by John O'Brien
The gunships follow their progress across the ramp, taking station near the structures in order to provide immediate support if needed. While the squads are inside, they’ll cover the surroundings to ensure nothing enters behind them. Rounding the side of the hangar building, Kelli comes across three figures mutilated beyond recognition. Legs and arms are shattered, barely attached to their bodies. Chests are caved in and their tattered navy uniforms are darkened and stiff from dried blood. The bloodstained concrete surrounding the bodies is heavily pockmarked with chips, both large and small. The sight halts her squad as they stare at the devastation.
“Those gunships do real work,” one Marine states.
“And so do we,” Kelli replies, taking her eyes from the torn figures.
She nods toward one of the blue-painted side doors leading into the hangar. With her squad positioned in covering positions around the double set of steel doors, Kelli leans against the hard surface and listens. She feels a faint vibration from the structure’s systems, but doesn’t hear anything. Shaking her head, she grabs one of the handles and, with a nod, swings it open.
Kelli’s heart stop-starts. The crack of firing carbines reverberates off the concrete walls, echoing across the ramp. Spent shells skitter across the hard surface with metallic pings. A body falls through the door, landing face first on the concrete, the figure draped across the threshold. Jumping from the doorway, Kelli waves for a cease fire.
Barrels point toward the open door, ready to pump rounds into anything or anyone who comes through. Their briefing stipulated that anyone they encounter was to be treated as infected. That means shoot first, question later. They weren’t to put themselves at greater risk by playing “guess who I am.”
Looking at the body, it’s easy to see that whoever it was, was long dead before the 5.56mm rounds struck them. The head had rolled to the side, making it easy to discern a thin, desiccated face. Even though the body is bloated and blue, the cheeks and areas around the eyes seem sunken. Kelli calls out through the opening held by the body, attempting to draw any infected into the funnel of fire. There’s no response.
“Second squad, report in,” the company commander orders over the radio.
“Just an already dead body that fell through a door, sir. Now it’s really dead,” Kelli responds. “We’re moving inside.”
“Copy that.”
Kelli opens the door again, her heartbeat just beginning to settle down. The lower half of the door has scratches gouging the blue paint. She looks from the markings to the body, seeing that the blue-tinted fingernails are torn. Whether the sailor was infected or not can’t be determined, but she’s pretty sure he must have been, because the doors weren’t locked. Anyone with their faculties about them could have easily opened it, unless it was held against them. Glancing around the area, she can’t see anything that would have held it closed. They had been briefed that the infected had enough awareness that they could open doors, or smash through them.
Apparently not all of them, she thinks, carefully stepping over the body, the barrel of her carbine moving as she scans for additional assailants.
Inside, large florescent lights hang from steel rafters, giving the huge hangar plenty of light. Two search and rescue helicopters, similar to the one parked on the ramp outside, sit on a gleaming concrete floor. She steps inside, sliding to the right along the wall as the rest of her squad sweeps inside, some following behind her, the others sidling quickly along the opposite wall. M-4 barrels shift in quick movements as the Marines search for targets. Nothing moves within the large confines.
Kelli notes another body leaning up against a second entry door. She pauses, directing the two Marines directly behind her to edge out and cover the body. With her carbine holding steady as she keeps aim, she inches closer. The face is shaded in the blue of death, the florescent lights deepening the tint almost into purple. Kelli makes a quick noise, seeing if the figure responds. Nothing. Reaching the body, she nudges it with her covered boot. It begins a slow fall to the side, slumping to the floor. She notices the same kind of scratches at the door, the infected sailors, near death, having tried to claw their way out.
Must have been dehydration, she thinks, reporting the findings to her company commander. It’s too soon for them to have completely starved to death.
