Convoy 19: A Zombie Novel (6 page)

Chapter 8

Pam sighted her rifle and fired two shots into the cadaver shambling towards her. “We have to leave right now! Air support is on its way! We need to be gone when it gets here!” She rushed to join Miguel crouched against the back tire of a hummer. Moments ago, bullets had been clanging and buzzing around them, but now, soldiers and civilians alike turned to defend themselves against an onslaught of hungry undead.

Miguel watched the corpse Pam had shot sway back and forth from the impact of the bullets… only to continue its pursuit after regaining its balance. “The head, Pam! Shoot them in the head!” Miguel took aim at the zombie and fired. The monster’s head snapped back, and it crumpled into a heap. Soldiers were trained to shoot at the center mass of their target. The torso of a person was not only the easiest to hit, but contained a wide range of vital organs that—once ruptured—would incapacitate any living target. The undead had only one vital organ: the brain. Re-training one’s self to fire at the relatively small and difficult-to-hit cranium was the first hurdle a soldier had to conquer in the war against the living dead. In the heat of the moment, it was easy to forget that, while a few shots to the chest of an attacker were sufficient to drop any
living
target, the undead were anything but.

“Okay, let’s get out of… oh… my… God!” Miguel stopped short, and his eyes drifted over Pam’s shoulder.

Pam followed his gaze toward what he was looking at.

“My baby! Please! Help my baby!” A woman in a tattered dress, her head bloody and her arms bandaged, limped towards Miguel. With her was a child on a leash that was clearly one of the living dead. The monster scrambled about with feral eyes and gnawed on a blood-soaked gag in its mouth. The flesh of its wrists was torn down to the bone from the zip-ties that bound them. Behind the child, a handful of injured people stumbled out from the wreckage of the overturned semi-trailer. Scores of them had been packed in like sardines – refugees hoping to find solace at the Naval Base. Many were bruised and bloodied from the crash, unprepared for their transport to be used as a motorized battering ram. At least a dozen of the “passengers” were bound and gagged, and wiggling about on the ground. They strained against their bonds, in a vain attempt to feed on the living.

A year had passed since news outlets first informed the world of the undead epidemic. Nonetheless, it was not uncommon to encounter people who did not understand that their reanimated friends and loved ones were lifeless beasts. Despite the fact that the living dead were bloodthirsty and mindless shells of flesh and bone, they were still sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives. It was world shattering to witness the death and reanimation of a loved one, and not everyone had the willpower to accept such a horrible reality. Some people would restrain their infected relatives and hope for a cure. They cared for their living dead indefinitely, traveling with, and even attempting to access safe zones with cannibalistic companions. Often they would kill or even die defending their “families.”

“What do we do?” Specialist MacAfee, communications expert from another car, rushed over to Pam.  He fired his rifle into more of the approaching undead.

Pam looked about to assess the situation. The walking dead were pouring in around them. The highway was choked with moaning corpses, and the bodies were piling high. Sergeant Quinn had been laying down an oppressive torrent of firepower from his mounted gun, but had been forced to stop by the ghouls swarming his vehicle. Over a dozen clambered over one another to reach him, and a howling press of monsters now obscured the entire car.

The civilians that had attacked the convoy were fighting in their own life and death struggle… and they were losing. One van had already loaded up and peeled away. The rest were being overrun by the undead, their occupants screaming in agony as they were torn to shreds by dozens of snapping jaws.

Pam punched the communications link on her helmet. “Convoy 19, get to your vehicles and continue east! Air support is on its way. We can’t help these people.”

Carl heard the order through his headset. He crawled to the open driver’s-side door of a nearby Humvee, and fired his pistol into the head of an approaching ghoul. It fell next to the corpse of one of Carl’s fellow soldiers. It was Private Logan – he had been crushed below the waist by the collision with the semi. Carl looked into the face of another man who had died under his command… and sighed. Taking aim, he put a bullet into the head of Logan’s corpse. Carl had lost so many men and women under his command. This one, at least, would not reanimate to attack the living.

