The Soldier (Book 1): Torment

by Lundy, W. J.

  “Your advice is noted, Sergeant, now ready me a team. I want to check out that building,” Howard barked.

  Gyles pursed his lips and nodded. “Roger that, sir.” He turned away and pointed to Weaver, then spotted motion at the top of the perimeter and stopped.

  “Sergeant Gyles! I got somebody in the lobby,” a private shouted.

  He spun forward, searching the glassed-in entrance of the distant building. He could see a figure in a dark-blue coat pacing the lobby floor. The man was frantic, making jerky motions, his arms flailing wildly. Gyles felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to stiffen. His senses switched to alert as adrenaline filled his system. He knew something was wrong.

  Howard stepped ahead, squinting, his eyes focused on the man in the lobby. “Well, it’s about time. I’m going to go have a talk with them and see what’s going on. Have the men ready to depart.”

  Gyles held up an arm, blocking him. “Hold up, Doctor. Something isn’t right.”

  The young man turned back, looking him in the eye, then leaned in close so that the others could not hear. “I’m not sure what’s going on with you this morning. I was told you were squared away. First the ammo and now this? Sergeant, you need to get in line with your orders before you are replaced.”

  The veteran sergeant clenched his jaw and forced a smile before taking a step back. “Yes, sir. But—”

  Suddenly, their conversation was broken as the mysterious man shifted position and noticed them. The man stepped forward abruptly and lunged at the lobby doors, its body slamming against them repeatedly. “Sir, that right there isn’t normal,” Gyles said.

  Howard shook his head, edging past the sergeant. Gyles looked to Weaver and waved him forward to join them. Together, they fell in behind the Fed, naturally spacing themselves out to subconsciously guard the man as they approached the lobby. Howard moved quickly up the cement path, only slowing when he heard the muffled echo of screaming snarls from behind the secured shatterproof doors.

  As they closed in, Gyles could see that the man was dressed in a state police officer’s uniform. His hair and face were coated in dark-red blood, much of it smearing across the glass doors as the man feverishly pounded against them.

  “We need a medic up here,” Howard shouted over his shoulder. “The infection can’t be here, not this fast.”

  Weaver stepped closer to Gyles. “What kind of mad fuckery is this?” he whispered.

  Now fully alert, they moved closer to the man, whose shouts continued to echo through the doors. Howard stopped just short of the handle. He turned back to Gyles, the young man’s face now pale white.

  “Sergeant?” Howard mumbled. The man’s confidence was suddenly lost.

  Weaver gasped and stepped back. Gyles turned to him and saw his friend’s arm up and pointing. “Ra-Gyles,” he stuttered as his feet pedaled back. The veteran soldier looked up and saw the space Weaver was pointing to. From a darkened hallway, more bloodied-and-screaming figures were filling the lobby, attracted to the noise of the injured trooper.

  “Sergeant!” Howard shouted again, his voice now trembling.

  Gyles shook off his own fear and pulled his lieutenant back, nearly shoving him into Weaver. “Back to the Chinooks; we aren’t sticking around to find out what’s going on here.”

  Before an order could be given to fall back, gunfire erupted from the perimeter of the second helicopter—Third and Fourth Platoons were engaged. The trio increased their pace to a running withdrawal with Gyles pulling ahead of the others, rushing to support his men. He could see a mass of bloodied and screaming figures intermixed with the two platoons and Lieutenant Michaels standing in the center of the throng.

  “Contact right!” a soldier with Second Squad yelled. Gyles spun to see more figures approaching from the dark to the south. Then a third pack moved out of the shadows, piling over the abandoned car blocking open the vehicle gate. The door gun of the far Chinook roared, opening fire on the mob. Gyles turned to see the frenzied attackers that packed around the fighting men in a bloody flurry now swamped the distant helicopter. “Gyles, they’re getting closer,” Weaver shouted.

  He shook his head, fighting off his own panic and confusion. “What the hell is going on? These aren’t protestors, and these aren’t rioters,” he shouted, looking Howard in the eye. “What do you know about this?”

