Rotters: Bravo Company

by Cart, Carl R

  “We are totally isolated without that radio, Sergeant!” Maj. Dorset barked.

  “I know that, sir; it don’t change a damn thing. We been on our own since the beginning,” McAllister shot back. “We gotta reach the airfield. It’s just down that road.” He pointed to the track.

  Once again, we picked up the stretchers and struggled along. We were on a well-worn track on level ground, it could have been worse. It also could have been a far sight better.

  For the three hundredth time I closed my eyes and wished I was back at home, anywhere but carrying these stinking, decomposing cadavers down a dirt road in the Congo.

  McAllister paced by us, heading from checking the rear back to out on point.

  I hailed him, “Hey, Sarge, I got another idea.”

  “Lay it on me,” he urged impatiently.

  “The zombies back there are following us right?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he replied.

  “Why don’t we cut these fuckers we’re carrying loose? They’ll just follow us too.” I suggested.

  The sergeant actually stopped for a second. Then he shook his head and strode ahead.

  “I take back what I said about you being a genius,” he stated.

  “We can leave em gagged and with their hands still tied,” I added. “We just untie their legs and let them follow us.”

  “Yeah, Sgt. McAllister; that could work!” Gordo chimed in.

  “No fucking way! It’s too dangerous,” the sergeant responded. “You’re not thinking clearly. What will they do if we get into another firefight with their brothers out there in the wild? You think they’ll climb back onto their stretchers like good little cadavers? No, they’ll climb all over us while we are trying to fight or run. Those fuckers still want to eat your face, Parsons. Don’t forget that.” He walked away from us.

  “Come on, Sarge,” I called after him.

  “Damn, I thought that was good idea,” Gordo said. “I’m willing to risk it.”

  I shifted the heavy stretcher and groaned, “Me too.”

  TO THE JOINT CHIEFS OF STAFF - CODE RED COMMUNIQUE

  RADIO CONTACT LOST WITH BRAVO COMPANY

  LAST REPORTED LOCATION NINE MILES WEST OF INSERTION POINT DRC

  REPORT ENDS

  Chapter 13

  01:47 p.m. Zulu

  Outside the Village of Mumban

  The Congo

  I was beginning to get a strong sense of deja-vu. It seemed like I had been carrying a stretcher forever. The handles were stained with blood, and I had wrapped my shredded hands in strips of cloth.

  We plodded down the rutted track. I knew that the airfield was somewhere at the end of this road, but I doubted that we would all make it. The poor bastards with me kept on dropping the stretcher handles. Everyone would come to violent halt, tripping over the stretcher or painfully running into a grounded handle. I had bruises on top of bruises. I had dropped my handle so many times that I had lost count. The only thing keeping me on my feet were the pain pills.

  I knew we were not making good time. Our pace would best be described as a slow, painful limp with frequent stops for rest.

  Everyone knew it was just a matter of time before the bastard zombies caught up with us again. It was a race. It reminded me of the story of the tortoise and the hare. I remembered damn well who won that one, and we weren’t the tortoise.

  Sure enough, I started to hear the moans behind us, very faintly at first.

  “Did you hear that?” Gordo asked fearfully.

  “Oh yea,” I answered. “It was just a matter of time.”

  The sound drove us on to better speed for a moment or two, but we were just too tired to keep up anything better than a hobble.

  The horrible sound grew louder as we pressed along. I gritted my teeth until my gums bled. I cursed and I strained, but I couldn’t go any faster.

  Then in a perverse twist of fate the track began to climb a rise; a chorus of groans to match the dead rose from our column.

  “You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I whimpered.

  We painfully struggled to climb the small hill, straining against gravity and the heavy stretchers. Our speed dropped to almost nothing. Everyone fell, struggled up, and fell again as we climbed the hill. Finally we stumbled over the top.

  Sgt. McAllister was waiting there with Jacobs. He pulled me to the side as we passed. The others staggered on without me as best they could.

  “Keep going you guys, follow the major,” he ordered gruffly.

