Rotter Apocalypse (11 page)

BOOK TWO

The Provisional Joint Chiefs of Staff at Alcatraz had devised a simple method of conducting Operation Lazarus, the clearing of revenants out of San Francisco. They had established four RCZs, or Revenant Collection Zones, where the living dead would be herded for PDS, or Permanent Death Status. Each RCZ had to be large enough to contain vast numbers of revenants, had to be on relatively open ground, and had to be of minimal importance to the city’s infrastructure to minimize collateral damage. The four RCZs that had been chosen were Golden Gate Park, TPC Harding Park, the runways of San Francisco International Airport, and Candlestick Park Stadium. Ten days prior to the initiation of Lazarus, helicopters placed battery-operated loudspeakers on rooftops in a 360-degree radius around and at a half-mile distance from each RCZ. These speakers played music that lured the revenants away from the residential areas and toward the zones. Five days prior to Lazarus, helicopters had moved these speakers inside the RCZs. Today, the four armored units assigned to the collection zones, twelve tanks in total, would herd stray revenants back to their respective zones for PDS.

Natalie sat in the commander’s cupola of an M1 Abrams tank designated RCZ4/3, the third tank assigned to Revenant Collection Zone 4, or Candlestick Park Stadium. Their tank idled on the southbound lanes of Route 101, a thousand feet from the interchange with Interstate 280 and across from the remnants of a burned out Jack in the Box. She had anticipated that hordes of the living dead would be swarming the highway. Instead, only a dozen or so were visible, most on the side streets paralleling Route 101 and blocked from getting to the tank by concrete barriers separating the highway from the surrounding neighborhoods. One rotter lay two hundred feet ahead, its legs crushed into pulp, its arms stretching for the vehicle. Another, a female in a gray business pants suit stained brown with dried blood, stood in front of the tank, scratching at the glacis plate, its dead eyes fixed on Natalie.

Something from inside the tank grabbed her leg. Natalie cried out, and then realized with embarrassment that it was Lieutenant Hendricks, the tank commander. He motioned for her to put on her Combat Vehicle Crewman (CVC) helmet. When she did, Hendricks asked over the integrated communication system, “Jumpy?”

“A little,” she admitted.

“It’s only natural,” Hendricks said reassuringly.

“Listen to the lieutenant,” Corporal Preston said from the driver’s seat. “First time I did this it literally scared the shit out of me. Thank God the smell from the dead was so bad no one noticed.”

“Lovely image.” Hendricks shook his head. “I’ll toss my cookies later.”

“You know it’s the truth, man. You were there.”

Hendricks waved for Natalie to come inside the tank. She crawled down from the cupola and closed the hatch. The lieutenant spoke to them both.

“All right, listen up. Units One and Two are in position. They’re going to patrol the neighborhoods around Candlestick Park to lure the revenants to the stadium. We’re going down the 101 to pick up stragglers. Think of us as a heavily fortified Pied Piper for the living dead.”

“I have a question,” said Preston. “How come we don’t have a gunner?”

“Because we don’t have a working gun,” Hendricks explained. “All the tanks in the unit have been cannibalized of everything except the drive gear to repair those going into combat.”

“Great,” Preston huffed. “We’re in a fucking expendable.”

“Get used to it,” said the lieutenant. “Miss Bazargan, we—”

“Call me Natalie.”

“Natalie, wear your M50 at all times.”

“What’s an M50?”

Hendricks made a visible effort not to roll his eyes. “It’s your gas mask.”

“Why do we need a gas mask?” Natalie asked. “The virus hasn’t gone airborne, has it?”

“It blocks the stench,” Preston answered. “It’s the worst thing I’ve ever smelled, and I worked in a slaughterhouse one summer.”

“Can the chatter,” Hendricks ordered. “We’ll be moving out soon, so get ready.”

The three crewmen got into position and waited. Natalie peered through her optical periscope. The business suit rotter still clawed at the front of the tank.