He pulled himself into the driver’s seat and checked for the keys. Suddenly, he felt something grasping at his leg, and he swung around with his pistol.

“Please, sir! Please! I’ll do anything! Please! Take me with you!” A young woman pleaded frantically, tears streaming down her cheeks. She was in her early teens with brown hair and wide brown eyes – a kid who had gotten caught up with a band of desperate and reckless civilians. She clutched at Carl with terror.

Carl looked at the girl. The bites on her shoulder were obvious. She was doomed, and the merciful act would be to put a bullet in her brain at that moment. Instead, Carl pushed her away and closed the vehicle door. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, as he locked the door.

“Please! Please! You’re supposed to protect us. Please!” the woman cried.

“Get us the hell out of here!” Private Barona and Private Richards dove into the vehicle from the other side and slammed the doors behind them. Snapping jaws and beating fists threw themselves against the windows in impotent pursuit.

“Get in that gun mount and cover our guys!” Carl threw the vehicle into reverse. He punched the gas and plowed backward through throngs of undead to give his gunner a better vantage.

Private Richards climbed into the gun mount and began pumping fire into the area. Time was a factor. If the streets became so densely choked that the Humvees were unable to move, air support would not be able to clear the zone. If air support was unable to do its job, then escape could get complicated. Every soldier had heard the stories about convoys being bogged down by dense hordes of undead for days and weeks. Sometimes, survivors of destroyed convoys would trickle into DDCs or fight their way back to the naval base. There they would recount their tales of harrowing survival while lamenting the men and women they were forced to leave behind. Other times, entire convoys would cease communication and simply never be heard from again. Broken down Humvees were occasionally found abandoned throughout the city containing ominous clues as to the fates of their crews

“Damn… look at all of them…” Private Barona gasped. “I’ve never seen so many in one place.”

“They’re attracted to the commotion.” Carl responded. “If we stayed here long enough, we’d have every ghoul in the city on top of us.”

“How many?” Private Barona asked. A rotted face pressed itself up against the passenger side window and the Private casually rolled the window down a few inches. As the ghoul leered at him, he placed his pistol against its head and fired.

“A million in the city. Three million metropolitan.” Carl watched Pam, Miguel, and Private MacAfee scramble into the nearest Humvee. He punched the communications link on his helmet. “Check if you’re in a car!”

Seven “checks” came back. Carl loved every member of his team, but was particularly relieved to hear the voices of Pam and Miguel.

“Anyone else?” Carl waited a few more seconds. “Okay, Pam and Miguel, bulldoze us out of this nightmare. We’ll take up the rear.”

Sergeant Quinn’s Humvee exploded through a pile of writhing bodies with a crash of gore and limbs. Some persistent corpses tried to hang on, but were thrown off as it sped forward. Civilians attempted to grab hold of the convoy vehicles as they escaped. Those who managed to find purchase were dragged for a while before losing their grip or torn away by the hungry dead.

Carl followed his team. As he went, the mounted gunner spun around and continued spraying into the densely packed mass of ghouls.

A few moments passed, and the unmistakable sound of helicopter blades rumbled in behind them.

“We’re clear, air support. Party’s all yours.” Pamela’s voice cracked through the headsets.

“Copy that, 19.” The relaxed voice came back.

Carl watched in his rear view mirror. The mayhem in the street behind him vanished in a thunder of fire and smoke, as missiles made contact with their targets. Civilians, undead, and vehicles were obliterated in a cleansing aerial bombardment.

“Armor’s on the way, 19.” The same pilot’s voice assured them. “It’ll be clear by the time you come back through.”

The sight of the Black-hawk helicopters cleaning up the perimeter vanished in the distance. The military would have the street reopened in a few hours, but the undead that had survived would disintegrate back into the city to wander around looking for new prey.

“Sound off.” Pam ordered, and the voices of Carl, Miguel, and five others came back.

