“We stashed a fuel blivet here on our way down. Huge pain in the ass, believe you me,” Ross commented. Janacek emerged from the hiding spot with an unreeled hose.
Foraker stepped forward with a canister in one hand. He pulled the pin out of the top of it and bowled it toward the road. A moment after it struck the ground, it began emitting a bright orange smoke that angled to one side in the breeze.
“Whiskey 3, this is Hatchet 6, LZ is marked. There are no clearance issues, over.”
Miles studied the field on the other side of the road. The thumping from the north grew more pronounced.
Ross came over to Miles and grabbed him by the shoulder. “Listen up. When the chopper lands, the crew chief is going to top off the tanks. He’ll handle that evolution solo. We’ll need to provide security. If there are any infected that weren’t drawn away by that horde, we need to keep them off of us until we’re gassed up. You with me so far?”
He nodded. “Got it.”
“I want you to go to the nose of the chopper and cover front, the copilot is going to get out and do the same, so you won’t be by yourself. We’ll have the other three sides of the chopper. All right?”
Miles made an ‘o’ with his thumb and his forefinger and said, “I’m good. Let’s do this.”
Ross made eye contact for a long moment and seemed satisfied with what he saw there. He gave Miles a short nod and turned back to face the road. He made a motion with his hand, and the SEAL’s knelt to the ground as one in a triangular formation, each oriented out. A moment later, Miles moved inside of their perimeter and knelt, as well. With all the approaches covered, he scanned the sky for the approaching helicopter.
He didn’t have to wait long. It came in low over the road, just a handful of feet over the trees that stood at the edge of the farm fields. At first, it was small, almost toy-like in proportion, but the Black Hawk’s velocity was deceptively fast. In moments, it loomed in front of them and settled onto its wheels in front of the house. The rotors slowed as the engine dropped in pitch, but it was still loud. The whirring of the blades swept dust and grit out at Miles, and whipped the plume of orange smoke into nothingness. All at once, he realized it had been over eight years since he’d seen a helicopter in the air.
Ross leaned over and shouted into Miles’ ear over the racket. “This is it! Keep your eyes out, they’re running the engine hard enough to keep her light on her wheels. If we need to bug out in a hurry, we can, but it’s going to be dicey if we don’t top off the tanks. Got it?”
“Got it!” Miles shouted. The SEALs rose and rapid-stepped to the road in half-crouches. Foraker grabbed the sliding door on the side and helped the crew chief slide it open. Janacek handed off the fuel hose, then hopped into the body of the chopper. He slid open the opposite door, then hopped back onto the ground on the opposite side. As the crew chief began making arrangements to connect the fuel blivet, Foraker and Ross assumed their own positions, and Miles realized he was a step behind.
The co-pilot climbed out of the door on the farmhouse side. Miles moved around him and knelt on the pavement in front of the pilot’s seat. The copilot came around and crouched in the opposite lane of the road, in front of his own seat. Miles couldn’t make out much of the man’s appearance; he was of average height and stocky. Shiny aviator shades hid his eyes and he still wore a bulky helmet. He cradled a Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine gun with an integral suppressor. The tactical vest he wore over his one-piece flight suit bulged with spare magazines. Miles eyed the gun with interest. It was one of those ubiquitous guns that always ended up in movies or TV shows back in the day, because of its unique look. He’d handled some interesting gear working in his father-in-law’s shop, but he’d never had the opportunity to check out one of these.
The copilot noticed his study and grinned. “Name’s Hickson,” he shouted as he pointed to the name tape on his flight suit. “Got this toy off of one of your buddies a while back.” He glanced at Miles’ rifle and raised his eyebrows in appreciation. “Nice!”
Miles gave him a thumbs-up and waved his hand outward at the road in front of them. The crew chief nodded, and Miles turned away and scanned the surrounding territory. Maybe the noise of the passing herd had drawn out any stragglers roaming the countryside.
But how did the herd get that big to begin with?
