Planet of the Dead (Book 2): War For The Planet of The Dead

by Flowers, Thomas S.

  Solis suddenly started on the 50-cal, jarring Romero from his thoughts. He turned to see what was happening. Ahead near the David Letterman Circle, hundreds of those things converged along the fence line. Intermixed with the heavy machine gun thump, there was small arms from someone within the mass of moaning, grabbing, thoughtless biters. Just beyond the fence, the looming glass-lined air traffic control tower could just be made out in the haze of sulfur smoke.

  "Seven-Charley, Fulp--what's going on up there?" Quinata asked, leaning forward, peering through the Humvee windshield.

  Crackling voices, and then, "Yeah--FUCK, Sergeant these things are overrunning the gate. Solis is trying to clear them out, but we're taking crossfire, over," Sergeant Fulp reported.

  More gunfire.

  "Punch through--we don't got time for this. Who knows if any planes are still left?" Quinata barked through the handset.

  "Roger, we're going through--SOLIS!" Fulp screamed.

  "Seven-Charley?"

  "Seven-Charley, Fulp? Do you copy, over?"

  Suddenly, the convoy moved forward, punching through a narrow entry point in the fence line, passing a herd of grabbing arms, slapping up against the Humvees, crunching underneath the tire. Romero saw what was left of the guards and quickly turned his head. His stomach knotted, and his head spun. A cold clammy spasm spread over his body.

  The guards were the worst he'd seen since this started. What was left of them, a pool of pearl bone protruding in a sticky and amorphous glop of intestines and organs, ravaged over by the living dead inside a sandbag bunker. Using their gnarled hands as spoons and scooping the bodily muck into happy greedy mouths.

  They ate.

  And ate.

  Ate without stop.

  "Seven-Alpha, this is Seven-Charley..."

  "Go ahead, Charley."

  Nothing. Just crackling.

  Romero stood and looked in front. He couldn't see Solis in the turret, just a slumped over form.

  "Fulp? What's going on?"

  "It's Solis, he's been shot," came Fulp, his voice distant, tired.

  "Shit--we can't stop, the runway is just ahead. We need to find a hangar that still has a plane and a pilot to fly us out of here. Can you perform first aid?" Quinata held the handheld close to his ear, but he wasn't paying attention. He was looking through a pair of binos to the north west of them. He was smiling.

  "No, Sergeant. KIA," Fulp crackled.

  Quinata dropped the binos. "Fuck," he hissed. He started to radio something but stopped. Charley's Humvee started to swerve. It pulled a hard right, veering away from the convoy.

  "Seven-Charley--Fulp, what the hell--" Quinata started.

  A sizzling static filled the radio.

  "Fulp?"

  The Humvee stopped several feet away.

  Now in the lead, Billings hit the brakes.

  Martin's truck stopped behind them. Someone had dismounted, Sergeant Martin it looked like. Romero could only make out his red hair as he ran to Charley's truck, his Kevlar helmet left behind.

  Sergeant Martin peered inside. He back away, glancing at Quinata and shaking his head. He trotted back to his own truck.

  "Seven-Bravo, what the fuck are they--" Quinata started again.

  "They're dead," Martin reported.

  "Dead?"

  "Dead...or dead-ish. Solis was eating DelPriore."

  "And Sergeant Fulp?"

  "He wasn't moving."

  Silence.

  "Seven-Alpha?"

  Quinata turned to Billings. "Keep moving." He pressed on the handheld. "The hangar is up ahead, looks like its prepping for takeoff. Let's make sure we've got a seat."

  They started toward one of the hangars on the far side of the runway.

  Romero glanced back at the motionless Humvee. Johnson, Jackson, Garcia, lost--and now Fulp, Solis, and DelPriore. Without want, memories flooded across his mind's eye. Thousands of times shooting the shit by the barracks, smoking cigarettes and talking about home, foods they wanted to eat, or kids' birthday parties, or how much pussy they were going to get from their wife, girlfriend, whatever. Countless moments of anger and laughter. They weren't blood related, but they had a bond stronger than family. He couldn't help the coldness that he felt. But the mission--this fubar bullshit, whatever it was, wasn't over. He still had folks back home that he needed to get back to.

