Z-Day (Book 3): A Place For War

by Humphreys, Daniel

  Molly cocked her head to one side, fascinated. Living in town, she’d heard none of this. Maybe that was to be expected, but plenty of the folk that lived out in the country stopped in at the diner for the occasional meal. Most of them had gossip for Gram. Something like this, something so big, surely, she would have heard something. Wouldn’t she? “What happened? Did the park open back up?”

  Anne threw her hands up and shrugged. “No clue. Summer turned to autumn and then everything fell apart. Until last night, I hadn’t given a thought to what was going on up on the mountain for months.” She gave Molly a serious look. “With what happened with that lawyer, David wasn’t about to put either one of us at risk. So, this morning, he got up before the crack of dawn, put on some of his hunting clothes, and took a hike up the mountain.”

  Glancing out the French doors into the woods that began behind the greenhouses, Molly grimaced. “Isn’t that dangerous? What if he gets lost, or worse?”

  The older woman gave her a gentle smile. “He’s been walking those woods ever since he was just a bit older than Hatch, dear. There are trails and shortcuts his grandfather and father wore into the woods before David was even a twinkle.” Anne laughed. “Now me, I like to point out that he tends to lose his spectacles when they’re up on his forehead from time to time, so surely he can’t remember every little trail, but he swears he knows those woods like the back of his hand.” She reached over and patted Molly’s hand. “Don’t you worry. He’ll be fine.”

  The situation made for a strange day. Anne and Molly kept busy checking the plants in the greenhouse as well as washing and hanging clothing and linens out to dry. As tedious as hand-washing a pair of jeans in a bucket turned out to be, at least Hatcher was around to make things entertaining. He made a game of sneaking forward and dipping his hand in the suds and trying to splash his grandmother or Molly. They’d pretend they didn’t see him, then do their best to dodge his splashing. He’d run away, cackling with laughter, only to turn around and start the cycle anew.

  Even with that, they were still done a bit before noon. Lunch was salad and fresh fruit; the only ingredients not to come from the greenhouse were the bacon bits and vinaigrette dressing. Molly was a fan of ranch, but with the power out, they were forced to use or lose anything that required refrigeration. In terms of meat, she wasn’t sure what that meant—the Metzes didn’t have any livestock, and there were no animals at any of the empty farms she and David had scavenged. She recalled that the Daytons had a small herd of goats in their side yard. It was possible to eat goat, she was certain on that, but Molly had no clue what it even tasted like. And cheese—couldn’t you make cheese from goat’s milk?”

  The fact that I’m even thinking about it shows how much things have changed. She laughed into her salad bowl, then raised her head to ask Anne if she knew anything about goats in time to see David step out of the forest and cut across the backyard toward the house.

  “Oh, thank goodness,” Anne breathed. She stood and opened the back doors to let her husband in. His face was haggard and rings of sweat stained his long-sleeved shirt at the armpits and neck, but he still smiled at the sight of them.

  “Afternoon, ladies. Hey, Hatch.” His grandson was too occupied with gnawing on a cucumber to do anything more than wave. David pulled a chair out from the dining table and sagged into it. “Some water, please, dear. I didn’t bring as much along as I needed.”

  As Anne stepped over to the counter and opened the refrigerator, he called out, “Plenty of ice, maybe a shot of bourbon on the side as well.”

  She scoffed. “You didn’t eat any strange looking mushrooms up there, did you, David?” She pulled the water pitcher out of the fridge and filled a glass tumbler. Even without electricity it made for good storage and kept out all the bugs that seemed to sneak in despite the screens over the windows.

  He took the glass and drank heavily, downing half of it in one long swallow. “Oh, my. Thank you, thank you. Everything go all right today?” His voice took a harsher pitch. “No problems?”

  “It was just fine,” Anne said. “What do you mean by problems, David?”

  He frowned, then glanced at Hatcher. The little guy had moved onto strawberries, still in his own world. “I don’t know who’s up on the mountain, but I don’t think they’re the government. Which doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, considering the setup they’ve got around their radar station.” He made air-finger quotes around the last two words.

