Authors: James Cook
Everyone should get to choose when and how they leave this ruined world. We have seen too much. Hurt too much. There is no hope for us. Nothing left. We just want it to be over with. We know how hard you fought to save us, and we hope that you take comfort in the knowledge that you spared us a great deal of suffering. You gave us our revenge. You gave us a choice. You are good people.
We are so sorry.
Thank you for everything.
I understood. God help me, I understood.
I began preparing to leave the day after we buried the victims. I loaded all my gear back into the truck, and found some gasoline to put in the tank. I did not go to Stacy’s bed that night. I laid out my bedroll and settled into it. Stacy came out of her little shack just before eleven that night and climbed into my sleeping bag. I held her for a little while.
“We’re over, aren’t we.” She said.
“I care about you, Stacy.” I replied.
“Do you love me?”
Four little words. But they have so much power, don’t they?
“I’m not
in
love with you, but I do love you. Does that make any sense?” I said.
“Yeah, it does. I…I feel the same way.” She rolled over and looked me in the eye.
“You are a good man. I’m so sorry for what you have been through in the last few weeks. I’m very happy that we have…well…whatever it is that we are. I’m glad for it. I just wish…”
“I know.” I said.
Stacy smiled, and we kissed. She rolled over and I held her close as we fell asleep.
The next day, everything changed.
Justin was on watch that morning. The kid has sharp eyes, and he saw the vehicles winding their way down through the hills in the early morning sun. Because of our location, we had little time to react. Not that it would have done us much good if our visitors had turned out to be hostile.
A small convoy of several different types of vehicles rumbled and crunched down the narrow service road leading behind the factory. I recognized two Bradley fighting vehicles, two armored personnel carriers ( APC’s), two humvee’s, and a large deuce and a half cargo truck with the back covered in olive drab canvas. Green, brown, and black paint coated their sides in the distinctive pattern of US military vehicles. A man in the lead Bradley climbed down and turned to face the convoy. He held a radio up to his mouth and said a few words into it before passing it to someone in his Bradley. Afterward, he stepped into view and made a show of putting his weapons down on the ground in front of him. He stepped over his rifle, pistol, and what looked from a distance like a long-handled hatchet, and approached the warehouse with his hands in the air.
The fact that any one of his Bradley fighting vehicles could have leveled our little fortress with a minimum of effort spoke volumes about his intentions. Even still, Bill was apprehensive, and asked Steve and I to engage the military men. I could tell he hated doing it, but a leader has to be willing to make the hard decisions. I did what he asked, and so did Steve.
We went out unarmed. We figured that couple of rifles, one way or the other, were not going to affect the outcome of the situation. With all the badass hardware they had, resistance would not last long if they decided to break bad on us. Steve wore a pair of old BDU’s that still bore his insignia that he had kept around for sentimental reasons after the war. He looked legit in my book, but what the hell did I know? Steve assured me that anyone who served in the Army would know his rank and occupation with a scant glance at his uniform. I took his word on faith.
We met the leader of this new group in front of the warehouse. He stood a little taller than me, and had several days growth of beard on his face. His uniform sagged on his frame somewhat. I wondered if he was there to look for food, as Steve began speaking with him.
“I’m Sergeant First Class Steven McCray. This is Eric Riordan. What can we do for you gentlemen?” He asked.
“Lieutenant Clay Jonas, formerly of the 82
nd
Airborne, now serving with the First Reconnaissance Expeditionary Command. We’re on patrol out of the Fort Bragg Safe Zone, looking for survivors.”
“I’ve never heard of your unit, Lieutenant, and at the risk of being rude, you look a little old to be a butter-bar.” Steve said, eyeing the officer skeptically.
Lieutenant Jonas surprised me by laughing at Steve’s comment.
“I imagine I do. I haven’t been an officer for very long, I got a field commission about two months ago. As for hearing of my unit, I would honestly be mighty surprised if you had. We haven’t been around for very long. The President ordered our creation back about a month ago. We’re not all Army, either. Got some marine’s, and even a few airmen back there. Pickings are slim for recruits these days, so we take whatever we can get.”
My eyebrows went up. “The President is still alive?” I said.
Lt. Jonas nodded. “The President, his family, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the VP, and the Speaker of the House all managed to get to a safe location in Colorado. We have enough satellites up and running to stay in contact with them.”
“You said Fort Bragg is a safe zone?” Steve asked.
“Yes, we managed to secure it before the Outbreak reached it. It wasn’t easy though, we had to fight like hell to keep the infected out. We took a lot of casualties. A few other units have managed to do the same thing out west. It has only been in the last six weeks that things have settled down enough for us to start patrolling for survivors.”
“How many have you found?” I asked.
Lt. Jonas sighed and shook his head. “Not many, unfortunately. And not all those that we found have been what you might call ‘friendly’.”
Steve and I exchanged a look.
“Well it sounds like we have a lot to talk about, Lieutenant.” I said. “Do your men need anything? Food, water, medical attention?”
The Lieutenant perked up. “Actually, we do have a couple of wounded. A couple of guys ran into a booby trap a few days ago, and their legs got pretty torn up. Do you have a doctor around?”
“We do. I’ll go back to camp and let them know we have wounded coming in. We can also prepare some space for your soldiers to rest for a while, and put a meal together. How many should we expect?”
“Twenty four, including myself. We have our own supplies though, I don’t want to impose.”
“No trouble at all, Lieutenant.” I replied.
