Turning from the dam’s edge, he turned toward the five prisoners. Three were men, two were woman. One of the women was grinning as Thymes body went over the side. Russell brought up his rifle and fired from the hip. The woman’s face imploded; her teeth and face bones flying out of the back of her head. The others started screaming, begging for mercy. But there was none in Russell or Lender, who stepped aside, giving Russell free access to the prisoners.
Rage filled Russell’s voice as he screamed, “You fucks think this is fucking funny?” Bringing his rifle to his shoulder, he shot another Lazarite between the eyes, blowing most of his brains over the remaining three, who suddenly remembered God. They were screaming for his help, shouting at Lender who turned his back on them. One of the women was next, the bullet smashing through one ear, blowing the left side of her head apart. The last two, hand and feet bound, shuffled against the wall and, straining, rose to a standing position. Eyes wild they screamed in terror, and started hopping away; wishing one of the other troops would show them some mercy. This wasn’t to be. The first got ten feet before being blasted down, the bullet smashing in through the back of his head. The other got fifteen feet before Russell put a bullet through his left knee. As the lower left leg spun away, the Lazarite went down on his face, breaking his jaw and teeth. Russell walked up to him slowly and using a foot, flipped him over on his back. The man’s eyes were glazed over with pain as Russell said, “Not too funny now is it, you fucker?”
Tears filled the man’s eyes. This made Russell even angrier. Lifting his rifle be began pounding the wounded man’s skull until it was nothing but a bloody smear on the concrete. Taking a deep breath, he wiped off the fiberglass stock and stalked off toward the western barricade.
No one said a thing.
05 May 2032
Hoover Dam, Nevada
Command Post
Hausefeld sat at his field desk, reading supply reports. Once the dam was secured, 31 sent in more troops to hold and search it. More zombies were found within and, with Handley’s help, a few Lazarites who tried to slip out dressed as workers. Hausefeld allowed the workers to deal out justice for their murdered fellows. The screams of the caught Lazarites were swallowed by the roaring of the floodgates as they were thrown off the damn. Of the eighty workers at the dam, thirty-seven had survived. Now they were training volunteers from 31. Seven of them were overjoyed to learn that they had surviving family at various Enclaves.
Hausefeld leaned against the wall and looked at the blue sky. This mission was a success, but there were more to come.
The war was far from over.
Chapter 12 - Last Stand
15 November 2032
Mother of Mercy Hospital
Chicago, Ill
Captain Augustus ‘Gus’ Jones walked the perimeter set up and patrolled by his troops. Commander of a unit from Enclave 2, they got the jobs that required quick action and thinking. Currently he and his troops were the only unit from 2 that entered occupied or Zombie territory. Nicknamed the 'Deadheads', a term some troops (called Rear Echelon Mother Fuckers by his own) used as an insult, the men and women under Jones wore the name with pride. Their current mission seemed simple; to evacuate the staff and some patients at Mother of Mercy Hospital and salvage as much of the equipment as possible.
Upon arriving at the hospital, they relieved a mixed bag of police and National Guard. These men and women, battered by recent events could not evac fast enough. They left quickly, lifted away by the choppers that brought the Deadheads in. Unlike the previous defenders, Jones and his people came in with a plan for holding the place, since they had no idea how long they’d be there.
In a stroke of luck for the defenders, the Hospital was on a dead end street, the Deadheads continued what the previous troops had done and further secured the area using trucks and trailers. Driving and towing these into place, they flattened the tires and blocked off the open area beneath with debris and barbed wire. Some of it was booby trapped as well. All exits on the far side of the hospital were wielded shut, I-beams set against the doors to keep them sealed. That was Jessie Strahan, a Marine’s idea. She’d served aboard ships and that was what damage control did to keep hatches shut. The hospital was an old building, made of brick and mortar, its walls towering over the neighborhood like a medieval castle.
Now Jones, as he'd done every other hour for two days, was walking the perimeter. The men and women under his command appreciated his being there, checking things, listening to anything they had to say or suggest. Jones had the respect of his troops because there was nothing he’d ask them to do that he wouldn’t. He’d proved this repeatedly, most recently when Private Kincaid, badly wounded in a skirmish with looters, had lay there, bleeding out, praying over the comm lines. Jones knelt by the young trooper, removed his helmet and taken care of him. Kincaid wouldn’t be coming back. Many of the troops who went out into the world had a death pact; if one were wounded too badly, another would give them a quick clean death rather than be left to the tender mercies of the Lazarites or wandering around seeking human flesh.
As he walked, he could feel the weight of his M-63 Stoner assault weapon as well as the drums he carried for it. Some men didn't like the Stoner, thinking it too heavy and cumbersome. Jones, who'd learned to use it during SEAL training, disagreed. During the havoc of the great retreat, when the fighting was at its fiercest, few, if any, knew what was left behind in abandoned armories. Some of the Lazarite groups were very well armed, too well armed for comfort. Jones had been surprised to find the Stoner during an armory salvage op and more than happy to take it. The weapon had a high rate of firepower and if treated right, could even the odds against their enemies, living or dead.
