John Holmes - Even Zombie Killers Can Die

We all laughed. Every branch of the services had its heroes and idiots. It seemed like the new crop of jackasses were alive and growing well. I had thought the Zombie Apocalypse would have put an end to that, but I guess human nature had prevailed.

He put the stock of his M-14 on the ground and used it to lever himself off the ammo crate. “Your evac is coming in. Pulling your wounded out, only. They’re bringing wounded off an Observation Post over by Bear Mountain Bridge. We need the rest of your effectives. Brit, you go too.”

“No shit, Sherlock. As if I would want to be stuck on this hill with you uneducated philistines.”

“How you put up with her, Nick, I dunno.”

“I hit the jackpot with this one, Cody. Maybe someday I’ll have Doctor Morano clone her and send you one. Brit 2.0. Maybe some bigger boobs.”

He made a two fingered “avert evil” sign at me and shuddered. “No thanks, keep that demon away from me. You know this was her fault, right?”

“What do you mean? Doctor Morano?”

“Yeah, her crew sprayed some kind of chemical all over the City. It was supposed to sedate the Zombies, make it easier for us to sweep in and take them out. My unit was waiting at Stewart to drop into Central Park. Instead, well…” and he made a sweeping gesture to the valley floor. Another horde was moving up the valley, thousands of rotted voices howling blood red rage.

His second in command, a female Staff Sergeant, came hustling over.

“Sarge, ammo is redistributed, everyone has water, and we’re ready to go.”

I looked at her closely. She couldn’t have stood more than five foot three in her jump boots.

“Aren’t you a little short to be a paratrooper, Staff Sergeant Sparks?”

She shot me a dirty look, fingering the bayonet she wore strapped to her soldier. “Get bent, you fat old man.”

Cody laughed. He knew Sparky and I had been jousting like this since way before the war. “Gotta go, got some neo-killing to do.” Then he turned, cupped his hands around his mouth, and yelled at his men.

“HEY YOU APES, YOU WANNA LIVE FOREVER? GET DOWN THERE AND KILL SOME ZOMBIES! AIRBORNE, ADVANCE!”

They slung their M-4s over their backs, pulled out pistols with high capacity magazines, locked shields, and advanced downhill to meet the horde, chanting “MER-IK-A! MER-IK-A!” as they advanced in lockstep. Cody winked at me, slapped Brit’s ass, ducked under her return punch, and ran downhill to join his men.

The ride back to Combat OutPost Thor took about 20 minutes, and the thudding of the rotor blades didn’t do my head any good. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but every time I nodded off, Brit reached over and slapped me.

“Not ’til you get checked out by the doctors, no sleepy time for you!” she yelled in my ear. Then she would go back to swinging her legs out the open door of the helo. After the fifth time she smacked me, I gave up and watched the landscape pass beneath me.

The highways, both lanes, were jam packed solid with car wreckage heading north, out of the city. Two years of weather had flattened tires and started weeds growing through cracks in the pavement. Sooner rather than later, the road itself would be unusable to anything except four wheel drive. Down the center lane the engineers had cleared a path, using a crane welded onto a wrecker to make way for supply trucks. Lone figures wandered on the side of the roadway, random zombies who couldn’t leave the place where they had died. The supply convoys made sport of shooting at them as they drove past.

Occasional columns of smoke rose from deserted villages, showing where salvage teams were burning off contaminated oil supplies to prevent them from leaching into the ground water. The teams went through and stripped every piece of electronics, precious metals, and manufactured items that were still useable. Then they burned everything that might cause havoc in the environment.

The helo flared onto the pad at COP Thor, and we stumbled out while they hot refueled, rotors still turning. We headed over to the Field Hospital, following the stretchers carrying the other wounded. Despite Brits’ protests, I was checked out as OK for limited duty, and released.

“Where to now, Oh Fearless Leader?”

“Showers, then hot food, then the S-2 for some intel on the northern end of Lake Champlain.” Nothing beats a hot shower after being in the field, let me tell you. About halfway through, Brit slipped into the shower trailer, locked the door, and none of your damned business.

On the way down last week, I had shot a quick request to the Task Force Liberty intelligence officer, or S-2. I needed all the information that he had in Northern Vermont/New York and Lake Champlain. He delivered it to me in a slim folder, with the added comment of “not much.”

INTSUM

NORTHERN LAKE CHAMPLAIN AREA OF OPERATIONS

Signals Intelligence has indicated surviving human populations in the area of Grand Isle, showing level of organization of 5M on the survivor index, meaning some official government agency remaining, suspected military. No response to repeated radio query.

Two authorized over flights of local area and limited satellite reconnaissance have indicated substantive fortification of Isle La Motte and Grand Isle. Bridges in area have all been destroyed. Heat sources indicate active motor vehicle traffic and a population of 400 and 1000, respective. Powered Maritime traffic has been observed in the form of small boats in satellite reconnaissance.

JSOC (Z) — IST ONE was dispatched on XXXXXXXX to attempt contact and assessment of survivors. Contact was lost with team on D + 5. No further attempt has been made to contact due to insufficient personnel and assets.

I handed it to Brit and she read it quickly, then handed it back.

“So, not much to go on. It does tally with what Red told us.”

“Yeah, and I’m going to have to call in some favors to get support for us going up there. We need a helo to get us close, and I’ll be damned if we’re going to operate so far out in the wild without some kind of fire support.”

I gave the report back to the S-2, and asked him to forward anything else he came up with. Then we went to get some sleep. I fell deep, despite the cannons firing a hundred meters away.

“BATTLE STATIONS!”

Brit yelled it full in my ear, the alert word we used for “get your armor on, grab your weapon, and MOVE!” I rolled off my cot, slid my boots on, grabbed my armor in one hand and my rifle in the other, and ran out of the tent as fast as I could.

I stopped, now at least half awake, in the middle of the dusty street, holding onto my rifle and armor, one boot falling off, wearing a t-shirt and boxers, blinking in the bright sun, looking for a threat. Support soldiers walked past, giving me strange looks.

Turning around, I saw Brit standing in the doorway of the tent, one hand clapped over her mouth, trying not to laugh out loud. She gave up and fell to the ground, holding her stomach and laughing so hard that her eye was watering.

“Very fucking funny, hardy har har. Payback is a bitch, and so are you.” I stepped over her and back into the darkness of the tent to get fully dressed.

“I think I peed myself.”

“Serves you right.”

Later that day, we droned northward on a C-130. The canvas seats along the sides were, as usual, uncomfortable, and I was happy it was short ride. The cargo bay was filled with stretchers, but there weren’t a lot of wounded, all told, from the operation. When you were fighting zombies, you either avoided getting wounded or you were dead. Several of the guys on the plane were gunshot wounds, but most were burns. In a battle, especially one against a raving horde of Zs that have breached your line, friendly fire isn’t always, like the old saying goes. It happens, more than people want to admit, and the Army had been pretty liberal with using napalm this time. When the Apocalypse happened, weapons that tended to cause a lot of destruction, like napalm or cluster bombs, weren’t used for fear of “damaging civilian infrastructure.” That all changed, of course, but by then it was too late. I remember that Boston took a nuke, right around Day 10 of the plague. Too much, too late. Not that I minded Fenway and the Red Sox getting nuked.