Containment_A Zombie Novel

by B. A. Hippsley

  Stone roared and sprang to his feet. “Colonel, I want that damn spook back here ten minutes ago! And I want direct fire control over those warheads.”

  ****

  Taylor wished the marching band in his head would go play someplace else. Painfully, he opened his eyes and almost instantly he was sorry he had. King was standing a few feet away looking down at him. Of all the people he could think of, it had to be King.

  “Glad you could join us Sport, saves me having to kick you awake.”

  Taylor took his time getting to his feet, taking every second to assess his new surroundings. He was in some type of small office, not as basic as the rest of the base. The room had plastered walls and tiled flooring. Metal filing cabinets lay at either side of the room. Behind King was a large desk with a computer. This had to be Tellermine’s office.

  Taylor looked over at the other man. “Sorry to disappoint.” Taylor could not work which hurt the most, his head or raw elbows. “How’d I get in here?”

  “I dragged your sorry ass in. Couldn’t risk any rocks landing on you.”

  Taylor winced as he tensed up his body. “What about the others?”

  King drew his finger across his throat and gave Taylor a dry smirk. “You rolled clear. Gave your head a crack, the others, not so lucky.”

  It saddened Taylor to think of all the people who’d died to get him where he was. He’d make sure it had not been in vain. To King’s left was a desk with the timer on it. Above all else, that had to be his priority. Taylor motioned to the desk and moved forward.

  “Why’d you disconnect that device?”

  “Stop that fool Stone from toasting my butt.” King moved back a few paces and placed his hand on the device.

  “How come? I thought you were his errand boy?” Taylor circled around the other side of the table until he was within reach of the small box. He didn’t know what King was up to, but he needed the timer.

  “I’m no one’s errand boy! I couldn’t trust him any longer.”

  It was obvious that he’d struck a raw nerve. Something was rotten and it wasn’t just the piles of dead. “I take it Tellermine’s split?”

  King nodded. “Real nice guy. He burned the place, made everybody zombies then let them loose.”

  “You get that from those three geeks you killed? In any case when did you switch sides?”

  Taylor was playing chess again but this guy was no Eastman. He had to push his buttons carefully.

  “You were always that little bit too smart, Sport. But I never changed sides. I just increased my opportunity. I’ve made more money from this job than any other in my whole life.”

  “That’s it? The money?” Taylor crept ever nearer to the desk.

  “You’ve no idea how far this has gone man.” King took his hand off the device and pointed at Taylor. “This goes way beyond Tellermine or this containment crap. It’s always been about you. Do you know how much you’re worth? Do you?”

  Taylor felt a nasty sensation creeping into him. This had sunk below corporate greed and it went beyond this messed up containment operation.

  “Who you working for?”

  “Working for? I decided to go independent. I’m gonna sell you to the highest bidder. Imagine NB33 as a weapon…” Kings eyes glazed over as he continued, “…Now imagine how much you’d pay for a cure.”

  All the time Taylor had thought it was about big business and cover ups, this maniac wanted to make the thing into a weapon. No wonder King had let him escape; he was in it for himself all the time.

  “King, you need to think about this a second. King Business Enterprises is one thing but turning these freaking things into weapons is total insanity!”

  “So is the nuclear arms race. If someone gets the edge then the rest will pay to get it back. So you’re wrong, it is just business.”

  “What if some tin pot terror jerks get hold of NB33? What if...?”

  King smashed his hand down on the desk and glared at Taylor. “Enough! I’m controlling this and I’ll sell it to whoever the hell I want to!”

  “What if I don’t want to play ball? You gonna need me alive.”

  King pulled out his pistol and with his free hand pointed to a small medical cool bag on a nearby desk. “Open the bag.”

  Taylor did as he was ordered. It contained several small glass sealed bottles and syringes. Puzzled, he looked over at King.

  “I took a crash course in phlebotomy. All I need is your blood.”

  King cocked the pistol and aimed it at him. “Dead or alive, you decide.”

  Taylor knew he had to get the advantage over King and he had to do it fast. He picked the bag up without closing it and walked over to King.

