by Cart, Carl R
We all stood in silence. We knew our lives depended on the sergeant’s decision.
“Wait a minute, Sarge. Why does the Pentagon want those cadavers?” I asked.
“Shut up!” Maj. Dorset growled at me. “This doesn’t concern you!”
“They want the virus,” McAllister slowly responded. “They want to make a biological weapon out it.”
“Motherfucker,” I growled.
“Was this the mission all along?” McAllister asked.
“No!” the major shot back. “I was ordered to rescue the medical unit. I swear it! Once the colonel started going through the computer files we found everything changed.”
“Why should I believe you?” McAllister said.
“Because I’m just following orders, just like you,” the major replied. “I don’t think anyone knew what was going on until we got in here, and the colonel had a chance to analyze the data.”
“If you had orders to extract specimens, then why didn’t the colonel pull out?” the sergeant pushed.
Maj. Dorset hesitated. Finally, he spat, “The colonel wanted to cure the virus. He felt it was too dangerous to take it outside the Congo without first isolating an anti-virus. He was the one disobeying orders. I was ordered to extract the specimens. We were overrun; we were all going to die. I saved you men’s lives!” the major shouted.
“I doubt that was your first consideration,” McAllister pointed out.
“What will it be, Sergeant?” Maj. Dorset finally asked.
“We’ll take em with us and see how far we get,” he answered. “We wouldn’t want this trip to get boring now would we?”
We all groaned at the news.
“Mount up,” the sergeant ordered. “You’re fresh, Major; you and I will carry first.”
OPS ORD 9-59
SECURE SPECIMENS AT ALL COSTS
REPEAT SPECIMENS PRIORITY ONE
RENDEVOUS WITH SPECIAL FORCES AIRFIELD
ORDERS END
Chapter 12
07:22 a.m. Zulu
The Congo
Central Africa
We took the stretchers in shifts; everybody took a turn carrying one of them. It did my heart a world of good to see the major struggling along with one of his precious specimens. Of course, he couldn’t carry it for long, he was too out of shape.
We moved as fast as we could under the circumstances, but we weren’t making much speed. We were being pursued, and we all knew what would happen if they caught up to us.
Sgt. McAllister moved along the line, encouraging everyone to keep up the pace. He walked with me for a while and we spoke in low tones.
“If something happens just keep moving south,” he instructed me. “You’ll hit the road and that will lead you back to the airfield. Always move to the south. How you holding up for ammo?”
“Not great,” I answered.
He handed me three spare magazines.
“Where did you get these?” I asked.
“Smith,” he grunted. “I didn’t figure he needed em anymore.”
“Thanks,” I replied.
“Whatever,” he joked.
We walked along for a moment.
“It’s just you, me, and Jacobs from 2nd Platoon,” McAllister grunted. “The rest of these fuckers are as worthless as tits on a boar hog,” he concluded.
“Gordo is okay,” I added.
“He ain’t no soldier,” the sergeant retorted.
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked quietly.
“When those fuckers catch up to us, we’re done,” McAllister responded. “I expect you to do your duty, but if you’re the last one standing, don’t wait around for me.”
“Okay,” I finally responded.
“You’re a pain in the ass, Parsons,” the sergeant grunted. He walked back up the line. I figured the shit must be getting pretty serious, he had just told me goodbye.
We struggled on for the rest of the morning, taking the stretchers in short shifts. We were all so fucking tired that we kept on dropping the damn things. It was lucky for them that the cadavers were already dead; otherwise we would have beaten them to death.
We staggered on and on, slowly moving towards the airfield. As we progressed our pace began to gradually slow until we moving at a snail’s pace. The sergeant’s encouragement and the major’s threats and screams couldn’t whip any more speed out of us. We had carried the stretchers for miles over rough terrain, and we were done.
Without being ordered to, we all stopped. A few of us broke out MREs and water bottles; the rest just collapsed and lay groaning on the muddy ground.
The sergeant and the major moved away from us and sat on the ground, looking over McAllister’s topo map and arguing. I just sat there in a daze and closed my eyes. I wanted to sleep now; I didn’t care if the zombies ate me anymore. I was drifting away when I heard the first faint groans. I wasn’t the only one who heard it.
“On your feet!” McAllister bellowed hoarsely.
Everyone obeyed, we knew they were close.
The corpsmen snatched up the stretchers and took off at a good pace. I knew they couldn’t keep it up.
McAllister brought Jacobs back with him and stopped me as the others passed.
“We’ll bring up the rear and see if we can slow the fuckers down,” he suggested.
We walked along at a brisk limp. It didn’t take long before we had caught up to the stretchers again, everyone was fading fast. The eerie moans of the undead echoed through the giant trees behind us.
“How in the hell do they keep tracking us?” McAllister asked out loud.
I slapped myself in the forehead, “Sarge, I think we may be able to throw them off,” I shouted. “Why didn’t I think of this before?” I asked.
“What are you talking about?” McAllister asked.
