Dead Storm: The Global Zombie Apocalypse

by Nicholas Ryan

  It was a rousing speech, delivered with force and passion. It left no one in doubt of America’s stand. SecState hoped it would be enough to make those who were wavering silently fall into line.

  Before calling for a vote from the chamber, the Secretary General turned to the Chairman of the Military Committee. The move was a planned and orchestrated formality.

  “Mr. Chairman, could the Council have the advice of NATO’s military authorities on this matter?”

  Jean Laurier cleared his throat and spoke formally. “Secretary General, the Committee proposes the Council be appraised of a plan to defend Western Europe that has been formulated by SACEUR.”

  Korvelis nodded. The theatrics complete, General Amos Bram got to his feet to address that NAC.

  “Thank you, Secretary General.

  “Ambassadors, the infected horde of undead pouring across the border of Russia represents the most significant threat to mankind that has ever existed. For years we have worried about nuclear annihilation. I’m here to tell you today that the NK Plague represents an even greater menace.

  “The infected are an army – make no mistake. They are savage, relentless, ruthless and, so far, unstoppable. To date, no single nation has been able to halt their advance with conventional military weapons or conventional military tactics. The Chinese armies were overrun and slaughtered. The Russian army on the Mongolian border has been routed. Russia now stands defenseless against invasion and obliteration. Barbed wire, trenches, fences and ancient walls won’t contain the undead.”

  It was bleak news brutally delivered, but necessary to ensure that every ambassador fully understood the gravity of the threat that Europe faced. Amos Bram paused for a heartbeat to be sure the dire situation was understood.

  “So far the generals facing the undead have fought battles based on borders. What I am proposing is a war determined by terrain. Across all of Western Europe, the one geographical feature that can be practically applied to a containment defense is the Rhine River. In World War Two, it was used as a defensive perimeter by the Nazi army trying to halt the thrust of Allied troops into Germany. Today, I am recommending we use the Rhine in exactly the same way.

  “My proposal is that the armies of Europe under the NATO banner withdraw behind the western bank of the Rhine. We surrender Turkey, Greece, Poland, Austria, Croatia, the Czech Republic and the eastern regions of Germany, and we evacuate everyone from those countries across the bridges of the Rhine into western Germany, England, France and Italy. It would be the largest mass exodus of civilians ever undertaken – but it is the only way we can hope to preserve Europe’s people.

  “The undead cannot be stopped with conventional tactics on conventional battlefields,” he repeated the point. “But they can be stopped at the Rhine. There are some forty bridges that span the river. Once we have evacuated everyone who can be saved, we will destroy the bridges and begin a bombing campaign using the NATO air forces. I do not believe the infected will attempt to traverse the Swiss Alps. Everything we’ve seen so far suggests the undead are mindless zombies. They will move along the paths of least resistance.”

  For almost a full minute the chamber was muted to stunned silence. Then a sudden uproar of voices broke out; a flurry of protests, outrage and condemnation. The Secretary general called four times for order before the strident voices finally settled. General Amos Bram stood stoic and resolute in defiance, and prepared to take incoming unfriendly fire.

  “You would leave Turkey to ruin?” the ambassador challenged hotly.

  “Yes,” General Bram said. “But I would save the Turkish people. I would also leave Berlin to the infected, and Warsaw and all of Greece. The land, the buildings, the businesses – they don’t count for a damn!” his voice rose. “Because without the people, Europe is nothing! Everything that our bombers destroy can be rebuilt. Every building that burns to the ground can be replaced. The nations of Turkey and Poland and Hungary and Croatia are nothing without their people. I will not lead an army into war if the fight is for property or pride. But I’ll lay down my life to save the peoples of those nations. And so will every soldier under my command who wears a uniform.”

  There were more angry ambassadors on the verge of protest. The American General’s passionate defense of his strategy strangled them all.

  “I’ve considered every option,” Amos Bram said into the silence. He was calm now, almost despairing. “Believe me – if there was any other way to fight the infected, I would gladly listen. But there isn’t. The Rhine is the only place we can successfully defend – and only then if every NATO nation joins forces and we are able to preserve an absolutely sterile environment on the west bank. If even one infected person gets across before all the bridges are destroyed… Europe’s population will be exterminated.”

