Enclave: A Novel of the Zombie Apocalypse

by Robert Morganbesser

  Taylor was staring at Simmons with his one eye. The other socket, hidden under a black patch had faded white scars peeking out from under it. The eye that once filled it was long gone, torn out by a zombie. Simmons could feel that stare, knew that Taylor was sizing him up. Before Simmons could open his mouth, Taylor, wearing a headset so he could communicate over the noise of the chopper, put out a hand and said, “Joe Taylor.”

  Simmons grinned, noticing that even though Taylor outranked him (he’d been told that Joe was an E-7 before leaving); he was following the universal rule of Sergeants. “We run things, officers just give the orders.” Simmons put one of his huge hands around Taylors. “Sammy Simmons.”

  Taylor pumped his hand as he said, “Any relation to J.D. Simmons? You look a lot like him.”

  Simmons dark face went darker. “He was my brother.”

  Taylor stared, that one blue eye startlingly bright. “Was?”

  “He went into Mobile with a column back when the shit really started to fly. They got a convoy of civvies out, fought a delaying action to make sure they escaped. Before they could be reinforced, they were over run. No survivors.”

  Taylor blinked. J.D. Simmons was even bigger than his brother had been. Taylor had met him on R&R in Italy; the two of them had taken a bar full of jet jockeys apart when one talked about how “The Air Force could win any war.” They met in the field once as well, in Kuwait during one of the innumerable Mid-East interventions by the U.S. and UN.

  Taylor looked saddened by the news. “I’ve got a bottle in my pack. We’ll talk about him later. He was a good man.”

  Simmons leaned forward, huge hands dangling between his knees. “How’d you lose the eye?”

  Taylor grinned ruefully. He reached up with a hand and tapped his patch. “I was on a rescue mission in downtown Manhattan. During the evac, this door opened and zombies just came spilling out. It was like we opened a freaking valve or something. I didn’t have time to get my mask on properly. One of the bastards knocked me back, stuck a finger in my eye.”

  Simmons took a deep breath. “You’re lucky you made it.”

  Taylor nodded. “Yeah, man. We’d just started taking Zombicillin. That’s what’s in that crate I brought with me. Heard you guys had a little trouble down in Virginia?”

  Simmons leaned back, “Yeah. We went ashore in a landing craft. Fucking Lazarites were waiting for us. Hit the landing craft with what I think was a LAAWS, then started in with a mortar. They herded those fucking things right at us. Still creeps me out the way the Lazarites can move around with the fucking zombies. Fifty of us went in, thirty-eight came out. Five of those died on the way back. We just capped em on the chopper, dropped the bodies into the sea…” Simmons voice faded.

  Taylor could say nothing to comfort the man. He’d lost people too. It was a shitty feeling to lose someone to the zombies, but to lose one to the fucking Lazarites, that was indescribable.

  Taylor rose and moved to sit next to Simmons. “I’m supposed to wait to tell your whole command this, but Sergeants need to stick together.”

  Simmons turned to face Taylor. Reaching up he switched the frequency so they could talk without the pilots hearing.

  “So what’s up?”

  Taylor took a deep breath. “A few months ago a team went out, a rescue team. A guy named Jay Finely led it. Anyway, he took the team out and never came back. He led them right into a Lazarite ambush. But he didn’t do a good enough job. Some of his team escaped and got back to 13.”

  Simmons mouth dropped open. “He fucking betrayed his own to the Lazarites? Are you kidding me?”

  Taylor shook his head. “That’s one of the reasons I’m here, to pass over information. That and to see if I can help revise the sea detachments doctrine on supply raids. Lazarites got to a lot of shit we couldn’t. We're just lucky they don’t have any air-power, the bastards."

  Simmons nodded in agreement. "Amen to that brother."

  The two sergeants passed the rest of the voyage in silence.

  19 June 2034

  U.S.S Nimitz

  200 Miles off Roanoke Island

  Taylor looked in the mirror of his quarters. He was ‘hot bunking’ that is sharing a room with a Marine officer. While one of them was awake, the other was using the bunk. Taylor’s roommate happened to be Captain Harry Thorne, the CO of the marine detachment aboard the carrier. The detachment had been seconded civilians who were former marines. The famous saying, “once a marine, always a marine,” had never been truer. These people, seventeen men and five women were undergoing retraining under the careful eyes of Thorne and Simmons. This gave Taylor time to look over their plan for taking Roanoke.

