by Dave Lund
Cliff slowly made his way south. When he reached Empire Street, he stopped and crouched behind a large tree, studying the cars in the driveways around him. If he had to refuel his stashed truck, all he would need was a hose and container to syphon gas. Even if the tanks were only half-full, here was all the fuel he would possibly need. While scanning the homes for any signs of a shed that could contain a lawn mower, or more importantly, a fuel can that he could use, he saw headlights bounce through the intersection two blocks away, turn right, and travel towards him.
CHAPTER 14
SSC
March 4, Year 1
After a few minutes of discussion, Chivo and Apollo settled on using the old Defender 90 that they had taken from the gun club in El Paso. The vehicle had, thus far, proven to be reliable and they liked the thought of using something smaller and lighter than one of the Humvees that sat in storage in the motor pool. Now considering themselves a team, albeit a mostly unproven and mismatched one at best, they loaded the packs into the back of the interior compartment. Each pack had enough food, water, ammo, and other gear to give the wearer a minimum of seventy-two hours of survivability, while keeping the weight to just fifty pounds.
The majority of the gear was loaded onto the large roof rack and packed into weatherproof Harddig cases, including the same fifty-caliber rifle that Chivo had used in The Basin to rescue Bexar. Also piled in was a multitude of other supplies, most of which was communications gear, although the VideoScout was left behind as there were no drones, no aircraft at all for that matter. In any case, nothing would be flying overhead that could give them live video feeds. After a heated discussion between Apollo, Chivo, and Lindsey, Lindsey won out and would join the team for the rescue mission to Cortez.
“Commo check, over.” Apollo’s voice played in each of the other’s ear pieces and each member responded for the communications test. The team was lucky to have access to the MBITR, their Multiband Inter/Intra Team Radio. It was a solid upgrade from the PRC-117 that Chivo and Apollo had taken from storage at Fort Bliss. Now they were able to communicate with each other using line-of-sight transmissions and also with the SSC or Groom Lake by using the SATCOM. One of the large Harddig cases secured to the roof rack held everything that Cliff would possibly need. Everything from underwear and boots, to a complete tactical load-out and M4 rifle. They had no idea what waited for them on the topside, except that the journey was probably not going to be as easy as the previous one from El Paso.
Bexar felt a little overwhelmed by all the gear. His experience in law enforcement hadn’t prepared him for the amount of equipment and the complexity of the radio system he now wore. He wanted to wear the simple chest rig with AR magazines, but Chivo was adamant that the team wear a full load-out, including armor plates. He argued that the aircraft had been brought down by a hostile force and that they might end up having to fight the same.
Through the earpieces each of them wore, Clint’s voice came through clearly on the team’s frequency. “Video topside shows light activity in the park above. The last satellite pass showed a large group of undead northwest of our location. I’ll help you route through when you get closer, but that will be a few minutes. I’m still analyzing the shots to determine which direction they’re moving.”
Chivo keyed his radio. “Roger, thanks for the intel. We’re wheels up in five mikes.”
Each of them made one last check through their gear, press-checking their rifles and pistols, verifying that a round was chambered and the safety flipped on before climbing into the Defender. Chivo was at the helm; he drove to the bottom of the ramp and punched in the long security code he had written in his small notebook, which activated the opening sequence, releasing the massive steel hatchway that led topside. Bexar sat next to him in the passenger’s seat. Chivo wanted him to help navigate, since he was familiar with this part of Texas and with the laminated map grids he held in his lap, along with a civilian road atlas. Lindsey and Apollo sat in the back, with the team’s gear piled around them. Lindsey lightly rubbed the back of Apollo’s neck as a line of early morning sunlight spread harshly across the ramp, blinding the four of them as they drove topside.
