Bad Company: Zombie Killers 8

by John F. Holmes

  Just then, the team radio crackled into life, scaring the crap out of me. We had been avoiding using the radio because some of the mercenary companies had equipment that was as good as, or better than, ours, and we didn’t want to give ourselves away.

  “Liberty, Liberty, this is Warthog, over.” I stared at the mic, dumbfounded.

  Doc waved her hand in front of my face. “Aren’t you going to answer it?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I answered. Picking up the mic, I squeezed it.

  “Warthog, this is Lost Boys Six. Sitrep, over.”

  The answer came back very scratchy. “We are doggo in the park, about two hundred meters towards your farm from the objective. Is that really you, Nick?”

  “Yes, it’s really me, break.” That was Billy Ortega on the radio. I paused, then said, “Let me talk to Ryan, over.”

  IST-5, which had been on the escort mission for the Rec & Tec crew, was commanded by Master Sergeant Ryan Szymanski, the old friend we had come looking for. The radio call was like a miracle. Two hundred meters in the direction of my farm meant two hundred meters north of the Museum.

  “MIA, two effectives. Me and Wilson, over.”

  “Roger, are you secure?”

  “Sitting pretty with eyes on a bunch of mighty pissed off bad guys.”

  The news about Ryan hit me hard. His body was probably back on the street by the ambush site. I was going to get these bastards, and hit them hard.

  “Warthog, sit tight. I’ll get back to you at zero five hundred, save your batteries.”

  “Wilco, out.”

  I turned to tell Cabrejo to tell get him to ring up Task Force Liberty headquarters, since he had been acting as my RTO. That’s when I stopped.

  Our link to the outside world was on his body, several hundred meters away and surrounded by several hundred undead. Better and better.

  I woke Elam and laid down next to Brit, holding her hand, feeling her fever. Sleep didn’t come easily, as I ran our options over in my mind. I wanted Shona’s advice, she was used to fighting in the city, but she was gone. I put her death aside.

  Waking with a start, I realized my watch was beeping at me. Boz stood by the door, listening for movement, and I got up, first checking on Brit. She was breathing, but even more feverish. I woke the rest of the team and we each used the dried up toilet.

  “OK,” I said, after I had called the guys from Warthog. They were still safe in their hideout, and I told them that we would come to them, as soon as we had coms with higher again.

  “Listen up,” I told the team. “Cross load ammo and water, and make sure your shit is working right. We’re going to have to go after the radio if we want to save Brit’s life. Unfortunately it’s on Cabrejo l’s back.” A collective groan rose from them, and I realized that yesterday had taken the fight out of them.

  “Elam, how many rounds do you have left?”

  “Sixty three. Not enough,” he answered. Not enough to make a large enough dent in the crowd of undead.

  “Nick,” said Alex. “You’re just a brevet Colonel, so I’m giving you a command. I’m going to run for that radio, with you guys providing covering fire.” He held up his hand when I started to argue. “I’m not part of your team, and in a knock-down, drag out fight, I’m just going to get in your way. However, I’m pretty damn fast on my feet. If you can clear me a corridor, maybe make a distraction down the street, I’ll get it and bring it back to you. I owe Brit my life.”

  I looked at him, thought hard, and then decided against it. “I can’t let you do that.”

  “You don’t have a choice, because I outrank you, and I’d hate to see someone like you drummed out of the Army for disobeying a direct order. Don’t worry, I’m fast enough.”

  “Let him, if it saves Brit,” said Ziv.

  “Brit is where she is right now because you took off running after Cabrejo l. So you don’t get to say shit about what happens to her,” said Doc. Ziv looked like he had been slapped in the face, and he went pale, then got up and walked into the corridor.

  “Someone had to say it,” was her only comment, and turned back to where Brit lay, mumbling feverishly.

  I breathed deeply, then said, “We can create a diversion down the street with some grenades, but only as far as we can throw them. The hard part will be coming back through them.”

  “Why run back through at all?” said Boz. “Just keep going around the next corner and take a left, and we’ll meet you there.”

