by Mark Tufo
Carl wanted to go see what had caused the explosion but didn’t want to waste the diversion it afforded them. Once again he thanked the Big Guy above.
Carl looked down at the stinking mass of hungry zombies. “Some of them are going around the building towards the gas station. I’m going to try to get inside the truck.”
Dangling the keys in his direction, Brook pointed out, “You’ll need these.”
Carl pocketed the keys. “When I start down the boom I want you two to get in the bucket and keep out of their sight.”
“Big brother… be careful.”
Carl scaled over the wall, momentarily paused inside the bucket, and then climbed onto the boom, feet first with his head looking down the wall at the asphalt below.
The zombies noticed and were moaning and reaching up towards him. He felt like a canary in a cage with the big fat tomcat hungrily staring at him.
Carl took a handful of thick black grease from the hydraulic piston by his head and swabbed a liberal amount under his nose. It had a harsh chemical odor, but anything was better than the stink of the walking dead.
Here goes nothing. Inch by inch Carl lowered himself towards the relative safety of the truck’s bed.
Brook looped the duffle bags’ straps around a piece of metal protruding from the bucket and then stepped into the confined space. Thank God Raven was as small as she was, because it was getting cozy in the fiberglass bucket. Brook held her daughter, trying her best to calm her. Raven was shaking uncontrollably; she had been through ten lifetime’s worth of trauma in one day. Brook feared her daughter was going to have severe PTSD if they somehow found a way to stay alive.
Carl had shimmied a third of the way down the boom, but he was still a good distance from the cab. The shotgun, hanging from his shoulder, banged steadily against the boom, alerting the entire undead crowd to his presence. The massed ghouls were agitated and more were arriving. Below him the moaning intensified.
The flesh-eaters were now three deep around the truck. Their sheer numbers were causing it to rock like a boat at sea. Brook struggled to keep Raven calm in the swaying bucket.
Three immolated undead staggered around the corner and headed for the utility truck, oblivious to the fact that they were on fire. Carl didn’t want the walking torches to get anywhere near the truck’s fuel tanks and he really had no desire to end up crispy like them. To his relief, after a few more ungainly steps the charbroiled trio fell short and ceased moving.
We almost had a Waco moment there. Carl had no idea why they seized up, he was just grateful they did. Shooting three moving corpses from his position would have been nearly impossible. His best guess was that their brains must have cooked in their skulls.
Six feet separated Carl from the clamoring crowd of undead; the grease under his nose was no match for the disgusting odor radiating from them. He had chosen the shorter of the two shotguns and had six shells loaded into the tube under the barrel. The truck’s rear window was near enough that he had to choose which side of the bed he wanted to land on. The driver’s side had a few less walkers; the ones on the right were so thick they were starting to crawl on top of each other, getting close to boarding the truck. Carl knew if he didn’t move hastily he was going to be dinner.
A formerly teenaged zombie wriggled up onto the passenger side of the truck and grabbed for him. Carl placed the Mossberg muzzle three inches from the ghoul’s upper lip. Her undead eyes showed no hint of recognition that her time on earth was over. Hundreds of lead pellets disintegrated her face from the nose up. A new zombie emerged, coated with the other’s brains and exhibiting the same mindless drive. Carl crouched down, racked the slide, and aimed the shotgun at the truck’s back window. The blast imploded the window. From the angle of the shot and where he was laying he failed to anticipate what happened next. Buckshot and sharp shards of glass ricocheted back, peppering his face. Somehow his sight was spared.
After wiping the blood from his eyes, he wedged his big frame through the opening, just escaping the reach of the persistent ghoul and its hungry mouth full of yellowed teeth. Lying on the bench seat was an awkward position for a man of his size. Getting the key into the ignition was going to be a pain in the ass, let alone trying to drive the truck like a contortionist. More zombies had managed to get onto the back of the truck and were reaching their dirty rotting hands through the shattered opening.
The engine started on the first try. Carl manipulated the tree mounted shifter into reverse and pushed on the gas pedal with his hand. The truck accelerated backwards from the store. Wrenching the steering wheel all the way to the left, he gave it more gas.
