The Rising Horde, Volume One (Sequel to The Gathering Dead )

by Stephen Knight

  “Yeah, good luck with that, Colonel.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Martha Goodwin had said twenty minutes later when she agreed to leave her son’s side for a brief time to meet with McDaniels and the others. “You want to kill my son by giving him a drug overdose.”

  “There’s no other way,” McDaniels said. “There’s no treatment available to stop the virus, at least not yet. It’s underway, but there’s not even an experimental trial to use. If we don’t do this, then your son goes through a very long, agonizing death, and he still turns into a zombie. There simply aren’t any good alternatives, Mrs. Goodwin. Every one we have involves your son dying, and the only difference is the method.” He nodded toward the Army doctors standing nearby. “They can make it quick and painless, and your son will pass with at least some degree of dignity. If not, then he goes out in great pain from bloody diarrhea and a burning fever.”

  Martha Goodwin closed her eyes and ran a hand through her graying blond hair. She might have been a good-looking woman once, but there were bags under her eyes, wattles under her chin, and saddlebags around her hips. She’d already watched her husband turn into a cannibalistic corpse, and McDaniels was asking her permission to terminate her son. McDaniels couldn’t even begin to understand the pain she must be feeling.

  “You don’t know that,” she said finally. “Greggy, he might be different from everyone else. He might pull through it.”

  “He won’t.” Regina’s tone was gentle, but certain. “We’ve seen it dozens, hundreds, in some cases, thousands of times. There is no variation. When someone is bitten by one of the dead, an extremely potent version of the virus is transferred. This virus is different from the original. It’s stronger, it breeds faster, and it causes incredible changes in the human physiology that we don’t quite understand. And when the host dies, the virus is still alive. It does something to the body to make it animate again. And this is what will happen to your son, Mrs. Goodwin. He’ll jump off that bed and try to eat you once he reanimates, and Colonel McDaniels here will have to shoot him through the head, like the soldiers did to your husband.”

  Martha squeezed her eyes shut. “Jesus. Jesus.”

  “Mrs. Goodwin, if there was another way, I’d be all over it. A hundred percent all over it,” McDaniels said. “But there isn’t. Your boy will die, he’ll turn into a flesh-eating zombie, and yeah, I’ll have to shoot the body once it starts moving again. We can play it much more gently, but we need your permission, and we need it soon.”

  “He could be different,” Martha repeated. “My son could be different from all the others.”

  “He won’t be,” McDaniels insisted. “I’m sorry, but he just won’t be. He’ll be exactly like all the others.”

  The boy’s mother was silent for a long moment, then she looked up at McDaniels, her jaw set. “You leave my boy alone. You let me and Gregory alone. He’s not going to die. He’s going to live, and he’s going to be fine.”

  The lead Army doctor looked down at a manila folder in his lap. “Ma’am, his temperature has already spiked. The flesh around the bite wound is already turning necrotic. The pathogen is riding around his body, courtesy of his bloodstream.”

  “I’m not going to listen to this. What’s wrong with you people? My boy is not going to die!”

  “Is that your final decision?” McDaniels looked for support from the others, but he was met with empty gazes and minute shrugs.

  “Stay away from me and my son, Colonel. I don’t want you anywhere near us.” With that, Martha Goodwin stormed out of the waiting area and hurried down the connector that attached it to the emergency treatment tent.

  McDaniels sighed. “Well, that certainly sucked ass.”

  “I knew it would turn out this way, but I have to hand it to you, Colonel. You’ve got brass ones,” the senior Army physician said. He rose from the stool and slapped the boy’s chart against his thigh. “I guess we’re going to be busy for the next twelve hours or so. Are you going to hang out here, or…?”

  “I’ll send a security detail to stand guard and take out the corpse once it’s over,” McDaniels said. “It’ll be Rangers, maybe four of them. You’ll know when the kid’s going lights out, right?”

