Soldier On: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (Trudge)

by Shawn Chesser

  O’Malley called in the ambush requesting a dust-off and air to ground support. His call for air was immediately denied, aviation fuel had been getting scarcer by the day, and even calls for medical evacuation were being turned down. O’Malley made a difficult decision and broke contact. The commander was feeling a little like George Custer, all alone, surrounded by the enemy; desperately wanting to get back inside the wire in one piece.

  After pulling back and regrouping they returned to recover the bodies of his soldiers. He would never be able to purge the images from his memory, nor did he wish to forget the atrocities committed by the evil deviants. All of the dead were stripped of their uniforms and left naked and defiled for the crows to feed on. Some had swastikas gouged into their dead flesh, the rest were desecrated with the interlocking letters N and J.

  O’Malley was livid and wanted retribution. His hopes were dashed by the response that he received from the brass. His commander at Fort Carson acknowledged his dire situation but he indicated their air resources were- “Stretched thin” -whatever that meant. The man did say they would be diverting RPAs from Salt Lake City to gather after-action intelligence. Predator drones, he thought, were great for Intel during an engagement, but no help getting the wounded the attention they needed afterward. Staff Sergeant O’Malley was disheartened after the exchange and came to the bitter conclusion that, ultimately, he was on his own.

  The sergeant had another tough choice to make. Should he push on or turn the train around and limp home? This mission was a clusterfuck from the get-go, he thought, a long circuitous route through Indian country- only something a desk jockey could dream up. Screw them; they can finish this circle jerk with their UAVs. O’Malley put his index finger in the air and twisted his hand around.

  The other soldiers knew it meant they were going home...or what was left of it.

  ***

  Teton Pass

  Jackson Hole

  There were at least twenty vehicles of all makes and models twisted together into one big clusterfuck of a road block. Some of the cars had caught fire and were nothing but scorched bare metal. Charcoal blackened corpses remained seated in many of them. The inferno had been so hot the metal sign announcing the 8,431 foot elevation of the Teton pass had wilted and now rested on its side with the base still cemented into the roadbed.

  Of the many zombies milling around the blocked road, the female was the closest. She would be the first one of the day. The walkers flesh was pale, her eyes were jaundiced and her gait resembled that of a drunks. Black blood had dried on her tank top days ago. Even though she had been petite by most peoples standards, her midsection had bloated up horribly. To O’Malley she looked like a pear with legs, albeit shriveled, scabbed up cadaver legs. He took the binoculars from his eyes for a moment and then replaced them, hoping the scene would change. He really didn’t want to continue putting down infected Americans; it was deeply troubling to him, and deep down, against everything he stood for. The young commander was aware of the dark cloud of depression hanging over his head. The only solace from the guilt he was feeling was in the mantra he kept repeating in his head, orders are meant to be followed.

  O’Malley’s head reflexively turned toward the sound he knew all too well. It usually preceded the annihilation of an enemy stronghold or the demise of a stubborn insurgent sniper. The cough-pop, followed by the whoosh of the solid propellant igniting, meant one of the four vehicles and the crew inside were certainly doomed. From the left of the column, partway up the canyon, a Javelin anti-tank missile arced up out of the pines.

  Tempest Seven gaped as the tail of white smoke traced a path directly for his convoy. Training kicked in and he started barking orders into his throat mike. “Tempest One-Six we are taking fire, reverse course, reverse now.”

  Before they could follow orders, the driver and the security man in the tanker truck were killed, only seconds apart. The sniper watched as the dying driver popped the clutch, the semi truck lurched and stalled at the rear of the convoy; effectively sealing off any means of retreat.

  The reassuring sound of the .50 cals gave O’Malley reason for hope as the Humvee gunners started returning fire, uphill, at their unseen enemies. The ground troops banged on the inside of the track, they were clamoring to get out.

  Staff Sergeant O’Malley tracked the streaking projectile with his eyes; it only took the Javelin two seconds to cover the short distance before striking the trailing Bradley, Tempest One-Six, directly on its top where the armor is thinnest.

