Armstrong lowered his head, knowing what Peterson was about to say.
“I saw you crying,” Peterson said. “You care, Armstrong, and I admire you for it,” he continued. “I understand you care about the people of this town. I know you want to protect them, but we have a mission to carry out.”
Peterson approached Armstrong. “Remember, Armstrong, how our chopper banked a turn and skimmed over the East River? The panic we saw around the docks of South Street Seaport? Hundreds of people were being pushed off the dock’s edge and into the water. Woman, children, elderly. Screaming as they plummeted to a certain death. Everybody had the same idea—get to a boat.”
Peterson turned toward his team. “And this is exactly the idea I have now.”
“Go ahead, Commander.” Dr. Washington’s voice rose with excitement. He loved what he was hearing. “Hurry, time is working against us.”
Peterson wiped sweat off of his brow and placed his finger on the map. “Five miles east from our location in the coastline. There may have been a boating community in this town. We are going to reach the coastline, acquire ourselves a seaworthy vessel, and then we will have a clear path to the island. As you know, once on the island, we will infiltrate the laboratory and recover the doctor alive.”
Peterson paused, waiting for responses.
“That’s it?” Armstrong said, in disbelief.
“It’s a joyride, Armstrong.” Cash smiled, coming alive, excited. “A fucking joyride.”
Sharon was not sold. “Commander, how do we know we are going to find a boat for sure,
and where exactly? It is safe to say that anyone around here who had owned a boat probably took to the high seas already.” Sharon paced back and forth, looking at the map. “I’m not agreeing nor disagreeing, but how are we going to get out of this basement, Commander? We’re trapped, the hospital is surrounded by a thousand of these things now, maybe more.” She put her hands on the table and scrutinized the map more carefully. She ran her finger along it. “It’s a lot of ground to cover, and the five-mile route leads us right back through the heart of town.”
“Sir?” Johnny-Boy addressed Peterson, thinking hard. “A lot of the roads are impassable, blocked by wrecked vehicles, multiple car accidents, and so forth. What happens if we hit a dead end?”
Cash couldn’t wait to kill more zombies and it sang in his voice. “That’s no problem, Johnny-Boy. If we get stuck, we simply proceed on foot. Five miles will be a walk in the park.”
“Then there is just a small matter of acquiring enough vehicles for us all to travel to the waterfront,” Dr. Washington noted.
Armstrong was still unimpressed. “So let me get this straight, Commander. We’re trapped in a basement with no way out except through a thousand zombies. We do not have any vehicles, and if we did, we would have to drive back through the heart of town without even knowing if the roads are passable. Then, we would have to somehow magically come across a boat…sounds like a very well thought out plan.”
“I know it’s far from perfect,” Peterson told him, “but our options are limited.”
“It’s shit,” Armstrong snapped. “We’ll die even before we reach the coast.”
“Have any better ideas?” Johnny-Boy challenged Armstrong.
Everybody looked at Armstrong, as though hoping maybe he actually did.
“Yeah, I have a better idea. We stay right here, watch out over these civilians. Sooner or later command and control will come for us, lift us out of the place…”
Sharon’s voice was somber. “If they are still alive. We have no way to know without communications.”
“Maybe we can fix communications,” said Armstrong.
“With what, toothpicks?” Johnny-Boy said.
Armstrong wouldn’t give up. “Without communications we’re screwed either way.”
Peterson responded quickly, “We’ll take care of that later.”
Dr. Washington pleaded to the group, “We don’t have much time left. The longer we wait, the more the infected population grows, the harder it will be for us, and the higher likelihood Dr. Winthrop will die, a greater percentage for failure. We simply can’t afford any more delay. We must do something now.”
“Staying behind would be the equivalent of giving up on the mission,” Johnny-Boy pointed out. “Mission aborted.”
“Agreed,” Sharon said, exhaling deeply. “It would be the equivalent of giving up.”
Armstrong was angry. “It’s not giving up. It’s surviving.”
