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

by Humphreys, Daniel

  The island was peaceful, and to everyone’s surprise, devoid of infected. While it was peaceful, cots had been a minor consideration after food, water, and weapons. Repko and the rest of her people were safe, but they spent a few weeks sleeping on the ground while they waited for a relief crew to come along.

  Once the USS Michigan arrived, the only change to the status quo was the fact that they actually had something to occupy their time. They spent the first day back at the ship in cleanup—drawing the zulus remaining on the deck of the Lucas into the ocean, then cleaning up the inevitable mess they’d left behind. Zulu had breached none of the secure bulkheads. Even so, the crew’s initial return inspection was cautious and well-armed. They’d lost too many people over the years to trust something as simple as a closed door.

  Repko had heard the philosophy referred to as Schrödinger’s zombie—until observation proved one way or another, a closed space existed as both safe and dangerous.

  The fist hammered her door again, and she threw the blanket aside and sat up. The worn linoleum floor of the visiting officer’s quarters was deliciously cold. On Guam, air conditioning was a necessity rather than a perk. “One minute,” she yelled. She rubbed at her eyes with a balled-up fist and tried to imagine what crisis demanded her attention at—she checked her watch—four in the morning.

  This better be fucking good.

  She yanked the door open, squinting against the lighting in the hallway. The sight of the cringing seaman in front of her door tamped her anger down, a bit. She took a deep breath and tried to push down the persistent rage that had defined her since she’d watched them push her F/A-18F Super Hornet into the ocean for lack of spare parts and fuel. “What?” she snapped, her tone far harsher than she’d intended.

  The young enlisted man took a deep breath and threw his shoulders back. “Move orders for you, ma’am.” His hand shook a little as he extended a folded sheet of paper toward her. “Commodore Jackson said to pass it along without delay.”

  Repko took the paper with a frown. “As you were,” she said. Orders delivered, he didn’t quite run away, but it was one of the faster walks she’d ever seen.

  She closed the door with an elbow and flipped the light switch on as she unfolded the sheet. Her anger turned into confusion as she realized Fleet was reassigning her from the Lucas to the ground staff of Kellys Island. Wherever the hell that was. She scanned the rest of the note, then crumpled it up and tossed it in the trash can.

  Whatever was going on, it was a snap-kick, because her orders directed her to leave on the Michigan in less than ninety minutes. On the bright side, she’d gotten enough practice at moving fast and light since Z-Day that she had enough time to scrub her face, put her hair into some semblance of order, and grab a mug of coffee from the cafeteria en route to the docks.

  A small crowd milled about on the dock, waiting for the Michigan’s crew to finish sailing prep and allow them to board. As she strolled up, her eyes flickered from face to face, and the subtle recognition of each visage tempered the confusion running through her.

  She knew most of them by reputation if not personally.

  Naval aviation had been a tight-knit group, after all, before the end. Repko moved to the side of one of her old crewmates from her days as the DCAG—Deputy Commander Air Wing—on the USS Gerald R Ford. “Branson,” she said. “What’s with the fire drill?”

  Lieutenant Commander Mike Branson was short, only a few inches taller than Repko herself, and powerfully built. He’d been balding on Z-Day. His scalp was completely bare, now—the process was either complete or he’d taken to shaving his head.

  “Hey, Cap,” he said, then caught himself. Before Z-Day, a DCAG position was a captain’s slot. With no airplanes to fly, there were too many captains and not enough ships. The transferred aviators had all taken bumps in rank to better fit into the command structure of the decimated Navy. “Lynn,” he amended with a quick grin. Branson had moved over to Naval Construction, getting up close and personal with zulu after a career in the sky. The fact that he’d made it this long was a testament to his talents. There weren’t many of the old hand Seabees left at this point.

  “Nothing official, but you know the rumor mill.”

  Repko waved a hand for him to continue as she drained the last of her coffee.

