by Brian Parker
“Thank you. I will return to the cargo area to make my phone call.” He left the small cockpit, pulling the door closed behind him. He sat down on the nearest canvas bench seat and fished out his satellite phone.
The major sighed before selecting the first number from the two stored in the phone’s memory. The other was for his wife at home in Iran. There would be time to call her once they were on the ground in Mexico. He pressed the green connection button and placed the phone to his ear, and inserted his index finger into the opposite ear.
The Facilitator answered on the first ring. “Yes?”
“Facilitator,” Shaikh spoke loudly into the lower end of the phone. “It is Major Shaikh.”
“I know,” the man answered. “What is that noise? Where are you?”
“I am aboard the lab’s cargo plane, sir.”
“Why are you on the plane?” Sari hissed. “My instructions were clear that you were to hold the facility.”
“The Cursed overran the entire compound. My men were all killed trying to delay them. We—”
“What of the research?”
Shaikh gulped. “We were able to save one patient, most of the hard drives and notes, and including the airplane’s crew, a total of fourteen people.”
“One patient!” the Facilitator screeched. “You abandoned Site 53 and only secured one patient?”
“Sir, there were thousands of the Cursed inside the building. We barely escaped with anything. The pilots didn’t even close the ramp before they began their taxi down the runway.”
“And yet you managed to find your way onto the plane,” the Facilitator accused.
“I was overseeing the hasty evacuation. I—”
“You are a failure! We were conducting important research in Brazil. Research on immunity and vaccinations…all lost because you could not keep the facility secure.” There was a momentary pause where Shaikh considered defending himself, but the Facilitator’s voice returned. “I warned you of the price of failure. Your wife and children—”
“Don’t you touch them,” Taavi barked, abandoning the weak, placating manner that he’d affected for this conversation.
“Bring them here.” There was the muffled sound of a woman’s scream and his heart sank.
“Please, Facilitator. Don’t do this. They are innocent.”
“Your spawn must never walk the earth.” The sound of two gunshots was impossibly loud over the roar of the aircraft’s engines. The woman, his wife if the Facilitator was to be believed, screamed a long, anguished wail. It was the sound of a mother forced to watch her children murdered in front of her. Shaikh’s eyes shot wide and he removed his finger from his ear to cover his mouth. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks as he thought of little Sohail, only three, and Yasmin, his desert flower… She was five. His children, his very reason for being, were taken from him.
“You are a failure. Your family line is now also a failure. Your whore of a wife will be used up by my men until she is dead.”
Shaikh pulled the phone from his ear and pressed the red button to disconnect the call. He leaned forward, burying his face in his hands as great sobs of pain wracked his entire body.
He didn’t know how long he cried, but finally he wiped at his face, rubbing the snot and tears away. He looked at the digital compass on his watch. It was blurry, so he screwed his fists into his eyes until the tears cleared. When he determined which way was east, he knelt on the floor and prayed. He prayed the Salat al-Janazah, the prayer for the dead. He knew that his family’s bodies would never be given a proper Muslim burial, but the prayer was the only thing he could do at this time.
When he finished, he used the sleeve of his shirt to clean his face. He’d heard that the Koreans were setting up bases on the west coast of America, in California, but ironically, he did not know about the Iranian military’s plans. They were more cautious than the Koreans and so he did not know where they would be to strike back at them—for that is what he’d decided must happen. He would avenge his family’s death and his own honor, whatever the cost.
Shaikh stood and returned to the cockpit. He burst through the door, saying, “Allāhu Akbar, the council has given us a place to go.”
“Allāhu Akbar,” the men replied.
“Where are we to go after we receive fuel, sir?” the navigator asked.
“The Koreans are in the west and we are in the east,” he stated, making the assumption that simple logistics would determine the eventual invasion location for the Iranian Army. “The Army has not yet invaded, so we are to wait for word of their arrival.”