  “That’s a better plan. Ziv,” I said, since he had come back in, saying nothing, “you stay here with Doc. Elam, start clearing a path from the window here, drop as many as you can on this side of the street.” The sniper didn’t answer, just picked up his M-14 and moved to the window, firing, taking aim again, and firing. Ziv joined him at the window, using his suppressed AK.

  “OK, let’s do this then. Are you sure you’re up to it with your head wound? Blood drives them crazy, you know.”

  “I’ve got a headache, but I’m fine.” He didn’t look it, with dried blood on his face and a bandage around his head, but I saw no other options. In fact he had given me none.

  “We’ll give you another smoke screen, both before and after, and some covering fire; Elam can shoot through the smoke. Cabrejo l’s body is on the first landing, just grab his pack and go, don’t screw around trying to get the radio out. We have extra batteries here.”

  “If, well, if I don’t make it, put a round through my head, will you?” He had gone pale at the realization of what he was about to do, but he set his jaw and stood, stripping off his armor and velcroing up his bite resistant collar.

  “I know there’s a lot, but you can make it. Just don’t get caught up going up and down the subway steps.”

  “I’ll go with him,” said Elam. “He will need someone to keep the demons off him, and I am a fast runner. As my father was before, yes, Nick?”

  Oh, you brave, brave bastards. All to save one woman’s life.

  “I’d welcome the company,” said McHale, and grasped the Afghan’s hand in his own.

  “No, I’ll go. I can at least order you to stay back, Sergeant,” I said.

  “With all due respect, Colonel, you are fifteen years older than me and only have one leg. I will go.”

  Chapter 294

  We stood at the closed door, and I opened it a few millimeters. Undead still moved around aimlessly in the street, and I was extremely careful not to make any noise. I shut the door and turned to them.

  “OK, Ziv is going to toss a flashbang grenade as far as he can down in the other direction. Once it goes off, give them about thirty seconds to react and clear the AO. Boz and I will break right and go around the building, clearing any undead there. You two go left, turn left, hit the station, get the radio, head left again, and turn left. In effect, you’ll be circling the block. We’ll meet you there to provide covering fire. Ziv and Doc will be on overwatch from the windows. Got it?”

  They both just nodded. Each was carrying two of our suppressed .22 pistols in their hands, but I doubted how accurate they would be on the run. Both had their bite proof uniform hoods over their heads and drawn tight, leaving only their faces exposed, and wore mechanic’s gloves.

  “Do it, Ziv!” I called over the radio, and ten seconds later, we heard the distant CRACK of the grenade. I counted to thirty in my head, what seemed like forever, and gently opened the door. The alleyway was clear, but I could see undead on the main street to our left.

  “GO!” I hissed, and the two of them brushed past me. Boz and I stopped and used our rifles to fire on the undead we could see, dropping a few of them, and McHale and Yasser disappeared around the corner.

  Neither of us said anything, just went in the opposite direction at a dead run. We turned the corner, and crashed into three undead that were chasing a wild dog down the street. I fired and hit the first one in the throat, face and forehead, my burst knocking it down. The second was a bit further away, a young guy still in a bomber jacke
t, and Boz fired once, the round taking off the left quarter of its head.

  The third Z was between us, too close to shoot, and it launched itself at Boz, just as he fired again. The rounds punched through the rotted woman’s back, and it hit him midsection, taking him down onto the street. He rolled it underneath him, using the rifle to keep its mouth away, and I took one long stride, jammed the muzzle up to the thing’s skull, and fired.

  “Thanks!” grunted the older man, and I helped him back to his feet. The rest of the street was clear, all the way up to Fifth Avenue. We started running again, and made it to the corner. I was breathing hard, and Boz didn’t even look like he’d broken a sweat.

  “Where the hell are they?” asked Boz, as we swapped magazines, because there was nothing. “Shit,” he muttered, and we waited for perhaps ten seconds. Then the howl started echoing through the steel columns, and we both took up good firing positions.

  “I’m a little better shot than you, so watch our backs,” I asked him, not wanting to get jumped while we were engaged. He grunted and shifted around to face the other way, and then started shooting down Lexington Avenue. I listened to the shots, about one every other second, and didn’t worry.

  While we waited, I heard Boz laughing. “What the hell is so funny?” I asked.

