Even Zombie Killers Need a Break zk-2 Read online

  From there we began to caravan north to the old family farm in rural central Pennsylvania. It was the least populated place anyone in the family owned, and we could hold up there until things calmed down.

  It would be a tight fit for the two dozen or so of us, and none of us were used to the primitive living conditions, but we only needed to leave Baltimore for a few days until the government moved back in so it would be okay…

  This was all during the first wave of refugees, no one knew where to go, and the government had not provided any information other than stay in your homes and wait to be rescued. People fled in all directions. It’s true, the roads were pretty bad, but not as bad as they would become, not a standstill yet. If anyone blocked the road they were moved out of the way and so the lanes were kept open.

  The trip should have been 4 hours at most, but this time it took us 2 days. Otherwise it was relatively uneventful. There were even some restaurants that were still open at this point. They were crowded, but it was worth it for hot food. We beat the infection to Altoona, Pennsyltucky, the closest population center to the farm, and even managed to buy some stuff at the Super Wal Mart back before it was closed and looted.

  From there we went to the farm. It started small, just family; we stuck to our own property and didn’t try to interact much. That lasted maybe two weeks, by then we were going crazy from being cooped up together. That’s when we heard the plague was spreading, not being contained, that the government didn’t even maintain any forces in our area. That’s when we realized things weren’t going back to the way they were. The end of the world did not come quickly.

  We argued for a couple of days, but eventually we decided we could not survive on our own. We started trying to make contact with anyone left nearby. In the process we cleared out a lot of zombies, we were lucky, they were spread out and weren’t numerous. We were still amateurs. We looted the places that were empty and met new people along the way. We loved being out of the house. It was dangerous and hard work, but we loved it, and I dare say we were doing a good job of it.

  The people of my generation bore the brunt of this work. Our parents, the baby boomers were too old; after a while they finally started to step aside and let us have a go at it, all it took was the apocalypse to get our fair chance.

  We fortified as best we could, we tried to become self sufficient, and succeeded in a few areas.

  As we found more survivors we started to build a small community, and everyone did their part. We lost some, and it felt like we were scratching our existence out of the rocky soil, (seriously, who farms on the side of a rocky mountain?) but we must have been doing pretty well because eventually the army sent us some Special Forces guys to help out.

  We must have been fairly successful as far as communities go to warrant government attention again. There were not a whole lot of Special Forces guys willing to jump back in and get cut off to help a group of people develop and stay safe until the military could make its way all the way back east.

  The Green Berets trained us to better defend ourselves, they helped us build better infrastructure, dig wells, that sort of thing. The best part was they were able to call in airdrops, it wasn’t like ordering stuff off of Amazon, we couldn’t get anything we wanted, but if there was something that would help us become more self sufficient, a new water pump, ammunition, seeds, the SF guys would get it dropped in for us.

  Those of us who were young and strong had the easy job, everyone else worked the fields, cooked and dug in. we just had to pull perimeter security, go on raids. You know the fun stuff. That was mostly me and my cousins, Ethan, William, my brother, and a few others, plus some younger people we had picked up along the way.

  We really became good once the SF guys taught us irregular warfare techniques. They trained us as best as they could and were able to equip us a little better. I memorized the Zombie Survival Handbook and FM 999-3&4. I thought it was to help us stay self sufficient, but really it was so we could participate in the operations being planned in the Mid-Atlantic region. Not necessarily reclaiming land at this point, but a lot of infrastructure and heritage had been abandoned that part of the country.

  The thing that stuck with me the most from their training, it wasn’t a technique or an exercise or a strategy. One of them told us at the beginning that he would train us, but in order to survive we would have to have “The Right Stuff”. This wasn’t something he could teach, we had to have it.

  I asked him what that was and he said, “It’s sort of an unshakeable belief in your own infallibility. That’s what the right stuff is. That you’re immortal, that you can do anything that is thrown at you.”