  “What now?” I gasped.

  “High ground,” McAllister replied. “We are going to slow the pursuit and buy the corpsmen some time. Those fuckers will catch us in another ten minutes anyway.”

  “Can I fire from the prone position?” I asked.

  “I don’t give a fuck what position you fire from, Parsons,” McAllister answered.

  I dropped down onto my belly on the crest of the hill, “I love you, Sarge,” I whispered.

  “Shut the fuck up,” he responded. “Selectors to single shot only. Aim for their knees. We are only shooting to cripple them. Try to fire only one shot per target, two at most. Do you fuckers understand me?” he growled. He hit me in my head.

  “Yeah, I got it!” I cursed.

  Jacobs set up opposite my position with the sergeant in the middle. McAllister sat up the SAW and loaded in a belt of ammunition. He told us to get ready. We could hear the undead approaching; their moans grew steadily louder.

  “I’m hoping those bastards will be too stupid to flank us, but we can’t count on it,” McAllister growled.

  From our position we could see clearly back down the track and for a good distance into the trees on either side. Our elevation gave us a good field of fire. Every minute we could hold the zombies back brought the others that much closer to the airfield.

  We lay and waited for our targets to arrive. I was so tired that I almost fell asleep. I probably would have if Sgt. McAllister hadn’t kept kicking me in my ribs.

  The moaning grew to an unbearable pitch and then they were on us. Ragged, decomposing cadavers streamed out of the trees in a wide spread line below us. They weren’t just walking along the track, they were everywhere.

  “Fire!” McAllister bellowed.

  I concentrated on one target at a time. Hitting a person in the kneecap at one hundred yards while they are stumbling along at an uneven gait is not as easy as it sounds. The red dot scope helped tremendously. I squeezed off my shots slowly, trying to make each one count. I cursed at my shots that missed. Our gunfire echoed through the forest. The noise drew the stragglers on our flanks back in towards us.

  Zombie after zombie toppled into the mud on the track and in the forest below us. I worked my way from far right in towards the track, blowing off kneecaps and shattering legs. The crippled cadavers continued to crawl uphill towards us, pulling themselves inexorably forward. I disregarded these, and shot at anything still upright and walking.

  I shot through my first magazine and then my second. Some zombies went down with a single shot, others continued limping forward, dragging a shot out leg behind them. I fired each time until my target dropped. I fired through my third magazine and ejected the empty. I looked around below me as I reloaded my rifle.

  The forest floor below the hill was littered with crawling, crippled cadavers. I estimated at least a hundred, maybe more. Still more were coming. They staggered up the track towards us.

  Jacob’s M-4 fired twice more and went silent. “I’m out, Sergeant!” he reported.

  “How about you, Parsons?” McAllister asked.

  “I’ve got two mags left,” I replied sadly.

  “Save em,” the sergeant grunted. He hadn’t fired throughout the engagement, but he had readied the SAW. He hunkered down behind it and waited as the remaining mobile zombies stumbled up the hill towards us, letting them bunch up on the track.

  “Come on,” he urged. “Come on you stinky, rotten, walking abortions!”

 
; The cadavers had almost crested the hill when McAllister open up with the SAW, sweeping it back and forth in short controlled bursts, shredding rotten flesh and bone. The machinegun rattled through the entire belt of two hundred rounds in less than thirty seconds, but not a single zombie remained standing on the hillside. Legless cadavers slid down the hill or lay broken and crippled where they had fallen. The frustrated moans of the undead rose in an unearthly howl as the gunfire died away.

  Sgt. McAllister rose and hefted the smoking empty gun. He paused to admire his handiwork; a scattering of zombies were still approaching far off in the distance.

  “Let’s go, we did enough damage here,” he finally decided. He turned and led us away down the track after the others.

  We trotted down the other side of the incline and walked after the others. Without the stretcher I felt as light as air. I wasn’t certain how long we had been engaged with the zombies on the ridge, but I was pretty sure we had shot up the more mobile ones following us. We might have a chance now.