“Shit – so we lost seven,” Carl responded. “Okay, we have three Humvees, three drivers, three gunners, and two comms. On my mark, we stop, reorganize crews, and get going. Middle car goes without a comm… don’t get lost. Everyone ready?” Carl paused for a few seconds. “Mark!” The three vehicles screeched to a halt, and the soldiers poured out. Pam, Miguel, and Carl, were reunited in the lead Humvee. Sergeant Quinn, Specialist MacAfee, and Private Barona took up the rear. Private Richards and Sergeant Ornstein took the middle car.

Convoy 19 sat in the street for a moment, collecting itself. They had only been stopped for a few precious seconds when the lurking shadows began to roam into view. Their hollow moans carried on the wind and echoed through the streets and alleys.

The mission had just cost seven lives, and it had barely begun.

Chapter 9

The gray corridors of the USS Ronal Reagan were crowded by sailors rushing to and from their battle stations, but Dr. Damico felt alone. Step by step, Henry made his way to his living quarters. His mind was in a fog after six grueling hours in the hospital. The adrenaline had left his system, and exhaustion was beginning to hit him. Sleep would have been welcome, but—tired as he was—he felt the insomnia creeping over him. The pressure of his responsibilities as Secretary of Health and Human Services began to worm its way into his mind.

He arrived at his stateroom, glanced up to ensure he was in the right place, turned the door handle, and stepped inside the cramped living space.

“Good morning.” Tracy Gowda sat hovering over her laptop at Dr. Damico’s desk. Boxes containing file folders had been piled high over every possible surface, and only a narrow path—barely wide enough for her wheelchair—ran from the door to the desk. Of the two fluorescent lights that lit the cabin, one had stopped working. The other cast the room in a gentle yellow hue that reminded Henry of a dingy bar.

“Good… morning…” Henry answered back confused, before realizing that technically it was early morning. The Mexican attack had begun late at night and time had flown while he was working in triage.

Tracy wheeled herself around and punched a few keys on a second laptop that sat behind her. “You’ll want to take a look at the documents that I’m sending to you. Admiral McMillan needs your report ASAP.”

Dr. Damico had seen his share of workaholics in his life, but none even came close to Tracy. She had been his advisor for four years at his office in San Diego. She had never taken a sick day, personal day, or vacation day in that entire time, and was at her desk every morning before he arrived, and every evening when he left. As far as he could tell, the young professional lived entirely on a diet of coffee and vending machine food. Her understanding of sociology, economics, and international politics, was more than any three Health and Human Services employees combined, and she was immediately perceived as a threat by every rung of the professional ladder. She had been relegated to be his assistant for the entirety of her career, but had never once expressed an interest in advancing upward, despite being vocally disgusted with incompetence at the top. She seemed to exist for no other purpose than to dissect miniscule details of thousand-page reports on obscure topics, and translate them into tidbits of information that Henry found unbelievably helpful. With the rise of the living dead, her encyclopedic knowledge of numbers, statistics, trends, and outcomes, guided him in ways that saved countless lives.

There was no place to store the piles of paperwork and reports that had accompanied Henry from his mainland workplace. His quarters in the aircraft carrier had doubled as his office since his arrival. Since the reports were here, Tracy had taken to working in his room at all hours. Henry felt as if he should be annoyed by the constant intrusion, but he had come to appreciate Tracy’s dedication. Since he never slept anyway, it seemed pointless to make a fuss.

Henry squeezed into a narrow space between two boxes on his bed and dug around the mess for his laptop. He rubbed his eyes as the pale blue light of his monitor washed over him. A few moments of silence passed, and he started to digest the information Tracy had sent him.

“Thank you very much for keeping me on through all of this, Henry.” Tracy reached for a coffee pot that sat atop a jumbled stack of papers and filled her cup as well as a second cup, which she passed to Henry.

Henry took the coffee. “Thanks? For what?”

Tracy wheeled her chair around to face him. “If it wasn’t for this job, I wouldn’t be here, on this ship. I’m alive because of you, Henry. This chair wasn’t built for outrunning the living dead, and warships weren’t exactly built for cripples. I realized while you were gone at triage that if things went badly, I might not have an opportunity to express my gratitude.”

