Zombie Dawn: Outbreak

by Thomas, Nick S.

  Black knew exactly what he was getting at, “Yeah, then you can move through these alleys and will be forced to take the same route as us.”

  “Exactly,” answered Mathews, “we’ll still be following orders and the mission is still the same.”

  “Same, apart from it not being a shit plan!” said Black grinning.

  “Let’s do this!”

  The two squads moved out from the compound and down the hill. They made a special effort to maintain two separate columns, one for each of the squads as they entered the outer suburbs of the town.

  Nawzad was a small town of probably ten thousand inhabitants. Most had fled after the fighting between the Taliban and the British sometime before. Since the marines had provided extra manpower they had forced the enemy out and life was slowly returning to the place. It was still much more sparsely populated than before, intelligence suggested that no more than four thousand people remained. The town itself consisted of a well known bazaar that was used by many of the outlying towns and villages. Through the centre ran the main road, and a maze of mud-brick houses and compounds, interspersed with narrow alleys. It was hardly a thriving metropolis, but in the new Afghanistan it was a start, and it was their job to make it stay that way.

  Through this main street moved 2nd Squad. Sergeant Black had split the three fire teams across the street with half of the men moving down what he would consider the sidewalks, keeping close to the low buildings and looking for any potential threats. Experience had shown him that moving out in the open in this country made you both easy to spot and also easy to shoot at.

  Overhead the sound of the two Ospreys could be heard. They were heading away and with them gone they had no immediate way to leave the place or to move quickly. Black thought to himself that Wade had better not have fucked them over.

  “We’re on the main highway, so far no hostiles spotted. Route is clear, over,” he whispered into the headset.

  The Ospreys were now both clear of the men and started their return trip to collect more men and supplies for the operation. With the craft moving away the visibility down the main street improved.

  As the squad moved into the outskirts of the town they were surprised to see it looking very different to the reconnaissance photographs they’d studied the night before. Rather than being the bustling small town in the images it looked instead as though there had been a small war fought in the last few hours. The main street was littered with vehicles, some of them crashed, others abandoned and some still burning. What was even worse though was the amount of bodies.

  “The situation is not good. There are bodies everywhere, looks like there’s been major action. Over,” he said, listening for a response.

  “Sir, I advise we get aerial reconnaissance ASAP. We need to know what’s ahead. Based on the number of bodies something big happened here,” he said.

  There was a pause before the voice of a frustrated Wade appeared in his ear.

  “Sergeant, I’m not interested in a few bodies. This is Afghanistan, it’s always the same. Stop dawdling and get to the bazaar!” said the annoying voice on the radio.

  “Understood,” replied Black.

  He threw down his hand in resignation and then continued down the road. He swore to himself, his indignation at being spoken to like a child was bad enough, but in this country these kinds of petty arguments costs his squad lives. After moving a few more blocks ahead he stopped at the worst scene of carnage so far. A small truck had been abandoned in the middle of a crossroads and around it were crashed cars and bodies. It looked as though there had been some kind of battle in this part of the town, especially where the vehicles were, groups of bodies were formed up almost like a large circle.

  Torres spoke quietly to the Sergeant, “You know what this reminds me of?”

  Sergeant Black moved around one of the cars, examining the bodies thrown up against it.

  “What’s that Torres?” he asked.

  “It looks like one of those fifties films, you know the ones where the Ancients were fighting with swords. Look at the bodies, it’s like a last stand or something,” said Torres.

  Sergeant Black scanned the area, it was weird, but Torres might be onto something. The bodies were strange, it did look like they’d been killed trying to defend a position in the street. Then it dawned on him.

  “Fuck. It’s a barricade!” he called.

  Torres thought he heard something and moved off to the right, checking under the truck whilst Fernanda climbed up the side and looked inside, spotting bodies.

  “Sir!” she called.

  Sergeant Black moved up and called over, “What is it, Corporal?”

  “We’ve got a survivor here, Sir. It looks like he’s injured.”

  Black didn’t bother climbing up, he had plenty of carnage to see and simply nodded to the marine.

  “Get him out. We need to keep on to the compound. I don’t want to stay out here any longer than necessary. Some weird shit is going on and we need to be somewhere else.”

  Corporal Fernanda nodded and looked inside, checking the door for signs of tampering or bombs. After two tours in Afghanistan she was well experienced in the kind of sick improvised explosive devices that the insurgents used against them. It all looked clear. Keeping her weapon ready she pulled at the door with her left hand. It swung open to reveal the injured man inside. She turned and called down.

  “Bush and Anders, get your asses up here and give me a hand to get this guy out.

  Black interrupted, “The rest of you secure the crossroads. We’re not far from the bazaar now.”

  As they pulled out the wounded local the rest of the troops moved a short distance ahead, making their way cautiously past the bodies and vehicles. There was still no sign of any survivors. Whoever had attacked them had been highly efficient at leaving no witnesses. The fireteam to the right found their progress blocked by a trailer that had been dumped, almost as though the owner had wanted to cause a problem. It blocked off part of the road and the entire sidewalk. That was not what stopped them though, it was the sight of the crashed Humvee. A quick examination showed that there were no bodies nearby. Corporal Atkins appeared from behind the vehicle.

