These Dead Lands: Immolation
Page 30
Finally. Now all we have to do is get this and the other trains back to the base. I hope things in the rail yard are going as smooth as things did here. Ballantine switched channels on his radio. “Lakota One One, this is Blackfoot One Seven. Over.”
Hastings responded, “Blackfoot One Seven, this is Lakota One One. Over.”
“Lakota, Blackfoot One Seven is moving to your position at this time. Over.”
“Good copy, Blackfoot. We’re just about ready to pull out. Be advised, we have heavy resistance outside the rail yard. Do not stop here on your way through. Over.”
“Good copy. Blackfoot, out.” From the sounds of it, the rail yard was a bit more exciting than the Naval facility had been. Ballantine wasn’t sorry to have missed the action.
*
Guerra watched the CH-47F north of the bridge lift off and bank to the left. The gunners on both sides of the Chinook fired into the amassing reekers as the big helicopter climbed into the sky. He turned to his left to get a visual on Hastings’s bird. It rose and started moving toward Ballatine’s position, the gunners shooting continuously. As the bird got closer, Guerra thought something didn’t look right with it. The chopper seemed to have suddenly gotten ass heavy.
Oh shit!
The rear of the bird barely cleared the bridge as it passed over Guerra’s vehicle. His turret gunner dropped down inside the Humvee with a startled yelp that was barely audible over noise from the pounding helicopter blades. Instead of gaining altitude and flying away, the Chinook disappeared behind one of the rail yard buildings along Grayson Street.
While Ballantine was waiting for a huge crash and fireball, his radio came to life.
“Apache One Two, Lakota One One. The bird is down! Over!”
“Lakota, Apache One Two. What happened? Over.” Guerra looked over at the driver and the gunner. “Get ready to roll, and get back on that weapon!”
“Apache, the crew chief says it’s a transmission issue. We’re just north of your position in the large parking lot along the road. We need pick up now! Over.”
Guerra nodded, even though Hastings couldn’t see the gesture. “Roger, moving! Break. Apaches One Three Alpha and Bravo, roll your people up and collapse the perimeter toward my position. Over.”
Tharinger and Stilley responded affirmatively, and a minute later, the gunfire from their positions decreased as their vehicles headed toward Guerra’s position. Guerra instructed his driver to back up to the intersection while the gunner returned to the cupola and resumed shooting the reekers coming over the bridge.
Guerra looked through the windshield at the ghouls surging toward them like flood water. “All Apache elements, set up a perimeter outside of the downed bird. We need to hold Grayson Street as best as we can. Over.”
Tharinger’s and Guerra’s teams were closest to where the bird had set down, and it would take Stilley’s element a few minutes to roll up. The reekers were still coming, headed right toward Guerra’s Humvee. The machine gun in the turret overhead didn’t seem to be doing jack shit, even though he could clearly see the stream of projectiles tearing through dead flesh and bone.
“Move us to the bird now!” Guerra yelled.
The driver stomped on the gas, running over reekers as if they weren’t even there. Guerra spotted several of Stilley’s vehicles coming down Grayson Street with a heavy MRAP in the lead, blasting its way through the undulating masses of the dead. The turret gunners fired into the mobs of reekers, slashing them and the surrounding area with machine-gun fire.
Guerra keyed his microphone. “Apaches, put a few of the heavy vehicles at the bridge intersection! We need as much firepower there as possible. Over!”
Two MRAPs pulled into the intersection to cover the bridge. The large vehicles rammed into the reekers with such force that the corpses flew through the air, slamming into the ghouls behind them and knocking them down. So many bodies were caught under the tires that it looked as if one of the MRAPs might actually roll over.
*
Hastings was busy getting his people and the aircraft crew ready to abandon the stricken Chinook as its big rotors slowly wound down. A foul burning smell emanated from the rear of the aircraft, and he nudged the crew chief.
“Hey, are we on fire?” he yelled.
“Negative. That’s transmission fluid burning up as it hits the casing up in the pylon,” the crew chief shouted, pointing overhead. “I’m dropping the ramp. You guys need to get ready!”