CHAPTER 15
Cortez, CO
March 4, Year 1
Cliff moved quickly from behind the tree to the edge of a dark wooden privacy fence, propping his rifle against the corner post as the headlights traveled slowly towards him. Waiting for the distance to close, Cliff saw that the vehicle was another rusted old pickup truck and there appeared to be only two people in it, both sitting in the cab. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, flipping the selector switch on his rifle from safe to three-round burst. Driving closer, the truck’s headlights washed over Cliff’s rifle barrel which protruded from the corner of the fence. Either the driver saw Cliff or it was just stupid luck, but the truck slid to a stop not thirty feet from where he knelt. The driver’s face sited firmly in the reticle of his rifle’s optic, Cliff squeezed the trigger. The windshield shattered, blood erupting from the driver’s head and spraying the broken glass. Cliff was happy to see the passenger do exactly what he had hoped—open the door and try to run away. Once more, Cliff gently squeezed the trigger of his M4 and the second man fell to the ground, blood pooling on the pavement from the three new holes in his head.
The truck, still running, sat in place; the driver’s dead foot resting on the brake pedal. Cliff quickly made his way to the open passenger’s door and climbed into the cab; the seat was covered in glass fragments, bone, and blood. He pushed the gear selector up into “park” before opening the driver’s door and shoving the body out of the truck and into the street. Leaning back in the seat for support, Cliff kicked the windshield out completely before dragging the bodies to the back and dropping them into the bed.
The gauge showed a half a tank of gas, and if that was to be believed, then he was in luck. The noise was sure to bring the undead around and maybe more cult members, so Cliff decided to abandon his recon of the neighborhood and try to find some of the supplies he needed elsewhere. He wanted to get back towards the pharmacy he had raided before. There was a Walmart near there, but that was one place he would never want to attempt, as he assumed it would be teeming with the undead. However, Cliff had thought he’d seen an outdoors store near there as well.
Driving quickly towards his destination, Cliff was surprised at the lack of undead on the street. He expected to see more, or at least a few, but there just weren’t any to be seen. I wonder if the cult has been culling the herd or what the deal is … maybe they’re all trapped in the homes. Cliff continued to wonder about it until he realized that he really didn’t care. It didn’t matter why; he should just be happy that there weren’t many undead around to cause him more problems. His optimism fell to the wayside as he passed Walmart; there were hundreds of undead bumping around the cars in the parking lot and he could only assume many more were trapped inside. Passing quickly, Cliff saw the sign for Shooter’s Country. The glass windows were broken, the front door propped open, and except for a single SUV, the parking lot was empty. He slowed and drove past, looking at the store, before looping in the parking lot and backing into the handicapped spot by the front door. He left the motor running and the driver’s door open when he exited the truck.
Broken glass crunched under Cliff’s boots as he stepped into the interior of the shop, his rifle up and ready, scanning for any threats. The gun cases were all broken, not a single weapon left. The shelves of ammo were likewise bare. Behind the counter, up on the higher shelves, sat a couple of Nikon spotting scopes. Those were just what he needed. Well, he only needed one, but hey, at these prices who could resist getting two. On the shelf below them was a generic gun cleaning kit, a couple cans of Gun Scrubber, and two large bottles of Break Free. Everyone wanted guns and ammo, but no one took the tools to keep them clean and working. Fuck that. A clean M4 is a happy M4.
The new supplies, spotting scopes, and cleaning gear went into plastic shopp
ing bags. Cliff walked out into the pale light of the rising sun and his still-running truck. Driving back to the neighborhood of his new house, Cliff turned north two blocks early and parked in the driveway of a different house, next to a large fifth-wheel RV, which he hoped would block the view of the truck if another patrol glanced down the street. He left the bodies in the bed of the truck.
