Containment

• Title Page
  
• Prologue
  
• Part I
  
• Chapter 1
  
• Chapter 2
  
• Chapter 3
  
• Chapter 4
  
• Chapter 5
  
• Chapter 6
  
• Chapter 7
  
• Chapter 8
  
• Chapter 9
  
• Chapter 10
  
• Chapter 11
  
• Chapter 12
  
• Chapter 13
  
• Chapter 14
  
• Chapter 15
  
• Chapter 16
  
• Chapter 17
  
• Chapter 18
  
• Chapter 19
  
• Chapter 20
  
• Chapter 21
  
• Chapter 22
  
• Part II
  
• Chapter 23
  
• Chapter 24
  
• Chapter 25
  
• Chapter 26
  
• Chapter 27
  
• Chapter 28
  
• Chapter 29
  
• Chapter 30
  
• Chapter 31
  
• Chapter 32
  
• Chapter 33
  
• Chapter 34
  
• Chapter 35
  
• Chapter 36
  
• Chapter 37
  
• Chapter 38
  
• Chapter 39
  
• Chapter 40
  
• Chapter 41
  
• Chapter 42
  
• Chapter 43
  
• Chapter 44
  
• Chapter 45
  
• Chapter 46
  
• Chapter 47
  
• Chapter 48
  
• Chapter 49
  
• Chapter 50
  
• Chapter 51
  
• Chapter 52
  
• Chapter 53
  
• Chapter 54
  
• Chapter 55
  
• Chapter 56
  
• Chapter 57
  
• Chapter 58
  
• Chapter 59
  
• Part III
  
• Chapter 60
  
• Chapter 61
  
• Chapter 62
  
• Chapter 63
  
• Chapter 64
  
• Chapter 65
  
• Chapter 66
  
• Chapter 67
  
• Chapter 68
  
• Chapter 69
  
• Chapter 70
  
• Chapter 71
  
• Chapter 72
  
• Epilogue
  

Containment (Alaskan Undead Apocalypse Book 2)

Sean Schubert

Published by Permuted Press at Smashwords.

Copyright 2012 Sean Schubert

Cover art by Conzpiracy Digital Arts

www.PermutedPress.com

Dedicated to the courageous souls who exposed themselves to

Infection
and came back for more.

He was a soldier. It wasn’t just his job or even something as distracting as a career. No, he
was
a soldier through and through. In other cultures and in other times he would have been called a warrior...a warlord. He would have been clad in clanging, war-beaten armor and carried a finely honed but often used sword. He would have been riding a stout steed through valleys in search of the good fight, and perhaps the good death.

As it was, his armor had been exchanged for camouflaged Kevlar, his steed was currently an unarmored Humvee, and his sword was a .45 caliber Colt 1911 semiautomatic pistol at his side. No matter. It wasn’t clothes, weapons, or transportation that made a warrior what he was.

His earliest memories were of watching Sunday morning war movies with his father and transforming the cornfields and backyard wildernesses of his youth into dangerous battlefields for his friends and him. With wooden, metal, and plastic guns and swords, they would range far and near, fighting sometimes amongst themselves and sometimes against invisible hordes of Germans or Rebels or some other attackers who threatened the realm or its people. It was all about fighting the good fight and usually dying the good death. Trying to outdo one another’s death scenes was always an engaging pastime.

His joining the Junior Reserve Officer Training Corps years before most of his peers were even introduced to the organization was no surprise to anyone. Also not surprising was his acceptance to West Point and his subsequent commission in the U.S. Army.

He progressed through the ranks, but by pure chance flavored with very bad luck, he missed his opportunity to command troops in the field of battle time and time again. Grenada, Panama, Kuwait, Kosovo, Iraq, and Afghanistan. He always seemed to arrive after most of the real meat of the event had already been chewed.

And then he was posted to Fort Richardson in Anchorage, Alaska. It was by no means a step down for him; in fact, it was actually a promotion, but it just seemed so far removed to him. It wasn’t quite the Arctic Circle posting threat used by many a Commanding Officer to get the attention of subordinate officers, but it was close. He couldn’t help but feel benched.

Sure, units from Forts Richardson and Wainwright were regularly deployed to Iraq and Afghanistan, but those deployments would invariably involve others. He would and did visit those units in their temporary foreign homes and review their assignments and successes, but then he would board the big military “commuter” jet and come back to the frozen north. He could feel his destiny slipping further and further away from him every day and all he could do was watch the distance grow.

Weeks and then months and finally years passed with no change...no hope. He was wiling away his time in nearly complete inactivity.

And then early this morning he was roused from his slumber by a phone ringing at his bedside and then a not too distant siren outside his window.

The caller was a flabbergasted first lieutenant. He began to deliver random details about a violent “disturbance” in Anchorage that had all the trappings of a terrorist attack or a full invasion by hostile forces. The junior officer didn’t have much in the way of firm facts, only the disjointed reports from field security personnel and the media. The colonel found himself spending more time trying to calm the young man on the other end of the phone than getting information. And then the line went dead.

When his cell phone proved equally as worthless, the colonel went to his garage and got on the wireless radio set in his car. He, of course, was already driving himself to his command post by that point.

He never made it. The security checkpoint across Ship Creek into the Elmendorf side of Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson had been overwhelmed sometime earlier. By the time the colonel was leaving his house, the chaos was spreading like spilled paint across both sides of the combined military installations. The greatest disturbance seemed to be in the new housing developments just inside the Elmendorf main gate. Several teams of Military Police officers had responded and were engaging the attackers. The colonel listened as the battle unfolded.