Near the front, Kelli finds the door switches and presses “Open.” Metallic clangs and clatters fill the interior as the doors begin opening sideways, a thin beam of sunlight running across the floor that grows wider. The huge flanged doors catch the other doors, dragging them along. The process takes nearly a whole minute to finish. Once others arrive after the island is secured, they’ll close them against the elements if needed. There are two-story offices at the rear of the structure that they’ll have to go through, but the hangars themselves come first. The thinking is, even if infected didn’t come from those offices out after the helicopters, they certainly will with the proximity of prey. They want to give it time and let the gunships take care of any that do emerge. The parked helicopters are given a once over in case any infected are playing hide and seek.
Glad to get part of the mission out of the way, and even though the body falling through the door gave her a scare, she feels better about what they’re doing. However, she doesn’t let herself fall into the trap of thinking this is just a walk in the park.
That’s a sure-fire way of getting fucking killed…or infected.
Keeping their spacing, and with weapons trained in specified sectors, she notes that her squad is thinking along the same lines. No one wants to fuck up, or get fucked up. They move from the SAR hangar to the fire department with its bright blue roof.
The outside door clangs when she pulls on it, but comes to a quick halt. The keypad next to the entrance indicated that it would be locked, but she had to try anyway. She motions to one of her squad, who removes his pack. He peels off a small chunk of C-4 and molds it, shaping the charges around the hinges protruding from the jamb. Inserting tiny leads into the blocks, he presses himself against the wall away from the door and looks to Kelli. Taking a last look around to make sure her squad is clear of the blast, but still ready to deliver fire into the doorway, she looks back and nods.
“Fire in the hole,” her squad mate bellows, his voice partially masked.
The blasts are sharp, quick flashes with whitish smoke blasting away from the door. Not much was needed, so there weren’t any thunderous crashes. It sounded more like a shot from a hunting rifle. The door rocks and seems to jump as the hinge side separates from the jamb, then twists and falls to the pavement with a loud clang.
Normally, if they were rushing a building, they’d launch themselves inside, angling the way they had at the previous hangar. The explosion would have stunned those inside to a degree and the smoke still hanging near the doorway providing a measure of concealment. Swift and deadly, overwhelm any resistance. But, the infected aren’t armed, so that’s not a necessity. Instead, the squad waits near the entrance for anything to emerge.
Nothing comes out, so they enter, edging quickly along the perimeter walls, searching for any movement between the large fire trucks. As with the previous hangar, there aren’t any living within, infected or otherwise. But, there are two bodies, both lying in a corner. One is prone with the second one lying on top. They are both bluish-colored with bloated yet sunken features. The one underneath has deeper gouges across its face and along its arms. Kelli noticed the other bodies had been marked in the same manner, but not as extensively.
“Did that fucker try to eat his buddy in an attempt to stave off death? That’s…just sick,” one Marine comments.
Sure looks that way, Kelli thinks, thankful for the mask that hides the smell that must be prevalent. But, what happened is irrelevant to the mission.
Opening the hangar doors, she reports in what they found, including the notion her Marine mentioned. It might not be relevant to her what happened, but it might be to someone else. She’s been taugh
t to report everything noteworthy as it could fill in a piece of a puzzle somewhere down the line.
Beginning to think this wouldn’t be the mission she had imagined, Kelli and her squad make their way to a humongous hangar with three of the tallest doors she has ever seen. The hangar proves to be empty of human life, only housing what looks like an airline jet. Kelli knows they still have to search the office buildings at the back of each hangar, but it’s been pretty easy so far. The dread she heard from others about the rampaging infected tearing into any survivors just hasn’t materialized. It’s not that she wants it to, but she still feels a degree of detachment from those horror stories.
As they cautiously walk to the next building down the line—the air terminal—she reminds herself that in situations like this, complacency can set in. Glancing at her squad, she doesn’t see any of that at the moment. They are alert, their eyes focusing on their assigned sectors, their weapons up and ready. When the conversation begins and the joking starts, that’s when she’ll need to realign them with the dangers. She has the feeling that the cities and this base were once the center of the tales she’s heard, but the gunships and air strikes have done their job well. It makes her glad to be colleagues with professionals like those in her fleet.
