by H. L. Murphy
“Be careful, Doc,” Johansen cautioned, the majority of his attention directed at not flying his craft into either the ground, or the two other helicopters in orbit over KnightStar. “I can't say for certain our comms aren't being monitored, but I wouldn't bet against it.”
“Yeah? Well this is for the cheap seats,” Knox yelled fiercely. “Suck my pathetic dick, you chicken shit corporate cocksuckers.”
Nils grimaced, already imagining the debriefing which would ensue following Knox’ outburst. KnightStar paid extremely well, but they required strict obedience and didn't care for disrespect. Suggesting the Council perform oral sex definitely qualified as disrespect. The pilot was cogitating his best course of action to distance himself from the medic’s tirade when the comms came to life.
“Blackbird, proceed to landing pad three immediately,” a harsh, professional voice ordered. Nils rotated his helicopter to take the shortest course to his landing pad. “Upon landing, shut down your bird, and proceed to Command Tent One.”
Nils clenched his teeth, his worst fears had been realized. Why else would he be needed in the Command Tent unless to confirm Knox’ ill considered diatribe? He would do what he could to shield Doc, but if it came down to it Nils knew he would cover his own ass first. Jobs like this were scarce on the ground, and Nils didn't relish the idea of having to find new employment. Not when he was so close to fulfilling his financial goals. Another year, maybe two, and Nils Johansen would retire to Alaska where he planned to open his own bush pilot service.
“Affirmative,” Nils replied at last. Hopefully, the Doc would get away with a pay grade demotion. Knox knew his business, never shied away from danger, and worked like hell to save your life, no matter how much of a worthless bastard you might have been.
The aged Huey touched down gently before it disgorged its load of passengers. Strong arms hefted the delirious lone survivor of Raven Team up and out. Shutting down his bird, Nils watched as Doc continued to fight for Linner’s miserable life. Like all members of Raven Team, Linner had been recruited from SpecOps units specializing in operations so black no light ever shown upon them. No records of their activities existed, anywhere. The team had been the harbingers of terrible times, and worse deeds. Johansen wasn't so squeamish when it came to outright killing when it was necessary, that was the nature of his employment after all. Raven Team, though…there were stories. Stories so horrible nobody wanted to tell them.
Command Tent One wasn't a tent. In point of fact, Command Tent One was a specially modified RV with enough command and control equipment to run a small country, and had done just that on more than one occasion. Nils brushed at his flight suit in a vain attempt to bring himself into a more presentable shape, then gave it up as impossible and ran a comb through his hair instead. His sharp rap on the door was immediately answered by a tall, black man in a clean, pressed uniform with the knight’s head emblem of KnightStar Solutions on his blouse’s left breast.
“Nils Johansen,” Nils announced. “Reporting as instructed.”
“Yes, come in Mr. Johansen. Please have a seat. You will be called upon shortly,” the very large man said in an accent rarely heard outside of Africa. Still, KnightStar hired from any, and every, country on the planet that could produce top notch soldiers. Nils placed himself upon a small, but comfortable leather covered chair. The interior of the RV, while outfitted to orchestrate the Normandy landings, had not scrimped on the creature comforts. Thick carpet, deep enough to lose nearly an inch of his boots in, covered the floor while the walls, not covered by electronics, were covered by polished wood paneling. Leather bound chairs, occupied by men in ten thousand dollar suits, encircled a table mounted display. The men at the table were mostly known to Nils by sight, if not by first name. They were the men who directed the efforts of KnightStar, the Council, and few in the world possessed more influence over world events than these men.
Nils my lad, Johansen told himself, you are in rarified company today. Don't step on your prick.
“Mr. Johansen,” Michael Hathaway suddenly called out. He signaled the pilot over with a hand encapsulated by a platinum watch. Hesitantly, Nils Johansen rose and came to stand near the table. It's circular nature made it impossible for Nils to actually stand before the assembled executives, for which he was very grateful. “Be so kind as to deliver an account of Blackbird flight’s activities, and, please, be as specific as possible.”
