The Soldier (Book 1): Torment

by Lundy, W. J.

  With a blast, an MRAP crushed the remaining creatures and collided with the hangar door, forcing it shut. Steel screeched as the large vehicle backed away. Soldiers poured from the rear doors, one of them grabbing Gyles in a bear hug and carrying him to the back of the tall armored vehicle. Gyles struggled against the man. His body weak, he felt himself being thrown inside. The doors slammed shut, the screaming of the infected blocked out by the noise. Their claws scratched against the armored walls. The vehicle pulled away like an ice breaker moving through the sea of monsters.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Gyles screamed, struggling to rise.

  A man pulled at his collar and shook him. “It’s okay, there’s nothing left to do.”

  Gyles fought against the man’s grip. “No! There’re people back there. Let me out.”

  The man pressed his face close to his own. “Look at me, Sergeant. It’s me… Luke. There is nothing left; nothing we can do. It’s over.”

  Gyles closed his eyes. His throat squeezing shut, he felt the tears on his cheeks. “It can’t ….” he struggled to stay awake. The pressure in his head becoming unbearable, the torment in his thoughts screaming at him, he finally relented and let the darkness take him.

  Chapter Tweleve

  Day of Infection Plus Eight, 0900 Hours

  GW National Forest, Virginia.

  His head jerked forward with the sudden stop of the HUMVEE. The sun was bright, shining in through the dirt-coated windshield. He turned his head wearily and gazed out into the open desert, looking closer at the debris-covered shoulder of the road. Plastic bottles, cardboard, garbage bags, even dead animals littered the roadside. He was hot, and his head hurt. He could feel the sweat rolling down his temples. He removed his glove and put his hand over the barely cool air coming from the returns.

  “Why are we stopped?” he asked.

  Before anyone could answer, the radio came alive with chatter. The driver put the handset to his ear and looked back at him. “They want you at the front of the convoy, Sergeant Gyles.”

  Gyles focused on the driver’s face; he knew the man’s eyes, but he couldn’t come up with the name. He cursed himself for falling asleep—he never slept on patrol. He nodded and opened his door, stepping into the blast furnace of the Iraqi desert.

  The bright sunlight reflecting off the bleached surface of the road forced him to squint. He searched his pockets for his sunglasses, but they were gone. Again, he cursed and started the march ahead, every step hitting him like he was walking the surface of the sun. Ahead he saw the crowd; they were gathered around a deep crater in the center of the road. He closed his eyes again and slowly opened them. Colonel Jessup looked back at him and waved him forward. He moved closer then froze.

  “Why is Jessup here?” he said aloud, then looked left and right to see that the road was empty, the convoy gone. Back to the front, the hole was still there, Jessup standing over its edge, Captain Younger beside him. They were waving Gyles forward. He didn’t want to go, but his feet wouldn’t stop. He approached the rim of the crater. Younger and Jessup placed hands on him, trying to push him in. Below in the hole, he could see the twisted and bloodied faces of his men, the civilians from the armory. They were writhing in pain screaming at him to help, trying to climb out of the hole.

  “No, stop!” he screamed

  He rolled hard and felt his body bounce off the hard floor, the revving of a diesel engine and the protesting of steel echoing in his ears. Gyles opened his eyes then immediately clenched them shut from the pain in his head. Slowly, he opened them again. He was in the back of an MRAP. He turned his head and could see boots and piles of gear on the floor beside him.

  Gyles saw two sleeping men on the bench to the right, more across from them on the left. He looked at the gear strapped into the troop seats then at the ceiling. Ahead, he could see the driver and another in the passenger seat. He reached out and grabbed a strap, attempting to pull himself up. The strap was attached to a rucksack and it came down on top of him, spilling over an ammo can filled with loose rounds. He pushed the rucksack away and looked up to see Weaver staring down at him.

  “Gawd damn, you’re alive,” Weaver shouted.

  Gyles scowled and stuck out his hand for a lift. “Da fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  Weaver reached down and helped lift his platoon sergeant up into one of the troop seats. Gyles leaned back and found it far more conformable than what he was used to. No canvas seat; instead they were black leather bucket seats. Weaver caught his stare and said, “Police get the vehicles from surplus, but they add things to make them better.”

