The Apocalypse Crusade 2 (26 page)

O’Brian had been shaking his head and wore a pained look on his face. “The Governor has strictly ordered that the entire border be defended.”

Collins’ hands went to fists and he was again within an ace of hitting a fellow officer, something he shouldn’t have done earlier. He forced himself to turn away from O’Brian and stare at the map—it was hard to imagine so many men hunkered down so uselessly. “I was wondering why you had all these men all the way down south where they weren’t doing anything. I thought you were an idiot.”

“No sir, I’m not.”

“Good, then you can answer this question: Has the Governor allowed you to prepare fallback positions, just in case the lines don’t hold?”

“Yes sir. We have them along these lines…”

Collins smacked his hands together loudly. “Excellent! Then we will pull back the great majority of our forces as I had earlier suggested and we will move all the men out of the south, except of course
Whiskey, X-ray, Yankee
, and
Zulu
companies of the 1
st
Battalion. They will take over holding the perimeter in these areas.”

O’Brian’s eyes were wide and there was an uncertain smile on his lips. “There isn’t a
Whiskey, X-ray, Yankee
, or
Zulu
company in the 1
st
Battalion.”

“There is now. I’ve just formed them. Each company will be comprised of two men. They are to watch over whatever main roads that are around there. The men in the south will be safe enough but the men of Zulu company will be stationed on this east-west road and they will be up against zombies sometime in the next hour. They will defend the border with two shots each and then they are to retreat to our premade lines. Now, since there are no questions,” he paused to glare, suggesting there had better not be anyone questioning his order. “I need you men to get moving. You have a lot of work to do.”

Someone whispered: “Fuuuck.” Other than that, they stepped lively.

“Colonel O’Brian. I don’t want to get in your way, so I am going to borrow a few of your men and tour the lines. I want to evaluate the state of their readiness.”

Collins, with Lieutenant Colonel Victor by his side, went out to where the men waited in the dark. They were strung out in one long, thin line. Where the land was flat and open, there were forty or more yards between the anxious young men. It was worse in the forest where only ten yards would be between them, however with the trees and the dark, their visibility was down to nothing.

The men smoked with shaking hands and whispered to each other, their fear obvious in the high pitch of their voices…and these were the infantrymen! Further on, he came across an eighteen-year-old mechanic who had been pulled from the motor pool and had a rifle thrust into his hands. They heard him before they saw him. He was on the verge of hyperventilating.

“It’s going to be ok, soldier,” Collins said, though he knew it wouldn’t be. The dark was so thick that he hadn’t seen the man until he was only a few paces away. What would it be like trying to make headshots under these conditions? Nearly impossible.

“Is it happening?” the mechanic asked. “Is it now?”

Collins squatted down near the edge of the man’s foxhole. “No. It’ll be another hour or so. Maybe longer. We’re going to pull you back a few more miles to shorten the lines. It’ll mean there’ll be more of you, closer together. And we’re going to try to get you some light.” He turned to Victor and whispered: “Make a note. I need flares, about a million of them. Also concertina wire, grenades and claymores.”

“I’ll do my best.” Victor appeared skeptical that he would be able to get anything at all. “It’s the communications, sir and the fact that every armorer and every logistics officer in the 42
nd
is somewhere on the line.”

After a glance down at the mechanic, Collins said: “We’ll do our best.”

Trying wasn’t good enough. The pair of them, along with a few conscripted soldiers who had been trying to get away from the line by claiming one illness or another, took over half of the 1
st
Battalion’s communication gear. They began to fight their way across the radio-riddled airwaves and time and again, Collins seethed into the mike: “Stay off the fucking net!” as he found people chatting or whining or blubbering uselessly.

His mind strayed to Courtney Shaw as his aggravation reached a peak and he wondered if there was any way to get her help. She had a knack for cutting through the bull and getting what was needed. On a whim, he started to flip through the channels saying: “Courtney Shaw? I’d like to speak to Courtney Shaw.”

Eventually a woman’s voice said: “Yes? Who is this?”