There were two sergeants commanding perhaps a dozen troops. They hadn’t been ordered to the scene; they’d heard pleas for help and responded. He heard crisp claps of sidearms as the officers stood their ground. The more energetic and desperate voice of an M4 assault rifle soon joined the conversation. There had been screams in the distance through all of this, but then there was a screech of terror and pain that originated from someone wearing one of the radio sets. One of the military police officers was down...and then another and still another fell. They were being forced back on their heels and away from their vehicles. And then the colonel heard one sergeant tell the other that he and his men were out of ammunition. The colonel yelled at the radio to get the men out, but it was already too late. Their voices were gone, replaced by choking, gurgling, dying.

Elsewhere, other security teams were standing up to the onslaught. Some were actual police units and others were merely scratched together battle groups of willing and available soldiers. Each group of soldiers, men and women, boys and girls, stood their ground only to be absorbed by the growing menace.

The colonel ordered any stragglers not actively engaged to evacuate off of base if they were able, or to gather at the Armory. From the airdrome training area, helicopters could ferry his troops to a safer staging area so that they could regroup, reorganize, and then hit back. More to the point, the colonel could get airborne and get a better look at what the hell was happening. All he knew at this point was that everything that stood in the path of the chaos, whatever it was, was destroyed.

As he climbed into the open door of the waiting Blackhawk helicopter, he could hear the staccato chatter of small arms fire down the road.

He’d wanted to be a soldier all his life. He’d wanted to take charge of men in combat. Right now, he was getting his wish and then some. Was this how it always was at the opening stages of a war? Was this how it was during the tense early moments on December 7, 1941 at Pearl Harbor or on June 25, 1950 at the Thirty-Eighth Parallel on the Korean Peninsula?

Anxiety mixed with adrenaline and was then stirred into testosterone to form a very potent elixir. He went to the cockpit and lifted one of the radio headsets, putting it on his bare, greying scalp.

He spoke into the microphone. “You been in the air much today?”

Both pilot and co-pilot nodded without looking back.

“Have you seen what’s going on out there?”

Again, his question was met with nods.

“Well, what
is
going on out there? What have you boys seen?”

His question was followed by first static popping over the headsets and then the pilot spoke for both of them. He said soberly, “I’m not quite sure what I’ve seen today, sir. I’m not so certain that I trust even my own eyes anymore. I can say that I’ve seen enough now to convince me not to look down anymore. I’m just gonna sit here in this bird and stay in the air as much as I can.”

They were in the air by then. The colonel, along with a lieutenant and a squad of combat-ready infantrymen, were all crowded into the rear of the aircraft. The colonel felt a twinge of guilt for commandeering one of the few vehicles that could actually transport people to safety, but he had to get an idea about what was happening. He wasn’t quite sure what purpose the young lieutenant or the other soldiers in the aircraft were to serve, but they were with him and could be used if necessary.

In no time at all—in fact the proximity of the uprising surprised him—they were over the expanding edges of the chaos. And almost at once, the colonel could understand the pilot’s unease. It wasn’t just bad on the ground below; it was horrific. Innocent fleeing people weren’t just being attacked or even killed; they were being ripped apart. With flailing arms and desperate shrieks muted by the helicopter’s turbine engine, the scurrying, terrified unfortunates below would be wrestled to the ground by packs of clawing, biting attackers. In just seconds, their hands’ and arms’ defensive gestures melted away, ebbing along with their lives. And then the attackers would move on to their next quarry.

They passed over a group of three Humvees parked bumper to bumper straddling a major thoroughfare. The twelve soldiers climbing out of the vehicles appeared well armed and ready for anything. The colonel instructed the pilot to position himself in such a manner that the helicopter could provide support. It was all for naught though.

When the human surge reached them, the intervention of automatic weapons had virtually no impact. The deluge spilled over and engulfed his soldiers despite their best efforts, and they met with the same grisly end as all of those caught by the flood. The colonel had seen enough.

“Get us outta here pilot. Let’s get over to the staging area on the other side of the Knik.”

“Yessir.”

The pilot nosed the graceful bird away from the burning and chaotic military base. They passed over the vehicle-choked Glenn Highway which was the only northern route out of the city. As if a switch had been thrown and an order given, people began to abandon their idling vehicles en masse. Many looked up at the helicopter overhead, imploring them for help with their outstretched hands and their pleading eyes. They ran and they screamed, but in the end, there was no escaping the murderous wave. Following the roadway north, the pilot ferried the colonel to the makeshift field headquarters near the Knik Bridge.

The Knik Arm was a watery limb originating from the Cook Inlet. Its fingers splayed themselves across the flats that separated Anchorage from the Matanuska-Susitna Valley and the northern two thirds of the state. Across the waterways there was a single concrete bridge for motorized traffic and a single railroad trestle. He couldn’t ask for a better position to defend. The attackers would be funneled by the mountains on either side down the single road leading to the bridge. If they wanted to have a fight, he’d be willing to deliver. It seemed almost unfair to him. He would be able to concentrate all of his firepower onto a relatively small patch of land. It had the potential to be a very rich killing ground where his limited heavy weapons could have the biggest impact. Approaching the solution as a simple military problem helped him to remain clinical and unemotional.