by Dave Lund
What felt like hours later, the forklift turned off Old Dump Road and onto the long asphalt driveway leading to the compound. Stan jumped off the side of the forklift and jogged ahead, not having to run very quickly to outpace the slow-moving beast. With each bump and bounce Bexar held his breath, worried about the teetering load high above the ground, the solid rubber tires offering nothing in the way of any dampening. This forklift wasn’t meant to be driven down a road like this, but the dead weren’t meant to rise to hunt the living either.
Reaching the gate, Stan stood at the ready, the gate open. The rest of the group members stood just inside the gate, rifles ready. Once the back of the forklift cleared, Stan shut the gate and locked the chain holding it secure. Angel, Guillermo, and the rest of the group stood at the fence, shooting down the dead who stumbled up the drive following the loud yellow beacon.
Parking next to the Beetle, Bexar carefully lowered the forks and set them flat on the ground before shutting off the loud motor. One by one, the rest of the group members came back up the driveway with wide-eyed excitement like kids on Christmas. For preppers and survivors, large quantities of free ammo, rifles, explosives, and uncommon items like some RPGs made for a present that was worth three Christmases and a birthday all rolled into one!
Las Vegas, NV
Aymond sat in the big meeting room the Pararescue Jumpers had in their building. None of them were sure where the PJs had gone; some had obviously been killed, as indicated by the small makeshift memorials they found, but the cache of stored goods was fairly complete: ammo, MREs, water, extra gear, and even some small camping stoves and fuel, which Aymond promptly used this morning to make some instant coffee from the MRE he ate for breakfast.
The shortwave radio broadcast the previous night changed everything. It also really concerned him. If they had picked it up, the PLA might have picked it up too, and they might come looking for whomever was broadcasting it. It wasn’t good OpSec on the part of the people in Groom Lake, which was surprising for how secretive the facility had historically been. Even with his top-secret clearance, Aymond had no idea what he would find when they arrived. It could be alien technology or singlewide trailers, he didn’t know, and after all they had been through since December, he wouldn’t be surprised by either one.
The team’s sleep and security rotation would be complete in about two more hours. It was important that all his men got a full night’s rest when they could because when the shit hit the fan again, they might have to go days without sleeping. They needed to be rested, well, and strong to face that and come out on top. Happy and Kirk sifted through the stored cache of gear, picking and choosing what they could carry on the M-ATVs along with what they needed. Jones and Gonzo were exploring the hangars close by for any parts or equipment that Jones needed for the trucks or that they could use. Aymond believed in cross-training, but he also believed in letting someone who was highly experienced in a field of knowledge do what they knew best. Jones was an experienced mechanic, better than any of Aymond’s men, so it was best he do the job. Gonzo was along to carry anything heavy and to provide extra security.
Absentmindedly, Aymond flipped through the past November’s issue of Popular Mechanics. It all felt surreal, the way things felt in some sort of dream, and the future felt completely uncertain. There was only one thing that Aymond knew for sure. If they didn’t find more people and more help, the United States would fall to either the Chinese or the Zeds. There was no way to win either war by themselves. Aymond tossed the magazine on the table and stood, slinging his rifle and taking his coffee with him. He wanted to check on Jones’ and Gonzo’s progress.
Jones and Gonzo returned before Aymond could make it past the protective ring of the M-ATVs and the radar truck. They were unsuccessful in finding any useful spare parts, except for a set of tools that Jones said he needed, so the minor excursion was a waste of time. Now that the final sleep rotation was coming to an end, it was time for a team meeting to plan the day. Nellis appeared to be abandoned and left to the Zeds, but Aymond wanted to know for sure. If there were any survivors they would need them. What they needed was an army, or at least a few more Marines, if they were going to have any chance against the PLA.
S4
Twenty-five miles southwest of Groom Lake was another dry lake bed in the large sectioned-off piece of government-controlled land; bomb craters large and small to the north spoke to the area’s past life as a test facility. However, marked off on the edge of the dry lakebed was a ten-thousand-foot-long runway; next to the same was a newly constructed five-thousand-foot-long paved runway with a handful of newly built hangars, including a large clamshell-opening hangar that harkened back to the days of lighter than air travel.
The big Y-20 seemed to hang in the sky. Flying low and from the southwest, the big cargo plane banked gently to line up for the final approach over the dry lakebed. Since it was heavily loaded, the pilot didn’t dare use the shorter paved runway, opting to trust in the rugged design of the new aircraft and the supposed ability to land on unimproved surfaces.
There was discussion about conducting a low-level air drop, but the satellite intelligence suggested that the area was secure, either ignored by or unknown to the rogue group in the underground facility to the northeast. So the safer option of simply landing to offload the vehicles and men was taken.
Soldiers, members of the elite PLA Siberian Tiger unit, quickly exited the tail ramp of their aircraft, forming a defensive line as the first anti-Yama radar truck was released from the tie downs and driven to a position to provide sweeping coverage.
