by J. Thorn
How the hell that thing had clawed its way out was something Grews didn’t even want to dwell on. But he couldn’t stop himself worrying that a few of them may have slipped by, out into the countryside. There was a large search party out there right now, scouring the forest and the scrublands, visiting every building no matter what its function. Drones and manned surveillance aircraft scanned the area tirelessly through video, IR, and synthetic aperture radar. And all of them just looking for stragglers who may have gotten away. As for the super-zombie… well, he hoped that it was only one of them. And that one had now been accounted for with a hundred bullets in its head put there by his troopers.
Though Grews still wasn’t buying the super-zombie theory. He thought it more likely that damnable security guard had just been lying to save his own skin, along with the single remaining soldier from the hotel. Both damned useless. They would have had a lot to answer for if they weren’t already on their way south. Best out of his way, thought Grews, who would have hung them if he could have. They should have used their own bodies to block up the hole instead of running for it.
The thing that was troubling him was how all of this had happened so quickly. The engineers from London and the diggers should have taken days to organize. They must have already had plans in place to do this, Grews thought.
Twenty minutes later and the diggers were at work. The first one took the tunnel entrance head on, eating away at the mass of solid stone – solid stone in all but a small passage that had allowed the creatures the night before to break through. The second digger was already slicing off massive mounds of earth on the hill above.
Digging. Had those creatures, the zombies, or at least this one fast one, really been digging away for nearly two years?
Grews turned to the junior officer, a woman, who stood nearby. “Check in with the Harbour barracks OC. I want to know if the second sweep of the town has been completed.”
“Yes, sir,” said the communications officer. She was young and inexperienced, but he couldn’t take his two regular comms guys away from their desks. There was too much to organize today and he needed them on the radios to coordinate everything.
Grews looked down into the yard, fifty feet from where the digger was tearing the ground apart, and near where the first of the carriages had been parked just a few hours ago. A team of three dozen of his best men were gathered, checking equipment, loading weapons, and then rechecking. They were his elite – Royal Marine Commandos who had turned up in the Channel six months after the border had been closed, and months after Europe had become a graveyard. They had traveled all the way from Germany, and through all kinds of hell in between, stolen some fishing boats and rowed.
CentCom had wanted to move them out, reassign them to Hereford or London, but Grews had managed to delay that for months – long enough for them to become a permanent fixture in his barracks. They were his urban cleansers, used for storming coastal villages along the French and Portuguese coasts so that teams of scavengers could safely do their jobs. But this time they were going somewhere new. This time they were going underground to clear out the Channel Tunnel.
A shout went up near the tunnel, and the digger stopped. The ring of Marines, standing thirty yards from where the digger was munching away at the rubble, lifted their rifles and took aim. Shots rang out for a few seconds, and then silence.
More of the damn things being let out of the darkness.
Just an hour later and Grews stood and watched as the first team of Marines entered the tunnel – which was now a gaping maw at the end of a fifty-yard-long trench. The diggers had done their job at dazzling speed.
The first squad moved slowly, the lights on their weapons lighting up the tunnel ahead of them, glints flickering on the walls. Grews only wished that they still had enough working night vision goggles, but what few he’d had in stock had been packed up and shipped to Hereford for the golden boys of special operations. His men would have to use spot lamps, and their weapon-mounted tactical lights. At least they had been able to find a supply of oxygen canisters and breathing masks. He had no doubt that the air in that tunnel would be rancid at best.
The second squad entered the tunnel just thirty seconds later, followed by the final dozen that made up third squad. All moved as the first had, slowly and methodically, heads low and backs hunched over, their weapons never lowered.
Grews turned to his radio operator, now seated at a small desk with a laptop and large set of radios perched on top of it. Its noisy generator buzzed a few yards away. On a table nearby were three small LCD monitors showing the helmet-cam views of all three squad leaders. Shadows flickered across the screens and reflected off the water that was already ankle deep.
“Okay, give me a headset and keep open channels.”
