Plague of the Dead

by Z. A. Recht

  “Ghost Lead to Ghost Evac, come in, Ghost Evac,” Sherman said.

  The response came back in a scant moment. They’d been waiting for word. “Good to hear you, Ghost Lead—we heard shooting. Sitrep, sir, over.”

  “Bug out, Ghost Evac, we’re clear of the town. Ngasy showed up in the third truck. Bug out to original location and regroup. How’d Stiles make out, over?”

  “Stiles is gone, sir, over,” came the static-laced reply.

  Sherman put a hand on Mbutu’s arm, silently directing him to stop before they moved out of range of the handheld radios.

  “Dead?” Sherman asked, feeling a bit despondent all of a sudden.

  “No, sir, not dead—gone! He took off down a side street instead of coming to us! Took all the carriers with him, too. We think he didn’t want us to get infected, sir. We think it’s a kamikaze run, over.”

  Sherman sat still for a moment, then heaved a breath. He’d seen it a couple of times before. Wounded men who were certain they were dying would do heroic things that would end in their death. The same psychologist who’d explained group moods mentioned that it was called Doc Holliday syndrome, after the famous gunslinger. He’d had tuberculosis and knew he was dying—so he took risks any other man would run away from—after all, he was going to die anyway. Stiles had done the same thing. The infected had probably killed him by now, and he’d be reanimating as a shambler soon, somewhere in the town. But he’d accomplished what he wanted to. He’d led the infected far from the survivors.

  If there was still a working government, Sherman would have put him in for the Medal of Honor—or if that was denied, the Distinguished Service Cross. That was dedication. For that matter, Mbutu should get one, too—if he were in the Army. Or at least a United States citizen.

  The truck interrupted Sherman’s train of thought as the engine suddenly began to sputter. It coughed twice, turned over one final time with a pathetic wheeze, and died.

  “What the . . . ?” Sherman said, frowning.

  “This truck is out of fuel,” Mbutu told him, tapping the dashboard meter. “It was on the red-line all through town as it was—I am amazed we made it this far.”

  “It made it far enough,” Sherman said, opening the door and hopping out. He pointed back at the town, looking up at the people in the truck bed. “Dismount, folks! This vehicle’s FUBAR for now, until we get some gas. Riflemen, cover the road. Might have a couple curious infected coming through to see if we’re nearby.”

  Sherman didn’t say so, but he was a hundred percent sure there’d be infected on them in a few minutes. At Suez they’d followed a truck halfway across a desert just because it occasionally popped into sight across the dunes—they’d definitely walk a couple miles after a truck full of dinner to see if it had stopped. “Stay alert. Use your ears more than your eyes—those streetlights have us all night-blind for the next few minutes.”

  The people piled out of the truck, soldiers kneeling in the cracked, old roadway, a few laying prone in the ditches alongside it. The bushes rustled, and a couple of the soldiers reflexively swung their weapons toward the noise, but it was just the civilian refugees they’d left behind. Their original spot—where they’d planned the whole rescue—had been only another hundred yards up the road. The refugees must have decided to head for the headlights of the truck. The looks on their faces said they were amazingly relieved to see friendly armed people nearby again.

  Sherman clicked his radio.

  “Ghost Evac, are you bugged out yet, over?”

  “Sir, yes, sir—should be seeing our headlights in ten seconds, sir, over.”

  They heard the utility truck about the same time they saw it. The driver had taken a shortcut, cutting through a dirt access road that ran across a barren winter wheat field. A good choice—taking the street through town would’ve brought more carriers after them.

  As the utility truck drew near, Sherman tried the radio again, this time trying to raise Thomas and Krueger. They’d need gas if they wanted to make good time—not to mention riding would be a lot better than walking on Sherman’s slightly arthritic knees, about which he’d never tell a soul.

  “Ghost Lead to Thomas—come in, Thomas, over,” Sherman said. He’d forgotten to assign a call sign to Thomas and Krueger.

  Oh, well—not like it matters, he thought.

  It took a short while before he got a response. He didn’t have to call again, but Thomas must have been in the middle of something, because Sherman’s finger was on the transmit button to give it another shot when the Command Sergeant Major’s voice came through, heavily distorted by static. He was just barely in range, apparently.