No sooner had the crew chief finished then the Chinook’s rear ramp descended to the parking lot. Two reekers were virtually right outside. Hastings brought up his M4 and popped off several rounds. His aim was good, and both zombies collapsed to the pavement as 5.56-millimeter rounds burrowed into their skulls.
“Fuck, guy!” he yelled at the crew chief. “At least give me a chance!”
Hastings preceded his soldiers down the ramp, his M4 shouldered and ready. Another trio of reekers was thirty feet away, and they surged toward him when he emerged from the helicopter. Hastings and two other soldiers dropped them with a hail of gunfire.
The Chinook’s engines spooled down, and the big rotors came to a surprisingly quick halt. Other than the whine of a generator somewhere inside the aircraft, the helicopter was now silent. Hastings organized his men into security positions, though several of them were already firing at approaching reekers. The aircraft commander, an older chief warrant officer five with a thick mustache, hurried down the ramp with the rest of the aircrew.
“Were you able to let the other bird know we were going down?” Hastings asked him.
“Yeah, he’s headed back this way to give us some air support and pick us up when we’re ready to move.” The pilot pointed over his shoulder, toward the nose of the downed Chinook. “He’s gonna land in the parking lot at twelve o’clock.”
“Thanks,” Hastings said.
Guerra’s voice came over his radio. “Lakota, this is Apache. Over.”
“Go, Apache!”
“We’ve got a perimeter set up along Grayson Street. If you’re gonna do something, make it quick. The reekers are coming over the bridge in waves, and we’re having a hell of a time holding them back. Over.”
“Good copy. Break. Gunslinger, this is Lakota. We’re ready for pick up. Over.”
“Lakota, this is Gunslinger. Roger. Two mikes out. We’re coming in hot, so have your guys ready to move. Over.”
“Wilco, Gunslinger. Break. Apache, we’re moving now to the Chinook’s twelve o’clock. Over,” Hastings said.
“Roger, Lakota. Keep an eye out for squirters. Some have gotten past us. Over.”
“Yeah, I think we have them, Apache,” Hastings said dryly as more of the men in his detachment opened fire.
*
Guerra was surprised to hear an eardrum-shattering heavy-metal guitar riff over the din of gunfire. This time, it was “Die Motherfucker Die” by Dope.
What the fuck? Fucking Stilley! I’ll kill him myself, if the reekers don’t. I swear!
Guerra keyed his mike. “Apache One Three Alpha, what are you—” Then it dawned on him. Stilley’s vehicle had the MISO Radio in a Box. The music would attract the reekers, drawing them right to it. Maybe Stilley wasn’t retarded after all.
Well, he is in the vehicle with the RIB, though. Yeah, the dude’s definitely impaired.
The reekers that made past the MRAPs turned and headed south, marching toward Stilley’s Humvee, which continued to blare Dope’s greatest heavy metal anthem ever at live concert decibels.
*
What the hell? Hastings had been headed for the front of the aircraft when music came out of nowhere. The second Chinook was already inbound and would be landing right about the time Hastings and his men got to the edge of the second parking lot.
“Diamond formation!” someone yelled, and the soldiers instinctively picked up their positions as they continued to shoot and move at the same time.
“Help!”
Hastings tur
ned to see one of the Guardsmen fighting with two reekers. Before he could raise his weapon, one of the zombies sank its teeth into the soldier’s neck. Shots rang out, and both reekers slumped to the ground. The Guardsman was as good as dead, not only because of the virus but also from the wound hemorrhaging a massive amount of blood. As the soldier went down, more reekers attacked him, despite the firepower hurled their way.
The Chinook flew over the group and descended, its rear ramp lowering. At twenty feet off the deck, the crew chief manned the .50 caliber and began shooting the reekers behind the group. He had to cease fire once the helicopter was about to touch down, lest he start walking rounds through the running troops. The Chinook landed, bouncing on its landing gear.
