Irregular Scout Team One: The Complete Zombie Killer series

by John Holmes

  When I woke, Brit was again shining a flashlight in my eyes.

  “Damn, Nick, you gotta stop beating up your head. Twice in four days. I think you have a concussion this time. Not that there is anything to hurt up there. Good thing you had your vest on.” She held up a jagged piece of shrapnel which had apparently torn its way through several layers of Kevlar before glancing off the ceramic plate on my back. Her voice, which I could barely hear, sounded tinny and robotic.

  “What, what about the squad?” She shook her head.

  “Seven dead, one wounded. We have four effectives, not counting you.”

  “Zombies. Coming.” I wanted to vomit. Not a good sign.

  “Final Protective Fire, the arty is beating the shit out of them and making a wall of steel in front of us. Evac will be here in fifteen mikes. We’re being relieved by a platoon from the 82nd. Maybe I can get a phone number from one of those cheesedicks, what do you think?”

  She smiled at me, but I could tell she was worried. The smile didn’t reach her eyes, and she kept waving away some red hair the slipped out of her helmet.

  “Esposito. I shot him.”

  “Good thing, too. The Z’s made it to the wall, he would have been torn up by them. He was dead anyway, Nick.”

  “Help me up.”

  She did and I looked downhill. I could barely hear the artillery, but I felt it through the earth, a continuous vibration. As I watched, rounds continued to burst like clockwork, one every thirty seconds, walking their way back and forth across the foot of the hill. Jim Lock sat with our spare radio, calling corrections for the arty hitting the valley floor. He gave me a thumbs-up and turned back to the radio. Behind him, seven bodies were laid out in a row, covered by poncho liners. I stared at them, wishing them to move, but they never would.

  Dear Mrs. Esposito,

  I know you and your husband John were only married for a few days, and I’m sorry that the time you had with him was so short. I was against him going on this mission, but he was a fine soldier, and he knew the risks involved. I don’t think I could have stopped him if I tried.

  I was his leader on this and many other dangerous operations, and his death is my responsibility. I don’t know if I could have done anything differently, but I wish that he were alive and home with you. He was my soldier, my friend and my brother. He saved my life in Denver, and if I could trade mine for his, I would have. Your husband fought for four days straight, through numerous attacks, and died on the firing line. His death was quick, and merciful, if there can be such a thing. He was never turned into an Undead.

  I know these words are small comfort, but he will be missed by all of his teammates. If you ever need anything, please do not hesitate to ask.

  Sincerely,

  Sergeant First Class Nicholas F. Agostine

  JSOC (Z) – Irregular Scout Team One

  Chapter 91

  They say the only thing that drops from the sky is birdshit and assholes, but I could have kissed the assholes that were falling from it now. Well, almost. OK, I wouldn’t have kissed them, but I WAS happy to see them.

  The artillery fire had stopped for a few minutes, clearing the airspace, and a C-130 roared overhead, the familiar red tail markings of the guys from Scotia. Two sticks of paratroopers exited out of the side doors, ten in each. One figure fell quickly, his static line failing to open his main chute. They were jumping low to stay concentrated on the drop zone, an open field off to the north of our hill. The falling soldier tried to get his reserve chute open, but hit the ground with a sickening, bone-crunching thud we could hear up on the hill.

  “Damn,” said Brit. “They better start making new equipment, ‘cause those chutes are wearing out. Lotta other stuff, too.”

  The Airborne formed square, raised shields and advanced up the hill, smashing down the several zombies who stood in their path, saving ammo. As they made their way into our position, their Platoon Sergeant ambled over to me and sat down with an exhausted sigh.

  “Hey Nick. Don’t get up.”

  “I won’t, Cody. Watched your guy eat dirt. He a loss?”

  The grizzled Sergeant First Class looked like he hadn’t shaved in a week, and his uniform was crusted with dried blood and brains.

  “Yeah. Happens almost every third drop now. Too many jumps, worn out chutes. Tired guys, inexperienced kids packing their own chutes. That was our Lieutenant. No big loss.” He spat a stream of tobacco juice on the dirt, and leered at Brit.