  “Looks like enemy action to me. The tyres are blown out and the offside wheel is missing, I think from an IED,” he said.

  The High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle, or Humvee, was a large military four-wheel drive vehicle that had largely supplanted the roles formerly served by smaller Jeeps and other light trucks. It was versatile, tough and could be modified for a variety of combat roles and was a very common sight in Afghanistan. Over 10,000 alone were employed by coalition forces during Operation Iraqi Freedom, the 2003 invasion of Iraq.

  Sergeant Black arrived on the scene, confused by the lack of survivors.

  “Could they be back at the compound?” he asked.

  The man shrugged, “Maybe, it’s where I would be right now if this shit was going, Sarge.”

  The Sergeant thought for just a moment before signalling for the squad to keep moving on. He pulled the mic closer to his mouth.

  “Team Charlie, this is Team Bravo. What is your situation?” he said.

  There was a slight pause before the familiar voice of Sergeant Mathews from 3rd Squad came back to him.

  “Black, we’ve found some major shit here. There are bodies in the ally and we’re making slow progress. Wait, there’s something strange about this body,” said Mathews.

  “Same here, it looks like the main street was blocked off for a firefight. We’re continuing on to the target area. What about the body?” asked Black.

  Before he could say anymore a screech came down the radio followed by shouting. Then the radio went dead. He called back into the mic, receiving nothing. Then came the gunfire, but not through the radio, he could hear it coming from the alleys off towards where 3rd Squad must be.

  Atkins climbed up onto one of the cars for a better view. He called over to the sergeant.
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  “Sarge, I can hear Kalashnikovs, it must be the Taliban,” he said.

  “Maybe,” muttered Black as he tapped his mic.

  “Base control, this is Team Bravo. We have shots fire from the direction of Team Charlie. Request change in command, we need to provide extraction, over.”

  “That’s a negative Bravo, proceed to the bazaar, do not wait. That is an order,” came the reply.

  “What the fuck?” shouted Black off the radio.

  He turned back to his squad but before he could give his orders Jones shouted out.

  “Sarge, look!”

  The Sergeant looked in the direction the soldier was pointing at to reveal a group of about thirty people emerging from far away in the distance, possibly four to five hundred metres away. With his training kicking in, Sergeant Black ducked down behind the nearest abandoned car, the rest of the men did the same. He checked his M4 carbine and then lifted himself up slowly, watching the group who were only a short distance away.

  Anders called over to him, “Sarge, there’s something wrong with this guy, look!”

  The Sergeant moved over, keeping low to avoid the attention of the group near the tanker. As he came closer to the wounded man he could see that his face was white as a sheet and his breathing was almost non-existent. What worried him much more though was the thick blood dripping down from the corner of his mouth. The first thought that occurred to him was that this looked like a biological or chemical attack or poison.

  “Shit, get back from him!” he shouted.

  The Sergeant’s timing couldn’t have been better, as soon as Anders stepped back the man coughed, spurting out a mouthful of foul blood before falling back down. Anders moved a little closer, putting his fingers onto the man’s throat to feel for a pulse. He paused for a moment, trying to get a solid reading.

  “Shit, Sarge, I’m not getting a pulse!” he cried.

  A series of groans and cries came from the direction of the crowd shambling down the street. Though they were a good distance away they were in the exact direction the marines needed to go. Private Bennett, who was sheltering behind a car, lifted up his M249 machinegun and placed it on the roof of the abandoned Corolla. He shouted over to the Sergeant.

  “Hey, Sarge. They look like fucking zombies to me, man!”

  Sergeant Black took just three steps to reach the marine and immediately interrupted the man, putting his hand on his shoulder and spinning him around. The soldier, who until now had almost been enjoying watching down the street started to panic until he spotted the Sergeant. His panic simply increased when the hulk of the man started to shout down his throat.

  “Watch that shit, Private!” he barked.

  The private acknowledged, returned to his weapon, somewhat chastened. He pulled back the cocking handle, preparing for possible action. The M249 light machine gun was an American version of the Belgian FN Minimi, and provided infantry squads with the heavy volume of fire of a machine gun combined with accuracy and portability approaching that of a rifle.

  The large group of shambling civilians continued their slow progress down the street, moving between the abandoned cars and towards the soldiers. At this rate they would probably take at least five minutes, maybe longer to reach them.

  Sergeant Black wasn’t happy, he’d heard of similar situations before. It didn’t take long for a situation like this to turn into a fully fledged firefight with an enemy that knew the ground, had prepared positions and potentially placed IEDs. He called out to the unit leaders.

  “First fireteam take the left, second with me in the street and third watch that truck.”

  The marines moved to get into better positions, keeping as little of their bodies exposed to what could be the enemy. The biggest problems were the units on the flanks. The squad on the left flank was exposed as they were halfway though moving across the street. They pulled back, taking up positions around the larger corner building on the crossroads. On the right Atkins and his men took cover around the crashed tanker and the Humvee.