“Tracy, you…”

“So thank you, Henry. Thank you for saving my life.” Tracy interrupted. “There are four other people in wheelchairs in the entire fleet, and three of them are soldiers who were wounded in the line of duty. Do you know how many blind people we have?”

“How many?” Henry knew Tracy well enough to see that she was retreating into the comfort and safety of numbers and statistics during an emotional moment.

“Two,” Tracy said. “There are five deaf people. If you
generously
guess that there are twice as many disabled in the civilian fleet that means there are fifteen cripples, six blind people, and fifteen deaf people left in the entire West Coast. That’s more than a 99.999 percent mortality rate.”

“You saved your own life, Tracy.” Henry replied.

“No…”

“No, you did…” It was Henry’s turn to interrupt. “All this selecting who joins the fleet and who doesn’t is pretty awful business. It’s unconscionable that we think of people in terms of assets and liabilities, instead of actual people… children.”

“But we have to…” Tracy started.

“You are absolutely right, Tracy. It sucks, but we have to select people with skills and qualities that are going to give us the absolute best chance to rebuild civilization. If you’re a bright-eyed teenager who can’t do much else but play the guitar, the sad facts are that you’re worth less to civilization right now than a seventy-year-old farmer is. Farmer gets to come and teenager has to stay, fend for himself, and stands a really strong chance of joining the walking dead before farmer has a chance to plant his first seed in the ground… if he ever even gets that chance. That’s a terrible, terrible reality.”

Tracy nodded in agreement.

“You saved yourself because you are valuable.” Henry continued, knowing that a cold clinical analysis of Tracy would appeal to her practical nature. “You are my assistant, but your knowledge and background makes you one of the keys to our survival. It’s not just that you’ve saved thousands of lives already. It’s that you will continue to save lives in the future. You will be a direct contributor to the survival of the human race. You did that, not me.”

Tracy clenched her jaw and nodded again.

“How many people do we have left counting the civilian fleet?” Henry asked.

“The reports are still coming in, but we’re around thirty thousand.” Tracy turned back to her computer. “Thirty thousand, six hundred…”

“If three thousand of those people, just three thousand, survived because of your work on DDC policy, screening, asset management, or convoy logistics…then you are responsible for saving ten percent of  the entire fleet.” Henry smiled as he made his point. While Tracy might low-ball her estimates at three-thousand lives saved, she was probably responsible for saving closer to twenty thousand lives in the fleet alone. Furthermore, her work had helped to protect many civilians trapped on land. Their chances were slim, but many were still alive due in large part to her foresight.

The two sat silently reading their reports until Tracy broke the silence again, “How many are you responsible for then?”

“Um…” Henry smiled. Tracy was laying a trap.  She would take this opportunity to lecture him on safety. Being who he was, he would see the logic in her advice, but he would also ignore it. “A handful, I guess.”

“Henry, you deal with facts every day to guide assessments that you pass on to the Admiral. If your professional assessment of the number of lives that you’ve saved is merely a ‘handful’, my professional assessment is that your judgment is in serious question, and you may not be fit to serve as Secretary of Health and Human Services.” Tracy lectured. “This fleet, the DDCs, the convoys…they all exist because of you. Nearly every person living on the west coast is alive today because of you. Evacuation operations on the east coast are modeled after recommendations made by you. Take all that and add to it the fact that you will be responsible for designing the strategy that re-establishes civilization in North America...” She trailed off.

“I suppose…” Henry began.

“Henry, you are the most important and influential person in the fleet…possibly the world! You shouldn’t be taking unnecessary risks in triage. You should have Secret Service bodyguards posted around you 24/7.” Tracy tried to put Henry’s work in perspective. She and Henry were crafting the intellectual building blocks that not only kept thousands of people alive, but also gave those people the potential for a future.

“There aren’t enough guards where we need them.” Henry tried to deflect Tracy’s lecture.

“You can’t put yourself in dangerous situations, Henry. I’m not going to tell your wife you died doing something stupid.” Tracy made her point.