  She threw out her hip and stood at parade pretty. “Not if you were the last pervert on earth, Cody.”

  “I’m pretty sure YOU’LL be the last pervert on earth, Brit.” She blew him a kiss.

  I rolled my eyes. “Get a room, you two. Before you do, tell me what’s going on.”

  He sat down on an ammo crate and started picking at his nails with a bayonet, trying to get the blood out from under his fingernails. He watched his squad leaders directing the troopers, who were shoring up the defenses.

  “Well. As you can see,” and he gestured to the grime on his WWII style paratrooper jumpsuit, “we have been a little bit busy. That there twenty--”

  “Nineteen” interjected Brit.

  He glared at her. “Nineteen. Shut it, Pucker Lips. Like I said, NINETEEN fine airborne troopers are the remains of the company that parachuted onto the Interstate -84/Taconic State Parkway interchange a week ago when this shit sandwich started. Three hours ago we were relieved by a company of M1A5 tanks who went charging right up the Taconic, grinding their way over the mass of bodies we had piled up, including our own dead.” A thoughtful looked passed over his face, then he started laughing.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Well, you know the Taconic Parkway right there, right? Where it heads into the hills, going south to the city? Real narrow, two lanes on each side, steep drop offs?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, been that way many times.”

  “So this Cavalry Captain goes charging past riding out the hatch, yelling GET OUT OF THE WAY CRUNCHIES, firing that 120mm shotgun round, BOOM BOOM BOOM and letting his fifty cal rip, screaming GARRY OWEN AND GLORY and, get this, his driver can’t see the edge of the road bed and throws a track, and the whole thing spins around and rolls off down the embankment, must have fell about thirty feet. Last I saw of him they were using an M-88 to try and lift one side of the tank enough to let the crew climb out of the loader’s hatch. I could hear him yelling at them from inside to hurry the hell up. The rest of his company just kept charging down the road.”

  We all laughed. Every branch of the services had its heroes and idiots. It seemed like the new crop of jackasses were alive and growing well. I had thought the Zombie Apocalypse would have put an end to that, but I guess human nature had prevailed.

  He put the stock of his M-14 on the ground and used it to lever himself off the ammo crate. “Your evac is coming in. Pulling your wounded out, only. They’re bringing wounded off an Observation Post over by Bear Mountain Bridge. We need the rest of your effectives. Brit, you go too.”

  “No shit, Sherlock. As if I would want to be stuck on this hill with you uneducated philistines.”

  “How you put up with her, Nick, I dunno.”

  “I hit the jackpot with this one, Cody. Maybe someday I’ll have Doctor Morano clone her and send you one. Brit 2.0. Maybe some bigger boobs.”

  He made a two fingered “avert evil” sign at me and shuddered. “No thanks, keep that demon away from me. You know this was her fault, right?”

  “What do you mean? Doctor Morano?”

  “Yeah, her crew sprayed some kind of chemical all over the City. It was supposed to sedate the Zombies, make it easier for us to sweep in and take them out. My unit was waiting at Stewart to drop into Central Park. Instead, well…” and he made a sweeping gesture to the valley floor. Another horde was moving up the valley, thousands of rotted voices howling blood red rage.

  His second in command, a female Staff Sergeant, came hustling over.


  “Sarge, ammo is redistributed, everyone has water, and we’re ready to go.”

  I looked at her closely. She couldn’t have stood more than five foot three in her jump boots.

  “Aren’t you a little short to be a paratrooper, Staff Sergeant Sparks?”

  She shot me a dirty look, fingering the bayonet she wore strapped to her soldier. “Get bent, you fat old man.”

  Cody laughed. He knew Sparky and I had been jousting like this since way before the war. “Gotta go, got some neo-killing to do.” Then he turned, cupped his hands around his mouth, and yelled at his men.

  “HEY YOU APES, YOU WANNA LIVE FOREVER? GET DOWN THERE AND KILL SOME ZOMBIES! AIRBORNE, ADVANCE!”

