Even Zombie Killers Need a Break zk-2 Read online

  “Won’t leave the buildings intact, and we need to take Denver so it can be reoccupied. The Air Force carpet bombed… where the hell was that?”

  “Reno” chimed in Doc, who was pretending to sleep in the seat across from me.

  “Yeah, Reno, Nevada. Pounded the whole place flat. Carpet bombs, fuel air explosives, Napalm, everything. All that, a small city, and it STILL took three weeks for a full division of troops to declare the place a hundred percent secure.”

  “So, let me get this straight. We’re still scouts, right?”

  “As far as I know, yes.”

  “And we’re going to scout an area we can’t bomb and has a million Zs in it?”

  “Something like that, yeah.”

  “Damn, White Man, I should have stayed on the reservation.”

  I laughed. “Red, don’t worry, this will be a piece of cake compared to New York.”

  Just then, the train hit a rough patch in the rails and my coffee jumped in my hand, spilling the hot liquid on my uniform. Damn, what a way to start.

  Chapter 26

  Somewhere in Wyoming, the train ground to a halt and an announcement came over the intercom.

  “All troops, this is the train commander. Air scouts are leading a zombie horde, about one thousand strong, toward our position. All troops will mount rooftop firing positions and engage targets. Estimate contact time is ten minutes.”

  Brit let out a whoop. “Hell yeah, I was getting bored watching Red moon over all those buffalo. He’s had a hard-on for the last two hundred miles.”

  “I’m a Navajo. We screw sheep, you stupid paleface squaw.”

  “OK, OK, quit it and gear up, you two.” We checked weapons and ammo and moved into the aisle. Doc still pretended to sleep. I slapped his boot and he grunted, rolled over into a more comfortable position and started snoring. Esposito finished loading his rifle and then asked “What’s with him? Isn’t he going to help?”

  “He’s just faking it. He’ll be down here with his medkit in case someone gets injured.”

  A ladder had been pulled down from the roof and soldiers were climbing up through a hatch. We made our way up onto the flat roof of the train. I had wondered why the car was so low, and I saw that several feet had been sawn off the roof and a parapet placed around it. The car was still low enough to pass under tunnels and bridges but provided an elevated, protected firing platform. There was even an overhang to prevent Zs from climbing up.

  As we crowded over to the southern side of the train car and took up firing positions, the helos thundered overhead. I looked out over the open plain, which was shimmering with heat waves. White stones stood at various intervals that I judged were every hundred meters or so, and piles of picked-over bones lay around them. Hundreds of thousands of bones, and the smell coming off them reminded me of a slaughterhouse.

  “What’s with the rocks and the bones?” I asked one of the regular train security personnel, who was directing the placement troops along the parapet.

  He laughed. “Those are for estimating range. You don’t think we just stopped here at a random place, did you? This is a regular ambush place. We do this about every fifth train ride.” He leaned over the edge and pointed to the ground below.

  “See that?” I leaned over myself and saw a deep ditch dug along the tracks, which approximated the entire length of the train. It too was filled with bones, but it made it impossible for any Z to even get close to the train cars, much less climb them.

  “Every couple of weeks the air scouts come across a wandering horde and lead them back to this place or a few others we have along the rail line. Then we just let the troops on board shoot the piss out of them. Plus, we got that,” and he gestured towards the last rail car.

  “Is that what it looks like?”

  “Yep. 100 kilowatt FIRESTRIKE Laser. Made by Northrup –Grumman. We just start at the back of the horde and work our way forward, frying the crap out of them.”

  “I want one!” said Brit, who had been listening in.

  “Fat chance, Lady. We have an extra diesel electric locomotive hooked to the train to provide power for that sucker. Still, it smells like a good old pork BBQ when we get done.”

  In a few minutes, I heard the zombie howl come drifting over the wind. Brit looked over and gave me a thumbs-up. Ahmed settled more comfortably behind his scope. On my left, Red looked a little nervous. I couldn’t blame him, after what he went through at West Point. Espo tapped a magazine against the rail, then seated his patrol cap a little further back on his head.