  “I hear we’ve got attack jets back up and running,” Branson said. “Fleet’s been pulling all the engineering support they can get to the Great Lakes and Gulf. Rumor is, we’ve got something big in the planning phase and it looks like we’re part of that.”

  Repko considered that along with the implication of the group of pilots standing on the pier. She let a broad smile cross her face. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in years, Mike. 18 Foxtrots?”

  “Unknown. Guess that’s what we’ll find out when we get to the Great Lakes.”

  She considered the submarine’s conning tower and tried to restrain her excitement. At this point, she’d take a prop plane. A jet would just be icing on the cake after years of commanding drones.

  Hellcat’s back in the air, boys and girls. How ‘bout that?

  Chapter Sixteen

  May 24, 2026

  Mississippi—North of Baton Rouge, Louisiana

  Z-Day + 3,140

  With further modifications of the barges underway after the fire test, Fleet shuffled Coop and his men off onto different tasks. While he’d regarded re-certifying the unit on the mortars as a vacation, their current task was actual work and much more dangerous.

  The boat could carry up to eight troops along with its crew of four, but Coop had elected to the keep the load on the SOC-R (Special Operations Craft—Riverine) light in case they needed to make a run for safer water or encountered civilian survivors.

  While the Marines worked on the boats and barges of Operation Gateway, the Navy had been scouring the route to St. Louis with drone overflights, dispatching teams of engineers as needed to clear out potential blockages. Progress was slow. The dropping of bridges and accumulation of debris and silt over the years had shifted the mapped path of the river, making it dangerously shallow in some areas.

  The way was clear from the Gulf to Baton Rouge, but that represented a bit less than a quarter of the 1,500 miles of river to St. Louis. Despite the insistence from Colonel O’Neil that there was no hard deadline on the operation, he’d dispatched Coop and his men immediately as soon as the drone reconnaissance turned up something that called for a closer look.

  Lush green foliage slipped by on either side of the boat. The petty officer at the helm had the twin diesels idled down to keep their noise signature down. The current was sluggish but counteracted enough of their forward movement that they couldn’t cut the engines and drift.

  Coop looked over the trio of Marines he’d tabbed for this mission before allowing himself to scan the bank on his side of the boat. Stahlberg and Gray were solid enough, but PFC Scott Sullivan was an unknown quantity. Tall and rangy, he was a former refugee. While Sullivan had been through the reconstituted Marine boot camp on Guam, Coop found himself dubious of the guy’s skill-set. Rightly or wrongly, there was an institutional judgment when weighing the old-school Parris Island and San Diego Marines against the quick-and-dirty substitute Fleet had commissioned to replenish their ranks. The former civilians with experience in keeping themselves alive weren’t bad, but Coop didn’t have the PFC pegged yet.

  Even if this ended up as a wild goose chase, getting a better measure of one of the men in his squad would be worth it. Better to train a replacement now than have him sabotage them during the big show if he couldn’t cut the mustard.

  “Getting close,” the PO murmured, though it wasn’t necessary. The sound of the river and the burble of the engines were far louder than his voice, but Coop appreciated the sentiment. Shouldering his rifle, he scanned the river ahead through his scope, waiting.

  Her founders built the bulk of Baton Rouge on the east side of the Mississippi, along a ruler-straight section
running south to north. The river above and below the city meandered through S-turns and curves. The subject of their inspection was an island in the center of the river, around a switchback turn past the city proper. If it had a name, Coop didn’t know it. It wasn’t written on any of the maps they had, and every other resource they could find seemed to show no one had lived there before Z-Day.

  Sometimes I miss Google Maps. And the Internet in general. And… Coop shook off that line of thinking. He could spend hours regretting all they’d lost if he allowed himself to go down that rabbit hole. Better to focus on the here and now.

  The distance from the Gulf forced the reconnaissance group to use lighter, longer-ranged drone craft. That sacrifice meant that the imagery they’d gotten wasn’t as high-resolution as it could have been. Their mission intent was to establish intermittent bases along the river, to aid in resupply and provide launch points for drones and helicopters. They had, in fact, shuttled to one such completed base near Gonzales, Louisiana, and boarded the SOC-R there.

