Strands of Sorrow

by John Ringo

  “Motherfu—” Faith snarled as she briefly surfaced. “That HURT!”

  Faith hadn’t survived this long by standing idly by while being killed. She’d dragged one of her .45s out while being rolled.

  Alligators roll, check to see if the prey is still struggling, then roll again. Faith knew this. Which was why she didn’t struggle. She just leaned sideways and shot the gator in the head.

  Alligators have very hard heads. And while the .45 ACP round is quite good at killing anything alligator size that is not armored, it’s not so good at penetrating crocodilian craniums. What it does do, however, is sort of throw them for a loop.

  The gator started thrashing like a snake with its head chopped off. Still holding onto Faith’s leg.

  Faith reached down with her left hand and managed to get the gator’s jaws unclamped from her leg. This was aided by the fact the gator was opening and closing its jaws spastically due to being shot in the head by a .45.

  She held up her now somewhat mangled hand and shook her head in disbelief.

  “When am I ever gonna learn?” she muttered.

  Januscheitis was already in the water dragging her to the RHIB.

  “You’re gonna be okay, ma’am,” the staff sergeant said, half desperately.

  “Oh, I’m gonna be fine,” Faith replied, holding up her hand. “But I still gotta get those samples.”

  “Got it under control, ma’am,” Twitchell said. “Five samples.”

  “I’d say you should have done this in the first place,” Faith said as Janu pulled her into the boat. “But you gotta admit this is gonna be one hell of a story.”

  “One I’m not looking forward to telling your father, ma’am,” Januscheitis said. “Jesus, that leg don’t look too good . . .”

  “‘Granma! Tell us again about when the alligators tried to eat you!’” Faith said, holding a thumb on her wrist artery to control the bleeding. “I swear to God I am going to find a better line of work.”

  “Hello, again, Reginald,” Faith said as the amtracks approached the objective. The alligators were sliding off the bank into the water to avoid the loud things approaching from the water but even in the pre-dawn light she could spot Reggie. He had a distinct wound on his forehead.

  “Should I take care of them, ma’am?” Twitchell said.

  “No,” Faith said, switching to radio with her good hand. It had only taken a few dozen stitches to sort of fix. The corpsman was pretty sure she’d get almost full use again someday. The leg was also pretty mangled. It had been suggested she sit this one out. She’d pointed out all she had to do was sit in an amtrack and look important.

  “Kodiak, Shewolf,” Faith radioed.

  “Kodiak.”

  “Request no fire on local wildlife,” Faith said. “They were just doing their job, protecting the base. Over.”

  “Roger,” Kodiak responded. He’d taken Sergeant Hoag’s place as TC of Track Two. And had the psy-ops speakers loaded on the track. “All tracks. Shewolf likes the gators ’cause they’re family. Do not fire on the gators. Now line up and get ready to hit that beach.”

  The music started and Faith grinned. Even she would admit that there was only one choice for this landing. And it was a longer version than the one she usually played: The Irish Grenadiers version.

  Alas, since it was a fairly deserted part of the base, there seemed to be no one to hear it. But they were on the land on Parris Island. Check that, there seemed no one sentient to hear it. They were definitely getting customers. Track Two had already opened up with fifty cal.

  As her track cleared the bushes along the shoreline she could see what they were firing at. Dozens of infected in this part of the base had apparently not headed over to the Navy fire zone.

  “Twitchman,” Faith said. “Free fire, forty, on all infected.”

  “Free fire, forty, aye, ma’am,” Twitchell said, opening up with the Mk19.

  * * *

  “Sergeant of the Guard to Post Four!” Recruit Private Gina Swanson called, continuing to observe her sector.

  “Report, Recruit!” Gunnery Sergeant Annette Brown barked as soon as she’d reached the post.

  “Ma’am, firing from the southwest, ma’am!” Swanson barked. “Also . . . music, ma’am!”

  The plague had swept Parris Island just like the rest of the world. The response had been to fall back on food stores for a siege. The process had been as strict and orderly as possible. No attempt was made to hold any portions of the base except the food stores. All recruits who had completed basic rifle marksmanship were armed. Recruits who had not completed rifle marksmanship or who had failed their first time through were put on non-armed duties including maintaining control of and security for dependents.