  I really took that to heart. It was difficult at first; the best I could do was emulate John Wayne. He once said, “I’m the stuff MEN are made of.” That worked for me and soon I started pushing myself harder and soon I was stronger, tougher, and smarter than I ever thought possible before.

  That’s when I started loving myself, and hating everyone else, well almost everyone. No one could keep up with me anymore except my cousins Ethan and William. They were the only two who had taken the “right stuff” ideology to heart. Everyone else just existed while we were truly living. One of my female relatives started sleeping with one the SF guys; she was bored and young, and he was an alpha male, but still it was hard to stomach. Some gave up on life and are still buried there, that hurt too. The rest were just waiting to be rescued. I hated them all.

  I didn’t get completely disillusioned until the army finally came back East. When Mid-Atlantic Command was formed they sent a company to secure our area. They gave us the choice of either staying put, with their support, or being resettled back West, where it was safer. Everyone in the community, my family, the community I had helped build, that I had defended since day one, chose to leave the home that had kept us alive and go west. I let them, to hell with them. Ethan, William, and I stayed with the SF guys.

  We were all transported to their new forward operating base, still under construction at this point. The civilians were put on a flight west. The three of us who chose to stay were put to work building the base until we could be assimilated into the army somehow. It was on a broad hill somewhere in Northern Virginia or Central Maryland, it was called FOB Ripken. The runway and some defenses were already in place. We helped clear shrubbery out 100 yards, dig a perimeter trench, and used the dirt to fill sandbags and Hesco Bastions. We filled the open ground with booby traps, and barriers until it looked like Omaha Beach. This would be our base of operations.

  That’s where we learned about the Irregular Scouts. Captain Anderson was there talking with new recruits like us trying to put a team together. We joined right there on the spot. That’s when we became members of JSOC (Z) IST 5, the Warthogs, one of the teams attached to Task Force Raven, Mid Atlantic Command. The team was comprised of former Mid Atlantic residents because we knew our way around the areas we would be scouting. I’m glad nobody still cared about that old rule that relatives couldn’t serve in the same unit, because I would have died a long time ago without my cousins.

  For our working up period we ran patrols out of FOB Ripken, mostly on foot, but sometimes we got Humvees. We did collect items and scout areas but the main reason we were out there was to cull zombies and anti-American forces out of an increasing safe zone around the FOB. During daylight hours we would complete objectives, and hunt zombies. We had a few nighttime operations too; those were mostly ambushes to take out Reavers.

  Once a reasonable safe zone was established we started doing longer, more dangerous missions. That of course culminated with the debacle at Fort Dietrich. After that we had to rebuild the team, with Ethan, William, and I as the only founding members left. More simple missions, building up for something big we all knew must come soon.

  Chapter 4

  Now I was in charge of the team, not because I was a natural leader or anything like that, but because nobody else wanted the job, and if I didn’t take it the Arm
y would saddle us with another Anderson, or worse. I have a lot of respect for a lot of the military personnel I’ve met, but too high of a percentage can’t handle the pressure of combat and our job was too dangerous for us to survive another leader like that.

  We were all crammed into a Seahawk helicopter, with all of our gear, which wasn’t that impressive. We were flying towards the USS Sterett, a Navy destroyer which would be our base of operations for the Baltimore scout mission. All we knew at this point was we would finally be going back, not as part of an invasion force, not yet, but on a scouting mission for something.

  Ethan had pulled up a picture of Sterett on his Smartphone before we left FOB Ripken. Her Wikipedia page gave us an idea of what to expect. Her picture gave the impression of a big, sleek, grey, clean ship, with very few visible weapons. Guided Missile Destroyer was her classification, DDG 104. I was concerned, her missiles, lone antiaircraft Gatling gun, and anti submarine torpedoes would do us no good. She only actually had one gun that could provide us with fire support and I don’t think BB rounds come in sizes smaller than 155mm.