  Gyles nodded and looked back to the front. He could see that they were on a gravel road, following a HUMVEE to their front. “We lost the armory, didn’t we?” Gyles said.

  Weaver nodded his head. “Yeah, I thought I lost you too when you fell out after we got you into the battle wagon. You’ve been out almost twelve hours. The doctor thought maybe you were infected.”

  “Infected? Am I?” Gyles asked.

  “No. The Doc says you have a concussion,” Weaver said. “Probably from all those flash bangs bouncing off your grape. I don’t know how you stayed conscious through that.”

  Gyles shook his head then looked to the pair of soldiers sleeping on the seats. His eyes swiveled past all the empty space. “This truck isn’t full. How many did we lose?”

  Weaver shook his head. “It’s not good. We’ve got four HUMVEEs and the two MRAPS. Nineteen made it out, including the cops and National Guard guys.”

  “Including?” Gyles asked, not really wanting to know the answer.

  “We have five troops from First Squad and two from Second. With us, plus the Doc, ten of us are all that’s left of the platoon.”

  Gyles’s stomach turned, and he thought he was going to be sick. They’d flown out of Fort Stewart with forty men. He leaned back and took a deep breath, accepting a water bottle Weaver handed him. After taking heavy drinks he said, “The Chinook?”

  Weaver shrugged. “Not great news, but the best we got, if you can call it that. They were able to pull some people off the roof and get away. They tried for Belvoir.” The man paused and looked back toward the windshield. “It’s gone, Robert. The place was overrun; they had to turn back.”

  “Where are they?”

  “National forest. It’s where we’re headed. Luke knows a spot that’s about as remote as you can get. The bird landed there early this morning and reported the area unoccupied.”

  “No,” Gyles said, leaning forward struggling to stand. “We need to go to D.C. That’s where Captain Younger said the battalion and the rest of the division were headed.”

  Weaver put out a hand and guided him back down and into his seat. “You need to take it easy,” he said. “We can’t go to the Capital. Rose said the bombing has already started. The Air Force is knocking out bridges and highway overpasses and hitting large populations. We would never make it. Best thing to do right now is hunker down. The men are in no condition for a fight.”

  “The bird got to Belvoir, then just turned back? They couldn’t find a safe place in D.C.? The Army didn’t have a place for them?”

  “The Capital is a warzone, boss. Rose said the city was under full assault on all sides. Anything flying is evacuating people while the troops on the ground fight it out. They had civilians on board, and the combat air controllers waved them off. Told them to dump their civilians and return to help with the extraction of government officials.”

  “Dump?”

  “Yeah, that’s what they said.”

  “Where?”

  “They were given coordinates of a FEMA camp outside the city proper. When they flew over it, the place was nothing but bodies and blowing canvas. They called it in and were told to leave the families any place that looked hospitable. Rose said the pilots weren’t interested in trading civilian lives for government cronies, so they cut off communications and came back to us.”

  “Where were the offi
cials going?”

  Weaver shrugged. “Some bunker complex in Colorado; they wouldn’t give up the location.”

  The MRAP slowed and, looking up, Gyles could see that they were easing off the broken road and onto a graded path. Straining, he could see the eaves of rustic cabins and finally the outline of the CH-47 parked on the outer edge of a wide grass field. The truck stopped, and Luke looked back at him for the first time. The man didn’t speak but gave him a frowning nod before opening the door and leaving the vehicle.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Gyles said, pointing to the door.

  Weaver leaned past him and worked a control, letting the rear ramp drop down. The bright light pouring in woke the troopers sleeping in the troop seats. Gyles shifted his weight and, taking a handhold on the ceiling, maneuvered himself out of the MRAP. He turned back, took a quick look, and spotted his rifle. He snatched it up then took simple steps forward, testing his balance. Weaver moved out beside him as Gyles surveyed the terrain.

