Judgment Day (Book 1)

by JE Gurley

  “Different,” Mace said when she returned. He looked down at her feet. “We’ll find you some shoes when we can. What size do you wear?”

  “A size six.”

  A pot of stew was simmering over a small propane stove. The aroma reminded her she was hungry.

  “Smells good,” she said.

  Will looked up at her and to her surprise, smiled. “It’s Mulligan stew. Canned beef and tomatoes, but the corn, carrots and potatoes are fresh. I tossed in a few chili peppers for some heat,” he added.

  “Is it ready?”

  He waved his hand. “Sure, ladle some out and enjoy.”

  Renda followed his advice, filled a bowl with stew, took two slices of bread from a loaf and perched on a boulder to eat. The stew was better than she expected, hearty and slightly fiery, but not too much so. It was her first real meal in two days and it hit the spot. The others followed suit and ate as well, with Will pleased by the results of his culinary skills, taking seconds. The four spent the remainder of the afternoon sitting just inside the mine entrance. They made no real attempts at conversation for which Renda was grateful. She had much to contemplate.

  Her parents were old, living in a retirement home in Boca Raton. She had not heard from them in almost a month, before the plague began. She hoped they were all right, but a tight knot in her stomach told her they were not. With no one to look after them, they would be easy prey for zombies, if they had survived the flu. The thought of them as zombies sickened her. She found herself hoping they died peacefully of the flu.

  She knew nothing of the fate of her friends in Tucson. Two of her fellow waitresses had stopped showing up for work the week before her visit to the hospital, which didn’t matter much, because there had been few customers. Most people had locked their doors and drawn their blinds in hopes that the plague would pass them by. How had she become one of the lucky few who were immune to the virus? If she had been religious, she could claim it was the hand of God. If she were a gambler, she might have believed it luck. Considering what was becoming of the world, she wondered if it was a curse instead.

  Night fell, swiftly enveloping them in shadows. Since a fire would be visible for miles, they remained in darkness. Sitting in the dark and staring at the night sky, with her companions, invisible in the darkness of the mine, she felt more alone than ever before. The occasional sad cry of a pack of coyotes broke the stillness of the desert. She fought back the tears welling behind her eyes, but they were relentless. She was glad the others could not see her weakness. She told herself the tears flowing down her cheeks were not for her plight, but she knew she was lying.

  9

  DEFCON 1. The tension in the control center ate at everyone’s nerves like a flea on an elephant, slowly, but relentlessly until tempers flared. Major Evers paced the floor like a caged animal, muttering to himself. The others in the room glanced at him from time to time, taking no comfort from his obvious state of near panic. Higgins knocked a clipboard from his console, and it clattered loudly in the quiet room. Evers head jerked toward them, his wild eyes glaring. He rushed to stand beside the offender, who sheepishly picked up the fallen clipboard.

  “Keep your attention focused, Airman,” he yelled in Higgins’ ear. “This is no place for amateurs, or cowards.” He addressed them all, “I feel a certain lack of enthusiasm for our job here, our duty.” He uttered the last word as if holy. “Our duty,” he repeated. “We hold in our hands a nuclear lance with which we must combat the enemy, whether that enemy is Russian, Chinese or a horde of damn Mexican zombies.” He waved his hands in the air as he resumed pacing. “It’s been hours since we heard anything from PacCom. We may very well be alone here, but we will not shirk our responsibility.”

  Sergeant Vince Holcomb watched his commander with growing concern. Not fully stable in the best of times, Evers had grown steadily more volatile over the past twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours was much too long to remain at full alert, but Evers had refused to allow the men to rotate in shifts, keeping everyone at their stations, almost afraid to ask for bathroom breaks. Vince had quietly reminded him that the men needed breaks and Evers had lashed out at him in a long verbal tirade that had left Evers trembling. Vince envied the pilots assigned to the F-22s waiting in the hangar away from the major. The jets could not remain running for long periods, allowing the pilots some semblance of routine.