  The lieutenant had locked up, frozen with fear. Gyles reached out and slapped him back to reality. The man stammered and focused on the sergeant’s cold stare. “The virus it, it, it—no it can’t be here—not yet. Not this fast. This isn’t what was forecasted.” Howard dropped back, looking in all directions. Seeing they were surrounded, he looked to the waiting helicopter. “They said it wasn’t relevant to our mission, it was isolated—that they were just rumors, just rumors! It… it can’t be here.” He took another step closer to the Chinook.

  Rose was now hanging off the Chinook’s ramp, yelling for them to board. “We have to go! We need to get out of here now!” He looked directly at Gyles with remorse. “Command says the mission is scrubbed, and we don’t have the fuel to loiter. We’ll have to leave you if you don’t get on board.”

  “Sergeant!” came the panicked scream of a private on the line. Gyles turned back to the horrifying sight of the second Chinook as the pilot attempted to lift off. The helicopter, overwhelmed with the massing mob, listed heavily, its blades digging into the earth. Gyles watched with wide eyes as the chopper crept forward, eating itself then exploding into a ball of fire that ripped through the sky. The heat of the explosion burnt Gyles’s face. He turned away, shielding his eyes, only to spot Howard cowering to his front.

  Soldiers screamed in confusion all around him. The raging mob was now less than a hundred yards away from their own perimeter. There was no time to break away and board the waiting Chinook; the frenzied civilians would horde and overrun them if they turned their backs to withdraw as Third and Fourth Platoons had done. The helicopter’s turbines increased, the rotor wash blowing dust in every direction. He looked again and saw Howard flee into the tail of the helicopter.

  Gyles dipped his chin, knowing he had to act. They had to fight or be overrun. He stared at the rifle in his hands. He did not want to kill civilians, but he could not let them take his men. Slowly, he made the sign of the cross then shouted to the soldiers lying on the ground before him. “Open fire on anything moving at us; nothing gets through!” He raised his own weapon and focused on a female in tattered clothing running directly at him. Her eyes and lips black in a disfiguring mask, she showed no signs of stopping. “God forgive us if I’m wrong.”

  Chapter Three

  Day of Infection Plus Seven, 0630 Hours

  Biologic Institute Laboratory Central Virginia

  Gyles dove to the ground, pulling up to his elbows with his rifle tucked into the pocket of his shoulder. The mob was screaming and closing in on them. He could see their bloody, anger-wrenched faces and broken teeth behind torn, blackened lips. Their eyes glowed back at him, dull and lifeless. What kind of hell have we stepped into? he thought while letting loose another salvo of rounds, watching the blood-encrusted head of an elderly man snap back with the impact.

  “What are these things?” Weaver shouted. “I think we’re smack dab in the middle of the Zombie Apocalypse, boys!”

  Gyles performed a quick combat reload, locking on to the next runner. “Weaver! Shut up and just kill them!”

  A naked man crossed through Gyles’s field of vision. The man fell from multiple gunshots, rolled, then pulled back to his feet, running directly at them before the platoon’s M240 gunners nearly cut the man in half. More crazed people rushed past the mangled body, running directly into the protective fire created by the heavy machine guns. With both M240s online, they rapid-fired an intersecting pattern, cutting down anything that tried to cross it. He spotted a group running at them from a depression the machine guns couldn’t reach. Gyles reached for his hip out of habit, and then clenched his jaw, reme
mbering that they had no grenades … because they would not need them he was told.

  “Oh, shit no; we don’t need frags, this isn’t a combat mission. Well, fuck me running!” He cursed then took a deep breath, watching the enemy numbers in the depression to his front grow.

  The rotor blast behind him increased as the Chinook left the ground, the pilots making the tough call to abandon the men and escape the assault. Gyles knew it was the right thing to do, but now they were alone, left to fight their way out. With every round fired, every wave they dropped, he saw the encroaching mass draw closer. The fight was becoming futile. He slid back up to his knees and watched the perimeter collapse around him, like the men at Custer’s Last Stand. Second Platoon was drawing in for a final fight. He could see fear and determination on his men’s faces; they knew this was the end.

  He heard the first of the calls that caused his heart to skip a beat. “Ammo—I’m out!”

