M2s, one M240, and an MK19. We might have a MILAN or BGM-71, but I’ll have to double check that they’re still operable.”
“Check on them. How do we stand for
ammo on the crew weapons and ammo for each man’s personal weapons?”
“Roughly forty thousand rounds of XM193, another twenty thousand rounds of 9mm … if the crates are full we have fifty thousand rounds of fifty cal and roughly two thousand rounds for the MK19. I never looked for any of the TOW missiles since they weren’t needed.”
“Check on them. Ammo first, water second, fuel third, then food, in that order. The rest we’ll figure out as we need. The rest of you, team up and help your buddies. Find our problems, find solutions, and bring them back in twelve hours. In thirty-six hours I want to be spaced out for inspection and loading. This isn’t a Level Zero meet and greet, this will probably suck, and we are all we have, but we will succeed.”
Each of the men walked off, donning their combat gear before stepping out into the cold mountain air to complete all that needed to be done.
CHAPTER 7
SSC
March 2, Year 1
“We believe Cliff is alive. If you look at this overhead, ‘CLIFF’ is written in the snow and the roof of this home has a large ‘X’ marked in the snow. Smart, since we don’t know of any other aircraft and he knew we would be looking with the Keyholes.”
All eyes were on Clint while he spoke and flipped to the next PowerPoint slide. Even with the collapse of society, even though the dead had risen to hunt the living, Bexar was bemused to see they couldn’t escape giving slide presentations.
“What are those other lines?”
“Madam President, we believe those are tracks left by reanimates.”
“They seem to go towards the house that we believe Cliff is in,” she said.
“That is correct. And if you look in the fenced-in portion of the yard,” Clint zoomed the image in, “you can see there is a pile of corpses hidden from view of the road.”
Bexar was stunned by the resolution of the imagery. Google Earth was incredible when he thought about it, but the military grade overheads were like watching TV in high definition; they could read a book on the ground from a satellite in space.
“That’s one reason why we believe he’s still alive.”
“Clint, what about the aircraft?” President Lampton asked.
The slides changed on the large screen. Clint flipped through them until stopping on another overhead view. Snow covered the dirt and aircraft, but it was obvious even to Bexar what he was viewing.
“We know that Arcuni called ‘Mayday’ before we lost contact with him. As you can see here, the aircraft impacted at a high velocity before sliding to a stop in this small creek. Look at the debris trail. I believe that the aircraft was brought down by shoulder- or vehicle-mounted anti-aircraft munitions.”
“How is that?” the President asked.
Clint scrolled the overhead away from the destroyed fuselage. “Notice that the debris field starts all the way back here. This is roughly a mile from where the aircraft impacted. It was shedding parts and pieces before crunching in. The problem is that I can’t figure out why the aircraft was even flying at this heading; there are no obstacles to overcome, and that puts the C-130 headed away from Groom Lake.”
“So we don’t know?”
“No ma’am.”
“What’s your best guess?”
“My best guess is an RPG or something else that is shoulder-fireable, easy to use, and easy to buy. We don’t know that there were any other survivors besides Cliff. If you look in this frame, next to the fuselage, there are three bodies that are similarly dressed, but they’re not any of our guys.”
The President turned away from the slide and looked directly at Clint. “Who are they?”
“I don’t know, except to guess that they are part of the Tribe of Man or whatever that cult is calling itself. My guess is that they were responsible for downing the plane and went to investigate their prize. Cliff and any other survivors killed them then fled the wreckage.”
“Why all the footprints in the snow?”
“They appear to be from reanimates. As loud as that crash would have been, every walking corpse from miles around would be drawn to that location.”
Bexar watched the briefing, still in awe of the technology and a little amazed that anyone could have survived a crash of that magnitude.
“Madam President, how do you want to proceed?”
“Clint, help me out. I want to give Cliff and his team support, but don’t know how we can.”
“Ma’am you can’t; but we can,” Chivo said, looking up from his notes. “Apollo and I can travel overland and conduct another rescue op.”
President Lampton looked at Apollo, who agreed. “Are you sure?”
“We both know Cliff, and we owe him.”
“OK, get with Clint and take whatever gear you need from the stores. Go get him.”
