Ghosts: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (26 page)

“Not if I get to her first,” said Griffin, buckling in as
the G-forces pressed him into his seat.

Cade clicked his belt and said, “What happened back there,
Lasagna?”

The bearded operator was rubbing his forearm. He stopped and
looked at Cade but was unable to come up with the words.

“Failure to fire?”

“My mag went dry and they were on me before I could reload
or switch from primary to secondary.”

“Well you improvised, that’s for sure,” said Cross.

Nodding agreeably, Griffin said, “And you didn’t even have
to holler
corpsman
. I’m very impressed.” He unzipped one of the pouches
on the medical kit hanging from his MOLLE gear. Dug in there for a second. Looked
up and added, “The way you were swinging that rifle of yours at those things
... it’s probably a biohazard now. Better take a minute to clean it.” He tossed
an alcohol swab across the cabin, which Lasagna snatched from mid-air with one
hand. The SF soldier peeled the packet open and set to removing hair and bone
and generally disinfecting his carbine’s polymer SOPMOD buttstock.

Cade fished the sat-phone from his pocket and thumbed it
alive. Once the screen refreshed and he saw there were no new messages he was
hit with mixed emotions. On one hand he was grateful. On the other he felt a
measure of worry building. The former because no update from Brook presumably
meant Raven was holding her own. The latter because Beeson didn’t cut corners
and should have passed the message to Duncan by now. And given his troubled
friend’s growing propensity for the drink, even if the message had made it to
him, the lack of response could mean that he was in no kind of shape to fly the
Black Hawk back to the compound anyway.

Pushing the baggage he couldn’t control from his mind, Cade
inched forward on his jump seat and, straining against his belt, watched the
concrete jungle glide silently beneath Jedi One-One.

“The lead mechanic tells me that bird of yours has been
ridden hard and put away wet. She’s going to need some extra TLC before she’s
good to go.” Beeson removed his black beret and plopped it on the desk blotter.
Leaned back in the old-school wooden office chair and, with the
seventy-year-old fasteners creaking and groaning, put his boots up on the
corner of his equally rustic desk. “I gather she’ll be airworthy in a few
hours.”

Duncan chewed on the prospect of spending another minute
here, let alone a few more hours. Then he realized the creep of alcohol
withdrawal he was feeling now would soon manifest itself in the form of tremors
and shakes that would not go unnoticed. He shifted in his chair, thinking
through his options. The PX was dry. As were the three uniformed guards at the
gate, because no matter how he cajoled or what he offered up in trade not one
of them would take it upon themselves to get him a bottle or point him in the
direction of one. So an hour spent walking around the base and now he was here
with nothing to show for it. And to add insult to injury there was a bottle of
Scotch or the American or Canadian equivalent just a few feet away from him.
Feeling a little self-conscious of his new glasses, more so due to their garish
color than the abnormal size of the prescription lenses, he took them off and
pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Are they uncomfortable?”

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” drawled Duncan.

“I like ‘em,” said Beeson.

Duncan thought:
Bullshit. You’re busting balls now.
Feeling me out for an intervention.

“Things look better on you than those
aviator
glasses
all the SOAR boys wear. And you and I both know they wear them just to let us
ground pounders know who they are.”

“So being cocky is a bad thing?”

“Not at all. That’s how they perform flawlessly while riding
the razor’s edge and keep coming back for more,” explained Beeson. “They say
Night Stalkers never quit.”

Cut to the chase
, thought Duncan as his gaze wandered
to the unopened bottle of booze sitting on a shelf behind the reclined base
commander. He sat up straight and said, “Tell it to me straight. Will our bird
be ready for launch before dark?”

“Can you stay the night if it isn’t?”

“I’ve got a feeling Cade isn’t going to make it back to the
compound from his mission tonight. That would leave us a little thin in the Delta
operator department.”

“Mission?”

Duncan’s eyes locked with Beeson’s; then, as if someone was
working him like a hand puppet, his gaze inexplicably, almost of its own
volition, again shifted to the booze on the shelf.

“You got a lazy eye
and
a hearing problem, son?”

Duncan couldn’t believe his ears. He thought:
Son? Maybe
the graying and semi-paunchy commander has five years on me. But son? That’s
pushing the edge of the envelope.

