John Holmes - Even Zombie Killers Get the Blues

He led onward, across the field. Everyone’s eyes were peeled now and the LT hadn’t said a word since leaving the boats.

We got to Trophy Point without further incident. The cannons, captured from America’s enemies in our 19 thcentury wars, were still there, lined up facing north against enemies that didn’t exist anymore. We stood in a row, unfurled a flag, and Specialist Mya took our picture. Propaganda for the civilians in the Secured Zones and the FEMA camps around the country. I hope it helped them get through the day.

Down below, we could see the shattered mush that was the Zs we had hammered with artillery. As we watched, another two rounds burst over the parking lot. The redlegs were pumping them in every half hour until we called stop. We watched until the smell was carried to us on a change of the wind, then set out, back across the field, but a different way than we had come.

The buildings themselves were shattered. It looked like some serious fighting had taken place, and many of them were burned out. I wondered how long they had held out, how long the ammo had lasted against the hordes from New York City. South of here was one of the most densely populated places in the country. Never mind the Zombies; the refugees would have stormed this place. It happened to every military installation near a major population center. The military represented hope, and places like Fort Bragg, close to major southern population centers, had been quickly overrun, their troops reluctant to fire on civilians until it was too late. West Point had been burned and picked clean. It didn’t leave me much hope for Camp Smith. It might have made great propaganda to have a picture of troops back at West Point, but from a military point of view, the place was useless.

We moved slowly past the fire-scorched stones of the cadet barracks. Up ahead, echoing between the buildings, we heard footsteps running quickly in our direction. Doc, now on point since we had another medic, held up a hand signal for “halt” and we all quickly dropped behind cover.

A blood-soaked figure came around a corner about a hundred meters away and continued down the road away from us in the direction of the boats. Ahmed raised his rifle to shoot. I put my hand on his arm, motioned for him to wait. Something didn’t look right. It moved wrong for a Z. Too fast. It was wearing the remnants of an army issue uniform. Could there be survivors here?

I stood up and yelled, “HEY! HEY YOU!” I know, too much noise, but the figure stopped and turned at the sound of my voice, started stumbling towards us.

He wore the remains of ACUs, ripped and shredded, and he was bleeding from a dozen wounds when he collapsed in the road in front of us. Doc walked forward, covering him with his rifle, then quickly slung it and reached for his aid bag, yelling for Mya to come forward. She came at a run, then stopped dead and vomited right there in the middle of the road. I had begun to think that maybe she was in the wrong profession if she vomited every time she saw blood. Brit said “Shit!” then jumped up and ran over herself. She too stopped dead and started drawing her pistol from her leg holster.

Doc reached up and slapped it out of her hand. By then I had made it up there, and I looked down at a bloody, but alive PFC Redshirt.

He had a half a dozen bite marks on his hands and other exposed areas, but it looked as if his armor had saved him from having his neck torn out. Doc was already cutting away parts of his uniform to check his wounds, and he yelled at Mya to give him a hand. After a few minutes, seeing the kid was in no immediate danger of dying, I pulled Doc aside and asked him why we weren’t shooting him dead on the spot, or sticking him with the Gom Jabbar and icing him.

“He’s immune. I’ve heard of it, but only two confirmed cases. Ever. One in England, and another in Southeast Asia before communications fell apart.”

“Really? No shit.”

“Really, yes shit. He’s still in a bad way, and those wounds can get infected. We have to get him back to the boats.”

Jonesy reached down with a hand, and slung the unconscious figure over his shoulders. We started off in a trot down towards the pier.

Before we got there, the radio Ahmed was carrying cackled into life.

“Lost Boys, Lost Boys, this is Castle 3, over”

The Firebase Ops officer was calling. I motioned for LT Carter to take the radio.

“Castle 3, this is Lost Boys, um, Lost Boys 5, over.” I knew he’d been about to say “Lost Boys 6” which was the call sign of the commander of a unit. I laughed a bit.

“Lost Boys, be advised, engine fire and explosion on number two boat, crew evacuated with injuries to boat one, boat damaged and rowing back to base, over.”

“Uh, roger, over.” I grabbed the mike from the LT.

“Castle, how the hell are we supposed to get out of here, break.” “Be advised we have one litter WIA, over”

“Understand, one litter WIA. Trying to arrange air Evac from Albany now, over.”

Great. You can’t make shit like this up. Everything that can go wrong, will go wrong, especially since spare parts and new equipment were almost impossible to come by.

“Lost Boys, be advised, Air Evac will be available in five hours. Find a good LZ and hunker down, over.”

“Castle, if that bird doesn’t show up, I am going to come back as a Z and eat you, over.”

“Understood, Nick. We will be there ASAP. Navy Close Air Support is on station.”

Around me, night was falling. I gathered the team around. We were going to have to make a stand.

I told them in one word. “Alamo.”

Brit said it for all of us. “F my life.”

As the darkness settled down on us, we made our way down to the dock. I wanted a long, open field of fire, a narrow approach, and, as a last chance, we could hit the water and swim for it. Not something I wanted to do, because the current here was swift and we would quickly get separated as we swept downstream.

Night fell, the stars came out, and a full moon quickly rose over the east side of the valley. Brilliant silver light flooded the landscape and reflected off the river. I got on the radio with the firebase and asked for on-call illumination rounds. Since they dropped from a base-ejecting shell eight hundred meters up in the air, they were fine. Actual fire support, firecracker or white phosphorus rounds to burn the Zs out was out of the question. The ridge of West Point blocked any low angle fire, and high angle fire, in this wind, wouldn’t be accurate enough. We didn’t need a high angle round getting blown a hundred meters off course and showering us with pellets.

The dock itself was made out aluminum, and the LT’s idea of ripping up the dock to make our own little island wouldn’t work. Even Jonesy, with his strength, couldn’t pry them apart. We discussed grenades, but I decided the risk of accidental injury at close range was too great and would call every remaining Z in ten miles. Besides, I hated grenades with a passion. Didn’t trust the damn things, never did.

“How’s everyone doing on ammo?”

“Down to about half,” said Brit.

Jonesy counted his magazines. “Seventy-five percent, but my weapon is shot. The receiver is cracked, where I hit some hard-headed booger. And I ain’t got no thumpers left.”

Doc was doing OK. “About half, also. Maybe two hundred rounds.”