  Anders called out something from the position of the dead man from the truck, whilst Sergeant Black called in their progress with his radioman. He moved back to see what the problem was. From what he could see, the dead man was sitting up, yet his face still had the look of a dead man.

  Out on the right flank Atkins signalled that he’d seen movement on the rooftop of the buildings to their right.

  “Sarge, I think they might be trying to flank us!” he called out.

  “Shit!” swore Black. He signalled towards Atkins. With the acknowledgement from Sergeant Black, Atkins sent in the fireteam to clear the building. The fireteam was made up of four marines, the team leader with an M4 carbine, one rifleman with another M4, one grenadier and one light machine gunner with the teams M249 machinegun. The grenadier was armed the same as a rifleman, apart from the fact that he had a grenade launcher fitted to his rifle.

  The team leader, Lance Corporal Winchester moved up to the door whilst the other three provided cover in case of attack. Winchester crept slowly forward ever wary of wire or buried explosives. The door looked clear but who knew what was on the other side. He turned to check on his men, they were ready. With one swift kick he smashed open the door and the grenadier and riflemen both rushed in, taking up positions on each side of the door of the building.

  As the rest of the men entered the room they were all relived to find no hostiles or booby traps, not yet anyway. The room was quite small and looked like it hadn’t been lived in for a while. There was a door leading out to a back room and a staircase leading up the right to the next floor. Without pausing Winchester moved to the door to check the back room. The other three moved in, one watching the stairs, the other two covering Winchester. Before they could move any further they heard a scream from outside. The grenadier, a twenty two year old private from Kentucky, called Lewis moved to the front entrance to see what the commotion was.

  “What can you see, Lewis?” asked Winchester.

  “Looks like there’s a problem back at Anders and the dead guy,” he replied.

  The sound of fast footsteps brought his attention back to the room that the four men were in. Winchester signalled up with his hand and the four men immediately returned to the staircase. Whatever was going on outside was of secondary importance, as a potential hostile in an elevated position on the platoon’s flank could spell disaster.

  Moving fast the grenadier was up first, followed by the machine gunner. As they continued moving the other two followed to take the positions the first two men had recently occupied. The room they entered was large, with only a small gap leading to a fire escape. The room took up the whole of the floor and in the centre was a table with a variety of bags and tools on it. Against the wall were about a dozen firearms of varying vintage. The four men moved around, checking for any sign of the person they’d heard. Winchester moved to the fire escape, keeping his M4 raised and ready in case of ambush. He peeked quickly outside and then ducked back inside. Nothing happened though. The others, satisfied that the room was clear of people, took up positions behind Winchester and the fire escape.

  “Did you hear that?” asked Lewis.

  The four men kept still, it didn’t take long before they heard the same thing that Lewis had noticed. Something was being dragged upstairs.

  “Follow me!” shouted Winchester as he slung his carbine down on its three point sling and moved out to the fire escape.

  It was a traditional old iron staircase and led up to the roof. With just a few pulls he was at the top and peering over the edge of the flat roof to a bizarre sight. The three men below called up to find out what was going on.

  “I don’t get it, there are four guys up here. One is hiding in the corner and the other three are standing around him. They look weird though.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Lewis.

  A single gunshot rang out before the conversation could go on any further. Winchester, afraid that the weapon that ha
d just been fired may have been discharged in the street, vaulted over the low wall with his weapon at the ready. He landed on the other side onto the flat roof about thirty feet from the strangers. He moved two paces forward and then dropped to his knee, carbine at his shoulder. The other marines followed his lead and spread out, each of them training their weapons onto the group.

  “Salaa day waacha ra!” Winchester shouted to them.”

  Though he didn’t actually speak Pashtu, the marines had spent time learning the fifteen more common phrases that they would need. Winchester had told them to drop their weapons in the best Pashtu his adrenalin pumped body could manage. Drop your weapons was number four on the list! There was no response though, the three men moved closer to the man cringing on the ground.

  Winchester repeated the order whilst the other three soldiers spread out, each one keeping a careful eye on the group in the corner. There was still no response. The man on the ground started muttering something and then with a single click lifted his pistol to his head and pulled the trigger, though there was no sign of the entry wound as their line of sight was blocked. The blood and gore from the back of the man’s head blasted out into the air and off into the street below.

  “Fuck!” shouted Lewis.

  One of the men lowered himself to the body and started to bite and tear at the broken flesh of the man’s head. The grenadier, a swarthy marine turned to his right and vomited onto the roof of the building. The other two men turned around to face the marines. Both of them were dressed in the usual civilian garb but they were also much paler than expected and each man had dripping blood coming from the sides of their mouths. The one to the left opened its jaw to reveal its blood covered teeth and called out in a sickening wail. They started staggering towards the marines whilst the third continued to feed on the corpse of the unfortunate man lying on the roof until a glint of light reflecting off Lewis’s M4 caught its eye. It turned around, spotting the marines and cried out in the same awful tone as the others. Lifting itself up it dragged what looked like a snapped or broken leg behind it.