“Eyes, ears, and now problems of the mind, huh, Duncan. Do I
need to get you drunk to get you to elaborate on this mission?”

Duncan eyed the booze for another second before declining
the drink, and when he did it took immeasurable concentration to make his mouth
open just so he could croak out a none too convincing, “No.”

“Then lay it on me. I’m sure my security clearance will
cover whatever cloak and dagger stuff is going on.”

Duncan turned his chair so the bottle wouldn’t be in his
direct line of sight. Then, looking at the wall full of framed certificates and
business licenses bearing the airport’s former civilian moniker, he recounted
the mysterious call to Cade’s sat-phone. He spilled about Cade setting up the
man-portable satellite dish and relay unit and then consequently receiving some
sort of transmission. He paused for ten long seconds and added, “But I think
you know all about it and you’re just playing dumb with this
good ol’ boy
.”

“What makes you say that?” asked Beeson.

Hell of a poker face this guy has
, thought Duncan.
But he said, “Cade had me drop him off on a mesa in the middle of the desert
eighty plus miles from here ... by himself. That was the first thing to set off
my bullshit alarm.”

Beeson didn’t answer to that. He just ran his fingers
through his close-cropped hair, all the while staring at Duncan.

“Those two aircraft that launched after we came in. I
watched them heading eastbound through my binoculars. Only they should have
flown a little farther towards Schriever before doubling back.” He snatched up
his glasses. Put them on, insecurities be damned, and added, “I know what I
saw.” Then he fixed a steely gaze on Beeson until the commander took his feet
off the desk, leaned forward in the creaky chair, and threw his hands up in
resignation.

Beeson said, “Nash isn’t going behind the President’s back
on this one. But it’s supposed to look that way. Let’s call it what it is. An
under-the-table deal.”

“I’m not following.”

“President Valerie Clay never served, so she really doesn’t
understand the
leave no man behind
concept. Same with President Odero
... he couldn’t comprehend or he didn’t want to believe what the Joint Chiefs
were telling him had to be done to stop Omega. So Nash made an overture to the
President from that angle. Then I heard she added a little wrinkle. Something
to sweeten the pot.”

“And the President bit?”

“Nash has her by the short hairs. Nobody is better at what
she does than Nash. If you had need-to-know clearance we could crack that
bottle behind me and I could tell you stories I wouldn’t expect you to
believe.”

“So ... we’re talking plausible deniability. In case the
thing goes sideways.”

“Roger that,” Beeson conceded. “Once a politician, always a
politician. And I had the two birds make that feint to keep the tongues from
wagging here on base.”

Duncan wasn’t surprised about all of the attached strings.
He’d served in Vietnam. The politicians lost that war. He paused for a beat in
thought, then said, “So where are those birds taking Cade?”

Obviously anticipating the question, Beeson immediately
said, “Do you have an hour?”

But before Duncan could answer, a look crossed Beeson’s
face. Raised eyebrows. Pursed lips. And a dead giveaway wag of the head
followed by a couple of choice curse words muttered under his breath. He pulled
open the top desk drawer and came out with a slim black item. He extended a
stubby antenna and powered the thing on. He worked a button, cycling through
the messages and then saw the first three words to the one sent by Cade and,
hoping his transgression hadn’t put anyone’s lives in jeopardy, handed the
phone to the man across from him.

Brook closed the door to her quarters and froze there,
listening hard. Once she detected the distinctive metal-on-metal rasp of the
inside lock falling into place, she turned on a heel and stalked down the
corridor and into the security container. She squeezed behind Seth, reached
over his head and plucked the pair of ultra-long-range CB radios off the shelf.
She verified they both held a full charge and set them to the same frequency.
She handed one to Seth and stressed to him, seeing as how Cade and the others
were still incommunicado, how important it was to monitor the radio and
sat-phone closely while keeping his eagle-eyes glued to the entrance.

“Just a tiny bit of pressure,” she said in a joking manner.
Then she got serious and broke it to him that Chief was going with her to
Woodruff, softening the blow with the caveat that they wouldn’t be gone long.

Seemingly unaffected by the news, Seth asked, “Taking the
kids?”

“Yeah ... I figure it’s best to have the two vehicles and a
couple of extra guns ... just in case. I tried to tell Sasha she was needed
here, but she wasn’t having it. Said it’s still a
free country
.” Brook
said the last part with air quotes and added, “You and I both know how stubborn
she can be.”