  “Okay, how exactly do you think we’re getting out of here in one piece?”

  The other man’s face relaxed and a slight smile swept over his features as he lowered his automatic. Here was a man who could taste power. The last thing he wanted was to mop up a dead man’s blood. This could well be enough to give Taylor the edge he needed.

  “Glad you got with the programme, Sport. It’s down the corridor then up some stairs. I’m pretty sure that’s how Tellermine left.”

  Taylor pointed to the forlorn timer still on the desk. “You gonna use that?”

  “Gonna have to. I’m not leaving anything down here for anyone else to use.”

  “Yeah well, what about General ‘inconvenience’? As soon as you wire this up we’re both yesterday’s news.” Taylor grinned smugly as he patted the device. King smiled back at him. “Ain’t gonna happen buddy. I modified it, changed the firing codes.”

  “How’d you... don’t tell me, another crash course slotted between manual handling and time management, right?”

  “A lot of effort and money has been sunk into this...”

  “And all for you to clear them out and cut yourself a new deal.”

  “Why the hell not? Tell me that? I took the risks, I’m the one stuck in all this filth.” King’s temper yet again got the better of him as he sent a chair hurtling into the wall.

  “What about me? I mean, without me you don’t have Jack…”

  King gave Taylor a devious look. It was the look that allowed Taylor to make up his mind; in a way it sealed King’s fate. In one fluid motion Taylor’s fist smashed into King’s jaw. Caught off guard, he flew backwards over the table, swiftly followed by Taylor. Both men engaged in a savage fight for survival. Gaining the upper hand, King broke away from Taylor and drew his pistol. In a desperate last gamble, Taylor rammed a table into King, forcing him into the wall. However, King succeeded in loosing off two rounds. The first bullet went wide of its target but the second sliced through Taylor’s arm. But it was not enough to stop him beating King to the floor with a desk lamp. This was one fight Taylor could not afford to lose.

  Satisfied that King was no longer a game player, Taylor tore a strip from his own shirt and bound his wound. Although only a graze, it was best to control the bleeding. Then he noticed the timer lying on the floor. Reaching down, he picked up the device for a closer look. It seemed intact but as he tried to access the control system his plan fell apart.

  Each time he pressed the timer the word ERROR glared back at him from the LED. He covered his face with his hands, swearing repeatedly. The all important timer function was inoperative. There was no way to safely explode the warhead. He had failed. His eyes narrowed in concentration as he scrolled through the menu bar. He smiled briefly as he read the new LED message: MANUAL OPERATION ENABLED. Then his face sunk in desperation. He rubbed his forehead, sweat trickled into his eyes, making them sting. Well at least there was one way to explode the damn thing, although maybe not the best.

  As he collected the device, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Even before he turned about, he knew what he’d see. Several creatures had gathered in the doorway; the pistol was nowhere to be seen. He backed away as the creatures pushed forward.

  ****

  Sarge was satisfi
ed he was well within the LAW’s effective range. This was no time for any mistakes. He settled himself into a secure firing position overlooking the target. Both control vehicle and missile were less than a hundred yards from him, and about half that distance from each other.

  He scrutinized the surrounding area. The missile site had been well placed, with trees covering all four sides. It was perfectly hidden away from any unwanted attention, but not well defended. A heavy frown creased his forehead; they’d made no attempt at a permanent defence. In all probability these guys had only recently placed the firing unit here. Still, there was no excuse for sloppy work. A further two vehicles had accompanied the unit but these were situated at the far end of the clearing. He was good to go.

  George Lee and Callan had the two guards standing near the Humvees covered. The rest of the detail had to be in the control vehicle; it’d be like shooting rats in a barrel. He sighed as he contemplated the next move. He had to deny them the tactical advantage of firing the missile – that meant taking the truck down first. That also meant certain death for the guys inside. The war felt like a million years ago. They’d given him a medal for saving American lives back then; he sure as hell would not get one for killing Americans. Nevertheless, that’s what he needed to do.

