by Rounds, Mark
“I resent the implication that a jumped-up O-6 with delusions of grandeur…” began Bussard but Antonopoulos cut him off.
“The last time I checked,” said Antonopoulos, “my orders to take command were signed by the Joint Chiefs, including the CNO. If you don’t think you can work for me, ask for a transfer, I’ll sign it. You can go out on the flight that brings in the new naval commander with my blessing. Until then, you will follow the chain of command. Am I clear?”
“But …”
“Sit down and shut up,” said Admiral Curtis pointing at Bussard. “I took an oath which says in part, that I will obey all lawful orders of the officers appointed over me. General Antonopoulos was lawfully appointed by the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the CNO, with whom I have been in personal contact, and who agrees with his rationale. You sir, are not part of the solution here, but part of the problem. When this meeting adjourns, meet me in my office and we will continue this discussion.”
July 11th, Saturday, 1:49 pm PDT
Just south of Mountainview Park on Mountain View Road, Moscow ID
“Fire in the hole!” shouted Don Kaag as he touched off another of his homemade claymores. A cluster of about thirty Infected went down in a heap and more behind them soaked up the nails and screws that were part of the claymore’s payload.
LT. Sage checked her magazine, she had less than twenty rounds remaining. Then she would have to rely on the Smith and Wesson M&P 8 with only eight rounds of .357 magnum ammo in the cylinders. Sage and the homeowners had made a hard nut to crack. There were close to three hundred bodies lying on the field and more of the Infected sported hideous wounds that slowed them down and broke of the front edge of the attack. Now they wandered around in clusters of twenty or thirty.
Noah and several homeowners that joined him to the east of the road had pushed the Infected even further out to the east, but now an ammunition shortage was making itself felt. Many of the home owners were nearly out or down to handguns. Most had retreated into their homes and would only fire when the Infected actually threatened their structures.
Sage and what homeowners remained retreated across Paradise Creek, which ran through the park. It was just a slow-moving trickle of water this time of year but the ditch slowed down the Infected and they could handle them in small groups as they struggled with the ditch and the mud in the bottom.
“How are we doing for ammo?” said Sage during a lull in the battle.
“I have two magazines left,” said Noah.
“I have half a dozen 12 gauge ma’am,” said Kaag, “and two more claymores. I also have my .45 with three magazines.”
One by one, down the line of a dozen or so homeowners, they all chimed in and confirmed that they had limited or no ammunition. The last ones were Fiona and Mary Strickland at the end of the line.
“Two shotgun shells and 12 .357 magnum rounds,” said Mary quietly.
“I’m empty,” said Fiona as she held up her Browning Hi-Power with the slide locked back.
“OK, if we stay here any longer and they will be all around us,” said Sage. “It’s time to bug out. We’ll bound back with half of us providing what covering fire we can until the first group catchs up. We’ll go first to the softball field and then just keep working our way down the trail towards Good Sam. We will make our last defense at Hordeman’s Pond. Conserve your ammo and …”
The rest of her instructions were drowned out by the blast of a 40mm grenade out of an M203 in the hands of Sergeant Borden. Along with the good Sergeant were half a dozen clerks and admin specialists lead by Captain Maitland. They also had their remaining M-60 with them.
“How are you fixed for ammo, Lieutenant?” shouted Maitland as they fell in with Sage and her troops.
“About clocked out sir,” said Sage. “I am on my last mag.”
“Sorry we’re late,” said Maitland. “We were on foot and some of us aren’t as young as we used to be.”
“You showed up in the proverbial nick of time sir,” said Sage enthusiastically.
Maitland’s troops began handing out service ammo to those whose weapons could support it. They also brought several hundred loose rounds and those whose weapons took magazines that were not military standard rapidly loaded what they had, while Maitland and his troops used the M-60 to suppress nearby clusters.
“What’s the plan sir?” asked Sage as her troops resupplied.
