by John Ringo
CHAPTER 13
“You okay?” Sophia said. Nobody had seen Faith since the meeting and she finally tracked her down in her quarters.
Faith was hunched in front of a computer, staring at it like a mouse stares at a snake.
“I’m fine,” Faith said. She didn’t move.
“Homework?” Sophia asked. Despite being “Officers and Ladies” with full-time jobs, they were both expected to keep up with school work. Faith was considered the “bad” student of the two of them and despite being a fourteen-year-old officer in a zombie apocalypse was up to eleventh grade work. Sophia, fifteen, was working on college courses.
“Sort of,” Faith said.
“Need help?” Sophia said. She wasn’t usually so nice but Faith looked . . . scared. She walked into the room and examined the computer. Faith was looking at an iTunes screen. “So, seriously, what’s up?”
“I’m trying to figure out the playlist,” Faith said in a small voice.
“Is that all?” Sophia said, laughing. “I did dozens of those!”
“I know!” Faith spat. “Okay, I know! I was there, okay? For shooting up a beach filled with infected on a raid, Sophia! I’m taking an M1 tank ashore in a city. You remember London?”
“Faith, calm down,” Sophia said, sitting down next to her.
“I almost lost in London, Soph,” Faith said, clearly trying not to cry. “I almost LOST. I almost lost all my Marines, Soph! ’Cause I was stupid and I thought . . .”
“Faith . . .” Sophia said. “I . . . You made the right call. The general backed you up.”
“That’s the only reason it was right,” Faith said. “Because, Soph, you were there. If it hadn’t been for General Montana, we’d be . . .” She stopped. “And I didn’t know that, okay, Sophia? How could I? It was just Walker. It was wrong. I was wrong. And now . . . I’ve got to do this? Okay? And this is important, okay, Sophia? We’re going into a city, okay? Just like God-damned London, okay? And this time there is no way that the fuckers are getting my Marines! I’m going to fucking SLAUGHTER them. Those fuckers need to pay! And they cannot stop me! They just can’t, okay? This is where we prove we can fucking win, Sophia. So it’s important! It’s the most important thing I’ve ever done, okay?”
“Okay,” Sophia said.
“And there’s survivors, okay?” Faith said. “And they’re going to hear this. And I want it to be right, okay? I have to have that one song. That song that I play when we go hot, okay? Like when you played ‘Ready to Die’ when we hit Gitmo. That was awesome! And I’ve never done this. The rest of the playlist . . . Doesn’t matter really. Stuff. But that one song . . . That has to matter. And I’m sitting here and saying ‘Has to be the Marine Corps Hymn.’ But, let’s face it, is that the right choice? I mean . . . It’s obviously the right choice but it doesn’t feel right, you know?”
“Wait, Faith,” Sophia said, sitting down. “Just calm down. I get it. I really do. I didn’t but I get it now. Just wait . . .” She said. She clicked on the Marine Corps Hymn and nodded. “That’s . . . That’s not right for opening fire with an M1 Abrams, you’re right. You know how when we went into Gitmo, I played ‘Homeward Bound’ last before we opened fire?”
“Yeah,” Faith said. “Sort of wanted to do that one, then I . . . Yeah.”
“Okay,” Sophia said. “That’s the last one before you roll, okay? That’s the last . . . nice one. Last one to draw them in.”
“But which one do I play when we go hot?” Faith asked.
“That is up to you,” Sophia said, holding up her hand. “And you’re over-thinking it. What was the first song that came to mind when the colonel told you you were going in with Trixie?”
“‘Immigrant song,’” Faith said.
“Oldie but a goody,” Sophia said.
“But is that the right one?” Faith asked.
“Look, don’t sweat it so hard,” Sophia said. “Set up the rest of the playlist. That’s what I’d do. There might be something that comes to mind that’s better. Just let your back brain decide. You’ve got time.”
“It’s gotta be right,” Faith insisted.
“It will be,” Sophia said. “It will be . . .”
* * *
It had been decided, with some caution on Colonel Hamilton’s part, to do the same thing that they did when clearing towns: Play music and make light the night before to draw in the maximum density of infected.