He shook his head to chase off the thought. It didn’t matter — what did matter was he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been near something so damn loud. Yeah, the big diesel engines in their combines and tractors were pretty noisy, but they’d done everything they could figure out to reduce the noise signature. It was doubtful that the same methods would work with a helicopter.
How did they manage this? In a way maybe the undead chorus line last night had been a good thing — if it had thinned the area out a bit, all for the better. This was sure to be audible for miles.
There was a slight thump, and he stiffened. Miles glanced over his shoulder and saw Janacek standing at the side with his rifle up. Again, the thump, and brass spat from Janacek’s SCAR.
He looked out into the field across from the house in time to see the zombie’s head shatter before it collapsed into the weeds. It was a good hundred and fifty yards away from where the SEAL had taken the shot, but the fact that he needed to shoot so early was ominous. Maybe the herd hadn’t been as noisy as he’d thought. Miles turned back to his own vector and scanned the road in front of him and the field to his left. He squinted. There. Was that . . .?
Times like this, he wished he’d slapped a magnifier on his rifle behind the holosight, but he’d make do. He reached up and pressed the button to switch it on. The batteries had a full charge and the red dot was visible, even in the raising daylight. He shouldered his rifle and grinned at a sudden memory. The first time Tish had tried it, she’d proclaimed it cheating. Miles didn’t believe that was possible, especially now.
She’d had grown up shooting with her dad, but Larry was old school. He didn’t like anything fancier than an ordinary scope. That sentiment had must have been hereditary because Tish was much the same. Miles had more of a tech-geek philosophy. The EOTech didn’t do all the work for you, but it simplified things. Setting it up took some skill, but once you had it dialed in, you put the dot on what you wanted to hit, pulled the trigger, and voila.
The horde must not have made as much noise as he’d thought because there were more than a few stragglers. The road wasn’t filled, but at least a dozen figures stumbled in their direction. Slow ones? Beside him, Hickson let off an extended burst from his MP-5. At this range, Miles couldn’t tell if he hit anything. He leaned toward not, at this range.
That’s okay, it’s not like I can fly a helicopter, right?
He waved his palm at the ground in a motion for the copilot to stand by, and the other man nodded. Maybe the SEALs hadn’t had time to train him, or maybe the guy just wasn’t accustomed to being on the ground. God knew Miles would much rather be looking down on this road from a hundred feet up.
He forced himself to be patient. The stumbling figures on the road were the main danger, but the high growth on either side of the road made him nervous. The rotors made things a little better; the air they moved flattened the weeds out to some extent. Zombies didn’t have guile, but their stupidity could be an asset, too. Attracted by such a loud target, they’d head straight for it, crawling over any obstacles they met with mindless dedication. So, while the road was a threat, the bigger threat was off to either side, because they could be right on top of Miles and Hickson before they could do anything about it. For now, the coast seemed clear. He judged the range, then lifted his rifle and began to take slow, measured shots.
The zombies made it easy, of course. They were slow, they didn’t dodge, and they just kept coming. A human charge would have scattered when its component parts began falling to the ground. The approaching undead just didn’t have the capacity to care.
The perceived ease of it was dangerous, of course
. Becoming nonchalant about fighting them was the greatest danger in fighting them. Because if you focused too much on what was in front of you . . .
Miles grabbed Hickson’s flight vest and yanked him backward. The man almost stumbled to the ground, but the zombie creeping up the ditch on his side face planted as its quarry disappeared. Miles finished the job with a double-tap to the head. He conducted another quick scan of the area in front of the chopper’s nose. Another group had stumbled onto the road perhaps fifty yards away. Keeping one eye on them, Miles dropped his partial magazine and replaced it with a fresh one. He stashed the partial in the empty space in the pouch to reload later or use in case of emergency. He frowned at the brass littering the pavement, but there was nothing to do about it. Pete would have kittens at the waste of resources, but if this thing went smooth, maybe they’d have a little better access to ammo in the future.