  The last contact with Pacific Command in San Diego had contained the arming codes for nuclear warheads, an unprecedented change in procedure, instituted by the constant breakdowns in communications. Vince feared rumors of heavy death tolls in both civilian and the military were true. Only that would explain why command had placed such a heavy responsibility on a man so grossly unsuited for the task, as Major Evers was, an unimaginative boot licker. The weight of command had driven him too near the brink of insanity for Vince’s liking. The message had also confirmed that some of the dead were coming back as zombies – total bullshit, as far as Vince was concerned. Zombies were a myth. Someone in the chain of command was drinking too much, and cracking under the pressure.

  “Even now,” Evers continued, “zombies could be crossing the border, bent on destruction.” A few of the men looked at each other and shook their heads slowly in disbelief. Evers turned to Tell Anderson. “I want to see the latest satellite images of that mob.”

  Anderson glanced furtively at his lover, Rodrigo Valarian, as he punched in the proper coordinates. An aerial view of Yuma and the surrounding area jumped into view, growing more detailed as the camera on the NROL-41 surveillance satellite tightened its focus. A pulsating blob slowly became a mass of individuals moving north in a mile-wide swath along the banks of the Colorado River. Small groups broke away from the larger mass for a few minutes, but always returned. They did not move like humans. They came more like a migration, a herd of animals, purposeful but unhurried.

  “Zombies,” Evers said. “They have to be stopped.”

  Vince wasn’t sure what he was witnessing other than a flood of human refugees. The picture was too blurry to make out finer details. Their erratic movement could be due to simple fatigue. He faced Evers, “Our orders undoubtedly referred to threats from Venezuela, not refugees, since Venezuelan and Iranian troops were recently conducting joint war games in the country,” he suggested.

  Evers turned on him, glaring wildly. “I command here, Sergeant. My superiors have privileged me with the responsibility of defending our country against foreign threats.” He waved a hand in the direction of the screen, his eyes still glued to Vince. “Surely you concur that these . . . things are foreign.”

  “Sir, with all due respect . . .”

  “Respect!” Evers snapped. “You attempt to undermine my authority at every opportunity.” Evers stood and pointed a finger at Vince. “You show me no respect. We’re going to attack this enemy with every weapon at our disposal.”

  Vince was aghast at such an insane proposal. “Sir, Yuma would be wiped out. Tens of thousands of innocent . . .”

  “Sacrifices, Sergeant. We all have to make sacrifices for the good of our country.” A broad smile broke across his face. “They’ll make me a general for this.”

  “Sir, I . . .”

  “Sergeant, it occurs to me that you are an impediment to the ultimate goal here, which is saving our country.” Evers unsnapped his holster with one hand and withdrew his pistol. A knot of fear formed in Vince’s throat. He could readily see his imminent death in the major’s wild eyes. “I don’t have time for a court martial, Sergeant, but the sentence for mutiny is death.”

  As Evers raised his pistol, Vince grabbed a clipboard from the desk and threw it at Evers’ face. When Evers ducked, Vince unholstered his own pistol. “Sir, you’re exceeding your authority,” he yelled.

  Evers, blinded by his anger, paid no heed to Vince. He fired from his hip, the sound of the shot echoing loudly in the control room. No one moved at their stations, watching with disbelief as their commanding officer slipped i
nto madness. The bullet clipped Vince’s sleeve, but passed through without hitting flesh. He leveled his pistol at Evers.

  “Sir! Stop this insanity!”

  Blinded by his hatred, and unmindful of the consequences of his actions, Evers raised his weapon for a second shot. Bewildered by the sudden change in Evers, Vince fired in self-defense. His gun, which he aimed at Evers’ left shoulder, the arm holding the pistol, would have only incapacitated the major had Evers not chosen that moment to rush at Vince with his finger on the trigger. By a stroke of bad luck or ill timing, the bullet struck Evers directly in his heart. He emitted a loud groan, glanced down with disbelief at the hole in his chest pulsing blood onto his uniform and looked at Vince before collapsing on the floor. The room became deathly silent. Vince crossed to the major and checked his pulse.

