by Dave Lund
Ten minutes later, Jessie rolled to a stop in the middle of the road. Her hands shook uncontrollably as she dropped her head onto the steering wheel and wept.
US-287 outside of Fort Worth, TX
The pace slowed considerably; apparently traffic was backed up before the EMP made sure that none of the vehicles would move again. Chivo drove around as much as he could, taking the shoulder most of the time, until they passed over I-30. There they had to avoid a six-car pileup against an exit lane divider. A motorcycle lay on the ground, the shoulders and head of the dead rider exposed, full face helmet rocking back and forth as gloved hands desperately reached for the Defender as it passed.
Bexar held the civilian map folded over to the Fort Worth expanded view and gave directions as best he could. “Take the ramp right, it’ll be 287, 377, and I-35W all marked on the same road, but keep an eye out—it seems like this shit is always under construction. It’s been a few years since I’ve been through here, so I have no idea if this map is up to date.”
Chivo shook his head and concentrated on the road ahead, scanning side to side as he drove. It reminded him of when he had worked doing personal protection and security details for visiting VIPs. It was high stress and exhausting to be the driver, constantly scanning for threats large and small, ready to react fast enough to avoid or survive an attack from anywhere.
Merging onto I-35W, Chivo continued the slow task of driving around all the stalled vehicles, while the undead bounced off the fenders of the SUV. He couldn’t risk running one over; bones can puncture tires, so he tried his best to swerve so they would hit the sides of the Defender as they passed.
“Bexar, this is I-35, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So what’s wrong with this picture?”
Bexar looked around before it dawned on him. “All the cars and undead are still here.”
“Exactly.”
“So either that massive corpse herd took a detour, or we’ve managed to get in front of them.”
“Right, so what do we have to assume?”
“That they’re behind us.”
“And?”
“If we stop, we’ll be overrun.”
“Yes, young Skywalker. An operator of you make we will,” Chivo said in a really bad Yoda impression.
“Shit. Well, we won’t be on I-35 for long, maybe we’ll be lucky and the undead will prefer to use the Interstate system instead of smaller highways.”
“Yeah, but we can’t assume that. What we can assume is that they’ll catch up if we delay, so we have to put enough distance between us and them to give us room to stop for fuel and any problems that come up.”
Bexar nodded as Chivo continued their zig-zagging course, threading the Defender between the abandoned vehicles on the highway. In the back, Apollo was asleep once again, Lindsey curled up in his arms. Bexar sighed heavily. I don’t think there will ever be anyone else for me. Jessie was it; she was all I could have or would have wanted.
Bexar’s digression into self-pity crashed back to reality as a body landed on the hood from the overpass above, its head shattering the windshield. “Holy shit!”
Chivo yanked the steering wheel back and forth, rocking the vehicle hard, but the body wouldn’t move, its jaws snapping at the shattered windshield right in front of Bexar’s face.
Chivo slammed on the brakes. “Dude, open your door and get that fucking thing off our car!”
Bexar did as he was told. He drew his big custom-made knife from his belt, plunged it through the windshield and into the forehead of the gnashing corpse, then climbed out, walked to the front of the Defender and pulled the body off the hood to the pavement, where it landed with a wet thump. Shortly after, the drive continued, Lindsey now sitting straight up, eyes wide open in surprise while Apollo still snored softly beside her.
Thirty minutes later, and with no more sudden guests surprising their traveling party, Chivo took the exit for 287 to continue towards Colorado while the bloody, shattered windshield blocked most of Bexar’s view.
Cortez, CO
So far, Cliff’s notes showed that there were at least thirty different men and one woman who had entered or exited the school. All of them wore surplus military cold weather gear; occasionally one of them would not have their jacket buttoned up and they appeared to be wearing white shirts with black ties. The woman wore a heavy, full-length black dress. Still hidden beneath the dark blanket, Cliff glanced at his watch. Just a few more hours until sunset. After sunset he would need to sleep for a couple of hours before moving locations. He needed to check out a few other places around town that he had marked on his map. A short yellow school bus pulled to a stop in front just before a bearded man wearing a black beret stepped out of the school. He was preceded by two men with AR-variant rifles who stopped and stood guard, facing outwards. Following the man were five women and two young-looking girls. On the man’s beret, a silver cross glistened in the sunlight. The entourage climbed into the bus and were followed by their sentries.
The bus drove south and out of Cliff’s view, but in the still air it sounded like the bus turned westbound a few moments later. Cliff looked at his map and noted two other schools in that general direction, as well as a church. After finishing the notes and descriptions of what he’d just seen, he set the alarm on his watch for two hours and laid his head on the table. This was going to be another long night.