  “What is it, then?” Molly wondered. “Deputy Wischmeier and the Sheriff seemed to think it was all legitimate.”

  “And maybe it was. But—” He got up and moved over to the china cabinet that seemed to exist solely to accumulate random things from day to day. He dug through a pile until he found what he was looking for. He brought out the map he and Molly had marked up during their exploration and set it in the center of the table among the four of them.

  “I’ve seen radar towers before. Whatever they built up there isn’t that—there’s no rotating antenna, for one. It’s a big mast with all sorts of cables coming down off the top. If they hung lights off the thing, it’d make a dandy Christmas tree in the dark.” Using one of the placemats for a straight edge, he drew a series of lines from each of the intersections he’d marked off on the map. When he lifted it, Molly’s breath caught in her throat.

  Each of the lines intersected at pretty much the same point, where the map legend read ‘Taum Sauk State Park.’ David tapped the spot. “I don’t think they’re receiving anything. I think they’re broadcasting something, and whatever that is, it’s what’s keeping those things away.”

  “Oh, no,” Anne whispered.

  Molly blinked. “But—but that would mean that they knew about what was going to happen, for months. Why?”

  David gave her a grim look. “I didn’t get a good look at the man in charge, but most of those guys up there had the look of contractors. And not the build-your-house kind. The shoot things and blow stuff up kind. I don’t think they just knew about it, kid. I think maybe they started the whole thing.”

  May 17, 2026

  Naval Station Galveston—Gulf of Mexico

  Z-Day + 3,133

  It was debatable whether the island of Galveston remained part of the continental United States. Given it was no longer connected to the larger landmass, the general assessment was that it didn’t count. In the years since the fleet cleared and re-purposed the port for military operations, it had become a permanent residence for countless numbers of civilian refugees, as well as a warehousing and storage depot for all manner of supplies.

  When they’d flown in yesterday, Coop had seen more activity in the port than any other time he’d been there before. Rows of rectangular barges lay tied up alongside the docks. Many of the simple boats boasted the telltale flash of welding torches, teams of workers scrambling around their decks.

  The fleet was putting together an invasion force, it seemed, but it was one of the more unlikely ones he’d ever seen. Part of him hoped the crews weren’t converting the barges into some sort of bargain basement landing craft. Even if they were able to use them to establish a beachhead, a ground assault into the teeth of an infected horde was a bad idea that command had never considered even early on, when they didn’t know zulu’s capabilities.

  The brass could be stupid, but they weren’t often homicidal.

  The morning after their arrival, McFarlane, Coop, and the rest of the senior NCOs assigned to Operation Gateway sat in a well-appointed briefing room and waited for the hammer to fall. He noted that while he knew one of the other sergeants—Mebane was an old hand from the Sergeant Major’s recon unit, and another survivor of the California mission—he wasn’t as familiar with the other two, Paolinelli and Thompson. Command, it seemed, had cast a wide net, and he wondered how big an operation this was.

  A few moments after they settled in, a hard-faced colonel with salt-and-pepper hair marched into the room. Laying his papers on the podium, he said, �
��Gentlemen. I’m Colonel Tim O’Neil. Welcome to Operation Gateway. I hope the accommodations are to your liking because we’ll be staying in them for a while. This mission has the strange congruency of being strategically important while not being under any sort of time constraint. We’ve got one chance to get it right, so we’re by God going to do it.”

  The gathered NCOs chorused agreement, and O’Neil nodded. Pulling a piece of paper out of his stack, he unfolded it into a map, then turned and pinned it onto the wall behind the podium.

  “I hate PowerPoint almost as much as I hate zulu, so if you were expecting a fancy slideshow, you’re out of luck.” He stepped to one side and indicated the map. A thick blue line ran through the center, and dense, intricate grid lines decorated either side. Coop winced.

  Shit. Wherever the hell it is, it’s smack dab in the middle of a major metropolitan area.