The “utility boat” yachts had, therefore, gone down the night before and shone their lights and played loud music. Added to them was a barge with a rotating spotlight system previously used to advertise a grand opening.
Then the barge containing Trixie was brought down before dawn. It was anchored, carefully, right up against the wharfs. There was a gap between the barge and the wharf. It was close enough the infected could jump had it not been for the very high raised ramp. Trixie had to be set up high on the barge due to the way she had to unload. The seventy-three ton tank going “up” to the wharf would have bent any conceivable bridge in half. So the bridge had to be long and thus high. Fortunately, they had some experts on Roll On-Roll Off techniques who’d designed the landing barge. It worked and doubled as a shield against the swarming infected.
Trixie was covered by a large canvas with the Marine Corps globe and anchor spray-painted on it. The canvas was propped up carefully, completely clearing the tank with some space underneath. Even an overhead observer could not determine what was under the canvas. There wasn’t any tactical reason to cover the tank. Faith had suggested it without any logical reason and Colonel Hamilton had agreed, admitting that there was little or no logic. Zombies weren’t going to be afraid of any tank, no matter how large. But having it covered just seemed . . . right.
When everything was in place, just before dawn, Faith started her own playlist. It had a variety of tunes she’d chosen from pure gut to start off. “Winterborn,” Cruxshadows. It would set the mood nicely.
“Vater Unser” by E Nomine, ’cause she was going to need some forgiveness for what she was about to do. She knew that blaming the infected for the way they acted was wrong. But she couldn’t help herself. After London, she just purely hated zombies.
“He’s a Pirate,” the David Garrett version. She’d really wanted to meet David Garrett pre-Plague. If there was one guy on earth to lose her virginity to . . . That was, oddly enough, in honor of her dad who was a pirate at heart. Just with a conscience.
“Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner” ’cause she knew General Montana loved it. And if she had to choose another da, or a granda more like, it would be the general. She’d hardly known him before London and now she missed him as much as she missed Mum and Da.
“Meadows of Heaven.” Someday she wanted to find a place that reminded her of that song and just . . . stop. Find someplace where she could raise kids. Buy a farm. A place. Just name it “Home.” That was the future she was fighting for. That was why today had to happen. The road to home led right through the zombies gathering in the square.
“Danse Macabre” ’cause, well, it was appropriate to the current world. Long, but that would give them more time to gather.
“Miami 2017.” Billy Joel was way before her time but . . . she’d seen the lights go out on Broadway. Close enough. She’d been there the night the lights went out in NYC, permanently. She hoped, someday, to see them turned back on. But from off-shore: NYC was not her idea of a fun time.
That was almost the last of the intro music. Time to get ready to roll.
“Start the engine,” Faith said, then keyed the radio. “J. What’s the status on land, over?”
“Remember that look we got out a window in London, ma’am?” Januscheitis said. The Marine NCO actually sounded nervous.
“Like that?” Faith asked.
“Worse. Shouldn’t we . . . soften the objective, ma’am?”
“With what?” Faith asked. “I mean, we don’t have B-52s, or napalm, J. What’s bigger than Trixie? We’
re about to show gunboats how you do it.”
She switched back to intercom.
“Condrey, when the gates drop, you are going to hit it on my command,” Faith said. “You will obey that order unquestioningly, Lance Corporal. You are going to fucking floor it. Don’t even look. Just do.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Condrey said.
“We are going to bring hell and destruction to our enemies this day, Staff Sergeant Decker,” Faith said as the final piano solo started. “We are going to retake our nation, Staff Sergeant. And we are going to lead the way in this beautiful iron monster, Staff Sergeant, you and Lance Corporal Condrey have returned to the service of our nation with your skill and dedication. Oorah?”
“Oorah, ma’am!” Decker said. “Semper fucking Fi.”
They were closed up and Faith was in the compartment so she could see the staff sergeant’s face.
“Are you going to be . . . okay, Staff Sergeant?” Faith asked as the Marine Corps Hymn started with a brassy flourish. He wasn’t looking okay. “I need to know now.”
“I didn’t even like Lieutenant Klette, ma’am,” Decker said, obviously trying not to cry. Marine Staff NCOs do not cry. Especially on the cusp of combat. Most especially with the Hymn playing in the background.
