George Magnum

by Dead Again

  In one quick motion, Peterson undid his seatbelt and leapt across the chopper, right into the cockpit, cramming his head into the cabin. At least they were both awake, and were scrambling with the controls to try to figure out what was wrong.

  “It’s the fuel gauge, sir,” Tag said. Peterson could hear the fear in his voice. This wasn’t good. “We’re low on gas.”

  “Didn’t you finish fueling up before we left?” Peterson asked harshly.

  “Of course, sir.”

  “He’s right, sir,” Spooky chimed in. “We definitely had a full tank sir.”

  “Must be a leak,” Tag added, as he reached up and played with several switches.

  “Did you check the body?” Peterson asked.

  Tag looked over at him, puzzled.

  “Of the bird. After the firefight. Before we left the base. Bullets were flying. Did you check the body?”

  Tag gulped. “No, sir.”

  He shook his head.

  “Stupid mistake,” Peterson said. “We probably got pinged.”

  “It was dark out, and it was chaos back there, and even if I looked, I doubt I could’ve seen anything. When we took off, all systems checked. There’s no way I could’ve known,” Tag said.

  “It’s your bird,” Peterson said. “You’re the pilot. Your excuses won’t help us now.”

  Peterson quickly surveyed the mechanicals, and saw the flashing light. He wished the beeping would stop. It was shrill, and each beep felt like a knife in his head. He hadn’t had enough sleep, and he was edgier than usual. He hated the feeling.

  “How much is left?” Peterson asked.

  “It reads a quarter tank, sir,” Tag said.

  “If we can trust it,” Spooky added.

  Peterson looked out at the horizon. Dawn was breaking, and the industrial lights of Jersey were being replaced with the early-morning landscape. They were far enough away from the city that they now were flying over rural terrain. Farms and rolling hills spread out beneath them. They were in the middle of nowhere. That was good.

  Peterson hated to have to check in with his commanders, especially this early in the mission. It made him look bad. But this would mean a serious change in their plans, and he had to check in with them before making such a big decision.

  “Get HQ on the line,” Peterson ordered.

  Tag and Spook exchange a worried glance.

  “We’ve already tried, sir,” Tag said, fear in his voice. “Radio is down. Satellites, too.”

  “Roger that, sir,” Spooky said, fiddling with some more switches. “I can’t get an uplink. I tried everything, from our cell phones to our backup systems. Everything is down. No internet. No GPS. Nothing. Just a wall of silence.”

  Peterson felt his stomach drop with those words. The implications were staggering. There was no possible way that all of the military’s communication systems could be down—unless all hell had truly broken loose in the last few hours. The ramifications overwhelming.”

  “Are you telling me there is GPS whatsoever?” Peterson asked Tag, slowly.

  Tag shook his head, gravely. After a pause, he added, “We navigated of our compass. And some old, printed maps. But that’s about it.”

  Peterson’s stomach dropped further. So that was how it was going to be. Reverting back to the old days. Pre-internet, pre-GPS. He could deal with this. He was trained for this. Hell, the hardest wars he’d fought had been in the Stone Age. A part of him didn’t mind going back, didn’t mind at all.

  “Okay, bring her down,” Peterson ordered.

  Tag and Spook exchange a worried glance.

  “Where, sir?”

  “There’s a military base about thirty miles east of here,” suddenly came a voice. They all turned. It was Sharon.

  Well, Peterson thought, relieved, at least one of us is up.

  “Can’t risk thirty miles,” Peterson said. “We don’t know what we’ve got left. Plus, the base could be overrun.”

  “Then where, sir?” Tag asked.

  Peterson looked out the window, and surveyed the landscape. He remembered it well from his childhood. Jersey. Most people thought of the state as a huge industrial stink hole, and he still thought that it was, but he also remembered being shocked as a boy by how rural it was, how many farms it had. It was little known, but go two hours outside the city, and you might as well be in Yellow Stone Park.

