John Holmes - Even Zombie Killers Get the Blues

“We expect that there are others in the mountainous areas in the Catskills, and up in the Taconic Hills. Down by the river, though, not much expected. Everyone was pretty much starved out. That’s all I’ve got.”

“What about West Point, Camp Smith, all the areas we’re going to be humping a ruck?”

“What about them?”

“Do you have any Intel?”

“Isn’t that why you’re going there?”

“I guess so. Thanks.”

“No problem.” Apparently my sarcasm went right over his head.

The Operations Officer stepped over, and took up the briefing.

“In support of ongoing recon operations, we’re moving a two-gun, 105mm Howitzer section by barge down to Bannerman Island to establish a blocking position and Combat Outpost, COP Castle. Attached will be an Infantry platoon and Engineering Squad, plus a commo detachment for signal relay.”

“Your team will be inserted by gunboat at this point—” and he tapped the map on the west bank of the River, “—just above the lower landing at the West Point grounds. Your objective is to recon the grounds of the US Military Academy, check and see if the place can be used.”

“Can I ask you a question? Why West Point? There are a lot of better places to fortify, and it’s not really much of a strategic place anymore. I don’t think the Zombies will be sailing up the river anytime soon.”

Ahmed answered me. “It’s like this, Nick. Of course in today’s day, there is no need for fortifications as such. However, it is a very powerful symbol to the American people. A sign that things are getting back to normal as such.”

The Ops officer nodded. “Pretty much. You’re going to put your asses on the line to make a statement. Nothing new.”

“Better than being fed a line of bullshit. Thanks.”

“No problem. Your other objective is Camp Smith. NY Army National Guard base. We’re interested in the barracks, arms rooms, backup generators, etc. The base is a lot smaller, more easily defended than West Point. Let us know how habitable it is.”

“Isn’t that a little close to Indian Point?”

“Over flight sensors say that it’s safe.”

Brit snickered and he shot her a dirty look.

“It’s a simple in and out. No more than three days on the ground.”

“So was the last mission. Brit got shot, and we lost three team members.”

“Well then, this should be a vacation for you. See you in a week. The boat leaves at 0700.”

We broke up the meeting, and each of us went our separate ways. Scrounge ammo, eat a good meal, take care of equipment, catch up on Power Point Ranger’s cartoons, update Facebook status, call home from the Verizon Phone Tent, let the world know we’re still alive.

“Sergeant Agostine! Sergeant Agostine!”

I stopped and turned around. A squeaky new 2 ndLT came striding over the dirt towards me, followed by two equally new privates. He was dressed in brand new multicams. I felt like a dirtbag compared to him, with my leather jacket, scuffed kneepads, and three day growth of beard. In other words, he stood out like a sore thumb compared to the slightly used look of the post-Zombie Army.

“Yes Sir, um, Lieutenant Carter? What can I do for you,” I said, trying to be pleasant despite having a headache.

“Well, for one you can stand at attention when I address you, Sergeant.”

“I could, if I had a pole stuck up my ass, Bub, which I don’t.”

That brought him up short, with a look of shock on his face.

“Excuse me?”

“Sir, I’m part of the Army, but not in it. Nor do I have time to play rules and regulations. I have a boat to catch. So, how about we start off again, on the right foot?”

His face took a minute to catch up with the thought train, and then his jaw closed shut. He heard a snicker from behind him, and turned to glare at a Specialist behind him, a young female with an aid bag slung over her shoulder.

“Um, ah, OK, Sergeant. I’ve been assigned to your recon of West Point. Myself, Specialist Mya-” the medic nodded “-and PFC Redshirt will be accompanying you.”

I laughed out loud. “PFC Redshirt? You have got to be kidding me.” The male soldier, flushed under his bronze Native American skin, and the Lt. started getting angry again.

“He’s Native American and a good soldier. What is your problem, Sergeant? There is no place for racism in this Army!”

“No offense, PFC. Grab your gear and meet me down by the river. We’re leaving in fifteen minutes.”

“We’re leaving when I’m ready, Sergeant, which won’t be for another thirty minutes.”

“We’re leaving in fifteen minutes, with or without you, Sir.” And I turned and walked away.

I knew what had happened. Major Flynn had given me a babysitter because he didn’t want any other incidents happening, so he saddled me with the Son of Jackass. It never stopped. The world had gone to hell, but the bullshit survived.

They were there when we pulled out. I knew that the Captain of the Gowanus Bay , the Army Tugboat (look it up on Wikipedia) scheduled to deliver us downriver, wasn’t going to wait on a couple of stragglers. She had a schedule to keep that was influenced by the tidal nature of the river, even here, more than a hundred miles north of the ocean.

I sat on the square bow of the lead barge, boots off, relaxing, actually enjoying the day and the decent weather. We didn’t get to relax much here in Zombieland, but with a full platoon of Infantry riding shotgun, I loosened up a little. Brit sat next to me, cleaning the new M-4 we had picked up for her. Her way of relaxing, I guess. Behind us sat the howitzers, one to each barge. They sat center deck with supplies in crates stacked all around. Short, ugly 105mm cannons, with a range of eleven and a half kilometers, they would be able to cover both sides of the shore to a few miles inland. I liked having them at my back, but where we were going, up in the Hudson Highlands, they wouldn’t be able to provide fire support. As far as the Infantry guys were concerned, they were going to set up an outpost to cover the mouth of the river, regulating any traffic moving on it, and providing fire support to the patrols that would start making their way down the Hudson River Valley. We were just along for the ride.

Brit eyed a group of Artillerymen who had stripped down to t-shirts and were moving boxes of howitzer rounds under the direction of one of the boat crew. She licked her lips.

“Didn’t getting shot take a little wind out of your vag?”

She gave me a dirty look. “I didn’t get shot in the vag. I got shot in the gut, which hurt, thank you very much.”

“Hey, we did rescue you, you know.” I could tell by the tone in her voice that she was still a little bent out of shape.

She mimicked me in a high whiny voice. “We did rescue you, you know,” then said, “Next time, not that there will be a next time, don’t stop to have little chat with the bad guy. Just fraking SHOOT him.”

“OK, I will.”

“Fine.”

“FINE.”

She assembled her rifle and slunk over to the guys on the work detail. Suckers.

“Sergeant Agostine.” Oy, here it comes again.

The new LT came over and stood before me, blocking the sun.

Here it comes, I thought.

“Sergeant, I didn’t appreciate your little game back at the base. I know, here comes the new LT, haha, let’s mess with the new guy. Well, I don’t appreciate it, and I’ll remind you who the ranking officer on this scouting expedition is.”