Enclave: A Novel of the Zombie Apocalypse

by Robert Morganbesser

  The second chopper roared over, blasting the creatures down, turning them into mincemeat. As it rose and sped off, the gunner looked back at his handiwork. He wondered if this war would ever end, or if he’d be killing zombies until he himself was killed or died of old age. Sighing he sat back as the choppers came around for another pass.

  17 February 2032

  22nd SADT

  Small Boat Station

  Governor’s Island

  “All clear, Captain.”

  Miklos frowned. The small boat station was abandoned; the lone 41 footer remaining sunk at its mooring, burned to the waterline. Chewing her lip, Miklos stared at what was once a nice looking building. They’d found plenty of blood stains, a large pile of bones (some chewed, but since they were scorched, it was clear that zombies were not responsible).

  With dawn, two other SADT teams, the 31st and the 44th (heavily armed with flamethrowers) arrived. What was left of the armory building was scheduled for demolition, contaminated beyond use. The Public School was also on the list for a visit from the demo team. There was no way either of those buildings could be made habitable again. Miklos was about to take her team off the island when Bowman called in.

  “Captain, I think we’ve found the last of the mutineers prisoners. Can you come to the church?”

  Signaling Bryce to start the Humvee – they’d found the small pool of vehicles untouched and appropriated a few – Miklos piled in and Bryce peeled out. The small Church – a national landmark – was the last place she’d expect to find any mutineers, but perhaps they went to beg for their souls?

  As Bryce slowed to a stop, Miklos climbed out. Bowman, Nance and a few flamethrower men from the 44th stood there. Some of the troopers were staring at the doors of the Church, which had a hastily made barricade of wood and chains. Miklos sniffed the air. It smelled of rotting flesh, of death. From inside could be heard a muffled moaning and groaning. “Seal up!” As the men and women put their gasmasks in place, Miklos patted Bryce on the shoulder, pointed to his M11A then at the front doors of the Church. The walls were stone, so the doors were the most vulnerable point. Loading an HE, Bryce pointed and fired. A second later, the doors exploded inwards, revealing a site from hell. The building was stuffed with what had been people. Now they were zombies, terrible, disgusting creatures. One looked worse than the next. They were truly vile, nausea inducing things. It wasn’t hard to realize what had been done here; those from the faction that were against the mutiny were forced in, then the doors secured. As they died of wounds, or starvation and dehydration, they revived, fed upon each other, and remained there, quietly rotting, waiting with undead patience for a way out so they could sate their endless need.

  Without being told, the flamethrower troops opened up, sending fiery jets of burning gasoline right through the opening. The zombies backed away from the flames – which was the one thing they obviously feared – even as it destroyed them. The thrower men and women moved in closer, hosing the creatures down, filling the now ruined Church with oily smoke, the sign of burning human flesh. The smoke spiraled up and outward, signaling their destruction to the rest of the island.

  Miklos stood there watching dispassionately as the last of the mutineers cooked. Cappoletti stood besides her, saying, “Horrible way to get rid of their prisoners, dumped in here and left to die.”

  Miklos sighed, an audible sound over the radio. “How long I wonder before we stop killing each other and try and win this fucking war?”

  Cappoletti said nothing, just shook his head, and watched the building burn.

  28 February 2032

  Commanding Officers Building

  Governor’s Island

  Miklos looked up from her desk as shouts filled the hallway outside her office. Now in command of Governor’s Island, used more carefully as a refugee transfer station. She found the duty to her liking. Most of the SADT’s were being disbanded, the personnel seconded to other units, to Enclaves. She was still in contact with former Colonel, now General Griggs, who was in command of refugee operations in the North East. He worked out of various Enclaves, usually on the move.

  At the sound of the knock on her door, she called out, “Enter.”

  Warrant Officer Cappoletti, recently promoted came in. He was her aide and more, a right hand man she didn't want to be without. He spent most of his time training C/I, Civilian-Irregulars and was a harsh taskmaster.

  “What is it, Andy?”

  Two C/I trainees, fully armored and armed, dragged in a bearded, emaciated looking man. He wore military fatigues that needed a wash. The shirt was torn open, showing a burn-scarred chest that looked like a tattoo might have been there at one time. He glared at Miklos and struggled with the two soldiers.

  “Trainees Smiley and Bass caught this guy trying to sneak on a boat, Captain. Claims he’s trying to get back to his family.”