  Gyles looked, and spun side to side, surveying the perimeter. They had cleared most of them already inside the fences, but the wave of civilians was still pouring over the abandoned car in the open vehicle gate. The outside perimeter fences were holding back the rest. Those trying to climb over were knocked down by the platoon’s marksman. At the far sides of the wrought iron, he could see them stacked three deep, fighting to climb over. Anything getting past the gunners now stuck in the fence’s concertina wire.

  The lobby of the building’s glass enclosure was pressed full of bloody faces looking out. Gyles fought the impending doom, his men clearly trapped on all sides… like sitting in the bottom of a mason jar, things pouring over the side and nowhere to run. He shook his head and bit his lip until he tasted blood, watching the madness and knowing there wouldn’t be enough ammo to fight their way out. He let the fear and anxiety turn to anger, the way he’d done so many times in the past.

  The pop! of an M9—his soldiers were down to sidearms. Gyles rose, leaning into the M4, fired another shot, and felt the bolt lock back on an empty chamber. He dropped a hand, searching for his last magazine and sent it home with practiced precision. He took aim on the closest runner, a woman in a yellow sundress, her rage-filled face covered in blood. Before he could press the trigger, the target vanished in a stream of explosive tracers. A blast of mini-gun fire swept the mob and empty parking lot. Swirling lasers etched in from overhead, riddling and tearing bodies apart.

  Gyles could hear the cheers of his men. He dropped to his knees then back to his heels and saw the Chinook cutting in from the sky, both left and right door gunners working over the mass, raking the mob with precision. They put a stream of fire into the car at the vehicle gate, causing it to explode, the pyrotechnics hurling a spray of explosive sparks.

  The Chinook flared back and gained altitude, making one last high orbit before dropping its nose and making another swooping pass with guns blazing. Gyles spun behind him and saw Weaver getting soldiers on their feet. He was moving them online now, shooting at anything left alive to their front. Gyles hung back, watching as the CH-47 made a wide path around the facility’s fences then cut in sharply. It headed directly for the stranded soldiers. Swooping in, it arched up at a steep angle with the ramp open then dropped to the grassy field.

  Gyles locked eyes with the crew chief, who was frantically waving at them. “Move!”

  The sergeant reached down, lifted the soldier closest to him, and pushed him in the direction of the waiting helicopter. “Fall back, we’re leaving,” he ordered while reaching down to pull another man to his feet.

  He paused to survey the terrain. Looking to the north at the burning hulk of the second CH-47, he saw the bodies of the fallen men from Third and Fourth Squad intermixed with whatever it was that attacked them. Weaver moved up beside him and followed his gaze. “We need to make sure there is no one left alive,” Weaver said in a somber tone.

  Gyles nodded. “Take a medic and two others.” He reached out and grabbed his squad leader’s elbow. “Eric, I hate to ask you, but recover their ammo. We’re dry here. I don’t want to be stuck on the return leg empty-handed.”

  Weaver dipped his chin. “Roger that; I’ll get it done.” The man turned, calling for a medic as he directed two others to the north.

  A shrill voice from behind said, “Where are they going? We need to get out of here.”

  Gyles turned his head sharply to see Doctor Howard storming down the ramp of the Chinook at a fast step. He let the doctor draw in close then drew back and threw a stiff, right-hand punch that caught Howard just below the jaw. The doctor reeled back before collapsing to a knee. He stammered and looked up at the platoon sergeant. “I’ll have you arrested for that,” he gasped.

  “I am relieving you; you’re not in charge anymore.”

  “You don’t have the authority,” Howard said. He pushed back then rolled forward to his hands before attempting to push to his feet.

  Gyles stepped in and shouted so everyone could hear. “I am relieving Doctor Howard of any previous authority he commanded due to cowardice. He will be returning with us, but from this point, we will not obey his orders. With the loss of Lieutenant Michaels, I am now in command.”

  “You think you speak for everyone?” Howard said, pushing out his chest, looking at the men approaching the helicopter.

  Soldiers moved past him, scowling, showing their agreement with Gyles. Howard was jostled in the mass of men moving to board the helicopter, the soldiers not taking any caution to avoid him. All of them were clearly aware he’d abandoned them during the attack. Doctor or not, he hadn’t stayed to help them.

