by David Spell
Admiral Williams and Colonel Clark joined the CDC agent on the tarmac to greet the newcomers. Major Singleton would have been there, but she was flying a hunting mission enroute to intercept a group of thirty zombies, spotted by the drone a few miles away. Earlier that morning, Williams had played the video of the attack on the survivors in the country club for McCain, Clark, and Gray. The warriors were already locked in, but this latest attack on innocents only served to solidify their resolve.
The pilot made a perfect landing and the C-130 taxied towards the welcoming committee, turning so that the aircraft was pointed out for a quick getaway, if needed. The ramp descended and eight heavily armed men moved purposefully towards Williams, Clark, and McCain.
A moment later, four more figures descended the ramp. These were also dressed for battle, but their uniforms were different, the camouflage pattern of the woodland variety. The sand-colored berets that each of the men wore, however, carried the distinctive patch of the British Special Air Service.
As Chuck pondered the presence of the SAS on American soil, the SEALs approached. The Navy commandos carried themselves with confidence, evaluating him, Clark, and the admiral. The tallest of the group spoke to the three men.
“I’m Chief Petty Officer Chris Norris. We were ordered to report to a Director Williams of the CIA.”
The chief’s tone wasn’t insubordinate, but it was clear that he wasn’t excited to be reporting to someone with the Agency. The SEALs, like others in the special operations community, were often tasked with performing missions for the CIA. The working relationship between the intelligence organization and those called upon to do its dirty work was often strained.
“That would be me, Chief. I’m Admiral Jonathan Williams, retired, now the Direction of Operations for the CIA.”
At the mention of his rank, the Navy warriors all came to attention. “Please, gentleman, at ease. I also had the privilege of graduating from BUD/S Class 42, doing two tours in Southeast Asia. Unfortunately, I caught an AK round in the leg that knocked me out of your esteemed fraternity. After that, it was either go back into the civilian world or stay in the traditional Navy. I chose the Navy.”
Chuck suppressed a smile. The admiral was a master at connecting with people. Under normal circumstances, Williams would have never talked about his background. When dealing with a group of Navy SEALs, however, he established common ground and had them hooked.
McCain could see the immediate respect in the warriors’ eyes. The old man in front of them might not look like much now, but he was an elder statesman, a tribal leader, a respected warrior who had cut a trail for them to follow. He might work for the CIA, but he was one of them.
The SAS commandos joined the group, the same confident demeanor present in every step that they took. Chief Norris nodded at them.
“Admiral, I’d like to present Sergeant Billy Ryan and his squad from the Special Air Service. We were training together when the request for help came and I didn’t think you’d mind having a few of our cousins along for the scrap.”
Williams smiled warmly at the newcomers. “Good initiative, Chief. Welcome, Sergeant.” He nodded at each of the beret-clad troopers.
“Sergeant, we’re going to have a full briefing in a just a few minutes, but did the chief tell you what this was all about?”
Ryan popped to attention. “Not really, sir,” he answered enthusiastically, the heavy Cockney accent sounding out of place in the heart of the southern United States. “He just said there was gonna be a bit of a barney, and, with your permission, sir, we’d like to offer our services.”
“By all means, Sergeant. We’re glad to have you. Thank you for volunteering and, yes, there is going to be a bit of a fight.”
Speaking to both the SEALs and the SAS troops, Williams said, “Please, let me introduce you to these other two gentleman,” nodding at Clark and Chuck. “First of all, this is Lieutenant Colonel Kevin Clark. He has a highly trained group of National Guard soldiers who have been fighting zombies and criminal gangs in Atlanta since the collapse. He was an Army Ranger before retiring and accepting a new commission in the Georgia National Guard.
“Standing next to him is Chuck McCain. Agent McCain is the Supervisory Agent in Charge of the CDC Enforcement Unit of the Atlanta Office. He has been involved in the bio-terror attacks from the very beginning. Agent McCain and his men have not only killed thousands of infected, they also tracked down and eliminated or arrested most of the key terrorists involved.
“Mr. McCain and his agents are the experts on the zombie virus and he will be in tactical command of this operation. I’m in overall command, but I have designated Agent McCain to run the show.”
As Williams finished the introductions, Shaun Taylor joined the group. “This is my assistant, Agent Taylor. He’ll escort you to your quarters and let you store your weapons and gear. This base is a secure location, but I would recommend always wearing at least a sidearm, just in case an infected were to slip through a hole somewhere. After you get your gear squared away, we’ll meet in the building behind us for our first briefing.”
As Taylor led the newcomers to their quarters, Chuck spoke up, “Admiral, I need to talk to you about something before we head inside.”
Williams stopped walking. Clark said, “I’ll see you in a few,” and kept moving towards the administration building.
“Colonel, it would be good for you to stay. I’d like your input on this, as well. Admiral, I think every person on this operation needs a signed Presidential Pardon, preferably before we conduct the operation. Can you arrange that for us?”
The admiral was surprised by the request. “Mr. McCain, why do you feel a need for that? Don’t you trust me? This mission has the full backing of the President. I’ve spoken to him directly twice, and to his staff multiple times, confirming his orders in regards to this operation.”