“We hold until relieved,” said Maitland. “You and these folks have broken up the attack and the rest of the Infected in this band are roaming in small groups. As soon as we get the recall complete, platoons will patrol the streets and start taking them out. Of course, home owners are sniping at them all the time. We may not have a whole lot of work to do when the time comes. Then we go and help these good folks take back their homes …”
July 11th, Saturday, 1:57 pm PDT
Just south of Moscow Mountain on US Highway 195, Moscow ID
Macklin stopped at the crest of the hill. He could see two bands of the Infected moving around the outskirts of Moscow. The one on the east side of town near Mountain View Road was fully engaged. A second band, which was out of sight, had been sent to attack Pullman and Macklin could hear small arms from the west punctuated by several low energy explosions showing that some folks, at least, were improvising explosives making his job harder and costing his boss Infected proxies. There were not all that many in the area after the disastrous attack on Fairchild so it was a real concern.
The final band that was in view was moving down US Highway 95 toward Moscow. It was in the folds of the Palouse Hills and so had not yet been discovered.
“Ngengi,” said Macklin, “get the mercenaries out and moving. Park the bus here on the pass.”
“What about Sayla and the Sky Warrior?” said Ngengi, with some derision when he indicated Twitchell.
“We can’t leave them,” Macklin musing almost to himself. “Sayla would be gone as soon as we cleared the bus. Ngengi, dope them up with Slash and leave them.”
“We are nearly out of Slash,” said Ngengi, “can’t we just kill the Sky Warrior? He is of little use to us.”
Macklin spotted Twitchell watching the conversation with eyes wide with alarm. He motioned to Ngengi.
“Let’s take this outside,” said Macklin quietly and the two men left the bus.
Sayla and Twitchell had been riding in a heap in the back of the school bus for several hours but Sayla had not been idle. His hands and feet had been bound securely but, by using his saliva and alternatively blowing and sucking on the duct tape over his mouth, Sayla now had it loose. Then he waited until all of the mercenaries emptied out of the bus to relieve themselves, have a smoke, or in a couple of cases, renew their Slash habit. Sayla knew they would have a few minutes at most to get away.
“Sky Warrior,” said Sayla very quietly after a strong puff of breath had blown the tape away from his mouth, “Do you want to escape?”
Wesley Twitchell, who had been similarly trussed was able to crank his head far enough around to nod vigorously. He knew that his potential lifespan could be measured in minutes.
“Very well,” continued Sayla, “I am going to chew off the tape on your hands. Do not cry out.”
Then, with a contortion that only a gymnast could match, Sayla worked his way over to where Twitchell’s hands were bound and began tearing at them with his teeth. He was not gentle and twice he bit Wesley’s hand, but he did not cry out.
“There is a knife in my boot,” said Sayla as soon as he finished with the duct tape.
Wesley pushed himself around and got his hands on the boot. The knife had a skeletonized handle with a three inch blade. Unless they removed Sayla’s boots, they would never have found it. The knife was very sharp and made short work of the rest of the tape.
“What’s your plan?” asked Wesley as he tried to rub some circulation back into his extremities.
“They will be back to the bus in seconds,” said Sayla. “Out the Emergency exit
and run for that grove of trees. If they start shooting, dodge side-to-side.”
When Wesley nodded, Sayla kicked the back-door open. They both tumbled out and sprinted down the barrow pit. Several of the mercenaries spotted them but only a couple had enough presence of mind to try and shoot them.
Macklin and Ngengi cleared the front of the bus just in time to see them escape into the woods.
“After them, you fools,” shouted Ngengi, but Macklin restrained him.
“If we chase them,” said Macklin quietly but urgently, “the Infected will be spent and our attack will have little effect. Let them go and keep the fact that we had them to ourselves unless you want Nergüi to take a walk in your brain.”
Ngengi’s involuntary shudder was all the assurance Macklin needed to be sure the Ngengi would keep this quiet.
July 11th, Saturday, 2:01 pm PDT
Just west of Pullman at the intersection of Washington 270 and US Highway 195, Pullman WA
Patrol Officer Morgan Lawton was leaning against her patrol cruiser and using a pair of binoculars to try and figure out what was coming down the road. The cruiser itself had not moved in months owing to the shortage of fuel but it was handy as a check point on the main road. She also had one of the very few radios with an active battery in it. She gave the binoculars one last look and then reached for the radio.