*  *  *

Ari and Doreen sat in the back of the fifth and last CH-47 Chinook helicopter in line along with thirty-eight other soldiers. They still traveled over water, with the coastline a few hundred feet ahead of them. After a few minutes, the Chinook slowed, swung its tail around one-hundred-and-eighty degrees, and lowered the rear ramp. They hovered over Ocean Beach at an altitude of two hundred feet and were descending. She could see the San Francisco Zoo in front of them and, to the right and off in the distance, TCP Harding Park.

When the ramp touched the sand, a stout second lieutenant biting down on an unlit cigar centered himself in the center of the ramp. “Haul ass, ladies and gentlemen. What the hell are you waiting for? This ain’t no fucking beach party.”

Everyone inside the helicopter stood and double timed down the ramp and onto the beach. Master Sergeant Napier, their platoon sergeant, stood fifty feet away, directing everyone to the fifteen-foot-tall escarpment that separated the beach from the main road. The troops that had deployed before them had already taken up position and waited. The Chinook raised its ramp and flew away. Ari and Doreen knelt by the cement stairs leading up from the beach while Napier made his way down the line, pausing every twenty feet to issue orders.

“Don’t fire unless Lieutenant Nowack or I give the order. We don’t want to lure the revenants away from the zone. And keep your heads down until the PDS is over.”

After Napier moved on, Ari leaned closer to Doreen. “What’s the PDS?”

Doreen shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out.”

*  *  *

Hendricks checked his watch. “It’s time.”

Preston revved the M1, and its Honeywell turbine engine roared to life. The noise excited the business suit rotter. It clawed frantically at the glacis plate. The Abrams lurched forward, knocking the rotter over backwards. Natalie watched through one of the vision blocks as it disappeared under the tank. Preston approached the rotter with the crushed legs, steered right, and ran over the body. The rotter exploded beneath the treads like a package of ketchup. Straightening the tank, he headed for the highway interchange.

“Why aren’t there any vehicles on this section of highway?” Natalie asked into the CVC’s microphone.

Preston answered. “Some fucktard in a semi-trailer came off of the 280 overpass too fast and dropped his tanker onto the 101. Damn thing exploded and closed the highway in both directions. It’s clear on this side of the interchange, but the other side is packed tighter than a fat guy’s colon.”

“Quit giving a Goddamn tour and pay attention,” snapped Hendricks. “The road ahead is blocked.”

“Roger that.” Preston accelerated the M1 and aimed for the center lane of the congested highway. “Let’s give the fat guy an enema.”

Natalie peered through her periscope. Beyond the charred debris from the exploded tanker, abandoned vehicles clogged all three lanes of traffic on both sides of the highway, as well as the breakdown lanes. Natalie braced herself for a collision. Instead, the M1 barely slowed as its treads dug into a taxi cab and an SUV that sat in the center and passing lanes. The Abrams’ front end lifted momentarily, and then its sixty tons of steel and armor brought the tank crashing down on the two vehicles, crushing them under its weight. A shower of shattered glass cascaded across the road. The Abrams rolled along the taxi and SUV until its treads caught the hoods of the next two cars in line. The crunching of metal was audible even over the roar of the turbine engine.

“Natalie,” said Hendricks.

She keyed her microphone. “Yes?”

“I need you to keep watch for an open wooded area off to our left. That’s our exit.”

“Roger that.”

They rolled across the third set of vehicles in line, jostling Natalie, causing her to bang her helmet against the interior hull. “How far ahead is it?”

“About a mile, so sit back and enjoy the ride.”

*  *  *

Ari had been waiting over fifteen minutes for something to happen when she heard a commotion off to her left. Napier went down the line again. “The extraction of our people from the RCZ has been completed. The Air Force is coming in now to perform the PDS. We’ll be moving out shortly.”

When he moved on, Doreen asked Ari, “Any idea what he said?”

Ari shook her head.

Their squad leader, Corporal Mesle, moved closer to the two women. “It means the tank crews have lured as many revenants as possible into the collection zone, and the B1s are on their way to napalm them.”

“Aren’t we too close?” Doreen asked.

Mesle shook his head. “We’ll be fine, unless the Air Force drops short. Then we’ll have bigger problems to deal with.”