“I trust you completely, Admiral, but I also understand that political winds change. You won’t be the Director of Ops forever. We’ll have a new President in a couple of years. That new President will likely appoint a new Attorney General.”
Kevin nodded slowly, understanding in his eyes. “He’s got a good point, Admiral. We’re all happy to go kill some gangsters, but I don’t want to get arrested a few years down the road because some liberal AG reviewed the operation and decided that we used excessive force.”
“Exactly,” Chuck said. “With the breakdown of law and order over the last several months, law enforcement and prosecution of criminals has become non-existent. When order is restored, I could see some local and federal prosecutors trying to make names for themselves by retroactively prosecuting citizens and cops who may not have followed due process while protecting themselves or their families.
“Boss, we’re ready to go kick some ass,” McCain continued. “I just want to know that we’ve done everything we can to protect our people after the mission is over.”
Williams was silent, turning away and staring across the runway. After a few moments, he sighed and turned back to the other two men.
“As usual, Mr. McCain, you’re thinking ahead. This is something that I hadn’t even thought of,” he admitted, “but you’re exactly right. We do need to protect our people from prosecution. Get me a list of everyone involved. Shooters, pilots, crew members, even the drone operators, and I’ll get to work on it. I can’t promise you that I’ll have the pardons before you execute, but I give you my word that I’ll make it happen.”
“That’s good enough for me, sir,” Chuck nodded.
“Thanks, Chuck,” Kevin said, as they continued towards the briefing room. “When I think back on all the shootouts we’ve been in with gangs of criminals since this mess started, it’s never even occurred to me that one day, someone may decide to review our actions and see if what we did was justified or not.”
While the new arrivals got settled, former Marine Staff Sergeant Andy Fleming sat with current Gunnery Sergeant Eric Gray in the dining facility,
catching up over a cup of coffee. The two men had served together on one of the elite MARSOC teams for a year before Andy had left the Corps because of a family crisis. During the time that they had been teammates, they had fought side-by-side during a six-month deployment in Iraq, their friendship being forged in the heat of battle.
After they had discussed former teammates, close calls, and the role that each had played in the current bio-terror crisis, Fleming noticed that his friend had avoided mentioning his girlfriend, Felicia, and their son, Jamal. Andy knew that they had lived just across the bridge from Manhattan in Brooklyn, New York. The Islamic suicide bomber who had detonated himself near NYPD headquarters had also parked his explosive-laden vehicle near the 911 Memorial, not far from the Brooklyn Bridge.
When the two bombs exploded, the bio-terror virus was blasted outward in two densely populated areas. Within a few hours, Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Queens had groups of zombies sweeping through, killing and infecting thousands of innocent people. Fleming decided against asking about Gray’s family, not wanting to rip open a fresh wound.
After a comfortable silence, Eric spoke up. “So what’s the deal with this McCain guy? They’ve got a cop leading a military operation? I’m surprised they didn’t tap that light colonel, you, or even that SEAL guy, Walker, to run this show.”
Fleming nodded, understanding the question. He, too, had had doubts at the beginning about Chuck being the right man to lead a group made up of mostly former special operators. Those misgivings had quickly vanished when he saw the big man in action. Now, Andy would follow his friend into Hell with a water pistol.
“He was a local cop for twenty years, most of that time on SWAT. When he took early retirement, he did two one-year tours with the green beanies in Afghanistan as their police liaison. He doesn’t talk about it much, but it sounds like he saw a lot of action there.
“I was Chuck’s assistant for over a year when they started up CDC Enforcement. When he got promoted to run the Atlanta office, I got bumped up to team lead. Trust me on this, Eric, you’ve got nothing to worry about with McCain. He’s as good an operator as any I’ve ever worked with and he’s by far the best leader I’ve served under. He’s just pissed that he’s going to be in a helicopter directing the action, rather than on the ground executing it.”
Buckhead, Atlanta, Friday, 1300 hours
The cartel leader came by the injured man’s room on the forty-ninth floor to check on him again. The gangster had visited his friend several times since Jorge had somehow managed to drive himself back to the base, collapsing as he climbed out of his vehicle, blood pouring out of his many wounds. The twenty-seven year old African-American woman acting as Quintero’s nurse shuddered every time Corona came into the apartment, watching him closely, but knowing there was nothing she could do if he wanted to rape her.
The boss had been the first one to violate her after she was captured weeks earlier, and she could never forget his disgusting body odor, his greasy hair, his bad breath, or the pain that he had caused her. Now, the Mexican just leered at her as she treated Jorge Quintero’s wounds. Her biggest fear at the moment, however, was that she would throw up or pass out as she applied fresh bandages.
Janelle Washington had discovered early on in the Emergency Medical Technician program that she did not have the stomach for blood and gore, changing majors at the vocational school to Business Administration. After graduating she had gotten a job at a nearby architectural firm as a receptionist. It wasn’t her dream job, but it was a real corporate position, as opposed to her years of working as a waitress, and would look good on her resume later.