Brook had kept her head down throughout the gunfire but now that the truck was moving she risked a look. An audible gasp escaped her mouth when she saw the surrounding army of ghouls. To her horror, she saw that three of the creatures had found their way onto the rear of the truck and were trying to enter the cab through the broken rear window.
Brook chose the Remington over the Ithaca, it was heavier but it held four more shells. She racked a round into the chamber and clicked the safety off. While bouncing up and down in the bucket, Brook lined up the iron sight on the front of the shotgun and pulled the trigger. The buckshot peppered the ghouls around their heads, but did no real damage. Several walkers were sucked under the dual rear wheels and caused the bucket to violently bob up and down. Brook felt the truck start to list. The weight of the fully extended bucket had changed the truck’s center of gravity. She jammed the lever all the way down to the detent. The boom started to retract and slowly lower at once. Brook’s quick thinking once again saved them all.
The two undead had gotten stuck in a dangerous place on the truck and they didn’t know how to work their way out. While they feebly struggled the enormous boom folded down on top of them and settled into its resting place. The weight of the cherry picker caused their internal organs to explode; bodily fluids coated the truck bed. The bigger one was crushed into a fetal position, its gasses escaping with a loud farting noise. The other’s fate was no better. The wide boom acted like a pile driver and pushed down on its head, pinning it to the diamond plate decking.
Carl had his hands full, blindly driving the big truck from the floorboards, while a cold clammy hand continued to claw at him. In addition to all of the superficial cuts on his face and scalp, the ghoul’s jagged dirty fingernails were gouging deep furrows into his back.
Brook was practically hanging upside down from the bucket when it finally stopped its downward movement. The remaining creature found itself trapped; it appeared to be doing the breast stroke, its pale torso half in and out of the shattered rear window. She calmly put the shotgun on the zombie’s exposed neck; the blast decapitated the monster, its severed head falling from the truck and bouncing multiple times on the hard blacktop.
Brook noted the two squirming carcasses lodged under the lift boom. Crouching low and getting to eye level, she was astounded at how hopeless their situation was, yet they still strained and snapped trying to bite her. She racked another round into the shotgun and placed the barrel flush with the ghoul’s temple. One shot stilled it. The other monster’s head was stuck farther under the hydraulic piston that actuated the up and down movement of the arm. There was no way to safely get a headshot without damaging the hydraulic lines that snaked nearby. After chambering another shell, she buried the gun deep into the creature’s crushed chest cavity, all the way up to the trigger guard, the muzzle lodged in the ghoul’s throat. The report was much quieter than she had anticipated, but resulted in a disgusting shower of gray brain matter, blood and spinal fluid. The trapped zombie shuddered once and then went limp.
“That was the last of the bastards on the truck, but we’re still surrounded!” Brook exclaimed as Carl’s bloody head popped into view. He took in the destruction the big truck had caused. At least twenty of the zombies were pasted to the blacktop unmoving; many more were severely injured or reduced to crawling half-corpses, their arms p
ropelling them after the red bucket truck. The truck looped the parking lot; nearly fifty of the flesh-eaters stiffly marched after. The explosion and resulting inferno at the truck stop beckoned the dead from the factory like moths to a bug zapper.
Carl aimed the vehicle towards the path of least resistance. Only three walkers were between them and the open road. The young girl zombie went under the front of the truck as if sucked into a vacuum. The other two were male; they both had fresh bloody wounds. It was a perfect 7-10 split. Carl sideswiped the one in a business suit and threw him into a parked Hyundai. The utility truck clipped the last walker and sent the putrid pedestrian rolling into the gutter with multiple compound fractures jutting from its flesh.
The truck jumped the curb swaying left and right, straightened out and then raced from the corpse-strewn parking lot. The brake lights flashed as it slowed momentarily and then rounded the corner disappearing from sight. The crowd of zombies moaned as if in disappointment but kept hobbling after.
Through it all, Raven had stayed curled up on the floor of the bucket sobbing. It was all that could be expected of an eleven-year-old under such duress.