“So we are to go west, then?” the navigator asked.
“No. Find us a landing spot in the middle, somewhere that we can go either east or west after further information is obtained. Use the same search parameters as before: a small airport, no large cities nearby, and fuel to refill the plane.”
The navigator nodded and began to work. “Assuming we are able to fill the bird’s tanks in Mexico…” Once again, the protractor arced across the paper and he began referencing his manual. It took considerably longer than finding a suitable airfield in Mexico since the United States was much more populated, but he finally read the name of an airport off the map.
“What about the Liberal Mid-America Regional Airport?”
“Mid-America?” Shaikh asked. “It sounds like a good option. Where is that?”
“In Liberal, Kansas, sir.”
“Kansas? What is Kansas?”
“It is a province of the United States,” the navigator replied. “Near Texas.”
Shaikh grinned. He knew of Texas. “That’s good. Plot a follow-on course to this province. Once we get there, we’ll await further instructions.”
He turned and left the cockpit once again. Getting to America was the first step in his revenge. Next would be finding a way to make it back to Iran so he could murder the Facilitator and destroy the council.
5
* * *
NEAR SANTA ROSA, NEW MEXICO
FEBRUARY 11TH
“Say again?” Jim Albrecht said into the microphone integrated in his combat vehicle crewman’s helmet. His hearing had still not recovered fully from all of the nearby gunfire during the revolt. He probably had permanent damage to his eardrums to match his shoulder injury, but he felt like a fool going to the doctor for such trivial matters when thousands of people had gunshot wounds and other terrible injuries caused in the fighting.
“Sir, Truck Five is almost out of fuel again,” Sergeant Turner’s voice came over the radio. “We need to stop to see why they’re using so much gas.”
Jim cursed under his breath. Truck Five had nearly run dry on fuel earlier in the day, only their second day out of Fort Bliss. All the other trucks still had over half a tank of gas, so the truck running low twice in one day meant there was a problem with the vehicle’s fuel system. Major General Bhagat’s orders had been to bring all the trucks back, but the colonel wasn’t sure that was going to be an option.
He zoomed in on the Stryker’s Blue Force Tracker. There was a town only about two miles away. They’d likely be able to find a garage where the mechanic could look at the fuel lines and see what was going on. Jim keyed his mic. “Okay, Sergeant. We’re on the outskirts of a town called Santa Rosa. We’ll look for a garage there.”
“Roger, sir.”
They coasted into Santa Rosa, New Mexico and were immediately set upon by the infected. Jim ordered each of his trucks to button up, meaning to close all the hatches and fight from the safety of the vehicles. The sudden movement as he dropped down jarred his wounded shoulder, sending waves of nausea through him.
He watched the weapons station monitors as his gunner, Corporal Jones, stitched the oncoming infected full of holes. The kid was good. No wonder he was Murphy’s gunner, the colonel thought. They’d taken Top Gun at the brigade’s last gunnery table before the outbreak.
“Great job, Jones.”
“Thank you, sir.”
> Jim rotated his optic and was surprised to see two of the infected immediately in front of it, climbing onto the truck. “Goddammit,” he muttered. Into the radio, he said, “All Ready First elements, this is Ready Six. There are infected climbing on the trucks. Do not open up until you’ve coordinated with the trucks to your left and right to pick any of them off. Over.”
A chorus of responses came as the other five truck commanders responded to Jim’s order. All the Strykers began maneuvering, turning slowly in circles in front of their wingman to ensure there were none of the infected clinging to the side, waiting to jump the first soldier who popped his head out of a hatch. About halfway through this maneuver, Truck Five ran out of gas.
“Goddammit,” Jim muttered, ensuring that his mic was switched off. “Of course it couldn’t be easy.” He’d hoped to find a serviceable garage in which to fix the fuel issue, but now they would have to tow the piece of crap to a garage.
