The smell became almost overpowering as I moved into the back where the examination rooms and the steel kennels were. My light showed me that well over half of them had been occupied by dogs on one side and cats on the other. I panned around quickly searching for the medical storage cabinets. It didn’t take me long to find them. The problem was, they had heavy steel doors and they were locked securely.
“Fuck!” I hissed. “The goddamned thing is locked.”
“Of course,” said Shura. “You expected anything else?”
“Not really,” I replied.
“Here, allow me,” said Shura.
Stepping into the light, he smashed the stock of the AK-47 into the handles with bone rattling force. It took four hits before the handles broke loose and we could force the doors open. Once it was open, I opened one of the bags that I had slung across my shoulder and started raking in medical supplies. I saw the labels, but didn’t have time to sort through them. I decided to just take the lot of it and sort it all out later.
Once the bag was secured back in place, we headed for the front door. Shura didn’t wait for an invitation and ducked out onto the sidewalk. I stepped out right behind him and looked up to see several hundred zombies approaching from down the street. They must have been attracted by the glass shattering. It didn’t matter what had attracted them, the fact was that they were coming.
Before I could question whether or not they had seen us, several Shriekers took up the cry and the crowd seemed to come to life. They were still more than a block away, but the front rank leapt ahead of the others. Suddenly, we were facing close to twenty Sprinters.
“Run!” I bellowed, shoving Shura in the opposite direction.
This street ran right down to the water, but it was easily two blocks away. There was no way that we would outrun a group of Sprinters and make it that far without getting caught. There was also no way that the two of us stood a chance if we tried to fight a crowd of that many of the dead. It was quickly turning into a no-win situation.
I turned and ran after Shura, desperately trying to reach the river before the dead caught us. It occurred to me that nothing I was carrying was capable of doing enough damage to a parked car to cause it to explode. That might have slowed them down enough to buy us time to reach the river.
I quickly fished the flare-gun out of my pocket and pulled back the hammer. Angling it towards the river, I fired off a flare to signal the boat that we were coming. It might only be so they could watch us be torn to shreds by the horde of the dead, but if we managed to make it to the river we would need them.
“Get the medicine to Irina,” said Shura, starting to bring his weapon up to his shoulder.
“Don’t you do it,” I snapped. “We get out together or we fall together. If you stop, I stop.”
Shura just gave me a grim nod and kept running. We were still about forty yards ahead of the Sprinters, but they were quickly eating up the distance between us. Then my eye caught a glimpse of something that might change the tide. Just ahead of us was a rack of bicycles parked in front of a store. If we could get on one of those, we could easily outdistance the dead.
“Grab a bike!” I screamed, as I glanced back over my shoulder.
I was beginning to hear a rhythmic thudding which told me I was pushing too hard. If I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, I was going to have problems soon. I was carrying too much weight and running too hard. If we couldn’t make the bikes work for us, then we were going to be in a lot of trouble.
“The tires are flat!” yelled Shura as he grabbed the first one.
“Fuck!” I snapped. “Keep running!”
Shura threw the bike aside and began running towards the river again. I could see that the strain was taking its toll on the big Russian. Despite his Herculean efforts, his body was going to fail him. We weren’t going to make it to the river. That thought struck me like a mallet. Despite the obvious conclusion to this foot race, I was not going to quit. I would not yield, now or ever. If we were going to fall, I was planning on making it an end worthy of song.
I began checking my pockets, desperately searching for anything that might help us. Yanking one of the duffle bags around in front of me, I began searching it as I ran. When I found the flash-bang grenades that were in the trunk of the Highway Patrolman’s car, I decided it was worth a try. They might not do any damage, but if they were any kind of distraction then they might just buy us enough time to reach the river. Besides, each one I tossed lightened my load by that much more.
Frantically, I began pulling the pin and tossing them over my shoulder as I ran. I could hear them booming behind me as we continued to push as hard as we could. By the third one, I was no longer even looking back. I just hoped that they would make a difference. As I was beginning to drop the fourth one, I noticed that the rhythmic thudding that I had heard before was growing louder and more intense. That’s when I realized that Shura was looking around for the noise as well. If he was hearing it, then it wasn’t in my head. I knew then that it could only be one thing.
“Chopper!” I screamed, looking above us.
The unmistakable silhouette of a Blackhawk helicopter was banking in above us. Emblazoned on the sides were the words “United States Army.” They began to hover above us and about fifty yards ahead. Instantly, the roar of the mini-guns kicked in and started raining death and destruction down onto the zombie horde that was pursuing us. I felt like screaming for joy.
As it continued to rain down an impressive volume of fire, a second chopper appeared and began descending to the street, just beyond where the first one was hovering. This one wasn’t a Blackhawk. This one was another infamous bird called a Huey. As iconic a sight as it was; it was all the more beautiful because the two men in the door were beckoning for us to come to them. Both were wearing green nomex flight suits and helmets. I had my reservations about the military, but I wasn’t about to refuse the ride.
“Come on!” called one in sunglasses.
The second one got behind an M-60 and started raking the dead, careful to keep his field of fire clear of our path. Whoever he was, he was wicked good behind that machine gun and I was definitely grateful for his skill. Hope suddenly flooded through me when I realized that we were going to make it.