  Taylor’s remaining eye bulged when he saw the plan. If they followed this one, it would be good for nothing but disaster. The Admiral thought it a good idea to achieve tactical surprise. This meant no preliminary recon, no bombardment (the destroyers and cruisers were going to stay beyond the horizon) and just a limited CAP to be called on.

  Taylor went through the plan with a red pen. As he spent a few days rewriting the OP plan, he could see that these people were secluded by their time at sea. Didn’t they read the fucking reports all the damn Enclaves sent out? If there were any Lazarites at all on Roanoke, which to Taylor would be a great spot to take and set up an ambush on, with a crap plan like this, any landing party would be wiped out in no time. They’d be lucky if they could get off a radio message.

  Taylor, given unlimited access to their operations reports as well as secured comms with Enclaves 13 and 18, rewrote the plan as if Roanoke were Normandy beach. Taylor didn’t want to see one unarmed civilian on that island until it was clear. He did like the idea of the islanders having the same microchip system as on the ships. He was glad when the Enclaves initiated the program. It was difficult to build or create some higher electronics, but the more equipment that could be salvaged, the better the Enclaves were doing. Nevers was the first one to be implanted; the rest of the populace of Enclave 13 followed. Now accidental or regular deaths were responded to by a ready team. There wouldn’t be any zombie outbreaks in any Enclave that was on the ball.

  Taylor was checking over his rewritten plan and while he worried. Being worried was something he was good at; it was what had kept him alive in these uncertain times. Simmons came in and watched him for a few minutes, then laughed out loud. Taylor wasn’t even aware that the man had entered the cabin. Finally, the large marine said, "What's the problem Joe?"

  Taylor looked up at his new friend and waved the old OPPLAN. "This is bullshit. I don’t trust those recon photos. Whoever OKed this plan is a fucking asshole." Taylor shook the recon photos at Simmons. "This is an island, right? Only zombies on it? No people? Hell, Islands are the most easily defensible areas! Why do you think Treasure Island in California, or those islands off the Louisiana coast, or the Keys are still in our hands?"

  Simmons unborn smile died on his lips as he took this information in. I've been at sea too long, he thought. Taking the pictures, he looked at them carefully. "I never thought of that. Fuck! You're right! Whatever zombies are on this island had to be there from the start, or been brought there, right? Come on, we've got to go see Captain Thorne."

  They found Thorne as far aft on the carrier as he could go, below the flight deck, on a small platform that over-looked the sea. He held a pistol in one hand and was staring out at the darkening ocean. A marine private was throwing old crockery into the air, which Thorne was shooting into bits.

  "Sir," Simmons popped out of the darkness nearly giving the private, who dropped a plate, which shattered noisily, a heart attack. As Simmons motioned for the pale-faced marine to take off he said, "We need to speak with you, sir."

  Thorne flicked the safety on his pistol and holstered it. "What's the problem, Sergeant?"

  Taylor handed him the original plan for assaulting Roanoke. "This plan sucks, Captain. The guy who thought of this fucking abortion should have his head examined, maybe with a bullet.
"

  Simmons stifled a smile, wondering if this was the way military courtesy went in the Enclaves. Perhaps he could transfer to one.

  Thorne shrugged. "Nothing we can do about it, Taylor. I think the plan sucks too, but Admiral Jurgens and his staff of one, Commander Lindsey, decided that's the way to do it. Captain Thompson doesn't agree all the way, but he's hog-tied by chain of command. Jurgens has the final say.”

  At that moment, a tall slender officer with a perpetual sneer arrived on the weather deck. Thorne and Simmons snapped to attention, Taylor turned slowly, staring at the hawk nosed individual.

  "That's right sergeant, the plan will go through. It’s already been approved; all we’re waiting for is for the word to go."

  Thorne relaxed slightly. "Commander Lindsey, Sergeant Taylor, Enclave 13."