“The river,” I answered. “I don’t think they’ll be able to follow us if we cross the river. We could go across; move downstream and then cross back to this side again. We’ll be moving away from the airfield for a while, but it might buy us enough time to get there before they catch up again!”
The sergeant looked at me and laughed, “You’re a fucking genius, Parsons. I’m gonna put you in for a field commission if we get outta this shit. You are way too smart to be a grunt.”
He pulled out his topo map and his compass again. He oriented himself by turning around until he was facing north with the compass, then he looked at the map, and spun it too. He pointed to his right. “It’s that way, about a mile, maybe two.”
We caught up with the others, and the sergeant moved to the lead.
“Follow me,” he shouted. He jogged ahead and we all fell in behind.
We cut through the trees. The zombies were actually closer now, as we moved perpendicular to them. Their groans grew louder. We pushed on as quickly as our tired legs would take us. All of us carried the stretchers now, one man on each handle. We jogged for our lives.
I saw a glimpse of water through the trees, and then we burst out onto the riverbank.
The Congo River was a broad, swirling expanse of dark muddy water. It was a good distance across to the far bank, and the water’s current looked treacherous.
We piled up on the bank and looked across at the safety of the far side.
“Let’s go, ladies,” McAllister growled. “I’ll go first to check the depth.”
He held the SAW and its ammo belt over his head and waded in. The water was not as deep as it looked. We followed, still four men to a stretcher. We held the handles on our shoulders and waded into the river. The current tugged at my waist, and my feet slipped on rocks and sank into the muddy river bottom. It was a struggle to remain upright and not drop the heavy stretcher. We slowly made our way across.
Sgt. McAllister slipped several times, but didn’t go under. He slowed to show us the way across. Finally, we all struggled up the muddy bank on the far side and dropped the stretchers, too tired to move further.
The moans had not
stopped, and without warning a ragged, decomposing zombie emerged from the trees on the far side. I lifted my gun to fire, but McAllister waved me down.
“Let’s see what he does,” he suggested.
The zombie spotted us and lurched forward, moaning in anticipation. It slipped down the riverbank and fell into the water with a splash. The creature struggled feebly against the current, and then was slowly washed away. It sank and resurfaced several times as it slowly moved away from us. As we watched it made unsteady progress towards our side; we realized it would eventually emerge and start to pursue us again.
“So much for that,” McAllister decided. “Let’s roll while we can.”
We got back to our feet and struggled up the bank and into the forest. We followed the river upstream, away from the zombies. Tired beyond comprehension or caring, we simply followed the sergeant through the forest as he led us along. Finally, he stopped and led us back down to the river again. We rested among the trees for a few precious moments.
“Good work back there, Parsons,” he said.
I waved his praise away; I was too tired to talk about it.
We picked up the stretchers and McAllister led us across the river, back to the side we had started on. Halfway across, Gordo slipped and dropped his handle. The cadaver went under, dragging me with it. I hung on for dear life, pulling against the current as it fought to carry away the stretcher. I surfaced, gasping and cursing. The corpsmen pushed the stretcher clear of the water, and we fought our way to shore. Gordo rejoined us, and grabbed a handle. Everyone struggled to climb up the muddy bank and then we gimped off into the forest. We were all soaked and muddy, but the zombies were far enough behind us that we could no longer hear them. We only had another ten miles to go. I completely forgot about the radio.
We painfully wound our way through the trees. Sgt. McAllister had disappeared on point. We stumbled blindly along. It was all I could do to put one foot in front of the other, and stagger forward.
Finally, we hit the wall. One of the lead corpsmen dropped his handle and the whole train ground to a halt. Even the major collapsed, panting in the mud. Everyone fell out.
I staggered back the way we had come a few steps, and stood bent over, holding my side. It felt like I had herniated myself. I lay down in the mud.
Gordo stumbled back to join me. “We’re not going to make it are we?” he gasped.
“I doubt it,” I answered through gritted teeth.
The major eventually limped back to us. “We have to keep moving,” he groaned.
“With all due respect, sir, I don’t think that is possible,” I replied. “Let’s wait for the sergeant at least.”
“Okay,” the major wheezed. He staggered away from us and collapsed against a tree trunk.
Before I could pass out, Sgt. McAllister walked back to find us. He knelt down beside me. “I might have known,” he laughed grimly. “You lazy fucker.”
He pulled out his topo map and unfolded it. “Maj. Dorset, sir, could you join us?”
The major shuffled over and sat down nearby.
“I’ve been thinking over our options,” McAllister began. “I know we can’t keep humping those bastard heavy cadavers all the way to the airfield like this, we’re all too damn tired. But we can’t stop to rest; we have to stay ahead of them.” He tilted his head towards the forest behind us.
“What do you propose Sergeant?” the major asked.
McAllister pointed to a spot on his map with one gnarled, dirty finger. “We are only about two miles from this village, a place called Mumban. It’s just a fly speck, and the virus has probably already reached it, but they may have transport there. A truck, a car, a fucking donkey cart, I don’t give a shit. We appropriate something to transport the cadavers with. If nothing else we can make the bastard villagers carry them at gunpoint. Whatever it takes.”