  I was surprised when I finally saw her. She was nothing like her old wiki pic. As we circled the ship, which was sailing north up the Chesapeake Bay, just past a collapsed span of the Bay Bridge. I looked at her modifications with a certain degree of relief that she could actually help with my mission.

  Her hull was painted a camouflage scheme, but rust and scorch marks and even battle damage showed through the old faded coat of paint. The most notable modifications were the sandbag emplacements all over the main deck. They protected new machinegun, mortar, and grenade launcher positions, as well as the battery of 155mm artillery. Four guns, one on each side at the bow just behind the ships lone five inch mount, and one on either side at the stern next to the vertical launch tubes for the missiles. Judging from the uniforms as we lowered it looked like they were manned by marines.

  We touched down on the landing deck aft and quickly jumped off the helicopter, happy to be able to stretch our legs again. We were greeted by three men in uniform. The one with the most gold on his shoulder boards and grey in his hair stepped up and asked “Which one of you is Zehmanski?”

  I replied, “Its Sa-man-ski sir, I’m the one you’re looking for.”

  He replied, “I’m the skipper, Commander Owen. This is Lieutenant Simpson, commander of our Marine detachment,” he gestured towards the tall dark skinned woman in Marine camo to his right, “and this is Command Master Chief Aquia, my senior enlisted man.” He said gesturing to the big, older sailor on his left. “Chief, detail someone to show these men their bunks and the mess deck. Mr. Szimanski, will come with me for the mission briefing.”

  I followed him through a quick acting watertight door and down a series of mostly empty corridors, then up some ladders into the superstructure to his cabin. He personally delivered the briefing to the three of us, me the chief, and the marine officer, while we sat on his couch.

  “This ship was designed to escort carrier battle groups with missiles and a crew of 400. Today, counting the Marines we have around half that many crew on board, and a fraction of the missiles we should carry. We spent most of our time before the end of the world patrolling the Indian Ocean for pirates. Since the plague hit we have shot it out with the Chinese Navy near the west coast of Panama and sailed around the Horn. Recently we have been patrolling the East Coast on the lookout for anti-American forces, especially ones using watercraft, and supporting littoral operation like this one. The Navy needs a port somewhere on the East Coast for the fleet to use. Your team will scout out port facilities on the Patapsco River as far north as Baltimore to see if a usable facility is available in our sector. The other irregulars will be scouting other facilities. You will receive support from this ship and its embedded Marines.”

  He went on to discuss the details of the operation before letting me rejoin my team on the mess deck. Hot food, the thing I was looking forward to most on this mission, next to a hot shower. My only disappointment was that the mess steward didn’t have any pretzels on board. Well, to be perfectly honest the thing I was looking most forward to were the clean, showered, female sailors (female Marines scare me).

  The rest of the team was in our berthing compartment. William, my wingman on this “operation,” and I had just sat down next to a group of presumably showered ladysailors and started to introduce ourselves. I had tried using Ethan as my wingman in the past, but on more than one occasion he introduced himself as an amateur gynecologist.

  Just then the chief came over to us and said, “We just spotted some survivors on the Eastern Shore, they don’t seem hostile. Skipper wants to know if your team wants to accompany the devil dogs when they make contact.”

  “Sure,” I said. “We’ll be on deck in 15 minutes after we are geared up.”

  “RHIBs are on the Starboard side,” he said.

  “Ribs? I don’t see any barbeque,” William asked.

  “It stands for rigid hulled inflatable boats” chief informed him contemptuously. “They’re on the top deck, right hand side you lubber.”

  We walked down a passageway to the empty berthing compartment that had been made available exclusively to the Warthogs in order tell the team to grab our gear. The guys were joking among themselves; I was contemplating the upcoming mission and our equipment. I had yet to brief the team; there hadn’t been time for it yet.

