Even Zombie Killers Can Die (2 page)

Chapter 5

One thing about the Army, you never know when it was going to through you a curveball. I wasn’t expecting the one we got an hour later.

“Lost Boys, this is Orange Main, over.”

I got up from the table, where I had been cleaning my own weapons. Brit was upstairs checking on Red, and I was about to pack it in for the night. The call from the Operations TOC at Fort Orange came as a complete surprise. It was being relayed through the retrans station at Firebase Horse. 

“
Lost Boys, this is Orange Main, over.”

“Orange Main, this is Lost Boys, over.”

“Lost Boys, this is Liberty actual, over”

Damn. The Task Force Liberty commander was on the horn.

“This is Lost Boys Six, send your traffic, over.”

“
Nick, I am recalling you to active duty, along with any other inactive members of your team.”

I stared at the
handmike. WTF, over? Recalled to active duty?

“Liberty Main, this is Lost Boys Six. Say again, over.”

“You heard me, Nick. Get your shit together, get Brit, and get every goddamned settler you can. All hell has broken loose along the line. A Chinook will be at your place at 1900 hours tomorrow. Bring enough gear for a week.”

“Roger, be advised. India Sierra Tango One is missing, believed captured outside Burlington. We have one WIA
from the team here, over.”

“Understood.
Figured as much when they dropped off the net. Bring him along; he’ll get medical care at the CSH. See you tomorrow. Liberty Actual out.”

Damn, what the hell was that all about? I called upstairs to Brit, asking her to come down. Then I got on the radio again and switched over to
what we called the “local” band.

Within a ten mile radius, up and down the river, people who were tired of living on government handouts and working the fields around Albany for FEMA had struck a deal with the Army. They were given radios, guns, ammo, seeds and equipment, and one day’s assistance from a platoon
of Combat Engineers setting up a defensible position, preferably at a useable farm. In return, they were on call to assist against any attacks and provide manpower to the Army when asked. So far, there were an even dozen loners and two families who had taken up the offer, and we often hooked up with them to “clear” the local area of zombies. Our place acted as a trading post for them. Most were ex-military who didn’t care to deal with the government any more than they had to.

Everyone was supposed to tune in for net call at 2100 hours each night to check in. Three weeks ago, one of them, a tough old guy named Salk, had missed his call. Several of us had made for his place at first light, moving up the river to an old farmstead just south of Schuylerville. We had found a pile of dead zombies around the farm, but one had gotten him in the end, and Brit shot him through the eye as he stumbled towards us, dragging his half eaten leg
, snapping his jaws. You rolled the dice and you took your chances. We went and hunted down the rest of the Zs, a small group of a dozen that were stumbling down Route 4.

At 2059, I keyed the
handmike, waited a second, then initiated the netcall. When everyone had answered up in order, I got down to business.

“All stations, the A
rmy is calling in their chips. I need you all here no later than 1700 tomorrow with a week’s worth of gear and ammo. “

A chorus of curses broke out over the radio, most along the line of “Fuck the
Army.” I waited them out, then got back on.

“They helped you when you needed it. Now it’s payback time
, and your fields can wait a week, break.”

I keyed the
mic again. “Jablonski and Smith, you are excused. I know you have families that need taking care off. See you all at 1700 tomorrow.”

I wasn’t going to break up any families again, but if Task Force Liberty was calling in the Reserves, it was serious. I flicked on Fox News as Brit came down the stairs. We ca
ught the tail end of the hourly newscast, and I recognized the location on the video. Thousands of reanimated corpses were streaming down route 9, overwhelming the barricades at I-84. As I watched, the footage switched over to a shot of a cruise missile slamming into the center span of the Tappan Zee Bridge, 20 miles north of New York City. Hundreds of bodies fell into the middle of the river.

“Damn
!” said Brit.

“Damn
.” I agreed with her.