  Ahmed shot first, a flat crack coming out of his rifle, unsuppressed for once. Damn, that was loud. I reached into my sleeve pocket, pulled out a set of foam plugs and squeezed them into my ears. I’d rather have my hearing than compensation from whatever agency managed to succeed the Veterans Administration.

  I felt the engine powering up for the laser, and toward the back of the horde, individual Zs started to burst into flame. Some only smoked as they moved out of the laser’s aimpoint. I guess it took a second or two for the full heat effects to be felt. Thank God the wind was blowing away from us, or I think I would have puked from the smell of burned flesh.

  The horde resolved itself out of the heat waves, running toward the train, drawn by the sound of the gunfire. At five hundred meters, the designated marksmen opened up, dropping them with every other shot. At three hundred, some of the guys joined in. At a hundred and fifty meters, everyone else opened up, and at a hundred we started firing with our .22 magnums. At this point, there was a continuous roar coming through my ear plugs and the whole train deck was vibrating. I could barely see anything through my sites, just fired whenever I recognized the pattern of a face.

  “CEASE FIRE! CEASE FIRE! STOP FIRING YOU STUPID JACKASSES! AMMO AIN”T CHEAP!” The train crewman kicked the back of our feet and we stopped pulling our triggers. The roar of shots dropped away. Spent brass cartridges lay all around us on the roof and I could smell the cordite. I loved that smell, but killing was hot work. I took a very long drink from my camelback.

  In front of us there was a pile of steaming, burning corpses. Some still crawled toward the train and a couple of snipers took individual shots. Every now and then one would pull itself upright and then it would drop in a spray of blood from its head. The nearest zombie corpse lay ten feet from the train tracks.

  “OK, before you go back down, police up all the brass!”

  “You have got to be shitting me,” said one of the soldiers.

  “You think brass grows on trees? There are ammo crates by the ladder, make sure you sort by caliber!” Damn. I pulled off my patrol cap and started putting .22 shells in.

  As we filed back down, I asked the trainman what would happen to any stray ZZss.

  “A squad will be coming in by air in the next thirty mikes. They’ll take care of any leakers.”

  Doc sat up as we took off our gear and stowed it overhead. “What did I miss?”

  “We just whooped a whole buncha zombie ass!” said Brit. “I could get used to this big Army stuff.”

  “Don’t get used to it.” I said. “You know when we get to Denver it’s going to just be us all out on our lonesome. The Lost Boys are who they call when they need to know, but are too scared to find out.”

  “Hell, yeah!” Brit and Red exchanged high fives, and she started to do a sexy dance in the aisle to the catcalls and hoots of the troopers around us. Then the train started up again with a lurch, and she fell on her ass.

  Chapter 27

  Dust and mud. That’s what being a soldier is about. Cold, too, usually, but thankfully it was midsummer. Another thing that always bothered me about zombie TV shows. Being in a survival situation is, well, dirty. You never see the hero scratching his crotch because he hasn’t showered in two months and he has heat rash. You never see the hero reporting in to his commander and the commander’s nose wrinkling up because the hero smells like a few weeks of rotten ass due to being on the run all the time. Or the
zombie brains and blood and guts that are splattered all over his uniform, which smelled rank long before they got splashed.

  Thankfully, this time, it was just dirt and mud. Dust first, then mud, after a thunderstorm had dropped an inch of rain on FOB Griffin, about 20 miles north of the front lines around Denver. The rain had turned the road in between the tents, already stripped of any vegetation by passing trucks, into a clay that gripped my boots. Every few meters I had to stop and scrape the mud off my boots onto whatever was handy. By the time I got back to the trucks, I was covered in mud splatters up to my knees. Screw it, it’s just something you get used to after a while in the field.

  Our two gun trucks were sitting on the remains of a parking lot, thankfully. Brit, Red, and Ahmed were welding a Z-catcher, an angled iron “V”, on the frame of 06. Ziv and Espo worked on mounting a M-249 SAW in the turret of 07. Once we had signed for the trucks, Red had gone to work with a can of paint and a stencil, blocking out the old bumper numbers that said “4 ID HHC-04” and “4 ID HHC-13” and stenciling them with “JSOC-IST 1–06” on my truck and “JSOC-IST 1–05” on Doc’s.

