Benning hit the ground and raised his M11A. Firing off a grenade, several zombies were splattered, the bits of humans they'd been carrying blown into smaller bits.
Seals fired off a few rounds from his M11. All three had their masks down. "I don't think this was such a good idea," mumbled Traylor as the zombies turned to face them.
Blackford climbed onto the chopper. "Blackford to Jones. Captain, we're lifting off. Bennings, Seals, and Traylor are down there, trying to help those civilians."
"Understood." Jones voice was weak. "Good luck, Blackie."
Blackford put his face in his hands, tears streaming down his cheeks. Next to him, Dunbar put her arm around him.
The trio of soldiers never had a chance. Unable to get into the hospital or get past the zombies to the streets, they put up a valiant fight. Firing off grenades and bullets, they nearly made a barricade of living dead, now truly dead. Seal’s was the first to go, separated by a virtual wall of the ever-hungry dead. He tried to take his own life, but the press of the zombies was too much. They swamped him, pulling him down, and wrenching his head from his shoulders. His comm link stayed active until a zombie chewed it, the sounds carried clearly, until the mike broke. Benning and Traylor backed away, trying to reach the entrance to the hospital. So far, the zombies had shown little interest in it. But there were too many. They were low on ammo and the zombies were closing in when Traylor noticed the puddle they were standing in. It was jet fuel, JP-4 from the helos shattered tanks. Grabbing Bennings by the arm, he pulled his last grenade, white phosphorus from his shoulder loop.
Benning, breathing hard, feeling the cold hands of the zombies upon him, nodded. Traylor yanked the pin out, let the spoon fly, and shouted, "FUCK YOU!" As the grenade hit the pool of fuel, it exploded, spreading a cloud of burning metal. The burning fuel immolated the two men instantly, their charred bodies collapsing into the fire, consumed by it. The flame spread to the shattered chopper and exploded, destroying yet more zombies.
"HOLY SHIT!" The pilot’s voice snapped Blackford out of his silent mourning. Turning his head, he looked down. The courtyard of Mother of Mercy was in flames, the skeleton of the shattered chopper in the midst of it. Zombies on fire staggered everywhere, walking torches as the flame destroyed them.
"Pilot, how long can we stay on scene?"
"Another fifteen minutes, but why?"
"I need to see something." Blackford replied.
17 November 2032
Mother of Mercy Hospital
Inside the Barricades
Chicago, Ill
Waiting for the flames from the explosion that had destroyed many of the zombies to die down, the remaining Lazarites crept into the hospital lobby. Seeing the dead chopper soldier, they dragged him out, a gift to the Blessed. The rest of them shared grins. All of them wanted a share of whatever bounty remained within the now abandoned building, bounty they could use.
As they passed through the foyer, the Lazarites luck ran out. Slipping in and out of consciousness, Jones woke up. Sitting behind the small barricade, he opened up on them, unloading his Stoner. The bullets slammed into them, blowing the surprised invaders back into the doorway. One of them stumbled into a trip wire set by the ever-inventive Brew, causing several cans filled with glass and nails to explode, further decimating the Lazarite troops.
Inside, breathing hard, Jones let his Stoner fall. He didn't have the strength to reload it. Holding the small remote close to him, he sat quietly, waiting for their next attempt.
It wasn’t long.
Other Lazarites tried to enter the hospital through various windows, where other traps wounded and killed some of them. Brew was quite inventive. One Lazarite was killed by a board filled with knives set on a spring. Another severely wounded by paint cans set in a deadfall. Losing half their forces, they decided they had to rush the entrance. Docent's Alonzo and Linda were with them when they did it, charging the open doors, screaming and yelling.
Nothing happened.
Cautiously they crept toward where Jones sat, head slumped on his chest, Stoner fallen across the barricade. Alonzo smiled as he drew his knife. Lifting Jones head by his chin, the Docent said, "See? The Unbelievers will fall before us."
Jones unfocused eyes snapped open. "Welcome to hell."
With the last of his strength, the captain triggered the remote. In the basement, the plastique blew its way downward into the propane tank. The resulting fireball rose up and out, incinerating everyone and thing on the first two floors of the hospital, bringing down the rest.