“That’s not very comforting,” said Ari.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Mesle. “Even the Air Force can’t screw this one—”

“Here they come,” a voice called out farther down the beach.

The three B-1 bombers approached the zone. Their wings swept forward and their bomb bay doors opened. Descending to an altitude of one thousand feet, the bombers passed over the beach in a V formation and continued southeast. Once over TPC Harding Park, each aircraft released a string of seven-hundred-and-fifty-pound Mark 77 incendiary bombs that tumbled toward the park. As each bomb struck the ground, the one-hundred-and-ten-gallon mixture of kerosene-based fuel combined with benzene ignited, dousing the area and the surrounding Lake Merced in a napalm-like fuel gel mixture. From their vantage point on the beach, the troops saw the fireballs billow above the tree line and devolve into the familiar thick black smoke. What they did not see was that the oxidizing agent added to the compound kept the gel burning, and white phosphorous allowed it stick to the living dead. Fire consumed the dry, leathery flesh like kindling and ate its way through muscles until the revenants lost all functions in their limbs and collapsed. Under the intense heat, tissue vaporized and fat melted. Protected by the skulls, it took longer for the brains to fry, forcing the revenants to lay motionless in one massive heap for several minutes until permanently dead.

Before the smoke had dissipated, the stench of kerosene mixed with charred, decayed flesh wafted along the beach. It was the most ungodly odor Ari had ever smelled. She swallowed the bile in her throat. Most of the others along the beach, including Doreen, puked into the sand.

“When are we gonna get off this beach?” protested a private several feet down from Ari.

“Relax,” said Mesle. “They haven’t even firebombed Golden Gate Park yet.”

“Shit,” Ari mumbled.

Mesle tapped her on the shoulder. “How are you ladies doing?”

“We’re better off than they are.” Ari motioned with her head toward the park. “I almost feel sorry for them.”

Mesle chuckled. “You should see what they have planned for the revenants on the other side of the city.”

*  *  *

The Abrams had traveled over half a mile and had crushed scores of vehicles beneath its treads when it came upon three tractor trailers side by side stretching across Route 101.

“The road is blocked,” said Preston.

“Go over it,” replied Hendricks.

Preston accelerated and the M1 surged ahead. “Hang on!”

Natalie grabbed the chicken handle on the interior hull and braced herself as the two trucks to the right loomed larger in her periscope. One was painted dark brown, probably belonging to UPS. The other bore the twin concentric circles of the Target logo. A jolt shook the Abrams when it collided with the cabs. Its speed decreased as the treads ground into the engine compartments, pulling the tank up over the hoods and windshields. For several seconds, the tank hovered at a forty-degree angle before toppling forward, the twin treads crushing the fronts of the trailers. The sidewalls exploded outward, sending packages and boxes spewing across the highway. A slight pause ensued, and then the treads regained traction. The M1 lurched forward, flattening the trailers beneath it, the twisted metal sidewalls scraping against the undercarriage. The tank crossed over onto a pair of sedans and continued down the highway.

Natalie looked through the periscope again and gasped.

“What is it?” asked Hendricks.

“The highway is filled with rotters!”

“With what?”

“The living dead. Revenants. Whatever you call them.” Natalie switched her gaze to one of the forward vision blocks. Rotters wound their way amongst the abandoned vehicles, hundreds of them, all shambling toward the oncoming tank.

Preston accelerated. “I see them. They’re no match for us.”

Natalie saw the familiar snarling faces, gore-encrusted teeth, and milky white eyes she had witnessed so many times before, and the outstretched decayed hands grasping for her as they disappeared beneath the glacis plate. This time she felt secure. Rather than facing them down the barrel of a gun, she did so from the safety of an armored tank. When Natalie pivoted her periscope to the rear, her stomach threatened to heave. She had been battling the living dead for a year and had never witnessed such a slaughter. Every rotter in the path of the treads had been maimed. Some had limbs or heads crushed into the road. Others had been ground into the vehicles, body parts mixing with the twisted metal. Those few not trampled had begun following the tank.