  The first mini detonation sounded as the penetrator charge popped the hull, allowing the eighteen pound HEAT warhead access to the innards of the armored fighting vehicle. Explosion number two sounded like a thunderclap, sending a shockwave of pressure and intense heat rolling over the entire line of vehicles.

  The driver and gunner died instantly when molten aluminum from the skin of the track entered the crew compartment. Secondary explosions from the onboard ammunition cooking off masked the report of the high powered sniper rifle being fired at them.

  The gunner atop the third vehicle was instantaneously cut in half by flying fragments of razor sharp aluminum and steel. His dead fingers locked on the trigger, emptying the .50 caliber machine gun into the dirt berm on the roadside. The gear strapped to the rear of the Humvee quickly caught fire, black oily smoke obscured Tempest One-Six from the commanders view.

  Small arms fire started impacting the skin of O’Malley’s M2. “Lower the ramp.” He screamed to his driver over the din of battle. It was the last order he would ever give. An enemy sniper scored a direct hit, the .50 caliber round caved in O’Malley’s face. The only thing distinguishable from his neck up was the Kevlar helmet firmly strapped to the remaining chunks of his skull.

  At the rear of the M2, the thick blast door covering the troop area slowly descended. Before the ramp hit the ground the 4th ID soldiers charged out.

  The sound of the ammo cooking, along with the booming 25 mm cannon atop the intact Bradley was deafening.

  Sergeant Jeffries, acting on muscle memory and instinct launched out of the track, his M4 rifle at the ready. The sensation of the cool mountain breeze was a welcome feeling after being cooped up inside the armored fighting vehicle. Jeffries moved to the right side of the Bradley hoping to seek cover from the withering fire from the concealed snipers. They must be well trained soldiers, he thought, because their firing positions were well planned out; scattered amongst the boulders and trees. The other five soldiers formed up next to him, awaiting his orders.

  Suddenly the wind changed direction carrying with it thick acrid smoke and the smell of rotting flesh. Jeffries covered his face and struggled to draw in a breath of fresh air. The chemical laden smoke seared his eyes; he found opening them was almost impossible, it felt like he had been pepper sprayed.

  Jeffries felt a body bump into him. “Staff Sergeant, is that you? I can’t see a damn thing...I got smoke in my eyes.” A stiff gust of wind redirected the smoke, revealing the open maw of the undead female he was conducting a one sided conversation with. Cold pustule covered arms wrapped around his shoulders. “Get off me.” The sergeant tussled with the rank smelling walker, lost his footing and fell in a heap. The zombie fell on top of him, clamped her yellowed teeth on his ear, and shook. Jeffries screams, shrill and animal like, drew the attention of his squad.

  Corporal Byrd turned toward the sound; it reminded him of the insurgent video Al-Jazeera reveled in showing over and over again, the U.S. soldier being decapitated by Iraqi insurgents made the exact same sounds as Jeffries. Shaken by the events unfolding before his eyes, the corporal leveled his rifle at the scrawny form; but held his fire because he didn’t want to risk fratricide.

  Jeffries pushed the monster away and was frantically calling for a medic when he collapsed unmoving, it was too late, the Omega virus was already surging through his bloodstream and it would only be a matter of minutes before he reanimated.

  Corporal Byrd had the feeding zombie
in his sights when the world around him erupted in fire and pain, followed by a never ending darkness.

  The second Javelin had plunged into the remaining Bradley and detonated. The earthshaking blast killed the dismounted soldiers instantly.

  Bookended by the burning hulks of armor, the two Humvees couldn’t move, the drivers maneuvered the vehicles to and fro trying desperately to escape the kill zone.

  Large caliber rifle fire continued booming from the high ground. One by one, starting with the drivers, all of the remaining 4th ID soldiers fell dead or dying.

  The one sided massacre was finished in less than five minutes. America’s new Civil War had just begun.

  Totally oblivious of the ammunition cooking off, nor phased by the flesh melting heat, the undead moved in to feed on the wounded soldiers.