  “Is he dead?” Dave Lindsay asked.

  Vince nodded.

  “My God, you shot him!” Higgins cried out. “They’ll hang all of us now.”

  “You saw him,” Vince said as they stared at him. “He was insane. I shot in self-defense.”

  “He’s right,” Mears said. “The major couldn’t handle the pressure. We were all in danger.”

  “What do we do?” Anderson asked.

  “Lindsay, contact anyone you can and explain what has happened.” He turned to the others and said, “No one is at fault but me. If it comes down to it, I’ll accept all responsibility.”

  “We’re still on alert,” Mears reminded him. “What do we do?”

  “Every other station, take a break and grab some chow. Tell the flyboys to stand down. Explain what happened. Relieve the others in two hours.” He looked at the faces staring at him and he attempted to exude an aura of confidence he did not feel. “We all need some rest.” Now the responsibility is on my shoulders. I hope I deal with it better than Evers did.

  “Vince, you had better take a look at this.”

  Anderson’s quiet voice held a touch of horror. Vince turned, and saw Anderson and Valarian holding hands, staring at the screen above them. A dark cloud of smoke blurred the image and it took a few moments for Vince to comprehend what he was seeing.

  “Where is this?” he asked.

  “San Diego,” Anderson answered. “The NROL is passing over California.”

  Through breaks in the dense and black pall of smoke, burning buildings stretched as far as the view allowed. It looked as if the entire city was in flames. Even ships in the harbor were ablaze.

  “My God,” Liz Mears whispered. “Are we at war?”

  “Maybe the major was right,” Higgins said. His voice was quavering in fright. “Maybe zombies did this.”

  “We did this,” Vince shot at him, glaring. He pointed to the screen. “Those are bomb craters. We blew up our own damn city!”

  Comprehension of the enormity of the situation sank into Vince’s weary muscles like a disease. Every fiber of his body rejected the idea of zombies, but if the reports were true . . .

  “Can you get more detail?” he asked.

  The image blurred for a moment as the satellite focus changed. One section of the city near the coast was clear of smoke.

  “Zoom in there.”

  Thousands of people thronged the beach and the highways, but they didn’t seem to be fleeing the burning city. Instead, they acted much like the Mexican refugees, moving oddly. They watched in horror as one group surrounded a smaller group that seemed to be armed. A few bodies fell in the surrounding mass, but they pressed forward and enveloped the smaller group. Mears groaned and turned away as the victors began to rip into the small band, eating them. Vince’s stomach did cartwheels and he willed the queasiness to subside.

  “They’re zombies,” someone muttered.

  Vince, struck dumb by what he had witnessed, nodded numbly.

  “How?” Mears asked.

  Vince shook his head and found his voice. “I don’t know. The flu maybe.” He looked around at the group and saw their frightened faces. “We’re safe in here. The air’s been filtered since we went on lock down.”

  “For how long?” Higgins asked.

  “Good question,” Valarian said.

  “Normally, we can continue on lock down for weeks. We have sufficient food and water. When we contact someone . . .”

  “If, you mean,” Higgins quipped.

  Vince was beginning to hate the smart-mouthed Higgins. Evers had intimidated him into silence. Now, Higgins was reverting to his true nature. “Everyone can’t be dead. It may take some time. We’ll remain on alert for a few more hours; then we stand down and wait.”

  “I say we leave now,” Higgins retorted, looking at the others for support.

  Vince stared at Higgins until the Airman Third Class averted his eyes, then he smiled. “I’m in charge, at least until a court martial. We stay sealed in and safe. Judging from the satellite footage, the virus, or whatever it is, is airborne. It may die out soon. We can’t take the chance of exposing ourselves to it.”

  “I need to see my kid,” Mears said.