Shura reached the side of the Huey first and was helped inside by the soldier at the door. I was only a few paces behind him and dove into the open bay. I hit hard and split my chin open on the metal floor of the compartment, but I was inside. As soon as I hit the deck, I heard the big M-60 go from firing controlled bursts to full-auto fire. I knew that meant the dead had to be close.
“Go!” screamed the one helping Shura.
The pilot reacted instantly and started climbing. I rolled to a sitting position and looked down to see four of the Sprinters were clinging to the landing skids. The M-60 couldn’t reach them directly below the chopper, so I drew my XVR and brought it up in a two handed grip. Systematically, I eliminated all four with a headshot. The fourth one fell nearly a hundred feet to impact with the roof of a small gas station.
“We’re clear!” called the pilot over his shoulder.
“Nice shooting,” yelled the soldier who had been behind the M-60.
“We have other survivors,” I found myself saying.
“Where?” said the soldier.
“On the river on a boat,” I said.
“I see them,” said the other soldier. “We’ll have the other bird pick them up.”
Within minutes, I saw that the Blackhawk was hovering over the river and directing the boat to head for the opposite shore for extraction. We hovered over the area and provided cover while the Blackhawk landed to retrieve the others. In less than a minute, they had everyone aboard and all of the gear that we had accumulated.
Seconds later, the Blackhawk fell into formation beside us and we banked off away from the river on heading that was taking us to the north and east. I wasn’t sure where we were going, but I liked our chances much b
etter than I had back in the town. I just hoped we weren’t being taken to an evacuation center.
“Thank you,” I said to the gunner with the sunglasses.
“You’re welcome,” she said, removing her glasses and enabling me to see her face clearly. “We’re just glad to find some actual survivors, for once.
“Where are we going,” I called, trying to be heard above the rotors.
“We have a small base about forty klicks from here,” she answered. “We’ll explain everything when we get there.”
“Where the fuck are we, anyway?” I asked, frowning.
“What used to be Hermann, Missouri,” she replied.
I lay back against the cool metal of the rear of the compartment and hoped that we hadn’t just left one death trap and walked into another one. From the way the crew and pilot appeared excited and happy to have us; I had the feeling that things were going to be alright. Then, I found myself chucking at my own thoughts. After such a dramatic rescue, I was suddenly thrilled that I hadn’t yelled something cheesy like, “Get to the chopper.” I don’t think I would be able to live with myself, if I had. The bad thing was that I almost did, and that made me chuckle all the more.
Fuck it. We were safe and that was good enough. I’d figure the rest out when we were back on the ground. For now, I was content to relax and appreciate the rescue. Leaning my head back against the cool metal of the wall, I closed my eye and tried to relax. We were alive and we had the medical supplies. In my book, that was enough.
Chapter Seven
Moonshadow
“Take me down to the river bend
Take me down to the fighting end
Wash the poison from off my skin
Show me how to be whole again.”
- Linkin Park
- Castle of Glass
I opened my eye when I felt the momentum shift and heard the pitch of the rotors change, so I knew that we were getting ready to land. I glanced out the open side door and saw a small compound below. I wasn’t sure exactly where we were, but it looked like a reinforced National Guard Armory. They had used the same trick that we did at the Underground and used Conex boxes and heavy equipment to augment the fences.
All in all, they had an area about the size of a city block walled off and supported, with the armory building in the center. I could see a few hundred of the dead moving around the perimeter, undoubtedly attracted by the noise of the two helicopters. There were numerous vehicles in the area and a few large tents were erected, but not a lot of people moving around. The ones that I could see were all wearing military uniforms. I didn’t see anyone who looked like they might be a civilian.
The Blackhawk circled and descended first, landing just behind a large tent with a red cross circled in white on the roof. They immediately began hustling everyone into the tent. Although the soldiers that were moving them were armed, it did not look to me like they were being forced into the tent or threatened in any way. That much was a relief.
The Blackhawk’s rotors began to spool down as we circled and began to land in the grass beside it. The rotor wash kicked up a great deal of dust and I felt like I was back in the Army again. This wasn’t exactly the first time I’d landed in a dusty field in an Army helicopter. No, it was far from it. In fact, I don’t think I could accurately count the number of times I’ve jumped out of a chopper carrying weapons and gear, but that’s another story entirely.
“Welcome to FOB[9] Warhorse,” said the young lady on the M-60. “I’m Sergeant Leffingwell.”
“Thanks for the rescue, Sarge,” I said, smiling. “Your arrival couldn’t have been more welcome.”
“Part of the service, sir,” she replied. “I need to ask you two to head over to the Medical tent so they can check you out. Once the doc has cleared you, we’ll get you some food.”
I began climbing out of the chopper and waited for Shura to join me. As we started towards the Medical tent, three more soldiers approached us. Two were enlisted and both carried the rank of PFC[10]. The two privates were carrying M-4’s at ready arms. They weren’t pointing them at us, but they weren’t slung over their shoulders either. The third man was wearing a Second Lieutenant’s bar on his uniform and had an M-9 Berretta 9mm on his hip. They didn’t look friendly.
