The radio came to life. “We’ve got movement. One hundred meters at two o’clock,” Tharinger reported.
“Let them pass, but keep guns on them,” Guerra responded.
Guerra stepped out of the hulking MRAP’s shadow to get a look at the two people approaching on the bicycles. They were older men, both dressed in a similar fashion as Minivan Man. They stopped to dismount then walked their bicycles toward the front of the convoy.
Guerra held up a hand and ordered, “Stop right there!” When the men complied, he keyed his radio and spoke low into his headset. “Apache One Three Bravo, ask Blackfoot to tell the pilots to move a klick to the south and orbit downrange. I don’t want all the noise bringing in any reekers in the area on top of us. Over.”
“Roger, Apache One Two.”
The Chinooks exited their orbit and buzzed off to the south. As the sound of the helicopters died down, Guerra motioned for the two men to approach.
The eldest spoke as soon as he was within earshot. “Why do you shoot at my people? We haven’t done you any harm!”
Guerra could tell the guy was the leader from the way he carried himself. Also, his demeanor was still a bit on the truculent side, even though he was facing down dozens of armed men in armored vehicles with helicopter support. Some people just ain’t smart.
“Sir, we are the US Army. We mean you no harm. We just want to pass through this area. I told this to your man over there, even offered to provide aid to your group if you wanted it. He wouldn’t listen to me, and he fired his weapon in our direction. I could have easily killed him and the others behind the barricade for doing that. So before you start complaining to me about all the shooting, take a look at your guys and ask them if they’re at all familiar with the consequences of action.”
Both men glanced back at the shaking man on top of the minivan. They turned back to Guerra with expressions of deep disappointment.
“These are end days, and we are the chosen ones,” the older man said. “We are only armed to protect ourselves and the church from the demons.”
“That’s fine. We’re not interested in fighting you or in doing anything to your church. If you need food or water, we can leave some with you. Or you can all come back to the base, where it’s a bit safer than out here. But my unit has to pass through here, and we have to do it right now.”
The old man shook his head. “We do not wish to leave our church, but we also do not wish to fight.” He shot Guerra a speculative look. “In exchange for food and water, I will let your group pass. But you shall not enter the boundaries of the church.”
“We only want to go down this road, sir. I’ll have my men bring you food and water if we can start pushing cars out of our way. Do we have a deal?”
The second man leaned forward and whispered into the leader’s ear.
The older man nodded, keeping his gaze on Guerra. “Agreed. You may pass.”
“Thank you. My men will bring you several cases of MREs and water now.” Guerra spoke into his radio and passed the order for his guys to bring up six cases of MREs and four five-gallon water cans. Minutes later, several soldiers began carrying the supplies toward the barricade.
Guerra gasped when the four men who had remained on the other side suddenly snatched up their weapons. They opened fire on the soldiers.
The older leaders began screaming for the men to stop. Their words were drowned out by the roar of M2 .50-caliber machine guns as the gunner in the lead MRAP opened up with the CROW system. A split second later, every other turret gunner in the formation joined in, and fifty-caliber rounds slammed into the men at a high rate of speed. Appendages were severed, and solid matter was transformed into a pulpy, pink mist. All four of the Jehovah’s Witnesses were dead before Guerra could even leap back behind the MRAP.
“Cease fire, cease fire!” he yelled into his radio as he crouched beside the vehicle, his rifle in his hands.
The guns quieted as quickly as they had opened up. The smell of cordite hung in the air, and people scrambled toward the soldiers who had been carrying the MREs and water to the barricade.
“Send a medic up to the front of the convoy. Now!” Guerra shouted.
Some of the soldiers were getting up off of the ground already. They appeared unhurt. Two remained prone as other troops kneeled around them. Guerra hurried over to see how badly his men were hit. One of the two was just starting to sit up, clearly dazed. He was one lucky son of a bitch as he had caught a round in his helmet that had only rung his bell. Guerra checked the second man, who was much worse. The soldier had taken a bullet in the side of his neck, and the wound was bleeding profusely. A medic was already at work on him, trying to staunch the bleeding by applying pressure to the wound. From the amount of blood on the ground and soaking through the bandage, Guerra could tell that the round had probably hit the carotid artery.