  I took a minute to review the operations order in my hand. It was short and to the point. Lengthy op-orders had gone out the window with the zombies.

  1. SITUATION

  a. Enemy forces.

  1. Expect upwards of five hundred thousand infected in the greater Denver Metro Area. Over flights of airport show scattered activity.

  2. Significant hostile surviving population has been reported in outlying areas.

  b. Friendly forces. JSOC-IST 1 will be operating in support of Task Force Bronco.

  c. Attachments and detachments. None.

  2. MISSION: On order, JSOC-IST 1 will conduct a tactical reconnaissance of the Denver International Airport to determine runway and facilities conditions.

  3. EXECUTION

  Intent:

  a. Concept of operations.

  (1) Maneuver: Conduct intelligence gathering at Denver Airport.

  (2) Fires: TF Bronco will dedicate one battery of 155mm Paladin Howitzers in direct support.

  (3) Reconnaissance and Surveillance: See attached aerial photographs.

  (4) Intelligence: See attached aerial photographs

  (5) Engineer: None

  (6) Air Defense: N/A

  (7) Information Operations: N/A

  b. Tasks to maneuver units: Coordinate passage of lines with JSOC-IST 1

  c. Tasks to combat support units.

  (1) Intelligence: None

  (2) Engineer: None

  (3) Fire Support: Coordinate suppressive fires for ingress and egress.

  (4) Air Defense: N/A

  (5) Signal: See attached SOI

  (6) NBC (Nuclear, Biological, Chemical): Possible radiation hot spots due to failed nuclear strike southwest of Denver Metro area.

  (7) Provost Marshal: N/A

  (8) PSYOP: N/A

  (9) Civil military: TF Bronco elements will make all efforts to rescue Survivor Civilian Populations (SCP).

  (10) As required

  d. Coordinating instructions.

  (1) Time or condition when a plan or order becomes effective: 0001 Local

  (2) CCIR (Commander’s Critical Information Requirements): Suitability of Airport facilities for flight operations.

  (3) Risk reduction control measures: None

  (4) Rules of engagement: None

  (5) Environmental considerations: None

  (6) Force protection: None

  (7) As required

  4. SUSTAINMENT (formerly Service Support)

  a. Support concept: JSOC –IST 1 will use organic TF Bronco assets.

  b. Materiel and services. JSOC –IST 1 will use organic TF Bronco assets.

  c. Medical evacuation and hospitalization: 934th Aero-Med Company will be on standby to support all combat operations.

  d. Personnel: JSOC –ST 1 and attached Airforce elements.

  e. Civil military: N/A

  f. As required.

  “Who wrote this shit? It looks like it was written by a first year ROTC cadet,” scoffed Doc.

  Blah blah blah. Again, we were off on our own with little support. Not that a battery of Paladin 155mm howitzers were something to laugh at, but I had already spoken to the Task Force Fire Support Officer. The conversation went kinda like this:

  “Don’t expect shit from me.”

  “Roger, Sir, won’t expect shit.” He wasn’t being a jerk, just explained to me that he had literally thousands of standard high explosive rounds but few if any of the new firecrackers, the ones that sprayed ball bearings all over their blast radius.

  “The fighting down in Mexico in the oil fields took up a lot of the production priority, and the chemicals used to produce the high explosive are in short supply. We can fire regular shrapnel rounds all day long, but you know they don’t do much against Zs.”

  So, as usual, off again on our own. We did have one attachment, an Air Force sergeant who specialized in Flight Operations. He walked up to the team as I was reading the Operations Order.

  “Uh, hi, my name is Sergeant Ozturk. Call sign “Wizard.” I’m looking for some Special Operations guys, uh, IST-1 or something. Have you seen them?”

  He was talking to Brit, who had taken to wearing a red bandanna around her head. Said it made her look more like a pirate with her eye patch. I was ignoring it until we actually rolled out of the base.

  “Well, looks like you found us. What are you, some kinda general or something with all those stripes on your arm?”

  “Uh, no, I’m just a technical sergeant.”