  Chapter 40

  Outbreak Day 7

  Guild Headquarters

  Jackson Hole, Wyoming

  Ian Bishop retrieved the Cobra two-way radio from his back pocket. “Yes, what is it.”

  “Sir, we initiated contact with a five vehicle convoy. Two Bradleys down, there are still two Humvees and a fully loaded tanker truck intact. What are your orders?”

  “All of this is important, so listen very carefully. Destroy the radios right now and then make the vehicles vanish except for the tanker, bring it to town, we can unload the fuel.”

  “Copy that,” Joshua answered.

  “How many soldiers were there and what branch and unit were they from?” Joshua knew what to look for, he had seen combat in Iraq early on and had even been there when Baghdad fell. For the the last six years he had worked as a Spartan mercenary earning the trust of their founder Ian Bishop. “There are thirty-two enemies KIA. They’re all Army, 4th Infantry Division, if my memory serves, that unit calls Fort Carson home. What do you want done with the bodies?”

  Fort Carson was in Colorado Springs, a little too close for comfort, Ian thought, as he ran his hands through his short cropped hair and pondered what to do about the mess. It took but a second, being a Navy SEAL had taught Ian to think quickly and decisively. Failure to do so in combat was a good way to make the Grim Reapers acquaintance. “Collect the weapons and ammo and throw the corpses in the ditch and burn them. Sterilize the area. I don’t want any evidence left behind, not so much as a charred dog tag. Make sure you don’t leave any undead soldiers either. Good work Joshua, if they would have been able to get down into the city center our jig would have been up.”

  Ian hoped the patrol didn’t have time to radio wherever they called home to report the ambush. He didn’t want the remnants of the US military to have any reason to send aerial reconnaissance or more boots on the ground out looking for them.

  With a concerned look on his face Bishop switched the frequency on his radio and called his number two man.

  Carson answered immediately. “Yes.”

  “Are our air defenses in place yet?”

  “They’re in transit, overland, and less than a day out.”

  Ian Bishop shook his head in disgust and continued pacing the room, “And the Minot mission?”

  “We have secured the packages and they are in transit as well.”

  “Excellent Carson, things are falling into place. In a few short days we will be a formidable adversary...that is, if anyone has the nerve to challenge our authority.”

  Bishop ended his conversation with Carson. He then took a walk to find Robert Christian and deliver the positive news.

  Chapter 41

  Outbreak Day 7

  Schriever AFB

  Colorado Springs, Colorado

  “Carl. Squeeze my hand. I know you’re there.”

  The heart rate monitor blipped along the same as it had since Carl succumbed to the infections wrought on him by his undead assailant.

  “Cade is coming to see you soon, don’t you want to say hi to him? You two got along so good. Remember his bachelor party.” Brook had no idea what went on that night but at this point she was grasping at straws and wanted another sign-any sign-that he was coming out of the coma.

  Brook was out of ideas. Time was going to have to heal Carl’s wounds. She swabbed some water on his tongue and lips. Come on brother keep fighting, she thought, it’s only you and I, Mom and Pop are gone. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back big brother.”

  She had a good feeling that Carl would be ok. The way he tackled his alcoholism and got sober proved he is a survivor.

  Brook left her brother and headed for the door, she wanted to go and check on Annie and the little pink Mike Junior.

  Carl opened his eyes; the light attacked his optic nerves like microscopic razor blades. He didn’t know where he was or how he came to be in the hospital bed, but he had recognized his sister’s voice urging him to join her. His nerves were waking up along with his brain. It felt like a million red ants had taken up residence under his skin, their gnashing pincers rending scraps of his flesh to take to their queen. Supernovas of white hot pain erupted all over his body. The sound that he forced from his throat was but a rattle of suffering and misery. “Help me...sis.”

  Chapter 42

  Outbreak Day 7

  Schriever AFB

  Colorado Springs, Colorado

  “Freda Crash, you’re a sight for sore eyes?”

  The petite major visibly blanched. “Wyatt, who the eff told you my new nickname?”

  Cade grinned at Freda Nash. They went way back. If there was an important op running anywhere in the world, it definitely had Freda’s fingerprints all over it. “What happens in Bagram, does not stay in Bagram.”