He keyed his radio. “Stay sharp! Make sure you’re pulling security, people!”
The medic sat back on his haunches, shaking his head. “There wasn’t anything I could do. It caught him in the carotid, and he’d lost most of his blood before I even got up here.”
Guerra gritted his teeth. “It’s not your fault, Doc. You did the best you could. Can you make sure we get his body in the back of one of the trucks? I need you to pass his standard name line to me ASAP, okay?”
“Will do.”
Guerra turned and walked back to his vehicle, absolutely furious with himself for taking the time to talk down the religious zealots, only to have it end with the death of one of his men. Next time, I’m just going to smoke those fuckers. Jehovah’s fucking Witnesses shooting at us now. What the fuck has the world come to?
The men had already recovered the MREs and water cans, and a minute later, the dead soldier’s body had been put in a five-ton’s bed.
Guerra stopped by his Humvee and keyed his radio. “Move the five-tons up and start pushing those cars aside. Let me know if you have any reeker movement. Be ready to roll as soon as we have a path. Out.”
The big diesels under the hoods of several M939s revved up, and soon, the sounds of crumpling metal filled the air. Guerra turned and watched as the five-ton trucks began bashing through the barricade. The first one rolled right over the sticky remains of the Jehovah’s Witnesses, and Guerra suddenly wished they were still alive so he could tie them up and leave them as reeker bait.
The medic who had attempted to treat the fallen soldier came over, eyes downcast, and handed Guerra a piece of paper and a dog tag. Guerra clapped the man on the shoulder and thanked him for all he had tried to do. The medic nodded mutely then skulked back to his vehicle.
Guerra looked at the name on the paper and compared it with the one on the dog tag. Next came the part of his job that he truly dreaded. He pulled open the front passenger door of his Humvee and climbed inside. The private behind the wheel looked at him with a vacant expression, eyes hollow beneath the rim of his helmet.
Guerra picked up the radio handset. “War Eagle Six, this is Apache One Two. Over.”
“Apache One Two, this is War Eagle. Send it. Over.”
*
Hastings had been watching the events unfold via the Shadow feed, and he had been about to leave the TOC when the convoy pulled up to the barricade. He decided to stick around for a bit longer. Like a lot of other troops, he was curious about what the neat line of cars stretched across the road meant, and he wanted to see who might have put them there.
Viewing an ISR feed was like watching a movie with no sound. While pictures were said to be worth a thousand words, there were complexities and nuances that a simple video feed couldn’t convey. As the events played out on the screen, Hastings tried to imagine what was being said. When the SITREP was called in and the KIA reported, all of the missing information was suddenly clear. It was a given that some people could die on the mission, but the overall assumption had been that any casualties would be due to contact with the reekers, not from a misunderstanding with a group of reli
gious fanatics.
The convoy was on the move again, but Hastings made a mental note to make time to talk to Guerra once the mission was over. Hastings needed to get to the airfield, as it was getting close to the time his element would need to take off. He’d left Reader in charge of the group, so everything should still be on track and good to go.
Hastings had assigned Reader to be with him since he wasn’t sure how the soldier was dealing with having killed the woman out on the road. He hoped that participating in the operation would ease Reader back into things, and he hoped the soldier would move on and still continue to function as a member of the team.
Senator Cornell appeared in the doorway as Hastings was turning to leave. The broad-shouldered politician nodded and gave him a brief smile. “Is it your turn now?”
“Yes, sir,” Hastings said. “I’m on my way to the airfield now.”
“Then I’m not going to delay you.” Cornell stuck out his hand. “Best of luck, Captain.”
Hastings shook the man’s hand. “Thank you, sir.”