With only mild trepidation, Nils Johansen recounted his every action since the first alert. He left out no cogent details, though he entirely glossed over Knox’ request for oral sex, deciding that unless the subject was broached Nils would allow that dog to sleep. As soon as Johansen completed his report, the Council suggested he get some sleep. The following day would be full of exertion, and they would need everyone at their best.
The Council waited until the pilot left the Command Tent before they recommenced their discussion.
“Site Seven has lost containment,” Jacob Muriel stated the unpleasantly obvious. Muriel stared out at his fellow directors from behind gold rimmed, circular glasses. “Our options have been reduced to one, it would seem.”
“The nuclear option has never been employed,” Hathaway countered. The hard green eyes and square jaw features of Michael Hathaway set themselves in opposition. “We should not be so quick to surrender to the fear induced ravings of one unit commander. Or a single pilot. We need genuine, actionable intelligence before we can take such rash action.”
“Rash? Site Seven has a confirmed Class One being. That alone is reason enough to employ the nuclear option,” Muriel countered immediately. His eyes narrowed as he went over the numerous reasons to act decisively. “Our charter with Homeland is unambiguous in this matter. We are obligated to report this event to the Deputy Director, it will then lay entirely in the President’s hands.”
“God help us all,” James Fitzpatrick intoned sarcastically. It was an article of faith among the majority of the Council that the President utterly lacked any understanding of the nature of the outbreaks and their ramifications.
“That is quite unnecessary, Fitzpatrick,” Hathaway snapped. None of the other members paid the lately ardent supporter of the President much mind. “Regardless of your fear mongering, Muriel, we still require first hand intelligence before we can advise the Deputy Director, let alone the President.”
“Somehow,” Sebastian J. Williams spoke over the rising voices, “I believe Commander Uhlanis’ report from the containment zone, as well as Mr. Johansen’s observations, constitute first hand intelligence. Mr. Muriel is quite correct in his assertion we have a clear duty to inform the Deputy Director. So we shall do so, immediately. It will then be in the hands of the Deputy Director to convince the President to take the necessary action to eliminate this threat to our entire race. As things currently stand, our drone operators are attempting to establish the exact current parameters of the outbreak. Once that has been accomplished we will report to the Deputy Director. Is any part of this course of action unclear?”
No one at the table felt compelled, or confident enough, to speak up. Few, when faced with the resolute Scotsman, willingly crossed Sebastian Williams. A former officer of the much vaunted Special Air Service, Sebastian Williams was still possessed of a powerful frame and wickedly accurate with his preferred firearms. More than anyone present, Williams was responsible for KnightStar’s current employment by Homeland Security. Hence, his voice carried more than average weight in deliberations. Naturally, Hathaway,a Vietnam era Green Beret, resented his views, the respect accorded him, and truth be told, the incredibly bushy mustache Williams had spent decades cultivating. Among the rank and file operators, the mustache itself had reached mythic status. Intelligent, charismatic, and strategically brilliant, Williams was everything Hathaway was not. Though not blatantly stupid, Hathaway did not possess the flash of genius which seemed to inspire Williams to heights of brilliance on a nearly daily basis. Moreover, Hathaway lacked the ability to plac
e the operators at ease, to convince them, for instance, that despite being surrounded by blood thirsty Austrians intent on burning down the ancestral home of one Dr. Manfred Von Alkstein that all was in hand. For his part, Hathaway wouldn't have wasted the effort needed to convince men to fight for their own lives. Their job was to fight, kill, and, possibly, die on the Council’s orders. If they couldn't be bothered to perform their duty, to save their own lives, then Hathaway couldn't be bothered to hold their goddamn hands while they pissed themselves.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Williams cut into Hathaway’s thoughts. “I will inform the Deputy Director at once.”