  “I’ve never driven a Hummer before.”

  Cade took the opening, “From what I’ve heard, nobody else will be able to drive that Hummer... at least you didn’t take out any aircraft.”

  Blatantly changing the subject, “I met Brook, lovely lady. You wouldn’t believe what she did for Desantos’ wife.”

  “And I presume I don’t want to know.” Cade arched his eyebrows, his body language contradicting his words.

  “Do you want to know why I need your ear?” Freda asked, throwing her hands up in a display of mock disgust.

  “I need a favor from you...then; I might take listening to what you have to say into consideration. In the past, every time you needed to tell me something I usually ended up tangling with an HVT.”

  “Wyatt, there aren’t any more high value targets. There are only the undead and opportunist breathers.”

  “I came here from Portland. Getting here was like that movie Planes, Trains and Automobiles only throw in an ass load of walking dead. I almost bought it more times than I can count. A few days back I had a run in with a large gang of outlaw bikers, and their leader, a big redhead bastard. Richard Ganz fancies himself as the new owner of Idaho. The waste of skin has had a hand in a number of murders.”

  “Why didn’t you put a bullet in his brain? You’re good at that...I’ve seen the after-action reports.

  “Ok. Here is my after-action report: We drove. We killed zombies. The bikers killed lawmen and National Guardsmen. Ganz and his boys killed my friends and tried to kill me. Lastly, I sent a few of them to hell...but Ganz, he slipped the noose. I had him in my sights outside of Boise but he was out of range. The bottom line is...this mutt needs to die.”

  Cade broke it down to all of the specifics that he knew first and then added the second hand information that Dan had provided.

  “I’ll see if I can help you with your problem. Sounds like a worthy endeavor. But...you need to hear me out. Ok?”

  “I owe you that much.” Cade instantly regretted leaving the door cracked open.

  Freda Nash’s face regained its normal hue, “Mr. Grayson can you be back here at zero-one-hundred?”

  “I’ll clear my schedule.”

  “One more thing soldier.”

  “Yes Ms. Cra...” Cade almost uttered her nickname but thought better of it. Retired or not, he was still addressing a major.

&nb
sp; “Forget what you may have heard about how I procured my nickname.”

  “What do you speak of...” Cade said feigning ignorance.

  “Zero-one-hundred, I’m going to find an eye in the sky. Do not be late.”

  Cade left the meeting with a sense of urgency. He needed to find the old Vietnam Vet named Dan; and he had a little less than three hours to make it happen.

  ***

  The Airman that fetched him minutes ago was still standing outside the major’s door. “E-3 Davis Come with me.” Cade barked.

  “Sir?”

  “Officers rarely joke and this is no exception.” Without a backward glance, Cade walked briskly; off to find someplace he could stop and continue the charade in a more private setting.

  He must be with the Joint Chiefs, Airman Davis thought, or military intelligence. His monkey mind ran through the possibilities as he followed close on the heels of mister whoever the hell he is.

  A machine gun rattled off a sustained burst somewhere near the perimeter.

  “Those things aren’t taking a day off are they sir?” Davis stammered nervously trying to make small talk.

  Sir, Cade thought, the ruse must be working. He was pleased with his human hi-jacking so far.

  Cade stopped so fast that E-2 Davis practically marched up his back. “I need you to find two civilians for me. An older gentleman named Dan; he’s a retired Vietnam vet.” Cade pantomimed, “Bushy gray beard, ball cap” and-holding his hand at the gash on his nose-“he’s about this tall.”

  “The other man’s name is Duncan Winters. Ex-Army aviator and also a Vietnam vet. Ruddy complexion, narrow squinty eyes and he talks like a cowboy with a healthy twang in his voice. Got all of that?”

  “I think so. I mean, yes sir.” The E-2 remembered who he was addressing and saluted.

  Cade returned the salute. “Bring them to the Space Command complex by 0100. Don’t let me down.”

  Still holding the salute but looking a little shaky Airman Davis repeated himself exhibiting more enthusiasm, “Sir. Yes sir.”