The men made a mad dash for the bird. The guns in the shoulder windows on either side of the aircraft were firing continuously, and everywhere Hastings looked, reekers were moving toward them. The tide of corpses would overwhelm the helicopter’s defenses if they didn’t take off soon. As they ran for the Chinook, the pilots pulled in power, making the aircraft light on its wheels before they slowly lifted off the pavement. Soldiers leaped aboard, frightened that the helicopter would take off and leave them. By the time Hastings got there, the ramp was several feet above the ground, and the crew chief was alternating between helping guys up and shooting at the reekers following them.
The aircraft continued to lift off slowly, and as Hastings and the last of the group of soldiers reached the edge of the ramp, they had to jump to grab the outstretched hands of the men on board. Once on the bird, Hastings did a quick head count of his people. He was short three soldiers, not counting the one he saw die. Looking out the Chinook’s open rear, he saw zombies clustered around three other soldiers who had fallen during the rush for the bird. As the helicopter climbed higher, the sheer number of reekers mesmerized him. Their numbers were awesome, overwhelming. And to think the convoy had been fighting them off since they arrived at the rail yard…
The trains… what about the trains?
Hastings saw one of the trains moving down the track. Shifting to the inside of the aircraft, he leaned over some troops to look out the side windows, searching for the other one. He spotted it already moving down the tracks, hauling a line of cars behind it. Both the trains had made it.
“Apache One Two, get your people out of there! We’re clear. Over!” Hastings yelled over the radio.
“Copy” was all that came back.
*
Guerra came up on the internal channel. “All Apache elements, begin exfil! Get to the exfil route as fast as you can, and move north to the ORP! Over!”
There was no time to form up a proper convoy. They needed to get out of there and fast, if they wanted to survive long enough to make it to the Objective Rally Point. The MRAPs that had been covering the bridge drove past Guerra’s position, heading to the highway. On top of both vehicles, soldiers were holding on and shooting any reekers that tried to climb up the sides. Guerra almost chuckled when he saw Stilley on top of the second MRAP with a SAW machine gun, shooting in controlled bursts to the sides and rear of the vehicle while the turret gunner did his best to shoot those in front. It was amazing what the human brain could take in, when in a life or death situation. In that instant, Guerra clearly saw Stilley working like a well-oiled machine, calm and controlled, as he laid down fire in a methodical manner as if he did it every day.
You’re holding shit down like a boss. Way to go… retard, Guerra thought himself.
Guerra’s vehicle careened through the Wal-Mart and Sam’s Club parking lot, as that was the quickest way to get back to the exfil route. As the Humvee rocketed by, Guerra could see what those who had been positioned there had been talking about on the radio. Reekers were everywhere. He also noticed a lot of them looked fresh, and they moved as though they were still alive—in fact, when he first saw them, he thought they might be survivors. That impression was dispelled when they started trying to swarm the vehicles.
*
The crew chief grabbed Hastings and yelled into his ear, “Sir, the pilot says the other birds are just a few minutes behind us.”
That was good news. Hastings hoped things had gone well there. He didn’t know since he hadn’t had communication with Ballantine for some time. “Thanks. Ask the pilot to let them catch up to us so we can move as one. And see if he can find out if the train from that location is moving.”
The crew chief gave Hastings a thumbs-up and began speaking into his helmet’s boom microphone. He turned back to Hastings a second later and shot him two thumbs-up. Things were moving along.
Now we just have to make it back to the base. He needed to know how the ground convoy was doing. He keyed his radio’s PTT button. “Apache, this is Lakota. Say SITREP. Over.”
*
Guerra was trying to organize his people when he heard Hastings’s call. “Lakota, this is Apache. We’re reconsolidating on the move at this time, so I don’t have a good head count yet. I’d say I’ve got about half of my vehicles at this time. We’re still moving to the ORP. Over.”
“Roger, Apache. We should be over your position as soon as we link up with the other aircraft. Over.”
“Lakota, be advised, we ran into heavy resistance around the Hershey Park area on the way here,” Guerra said. “We may need a lot of help from you in getting my force through that section of road. Over.”
