Arisen, Book One - Fortress Britain

by Michael Stephen Fuchs

  The man nodded. “But it was locked.” It wasn’t a question really, but an accusation. They had got so close to freedom, all the way to the entrance. And no one had let them out.

  The Frenchman went on. “The doorway was not openable. We did try. We tried many times.”

  “Well we can fix that. Let’s get a move on. Wait… is it safe to move around in there?”

  “Yes. And it is dry.”

  Jameson turned to his squad leaders.

  “Okay. Everyone into the maintenance tunnel. I’ll inform Grews that we’re coming out a different way.”

  Five minutes later, and Grews was still up and pacing the ground, barking orders to everyone who came within a few yards of him. There was a lot to do, but none of the staff carrying out the orders seemed to mind. They had seen a change in their major almost instantly. He was himself again and he had a job to do and no one was going to stop him. Even if it meant that in a few hours he would be looking at a court-martial for disobeying orders.

  “Get that damn maintenance tunnel open. And do it fast.”

  MOGADISHU OF THE DEAD

  All of Alpha, plus the fifteen-man MARSOC team, but minus their command elements, now sat in a larger briefing room belowdecks on the Kennedy. Predictably, the two teams sat on opposite sides of the room. But, for some reason, Henno made a special effort to plop down on the other side of the house. Maybe he was determined to meet some Americans he could fully endorse. He’d heard some damned impressive things about the U.S. Marine Corps.

  “Henno,” he said, putting his hand out to the marine beside him.

  “Reyes,” the man answered, taking his hand. “Any news from the world?”

  “Let’s see. Last I heard, the Queen was touring the reconstruction of the East End, where the Olympic Park used to be.”

  Reyes laughed. “She still gets out? What’s she, like 104? Amazing.”

  “Yeah. She learned it from her mum and dad in WWII. They refused to be evacuated during the Blitz.” Most of the others in the room were talking quietly to their teammates, or reviewing pre-briefing notes.

  Reyes leaned in. “I hear almost all of England’s still got electrical power?”

  Henno nodded. “Comes on and off. But reopening and rehabilitating the coal mines in the north worked a treat. They’ve had to do modification of all kinds of shit to burn coal instead of oil. There’s also the wind farms that the hippies and the bloody EU pushed for back when people gave a shit about the environment. They look pretty smart now. And, of course, we’ve twisted the dials on the nuclear power plants all the way to the right.”

  “I guess disposing of spent fuel rods is the least of our problems now.”

  “Yeah. The Eurozone makes a pretty good dumping ground for nuclear waste at this point.”

  Reyes laughed, but then his smile faded. “Tell me. Are you mothers seriously planning to do a run through a city of three million dead cannibals…?”

  Henno just shrugged and nodded.

  Reyes asked, “Are we even sure everyone there’s dead?”

  “Dead-ish.”

  “Jesu Cristo,” Reyes said. Henno squinted and looked into the man’s eyes – and recognized that look. It was the one they all got every once in a while – when it sank in that they might really be standing at the twilight of their species. That jolt of waking up into a nightmare.

  Heigh ho, Henno always said at such times. May as well get on with it. Better than sitting around bemoaning the sorry fate of the world.

  “What kind of tactics,” Reyes asked, “have you guys developed against swarm attacks?”

  But before Henno could answer, their commanders – Drake, Fick, Ainsley, and Handon – banged through the hatch and silenced the already pretty silent room.

  * * *

  “Good evening,” Ainsley said. “Welcome to Op Secunda Mortem. Alpha has already gotten the high-level mission concept. Here it is for the MARSOC fellows, who are our backup and QRF.” Handon had reminded him to make a conscious effort not to refer to them as “the B team.” No pissing off the marines, remember… “Our team call signs for the op are going to be Mortem One and Mortem Two. The air element is Grey Goose Zero.” He sat on the edge of the table before continuing.

  “This is a combat jump: high-altitude/high-opening over Lake Michigan, then we fly in on the prevailing winds – straight into downtown.” He tapped at a keyboard on the table, and an overlaid street- and topo-map of Chicago came up on the projection screen behind him. “The good news is our drop zone is the top of this building here: 290 West Lake Street, office and labs of NeuraDyne Neurosciences. Our target site.” He flashed a laser pointer at a building – dead in the middle of downtown, just inside the point where the Chicago River branched.

  “The good news is: we don’t have to fight our way in on the street. We just touch down light as a feather on this nice flat roof, cut through the rooftop access doors, and descend – clearing and holding any levels of the building necessary to get where we’re going.”