  The break had given me a small amount of energy back, but I was still incredibly sore. I knew I was going to pay for this little excursion once I actually got to rest. If I stopped now I wouldn’t be able to start again.

  It didn’t take us long at all to catch up to the stretchers. They were only a half-mile down the track, maybe less. We found them stopped along the trail, the men were lying scattered alongside the stretchers. The major was at the head of the line, slumped over on the muddy track.

  McAllister cursed through his teeth. He walked along the line, kicking everyone awake.

  “Everybody up!” he commanded, “Parsons, Jacobs, take the last stretcher. Major, you and I will take the lead!”

  Everyone fell back into line with a chorus of groans and loud bitching.

  The major complained loudly until the sergeant threatened to leave the stretchers again. That got him moving. The line of bone weary men stumbled off down the track.

  We lurched along at a very slow walk. I had nothing left. I was too numb to care anymore. We quickly switched out with the poor corpsmen. They looked like shit. Everyone was filthy and bloody, our uniforms were caked with the African mud. There was only a little difference in appearance between us and the hungry bastards following us.

  Somehow we managed to travel two miles down the trail before everyone gave out. We simply couldn’t go one step further. We had to rest.

  I fell over on my back and lay groaning in the mud. My ribs were a mass of sharp pain. It hurt to breathe. I could dimly see slices of the bright blue sky through the canopy of the massive trees overhead.

  Sgt. McAllister slowly walked back to the rear and sat down in the track, his shotgun cradled in his arms.

  I tried to stay awake, but my eyes slowly shut down and darkness overtook me.

  I struggled back to the world of the living painfully. Someone was shaking me violently, but I could barely feel it. I finally opened my gummed up eyes and tried to shake off unconsciousness. Sgt. McAllister helped me to my feet.

  “Listen to me, Parsons,” he urged. “Follow this track until it joins the road. Turn south, and just keep going. The road will lead you back to the airfield. Take these.” He shoved his topo map and compass into my hands.

  “What are you doing?” I asked groggily.

  “Keep the men moving until you get there. You have to get the cadavers to the planes. The Special Forces unit should be looking for us. Just don’t stop,” McAllister instructed me. “Now go!”

  He pushed me roughly up the trail. The corpsmen were stumbling away with the stretchers. I limped past the major as he walked back to talk to McAllister. I looked back one last time and then they had disappeared behind the trees.

  Sgt. McAllister stood in the muddy track and sadly watched the surviving men of his command slowly limp away. He was proud of them, they had been through a lot and they were still trying to get the mission done.

  Maj. Dorset walked back to join him. “Are you sure we can’t stay ahead of them?” the major asked pensively.

  The burly Sergeant spat into the muddy track and growled back, “I ain’t gonna sugar coat it for you, sir. We are well and truly fucked!” He looked back down the gloomy forest track and gave a short harsh laugh. “Those cock suckers are right behind us. Unless someone drops back and slows em down they’ll overtake us in a half mile.”

  “I don’t consider you expendable, Sergeant. I can order one of the other men to do it. Who is the most expendable?” the major asked.

  “I’ll do it,” McAllister spat back. “You other cunts would just fuck it up. I’m tired of running anyway, that ain’t how I want to go out.”

  “Sgt. McAllister, what you’re doing is very brave. I will see to it personally that you receive the Bronze Star, and I want…” the major began.

  “Go fuck yourself,” McAllister interrupted him. “You better get your ass on up the trail, our friends are almost here.” He tilted his head towards the track. Groans dimly echoed through the tress.

  “Sergeant…” Maj. Dorset began again.

  McAllister waved him away and took three steps back down trail. When he looked back the major was gone. “Fucking officers,” he cursed.

  The sergeant walked slowly back down the trail until he found a decent looking position to stage an ambush, and moved off the track. He knew the zombies wouldn’t keep him waiting long; he wasn’t disappointed.