  The rest of the room must have come to the same conclusion because quiet murmurs passed between the other enlisted. Sergeant Major McFarlane remained silent as he studied the map through narrowed eyes.

  “I’m disappointed, Marines, I heard you were a group of hard chargers. I didn’t expect to not get any pushback on the choice of target.” O’Neil grinned, then slapped the map. “Welcome to St. Louis. Gateway to the west. Before Z-Day, the greater metropolitan area had a population shy of three million.” The colonel traced his finger along the river. “The Mississippi is half a mile wide at this point. No worries, gentlemen. We aren’t going to screw with boots on the ground here. We’re going to set up in the center of the channel and rain hell down on zulu.” Coop nodded to himself as he did the math in his head—that explained the barges. One of the other members of the audience raised a hand. “Go ahead, Sergeant Paolinelli.”

  “Colonel, how deep is the river at that point?”

  “The level varies to some extent, but that’s one thing we’ll need to look into. A big part of mission prep will be taking detailed soundings of the river depth, along with potential blockages, from the Gulf north. The Corps of Engineers stands ready to clear any underwater debris or dredge the river bottom as needed. You may have noticed that we’re currently refitting a number of civilian cargo barges to support operations. We don’t foresee hull draft as a primary concern.”

  “I was more concerned about zulu swimming up from the depths, being frank, sir.”

  O’Neil waited a moment to let the laughter flow across the room. “Understood. One of the retrofits to the assault barges is the addition of fencing outriggers. Any hostiles that mound up from below will not have direct access to the deck. In the event that the situation becomes untenable, the decks on the tow boats are high enough to make it nigh-impossible to access from the water. We’ll relocate to another point further upstream and let the current wash zulu out to sea. It’s thought, though, that there won’t be much of an opportunity for them to swarm.” He pulled another map out of his stack of papers and pinned it over the first. “Closer view of the river. We’re making the Jefferson Expansion park around the Arch the focus of our attack. Plenty of open space for zulu to pack in and die.”

  “Colonel, are you saying command wants us to shell a historic monument?”

  O’Neil made a face before answering. “Zulu is not likely to be on the monument, Sergeant Thompson. I expect you to aim at the grounds.”

  “Accidents do happen, sir.”

  “See that they don’t, in this case.”

  Coop tried not to laugh, then raised his hand. When the colonel acknowledged him, he asked, “Sir, you said you don’t believe there will be an opportunity for zulu to swarm—can you expand on that?”

  “Yes, thank you, Sergeant. While we are installing some direct-fire weapons on the barges for close-in support, most of the firepower we’re mounting consists of mortars. We haven’t used them much in the past as they’re of little utility in low-density combat environments. When we’ve had the opportunity to engage numbers that would make them useful, zulu has forced us to retreat before we could make any headway. Thankfully, the eggheads have figured out a way to draw them to a time and place of our choosing.” He waved a hand to calm the questioning murmurs. “All in due time. We’re going to pack them into the park. You men will be responsible for the mortar barges. We’ve got technical teams working their asses off up north to get some A-10s flying, maybe even some Apaches. God willing, we’ll have close air support for the first time in nearly a decade.” The colonel smiled then, but the humor in that expression was entirely malevolent. “The eggheads have also determined that the nanovirus breaks down when external temperatures cross 600 degrees Fahrenheit. We’re modifying firefighting boats to pump gasoline instead of water. We’re going to soak zulu down, and when you men drop incendiaries on that mass, it’s going to be a by-God glorious sight.” He nodded at Coop. “That’s what will keep them from swarming your boats, Sergeant. A wall of fire.”

  Chapter Eleven

  May 20, 2026

  Frederiksted, US Virgin Islands

  Z-Day + 3,136

  The scars of nine years of post-apocalyptic maintenance standards were evident as the Detroit came to a slow stop alongside the pier. Chips and cracks marred the long span of concrete jutting into the harbor. At the opposite end, what he assumed was the old Customs building featured more graying plywood panels than windows.