  He gave one last look and then turned away. "Better them than me."

  Up ahead, a massive green C-17 Boeing transport plane was pulling out of the hangar, guided by a frantic airman in a yellow and orange safety vest.

  "Take us all the way to the hangar, Billings," Quinata shouted. He was bouncing in his seat.

  The convoy came to a halt in front of the hangar.

  Hardly waiting for the truck to come to a complete stop, Quinata jumped out, his M4 dangling from a lanyard on his Kevlar plated ACU vest. He motioned with his hand up in the air for everyone else to fall in line.

  Taking his M4, Romero climbed over the top of the Humvee and jumped to the ground. Billings was out and running to catch up with Quinata. Turning, he could see Martin, Sherman, and Morsett sprinting toward them.

  Satisfied everyone was following, Quinata ran ahead, leading the way to the C-17 and the Airman guiding it out of the hangar.

  Romero couldn't be sure, but it sounded like the Airman shouted, "Full up."

  Quinata stood in front of him, shouting obscenities.

  "I'm sorry, Sergeant, but we're already over capacity," the Airman was saying. He looked young and terrified.

  "Bullshit," Quinata spat. "You can make room for us."

  "Sergeant--"

  "Listen, if you don't let us on this bird, it isn't going nowhere, you feel me?"

  "You're crazy!"

  "Maybe--but you don't know the shit we had to go through to get here."

  The Airman stared at him, and then he pressed on a handheld radio he had clipped on his belt. After a few crackled moments of conversation, he turned back to Quinata and nodded. "Go ahead, they lowered the ramp on the side. There aren't any seats left, so you'll need to sit near the back and hang on."

  Quinata told him thanks. He turned to what remained of his squad and beamed, "Come on," and then started for the Boeing.

  One by one, they climbed the steep ramp. The Airman had not exaggerated. The entire haul of the plane was crammed with soldiers, airmen, and civilians--some American, a few translators, and locals. They worked their way to the back.

  "Better place than any," Martin said, plopping down next to a pile of duffle bags. He unclipped his M4 and rested it on the floor.

  Romero followed suit and sat down next to him.

  After a few minutes, the Captain announced their departure. A moment later, the turbofan engines roared and launched the giant transport plane down the runway. As they started to lift into the air, Romero wondered if they even knew where they were flying. He was going to ask but decided against it. They'd find out soon enough. If they were away from here, that would be good enough for now.

  General Rusk

  Part I

  Fort Hood, Texas.

  He'd set up command in 3rd Corp. A four-story Army post building located almost at the heart of Fort Hood. General Rusk had never cared much for the building, perhaps too many memories of arguments with old friends now dead, or undead. The fact that this was all really happening--the living dead, was unsettling, but stranger still was the ease in which he found himself pulling his boot laces tight and donning his uniform to answer the call. Before the crisis, the outbreak, whatever you wanted to call it, Rusk was on his way out--forced retirement you might say, too many old dogs and not enough bones to chew on. He was on his way out of service. But then the most unlikely thing happened. The dead came back to life, a half-life, in which the returned were nothing more than shambling husks of what once was.

  Rusk sat in his large leather chair, leaned back, his focus glued to the dozen or so maps pinned along the walls. Markings and colo
red tape and scribblings of where perimeters had been established, troop counts, LZs, armaments, field hospitals, and now the beginning stages of a refugee camp. He didn't like the idea of retreating. Next to the maps of the base, there were maps of area cities, Austin among them. 1st Calvary was tasked with clearing zones--but they were stretched thin. The fact that 4th Infantry, 89th Military Police Brigade, and good many other units were still on deployment in Iraq--cut off from communication--didn't help matters at all. Entire platoons were being swallowed by this epidemic. And there was rumor of men walking away from the battlefield.

  "Murphy," General Rusk called.

  "Yes, sir?" a small, mousy private asked, sitting at the long table, dictating notes from the mission briefing earlier that day. Rusk had demanded early on that meticulous notes had to be kept of every briefing and meeting.