  “Well, OK, are you like one of those PJs? A parajumper?” He was getting a little red in the face, because as she questioned him, Brit poked him in his rather large stomach several times.

  “Um, well, no. You see, I know how to run airports. I’m supposed to go with you guys to check out the airport.”

  She turned to face Red. “Hey Red, do we have a trailer we can use to haul Mister Dunkin Donuts here out to the airport?”

  I stepped up, and told Brit to cut the crap. “Welcome to the Lost Boys, Tech Sergeant. Soon as we get you checked out on the weapons on the turrets, you’re free to stow your gear in the back.”

  “Uh, I dunno, I’ve never fired any kind of automatic weapon. I think I might just get in your way.”

  Brit rolled her eyes, and I shot her a dirty look. The rest of the guys pretended to be busy. “Well, how about that M-4 you’re carrying. Can you use it?”

  “What, this?” he said and slung it off his shoulder, sweeping it around in a wide arc that flagged most of the team, holding it by the grip with his finger on the trigger. It had a magazine in, too. I smacked the weapon down toward the ground before Ziv could buttstroke him. He looked very embarrassed.

  “Well, uh, I fired it a few times in Basic Training. At least a whole magazine. They don’t give much ammo to us Air Force guys since the Army needs it.”

  “Don’t worry about it!” I said, with a forced grin. After all, it wasn’t this guy’s fault. Like everyone else, he went where the military told him.

  “Tell you what, Brother Zoomie Guy. You just ride in back and let us do the shooting. I assume you know how to do your job?”

  A look of relief passed over his face. “Yeah, sure, airports I know.”

  Chapter 28

  I lay there on the hood of the HUMVEE, trying to get some sleep, wrapped up in my poncho liner. Tomorrow was going to be a big day, and we had to get up at 0500. I stared up at the stars in the clear, high plains air, and tried to force myself to sleep, but it eluded me again. I could take the Ambien Doc kept in his medkit but I hated it. It never felt like sleep then, just like a period of blackness, and I woke up even more tired.

  When I finally did drift off to sleep, the dream started again. I was standing in the kitchen of my old house, dressed in full combat gear, my rifle slung over my shoulder. Outside the window I could see a horde of zombies pressing against the
glass. There was no sound in the dream; there never was. It just happened over and over in the same way. I reached for my daughter, who was playing on the kitchen floor. Just as I did she crawled away from me. Always she crawled away, and I could never pick her up. What happened next in the dream was almost a repeat of what really happened that day, except that day I never got to see my daughter.

  I looked up, and my wife stood there, blood dripping down her face, a large gash ripped open in her neck, blood splattered down her side. In her hand was our daughter’s leg, still wearing a pink sock. She reached for me, and in the dream, I wanted to go to her. It was such a powerful urge that I could never resist it, and I always woke with a jump as she bit down on my shoulder.

  In reality, I had moved faster than that. I had swung the stock of my M-16 as hard as I could at her head, and kept swinging until her head was a bloody pulp and the plastic rifle had shattered apart in my hands.

  Tonight was no different. I dreamed the dream again, and woke with a start just as the predawn light was filtering into the sky. I looked at my watch, 04:23, and tried to wrap myself a little deeper in the poncho liner. Thirty-seven minutes of sleep was thirty-seven minutes of sleep, any old soldier knows that, but I was afraid of drifting off into the nightmare again.

  On the roof of the truck, Brit lay wrapped in the green half of a Gortex sleeping bag. I listened to her moving around restlessly. She probably had her own nightmares to deal with, too. A year spent living on the deserted campus, dodging zombies, scrounging for food. I knew she had been a physics major, smart as hell, and I wondered if she would ever shed her new, post-apocalypse persona of a “live life to the fullest, devil may care” hedonist. Probably not; there was no going back to our old lives. Still, I looked forward to the day when we could put our guns down, I could pick up a hammer and a saw again, and maybe build a new life with Brit.

  A muffled ripping sound came from the top of the truck, and Red, who was lying on the other side of the turret, made a puking sound. “OH MY GOD, WHAT IS THAT SMELL?”