  As per Marine Corps doctrine for trainees, all females were located in one facility, separate from males. They had dependents as well, but not so much as one teenage male.

  Which was lucky, because from what Brown was getting about the other facilities, pregnancy was endemic.

  Holding things together had been hell for a while. They’d lost one of the facilities to infected getting loose. But the rest had held. Huge death rates as well as “turning,” but they’d all held. The infected had either been terminated or turned out. In retrospect, the initial orders to turn them out were probably boneheaded but that was then.

  There was an increasing issue about the food stores. They had not anticipated a ten-month siege. If they weren’t relieved soon, it might become necessary to attempt a breakout. If the force could access the remaining ammunition on the base, it might be possible to take it back. However, the infected level remained high and the nearest magazine to the food stores was nearly two miles away.

  Probably the only bright spot was that all the recruits were trained up with the exception of marksmanship. There was insufficient remaining ammunition to do proficiency training. On the other hand, someone had brought in pugel sticks. Given that it was one of the few forms of entertainment, they might be able to fight their way through with some rebar.

  They’d seen a Seahawk in the distance yesterday and there’d been a report of shots from the southeast last night. It looked like relief forces might have arrived.

  The sound of the Marine Corps Hymn changed that from “might” to “likely.”

  “Signaler! Signal Building Sixteen that we hear heavy fire, the sound of tracks and the Marine Corps Hymn from the southwest, vicinity of the Known Distance Range!”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am!” Recruit Private Tami Bishop replied. Her planned MOS was communications and she already knew International Code when she’d joined. Which was fortunate, since that was what they were using for signaling between the buildings.

  “Runner! Pass the word to Staff Sergeant Warren. All recruits up and in gear! Reinforcing forces have arrived. We will be ship-shape when they get here.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am!” Recruit Private Christy Brooks said, hurrying below.

  Brown could see the Seahawk was up again, circling up from a ship against the rising sun. It seemed to be patrolling back and forth to the southeast. Through the binoculars she could see it was armed. Heavy. Bunch of fucking miniguns. So why was it holding off?

  There was a shit load of fire approaching, though. She could spot the fifty caliber and Mk19 by ear. Machine guns, probably 240 and M4s. SAW. You could tell by the way it sounded like one. Several tracks, probably amtracks.

  Shitload of fire. They were rolling hot.

  * * *

  “Randolph!” Faith yelled, sticking her head into the crew compartment.

  “Ma’am!”

  “Reloads on the fifty!”

  “Reload the fifty, aye, ma’am!”

  “And just keep reloading!” Faith yelled. They were burning through fucking ammo. Good thing the back of the amtrack was filled with it.

  * * *

  “Seahawk Four, Kodiak, over,” Colonel Hamilton said. His inexperience at infected ground combat was showing. He’d don
e the landing with zero prep, on the assumption that infected levels on the island were bound to be low. And they were getting absolutely swarmed. On the other hand, most of the infected were trotting behind, trying to keep up. The “pied piper” maneuver.

  “Seahawk Four.”

  “Swing to the north, opposite the parade deck,” Hamilton radioed. “We have massed infected in pied piper. Unit will continue to parade deck and draw them onto it. Engage on parade deck on orders. Seahawk will not cross onto land zone proper until ordered to engage.”

  “Attack from north on parade deck, aye. Avoid island proper until ordered, aye. Good news, sir. The pilot at least is a Marine.”

  “Roger,” Hamilton said, smiling. “Kodiak, out.”

  * * *

  The Seahawk was moving. Heading north. It seemed to circle around the island and ended up north of the parade deck. Why it hadn’t just crossed she wasn’t sure. It wasn’t like the infected used MANPADs. The miniguns were clearer now that it was closer. It had four under-slung and two door guns. Flying fucking gunpoint. Why it wasn’t attacking was the question. There were infected moving around. Mostly swarming towards the approaching tracks.