Nearing sunset, the two Chinese APCs drove across the lakebed to the hangars by the paved runway, which would be their command post for the upcoming operation. The radar truck set a position on the southwestern side, the side not shielded by the mountains. Their plan was underway.
In the MRAP, TX
The towns of Brownfield and Plains, Texas may not have had many people living in them before the attacks, but Amanda was sure that there weren’t any people living in them now, at least from what she could see. Rumbling along US-380, Amanda dodged only the occasional car and some semi-trucks and was amazed at how flat and open this part of Texas was.
Flatter than flat; someone could watch their dog runaway for three days out here and never lose sight of him.
Abandoned homes and farms dotted the flat landscape; most of them appeared to have been left to rot back into the dirt long before the attack happened. If not for the small sign, Amanda wouldn’t have known that after a slight bump in the pavement she was now in New Mexico. She was bored; no music, no one to talk to, nothing to do but listen to the droning diesel engine as she bounced and jarred along a lonesome highway in a part of the country that defined what it was to be in BFE.
The wire fences along the highway still stood. It almost appeared as if nothing was wrong, that the attack had never occurred and the dead weren’t stumbling around trying to bite the few who remained amongst the living in the rest of the country. No, if this town had electricity, it would probably be carrying on just fine, minus deliveries for food and other provisions.
If this country has a chance, if the United States can survive, it will be due to the survivors we can find out in the rural areas, hard-scrabble people used to making a life out of desolate areas and through desperate times.
The highway widened from two lanes to four lanes, and the signs warned of a lower speed limit, not that Amanda really cared. The sparse landscape became slightly more cluttered with metal buildings and older homes. Staring out of the driver’s side window, Amanda drifted left and right, not really paying attention to the road. She watched for signs of life, chimney smoke, if the homes even had chimneys, anything to give her hope. Movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention, and she instinctively slammed on the brakes. The heavy armored truck lurching forward snapped Amanda’s head forward with it, and she saw
a child riding a bicycle in the middle of the road waving at her.
“Holy shit!”
Sitting in the MRAP, now sitting stationary, Amanda stared at the child.
I’ve lost it. I’ve only made it to the fourth month after the attack, and I’ve completely lost my mind.
Squinting, waiting for the child to vanish or to see that it was actually a walking corpse of a child, Amanda waited, holding her breath. The child waved again and rode away, pedaling as fast as he could. Amanda followed slowly, trying not to spook the kid. Quickly the boy took a left, and Amanda wasn’t sure if he was trying to get away, just going somewhere, or trying to get her to follow. Curiosity won the argument in her thoughts, so she slowly followed, trying her best to drive casually in a large tan armored military vehicle with a machine gun on top. She drove close enough to keep the boy in sight but without getting so close as to be a threat to anyone watching, if that were even possible.
At the second cross street, the boy rode into the yard of a white house, dropped the bike, and ran into the home. Not sure what to do, Amanda stopped in the middle of the intersection and waited, watching the house. If this was an ambush, she would probably be OK in the truck against whatever small arms the people had, and she could just drive away. But it didn’t feel like an ambush should feel, which confused Amanda because she really had no training in any of this stuff. Before she’d just relied on Clint for his expert take on tactical situations. Now it was up to her and her limited experience. The curtains moved behind an open window on the second floor.
If someone were going to ambush travelers, why would they use a kid to lead them to a house? Why wouldn’t they just stage it out on the highway?
A woman appeared from the front door holding some sort of rifle that Amanda didn’t recognize, except that it had wooden stock and a scope on it. Amanda drove in front of the house, stopped in the middle of the street, and turned the truck off. Waiting, she and the woman stared at each other through the thick glass. Not able to roll down a window, Amanda wasn’t sure what to do. The woman didn’t move, but she appeared to be trying to talk to her. Amanda nodded and climbed into the back of the truck, stepped up, released the top hatch and climbed into the turret, leaving the M2 pointed away from the woman. She smiled.
“Are you with the Army?”
“No, not exactly.”
“Where did ya get that thing?”
“From a base in Texas. What town is this?”
“Tatum. Where are you headed? Is there help coming? Do you have any food or water you could spare? What the hell happened, and why is it taking so long for us to get help?”
Amanda felt like the woman was sincere. “I have some. I’m headed to Nevada. Are there many of you left besides you and the boy?”
“Of course there are.”
The blunt answer was given in such a way that it was obvious the woman thought it to be a stupid question. Why would there not be a lot of people left in the little town of Tatum, New Mexico.
Amanda smiled. “Give me a minute to climb down. Would you mind if we sat down and spoke for a while?”
“If you have some food to spare and can tell us when FEMA is going to get off their asses to come help, you’re welcome to come inside.”
The boy appeared behind the woman, smiling. “James, go get your daddy and tell him we have a visitor. Then go tell Mr. Finch. He’s going to want to come by as well.”