  They were at the end of a gravel road in a semi-circle. Ahead of them were three cabins—a large one in the center, flanked by two smaller ones. A field was off to the right with a pair of picnic pavilions, what he could only imagine were outhouses, and a large fire pit. The entire area was surrounded by tall, full trees. “Looks like a damn Boy Scout camp,” he mumbled.

  Weaver’s eyes performed the same scan, and the man nodded his agreement.

  Luke rounded the vehicle with the AR-10 held in his right hand and said, “Welcome back.”

  Gyles shook off the comment.

  Luke gave a knowing half smile. “We are a day’s drive up hard terrain from Vines. Even if they managed to follow us, it’ll be at least a day or two before they get here.”

  Looking at the big cabin, he could see the door was open. A woman walked out, leading a pair of kids toward the outhouse. “How many dependents we got here?” Gyles asked.

  “Nine, all women and kids. Came in with the Chinook.”

  “Shooters?”

  Luke shrugged. “Including the five on the flight crew, two of my officers made it off the roof.”

  “The sheriff?”

  Luke shook his head no.

  Gyles exhaled through pursed lips. “These numbers are making my head hurt. So what’s the count? How many people do we have in camp?”

  “Thirty-five.”

  Gyles scratched at his head. He saw the CH-47 pilots and Rose approaching his little circle. He waited for the flight crew to join his little pow-wow then he looked at Rose. “What’s the status on the bird?”

  Mitchell, the pilot, answered for his crew chief. “Grounded, we came in on fumes. We might get it in the air, but we have less than thirty minutes of flight time. Thirty is being generous though. I wouldn’t count on more than ten. We’re checking the maps; with any luck, we’ll find a field close enough to top off.”

  Rubbing his temples, Gyles clenched his eyes shut. “If we stuff the Hummers full and max out the MRAPs with ten each, we can drive out of here then?” It was more a question than a statement.

  Luke shook his head no. “Not so fast—we ran our vehicle tanks dry getting here. Those MRAPs are thirsty, and the armored Hummers aren’t much better off. We have about twenty gallons of diesel in cans for the entire convoy. Not like we have a logistics train inbound to resupply us.”

  Gyles looked at Weaver, who shrugged, then at Rose, who shook his head.

  “You make the call, Sergeant,” Mitchell said.

  “Give me the rundown on your summer camp here, Luke,” Gyles said. “What am I looking at?”

  Luke undid the Velcro on his black SWAT armor so it was hanging open on the sides. “Well, it’s mostly out of use. I used to do some hunting and fishing over the next ridge line and would park my truck up here on longer trips.” He stopped and pointed to the buildings. “Nobody stays here. I’ve never seen anyone hang out in the cabins more than a couple hours. I bumped into a park ranger a couple years back; he said this place used to have something to do with the Civilian Conservation Corps, then later it was used as billeting for workers that were sent up here to work on the roads and to cut timber inside the reservation.”

  “And now?” Gyles asked.

  “Most I’ve ever seen is hikers stopping in for lunch, stuff like that. They usually stick to the pavilion and the BBQ grills. The big one is solid. The smaller cabins need some work, but they’re well-built so it won’t take much effort to really harden them up.” He wiped sweat from his forehead as he looked at the structures. “They’ll support our needs—short term at least.”

  “What are you thinking?” Gyles asked.

  The man closed one eye and looked at the terrain then back to Gyles. “We can break down the plywood off the pavilion roofs to barricade the cabin windows. I know of a fence row not far from here; we can pull that up and cut trees to do the rest. There is no getting the civvies out of here, so I suggest we barricade and get safe. At least until someone can come for us or we figure out how to rustle up some fuel.”

  Staring at the building, Gyles pursed his lips, considering the options before he turned to Weaver. “What’s the gauge on food and ammo?”

  The man shook his head. “We burnt up a lot of ammo getting out of Vines. Food situation isn’t quite as dire. We have plenty of MREs and water for a few days.”

  Again, looking at Luke, Gyles grinned. “This is your hunting ground? Can it provide for us?”

  The man thought about it, then said, “I wouldn’t want to fire a shot up here. It could pull those things to us; a gunshot can travel for miles.” He paused, considering the question again. “I think I could work something on the river behind us, maybe rig some nets. But I wouldn’t get excited about it; we have a lot of mouths to feed.”