“General Collins. I need your help.”

Her voice was a little thing when she answered: “I think I need your help more.”

Deckard put out a black-gloved hand to the doorknob. In his other hand, was the Glock he had borrowed from Courtney. The front of its barrel was silver with duct tape, holding an empty water bottle in place over the bore. Across his face was a blue surgical mask.

“This isn’t right,” he whispered and then took a breath to steel himself. He was about to commit murder or something so very close that only nuance kept them separated.

Thuy’s ideas to protect the station had held for a good hour and they would’ve held for longer but people had come and with them came zombies. Not a lot at first and they were stymied by the hot, stinging smell of bleach, but more came at the sound of the shouting.

There had been three men who had come running up out of the dark, their breath rushing in and out noisily, and their eyes wide and fearful. “Let us in,” they demanded in whispers, tapping on the door as loud as they dared. No one in the station wanted to open the doors. Each felt bad about not letting the men in, but their fear was too great, even when they knew it was wrong.

“We’ll do the right thing,” Thuy had said, heading for the door. She barely looked convinced by her own words and yet no one had the guts to second-guess her. Always prudently cautious, Thuy had the men inspected first. Deckard had cracked the door and shone a flashlight into their faces; one had shielded his eyes. They were very dark. “I’m Mexican for God’s sake,” he had pleaded. “This is always the color of my eyes.”

Thuy inspected him as well and she had the same doubt as Deckard. They should have listened to the doubt instead of the man’s pleas. The three were placed in one questioning room and that was a mistake as well. Thuy hadn’t wanted to contaminate all three rooms if it turned out they were infected.

Now, Deckard unlocked the door and stepped in, confronted by three men instead of one. With the zombies milling about outside he couldn’t afford to fire the gun more than once. The makeshift silencer would last for a single shot and then it would get exponentially louder with each shot.

“What the fuck, man?” the Mexican said. His eyes were obviously darker now and his mood volcanic. Yet he wasn’t so far gone that he failed to recognize the gun. “What the fuck? You gonna kill me? For what? What did I do?”

So far, he had done nothing but grow too loud. He had screamed to be freed and had beaten upon the windows, and for that, he had to die.

“You know what,” Deckard said. “I’m sorry.”

The Mexican shook his head. “No way. You ain’t no law and I didn’t do nothing wrong.” He slammed his hand down on the table. “I am fucking innocent! Tell them, Bobby. Tell them I’m one of the good guys. I saved your life, man.” The Mexican had been sitting on one side of the table but now he got up and advanced on the other two newcomers with his hands out, supposedly in peace, however, there was a smear of black on the side of his finger where he’d rubbed his eyes. It was like handing them poison.

“Stop,” Deckard ordered, the gun leveled. “Just step back away from them.”

“Why should I? You are going to kill me anyways, why can’t I say goodbye to my friends?”

The wicked gleam in his eyes showed both a burning hate and the ice of revenge. There was no getting around it, now; he was going to purposefully infect his friends. Deckard thumbed the safety back, but hesitated at the ugly act before him: he had come into the room with the one job of killing this man. Everyone knew it had to be done and yet no one had volunteered. The nuance between murder and putting this man down like a rabid dog was hard to grasp since he was still talking and walking and generally looking like a human.

“Maybe you should come at me,” Deckard suggested. It would make pulling the trigger easier, it would be self-defense.

Hissing, the man said: “No. They did this to me. Out there, they plotted to turn me into one of them. Don’t even try to deny it! Bobby I know you were trying to get rid of me and you’re still trying. You got me infected, somehow. Admit it! You may be acting innocent now but I know. I know!”

He was loud now, screaming the last word; loud enough to be heard through the walls.

“I didn’t do anything to you,” Bobby answered. “Neither of us did, so…so just stay back.” Both men hurried around the table toward Deckard. He shoved them away with his free hand.

“Go stand in the corner,” he ordered.

