“Everybody still OK?” Estes announced for perhaps the fifth time in the last hour.
“Still good, Captain,” Bones nodded back, starting the chain of “thumbs up” that went around the truck.
Nine others had made it out with them. The most senior officer—Major Sullivan—a recently redrafted physician, had been severely burned when the fuel bladders had ruptured. Estes, Keene, and Perkins would have been toasted along with him if they hadn’t dove into the APC a split second before. In any event, the major had survived long enough to escape the schoolyard, and the reaching, grabbing claws that had shredded so many others. He had died from his injuries less than an hour later, however.
The other eight, a mixture of soldiers and civilians, had perished one by one in the last twelve hours. Some of them from the damage they had received during the evacuation—lacerations, burns, and in two cases, friendly fire gunshot wounds. Others had succumbed to the sickness that had developed after they’d been attacked by the swarms. One of them, a portly civilian somehow attached to the logistics team, had gone from awake, alive, and coherent, to a rabid, drooling fiend less than twenty minutes after he’d been bitten multiple times while trying to board the truck. His surprise attack had taken down two other soldiers as well. Since then, they’d been calling out “feel good” checks every fifteen minutes or so. Everybody remaining from their whittled down numbers had not been visibly injured by any of the infected, but Estes had ordered Sergeant Thorn to conduct a quick “extremities” inspection just to be sure. Hands, forearms, and necks were all examined, as was any area of the body located underneath ripped or torn clothing. She had found nothing, but as a precaution recommended a temperature check every hour, as well as the more frequent verbal queries for at least the next twenty-four.
“Spurlock, where are we with ammo and supplies after that last encounter?” Estes asked with a grimace, knowing the answer would be bleak. Since their forced exit from the school at Fort Hammer, they’d had several clashes with patches of the infected. Some of them had been sporadic loners that were easily avoided; others were pairs, triples or small mobs numbering upwards of twenty. His standing order had been to avoid conflict if at all possible, and if not, they were supposed to use the vehicles to pound their way through the attacking crowd, hence the tire damage that now drastically reduced their speed and mobility. He could still remember the stunned disbelief on his own face when they had found the splintered shard of human rib bone protruding through the thick rubber. They had a spare, but no tools . . . of course. The CTIS system, designed to keep all tires automatically at the correct inflation level, couldn’t even begin to keep up with the loss through the gaping hole. Since that time, they’d been forced to use up the majority of their ammunition in small, but violent meetings with the gray-skinned horrors.
“Not too good, sir. I’ve got a full mag, and maybe six or eight rounds in a partial. Henry, Morgan, and Rook only have one twenty-rounder apiece.”
Lieutenant Pope spoke up. “I’m out of 5.56, but I’ve still got two full magazines for the M9,” she patted the Beretta pistol on her belt as she spoke.
Estes leaned down and keyed the microphone at the end of the spiral cord that led to the radio. “Perkins, Keene, wha’cha got left for the bad guys?”
Both replies came back with similar, yet different military smart ass answers that referenced their good looks, or various parts of their anatomy, but neither came through with any ammunition.
“Sergeant Keene, find us a spot to pull over and stretch. Preferably one that’s not crawling with those freaks.”
“Well, we can stop right here, but it looks like we’ve got an intersection about a half a click up ahead. I can see a lot of vehicles blocking the highway. We might be able to scoot around them, but I just can’t tell from here. I’d feel a lot more comfortable if I knew what was up there before we decided on this spot, though.”
“Let’s pull off for a minute, and then you can take Bones with you to scout it out. What’s your fuel status?”
“Copy that about Bones. The Hummer is showing a little over a quarter tank.”
“Copy.”
The truck crunched across the berm, slowing from a fast crawl to a complete stop in less than fifty feet. Perkins kept the diesel engine idling as Bones clambered down to the ground.
“Bones,” Estes thumped the canvas cover of the truck bed for emphasis, “scouting only. No heroics, and no firing if at all possible. Just get close enough to glass the area, OK?”
“You got it, sir.” With that he disappeared around the side and out of view. A few seconds later, the sound of the Hummer accelerating carried through the weather shield.
Looking around at the somber faces did nothing for his own feelings of helplessness, so Estes stood, arched his back, stretched, and went through a quick series of in-place calisthenics before returning to his spot on the truck bed. His MOLLE backpack occupied the space to his left, and he reached in one of the side pouches to sort through the remains of an MRE that he had forced down earlier. The first thing his fingers encountered was the semi-squishy Mylar pack of peanut butter. He wasn’t a fan, which is why it had several identical companions to keep it company in the same side pouch.