  They slung their M-4s over their backs, pulled out pistols with high capacity magazines, locked shields, and advanced downhill to meet the horde, chanting “MER-IK-A! MER-IK-A!” as they advanced in lockstep. Cody winked at me, slapped Brit’s ass, ducked under her return punch, and ran downhill to join his men.

  Chapter 92

  The ride back to Combat Out Post Thor took about 20 minutes, and the thudding of the rotor blades didn’t do my head any good. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but every time I nodded off, Brit reached over and slapped me.

  “Not `til you get checked out by the doctors, no sleepy time for you!” she yelled in my ear. Then she would go back to swinging her legs out the open door of the helo. After the fifth time she smacked me, I gave up and watched the landscape pass beneath me.

  The highways, both lanes, were jam packed solid with car wreckage heading north, out of the city. Two years of weather had flattened tires and started weeds growing through cracks in the pavement. Sooner rather than later, the road itself would be unusable to anything except four wheel drive. Down the center lane the engineers had cleared a path, using a crane welded onto a wrecker to make way for supply trucks. Lone figures wandered on the side of the roadway, random zombies who couldn’t leave the place where they had died. The supply convoys made sport of shooting at them as they drove past.

  Occasional columns of smoke rose from deserted villages, showing where salvage teams were burning off contaminated oil supplies to prevent them from leaching into the ground water. The teams went through and stripped every piece of electronics, precious metals, and manufactured items that were still useable. Then they burned everything that might cause havoc in the environment.

  The helo flared onto the pad at COP Thor, and we stumbled out while they hot refueled, rotors still turning. We headed over to the Field Hospital, following the stretchers carrying the other wounded.. Despite Brits’ protests, I was checked out as OK for limited duty, and released.

  “Where to now, Oh Fearless Leader?”

  “Showers, then hot food, then the S-2 for some intel on the northern end of Lake Champlain.” Nothing beats a hot shower after being in the field, let me tell you. About halfway through, Brit slipped into the shower trailer, locked the door, and none of your damned business.

  On the way down last week, I had shot a quick request to the Task Force Liberty intelligence officer, or S-2. I needed all the information that he had in Northern Vermont/New York and Lake Champlain. He delivered it to me in a slim folder, with the added comment of “not much.”

  INTSUM

  NORTHERN LAKE CHAMPLAIN AREA OF OPERATIONS

  Signals Intelligence has indicated surviving human populations in the area of Grand Isle, showing level of organization of 5M on the survivor index, meaning some official government agency remaining, suspected military. No response to repeated radio query.

  Two authorized over flights of local area and limited satellite reconnaissance have indicated substantive fortification of Isle La Motte and Grand Isle. Bridges in area have all been destroyed. Heat sources indicate active motor vehicle traffic and a population of 400 and 1000, respective. Powered Maritime traffic has been observed in the form of small boats in satellite reconnaissance.

  JSOC (Z) – IST ONE was dispatched on XXXXXXXX to attempt contact and assessment of survivors. Contact was lost with team on D + 5. No further attempt has been made to contact due to insufficient personnel and assets.

  I handed it to Brit and she read it quickly, then handed it back.

  “So, not much to go on. It does tally with what Red told us.”

  “Yeah, and I’m going to have to call in some favors to get support for us going up there. We need a helo to get us close, and I’ll be damned if we’re going to operate so far out in the wild without some kind of fire support.”

  I gave the report back to the S-2, and asked him to forward anything else he came up with. Then we went to get some sleep. I fell deep, despite the cannons firing a hundred meters away.

  Chapter 93

  “BATTLE STATIONS!”

  Brit yelled it full in my ear, the alert word we used for “get your armor on, grab your weapon, and MOVE!” I rolled off my cot, slid my boots on, grabbed my armor in one hand and my rifle in the other, and ran out of the tent as fast as I could.

  I stopped, now at least half awake, in the middle of the dusty street, holding onto my rifle and armor, one boot falling off, wearing a t-shirt and boxers, blinking in the bright sun, looking for a threat. Support soldiers walked past, giving me strange looks.

  Turning around, I saw Brit standing in the doorway of the tent, one hand clapped over her mouth, trying not to laugh out loud. She gave up and fell to the ground, holding her stomach and laughing so hard that her eye was watering.

