Stephen Knight: Left With The Dead

And of course, the zombies were everywhere. Hundreds of them. Most milled about aimlessly, waiting for some clue as to where their next meal might be. They shambled about like automatons, moving between the vehicles in the traffic-choked street. Most kept their eyes down low, looking for food at ground level. But not all. Though they couldn’t see Gartrell through the small opening he peered through, some of the stenches below scanned the buildings from the street, actively searching the windows for signs of prey. Gartrell taped the window shade back in place, and gloom returned to the tiny bedroom.

“Summit, this is Terminator. If the zeds get a lock on us, we’ll be lucky to have ten minutes. Over.”

“Roger that, Terminator. I need to park you on another frequency. I’ve got battalion-level reports coming my way in just a couple of minutes. Stand by, over.”

“Roger Six, I’ll stand by here. Over.”

During the pause, Gartrell opened one of the water bottles he’d taken from the Starbucks downstairs. He was parched as all hell, and he drank from the bottle with gusto. His growling stomach informed him some chow would be a great idea as well. He consumed one of the cinnamon coffee cakes in virtually three bites. It was stale, but he barely noticed.

Even stale coffee cake is better than an MRE.

“Terminator Five, Summit Six. Over.”

“Summit, this is Terminator, go ahead. Over.”

“Terminator, I’ve got a place to park you for the moment.” The infantry commander on the other end of the radio link read off a frequency. Gartrell pulled out his pen and wrote the freq on the brown Starbucks bag on the bureau before him. “Can you make that frequency? Over.”

“Summit, Terminator. Roger, I can make that frequency. Over.”

“Roger that, Terminator. Switch over now. Summit out.” As Summit Six finished his sentence, another transmission began, and Gartrell heard the terror in the reporting soldier’s voice. He was in contact with the horde, and the engagement wasn’t getting any better with age. Gartrell didn’t bother to acknowledge Summit Six’s transmission, for another report came in, stomping over the first one. Summit Six wouldn’t be able to hear him anyway, and it sounded like the light infantry battalion commander had more pressing things on his plate right now.

Gartrell switched over to the allocated frequency and announced himself. He heard only the slight hiss of background static, marred every now and then with some bleed-over from a neighboring frequency. He couldn’t make out the contents of the radio traffic, as the distortion level was extremely high. It could have been anything-more lightfighters in contact and looking for help, probably. Or maybe something as mundane as a truck convoy looking for directions.

“Terminator Five, this is Falcon Four, over.”

“Falcon, this is Terminator, go ahead.”

“Terminator, Falcon. I understand you’re caught behind the lines in the Upper East Side, is that correct? Over.”

“Falcon, Terminator. That is a roger, over.”

“Terminator, this is Falcon. Did Summit Six notify you that most of our elements are either in contact with the zeds, or soon will be? We’re a little stretched for resources right now. Over.”

“Falcon, that kind of came up in the conversation right after I asked for help, over.”

“Uh…got that, Terminator. Listen, we need you to stay tight. We’re looking for a way to get to you, but with all the north-south routes basically blocked with dead traffic, our guys can’t get in with vehicles. They have to hoof it. It’s going to take a long time, and they’ll have to fight from block to block, over.”

Gartrell buried his face in his hands. What the hell are they thinking? Of course they can’t take any vehicles in!

“Falcon, Terminator. I know I’m not in your command silo, but I’m Special Forces and I’ve been behind the line of troops for more than a day. These things do not give up. They will not stop. Sending dismounted troops at them is only going to embolden the zeds and get your guys killed. You can’t treat this as a normal movement-to-contact mission, the zeds have no ability to be afraid of your firepower, and they will swarm over each unit you send in until they defeat it by mass of bodies alone. This is a no-shit assessment from a guy who’s been there, done that. Over.”

“Roger Terminator, I get that. I’ll-I’ll advise Six of that as soon as I can. He’s a little busy right now, over.”

“Falcon, Terminator. He’s busy getting his guys killed. You’d better grow a pair and tap that guy on the shoulder right now, otherwise the only thing that’ll be left of his battalion is the headquarters company. You read me? Over.”

“I read you, Terminator.” Falcon didn’t seem to grasp the urgency of the situation, which left Gartrell incensed. If the entire 10th Mountain Division was fed to the zeds, then there wasn’t going to be anyone left to help him out.

“Falcon, Terminator. What’s your position in the Two-Eight-Seven, over?”

“Terminator, Falcon…say again? Over.”

“Falcon. This is Terminator.” Gartrell had a tough time keeping the frustration out of his voice. “I asked what your duty station was. Are you with the S-Three shop? S-Two? What?”

“Terminator, this is Falcon. I’m…I’m with the battalion S-Five, over.”

Gartrell was dumbfounded. “Falcon…you’re with the battalion’s public relations shop?”

“Uh…roger that, Terminator. Like I said, we’re a bit pressed for resources right at the moment-”

“Falcon, this is Terminator. Stay on this frequency. I’ll come back to you in one second.” Gartrell flipped back to the 2/87th’s common net, and found it was saturated with radio traffic from infantry units that were in contact with the legion of the dead. It was horrifying to listen to, but Gartrell had unfortunately heard it all before.

“Summit Six, this is Terminator Five! Pull your troops back, don’t push them into the zeds! Pull your troops back, or they’re gone, over!”

A half-dozen transmissions stomped on his as he tried to speak. He repeated the transmission several times, but he wasn’t getting through. The net was jammed. He was about to roll back to the frequency Falcon was waiting on, but a voice caught his attention.

“Terminator! Terminator, this is Yankee Five-Five-Six! We’re pinned down at the intersections of First Avenue and One Twenty-Seventh, you have anything you can help us with? The fucking zeds, they’re all over the place! Over!”

“Yankee Five-Five-Six, Terminator’s got nothing for you. You need to fall back or fortify your position, over.” Again, Gartrell’s transmission was stomped on mercilessly. He didn’t know New York City very well, but the Yankee unit’s position put it on the Harlem side of the East River-or was it called the Harlem River up there? Whichever, it didn’t matter. What it did mean is that the stenches had rolled all the way through Manhattan and Harlem throughout the night, which meant the Bronx would be the next borough to go. And as tough as he’d heard folks were in the South Bronx, he was pretty sure they wouldn’t hold up for very long against thousands of walking, flesh-eating corpses.

He repeated the advice to Yankee 556 twice more, but he heard nothing further from the unit. He caught snatches of conversation between other units and their commanders on the frequency, and the overall impression he got while listening to their fragmented reports was essentially grim. The lightfighters weren’t just getting their asses kicked, they were getting them bitten off. With a sigh, he rolled back to the frequency Falcon waited on.

“Falcon, Terminator. Give me a read on your side, over.”