*
A soldier drove Hastings to Fort Indiantown Gap’s airport, known as Muir Army Airfield. Once there, Hastings was able to walk out to the ramp area. The men were waiting on the tarmac, and Hastings quickly found Reader.
“Reader, is everything still good to go?”
“Yes, sir. The guys are just fighting off the boredom of sitting around. Are we close to launching?”
Hastings nodded. “Yeah, Guerra should be calling in Phase Line WHITE here shortly. I need to speak with the pilots. Pass on to the men that we’re almost on deck.”
“Yes, sir. No problem.”
Hastings was contemplating fragmenting the plan and ordering Lakota into the air before the convoy reached Phase Line BLUE in a bid to increase their response time. But before he did that, he needed to get with the Army aviators and ensure that doing so wouldn’t add more complexity to the plan. It wouldn’t do to have the Chinooks running low on fuel at a critical moment. After all, no one wanted to walk home.
*
Despite everything, Guerra thought the convoy had made really good time. Most of the abandoned vehicles were easy to push out of the way or drive around once the terrain opened up, providing an adequate shoulder that the military vehicles could easily negotiate. A short section of road caught him off guard, another length that had been set up to accommodate some roadwork, but it didn’t prove to be too big of an issue. After that, the column rapidly approached Phase Line WHITE. As the convoy bore down on the intersection of US 39, Guerra saw that a lot of cars in the intersection. They seemed to have been coming from all four directions, as though there had been a nasty accident. Decaying body parts were strewn about the pavement. A flock of crows that had been pecking at the remnants took flight as the first truck came near. The reekers had clearly engaged in a feeding frenzy. More worrisome, pushing the wrecked vehicles out of the way would be a time-consuming task.
Guerra keyed his radio. “Lead, this is Apache One Two. Bear to the left and cut across the median to the far curb if you have to. We aren’t stopping to clear this intersection if we can avoid it. Over.”
The lead vehicle cut across the lane to the left-side curb and ran up onto the sidewalk, pushing between a few vehicles on the way. Guerra spotted a Honda dealership on the corner, and the lot was full of brand-new cars.
“War Eagle Six, this is Apache One Two. Over.”
“Apache One Two, this is War Eagle. Over.”
“War Eagle Six, Apache One Two is WHITE at this time. Over.”
“Roger, Apache One Two. I copy WHITE at this time. Over.”
“Apache One Two, out.”
Once the convoy turned onto US 39, they saw fewer abandoned vehicles, allowing them to move swiftly down the road. As they passed a residential subdivision, Guerra saw a small group of twelve to fifteen reekers milling around the entrance. The column’s noise roused them from their torpor, and they started moving toward the line of vehicles. The first few zombies walked right into the convoy’s path. One disappeared as the deuce ahead of Guerra’s vehicle slammed into it. The second was clipped by the big metal bumper and slammed to the ground, then the front tire rolled right over it. The truck kept going without pause. More reekers walked into the road only to be knocked down like bowling pins by the big trucks.
Man, you have to love the deuce and a half. He glanced in the side-view mirror then did a double take. He could have sworn he saw a reeker walking in the road with a cell phone in its mottled hand, looking down as though it was texting. The ghoul was completely oblivious to the speeding MRAP that plowed right into it. Guerra let out a laugh, and the driver looked over at him.
“What’s so funny?”
“You won’t believe it. I swear I just saw a reeker walking into the road while texting, right before the MRAP behind us hit it. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to run over shitheads who just walked into the street like that before all this happened.”
The driver chuckled. “I thought I was the only one who thought of shit like that.”
“Not even close, brother,” Guerra said. “The only thing that kept me from going ballistic and whacking motherfuckers on a daily basis here in CONUS was that it’s against the law. If this shit keeps up, I won’t have reason to worry. I can just run them over now.” He checked his watch. “We’re making pretty good time. Looks like we may make Phase Line BLUE on schedule, even with the delay back there.”