  The two men stared at one another and their instant dislike was apparent. Before Lindsey could say a word, Taylor said, "You're the asshole who thought of this plan? It sucks and in 13 my CO would feed it to you a page at a time!"

  Lindsey, pale as a vampire from lack of sun, sneered at Taylor. "Sergeant; that plan was based on data from recon and it will be carried out. What makes you an expert on amphibious operations?"

  Taylor's one eye hardened as he stared at this officer, whose pale gray eyes looked slightly glazed over. "I've seen The Longest Day fifty times."

  Simmons nearly choked in an attempt not to laugh. Lindsey's lip curled. "How would you like to visit the brig, Sergeant?"

  Taylor put one hand on his pistol - he never went anywhere unarmed - and replied, "You gonna take me there yourself, sir?" The way the Enclaver said sir, it sounded like shit.

  Thorne moved between them, Taylor’s plan in one hand. "Sir, the sergeant has extensive experience dealing with the enemy. Zombies and Lazarites. He has another plan I think you should…"

  Lindsey slapped Thornes hand; knocking Taylors reworked plan to the deck where a light breeze made the pages flutter. "We are going with the approved plan! No more dissension or you'll all be in the brig!" He held out a hand, "Give me the OPPLAN."

  As Thorne reached out, Taylor held the approved plan in both hands, ripped it in half and tossed it over the side. "That's what I think of your plan, Sir!" Before the two marines could even blink, Taylor had a fist full of Lindsey's collar and his pistol under his chin. "All right mother-fucker," he growled. "Who the fuck are you? How long have you been a Lazarite?"

  For a moment Thorne and Simmons froze. As they started to move, Taylor growled, "Don't even think it. I'll blow this fuckers head off if anyone even breathes hard."

  Thorne’s voice was totally calm. "Calm down, Sergeant! This is a court martial offense, death penalty!"

  Taylor didn't budge. "So is sending people to die at Virginia Beach."

  "What?" Simmons voice was strained as he shouted. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

  "I checked the records. Your people got fucked on that mission because the recon photos were two months old! This cocksucker approved them. He had to have changed the dates on the photos. I checked the computer records. He did a partial erase, but he didn't do it well enough. Your Ensign Sherman is a whiz at data recovery."

  Lindsey went pale. "That's not true…" The men looked down to where a trail of urine, starting at his crotch, was running down his leg. Taylor relaxed slightly, then swung the officer outward and fired the pistol. Lindsey's face imploded, his hawk-like nose disappearing as his teeth and brains went out the back of his head into the ocean. A moment later, his body did as well.

  Thorne stared. "We've got to get to Jurgens!"

  As they crowded into the corridor to head forward, a helicopter was taking off. Jurgens was in the pilot’s seat of Angel 1, the SAR rescue bird. The IFF device was yanked out and tossed on the bird’s deck. This would make it harder to track him in his escape attempt. Fortunately, the ship didn't run a carrier air patrol, or one of the planes would be on him in an instant and he'd be forced down or blown to pieces. Since there were no enemies left with air power, running a CAP was considered unnecessary. The fuel wasted might be needed in other situations. There was still the chance that a plane would be launched, but hopefully the confusion of his escape would last a few moments more. A storm was coming in, dark clouds gathering on the horizon, which told Jurgens fate was on his side. In the back, face bruised and trussed up lay Ensign John Villa, soon to be a meal for the Blessed. He was fortunate that Lindsey had taken to wearing a mike or he would have been captured, his execution guaranteed.

  Jurgens looked back at the ship, ignoring its warnings to return or be shot down. He knew the ship as well as anyone on board. As long as he stayed low, the Sea Sparrow anti-aircraft missiles wouldn't be able to get a lock. Still, he was a man who believed in hedging his bets. As he passed the three hundred yard mark, he removed a small control from his pocket and pressed a button…

  Back in his quarters a quarter pound of C-4 explosive, the largest amount he’d been able to filch from the armory, detonated. With a roar, it tore through his office, blowing out a wall, decapitating his yeoman and shaking the ship. Glancing through a side window, he grinned mirthlessly. That should take Thompsons mind off him. If only he could have planted a bomb in the reactor room; that would have stopped them! Jurgens grinned, glad he’d never gotten branded or tattooed. During his time on the ship, he’d set some of the Nimitz plans back months!