Jones looked up at the overcast sky. Most of Chicago was abandoned, fought for inch by inch by its citizens, Police and National Guard forces, and later the troops of Enclave 2. This Enclave was home to the upper Midwest Command and was located near the city of Sheboygan, Wisconsin. Nearly all the living inhabitants of Chicago were gone, those that could be saved evaced to different Enclaves. Others were just scraps of bone in the street; still others were walking those streets, hideous travesties of humanity. Zombies, the walking dead, zombies, whatever they were called were dangerous. Not singly, but in numbers they could overwhelm a human quickly. The big brains in the Enclave figured there were upwards of 750,000 zombies in and around the metro area of Chicago. The citizens had made a good fight of it; the windy city the last major metropolis in the mid-west lost to the enemy. Jones made a face. He didn’t trust the brain boys who were safe inside Enclaves to make big decisions. Rather they should be doing something constructive, like figuring out a way to kill the zombies faster or in greater numbers. Or reverse whatever brought the dead back.
Rubbing his eyes, Jones wondered; just what the hell are we doing here? Zombies outnumber us two hundred to one, if we're lucky. Making sure his gasmask was in easy reach and his weapon charged, he continued his lonely march, checking the outposts. On the other side of the semis that made up the barricade, he could hear the never ending shuffling of the zombies. Don’t you fuckers ever get tired, Jones wondered, irritated at their endless noise.
At checkpoint two, Lance Corporal Sebastian Ordonez, who came from Los Angeles, walked his area with an unquiet look in his eyes. Toting an M11A (the standard infantry assault rifle with the added bonus of a grenade launcher) he stared at the truck as if he could see through it. His family had disappeared and so far, hadn’t shown up on any Enclaves rolls. He, like many survivors, wondered if they'd escaped or were wandering the world looking for flesh. So far, the Enclaves were busy securing themselves and were slow to send out any accurate lists of who was where.
"Anything to report, Ordonez?"
The younger man shook his head, looking at the barricade. Nothing could crawl through under there, but it paid to keep sharp when on watch.
"Only the shit heads sir. They seem restless today. They know we’re in here."
&n
bsp; Dropping to one knee, Jones peered through the mass of barbed wire. Concertina wire, it was razor sharp. They'd had it airdropped in when they came to evac the hospital, hoping the air detachment would be able to stay on station for a quick evac, but the choppers were withdrawn to help another group in trouble. Until the birds could return, they were on their own. Still they had, if the mission didn't last too long, plenty of ammo and rations, the chopper crews had taken the time to offload that, but there were only twenty soldiers. This mission was supposed to be a quick in and out. “A cake walk,” the CO called it. Jones hadn’t laughed in his face, but he knew that even before the zombies, there was no such thing. Some of the men wanted to take what vehicles they could and run for the docks, rendezvous with the Coast Guard unit there and hitch a ride back to the Enclave. Jones had dissuaded them of this notion by reminding them that there were civilians here who needed their help; that was their mission, to help the helpless. And, if anyone tried to run, he would execute them on the spot. Not one trooper doubted that he would. Jones wouldn’t like to do it, but he would.
Jones radio buzzed. "Vincent to Jones."
"Go ahead, Sergeant."
Sergeant Roger Vincent was a rock who Jones leaned on a lot. A 20 year man in the U.S. Army, he knew how to run a platoon and could have been an officer several times over. He chose to stay in the ranks where he felt he could do the most good. "We've got a problem with Doctor Jameson. Can you come in?"
Jones rubbed his eyes. Doctor Jameson was rapidly becoming a pain in his neck, among other parts. An annoying woman who wanted to evacuate the remaining patients, all of whom were terminal, she refused to see the reality of things. These were harsh times that required harsh decisions. All across the U.S. and the world, as the rise of the dead spread, as humans battled for survival, severe choices were being made. Euthanizing terminal patients was better than abandoning them (and this was done to buy time for more cowardly survivors) to the zombies. Neither was an easy decision, but euthanizing was the lesser of two evils. Jones was hoping not to have to put her in restraints, but he couldn't see any alternative. Turning to Ordonez, he said, "Make sure you get something to eat and your relief knows to keep his or her eyes open."
"Roger that."
15 November 2032
Mother of Mercy Hospital
Dr. Anita Jameson’s Office
Chicago, Ill
Anita Jameson was not what one could call pretty. At just under six feet tall, she was thin and had no discernable curves. Her stern face topped with auburn hair worn in a bun, combined with her height forced many men and women to look up to speak to her. Jones, at 6'3 didn't have that problem, but he didn't want to speak to her at all.
"Have you decided what we're going to do to get the rest of the patients out of here, Captain?" Her condescending tone was irritating and had nearly gotten her slapped by Sergeant Vincent, who stood outside the office, weapon held at port arms, the threat not a subtle one.
"The Enclave doesn't have the facilities for any kind of infirm patients at present, Doctor. I've explained that to you. Enclave command has informed you of that. Only the healthy are admitted. This rule is non-violable. We've left people behind who insisted on bringing those who can't contribute." Jones licked his lips and said, "The best we can do is release them."
Jameson's eyes narrowed at this language. "Release them? You mean kill them, don't you? Murder them? Innocent men and women, who've done nothing wrong!"
