So far, they had heard that:
The Capitol building and the White House were under siege.
The Navy was preparing to shell the city.
It was a coup and the Chairman had been taken into custody trying to flee the Capitol.
The Chairman was still in power and had crushed the attackers.
The dead had breached the wall and were pouring into D.C.
It was aliens.
It was the Russians.
It was the Chinese.
It was all bullshit, Dwight thought as he took a sip of coffee.
Reaching forward to set his Styrofoam cup on his desk, his hand stopped in mid-air when he heard one of his radio operators call out that they had civilian radio traffic coming in. Although they received calls for help every day, they were under orders to ignore them.
With the exception of one.
“Put it on speaker,” Dwight told him.
The Lieutenant only caught the end of the message, but it was enough to know that this was the group they were listening for. Picking up his satellite radio, he called the number he had been given by General Eastridge’s aide. When the call connected, Dwight thought he would have to try again because of all the interference. Then, he realized that he was hearing the rattle of gunfire. In the background, he could hear someone calling out orders to flank the strong point in the west wing and enter the building.
After a few seconds of this, a voice finally came through the radio saying, “Johnny, I need you to concentrate your fire on the roof. Those snipers are giving us hell.”
Not sure who he was talking to, Dwight said, “This is Lieutenant Dwight. I’m trying to reach General Eastridge.”
“This is his aide, Captain Moore,” came the reply.
Slightly confused, since this wasn’t the name of the General’s aide, he said, “I need to speak to Major Compton.”
“That isn’t going to happen, Lieutenant.” Moore told him. “He’s gone. I’m the General’s aide now, so what do you want? In case you can’t hear, we’ve got a few things going on right now.”
“I was told to report to the General when we received any radio contact from anyone that’s immune to the HWNW virus, sir,” Dwight said.
“That isn’t going to happen either,” Moore said abruptly. “The General took a round to the hip. He’s unconscious.”
“Then I need further orders,” Dwight told him.
The sound of heavy gunfire followed by three loud explosions came through the radio. Moore said, “Wait one.”
If it weren’t for the sound of sporadic rifle fire coming through the headset, Dwight would have thought the connection had been broken.
After a few seconds, Moore came back on the line and said, “These are your orders.”
***
Steve looked at the radio in disbelief. His body felt weak, and his head spun from what he had just been told to do. He barely felt it as Heather laid her hands on his shoulders and he barely heard her say that they would find a way, no matter what those scumbags in D.C. had decided. Visions of a short helicopter ride to safety left him in a rush, replaced by the fear of what they now faced. Trying to shake it off so he could think clearly, he found the idea of having to travel hundreds of miles more through a land populated by the flesh-eating dead too much to comprehend.
Taking off his headset, he spun around in his chair to find Rick Styles looking at him from across the room. The two men made eye contact, and Steve could see that the disappointment on the man’s face was obvious. After a few seconds, Rick turned and left the room.
Knowing there was nothing else he could do here, Steve got up to follow him. They had a lot of preparation ahead of them, and there was no way they could put everything together by themselves. They might not be able to take the commander’s daughter to safety, but they needed Rick’s help.
A lot of it.
As he and Heather left the radio room, he heard her say with disgust, “I can’t believe they told us that we have to make it all the way to Arkansas on our own,” snorting, she continued on in a mimicking voice, “by the best possible means available.” Clenching her fists, she went on in with derision dripping from every word as she asked, “And those bastards can’t even spare one helicopter?”
Trying to talk it through so he could find some reason, Steve said, “Lieutenant Dwight told us that everything was grounded indefinitely until they resolved a crisis that had arisen in D.C.”
“Yeah, they’re waiting for a loud, popping noise,” Heather said venomously, “and that would be their heads coming out their asses. And when you asked him how long until the crisis was over, I couldn’t believe Lieutenant Whatshisname just kept telling you to proceed to a research facility at Russellville by the best possible means available.”
Feeling that his growing anger at the situation would spill out if he spoke any more on the subject, Steve decided to remain silent. The last thing he needed right now was to let his rage loose at what was happening.
The primary reason being that he didn’t think he would be able to stop it.
When he was told that no help was coming because of some problems in D.C., his initial reaction was to change his destination to Washington and grab someone by the throat. The government had been looking for people that were immune to the HWNW virus so they could come up with a cure, and when they were offered one on a silver platter, he and his people were kicked to the curb and told to fend for themselves.
As his disgust rose, Steve reminded himself that anger is only fear coming out sideways. Fear can be dealt with, he told himself, but going off on a tangent will cloud your judgment. Fear will cloud your judgment, too, but you’ve been dealing with the fear of being killed and eaten since day one. Nothing has changed except you. Time to suck it up, buttercup, this is where the metal hits the meat. You need to be cool, calm and collected to get through this.
Taking a deep breath to push his feelings of violence away, he still found he could only grunt in reply. As they exited the small administration building, Steve looked around for Rick, surprised that he was nowhere to be seen. They were standing at the end of the open parade ground, and the nearest structure was thirty feet away, so they should be able to spot him. He had only left a few seconds before them.
Thinking that he might have entered one of the offices inside, as he was turning to check he saw Rick come from around the side of the building. With him was a one-armed girl that didn’t look to be more than twelve years old.
As he and his companion stopped a few feet away, Rick said, “We both have a problem that we thought we had found an easy solution to. The problem is, that solution got pissed away a few minutes ago. What we need to do now is come up with a new solution. You can’t take my daughter to safety in Fort Polk, but you can bring her with you to Arkansas. On top of that, you have Cindy, and if she does hold a cure for this disease, then you’re my best bet.”