Into his microphone, he ordered the crew from Truck Five to load into another vehicle while they explored the little town. He didn’t tell them to cross-level ammo or food because he was not prepared to abandon the vehicle—yet.
They stayed buttoned up as they reconnoitered Santa Rosa. Jim checked out the cached webpage about the city, finding out that there’d been a pre-outbreak population of 2,800 people. Best guess, they’d only encountered a third of them so far; there were plenty more infected to ruin their day if they weren’t careful.
Colorful signs proclaiming that the town was part of the original Route 66 stood out starkly against the drab backdrop of the desert surrounding them. There was even a large billboard claiming the city was “World-famous for our massive Blue Hole!” and “Divers welcome!” Their sign didn’t make a lot of sense to him until he zoomed the Stryker’s optics in on it. The massive blue hole, as they called it, looked like a small lake that went down deep into the desert floor. It reminded him of the cenotes down in Mexico, which were just deep sinkholes filled with water. Now, it was probably filled with the bodies of infected who’d wandered in and drowned.
They cruised past the billboard and Jim took in the surrounding area, with its single story homes and businesses. There were very few two-story houses, and only the churches seemed to be taller than the average ranch home. He couldn’t imagine the city on the edge of the desert was very green to begin with, but the winter turned what little had been growing there into the dull brown of hibernation. With the exception of a few scattered cedar trees here and there, the skeletal remains of trees locked in winter’s long embrace reminded him of death.
Jim hadn’t thought about it before, but the realization that he hadn’t seen a single stray dog or cat in town made him pay closer attention to their surroundings as they drove. Evidence of the town’s demise was everywhere. Dried blood smears along the walls of homes, bodies that lay where they’d fallen, and fires that had burned unchecked across several buildings told the same story that had been repeated tens of thousands of times across America.
Santa Rosa was a dead town full of dead people.
“Ready Six, this is Apache One-Niner.”
Jim sighed at Sergeant Turner’s use of his old Able Company call sign. He hadn’t officially designated the man as his temporary sergeant major, but the NCO was the highest ranking noncom left in the entire brigade. He’d have to talk to him privately once they stopped.
“This is Ready Six. Over.”
“Hey, sir. We found a garage over on the east side of town, out beyond the downtown area.”
Over the radio, he could hear the steady staccato of machine gun fire. “How bad are the infected in the area?”
“Same as everywhere, sir. Moderate. We’re killing ’em, but more will follow the sound of gunfire.”
That was the problem with fighting the infected. As Lieutenant Murphy had tried unsuccessfully to demonstrate, the creatures were attracted to sound and visual stimuli. The more noise they made killing infected, the more the infected would be drawn to the sounds of the guns, which is why Fort Bliss was still fighting a steady stream of infected almost a year after the outbreak. There was just too much noise and the base’s lights shined like a beacon in the night.
“Roger, acknowledged. What’s the address of the garage?” Sergeant Turner gave him the location of Bozo’s Garage on Historic Route 66.
“Got it,” Jim said. “Truck Two, this is Ready Six.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Follow me back to Truck Five. We’ll hook her up and tow her to the garage.”
“Roger, sir.”
“Guidons. Guidons. Guidons. This is Ready Six,” Jim said, using the term to get everyone to pay attention on the radio. When the four other trucks acknowledged him, he gave everyone the order to stop searching for a garage and head over to the address that Sergeant Turner had given. They were to set up a defensive perimeter around the garage and clear out everything that was no longer human while he and his wingman drove back to get Truck Five where they’d left it when it ran out of fuel.
There were only a few infected milling around the area when Jim’s two trucks arrived. They dispatched them quickly and his men went about the process of hooking up the tow bar to one of the front pintles on the disabled Stryker. Everything seemed to be going fine until Corporal Jones was attacked.
Jim was in the TC hatch on his Stryker, watching the surrounding area as the men worked below. There was an unholy wail near the back of the Truck Five—different from the frenzied screams of the infected. He whipped his head around, the M-4 rifle in his hands following in what seemed like slow motion.