  “Very fucking funny, hardy har har. Payback is a bitch, and so are you.” I stepped over her and back into the darkness of the tent to get fully dressed.

  “I think I peed myself.”

  “Serves you right.”

  Later that day, we droned northward on a C-130. The canvas seats along the sides were, as usual, uncomfortable, and I was happy it was short ride. The cargo bay was filled with stretchers, but there weren’t a lot of wounded, all told, from the operation. When you were fighting zombies, you either avoided getting wounded or you were dead. Several of the guys on the plane were gunshot wounds, but most were burns. In a battle, especially one against a raving horde of Zs that have breached your line, friendly fire isn’t always, like the old saying goes. It happens, more than people want to admit, and the Army had been pretty liberal with using napalm this time. When the Apocalypse happened, weapons that tended to cause a lot of destruction, like napalm or cluster bombs, weren’t used for fear of “damaging civilian infrastructure.” That all changed, of course, but by then it was too late. I remember that Boston took a nuke, right around Day 10 of the plague. Too much, too late. Not that I minded Fenway and the Red Sox getting nuked.

  The first thing I had to do was tell Mrs. Esposito she was a widow. She handled it better than I thought she would. I had done casualty assistance during the Iraq War, and I hated it. As a Senior NCO, it wasn’t up to us to tell the families. That was a job for an officer. I worked with them, helped them deal with the Army paperwork, the funeral arrangements, the shock that finally hit when reality settled in. In some ways it was worse. The families were always so damn nice to me, and I was wearing the uniform of an organization which had, for better or worse, sent someone they loved to get killed. Mrs. Esposito was different, though. I handed her the letter I had written, but she just shook her head, squared her shoulders, and turned away from me. I guess we had all seen too much death in the last two years for it to shock anyone anymore.

  Next we went to the hospital to pick up Red. He didn’t say much, just climbed into the HUMVEE Brit had borrowed, and rode back to the JSOC liaison office with us.

  The officer on duty, a Special Forces Captain who I knew from way back, rolled his eyes when he saw me come in, and muttered “oh, shit” under his breath.

  “I’m going to cut to the chase, Captain Mueller. My team is missing, and we’re going to go find them. I need transportation and supplies for the three of us.”

  “Nick, you know that the ISTs are expendable.”
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  “Maybe to you, but not to me. Besides, you owe Doc your life.” He didn’t like being reminded of that. Along the side of his neck was a jagged scar where a zombie had ripped through the skin, nicking his jugular at the evacuation of Manhattan. Doc had sewn it up before it completely ruptured.

  “I can get you supplies, ammo, but there are no birds heading north. We can’t afford to spare any aircraft until the fighting is done in the City.”

  “That could take weeks.” He shrugged his shoulders, and I knew that we weren’t going to get anywhere else with him.

  “Brit, you and Red go draw enough supplies for two weeks in the field. Make sure you pick up a laser designator, too. I have to go see someone.”

  That someone was our old friend, Major McHale. I had seen an Evac UH-60 sitting on the runway when we came in, being worked on at the old National Guard Aviation Facility. I was hoping he would be there, making sure it got back into the fight as soon as possible. He liked to fly the broken ones, bringing them back up to get fixed. I guess he figured that the best pilot could handle the worst aircraft. I found him hunkered down inside the engine compartment, alongside a crusty old warrant who looked like he had been fixing helos since Korea.

  “Well, this bird will be back up by tonight. I was planning on taking it straight back, but I suppose I could get disoriented and fly north instead of south. No one will notice anyway. It’s not like there is a war going on here at Fort Orange or anything.”

  “Great, we’ll meet you here around 2300.”

  Chapter 94

  The helo set us down in a clearing two miles south of where the team had been ambushed, just as dawn was breaking. In addition to Brit, Red and me, we had three good guys from IST-7, the Dark Knights. They had been refitting after a scout into Northeastern Pennsylvania, heading down the I-88 corridor to see if there were any coal mines still in working condition. They had lost half their team just outside Scranton to a bridge collapse under their HUMVEE, sending three of them down into a river.