“While we get everything ready,” Steve interjected, “You might want to keep your men here until we have a chance to talk to the others. The people here have been through a lot lately, and their kind of jumpy. We wouldn’t want any accidents.”
Lt. Jonas nodded. “Understood. Honestly, these guys behind me are a little jumpy themselves. The last group we found didn’t exactly roll out the red carpet for us. I’ll talk to them and make sure they mind their manners while we’re here.”
Steve and I shook hands with him, and set off back to the compound.
“What do you think.” I asked Steve in a low voice as we walked.
“He’s definitely legit Army. I don’t know if I believe all that stuff about a safe zone, and the President.”
“Well, if they wanted to kill us, they could have done it already. I don’t think we have much of a choice but to trust them, at least for right now.”
We walked into an anxious crowd of people as we entered the warehouse. Bill called a quick meeting, and we told them everything we had learned so far. There were a lot of skeptical faces, but the overall mood was hopeful. The possibility of receiving help from the military seemed to energize most of the survivors. Bill, Andrea, and Ethan started gathering medical supplies to treat the wounded soldiers. Everyone else went to work clearing space for the soldiers to sleep, and preparing a meal for everyone.
Steve and I went back outside to give Lt. Jonas the all clear. He ordered his men to advance and park their vehicles in the cracked and broken parking lot behind the factory. They formed their Bradley Fighting Vehicles, APC’s, and Humvees into a circle. The supply truck parked outside the circle, and soldiers began unloading thin steel plates with metal rings welded to their sides. Upon closer inspection, I saw that all of the vehicles had modifications that looked recently made. Steel grates covered each vehicle’s windows, and they had steel rings welded onto the sides. Lt. Jonas’ men used chains and bolt clamps to fasten the steel plates to the gaps between the vehicles. After they secured the plates, they unloaded tangled cylinders of welded re-bar and laid them out in a circle several feet beyond the makeshift wall.
“That is a pretty clever design.” I commented to the Lieutenant.
He smiled. “Yeah, it is. My twelve year old son came up with it.”
I raised an eyebrow at him. “No shit?”
“No shit. It works great, too. We can stand on top of the vehicles and take out the infected as they gather round. Those pieces of cut up re-bar are called trippers. I’ll give you one guess what they do.”
“I’m guessing the undead aren’t smart enough to just step over them.”
Jonas smirked. “Nope.”
Jonas wasn’t lying when he said they had their own supplies. They had enough MRE’s to last them a month, and more than a hundred thousand rounds of ammunition for their M4 rifles. Most of the soldiers also carried some kind of hand held weapon with them. Hatchets and axes seemed to be popular choices. One guy carried a long handled pick-axe with one of the spikes cut off in a handmade harness on his back. They had spare parts for the vehicles, spare tires,-- hell, they even had spare guns. The cannons on the Bradley’s were not just for show, either. They had plenty of ordnance for them. I sincerely hoped these guys really were who they said they were. If they decided to make trouble for us, well…it would be over quickly, at least.
Ethan came outside and made his way over to Lt. Jonas and I. His expression was troubled, but he was polite as he greeted the soldiers.
“I understand you have wounded?” He asked a group of men standing near the supply truck.
“Yes sir.” One of them replied. He was a short, stocky private with dark brown skin. He looked Somoan, or maybe Hawaiian. His name tag read ‘Maiuna’.
“They’re on stretchers in the back of the truck. Where do you want us to move them?” He said.
“Bring them over to the other side of the warehouse and take them in through the back door. We already have operating tables set up. What kinds of wounds are we dealing with?”
“Some asshole set up a homemade claymore on a tripwire. It was loaded with nails and bolts and shit. Their legs are in bad shape.”
Ethan nodded, and climbed into the truck to help the soldiers bring out their wounded comrades. When they came out, I saw that someone had cut their pants away, and their legs were swathed in bloody field dressings. Both men ground their teeth and did their best not to scream as their fellow soldiers passed them hand-over-hand down to the troops waiting on the ground. Ethan helped carry one of them inside the warehouse. I wanted to follow them and try to help, but decided to stay put. I did not have very much medical training beyond first aid and CPR, and I figured that I would probably just get in the way.
“Is your doctor any good?” Lt. Jonas asked as his men were carried to the warehouse.
I shrugged. “He used to be a heart surgeon. We also have an ER nurse with us. Ethan, the big guy who just came by, he used to be an EMT. Our doctor has been working on training some people, but only for the last couple of weeks. I doubt they’ll be much use yet.”
Jonas nodded. “Well, any port in a fuckin’ storm, and all that. Those two kids are in a lot of pain, and I’d bet the beer money that their wounds are getting infected.”
“Bill will do everything he can.” I reassured him. “We have pain medicine and antibiotics, so we should at least be able to make them comfortable and treat their infections. Do you have medical facilities at Fort Bragg?”
“We do, but I was worried that we wouldn’t be able to get those two back in time to save them. Whatever happens, I’m grateful for the help.”
“You can thank us after Bill gets done with them.” I replied.
I found out later that Bill gave the two soldiers a strong dose of Oxycontin to ease their pain. He and Andrea spent nearly three hours pulling nails and scraps of metal out of the two soldier’s legs. The wounds were as numerous as they were painful, and the soldiers had lost a lot of blood. There was nothing we could do about that, but thankfully none of the shrapnel caused permanently debilitating injury. Bill approached Lt. Jonas at his command tent after he finished stitching the last injury. He had taken off his blood-stained scrubs, and changed into a flannel shirt and a pair of jeans. Swollen, puffy circles hung beneath his weary eyes.