  “I’m lying in the street in the middle of New York City, with a high powered rifle, shooting zombies in the head! What the hell do you think I’m laughing about?”

  I shook my head and kept watching. I knew what he meant, though. The howl grew louder, and I saw undead running down the street towards the station. Not good. Then McHale and the young NCO appeared from around the corner, headed towards us at a dead run. Behind them was a huge herd of Zs, howling mad.

  I opened fire, taking a second to yell for Boz. He joined me, and we both started firing. Alex and Elam were both running for their lives, pistols gone, arms pumping. Just as they rounded the corner, Alex, who was carrying the radio, stepped in a pothole and I heard his leg break with a sickening CRACK. He rolled and came up on one knee, and threw the radio to Elam, who grabbed it and kept running towards us, only ten meters away. The pilot staggered up on one leg, dragging the other behind him, and feebly tried to hop. The undead were only a few meters behind him. Suddenly, another flashbang fell from a window high above, and detonated between them and the undead, scattering them and knocking him down.

  Throwing down my weapon, almost blind and ears ringing, I raced forward and grabbed him around the waist, heaved him over my shoulder, grunting with the effort, and turned, just as a Z grabbed at my uniform pants. They tore open and the Z fell away as I ran towards Boz and Elam, who had picked up my rifle and started shooting.

  We fell back around the corner, and the undead streamed past us as we crouched up against the wall. This far into the apocalypse, undead operated more by sense of smell and hearing; their corneas were too scratched up from dust and dirt to function very well. Worked up like they were, and deafened by the grenade, they charged past us.

  I put my arm under Alex’s shoulder, Boz grabbed his other side, and we made our way back to the doorway, pounding three times. Doc let us in, and we carried him upstairs.

  As soon as my ears stopped ringing, I powered up the radio and called higher.

  “Liberty Main, this is Lost Boys Six, over.” It took more than a minute of me calling before they answered back.

  “Lost Boys, this Liberty Main, send your traffic, over.” The RTO was very nonchalant, laid back, and I actually got pissed at him, forgetting that we had last talked to them only a few hours ago. It seemed like forever.

  “Liberty, we need an Air Medevac and the QRF at the corner of 76th and Third, break.” I took out my green notepad, and read off the SALUTE report the guys from IST Five had given me.

  “We have a wheeled mechanized company sized element looting the Met, estimate twelve, I say again, one two HUMVEES with crew served weapons and anti-armor weapons, over.”

  “Roger I copy, one-two HUMVEES with anti-armor. Standing by back for nine-line, over.”

  I handed the mic over to Doc, and she gave the request for a medevac. The RTO signed out, telling us Liberty Actual would be calling in ten minutes. I sat back and closed my eyes. Exhaustion overwhelmed me, a deep down, soul searing weariness.

  This had to stop. It was the last time. I could take friends dying, losing my own leg, all of it. Shona’s death, though, and Brit losing her hand, it was too much. Tears rolled down my face, and I let them. I just wanted to go home, hang up my rifle and grow food, run the trading post, raise my kids. I felt every single bruise and cut, and ached all over.

  The radio crackled to life, waking me. “Lost Boys, this is Wolfhound Six. We will be at your location in three zero mikes. Stand by to accompany us. No MEDEVAC until we clear those bastards out. Wolfhound Six, out.”

  Chapter 295

  “Crazy bastards!” said Boz. I stood with him, Ziv and Elam as the sixty ton giant growled its way up Third Avenue, climbing over wrecked cars and destroying the pavement with its tracks. Undead must have been throwing themselves at it, and the treads were coated in gore and blood. The M1a2 stopped at an intersection two blocks down, rotated the turret, and fired what I assumed was a canister round. Windows for blocks around shattered and glass fell like rain.

  From one antenna flew the Stars & Stripes, and from the other, a dark green flag with a gold harp on it. Behind it were three Bradley Fighting Vehicles, followed by another tank. This one had its gun pointed behind, down Third Avenue, guarding the rear. From the front Bradley blared bagpipes, of all effing things.