“Well what are you waiting for?” the Mexican asked. There were only five feet separating them. “You’re here to murder me. Go on and…” In the middle of his sentence, he rushed Deckard. It was mildly surprising and he took two steps before Deckard put a hole in his head.

Before the man had even hit the floor, Deckard had swiveled the gun toward the other two men. “Go through that door and into the room across the hall.” His voice was slow and even and very cool. Killing the Mexican hadn’t been his first morally grey killing. In fact it had been a lot less grey than some, but that had been years ago. “If you try to run, I will put a bullet into your back without hesitation.”

The men weren’t going to run. They had big eyes, which they kept on Deckard even as they went to the door, and their feet were leaden. They stumbled into each other and it was a relief for them when they finally made it to the next questioning room and were shut inside. The relief was short lived. A heavy crash vibrated along the walls. Zombies were outside the main door.

After a last glance down at the body, Deckard went out into the hall and saw Thuy hurrying up. “They heard,” she said.

“How many?”

“It’s hard to tell. Eight or nine. It’s not many so we’re lucky in that regard.” She paused and gave him a sick smile before she glanced over his shoulder. “Is it all done?”

“Yeah. We have to get rid of the body, though. We can’t take any chances; the germs might continue to grow, right?”

“Normally I would say that was unlikely, however the fungal agent may continue to proliferate and then there’d be spores…You’re right. It’s best not to take any chances. I would…” Another heavy thud stopped her words. That hadn’t been the door. It had been one of the windows being hammered on.

“Don’t worry,” Deckard told her, giving her arm a gentle squeeze. “The glass is thick. I’ll take care of this. You go back and see if Courtney has managed to get us some help.”

Deckard rounded up PFC Max Fowler and, once he was dressed in his MOPP gear, the two of them hefted the body to the back door. Johnny Osgood, in a mask and gloves, had his M16 at the ready. “Don’t shoot unless you absolutely have to,” Deckard told him.

Johnny pulled the door open and then crushed himself against the wall as the two men hurried out into the dark. Between them, the body was heavy, ungainly and they could only make do with a straddled waddle. It was chilling, stepping away from the safety of the building. The night had been crafted out of shadows, which all seemed to come alive, with sudden movement. With their masks blurring the shadows, Deckard and Max couldn’t tell if what they were seeing was real and although they had told themselves they were going to take the body to the edge of the parking lot, twenty steps was all either of them would dare to take. They dropped the body which made an ugly, wet, thunk on the asphalt, and then they were sprinting for the door.

Max found himself seemingly running straight into the barrel of Johnny’s gun and he cringed a little hoping the man wasn’t going to shoot; his aim while in his mask was notorious. But he did shoot and Max’s body twitched in one large convulsion as the flash practically blinded him. He stumbled into Deckard, who grabbed him by the shoulder and lifted him off his feet. Johnny fired again within inches of Max’s ear and the gun was thunder and yet he could still hear the slapping sound of many feet rushing up from out of the darkness. They were behind him and coming fast.

Someone screamed, Johnny probably, and then he was being shoved through the door by Deckard, and everything was bright and warm and safe. It was the difference between night and day, life and death. Deckard didn’t pause to savor the moment, the zombies were so close. He turned and hauled Johnny inside with one hand and with the other, he shut the door right in the face of a swarm of undead. In seconds their hammering hands were added to the din. The building was being assaulted on three sides now.

“Bleach me,” Deckard ordered Johnny. Next to the door, they had stationed one bucket of bleach and one of water. With a heavy brush, Johnny scrubbed the two men down. As he was being cleaned, Deckard blew out a sigh of relief and grinned. “I was all set to tear you a new one,” he said to Johnny. “I thought you were being trigger happy, but that was closer than I thought.”

Johnny didn’t grin back. His eyes were haunted. “They were right on you and there were a lot of them. I mean a heck of a lot. We can’t go out there again no matter what. We’re trapped, man. We are fucking trapped.”

