Heider’s eyes narrowed. “Are you really suggesting that a peasant army with crappy weapons is more capable than the most technologically advanced army in the world? That would be moronic if you were. Then again, you haven’t let us use our most technologically advanced weapons, so…” He let the suggestion hang in the air.
“I gave permission for you to use your tanks,” snapped the president. “Where the hell are they? Hmm? It’s been five hours and I don’t see any in action. And now you talk of technologically advanced weapons? Is that your way of saying you want to use nukes, too?”
The room grew stone quiet as each of the men at the table considered the possibility of a nuclear option.
Marty feared that if one nuke was used, it would open a floodgate that couldn’t be controlled. He couldn’t help wonder how long it would be before someone pointed a couple of nukes at the capitol? The president hadn’t been popular with the military before the outbreak. Who knew the level of hatred they had for him now?
The president wished he could take back his words. He feared nuclear bombs, secretly thinking that if enough of them were used they could crack the earth’s crust as though it were an egg shell. He tried to change the subject. “About those tanks…”
“You made us leave the tanks behind at Bragg and Fort Campbell,” Heider said, secretly happy to get the conversation back to conventional weapons—he didn’t trust this feckless president. The idea of him wielding nukes made Heider shudder. It also triggered some very inappropriate and treasonous thoughts which were a struggle to ignore.
The general could barely look the president in the eye as he went on: “We’re getting the tanks to the battlefield but it takes time. Do you have any idea how hard it is to prepare thee hundred tanks for air transport when all their fucking drivers are in Connecticut? Fort Bragg is practically deserted. You wanted everyone to make the jump and you got everyone—riggers, mechanics, ammo specialists, fuel supervisors, everyone. Now I have Air Force pussies trying to figure out how to drive tanks when they don’t even know how to put gas in them.”
“So your inability to cross-train soldiers is now my fault?” the president demanded.
“For your information,” Heider began, his voice raised and his eyes flashing angrily, “There are no soldiers in the Air Force! They have airmen and the last time I checked, they don’t have tanks, so training with them would be problematic.”
Marty was still so stunned by the missile launch and the idea that the Chinese were resorting to nukes as quickly as they were that he had forgotten his role as political manager. He had to calm the situation before Heider went too far.
“Enough, please. I’m sorry, General. If we could go back in time, we would have made different choices. We should be dealing with the immediate future. How do we save New York and New Jersey?”
“Whatever you do, don’t say nukes!” the president warned. “They are off the table.”
“Okay, if you insist,” Heider answered, trying not to let the relief sound in his voice. “I think that saving New Jersey is impossible. Everything north of Trenton is already lost to us. I could send in a few battalions of Maryland reservists that I’ve managed to scrape up, but what would be the point? There are no lines, no natural barriers, no rallying points.”
“What about south of Trenton?” Marty asked. “Maybe we can begin resistance in the state there.”
Heider glanced at the map and said: “Again, what would be the point? There’s nothing there. No, I think it’s better that we preserve our strength. We should use the time we have to fortify the south side of the Delaware River. It’s a natural barrier to the rest of the country.”
Marty tapped a pencil on the table for a moment before saying: “Sounds like a good plan. But what about New York? We cannot let it fall. There’s the political fallout…” Heider began to interrupt, but Marty put out a hand. “We have to consider the political ramifications, now more than ever. Trust me, General, there will be repercussions if things aren’t presented properly. The people are going to want to blame someone, and the president and I are very, very good at shifting blame. When heads roll, and they just might, literally, you can rest assured they won’t be ours.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying hold New York City at all costs.”
At the cost of letting millions of zombies break out of New Jersey? Don’t these two idiots see this is the far greater danger? Heider thought as his stomach went suddenly queasy.
He had to walk them back from the idea if he could. “Logistically, we’ve reached our breaking point. I already have units that aren’t being resupplied, and our fuel situation along the entire east coast is atrocious. I can’t sustain the men we have and if the IPs in Jersey get out …”
Marty stopped him. “I understand and I’m sure that they will understand that the supply situation isn’t the best. And yes, sacrifices will have to be made. Your men understood this when they signed up and raised their right hands. New York is your top priority regardless of the costs.”
