“One minute, Moose. Weapons free from here on out,” MA2 Hale said across the radio. Hale was the gunner for the Seahawk and had planned to be a career Navy man when the zombies came. He would get his chance to live out the rest of his days at sea if he chose, but riding along with the ZBRA team made it feel like he was actually making a difference. Hale was originally tasked with being the closest thing to law enforcement on the offshore rigs. It was by no means an easy job, but he enjoyed what he did. The job was second nature, albeit difficult. Many days were spent breaking up fights over food, clothing, or water. Since there was no way of telling what people did in their previous life, it was hard to tell who might be a threat to themselves or others. Policing the population on the mainland was easy, doing so on a floating city, not so much.
Moose turned to the rest of his team. He rapped his knuckles on his weapon – a LaRue Tactical OBR 5.56 – and held up a single finger to his team. He mouthed the words one minute to the rest of the team. Each man nodded and flipped safeties off their respective rifles – M4’s – and grabbed their personal gear for the mission. They would fast rope in pairs until all four were on the ground. The Seahawk would then circle the area and recon. If there was light undead presence, then the chopper would land near the men and keep the engines running for a “hot load” if need be. They wouldn’t be caught with their pants down if they needed to leave in a hurry.
“We’re gonna drop you near one of the hangars on the airstrip. Commo said they relayed back another Morse code message to the survivors,” MA2 Hale informed the crew.
“What’d they tell ‘em?” Moose asked.
Hale looked away and grabbed his headset, trying to make out the radio transmission from the Mohawk. He looked up and nodded to Moose. “They’re just repeating ‘runway’ and ‘rescue’ to the survivors. If they’re smart enough to figure it out how to send Morse code over the SINCGARS then I’d say they’re smart enough to get to the airfield.”
Moose nodded. Most survivors that had made it this far tended to be smarter than the average, but some were just born lucky. He tended to favor the former. People who knew enough about their surroundings and their opposition were much easier to relate to than the individuals who were just holed up in Wal-Mart. Moose cinched up his gear and readied himself mentally for the rope in. It wasn’t that he was scared of what might be down there; it was just the fact that he couldn’t wrap his mind around the concept of the undead. They were mindless, walking corpses that didn’t fear, didn’t sleep, and had no concept of survival instinct or self-preservation. All they did was eat, cause chaos, and move on.
They were a plague and Moose was the cure.
The Seahawk rumbled in over land finally, and as soon as it had a view of Kessler AFB, began preparations for landing. Daylight was their friend at the moment, bathing the area in sunlight and highlighting specific areas to avoid. The base, although overrun, was not as bad as Moose figured it would be. Below them, the runway and hangar areas appeared relatively untouched, with a few undead randomly shambling through. Although it was a minor threat, it was a threat that would not be ignored. One misplaced zombie wandering into the tail rotor of the chopper would mean certain death for the zombie as well as the crew. Even with the Chinook waiting at the Nimitz, it would be a harrowing wait for the large chopper to show. Even with the best equipment, it was no walk in the park, and none of the men in the Seahawk took it for granted.
MA2 Hale keyed up his comms. “Looks like a light gathering down there, so we should be able to land. We’re gonna keep it hot, but be advised, bingo fuel after twenty mikes. If our survivors aren’t in sight in twenty, then God bless ‘em.”
“Understood. Keep open comms with us; no chatter unless we initiate. Holler at us if we need to bug out only. We don’t know who’s listening nowadays, and I know we have more than one rogue unit out there.”
“Roger. Wilco,” MA2 Hale answered.
Moose nodded at the sailor, then turned to address his team. “Fox, Owens, you guys are with me. Swamp Thing, you stay with the bird and provide cover if necessary.”
“Gotcha, Moose,” Swamp Thing held out a fist-bump. “Stay frosty. Don’t be all ‘Mr. Air Force Badass.’”
Moose let out a rare grin. He didn’t smile much, not out of unhappiness, but he just didn’t have much to smile about these days. He didn’t joke much, either, but the opportunity to make a mild funny was never out of reach.