Miles took a drink from his canteen before he realized that the copilot was shouting at him. “Are you crazy?”
He leaned over and put his mouth next to Hickson’s ear. “They aren’t going anywhere, champ. Stay cool and keep your heart rate down, it makes you more accurate. You watch the sides of the road, the range will be shorter and your weapon will be more effective. I’ll thin them out from further away.” The copilot shook his head, but finally gave Miles a thumbs-up to signal his understanding.
Miles glanced back up at the zombies. One was less torn up than the others and had pulled away from the pack. He raised his carbine and fired once. The leader collapsed to the pavement, and as an added bonus entangled the feet of two of the followers. He jerked his chin in their direction and shouted, “They have one speed, and we’re not here long, right? This is a cakewalk. Try clearing out a Wal-Mart sometime.”
This time, Hickson just stared. He opened his mouth to say something, paused, and then raised a hand to the side of his helmet. He turned around and nodded at the pilot. “We’re full up,” he yelled to Miles. “Get on!”
Miles put his rifle on safe and stepped around the nose of the Black Hawk to the side access door. Foraker and the crew chief were already inside. The big SEAL offered him a hand, and almost lifted Miles off of his feet and up into the cabin of the chopper. Miles selected a seat on the starboard side of the chopper and fussed with the seatbelt harness for a few moments before he figured it out. As he strapped in, the crew chief slammed the side door shut, and the roar of the Black Hawk’s turbines intensified. Miles’ stomach lurched as they lifted off the ground and rotated.
As he looked out the window, he saw staggering figures still coming on, oblivious that their quarry had left. His mouth went dry. There were hundreds of them out there. Another ten or fifteen minutes and they might have been overrun. It was a close-run thing, but these days, that knife’s edge was often the difference between survival and death. For now, they’d survived. As the chopper banked forward and surged toward their final destination, he uttered a silent prayer that the rest of the mission would go as well.
Chapter 25
The clinic’s small office sat in front of the entrance doors. This divided the floor space in two and gave the staff a central location to make notes on patients, store supplies, and relax. The disadvantage of the arrangement was that at a certain time in the morning, the rays of the rising sun slanted right through the front doors and made it uncomfortable for anyone sitting in there.
Tish had fallen asleep at one of the desks with her head on crossed arms. The sudden bright light landed right on her face, and she woke with an annoyed groan. It had been a long night. She’d worked the afternoon and early evening until Grady took over. With the hubbub in front of the clinic that morning, it had been all hands on deck for a while. She’d slouched in on only a few hours of sleep. Just like being a resident again, except I’m not as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as I was back then. She took a sip of lukewarm tea from the mug on her desk and grimaced. If Grady or Frannie didn't have a fresh pot going, she was going to have to prop her eyelids open with toothpicks.
She rubbed her eyes with the balls of her hands as she stood and snaked around the side of the desk. There was a well-worn couch on the back wall of the office, and Grady Scott snored on it with his back to the front doors. That was a new addition; he must have laid down at some point after Tish had nodded off. Well, no one had cried out in the interim, so Frannie must have kept things under control. Tish glanced over to the left. That side of the building had paired beds on the north and south walls, with curtains dividing them. Todd Jenkins and the three long-term patients rested in there. The opposite side of the building had been set up with their primitive surgical suite and an exam room. The chaos earlier that morning had forced them to put beds for Carter and her dad in the space.
The wall guard’s injuries were much more life-threatening than those of her father. Carter's attacker had left him with a pair of deep stab wounds in his back. If the suspect had been aiming for his kidneys, they’d missed, though Tish was still concerned about peritonitis. Probing the wounds and stitching them closed had been a nerve-racking process that had taken most of the early morning hours to complete. She didn’t think there'd been any damage to the digestive tract, but they had no way of knowing. Carter’s cot was in the exam room, and a precious IV of painkillers, saline, and antibiotics hung on a stand beside him. If it wasn’t for the supplies that Vir had brought back, they couldn’t have done much more than stitch him up and pray. She hoped the medicine would make the difference.
