Zombie Killers (Book 8): Bad Company

by John F. Holmes

  “Those assholes came through here last year, trying to recruit the company.”

  “They didn’t just try, Sir. About half the guys took off with them,” said Jackson.

  “Yeah, well, it’s been a hard couple of years. But,” he said, addressing me. “That doesn’t change the situation here on the ground, or back at our base.”

  “Base?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.

  “Yeah, when the plague hit, we dug in at Fort Marion, and held. Killed a lot of undead, and a lot of civilians too. When the food ran out in the city …”

  “What city?”

  “St. Augustine. It has an old Spanish fort, used in the Civil War, and rebuilt a couple of times. Our company was activated on the third day of the outbreak, and told to keep order in the city. We did OK, too, until the refugees from Jacksonville hit us coming south, and from Miami coming north. To be honest, I didn’t even SEE a zombie until two weeks into the whole mess.”

  I let him talk. Sometimes, opening up to a stranger can be cathartic, and the more he related to me, the more I think he began to trust me.

  “So the power went out, and then the food, and the gasoline, and it just fell apart. Everything. I took the men that would go with me, and some of their families, and we bunkered down in the fort, after looting the city of everything edible, and killing anyone who got in our way.”

  Jackson picked it up from there, because I heard Washburn sobbing in the darkness. It was tough to remember, and most of us just blanked it all out. When something came back to remind us, it could hit you like a ton of bricks.

  “Don’t get him wrong, Colonel. We had direct orders from the Adjutant General of Florida. Some of the last coms we got out of Tallahassee. ‘Preserve forces for the future, defend military personnel and equipment at all costs.’”

  “I got the same order. It came down from Seattle, after the government moved, on day four. I was a Fire Support NCO assigned to Division Headquarters, the 42nd out of New York. We were assigned to hold the bridges over the Mohawk River, keep the infection from spreading. We got hit by undead from behind after one of the other bridges got overrun.”

  All three of us sat in silence for a bit, remembering. It never left, honestly. That day, the Battle of the Bridges, never left me. I’m sure that whatever these guys had gone through never left them, either. The whole world had a huge case of PTSD, and everyone was a little crazy now.

  “So,” said Washburn, breaking the silence. “Let’s say I accept you are who you say you are. That doesn’t change things here on the ground. Unless you whistle up a company of heavily armed infantry, with maybe a Brad or two, then Bad Company is still the only game in Northern Florida keeping things together.”

  A shot and yells broke the night, and then stopped. “Doesn’t sound like things are being kept together,” I commented.

  “You stay here,” said Jackson, and the two of them climbed out of the hole.

  They were back in twenty minutes, and I had actually started to nod off, when they came scrambling back in.

  “Stupid ass. One of the third platoon guys shot himself in the leg playing with his pistol,” said Jackson.

  “Is he going to make it?”

  “Nope. Well, he MIGHT have, but Doc always seems a little slow patching up the gang bangers.” There was a hint of glee in his voice.

  “He’s a good man. I like him.” I did, too. A good doc was like a frigging angel by your side in battle.

  “Well, stand to is in half an hour,” said Washburn. “Top, I’m going to get some shuteye, if I can.” I could tell by his voice he was exhausted, and I didn’t envy him. Command is a tough job, if done right, and he had held his unit together for eight years.

  “Can do, Sir. Want me to shoot the Colonel here?” Jackson answered, and I’m not sure he was joking.

  “That would solve a lot of problems, wouldn’t it? See you at breakfast … Sir.” The last word had been added after a pause, and it took me by surprise. The canvas flap fell closed as he walked away.

  “Well, ain’t that the shit!” said Jackson in his southern drawl.

  “You still don’t believe me?”

  “Doesn’t matter what I believe, does it? Captain tells me to jump, I say how high, because he’s the best damn officer I ever served under.”

  “I know. I’ve had good and bad ones too. The good ones, well, they’re the best.”

  Jackson chuckled. “And the bad officers, the worst, cause they get you killed. Hope you ain’t one of those, Colonel.”

  “Don’t tell anyone, I really consider myself just a Sergeant Major, playing at being an officer.”