  Peterson tried to push back the memories, but whenever he opened the floodgates, they came rushing in, and it was too hard to stop them. He suddenly had a flash, a hot day in June, a day with his father, the two of them blueberry picking. His father had thought it would be a good way to teach him about the great outdoors, to teach him fortitude, to show him the labor that real farmers went through. So instead of the leisurely outing that other fathers and sons had, Peterson’s Dad made him stay out there all day, hour after hour. Ten hours later, Peterson’s skin was burned badly, he was dehydrated, covered in bug bites, and his fingers, bleeding, hurt so bad, he could barely open them for days. What upset Peterson most, though, were the images of little brother. He was weaker, and more sensitive, an easier target, so his father bullied him somewhat horrible. Remembering his little brother crying, sometimes days at a time, racked Peterson with guilt. He wished he could have protected him. That was his father.

  “Sir?” came Tag’s voice again.

  Peterson snapped out of it.

  “Keep heading east,” Peterson said. “See that smokestack on the horizon? That’s Trenton. There’s a small local airport about four miles east of here. Set down there. It’s close, and small, and if things get hairy, it will be easier to defend ourselves.”

  Peterson went back to his seat, sat down, and checked all of his guns for the third time today. They were well-polished, locked and loaded, the alignment perfect, the action easy. He felt that itchy feeling in his fingers, which he always did when he knew a battle was coming. He tensed up and looked down at the ground.

  He couldn’t wait.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The beeping noise of the fuel gauge grew louder as the chopper’s blades slowed and it descended for the rural airfield. It was just where Peterson said it would be. And, as he predicted, it was empty.

  It was the right decision. Peterson kept glancing at the fuel gauge, and noticed it had dropped, in just the last few minutes, to close to empty. They wouldn’t have made it to the military base if they’d tried. And landing in someone’s backyard would have been a hell of a lot worse.

  Peterson kept trying his technology—his secure line, his two-way, his relay headset—but nothing was working. He’d woken all the others, too, with a rough push to their shoulders, and had ordered them all to check their devices as well.

  But no one was having any luck.

  As their chopper descended, Peterson felt a sense of relief. At least it was a controlled landing. He only prayed that the airfield’s fuel tanks hadn’t been tapped. This bird needed a lot of gas.

  Still, as the chopper descended lower and lower, as they came down within 200 feet, then 100, then 50, there was something about this place that Peterson did not like. It was too exposed. Too close to the woods. And the woods were too thick, too deep. And there were too many outbuildings. Right now, everything seemed quiet. There were none of those things walking around down there. And that was good. But still, there were a dozen places from which they could be ambushed, and just too many angles. They’d have to hit the gas tanks quick and get out.

  “No delays!” Peterson barked in a loud voice, as the chopper neared the ground. “No wandering off, no piss breaks. I want us back in the air in 10 minutes. Understood?”

  “YES, SIR!” came the chorus of voices.

  The chopper touched down, landing on the overgrown grass, about 10 feet from the pump. It was a smooth landing.

  “Armstrong,” Peterson yelled, “I want you at twelve o’clock. Ishmael and Angelo, nine o’clock, Cash and Johnny-Boy at six o’clock, and Sharon you are with me are
at three o’clock. Tag and Spooky, you stay with the bird. Fuel her up, and see if you can patch this leak.”

  “What about me?” came a voice.

  Peterson spun and noticed Dr. Washington, sitting there.

  He snorted. “What about you? Stay with the bird.”

  “Don’t I need a weapon?” he asked.

  “Shit,” Armstrong said, grinning, “you wouldn’t know what to do with one if you had one.”

  The chopper touched ground. “OK, MOVE OUT!” Peterson screamed, and in tactical formation, they all jumped out of the Black Hawk.

  The team broke off into four directions, establishing a 50 yard perimeter around the chopper. As Peterson jogged in the early morning through the grass, it felt good to have Sharon at his side again. He tested his gun for the zillionth time, felt it at his hip. He kept his eyes fixed on that patch of woods, and he knew that Sharon was doing the same.

  He looked in all directions, and saw his team fanned out, as ordered. They were tuned to perfection.