CHAPTER 16
Big Bend National Park
March 4, Year 1
Jessie felt ready, emotionally prepared to start her long journey. The day before was spent cataloguing her supplies and digging through the rubble of the ruined cabins for any more gear that survived the blast and the bikers. Much to her amazement, the last remaining wall tent was intact, the heavy plastic box having protected it from the rubble of the collapsed cabin. After some debate, she decided to take Jack’s FJ45 Land Cruiser instead of Malachi’s International Scout. The FJ was the larger four-door version and could simply hold more gear; regardless, the Scout reminded her of Keeley’s death every time she saw it. Malachi’s specially built off-road trailer was also left behind. Not that it wouldn’t have been useful; she just couldn’t think of a good enough reason to haul it along.
Of all the things she had, of all the supplies she catalogued and organized, the one thing she wished she had was the shortwave radio. In Terlingua, Bexar said he wished he had it, but it had been in the RV, which was totaled. Jessie realized that even though the RV was wrecked, the radio could have survived the crash. It was a long shot, but it was worth checking it out on the way, since she would be passing right by it. Besides the radio, on her list were prenatal vitamins and a long list of baby supplies. She would be the only guest at her baby shower and the gifts would consist of items scavenged from stores as she found them. She thought back to Keeley. Before she was potty trained she used something like three to five diapers a day for nearly three years. That’s over five thousand diapers, she thought.
Jessie sat on the ground next to the FJ. She felt stupid, letting Bexar knock her up again. Now she was a single mother at the end of the world. She began to hyperventilate. She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing, forcing herself to calm down, remembering that for thousands of years before modern medicine, women had had babies. They didn’t have disposable diapers and they made it just fine. I’ll make it. There are many weeks until October; I’ll raid every store I see and start baby prepping. Formula, bottles, everything I could ever need … a nursery scavenger hunt.
With one more deep breath, Jessie wiped the tears from her eyes and stood. If she was going to leave in the morning, she needed to double check her gear list and locate anything essential she was missing. Along with the tent, she found the old green Coleman stove in the cabin rubble, along with three cans of fuel for it. See! Our prepping wasn’t so bad. Some of it survived and I’ll survive too. Jessie placed her hand on her belly. Don’t worry, little peanut, you and me are in this together; we’ll make it.
CHAPTER 17
MWTC
March 5, Year 1
“Chief, the team’s loaded—weapons hot and ready to roll.”
“Thanks, Hammer. Move it out.”
Aymond made a circular motion with his head and climbed into the passenger’s seat of the lead M-ATV. The sun was beginning to crest over the eastern mountains. The cold air hung heavy around them as they left what had become their home over the past few months. He always had this feeling whenever he had to leave an FOB while deployed—even the worst, most desolate places became home after you lived there awhile. What made it worse was that no matter how bad the conditions were, no matter how much time you spent improving your position, and no matter how much better the return back to civilization would be, this was the place where you lived and fought, the place where your teammates died. It was sacred ground and it always hurt to leave it in enemy hands.
The enemy … the enemy was death … worse than death. It is the legions of the dead tirelessly marching forward in battle against the living. Aymond looked out the thick, bullet-resistant windows at the buildings of the MWTC, scanning the battle improvements, Hesco walls, and shooting platforms, confident that the dead would soon overtake what they had fought so hard to get.
The large armored trucks lumbered along the asphalt at a conservative forty-five mph, as per the plan. The goal was to conserve fuel more than to save time. Time was something they appeared to have in abundance; fuel, on the other hand, was a scarce commodity to be cherished and preserved. With the gearing of the big trucks and the heavy loads they carried, forty-five mph was their best guess for the highest possible fuel mileage. Driving towards the rising sun, the convoy turned right onto Highway 395, towards the tiny town of Bridgeport. As close as it was, with their slow speed it would take nearly an hour to drive into the first town on their route. Due to the lay of the mountain range, even though their destination was south of where they sat, they had to travel east first.