Moose returned the fist-bump. “That’ll be difficult, Swamp.”
Fox and Owens exited the chopper, the blades still whirring. Both men ducked down and trotted around to the front of the chopper, keeping an eye out as they did.
The Seahawk had managed to set down a hundred yards away from the hangar, well away from everything. They had plenty of daylight between them and the hangar, so any approach or movement would be easily spotted. CW3 Shupe had succeeded in avoiding most of the undead on the airstrip, but the irradiated zombies were still a greater threat than the regular ones. The irradiated ones had uncanny speed and were much more prone to violence than the standard zombie. They were easily provoked, and could descend on a person before they could adequately protect themselves.
Moose keyed up his throat mic. “Fox, Owens, on me.”
Fox was eyeing an approaching zombie as the radio crackled in his ear. It was a little over a hundred yards out, but was swiftly moving in their direction. He didn’t want the lone walker to attract any others to them, so he leveled his M4, aimed through the ACOG scope, and fired. Between the whir of the helicopter’s rotors and the suppressor on the rifle, it barely made a sound. The affected zombie jumped as if electrified, then fell to the ground, face first.
Fox keyed his throat mic. “On it, boss.”
Moose and Owens were already slowly making their way to the hangar as Fox caught up to them. Even with the abundant sunshine and the noticeable lack of zombies, there was still a certain amount of disturbing stillness about the place. Normally, the airfield would be a bustling place with military aircraft taking off and landing regularly. The C-130J Super Hercules, Hurricane Hunters, and many other assorted aircraft sat derelict on the runway as well as assorted USAF fighter jets. Now, there was no indication of any life whatsoever, a fact that was not lost on the three men as they approached the hangar.
The hangar was a typical half-moon shape and extra-large size, big enough to hold the massive C-130s that the base kept. Moose led the way towards the hangar, which had all of its exterior doors closed. He moved forward quickly and tactically, with Owens on his left, and Fox on his right. Fox kept his rifle in his shoulder, as did Owens. Both men were not used to combat situations; the excelled at what they did do, however. It wasn’t that they were unfamiliar with their rifles or shooting, they just weren’t in a combat-based MOS (military occupational specialty). Make no mistake though, they were the best at what they did, and what they did was save lives.
Moose was similar to his Navy corpsman cohorts. As an Air Force pararescueman, or PJ as they were commonly referred to, he was well versed in combat. After six tours in Afghanistan, he was not only a seasoned operator, but also a damn good medic. There were several men from each tour in the sandbox that were still walking around because of what he did.
The moans of the undead wailed through the air like macabre sheets of rain. The ebb and flow of the ghastly sounds were matched by the slight wind. Along with the noise came the smell; a sick combination of shit, body odor, and decay.
Moose pulled his balaclava up around his nose and desperately tried to breathe through his mouth. The stink of the undead was something that he could not and did not get used to.
They neared the hangar. Nothing spectacular about their approach signaled danger. The ever-present smell and sound of undead was nothing to get excited over – at least not yet.
“Owens, you take left, Fox go right. I’m going to make contact.”
“Roger, moving,” Owens said.
“Roger,” repeated
Fox.
Moose moved to the main door to the hangar. Staying to the left of the door, he hugged the wall and reached for the doorknob. Turning the handle slowly, he waited for the latch to disengage.
The door clicked softly and swung open.
Moose brought up his rifle and swung into the doorway quickly. Sweeping the LaRue Tactical OBR in first, he made his way through the door.
“Thank God you’re here!” A voice cried out.
As Moose entered the hangar, he could see several people standing near a C130J Super Hercules parked in the hangar. Two more men clambered out of the back of the massive aircraft as he stalked forward, his rifle still aimed ahead. He pulled his balaclava down and surveyed the survivors. He counted six adults and one child. They were dirty and bedraggled, but alive.
“Well it’s about damn time! I was beginning to wonder if you guys had heard me!” A second voice called from the back of the plane. The second voice had come from a man in uniform, dressed in Army ACUs and carrying an M4.
Moose lowered his weapon. “Captain Travis Myers, United States Air Force pararescue. We got your distress call. Is anyone hurt?”