  Expect the unexpected, he told himself. A lesson well-learned.

  His sixth sense for danger was acting up. There was no reason for it, but there it was. It was gnawing away at him. The hairs rose on the back of his neck.

  And that only meant one thing: trouble.

  *

  Spooky stepped out of the chopper with the others, but unlike everybody else, when his foot hit the ground, he was struck by a jolt of pain. It was his side. No one else knew it, but he’d been bit. And bad.

  Back there, when they first took off, in that firefight. One of those things, just a child, had gotten behind him. When he was shooting another one—probably its mother—point-blank in the head, it had crept around him and bit him right in the side, right on his love handle. It had hurt like hell and back. He’d spun and elbowed the little bastard right between the eyes, then shot him dead. But little good that did him now.

  Spooky had hoped that during the chopper ride the pain would go away. He’d snuck pain killers, and, during the chaos before they lifted off, had injected himself with morphine.

  But it hadn’t worked. Instead, it had grown worse by the second. He felt his side stiffening up, like rigor mortis. He never knew anything could hurt this bad.

  That’s why he’d fall asleep that back there, in the chopper. It had been getting harder and harder for him to keep his eyes open. He felt himself getting cold, and sweat trickled down his back.

  A few times during the flight Tag had asked him if he was OK. He probably sensed that something was up. Spooky had just nodded, looked away, and popped another pain killer.

  He couldn’t tell them. Of course he couldn’t. Dr. Washington said that people who are bit become infected. If they found out, they’d have killed him on the spot.

  Spooky hadn’t known what to do. But this, this landing at the airfield, was a godsend. It gave him the chance he needed to get some privacy, to check the wound, to try to dress it. With just a few minutes of privacy he could really take a close look, and give it whatever treatment it needed. Maybe, just maybe, he could pull through, alive.

  “All right!” Tag suddenly announced with a cry of joy. “This one’s good!”

  Tag had checked pump after pump, and had finally found one that worked. Tag excitedly hit the lever, and ran with the long hose, five, ten, fifteen feet, to the chopper. He began to fuel it up.

  “Did you check the leak line yet?” Tag screamed over the rotors. He’d left the rotors running, just in case they needed to take off quick.

  Spook had meant to do it. In fact he would have loved to do it, as he loved all things technological. But his head just wasn’t clear enough. He was having a hard time concentrating, and sweat was pouring down into his eyes. He needed to get some more drugs in him, and fast.

  “I’ll check in a minute,” Spooky answered, breaking into a trot and hurrying past Tag. “I need to take a piss. I’m just going to head off to the hangar.”

  “What the fuck you talking about?” Tag yelled back, angry, as he filled up the bird. “You got to check the leak!”

  Spooky felt bad about it, but he couldn’t wait another second. The pain was just too bad. So he took off for the hangar, about 100 yards away.

  “Spooky! You fuck!” he heard Tag yell out behind them.

  But he didn’t care. His life was on the line, and he had more important things to take care of.

  Spooky ran into the old, abandoned hangar, sweating, already out of breath from the exertion. He’d barely walked in the door when he pulled back his shirt, and looked down.

  It was much worse than he’d thought. The wound had actually grown bigger, was now the size of his fist, and was turning green and brown at the edges. It smelled like crap, and he recoiled at his own smell: rotting flesh.

  He swallowed hard. He had seen too many wounds in combat, and he always knew when one turned for the worse. And this was worse than anything he’d ever seen.

  With shaking hands, Spooky opened a CPR kit he’d grabbed from the chopper, took out a big needle, and injected himself hard and deep, right around the edge of the infection, with a boatload of penicillin. He then took out a wet clothe, sponged away the pus, then took out a dry bandage, and taped it up. He popped a fist of Advil, chugging it back with a his canteen.

  He slowly stood up straight, and breathed. Maybe, just maybe, this would do the trick. Perhaps Dr. Washington didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about, and he could beat the infection.