Steve was relieved that Rick was going to help them. He hadn’t doubted that he would, but the amount of help was in question. He knew that if the commander was seeing him as his best bet right now, he would put all his resources behind getting them to Russellville.
Considering the distance they would have to travel, Steve said, “We’ll need a couple of armored cars and a shitload of supplies. I might even need some of your people.”
“All I can spare you is Stacey,” Rick told him.
Looking at the one-armed woman in confusion, Steve couldn’t see how she could help.
With a short bark of laughter, Rick explained, “She’s a pilot.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Russellville, Arkansas:
Private First Class Jimmy McPherson watched as the three men from his squad searched for him in the low-lying vegetation. His legs ached from straddling a large branch in the tree where he had hidden himself, and his back throbbed from where it was pushed up against a knot on its trunk, but he ignored the pain and stayed perfectly still. Another soldier joined them, causing Jimmy’s heart to beat faster. He wanted to close his eyes to hide even further at the sight of Sergeant Fagan but knew that this childhood trick wouldn’t save him. Willing himself to become part of the tree, he felt the rapid pulse of blood charging through his system go cold when Fagan turned and looked directly at his hiding spot.
Jimmy felt their eyes lock, and he knew his escape was over. He would be dragged from his perch, handcuffed, and brought back to the camp for court martial. He would, of course, be found guilty, and there was only one punishment for the crime of desertion: death by hanging.
His thoughts surged with resentment that he was only trying to get back to his family, but he knew this was no excuse in the eyes of the Army. As he waited for the sergeant to point him out to the other soldiers, images of his body dangling from a rope
ran through his mind. He felt a few drops of urine leak from his penis and soak his pants, knowing that if he weren’t so dehydrated, it would be a flood. Wondering if he could get his rifle un-slung and shoot his way out, he knew his chances were slim to none. It would be him alone against ten men. He might get a couple of them, but in the end they would take him down.
Deciding that dying in this way was preferable to the indignity of a broken neck, or slow strangulation if the rope didn’t snap it, Jimmy was slowly reaching for his rifle when he was astonished to see Fagan give him a barely perceptible nod before turning away. Hearing the Sergeant call out to the others that they were returning to camp, he at first thought it was a trick to get him to come down from his perch so they wouldn’t have to climb up and drag him from it.
Two voices came to him, and he strained his ears to hear what they were saying. They were at first muffled, but they came through clearer as the two men approached his hiding spot.
“The Zs must have got him,” the first one said.
“Poor bastard,” the second replied. “That’s a hell of a way to go. He was Sarge’s favorite, too.”
They fell silent and picked up their pace when they heard Fagan’s voice call out that they had ten seconds to get their asses in gear or be left behind.
As he watched them disappear into the undergrowth, Jimmy felt a small surge of hope. His rational mind took over a millisecond later as it told him that this was nothing but a trick to get him on the ground, but his soul still hung on to the slim chance that he was free.
Seconds ran into minutes and minutes into an hour before Jimmy risked moving. He debated risk versus reward during this time and finally came to the conclusion that if they were waiting for him, then there was nothing he could do about it. Thinking that at least he could get down from the tree and die on his feet, he almost laughed at himself when he tried to lift his leg over the limb and found it was completely dead. The blood flow had been restricted for so long that both legs were useless.
So much for running, he told himself. You can’t even stand.
Shifting position, he propped one leg in front of him on the branch and started massaging his thigh. As blood started flowing again into the knotted muscle, he stifled a cry of pain. Sliding his other leg forward, he worked on that until both felt reasonably steady enough to climb down.
His legs spasmed wildly as he shimmied down the trunk, and when he finally made it to the ground, both collapsed under him. Propping himself against the tree, he readied his rifle and then started rapidly massaging his thighs again as he looked around for the first of his fellow soldiers to emerge from the brush to take him into custody. When he saw no one, his soul surged with hope again, but this was pushed aside by his brain telling him that his captors would wait until he could walk.
That’s what I would do, he told himself. I wouldn’t want to have to carry anyone.
When the ache in his legs had been replaced by the feeling that a million pins and needles were being poked into them, he knew he was ready. It was time to shit or get off the pot. Using his rifle to lever himself onto his feet, he leaned against the trunk of the tree for support before quickly bringing his M16 up into a firing position.
Slowly scanning the bushes for any sign of life, he saw nothing. Straining his ears for any sound, he heard nothing. Closing his eyes, he sniffed the air, but smelled nothing.
His rifle barrel slowly dropped, and relief washed through him as he realized he was all alone. For some bizarre reason, Staff Sergeant Fagan had decided to leave him be. Looking around at the silent woods, his relief was suddenly replaced by fear at this same realization that he was all alone. For months now, he had been surrounded by others who would watch his back against the dead, but now he was on his own.
Hearing a rustling sound coming from a nearby clump of bushes, Jimmy pushed himself off from the tree and staggered off to where he had hidden his pack.
***
Sitting in his office, Major Cage listened to Staff Sergeant Fagan tell him how Jimmy had gone missing from the patrol and how he had let him go before saying, “I know the kid was one of your favorites, but if word gets out that you let him walk away, we’re screwed.”
“No one saw him except me, sir,” Fagan answered. “All of my people were looking for a dead body and didn’t think to look up.”