  Sarge looked about the peaceful meadow one last time; clusters of little blue flowers broke up the sea of green grass. Everybody was in place and waiting for him to take the shot. He brought the LAW out from his pack and extended the weapon, ready to fire. Clicking the safety off, he aimed at the objective. No time for hesitation now, he squeezed the trigger and watched as the flaming projectile screeched towards the helpless target.

  The explosive power of the 66mm armoured piercing round lifted the truck into the air. Then the twisted wreck slammed back to earth, belching fire and thick black smoke. Two simultaneous shots rang out. Sarge shut his eyes as the sound of cheering broke out across the meadow.

  “Sarge, you did it!”

  Max Koneg and Bill Gardener had scrambled up behind him, broad grins spread across their excited dirty faces. Sarge was in no mood for celebrations.

  “All I did was kill a bunch of Americans.” He pitched the now useless LAW over the tump and watched it roll down the steep incline. Koneg craned his head around to look at Sarge. “Yeah, but think of all the folk in town. They’re safe now. Sarge, you gotta leave the war be.”

  “Max is right Sarge, that’s all behind you. Hell! Everybody gonna know what you did today. Things gonna be different from now on.”

  What the hell did they know? It wasn’t the IED or a sniper’s bullet or even his PTSD that had brought his long and eventful army service crashing down. No, none of those things. It had been that damn pinprick in his thumb. Everything else, the army had fixed. They’d even set him up training grunts, but what they couldn’t allow, was a soldier with Type 2 Diabetes. There was nothing they could do about that. Sarge looked straight ahead and silently led the two men down towards the missile.

  “What we gonna do with that missile Sarge?”

  Sarge looked at the Deputy; he didn’t have the heart to tell them the missile still posed a danger. At any moment it could be launched remotely.

  “Nothing. We don’t want to risk setting the thing off. Keep the guys at their posts, in case anybody shows up to collect.”

  Jeb Doyle came running over to the small group waving his arm towards the far end of the meadow. “Hey guys, you see that? Robert Pool took off in one of them army trucks.”

  “What in the hell for?” Koneg exclaimed, holding his hand up in bewilderment.

  “To save his own lousy drunk ass! I knew that jerk was no good.” Gardener scowled as he spat after him. Sarge followed the vehicle’s dust trail as it sped away. Maybe Pool had the right idea. After all, who were the dumb asses now?

  ****

  Eastman was in a desperate fix, pinned down yards in front of razor wire, his only defence a low dirt ridge. All hell had let loose after the explosion from the missile site. It had been the longest few minutes Eastman could ever remember waiting for the second explosion, but thank the Lord it never came. He watched as the 50 cal tore great lumps out of the ridge he’d just crawled from. The clamour of war was all around him, a dozen or more different calibers zipping through the air.

  Most of his guys were Sunday shooters, couldn’t hit anything two foot away and those that could shoot, were pinned down like him. Another 40mm grenade exploded nearby, showering him with brown earth. He dusted himself down and looked at Bodien next to him.

  “Jeez that was close Brad.”

  Bodien was right; the guys on the 50 cal could not depress the weapons barrel enough to hit them. But the guy with the grenade launcher was getting too damn near. Soon he’d land one on top of them. They had to move in closer.

  “Jed, we gonna have to move soon, or we’re gonna be spread over this chunk of dirt.”

  “Reckon we ought to try another grenade?”

  Eastman shook his head in dismay. He looked at the mess of tangled wire. They’d just about succeeded in reaching that distance, let alone the ECM. What they wanted was a diversion.

  For the second time that afternoon, Eastman was drawn to a long shallow ditch a short distance away. There was absolutely no cover between him and the ditch, only deadly open space. Hardly ideal, but as O’Brian would say, ‘any port in a storm.’ He had to know what was going on; he couldn’t coordinate the attack hidden behind a ridge.

  “Jed, I’m gonna make a dash over there.” Eastman nudged the other man’s arm and pointed towards the ditch.

  “Hold up there boy, that ain’t exactly the best plan you ever did make.”