  "Send out orders to the Commanders in the field. Any soldier found in desertion, abandonment of their duty and post without permission, are to be immediately court marshalled and summarily executed."

  Silence.

  "Private Murphy, did you get that?" General Rusk asked.

  "Yes, sir," the private answered in a whisper.

  General Rusk nodded. He stood and walked to the large glass wall overlooking a circular flower garden with a flag pole, the Stars & Stripes fluttering the breeze, four M1 Abram tanks and at a full platoon of troops setting up defense positions, and beyond--Fort Hood, hundreds of Humvees patrolling and transporting supplies to the dozen check points including already established gates of entry--and all the others to ensure the safety of the base. Fort Hood was like a little city, they had everything here they would need to survive...but it wasn't enough, not for Rusk.

  His plan of action could and would work.

  His men would have to carry his orders without hesitation.

  It would be hard.

  People--innocent civilians would die.

  Just ask the Governor.

  How else was he to purge this disease?

  It was time for strong leadership, unafraid to make the tough calls.

  And if it didn't work, if the plague was too wide spread to snuff out, well...

  Even under a scorched earth, new seedlings can take root and grow.

  Elliot & Mia

  Just outside Seattle,

  Washington.

  "Turn that TV down! They'll hear it." Mia stood by the window, peeling back the thick curtain to get a look outside from their twelfth story apartment building. The sun was starting to set, turning the rain that had started earlier that day into sheets of dark blue. Her heavy panicked breath fogged the window.

  Elliot waved her off, he was leaning forward in his chair, "Something's on the news. Something about the President being dead."

  Mia turned around. "What?" her hands covered her mouth. Outside, the horns were constant, it seemed like the whole damn city was evacuating, including the National Guard out of Kent. Everyone was leaving, or at least those who could.

  Clutching the TV remote, Elliot turned the volume up another bar. "Yeah, look, that's Vice President Johnson, they're swearing him in...fucking trippy. This is really happening."

  Mia glanced nervously at their apartment door. They'd chained, and double bolted it, but still--she didn't feel it was enough. "Maybe you should turn down the TV."

  Elliot did as she asked. Listening to Mia exhaling loudly as she turned back to the window, he rolled his chair toward her, his reflection clear in the glass--a once upon a time athletic twenty-something, but ever since the crash, the one the doctors said it was a miracle he even survived, the one that forced him into a wheelchair. Months now and still no sign he'd ever walk again. Mia didn't sign up for this, a girlfriend of only four months before the accident. Now she was stuck with a paraplegic in the middle of a global crisis.

  "Mia..." he said softly.

  She said nothing, her gaze glued to the millions leaving the city, fighting through traffic along the interstate, or the dozen others fleeing on boat down Lake Washington.

  "Mia?"

  "Hmm?" She was chewing her nails.

  "You need to leave," he said evenly.

  "Huh?" she hardly registered what he was saying, her attention almost exclusively outside.

  "You need to go, Mia."

  At this she finally stopped looking outside and turned, her mouth agape.

  "Listen," Elliot wheeled closer to her, reaching out, taking her hand. "Everyone is getting out while they still can. Whatever this disease is...well, you need to stay ahead of it. Josh and Lisa across the hall were talking about getting to one of the islands on Josh's boat. You should go with them."

  Mia was half shaking her head, hesitation in her eyes. "What are you talking about? Leave? We can't leave, Elliot, how would we get your..." she gestured at his wheelchair.

  Elliot shook his head, letting her hand go. "I wouldn't be much use out there, and I sure as hell wouldn't want to put you in danger."

  "Elliot?"

  He closed his eyes. "It's better this way--at least you'll have a chance. I love you, Mia, but this isn't fair to you--having to stick around all because of me." He opened his eyes, locking on to her gaze. "You should go, without me."

  Mia was silent for a moment. Her body leaning more and more as if at any moment she would cut and run for the door. Tears swelled her eyes, for sorrow, guilt, or relief, Elliot did not know.

  Suddenly, she leaned down and kissed him.

