Gnash (40 page)

Hank waived half his men down the eastern wall of the atrium while the other half stayed in place just outside the building to provide security.  The snipers, further back at the top of the stairs leading from street level, scanned as deep as they could into the structure with their scopes.

One of the men fired into the ground near his feet.  “Sorry, that was me.  I thought the one Bobby shot earlier was twitching,” one of the men said over the radio.

“Better safe than sorry Chris, but don’t get jumpy!” Hank admonished over the net. 

After several minutes the fire team that went inside declared the lobby clear.  Hank and his group moved into the building, carefully avoiding the jagged pieces of glass that jutted from what seemed like every surface.  He glanced at the Type One that Bobby shot as he walked by.  The thing was wearing the pants from a Marine Corps dress uniform.  So many of the Primaries they saw nowadays were either naked or very nearly so.  It must have been wearing the dress uniform the day it died and wasn’t coordinated enough to undo the belt. 
Rest in peace man... shit, or woman, I can’t tell
, he thought as he edged by.

Static in his earpiece jarred him from his examination.  “Movement, coming from the main hallway to the convention floor,” Jeff said.  “Something’s coming your way.”

“Shit, multiple targets from the hallway!” the operator closest to the hallway yelled as he began firing rounds while backing up to find a defensive position.  Someone else ran up beside him and fired down the hallway.

A door leading to a meeting room on the west side of the atrium burst open and at least a dozen Type Ones surged through.  Chris, the man who’d double-tapped the zombie a few minutes ago, didn’t even have time to turn to face this new threat before he’d been knocked flat by one of their clubs.  Several of the zombies immediately fell on top of him and began ripping his body to shreds.

Jeff and Bobby began firing into the lobby from outside, attempting to pick off targets before they could do further damage.  Hank saw the logic of the L-shaped ambush and yelled out, “Fall back!  Put some distance between yourself and these things.” 
Shit, we’ve been canalized, if we attempt to shoot in here, we’ll just end up hitting each other
, he thought as he hastily retreated towards the door.

The snipers switched to their SCARs and provided a base of fire in order to allow their comrades to exit the trap.  Hank jumped over a planter and started firing at targets.  “Command, this is Three Seven Eight!” he yelled into his microphone.  “We’ve been ambushed by more than five-zero Primaries.  Request immediate back up and air support, over.”

“Acknowledged
Three Seven Eight.  I’ll see what I can do.  The zombies are attacking along all fronts.  Mostly Type Twos, though.  Hold what you’ve got, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can, out.”

Meanwhile another of Hank’s men went down.  He was the last one to try to leave the building, but as he was jumping through the smashed out doorway, something knocked him down from behind.  Almost instantly several pale arms snaked out and dragged him back inside.  Even through the noise of the gunfire, they could hear his radiation-masked voice screaming for help.

“Fuck!  Status!” Hank yelled to the men to his left and right.

“That was Scooter that just went down,” the Alpha Team leader said. 

“We’re missing one.  Chris was near the west side when that door opened up,” the Bravo Team leader stated.  Every man knew that their two friends were dead.  You didn’t survive what happened to those two.  Even if they weren’t completely ripped apart, they’d turn into zombies within minutes to a few hours, depending upon how badly they’d been mutilated.

Suddenly sounds of chewing and popping filled everyone’s earpieces.  It took them a moment to realize what was happening.  “Shit, one of their mics got turned on.  Switch to the alternate frequency,” Hank ordered.  That was all he needed.  These men were the best in the world, but everyone had a breaking point, and listening to your buddies being systematically ripped apart over their headphones might push some of them over the edge.

Jeff had switched back to his Lapua and was too busy banging away at shadowy targets inside the building bother with his radio.  Hank reached over and turned the dial on his receiver.  “Thanks man,” Jeff said without disengaging his cheek from the rifle’s butt stock. 

Hank raised his SCAR and found a target in his combat optics.  He fired, but at the last moment the creature jumped over a piece of furniture so the rounds impacted its chest cavity instead.  He adjusted his aim, fired three more quick rounds and was rewarded with the spray of viscous fluid out the back of the Type One’s head.  It fell to the ground instantly. 