Chapter 155
Day 2 - District of Columbia
The two Black Hawks of the 160th SOAR crossed the Potomac River and slowed to 60 knots. The Night Stalkers piloted their helicopter’s NOE (nap-of-the-earth), hugging the ground’s contour while running dark the three hundred twenty-five miles from Fort Bragg. As they neared the target the two Apache gunships gained altitude and started a racetrack pattern. Reaper Three and Four would provide over watch for the hovering Black Hawks as the Delta Teams were inserted.
Mike Desantos had never asked his men to accept a mission he wasn’t willing to undertake himself, especially with this much at stake. He looked at his men and then looked at the darkened city through the port side window. There were no streetlights. All of the buildings looked cold and uninviting. Multiple fires reflected a red orange glow off of the river, making it look like misplaced lava. Mike saw the masses of undead lurching about the city streets, illuminated by the firelight cast from the burning buildings.
The pilot gave a thumbs up and then held his hand open, fingers spread. The silent signal let Mike know they were five minutes from the target.
Captain Mike Desantos was the 18a detachment Commander and his 180a Warrant Officer, number two man, was Deke Clifton. Mike would be leading his Delta team, call sign Zulu-One. The six operators would fast rope from the helicopter onto the west roof of the target. Deke’s team of six Delta operators, Zulu-Two, would insert on the east rooftop.
The Special-Ops pilot held the bird in a perfect, steady hover as the six operators, led by Mike, fast roped two at a time from the helo’s open doors onto the roof. The night vision goggles adorning their faces rendered the scene in a green glow. Litter and bodies were strewn across the expansive lawn. A large helicopter sat quiet in the grass; next to it zombies were feeding on the body of a Marine in full dress blues, his white and black brimmed hat lying by his eviscerated body. The ghouls paused briefly and stared intently at the insertion taking place.
All of the men were safely on the roof. The pair of Black Hawks, having deposited their human cargo, accelerated quickly out of sight. The undead, having lost interest, resumed consuming the fallen Marine’s body.
Mike had been inside this building before as a guest. This time he would be breaking and entering.
Sergeant Darwin Maddox anchored a thick nylon rope onto the sturdy steel bracket that secured the rooftop air scrubbers servicing the building. Silenced H&K MP7A1 at the ready, he pushed off with his back to the open air and smoothly rappelled over the edge, landing on the portico below. He went to one knee and scanned the area with his NVGs, carbine moving as one with his eyes.
Speaking in a whisper, Maddox called “Clear,” his throat mic amplifying the words and transmitting them through all of the team’s earpieces. Brent, Haskell and Calvin joined Maddox on the terrace. A moment later Desantos and Clark formed up; all six men were together in the alcove a mere ten feet above where the zombies roamed.
Maddox expertly applied the DET cord around the secure door frame and prepared the charge. The men turned their heads away when the cord detonated so their NV goggles wouldn’t wash out, momentarily blinding them. The explosion wasn’t spectacular. A low rumble and a puff of smoke later the door fell inward and landed with a muffled thud on the thick navy blue carpet. The smell of death wafting from within didn’t surprise Mike.
The six men stacked up hand on shoulder, weapons at the ready and entered the glowing green room, barrels covering their zone. The room was uninhabited, but the scene was surreal. A wide mahogany antique desk, made with wood sourced from the HMS Resolute, sat facing their breach point. A secure phone and a computer with two large LCD screens shared space with family photos on the expansive desktop. The American flag was prominently displayed on the left side of the desk. On the opposite was a flag bearing the presidential seal. They were in the Oval Office of the White House without an invitation.
They stood still and listened for sound or movement. They were greeted with silence.
Mike turned the knob and slowly eased the solid walnut door open, his carbine sweeping left to right. An empty hall was revealed in the green glow of his NVGs. He communicated with his men using only hand signals. Each operator had a flashing IR strobe affixed to the back of his tactical helmet, only visible through night vision optics.
Once again the men stacked up to enter the hall. Their silenced weapons emitted green IR beams that danced in the air. It was like being at a laser light show without the blaring Pink Floyd. The hallway was clear. The men moved in single file, spaced a few feet apart. Sergeant Clark watched their six while a stern looking portrait of George Washington watched them all as they padded down the hall, weapons and beams sweeping the corridor.
