Authors: Shawn Chesser
Samuels repeated the orders and said, “Copy that sir.”
Across the valley a conversation ensued between the emissary and one of the black-clad soldiers. Beeson counted five NA troopers standing among the black Humvees and two more manning the vehicle-mounted guns. The one-sided shouting exhibition ended with the uniformed NA trooper punching Dawson, knocking him to the ground.
A sustained burst of crackling gunfire echoed from the rear of the armored column.
Beeson noticed the soldiers and citizens across the clearing visibly stiffen, surprised by the
reports
.
You’re not under attack... yet
, he thought. Putting the binoculars down he keyed his mic and said, “This is Lobo Actual... I need a situation report, are there any casualties?” The last thing he needed was to lose any more of his men to the Z’s. The slog south of Salt Lake had claimed dozens of his soldiers and at the time he feared that he and the men under his command weren’t going to get out of the valley alive.
“Lobo Three-Two, we had Z contact at seven o’clock. We have fifteen bodies down, repeat, one-five Tangos down
. We have
no friendly WIA or KIA. How copy?”
“Good copy,
that is music to my ears
, Three-Two. We should be Oscar Mike in five... Lobo Actual out.” Beeson glassed the rear of the convoy and noticed several dismounted soldiers milling about, but thankfully the only zombies he could see were lined up next to the road unmoving. Satisfied everything was under control, he returned his attention to the front.
Beeson pressed the field glasses to his eyes and said, “Fire at will Scull.”
The sound the bullet made as it left Scully’s Remington at more than 2,600 feet per second was barely audible to those nearby. Consequently, the bullying NA trooper who was standing by the door of the Humvee didn’t know what hit him. A fine spray of pink mist blossomed around his head as his body disappeared behind the black Humvee. Then three things happened simultaneously: the civilians, looking like teenagers running from a busted kegger party, bolted to their vehicles. Both machine guns atop the Humvees opened fire, spitting poorly aimed .50 caliber tracer rounds uphill, and Beeson gave Samuels the order to fire.
Scully targeted the gunner on the right first. The supersonic Lapua round killed the man and effectively silenced the booming .50 caliber. As he sighted on the next gunner the deafening cannon erupted atop the lead Bradley, sending a barrage of 25 mm shells downrange, and before the SF sniper could pull his trigger he watched the Humvee on the left disappear, engulfed in a maelstrom of orange flames and cooking-off ammunition. The NA soldier’s corpse, still gripping the machine gun, jerked once and then began to melt before Scully’s eyes.
Beeson ordered
his men to cease fire and quickly assessed the situation. Frantically trying to get away from the burning hulks, the other vehicles below were turning around and speeding away out of sight over the crest of the hill. “Lobo Actual, message received... let’s roll.” The road weary officer didn
’t know if his response was the right one--and it was going to eat at him for a long time, but he had vowed to himself when they rolled through the horde of living dead at Camp Williams that he was going to see as many of his men to Colorado Springs safely as he could or die trying. It made him sick to his stomach that he had already let down a few of his men. They wouldn’t be going home but he was still going to write the difficult letters that every commander despised. Almost more distressing than having to write the condolence letters was the sobering reality that more than likely there wasn’t anyone left to receive the correspondence.
***
It took the forty vehicles from Camp Williams fifteen minutes to file by the still burning Humvees, the heat emanating from them causing the air to shimmer and dance. Both crispy NA gunners sat frozen, fully embraced by death, looking like they had tangled with a fire breathing dragon.
The Major decided to leave the wreckage and bodies in place as a reminder to everyone that the
U.S. military was still a force to be respected.
***
Beeson’s
boys rolled through the town of Mack, Colorado. The business district consisted of an old fashioned drugstore/ice cream shop, a couple of uninhabited greasy spoon diners and a lonely rundown tavern
--
its darkened neon signs teasing the thirsty sleep-deprived soldiers with the empty promises of cold beer and fine spirits. In the blink of an eye the shadowy store fronts were behind them and the convoy was in the midst of the residential area on the east side of town.
Major Beeson couldn’t believe the reception they were receiving from the few remaining townspeople. Thanks to the propaganda being spread by the NA soldiers, he and his men were greeted with animosity, angry sneers, and middle fingers. Thankfully the curse words and epithets hurled their way were drowned out by the
noisy metal machines.
Beeson hailed Springs on the net to inform them of his contact with the New American troops and the town folks of Mack, Colorado. Colonel Shrill in turn warned the Major about the undead herd and gave him a rundown of the impending operation meant to destroy them.
Bone tired, hungry and nearly Winchester
on ammo, the 19th SF soldiers trudged on, their final destination: Colorado Springs.
Outbreak - Day 9
Schriever AFB
Colorado Springs, Colorado
Pug left the quarantine facility without so much as a backward glance, walking briskly but not fast enough to garner any undue attention from the many soldiers and airmen in uniform. His first order of business was to distance himself from the misfits whose lives he had saved
--
they had served their purpose
--
now he had to discover his.
As Pug navigated the base, he periodically stopped to surreptitiously recon his surroundings while pretending to consult the simple map given to him after being released from the mind-numbing quarantine. After spending ninety minutes snooping around, he was fairly confide
nt that he could move about the base on the paths least likely to be patrolled by security personn
el.
Pug found the food in the mess hall barely eatable and the civilians’ living accommodations, which were nothing but a hastily erected tent city with portable Honey Buckets for shitters and no running water, highly unacceptable. Schriever was no Embassy Suites, but hopefully, if everything fell into place, he wouldn’t have to endure this Boy Scout’s nirvana for very long.