Highway 395, near Johannesburg, CA
Aymond noted that the gauge on the dashboard indicated the engine was running hotter today; he guessed it was probably due to using jet fuel instead of the lower grade diesel fuel. The convoy rumbled into the tiny town of Johannesburg after fleeing China Lake. Aymond pulled a small notepad out and jotted some notes. They had to treat the approaches to towns and military installations as they would hostile enemy territory now. High Level Threats, he noted. He needed to start watching the population numbers on the town signs to see if he could get a general pattern to determine threats in relation to population size. It seemed obvious that a larger population would mean that there would be a larger threat present, but he could no longer make any assumptions, not again, not ever. This was unlike anything he had seen in over twenty years of service. Johannesburg passed without any problems, a small handful of undead meandering towards the sound of the rumbling M-ATVs as they passed. Endless desert greeted them at the other edge of the town as the convoy continued their slow ride towards help. If we survived, there have to be other Marines that survived ... or someone, anyone.
The minutes ticked by into hours, punctuated by small towns and seemingly random homesteads. Most of the small towns had Zeds stumbling about, but others showed no signs of life and seemed to have been abandoned for hundreds of years, frozen in time. At no point did Aymond, or anyone else, see any signs of survivors. It was as if the ragtag leftovers of a once-proud MSOT were the only live remaining humans in all of California.
Eschewing an approach through the town of Twentynine Palms, the convoy turned onto the highway to the east, driving towards the Marine Corps Air Ground Combat Center. Even the acronym was a mouthful, MCAGCC, so like other Marines, Aymond simply referred to it as “Twentynine Palms.” Only Joshua Tree stood between them and a familiar Marine Corps installation. Aymond keyed the radio; the radio etiquette had become lax over the last two days of travel. “OK guys, we’re close, but we’re not going to charge ahead into Twentynine Palms like we did China Lake. After Joshua Tree, we’re stopping at the compound gate and actually running some recon.”
Each of the senior men of the two following M-ATVs radioed acknowledgement to the transmission. The tension in his own M-ATV seemed to rise; Aymond imagined that it was just as bad in the two behind him.
“Hammer, as we near the installation, slow the pace to thirty mph alongside the fence line, and even more as we near the gate.”
Ryan Hammer nodded, concentrating as he drove around two wrecked cars in Joshua Tree. A few turns later and the convoy was northb
ound on Adobe Road, coming alongside the southern edge of the fenced-in main section of Twentynine Palms. The base was huge, hundreds of square miles used for training, but the main section was tiny, just large enough to house those assigned there, equipment, an airfield, and not much more.
Aymond gazed intensely out his window at the housing on the southern end of the installation. Many of the homes were burned completely to the ground; only a few of them were still standing, and those appeared to be damaged. Long sections of the fence were down.
“Hammer, slow it down some more.” Aymond keyed the radio. “Doesn’t look good, but we’re going to slowly approach the main gate. Dagger Two take right side responsibility, Dagger Three the tail; we have everything to the front.”
The electronically controlled heavy weapons of each M-ATV turned towards their area of responsibility. Aymond peered through the windshield using a pair of binoculars.
“Jesus, look at that.”
The front gate was fortified, but it appeared to have been hastily constructed using Hesco barriers and some of the armored vehicles from the base. Between the convoy and the fortified position, burned-out vehicles lay alongside incredible carnage—bloody viscera, gore, limbs torn from bodies, all strewn about the burned and blood-soaked asphalt. The barriers and vehicles were black with chunky, dried blood.
“Hammer—turn us around,” Aymond keyed the mic. “Circle back, follow lead, we’re going to go through one of the sections of downed fence and see if we can locate any survivors. Eyes out for fuel bowsers.”
The convoy made a wide U-turn, driving onto the desert beside the road to get the large trucks pointed back the way they’d come. The second M-ATV’s heavy weapon turned and now took the threat responsibility to the convoy’s left, without the need to be told.
Slowing, Hammer drove the lead M-ATV over a downed portion of fence, through the sand, around a children’s playset and into the ruined neighborhood of duplex housing.
CHAPTER 20
Groom Lake, NV
March 6, Year 1
Wright nearly fell into the room with the force he used to throw open the door to the radio hut. “At NORAD we could track everything in orbit. Can we do that here?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Are we currently doing that?”
“No, Sir. We haven’t had the manpower to continue the transmissions and survivor coordination and take care of tracking orbital objects. Besides, we figured it was relatively moot now.”
“How many more people do you need to man the radios and bring the tracking back online? I need you to be able to compare historical plots with current plots, looking for any orbit degradation or orbital debris where there should be an asset.”
“At least two, but five or more would be better so we can have rotating shifts.”
“OK, I’ll have you people by this afternoon. Cease all other projects. Everyone is on our satellite problem until I tell you otherwise. I think our orbital assets have been, are being, and will continue to be attacked. I cannot believe that we lost two primary systems with all the redundant controls inherent in their design, outside of a Kessler syndrome. It is too unlikely. Also, figure out some other method of communicating with the SSC. Both of these are tied for top priority. Split into teams if need be, just get it done—as in yesterday!”