  “Ma’am!” Swanson barked. “Permission to report, ma’am!”

  “Report, Recruit!”

  “Armored vehicles in view to the southwest!”

  They were amtracks. The lead one was flying a large American flag and the trail was flying the Marine Corps flag. They were modified, too. The external cargo racks and all other handholds had been removed as had the appliqué armor. They were just fucking laying waste to the infected closing on them but that was less noticeable than the huge fucking mass of infected following them. It looked like half the base was on naked parade. The tracks were moving at a jogging pace and the infected were just trying to keep up.

  She looked at the tracks, looked at the Seahawk doing figure eights, then looked at the parade deck.

  “You are not going to fuck up my parade deck!” she said. “Oh, tell me you are not going to fuck up the parade deck.”

  * * *

  “Spread as we cross the parade deck,” Hamilton radioed. “On my command, speed up. When we reach the end, stop, then pivot. At that point, all tracks engage the infected with fifty caliber. We are under observation. We are going to do this by the damned numbers . . .”

  * * *

  “Ahhh,” Gunnery Sergeant Brown said as the amtracks started tearing up her parade deck. Okay, so it was overgrown and filled with weeds. Some recruits with brush hooks and mowers and they could fix that. What the amtracks were doing to it . . . It really made you want to cry.

  On the other hand, it was clearly about to be well nourished. And they might be able to roll out the track marks. After they got the bodies cleared.

  The tracks spread out, pretty evenly, then sped up to get some distance between themselves and the following zombies. There were more coming from the direction they were driving but they either shot ’em or ran ’em over.

  She looked around for a second.

  “Recruit Reed! What the fuck are you looking at? Is the parade deck part of your sector of observation?”

  “Ma’am, no, ma’am!” the recruit shouted.

  “Keep an eye on your sector, Recruits! The next one I see looking around is going to be cleaning toilets with a toothbrush for a week!”

  “No, no, no . . .” Brown said, going back to watching the tracks. They’d sprinted across the field, throwing up a welter of grass, weeds and dirt and just totally screwing up her parade deck. “Aaaaah! Not a pivot! Not a pivot!” she yelled as the tracks stopped, then . . . pivoted. “You bastards! You inconsiderate bastards! That’s my parade deck!”

  But then the Seahawk descended and she forgot about the damage the tracks had done.

  The laserlike lines swept through the infected, leaving windrows of bodies, then it swept back up and around as the tracks laid down all the infected between the gun-sweep and their own position. It was really fucking glorious. The only thing that would make it better was if it had been a Marine gunship.

  “Ma’am, permission to report, ma’am!” Post Two barked.

  “Report, Recruit!” the DI replied.

  “Ma’am, signal from one of the tracks, ma’am!”

  “Signaler!”

  “Lieutenant Colonel Craig Hamilton, USMC, Task Force Kodiak Commander. Seeking senior survivor. Over.”

  “Post Commandant, Colonel Locky Downing, USMC, Building Fourteen, currently out of view. Will retransmit.”

  “Request remain redoubts pending clearance and blockage of bridges. Will extract all survivors to ships off-shore. Orders LantFleet, NCCC, Parris Island to be evacuated, all Naval services personnel to be placed under command Task Force Kodiak to assist Operation Swamp Fox East Coast Sweep. Will clarify command structure on basis Commandant superior officer to Task Force Commander.”

  “Transmit ‘Stand by,’” Brown ordered. “Then send that to the colonel.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am,” Recruit Bishop replied.

  “To Commander, Task Force Kodiak, from Commandant Parris Island Marine Base. Will comply. Personal: Glad you made it and very glad to see you. End personal.”

  “Query: How many survivors?”

  “One thousand eighty-six. Five hundred twenty-three Marines, all ranks, most boots. Twelve Navy, all ranks. Other dependents and other civilians.”

  “Congratulations. Highest rate of survival found. Will require hot bunking. Very good to hear. Previous total known manning, USMC, sixty-three.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Brown said quietly. Those Marines clearing out the last few infected were pretty much the entire Marine Corps.