“Yes, sir. Hold on a moment… Harbour division confirms that the above-ground sweep is completed.”
“Good.”
Grews put the headphones on and tapped the microphone.
“One Troop, radio check.”
“One Troop here,” came back the voice of the Marines’ leader. “Send, over.” Grews knew that the other two squad leaders would also be listening on this channel.
“Okay. Keep your ranks tight, watch the flanks and cover every damn crevice that you see. No fuck-ups. Remember your orders: kill on sight. Anything that moves down there is a threat, no exceptions.”
There was a pause, seconds passing as Grews waited. Now a new voice popped up on the command net. One that had been monitoring silently from almost a hundred miles away.
“Good work, Major. I think I can leave this in your hands now.”
“Thank you, Bob,” said Grews, holding back the burning feeling in his stomach. Interfering arse, he thought.
Grews turned to another young officer standing nearby.
“Is that air pump going yet? Did we get the vents open? Fetch me a chair,” he snapped, not waiting for answers. “And switch to the secondary squad net. We’re ready to do this our way now.”
The young officer grinned.
“Absolutely, sir.”
INTERMISSIONARY POSITION
Deep in the bowels of the carrier, Handon stuck his head into a sleeping compartment as he and Drake cruised past it in the passageway outside.
“Mission briefing, all hands, one hour. Down the hall.”
Predator nodded, and Juice saluted, ironically.
Handon started to withdraw, then paused. “You know where Homer and Ali are?”
“Nope.”
“Tell ’em when you see ’em.”
Drake stood behind Handon in the passageway. He leaned around him now. “You know, all ship’s IDs have active RFID chips on them. We can find your guys from the bridge, or any deck’s security station.”
Juice’s eyebrows had already gone north. “No need,” he said, reaching into one of his hard cases and coming out with a handheld digital radio scanner.
“I think the frequency is—”
“Four-point-two gigaherz,” Juice finished for him, pointing the scanner at his own pocket.
“We’ll take it from here,” Pred said.
“Carry on,” Handon said, withdrawing and marching off with Drake.
“I assume you’re thinking what I’m thinking,” Juice said to Pred, rubbing his hands together, then twiddling knobs.
“Yep. Not only are those two both always disappearing – but nearly always at the same damned time. Never realized it before. It’s like never seeing Batman and Bruce Wayne at the same party… And now’s our chance to bust them.”
“Only if they’re currently within about 200 meters…” Juice scrolled through a listing on a touchscreen on the scanner. “The IDs are broadcasting name and service number.” He panned the device around the room. “Yep, got Ali. She’s aft of here, probably a couple of decks up.”
“Awesome. And Homer? ’Cause I’ll bet you my last nutsack they’re in the same spot. I knew it. On some level, I think I always knew it…�
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“Got his card, too – looks pretty damned close to the same vector, but…”
“But what?”
“The signal strength.” Juice stood and went to the door. Pred followed him out, down the passageway – and into the berthing compartment next door.
Pope looked up from his rack. “Help you boys?”
Juice stepped to the bunk on the other side of the room. He picked up Homer’s ID card from where it lay on the bed, and looked at it forlornly.
“Sons of bitches,” said Pred.
“Thought we had ’em,” said Juice.
Pope gave them a serene yet uncomprehending look, and watched their backs as the pair withdrew.
* * *
Henno poured Ainsley a cup of coffee, Julie Andrews, as he always took it. (White nun, i.e. milk with no sugar.) Then another cup, Whoopi Goldberg, for himself. The two sat across the metal table in the dim and empty mess.
“You get through to the missus before we sailed?” Henno asked. He knew Ainsley’s family, from long years of service together.
“No,” Ainsley said. “Total commo blackout, after the first briefing.”
“Jesus… Don’t know what they think the gobshite zombies are going to do if they get wind of a mission. Moan on a different frequency or something.”
“Well… OPSEC’s a hard habit to break.”