Henry didn’t know what to say. He never really thought of himself as particularly influential or important. He had done well in school, had been a good doctor, and had married the love of his life. When he transitioned out of medicine into the Department of Health and Human Services, he saw it as an opportunity to help a larger group of people. However, being dubbed ‘the most important person in the world’ seemed like a stretch.

“No, Admiral McMillan is the most important person in the fleet. He should have guards. There’s probably someone like him in Europe and Asia, and maybe Africa. Guys like me aren’t nearly as important.” Henry countered.

“Guys like you tell guys like Admiral McMillan what to do. Guys like the Admiral are important, but guys like you make it so guys like McMillan have something to work toward,” Tracy affirmed.

“Ah, but people like you, tell people like me, what to tell people like McMillan to do.” Henry smiled back.

Tracy waved him away and turned back to her laptop. Stillness fell over the room for a bit as Henry’s mind dove back into Tracy’s reports: food shortages, security problems, supply losses. There was never any good news in a report. All Henry could do was manage everything the best that he could.

“The situation is pretty fucked up out there, isn’t it?” Tracy broke the silence.

“Yeah.”

“You think it’s time to pull out? Stop the convoys? Let the DDCs fend for themselves?” Tracy asked, still staring at her laptop.

Henry chewed his lip before he responded. “There are a lot of people still trapped inside the DDCs. We told them to go there. We said that they were going somewhere safe. We’d be abandoning thousands of people… What’s your data say?”

Tracy had anticipated Henry’s question and turned her laptop toward Henry.  The screen displayed a line graph. The green line was roughly smooth with a gentle downward slope. “This is the aggregate food supplies within the fleet – including whatever the convoys bring in and whatever we’re able to fish out of the ocean. Provided the Mexican military hasn’t destroyed or stolen any of our supplies, this graph is current up to yesterday.”

“How long do we have?” Henry drank in the data. His keen mind merged numbers to practical realities and projected outcomes weeks in advance. He already knew what Tracy’s conclusion would be, but wanted to hear her confirm it.

Tracy pressed a button on her computer. A red line appeared beneath the green line. It too was roughly smooth, but was flat in contrast to the line above it. “This represents the amount of food we need to feed thirty-thousand hungry mouths: Twenty-six tons of food every day. That is almost two hundred tons of food in one week, Henry. Two hundred tons.”

“How long?” Henry repeated the question.

“We have about six months. Maybe less, unless the convoys are bringing in twenty-six tons of food along with all the refugees, we’re wasting time. We have to start moving on our game plan, or we won’t have to worry about the undead devouring us…we’ll start devouring each other.” Tracy drove her point home. “Every hour, more than a ton of food vanishes from the fleet.”

Henry nodded in agreement. There were a million things to account for in the North American evacuation; people, supplies, ammunition…but the constant need to keep the people fed had concerned him and Tracy above all others. There was an old saying that Henry kept in mind whenever he and Tracy came upon the topic of food shortages. ‘There are only nine meals between mankind and anarchy.’ Hungry people are desperate people. Desperate people are dangerous.

“Okay, it’s time to move.” Henry nodded.

“Do you want to see my figures on our fuel situation? I’ve modeled some numbers for what flu season is going to do to the fleet. Oh! Here are some figures on the general population with no valuable skills – mouths we are feeding every day with literally nothing to offer in return,” Tracy continued. She was fascinated by the statistics and research in this apocalypse, but every issue felt like another weight on Henry’s shoulders. “The convoys can’t seem to find any food, but they sure aren’t having any problem finding more hungry mouths.”

“I think I have enough to present my case to the Admiral. Thank you, Tracy.” Henry rubbed his temples and he stood up.

He began to gather up some documents for his report to the Admiral. McMillan had stopped asking Henry for documented evidence of his recommendations long ago. Henry had taken that as a sign of trust, but he always felt better with black and white back up on hand. The civilian leadership who often attended the Admiral’s briefings seldom contributed, but they were always the first to criticize without offering any helpful alternatives.

“Convincing the Admiral we have to move will be the easy part. Convincing him of what we need to do about the Mexican military will be a lot more difficult. Can you start making sure I have the info I need to do that?” Henry asked.