Chivo and Apollo thanked the President and excused themselves to begin preparations.
Bexar stood and limped to the front of the room where Clint stood. “This satellite, can you zoom in to Big Bend—to where I was? I have to know about my wife.”
Clint squinted. “This is a national level asset …”
The President cut him off. “We’ll analyze the imagery from the next pass that goes over that section of Texas. Until then, Clint, could you pull up the most up-to-date imagery we have?”
“Yes ma’am, but it’s nearly two weeks old.” Clint clicked off the screen, entered a lengthy password, and began the search for the coordinates.
Bexar watched, nearly holding his breath. “There, that’s The Basin. The smaller buildings with the orange roofs to the south of the parking area ... zoom in there.”
Clint zoomed in far enough to see that a vehicle appeared to be driving towards the road that led out of The Basin. There were bodies spread out on the ground around the parking area between the cabins, and chunks of a vehicle scattered outward from the explosion in all directions. The destruction was evident; two of the cabins were no longer standing, just piles of rubble.
“There, those three in the middle, zoom in there.”
Clint centered the view on the three figures and zoomed in to a tight view of the bodies. The image slowly resolved, and in stark contrast against the asphalt surface were three, mostly nude women. One was missing a portion of her skull; the other had an obvious broken neck. The woman in the middle … Bexar began to tremble; the woman in the middle lay on the ground covered in blood. That was his Jessie, his best friend, his lover, his wife; her body lay in the open, undignified. She was gone forever.
Bexar dropped his head into his hands and sobbed. Clint zoomed out and looked at the vehicle on the road, the same that Chivo and Apollo had arrived in. The image must have been captured just after the IED exploded and just after their extraction of Bexar. Lampton put her hand on Bexar’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”
Wiping the tears from his face, Bexar looked at her, defeated, angry, barely whispering, “I want to go with them.”
The President squeezed his shoulder and nodded. “Go.”
Bexar stood. The pain, the sorrow, the savage battle to survive the last two months of hell began to wash away, giving way to rage. Pure anger, resolve. Fuck ’em all. No more … no more pain, no more sorrow, nothing but vengeance. No peace until I can kill every last walking corpse I find.
Amanda Lampton watched him, lost in thought, and saw the change on his face as he left the room. Clint stood next to her. Now alone, she wrapped her arms around him. “What do you think will happen to him?”
“He’ll probably die. I’ve seen that look before. That man is out of fucks to give, but before he takes the boat ride to Valhalla he’s going to be dangerous. I’ll give Apollo a heads up; they might be able to keep him in check.”
CHAPTER 8
Cortez, CO
March 2, Year 1
Cliff blinked away the sleep in his eyes; sunlight filtered through the curtains of the bedroom window. Shaking and weak, he slowly pulled himself up to sit on the side of the bed, wrapping himself in the heavy wo
ol blanket. Gingerly walking into the bathroom, he stood on the scale. Even with the blanket he was thirty-five pounds lighter than before.
Five days ago he had raided a pharmacy, which had already been looted of any narcotic pain killers, but large bottles of antibiotics and Z-packs were still on the shelves behind the counter. Those he took, along with all the over-the-counter pain killers he could find. In the store, a few cans of soup and Vienna sausages remained; those went into his pack along with a handful of syringes, three vials of cortisone, and a jug of powdered Gatorade. It was all he could find. Once back in the house, he’d started with a Z-pack, gave himself a painful shot of cortisone in his left knee, and took a handful of Tylenol.
He was hurt, he was sick, and he was in pain. He was relieved that there was no longer any blood in his urine, but Cliff was fairly sure he had pneumonia. There were no doctors, but long ago his training had prepared him for this. He was extensively taught and could triage himself. What he really wanted was an IV and some bags of saline solution; sadly the pharmacy didn’t have those. He had no desire to attempt a raid on a hospital or clinic; he assumed that they would be like both epicenters where people had flocked after the attack—probably still teeming with the undead.
Slowly, Cliff walked down the stairs and into the garage to the propane grill. Lighting the grill, he began warming a can of chicken noodle soup while melting snow for water to mix with his Gatorade. An old-style glass and mercury thermometer stuck out of his mouth while he stirred the soup, waiting patiently before checking his temperature.