  “I got no option. You cover me, because when I move, that grenade launcher is gonna be right on my tail. You gotta get him and then I’ll cover you.”

  They readied themselves and after a brief countdown, Eastman made his move. He cleared the distance and rolled into the trench, as M16 rounds kicked up a dust storm around him. A blast of automatic fire, followed by a triumphant rebel yell, was exactly what he wanted to hear.

  From relative safety, he signalled Bodien to stay where he was. Even though the 50 cal was unable to hit them, it still had to be dealt with. Eastman tried to sight his M16 on the target; the weapon’s elevated position made it impossible to hit both of the gun crew. Even with one person, the weapon could still be operated.

  Despite the constant barrage of gunfire resounding through the valley, barely anybody had actually been hit. Heading towards the far end of the compound on the track, Eastman could make out a dust cloud. Army reinforcements were on their way. Damn! Now was not the time for caution, he had to act before it was too late.

  Selecting one of the remaining grenades, Eastman leapt to his feet and sprinted to within feet of the 50 cal. The lever fell with a metallic ping as he pulled the pin and hurtled the grenade. In the blinking of an eye, both soldiers were dead and their weapon out of action.

  “Jed, about time you used that pitching arm you’re always on about. We got some gate crashers.” Eastman pointed to the now visible Humvee as it shot past the checkpoint. Bodien broke from his cover to join the Sheriff and both men ran to the edge of the razor wire. Each threw a grenade though both fell short of their marks, the explosions only served to throw up dirt and make a hell of a noise. Suddenly, 7.62 mm M60 rounds started churning up the ground about them. Dangerously exposed in the open, both men dived onto the floor. The distinctive bark of an AK47 cut through the din and moments later, the M60 fell silent. Both men were surprised but elated to see Austin Colt stride towards them. But this was no time for a joyous reunion. The Humvee drew near – they’d run out of time.

  ****

  Robert Pool held the steering wheel ever tighter, willing himself onwards. The soldier at the crude checkpoint quickly lifted the barrier and Pool drove into the clearing. Too late, the soldier realised his mistake and began firing at the Humvee at point blank range. M16 rounds bounced off the armoured
shell as Pool picked up speed, throwing up large clumps of dirt.

  Pool fixed his eyes on the impressive black ECM towers at the opposite end of the glade. He watched in the distance, as two cops destroyed some kind of big machine gun. Then they set about attacking the towers. But the men were too far away to make any effect on them. Unseen by the cops, soldiers ran out from a truck and raced to counter the hopeless assault. Pool hit the horn in an attempt to draw the soldiers away, anything to gain time.

  It took moments for the three men to identify the new threat and they instantly started firing at the approaching Jeep. Pool found it hard to see as the high velocity rounds chipped away at the armoured glass. He kept his foot hard down on the gas pedal, as though he wanted to put his foot through the floor. He hoped the vehicle would hold together long enough for him to complete his mission.

  Soon his long journey would be concluded; the ECM towers loomed closer. But they were just a means to an end. He wanted to end the suffering – his own personal hell. Losing his wife to cancer had been almost too much to bear, but then his son also… it was too much. He’d made a few half-hearted attempts at suicide, but deep down he knew he was a coward. He fooled himself into thinking it would all get better; it never did. It surprised him how few bottles it took to forget things, although never quite everything.

  Sure, Lenski and Tony had helped, but Tony was gone now. Pool couldn’t go through another rehab programme again. He picked up the flask from the seat next to him and stared at it. He could smell the whisky. It would be so easy to turn around and –

  Disgusted with himself, Pool lobbed the flask into the back of the vehicle. He aimed the hood of the heavy vehicle at a cluster of gas cans near the generator. He shut his eyes and smiled.

  “It’s all right now, I’m coming home.”

  ****

  Eastman threw himself to the ground as the Humvee crashed into the generator. A massive spiral of orange fire engulfed the ECM towers and the shockwave hit the ground like an express train. Stunned, Eastman clambered to his feet; the towers were no more than red-hot twisted metal. As he regained his hearing he became aware that the gun battle had ended.