Arisen, Book Five - EXODUS

by Michael Stephen Fuchs

  His assault boots went right into the dying and screaming sailor, and the energy of his impact knocked several of the dead off their feet. The deck all around him was slick with the blood and viscera of the dying and half-devoured man, diluted with a lot of rainwater, which pooled and splashed all around. When Handon hit, he just managed to stop his feet going out from under him – thank God for that no-skid – and he absorbed the shock of the impact with his leg muscles, and came up fighting.

  He understood with terrible clarity that if he lost his footing, if he went down under this mob, he’d be bitten and infected within seconds – and probably a number of seconds he could count on one finger. The most dangerous and vulnerable moment of any parachute insertion was always the instant of touchdown. And that was even before the thousand other factors that made this one uniquely lethal.

  In the same motion as landing and releasing his steering lines, Handon drew his Kimber Custom .45 with one hand and his Vorax combat knife with the other, both from his chest rig, and came up stabbing and shooting. He put a lightning double-tap into the nearest dead head (the one dead ahead), then two headshots on one scrabbling on the ground at his feet. Clocking incoming motion to the left, he flipped the blade into an overhand grip and brought it around with his left hand and impaled a face. Motion on the right now drew his knife hand across his body for another facial reconfiguration.

  With the momentum of drawing his left arm across his body, he carried on into a spin in place, just in time to face others falling on him from behind. Four more .45 rounds and the pistol went dry. But, dropping it in mid-air along with the knife, he now had the two feet of space and quarter-second of breathing room he needed to get to his assault rifle, which he brought up and tight in to his shoulder.

  The bad news was that he had no room to maneuver. The good news, such as it was, was that he could just whirl in place, the relatively short-barrelled rifle pulled in tight, shooting extremely close-range groupings into the mob of attacking and flailing corpses. But focusing on a fast-moving target closely enough to hit it, never mind hit it in the head, while simultaneously maintaining 360-degree situational awareness to avoid getting taken down by the ones you’re not shooting at, was one of the hardest cognitive and motor-skill functions in the world. Only operators at the extreme pointy end of the elite military pyramid could pull it off.

  Handon fired and whirled, fired and whirled, having not one fraction of a second for hesitation or error. The dead around him fell so quickly it was like they were being turned off with a remote – or as if he was a human spinning blade, scything the circle around him in an expanding circle, leveling a field of wheat. Every shot, four or five each second, was a killing shot.

  As his immediate vicinity started to clear up, based on the perfection of his shooting, Handon could make out sailors and Marines fighting all around him. It was like fucking Braveheart now – like no combat any modern army had seen since Stalingrad. The Marines, shouting and waving, when they weren’t also shooting, tried to stop the chaos and panic and re-form the lines.

  Handon had just bought himself a couple more heartbeats of life. But it was no less true now than before that losing his footing, or losing that breathing room, meant nearly instant death – or, rather, instant infection and then a slow, painful undeath.

  Handon’s eye passed over a tall Marine in full battle rattle, who shouted something and pointed over Handon’s shoulder.

  Handon whirled, instinctively going down into a crouch – but the hissing dead guy leaping at his back had already gotten in close, and Handon couldn’t acquire, so he jammed his left palm hard into its chest, knocking it to the deck, pointed his rifle and… click. Empty mag. He hadn’t done a tactical reload, not so much because he didn’t have time (though he didn’t), but because he didn’t have another mag. So he stepped forward and stomped his boot heel through the still-hissing head, crushing it like a melon, and splashing its contents across the deck like it had been dropped from a high balcony.

  Hmm, spent too long on that, he thought as he was tackled from behind, by one or more Zulus in frenzy, and went straight down on his face. Stunned from the frontal impact of the hard deck, arms and weapon crushed under him, he could actually feel an expulsion of fetid air on his neck as one of the dead opened its mouth to bite… and then a frustrated hissing as that weight was pulled off him. He rolled on to his back, pulled his second .45 left-handed and aimed through his knees… and saw the same big Marine firing his big tan assault rifle down at writhing figures at his feet – and obliterating the heads of the two he had just bodily yanked off Handon’s back.