  *

  Peterson checked his watch again, for the tenth time. Eight minutes had already passed, and as he turned and looked again, he saw Tag standing there, still fueling up. Peterson was pissed. Tag had taken too long to find a working pump, and as far as he was concerned, they were already behind schedule. He’d wanted to be up in the air in two minutes flat.

  Why was it that no one else ever seemed to get things done in the right way, but him?

  Peterson scanned the horizon again, looking at all his teammates. They all seemed to be in good position, and there were still no zombies on the horizon. So what the hell was he so worried about? He should be relieved. They’d found a station. They found gas. And even if they couldn’t fix the leak, they would still probably have enough gas to make a good run for Plum island.

  So why couldn’t he relax?

  As Peterson scanned the group again, he suddenly noticed something. Of course. Something always had to go wrong.

  Spooky was missing. He couldn’t follow a simple order, and he had the simplest of all of them. Stay with the bird, check the leak, and watch Tag’s back. Now Tag was standing there, fueling up, his back to the bird, and exposed in every direction.

  Peterson broke into a trot, heading back to the chopper—and just as he did, two zombies suddenly appeared from behind the rear of the chopper, heading right for Tag. Tag didn’t see them coming. One of the infected looked like a mechanic. It’s right eye was gone, as was it left arm. Just behind it was a fat woman, dressed in a polka dot dress.

  It would do Peterson no good to scream; Tag would never hear him over the chopper. Peterson couldn’t fire, either, as he might hit the chopper. Tag was sitting bait.

  Peterson broke into a sprint, running for all he was worth, right for Tag.

  Come on Tag, he willed, look this way.

  Tag was focused on the gas pump, though, as a good pilot should be.

  “Tag!” Peterson shouted, uselessly.

  As Peterson watched, the infected mechanic grabbed Tag’s arm, dug his fingers into it, and leaned his head in for a bite.

  Luckily, Tag was an expert martial artists. He responded quickly, elbowing the zombie in the face, and dodging out of the way just in time.

  But the gas line came flying out of Tag’s hand, out of the chopper, and was now spraying gas all over the zombie, all over the bird—all over everything.

  Peterson’s heart dropped. A bad situation had just gotten much, much worse.

  Peterson still had a good 50 ya
rds to go. He ran for all he was worth, but, as if watching a bad nightmare unfold before him, he knew he just couldn’t get there quick enough.

  Tag had been thrown off balance, and Peterson watched while he scrambled for his gun. Surely, he knew he couldn’t use it, Peterson prayed. He couldn’t fire with gas everywhere. Tag did realize it. He gave up going for his gun, and was now reaching for his knife.

  But before he could pull it out, the fat zombie grabbed him from behind, and was bringing her mouth down right for his shoulder. There was no way for Tag to respond to this one in time. He was about to lose a chunk of flesh.

  Suddenly, there was a gunshot. Peterson was shocked to see Dr. Washington, leaning out the chopper, holding a handgun, aimed right at the zombie’s face. In one clean shot, he his the fat zombie’s square in the far head. Miraculously, he didn’t hit the bird, or any of the gasoline spraying all over the place.

  Washington had just saved Tag’s life, and that was for damn sure.

  But still, it was the dumbest thing he could’ve done. Firing a pistol so close to the chopper, and with gas everywhere. He’d nearly jeopardized the mission.

  Tag finally extracted his knife, and, with an arcing blow, put the blade right through its temple. He left his knife embedded in its head, too startled to pull it out, and the zombie collapsed to the ground.

  Peterson finally caught up with them all, Sharon just a few yards behind him. The first thing he did was to try to shut off the gas pump. He hit all the switches, but it wasn’t doing any good. These old gas pumps were unfamiliar to him, and gas kept leaking everywhere. The fumes were becoming overwhelming.

  “BACK IN THE BIRD!” Peterson yelled.

  Tag quickly, gladly, got back into the chopper.

  “You, too!,” he yelled to Sharon.

  “I’m going with you,” she yelled, stubbornly running behind him, as he fanned out towards the others.

  Slowly, the others saw him running towards them. Veteran soldiers, they all turned on a dime, and ran back to him.