Seth nodded. He looked up at Brook and said, “That only
leaves Heidi or Tran to watch Raven.”

“I buried the hatchet with Heidi. It was hard but I went to
her, tail between my legs.”

“And?”

“She was equally sorry. At least she said as much. She and
Tran both volunteered to sit with Raven round-the-clock. I wrote down detailed
instructions letting them know what warning signs to be on the lookout for.”
Brook dragged her forearm across her eyes. Slung her carbine over her shoulder
and, gesturing with the brick-shaped radio, said, “Listen ...” She paused, her
eyes twinkling with newly formed tears, “I only want to hear this thing go off
if her condition worsens.”

“Copy that,” said Seth. He removed his Utah Jazz ball cap
and ran a hand through the shock of greasy black hair. “When are the others
coming back?”

“Cade, I don’t know. I just got a text on the sat-phone from
Duncan saying he, Lev, and Jamie will be back before dark. I guess they
diverted to Bastion where the helicopter is getting some much needed
maintenance.”

“And Cade just left them there?”

Without going into detail, she said, “That was the plan from
the start. He didn’t have the heart to break it to them until the last minute.”

“I bet that twisted Dunc and Daymon into pissed-off
pretzels.”

“I bet it did,” conceded Brook. “Lev and Jamie too, I’d
bet.”

“Think Dunc will be good to fly when they get done working
on the chopper?”

“Beeson won’t let him fly if he isn’t. However, if they do
get back here before us, I need you to make sure he gets a proper introduction to
the new girl Tran told me about. Her name’s Glenda Gladson.” She slapped the
younger man on the shoulder, and before he could object to his new role as
matchmaker, she ambled off towards the entrance, a half-smile curling her lip.

Terminal Island rotated below the Ghost Hawk as Ari spun it
ninety degrees on axis and nudged the stick, putting them on an easterly
course. As the northernmost bridge grew larger he turned the helicopter ninety
degrees back to the north and slowed the aircraft to a veritable crawl over the
channel separating Terminal Island from the mainland.

Close in, clearly, the demolitions used to drop the bridge
had not only done their job but had also caused catastrophic damage to the
nearby railroad crossing. Huge I-beams once laser straight and capable of
bearing the weight of a shipping-container-laden locomotive were now twisted
like gnarled arthritic fingers after having been sheared off by the blast and
intense overpressure.

Cade looked away momentarily and saw the last man in the
ship worrying his forearm through his fatigue sleeve. Shifting his gaze back to
the bridge, he noticed a twenty-foot-run of the vehicular bridge sticking
vertically from the strait’s murky water. And like a ragged assemblage of
stepping stones across a creek, dozens of colorful automobile rooftops were
visible just under the water’s surface, with no doubt scores more settled on
the sea floor beneath them.

North of the bridge, on a tract of land stretching off into
the distance, was what looked to Cade like a traveling carnival or some kind of
an impromptu renaissance fair. And just like the campground near Lake Meade,
every spare square inch of ground was occupied by brightly hued tents.
Unsecured nylon doors flapped freely in the offshore breeze and, like urban
tumbleweeds, trash was piling up against them.

Near the makeshift shanty town on a triangle of ground
bordered on two sides by water and empty marinas and hemmed in on the other by
the 710 Freeway sat a sea of abandoned vehicles.

As Ari overflew the refugee camp and began a gradual turn to
the west, Cade saw thousands of Zs milling about and became acutely aware that
there was no way anyone could still be alive down there.

Pulling Cade’s attention from the disheartening scene below,
Ari came over the comms and announced they’d be coming back around and then
following the 710 Freeway north to the USC campus where they would rendezvous
with the Osprey carrying their QRF (Quick Reaction Force).

Across from Cade, the two Navy SEALs, Cross and Griffin,
were busy reloading their magazines and checking their other equipment. The
crew chief to his right was scanning the ground; periodically he would look up
and swivel his head around, checking the sky off of the starboard side. And
directly across from him Lasseigne had taken off his right glove and was
rolling up his sleeve. Seeing this conjured up a bad memory that sent a cold
chill down Cade’s spine. Then he met eyes with the SF soldier and detected a
measure of concern in them.