Initially, they entertained the thought of traveling overland instead of using the roads, as the trucks were built with that task in mind. But without any support or recovery crews, the risk of losing a vehicle to damage or rolling over was too great. No, their route would lie across improved surfaces—roads, even dirt roads, and highways. The problem was that roads and highways go places. Places have people, and people quickly become members of the legion of Zeds. Zeds always mean problems. The entire MWTC staff and six of his own MSOT were lost to the Zeds during the first few days of the attack. All of those men and women, fellow Marines, had to be put down. At first they dug individual graves, but after conditions continued to deteriorate, the individual graves turned to mass graves until finally the surviving members had to resort to simply burning the bodies. With hundreds of bodies, and more Zeds shambling to their location every day, digging graves by hand with only eight people was simply impossible.
Each of the little roadside spots on the highway looked like it had been hit by an airstrike. Staring out the window at the countryside rolling slowly by, Aymond let his mind drift and wander into the desert around them. He was surprised to hear the voice of Ryan Hammer, his driver, come through his earpiece.
“Heads up—Zeds on the road. We’re entering the edge of the town.”
The operation briefing laid down the ROE, rules of engagement. While in convoy, they were to use the vehicle-mounted heavy weapons sparingly to conserve ammo, and to avoid driving over bodies if at all possible. They couldn’t risk damaging their only means of transportation by running down Zeds like they were in some crazed video game. At no point would anyone dismount from the vehicles and engage the enemy on foot, unless absolutely necessary. If a Zed can’t reach you, it can’t bite you, and it can’t reach you when you’re inside an M-ATV.
Just like back in Iraq, the convoy didn’t slow for fear of ambush; they just swerved around the half-dozen undead in the road as they entered the town. The view through the windshield was unbelievable. Aymond was amazed at the extent of the destruction. The town lay in absolute ruins; many buildings stood only as burned-out shells.
This must have been where that last large wave of Zeds came from, he thought.
Hammer swerved the heavy truck around another group of undead before reaching the town’s far edge. They exited the town; a ribbon of asphalt pierced the open desert around them. Abandoned vehicles were sparse and easy to drive around without having to slow much. Aymond hoped that the rest of the journey would be this easy, but they had a long way to go and many more towns to cross. He keyed the radio. “Check in, over.”
“Dagger Two, Dagger One, we’re good, over.”
“Dagger Three, Dagger One, are we there yet? Over.”
Aymond smirked. If Kirk was anything, he was a perpetual smart ass. It hurt his career path in the conventional Marine Corps, but once he made it to Force Recon and started rotating through MARSOC, he found his place in the world. Aymond felt lucky to have him after the heavy losses of the battle to win the MWTC.
Waxahachie Cre
ek, TX
Chivo drove through the damaged gate at the park entrance and turned right, reaching the highway. The tiny town of Bardwell lay ahead and the team was zipping along at fifty-five mph. It seemed fast to Bexar, nearly too fast; they had agreed to hold it to forty-five. But he was only the navigator; he had to assume that Chivo was well-trained in advanced driving techniques. Nevertheless, it was still hard for Bexar to let go of being the driver. He hated being a passenger.
Bexar took a deep breath, held it for a couple of seconds, then exhaled slowly. None of them wore seat belts, which also felt odd to him, but trying to get a seatbelt around all the gear they were wearing, plus his rifle, just wouldn’t work. Never mind that his lap was full of map sections and the atlas. It reminded Bexar of being a rookie working the night shift; he never wore a seatbelt in the patrol car—he would get stuck in the car with the seatbelt wrapped around something on his duty belt. If you’re diving out of a car to chase a suspect or have to get out of a “death chair,” as cops called the driver’s seat, because you were ambushed, well, suffice it to say wearing your seatbelt simply was a no-go.
“Bexar, eyes up, man. We’re hitting the edge of town.”
At first glance the town looked nearly pristine. No signs of fire damage, no burned-out buildings, just a town empty of people and movement. Along the main highway through the town all the cars that had presumably been on the roadway were pushed against the buildings, into the windows and store fronts. The paint on the sides of the cars was scraped off, the vehicles all badly damaged. Light poles were knocked down and flattened, like a huge snow plow had come through town and blindly cleared a path for intrepid travelers.