“He was one of the most useless fucktards Marine Armor Officer Course ever produced, ma’am. He was more useful to the Corps as a zombie! You think you get lost, ma’am? Motherfucker couldn’t find his way out of the mess! And he was an ANNAPOLIS GRADUATE, not a fourteen-year-old girl! Useless as tits on a fucking boar HOG! But you couldn’t tell him! Oh, NO! He was God’s GIFT to the Marine Corps, ma’am! A more arrogant PRICK has never been produced by Annapolis, ma’am! Which EXISTS to produce ARROGANT, INCOMPETENT PRICKS! WHY THE FUCK COULDN’T YOU HAVE BEEN MY PLATOON LEADER, MA’AM? YOU’D HAVE BEEN WORTH MY SANITY, MA’AM! I am fine, ma’am. Finally. I am SEMPER FUCKING FI, MA’AM! I am fucking UP! READY TO ROLL, MA’AM! TANKER UP!”
Twitchell was pushed up against the side of the compartment, his eyes wide. Faith just smiled.
“Then let us roll fucking hot, Staff Sergeant,” Faith said quietly. “Drop the ramp,” she radioed just as the final flourish ended.
“Ramp down!” the operator called a moment later. “You gonna just sit there ’cause there’s . . . ?”
“Lance Corporal Condrey,” she said. “PUNCH IT!”
They couldn’t see a thing till they cleared the canvas. As soon as the tank bounded forward, Faith popped the TC’s hatch and took over the commander’s gun.
The sight was . . . intense. The square by the wharfs was packed, side to side, with infected humanity. She couldn’t even estimate how many. There was a solid stench of unwashed bodies mixed with offal and urine. The powerful speakers had actually been turned down for the intro songs. As the tank surged forward she hit the volume controls and “Bodies” by Drowning Pool boomed across the opening, echoing down the streets of the zombie held city.
“LET THE BODIES HIT THE FLOOR!” Faith screamed, triggering the TC’s gun.
The ramp crushed a dozen infected. More boarded the craft in a tide but they weren’t getting far. The tank filled the barge side to side. As the tank darted forward, the zombies were splashed up in the treads and the tank spun out, creating a massive rooster tail of molecularized infected, blood red mingling with the pink and purple paint of the pimped-out iron and depleted uranium giant. And those were just the first. The infected were packed tight. They couldn’t run even if they wanted to. And the tank was no more slowed by them than by air.
“TARGET CONCENTRATION!” Faith shouted, firing the cupola machine gun with one hand and laying down a windrow of bodies on the square. It was spitting in the wind of all the infected in the square and the ones to the sides were trying to climb onto the track. They were mostly getting caught in the treads. But eventually one of the taller ones would get a hold, then the rest would swarm aboard. Not a problem, she could just close up and have the amtracks scratch her back. But she was about to fix the whole situation in her opinion.
“TARGET!” Decker screamed.
“FIRE!” Faith bellowed. They were having to shout. Even with the crewman’s helmets, the music was so loud they could barely hear themselves.
“ON THE WAY!”
Then it turned out the gun was louder.
The M1028 was essentially a four point seven inch diameter shotgun round containing nearly twelve hundred thumb-sized ball bearings. The difference between it and normal shotgun rounds being a) size, it was more than ten times the total area and volume of a 12 gauge shell, b) the fact that instead of lead or steel shot, the shot was tungsten and c) it was driven at really insane velocity.
Tungsten is very dense, very massive and very hard. Besides being used as the filament in incandescent light bulbs, its other major uses were as tank armor and, not coincidentally, armor-piercing rounds.
Thus instead of just going through one body, the thumb-sized ball bearings went through all the bodies.
The advanced grapeshot turned a broad cone into red mush from just beyond the muzzle to the buildings a hundred meters away. And, in fact, penetrated the buildings’ concrete walls. Blood flew into the air in a solid haze of crimson pea-soup fog that settled lightly over the charging tank.
The few infected who had survived to climb on the forward glacis were blasted off by the overpressure wave and driven under the treads.