Now, Washington wasn’t sure that there would even be a later. She and several of her workmates had taken refuge in their offices, as zombies roamed the streets. Many of her colleagues had tried to flee that afternoon when the bombs had gone off. Knowing what she knew now, Janelle realized that her friends most likely never got out of Atlanta.
Janelle had considered fleeing, as well, but lived in Forest Park, a suburb just south of the gridlocked city. As they watched events unfold on the television in their break room, the remaining architects and support staff of the New South Studio weren’t sure what to do. The local news anchors reported that traffic was shut down throughout the city and that the zombie virus had been released on a large scale near the heart of the downtown area.
The reporters were encouraging people to stay in place, assuring them that the authorities would have the situation under control in a matter of hours. Aerial views from news helicopters contradicted what the anchors said during their broadcast, though, showing that the entire interstate system and most of the surface streets were packed with stopped cars, trucks, SUVs, and tractor-trailers. It didn’t look like the mess was going to be unraveled any time soon. Groups of Zs moved outward from ground zero where they had been infected and attacked hundreds, maybe thousands, of people who were trapped in their vehicles. Nothing was moving and no one was getting in or out of the city by car.
The days had turned into a week in which Janelle and her workmates tried to survive. That week led to additional weeks of waiting in their office building. They had found food in the lobby cafe and the small convenience store located inside their building.
Every day, Washington and her co-workers watched out the windows, hoping that something had changed over night. Peachtree Road in front of their office building, however, had been a war zone as the infected preyed upon those foolish enough to try and make a run for it. The main thoroughfare was packed with abandoned vehicles, the remains of corpses, and roving packs of zombies.
Several of her friends started to crack after being stuck in the cold offices for close to a month, their meager food and water supplies almost gone. Finally it was just Janelle, Tina, and Jerry who were left inside the New South Studio. Earlier that day, the three of them had watched from the lobby as one of the senior architects, Dale, had been jumped by zombies while he made a mad dash for his Black BMW M4 convertible. Dale had reassured his co-workers that he knew he could make it to his car and he would get the Zs to follow him as he raced out of the parking lot.
This would create an opening for everyone else to sprint for their own vehicles, Dale had told them confidently. He had not made it halfway across the parking deck before a group of eight Zs ran him down, tackled him, and ripped him apart. The dying man’s screams drew in another twenty-five of the killers and soon, there was nothing left of the architect but a few bones and some scraps of clothing.
Washington and the two others retreated back upstairs to their fourth floor offices. They had seen other survivors in their building, but they had either fled, or were staying locked behind their own doors. Janelle, Tina, and Jerry had sat in stunned silence after watching Dale die. For almost an hour, no one said anything. Each of them had come to the same conclusion. They were all going to die there, probably by starvation.
Suddenly, gunshots rang out from the street below them. They had been hearing gunfire much more regularly over the last week, but none of it had been close. The three co-workers jumped up and rushed for the windows, observing a large group of armed men cutting down the infected in front of their building.
“Those are military vehicles,” Jerry noted, pointing at the two tan humvees. A gunner stood in the hatch of each of the hummers firing machine guns into the hoard of rushing zombies. Two full-size pickups pulled to a stop behind the humvees, their beds full of men with guns, all of them firing into the packs of infected.
The loud gunfire only served to draw more Zs towards them. Soon, a large multitude was converging on the band of attackers. After shooting continuously for over five minutes, all four vehicles roared away, leaving several hundred dead infected behind. The streets were still packed with Zs, however, and it looked like the armed men were fleeing before they were overrun.
As the vehicles had raced away, the survivors began banging on the windows and yelling. In seconds, the only sounds to be heard were the growling z
ombies below them.
“Why did they leave?” Tina asked, angrily.
No one had an answer. The three only hoped that the people with guns would be back soon. They began to hear more gunfire coming from different directions over the next several hours. The following day, the same four vehicles returned, stopping in the middle of Peachtree Road again, cutting down over a hundred more Zs before leaving.
This pattern was repeated for two more days, the survivors moving downstairs to watch from the windows of the lobby as the heavily armed group decimated the ranks of infected. Finally, the survivors’ banging on the glass doors attracted the attention of the armed men. A Hispanic looking man stood in the passenger door of one of the military vehicles, the tattoos visible on his arms and shaved skull. He raised his rifle towards the two women and the lone male, waving them outside. The only visible zombies were the hundreds that had been shot and were now sprawled motionless around the area.
Without hesitation, the survivors rushed towards their heavily armed saviors, Washington now noting for the first time the Mexican flags fluttering from the military vehicles. The Hispanic and black men in the vehicles stared at Janelle and Tina, licking their lips, their intentions slowly becoming clear. Janelle considered turning to run back toward the building but a line of guns were now pointed at them.
“Come! Come here, now!” the man with the tattooed head shouted, his English slow and halting. This man was clearly the leader and he turned and said something to the others in Spanish.
Janelle was almost fluent in the language, the only good thing to come out of dating a Puerto Rican for two years. That relationship and her four years of high school Spanish had developed both her understanding and conversational skills. She gasped as she heard what his orders were.