  Miklos rose from her desk. A pistol hung in its holster from her hip since, even though the island was secure, only a fool would go anywhere these days unarmed.

  “Looks like you’ve been here a while, mister. Name?”

  He glared at her from deep sunken eyes, eyes of a fanatic. “Marvin Unger.”

  A broad smile crossed her face. “Unger, eh? You look like you were injured Mister… Unger, was it?” Miklos pointed at the scar on his chest. “Been in a fire?”

  Unger snarled and tried to pull free again. Miklos smiled. “This is Unger, Mr. Cappoletti. The same Unger who led the mutiny.”

  Cappoletti nodded, “I remember the name, Major.”

  “Then you remember the people we lost and the horrible things we found.”

  Unger snarled, “That wasn’t me! It wasn’t! I just want to…”

  Miklos slapped him across the face. “Who did you kill to get that uniform, Unger?”

  His face paled as she drew her pistol. “Did you kill anyone for that uniform?”

  Unger licked his lips. “I have rights, I demand a trial.”

  Miklos motioned with her head toward the window. The two trainees dragged him over, forced him to look out at Manhattan from which pillars of smoke now rose constantly. The delaying action for the borough was nearly over, but daily lives were being lost – valuable, nearly irreplaceable lives.

  “No trials for Lazarites.” Putting her pistol against the back of his head, she pulled the trigger. What was left of Unger went limp as his brains flew out into the garden outside her window.

  “Get rid of it.”

  As the trainees went back to work, Miklos returned to her desk, the Lazarite already forgotten. Miklos had more important things to do today.

  There was a war to win.

  Chapter 8 - Loss

  04 March 2032

  Command Post, NYC Defense

  Fifth Avenue & 63rd St, NYC

  Taylor yawned and rubbed his eyes. It had been a long night and the day would likely be longer. There were times he missed being in a normal war, fighting mundane things like terrorists, IED’s and weather. He never thought he’d long for days when worrying if the locals were loyal, and if it were safe to take a leak were normal events. At least in the Middle East he had an enemy he understood. Some wanted the U.S. gone, to leave them alone to run or ruin their country as they saw fit. Others were malcontents, killing each other for so long it was the only way of life they knew. They resented anyone, citizen or foreigner, telling them what to do.

  Rising, he began strapping on the few parts of his armor he felt safe taking off at night. Arm and neck guards, heavy urban camo jacket, last a Kevlar vest. Sighing at the amount of gear worn he wished it could be less, but he would rather stay alive. Strapping on his pistol belt, he made sure his mask, which would lock into his helmet, was secure in its pouch. Once all his equipment was on - including heavy gloves - if overwhelmed by the enemy, it might keep him alive long enough for rescue. As much as he trusted the gear, he wasn’t keen on testing that theory out.

  The last thing he took was his shotgun. A Remingt
on, it had an eleven round magazine on it. He regularly loaded it with alternating flechette and sabot rounds. One of his fellows, a man who disappeared on a mission and was now (hopefully) dead, had called it a 'room broom'. Taylor paused for a moment. How in the hell had this happened? Had the human race pissed off God for the last time? Was it Earth's revenge against the excesses of humankind?

  Fuck it, he thought. There was only so much a mind could take. Thinking too much about this shit is a one-way trip to death. Joe, your life now is simple; kill the enemy and save civilians. Other than that, didn’t pay to think too much. That way led to madness. He'd seen it happen.

  With a last look around his quarters (never knew if it were the last time) he headed for the CP to see what the today’s orders were.

  "What the fuck do you mean no damn air support?" The enraged voice of Captain James "Blackjack" Nevers was the first thing Taylor heard. Coming into the comms shack, shotgun held loosely, he stifled a grin at the red flush that was creeping up Nevers neck. Since his removal from field duty to coordinate the evacuation to Enclave 13, the safe zone for the New York-Pennsylvania area, his patience was shorter than ever. Nevers rarely slept choosing instead to drink about nineteen cups of coffee a day. There were rumors that he supplemented the caffeine with uppers, but no one dared say that to his face. While it wasn’t unknown for field ops to use stimulants when ordered, Nevers didn’t seem the type. Impatient at his best, when he wanted something he wanted it NOW.

