“Fire in the hole,” said Halsey over the radio.
Seconds later, we felt as much as heard the CRUMP of the grenade detonation. Master Control was monitoring the cameras and relayed information to the teams.
“Grant,” said the radio. “Numerous targets down. Upper tier clear within fifty feet of the chase-way door.”
I nodded to Southard and keyed open the door. Sanders pulled the door open as Spec-4 and I stepped through the door. We immediately went to one knee, giving Sanders and Southard room to fire over our heads. There were nine zombies on the upper tier. Spec-4 and I started taking them out first with well aimed, single shots. It was working just like we’d planned, so far. Sanders and Southard were nailing targets below us in the dayroom. Once the upper tier was clear, Spec-4 and I prepared to move.
“Upper tier, clear!” I shouted above the gunfire. “Moving forward!”
Sanders and Southard pivoted to adjust their shooting as Spec-4 and I crouched and advanced to the top of the stairs. Once we reached the stair landing, we took positions on one knee again.
“In position!” I called.
“Moving forward!” yelled Sanders.
With that, Sanders and Southard moved up to stand over us, once again.
“Changing mags!” yelled Spec-4.
“Team two, move in,” I said over the radio. “Changing mags!”
As I changed out my magazine, team two emerged from the chase-way into the rec yard. They made short work of the four zombies that were in there. Then they moved to the door and prepared to enter the dayroom. Spec-4 and I continued to fire as both Sanders and Southard changed mags. Team two opened the rec yard door and engaged targets in the dayroom. The crowd of zombies was rapidly dwindling. Matthews and Webber were through first and swept to their right, heading for the Officer’s desk. The three Fair Grove Officers covered the door and started taking out targets.
Behind me, I heard Sanders yell, “Son of a bitch!”
I glanced over my shoulder to see a zombie emerging from the showers, almost directly behind us. Sanders dropped his M-16 to hang around his neck by the strap. Then he grabbed the zombie by the throat with his left hand and by the left thigh with his right. With a grunt, Sanders pressed the zombie over his head and turned.
He took two steps and threw the zombie off of the upper tier. It sailed through the air and landed almost halfway across the dayroom. I could swear I could hear the sound of its spine crunching above the gunfire as it slammed down onto a table. It didn’t get up and only flailed around as it struggled to crawl away from the overturned table. The force of the impact must have crushed it’s back.
Sanders grabbed his weapon and resumed shooting. I turned my head around in time to see Webber kill the Group Release Switches on the control board so that the cell doors would lock. Instantly, I heard the door actuators cycling back into the locked position. Then he hit the Officer Duress button, giving Master Control complete control of the pod. This would keep any zombies that were still inside cells locked safely where they were until we went for them.
Four zombies rushed the bottom of the stairs together. The lead two took the worst of the gunfire, but the two in back were mostly shielded by the bodies of the first. The two in front were dead again, but they couldn’t fall because of the two behind them. They were nearly on top of us before we were able to break their charge. If it hadn’t been such a serious situation, it would have been funny.
Spec-4 drove the butt of her M-16 into the face of the lead zombie in a perfect butt stroke maneuver. The lead zombie fell and Sanders shot the one behind it right in the face. They both bounced back down the stairs in a tangled mess. I kicked out with my left foot and struck the other dead leader right in the chest. He fell away, but the zombie behind him grabbed my leg. It was the zombie that had once been Officer Mike Boyett. I was about to be bitten by a zombie that I knew and that really pissed me off.
As he closed in on my exposed calf muscle, I shoved the barrel of my M-4 directly into his mouth and squeezed the trigger. Boyett’s skull exploded in a fountain of gore, propelling him backwards down the stairs. Unfortunately, he took me with him. I tumbled ass over tea kettle down the stairs and felt my head impact the stairs on the way down.. By the way, metal stairs hurt when you bounce down them. They hurt a lot.
I landed at the bottom of the stairs on top of a pile of corpses. I had lost my grip on my M-4 and had no idea where it was. To be honest, I was pretty damned disoriented. I’d taken a few heavy hits to the noggin on the way down. Fortunately for me, mine was pretty thick. Despite that, I was seeing stars and my ears were ringing from a combination of the gunfire and the blows to the head.
“Wylie!” shouted Spec-4, as she started down the stairs.
Southard and Sanders came with her, shooting all the way down. I’m not exactly sure when I moved, but the next thing I knew I was on my feet with the Mossberg in my hands. The echoing KABOOM of the big 12 gauge drowned out the sharp PING PING PING of the 5.56 mm rounds. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was all over. We all stopped firing and the silence was deafening. My ears were ringing like the bells of Notre Dame and my head was killing me.