With that, Sebastian Williams rose from the table to ascend a spiral staircase. At the head of the stair, Hathaway knew there lay a secure comm line directly to Homeland Security. A high backed chair sat before the telephone, a small table upon which resided several bottles of liquor, two glasses, and a small ice bucket. Before he made the difficult call, Sebastian mixed a bourbon and ice. From this Williams took a long pull, he marshaled his thoughts and arguments needed to sway the Deputy Director. No time could be lost in debate, the situation must be resolved at once or else the Outbreak would become a full on invasion. Against a full invasion, Sebastian genuinely wondered whether or not the United States military could hold them at bay let alone overcome.
The unwanted memory of Holden’s Bay, Alaska made itself felt. Another pull on the excellent bourbon did nothing whatsoever to still the hellish nightmare that had been a small town in the interior of Alaska some fifteen years previous. The populace numbered only fifteen hundred, small by most standards though in the frozen north it counted as a metropolis. The initial Outbreak had gone unnoticed until it was nearly too late. Very few of the residents of Holden’s Bay managed to evade either being eaten or infected before KnightStar Solutions parachuted into the frozen heart of Hell itself. Ten heavily armed, very experienced soldiers against a thousand undead led by a Class One being. What should have been a simple mopping up operation transformed into a last stand for the safety and continued existence of the human race. Seven of his closest friends gave their lives before the end. Only after the Outbreak had been contained did Sebastian make the decision to purify the site via napalm. It had been the first of many unconscionable choices presented to Sebastian Williams, decisions which he had made nonetheless.
This, he silently admitted, was merely the latest in a long line of impossible situations. We will face this as we have faced everything else, with courage and resolve to protect our species.
His glass empty, Sebastian Williams picked up the receiver ready to deliver the least optimistic report of his life. He never made that report.
Michael Hathaway placed a suppressed Beretta twenty-five caliber to the back of Williams skull.
“I would say it's nothing personal,” Hathaway sneered sadistically,”but I have always fucking hated you.”
The small caliber hollow point pierced Sebastian Williams skull just above and to the rear of the man’s left ear, expanded in the gray matter which housed the totality of his experiences, and became lodged in the bone comprising Sebastian’s forehead.
Hathaway caught the collapsing form, eased the bleeding corpse to the floor. A cruel smile split the hard face of Michael Hathaway, years of diligent work were finally coming to fruition. For too long the people of this country had been allowed to run amok, spitting on every decent thing Hathaway had spent his life protecting. What the mindless, spineless plebeians referred to as freedom of expression was nothing more than the desecration of the moral fiber of his beloved country. Well, that would soon be rectified. The growing horde of undead would provide the impetus for the President to suspend the Constitution through a declaration of Martial Law. Then order, moral and legal, would be restored to his people.
All that was required was the sacrifice of a few hundred thousand worthless, godless hedonists not worth the food they ate, nor the air they breathed. A handful of losses now against the deliverance of hundreds of millions seemed all too viable.
Admiral Mayweather paced back and forth as he awaited his most trusted friend in the world to answer the goddamn phone. He knew Harry had his hands full with the emergent situation in Bahrain. Could the Outbreak have gotten out of control since their last conversation? Could the infected have made their way onto the Indefatigable? Was it possible that even now, as Horace paced, the undead were swarming through the decks of that fine lady?
“Call coming through now, sir,” a young petty officer announced.
“About goddamn time,” Mayweather said quietly. “Harry? Are you there?”
“Indeed, Horace, though for how much longer remains to be seen,” Harry said dryly.
“Why? What happened?” Mayweather asked.
“A rather unforeseen incident,” Harry grunted out. “Suicidal pilot crashed part of a very old F4 Phantom into my bow. I'm afraid it's played hell with my mission objectives. We've had to dedicate rather more of our efforts towards fighting the fire and keeping the old girl from sinking.”
“Mother of god,” Mayweather spat. “Is there anything I can do to assist?”
“Yes,” Harry replied lightly. “Locate the good doctor and have her build a time machine to prevent the blasted fool from making his way to the promised seventy-two virgins.”