  He laughed out loud at that one. There’s more than one way to win respect from tough men like these.

  Chapter 281

  Stand to passed without incident, the hour before dawn slipping away as I tried to get some sleep. I couldn’t, though, tossing and turning, wrapped in my poncho liner. I had a feeling that today would turn out to be a decisive one.

  The camp broke down after a quick, cold breakfast, patrols leaving even before the sun came up, and the heat started to bake everything. The further we got from the coast, the more humid it got, and I would kill for a cold shower. In more ways than one, the memory of Shona pushing up against me in her sleep still fresh in my mind. At that thought, I felt guilty again. Where the hell was Brit? Was she dead, her corpse lying on the beach someplace, drying out in the sun? Or did she walk as an undead, something that she was terrified of?

  As soon as the sun was up, I went back to the truck serving as the mobile hospital. Doc Lamare was lifting Seaman King’s body down from the truck, helped by Sergeant Jonas, and I worked with him to dig as deep as a grave we could, my ribs paining me the whole time. The ground was soaked with blood from the previous night, and it had that sickly sweet coppery smell as we dug into the sandy soil. There was no sign of the bodies, and I didn’t ask.

  When we finished digging, we all lifted the body and placed it in the hole, then shoveled dirt over it. I winced as the first shovelful of dirt fell on her face, then hurried to cover her up. Standing with heads bowed, I started to speak, then caught myself. I really didn’t know what to say; I couldn’t remember the last time I had actually been able to give a proper burial to one of my soldiers.

  I was spared by Sergeant Jonas, who started speaking. He raised his hands to the sky, saying, “Lord, you have judged mankind again, and found us, as a whole, wanting, and sent the plague of undead souls to punish us, just as you did the Flood. Just as there was Noah, a good man who you spared, and Lot, another good man whom you spared from fire, we hope that there are some who remain with you. We hope that Tanisha, our sister, has found peace in you by being a loving and faithful servant.”

  He went on like this for several minutes, and I stared solidly at the ground in front of me. My soul, I was pretty sure, had been dropped from God’s duty roster a long time ago.

  Glancing up, I was surprised to see about twenty of the Regulars standing there, weapons slung and heads bowed. When Jonas finished, a loud “AMEN!” rumbled through them.

  “Colonel, you got anything else to add?” said Jonas, and I thought for a second. Should I plant the seed?

  “Guys, I appreciate this,” I started. “ King Monahan was a sailor on the USS Georgia, and maybe she should have been buried at sea, but I guess that doesn’t matter now. She’s gone, and I know she would breathe a sigh of relief to not be wandering around, undead, out there,” and I waved my hand towards the swamps and pine trees.

  “What I do know, from talking to her, was that she loved her country, and was proud to serve. She didn’t have to; she could have gotten a desk job someplace. She wanted to make a difference, though, and carry the fight to the enemy. She wanted her country, the United States of America, to live.”

  I stared at all of them. Their pinched, hungry faces, scarred and battered from eight years of survival. Uniforms as squared away as could be, and weapons immaculately maintained. I ha
d been talking to many of them throughout the week, and I liked them and respected them.

  “And it’s still alive. Right now, men and women from the First Infantry Division are fighting for every inch of Washington DC. Your President, the former Vice President Epson, is holding general elections in November and will reconvene Congress in January. Not sure if that will help or hurt having Congress back, though.”

  That got a bitter laugh from them. “My point is, you all swore an oath, and you’ve been doing a damn good job keeping it down here by protecting civilians and killing undead.”

  Some of the men looked away, others at the ground. A few, though, stared right back at me. “I think, though,” I continued, “that times are changing. Just remember, whatever happens, what that flag on your shoulder represents. Since most of you older guys stayed here when the Mountain Republic people came recruiting, I’m going to assume you still believe, somewhere. I’ve been fighting this fight for eight years myself, and lost a lot of friends doing so, as have you. Unless you’re just fighting to survive, though. Then there is no point to wearing that flag, and I’ll ask you to respectfully take it off.”