Shaking his head, Lasseigne rotated his forearm towards Cade
and said, “They got me.”

“Zip-ties,” said Cade to Cross even before he was out of his
seatbelt. Then he leaned forward and spoke directly into the cockpit. “Keep her
steady, Ari. We’ve got a situation.” Twisting towards Lasseigne, he grabbed the
man’s arm, looked closely, and saw what looked like two pin pricks, about an
inch and a half apart, oozing blood. He took the zip-ties and looped one around
the operator’s thickly muscled bicep and cinched it tight, like a tourniquet.

“I’m already getting cold,” Lasseigne said.

“Do it now,” Cade ordered. “Or I will.”

With a sheen of sweat blooming on his forehead, and a barely
perceptible palsy affecting his hands, Lasseigne pulled the cylinder from a
pocket and twisted off the cap. Looked a question at Lopez as he dumped the
auto injector into his left palm.

“Here,” said Lopez, stabbing a finger at his own right
thigh, roughly eight inches north of his patella.

With no further questions or any hesitation Lasseigne jabbed
the business end of the slender device into his muscled thigh, then, whispering
some kind of prayer, leaned back and secured the infected injector in its
container.

“Hands,” Cross said. “We have to do it, brother.”

Complying, the Special Forces operator clasped his hands in
his lap and closed his eyes.

As Cross secured Lasseigne’s hands at the wrists there was
an audible
zip
as the plastic teeth ripped through the locking
mechanism. He said, “Mask,” and reached one arm across the cabin.

The crew chief ripped the wicked-looking face shield from
his flight helmet and handed it over.

Cross accepted the spare flight helmet handed to him by
Lopez and affixed the mask. He then removed Lasseigne’s tactical bump helmet
and snugged the flight helmet over the stricken shooter’s sweat-drenched hair
and buckled the chin strap.

Feeling totally helpless, Lasseigne let out the breath he’d
been holding and said, “I’m sorry, fellas. There were just too many of them.”

“Forget about it,” Cade said. “How are you feeling? Any of the
euphoria the tutorial spoke of?”

“Not yet.”

Cade said, “Hang in there ... and keep us posted.”

Near simultaneously Cade and Lopez started the stopwatch
functions on their watches.

Ari said over the comms, “Four minutes.”

Cade caught sight of the crew chief sans the mask and noted
his clean-shaven face and easy smile, conceding inwardly that both were miles
apart from his first impression.

Over the comms, Haynes said, “Oh my Lord.”

Cade could only see the back of the aviator’s helmet, so he
leaned forward and peered out the port windows and couldn’t believe what he was
seeing.

Down below he saw dozens of bomb craters big enough to
swallow up a small compact car. The bombs, five hundred pounders he guessed,
seemed to have been walked the length of the freeway from the south, where a
number of ramps met to a point a half of a mile north where an overpass had
been dropped to the roadway and covered all eight lanes, remaining mostly
intact. Thrown about on the southbound side of the freeway were hundreds of barely
recognizable vehicles. Roofs were bowed up like the tops of so many soup cans
way past their expiration dates. Hatches and doors here and there had been
ripped away, some flung as far away as the northbound median. And to add insult
to injury not an intact pane of glass remained in any of the blackened and
twisted shells.

Hundreds of civilians had died in the obvious attempt to
seal off Terminal Island. As the scene blipped by, Cade could make out vague
forms still hunched over steering wheels. There were dozens of lifeless corpses
sprawled out on the oil-stippled-pavement near their cars, and surrounding most
were pools of dried blood from mortal injuries received from indiscriminant
hunks of shrapnel or the initial explosions themselves.

Zombies were few and far between on this particular stretch
of the Interstate. The seagulls, crows, and ravens, however, were not lacking
for food. Nor would they be for weeks to come.

“Does Basra ring a bell?” asked Haynes, referring to the
highway of death leading away from Kuwait towards Basra where miles and miles
of fleeing Iraqi Republican Guards had been trapped and decimated by Coalition
air power.

“Those were mostly old Soviet tanks and BMPs and Hilux
trucks,” Ari replied. “Besides, we were all still in high school. Except for
maybe Griff there. The old man was probably already in BUDs training.”

Ignoring the quip, Griffin placed two fingers on Lasseigne’s
carotid. Held them there for a second then sat back in his seat, a grimace on
his face.