In the last chopper, the pilot banked his vehicle madly, shouting, “Holy shit!” as much of Mother of Mercy Hospital ceased to exist.
"OK, Pilot," said Blackford. "We can go home now." Tears in his eyes, Blackford said, "Gus said they'd never get him."
To their dying day, none of the surviving Deadheads would ever forget Captain Gus Jones.
Chapter 13 - Convoy
22 March 2033
Enclave 9
Near Phoenix, AZ
Lieutenant Mira Moreau checked her equipment. She was carrying a lot, but she was a large woman. Not over-weight, but tall and well muscled. She’d been one of the last female officers to graduate from West Point before the fall. Now the Point, like its counterparts Annapolis and the Air Force Academy were armed camps, those within on constant vigilance against the enemy that had brought down their civilization. It was hoped that the surrounding areas could be expanded and placed under human control.
Along with her urban camo uniform, Moreau wore a Kevlar vest, knee and elbow pads, as well as forearm and shin guards. These simple devices had saved her from injury several times during encounters with the enemy. Her helmet was a Kevlar type 2 with integrated gasmask and night vision scope. Once locked down, it would protect the wearer from head and face injury during battle. Combined with the rip proof uniforms and pads, one could be overwhelmed by the enemy for a few moments, usually all it took to be rescued if the rest of the troopers were on the ball. It had happened to her once. She still had nightmares about it. If she caught any of the team not wearing full gear, they were in trouble.
Moreau strapped on her belt, on the right side hung a .45 caliber pistol. It was her sidearm of preference, since she wanted a bullet that, if it didn’t kill a zombie immediately, would at least cripple or knock it down. She was glad that ordnance had started making all rounds, not just assault rifle ammo, into dum-dums. She could hit an enemy in the arm or chest and most of the time damage it enough so it was no longer a threat. She just wished they could make them faster, but with much of the ammo being done by hand, it took time. Pre-Fall stocks were still being used, but they wouldn’t last forever. On her left hip was a pouch with grenades. She’d long ago done away with carrying smoke or fragmentation. Strictly HE for her - high explosive. The enemy couldn’t walk away from being blown to pieces. The enemy could absorb damage from frags that would kill five normal people and still be dangerous, and she trusted her troopers to carry smoke grenades. Putting on her helmet, she lifted her rifle. The M11 had replaced the M16 and its variants just a few years before the fall. An M11 loaded with dum-dums would knock the enemy on their asses. The troops were always looking for something to give them an advantage. Funny, she thought. Why do I call them the Enemy? They’re just undead corpses, walking dead with an appetite for warm human flesh. Well they wouldn’t get hers. At least not while she was breathing, no sir. Mira looked in the mirror and patted her left breast pocket. A Walther PPK, a gift from her father was there, loaded with hollow points. If anything happened to her, if she were going to become a zombie entrée, she was going to stick the little pistol in her mouth and blow off the back of her head. She’d seen many people die at the hands of the zombies and she wasn’t going to go that way. She stared into the mirror and wiped away a tear. She’d used the little pistol to destroy her father when he revived after a sudden heart attack. She had thought he was sleeping, but had the presence of mind not to get too close w
hile making sure. She still remembered the look of surprise on his face as he fell back, two neat holes in his forehead. She missed him, but was glad she knew he was not out there, stalking humans. Far too many didn’t know the fate of their friends or loved ones. Some used this to fuel their hate, giving them the strength to go on day after day. Others took their own lives, unable to live without this vital bit of knowledge.
Pausing for a moment, she rubbed her left forearm. She couldn’t actually feel her life-unit, but she knew it was there, letting a computer in the Enclave know that she was still alive. All of the Enclavers were being implanted with them, the better to keep anyone’s death from starting a rise within the walls. Such an event was among the Enclavers worst fears. Some unlucky person dies a natural death, goes unnoticed, and starts an epidemic within the walls. Moreau was chilled just thinking of it.