  The Secretary General held up his hand to call the meeting to order. There were still muttered rumblings of discontent from sections of the chamber.

  Diplomatically, Konstantinos Korvelis thanked General Bram for his contribution. “At this stage I think it wise to take a one-hour adjournment. When we meet to vote, it will be in ambassador-only format.”

  *

  For another three hours the debate in the chamber raged; arguments, protests and raised voices swirled around the great table. When at last the ambassadors emerged, they were dazed and senseless with fatigue.

  Virginia Clayton shook the Secretary General’s hand. She gave Pierre Delcoise and Jeremy Farthingdon exhausted but hopeful smiles.

  NATO had voted to go to war, and to fight the infected undead from behind the Rhine River.

  The race to save Europe had begun.

  HEADQUARTERS CMN (CABLE MEDIA NETWORK)

  NEW YORK

  The backdrop graphic was of a burning Kremlin, and over the top of the artwork had been written the words ‘Russia in Ruins’.

  A female news anchor wearing her hair scraped back from her face stared out from behind a desk. Across the bottom of the screen scrolled a single ticker-tape message on a loop.

  ‘Russian army crushed by undead horde along Mongolian border. Thousands killed. Russian army routed.’

  “Breaking news right now from the Mongolian border where independent journalists are claiming the Russian army dispatched by Moscow to confront the undead horde has suffered a crushing defeat. On the line we have Antony Chin. Antony, I understand you’re calling from a town about two hundred miles north of the battlefield.”

  There was a brief pause, and then a distorted voice boomed, overly loud. It was a man’s voice, Russian accented.

  “I’m calling from the Mongolian enclave of Munkhkhaan,” the journalist on the phone reported.

  The news anchor looked straight at the camera and nodded. “And you were swept up in the route of the Russian army?”

  “No,” the reporter said. “The Russian government has enforced a strict embargo on any news about the battle. No western media has officially been able to report on the conflict. This is the closest that journalists have been allowed to get. Information from the border is sketchy, but elements of the Russian army have been streaming north in disarray. These are not retreating troops,” the caller opined. “These are frightened, terrified soldiers that are fleeing for their lives. They’re stealing cars. Two soldiers shot a truck driver in the main street. They hauled the dead body from the cab and drove away. Lawlessness and anarchy have the citizens of this small town in fear for their lives.”

  “Antony, do you feel safe where you are?”

  “No,” the caller admitted. “With every passing minute more and more deserting Russian soldiers are streaming into the town. Many of them are drunk. I’ve heard several frightened screams and at least a dozen gunshots in the past half-hour. And no one knows how far away the lead elements of the undead horde are. They could be here at any moment.”

  “Are the Russian troops in the town preparing to defend Munkhkhaan?”

  “No,” the journalist said. “They’re drunk in the s
treets. They’re staggering through the local shops smashing windows and looting.”

  “There is no military authority?” the CMN news anchor seemed incredulous.

  “There’s no authority at all,” the journalist in Mongolia said. “Discipline has been abandoned. The Russian army on the border has entirely collapsed and now nothing stands in the way of the undead driving north towards Moscow.”

  18° 56’ 09” NORTH, 142° 08’ 52” EAST

  PHILLIPINE SEA

  Commander Ted Thirmanna – call sign ‘Chaos’ – stepped out on to the USS Nimitz’s vast flight deck where his wingman, Lieutenant Nathan ‘Zero’ Lyon, stood waiting anxiously in his flight suit.

  Ordnance crews in red shirts hovered over the two F/A-18E single-seated Superhornets, checking and re-checking each aircraft’s ordnance of Mark 83 one-thousand-pound bombs.

  “It will be a milk-run,” Thirmanna reassured his wingman. Lyon was a ‘nugget’ – a Naval aviator on his first tour. The young pilot was nervous, his face glistening in light sheen of sweat. The two pilots had been paired together by the CAG because the Carrier’s Air Wing Commander figured the mission was a fine way to give the new pilot some much-needed experience. Had they been flying a high-risk mission against an armed enemy target, Thirmanna might have been less blasé and less reassuring.