  “We’re here, Ghost Lead. Mission is a SNAFU. We found a gas station—plenty of fuel here, too. Problem is we’ve wasted all our ammo clearing the place of infected—it was crawling with ’em, sir. Lots of cars here, too. Most have keys and are in good shape. Looks like people lined up to gas up before leaving and got jumped by a group of infected—half the people left in the cars have been torn apart, sir. It’s not pretty here. Over.”

  Sherman nodded. Thomas didn’t know they’d succeeded in getting more weapons and ammunition and probably thought he’d just used half the remaining rounds the group had. He hadn’t just done a SNAFU’ed op, he’d done quite well. Almost exactly as Sherman had wanted it to go down, in fact.

  “Excellent. We’re at the original sortie point on the road outside town. We’re nicely armed now—about half of us have rifles and we’ve got tons of pistol ammunition waiting for you here. Get another car, gas up, and bring as many cans of fuel as you can with you, over.”

  “Wilco, sir. That’s good news. How’d the rescue go, over?”

  “Beautifully, Thomas. All personnel made it back without a scratch—except Stiles. He took off down a side street, led most of the horde of sprinters with him.”

  “Damn, that’s a crying fucking shame, sir. He was Sergeant material, if I may say so.”

  “I agree, Command Sergeant Major. Now move out—we’ve got to extract Ngasy’s survivors from a warehouse and beat it, over.”

  “The air traffic controller’s still alive? I thought he wrecked in town and bought himself a farm,” Thomas said.

  Static nearly drowned out the transmission, but Sherman managed to pick up the words. He’d used much worse field radios twenty years before. These sounded crystal-clear to someone who was accustomed to ten-pound models that only transmitted a couple miles in the best of conditions.

  “Alive and kicking—he saved our butts. But I’ll tell you the rest when we’re far away from this place and better protected, Thomas. I’m out for now. Move fast. We need that fuel.”

  “Roger that, sir. Way to hammer down, sir. Thomas out.”

  Sherman dropped the radio and let it hang from his shoulder epaulette. He clasped his hands behind his back. The utility truck had parked and the three men who had been assigned to cover Stiles climbed out of the cab. The back had been loaded with the gear and food plundered from the sporting goods store, and the soldiers who’d lugged it out of town were clinging on the ladder racks on the sides of the tall rear end of the vehicle. They had also already dropped off and walked over to the main group.

  “Alright, folks, here’s the situation!” Sherman declared, loud enough so all could hear, but at a volume just below shouting. “As we all know, the rescue’s been accomplished with almost no hitches. A few close calls—but that was about it. The only personnel lost was Stiles, and he went out honorably, according to our rendezvous detail.”

  The men who had been in the utility truck’s cab nodded somberly.

  “In case any of you newly arrived folks haven’t noticed, Mbutu and his truckload of people did in fact survive the ambush in town, and he showed up just in time to save our sorry butts from infection. We’ll have to go around the town and pick up his people—they’re holed up in the warehouse we passed just as we entered.”

  “Sir, how?” asked Brewster. He’d acquir
ed a brightly polished double-barreled break-action shotgun, and had just snapped it closed after loading a pair of shells into it. “We’ve basically got fumes in both vehicles. We’ll never make it there and back without running the risk of gettin’ jumped by those pus-fuckers again. Not that I’m against saving them—hell, you saved us. I say go for it. But how?”

  Sherman answered the question, but managed to phrase it as if the Private First-Class hadn’t said a word: “I’ve also just received word that Thomas and Krueger succeeded in securing us plenty of fuel, and another vehicle. It’s just a car, but we can use it for cargo—and that means we’ll be riding, and not marching. Can I get a hoo-ah for that?”

  Even some of the civilians joined in the staccato chorus of acknowledgement.

  “Question,” said Jack the welder, holding up a hand like he was in a classroom. Sherman nodded at him. “Where are we going? I mean, once we’re out of here?”