Before anyone could answer, Wright was gone, door slammed closed behind him. Wright’s entrance, reaction, and exit seemed to suck all the air out of the room. Every airman sat as if in suspended animation, completely still, until a half-second later when the room erupted in frenzied action.
Wright practically jogged down the stairs and across the long hall to the civilian side of the complex. He burst into the auditorium where Jake was wrapping up the welcoming ceremony and indoctrination. “Jake, I need at least five people who know how to work radios to report to the radio hut now.”
Jake, on stage behind the podium, blinked twice before turning to the audience. “Bill?”
Bill stood.
“Get a team together, any other HAMs you can find, or people you can teach.”
Jake turned his attention back to Wright. “Anything else, Major?”
“Get your council together and meet me in D2 in thirty.”
“Will do.”
Wright left the auditorium and headed back to the radio hut, leaving Jake standing on the podium. He looked out at his audience, which consisted of the newly added survivors, twenty-two in all.
“Once again folks, that was Major Wright. Don’t let him fool you, he’s a great guy, he just has a lot going on right now, seeing how he’s basically in charge of rescuing the United States. With that said, signups are in the mess hall. You have to sign up for at least one detail, and the most undesirable details will be assigned by your group designators. Our ‘fresh air activity’ time is at three p.m. each day until summer, when we will choose a better time to go topside for a break. Any questions?”
The new community members applauded, just happy to have security in their lives again and be of some use. Jake’s wrist was sore by the time he was done shaking everyone’s hands as they filed out to their new bunks. Jake glanced at the clock on the wall and went to gather the council members, leaders elected by each designated group. The updated survivor count stood at sixty-four; every week a few more made their way to Groom Lake.
Who would have thought after more than a half century of extreme secrecy that the government would be calling people home to Area 51, like a lighthouse in a storm. Now I need to figure out a good excuse to go investigate the mountainside across the lakebed; this Sector 4 business sounds intriguing. I bet it’s true ... but I bet it isn’t aliens. It’s never aliens.
Jake chuckled at the thought that in another life he could have had his own TV show after living in Area 51. He could have made up stories of lizard people, it could be anything and he would have been on TV making a ludicrous amount of money. Jake stopped at a door, knocked gently, then opened it. “Group A” was stenciled on it along with a rough sketch of a bottle of steak sauce being poured over the head of a zombie. About two weeks prior, the groups had begun creating logos and humorous names for themselves. What place did Jake have to say “no” to that? It kept moral high. Basically locked in an underground prison, people needed something to keep their spirits up.
Twentynine Palms, CA
The M-ATVs drove right through the landscaping of the duplexes and onto the asphalt residential streets on the other side. Half-burned bodies lay scattered on the sidewalk and driveways. Children, women, men, it was nearly impossible to tell what they once were except for their approximate size or the presence of a weather-tattered toy. Slowly the convoy made their way out of the neighborhood and east to Condor Road. To the south lay the other gate into the installation. It was completely blocked off with Hesco barriers and an up-armored Humvee with mounted M2. Just as with the main gate, outside the fence the perimeter was filthy with body parts, bloodstains and scorched pavement. Fifty-caliber shell casings littered the ground around the Humvee. Aymond surveyed the aftermath of a battle frozen in time. It was impossible to tell who’d won, but there were uniformed bodies face down on the pavement near the Humvee. It was obvious they had been there for some time, as weathered, torn, and scavenged as they were. Hammer turned the lead M-ATV to the north and continued towards the interior of the installation. The rest of the housing was much the same as the first, bodies scattered amongst the burned-out debris of what used to be homes. The commissary and exchange were also mostly burned down. Destruction here was on par with what Aymond had studied of Europe after WWII. The convoy continued onto Del Valle Drive, passing the neglected football field.
Aymond pointed and Hammer nodded, taking the turn onto 1st Street. Two blocks later, he stopped the M-ATV in the middle of the intersection. The hospital appeared heavily damaged, windows on the upper stories broken, marks from fire and smoke marring the outside walls, but there was a lot of movement on the ground level. Through t
he broken sliding glass doors of the main entrance, people began streaming out into the late afternoon light.
Aymond raised his binoculars. “Hammer, get us the fuck out of here!” Then he keyed the radio. “Weapons hot, headed north!”
The big M2 on Aymond’s M-ATV opened fire in controlled bursts as Hammer turned and drove north as quickly as the large armored vehicle could move. The M2 on the second M-ATV took the task of suppressing fire against a force that didn’t shoot back, but showed no fear, no concern, and had an unfaltering need to feed on human flesh. As the second M-ATV cleared the intersection, the last M-ATV, mounted with the big Mk-19 belt-fed grenade launcher, began a siege of the front of the hospital. Pieces of cement block began falling onto the undead below. The number of walking corpses never seemed to end; they continued to stream out of the ground floor, trailing the convoy as they sped northward, away from the countless Zeds.