  But—a few blemishes didn’t take away from the lush beauty of the countryside inland from the port. When Miles thought island, he envisioned something flat. St. Croix’s rolling hills, dotted with intermittent buildings and houses, rose toward the horizon as his focus shifted away from the ocean. Tish gave his hand a hard squeeze, and he looked over to share a quick, secret smile with his wife.

  The Midwest had plenty of green, but this was so much more that the difference was almost impossible for him to define. The air seemed fresher, crisp but with a hint of salt. The intense heat of the sun at once stung his skin while compensating for the slight chill of the wind off the ocean.

  He’d seen a lot of hell since Z-Day. This wasn’t heaven, but it was as close as Miles had gotten in a long time.

  On Kellys Island, he’d had to become used to being around crowds again. If anything, the people in view dwarfed what he’d thought was a pretty sizable population. Uniformed Marines and Naval personnel walked with purpose alongside more casually-dressed civilian types. Others seemed to be enjoying the day, fishing off the side of the pier or soaking up the rays. The harbor walls weren’t any sort of beach, but he imagined if so many people were out here, a place with sand was liable to be even more packed.

  “I hope you didn’t forget a swimsuit,” he joked to Tish. Detroit deck personnel and Navy guys down on the pier, working with practiced efficiency, moved in concert to swing an extending ramp up onto the side of the ship. The scale was a bit out of whack—the ship that carried them south was as big a vessel as Miles had ever seen, but if the ramp was anything to go by, the cruise ships that once came to call in this harbor had been several times as large.

  “I brought four,” she said, smiling. “I haven’t worn any of them in years, so who knows if they fit—but I don’t care.”

  “C’mon,” Miles scoffed. “I’d be shocked if they didn’t.” The survivors had moved well beyond the lean years immediately after Z-Day, but even a newfound surplus wasn’t enough to pack on extra pounds.

  “What about me?” Trina interjected. “I don’t have a swimsuit. Does that mean I can’t go swimming?”

  Miles tried not to laugh as Trina leaned down and gave their daughter a hug. “Mommy’s got you covered, kid. There were plenty to choose from in the warehouse.”

  That did make him laugh. Not long after Z-Day, when he and Pete—along with a few others—had rescued the surviving students off the roof of the local school, they’d made what turned out to be their first salvage run, developing and polishing the techniques that kept them going in the years to come. With almost a dozen kids to clothe, they’d cleared out the children’s
section at the Target SuperStore in nearby Lewisville. A lot of it turned out to be a waste of space, but the concept of throwing away something because it wasn’t needed became anathema in the community of survivors almost overnight. Ironically, Tish had stashed away a few swimsuits for Trina before they’d left Hope, thinking that swimming might be something they could try on the lake. They’d both been so busy that there hadn’t been any time—yet another stroke of good luck stemming from Miles’ ‘forced’ vacation.

  My daughter has never swum before, Miles realized with a sudden pang. Not long ago, he’d lamented her inability to laugh. Moving past that onto something else was as definite a sign of their slow return toward normalcy as any.

  He made eye contact with Tish. “I don’t know if Mommy brought floaties for you, so you’ll have to take it slow until you’re comfortable in the water. One of us will need to be with you unless it’s shallow.” Is there a pool, maybe? Back home, a lack of chemicals such as chlorine made any such construction short-lived and pointless. He doubted that the situation would be any different down here with an ocean right outside the door.

  “I do not have floaties,” Tish confirmed. Their daughter wrinkled her forehead in confusion.

  “What are you even talking about? Are they a back-then thing?”

  Miles shrugged. “Yeah, I guess they are.”

  Pete approached, followed by Sandy and his family. “Got your stuff together?”

  Miles held up the over-sized duffel bag the three of them had lived out of since the Detroit left Kellys Island. While he was willing to skimp on a variety of outfits to reduce their baggage, he’d also brought his carbine, pistol, and kit. Pete had promised safety, but Miles hadn’t survived this long assuming that was a certain thing. “Good to go. What’s the plan?”