“Clear!” I bellowed, my voice echoing off the back wall of the pod.
“Clear!” called a chorus of voices.
“Break up into twos and sweep the cells,” I said, motioning towards both tiers.
The mop-up was swift. Only two cells had zombies in them and only one in the multi-purpose room. I looked around and had to smile. The smoke from the gunpowder hung heavily in the air. All of the zombies were down and we’d come through it without a single casualty. Bravo Pod was ours, again.
“700, Bravo Pod has been secured,” I said into my mic. “Can you please turn on the ventilator fans?”
Seconds later, the exhaust fans kicked on and began sucking out the cordite smoke. A few minutes later, crews with laundry carts came in to start hauling the bodies out. While they began the clean-up process, those of us on the assault team were heading out to get some rest. I, for one, felt like about twenty miles of bad road. My head hurt and I felt bruises all over my body from my trip down the stairs.
“Halsey to Grant,” said the voice from my radio.
“Go ahead,” I replied, flexing my shoulder.
“I’m still up on the roof,” he said. “There’s something going on up here you might want to come see.”
“Copy that, I’m on my way,” I replied, motioning for the others to follow.
I headed for the roof access stairwell with Spec-4, Southard and Sanders right on my heels. Matthews and Webber met us at the door as Master Control buzzed us in. Seconds later, we were emerging onto the roof. I could see Halsey standing near the edge, about twenty yards away and I headed over to him at a quick trot. He was staring off to the southeast. I looked to see what he was looking at and froze in my tracks.
About a mile away from us stood the tallest building in town. It was a small skyscraper of black glass and steel. It belonged to a rich businessman in town and bore his name. I could see the lights of six helicopters circling the roof. On the roof I could see flares burning bright red. One by one, the helicopters were touching down. In the landing lights, I could see that they were Army Blackhawk helicopters and they were picking up people.
Four different choppers landed and picked up people before I started seeing flashes of light and hearing gunfire. The last chopper lifted off, leaving survivors on the roof still exchanging gunfire with what I assumed were zombies. Then the Blackhawks gathered in formation and headed off to the south. Behind them in the darkness, all hell broke loose.
The guns of at least three Apache Attack helicopters came to life. I never saw their running lights, so they must have been blacked out. As they poured fire into the tower, the Blackhawks headed off into the night. For almost a full minute, the Apaches kept up the fusillade. Then their guns went silent and all we heard was the distant sound of the Blackhawks rotors. The Apaches slipped
away in stealth mode, leaving us to wonder if they were leaving the area or just watching us in the darkness.
The upper floors of the dark tower were burning. I knew that there was a restaurant on the top floor and offices throughout the building. In the sputtering light of the dying flares on the roof, there was nothing moving. The Apaches had done their lethal work to both the living and the dead. The bright glow from the fires lit up the skyline as the building continued to blaze. Without firefighters and first responders, there would be nothing to halt the spread of the conflagration.
“What the hell was that all about?” asked Southard.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “It looked like they were rescuing survivors.”
“Then why didn’t they come for us?” asked Spec-4.
“Hell if I know,” I said, sarcastically. “I doubt we were as important as the rich people in that building.”
“Were those Apaches that opened fire?” asked Halsey, sounding shaken.
“Fuck yeah,” answered Sanders, nodding. “I’ve seen them do that shit in the ‘ghan. They have a stealth mode that makes them damned hard to see and hear at night. They used to scare the shit out of us when they’d buzz our camp looking for insurgents.”
The fire in dark tower was spreading and we didn’t hear any more gunfire coming from the roof. I could only assume the Army was rescuing survivors, and then aborted when the zombies overran the building. At least, that was the only explanation I could come up with. Well, the only one that made any sense. It wouldn’t really surprise me to find out that they were giving priority to rescuing the wealthy.
I headed downstairs to the men’s locker room to clean up and take a shower. I also kept a couple of fresh uniforms in my locker. The hot water eased the aches and pains from my bounce down the stairs. One nasty cut to the left eyebrow and a black eye were about the worst of it. Otherwise, I was bruised and had some minor cuts on my head and face, but nothing was broken. The only serious injury was to my pride. I sealed the cuts with some liquid band-aid that I kept in my locker. It burned like hell, but did the trick.
My dirty uniform was covered in gore, but thankfully none of it was mine. Medical gave me a check-up after I emerged from the shower. A couple of ibuprofen for my headache and some band-aids for my face, and I was ready for a nice long nap. Spec-4 used the shower in the women’s locker room and changed into the uniform I’d found in the trunk of that female SPD officer’s cruiser, the one with the tactical thong. I didn’t ask if she was wearing that, too.