Dr. Washington stepped forward. “Yes, Sergeant Armstrong. You’re right. You may somehow survive, at least longer than us, but this mission is not about our survival, it’s about saving countless others.”
“The information we were given by Command and Control was vague. Dr. Winthrop may be of use, and that is all we know.” Armstrong bowed his head. He was conflicted. He didn’t want to leave these townspeople, he didn’t want to die following the crappy plans of Peterson, but part of him also knew that Dr. Washington was correct. The mission may help figure out, and maybe even stop, whatever the fuck was going on. He spoke with less confidence. “We’re low on ammunition, low on food, and there are only five of us left. Once again, Commander, how would we even get clear of this hospital?”
“I know a way,” came a voice from nearby.
It was a young man, around nineteen years old, Todd Junior people called him. He had a pockmarked face, long hair, and looked like a college dropout, probably because he smoked too much pot. He had been listening the whole time. Three more civilians were by his side. They had all been listening. Todd Junior spoke reluctantly, intimidated by the soldiers. He felt like he was treading on thin ice—and he was.
“My grandfather helped build this hospital,” Todd Junior said. “My father worked his whole life here in maintenance. I took over after he retired. There is a way out of this basement without having to go back upstairs, and I know where it is.”
“Without having to go upstairs?” Dr. Washington repeated.
A heavyset man, unshaven, with a beer belly, took a step forward. He looked like the type of guy who would beat his wife, pure white trash. The townspeople knew him. He was into petty crime and had spent time in the local jail. He was called Mr. Bronson, and he was pure bad luck.
“We want a say in what’s going on too,” Mr. Bronson ordered Peterson.
“Our business doesn’t involve you,” Sharon snapped. “Get back with the others.”
“We have the right,” said a teenage girl with spiked hair and big blue eyes. She stood next to Mr. Bronson. Though not very feminine, she was very attractive, and a street kid. She was rough around the edges and wasn’t frightened by the soldiers. She pointed her finger at Sharon in a combative manner. “You’re not the only woman who knows how to fight.”
“Be quiet, Barbara!” Mr. Bronson barked at her.
“I’m a grown woman now, Dad, you can’t tell me what to do.”
“Hell I can’t. I’m your father, dammit.”
“Both of you shut up,” Todd Junior said under his breath, afraid of the soldiers.
Peterson walked up to the ragtag group of civilians, stood in front of them, and crossed his arms. He looked at them like a drill sergeant, examining them, looking them up and down.
“You have no rights here. Like it or not, none of you are cut out for what lies ahead. If you want to make a difference, stay here with your townsfolk, help them out. God knows you are all going to need it. The answer is no.”
“Sir?” a voice came from the shadows. It was Derek. Stepping forward, he addressed Peterson unswervingly, confidently. “I overheard what you said, all of it. Most off, you are short on manpower.” Derek gestured to the civilians, and to himself. “We want to come with you and to be part of your team. I am not a trained soldier, but I can fight. I know how to shoot a firearm and I know this town, the streets, and the territory like the back of my hand. I can obey orders and, if need be, I am ready to die following th
em.”
Mr. Bronson scratched his armpit. He was obnoxious, and too damn loud. “And your mission involves everybody now, soldier man. If that doctor you’re after holds the answers, than it affects us just as much as it affects you.”
“And I can show you a surefire way to get the hell out of this place.” stated Todd Junior, feeling a bit more confident now. “Without me, you’re back were you started.”
“I’m a trucker.” Another man stepped forward. He was skinny, about late forties, with lacy, receding hair. “My name is Jack,” he said with simple pride, “and I got a flatbed in the parking lot which can steamroll over those fucking zombies. And better yet, it has a full tank of gas.”
Peterson was intrigued. “How big is your truck?”
“Eighteen-wheeler, sir.” Jack looked pleased.
“It’s a flatbed, open to the elements?” Dr. Washington asked.