  "Listen up, asshole. I don’t give a fuck how hard you suck cock to stay out of the field. I want some choppers and I want them now." A pause. "Pay attention, Lieutenant, I come down there, you’ll wish the zombies got you!" A second pause. "No choppers? Fine, then my team isn’t going in, I don’t care who the hell gave the order!" Nevers slammed the field phones handset down; then slapped the unit off the desk.

  Taylor entered the room fully, noticing that his friend and second, Steve Chung, was dead asleep in the corner, M-11A held loosely in his hands. "Jesus," Taylor said. "That hump can sleep anywhere, through anything."

  Nevers glared at the sleeping soldier. "It's fucking unbelievable. He should be an exhibit in Ripley’s."

  Taylor gave Nevers a wink and said, "Watch this." With the barest of touches, he nudged the barrel of Chung's weapon. In an instant, the chunky trooper was on his feet, no sign of sleep in his eyes. Glaring at Taylor and the laughing Nevers, he said, "Laugh it up, prick. Next time, you might buy a box."

  Taylor ignored his friend’s threat. He'd heard it before. They’d been in the service together over a decade, so such banter came naturally. "See? I don't know how he does it."

  Never's ran his hands through his sweaty hair. "Chung, go grab us all some rats. I need to talk to Taylor."

  Nodding, Chung slung his rifle over his shoulder (he never went anywhere, even the bathroom, without it) and stomped off, grumbling about how the yellow man wasn't here to build railroads for the white man and the amendments had ended slavery. Both men ignored him, having heard his bullshit before. Taylor unfolded a camp chair, stood his shotgun within grabbing distance and sat down.

  "So what's up?"

  Never's lifted a sheaf of papers. "The evac to 13 is underway. Manhattan’s nearly a lost cause. Hell, if we didn't have air and the eastside docks, we might not be able to get out. Bronx evac is done; Staten Island evac is complete. They blew big holes in the Verrazano, Brooklyn, and Manhattan bridges, so those roads are closed. All the other bridges were blasted yesterday. The tunnels have been blocked with abandoned cars and rubble, so they’re closed. Landing craft are coming in over by the East River. We'll be evacuating soon. I don’t know how we kept so much of Manhattan as long as we did."

  Taylor shook his head. “I’d like to know how this shit happened. What caused this? Governments been pretty fucking silent, you ask me.”

  Nevers nodded. "I don’t think they know shit. Forget that for now. This missions a big one. Some bigwig bastards are stuck downtown in a building near Wall Street. Command wants them evaced, but doesn't have any choppers. That lieutenant you heard me talking to, Beltran. He's General Odomes adjutant. The General says that we should freaking go down town in AFV’s."

  This lit Taylor up. "What! Are they out of their fucking tiny minds? Do they know what downtown is like? Are they assholes or what?"

  Nevers let his subordinate and friend rant and rave. "Of course they don't. I’m leaving it to you. Supposedly, these big wigs are doctors from a research lab. They’re doing more research on Zombicillin. They were leaving when the chopper coming to pick them up went down. Mechanical failure, the crew burned with it.”

  “I thought everyone was evaced from downtown?”

  “You know how shit’s been, people fall through the cracks. There was a failure in communications. They never got word that we’d evaced and declared it a Dead Area. They should have been gone a week ago, but they wanted to wait until their equipment was removed, said they’d need it.” Never’s made a wry face, “Didn’t trust us grunts to move it.”

  “They need it more than their lives?” asked Taylor.

  Chung came back with MRE's. He had five of the packaged meals. He handed one each to Nevers and Taylor, keeping three. As Chung sat down, Taylor laughed, "Steve you eat like you're going to the chair!" Chung paused from ripping one of his meals open. "You should be glad I eat the way I do. The enemy gets me you may have a better chance of getting away while they stuff themselves."

  Nevers and Taylor exchanged glances. "He always this funny?" asked Nevers. Taylor nodded, deadpanning, "Always." Then he began to tell Chung about the new mission.

  04 March 2032

  Command Post, NYC Defense

  Fifth Avenue & 63rd St, NYC

  In the end, it was a panicked radio call that finally convinced Nevers to send in a ground unit. He sighed as he looked at Taylor, who would take the mission, he knew, but wasn't happy about it. Almost a year into the zombie plague, Taylor and Chung had survived everything the zombies and Lazarites could throw at them. They escaped maelstroms that had claimed entire platoons. It seemed every time a shit mission came up, Taylor and Chung's names were on the board.

  Now, as the Bard would say, they were going into the breach again.