  I turned and walked away from them, and moved over to where HHC 6 was stenciled on a bumper, the commander’s vehicle. My ribs still hurting, I climbed into Captain Washburn’s HUMVEE. He said nothing as I got into the back seat, but the gunner leaned down and gave me a look. “I don’t care who you are, muchacho, just make sure that you feed the gun if we get into some shit.”

  I looked around, and saw two cans of fifty caliber, one half empty. The kid had stood back up in the turret, and I slapped his boot to let him know I understood, even as the driver put it in gear and we moved out. Just before we did, though, Ramirez jumped into the seat across from me. He gave me a death stare, then turned his back and sat with his legs out of the doorway.

  Not going to lie, it felt good to be moving in a vehicle again, despite Ramirez, surrounded by soldiers, getting ready for possible combat. It made me scared and tense and happy in a way that was really hard to describe. I guess you have to be there to know it.

  On the front of the truck was a long V shaped device, made of two steel poles, probably from a fence, welded together. It was similar to something I had seen on other vehicles used for fighting undead. Get enough speed, and the poles acted as a sort of cowcatcher, like on the old trains, smashing and flinging undead to the sides. The other HUMVEE was similarly rigged up, and one of the LMTVs acted as a completely mobile fortress, with gun ports over welded armor, and two turrets on the top. They could sit there all day and shoot undead, and it looked like their armor would stop anything short of a 7.62. In fact, there were quite few dents in the armor, and one welded over patch that showed the characteristic starburst of an RPG anti-tank warhead.

  Behind us, a motley collection of vehicles followed, piled high with loot and camp followers. Most of the soldiers from HQ & First platoon, the Regulars, walked along next to the vehicles, but as I counted in my head, I kept coming up short by more than a dozen. I knew there were a few patrols, two men each, far out in front, but I couldn’t see Whitmore or his partner, and a lot of familiar faces, the guys who I had noted as being top notch soldiers, seemed to be missing.

  Washburn turned around and caught me adding numbers in my head. He looked at me and slowly shook his head side to side, nodding towards Ramirez. I nodded back and just watched the road roll by.

  Chapter 282

  The bells started ringing just as we came around a bend, and as we crossed the several hundred yards of cracked pavement, we caught the sight of the last villager disappearing through a rough metal gate. The gate itself, though made of layers of chain mesh fencing, was set into a log palisade about eight feet high. Around us were fields of different crops, and a grove of orange trees. The logs themselves had surrounded a pretty substantial town center, and the houses on the outside had been pulled down, or burned down, to provide clear fields of fire. All in all, a pretty substantial formation, and easily defensible against the undead or a random raider crew. I had seen the like spring up all around the country, when survivors cooperated and wanted to live.

  The HUMVEE stopped about three hundred meters from the gate, outside pistol and easy bowshot or rifle range. Ramirez jumped out and motioned for his men to fan out on either side, which they did, pickups and rusty Jeeps going at a walking pace, escorted by all of his foot soldiers, about sixty in all. I made note of the location of his one heavy weapon, which turned out to be the Javelin launcher that had struck at the Georgia. Hopping out myself, I watched the .50 gunner track that truck with his eyes, if not his weapon. My spider senses were tingling; there was some bad shit going to go down today. I slowly looked at the disposition of the ‘Regulars’, about thirty in all. They had split off into three man fire teams, and stayed close to the cover of the vehicles, but slightly in front of the trucks, able to cover everything in a 270 degree arc.

  “THIS IS CAPTAIN WASHBURN!” said the officer, his voice amplified by a megaphone. “YOU KNOW WHY WE’RE HERE! LET’S GO EASY, AND NO ONE GETS HURT.”

  The front gate rolled back slightly, and Shona Lowenstein walked out, arm still in a sling, accompanied by an older guy in civilian clothes, and a woman with dark cropped hair, almost shaved. None appeared armed, and they stayed by the gate, too far to make out their features.

  The Captain stepped out to meet them, followed by Ramirez. Before he did so, though, Washburn turned, and, standing ramrod straight, gave me a perfect salute, then turned away, striding forward. Too shocked to say anything, I glanced at First Sergeant Jackson. He looked straight ahead, not daring to look at me. Washburn stopped far short of the group, only a hundred meters away, and Ramirez took two steps past him before he realized the Captain had stopped.