  An air strike against an unarmed bulk carrier like the Ebony Sunrise was little more than a training exercise – with live ammunition.

  *

  Thirmanna throttled slowly forward, watching the yellow-vested Flight Deck Director’s hand signals until he was given over to the Shooter.

  The Shooter took over guidance of the aircraft and signaled for Thirmanna to drop the Hornet’s Launch Bar. The fighter jet came to a sudden stop on CAT One and a Launch Petty Officer scrambled beneath the belly of the jet to confirm the bar was locked and engaged.

  Thirmanna waited patiently, gazing out through the cockpit to watch Zero Lyon suddenly launch off CAT Two in a deafening howl of engine noise and violent energy.

  Lyon’s Superhornet reached liftoff speed in two seconds, and catapulted off the flight deck with both engines howling. The fighter dipped beneath the carrier’s bow for a single heart-in-mouth moment, then reappeared, clawing at the sky for altitude as it banked away.

  Thirmanna waited for a signal from the CAT One Shooter then pushed his Hornet’s throttles to full power. On the threshold to launch, he could feel the sudden surge of adrenalin; that secret exhilarating thrill of danger and excitement that never grew stale.

  Under the watchful eye of two Troubleshooters, he went through the process of working the rudder pedals and control stick to ensure the aircraft’s controls were all functional. Upon all-clear, the Shooter finally gave Thirmanna the signal to light the afterburners. His heart began to pound in his chest. The aircraft hummed and vibrated around him like a caged animal eager to be slipped of its shackles.

  He gave the Shooter a crisp salute. The Shooter mirrored the gesture then dramatically dropped to one knee to touch the Flight Deck. It was the signal the Catapult Control Station operator had been waiting for.

  CAT One fired and the Hornet was launched off Nimitz’s deck in a violent thrust of power that snapped Thirmanna’s head back and jolted his spine.

  *

  Both Hornets met a tanker circling at ten thousand feet over the carrier, and topped off their fuel tanks. Chaos Thirmanna banked left and put his fighter into a G-warm routine – pulling six G’s for several minutes to acclimatize and prepare his body for the mission. Lyon performed similar maneuvers. Satisfied at last, Thirmanna ‘kicked the nugget out to cruise’, giving the young pilot space in the air rather than transiting to target in tight formation.

  Before launch, Intel had given both pilots a thorough brief of the Ebony Sunrise’s last known location and the nature of her threat. The ship’s coordinates were loaded into the aircraft’s sophisticated computer system, allowing the pilots to upload a video image of the target area once they were within range.

  Eighteen minutes later they had visually acquired the Ebony Sunrise – a dark blunt-nosed shape in the ocean trailing a long foaming wake. Even at altitude the freighter’s massive bulk was impressive, cleaving an arrow-straight course through the endless dark blue swells.

  Using the onboard system, Thirmanna studied the surrounding ocean. He found nothing that would constitute a strike abort, and began setting up for the attack.

  The CAG had ordered a hard deck of four thousand feet for the bombing attack with a one minute spacing between bomb drops to give time for the debris from each attack to settle. Thirmanna checked his altitude. The Hornets were cruising at twelve thousand feet, with Lyon’s fighter on his port wing. Thirmanna rolled into a forty-five degree dive and lined up on the target. As the jet streaked towards the ship, Thirmanna’s eyes swept the structure from stem to stern. There were figures running along the deck, moving in erratic patterns, scattering and circling as those crazed or confused. It was the final reassurance the pilot needed for confirmation.

  Thirmanna pickled the weapons release button on his control stick and a second later the Mark 83’s fell away from the rack on his port wing with an audible ‘clunk!’. Thirmanna heaved his nose up in a swooping climb and craned his neck under the crushing G forces to watch the bomb strike.

  “Please, God, don’t let me screw this up!”

  The Mark 83’s were ‘dumb’ bombs with no internal guidance program. The Hornet’s determined their aim through a sophisticated onboard-computerized bombing system that calculated the variable elements of speed, wind, and angle of approach.

  It was not a perfect process, and it became even more imprecise at high altitudes when the bombs were directed at a moving target and the influence of the variables – especially wind – became greater.