“It’s gotta be tough for her,” Henno said, holding his boss’s eye, and thinking of the man’s wife. “Not hearing a peep until we get back. That’s if we get back.” Henno had been a committed bachelor since his first divorce. It was a lot easier in the military, never mind in spec-ops. When you came back after unexplained six-week absences, and could only answer that you’d been “somewhere hot”… well, it was easier on a casual girlfriend, or one-night stand, than on someone you were supposed to be sharing your life with.
Ainsley shrugged. “She’ll call Hereford and they’ll tell her I’m deployed. She knows the drill. She’s been through it enough times.”
“Fair play.” Henno’s coffee was just getting to sub-scalding, so he raised it and drank deeply. He swallowed, paused, and looked up. “Do you think we’ll come back from this one?”
“Don’t worry too much about that,” Ainsley said, straightening, and raising his mug with thumb and two fingers. “Worry about what kind of world we leave behind.”
Henno was pretty sure his captain was thinking about his two little boys at that moment. But he let it lie.
* * *
Ali brushed her fingertips across his as she rose to leave.
Without a look back, she strode down the dim passageway, straightening her uniform slightly. Despite her best efforts, she thought anxiously about what the two of them had been doing – and what she’d say if they were caught. She could just hear Handon asking, “What were you thinking?”
Luckily, she had a good answer to that one: I was thinking we all might be dead tomorrow.
As to why she was with who she was with, well, that was a slightly more vexed question. She’d chosen him because he was gentle, and because he was good. As to why he had consented… well, he’d probably say it was because he was weak. And because he was a sinner. And Ali also knew of course that he was lonely, like all of them. The ZA was a damned lonely place, even in a family of special operators.
That also probably made it incest. Ali winced slightly as she slithered up a narrow ladder.
Worst of all, she knew that he considered himself still married. Married in the eyes of God. And he would still be married until the day his wife was put in the ground.
Which might not be until the end of the world.
Regaining Alpha’s area, she stuck her head into her billet. Pope was on his rack, on his back, reviewing map packs on a tablet on his belly.
She smiled before asking, “Got time for some Ji-geiko, your Holiness?”
Pope looked up and smiled as well. Of course they’d brought their kendo equipment along.
And out on the flight deck of a supercarrier would be just about the baddest-assed place they’d banged swords yet.
RAPTURE
Homer lay where he was for a few minutes after she left, on their improvised bed of duffel bags in the corner of a nearly dark storeroom. But then he prodded himself to rise. It wasn’t good to be idle. Too many thoughts. Plus that chapel service would be starting. At least there he could pray for forgiveness for his sins.
He rose, buttoned his shirt, and checked his watch. Though the true max cruising speed of the Ford-class carriers was classified, Homer knew it to be a blistering 40 knots. He also knew the distance of the Atlantic crossing from Portsmouth; and figured they had about 80 hours at sea. Most of that time would be given to mission planning and prep. But, as usual in the military, there was a lot of hurry-up-and-wait at the front end while things got organized.
He thought he could make his way to the chapel by memory, but ended up having to ask directions from a couple of aviation machinist mates along the way. When he slipped in the back hatch, about two dozen men and women were already seated and the service underway. He took a seat at the edge of the empty back pew. The chaplain was warming up.
“…and now, after a brief respite in a safe harbor, we are put to sea again. Amidst the storms, amidst the chaos, and amidst the Judgement.”
The chaplain was a mystery to Homer – not like any naval chaplain he had ever seen. He was in uniform, a mere E2, a junior enlisted rank, with an apprentice steelworker rating. All this was evident from his shoulder insignia. He wore no clerical scarf, and he spoke with a deep southern accent – and with a palpable fervor.
“Yea, truly are we all judged. Mankind has been judged for its sins. And we will be judged for what we do here in these End Days.”
Uh-oh – one of those, Homer thought, more amused than anything. The preacher raised an index finger to Heaven as he went on, picking up steam.