  Regina nodded. “It’ll be fairly evident. His pressure will drop, and he’ll start convulsing. Tachycardia will be present, giving way to asystole, then his heart stops. Anywhere from two minutes to two hours later, the corpse will reanimate.”

  “So we’ll have enough warning, then,” McDaniels said.

  Regina nodded. “Yeah. There should be enough warning.”

  “All right. I’ll have the Ranger battalion commander make the assignment, and we’ll have a few extra Rangers in the cash at all times.” He paused and looked at the senior physician. “But just in case, you might want to restrain the boy at some point.”

  The doctor nodded. “I agree and think that would be for the best.”

  ***

  Near noon the next day, a single gunshot rang out from the Combat Support Hospital. Gregory Goodwin had indeed succumbed to the virus, and his corpse reanimated fourteen minutes later.

  20

  The dead swept across the nation like a filthy tide, consuming all who got in their way. Mostly mindless—mostly—the legions lived only to feed, and in doing so, caused thousands and thousands more dead to rise, to join their ranks and the never ending hunt for food. They were like bipedal locusts, swarming from east to west. Humans were their main prey, but they would consume anything living—livestock, pets, any wild animals they came across who could not evade them. Because of that, the dead were preceded by a veritable flood of wildlife. Deer, bears, foxes, sheep, cows, horses, dogs, cats—all joined the humans and fled.

  The military made several stands against the dead, using every weapon of war at their disposal. There was no easy way to kill the dead in mass attacks; in the end, it took soldiers, Marines, airmen, and sailors shooting the individual corpses in the head to stop them. While bombs, artillery, and other direct and indirect fire methods could disable the dead in some numbers, the maimed corpses were far from harmless. They would simply lie in wait for anything edible to come within range, then strike. And feed.

  Some of the dead fought back. The military was surprised to discover that a number of the dead could use weapons, and in more than a few instances, the dead would bring down troops, injuring them so they couldn’t flee, and then descend upon them and feast.

  The military failed to stem the tide, and the dead progressed out of the east, walking down highways, wending their way around disabled and abandoned vehicles, making great progress as the dead had no need to stop and rest. Relentlessly, they continued the hunt, immune to exhaustion and the effects of physical exertion. Whereas the humans grew winded and needed to recuperate, the dead had no such constraints.

  The deluge of evacuees fleeing the dead caused another set of problems. Resources, such as fuel and food, were consumed at such a rate they could not be replaced. Looting and violence became endemic as law and order broke down, even in the dozens of lightly defended refugee camps the government set up to shelter and manage the citizenry. The camps were exactly what the dead looked for; without any sort of credible defense and housing tens of thousands of humans who had nowhere else to go, the camps served as a kind of magnet for the dead. Intended to be sanctuaries, they became great, ghastly killing zones from which there was no escape.

  And the number of the dead increased.

  Dead Jeffries still wore the uniform of the United States Army, and still clutched the assault rifle it had taken from Fort Detrick. Like the thousands of dead surrounding it, Dead Jeffries continued to slog westbound. The only thing that passed for conscious thought in its mind was the desire to feed, to satiate the ceaseless appetite that could never be fulfilled. But as the army of the walking dead progressed, Dead Jeffries found it was compelled to turn southerly, where the weather was warmer, the roads less congested, and the territory mo
re open. There was no deliberate awareness to this act, but as Dead Jeffries turned south, it was peripherally aware that thousands of Others turned as well. They followed Dead Jeffries as a pack of wolves would follow its leader. Most of the Others were the stupid ones, but many were like Dead Jeffries—able to use tools to help in the hunt, able to recall vague memories, able to anticipate the actions of the humans they hunted.

  Dead Jeffries wasn’t fully aware of why it was walking to Texas, only that there was something there that could threaten the dead. Something that had to be destroyed before the humans could complete it.

  And then, the dead could feed on the entire world.

  21

  Two days after the dead arrived, Austin fell to the horde.