The queasiness in Heider’s gut turned to pain. More sacrifices? How many more soldiers could he sacrifice before the rest turned on him?
It’s for the greater good, he said to himself as he glanced up at the map once again. His eyes fell on the little dot of Hartford. It would have to be the 82nd Airborne Division that he would hang out to dry. He would start there and if necessary, he would cut off the 101st next.
General Phillips would probably resign before he let two entire divisions perish, but in the great scheme of things, the loss of one general wouldn’t even be remembered, not after Rhode Island and the last bit of Connecticut were overrun and utterly destroyed.
Heider reached out a hand to Marty. “Can I get some of those Tums?”
Chapter 18
1— 5:38 p.m.
The Hartford Quarantine Zone
Deckard backed away from Fowler and his dark eyes and low zombie moan until his heel struck the far wall. Even that did not feel far enough away. In the corner of his eye, he saw Chuck Singleton reach out a slow hand for the M16A2 that sat on the floor next to his thigh.
When Stephanie saw what he was reaching for, she said: “Chuck, no. It’s not his fault.”
Fowler looked over and saw the gun. “Oh, God,” he groaned, grabbing his head, his face a perfect image of misery. “How…how did this happen? I haven’t touched any blood at all, not even Dr. Wilson’s. I made sure of it. I was always so careful.”
“This city is full of blood,” Deckard said. “It could have happened anywhere. One little drop is all it takes.”
“But I didn’t touch any!” Fowler suddenly yelled, his dark eyes blazing with rage. Chuck’s hand continued its stretch for the rifle. Seeing this, Fowler’s anger faded in a second, to be replaced by guilt and fear. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Hey, please don’t be upset. I didn’t mean it.”
Chuck nodded. “I know you didn’t, but that’s the problem. Y’all’s gonna do stuff. Mean stuff. It won’t be on purpose, but y’all’s gonna do it anyways. I think we need to figger out what we are gonna do.” He gestured to Stephanie and Deckard as he said this.
“What do you mean, exactly?” Stephanie asked. “Wait! You’re not thinking of…of killing him, are you?” In answer, Chuck’s hand slipped up the grip of the M16. “Oh shit,” Stephanie said, realizing that was exactly what he was going to do.
Fowler glanced over at his own rifle, which leaned against the wall two feet away.
Chuck warned, “Don’t try it.”
“I—I wasn’t going to try anything. L-look, you can’t just kill me. I didn’t do anything wrong. All I did was touch something. Deckard, tell him I didn’t do anything.”
Deckard tried to give him a sympathetic smile, but it was hard to smile at a dead man. “Of course you didn’t do anything wrong, but that’s not exactly the point. We need to protect ourselves. If you could think clearly, you would understand.”
After a long pause in which Fowl
er stared down at the tips of his boots, he said in a whisper: “I get it. You guys are afraid I’ll do…something. And I will, won’t I?”
“Yes,” Deckard told him. “But we wouldn’t blame you, just like I hope you don’t blame us.”
Fowler began to nod, but then his face twisted up in sudden anguish. “But not yet, okay? My head’s not too bad and I can still be helpful. I can touch things now.” He reached out and ran his hand over Sundance’s belly, tears in his dark eyes. “Who’s going to watch the dog? Who’s going to take care of him? I told Courtney that I would bring him back to her.”
“I’ll do it,” Stephanie said, “if I make it.” Even with a two hour power nap, she felt exhausted to the core of her being. Still she thought that maybe the dog would help take her mind off her own pain. She clapped her hands and called: “Sundance, come here boy.”
The German Shepherd’s ears swiveled in her direction and his tail thumped, but with Fowler still rubbing his stomach, he wasn’t going anywhere. Fowler had to give him a shove to get him moving.
“Good boy,” Stephanie crooned as the dog began padding over to her.