“Yes, verily, we have been judged, and afflicted with this plague. This plague of soulless who swarm across the land and the oceans. These soulless dead, whose souls are ascended to Heaven, while their bodies remain on Earth to finish God’s cleansing…” He paused to wipe his forehead with his sleeve. “And yet still we thwart them – with our man-made warships and our weapons and our armor.”
Now Homer’s brow furrowed. This man wasn’t just one of these – an End of Days type, who were common enough amongst those few believers who had made it this far into the ZA with their faith intact. No, this was worse…
“These swords and shields of ours were built to oppose Satan on Earth, his evil minions in the mortal realm. America and its military were a great force for God and for good.” His voice soared now, accenting with abandon, as his open hands gestured. “For opposing those who blew up innocents in orgies of sin, and who worshipped a false God… But now – America itself has fallen, for its many sins. For hedonism, for gays in the military, for the abomination of so-called gay marriage, for licentiousness, for lack of thrift, for greed… America fell. It was God’s will.”
This was clearly a lay preacher of some type – and also clearly one of the fire-breathing Pentecostal sort. Homer wondered where the real ship’s chaplains were – a supercarrier would have at least one each of Christian, Jewish, and Muslim faith. This guy was freelancing. Plus giving Homer a very bad feeling.
“How long, brothers? How long will we sail? Two long years we’ve been crossing the seas, staying alive, keeping the Final End of Days from coming, dragging out the Rapture, and keeping the faithful, including ourselves, from ascending to Heaven. How much more misery, how much more waiting?”
To survive long as a special operator one had to have, along with about 500 other skills, a pretty decent sense of folk psychology. And Homer was sensing a definite psychological aspect to these guys – assuming this congregation were in agreement, which from their nodding and humming, they seemed to be. And that psychological aspect was despair.
“And now, crossing the Atlantic agai
n – God alone knows what for!” The preacher was near frenzy now. “To try to destroy all the soulless in America? To seek some kind of quote-cure-unquote? No cure will bring their souls back to Earth! This is God’s will, these are supposed to be the End Days! Just finish it, and it will be over! Let God’s cleaners do their last work on Earth.”
Yep, Homer had it now. He knew in his bones these were simply people who just couldn’t take the fight anymore – the fear, the hopelessness. The only way they could bear it now, he knew, was to decide that it was all supposed to be this way – and the only “problem” was our continued resistance and survival.
It was life under the ZA they couldn’t face anymore.
Which was understandable. In fact, it all sounded awfully like guilty thoughts Homer had been having himself lately, in the privacy of his head. And, while hearing this said out loud might have been seductive for that reason… in fact it had the exact opposite effect.
It reminded Homer of his duty.
Because, while these people might have been free to give in to despair, and to capitulate, and to advocate surrender, if they were civilians on dry land… as it was, they were uniformed military personnel deployed on a surface vessel in a time of war. And this kind of shit was dangerous. Worse than bad for morale, it was borderline treason.
Homer slipped out the back of the room. As he did so, he could hear the sermon reaching a climax and then winding down. He looped back around to scope the area. He found the chaplains’ quarters, tried the doors and found them locked. Toward the end of the same passage, and around the corner, he heard a door opening. Stopping dead, peeking around, he got a look into a room as the door closed. Inside, he could make out pallets, crates – and a rack of M4 assault rifles.
A voice spoke behind him.
“Greetings, brother.” It was the preacher, with two other men standing beside him.
IN DARKNESS THEY DWELL
Four hours after he entered the Channel Tunnel, his feet drenched to the skin from standing in six inches of muddy water, Lieutenant Jameson turned his head across a full panoramic sweep of the tunnel blockage. The last few hours had pushed his Marines to the limit, as it had those behind him tasked with clearing up, filling the gaps in the line, and resupply. He had sent three of his men back with minor injuries – none of them, fortunately, from the undead they had put down. The tunnel was a danger in itself, with railway lines under the water and all manner of debris, most of which one didn’t want to contemplate too closely, floating around their feet.
