Even Zombie Killers Get The Blues (Zombie Killer Blues) (12 page)

Chapter 31
“Sergeant Agostine! Sergeant Agostine!”

I stopped and turned around. A squeaky new 2
^nd
LT 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.”

I waited.

After a few seconds of silence, he went on. “I know
that you have tons of experience, having survived out there for the last few
years on your own, but maybe it’s time to let the professionals take charge.”

He glared down at me, hands on his hips. He was
starting to sweat in his uniform, but I said nothing.

“So,” he continued “I think its best if we address
the team and present a unified command, let them know that we understand each
other. I will, of course, listen to your advice, but the decisions rest with
me. Also,” he said, glaring at Brit as she chatted up the work detail “I will
not have fraternization between my team and the other elements of this
command.”

“Seriously? You know, Sir, you had me going right up
until that point. No fraternization! Really? Might as well try curing the
zombie plague as tell Brit to keep it in her pants. ”

He stared back down at me. “Some things are an
abomination to the Lord, Sergeant.”

Oh great, another holy roller. There was a large
segment of the population who thought the Zombie Apocalypse was Judgment Day,
and we were living in the end times. Not so much out on the frontier, because
you quickly realized that the dead were, well, the dead, and Jesus wasn’t
coming, and everyday life still was a lot of hard work. I just couldn’t believe
we had gotten rid of one pain in the ass to get saddled with another.

“LT, lets’ get something straight. Doc, Brit,
Jonesy, Ahmed and I are a team. We have been fighting and surviving out here in
Indian Country for a few years now while you’ve been sitting back in Candyland
playing Chutes and Ladders. You can
try
to order the team around, but
you’ll learn quick that trying and doing ain’t the same thing.
Maybe
you
can earn their respect by being as good as they are, or at least Itrying to
learn from them, but coming off all high and might isn’t going to cut it.”
I could see him getting red with anger, so I tried a different tact.

“OK, let me ask you this, LT. How many times have
you been out in Zombie Country?”

“Uh, well, this is the first, except, of course,
when we go through the combat course at Officer Basic School.”

“Please, give me a break. They drop you kids off in
an enclosed area, with snipers all around, and let you play in the woods for a
few days, hunting barely mobile Zs. You don’t know shit, and like as not,
you’re going to get yourself and someone else killed.”

“I’ve got plenty of schooling, Sergeant, and with
the Lord protecting us, I’ll be able to serve my country in its hour of need.”

I snorted and started pulling my boots on. “And when
the shit hits the fan, Jesus is going to come rescue you riding a T-Rex and
firing an Uzi, while Ronald Reagan supplies Close Air Support with a shotgun and
a bald eagle. Honestly, keep far away from me, and we’ll do just fine, LT.”

“I’ll forgive you for taking the Lord’s name in
vain, but remember who is in charge, Sergeant.”

“Aye aye, Scuba Steve.”

He stomped away and I resumed carving a small
dolphin for Brit, flicking the shavings into the water, but my good mood was
gone.

Chapter 32

We cruised down the Hudson, passing the ruins of
small towns. Burnt-out shells of buildings traced their way down to the
waterfronts and ragged figures stumbled through the rubble. Zombies attracted
by the rumbling of the diesel engines as the tug towed our two barges through
the water. We passed one fortified farm with the stars and stripes flying over
the house. The tug captain blew a long blast on the air horn and a group of
people came down to the waters’ edge and waved. Maybe a dozen survivors, living
on a walled farm. Tilled fields stretched off toward the woods. The tug’s
zodiac boat went over the side, and a squad of Infantry, with Doc along for the
ride, went cruising over to them. They would spend an hour or so with them,
assess their needs and try to convince them to relocate to the FEMA camp upriver.
I doubted they would go, though. We would meet back up with the team further
downstream, after Doc had done what he could for them with medical treatment.

“Hearts and minds, Brother!” I yelled after Doc as
they sped away. He stood up in the boat and thumped his chest in reply.