He had only taken a few steps when Fowler cried: “Stop! Sundance, no!” The dog jerked in puzzlement, which was the least extreme action. Alarmed at the outburst, Chuck and Deckard gently squeezed down on the triggers of their guns, both within an ace of killing Fowler.
“Come here, Sundance,” Fowler said, softer now, one hand on his forehead, the other held out for the dog. When Sundance came back and licked his hand, Fowler grinned, a miserable grin and said, “See, I am useful. I saved you, Stephanie.”
“You did?” she asked, wearing a watery smile, afraid that he might yell again, or become violent. Chuck would shoot him for sure if he did. “I mean, thank you. That was kind of you.”
With a high manic laugh, Fowler said, “You don’t even know what you’re thanking me for!” He pulled the dog down onto his lap, holding him in an awkward hug. Stephanie thought he was using the dog as a shield, but he rolled the dog over and held up one of his paws. There was something underneath his nails that looked like tar or dark dirt or…
“That’s zombie blood,” Stephanie said, as a shiver ran up her back. “You did save me.”
Fowler ran a hand along Sundance’s belly once more. “And he killed me. I was so careful. I was always so fucking careful. I walked around like the world was one big disease.” He stroked the dog’s head and added: “But I never thought you would kill me.” Sundance heard the pain and the sadness in Fowler’s voice and made a whining sound in the back of his throat.
They were quiet for a time as the sun dipped just over the horizon. Fowler and Deckard were each considering their mortality and dwelling on how life could be so easily yanked away. Chuck and Stephanie held hands, leaning into each other once again, not really thinking about anything. They had long before come to grips with their coming deaths.
Twenty minutes passed before Fowler let out a shaky breath that sounded as though he were blowing the ragged leftovers of his soul out of his mouth. He then nodded and made an odd noise that sounded like a cross between a laugh and a sob. “You’re going to have to kill both of us. You know that, right? Sundance is just as much a danger to you as I am.”
Stephanie and Chuck shared a look—shock, at first and then guilt. Fowler was right. The dog would have to die. “Well, shit,” Chuck said. “This just gets crappier and crappier.”
“Yeah,” Fowler said, unhappily. There were tears—greyish tears—dripping down his face. “You should do him at the same time as me.”
“Are you ready?” Deckard asked, surprised that the man had come to his decision so quickly.
“Yes. The pain is worse than I thought and there’s no use waiting. It won’t get any better. Nothing has been getting better. Tell my wife…never mind. You’ll never find her. She has to have left by now and I don’t know where she would have gone.” He took another breath and then pushed himself to his knees, facing the wall. “Do it. In the back of the head. Make it quick.”
“Shouldn’t we say something?” Stephanie asked. “A prayer or some sort of eulogy?”
“Just do it!” Fowler seethed, turning to glare at her with mad eyes. “No one cares. Not God, not anyone.”
Chuck and Deckard shared a look of discomfort. “You take care of the dog,” Deckard said and brought his gun to bear. “On the count of three.” He began counting slow and steady as Fowler’s shoulders involuntarily hunched up and his face took on a grimace of misery and fear.
Almost too late Stephanie shoved her fingers in her ears and clamped her eyes down tightly. The twin shots came through, muffled but loud. Fowler’s body flopping over sounded to her like a bag of laundry being dropped down the stairs—it made her want to retch.
Chuck turned her away. “Don’t look.” He led her out of the room and down to the kitchen, where he hunted around for cleaning supplies. The former occupants of the house had taken all the food but left the bleach. He added water and bleach to a bucket and began cleaning their shoes and hands.
A minute later, Deckard came down and did the same thing. He also cleaned his weapon and the extra ammo he had snatched from Fowler’s still warm corpse.
“He was a good man,” Stephanie said. “He and Doc Wilson were both good men.”
Deckard grunted. He didn’t want to think about Fowler just then. Killing an innocent man wasn’t easy. It stole something vital from the killer even under the best of circumstances, even when it was absolutely necessary. “We should go,” he said, wiping down his rifle with a clean dish cloth. “I’m sure the zombies heard those shots.”