“Anybody want some PB without the J?”
Nobody’s hand leapt skyward in enthusiasm at his offer, and he was about to drop it back in the pocket when Specialist Oakley slowly raised a finger.
Estes nodded, “I’ve got several . . . how many do you want?”
“Just one would be fine.” The thin, almost baby faced specialist with the wire glasses had a deep, easy to listen to tone that seemed to carry without the need for amplification.
A flick of Este’s fingers sent the silver foil packet accurately on its way, and Oakley picked it up from his lap and tore it open.
“You’re something of a mystery, Mr. Oakley,” Estes observed as the man scissored his fingers and shucked the sticky contents into his mouth. “Do you want to shed some light on why you were up at the school?”
“I already told your sergeant, I was there waiting for Major Larrabee.”
“Why?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not allowed to say.”
“You realize that Major Larrabee is a crispy critter, don’t you? He was on that helicopter that got shot down and smashed into the school.”
The dismal look on the specialist’s face showed that he knew, and he turned away and dropped his forehead into his palms.
Estes pressed. “Why were you there?”
A bare shake of his head accompanied his answer. “I’m . . . sorry. I know that Major Larrabee was on that helo when it went down,” he raised his eyes and looked at the captain, “but I don’t think that changes anything.”
“Well, we’ll come back to that in a minute. For now, let’s start with your MOS.”
After brief glance out the back of the vehicle, he put his head back in his hands and mumbled, “65X.”
“What the hell is that? Something in medical, right?”
Sergeant Thorn interjected before Oakley could answer, “You’re full of shit.”
Estes turned to look at Thorn, “What’s going on, Sergeant?”
Thorn turned to look at the specialist, still seated and holding his head as she addressed the captain. “Sir, have you ever heard that joke, ‘what do you call an upside down blonde?’”
PFC Morgan immediately shot back the answer with a laugh. “A brunette.”
Estes got the joke and smiled, but the confusion in his eyes over the connection must have been evident.
Thorn swiveled back to face the captain, and very nonchalantly said, “What I’m saying is that the carpet doesn’t match the drapes, so to speak.”
Estes wasn’t stupid, but he was tired to the point of numbness. “Explain.”
“The 65’s are the medical specialists—things like physical therapists and dietitians. I’m not exactly sure what 65X is, but I can tell you that they’re all
supposed to be officers.”
Estes turned to look at Oakley, who was now rubbing his eyebrows in concentration. “So it seems the mystery deepens. And to be honest, I have absolutely no desire to spend any time wasting what few mental resources I have left trying to figure out, so here is what’s going to happen. I’m going to ask you some questions, and you’re going to answer. The first time you give me a reason to even suspect that you’re being less than truthful with me,” he reached into his belt sheath and drew out a thick bladed, drop point knife, “I will cut your Achilles tendon and kick you out the back. Is that understood with absolute clarity, Oakley?”
“I’m not allowed to answer any questions, Captain, and besides, I don’t currently have any of the answers you’ll probably want.”
“We’ll see about that. Let’s start simple—what’s your name, for real?”
“Jacob Oakley.”
“Rank?”
“First lieutenant.”
“Why are you wearing the uniform of an E-4 instead of an officer?”
“I was told to, sir.”
“By who?”
Oakley paused before answering, “Sir, I’m not sure that I can answer that without violating my oath.”
Private Rook spoke up, “Maybe if you let me kick him a few times in the face, he’ll feel more like talking, sir.”
“Let’s hold off on the face kicking, at least for a minute or two.” Turning back to Oakley, he said, “We’ll come back to that question. What’s your real MOS?”
“I told you already, it’s 65X.”
“And that is . . .?”
“Specialist Allied Operations.”
Estes frowned at Oakley’s reply, and a shift of his eyes told him that even Thorn looked confused at the specialist’s answer.
“What the crap is a ‘Specialist Allied Operations?’”
Oakley said nothing for a long ten count, and then his rich voice, hushed by his body position relayed his answer. “It’s like the Sergeant said, part of the medical specialist branch.”
Estes sighed and shook his head, “Dennis, Ross, Calvin . . . will you please dog pile Mr. Oakley?”
In a flash, the three privates sprang from their seated position and swamped the cringing specialist, knocking his glasses off in the process.
“Bring his ass over here so I don’t get blood in the truck.”
Oakley was struggling and yelling for all he was worth, but his thin frame was no match for the three beefy E-3’s.
Estes shifted down to lay on his side right next to Oakley, and when the young man stopped his futile struggling, he slammed the knife into the wooden truck bed just inches from Oakley’s nose.