  “I’ll tell you that once we’ve got everyone together. Before we left the USS Ramage, I contacted an old friend. She’s an expert on the Morningstar Strain, and she’s got a couple ideas, and a nice meeting location in mind. I’ll tell you the whole deal when we’re on the road.”

  Some of the people looked back and forth at each other, nodding in anticipation and appreciation. An expert on the Morningstar Strain? A person like that would be a wonderful addition to their little team of rogue survivors.

  Off in the distance, they heard the sound of a rattling car engine. It was definitely a smaller vehicle than either of the trucks. Thomas and Krueger had found a back road, half-paved, half-gravel, that led them to the rural road the group was gathered on. They watched with satisfaction as a blue Mercury Topaz turned in their direction. The headlights from Mbutu’s truck illuminated the form of Krueger, leaning out of the passenger window and waving a hand over his head in greeting, a wide grin on his face. The group could see red and yellow plastic gas cans piled nearly to the roof of the old car, all probably filled to the brim with precious fuel. There had to be a hundred gallons stashed in there. No wonder the windows were down—the fumes were probably overwhelming.

  The Topaz ground to a halt near Sherman, who stood with his arms folded in the middle of the cracked, deteriorating road, hiding a smile under his calm, blank expression. They had now recovered their lost personnel, (with the exception of those in the warehouse,) and plenty of weapons and food and enough fuel to get all three vehicles to the great Rocky Mountain chain, if not through it into the open plains of the Midwest.

  “Command Sergeant Major Thomas reporting back, sir—mission accomplished,” said Thomas as he approached Sherman. He snapped to attention and threw a picture-perfect salute. Krueger was too busy jackballing with the excited enlisted men to salute, but Sherman didn’t care. Military doctrine was going out the window—no use for parade rest and forward march and dress right dress in a world where staying alive was the only real concern. Sherman returned Thomas’ salute, then stepped forward, chuckling, and shook his hand firmly. “Looks like we’ll live to fight another day, Sergeant.”

  “Looks like it, sir. What are we doing about the warehouse folks?”

  “We’ll find side roads that lead us around the town, not through it. The building’s right outside the town proper. Shouldn’t be much trouble. We’ll send a crew in Mbutu’s truck, fully armed, and the utility truck behind it, with the bed empty to load ’em up in. Stow the gear wherever you can—we can tie some on top of that piece of crap you got at the filling station.”

  Sherman paused a moment, regarding Thomas’ new car.

  “Out of curiosity, Sergeant . . . why’d you pick such a junker? Nothing better there?”

  “It was the only one left without half a body stinking it up, sir,” Thomas said bluntly. “It runs. That’s all that matters, really.”

  “Guess you’re right. Alright, men,” Sherman said, turning to the group. “A few of you go unload that truck of the gear inside. Stack it by the road for now. Volunteers for our warehouse rescue?”

  If finding a volunteer for the first rescue was hard, this time it was at the exact opposite end of the spectrum. Almost every hand shot up, save for the unarmed civilians. Mbutu’s hand wasn’t up, but he was already clambering into the driver’s seat of the truck he’d driven.

  “I have a feel for this truck, now,” Ngasy said, leaning his head out of the half-lowered window. “I better drive. Can someone loan me a pistol?”

  One of the soldiers pulled his sidearm and passed it in the window to Mbutu. He was already carrying one of the high-priced showroom-quality hunting rifles they’d pulled from the store, and figured the pistol wasn’t a huge loss.

  “Alright, since we’re all so eager, the first six in Mbutu’s truck bed go—and I want them all to be carrying rifles,” Sherman said. There was a bit of a scramble among those carrying long arms, and when they’d settled in, Brewster, Jack, the two soldiers who’d guarded the alley, Thomas, and Krueger were all in the truck. Thomas had calmly climbed in the passenger side while the other enlisted men pushed and shoved at the tailgate. He had no rifle, but had a look of determination on his face that told Sherman not to say a word. He was probably pissed he missed the rescue mission while looking for gas. Krueger had traded his .357 for a pump-action shotgun on the promise they’d trade back once he returned. He wanted some more action, too.