  “You can’t do this,” Howard said. Staggering back to his feet, he moved to lunge at Gyles.

  Before he could, the sergeant closed the distance and raised a fist, causing the doctor to flinch. “You can go quietly, or I can chain you to that vehicle gate and wait for the authorities to collect you.”

  Howard opened his mouth to continue the argument when Rose appeared, walking down the ramp and holding a length of chain in his hand, which he extended to Gyles. The young doctor eyed the chain cautiously before spinning and moving back onto the Chinook.

  Weaver ran up from the shadows, carrying two nylon packs. He stopped at Gyles’s side as the rest of his salvage party boarded. “Any survivors?” Gyles asked.

  Weaver looked at him, his face a sickly pale. He slowly shook his head side to side. “Nothing. They were all gone.”

  Gyles nodded and looked back, making a final check to ensure all his people were aboard. He turned and ushered Weaver ahead of him as they walked up the ramp. As soon as the helicopter was airborne with the ramp up, Weaver moved to the jump seat next to Gyles and pressed his face close. “Something ain’t right. The bodies… those things… I’m not sure they were human.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know… but our guys? They were more than dead.” Weaver looked down, his expression sour. He put a hand to his face and wiped away beads of sweat. “They”—he paused, taking in a shallow breath—“They were torn apart, and some looked like they’d been chewed on. And… the other things? The way they looked, the injuries… the wounds… they should have been dead themselves. Those weren’t people.”

  Gyles grimaced, searching for a response, when Howard pushed his way to the back of the helicopter. He stood over the sergeant and yelled, “Command will hear about this when we get back to Stewart.”

  The crew chief, still standing at the back ramp, moved close and shook his head. “Not going back to Stewart.”

  “What?” Gyles asked, ignoring Howard.

  “Not enough fuel. We burned too much making the gun run and coming back for you.”

  “Well, we do appreciate that, Rose.”

  “Wasn’t a totally selfless act,” Rose said. “When they found out we hadn’t recovered the medical team, command wouldn’t transmit the next waypoint, and then Hunter Field waved us off—wouldn’t let us return home. They’re under attack, and they’ve lost the airfield. Bastards
turned us around and said locate an alternate spot.”

  “Lost the airfield? Alternate?”

  “Yeah, that’s what they said. Without the medical team, we aren’t worth the risk of a quick reaction force. They don’t need us anymore… no alternate pickup, no orders.”

  Gyles looked back at his tired men in the compartment behind him. “What the hell do they expect us to do?”

  “I don’t know. We were trying to figure that out when we lost radio contact.”

  “Wait, lost contact? How is that possible?”

  Rose put a thumb over his shoulder, pointing to a port window. “I think you know how it’s possible. All the channels are broadcast storms. Everyone out there is screaming for help on every open channel; nearly impossible to get a message through. Whatever fight we’re in, we’re losing it.”

  Gyles stared blankly, attempting to process all the information. “Stewart is really gone? Hunter is gone?”

  Rose shrugged his shoulders. “No, not gone; they’re fighting, just too busy for us. Pilots are trying to figure out right now where to park us.”

  Gyles nodded and went to stand, looking toward the cockpit.

  “Wait—where are you going? We aren’t finished here,” Howard said, reaching out for him. Gyles quickly moved out of the way. Catching the doctor’s wrist, he bent it upward and maneuvered the man down and into the jump seat next to Weaver.

  “Keep an eye on this deserter. If he can’t control himself, chain him up.” He then turned and looked at Rose.

  “Could you take me to the pilots?”

  Chapter Four

  Day of Infection Plus Seven, 0710 Hours.

  Over Central Virginia

  He held the headset close, blocking out the sounds of the aircraft noise, his mind filled with overlapping broadcasts. Men in combat, panicked units overrun. Commands trying to get messages through, stepped on by other units begging for help. Fighter aircraft dropping ordnance on strategic bridges, trying to slow the advance, struggling to communicate with men in the fight. This was Iraq and Afghanistan, not the southern United States. He paused and shook his head; he hadn’t even experienced this much terror overseas. This was new, and he had no idea what to do.