Ballantine checked his watch. He and the rest of the troops in the MRAP had been off security for almost thirty minutes, which meant it was time to start their next rotation. “I guess it’s time to get back to it.”
None of the soldiers in the MRAP responded. Mahon was busy studying his boots, and McBride was scowling at nothing in particular.
Ballantine shifted his M4 on its sling and slapped one of Mahon’s kneepads. “Dude.”
Mahon raised his head and looked at Ballantine with haunted eyes. “Yeah. Let’s get back to it.”
*
Chief Warrant Officer Two Darla Delaney sat behind two operators in Ground Control Station mounted on a Humvee, looking over their shoulders as the soldiers piloted the RQ-7B Shadow unmanned aerial vehicles through the sky. Because of the distance involved, both systems were flying high, one at eight thousand feet, the other at its theoretical service ceiling of fifteen thousand feet. If she’d wanted, Delaney could have pushed the higher unit out to sixty-eight miles from the Gap, but that would be risky. If something happened and the unit went down, it was very likely going to remain unrecovered. In the current world state, even fifty miles out was a stretch. The only way to recover a downed drone would be to fly a recovery team out in a Chinook, and since they’d already lost one of those, Delaney had no allusions as to what the answer would be if she were to ask to launch another CH-47F just to pick up a fallen drone.
As one of two Air Mission Planners, Delaney was responsible for twelve Shadow drones. Normally, she would only have oversight for four units, but two other Shadow platoons had fallen back to the Gap as the dead began overrunning positions, sending the military into full-on disarray. Not all the platoons were fully manned. A Shadow unit usually had twenty-two soldiers attached to it, but not one of the units had managed to make it to Fort Indiantown Gap with all hands. So Delaney had inherited a substantial amount of excess equipment but not enough troops to run all of them at the same time. While she had all the necessary operators, maintainers and ground-launch personnel were missing, which meant that the remaining soldiers had to fill in on tasks they were not specifically trained for. It was one thing to sit in an air-conditioned cube, looking at a video display while remote piloting an aircraft. It was entirely another to make sure the drones were fueled, lubricated, and ready to go with functional mission equipment packages. Delaney and her fellow AMP had been training regular soldiers and Pennsylvania Guardsmen on how to fulfill some of those tasks, but there just weren’t enough hours in a day to do that and still maintain the surveillance coverage the command group wanted. So she spent most of her days doing operations and several hours a night on training. To say she was exhausted would be an understatement.
That was why she was in one of the Ground Control Stations, instead of in the tactical operations center. In the TOC, people always wanted to talk to her, give her taskings, and modify previous orders. While that was to be expected—the Army was supposed to react nimbly to changes, after all—the fallout was that nothing was getting done. With only a few airframes flying at a time, the coverage was a bit light. And while the Shadows were robust machines overall, their little Wankel engines needed some TLC every now and then. If she flew every mission the command group wanted, they’d run out of the special synthetic oil the engines needed to stay lubricated. Therefore, eight of the Shadows were grounded, while four flew daytime missions. Those units would be retired at 1800 hours, and another four would be launched until 0200 hours. By that time, if she was lucky, Delaney would be racked out, but the plan called for two Shadows to fly the early morning missions, with two held back in reserve. When Delaney went back on duty at 0600, it would be time to start all over again.
She had taken to hanging out in one of the GCS cubes, where she could catch short naps while pretending to supervise the operators. Every flight was recorded, so if the sensors detected something that needed review, she could do so. Even though she trusted the operators, the AMPs had to ensure that all the data was reviewed in parallel with the intel guys in the TOC. Failing to do that could lead to someone missing something vital, either an enemy formation, which was unlikely, or an encampment of survivors, which was more likely). While Delaney had little interaction with Colonels Victor and Jarmusch, she doubted either of the two men would countenance any oversights, no matter how tired the Shadow platoons were.
She checked her watch. The two Shadows in the air weren’t due to come back down for another hour, so she leaned back in the rather uncomfortable observation seat, crossed her arms over her chest, and let her head sag forward. She was out like a light, lulled into an almost immediate sleep by the whirring of fans and the distant puttering of the GCS’s external generator.