  The island they approached now had been one of the prime candidates for such a base, until grainy photographs showed the tell-tale signs of human occupation. On one hand, survivors were great. In Coop’s experience, they also tended toward the twitchy when outsiders showed up, which made first contact a delicate process.

  Here’s hoping this group is happy to see us and doesn’t start shooting for the hell of it.

  They eased around the curve. The southernmost tip of the island formed a rough arrowhead in the river, forks flowing around either side. “Take it up the east branch,” Coop murmured. “We’ll do a loop around and drift past most of it.”

  “Roger that, Sergeant,” the PO said, steering the boat as ordered and increasing the throttle a bit to counteract the current. Coop didn’t like the noise, but there wasn’t a whole lot he could do about it. He moved closer to the bow. Gray and Stahlberg had taken up position on opposite sides of the boat near amidships. Sullivan was up closer to the bow, between the two weapons stations manned by Navy crewmen. He’d figured the PFC could cause the least amount of trouble there. Something about their situation was also making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, and he wanted to be closer to a potential issue.

  “Hold fire unless you hear it from me,” he murmured to the corporals as he passed between.

  “Aye-aye, Sergeant,” Stahlberg agreed, with Gray a half-beat out of sync.

  Keeping his eyes on the island while dealing with the rocking of the boat was very nearly a prescription for disaster, but Coop managed and took up position in front of the port gun mount. He nodded to the seaman manning the 7.62mm minigun mounted there.

  If things go to hell, at least we’ve got enough firepower to pull our asses out of the fire.

  “All right, Sullivan?”

  “Shiny, Sergeant.”

  He wanted to roll his eyes, but settled for, “Head on a swivel, Marine.”

  They nosed past the tip of the island, well into the eastern channel, now. Stunted trees sprouted from marshy lowlands, but as they moved further to the north the tree cover grew thicker as the ground humped out of the water.

  A tight, nervous feeling took hold in his stomach as he realized what was bothering him about the island—there was no smoke. If he’d seen any common thread throughout all the settlements he’d come across since Z-Day, it was the ever-present campfire. Whether for keeping the stew pot bubbling, boiling drinking water, or smoking meat, letting the fire go out was akin to leaving your door wide open in the old world.

  “No fires,” he muttered. The seaman on the minigun heard him, cursed, and passed it along.

  “Movement,” Stahlberg said. “Cluster of trees at ten o’clock.”

  Coop shouldered his rifle and scanned the area through his scope. “Nothing,” he reported. “Slow and smooth, gentlemen.”

  Time dragged out as the island slipped by. The trees grew thicker, and he could make out the outlines of rough-hewn structures in the cleared areas beyond. The sky remained empty of smoke, but more disconcerting was the half-submerged canoe they passed. The bowline was still tied to a tree near the water’s edge, but a boat was a vital resource. No way would anyone leave one exposed to the elements like that.

  Coop twisted around and waved for the PO’s attention. “Rev it up. Let’s do a high-speed run to the other side and see if we wake anything up—”

  The cry of the seaman on the starboard weapons mount cut him off. “Look out!”

  The warning came too late. With a sudden crunch, the bow of the boat lurched up, throwing Coop to the deck. Just as suddenly, the aft section pitched up as the bow dropped, and he got a swirling sensation as they spun in place. The hull vibrated as it rubbed against something under the water until all at once the boat lurched to a halt.

  “The fuck?” Coop complained as he climbed back to his feet. They’d come to a dead stop with the bow pointed at the eastern bank of the river while the entire craft listed to port.

  The PO rushed to starboard, stared into the water, and cursed. “Trees, or something.” Coop joined him. With the bulk of the boat blocking the current from the north, he could make out the sunken debris the boat rested on. The tree had been a monster, bigger around than Coop could encircle with his arms, and who knew how it had ended up in the water, but they were well and truly stuck.