The soldier jogged up to Moose and threw up a hasty salute. “Sergeant Benjamin Marcus, Mississippi Army National Guard. Nice to meet you, Captain,” Sergeant Marcus greeted Moose. He had a thick Southern accent and looked dirty and tired, but otherwise unharmed.
Moose lowered his rifle and eased himself a bit, letting his muscles relax. He hadn’t realized that he had been keeping himself so tense the last few minutes. “Likewise, Sergeant Marcus. How many people do you have?”
“Myself and eight others. Do you have room for all of us?”
“Roger that, sergeant. I can take all of you, but we have to wait for additional support from the USS Nimitz. They have a Chinook on standby to transport. Give me a second to radio Chief Shupe in the Seahawk, and we will be out of here in twenty minutes.”
Sergeant Marcus grinned from ear-to-ear. “Thank you, Captain. I’ll get my people ready and we can get the hell out of here. Radio your people and I will get mine squared away.”
Moose nodded and keyed his throat mic. “Moose to Nightingale Seven.”
CW3 Shupe answered. “Go ahead, Captain Myers.”
“Get that Chinook on station to head our way. We have a Mississippi National Guard NCO and eight more survivors. Recommend that you take Swamp Thing and circle to provide cover while we wait. What’s our situation on Zulus?”
“Copy that, Moose. MA2 Hale is on the horn with the Nimitz right now.” A long pause, then: “ETA for exfil is eighteen minutes. We will take off and hold at five hundred feet to provide air cover. Situation on Zulus unknown. We will holler back once we get airborne and keep you informed. Nightingale Seven out.”
“Owens, Fox, you guys copy direct?” Moose asked. He quickly looked at his watch and noted the time. Eighteen minutes was a hell of a long time to wait.
“Copy,” answered Owens.
“Copy, Moose,” answered Fox.
“Okay, both of you fall back to the front of the hangar in ten mikes. ETA for exfil is eighteen minutes, so we need to stay sharp until then.”
“We have a few cuts and lacerations, nothing major as far as injuries go, Captain,” Sergeant Marcus said. “One looks like it could use some stitches.”
Moose slung his rifle and opened a drop-leg holster with medical supplies. “Let’s have a look.”
Sergeant Marcus waved a man over who had his arm in a makeshift sling. Blood was seeping through the hasty bandage applied. The man stood before Moose for a brief moment.
“Have a seat, mister…”
The man sat down in front of Moose, gingerly moving his injured arm as he did.
“Richardson, Martin Richardson. Are you a medic, Captain?”
Moose removed the dirty, bloodstained sling from the man’s arm, carefully pulling it over Martin Richardson’s head. He removed an Israeli bandage from his drop-leg holster and started to re-wrap the injured arm. “Being a medic is one of my many talents, Martin. Once a PJ finishes the pipeline, he is a jack of all trades and…”
“Master of none?” Martin said jokingly.
Moose fashioned a new sling and made Martin’s arm more comfortable. “Nope. Master of all,” Moose said, lightly patting Martin on the shoulder. He let another rare smirk cross his face. “When a man finishes ‘Superman school’ he can do damn near anything.”
Moose turned back to the group of people to explain their next few hours. “Sergeant Marcus, if you could get all of your people together, I will explain what we will be doing.”
Total count on the survivors was six men – including Sergeant Marcus – two women, and one small child who looked to be about seven or eight years old. They gathered around Moose, desperate to hear some good news.
“If I could have your attention, please. For those of you that didn’t hear, my name is Captain Travis Myers, United States Air Force, but most of my men call me Moose.”
His nickname drew a couple snickers from the group.
Moose continued. “I have called for a SAR chopper on the USS Nimitz which is about fifty miles off the coast. We have roughly eighteen minutes until it arrives. It will take you to the USNS Mercy, a hospital ship also out in the Gulf of Mexico. Once you are cleared from there, you will be taken to another Coast Guard or Navy ship, or you may go to one of the many oil platforms in the gulf. They are being used as floating cities for the time being, and our best option for a stable place to stay. Now, when the chopper gets here it will be very loud, so listen carefully. I will lead, and you will follow. Do not go ahead of me, and do not fall behind of my last man. I have two other sailors outside keeping watch; they will bring up the rear. Do not fall behind either one of them, or you could be left behind. Are there any questions?”