She was jolted awake after what seemed only a moment, when one of the operators said, “Hey, you have to check this out, ma’am.”
She glanced at the clock. Only two minutes had passed. She ran a hand through her hair, knocking her headset askew. After repositioning the earphones, she looked toward the front of the cube, where the operators were seated only three feet away. “What is it?”
“Definite contact,” the operator on the right said. The sergeant was flying the drone at fifteen thousand. “Still a ways off, but I can see them through the optics.”
The operator on the left, flying the drone at the lower altitude, glanced over at his companion’s video terminal. “Holy shit.”
Delaney straightened but still had a bit of trouble seeing the sergeant’s screen, so she stood instead. She was only five-foot-four, and the top of her head didn’t touch the cube’s low ceiling. The drone was flying more or less over a highway. The interstate was clogged by a mass of snarled traffic in the distance, courtesy of a tractor-trailer accident. The open space beyond was awash with trash left by citizens fleeing westward on foot. Everything from abandoned suitcases to broken bicycles to empty bottles and food containers and the occasional decomposing body was baking in the early morning summer sun. Several figures stumbled along the highway, picking their way through the detritus, heads swinging from side to side. Reekers. She did a quick count and came up with a baker’s dozen.
“Okay, I see them,” she said.
“Not the ones in front of the traffic,” the operator said. “Look farther back.”
Delaney put her hands on the back of the operator’s chair and leaned forward. She spotted some movement amidst the wreckage. It took her a moment to figure out what she was seeing, then she gasped.
Zombies, thousands and thousands of them, were pushing their way through the blockade of abandoned cars and trucks. The undulating wave of dead humanity was rolling right down the interstate at a speed of about two miles per hour. The massive formation seemed to pulse and squirm, reminding Delaney of a gigantic ant colony. The bulk of the tide reached the two jackknifed vehicles that had shut down the highway, and she thought the two trailers would hold them back. But they started to swarm over the trailers lying on their sides, climbing over each other like slow-moving cockroaches. Once they got onto the flat sides of the trailers, they walked straight ahead and fell to the bare asphalt on the other side. Those in better shape managed to get up and limp or crawl away. The rest were simply crushed by the bodies that landed on them a moment later. Soon, the trailers were covered with pulsating masses of ghouls. On the other side of the trailers, more reekers piled up, pushing forward, and jostling each other as they climbed up and over with a single-minded determination that left her almost spellbound.
The trailers began to move. Like a dam splitting in slow motion, the wrecked cargo containers were slowly pushed aside by the pressure of thousands of bodies building up behind them.
“Hey, that doesn’t look too good,” the left operator said.
“How far out are they?” Delaney asked, surprised that the blossoming panic in her chest hadn’t yet found its way to her voice.
“Fifty-three miles from our position,” the right operator answered.
“Is this being pla
yed over the RVT in the TOC?” she asked, pronouncing the abbreviation for Remote Video Terminal as “rivet.”
As if in response to her question, the radio came to life, and TOC asked for clarity on what they were seeing.
*
While the morning had all the makings of a great day, Guerra, Reader, and Stilley were sweating their balls off. Despite the chirping birds in the trees and the expanse of the Swatara Creek flowing practically at their feet, the temperature had already risen to a steamer—hot, humid, and miserable. To make matters worse, the close proximity to the creek was exposing them to a horde of hungry mosquitos. Guerra hadn’t thought to put on any bug spray, a vexing oversight that was probably going to cost him a pint of blood before the day was over. He was also concerned about the virus that reanimated the dead, fearing it could be transferred by mosquitos. As far as he knew, mosquitos didn’t try to feed off the dead, but what if one had fed on an infected person who hadn’t died yet then landed on him to top off its tank?
Fuck. You’d think after yesterday’s op, I’d have the day off, or at least light duty. But nooooo, I have to unass from the Gap and come out here to block a freaking one-lane bridge.