A lazy half hour passed. I dug out some lunch and
headed back toward the barges. At the end of the first barge, a sandbagged .50
caliber machine gun position was hosting a curious competition. Ahmed, with his
Draganov, and an Infantry Corporal with a Barrett .50 caliber sniper rifle,
were going shot for shot, plugging at the figures on the shoreline. The flat
CRACK of Ahmed’s .30 caliber rifle was followed by the big BOOM of the Barrett,
alternating with each other. Behind them, another soldier kept score.

“What’s going on?” I asked when they had stopped to
reload their weapons.

The Infantry sniper, a big redneck, spoke first.

“Ah gots a bet with yer A-rab buddy fifty dollars who’s
the better shot.” He spat a big wad of chew out of his mouth and put another
chunk in his cheek. Ahmed looked at me with a faint grin, then they both rested
their rifles back on the sandbags again, pressing their cheeks to the stocks of
their rifles and scanning past the scope to get a broad view of the shore.  

“What’s the score?”

“Dead even. Seventeen each. Haha, get it? DEAD
EVEN!” The kid cracked up laughing.

“Yeah, haha, very funny.” He looked like he wasn’t a
day over sixteen, freckles under the dirt on his face and a wispy fail of a mustache,
but he had a Combat Infantry Badge and jump wings with a skull on them, meaning
he had survived an airborne insertion into an infested area and fought his way
out. The Airborne did that sometimes. Jumped into the remains of a city to
secure something important, historical items or critical infrastructure,
secured it for later pickup if they couldn’t carry it out, and then had a
running battle to the nearest safe Evac zone. The world was a hard, hard place.
A few years ago, he would have been trying to save up for a car, mayve figuring
out what college to go to, trying to bang his girlfriend. Now he sat here
counting headshots to Zombies, cleaning his rifle and digging into an MRE.
Girls were a pipe dream.

I sat down and ate my tapioca pudding while they
continued to shoot. We were passing a small rise on the left bank, topped by an
old stone church. There didn’t seem to be any Zs, but Ahmed and the soldier
continued to scan the shore.

“I got movement up on that there church. Cain’t
really see whut...”

The soldier keeping score grabbed at his throat just
before we heard the shot. A spray of blood misted from his neck and then
started to spurt as I rolled over backwards, behind the sandbags. I crawled
over to the kid while the rifles cracked out rapidly. A figure jumped over me
and racked the bolt on the .50, then started pumping rounds downrange, THUMP
THUMP THUMP, the discharges from the half-inch shells pounding my ears. The
deck tilted as the tug’s diesels cranked up, and time changed. I saw brass cartridges
fall in slow motion on the deck around me and I pressed my hand to his neck, and
started pulling at the bandage pouch on his vest. I felt like I had all the
time in the world as blood spurted out between my fingers, and his feet drummed
on the deck. I ripped at the plastic cover of the bandage, but by the time I
got it out and shook the wrapping free, he had fallen still, and the blood no
longer pulsed under my hand. “GODDAMMIT!” I yelled, and pounded my hand on the
deck. The new medic pushed me aside and started compressing his chest but
stopped when she saw the exit hole on the back of his neck.
We turned around a bend and the guns fell silent. I stood up, covered in blood,
and looked down at the pale, lifeless body. Survived the Zombie Apocalypse,
fought who knows how many battles, and he was popped by some nut job Mad Max  scumbag.
Joking one minute, dead the next.

The medics zipped him up in the body bag. Next time
we pulled into shore, he would be buried with honors in a deep grave to keep
the Zs from digging him up, and we would fire three volleys over him. Tonight,
the guys in his squad would divvy up his stuff and auction it off. If his
family were still alive, someone would call them. Not enough people anymore in
the Army to do casualty notification in person. In a few days, once they got
the satellite coms up and running, someone would post on his Facebook wall that
he was gone, and messages would be posted all over the Internet. Six months
from now, only his family and friends would remember him. I hated war. I hated
death. So tired of it.  

The medic leaned over the edge of the barge, trying
to reach the water to wash her hands clean of the blood, then vomited.

“Well, Ah got him.”

“No, I think I got him.”

“Bullshit, both of you, I lit him up with the Ma
Deuce.”  

We sailed on downriver.

Brit’s
drawing of the Airborne Trooper’s Zombie Wings.