  Looking around him from his position on the deck, Handon figured he must have parachuted into the very exact worst point of the whole breakthrough. Because it all seemed to be coming under control now, but in his vicinity last. A new perimeter had been formed by the sailors, led by the Marines – not at the original line up at the prow, but further back, about a hundred meters, at the point where the angle deck came to an end and the flight deck narrowed toward the front. The few leakers still rampaging around their rear were being encircled and cut down.

  The handsome, lanky, pale-skinned Marine reached down and offered Handon a hand up. Handon took it out of politeness; this dude had just saved him from certain undeath. As he hauled him up, the square-jawed man looked Handon in the eye. “Sergeant Major,” he said. “Welcome back – and welcome to the General Militia of CVN-79!” Handon vaguely recognized that as the Kennedy’s hull number, which he’d seen painted on the side when they first boarded – about a thousand years ago. He also vaguely recognized the Marine from their pre-mission briefing. His name patch said Coulson.

  Handon took a second he didn’t particularly have just to look around and marvel – but also to retrieve his knife and handgun from where he’d dropped them. The rain had slackened somewhat; now just a kind of a hazy drizzle fell. But the wind still gusted, black and dark-gray storm clouds pressed down from a low sky, lightning flashed in the distance, and a lot of general atmospheric menace remained. But at least there wasn’t that earlier lashing rain, which would have made the close-quarters fight on the deck even more absurdly hazardous than it already was.

  But Handon’s amazement wasn’t really about the weather. It was about the place, the whole situation. It seemed like eons since he’d last stood on the deck of this ship. When they had launched off it for their mission, he’d had no idea whether he’d ever see it again. But now he had fought through hell and worse, and had somehow made it back.

  Though the ship wasn’t in anything like the shape he’d left it in.

  It was now in very serious trouble.

  “Okay,” Handon said, catching his breath. “What’s your tactical situation…?”

  * * *

  He trotted along beside Coulson as the latter gave him a tour of the lines, while providing a high-level view of the battle. They both still had to shout over the regular and rhythmic firing, plus the explosions from the 20mm grenades that the defenders launched flat into the heaving masses of dead coming across the foredeck.

  Coulson said, “I’ve got nineteen Marines left, at various points around the boat!”

  Handon continued to scan the battlespace. “You in command?”

  “I am now! Gunny Blane went down in that last rush. Motherfucking CIWS on the Murph stopped to reload, and we got overrun. God save us if their see-whiz and Bushmaster both go down at once… Anyway, I’m damn glad you’re here – we need more skilled leadership right now like a meth-head needs meth!”

  Coulson turned and pointed back up toward the island. “We’ve got four guys up top in overwatch as snipers and grenadiers – also to help defend the island, for when it comes to that.” Handon squinted and could just make out the Marines up there pouring down steady and presumably accurate fire. There were also periodic whumps from launchers lobbing grenades – which took some lobbing, given that the island was nearly a half mile back from the line.

  Tho
ugh that distance was shrinking.

  “I’ve got the rest of my fire team plus half another, six guys total, running this fight up here – we’re leading a group of what used to be 400 militia. Call it 275 now. The salient feature of our current line is this: it’s just slightly ahead of the gaping fucking hole in the starboard side of the boat. If we get pushed back any farther than that, the creepy-crawlies are going to swarm inside, and down through the lower decks. And then we are all McFucked with Cheese.”

  Handon could easily make out the giant gap in the hull – though he had no idea how it got there – and could also see that the right flank of the militia was just barely protecting it. “What’s your fallback contingency?” he shouted.

  “There are a hundred more militia in a deep reserve force down below in the hangar deck, ready to come up the aircraft elevator and blast into the fight – though they’re by no means as squared away and badass as this group.” Coulson’s pained smile made it clear how badass he really thought his sailors were. “The reserve’s led by another fire team of four Marines. Finally, a tiny handful more of our guys are strongpointing other critical positions around the boat.”