The operation involved blocking the far end of the antique bridge that crossed the Swatara Creek. The span was part of the fabled Appalachian Trail, and the placard at the top of the iron trestle proclaimed the structure had been erected by the Berlin Iron Bridge Company, East Berlin, Connecticut. Guerra thought that was a little funny, a place in Connecticut called East Berlin. A lot of former Stasi probably had vacation homes there.
Usually, it was preferable to block a bridge on the far side. But since the Swatara Bridge was so narrow, there was no chance of getting a container across it to serve as a barricade. So they would set up on the near side and finish it off with HESCO barriers and razor wire. More containers would be placed on the roadway behind the bridge. Pennsylvania Route 72 was definitely a fast-approach corridor, though it was quite minor compared to the huge expanse of Interstate 78 that Ballantine and the One-Oh-Worst were securing. Guerra, Reader, and Stilley were hanging out with a group of Pennsylvania Army National Guard guys, and they would be securing both the Swatara and the Iron Bridge, which was a mile or so downrange. Whereas the Swatara Bridge was more or less a pedestrian crossing, the Iron Bridge allowed for vehicular traffic. Guerra doubted they would be able to secure all the crossings before nightfall, but the Guard guys seemed ready to give it a try. So let them.
“Boy, this heat sure does suck, Staff Sergeant,” Stilley brayed.
“Yeah” was all Guerra said. The heat bothered him too, but the mosquitoes bothered him more. He slapped another one on his neck and stared at the speck of blood in the center of his palm. He sighed and shook his head.
The National Guard captain in charge of the element hurried over. He was a wide-eyed sort and older than expected, given his rank, but that kind of thing was more common in the Guard.
“Staff Sergeant Guerra, how are you doing?” the captain asked.
“Hanging in there, sir,” Guerra said. “You guys sure have a lot of mosquitoes around here, huh?”
The captain didn’t smile. “I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind overseeing the wire placements on the banks of the creek.”
“No problem, sir,” Guerra replied, fighting to keep the acid out of his voice. “Happy to do it. Uh, one question—how deep is the water?”
The captain seemed confused. “The Swattie? Uh, it’s about three to four feet in places, but there are others where it’s only a foot or so. Why?”
“Well, sir, if it’s that shallow, then it’s not really going to be much of a barrier. Maybe we should layer the defenses a bit more. Maybe with something more active, like a few lines of claymores daisy-chained together.”
Before jumping out, he and Ballantine had discussed mounting claymores on the containers. While the weapons worked great at reducing the force of usual attackers, zombies wouldn’t care much about limb or body damage. Unless their brains were destroyed, they would just keep coming, and Ballantine had theorized the mines might be more effective if elevated. Of course, that would mean they’d need to be mounted on sandbagged revetments. Even the heavy CONEX units wouldn’t be able to absorb the back-blast of an M18 Claymore Antipersonnel Mine.
The captain cocked his head. “Claymores?”
“Yes, sir. Claymores. We have a lot of SAWs and the like for gunning down the dead when they get into range, but we might want to amp that up a bit, too. We have any sniper weapons? Any fitty cals?”
“You mean like the anti-material weapons?”
“Yes, sir. Anything that can reach out over long distances and put the zap on the reekers before they get in range of the rest of our weapons. Trust me, sir, you don’t want these things walking up on you in a mass attack. It’s not pretty.”
The captain waved at the CONEX container, still on the lowboy trailer behind them. “We’ll have those to protect us.”
Reader snorted. “Yeah, that’s gonna do a lot, sir.”
The captain turned to Reader. “What do you mean by that, soldier?”
Reader looked at the Guard officer with a dull expression. Guerra sighed again. The soldier still hadn’t bounced back from nailing that woman out on the road, and he wondered just what the hell Reader’s problem was. The man had made a mistake, and while Guerra didn’t diminish its horrible importance, it had been just that: a mistake. Reader would have to find his way past it, or he was going to wind up being more trouble than he was worth.