“Good news for you, Harry,” Mayweather smiled. “I've managed to locate Dr. Zhao. All we have to do is acquire her from her captors.”
“Excellent to hear my friend,” Harry coughed lightly. Though his friend couldn't see the blood covered uniform, Horace Mayweather knew Harry Sandoval was badly injured. It was mostly in the timbre of his voice. A strain that never entered the man’s voice unless he was in extreme agony. “Damnably embarrassing, but I don't think I'll be able to lend nearly as much aid as I had hoped.”
“Harry?” Mayweather asked, suddenly concerned.
“Shrapnel, old boy,” Lord Sandoval coughed again. “Afraid I caught a razor sharp piece, well several pieces actually. If you manage to survive the coming storm, please be so kind as to not sleep with my wife. I realize she will eventually find a new man, but I would rather you not subject yourself to her cruelties.”
“I don't think you'll have to worry about it, Harry,” Horace tried to laugh, but couldn't find the strength to force himself. “Alice would absolutely castrate me.”
“Well thank you,old boy,” Sandoval laughed, then coughed. “Please be sure to give my love to Alice and my children.”
Both men laughed at the poor attempt at humor. Slowly, Horace Mayweather hung up the handset, ending the call.
Chapter Eleven
While a good many positive things could have been said about my Defender, speedy wasn't one of them. Built to be rugged, the designers had sacrificed speed to achieve resilience. Which was why we hadn't quite reached Vero Beach when my best friend, James Fox, pulled up next to us. His late model SUV could outrun my Defender any given day of the week. At least, on asphalt it could. Should it have been necessary to go off-road, I would have left him far behind.
James looked across his wife, Melinda, to wave at me. He signaled to me to pull over, I was certain he wanted a better explanation. I knew he would believe me, but wondered how much that would matter in the face of his obstinate wife. Whether or not Melinda believed me would decide James’ participation in the evacuation.
We slid off the road, pulling well off into the grass. I came out of the Defender with my Kalashnikov SBR at a low ready. No, I didn't expect my friend to come out shooting, but I also didn't know whether or not the undead had made it this far north.
My friend of the past fifteen years rolled out of his SUV in the relaxed manner I had become accustomed to, as though nothing in the world was so important as to necessitate him hurrying. I had learned over time it was camouflage to hide a deep, deep river of emotions. I can't say what those emotions were, who really could? In my experience it was utterly impossible to genuinely state the exact nature of another
persons emotions since everything we feel, endure, and triumph over is colored by our own experiences and personalities. Without that exact psychological make up the best anyone could do was guess.
From the look in James’ eyes I knew must have been feeling something on the darker side of human emotion, though what exactly I couldn't say. You know, because I wasn't him.
“You made it, that's good,” I said as the two of us converged. James didn't speak, just stared at me. “You bring your supplies?”
“There is nothing on the news about a biological attack,” he said slowly. His eyes ran over my gear, lingering on my well used Kalashnikov. “There is nothing on the news about a terrorist attack, of any kind.”
“Didn't think there would be, did you?” I asked with a growing edge in my voice. I could imagine the energy required to rouse out his wife and two kids at damn near midnight, but since I had spent the entire evening up to my eyes in undead I wasn't really able to dredge up any fucks to give for his troubles.
“I didn't think my neighbor across the street would try to eat me either, but he did,” James fumed. Ah, so that was the nature of his bad temper. He was upset I glossed over the whole flesh eating zombie part of the biological attack. A part of me thought he had every right to be pissed. I kept vitally important information from him. Information he could have used to protect his family.
On the other hand, I did warn him to get his shit together and haul ass so he can shove his indignation.
“Any of you get bit?” I side stepped the implied accusation.
“No,” he said quietly. “Not for lack of trying on Mr. Delbert’s part. Seventy-five years old and he runs marathons. Well, ran marathons. He's not doing much of anything since I shot him.”