  After they’d fueled up the trucks with some of the gas from the car, they rumbled off down the side road Thomas and Krueger had used to approach. Sherman watched the tail lights until they disappeared around a bend, then turned, sat down on the rear trunk of the blue Topaz, and heaved a sigh. He suddenly realized he was utterly exhausted. There was little for him to do at the moment, and his brain was sending him signals he couldn’t deny.

  Rebecca was watching him from the group of unarmed refugees. She walked over and sat down next to the older man, eyeing him closely. She was either clairvoyant or an excellent medic, because she idly asked him if he’d like to take a short nap.

  “You do look tired, you know. You’ve been a couple days without sleep,” she added.

  “I’ve gone longer without sleep—or food, for that matter,” Sherman told her. It was true. You never knew when you’d have a moment of peace in the middle of war, and Sherman had been on more than his fair share of long campaigns.

  “All the same, you should catch a rest. If anything comes through on the radio, I’ll wake you,” Rebecca said, reaching out and plucking the radio from Sherman’s shoulder before he could reach his hand up to stop her. He was tired. Usually his reflexes were much better than that. “You can trust me. I’ll wake you the moment we hear something new.”

  “I know I can trust you. I just don’t feel like I want to sleep—let my guard down, I mean,” he said. Despite his words, he felt his eyelids growing heavier and heavier.

  “You’re surrounded by people who’d probably die to keep you alive, you know,” Rebecca said suddenly and bluntly.

  It was the truth. Sherman had kept the group together so far. Without him, they wouldn’t know who to turn to. Thomas? Probably. He had just as much experience as the General, but lacked his charisma. He could issue orders, and they’d be followed, but fights would certainly pop up. Who else? Denton? He had the charisma and some experience, but didn’t seem the leader type.

  At any rate, Sherman seemed to take her words to heart. He leaned back slowly, resting his head and shoulders against the rear window of the car, and closed his eyes. Rebecca sat next to the Lieutenant General for a few minutes until she was certain he had fallen asleep, then eased off the trunk and wandered over to the pile of gear the soldiers had unloaded from the utility truck. She picked up a few plastic-covered items and walked into the darkness of the woods, staying in sight of the group, but hidden from their view.

  She stripped down, removing the dirty, stained clothes she’d been wearing for weeks now, and shivered as her body was exposed to the cold, northwestern winter air. She quickly t
ore open the packages she’d taken from the pile, pulling a set of camouflaged boxer shorts from one, wondering inwardly as she pulled them on why in the hell anyone would need camouflaged underpants. The next item she pulled free from its plastic wrap was a medium-thick hunting jacket, also in woodland camouflage. She had abandoned her bra, but the jacket would do the same job nicely once she buttoned and zippered it up. Woodland camouflage trousers came next, almost exact duplicates of what the soldiers were wearing, except theirs were still desert camouflage, tan and brown. Hers were dark brown, black, and evergreen. Fully-clothed once more in clean, warmer gear, she squatted next to the other boxes and plastic-wrapped items she’d snagged and began rummaging through them.

  Fifteen minutes later, she re-emerged from the bushes wearing a pistol belt that sported a brand-new fabric holster for her pistol, the same one she’d taken from Sherman when she’d shot Decker. The pistol was a kind of comfort item for her after that incident—she’d killed someone she could have possibly been deeply involved with by now, shot him right between the eyes. The memory made her simultaneously want to vomit and jump for joy at her own primal reflex when she’d pulled the pistol and fired. She’d saved at least one life with that shot. And—as she thought about it—Decker was already dead in a way. He had been infected.

  She’d also gotten a backpack from the stack of items, as well as a few MREs. She’d eaten her share on the Ramage on their trip across the Pacific. They weren’t as bad as people made out. Some of the entrees were actually decent. And some tasted and smelled like cat food—but she’d sorted through the box and picked out a few of her favorites and stuffed them in the pack before returning the rest to the pile, which was slowly being loaded into the Topaz. She saw Sherman was still asleep on the back trunk. A pair of soldiers were quietly arguing over whether they should wake the General so they could get into the trunk.

  “I ain’t doin’ it,” said one, with a heavy rural West Virginian accent. “I reckon he’s beat. Best to let the guy get some sack time.”