On either side of him, his remaining ten men were firing furiously into the structure’s lobby.  The command net frequency burst into his ear, “Delta Three Seven Eight, this is Command, over.”

“Three Seven Eight.”

“Listen, we’ve got a shit-storm all along the quarantine zone.  They’re attacking everywhere at once.  We’ve got two Apache gunships headed your way, but be advised, they’re coming from way up north near Rockville, Maryland.”

“Acknowledged.  What’s their ETA?”

“Twelve minutes.  They’ll be able to put a wall of lead between you and the Type Ones until we can extract you.  We’re still working that one.  The birds that were dedicated to you got ordered to the coast to pick up a SEAL team, over.”

So much for being
dedicated
to us
, Hank thought.  “Roger, acknowledged.  We’ll hold ‘em off until the cavalry arrives.”

“Good luck.  Command out.”

The firing had steadily been dying down during his conversation with the command element until it died down completely.  Hank and Jeff recognized what was happening.  “Alright, they did this shit at the Pentagon too.  They’re regrouping for a full-on assault.  Get ready.  Command says we’ve got two Apaches inbound in about twelve minutes,” Hank said as his men expertly dropped half-filled magazines and slammed new ones into place.  Several men took the opportunity to take a few gulps of water.  One of the guys even turned around to take a piss down the stairs.

The lull lasted a full five minutes before the creatures began streaming out of the building.  There was about 100 meters between the Delta 378 line and the front of the building, but the Type Ones covered it in less than a minute, not fast for a human, but deadly fast for a zombie.  They fired into the crowd, dropped magazines, reloaded and fired again.  The operators repeated this ritual over and over.

All but two of the zombies were killed before they made it to the team’s defensive line.  One was knocked backwards and shot by three men at point blank range.  The final zombie made it close enough to grab the end of a weapon and began pulling itself hand-over-hand as the operator fired impotently into its stomach.  Hank aimed down the iron sights of his SCAR and squeezed off three of the large 7.62mm rounds into the creature’s face.  It slumped into a planter and didn’t move again.

Then a few of the men fired rounds into the mass of prostrate zombies at the heads of creatures that were either moving or that they thought were moving.  Finally, the work was done, there was no more movement in the open area between the men and the convention center.  They didn’t know for sure what just happened, but it definitely had the feel of a Hollywood movie where the men had made their stand against the desperate final assault of the enemy.

Hank heard the distant thump of the Apache rotors as they screamed across the Potomac.  Then, anti-climatically, Tommy and Scooter stumbled out of the building towards the team.  Both men had clearly already turned and were simply late to the party.  The men watched them stumble across the lobby threshold in the very slow manner of the newly turned.  No one fired at them, it seemed almost sacrilegious to break the spell of the moment.

Tracer rounds impacted their former teammates and pieces of their bodies flew in every direction as 30mm cannon shells riddled the air.  Hank dove for cover as the Apaches fired from almost directly overhead, pouring hundreds of shells into the building.  Everything that had remained upright inside was disintegrated into to nothingness.

The radio crackled on the command frequency and some hotshot rotorhead said, “Don’t worry boys, the Cavalry is here!”

***

12 December, 1759 hrs local

North Willow Farms

Indianapolis, Indiana

Corporal Saith Walker sat heavily against the wall and wiped the grit from his forehead with the back of his gloved hand.  He’d been slogging through this bloody city for three weeks, fighting non-stop against the zeds.  Even though he grew up on the outskirts of Brecon, Wales he swore that this was the coldest he’d ever been.  His unit fought hard all day long, then slept wherever they could secure while another company moved forward and continued fighting all night, then they would leapfrog with that unit again the next day and do it all over again.

He, along with most everyone in his section, had developed several illnesses that seemed to plague every infantryman throughout history.  He had the runs, which sometimes hit him so quickly that he didn’t even make around the corner before he had to drop his trousers and go.  He also had a wet, raspy cough that was worse in the mornings, but was not any worse than the rest of the regiment in the city, so no one was evacuated out because of their illness.  And, probably worse than anything, they smelled horrible, regular hummers.  They usually didn’t notice it themselves, but every few days they would get a visit from the RSM
[36]
and the men knew that they must appear absolutely disgusting to him by the crinkle of his nose.  He promised that when the offensive was over he’d bring up a few fire engines and have a regimental bath to clean away the weeks of dirt, grime and blood.