“Can I help you, L.T.?” I asked, watching them warily.
“Yes,” said the lieutenant whose name tag read Hadley. “I’m afraid that I will have to ask you and your companion to surrender your weapons while inside this facility.”
“No offense, sir,” I said, condescendingly, “but you’ll have to pry them out of my cold, dead hands.”
“We have a firm policy…,” he began to say, but frowned when I interrupted.
“Fuck your policy,” I replied. “I don’t go anywhere without my weapons. Not until the dead stop moving around.”
The two PFC’s started to react to that, but I reacted faster. Drawing the big XVR, I cocked back the hammer as I stuck the massive barrel to Hadley’s forehead. The look on his face would have been comical if the situation hadn’t been so serious. I thought that Hadley was going to shit himself, right then and there. The two privates brought their M-4’s up, but didn’t seem to know what to do beyond that. They covered me with their weapons, but seemed confused due to the lack of additional orders. Hadley was just opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water.
“I have a firm policy of my own,” I said through clenched teeth. “I’m not giving you my fucking guns.”
“One word from me and these two privates will kill you,” he managed to stammer.
“Probably,” I said, not taking my eye off of his. “But I promise you won’t be alive to see it happen. You so much as flinch wrong and I'll make your skull emptier than a politician's promise.”
I could see indecision in his eyes until Shura stepped up beside me and brought up his AK-47, aiming it at the two privates. Then indecision nearly turned to panic as he suddenly realized that he might not have the upper hand.
"You might want to drop your weapons, my friends," said Shura to the two privates.
Suddenly, we were attracting attention from every direction. I could see both chopper crews as well as more soldiers coming our way, readying their weapons as they ran. Things were about to turn very ugly, very fast. If I decided to fire, the Lieutenant would be the only shot I got off. Shura might get one or two before we were both cut to ribbons.
"Just what in the fuck is going on here," demanded a grizzled old soldier.
When he got close enough to see his rank insignia, I recognized it instantly. There were three chevrons and three rockers with a star in the center. I had to smile when I recognized that the man stomping towards us with murder in his eyes was a Sergeant-Major. What was even better was I was pretty sure that I knew this old bastard. Years ago, he had been my First Sergeant back when I was a forward observer.
When I saw that his name tag read Fitzpatrick, I knew I was looking at the same guy. Older and now a Sergeant-Major, but I had once served with this man in combat. We'd bled together and even carried fallen friends. I can't say we were ever friends, but I respected the man and that was more than enough. I just hoped that he'd remember me. If not, then things were going to Hel in a hurry.
"This man won't surrender his weapons, Sergeant-Major," whined the Lieutenant.
"Well, why the fuck not?" demanded Sergeant-Major Fitzpatrick.
"Because I won't surrender my arms to someone outside my chain-of-fucking-command," I replied, my voice loud and clear.
The Sergeant-Major stopped and began to look at me with an odd expression. I was hoping that he would remember those words. It was the exact phrase he'd said to a Second Lieutenant just outside of FOB Viper in Iraq when we were instructed to give our weapons to a security detail when we came in the gate. He refused to do it then and I was refusing, now.
"Have we met?" asked Fitzpatrick, cocking his head to the side and looking at me.
Back then, I had both ey
es, no white hair and none of the scars that now covered most of my face. I wasn't surprised that he didn’t recognize me. Hel, I barely recognized myself whenever I saw my reflection. Then there was the fact that it had been more than a decade since we'd last seen each other.
"We've met," I replied. "I was a 13 Foxtrot with you in Iraq. Desert Storm."
"Who are you?" he asked, incredulously.
By way of a reply, I slowly reached into my cargo pocket and took out my hip flask. It was the one that my friends had given me when I left the Army. It had been inscribed with the emblem of a fist holding a lightning bolt. It also had writing on both sides. It said, “W.E. “Wylie” Grant. Best of luck, asshole” on one side and “I am the King of Battle and the eyes of Death! I am a Fister!” on the other.
Sergeant-Major Fitzpatrick turned the flask over slowly in his hands, not looking up at me. He ran his fingers over the etching with a slow sense of awe, as if reliving distant memories. It was a long, tense silence that fell as he studied the flask, lost in his own thoughts.
"Those were good days," he said, his voice almost a whisper.
"Yes, they were," I replied. "Good people."
"Wylie fucking Grant," he said softly, still not looking up. "I never thought I'd see any of you guys again. Not with the world gone to shit."
"Me either," I said, still watching the Lieutenant for any sudden movement.
"Stand down," he said to the crowd of soldiers, as he looked up.
When no one moved, he snapped loud enough that even I listened to him out of old habits. Suddenly, the steel was back in his voice and he was no longer lost in the past.
"I said stand-the-fuck-down, gawd-dammit!"
Shura gave me a small shrug and lowered his weapon as well. Soon, everyone was at a tense standstill, weapons pointed at the ground and no one willing to challenge the authority of the grizzled old war-horse. Back when I had served with him, he had more fruit salad[11] than he could wear. I could only imagine how much he had now. He probably had to requisition a new recruit to carry his extra medals for him.
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