  Ainsley paused, put the laser pointer down, and pressed his palms flat on the table. He looked up, casting his gaze over the faces of the operators in the room. “The bad news is: particularly at this time of year, the wind off the lake can gust to 30mph – it can also send dense fog spilling into the canyons of the city streets. Meteorologically speaking, it’s a closed-loop circulation pattern causing sharp updrafts under certain conditions. In foul weather it can also massively increase storm intensity.”

  “So that’s us fucked, then,” said Henno.

  Handon took up the laser pointer. In gruffer tones he said, “You can see our drop zone here is ringed by both forks of the river… plus the ‘L’, or elevated train platforms… and about a dozen other skyscrapers on all sides.” He clicked the laser off. “That’s us fucked.”

  The briefing moved forward.

  * * *

  “And now a few words,” Ainsley said, “about the new Zulu type.”

  Most of the marines looked uncomprehending. This was news to them. Ainsley surveyed their expressions before continuing.

  “We’ve only seen a handful, and only briefly, and never under sustained observation – never mind scientific controls. Luckily, we’ve got two gentlemen here with us who have.” He nodded at Drake, who stepped outside and came back with two strangers in tow. The first wore the standard British Army Temperate Combat dress – camo field jacket and trousers with beret. From his insignia, he was a captain in the Royal Corps of Engineers. The second man wore a blue jumpsuit, with the insignia of the UK Security Services.

  “Captain Martin and Corporal Wesley,” Ainsley said. “Both saw action in the Battle of Folkestone. And both had close encounters with a Foxtrot.”

  “Foxtrot, sir?” A marine lance corporal had both his hand and his eyebrows raised.

  Ainsley cleared his throat. “The designation for the new Zulu type is ‘Foxtrot November’. Work it out in your own time.” The heavy brow of the marine started working up and down while Ainsley carried on. “It is believed that this represents a new adaptation of the virus – occurring in areas that have long been totally infested. So there’s at least a chance we’ll face them in Chicago. Martin and Wesley have kindly dropped in to brief us.” He stepped aside.

  The two newcomers, scanning the room, now looked briefly to each other. The soldier straightened up. “Well… they’re fast – much faster than Romeos, or runners. Faster than any I’d ever fought. They also seem to have much more agility and body control. And they don’t appear to feed – only to infect.”

  Another marine raised a hand. “Don’t feed, sir?”

  Ainsley chimed in again. “The theory from the bio blokes is that it’s an adaptation – when there are few enough living remaining, this ‘infect-and-run’ behavior gets the infection into the last remaining pockets of survivors.”

  “Bohica,” mumbled another marine. Bend over – here it comes again. Several of his teammates laughed aloud.

 
Wesley, the UKSS noncom, took a step forward. He didn’t look like he was finding any of this funny. “Just a single one of these things,” he said, fighting a quaver in his voice, “took down both of the men in my station before they even realized what was happening. They never had a chance... And before we knew it, it had turned ten, twenty, fifty more zombies…”

  Under his breath, one of the marines whispered, “Motherfuckers shoulda learned to duck… Security dudes, jeesh…” This drew barely stifled laughter from MARSOC and Alpha both.

  Wesley gave the room a venomous look. Handon didn’t look best pleased, either, and spoke sharply. “It’s not just security service guys, you comedians. USOC’s lost people, too. My team’s PO attachment bought it when one of these things leapt onto a fast rope dragged by a moving helo. And they may be responsible for taking out the SEAL team that was wiped out to a man yesterday.”

  This seemed to drain the humor from the room.

  Martin looked more circumspect, but added quietly, “I lost my whole platoon. One of these things got loose in our lodgings. Most of my men never made it out of bed.”

  Gunny Fick stood, removed a stub of cigar, and concluded: “So you motherfuckers be advised: field reports indicate that the difficulty of making a headshot on a Foxtrot is about like the difficulty of hitting a regular Zulu – squared. They’re coming fast, they’re running and jumping – and with the implacable intention of turning you into a flesh-eating freak, who will kill and eat your own friends, probably in seconds. Under those conditions, only complete dead-eye dicks, who also have pure liquid nitrogen running through their goddamned veins, can make that shot. Which had better describe you fucking smart alecks.”

  * * *

  “…Another concern on this op is going to be the danger of ‘Robert Neville’ types still breathing air in Chicago.” The commanders had been trading off for over an hour, and Fick was now taking a turn. Frankly, the marines had a bit more experience zombie-fighting in more places, and in more varied terrain, than had Alpha. Also, since each group had lived its own personal ZA, their slang didn’t match up perfectly.

  Ali raised her hand. “Robert Neville types, Gunny?”