  They both stopped trotting now. Handon watched two of the Marines run up and down behind a double staggered line of shooters in the front, slapping backs, tweaking positions, handing out mags, giving orders, and generally bucking people up. In some places, but not all, the front rank was kneeling, with the rear rank firing over their heads.

  Handon tried to get a sense of the combat effectiveness of this cobbled-together force. At first, when he looked upon those standing and fighting in the line, as well as the ones moving in the rear, what he saw was a bunch of skilled tradesmen with guns – cooks, electricians, deck-swabbers. But then when he cocked his head, and looked a second time in just a slightly different way… what he saw was a bunch of very brave men and women.

  He saw a band of brothers.

  Fighting for their homes, their lives, and for one another.

  He also noticed, belatedly, that they were almost all armed with XM-29 prototype assault rifles. He sure wondered where the hell those had come from – while also thinking they actually made this rabble in arms look more like starship troopers… A few carried the Remington shotguns that had always been part of the Navy arsenal, and which remained good zombie-fighting weapons.

  One of the Marines shouted at Coulson as he dashed by: “You heard from Atwell? When exactly the fuck are they going to get their precious asses into the fight?”

  Coulson gave him a shove in the shoulder to move him along. “They’ll be here when we need them! Now fuck off! Hold this position!”

  Handon noted the solidity of the skirmish line, and shouted at Coulson, “You got pushed back, but your force didn’t collapse.”

  Coulson shouted back at him, leaning in, “Whoop-di-fucking-doo! Because you see that big pile of crates and pallets up near the prow? The one all those undead douche-canoes are now crawling all over like it was a cheap Thai whore? That’s all our goddamned fucking ammo! They call it Ammo City. And some tactical brain trust decided to put it right behind the front line, for ease of resupply. And as we all know, the front line never moves. And now…” He paused to touch the double layer of magazine pouches on the front of his vest, and to take a quick look around. “Now I’d say everyone here is going to be black on ammo in about… six minutes. And after that happens, then you’ll see a truly impressive collapse.”

  Handon heard a strange noise now amid all the chaos – and looked back to one side, then the other, to see both of the flight deck’s big yellow tractors chugging forward. These were normally used for towing aircraft around. Now they came up on both flanks of the line, space was made for them, and they pushed forward – serving as improvised bulldozers. They began pushing great heaping piles of destroyed Zulus off the edges of the flight deck, and into the ocean below.

  Coulson caught him looking. “Yeah, one contingency I laid in myself! I didn’t think the rampart at the front would hold forever. And when it was breached, our biggest problem wasn’t going to be the dead attacking us – but piling up and burying us!” Handon could see the tractors already producing some precious breathing room.

  And keeping the living in the fight a little longer.

  Handon’s lanky Marine tour guide continued looking at the left flank, as two militiamen, emerging from behind the tractor, helped two others limp toward the rear. Then Coulson stepped forward, squinted deeply at them, leaned in – and snapped his rifle to his shoulder, firing two quick shots. The two wounded men dropped to the deck like bags of fertilizer – and their helpers stopped in place, frozen with horror.

  The Marine lowered his rifle. “Pour encourager les autres, motherfuckers!” he shouted. Handon didn’t expect the horrified sailors understood that; but he did. It was good motivation not to get bitten. It was also totally necessary in any serious zombie battle – never mind one as desperate and close-hauled as this. The bitten were worse than useless to the team – they were about to switch sides. It was ugly, but sidestepping it would only make things worse. This way, at least the infection wasn’t rampaging through their own force, causing the dead to pop up on every side of the defenders.

  At that moment, one of the other Marines ran by with his rifle, shaking his head, “Oh man, Ice Cube, that shit was cold…”

  Handon thought if Coulson looked like any rapper it was Vanilla Ice. But he knew that nicknames were more often ironic than not. Shaking his head, he quickly clocked what needed to be done here; making it possible would be his job. He grabbed Coulson by the shoulder and pulled the man’s helmeted head into his bare one.

  “I’m going to retake Ammo City for you!”