  Sgt. McAllister knelt down in the mud and sighted the SAW over the thick downed mahogany log he was hiding behind. He had barely got into position before everything went silent all around him. He could feel the zombies approaching through the trees and foliage. Although his vision was limited to a few yards off the track by the thick cover, he could hear them moving slowly through the brush very close, and he knew they were flanking him. He also knew he was going to die here, alone in the mud of the rain forest, deep in the Congo. In his direst imaginings, he had never considered this scenario as how he would finally die.

  Every nerve and the wildly firing synapses of his brain told him to run. His hands were shaking badly and cold sweat ran down his neck and back despite the tropical heat. He hunkered down even lower and his finger tightened involuntarily on the rifle’s trigger.

  The zombies were crossing the trail before their stench broke upon him like a physical blow. Without thought he fired the SAW, swinging the heavy machinegun back and forth in a deadly arc upon the writhing figures just yards before him. The smoking gun ran through the entire belt of 556 rounds in seconds as the first zombies were cut to wriggling pieces on the gore covered, muddy trail.

  A second wave of corpses came crashing through the underbrush, drawn by the noise of the gunfire. McAllister slammed in a fresh belt and threw the bolt just as the first zombie reached out rotting fingers for him. The big gun spit fire and lead and the zombie disintegrated into bloody chunks of festering flesh and shattered bones. The burly sergeant spun the gun back and forth, firing blindly at anything that moved. The SAW cut down the approaching zombies and all the surrounding foliage; blasting a semi-circle of utter devastation. He raked the fire through the zombies that were down, removing limbs and heads, until only bloody, flopping chunks remained.

  McAllister yanked the red hot gun down from atop the tree trunk and broke open the receiver. The barrel burned his fingers as he slammed in a fresh belt of ammunition. He ignored the pain and reset the gun upon the ground to fire behind him. The sergeant realized the gunfire had totally deafened him. He worked his jaw to clear the ringing in his ears. He couldn’t hear but he could still see. He dropped down into the prone position behind the rifle and fired at any movement. Zombie after zombie emerged from the underbrush and was hammered to bloody pieces by the big bore battle rifle.

  One final corpse crawled forward from the broken creepers and blindly drew its shattered body forward. Most of the zombie’s face had been blown away, as had both legs and an arm. The fuckers were incredibly tough. McAllister pulled the trigger an
d fired until only a quivering pile of bullet riddled red meat lay atop the blood splattered mud. The SAW sputtered and fired its final round. He sadly dropped it; the machinegun was the only thing between him and his own impending death.

  The sergeant pulled himself up and ran down the lane of fire he had just laid down. He sprinted past crippled zombies that reached out clutching hands to grasp him, evading death by inches. He broke free of the last clutching corpse and raced down the muddy trail. He wanted desperately to just keep on running; he knew he was in the clear.

  Instead he pulled up short and snatched off his pack. He rummaged through it until he had found the last pair of Claymore mines. He worked frantically to set first one, and then the other mine towards the trail. He trailed out the firing lines and ducked behind a tree trunk just as the first of a wave of pursuing zombies staggered up the trail.

  McAllister waited until the last possible second, then he yanked the cords. Both the mines exploded simultaneously, firing hundreds of screaming steel ball bearings into the approaching corpses. The closest zombies were shattered and hurled back in a crimson flash. The zombies further away collapsed, their limbs twisted and broken. Still they came on, dragging their ruined bodies down the trail. As the smoke cleared and McAllister could see again, even more cadavers approached, trampling the struggling undead under their feet into the blood splattered mud. He turned and fled further down the trail.

  Sgt. McAllister didn’t run far. He pulled up short and stood bent over on the trail, gasping for breath. He could escape the zombies following him, but every minute he slowed them bought another minute for the rest of Bravo Company to finish their mission. He wasn’t doing this because the major had ordered him to, or even to save the rest of the men under his command. He was about to die because he was a professional soldier, and he knew it was his duty.

  The sergeant stood slowly upright and removed his backpack. Rummaging through it he found the last bottle of whiskey and tossed the pack aside. He took a long pull of the fiery liquid to kill the pain.