  “Yeah, you know, from I Am Legend. That guy living all alone in New York. I think in that other book they called ’em LaMOEs – Last Man on Earth. A long-term survivor, holed up with a lot of firepower… and very accustomed to shooting first and asking questions never.”

  “Copy that, Gunny.”

  Ali sunk low in her chair and pushed her hair behind her ear.

  “Accordingly, it’s going to be full body armor along with the bite suits and face shields…”

  * * *

  “Let’s talk exfiltration and extraction,” said Ainsley.

  “Thank fuck for that,” muttered Henno, along with several similar sotto voce sentiments.

  “You all know how critical this target is believed to be. Frankly, it’s a lot more important that we get the data out than that we get ourselves out.” He let that grim reminder of their duty sink in for a few seconds. “The plan is this: we’re jumping in with a powerful radio transmitter, with encrypted burst data capability, as well as the batteries to power it. When we’ve secured the NeuraDyne servers, we’re going to try to send all the data out on the air straight away. But there may be paper documents, samples, chemical solutions, slides, X-rays, or other materials we need to get out as well.”

  Handon removed his soggy cigar stub from his mouth and jumped in. “Plus, some of you sons of bitches may have ideas about getting home yourselves.” Most of the men grinned. The dynamic between Handon and Ainsley was actually a pretty good example of the complementary roles of officers and senior NCOs, with the latter as combination big brother and enforcer.

  Ainsley went on. “As you’ll have guessed, we can’t just fly off the top of the building again. The closest place a fixed-wing aircraft can land to extract us is here.” He lased the map at a little island just off the edge of downtown, sitting in the lake, and connected by a thin land bridge at its northern end. “This is Northerly Island Park – formerly Meigs Air Field. From 1948 it was a little single-strip airport. In 1994, Mayor Richard M. Daley announced plans to close the airport and build a park in its place. There was some sort of palaver involving the state legislature, and in the end Daley bulldozed the runway. However, in 2003, we know that a small commuter aircraft made an emergency landing on the grass next to the demolished strip. After effecting electrical repairs, it took off safely again.”

  Drake chimed in. “It won’t be the smoothest take-off you’ve ever experienced. But my pilots have seen the sat imagery. And they’re confident they can get in and out again. As you know, the bird for this op doesn’t have the endurance to linger, and there’s nowhere safe to land and hang out – so as soon as you jump, it’s going to do a 180 and race back to the flattop to refuel. At the Greyhound’s max cruise speed, it’s a hair over 2.5 hours each way. So that’s a minimum of five hours you’re on your own. When you ring, the bird will go out again – empty, if you’ve got the goods and need extraction; full of marines if you need assistance. Either way, it comes down on the island airstrip.”

  “Wait a second,” Predator said, his palm making a move for his forehead. “There’s still the small matter of getting ourselves to the freaking airstrip.”

  Ainsley nodded. “Two-point-eight miles over surface streets. You’ll hardly notice it.”

  Predator went ahead and executed that face-palm maneuver. Juice joined him. Imagining that three-mile run out in the open, through an urban center, surrounded by virtually unlimited attackers, they were both pretty much thinking the same thing:

  Welcome to the Mogadishu of the Dead – Population: us.

  And around them the ship sailed on through the night, toward the Dead New World.

  Love this book? Share the love, support independent authors, and make us your best friends forever, by posting a quick review on Amazon.com or Amazon.co.uk. Thanks! - Glynn & Michael

  The Epic Adventure Continues in:

  ARISEN, BOOK TWO

  MOGADISHU OF THE DEAD

  When the Zombie Apocalypse came, one country had shut down its borders in response to a major terrorist attack. Now Fortress Britain is the last bastion of the living.

  And one international team of supremely elite special operators are humanity's last best hope for survival. Supremely trained and armed, always the most skilled, resolved, and unstoppable amongst us, now the commandos of Alpha team are tasked with one last desperate operation.

  They must cross the Atlantic aboard the world's only remaining supercarrier and insert by air into the very middle of a dead continent, all in search of a rumored vaccine that might bring humanity back from the brink. But their op goes dangerously wrong from the start, with their team scattered to hell and back, and their target site a dry hole. Now they must fight their way on foot through a city of 3 million ravening dead guys, in search of an underground bunker that might hold the Last Man on Earth. But these undead will not be like any Zulus they ever encountered before – and they surround the new target in a writhing ring of death 30 feet high on all sides…

  Available now, exclusively from: Amazon.com | Amazon.co.uk.

  Alpha team will return in January 2013 in

  ARISEN, BOOK THREE

  THREE PARTS DEAD