Corporal Walker sighed as he leaned against the wall and was grateful for the momentary reprieve to the constant movement and fighting.  He was so tired and his grollies were hitched up annoyingly into his arse crack.  In only an hour, his section would find a nice home, break in, clear it and then get a spot of tea, a plateful of scoff and much needed rest.  He was especially excited about the tea tonight.  His sergeant borrowed a large batch of a special Irish breakfast blend from a coffee shop that they’d cleared earlier in the day.  It had been ages since the men had gotten anything besides the standard Earl Grey. 
It was the little things in life, after all
, he mused.

He just closed his eyes for a moment, but before he knew it, his mate Alfie was slapping his helmet.  “Let’s go.  I’m in the bushes too, but we’ve got about one more turn, then you can break out your bag and get some sleep, aye?”

“Crack on,” Saith muttered.  “Let’s get moving then.” He heaved himself up as he spoke.  He was so tired.  They’d forsaken most of the normal kit they took on regimental yomps, but they’d tripled the ammunition that they usually brought with them.  Even with that, there were days when the section killed so many zeds that they ran out of ammunition and needed an emergency resupply.  Saith figured that every day, starting off he had at least forty kilos of equipment in his pack that dwindled to only ten or fifteen as they fought.

The two of them edged around the building and came face to face with a shambling zed.  Before he could even fire a shot, it reached out and grabbed the poor chap who’d just woken him up.  Saith sprung into action and used the stock of his rifle to beat the creature off of his fellow soldier, then fired into the face of the thing once it turned on him.

“Hold on Alfie, I’ll get the medic for you!’ he cried to his mate.  He yelled for the medic over his shoulder and saw the man running towards him with his kit bag.

Saith’s sergeant ran up as well and asked, “What’s the SitRep Walker?”

“Alfie’s biffed, Sergeant.  We turned this corner and the zed attacked him.  I’m pretty sure he was bitten,” he told his superior.  The medic looked over his shoulder and nodded that he had been and pointed to the teeth marks near Alfie’s neck. 

“Shite.  We’ll have to evac the poor bastard.”  He pulled out his radio and called for the bodysnatchers to come up to his location for another casualty and then called the CO to let him know that the section had taken yet another casualty.

Saith said a quick prayer for his mate, whom he knew would be dead before dawn tomorrow.  Then he cursed his luck at joining the one division in the entire army that was here in the United States fighting their bloody battle for them.  He wondered how many more of his friends would be killed before they finished their mission and could return home.

SIXTEEN

16 December, 1824 hrs local

Rocky Mountain Manor

Denver, Colorado

President Holmes smiled at his group of advisors.  Several of them had to do a double take as they realized this was the first time they’d seen the man genuinely smile since the annual White House Easter Egg Roll when he’d still been the Vice-President to Allan Gosebeck.  That event happened only a couple weeks before the president was murdered and the zombie plague was unleashed on America.  Since then, tens of millions of people had died, Washington, D.C. and the surrounding area was destroyed and useless for a few hundred years, Indianapolis had been overrun and quarantined, the U.S. military had been decimated in warfare against the zombie threat, state and local governments had fought for, and won, control of almost every major city that had been on the brink of anarchy immediately following the nuclear detonation and the Federal Government had to be relocated several times, finally ending up in Denver, Colorado. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve got several pieces of good news.  First off, our young doctor, Doctor Collins, informed me via telephone about an hour ago that he has an antidote for the zombie plague.”

The president waited until the surprised gasps died down before he continued.  “Now, keep in mind, it’s not a vaccine because the crap that gets injected into a person is the same bacteria that causes tetanus and lockjaw, so it can’t be given safely before infection.  There’s no way to stop someone from contracting the disease that the doctor has found yet and once a person has fully turned into a zombie, they’re as good as dead.  That being said, if a person gets bitten and is treated with his antidote within three to four hours, the antidote attacks the disease and kills it.  Then as a result of the fight with
Alex-C
, the bacterium in the antidote ends up being so weak that it’s easily knocked out with simple antibiotics.