“Yeah,” Jack responded. “But there’s plenty of sitting room.”
Derek tried to distinguish himself from the other civilians by maintaining a professional attitude. “Commander Peterson?” Derek wanted to prove himself as useful. “You were right. There is a boating community in our town. We have a small dock about five miles from here. But…I’m afraid to tell you, sir, last I heard it was burned down. Some sort of explosion or something.”
“Explosion,” Peterson repeated.
“But there are still more boats, sir,” Derek said.
Dr. Washington was eager. “Where are there more boats?”
“Private houses,” Barbara said as she took out a cigarette, lit it up, and took a deep drag. She spoke as she exhaled. “The rich folk own and dock their own boats.”
“You will all likely die,” Peterson said to the civilians in a callous tone. “You won’t be able to keep up with us. You don’t have the stamina. You don’t know military language, tactics, formations, or heavy weapons. And if I thought one of you was threatening our mission, disobeying orders, whatever, I would leave you behind, or even shoot you dead, without looking back.”
Even though Peterson’s words were harsh, his mind was turning. Perhaps this was an unexpected opportunity. After all, over the past three days he had lost half his team. They were very low on numbers, and they were going to need more hands, a lot more. Peterson was considering the unexpected opportunity, and the others could see it in his expression.
Armstrong leaned toward Peterson. “You can’t be serious, Commander. These are civilians, for God’s sake. They will get us all killed, slow us down, or worse.”
Peterson ignored Armstrong and addressed the civilians. “I don’t know if you can keep calm under the pressure.” Peterson walked up to Derek and leaned in close to his face. Are you scared?”
Derek froze for a moment, wanting to say the right thing. Instead he said what was true. “Yes sir. I am afraid.”
Mr. Bronson scoffed. “I ain’t scared of shit.”
Peterson walked over to Mr. Bronson and leaned in close to his face. “Anybody who’s not afraid is stupid.”
Mr. Bronson’s face turned red, embarrassed.
“I am afraid too,” came a voice. It was Loony Johann. He had taken his place amongst the other civilians. “I learned all about fear in Vietnam. War is hell, death is cold, killing takes a piece of your soul and watching your brothers die takes the rest. Seventy-two hours ago I was the town bum. Give me one more chance to do things right, Commander. One more chance…It’s all I need.” Loony Johann looked around at the rest of the civilians. “It is what we all need.”
CHAPTER 6
Peterson stood staring at the ceiling. Everybody was around him, necks craned upward, taking note. “What are we looking for?” asked Peterson.
“It’s a needle in a haystack,” Todd Junior responded. “Though there are over fifty air ducts in this basement, there is only one which leads to the outside.” Todd Junior pointed to an air duct. “This opens to a vent which is going to lead you into the parking lot. There is your way out, just like I told you.”
“How far into the parking lot? And in what direction?” Peterson’s voice was clipped, taking the excitement out of Todd Junior’s voice.
Todd Junior stuttered, “To the east side of the hospital. About fifty yards out.”
Peterson turned to Jack. “Where is your truck?”
“It is parked right near there,” said Jack.
Peterson turned to them all. “It will be better than trying to fight our way out of this hospital through the hallways and at the exits. If we get out into the parking lot, we can engage these creatures on even ground.”
Armstrong piped up. “But what if the air duct lets us out right into the middle of a crowd of infected, Commander Peterson?” Armstrong was beginning to take pleasure in undermining Peterson.
Peterson’s hopes were high for this plan. If it didn’t work, he believed their chances of breaking out of this basement were slim to none. He looked up at the air duct and took a deep breath. “Sharon and I will go first. We’ll find the opening, and once we do, I will call on the two-way and the rest of you will follow us up. We collect ourselves at the exit point and plan our next move from there.” Peterson turned to his team. “Any last questions?”
“Sir?” Derek spoke up. “Have you made a decision about us?”