Tish stifled a yawn as she walked into the surgery suite. Her dad’s injuries weren’t too bad — bumps and bruises, and the single stab wound to his left thigh. The blade had missed anything vital, and had even gone in parallel to the muscle fibers, so he was likely to recover. The limp should fade in time with physical therapy. What concerned Tish most was the possibility of a concussion. They’d tried to keep him awake to check him for symptoms, but he kept falling asleep. Even though he displayed confusion, he wasn't slurring his words, which was something, at least. Now more than ever, Tish felt a pang at all they’d lost. In the old days, they’d have been able to run a CAT scan, see if there was any internal damage, and correct it. They had so much knowledge, but no real way to act on most of it. It was so frustrating that she could barely resist the urge to scream.
Tish stepped into the surgery suite and realized that her father wasn’t alone. Frannie stood at the end of the cot, just looking at him. She cleared her throat, and the other woman jumped in surprise. Frannie turned, and Tish frowned at the odd look on her face.
“Everything all right?”
Frannie didn’t speak for a moment but finally nodded. “Yeah. I guess it just hit me, looking at him. Time passes for all of us.” She shook her head.
Tish looked at her father. He seemed to be comfortable, though his face was pale and drawn. Lord, Frannie was right. Right now, her dad looked every one of his fifty-five years. Somehow she always thought of him as this rock, this ever-present figure. That wasn’t always going to be the case, was it? It was stupid, given all the death that had surrounded them for so long, but she’d never thought about losing her dad. Even with the risks he took on behalf of the community, the times he deployed overseas, she’d always felt that he would come back.
“He’s going to be all right,” Tish promised her friend, though she only half-believed it herself. “He’s too mean to die. He’s liable to wake up any minute and start barking orders from the bed.”
Frannie gave her a wan smile. Tish reached out and took her by the arm. “You look like a hot mess, girl. It’s your turn to get some shut eye. You got any coffee brewing?”
He was eight years late for work, but Miles doubted there was anyone left to mind.
Cartwright, the pilot in command, banked the Black Hawk as they crossed over the Ohio River. The man had given Miles a few choice words about the action in front of the canopy after they’d gotten underway. No one tried to speak after that. Maybe the view was just too depressing.
/> The vista outside of the window was as faded and worn as the countryside was green and blooming. The shattered, broken-off stumps of the I-71 and I-471 bridges hung over the sluggish river. The wreckage of the bridge deck and the cars that had rested upon it had created a partial dam. The chunks of concrete and steel had captured limbs and other floating debris.
The helicopter slashed between Paul Brown Stadium and the Great American Ball Park. In another time, this might have been a pregame flyby. Miles was on the wrong side of the helicopter to see the football field, but the home of the Reds was a wreck; blackened and scarred by fire. The tailgating lots were full of abandoned ambulances, FEMA trailers, and military vehicles. Shreds of tents rippled in the wind. They angled further northwest as Cartwright took the helicopter across downtown.
He leaned closer to the door and stared out. Miles frowned. He pulled away from the window and leaned closer to Ross. “Where are they?” he yelled over the noise of the chopper.
Ross gave him a look and put his mouth close to Miles’ ear. “Hell if I know, brother. If your deputy is right, heading north, I guess.”
Miles gave him a hard look, then yelled back, “Our welcoming party this morning didn’t seem to be in a hurry to get anywhere.”
Ross held both hands up and shrugged. Miles sighed and leaned back over to look out the window of the chopper again. Downtown flowed by beneath, but after a while, he had to turn away. He couldn’t stand to look at the burned-down buildings, snarls of traffic jams, or the vague lines that could only be the skeletal remnants of the city’s population. Shattered windows in skyscrapers testified to the final, desperate acts of people fleeing their certain doom. Faced with reanimated, carnivorous dead, leaping to your death seemed almost peaceful in comparison.
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