Jones felt his already short patience evaporating. Slamming his fist down on her desk, startling the woman, he shouted, "It's time to face reality Doctor! No one wants to abandon them! We simply don't have the facilities for them and the meds they need are in short supply. I'm giving these people a merciful way out, or would you rather the zombies or the Lazarites get them?"
Jameson made a wry face. "The Lazarites? They're an urban legend, made up so you military types can do what you want."
Jones came around the desk and put his face an inch from Jamesons. "Are the zombies an urban legend, Doctor? Would you like to be put over the barricade? See what that's like?"
Anita paled at the suggestion. Like many doctors, she'd seen the results of what the zombies could do. "N-no," she stammered. "But I'll do everything I can to stop you from…"
Jones cut her off, calling for Vincent to come in. "Sergeant, keep an eye on Doctor Jameson. Until we evac, she's restricted to her office." As Jones left he turned and said, "You're too late to help your patients, Doctor. My corpsman already took care of them."
Jameson felt her breath tighten. With a gasp, she fell back into her seat, face pale. As Jones left, Vincent nearly felt sorry for the woman. In a tone that for him was gentle, he said, "Doc, it's better than letting the zombies or the Lazarites get them."
15 November 2032
Mother of Mercy Hospital
Infirm Ward
Chicago, Ill
Corpsman Jessica "Jessie" Strahan turned from the last patient. At one time she’d thought being a woman in the Marines was tough, recent events had made her long for those days. She looked down at the last patient; fifty-one remained in the hospital, some on life support, other’s too infirm to move. Now they were all dead - a lethal dose of sedatives sending them to their final rest. She'd done this before, but each time it got harder and more distasteful. The technique was simple, assisted by Private Terry Dunbar; first, she'd tied them securely to their beds; then injected them with the sedative. One by one their chests stilled, their eyes fluttered and life departed, leaving them empty husks. Then came the nasty part; Dunbar, a stocky woman with cold eyes, stood by each corpse with a spike and a hammer. She'd found the equipment in a storage room and decided, with the nerves of some of the troops frayed, to do the patients in quietly. Placing the spike along the occipital lobe, one sharp rap drove the pointed steel through the thin bone and into the brain. One rattle of the spike and the brain was destroyed, leaving the patient dead for good. Dunbar had gone about her job with mechanical efficiency, only the last corpse starting to twitch as she drove in the spike. Dunbar stood there, looking at the still, blanket covered forms. The pillows had soaked up most of the blood, but one wound was dripping, the sound of the blood splattering on the floor like a bizarre metronome.
Strahan took a deep breath and said, "I could use a drink."
Dunbar looked at her, eyes cold. "I could use several. Let's get out of here and be glad these were the only patients."
Strahan, with haunted eyes said, “I’m glad there weren’t any children.”
Dunbar nodded her head. Another unit was helping evac another hospital and the children’s cancer ward was full. Dunbar shook her head not even wanting to think about that.
Moving off down the corridor, they went down a flight of stairs where they had to pass Jameson's office. The tall doctor stared unpleasantly at them and her watchdog, the sergeant. "So it's done," she called out, causing Dunbar and Strahan to stop. "Are you proud of yourselves?'
Strahan looked upset at the doctor's words and she tried to mumble something in her own defense. Before she could, Dunbar stared back at her and said, "If you were in the real world, you'd have done it already, fucking asshole."
Jameson’s face went blank; she wasn’t used to having people speak to her this way.
Vincent waved them on. "Go get some chow, take two hours rest. You did what had to be done." Turning to the doctor, he cradled his shotgun. "It's people like you who let the zombies run rampant, Doc. You didn't want to believe they were coming back, thought they were loved ones or friends, and now you don’t want to face reality. You really have no place in today’s world."
Jameson stared at the open end of the shotgun almost hypnotized by it. "So what are you going to do? Kill me?" Casually, she palmed the long letter opener from her desk, wondering if she could get close enough to stab the soldier and get away. She was sure she could find a working vehicle and escape the city that way. She looked into the sergeants eyes. There was nothing ther
e. No mercy, no compassion, no pity. She was looking into the eyes of a man who had witnessed death on a scale not seen since the Nazi extermination camps of the Second World War. Vincent was dedicated to his job, to seeing that humanity survived. But there was something else missing from those eyes, a sense of humanity. She couldn’t see that glint that made one know another was human at all.
Jameson leaned back and sneered, "I asked what you're going to do? Kill me right here? In cold blood?" She felt the letter opener under her right hand and curled her fingers around it,
"Yes," Vincent replied.
Before Jameson could blink the shotgun erupted at near point blank range, the double ought shells tearing her face with its obnoxious look from her shoulders. Bits of auburn hair, bone and brains splattered the wall behind her, a few of the pellets shattering the window. Her body flew back, hit the wall, and slid down it, the letter opener falling from her twitching hand, her feet thumping for a few seconds.
Staring at the cooling body, Vincent calmly ratcheted his weapon and replaced the spent shell. Dunbar and Strahan, weapons up, came running into the office.
Enclave: A Novel of the Zombie Apocalypse Page 28