“Why can’t we just ride in the helicopter that you brought with you?” A female voice asked. She was apparently either the mother of the small child, or the guardian. She had obviously been crying for some time; the redness in her eyes was indicative of that.
“The Seahawk only seats eight, and there are seven of us,” Moose answered. “It wasn’t meant to hold any more passengers. I’m afraid that we wouldn’t have enough fuel to make it back to the ship. Any more questions?”
A series of glances and heads shaking no.
“Outstanding, now…”
“Nightingale Seven to Moose. Contact to your twelve o’clock. You have a massive amount of personnel heading your way. Possibly irradiated Zulus. Recommend you get out of the hangar and head to open ground on the runway. We will cover you as best we can.”
“Owens, Fox, do you have eyes on our guests?”
“Negative, sir. We can hear ‘em, but we do not have visual. Recommend we take Nightingale Seven’s suggestion and head to the open area on the runway. It’ll be a hell of a lot easier to engage targets out in the open instead of cramped up in that hangar,” Owens answered.
“Copy that, Owens. You and Fox beat feet back to the front of the building ASAP.” Moose glanced down at his watch. “We still have fifteen minutes before the bird gets here, so…”
The unmistakable roaring sound of the GAU – 17/A minigun on the Seahawk echoed through the large aircraft hangar. The chopper had started engaging some of the irradiated undead, which meant Moose and the team had precious little time.
“Sergeant Marcus, I think that’s our cue. Let’s get outside and get your people away from the irradiated Zulus,” Moose said, then turned to address the entire group. “Whatever happens, stay behind of myself and my men. We will protect all of you as best we can.”
Or die trying.
Moose grabbed his LaRue Tactical OBR and darted for the hangar door. As he reached the aluminum door, he heard the minigun spin up once more.
“Fox! Owens! What’s our status?” Moose asked, grabbing the door handle and ushering people outside.
“We got a shitload of company coming, Moose!”
Once the last person was in the open, Moose stepped outside. As soon as he did, the unmistakable smell of burnt flesh and decay hit him like a ton of bricks. As he trotted away from the hangar, he glanced back to see that the GAU – 17/A minigun had caused a vehicle to catch fire behind the hangar. Flames licked the side of the building and threatened to light ablaze the entire area.
The roar from the minigun was interrupted by single, intermittent shots coming from either side. Owens and Fox both appeared simultaneously from their respective hiding spots, stopping briefly to fire behind them at the approaching undead.
What Moose could not see was the crumpled fence had gave way and collapsed, spilling hundreds of zombies through the gaping hole in their perimeter. He continued to usher the survivors into the open area where the Seahawk had landed, praying that they had enough time and ammo to hold off their intruders. He glanced at his watch.
They had twelve minutes left.
“Nightingale Seven, you need to get on the horn with transport and tell them to haul ass. We are gonna get overrun before we can make a dent in the Zulus.”
“Copy, Captain. Transport advised they are nearing VMO speed as we speak. ETA is still roughly eleven minutes. Hang in there, Moose. Nightingale Seven out.”
“Shit,” Moose mumbled under his breath.
“What the problem? Are they coming?” A man asked, his voice becoming more high-pitched as he spoke.
Moose wanted to tell them it was going to be all right. He wanted to say not to panic, that rescue was coming shortly, but he didn’t want to lie to them. Every fiber of his being told him that it was going to be hell for the next ten minutes, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell them that, either.
“The rescue chopper is maxing out speed to get here as fast as they can. My men and I will hold off damn near anything until they do.”
Owens and Fox came sprinting up to the group. Both men stopped for a brief moment, and then changed magazines. The pair seemed to do everything in unison. Owens smacked the side of his M4, slamming the bolt forward and chambering the first round.
Six Feet From Hell: The Lost Chronicles (Book 1) Page 3