“Good copy, Apache. Lakota, out.”
The ORP was on the other side of the Swatara Creek at the underpass of 322 and Fiddles Elbow Road. The creek and the underpass were easily identifiable features that Guerra felt everyone could remember and find in the heat of the moment. He would wait at the Objective Rally Point for the others to link up. If they didn’t show up within twenty minutes, whomever he had with him would move out along the egress route, as per the plan.
Guerra had to give his guys time to catch up to the rest of the convoy before they continued because they would pass close to Hershey Park not far up the road. They had avoided the thousands of reekers there before, but Guerra wasn’t at all convinced their luck would hold for a second run.
“Give me two vehicles up the road about a hundred meters pulling security,” Guerra said over the radio as his Humvee pulled up to the underpass. “Same on our six.”
Like most of the roads in that area, the famed and time-tested Jersey barriers were popular lane separators. While their presence was almost never ideal for road movements, they worked to cut off all avenues of approach except for the front and rear. Guerra recognized that as the best of a shitty situation, but he didn’t want to stay there too long. Speed was security, and as long as what was left of the convoy was moving, they would be a hard target to hit.
He got on the radio again. “All Apache elements, this is Apache Actual. We are occupying the ORP at this time, and the twenty-minute clock starts now. Break. Cross-level ammo and weapon systems as needed. Break. Senior man in each vehicle, send me your ACE report, ASAP. Over.”
Goddamn, I sure as fuck picked a bad day to stop sniffing glue. He popped open the door and stepped out of the idling Humvee. Looking back, he saw that fire and smoke continued to rise into the sky. It was actually quite peaceful on the side of the road at the moment, despite obvious signs of the apocalypse on the near horizon. In the distance, he could just make out the sounds of the approaching Chinooks. Confident that his air support would be on-station soon, Guerra hefted his rifle into an easy firing position and walked down the line of vehicles. The men were reloading magazines, opening ammo cans, and prepping the belt-fed weapons. As they worked, many were drinking water or shoving food into their mouths. No one had to be told what to do; they all knew that if they didn’t take the brief opportunity to eat and rehydrate, they might not get a chance later in the game.
“Apache Actual, this is OP Two. We have vehicles coming across the bridge. Over,” said a voice over Guerra’s headset. OP Two was the security element that had displaced to the rear of the convoy.
“Roger, military vehicles. Over.”
Good news. “Let them know we’re rolling out shortly and to level up. Out.”
Looking down the row of vehicles, he could see a few were missing. But he had most of his people, and he knew he’d need them to make it through the next town and back to the base.
“Apache One Two, this is Lakota One One. Over.”
“Lakota One One, this is Apache. Over.”
“Apache, we’ve linked up with the other aircraft,” Hastings said. “The train from objective two is underway at this time. Let me know when you’re ready to move. Over.”
Guerra checked his watch. He had five more minutes before the convoy was due to roll out. “Roger, Lakota. Wait. Out.” Guerra cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “We roll in five, people! I need those ACE reports now!” He went back on the radio. “Lakota, we roll in five mikes. How copy? Over.”
“Roger, five mikes,” Hastings responded. “War Eagle advises that the Shadow has eyes on the trains, so we’ll fly escort for you the remaining way. Over.”
“That’s good news. I think we’re gonna need all the help we can get for this next part. Over.”
“Copy. Let me know when you’re ready to roll. Lakota, out.”
Guerra turned and headed back to his Humvee. On the way, he pulled out his map and the aerial still picture taken from one of the Shadow feeds. Back in the planning phase, taking US 422 on the return route made plenty of sense, but Guerra was no longer sure that was a good idea. And the more he looked at the map and the imagery, he realized he was right. They could stay on US 322 and avoid the built-up areas that US 422 would take them through. That route was longer but mostly through open agricultural-looking fields. Even if the roads were blocked, he felt sure they could go off-road without issues. Anything was better than having to run the convoy through the area around Hershey with the huge number of reekers hanging out there.