  “I know,” Vince answered. He felt sympathy for Mears, but the scenes of carnage outside had shaken him deeply. “Maybe, we can find a biohazard suit somewhere and you can use it to find her. There’s a FEMA camp in Marana, she should be safe there.” He didn’t know if he was spouting bullshit or not, but it seemed to calm her. Personally, he wouldn’t trust FEMA in a situation like the one they faced. If all else failed, he might just let her slip away into the night to be with her child. One airman more or less wouldn’t make much of a difference.

  With Higgins quieted for the time being, the others relaxed for the first time in twenty-four hours. Evers’ domineering presence had kept everyone on edge. By allowing them to take a break and eat, they should return being better able to function. He was starving and exhausted both by the alert and by his ordeal with Evers, but he could not afford to leave the control room. If an accounting ever came, murder would be easier to defend than dereliction of duty.

  10

  Jeb Stone, wearing the gray jumpsuit of a dead man, stalked the dark corners of the camp in case any of the military guards remained. After two hours, it was beginning to look as though they had pulled out completely, taking his wife and son with them. His failure to bluff his way onto one of the departing trucks had left him trapped inside the camp with the others. Jeb found it difficult to understand the attitude of the people in the camp. Many were visibly ill, coughing and stumbling as they walked. More were too ill to leave their trailers, but all of them tolerated their captivity with a disconsolate acceptance that defied logic or reason. Even after the military had abandoned them to their eventual fate and with no medical assistance forthcoming, they did not attempt to escape. He wanted to shake them all, take them to the building housing the dead and show them the flesh factory he had discovered; make them angry enough to show some emotion other than abject apathy.

  As a psychiatrist, he had thought he understood the psychology of the German concentration camps of WWII. In footage he had seen, the inmates lumbered around in matching uniforms, without identity and without hope, reduced to the numbers tattooed on their arms. After a time, they came to believe in their inferiority, accepting eventual death by gassing or starvation rather than risking a quick, certain death by rising up en masse to fight their captors. He had always believed the plight of the Jews was a racial trait enhanced by centuries of tradition as outcasts and bearing the mark of Cain. The yellow Star of David they had been forced to wear in Germany served to enforce that difference. He had never believed it could happen in America, yet here it was. However, these people were not Jews. Why did they remain, even when unguarded?

  They could have easily escaped. The massive hole in the rear fence caused by the breakout remained unrepaired. The army had parked a truck in the gap in the fence, a minor impediment to a determined mob, yet no one made the attempt. He could easily escape that way, but he needed information first. Few people would speak to him. Lost in their own wo
rld or too ill to respond, most simply ignored him. One or two replied, but knew nothing. One woman, however, remembered seeing a beautiful blonde woman and her young son.

  “When?” he begged, frantic for answers. Karen’s name had been on the guard’s list, but he had not mentioned Josh. Why?

  “A couple of days ago,” she answered slowly, as if trying hard to recall an event so far in the past it had become a hazy memory. Then her face brightened. “Yeah, I remember now,” she said, pleased at her ability to punch a hole, however small, through the lethargy that had enveloped her. Suddenly, she frowned. “She was crying. They were taking away her son. There.”

  Jeb’s heart stopped. Without looking, he knew she was pointing to the building of death. His mind reeled and a deep blackness descended upon him, smothering him. He fought for a breath. His heart thundered painfully back to life. He focused on the ache in his chest.

  “You’re certain?” he asked, hoping she was wrong, but knowing she was not.

  “Yeah. They took him from her.” She looked at Jeb with sympathy in her eyes. “Did you know them?”

  He nodded his head and walked away. He did not remember much of what happened next. Night turned into day. Fights broke out throughout the camp because no more food came. He witnessed these scuffles as an unattached observer. His mind refused to acknowledge the danger he was in. What did it matter? His son was dead. His wife was gone. Let death find him and end his misery. Once, he felt the pistol inside his jumpsuit and briefly considered suicide, but his anger outweighed his grief. He had lost his family not through some insane, unreasoned accident, but by the willing hands of people sworn to protect the populace. Because I wasn’t strong enough to help them, he admitted to himself. I should have acted sooner. Suicide would be the coward’s way out.