She headed back through the main sliders, while I headed for Laundry. Her uniform went into the washing machine with mine. I added extra detergent, just to be safe. The last thing I wanted was to find zombie guts stuck to my uniform when I took it out of the dryer. As I was heading upstairs to find a quiet place to lie down, I was caught by Spec-4, Sanders and Southard.
“Hey, Wylie!” yelled Southard. “Wait up a sec!”
I stopped at the bottom of the stairs and waited for them to catch-up to me. Maybe I was being paranoid, but I had the funny feeling that they were up to something. I wasn’t sure what, but I had a suspicious feeling that they were up to no good.
“Where’re you headed?” asked Spec-4, grinning.
“Trying to find a quiet place to crash,” I responded, smiling. “Why?”
I knew something was up. They all looked just a little too happy.
“Well,” said Spec-4. “We thought that you might want to have a little glass of something with us.”
“What’d you have in mind?” my curiosity now up.
“Do you still have that bottle of Jack Daniels in your pack?” asked Southard, nonchalantly.
Bingo. They were all up to something. They just wanted me for my alcohol. With everything that had happened in the last twelve hours, I had completely forgotten about that bottle. Pulling my rucksack off of my shoulder, I quickly searched the pack for the prized bottle. Sure enough it was right where I had tucked it. Miraculously, it was still intact.
Considering all the crap I’d been through, it had to be divine intervention that kept that bottle from breaking. Taking that as a sign, I presented it to them as if it were the Holy Grail. I half expected a bright light to shine down on it. It didn’t, but it sure would have been cool. Sanders and Southard both made the off key sound of a cherubic choir chanting, “Ahhh!”
“Anyone have a cup?” I asked, grinning wickedly.
Southard produced four inmate cups from behind his back, with a flourish.
“Taa-daa! I snagged these out of the property room,” he said, grinning like a school-boy.
I couldn’t help but return the grin as I led them all into the Classification office and shut the door behind us. I cracked open the bottle while Southard passed out the cups. Then I poured a generous measure to each of us, handing out the cups as they were filled. I filled my own last and capped the bottle, setting it on the desk behind me.
“Well,” I said, “it ain’t Bushmills, but it’ll do.”
“I forgot you love that Irish stuff,” said Sanders, chuckling.
“Oh, aye,” I said in a really bad Irish accent. “I do love a wee nip e’ry nae and a’gin.”
Everyone laughed at that. Then, we all grew silent, each lost in our own thoughts. I let the silence hang in the air, allowing each of us time to reflect on our own memories. It was a somber moment as one by one; we looked at each other and nodded. A moment of shared grief was all we could allow ourselves. There was still too much to be done for anything more than reflection.
“To all the men and women who didn’t make it back,” said Sanders, holding up his glass.
“To absent friends,” said Southard, raising his.
“And family,” I mumbled, joining them.
“Amen,” said Spec-4, touching her cup to ours.
We all tossed back our cups and I felt the fire hit my belly. As my grand-daddy would say, “What a wonderful fire it was.” I closed my eyes and let the warmth spread throughout my body. It eased the pain and dulled the aches, both physical and mental. I hoped it would be enough to let me sleep tonight. As my thoughts returned to family and friends, I seriously doubted that sleep would come.
“Another?” asked Sanders, hopefully.
“We’d better not,” I said, reluctantly. “If anything happens tonight, we need to be able to react. We’ll need to be alert.”
“Yeah,” said Spec-4. “One’s fine with me.”
We could all tell that it was affecting her more than the rest of us. Sanders had the constitution of an ox and Southard and I were both whiskey drinkers. Spec-4 didn’t have near the tolerance level that we had, and it was showing. Not that she was drunk. She was just well past lightly buzzed. Jack Daniels is potent stuff. Especially after they day we’d had. As hard as we had pushed and with all things considered, it would be more than enough for all of us. Why take the risk?
I decided right then that Classification would be as good as any place to spend the night. I sent Sanders and Southard to the storage area to get a few new inmate mattresses. While they were gone, I headed down to the Property Room and snagged several bedrolls. Once we all returned, we moved the desks and filing cabinets to the side of the room. This made enough room for two people to lie down. We repeated the process in the office down the hallway.
When we returned to the first office, Spec-4 had already set up the two mattresses and put sheets on them. She had her pack next to one and mine next to the other. She was already removing her boots and body armor, placing them with her weapons in easy reach.
“Well, I guess the sleeping arrangements have been decided,” said Southard, chuckling.
“No offense,” Spec-4 said. “I just thought that you two might want some alone time.”
“Oh!” laughed Sanders, “Army Girl’s got jokes.”
Ragnarok Rising: The Awakening (Book One of The Ragnarok Rising Saga) Page 17