  “We got bigger problems, Sergeant.” Sullivan sounded farther away than he should have, and when Coop turned to look for him, his heart sank as he saw the PFC standing in the middle of the river where the crash had sent him overboard.

  The water came up to his knees, which wouldn’t have been a problem if he’d been standing on a sandbar, but as Coop shifted over to the opposite side of the boat and studied the water around Sullivan he realized how screwed they were.

  The log they’d ramped had started a chain reaction, collecting debris as it drifted down the river. Who knew how many years the accumulation had taken, and even so, it wasn’t enough to totally dam up the current. From this close, he could trace the extent of blockage, and it spanned nearly the entire width of the river. He glanced at the east bank and turned back to the island as the first zulu stumbled out of the trees and splashed into the water. Its uncoordinated flailing might have struck Coop as hilarious if the current hadn’t carried it to the raised stretch of debris.

  As it climbed unsteadily to its feet, he took note of the shabby, threadbare clothing and winced. The island had inhabitants at some point, but the safety the survivors had found had come to an end. He visualized the mass of debris building over the years until it reached the critical point. Maybe the level of the river had dropped and revealed the bridge of muck and mess to the infected, or something else had drawn them, but they’d made it across, and the tense feeling he’d felt over the lack of fires was horribly clarified. He wondered if the island’s inhabitants had even known of the growing danger before it came ashore. What a hell of a way to go.

  He took the shot before any of the other crew on the boat could call out, and even suppressed the round from his rifle would be a clarion call to any nearby zulu. His aim was off a bit, and the round hit low and to the side, but his follow-up shot was right on the money and the first zulu toppled into the water.

  Much more of that and we’re going to beef up the dam for them.

  The seaman manning the .50-caliber machine gun on the stern mount called out. “Contact!”

  Coop turned his head to look, knowing what he’d find. The shore of the island was alive with movement. Staggering figures lurched through the trees, intent on the stalled boat. The first reached shore and stepped forward into the gap between the tree and the sunken mound. For a moment, Coop hoped that the current would sweep it sideways and over the log, but enough silt had drifted over to bridge the lower gap with the log, leaving the thing waist deep in the water.

  The .50 gunner sounded frantic. “What am I doing here?” Standard doctrine called for suppressed weapons only, and the big machin
e gun very much did not count.

  “Go loud!” Coop roared. He raised his rifle and took aim toward the north side of the shore, well away from the gunner’s back. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, the seaman hit the butterfly triggers on the Browning, and the deep, rhythmic thud of the big gun pounded in Coop’s chest and ears.

  The big, armor-piercing shells swept across the first wave of zulu, blowing them to literal pieces. If enough of the brain remained to coordinate the bits, they were still a threat, but with danger close and the river in play, Coop didn’t think they’d have to worry. If nothing else, the raised sides of the boat would keep any crawlers at bay.

  With the first wave neutralized, the .50 fell silent. He barked at the PO. “Get us out of here!”

  “I’m working on it!” The Navy guy sounded frantic, and the diesel’s rumbled as he tried to goose the throttles. “We’re hung up!”

  “Contact front!” Stahlberg cried.

  Damn it. Coop turned and tried to maintain his composure. The eastern side of the shore rippled with emaciated figures. Most of them headed straight for the stricken Marines and were instantly washed downstream, but more than a few found the sunken crossing and hobbled their way. Doom approached from either side.

  But the eastern horde wasn’t walking on the tree. Which made sense—the thing would have to be a thousand feet long to span the entire width of the river at this point.

  He turned back to the PO and pointed. “There! Screw backing up, shove forward and cut over!”

  The guy gave him a thumb’s up in reply, and the boat lurched a bit as he goosed the water jets, but they didn’t move much. The PO leaned over and tore open a toolbox on one of the bulkheads. “I need time!”

  “Roger that,” Coop muttered, then screamed out, “Light ‘em up!”