The side of the building facing the ramp has several mirrored plate glass windows, all shattered near the ground level. The upper pieces of glass that are still intact show the reflection of her and her squad, spread out with weapons trained forward. In the glare of sunlight, the interior is a solid void of darkness. Kelli glances to one side, observing a gunship hovering over the ramp at a height equal to the top of the adjacent control tower. Its menacing nose, with the barrels of the Gatling gun protruding underneath, is pointed at the terminal building.
As she approaches the building, she has two teams stack against a wall next to one of the broken windows. The other two position themselves with angles of fire toward the openings without putting her and the others in the way. Kelli darts her head into the opening and back again, taking a quick peek. She then replays what her eyes saw. The inside looks like a normal departure lounge. Large shards of glass lie both inside and outside of the building, making it appear that some of the windows were broken from the inside, whereas others were from the outside. It doesn’t make sense to her.
Why would they not just use the window, or windows, that were already broken? Fuck it, she shrugs, that’s for historians to figure out.
For Kelli, it doesn’t matter if it makes sense. She doesn’t need to figure out why, just that it is. It doesn’t lessen the odds of whether there are any infected on the inside. Regardless of what presents itself, she’s going into each building as if it’s a hundred percent assured that there are.
She motions the two teams with her and steps inside, her M-4 shouldered and ready, going immediately to the right along the wall. The sound of her covered boots crunching on broken glass punctuates her entry. Out of the sunlight, the interior reveals itself in its entirety. She searches the far right corner, moving her gaze to the near corner as she quickly sidles against the wall. Behind, she hears similar crunches of glass as the two teams follow her in.
With the exception of her barrel as it rapidly moves in line with her eyes, the interior is still. She can sense the cooler temperature indoors. Beads of sweat trickle down her face inside her mask, more sweat soaking into her fatigue top.
Reaching a corner, she begins moving along the intersecting wall, looking in the spaces amid the furniture. On the other side of the room, the second team mimics her and the first team follows her at intervals. Several doors branch off the open interior, perhaps leading to offices or break rooms. Two of them are obvious from the “men” and “women” plastic placards.
“Sarge, I have something over here,” one of the second team members radios.
“What is it?” Kelli replies.
“There’s a scraping noise coming from the women’s head.”
Kelli motions the second team to continue and cautiously walks to where the first team has gathered. At the door, Kelli hears the mentioned sound. It’s like someone, or something, scratching against the door. Cradling her M-4, she puts an ear to the door.
In addition to the occasional scratch, she hears a lower noise, like a moan escaping from lips, but with little force behind it. Her neck tingles as the hairs stand on end, goosebumps forming along her arms. It is more than apparent that there’s someone beyond the threshold of the door. Kelli backs away, her finger going to the trigger guard. Glancing at the door handle, she notes the red of the “occupied” rotary indicator.
“We have a live one,” she whispers to the team.
A louder moan escapes, muted by the heavy wooden door. Those positioned around her nod and step back.
“Blow it,” Kelli whispers.
The teams position themselves around the door as charges are placed. The door opens inward, so no hinges are visible and the C-4 is shaped at the juncture of the door and jamb near the latch.
“Fire in the hole.”
The door jumps and swings inward, only to stop hard as it is blocked. A hand extends through the opening, reaching, clawing. Kelli watches the hand and part of an arm as it seems to attempt to grab at something on their side of the door. The fingers are grimy with the fingernails broken and torn like the first bodies they encountered. Although heavily stained, it’s easy to see the camouflaged pattern of the sleeve.