  “Primary mass infected cleared. Will continue sweep. Moving your position this time. Kodiak, out.”

  The parade deck was a fucking mess, pretty much covered with dead infected and, of course, 7.62 rounds. She could even see where the brass had cluttered it up from the Seahawk passes.

  On the other hand, wasn’t going to be her problem. They were pulling out.

  CHAPTER 19

  “Gunnery Sergeant,” Januscheitis said as the doors of the building were cracked for the first time in ten months. “Staff Sergeant Januscheitis, Platoon Sergeant, Platoon One, USMC.”

  It was barely midday and the base was mostly clear. Parris Island wasn’t particularly large.

  “Gunnery Sergeant Brown, Senior Drill Instructor, Platoon Four, Delta Company, Battalion Four, USMC,” Brown said.

  “Here’s how we’re going to do this, Gunnery Sergeant,” Januscheitis said. “All Marines absent movement issues are going to walk. Dependents with movement issues, including babes in arms, will ride in the track. We only have one. The others are at the other buildings. All others will walk. Phase Three Marines, only, will carry weapons with loaded magazines inserted but not locked or loaded and on safe. They and the rest of the team will take outer perimeter security for the extraction. Movement will be from here to the beach by the KD ranges where evacuees will be picked up by RHIBs and transported to the ships. Last people off from the local command will be instructors and phase three Marines. Then the Wolf Marines will evacuate in tracks and we’re done with this clearance. Roger?”

  “Roger, Staff Sergeant,” Brown said. “No babes in arms. Some young babies but . . . most of them didn’t make it. Toddlers is about the youngest we’ve got.”

  “I have seen damned few toddlers at all,” Januscheitis said. “Lots of babes in arms. No pregnancies?”

  “No males,” Brown said.

  “Well, that’s a change,” Januscheitis said. “Very well. Let’s get them sorted out and loading.”

  “Anything I need to do here, Jan?” Faith radioed. She was still up in the TC hatch, placidly watching the boots get organized.

  “No, ma’am,” Januscheitis replied.

  Unsurprisingly, getting the boots organized was going well. They’d had boot camp extended for ten months. They were nearly as wound tight as Decke
r when he was first found.

  “I’ve got this,” Januscheitis continued. “I’m still unsure how to break it to Senior Drill Instructor Gunnery Sergeant Annette Brown that her new LT is younger than any of her boots. Over.”

  “Maybe I should walk around with a swagger stick. That way she knows I’m the boss, over.”

  “She’s probably spotted the bars, Shewolf,” Januscheitis said as Gunnery Sergeant Brown marched over.

  “The unit is assembled, Staff Sergeant,” Brown said.

  “We’re ready to roll, ma’am,” Januscheitis radioed.

  “Let’s get this wagon train a rollin’.”

  * * *

  “Yo, boot,” Curran said to the private next to him. “Chill. Relax. First of all, these things kill pretty easy. Second, we laid most of ’em out on the parade deck, which was, by the way, awesome! We made sure we tore that motherfucker up, too. I’d been wanting to do that since I was a boot. Third, if you’re all wired the fuck up, you’re not really seeing what’s there. Stretch out the kinks. Just chillin’ in the hood . . .”

  The platoon had been spread out with the boots and their drill instructors to lend some experience and stiffening. The phrase about buckshot was appropriate. On the other hand, there had been very little in the way of action.

  Which had its own difficulties.

  “‘Chillin’ in the hood,’ Private First Class?” one of the drill instructors said. “You’d better be on your God-damn sector, not chillin’, Private First Class!”

  “Staff Sergeant,” Curran said. “With due respect, when you’ve been killin’ zombies as long as I’ve been killin’ zombies, you can tell me how to kill zombies, Staff Sergeant.”

  “Get your ass over here, Private First Class,” the staff sergeant snapped. “Right the fuck now!”

  And Faith just had to take a walk . . .

  “Excuse me, Staff Sergeant,” Faith said as she limped up to the twosome. Curran was locked up with a staff sergeant drill instructor doing the full head tilt with the brim of the hat on Curran’s nose.