Chapter 6

The news wasn’t any better the next morning. I had powered up the generator to supplement our batteries, and left the TV on all morning. I tried to pick apart details on what was happening, but all that I got out of it was that there was a shit storm of zombies heading north out of NYC. Apparently something had stirred them up, but the Army wasn’t saying. As I watched, the Verrazano Bridge fell into Lower New York Harbor, dropped by the Marines defending Staten Island. Another couple of billion New Dollars down the drain, and something that wouldn’t be rebuilt in my lifetime. Dumbasses could have just knocked a hole in both decks instead of dropping the whole span. Stupid Jarheads.

Red was still knocked out, helped along I’m pretty sure by something Brit had given him. We had carried the kid downstairs, and he lay strapped to a folding stretcher. Our packs were sitting by the door, weapons sitting on top of them, and I was adjusting the straps on my leg when we heard Joe call out to someone. It was obviously someone he knew, or he would have challenged them. This sounded more like a greeting than a warning.

The first one I saw was the last one I wanted to see. I actually didn’t see him first, I smelled him. Donny the Butcher. We never could find out his last name. The guy stunk to high heaven, and never, ever washed. He claimed that the smell kept the zombies off of him, and he was still crusted with blood from the last clearing trip we had been on.

“OUT!” yelled Brit. “Get your nasty ass out of my house. Go jump in
the rive, before I throw you in. I’m not riding or fighting next to your nasty ass.” He stopped dead in the doorway, and beat a hasty retreat. Donny was terrified of Brit for some reason. I sighed, got up, and shot Brit a look. She shrugged her shoulders and made a “what?” gesture with her hands. I shook my head and walked out.

Donny, who had actually jumped into the river, was soon joined by a couple of others, and I looked them over as we did checks on our equipment. There were
twelve all told. Tough-looking men, even two women, who had spent the last winter hacking out a living in an area that was rapidly turning back into a wilderness of ruined buildings and deserted fields. The biggest group was five guys, all ex-military, who were slowly looting Mechanicville of gold and silver. The rest, like Donny, were loners who enjoyed being away from society.

The leader of the Mechanicville crew, a burly former Marine named Jim Lock, came over to me, asking what was going on.

“Best I can tell, Jim, is that the lines are breached somewhere south of Poughkeepsie, and the Army is shitting a brick. Apparently all the Zs in NYC have gone apeshit.”

He nodded and scratched his chin. “Think that is going to cause any problems here?”

“Dunno. It seems to be only the NYC area, and between your crew and the rest of us, we’ve cleared everything out on this side of the river, up to the Saratoga radiation zone. That and patrols from Firebase Horse have pretty much tagged every Z in the local area.”

I knew what he was worried about. Brit, Joe and I had worked hard getting a crop in, and building the farm up into a
defensible position. It could hold its own for a week or two, but more than that, we might have some surprises when we came home. If we came home.

“Well, if none of us make it back, here’s the grid coordinates of our haul. You’re welcome to it.
Got about fifteen pounds of gold and almost forty-five of silver. Ton of diamonds and other jewelry, too.”

What they did was tough work, but they banked on it being rewarding, too. They went house to house, killing zombies and looting for
jewelry to melt down into ingots, breaking into banks and pawn shops. Plan was to get enough to move to buy a ticket to England. Problem was, they had already lost three guys to zombie bites, and one to some guy holed up in his house with a ton of canned food and a shotgun. There had methodically cleared each house in Mechanicville, and planned to keep at it up and down the river.

“Much appreciated, Jim.”

He laughed, and said “Just don’t shoot me in the back to get it! If you miss I’ll beat you to death with that fake leg of yours, Army puke.”

“As if.”

The helo dropped down out of the sky into a cornfield that was slowly growing, knocking down the young plants in a blast of wash from the two rotors. Dammit, I thought, another crop wasted. Stupid pilot had completely ignored the orange panels laid in the empty field next to it.

The crew chief hopped out, and waved at us to board. First in went Red on his stretcher. He was awake, and pissed off that he was strapped into the stretcher.