The White House was very secure with blast and bullet proof windows and doors. It lent for a very quiet interior. They detected scratchy moans coming from somewhere in the West Wing. Captain Desantos was on point; he was the one that noticed the bloody hand prints first. He feared the worst. POTUS had two little daughters and these happened to be too small to be left by an adult. A blood trail meandered down the hallway through a set of closed, ornately carved double doors. Mike’s earpiece came alive with the voice of Zulu-Two’s team leader, Deke Clifton.
“This is Rainman, how copy?”
“Cowboy here, sit rep?”
“We made contact with multiple infected, Sergeant Wholford is WIA (wounded in action). He has been infected.”
“Copy that. Secure your casualty and proceed to objective.”
In the East Wing of the White House, the infected Sergeant agreed to take his life before he could turn and jeopardize the mission. Deke handed the man a blister packet containing one gel caplet. Sergeant Wholford opened the package and promptly swallowed the pill. He sat down and was relieved of his weapons. His eyes closed and his body convulsed; he was dead seconds later. As commanding Officer, it was Deke’s responsibility to make sure the man stayed dead. Two rounds from his silenced MP7 assured Wholford would not reanimate.
The entire Zulu-One Delta Team stood in front of the doors while their leader received a situation report from the other team. Mike had committed the floor plan to memory. They were nearing the president’s Chief of Staff Emanuel Jones’ personal office.
Mike’s team made their first contact near the end of the blood-tracked hallway. The two zombies staggered out of the Chief of Staff’s office. Undead didn’t have good night vision; the Chief of Staff caromed off of an elaborately carved table and fumbled his way towards the Delta Team. An IR beam painted the walker’s face; in the eerie green glow of Mike’s NV goggles he concluded it was in fact the President’s right hand man, Emanuel Jones. The guttural sound that escaped from its mouth confirmed the worst: high ranking members had indeed returned with the President as intelligence had suggested. Unfortunately t
he infection had spread inside the most secure residence in the free world.
Mike took careful aim. The silenced H&K MP7 coughed twice; the two bullets entered the zombie’s forehead high and opened the top of its head spraying flecks of bone and brain all over the beautiful oil paintings adorning the walls. Another ghoul ambled out of the office; the woman had bite wounds all over her torso. The young intern had seen better days. She was minus all of her internal organs and both arms had been partially consumed. It was apparent she had lost a lot of blood before she died; her entire lower body was crimson red.
Mike sidestepped Emanuel Jones’ body and calmly put a bullet into the intern’s temple just behind the left eye. The projectile scrambled her brains and she dropped instantly.
Mike entered the office and called out “Clear” a moment later. Once he was back in the hallway he produced a small digital camera from his thigh pocket and recorded the faces of the undead for later confirmation.
“Cowboy, this is Rainman, we are outside of POTUS’s master bedroom, preparing for entry.”
“Copy that. Proceed at will,” Mike answered.
The remaining five shooters led by Warrant Officer Deke Clifton breached the door with DET cord. The room was in shambles and the walls were blood streaked. Broken furniture lay strewn about.
Suddenly two small figures emerged from the dark grand master bathroom. Deke had been briefed before the mission and had studied and memorized the faces of all of the VIPs in the White House. Even tinted green he recognized the President’s young daughters rushing at him, so he held his fire. When he realized that the children were zombies he engaged them with his silenced weapon. The girls were faster than any other undead that he had encountered. Carly, the youngest, leapt at him like a feral cat. He shot from the hip, and the un-aimed bullets went left and high. His fate was sealed when she latched her teeth onto his forearm and held on. Her body weight caused him to swing around towards his team while inadvertently discharging his weapon. Sergeant Dean Matthews caught two through the neck a millisecond before Sergeant Lowery was gut shot below his body armor. The next two operators in the stack, Rooks and Dooley, were unscathed; they promptly rushed forward to help. Sergeant First Class Lopez who was bringing up the rear was saved by his bulletproof vest; the two errant bullets still had enough punch to knock him down. The other child zombie latched onto Sergeant Lowery’s neck near his jugular. The little creature shook her head and came away with a prize.