  The first bomb exploded fifty feet off the ship’s starboard beam. The ocean erupted in a huge foaming geyser. Thirmanna cursed under his breath.

  Sixty seconds later Zero Lyon dived on the ship. His bomb struck the Ebony Sunrise amidships, exploding just forward of the superstructure. The impact of the huge explosion was devastating. The freighter disappeared in a bright orange fireball and a towering inferno of black oily smoke.

  “Bingo!” Lyon cried out in boyish excitement.

  Thirmanna rolled in over the target for a second attack. The maimed ship was still driving through the ocean, her superstructure twisted, her stern hatches blown open and her spine fractured. She began to wallow, listing to port, her wake turning into a black slick of oil. Thirmanna released the bomb racked to his starboard wing. The Mark 83 struck the crippled ship forward and blew the snub-nose of her bow open.

  When Lyon swooped to release his second bomb, the ship was already in her death throes. His bomb struck another hammer-blow amidships. It was enough to break the Ebony Sunrise’s back. She folded in half in a huge volcanic eruption of roiling smoke and fire. Her mangled bow section rolled turtle and sank swiftly. The ship’s stern rose high into the air and hung suspended for several seconds amidst a boiling ocean of bubbles and wreckage – then slid slowly and smoothly into the dark blue depths.

  Chapter 14:

  KIEV

  UKRAINE

  “Slava Ukraini,” said Yuriy Lyachko in a firm proud voice, “Glory to Ukraine.” He stepped back from the dark doorway and gave the clenched fist salute of a revolutionary so the guard on the other side of the peephole could see him clearly.

  A moment later the door opened and a huge black-clad man with a brutal scarred face and cold dark eyes appeared.

  “Slava Ukraini,” the guard said. His voice sounded like the deep bass growl of a grizzly bear. He held the door open. Yuriy put his arm around the waist of the girl beside him and steered her through into a gloomily lit passageway. On a side table stood shot glasses of vodka. The guard handed a glass to Yuriy, ignoring the woman completely. The two men drank. Yuriy gasped as the fumes of the alcohol burned the back of his throat with s
mooth, briny flavour. His eyes watered. He slammed the glass back down on the table and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Welcome, brother,” the guard said. He let his eyes roam suspiciously over the woman. She had honey blonde hair, a thin pretty face and dancing blue eyes.

  “She is with me,” Yuriy saw the direction of the guard’s gaze and sensed the challenge. “She can be trusted. She believes in the revolution.”

  The guard grunted. He unlocked a narrow door at the end of the passage revealing a staircase that descended to a dimly lit cellar restaurant. A waitress stood at the bottom of the steps. She was dressed in military fatigues with her hair tucked up beneath a brown forage cap. She had classical high Slavic cheek bones and pale perfect skin.

  “Slava Ukraini.”

  Yuriy nodded. The restaurant was filled with small groups of diners, huddled around tables that had been fashioned from old wooden wine barrels. The chairs were an eclectic collection of chipped odd-sorts, and the only lighting came from rows of candles around the walls. The air was a warm smoky haze.

  “We have a table waiting for you, Yuriy Lyachko,” the waitress said. “It is an honour to have you join us tonight.”

  Yuriy grunted. He was a small, slim man with shaggy black hair, close foxy eyes and drawn sallow cheeks. He searched the room warily, his senses heightened and on alert for danger or threats. His mouth was a thin, grim line. Satisfied at last, he allowed himself to relax. He gave the woman on his arm a curt nod of ascent, and peeled off the heavy knee-length coat he had been wearing. He handed it to the waitress who draped it carefully over her arm, then led the couple to a shadowed corner of the cellar where a table had been reserved.

  Yuriy sat with his back against the wall and cast a final wary glance around the room. People at the other tables were stealing furtive glances in his direction, leaning close to each other and whispering. A young dark-haired woman sauntered past the table, her hips swaying with provocative invitation. She held Yuriy’s gaze brazenly for long seconds, an enigmatic smile on her lips. At another time he might have been interested, but not tonight. There would be plenty of women for him once the work of the revolution was completed.