“Let’s try this one more time. No more games, no more bullshit, understand?”
From underneath the pile, Oakley gave a quick nod.
“That’s better. Now . . . who—and what—are you . . . exactly?”
“I told you, Lieutenant Jacob Oakley, 65X, medical specialists branch.”
Estes swore and grabbed the knife, jerking it out of the planking as he stood. “Not good enough.” Gesturing to the three privates, he said, “Roll up his pant leg and take off his shoe, I’m tired of pissing around.”
The three burly soldiers easily overpowered the squirming lieutenant, and in the space of a few seconds, had his right leg locked in an upright wrestling pretzel. With as much ferocity as he could manage in his tired condition, Estes ripped off the sock and grabbed the lieutenant’s foot. With his other hand he brought the knife against the thick tendon just above the now exposed heel. “WHY WERE YOU AT THE SCHOOL? WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?” He yelled as he pressed the knife hard against the skin.
“OK-OK-OK . . . I’M A TRANSLATOR.”
Estes crinkled his nose and frowned in uncertainty at the answer. “What?”
“I’m a translator, a specialist translator for medical units.”
His frown sank lower, and another look at Sergeant Thorn earned him a shrug of her shoulders. He pressed the knife harder, almost breaking the skin. “Keep talking.”
“Ow, that hurts, Captain.”
“It’s going to get a lot worse really fast if you don’t start talking.”
The lieutenant let out a deep groan and stopped resisting. “OK, just let me up and I’ll tell you what I can.”
After a moment of indecision, Estes nosed his men away. “Fair enough, but if you screw with me one more time, I’m going to stab you in the throat, understand?”
“Yes,” the thin man replied as he got to his feet, “I understand. Do you know where my glasses are?”
They located the missing glasses in the back corner of the truck bed, and Oakley repositioned them on his face as he sat down. “I’ll tell you what I can, but like I’ve said, I don’t currently have access to the information you’re probably going to want.”
“Start talking.”
“How much do you know about Major Larrabee?”
“Pretend I don’t know anything.” It was close to the truth, anyhow, Estes thought.
The lieutenant sighed again, “Major Larrabee was regular army, and to all inspection, classified as 64D, a veterinary pathologist. His position and experience in that field tracked him onto a specialty team as a 61G—an infectious disease specialist. When . . . ‘events’ . . . began to unfold, and I might add this was substantially before Korea, the Major’s team was activated.” He looked across the truck at Estes, “Got any more peanut butter?”
Another grab in the side pouch netted two packets, and they were tossed to the lieutenant.
“I’m part of the Major’s team, but in a very limited capacity due to my unique specialty.”
“I thought you said you’re a translator.”
“I am, but not like you’re thinking. I don’t speak any foreign languages. Well, that’s not exactly true. I know a little German from my grandfather.” His attempt at lightening the conversation fell on deaf ears, so he continued with a shake of his head. “Captain, I seem to have a unique ‘gift’ that was useful to certain . . .” he paused as he searched for the correct word, “‘programs’ if you will.”
“I’m losing patience, lieutenant.”
“Sorry, sir,” Oakley said with a dry snort, “it’s just that I can’t believe I’m having trouble communicating with you, especially since it has a lot to do with the question you’re asking me.”
“Which I’m still waiting for the answer to . . .”
Oakley stood and gripped one of the tubular aluminum cover supports, and then locked eyes with Estes. “I’m a science geek, sir. Since I was a kid I’ve been interested in everything scientific—technological, biomedical, astronomy, robotics, quantum physics—you name it, and there were tons of books on that subject in my room. I’m an only child, sir, and where most kids would have a bedroom and maybe a playroom, I had a bedroom and a library. You probably played football or baseball every waking hour that you weren’t in school. I was sitting in front of a computer or staying after school in the chemistry lab until the janitor kicked me out.”
“I get it, you’re a nerd. That means that one day you’ll be a billionaire with a private jet in an airport somewhere, and a supermodel in your bed. I’ll probably be working at a car wash. What’s your point?”
Oakley managed a weak smile, “I graduated college with a degree in Chemical Engineering when I was fourteen years old. I spent the next five years practically locked in the R&D department of a major military contractor. It was my dream come true, really, and my research team made a lot of advances—most of which are still highly classified. Anyway, one of the last projects we were working on was what we jokingly called ‘Robodog.’ Essentially, it was a self contained ‘sniffer’ unit about the size of a cell phone.” He looked around the truck at the cluster of faces, “Has anybody here worked with a military canine unit?”
Fade to Grey (Book 2): Darkness Ascending Page 33