  Coulson shook his head. “That’s a no-go! I don’t think it’s possible! With the sheer mass of bodies pouring over the ramparts now… maybe we can destroy most of them. But we can’t physically push them all back. It’s too much mass. The tractors will keep pushing them off the deck on the flanks, but they can’t go to the front. You retake Ammo City, and pretty soon the dead’ll just roll back over the top of you, destroyed or not. You’ll be buried under them!”

  Handon nodded. “Okay, maybe we can’t hold it – but I bet we can retake it long enough for you to do an ammo resupply. How’s that?”

  Coulson nodded. “Roger that! There’s actually a forklift up there somewhere. In theory, if we can hold the position for a minute or two, we could drive a few pallets right out the back. That would definitely extend our shelf life here. Maybe even long enough!”

  Handon squinted. “How long’s long enough?”

  Coulson checked his watch. Handon noted it was a Mickey Mouse watch; but at least a digital one. “About forty-five minutes!”

  “What happens then?”

  “You’ll see if we live that long! What do you need to make it happen, Sarge?”

  Handon looked at the sluicing flow of animated corpses coming over the improvised wall at the edge of the flight deck. He wouldn’t want to guarantee they’d make it another five minutes before they were all overrun. But he put that thought aside, and got on with it.

  “Give me two Marines and four of your militia!”

  Coulson shook his head. “Can’t do it! I told you, experienced combat leaders are like fairy dust around here. But I’ll do you a deal: eight militia instead!”

  “Done!” Handon looked up and scanned the lines. “Okay. What we’re going to do is push out a salient in the middle – but fast. What you have to do is keep us from getting enveloped. We’ll retake Ammo City. But you’ve got to keep the flanks from collapsing around us.”

  “Roger that!”

  “And I need a tractor.” Handon checked his own watch. He’d only been on this deck three minutes – and it was barely five since he’d jumped out of that bomber. This thought led to one about Ali – but he pushed it far away from his mind. “I’m also going to need some ammo! Or a whole new weapon, one of the two…”

&nb
sp; Coulson shot a glance at Handon’s rifle, then physically spun around two militiamen at the back of the line, systematically pillaging their magazine pouches and handing everything over. As Handon refilled his own pouches, and as his team got selected and rounded up for him, he felt like he was forgetting something. Finally, it hit him, and he grabbed Coulson’s arm again. “One more thing!”

  “Yeah?”

  Handon tossed his head out toward the big depot of ammunition and explosives. “Check your fire and backgrounds! And no grenades!”

  Coulson laughed out loud. “Roger that, Army man. You are one crazy-ass son of a bitch!” He trotted off to do whatever the next critical and urgent thing was he needed to do, to keep everyone alive for a few minutes longer.

  Another Bullshit Night in Ammo City

  The JFK Flight Deck

  Handon was now huddled up behind the line with his cobbled-together special mission force, where he had created a small planning bubble amidst the chaos. He had a few critical things to convey to his new team – and only a few seconds to do it. The group of eight sailors, six men and two women, looked tense, to say the least. But they’d been selected to do something important, and they knew it. So they also looked determined.

  And determination can sometimes carry the day.

  Most of the militia wore flak jackets and helmets – but all of Handon’s people did. They were about to go intentionally into extreme hazard. Behind them, one of the two big tractors was being backed up to the line, its rhythmic reverse beeps surreally audible under the roar of the battle.

  And the lashing rain that Handon had thought would make the fight so much more perilous was back. It came down so hard and heavy that its splashing up from the deck soaked them more from below than above. But everyone was soaked to the bone by now anyway. The sky flashed brilliantly in the north; and a half second later, a long rumbling thunderclap rolled heavily through the air over the deck.

  Handon was already shouting into his huddle when the firing from the line picked up even more – and some newly urgent shouting joined the chorus. He looked up to see one of the Marines – Corporal Flores, a young, relatively small, and earnest operator – leap on top of the tractor, take a couple of aimed shots, then shout for Coulson, who climbed up there with him.