  The seven of us were not exactly the best equipped unit. Task Force Raven did not have access to the kind of stuff that I heard was available elsewhere, and us irregulars did not have first pick. We mostly scavenged and traded for our stuff rather than wait and pray that we would be issued the good stuff.

  I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, a ball cap, and running shoes instead of boots. I had a MOLLE vest that was actually pretty high end compared to most of our gear. Ethan and William, who were animatedly discussing the pros and cons of knee pads, were dressed much the same as me. Each had an AR-15, 9mm pistol, and crowbar where I had a Beretta Storm 9mm carbine, 1911a1 .45 pistol, and a machete. I’m 6ft even, 170lbs and they were each taller and broader than that, but I was faster.

  William was a shade of tan no one else in the family could ever achieve, curse our northern European heritage. He was only 16, which may have made him the youngest person fighting for the army. I heard rear echelon positions accepted people younger than him, but I don’t think any combat units did. William was also our designated marksman with his scoped AR. He didn’t always hit the target, but he was more accurate than any of us.

  Ethan had a Mohawk like the 101st used to wear, he was the team medic. He had been training to join the Air Force Pararescue Jumpers, but the end of the world prevented him from ever joining up. Even so he had the most medical experience on the team. He didn’t always apply the Band-Aid on the right spot, but he stopped the blood flow better than the rest of us.

  In the bunk across from me, quietly checking his gear was Corporal Walls. He had been one of Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children once, but when all this had started he was in the Maryland Defense Force. He was one of the few survivors from that group, and quite contrary to the cliché he was happy to have survived when the rest of his unit made their last stand. The gear he had on made him look like he belonged in Nam, an M1 carbine, .45 colt, Kabar, E-tool, web gear, a butt pack, and OD BDUs. He had the stuff from reenacting, who the hell reenacts the Vietnam War? Walls was our communication guy and had to carry the one radio we had. He was the only one who knew enough terminology to reliably get us support on mission.

  The only one of us truly at home aboard ship was Baublitz. He was a Damage Controlman in the Coast Guard. Tall and skinny, he was our team’s version of MacGyver. He carried a tool bag in addition to his own AR, and with them he could fix anything we needed. He spoke with a nasally south-Baltimore drawl and almost never stopped talking. At the moment he was talking at Bull, who probably wasn’t paying attention.

  Bull was already suited up and was doing a
set of pushups between the rows of bunks. He was something of an enigma. He was a big muscular guy, with a little too much paunch for someone who had been surviving the apocalypse. He had just wandered up to the FOB a couple of missions ago and joined up. He didn’t talk much about his past, or anything else for that matter, but he was proficient enough and we were short enough on manpower that we kept him around. Bull was from Canada, but what he was doing this far south I don’t know; I thought Canada was making out okay, not as well as England, but not as bad as most places. I liked to make up back-story for Bull. My current line of thought was that he was a mercenary of some sort, but he did this for fun, not compensation, at least that must be why he hadn’t given me a bill yet. He carried a silenced MP5, fire ax, and 9mm pistol. He was usually on point when we were trying to be stealthy.

  The last member of the team was Markus; he was on the other side of the compartment practice trusting his bayonet. Markus was crazy, he had a girl in every blue zone, and attractive ones too, ones who I would have thought were out of his league. He genuinely thought he was a reincarnated Roman Legionary. He carried one of those old trench shotguns that actually had a bayonet lug; complete with an old 2ft. bayonet which he used quite often. His other weapon was an actual gladius. Like I said dude is crazy, great at close quarters stuff, but still crazy. How the hell does he get so many women? I tried to take him as a wingman before, but he always ended up with every girl we hit on, sometimes more than one at once.

  Chapter 5

  We got in one RHIB, with a couple of navy guys. Lt. Simpson and two squads of Marines were already in the water in the other boat.

  Markus scratched his crotch and looked at Baublitz who was talking at Bull about something he had recently made on a lathe. Bull clearly wasn’t interested so Markus interrupted. “Man my dick itches.”