“Untie me, Nick!”

“Sorry
, Kid. We’re dropping you off at the Combat Support Hospital in Albany. We’ll see you in a week or less. Rest up so we can go rescue the team when we get back.”

He looked at the rest of the guys filing in. They were loaded for bear, extra ammo, two heavy machine guns, the tube of an M-224 60 millimeter mortar
strapped to the back of one guy’s pack, the baseplate to another.

“What’s going on, Nick?
Is this the militia? You guys look like you’re going to fight World War Five or something.”

“Or something.
Lines are breached north of the City. They need all the help they can get.” Brit strapped in next to his stretcher and reached out and squeezed his hand.

“Don’t worry, Red. The guys on the team are either dead, or they’re not. We’ll go get them as soon as we kick some zombie ass.”

The turbine engines whined and we started to lift, spinning around and racing south, following the river. I climbed up front and yelled into the crew chief’s ear, asking what the hell was going on.

“I don’t kn
ow much!” he yelled back. CH-47s are incredibly loud. “Someone from USAMRIID sprayed something by airplane all over the city, supposed to kill the zombies. They went batshit crazy instead, crashed right into the T-barriers along I-84 and overwhelmed the light infantry. That was two days ago, and there are like a couple million moving up Route 9 and all the other routes out of the city.”

“So where are we going?”

“Drop off your casualty at the FOB, hot refuel, then we’re supposed to leave you off somewhere in Putnam County so you can interdict the horde and call artillery fire. Then we turn around and go get more militia.” When they did a hot refuel, the rotors would still be turning. That’s how short on time we were.

“You’re dropping us off BEHIND the
battlelines?” Infuckingcredible.

“Don’t worry, we’ll find you a nice high place to fight from.”

“I need twenty minutes at the FOB to get more ammo.”

“We can give you fifteen, and that’s it. That’s how long it will take us to gas up.”

I nodded to him and went to sit next to Brit.

“What’s the deal?” she yelled into my ear.

“We’re screwed, Brit, and not in a good way.”

The helo thundered on down the river. 
 

Chapter 7

Another helicopter, flying south down the river. Troops sleeping in the glow of the red lights, trying to get some rest before maybe the eternal sleep. I had done this a hundred times, but I couldn’t help but thinking of the last one down to New York City. Killeen was dead, and what was the name of the guy who broke his leg? Dresden, something like that. Different faces, but the same faces. So many gone.

We had picked up
Specialist Esposito at Fort Orange, to round out the team. He was the only Regular Army soldier on the ride. After I had lost my leg in Denver, he had gone on a few missions with the team, but then had met a girl at the FEMA camp and had quit. He had met us at the LZ and thrown his gear on board without saying a word. He saw me looking at him, and held up his hand to show off a wedding ring.

“Dumbass!”
I shouted to him over the road of the turbines. He smiled and flipped me the bird, and went back to reading a paperback copy of
A Soldier of The Great War
that I had lent to him last year.  

We were being dropped on a hilltop just south of Interstate 84. I plotted the position on a 1:50,000
map I had grabbed at the FOB, marking Target Registration Points. If I could work it out, the Z horde would be channeled into a firesack by the terrain, steep valley walls rising up from a flat plain. The first waves had broken through, and Bradleys and Abrams were chewing through them. A second wave, far larger, coming up from the Bronx, was working its way up Route 9. Timing would be the key. If we could get into position before the horde left the valley and got a chance to disperse outside the Hudson Highlands, then we could use Firecracker rounds to devastate them.

It had been tried at the start of the apocalypse, artillery barrages on top of hordes
, fired by the lone National Guard artillery battalion stationed in New York City. The shrapnel had ripped holes in their bodies, but usually failed to score a hit on Zs brains, and the howitzers quickly ran out of ammunition. Things were different now. There were three times as many guns, seventy-two 155mm Howitzers and a battalion of Multiple Launch Rocket Systems. Each gun had a thousand Firecracker rounds, each containing a thousand steel ball bearings, pre-stocked, and a US Navy cargo ship had been docked in Poughkeepsie, preparing for the clearing of New York City, with thousands of tons of munitions. On top of that, the Ready Brigade from the 82
nd
Airborne was being dropped to reinforce the lines of Task Force Liberty.