Just as Guerra was beginning to enjoy the quick pace and open countryside, the convoy came to a halt. Ahead was the bridge that crossed Swatara Creek, and someone had done a very good job of barricading it. Why they called it a creek Guerra couldn’t figure out, since it was as wide as most rivers he had seen.
Apparently, the bridge was what had kept the reekers and other vehicles from congesting most of US 39. The downside was that a huge group of zombies had amassed on the other side. Guerra estimated that about seven to eight hundred reekers were standing on the other side of the bridge and down the road as far as he could see. The calm sea of the dead was beginning to stir once they registered the noise from the convoy as it approached the bridge.
Guerra climbed out of his Humvee then clambered on top of the MRAP in front of his vehicle to get a better view. It didn’t look good.
From inside the MRAP, the turret gunner on the CROW system looked up from his video screen as Guerra leaned across the cupola. “Holy shit, Sergeant. There has to be thousands of reekers on the bridge and the far side.”
Guerra couldn’t argue with the assessment. Fuck me! This is not good. “Where the fuck did they all come from?”
One of the National Guard soldiers responded to Guerra’s rhetorical question. “Down the road a short ways on the other side of that bridge is Hershey Park Stadium. It’s a huge place, and they used it as a refugee evacuation site when this all started. Looks like the infection spread to everyone there.”
Even without all the reekers on the bridge, it would have taken a long time to push a hole through to the other side. The zombies made it an impossible task. Looking down at his map, he began searching for another way across the creek. There was a side road just before the bridge. He remembered when they had passed it, probably a hundred meters back. Using his index finger, he traced the side road on the map. East Canal Street snaked around and crossed the creek to the south of the larger bridge. Guerra knew it was a long shot. The smaller bridge could be closed, and even if it was open, there could be another sea of reekers waiting on the other side.
Time to find out. Guerra climbed down from the MRAP and walked toward the rear of the convoy. He found Tharinger’s vehicle and pulled open the driver’s door.
“What’s up, Sergeant G?” Tharinger asked brightly.
Guerra waved him to silence. “Get on the horn and tell your BFF Stilley to get his ass up here. Now.”
“Roger, Sergeant.”
Tharinger made the call, and a few minutes later, St
illey came running up. The black soldier was covered by a sheen of sweat. He gave Guerra an award-winning smile as he stopped beside him, and Guerra almost had to step back. Stilley really, really needed a shower.
“You wanted to see me, Sergeant G?” Stilley asked loudly.
“Not really,” Guerra said, but he motioned Tharinger out of the Humvee. “Bring it in, guys.”
Guerra spread his map on the hood of the Humvee and outlined his plan. Stilley and Tharinger would take their vehicles down East Canal Street and recon the route, including the bridge, to see if the convoy could get through that way. After Guerra gave them their five-point contingency plan, he sent them on their way.
“Don’t get sidetracked chasing sparkly shit. Drive the route, and let me know if it’s good to go or not.” Guerra gave the two soldiers his patented dagger eye. “You both tracking?”
“Roger, Sergeant,” they said in unison.
“So what are you waiting for? You think I’m going to slap your asses or something? Move the fuck out!”
Stilley double-timed back to his vehicle as Tharinger hopped back inside his Humvee. Guerra stepped back as Tharinger started maneuvering the truck out of the convoy in order to turn it around.
Guerra studied the map, looking for other options, as he walked back to his vehicle. There were a few other options he could take if Tharinger and Stilley called back with bad news. Once he got to it, he climbed in and let the rest of the convoy know that he had sent out a recon to explore an alternate route. He informed the troops they’d be holding station for a while and would need to pull security. The other routes went out of the way and through some residential areas that would probably lead to a few standup fights, but he had to consider them, given the situation.
“Apache One Two, this is Apache One Three Alpha. Over,” Stilley said. The radio speakers did nothing to muffle his foghorn voice.
“Apache One Three Alpha, this is Apache One Two. Over.”
These Dead Lands: Immolation Page 27