  "I've got two Bradley’s and two APC's. A full platoon of soldiers all armed to the teeth, but I won't order you to go, Joe. This one’s strictly voluntary."

  Taylor sighed deeply and Chung drew in his breath harshly. He knew his friend; it was just like back in the various Mid-East brush wars: Civilians in trouble? Lost dog? General needs a clean whore? Call Joe Taylor! He'll do the job!

  In a low voice, Taylor asked, "How important are these civilians?"

  Never's leaned back against his desk. "Like I said, they’re trying to further refine Zombicillin, try, and make it help more people.”

  “Help more people?”

  Never’s face clouded over. “This isn’t for the public. Zombicillin doesn’t work on everyone. Some it never helps… other’s it kills.”

  Taylor made a grimace. “Holy shit. How the hell did they find that out?”

  “The hard way. There’s more, these people are also trying to find a cure for this plague, if it is a plague. Either way, they’re all part of one medical field or another; we could use them in an Enclave."

  Taylor rose to his feet. "OK, I'll take the mission. But I want air support as soon as it's available and if I have to, I want permission to leave those fucking tracks and fly out."

  Nevers nodded. "Forget ‘em. If you have to dump em, make sure they’re wrecked. They're just machines." Nevers put a hand on Taylor’s shoulder. “I don’t ever put equipment before people, you know that Joe.”

  Chung, silent until now, got to his feet. "What? This is fucking nuts. Can't they hold out until the choppers are available? Why the fucking rush?"

  Nevers stared at Chung. "It's a rush because by the end of this week, maybe sooner than that, we're leaving Manhattan and heading for B
rooklyn. Command is consolidating most of the New York forces there. The Manhattan bridges and tunnels are down, so the zombies and their Lazarite buddies can have this fucking island. They already did the same thing with Staten Island. Difference is, they may just retake Staten one day, might not be a chance of that with Manhattan. There’s just no telling how many fucking zombies are here. Manhattan won't be seeing humans again in a hundred fucking years, if that soon."

  Chung peered at the map on Never’s desk. Frowning he said, “What the hell are we trying to hold onto this shithole for anyway?”

  Taylor made a face. “Because NCA says so, that’s why.” A wistful look crept into his eyes as he strapped on his helmet. Voice lower, Taylor said, “And some of us grew up here.”

  Chung looked crestfallen. “Ah shit, Joe, I forgot. You know I didn’t…”

  Taylor strapped on his helmet. "Fuck it, Steve. You don't want to come; I'll go alone, no sense in both of us getting killed."

  Chung's eyes opened wide. "The fuck you are. Day you go on a mission without me, you won’t be coming back!" Slapping his helmet on his head with an audible thump, Chung groused, "Now let's get this cluster fuck moving, all right?"

  Watching the pair of them leave, Nevers wished he believed in prayer.

  04 March 2032

  Vehicle Marshalling Area

  Fifth Avenue & Central Park East

  Most of Manhattan north of Seventy-Fifth Street was a no man's land of devastated buildings, burned out vehicles of every type and miles of barbed wire. Nothing could cross the moat Army Engineers had blasted to separate mid-Manhattan from the upper part of the formerly great city. Among other feats that were accomplished in trying to save the city was; it was still possible (if insane) to walk down Fifth Avenue from 70th street to Washington Square Park and be safe (so far) from zombies. This was due to the barricade of barbed wire and corrugated steel built there, miles of it, at great cost to the troops and police who had emplaced it. The engineers had done an amazing job. Corrugated steel was wielded between lampposts, these walls supported by angle iron set against the ground. The zombies could push against it all they wanted, but all the force they used simply dissipated into the street. Most of this was accomplished in the early days, when the Mayor of the city (long since gone, eaten or evaced no one knew) had wanted to keep the damned things contained. In reality, it was a stupid and costly idea but with the military’s help, the wall was built. Still, the casualties taken in completing this task were terrible. The militaries numbers were finite while the enemies seemed never ending. In places where the corrugated fence ended, the barricade was made of barbed wire. In some areas, the wire was so thick the zombies clustered behind it were nearly shadows. On occasion when enough of the undead creatures piled up, reaction teams armed with flame-throwers destroyed them in the hundreds. Sometime the flaming pyres of corpses burned for days, greasy pillars of dark smoke rising to the skies while flakes of burned skin floated about covering the surrounding areas in a horrid black-grey faux snow.