  It was covered on the television, complete with breathless reports delivered by harried-looking reporters. Footage from orbiting news helicopters showed the progression of the dead through the city as they overwhelmed the defenders, swarming over them like great thunderclouds of rot. Evacuations had been in place, and the stream of fleeing humanity extended northward from the city, reaching places like Houston and the Dallas/Fort Worth area. The entire 3rd Armored Cavalry was arrayed against the dead to the south, and while they did a credible job at closing with the oncoming dead and decimating thousands of them, the numbers were just too great. The army of the dead was estimated to be almost five million strong, and growing at a rate of twenty thousand per day.

  When McDaniels watched the report that mentioned the numbers of the dead, he quadrupled the amount of munitions he had requested and instructed the Rangers to work with the Corps of Engineers on modifying the buildings in the office park. It was no longer enough to harden the perimeter and fight point defense; if the dead numbered in the millions, they had to consider SPARTA would be compromised at one point or another, and they would need a place to fall back. But where? Where could they be safe and still continue their work while being pursued by an enemy as relentless as the gathering dead?

  The answer did not come easily, but he knew one thing, even though he didn’t want to admit it. If push came to shove, he would secure the scientists and researchers, collect their data and their trials, and ensure they were flown out on a Chinook to someplace safe. Even if it meant abandoning the civilians and the rest of the troops, he had to ensure the eggheads survived. They held the key.

  Jaworski had already anticipated that when McDaniels broached the subject. The Special Forces officer was heartened to hear that an evacuation plan had been put in place should SPARTA be compromised, and that there were redundant efforts underway to replicate Wolf Safire’s vaccine, both in the United States and in Canada.

  “It’s not the people we need to save, so much as the data,” Jaworski told him over another seemingly endless cup of coffee. “We should probably start collecting hard copies of everything and airlifting it out of here so it can be disseminated in case we lose broadband comms. As hard as it is to believe, the dead also screw up cable television and DSL.”

  “Simply shocking,” McDaniels said.

  “Get ready, it gets worse. Looks like the dead are turning this way.” Jaworski typed a command into his computer and opened a few windows, then turned the display toward McDaniels. The satellite surveillance data showed a huge stream of the dead surging through the flatlands of Oklahoma. Thousands of cattle fled, visible in the imagery.

  “Wow,” was all the cold dread allowed McDaniels to say. When he saw the mass of dead darkening the landscape to their north, he felt his mouth go dry.

  There are more dead there than in Austin. Ten, fifteen million, maybe more…

  “Yeah, the numbers don’t look so good,” Jaworski said, as if reading his mind. “And check this out.” He pointed at a cylindrical object amidst the dead, and scrolled through several photos. The object moved with the dead. “That’s a tanker truck. Probably gasoline. And they’re either bringing it with them, or the bodies are pressed against it so thick that they’re just pushing it along.”

  “That’s not so good.”

  “What do you think, Cord?”

  “I think that if they’re intentionally bringing it with them, they intend to use it. But for what, I don’t know.”

  “The Cav guys out at Austin report being engaged by stenches with weapons. Automatic weapons.”

  McDaniels nodded. “I had the same experience in New York.”

  Jaworski regarded the satellite imagery, a worried expression on his face. “If they come at us with weapons, that’s going to be a bit of a game-changer. Especially if they use them in a sophisticated manner. Or start operating complex weapons systems, like tanks and bombers. Damn, could that be possible?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I don’t think so, but I don’t know. It would seem to me there’s got to be a limit to what they can do, since they don’t have their full faculties, but I’m just whistling in the wind here.”

  “We’ll go over this at the twelve hundred meeting with the rest of the guys,” Jaworski said. “But in the meantime, I want you to make sure every swinging Johnson and every engineer is working at a hundred percent. Because I’m thinking the hammer is swinging our way.”

  McDaniels got to his feet. “Yes, sir.”

  “One last thing,” Jaworski said. “We’re open to civilians for the next twenty-four hours. I’ve already told Blye that if he has more people to bring in, they need to show up by tomorrow morning. After that, SPARTA closes for business. The more people we have, the higher the chances of another rising, and that saps our resources. Our problems are almost unmanageable now, and while it seems heartless to do it, we have to remember our mission.”