Equipment check complete, she left her quarters. Coming out into the noon Arizona sunshine, she squinted around. Continual work on the Enclave, number 9 was going well. The walls were complete, strong points along them being strengthened. The zombies could claw at the walls all they wanted. Not even a million of them could push through seven feet of brick, dirt, and concrete. The airstrip; a squat square of tarmac, held the Enclaves few helicopters.
Enclave 9 was given a fortunate site. The walls were put up around the Snakehead Solar power facility. An experimental station, Snakehead was built to power a suburb that would never be completed. All its output was tasked for the Enclave. Snakehead was well protected, it’s tower of solar panels glimmering in the sunshine. Moreau considered it fortunate to be assigned here. She could have been in Thousand Oaks when it fell to the zombies, thanks to those traitorous goddamn Lazarites, but here she was in Arizona.
Striding across the compound, she could already feel the heat beginning to rise. She thought of Enclave 4, where she’d been for a while. In the summer they didn’t run long missions, the humid heat could kill a soldier in all their gear, but going without it invited death. At least here, the heat was dry. No humidity to suck the moisture from a soldier’s body, which made missions harder than they were.
Sergeant Clemens caught up with her. A stocky black man originally from Alabama, he’d been at the end of his enlistment when the zombies started to rise. His skin was as dark as the sky between stars; his teeth when he smiled –rare- were a startling white. A SAW gunner, he carried the weapon like a toy. He also had a wicked machete on his belt and when he could, he would chop Zombies into bits. He hated them with a passion and unable to learn about his loved ones, destroyed them as often and as brutally as he could.
“O.K. Sarge, what are we taking out?”
Clemens grinned in a nasty, mirthless way. “We’ve got six Bradley’s and twelve trucks. Recon says the target is a warehouse complex fifteen miles to the northeast looks mostly intact. May have been partially looted, but from pics, several of the buildings appear untouched.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Looks like it was a depot for the bigger stores possibly canned foods and medical supplies.”
Moreau thought about it. “Air support?”
“Two Apaches loaded for bear.”
Moreau grinned. “Sounds like fun. Let’s see the Governor and get rolling.”
22 March 2033
Enclave 9
Near Phoenix, AZ
Enclave 9 had its groundwork laid in late 2031. Being one of the later Enclaves, quite a bit was above ground. Huge sections of wall were lifted into place by cargo choppers, then once settled into pre-placed slots in the ground, had concrete poured into them. As with the other above ground Enclaves, construction went on around the clock under heavy guard. Once the gates were installed, survivors were airlifted in. While living quarters were built, everyone lived in a tent. Now nearly two years later, almost fifteen hundred people were living there. So far, it was under populated. Plans were to bring in survivors from Enclaves with surplus populations, but with the Lazarite problem, that was on a back burner for now. It wasn’t the most comfortable place, with barracks replacing apartments and homes, but it was safe. The area around the Enclave was flat and barren, a perfect killing ground for the troops within. Outside the walls lurked the enemy, the zombies.
Moreau was impressed with how fast things were put together. It was almost as if the government had a plan for such a disaster. She thought about the early days of the rise and the havoc it had caused. Terror filled days and nights as corpses piled up in the streets. Now they lived in, not normalcy, but guarded safety.
She still shuddered as she remembered the massive burning of corpses, the battles against looters, the murders as people settled old scores. The constitution was all but forgotten in the havoc, the military and deputized civilians becoming the only order. After attempts to hold them failed, major cities were abandoned, the zombies having run of them. Some like Boston and parts of New York, had been bombed into oblivion, the bridges and tunnels made impassible, leaving the zombies to rot there.
Followed by Clemens, Moreau headed for the rallying point. This was a big convoy and she was going to be sure that it came back with the supplies they needed. As they crossed the hot open inner courtyard of the Enclave (which was four football fields square) she looked up at the walls. Twenty-two feet high, tipped with razor wire, they were constantly patrolled. At each corner was a guardhouse that looked out and along both walls. If an Enclave were ever invaded, the guardhouses could be isolated. Each tower held enough food and water for 20 people for a month. Moreau liked this idea of thinking. No Enclave had fallen yet, but with the Lazarites out there, caution was the word of the day. So far, 9 hadn’t had much trouble from the cultists, but who knew what they were planning? Moreau grit her teeth at the thought. Helping the zombies? She hadn’t encountered any of the shadowy enemies of humanity, but if or when she did, it wasn’t going to go well for them.