Guerra cleared his throat. “What he means is, sir, we shouldn’t be depending on static defenses entirely. The things we’re used to deploying during normal combat operations aren’t really very effective against the dead. We should all be reading from the same page at this point. Yes, the containers are going to give us elevation and provide a barrier that the dead are unlikely to be able to get around, but once an entire horde walks up to it, they won’t just stand there, waiting to get shot. They’ll eventually break down the wires, and when that happens, the guys on top of the containers will be trapped. They might not get eaten, but they could starve to death.” He slapped another mosquito. “Or drained of all their blood by the damn bugs.”
Guerra could see the captain still didn’t get it. “So we’d want weapons that can reach out and start diminishing their numbers before they get to us, sir. Anything we can do to reduce the threat before it’s standing right on our front doorstep would be great. Hell, I’d even put mortars up on a container. Mortars won’t kill all of them, but they’ll kill some.”
“So you want mortars and anti-material weapons?” the captain asked.
Guerra nodded. “And claymores. And while SAWs are nice and all, I’d rather see M2s up there, as well.”
The captain looked over Guerra’s shoulder, where the rest of the troops were offloading the first container and the rest of the materials they would be putting out over the course of the day. The guy looked overwhelmed, which bugged Guerra to no end. The world hadn’t just ended yesterday; it had been in a power skid for months. The Pennsylvania Army National Guard captain shouldn’t have been surprised by anything Guerra had just said. Then it hit him: the captain was thinking they were going to be able to hold out. Guerra chuckled. The guy had no idea what was headed their way.
The captain stiffened, and eyes snapped back to Guerra. “What’s so funny, Staff Sergeant?”
Guerra hadn’t realized he’d laughed aloud. “Sorry, sir. I was just thinking of something that had happened last night with one of the civilians staying with us. Nothing related to what’s going on here.”
“Hook up with the soldiers handling the wire, and take over that detail,” the captain said, a snappish quality in his voice. “We’ll need wire on both sides of the bridge.”
“Yes, sir,” Guerra said.
The captain spun on his heel and walked away. Guerra grunted and shifted the set of his M4, while looking over at Reader and Stilley.
>
“Hey, you didn’t really handle him all that well, Sergeant G,” Stilley said.
Reader shook his head. “We’re working for the truly clueless out here.”
“Hey, Mike,” Guerra said. “You need to get yourself under control. Move past what happened, okay? Stay with us, man. We need you.”
The irritation was plain on Reader’s face. “You think I’m not hauling my weight, Sergeant Guerra?”
“That’s not what I mean, but you’re letting what happened out on the road eat you up inside, man. You have to work that out. That’s all I’m saying.”
Reader didn’t respond.
Guerra took the opportunity to spin toward Stilley. “But you, you’re still a douche bag, you lazy piece of shit. I want you out in that creek getting wet when we’re placing the wire, and I want you to try to refrain from splashing any water under your arms. We might wind up having to drink that water one day, and the last thing I want is for your rancid pits to make it poisonous, you understand?”
“Hey, I can’t help it if I sweat, Sergeant,” Stilley said. “It’s hot as a Turkish bathhouse out here!”
“I won’t ask how you know anything about Turkish bathhouses, Stilley. But if you get any riper, you’re going to be classified as a biological hazard. I just wish the dead were put off by your pits, then I’d hang you at the end of this bridge and watch the reekers try to run all the way back to New York.”
“You know, Sergeant G, this is making for a very hostile work environment,” Stilley said.
“Tell me about it. Okay, guys, let’s get to work.”
*
Colonel David Victor watched the display on the TOC wall as the Shadow mission planner walked him and the rest of the command staff through their findings. What he saw horrified him, and he knew it was only the tip of the iceberg. The horde picking its way down Interstate 87 was the biggest element of the dead he’d seen since bugging out of Philadelphia weeks ago. Conservative estimates put the count at around fifty to seventy-five thousand reekers, and their average speed of advance was three miles per hour. More were paralleling the interstate, wending their way through the woods on either side and moving through the small towns and residential communities that dotted the landscape. Their numbers were so vast that when they came across a fortified house or office building that contained live human beings, the corpses just tore the structure apart as if peeling back a banana to get at the soft flesh that cowered inside.
These Dead Lands: Immolation Page 35