The boy ran into the yard, jumped on his bicycle, and rode off as fast as he could. After opening the back hatch, Amanda grabbed a case of MREs and climbed down, closing up the MRAP behind her. If she had known that there would be others, Amanda would have packed the entire back of the truck with cases of MREs, but as it was she didn’t and hadn’t made that plan. She walked into the home, her mind spinning with the thought of how to get some of the supplies stockpiled at the SSC to this town. Then she thought of all the other small towns she had simply driven through. She should have taken the time to explore each of them to look for other survivors, but she didn’t. Back and forth the argument went in her mind; she was heartbroken for the people she might have been able to find and help but didn’t, too anxious to get to Groom Lake to complete the mission she set out to do in the first place.
Flying Above New Mexico
Andrew trimmed the aircraft and let it fly. The road atlas in his lap, he flipped pages, holding a ruler over one page and then the next. The mountains were passing safely below him, and the sprawling mass of Albuquerque could be seen in the distance. He closed the atlas and stuffed it into the open bag in the back seat, Oreo nudging him again as always. Amazingly, Andrew didn’t have to clean much dog waste out of the aircraft, his friend somehow keeping it together for hours at a time, but this was the first time he was actually trying to make a destination quickly. Before he would have lazily followed the Interstates and searched for more survivors and, hopefully, answers to this whole mess, landing where he pleased when it was safe to do so, but now he wanted to get to Area 51 as fast as he could. There was a chance he could make it in a single hop, but without knowing the winds aloft, Andrew had no way to plan his route, to know which altitudes would give him the better winds for speed and efficiency. All of the tools that modern pilots were used to were gone, pushing him back into the stick-and-rudder barn-storming days of aviation history long past.
He adjusted the trim slightly and the small aircraft tilted forward slightly, slowly descending toward the big New Mexico city. So far, every large city that he had flown near appeared to be completely dead and overrun by zombies, but even in this strange new world in which he lived, Andrew still held hope.
The Interstate near the city was completely clear of vehicles; the ones he could see were pushed into the ditches. Descending lower, Andrew banked right and then left, looking out each side window, trying to see as much detail as he could. Shaking his head, Andrew knew that sort of destruction was from a massive horde of the dead. If one came through Albuquerque, then he doubted anyone could have survived; even some of the bridges had collapsed. Flying a northwesterly route over the heart of the city, thick black fog blocked his view, but Andrew knew that it wasn’t fog and that hundreds or thousands of the reanimated dead were below the veil of black flies.
Oreo whimpered a little as Andrew began slowly climbing and gaining altitude.
“I know buddy, but we can’t stop yet, not there. Try to hold it. I’ll stop soon.”
Saint George, UT
Each of the wooden crates stood open, and all the new toys of war were spread out in the courtyard. There were rows of green metal cans of ammunition, mostly 5.56 XM193, but larger cans of 7.62 and 50-caliber as well; two crates labeled “30 GRENADE HAND FRAG DELAY M67” stood by themselves, the lids removed. The new gear seemed overwhelming and endless, and it was dangerous to let it sit out in the open. Chivo checked each item, explaining it to Angel and Guillermo, who was writing down what each was, what it was for and how much of it they now had. The hard work of unpacking each of the crates complete, Stan and John went inside to prepare the group’s lunch. Merylin and Frances held security positions, standing at the edge of the courtyard near the driveway, their rifles in hand, and Brian sat on the roof of the house with binoculars scanning for any threats. Jennifer was the only one of the group not out in the courtyard. After sitting security during the night, she’d opted to sleep; she was content to find out what all the new toys were later.
The inventory complete, Angel held the yellow pad of paper and clipboard in his hand, reviewing his notes, meticulously checking to make sure he hadn’t missed a single detail.
“What are we going to do with RPGs and grenades? I can’t imagine those would be all that effective against the zombies?”
Chivo shrugged. “Who knows, Guillermo. They might be, but I know they would be really effective against the living.”
“But you took care of that for us.”
Bexar shook his head. “Everywhere I’ve been, I keep finding turds, wolves preying on other survivors. Fuck, I wish I had all this when we were in Big Bend. Things might have gone much differently.”
“We don’t even know how to use half this stuff. The M-16s sure, but I’ve never seen a real grenade in person much less used one.”
Chivo smiled. “First of all, if you try to pull the cotter pin out with your teeth, you won’t have many teeth left, but I’ll show everyone this afternoon. If Angel continues to take notes, then you can review them later, practice, and train. This sort of hardware is hard to come by, and you might be thankful to have it at some point.”
Guillermo nodded, looking at the pile of arms that made their prepper compound look like a terrorist commune, and then back at Bexar.
“What about you? Do you know about all this?”
“Nope, but I’m going to pay attention this afternoon. That’s for sure!”
Bexar glanced at Chivo, who nodded slightly. Taking his cue, Bexar continued. “With you guys safe, our plan is to leave in the morning.”
Angel looked up from his notes and looked at Guillermo, who tilted his head. “That’s too bad. The group voted, and you’re both welcome to stay. We want you to stay.”