  McDaniels nodded. “Understood, sir. I’ll back you up a hundred percent on that.”

  Jaworski looked back at the computer monitor. “Thanks, Cord.”

  ***

  “Hello, Colonel,” CW4 Billingsly said when McDaniels drove up to where he stood in the northern parking lot. The MH-47G Chinooks were being lovingly tended to by their flight and maintenance crews, while the less sophisticated AH- and MH-6 Little Birds sat in a neat row several hundred feet away. McDaniels saw that four UH-60M Black Hawks had been invited to the party as well, though they didn’t seem to be special operations birds.

  “Those are from Fort Hood,” Billingsly told him when McDaniels asked. “Not part of the 160th, but we’re happy to have them since they’ve got more lifting capacity than the Little Birds, and aren’t as maintenance-intensive as the Chinooks.”

  “Have you been in contact with your regimental command, Mister Billingsly?”

  “Negative, Colonel. Once Fort Campbell went down, the Night Stalkers HQ went with it.” If he felt anything about the event, Billingsly kept his emotions in check and hid them well away.

  “Sorry to hear that, Mister Billingsly.”

  “I understand Fort Bragg is doing a bit better, sir.”

  “That seems to be correct. The dead are more intent on moving westward, but it hasn’t been a walk in the rose garden.” His wife, Paulette, had told him over the phone that were had been several pitched battles between the 82nd Airborne and the dead, but that the Airborne troops had managed to repel every attack. The dead were piled twenty deep outside the fort’s perimeter, but their numbers appeared to be decreasing, Paulette thought. McDaniels had welcomed the news, though he wondered what it truly meant. Why leave Bragg alone? Why not slam into it as the dead had done to Fort Campbell?

  “So, sir, is there something I can do for you?” Billingsly asked.

  McDaniels looked around the tent that served as the 160th’s headquarters. There was no sign of Major Carmody. “Just taking a look around. How are your troops doing, Billingsly?”

  “Everyone’s completely mission-oriented, Colonel.”

  “Things aren’t tough yet. Is everyone getting as much sleep as they should?”

  Billingsly frowned. “Sleep, sir? You’re worried if the Night Stalkers are getting enough sleep?”

  Something a
bout the warrant officer’s attitude had rankled McDaniels from the beginning. Perhaps it had been Billingsly’s continual dismissal of his commanding officer, Carmody. Maybe Billingsly was just one of those people who didn’t have a lot of interpersonal skills. Or maybe, McDaniels reasoned, he was one of those operators who thought his shit didn’t stink.

  McDaniels kicked over a nearby trashcan, and a flood of energy drink bottles tumbled out onto the floor. McDaniels picked one up, regarded it for a moment, then tossed it right at Billingsly’s head. The warrant officer caught it awkwardly, and his brow knitted with anger. Before he could get a word out, McDaniels was in his face.

  “Your attitude sucks, Billingsly. I don’t require a sunny disposition from everyone under my command—and yes, you are under my command—but what I do require is that you respond to my questions immediately and without attitude. Because if you fail to comply, I will land on you with both boots.”

  McDaniels was aware of the rest of the troops in the headquarters tent paying close attention to the display, which was fine by him. He wanted an audience. He pointed at the empty bottle of Red Bull in Billingsly’s hand. “If your guys are already reduced to sucking that shit down under our currently low operational tempo, then I have to wonder what the hell is going to happen when the shit hits the fan. I don’t want your aircrews flying exhausted, and I don’t want your maintainers overlooking simple maintenance items because they’re tired. A lot depends on your aircraft and your ability to keep them operational in what’s going to be a very demanding environment. You get me, Mister Billingsly?”

  “Completely, Colonel.”

  “Good, because we won’t be having this conversation again. I’ll have Carmody replace you with another aviator in a heartbeat. You get that, too?”

  “Yes, sir. I understand everything you’re saying,” Billingsly said in a flat monotone.