  Now he could prepare a welcome for the unbelievers. Electronic counter measures on, he put the bird to the deck and sped off toward Roanoke Island.

  19 June 2034

  U.S.S Nimitz

  200 Miles off Roanoke Island

  Fire and damage control teams, medical personnel, all responded within moments of the klaxons sounding. After the fire from Jurgens explosives were extinguished, it was discovered the damage was mostly superficial. The unhappy job of destroying the head of Yeoman Brown, reanimated, was given to the marines who merely tossed it overboard where the sea life would take care of it. Then the hunt for any more traitors began.

  It took a few days after Jurgens escape, but Simmons and his security detail, assisted by Taylor, discovered who the other Lazarite sympathizers on the ship were. Accessing the personnel files, they quickly discovered who came aboard with Jurgens or Lindsey. After interrogation, these men and women were summarily executed, their bodies given to the sea after a spike (no sense wasting bullets) was put through their skulls. Seven were civilians, eighty-two were navy personnel, and none were marines. Most were given promises that their loved ones were still alive, or they would be given positions of power among the Lazarites. All were grabbed in ones and twos, several given a good beating before being stripped and trussed. Usually under a little 'assistance', the interrogators saw a domino effect, one captive giving up another. They were left in one of the hangar bays as their numbers grew. The Marines who guarded them wanted nothing more than to kill them all. Once all the prisoners were gathered, they were dragged across the non-skid to a deck elevator where, before the eyes of all the other captives, they were executed one by one. This was Simmons idea; he wanted them to see their fate. The executions were shown on closed circuit TV around the ship, some of the compliment placing bets as to who would beg, spit, or shit themselves. One Bosun's mate won nearly 1000 credits in Enclave chits. He could hardly wait for his turn to visit one.

  This unpleasant task completed, the mission to take Roanoke was re-planned.

  Taylor looked down at the recent pictures. Admiral Thompson (who wasn't looking well) and Commander Domini sat at one end of the table. This was the third recon flight over Roanoke and not much had changed. This worried them all. The photos showed where the helicopter landed. Near it was a small group of zombies crowding around what was likely Ensign Villa. He'd been discovered missing not long after Jurgens made his escape. Domini made a suggestion that perhaps he'd been in on the escape with Jurgens, but she was dissuaded of that notion by Tiger Lee, who chewed her a new asshole for voicing this notion
. Villa's parents, both employees of the EPA, were in D.C. when it fell; he had to be forcibly stopped from taking a SeaCobra and going back to kill zombies until he ran out of ammo. His classmate and best friend, Ensign Matilda Sherman (the computer expert who'd assisted Taylor) found his diary while packing up his belongings. Villa had been planning a kamikaze attack with the helo. Under Lee's withering gaze, Domini apologized.

  Simmons pointed to the next series of photos. The helo was stripped, showing that the Lazarites didn't plan to use it. That was actually a smart decision, if the Sea Stallion showed up on the ships radar it would have a life expectancy of zero. At one small dock were several boats, all of which looked seaworthy. By leaving the boats in the open (they had to know any attempt to escape would be a death sentences) it showed that the Lazarites weren't going to give up the island without a fight.

  "These forested areas here and here," said Simmons, "Could hide just about anything. We don't really know what the hell they could have on that damn island, do we?"

  Domini shook her head. "With Matty Sherman’s assistance we found that the files have been doctored for the last six months, six months when we were mostly north, so the Lazarites could have put just about anything on that island."

  Thompson rubbed his brow and set down his coffee. His chest felt tight, but he wouldn't feel right relinquishing command now. Still, perhaps he should send a message to command requesting to be relieved. Even as the thought entered his mind, he dismissed it. What kind of commanding officer runs out on his people just because of a little stress? They still had it better onboard ship than civilians did ashore.

  "Suggestions?" Thompson's voice croaked out. Domini, used to playing mother hen to him looked concerned; the rest just continued staring at the map.

  Taylor sighed. "We need a real recon, one on the ground."

  The others stared at him. "Are you nuts?" asked Simmons. "That's it, you are nuts. That's why 13 sent you here, isn't it?"