  Obviously they didn’t give a crap if the mercs heard them coming. The only thing that kept running through my mind was, why the hell had they sent us, instead of these guys? If they had, Shona would still be alive, along with Cabrejo and the two helo crew, and Brit would have her hand. My thoughts grew increasingly bitter.

  The tank stopped, the commander’s hatch opened, and a man climbed out, disconnected his intercom, hopped of the turret, and then climbed down to the street. He lit a cigar and came walking over, just as the bagpipes died out. The black oak leaf of a Lieutenant Colonel stood out on his coveralls, and he had the rainbow patch of the 42nd Infantry Division on his shoulder.

  “Colonel, great job flushing these bastards out,” he said through the cigar clamped in his teeth.

  I punched him as hard as I could in the face, putting all my weight into it. The man went down, cigar flying, and both Ziv and Boz grabbed me and wrestled me down to the ground. The tank loader swung his machine gun around, and Elam lifted his rifle.

  “OK! OK!” I yelled. “Get off me!” The officer had gotten back up on his elbows and was staring at me incredulously, blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth.

  “What is your goddamned problem? We’re here to SAVE your asses!” he said, as Ziv helped him stand up.

  “Why the hell didn’t YOU come up here and check out the ambush?”

  “Because we just offloaded from a freighter three hours ago! Four days ago when this happened, we were fighting our way south down Interstate 81, handing the Mountain Republic their asses! Then they pulled the entire 69th out of the line and loaded us up, shipped us back here. These are the first tracks I had available.”

  I felt like a complete ass, and the air let out of me. “I’m sorry, Colonel. We lost four, and my wife is upstairs without her hand. It’s been a long couple of days.”

  He rubbed his jaw, then held out his hand for me to shake. “I guess I kinda deserved it, coming in here like billy badass. It’s just that, well, it’s good to be back in the City.”

  I took his hand, even more embarrassed. “I should have figured, with the flag and all.”

  “You’re damn right. The Irish are back in town, and we will tolerate no looters. As far as these guys at the museum, I’m going to kick their asses…” he said, looking at his watch, “right about now.”

  From the direction of the park, I heard a whoo
oooosh … BANG! that shook the very ground. The unmistakable signature of a Hellfire missile. It was followed by the chunk-chunk-chunk of a 30mm chain gun mounted on an Apache helo. Several seconds later, the rounds impacted with another bang bang bang and then the crump of a vehicle blowing up.

  The light colonel climbed back on his tank, shouting to the Infantry who had dismounted from the Bradleys, “CLEAR THE WAY!” As one they shouted back, “GARRY OWEN IN GLORY!” and those glorious, damned bagpipes started wailing again as they cranked up their engines. He climbed down into the commander’s seat, turned and saluted me, and I stood straight and saluted him back.

  “WANT IN ON THE ACTION, SCOUTS?” he yelled to me over the whine of the turbine.

  I shook my head no, but Boz and Ziv ran past me and hopped up on the skirts of the lead tank, then moved around to the back of the turret for cover. Elam started to tell them to come back, but I put my hand on his arm, stopping him. Boz had a shit eating grin on his face, but Major Sasha Zivcovic just looked at me stonily. They disappeared around the corner and I heard the tank gun firing again.

  Chapter 296

  I sat on the bench in the American wing of the Met. At my feet was my helmet. My pants were torn, one leg almost ripped off, exposing the titanium and chrome of the combat prosthetic. I knew I smelled to high heaven and my hair was matted to my head. My rifle was covered with concrete dust on the outside, and glass was embedded in my knee and elbow pads.

  In front of me stretched the original painting of General Washington crossing the Delaware River. More than thirty feet long, the upper left corner was scarred where a tank round had punched its way through the building. Three bullet holes and a splash of blood marred the lower right, where I had shot a mercenary dead. His body had been taken away, and the Rec & Tech guys were busy setting up solar powered lights, prior to removing the painting from its frame.

  The room still smelled of gun smoke, and, taking my gloves off, I tried to rub the exhaustion away. Boz sat next to me, head tilted back with the weight of his helmet, snoring deeply, and my exhausted thoughts wandered all over the place. Ziv, leaning against the wall, reached over, ripped off a piece of canvas from the painting, and, spilling some tobacco, rolled himself a cigarette.