“DRIVER,” Faith screamed. “STOP! PIVOT PORT! . . . PIVOT STARBOARD!”
The pivoting tank solved the problem of infected trying to climb on from the sides.
“FORWARD!”
Faith slewed the turret to port with one hand, still firing the cupola gun to starboard with the other . . .
“Push me again . . .” Faith sang. “This is the end . . . ONE NOTHING WRONG WITH ME! TWO NOTHING’S WRONG WITH ME! THREE TARGET CONCENTRATION!”
“TARGET!”
“FIIIIIRE! PIVOT STARBOARD, TARGET CONCENTRATION . . . LET THE BODIES HIT THE FLOOR . . . !”
* * *
“Pick it up a little bit, Co,” Commander Sanderson said. He could hear the music as it turned out and thought the choice was bloodily appropriate. “I’d rather not get splashed with the blood.”
They were orbiting at five hundred feet. Blood wasn’t really an issue. Bouncers from the canister might be, though. Really he just needed some space from the insane carnage below. The square along the river, a remaining undeveloped plot that was a good hundred meters wide and a half a klick long, was being traversed by the rampaging tank, the crowded infected churned under the seventy-three ton juggernaut and turned to sausage.
“Aye, aye, si—” the copilot said, then turned sideways and puked.
“My bird,” Sanderson said, adding collective and pulling away from the carnage. “Chief, can you keep tracking?”
“Still on it,” the crew chief said in a strained voice. “But I’m gonna have to ralph . . .”
“Fortunately, I don’t have to clean the bird,” Sanderson said, then paused. “Oh . . . craaa—” He couldn’t release the controls so it went in his lap.
* * *
It was the middle of the night at the recently cleared San Clemente NALF. But General Montana wasn’t going to miss this for worlds.
He grinned as the tank practically jumped off the converted barge and began laying waste to the crowded infected.
“There’s my girl,” the diminutive general purred. “There’s my sweet, fell death. Damn, if I was just fifty years younger . . .”
* * *
“Did we have a count?” Galloway asked, setting his waste basket back on the floor.
The one real issue of an underground fortress was air handling. The Hole, with limited access to truly fresh air, always had a vaguely unpleasant smell of reprocessed humanity.
Everyone who had the access and the spare time, which was most of the base, had gotten up early to watch the landing. Faith’s antics were generally good entertai
nment.
It now had a very distinctive odor of vomit.
They were getting “take” from the camera installed on the covering Seahawk. Long before the NRO had come up with a very good algorithm for counting crowds. Police and “organizers” might not have a clear picture of how many people were at a gathering, but the National Reconnaissance Office was about reality. The same algorithm could be applied to any overhead video. And it was not a “guess.”
“Quarter million, sir,” General Brice said. “They were packed cheek to jowl. Don’t have hard numbers, now, but figure ten percent survivors.”
“The efforts to refurbish a tank no longer seem to be an indulgence,” Galloway said. “Jesus wept.”
“Let me revisit the issue of Buffs and cluster bombs, sir,” Brice said.
“Noted.”
* * *
“Jesus Christ,” Sergeant Hocieniec said over the radio. “They’re running!”
“Copy that,” Januscheitis said. “They’re fucking running!”
Zombies never ran. It was an axiom. Betas might hide, but the alpha swarms just kept coming. They’d waded through massed fire from the helos in London and never even slowed down except to feed.
Now the infected in the maelstrom of the square had had enough. They knew there were bigger and badder predators and they’d just met one. Much bigger and much badder. They were just confused by helicopters shooting them, the same with fire from gunboats. The M1, blaring music and bellowing fire, was something that even the most primitive primate brain could recognize as “Dragon.” The beast that was beyond reality, supernatural in its power. The monster in the cave.
They had only the animal instinct and some vague understanding of past. They’d packed into the square, closing with each other in the belief that in numbers they could swarm the prey as they had so many times before and kill it and feast. Individuals were often lost. Which was food for the rest. But with enough numbers, they’d always triumphed before. Now they were trying to get away, prey themselves. But the iron and uranium giant would have none of it. They were crushing themselves, trying to get away, but it seemed there was nowhere to flee . . .