The group of civilians looked at Peterson with hope. They were a strange bunch. There was Todd Junior, the pothead maintenance guy. He stood next to the trucker with a receding hairline, Jack. The teenager Barbara stood by her big-mouth dad, Mr. Bronson. And, finally, Derek and the town bum, Johann.
A strange assembly, but they all got a set of balls.
“Okay, volunteers, you have such a desire to die? Jump on board. You’re all in. But remember what I said, we won’t slow down for you, no exceptions. If you disobey my orders, I will leave you to die, or I’ll shoot you myself, understood?”
*
As Peterson watched his team check their weapons and prepare for what was about to take place, a man appeared by his side. He was an elderly man with gaunt cheeks and light blue eyes. His expression was severe, and he wore the traditional black cloth of a father of the church.
“More than just luck,” the priest’s voice cracked. It was coarse and wavering; however, it also carried a tone of wisdom. There was a self-assurance and gentle kindness about him.
“What?” was all Peterson could say. He hadn’t seen the priest earlier, and was surprised by his presence.
“The passageway you found, it is more than just luck. It is divine intervention.”
Peterson said nothing, his silence disagreeing with the priest.
“You don’t think so?” the old man spoke gently. “There just happened to be a passage which will lead you out of here, and allow you to carry on with your mission?”
Peterson didn’t have the courage to look the priest in the eyes. The priest was going to be left behind with the others. And, Peterson knew, their chances of survival were little. He felt guilt building in his chest.
“Coincidence,” Peterson said, looking away.
“Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous, my son,” said the priest. Then he clasped his hands together and closed his eyes in prayer.
Peterson was uncomfortable. The priest was expecting him to follow along, but Peterson just dropped his head. Guilt welled up in his stomach. He wished he could save these people. Civilization was dying rapidly. The world was reverting to a time when only the physically strongest survived. With the discovery of the passageway, he simply had to move on with the mission. There was no choice. And the chance of these good folks surviving without them, Peterson knew, was pretty darn bad.
“You’re on a mission from God,” the priest said, and leaned in close to Peterson. “And when you walk through the valley of death, you shall fear no evil.” The priest’s piercing blue eyes looked into Peterson’s soul. “It is all on your shoulders…so confess, son, confess now.”
Peterson surprised himself.
He turned toward the priest, ashamed. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“Yes’“
“I have killed many people during my time as a soldier. My hands are red with blood and I am afraid. Both in my sleep, and when I am awake, I suffer from visions which haunt me, dreams which terrify me, and demons which follow me.”
“And you wish penance?”
“Yes, Father.”
The priest leaned in close to Peterson and whispered, “Then succeed in your mission.”
*
Sharon crawled through the air duct, pulling herself forward by her elbows. There were only inches to spare on all sides. If she lifted her head, it would hit the top. She had a small pen-light in her mouth as she navigated her way forward. Every foot was a struggle, and required the energy of a contortionist. Dust filled the air, floating in the beam of the light, which cut into nothing but blackness.
Sharon breathed hard. “The kid was right, we’re headed outside the perimeter of the building.”
Peterson was crawling behind her. His larger frame made the task of moving through the air duct even more difficult. Not only did Sharon have brains, thought Peterson, she also had a body to kill for.
“Are you sure bringing along volunteers is such a good idea?” she inquired.
Peterson coughed up dust. “I am not. We need more hands, that I am sure of. What else do we have? We take them along with us, Sharon, and hope they live long enough to be of some use. Keep your eye on the target now, worry about them later. We’ve got to find where this thing exits.”
Sharon continued to struggle forward down the sheet metal vent. It creaked and bent under her weight, feeling like it could give way at any moment. They turned a corner, and a stream of light illuminated the end of the passageway.
“Son of a bitch,” said Peterson. “The kid was right.”
*
Peterson and Sharon squatted in an alcove, looking up. Daylight struck their faces. Directly above them was a grate, leading, supposedly, into the parking lot.
Dead and Back (The Zombie Crisis--Book 2) Page 4