“Settle down,” Deckard growled. “There isn’t any reason to get freaked out just yet. You two watch this door. I’m going to see if we’re going to be getting some back up.” Before going to the call station, he made a quick tour of the building: the front door was mobbed and shaking under the weight of the blows, the prison cells were quiet. Eng appeared asleep, while Meeks and Anna talked in a low voice. Plotting, Deckard figured.

He then slunk up to the window that was being pounded on. It was in the office wing and he found Chuck and Stephanie sitting in the dark with their knees touching, holding guns at the ready, pointing at the window. “It was the light that attracted them, Mr. Deckard,” Stephanie said in a tiny whisper. “We hadn’t covered the window completely and some light shone out. It was probably like a beacon to them.”

“And it’s good now?”

Chuck shrugged. “Ain’t no real way to tell unless someone goes out there. Buuut, I reckon it’s all good. Those beasties will get bored soon and mosey on.” Deckard saw he was trying his best to show an outward calm. Maybe for Stephanie’s sake, maybe for his own, Deckard couldn’t tell, however he did see in Chuck’s eyes that he wasn’t nearly so calm as he let on. They both knew something would give: one of the doors, or more likely the glass, and when it did there was really nowhere to go.

Against his better judgment, he inspected the cardboard and the coverings of re-purposed carpet over the window. It was seamless. Then he pulled back the edge of it far enough to inspect the junctions where the glass abutted the wall. There were cracks forming at the corners. They looked like crystalline cobwebs and beyond them were the vile creatures who’d made them. Their numbers were growing with every minute.

He forced a smile onto his face and said: “Just in case, let’s find the key to this door.” He gave the door a gentle tap; the smile wanted to come crashing down as he heard the hollow thump, but he forced it to stay in place. “It’ll slow them down some. Also could you two do me a favor and make sure you have masks.”

“We have them,” Stephanie held up a pair of surgical masks.

Deckard left with the smile still held in place, however it dropped the second he stepped into the hall. He scowled his way to the call station and was surprised to see all the operators at their stations. “What’s going on?” he asked Thuy, hoping they were coordinating a rescue effort, and in truth they were, just not for themselves.

“They’re being useful,” she answered. That seemed like a good thing but her lips were tight, suggesting otherwise. “Some are trying to unravel the communications mess that the army finds itself in and others are trying to track down different supplies for them: flares and night vision equipment, that sort of thing.”

“And what about us? What kind of help can we expect?”

“None,” Thuy said in a little voice. “We are in The Zone and, according to some general, no power on earth can get us out.”

“That’s bullshit,” Deckard snapped. He stormed over to where Courtney sat speaking into her headset. He was surprised to hear her lying to whoever was on the radio.

“Yes, this is direct from Governor Stimpson’s office. Yes…no, I’m his Chief of Staff. Yes…no, this doesn’t fly in the face of your orders. We have been in contact with Governor Allen and he has okayed this. Yes, because it is being considered a rescue operation. Sir, we don’t have time to argue. The lives of hundreds of people are on the line and we’re just talking flares, and yes the goggles, that’s right. Look sir, we have a plane on the tarmac even now. Yes, at Andrews. You just need to give the order. A verbal would do for now and we can follow that up with…great, thank you sir.”

She hung up and began running a finger down the pages of a book that seemed comprised solely of columns of numbers. “Yes?” she asked, without looking up.

“We need help,” Deckard stated. “Us. Right now.”

“Yeah and so do five thousand National Guardsmen.”

Deckard took the book and closed it on her finger. “You don’t understand. The window in Pemberton’s office is cracking and when it goes, there is only a very thin door between us and them and their numbers are growing. So you had better consider using that radio to help us before we have a houseful of zombies.”

“I tried already,” Courtney answered, her voice now as hollow as the office door. She had begged General Collins to the point of embarrassing herself and he had remained adamant and stoically calm:
I can’t and I won’t. Rescues have been tried in The Zone and they have all failed. I just lost a helicopter with all on board trying to rescue a CDC crew and another came back with an infected individual. I want you to know, Courtney that I would send out my own Blackhawk if I could, but somethings are beyond my power. I can’t risk the lives of the other three hundred million people in this country
.