  “Okay,” Gyles said, keeping his eyes on the cabins. “You harden up the camp and do what you can to find some game. Your officers have control of the civilians.” He looked to Rose. “Make sure the guys in green do what’s needed to help here. I’ll take a gun truck and the empty fuel cans with Sergeant Weaver and see what we can find out there. There has to be something close by.”

  The men nodded and broke off, returning to what they were doing. Weaver waited for them to leave earshot before he looked at his platoon sergeant. “We aren’t going anywhere today. You need rest and so do the men. The guys are falling apart, and you aren’t in much better shape. Look at you, ya can barely stand.”

  Gyles shook his head. “There’s no time for that. I’m fine, and you know it.”

  “Take a break, Sarge, or this trip isn’t going to happen. I won’t roll with you, and I’m not sending my people out with your head still full of cotton balls and cobwebs.” Weaver pointed toward the main cabin building, where men were gathering to eat meals and drink from canteens. “Head up there and get some chow, and we’ll talk again. Get some rest, boss.”

  Preparing to argue, Gyles took a step forward and felt the weight in his legs. He was light-headed from lack of food and the pounding headache. Each limb felt like it was wrapped in concrete blankets. He looked down at his watch. His men had been going non-stop for over thirty-six hours. His literal respite of unconsciousness in the back of the MRAP was the most rest he’d had since getting the call from Lieutenant Michaels nearly three days ago.

  Gyles looked back up at Weaver and put a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks, brother. I appreciate you keeping me straight.” He exhaled and looked toward the vehicles parked in a diagonal line along the front of the compound. “I’ll take a couple hours. You get to the men and make sure they are rotating and doing the same.”

  Weaver nodded.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Day of Infection Plus Ten, 0930 Hours

  GW National Forest, Virginia.

  Weaver had been right to force him down, to take a break and let the team lick its wounds. Once given the proper opportunity to rest, he realized how broken and bruised his team really was. For himself, what was supposed to be a few hours nap,
turned into two days of downtime. His men were beaten worse than he originally thought, and no matter how much drive he thought he had, he couldn’t clear the ringing in his own head. Still the time wasn’t wasted. They dug in and improved the compound, using what they could to make them more comfortable.

  Once he’d stripped out of his body armor and gear, he could see that there wasn’t a spot on his flesh that didn’t wear a dark bruise or a lump from the previous night’s fight. He’d collapsed soon after. He’d slept nearly a full day before being woken once an hour by the medic to make sure he was still alive. Howard said he was certain it was a TBI (Traumatic Brain Injury), but without a brain scan there was no way to be sure. They would settle on a concussion and treat him accordingly. The voices, the questions about what he’d done wrong, all the second-guessing sat in the front of his mind. But his problems weren’t just in his head.

  He’d finally talked his way out of bedrest the evening before and now, after having a breakfast of fresh-caught fish and some weak coffee, he was feeling restless. His head was still pounding, and he knew it was about to get worse as he watched the unit’s sole surviving medic, Specialist Rodriguez, walk his way.

  The young man had come by to check on him, but mostly to give him a final exam to make sure he wasn’t infected. Even though Doctor Howard was no longer in charge of the mission, or what was left of the people on it, he had managed to persuade and gain influence over the platoon medic. He was going from person to person, taking temperatures for fever and doing quick inspections for cuts and bites, which was recently determined to be the primary means of transmission of the infection.

  When the medic got to him, Gyles wanted to bark and turn him away, but he looked at the faces of the other soldiers closely watching him. There was no bravado in denying treatment in the field, so he bit his tongue and went along with the exam. If he wanted the confidence of his men, he needed a clean bill of health. The medic was barely out of high school but having been on the battalion’s tour to Iraq, he was far from green. Just over five foot, he had shoulders as wide as an Ox, and Gyles knew from firsthand experience the kid could be counted on in a fight. “No cuts, no bites, no scratches that I can see, Sergeant. Take these for the headaches, just one a day,” Rodriguez said, handing Gyles three 800mg Ibuprofen pills. “I wish I could give you more.”