As Moreau stopped by the lead Bradley, she looked down the line of trucks. Each was modified. The wheel wells were protected with bolted on steel plates, the cargo areas had barbed wire surrounding them so no one from the outside could grab on. The cabs had their glass reinforced with heavy wire mesh and eight of the shotgun drivers had a rapid fire 40mm grenade launcher mounted on the cab. Four of the trucks didn’t have that weapon; instead, they had the old reliable ‘Ma Deuce’, a .50 caliber machine gun. The tires were made of solid rubber so no flats were possible.
“Clemens, check the trucks. Make sure the weapons are loaded and ready, and the fuel tanks topped off. Extra gas cans are full. You’ll be in command of tail-end Charlie.”
Clemens smiled. Tail-end Charlie was his favorite duty. A few missions back, when they were taking supplies out of a hospital, his Bradley was attacked by looters. Popping smoke, Clemens backed into the loading dock, activated his thermal scope, and blasted the looters to bits with flechette rounds. These rounds had steel darts within them. When fired the rounds shredded anything organic in their way. They were of excellent use against the zombies. Clemens gave Moreau a snappy salute and moved off.
Mira went down the line to her own Bradley, which the crew had painted with a spider and the legend “Widow Maker.” She grinned at the image of the evil looking black widow they’d painted on it and banged on the turret.
Corporal Tom Neil popped out of the driver’s hatch. He was an expatriate trapped in the states when civilization collapsed. From England, here for cross training with the Army, with no way to get home, he offered his services. He’d been a tanker in the British army and had proven to be one of the best drivers around. He loved the Bradley (naming it Widow Maker was his idea) and spent much time tinkering with it.
“Good morning, Leftenant!” Neil gave a snappy salute. He’d never gotten out of the habit of using the British term for her rank, but Moreau didn’t mind. She had genuine feelings for Neil and wanted to make them known, but she wasn’t sure if that would be good for the unit.
“We ready to roll, Corporal?”
> “The Widow Maker is ready to make hash out of more zombies, ma’am.”
“Where’s Davies?”
“In his usual place, sleeping.”
Moreau rolled her eyes as she clambered up onto the turret. Private Ron Davies was one week from his enlistment’s end when the rise began. Now he was part of the freaking military (as he put it) ‘for the duration’, which would probably be forever. He took his anger out on zombies whenever he could, using his superior gunnery skills (he’d won awards in the Pre-Zombies days) to annihilate as many of them as he could. He hated downtime and constantly volunteered for search and destroy missions. To Davies, 9’s troops should always be on the offensive, hunting and killing the enemy wherever they could be found.
“Wake him up, it’s time to go.” Even as Moreau said this, the truck engines rumbled to life, followed by the Bradley’s. Plugging in her comm’s cable, she said, “Convoy One to Enclave Control - radio check.”
“Read you five by five. Good mission, Lieutenant.”
Moreau was surprised by the voice. It was Governor Carpenter. He rarely took direct interest in a convoy.
“Thank you Governor.” Carpenter was a retired General. A friend of her fathers (they’d met during an intervention in South America) and he still missed Jerry Moreau, who had saved his life on a mission in Columbia.
Moreau switched frequencies. “Widow One to orphans. Check in.” In seconds the various trucks and Bradley’s responded. Tapping Neil on the shoulder with her foot, the AFV lurched into movement toward the gate.
Exiting the Enclave required passing two gates, joined by a tunnel. The inner gate was open. It could be sealed by electrical power, as was usual, or by shutting two valves in a chamber above it. Once the valves were closed, the hydraulic fluid to the pistons would flow out and the gate would slam down. It couldn’t be opened again until the valve was reopened and electrical power restored. The final option was a manual reopening which was labor intensive and so far, other than in a few drills, had never been necessary.
Enclave: A Novel of the Zombie Apocalypse Page 31