“152 – Pullman,” said Morgan into the microphone more calmly than she felt, “we have Infected coming down US 195. I can see several hundred now and more are coming over the hill. Get Chief Yates on the horn and find out what I am supposed to do here!”
Her partner Joey Birkland was looking worriedly down the road. He had his AR-15 but even with the four magazines that he was carrying, he knew he couldn’t make a dent it the mob to the north.
“What do you have, Lawton?” said the voice of Chief Yates over the phone.
“There are hundreds of Infected sir,” said Morgan whose voice was pitched higher than she would have liked. “They are maybe five hundred yards from the check point and closing on foot.”
“Get on your bikes and come on in,” said Yates. “Meet up at the Gladish building. I’ll have more for you then.”
They had been commuting out to the checkpoint on bicycles so they mounted and started pedaling down High 270 as fast as they could. The road took a sweeping turn towards the north. As they cleared the apex of the corner, half a dozen Infected came down the bank and jumped Joey who was just a little behind Morgan, tumbling him off the bike. Joey rolled and grappled with an Infected man who was taller than he was.
Morgan stopped her bike and drew her Glock 17 and began firing as the Infected came tumbling down the hill. She quickly emptied the fifteen rounds out of the magazine stopping three of the Infected outright and wounding two more. Joey managed to throw the man he was grappling with to the ground and then, before the nearly naked infected man could get up, Joey brought his boot down hard on his neck, breaking his spine and killing him instantly. He came up smiling but another man jumped him from behind, biting him on the shoulder and neck. While Morgan fumbled with another magazine, Joey rolled on top the Infected man and broke his grip, finishing him off with his own M&P .40.
“Ride!” shouted Joey as he brought his AR-15 to bear. “I will hold them as long as I can!”
“I can’t leave you!” shouted a tearful Morgan.
“I’m dead already!” replied Joey and he slapped the wound on his neck. He waved his bloody hand around for affect. “Let me do this for you. Live, and I’ll take as many with me as I can!”
Not trusting herself to speak, Morgan got on her bike and road hard for town. Over her shoulder, she heard Joey firing his AR-15. It took only a few minutes to cover the distance to the Gladish Auditorium to find Chief Yates with half a dozen police and twenty of the mayor’s monitors.
“Where is Birkland?” asked Yates.
“They … they bit him,” said a sobbing Morgan. “He’s back there. He held them off long enough for me to get here!”
“You rest here,” said Yates kindly. “We will head up there and see if we can help.”
“OK,” said Morgan who just wanted to curl up in a ball. “But come back for me, ok?”
Chapter 6
July 11th, Saturday, 2:17 pm PDT
Highway 95, Just south of Moscow Mountain near C&L Meat Lockers, Moscow ID
LT. Forrest Johnson had been moving his platoon down the road as fast he could. He was a recent Army ROTC graduate who hadn’t received orders to his duty station when the Plague broke out. He had volunteered and been accepted by the Guard as a new Second Lieutenant and was the ‘officer in training’ for 3rd platoon. The normal commander of the unit, 1st Lieutenant Daniel Judd had dislocated his knee in training last week, so when the recall had gone out, Johnson had been given command as his was the first platoon to show up after the recall.
They alternated doing the ‘paratroop shuffle’ for thirty minutes and then walking for ten. They had managed to cover the six miles between the Armory and this location in just an hour and half. His troops were winded and tired but Forrest was proud of them. They were a mixed bag of veterans and kids who were trying to do their duty and two old school NCO’s from the guard. They had maintained discipline and covered a lot of ground with all their equipment.
They had one of the Guard’s precious machine guns and four M-4’s. The rest of the platoon was armed with privately owned weapons, but they were well supplied with ammunition and even had a few grenades.
“Sir!” shouted First Sergeant Jim Lint, “Do you see them!?”