  Without a word, Mia trotted to their room and packed while Elliot resumed his watch on the news. Now acting President Johnson was making some speech about swift action and to vanguard against our enemies. Apparently, the latest rumor was this was all some cooked up chemical attack, from who, was anybody's guess. The Russians. North Korea. ISIS. Hell, maybe it was the fucking Canadians for all they knew.

  Within ten minutes, Mia was heading out the door, one red backpack slung across her shoulder. Pausing as Elliot rolled over to lock up behind her, she said, "Keep safe, Elliot...okay? Keep safe." And with that, she was gone.

  Elliot closed the door and locked it at the sound of Josh and Lisa's voices welcoming her into their fold of soon-to-be refugees. Rolling into the kitchen, he grabbed a beer and went back out and positioned his wheelchair in front of the window. The TV was still going, terrified looking reporters summarizing and speculating over what the new President had said. Even now, when the world was collapsing, it was to them the same political game.

  Pulling the tab, Elliot watched the chaos below. So many people, even from twelve floors up, scrabbling to get away from the city, like rats escaping a sinking ship.

  The sound of gunshots echoed faintly

  Screams from the streets.

  Was this what he had just sent Mia out into?

  "It's what she wanted," he hissed through a swig of bitter brew.

  ***

  He awoke suddenly to the sound of banging.

  Dazed, he looked around.

  Elliot was still by the window in his wheelchair, an empty can of Miller laying on the carpet. Outside it was dark, but the lights of the vehicles below lit most of the night. Despite all this, there seemed to be less people.

  "What did they do, abandon all their cars?" Elliot smirked, still half asleep.

  He started at the sound of banging again, this time followed by a voice. "Elliot, let me in, please! I'm sorry--I'm so sorry, please just let me in!"

  Frowning, Elliot rolled quickly to the front door. No sooner had he unlatched the dead bolt Mia burst into the apartment. She whipped around and slammed the door and bolting the locks, panting, sliding to the floor.

  "Mia, what the hell is going on? I thought you left?" Elliot stared at his girlfriend, ex-girlfriend, whatever status their relationship was currently residing. She was missing her backpack; the red one she'd left with. Her clothes looked soaked in sweat and dirt. She coughed, struggling to catch her breath.

  "Mia?"

  She was sobbing now.

  "Mia?" />
  "They're dead."

  "Who's dead?"

  "Josh and Lisa--those things are everywhere, they're real...the infected, Elliot, I saw it for myself. A man with his family, a little girl in a yellow slicker, and a woman, his wife probably. They were getting out of this minivan when this homeless looking guy staggered towards them. There was a struggle and he...he bit the little girl. She screamed so loud. A cop showed up and helped pull the homeless freak off the girl. But he just wouldn't stop. And then the cop, the cop shot him. But still, even after being shot, he didn't stop...he kept after them..." Mia spoke in a quiet voice, rapidly spitting out the words.

  "Mia, what are you talking about?"

  "And more and more of them kept coming--they were dead, dead people walking, and we got swept up in the wave of people running to get away. Josh got pulled under and trampled. Me and Lisa, we just kept going, we couldn't stop. We almost made it to the docks when she remembered Josh had the keys to their boat. So...so we had to double back. It was so hard, we kept knocking into people, and then finally it cleared enough for us to find Josh, he was dead--or we thought he was. Lisa searched his pockets, looking for the keys...for the..the key..." Mia kept stuttering.

  Elliot reached out and touched her slick shoulder. "Mia--calm down. You're safe now. You're safe, okay?"

  She looked up at him, eyes wide and terrified. "No. That's what I'm trying to tell you. No one is safe. We're not safe. Lisa--Josh grabbed her hand and bit her. Tore her wrist wide open and was...eating her. Elliot, he ate her!"

  Elliot wiped his mouth with his hand.

  There were sounds in the hallway outside.

  Thumping sounds.

  Mia jerked, eyes wider and wild looking. She pressed her finger to her lips, "Shh!"

  Looking at the door, Elliot said, "Probably just one of the neighbors."

  She stood and started for the large cushioned chair in the living room. Elliot wheeled back, watching her as she pushed the enormous thing to the front door.