The hand withdraws a little, grabbing at the broken door. A slithering sound is barely heard above the continual moans as something behind the door shifts, or is shifted. The door is swung open, revealing the rest of the body. A woman lies prone on the floor, her eyes shifting upward to the teams circling the bathroom. Her greasy, short-cut blonde hair is nearly plastered to her scalp. Behind her, a trail of grime and sludge snakes back to the single open stall occupying the room. Dried vomit lies in piles on the linoleum. The woman locks eyes with Kelli, emitting another moan as she tries pulling herself across the ground.
Disgusted and barely able to keep from emptying her stomach into her mask, Kelli centers her aim on the woman’s head, selects semi, and pulls the trigger. The crack of the shot resounds loudly as the single round slams into the woman’s forehead. The high-speed projectile leaves a small hole as it punches through the skull and tumbles, tearing through the soft tissue of the brain. The round exits through the bottom of the skull and continues down the neck and into the chest.
Blood spouts from the nostrils and mouth, splattering the linoleum with bright red. The head slumps down, trickles of blood dripping to the floor. Bluish-white smoke drifts from Kelli’s barrel, complementing the metallic pink of the spent shell as it bounces. Taking her eyes from the woman, Kelli quickly looks into the restroom, expecting others to show themselves. Some of her team focus their attention on the rest of the building, expecting the same to happen from different quarters. Others remain focused on the woman a few feet in front of them.
“Do you think she was infected?” one asks.
“She’d have to be, I think. Isn’t the air supposed to be contaminated? That’s why we’re wearing these, right?” Kelli responds, pointing at her mask.
“I suppose so. Why is she alive and the others we found dead?”
“Maybe she drank the water out of the toilet bowl,” Kelli answers.
The squad member looks at the complete mess of the bathroom’s interior.
“That’s just sick.”
Kelli shrugs, thinking that you do whatever you have to in order to survive, infected or not. To all appearances, it looks as if the woman became sick, locked herself in the bathroom, turned, and couldn’t figure a way out.
“Check out every room and broom closet,” Kelli states. “We can’t leave a single one.”
The woman is the only one they find. They have one more building before finishing with the office spaces attached to the rear of the hangars. Stepping outside, glass crunching under her heels, Kelli eyes the tal
l structure.
The white and blue painted concrete rises high above the ramp without any windows to break it up. Sunlight glints off the dark mirrored panes of glass that surround the top, the controllers having a tall vantage point from which they can survey the entire airfield.
The tower door topples outward, having to be blasted from its hinges. Several bodies spill out through the open doorway. As with the other outside doors, this one has deep scratches etched into its surface. Kelli and her squad remove the cluster of bodies, placing them in a pile at the base of the tower.
Taking two teams, she begins climbing the narrow stairwell. The concrete walls press in on her as she ascends step by step, her carbine aimed upward toward the next landing. Even though she moves slowly, her shuffling steps echo upward. Her senses are on high alert as she listens for any sound that may betray the existence of infected above. The stairs are narrow, leaving no room to maneuver. If she encounters any infected, especially near the corners, she could be easily overwhelmed with nowhere to turn.
With that thought in mind, she turns and waves the next Marine in line to take more spacing. There’s only room for one of them to fire, so the next in line are really only taking up space. Of course, there’s the mental support that having your teammates with you provides. The thought of mounting the steps alone is nearly too much.
Climbing up the steps, rounding one landing after another, tires her. There was the elevator at the bottom they could have taken, but that wouldn’t be clearing the building. It would be going up, then down. And, if there are infected at the top, opening the elevator doors into a mass of them could end in disaster. With a heavy sigh, her cheeks puffing, she continues to climb.
Standing in the top of the tower, Kelli looks out over the airfield. Several gunships hover in varied locations across the air station. She watches as others in her company move out of one hangar and into another building. The search of the tower, including the sleeping quarters and lunchrooms that branched off the stairwell, revealed no sign of other infected or survivors. In another section of the air station, Marines of the second company cautiously stalk across a grass field, their weapons trained on a building they’re approaching. She wonders if they’ve run across any of the infected, or if their experience has been much the same as her squad’s.