Forrest nodded and pulled out his binoculars. He could see the Infected spilling out of the pass on Moscow Mountain and fanning out over the wheat fields. He was alarmed as they were covering a front that was already way larger than he could cover with his platoon. He knew he couldn’t stop them all. All he could do would be to stall them some and hope to last long enough to get some help. He had seen a number of private citizens arming themselves and taking up positions in the residential streets as they marched through. He hoped that they were setting up some secondary positions to resist the Infected who would inevitably bypass his location and head into town to do God knows what.
“Take cover in the buildings to the left and right of the highway and set up a hasty defense!” shouted Johnson. “Sergeant Lint, sight the machine gun to fire down the highway. Aim gentlemen. I don’t think we have ammo to waste. Designated marksmen, take them down from the front to the back!”
A crackle of rifle fire began punctuated with short bursts from their Vietnam era M-60 machine gun. The Infected began falling, but just as Johnson feared, they also started spreading out around the edges of his position to the west and east. Just when Johnson thought it couldn’t get any worse, his RTO, who was standing in front of the kitchen window in the store front where they had taken cover, tumbled backwards, grabbing at his chest.
“Son of a Bitch!” shouted Spec 4 Rosenthal as he clawed at his body armor. Sam Porret, who had been an EMT in civilian life before he volunteered for the Guard hit the deck and low crawled over to Rosenthal. Sam got his hands under Roshethal’s armor and was able to feel around.
“Cowboy up,” said Porret as he held up a dented piece of metal. “Your body armor’s chest plate took the hit. You’ve probably got a cracked rib is all.”
“Hurts like a motherfucker,” said Rosenthal rubbing his chest and trying to sit up.
“Stay low, you fool,” said Johnson who was the first to realize what had happened. “The Infected don’t shoot. Somebody out there is backing them up. Give me that plate!”
Porret tossed it over and Johnson gave it a good hard look.
“This damn thing has been hit by a pretty high powered rifle,” said Johnson. “Probably a .308. You are lucky to be alive. I need the radio now!”
“Racetrack Control, this is Ractrack 3, I need Captain Maitland now!” said Johnson.
“This is Racetrack 1, Go ahead 3,” said th
e voice of Colonel Amos over the radio.
Just then the brickwork above Johnson’s head exploded into a shower of fragments, encouraging him to sink even lower.
“Sorry sir,” said Johnson trying to blink the dust and grit out of his eyes. “We are under accurate rifle fire. My platoon has gone to ground. We are providing a good base of fire, but each time we move, we attract rifle fire. Infected are escaping to the west and east of us. What are your orders sir?”
“Rifle fire?” said Amos incredulously, “the Infected don’t carry rifles!”
“I know sir,” said Johnson. “Someone else is obviously supporting this attack, Please advise sir?”
“I’ll get back to you,” said Amos who handed the radio back to The RTO. Then he ran the fifty feet down the hall to Chad’s office.
“Strickland, I need to speak to your boss ASAP,” Amos said as he burst into the office. “Get him on your fancy phone now!”
“Roger sir,” said Strickland who knew it was not the time to argue about the General’s meeting.
“Captain Nixon, I have Colonel Amos for Captain Lassiter,” said Chad neutrally into the phone.
“Strickland, you know he is in a meeting!” said a harried Nixon.
“Strickland,” said an impatient Amos reaching for the headset, “the phone.”
“Nixon,” said Amos impatiently as soon as he had control of the headset. “I need your boss on the phone now. If you do not comply, not only will I file a letter of protest but I will order Captain Strickland and Major Tippet to return our forces to the Moscow-Pullman area as we are under attack. There are some thousands of Infected and now we are receiving accurate rifle fire. We will have Infected roaming the streets in a few minutes and I will need every rifleman I can find. Will you comply?”
“Yes sir, standby while I get Captain Lassiter,” said a subdued Nixon.
Corporal Taylor came running into the office with a note. Amos read it quickly and swore to himself crumpling the note and thrusting it in his pocket.