  Everything seemed to slow. I saw Washburn drop his hand to his leg holster, and it came up, just as Ramirez started to turn. Out of the corner of my eye, I also saw First Sergeant Jackson whip out a bayonet and drive it into the back of the gang bangers’ ‘Master Sergeant’, right where his kidney would be.

  Washburn fired once, the flat CRACK of the pistol echoing across the fields, and Ramirez dropped, the back of his head exploding in a pink mist. There was an instant of dead silence, and then all hell broke loose.

  I started running even as Washburn fell, hit by something that knocked him sideways. Behind me a tremendous fusillade opened up, and I heard the big fifty start firing, tearing holes in the side of the pickup truck mounting the Javelin launcher. Lead starting zipping by all around me, and if that isn’t the scariest sound I’ve ever heard, then I don’t know what is.

  The Regulars had set themselves up in a perfect position. The gangbangers were split, and couldn’t fire without hitting their own forces. In the middle of all this, the heavily armored LMTV opened up with two pintle mounted M249 Squad Automatic weapons, or so I was told later.

  I didn’t see any of it, because I covered the hundred meters to Captain Washburn at the speed of light, or so it seemed to me. I dove on the ground next to him, sending pain shooting up my ribs, even as a bullet scored my arm, almost the exact same place shrapnel had hit me a few weeks before. That I found out later too; right now I just felt a tug. I rolled over, grabbed one of Washburn’s arms, rolled him onto my back and stood up.

  It was useless to yell anything like “COVER ME!” Gunfights are incredibly loud, violent things, and you cannot shout over them. I repeat, you cannot. Movies are movies, and combat is combat, and one resembles the other like a housecat resembles a tiger. So I ran, carrying Washburn over my shoulders. I ran forward, towards the village, and the gate that was being drawn closed. What I did see was the black haired woman and Shona running towards me to help, and Ziv and Boz spilling out of the gate, laying down a heavy covering fire.

  Before I got there, a tremendous hammer blow on my back made me stumble forward and roll, dumping Washburn. Then something ripped across my face, instantly sending blood cascading down into my eyes.
I tried to wipe it away, reaching down and grabbing Washburn by the arm. I pulled as hard as I could, dragging him towards where I thought the gate was. He groaned in pain and kicked his legs, trying to push himself along.

  Strong hands grabbed my arm and pulled me along, and someone else took the Captain’s other arm. Unable to see, I struggled forward, guided by the iron grip on my shoulder. Ziv shouted, “GET INSIDE!” and the gunfire increased as he let loose a full magazine of AK fire.

  I let go of Washburn’s arm and fell to the ground, trying to wipe the blood from my eyes, ears ringing from the gun fire. Someone grabbed me by the harness and shook me hard, and screamed in my face.

  “YOU STUPID FUCKING ASSHOLE! ARE YOU TRYING TO GET YOURSELF KILLED?”

  Then the warmest pair of lips I have ever felt mashed themselves up against mine, a hard desperate kiss that took away all my pain and sent my heart soaring.

  Chapter 283

  What finally broke the gangbangers was the appearance, on their flank, of those dozen missing men from the Regulars, who poured gunfire into them. Many of them were killed from behind, without even realizing they were under attack from the rear. The remaining survivors, with no leadership and being what they were anyway, took off running or driving as best they could, leaving scores of bodies on the ground. Even as my hearing came back, the screams of the wounded slowly died out as infantrymen walked the battlefield, collecting weapons and ammo, and slitting throats.

  It was later that afternoon by the time it was all over, and the unit’s trucks sat on the main street of the town. When the guys came marching in, weapons slung, led by First Sergeant Jackson, the hundred or so villagers actually cheered and clapped, and an American flag was run up the flagpole in front of the disused Post Office. As he marched past at the rear of the column, Private Greyson smiled broadly. A teenage girl ran out of the crowd and kissed him, and then ran back in, and he blushed furiously.