The crew chief came around and gave me a
five minute warning, and we shook ourselves awake, checking on our gear and chambering rounds in our weapons. At the FOB, a pallet of ammunition, MREs, empty sandbags and water had been rolled on board, and we would drop that out as soon as we had secured the Landing Zone. The rear ramp dropped down, and we flared in for a landing.

Prior to our being dropped off on the hilltop, an artillery battery had dropped White Phosphorus onto it, burning off the trees and undergrowth. As we pulled in, the rotor wash sucked up the ashes and created a blinding swirl of
dust and cinders. I stepped off the ramp, and fell into space. The crew chief had misjudged the pitch of the hill, and the tail ramp was a good two feet off the ground.

I fell flat on my face, and my pack
with the radio in it rode up and hit me in the back of the head, and I blacked out. When I came too, I was being half carried, half dragged across the LZ. The taste of ashes was in my mouth and stars danced crazily in my vision. They dumped me on the ground, and someone shone a flashlight in my face.

“No concussion. Pupils are OK.
Wakey-wakey, Nick,” said Brit, and she slapped me across the face, then kissed me. Then she spat. “Ugh, you taste like shit.”

I sat up, and rubbed m
y face where my Night Vision Goggles had smashed me. I was bleeding slightly, but I flipped them back down and turned them on again. The darkness was replaced by the usual grainy green picture. I wished again for one of the monoculars I had in worn in Afghanistan, but the newer stuff was reserved for the Regular Army troopers.

I started to get to my feet, but Brit pushed me back down. I watched the team fan outward as the helo faded into the sky. They walked the entire hilltop, scanning for any zombies that might have been missed by the fires. Shouts of “CLEAR” rang out over the hill, and the team immediately got to work.

As we had discussed while waiting for the pickup in Stillwater, the very first thing to be done was to dig two-man fighting positions in a tight circle, with overhead cover. We were on a spur off the hilltop, almost a crag, with a high mountain behind us and an open, steep slope leading down to the highway, several hundred meters away. Hopefully we wouldn’t need the covered fighting positions, but if the Zs got too close, I would be calling artillery fire directly on top of us. Like they said, though, hope is not a plan. Whoever THEY were.

An hour passed, then two. My hands were getting raw from the shovel, and I was tired. My shoulders ached, and my head was hurting. Filling sandbags was a monotonous, mind
-numbing task, and I was grateful when my turn came up on watch. I watched the road in the light of the predawn and saw figures shambling through the fog, ghostly figures. I motioned for Jim to come up.

“You have two suppressed rifles, right?” He nodded.

“Well, time to start a little interdiction.”

He spit a long stream of tobacco juice out of his mouth. ‘Well, I dunno. We’ve got, how many, a couple tens of thousands of zombies coming up this way, right? I don’t think wasting a couple here with rifle shots is going to make much of a difference.” 

I thought about it, and then agreed with him.

“Finish the fighting positions, and then
try to get some sleep. In about two hours I’m going to register the arty. Brit and I will stay on watch.”

“Can do, C
hief.”

He went back and in a few minutes, Brit came to sit beside me.

“You know, Nick, this could go really, really bad, really, really quick.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I’ve got some ropes rigged on the back face, we can climb up and evade if we have to.”

“Brit, if they notice us, this entire hill is going to be
overrun.”

“Well, if that happens, don’t let them get me.”

“You didn’t have to come, you know” I said to her, and took her hand.

“As if I would let you
screw this up all by yourself, Dumbass.”

We both sat and watched the sun rise over the hills in the east. Below us, hidden in a mist in the valley, the zombie moan carried faintly up to us.