After the twin killings, no one wanted to linger in the house any longer than necessary, but they were kept from leaving by the zombies who had multiplied in numbers during their two hour nap. The monsters had indeed heard the gunshots but hadn’t yet figured out what house they had come from.
The three of them were penned up and, with nothing better to do, they explored the house from top to bottom—all except the room in which Fowler and Sundance lay sprawled in unnatural and contorted positions. Deckard and Chuck refused to even look in the direction of the room, while Stephanie would constantly cast sad eyes at the door and sigh.
During their search they discovered backpacks, half a pantry worth of food, a pair of sleeping bags, two boxes of 12-gauge shotgun shells, but strangely, no shotgun. They took the shells regardless, thinking they would come in handy if they came across a shotgun at some point.
The only other item of value that was found were the keys to a hard-top Jeep Rubicon that sat parked on the side of the drive. It was a new model, red and shiny, and Deckard wondered why it hadn’t been taken when the owners fled. He would have taken the Jeep to get away before practically any other vehicle, except for maybe a big SUV which could plow through a horde of undead with ease.
He took the keys to the living room window and gave the button on the fob a click. The lights blinked. It meant the Jeep was good to go.
Only, where would it go? There was no way to drive the thing out of the city. The streets near the wall were amazingly congested. “But the streets around here aren’t,” he said, feeling foolish. The interior of the city, save for a few crashes here and there and all the zombies, was relatively open—open enough for a sturdy Jeep to get through.
“Are you two ready to go?” he asked. Reluctantly, Stephanie nodded, while Chuck attempted to appear stronger than he was. It was obvious to Deckard that neither of them could go on much longer, but he knew they had to if they wanted to live. That meant getting Thuy and getting out of the city.
There were simply too many zombies in Hartford to stay and attempt to hide. Deckard knew the undead would eventually tear the place apart, house by house, looking for fresh blood.
How they would get out of the city would be left for Thuy to figure out. Deckard didn’t have a clue how to get out, but he had ultimate faith in Thuy’s mental powers. If there was a way out,
she would find it.
Chuck came up, and after a glance out the window, gave Deckard a peculiar smile. “You want us to leave by the front door with all them zombies just strollin’ around? You feelin’ okay?”
“We’re taking that Jeep. The roads are pretty clear…except for the zombies, that is.”
“Yeah, except for them,” Chuck said, trying to count the zombies in the street. He had counted over forty of them when Deckard swung open the front door and said: “Let’s do it,” and darted out into the early evening, carrying a rifle, two backpacks and a sleeping bag.
Stephanie followed after. She had a sleeping bag and an M4, and even that seemed like too much for her to carry. Her legs felt like they were weighed down with lead and, at the same time, her head seemed as though it was filled with air. Getting to the car, all of forty feet away, was a trial and when she climbed in the back seat her heart was pounding in her chest.
Chuck got in the front seat a second later and although he grinned at Stephanie, his normally tan face was a dead shade of pale and he brought up more hunks of grey matter when he coughed.
Without waiting for Chuck to even shut the Jeep’s door, Deckard backed into the street, thumping solidly into a burly man who wore the shredded remains of a policeman’s uniform. The Jeep bounced as its heavy-treaded tires went over him and the crunching of bones added to Stephanie’s woes as her stomach lurched.
Deckard mumbled: “Sorry,” but whether he meant the apology for Stephanie or the zombie, she didn’t know. The bouncing continued as they shot up the street. Deckard did everything he could to avoid the zombies and that meant jumping over curbs, blasting through fences and tearing up lawns, none of which helped Stephanie’s stomach.
“Oh God,” she moaned, her words lost under the howl of the engine. There was nothing to do except grit her teeth and hold on. She certainly wasn’t about to complain or ask Deckard to take it easy. Slowing down would likely mean being surrounded and then there’d be more crunching of bones and black blood spraying everywhere. The blood scared her the most.
The Apocalypse Crusade 3: War of the Undead Day 3 Page 27
