Authors: TS Alan
“At ease, Corporal. You may speak your mind.”
“Master Sergeant, the plan is sound. Two grenades are enough to blow the door apart with minimal fragmentation. It will work.”
“I don’t doubt that your calculations are correct, but do you two have any idea of the significance of this car or what might be stored in it?”
“Master Sergeant?”
“Can we surmise that this armored car was utilized by the Special Forces troops as their transportation car when they arrived by train?”
“Yes, Master Sergeant,” he affirmed, agreeing with Kermit’s assumption.
“Can we also surmise, Corporal, that this is the only armored car on the train that could be utilized by the troops as their command and control car during the operation of removing sensitive materials from our facility and its subsequent closure?”
“Yes. I believe that to be correct.”
I hadn’t seen Sam’s demeanor that way since the first few days after we found him.
“And were said troops armed during the operation?”
Sam paused ever so slightly in his reply. I had a feeling Sam knew where the conversation was headed next. “Uh, yes, Master Sergeant.”
“Since we have ascertained that said car is the
only
armored car and that the soldiers were armed upon arrival to the GCC, where do you think on this train that those troops would have stored their weapons and ammunition?”
Sam reluctantly responded, “That would be the armored car, Master Sergeant… I’ll get the torch,” he said with disappointment in his voice.
He had understood the point that seemed to have eluded him when I tried to explain it.
“Good idea, Corporal. And take Joe with you. Dismissed.”
I could tell that Kermit was not entirely comfortable at ordering Sam to stand down; after all, we were more like family instead of a military unit, but it was necessary. Sam was putting us at risk, no matter how adamant he was in the success of his plan. I was glad that Kermit interceded in such a harsh manner.
Sam had been right, cutting through the door took time, and he hadn’t cut the entire door away. Instead he cut around the frame of the barricaded window. We stood ready as the cutaway section fell inside the car, but nothing leaped out at us.
They were dead for a second time, both of them, one Corporal Battson and one Sergeant Littwin. The corporal was withered and emaciated, decayed with what the doctor liked to call cellular degeneration, as all of the undead would become. The corporal was a USABEIDCM soldier, dressed in his camouflage uniform and body armor, while the sergeant had been a Special Forces member. The sergeant’s body was not like the corporal’s. The sergeant had died from another cause. Though his body had deteriorated, it was clear that he been shot several times in the head and chest, the head wounds causing his demise.
Upon the wall was a nearly full rack of M4s, a few with grenade launchers, and on another wall was a nearly empty rack of what were the weapons the Special Forces soldiers had been using against the transmutes. There were also two larger machine guns, which looked familiar.
“Okay, Sam. Do what you do so well. What are these, exactly?”
He was momentarily shocked by my request, then realized I was serious.
“Those are Heckler & Koch MP5Ks like the ones we already have. They are a German design that utilizes the NATO 9mm Parabellum cartridge. And these beauties,” he said with glee and a smile, “are the 240 Bravo, adopted in 1977 by the Army to replace the M73 and M219 7.62mm machine guns, and the M85 .50 caliber. The M240 Bravo is a belt-fed, gas operated, medium machine gun, which fires the 7.62mm NATO cartridge. They have some serious stopping power. Some Strykers have them as a secondary armament. The Marines use a variant called a 240 Golf, and they mount them on top of their LAVs. But ours are better because the 240 Golf lacks a front heat guard and has to be modified if you want to use it as ground weapon.”
The last thing in the car truly amazed Sam, the two grenade launchers.
“Holy moly! I don’t believe it!” he exclaimed, as he opened the top box and pulled the weapon out. “It’s a Milkor M32 MGL with—with MEI mercury rounds.”
I said, “You mean a grenade launcher?”
“No. Not just a grenade launcher, a
MGL
; a multiple grenade launcher. They call this the
six pack attack
. This is state-of-the-art. It’s got a reflex sight, a quad sight rail and barrel and can shoot five different kinds of forty-millimeter ammo including high-explosive and thermobaric rounds. This is some extreme firepower.”
He was so excited he immediately opened the second box. “Yes! Yes!
Yes!
Unbelievable! This one’s got the MEI DRACO rounds,” he said, beaming with joy, as he showed me one of the grenade cartridges.
“Draco?” I asked, knowing I was setting myself up for another round of Sam’s explanations.
“Direct Range Air-Consuming Ordnance, DRACO.” His voice quivered slightly. “These—these are thermobaric grenades. Just one MIE DRACO will smash a sizable building into rubble!” He grinned with great enthusiasm and excitement, like a child inspecting his new toys on Christmas morning.
I couldn’t resist commenting, “And you wanted to blow it up.”
“Point well taken,
Colonel
Nichols.”
“Colonel, huh? I kinda like the sound of that,” I said, and then gave him a smile of satisfaction.
Sam tapped my collar brass with his index finger. The remark had been his attempt at humor. I suddenly understood. I had forgotten I was wearing part of R.D. Harmon’s uniform, though I wasn’t so keen on the crappy looking camouflage; black was more my color. I’d have to fix that.
I was glad the soldiers had locked them inside; no telling how much destruction they would have caused if they were used inside the facility. There may have not been a facility left.
* * *
I saw the doors of the armory open as Sam, Kermit and Marisol were trying to make their way out. They needed my cover fire, so I laid down cover fire. For a moment it worked; the enemy had taken cover, but I had expended my remaining ammo. I laid down more cover with my pistol, but still couldn’t get a clear shot at any of them. Then my pistol went silent. I was completely out of ammo.