“Damn,” I grunted. The sarge wasn’t normally like this.
“It’s not that far out of our way, and we won’t make the airfield anyway. It’s our best shot,” McAllister finished.
“Excellent plan, Sergeant,” Maj. Dorset added.
“I figured you’d like it, sir,” the sergeant replied.
The major nodded, oblivious to the sarcasm. The plan was right up his alley.
We had all recovered just enough to pick up the stretchers. McAllister urged us on to one last effort, do or die. We staggered forward, stumbling and pulling against each other. Each man fought a battle with himself not to drop his handle. My hands were bruised and bloody, and I had more blisters than skin. The cadavers jerked and trashed, making the work that much harder. They seemed be resisting our efforts with a malicious intent. I hated them. All of my pain and misery found a focal point on them and the major.
The sergeant switched out with each of us, one by one, as we progressed through the trees. He seemed to be everywhere. When a man gave out he would take their place until they could go on again. I marveled at his strength and endurance. He was at least twenty years older than me.
We moved beyond the pain, beyond the surreal journey through the trees, beyond the real world itself and into a place of absolute suffering and wretchedness. I was being scourged, punished for my uncountable sins.
My arms were twin burning cables of trembling hurt and ache. My fingers were numb, and so was my soul. Each step was a jarring, throbbing jolt of fresh pain and suffering. My legs were wobbly, and my muscles spasmed uncontrollably.
I had never imagined that I could endure this much torment.
We reached the village, but I didn’t know it until McAllister pushed me to a stop, and unlocked my bloody hands from the stretcher handle. He eased me down until I was sitting in the mud. It took me a minute to realize I wasn’t walking anymore. My legs were shaking uncontrollably, and my back had locked up.
McAllister forced two painkillers into my mouth and had me swallow them with some tepid water. He moved through the line of men, helping them to recover as best he could.
Eventually I could stand again. I hobbled forward towards the edge of the forest. I could see the sergeant standing there, looking at the village just beyond the tree line.
He looked back at me as I approached, and then forward again. His face was set in a grimace.
I stumbled up to stand beside him.
The Village of Mumban had been burned to the ground.
We all trudged out of the woods to stare at horrors we had come so far to find. The villager’s heads had been placed on crude wooden stakes in a circle all the way around the village. It looked as if no one had been spared; man, woman or child. Their bulging, festering eyes stared back at us. Clouds of buzzing, fat bodied black flies feasted on the grizzly remains, and wriggling white maggots lay in squirming piles at the base of each stake. The smell was bad, but I had recently been treated to worse. I would have normally puked, but I was far too inured to the horrors of Africa by now, and I had nothing to regurgitate anyway.
Far more pressing to me at this point was the fact that the village had been burned to the ground. Not a timber or wall remained intact. The charred frame of a truck of some sort sat among the swirling ashes. I hung my head and cried quietly.
“It’s all burnt,” Jacobs observed sadly.
“Gordo, what is going on here?” McAllister asked.
Gordo stepped forward and softly replied, “The severed heads were meant to be a warning not to go into the village, probably not to enter this area, or go any further into the forest beyond the village. Maybe some of the people here had become sick, I don’t know.”
“Those guys didn’t have the virus,” I pointed out. “They ain’t moving.”
None of the severed heads remained animate.
“This is Africa. Life is cheap here. If one person in this village had become infected, then the whole village may have been killed to stop it from spreading further. I have seen things worse than this,” Gordo trailed off.
“Who would cut off kid’s heads and put em on sta
kes?” I asked.
“This is the Congo,” Gordo replied. “Stop thinking like an American or you will never understand anything.”
“Well, we ain’t gonna catch a ride here, that’s for sure,” McAllister spoke. “Let’s pull back a ways and rest for a bit. Maybe I can think of something else.”
We retreated into the trees, away from the buzzing of the flies and the stench of the burnt village. We sat the stretchers aside and everyone collapsed.
The sergeant sat to one side, studying his map and smoking a cigar. He looked over at me. “Bring me the radio,” he commanded.
I struggled over to him and dropped my pack. I rummaged through it until I found the MSRT. As I pulled it out a thin trickle of water ran from the case.
“Damn it,” I whispered, remembering the river crossing.
“Forget it, Parsons. Catch a few minutes sleep while you can,” he suggested.
I stalked away and collapsed on the muddy ground. I gratefully closed my eyes.
The sergeant kicked me awake. I sat upright, grasping for my rifle.
“Easy, son,” he warned. “Come on, we’re moving out.”
I wandered stiffly over to the others who had gathered near the stretchers.
“The track that leads into this shit-hole connects up with the road we came in on,” the sergeant explained. “We’ll follow it back to the airfield. It’s about eight miles, give or take. We’ll just have to do the best we can. I can’t raise anyone at the airfield, but the radio might be out.”
“Why would the radio be out?” asked the major.
“Don’t know, sir,” McAllister responded. “Shit happens. I can’t raise anyone; the problem may be on their end.”