Earlier he had discovered two things during his brief stop in the shared mess hall: the rumor of a cure held more credence than the grumpy Sergeant had led him to believe, and then there was the minor inconvenience, coming in the form of a few hundred thousand walking dead on a collision course with Colorado Springs.
On his way out of the mess hall he passed a bank of silent pay phones. The light blue AT&T logo reminded him of his long dead Smartphone and just how far and fast society had fallen. No more Google searches to see who starred in what inconsequential movie. No more e-mail for the masses. No more apps. No more Facebook
--
he didn’t even know what that was, but someone was surely going to miss it.
Shit
, he thought with a smirk,
people are going to have to start reading paper books again
.
Pug stopped at the last phone in the line and, feigning curiosity as an airman walked by, picked up the receiver. As he did so, he scratched a two inch vertical line into the soft brick wall next to the phone’s privacy enclosure.
He took a covert look over his shoulder and slipped the steak knife that he had just stolen from the mess hall back into his pocket.
***
Pug chose an empty tent in a deserted corner of the base where hundreds of the canvas shelters had been set up in the days after Omega. By his estimation barely one
-
fourth of them were inhabited. To Pug it was obvious that the virus had been much more deadly and had spread throughout the population much faster than the government’s predictions. He shuddered to think how bad it had been in New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles.
Who knows
, he thought smiling,
maybe I’ll get to find out
. This was the man’s big break; he was finally going to be
somebody
and he did not want to screw it up.
When Pug pulled back the canvas flap and stepped onto the plywood floor, memories from his youth came flooding back. The smell inside of the tent instantly reminded him of the dingy gray straight jacket with the sturdy metal buckles that he had been forced to wear whenever his foster parents wanted to
play
with him.
He tossed his hooded sweatshirt on one of the many cots, unzipped his bag and retrieved the Camelback bladder. After draining off the water he slit the bladder open with the purloined steak knife. It wasn’t the sharpest tool on the base
--
kind of like him
, he thought with a grin, but it did the trick.
The two pieces, still wrapped in plastic, slid out easily. He had taken the heavy duty freezer bags from the dead hoop star’s house the day before and they had worked perfectly at keeping the water out.
Pug took the bigger piece out first, unwrapped the small pistol and placed it on the taut, cold-war-era canvas cot. The six inch silencer was in the second baggie. The can spun effortlessly onto the end of the compact pistol. After placing the gun into his waistband near the small of his back he was out the door.
***
Pug put one hand up to shield his eyes against the mid-afternoon sun as four noisy Chinooks followed by two smaller black helicopters thundered across the base before disappearing behind the tallest of the distant hangars.
He turned his attention to the courtyard.
The coast is clear
, he thought to himself, and then he
strolled nonchalantly in front of the bank of worthless payphones. A shiver rocketed up his backbone;
there was an identical horizontal scratch intersecting the vertical mark he had scribed thirty minutes ago.
The word was out
, he thought,
I have arrived
.
***
One hour later
Pug wandered around in the predetermined area before he spotted the telltale white rock at the base of a withered rose bush. He bent to one knee acting like he was examining the flora, while his free hand stealthily removed the hollow aluminum spike from the soil.
Right where it was supposed to be
, he thought.
He had just executed a perfect dead drop exchange without anyone the wiser.
***
Pug took every precaution to ensure that he wasn’t followed, doubling back, stopping abruptly and even going so far as sprinting back and forth through the tent city before slipping into his chosen abode.
You did it
. The voice was back.
Pug sat on the rock-hard cot, still sweating from stress and exertion incurred avoiding the imaginary agents. Then, after a moment basking in the glow of his success, he opened the hollow spike, unrolled the piece of paper stashed inside and paused before reading the orders. He wanted to remember what it felt like to still have his anonymity. What it was like to be able to move about without everyone wanting to talk t
o him--pick his brain and ask about his exploits. The second he looked at the paper and read the words, his mission would be clear and his destiny revealed. Pug would be a rock star.
Here I come to save the day,
a child-like voice resounded from deep within his tortured mind.
Outbreak - Day 9
Schriever AFB
Colorado Springs, Colorado
Instead of accepting a ride on the Cushman with Desantos, Gaines and Lopez, Cade opted to walk from the briefing facility to the flight line. The thought of stopping by the infirmary and saying goodbye to his family one last time crossed his mind but he quickly dismissed the idea. Instead, he used the time to clear his head and start the difficult process of compartmentalization. Raven, Brook, and the peanut-sized fetus in her womb meant the world to him, but always before he went on a mission he said solitary silent goodbyes to his loved ones, tucking all of his thoughts and feelings for them deep into his subconscious. The ritual pushed all of the fears and what ifs into the background as well, leaving him free to act solely on instinct, training and a good amount of muscle memory.
***
By the time the flat black Ghost Hawks came into view he was locked down mentally and mission ready. Tice, the CIA spook, walked around the tail boom of the closer of the two SOAR choppers and greeted him with a nod and a wave. He had on his usual Detroit Tiger’s ball cap but had changed out of the military ACUs. Instead, he had on a well-worn pair of blue jeans and his ballistic vest cinched tightly over a colorful Tommy Bahama’s shirt. The man looked like he had just stepped out of a Hollywood casting call for a Magnum P.I. remake. The only props missing were a big bushy mustache and a red Ferrari 308.