I reached into the car and grabbed the two bolo machetes off the front seat, which were sitting next to my backpack. More shots pelted the vehicle, but this time they were from those who I had been shooting at. I quickly unsheathed my weapons. Another half-mute came from behind as I squatted behind Jimmy’s bullet-riddled car door. I stood up and with one fell swoop I decapitated it. Something truck me in the side, and it hurt. I had been shot, but my armor didn’t allow penetration. I could see Kermit and Sam trying to get Marisol to the Stryker. I had one choice left. I pulled the only hand grenade I had attached to my uniform and lobbed it at the closest enemy. The car ahead of me exploded in a roaring upheaval. I saw a person retreat, heading east on 25
th
Street. The grenade was only going to attract more creatures, but I didn’t have a choice. The sound of the Stryker’s main gun ripped through the air, cutting down the intruders and striking the vehicles at the north gate, sending them into fireballs. The roar of the gun was replaced by silence. The enemy was dead.
I slowly and cautiously made my way toward the southern gate; I carefully made my way past the burning wreck, watching for anyone who may be hiding. As I approached the gate, I saw the person I had shot, the one who had cut the lock from the entrance. I had shot him in the back of the head and the bullet had exited the front, ripping off most of his face. I have seen massive bullet trauma in my years as a paramedic, but this was by my hand. I felt ill. My need to vomit was halted by an eruption from the Stryker. The heavy caliber machine gun was at work again, this time cutting down half-mutes that were running through the northern gate and into the compound.
I had been correct. All the explosions had summoned them. More came from where I had been. First there were two, then three, all wanting me. I quickly entered into the open space of the armory’s defenses, unable to re-secure the gate. The Stryker went silent, but had not eliminated the threat from the north. There were five of them trying to surround me, but I was prepared, my bolos were like my
bastóns
, and I was a master with those weapons.
I took a balanced stance and when they charged. I stealthfully and methodically spun around, slicing and dicing the half-mutes, body parts and blood flew in every direction. The deed was quickly done, the enemy lay slain, and I once again was soaked in body fluids.
I was surprised by the speed in which I dispatched the creatures. My swiftness and agility had never been so concentrated. Yeah, I was good, but not superhuman amazing. It had to be my transmute DNA. I would later find out I was correct. Doctor France said it had to do with fast twitch fiber, specialized muscle tissue capable of delivering rapid bursts of energy. He had discovered, having dissected a transmute in his lab—much to my dismay—that a transmute’s arms and legs contained nearly one third more of this muscle fiber than humans. I partially benefited, too, though not as much. It was another reason my metabolism demanded a greater intake of protein.
Work needed to be done to re-secure the armory. In Marisol’s elimination of the enemy, she had also eliminated some of the main gate. Burnt out vehicles blocked the exit ways and needed to be cleared, and of course, we needed to dispose of the bodies.
I wasn’t greeted like a triumphant Octavian returning to Rome after a glorious and successful campaign. I was greeted like an enemy of the state. Kermit and Sam immediately told me to place my weapons down, put my hands behind my head, and walk slowly toward the stairs of the main entrance. Marisol was outraged at my treatment and protested greatly. I told her it was all right, that the others were doing what was necessary for their own protection, but she refused to listen. She kept shouting and kicking at Kermit and Sam until Sam finally picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder like she was a ragdoll, all the while Marisol still kicking and screaming, being feisty and ferocious.
It was much later I learned from David that during my absence, Marisol had been so enraged at the fact that they had allowed me to flee after rescuing Ryan that she threatened to have Max perform his ballen fast trick on Kermit and Sam’s private parts if they did not immediately launch a search and rescue effort. She had become so emotionally distraught that Doctor France had to sedate her just to prevent her from leaving the armory in hopes of finding me on her own.
After the initial assessment concluded that I was not an immediate threat, I was allowed to enter the armory. I was taken directly to Dr. France. I asked if someone could bring my personal belongings from the van, but Sam wouldn’t listen. All he wanted to hear was where
his
Humvee had gone.
When I told him it was parked on the sidewalk, securely anchored to a bicycle stand, he was none too pleased. However, for a moment, he was impressed at my ability to hotwire a car, until I told him it was the neighbor’s and I had taken the keys.
After the doctor took the needed blood samples I was locked in a detention cell, which was actually the armory lounge. There I passed the time by drinking a few Jack and Cokes and snacking on beef jerky—several packages. Six hours later I was placed on conditional release. I could no longer put off a decision on whether to use the stem cells for myself or Luci. If I wished to live amongst my friends, I had to begin therapy. I chose my family, which was a relief to everyone, especially Marisol.
They had been busy while I had been gone. Dick had been fully integrated into the armory’s hospital wing with much of his equipment, which had been salvaged from our former underground lair, though the doctor protested greatly. He didn’t want to leave his crucial network server behind, even though it was in pieces.
As a substitution, the team had gone to several of the large electronic stores and acquired some computer equipment. Marisol, with Sam’s assistance, set up a Linux-based network server utilizing the salvaged hard drives, which had been dedicated exclusively to the doctor’s ongoing research. Marisol volunteered to help the doctor on the one condition that she was allowed to go with the expedition to acquire the proper computers, namely several Intel Quad Core Xeon Processor towers. Her true motive was trying to see if she could spot me, but the team knew that Dr. France needed the correct equipment to continue working on an updated antigen to combat the new half-mute virus. Sam, surprisingly, didn’t know anything about computers, networking, arrays or Linux, so the team acquiesced to Marisol’s request. The doctor’s new computer system was “irritatingly slow and barely adequate,” he told Marisol, but thanked her anyways for her attempt. That was the first time the doctor had been appreciative. I wished I had been there to hear it.
The four flood light towers that had been serviced by Sam and Marisol were in use—some of the lights were directed into the night for a beacon in hopes of attracting those who needed our help. It was an idea that we had discussed at one of our meetings, but had decided not to implement at that time. In my absence they had taken the initiative to implement the plan. I was sure that was what had alerted the gang of thugs to our occupation.