A soldier was on his knees, screaming in pain as two others pulled an infected from him. Jim aimed through the ACOG scope on his rifle, but didn’t fire for fear of hitting his men. He saw one of the two soldiers who’d pulled the infected off the other bash its head in with the butt of his rifle, then slice its throat with a large knife.
Jim scanned the surrounding area quickly before turning back. “What happened?” he demanded.
The soldier who’d been attacked rolled on the ground, clutching the back of his leg. “There was one back here by the wheels, sir. We thought it was dead with all the bullet holes in it.”
“Did it break the skin?”
The soldiers tried to calm the writhing man down, but there was no consoling him. A bloody smear on the back of his thigh told Jim that the infected had bitten hard enough to break the skin.
“Goddammit,” Jim muttered, glancing around the area to insure there weren’t any more live infected before he climbed out of the hatch and worked his way down the front slope of his Stryker. He jogged quickly back to the soldiers, standing around the injured man. When he got there, he saw it was Corporal Jones, his gunner.
“Fuck, Jones,” he said. “Hey. Hey! Stop it, Jones. You need to calm down.”
He waited, examining the nearby buildings nervously. This was exactly how units got rolled up early on. They would become focused on one injured soldier and the infected would tear them up when they weren’t looking.
Jim knelt beside the gunner. “Look, man. That infected that bit you went through your pants. You’re fine. It tore your skin because of the pressure, there’s no way that thing’s body fluids got into your wound.”
Corporal Jones stopped squirming and looked to the colonel. “You think so, sir?”
“I’m positive, Corporal. It takes blood or saliva from an infected getting into a cut. There’s no way that it made it past your uniform.”
Jones smiled widely and accepted Jim’s outstretched hand to help him up. He limped back to the first truck with his arm over the colonel’s shoulder. When they got there, Jim had the gunner drop his trousers and examined the wound.
“You’re goddamned lucky, Corporal.”
Jones twisted around awkwardly, trying to see the back of his leg while standing with his pants around his ankles. “I can’t… I can’t see it, sir. Is it bad?”
A long oval of red, swollen skin show
ed where the infected’s teeth had clasped onto the soldier’s leg, biting hard through the material. There was no blood though. “That blood on your clothes must have been from the infected. It didn’t even break the skin. You’ll be sore as hell for a few days, but otherwise, you should be good to go.”
“Really?”
“Really,” Jim affirmed. “Now switch out your trousers and clean that goop off of them before getting back to work. Better safe than sorry.”
“Yes, sir,” Corporal Jones replied, leaning down to untie his boots.
Jim shook his head as he clamored back up the front slope of his Stryker to the TC hatch. That had been a close call. The loss of any soldier out of his small element would be catastrophic, but Jones in particular. The colonel didn’t harbor any illusions that bringing Lieutenant Murphy in would be an easy task. If he was still alive, he’d had months to prepare his position. The corporal knew Murphy very well, having spent countless hours together in the cramped confines of the infantry fighting vehicle. If this was going to end without a lot of bloodshed, then Jones was his best bet.
Regardless of what the division commander directed, Jim Albrecht wasn’t about to kill that boy in cold blood.
6
* * *
NEAR LIBERAL, KANSAS
FEBRUARY 12TH
Sidney pulled the curtains in the kitchen aside once again, staring at the road beyond the driveway. It was just as empty as it had been all morning long.
“You might as well sit down and have some eggs, Miss Sidney,” Vern said. “The girls risked their lives on that ice to go out and gather them this morning and then cooked ’em up for you. Don’t you go and waste their time.”
She sighed and turned back to the table where everyone—almost everyone—was sitting down for breakfast. “I’m not trying to be rude, Vern. I’m worried about Jake. I sent him into town for baby formula and he’s not back yet. I’m worried that something—”
