Rotters: Bravo Company (7 page)

Walking corpses were moving slowly forward all around us. They filled the spaces between the trees for as far as I could see.

The sergeant gripped my arm in the darkness.

“Run!” he hissed.

We turned and fled for our lives through the trees, running as fast as we dared. The sound drew the zombies on behind us. Their groans suddenly filled the air, and echoed through the forest. We had found them, and they had found us.

The Sergeant grabbed me just beyond the chapel. We stopped for a moment and tried to catch our breath. I removed my NVGs and we crept forward through the huts back to our lines.

“Hard-on!” McAllister bellowed.

“Yea!” he replied faintly.

“We’re
comin’ in!” the sergeant yelled.

I followed him at a run and dropped back into my foxhole.

The Sarge stopped beside me, “Get em ready, I’m going to tell the others, I’ll be back!” He disappeared into the gloom.

“Talk to me!” Hard-on urged. “What’s going on?”

“Get ready, everybody!” I urged, setting my spare magazines close to hand. “They’re coming!”

“How many?” Gordo asked.

“All of them!” I shouted back. “Hundreds, maybe more! Get that SAW up, Gunner!”

“Fuck you, man!” he replied. “I’m ready.”

I could hear activity behind us as the company braced for the attack.

Horrible groans echoed through the deserted village as the zombies advanced.

Everything was calm for half a moment, then all Hell broke loose. A flare went off, silhouetting a half-dozen zombies that were clambering over the trip wires. Our line erupted in gunfire and flame. Acrid, cordite smoke filled the air as the machine guns roared. Tracers illuminated advancing targets that jerked and danced grotesquely as they were torn to pieces by the massed fire. I fired at anything that still moved.

Gunner ran the SAW over the zombies that went down, shredding them into unrecognizable, immobile bits of tattered, bloody flesh. The big gun went through its two hundred round belt of ammo in about twenty seconds.

I slammed in a fresh magazine and threw my M-4’s bolt. From my foxhole I was at the perfect height to take out the zombie’s legs. I began to fire at my target’s knees and hips. I couldn’t kill them, but I could cripple them and slow them down. The downed zombies piled up before my foxhole. I systematically removed their heads as they crawled slowly forward.

For every zombie we crippled or destroyed, two more staggered forward to take its place. They swarmed forward from the village and the forest. I fired off my complete magazine and ejected the empty. I realized the SAW wasn’t firing; it was too quiet on my left.

“Gunner!” I screamed as I slammed in a fresh mag. I stood up in my hole and looked down the line. The zombies had overrun us. I twisted to the left and fired off my entire magazine at the zombies streaming past me.

Sgt. McAllister pushed me back into my hole.

“Stay down!” he screamed. He tossed grenade after grenade to our left, and dropped into the hole beside me. The earth shook, and lose dirt sprayed down on top of us as the grenades went off in rapid succession.

McAllister was up and gone before I could recover. I searched frantically for a fresh magazine. I finally found one and slammed it home. I threw my bolt and stood upright in my hole.

A few random zombies were still moving nearby. I fired at each in turn until they were down and immobile. Finally there were no more upright targets in sight.

Sgt. McAllister paced the perimeter on my left, dispatching wounded zombies with head shots, one by one with his shotgun.

Twitching, eviscerated zombie fragments littered the ground all around me. I climbed out of my hole and looked around. A shredded upper torso and partial head pulled itself slowly across the bloody ground towards me. I fired my last few rounds into its neck and shoulder joints, immobilizing it.

“Where’s Gunner?” I yelled to the sergeant.

“He’s gone, but the SAW is still here,” he replied. McAllister lifted the battle rifle from the mud and slung it on his back.

I stepped carefully down the line to my right, avoiding the more intact pieces still moving around. 

Hard-on sat in his hole. He was attempting to light a bent cigarette, but his hands were shaking badly. Finally, he lit it and lifted it to his lips, taking a hard draw.

“I thought you quit,” I remarked.

He looked up, “Yeah, well I started again today.”

Just beyond us, Fitzgerald lay near his hole on his back, his eyes fixed lifelessly on the sky. His neck and arms were covered with bloody bite marks.

Gordo limped over to us, and looked around.

“Shit,” he slowly drawled.

Sgt. McAllister walked over to us. “Police up all the spare ammo you can and get back on station, this shit ain’t over yet. I’ll have somebody bring up more ammo.”

He walked away into the darkness. Random shots continued to ring out all around us.

I hunted up two magazines and climbed back down into my hole. Sure enough, more zombies continued to emerge from the village, one and two at a time. We picked them off as they came. I was down to my last few rounds when Sgt. Price moved up behind me, yelling at us to hold our fire. He had two cases of ammunition.

“I’ll be back with some beers later,” he joked as he ran back the way he had come.

We took turns covering each other while we reloaded all our spare magazines.

The zombies came on all night long, but we had thinned them out. They didn’t break our line again.

Finally, the sun rose over the battle
ground, illuminating the horrid scene before our bloodshot eyes. Flopping, twitching, jiggling bits of human beings moved in heaps and piles, bits and pieces everywhere. The putrid smell was beyond description or comprehension. Blood and bile covered every inch of the mud between the village and us. I threw up into my hole.

OPS ORD 9-31

COLONEL WARREN USARMY MEDICAL CORP BRAVO COMPANY

YOU ARE HEREBY PLACED IN COMMAND OF BRAVO COMPANY AND ORDERED TO EXTRACT ALL SPECIMENS AND DATA FOR IMMEDIATE DELIVERY TO FORT BENNING GEORGIA USA.

THIS ORDER EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY

ORDERS END

06:00 a.m. Zulu

The Village of
Lat

The Congo

Eventually some of the medical guys worked their way around to our side of the square. They were wearing biological masks and coveralls. One of them started a fire, and the others labored to push the body parts into it. Greasy black smoke rose into the sky as they worked.

Sgt. McAllister relieved us to go and grab some food at the chow tent that Price’s guys had set up. I was utterly exhausted. The stench of the camp was amazingly bad. I had to hold my nose while I ate, and the food tried hard to come back up.

After I had eaten, I crawled into one of the Humvees and stretched out across the jump seats. Later in the day, Hard-on came and found me.

“Come on, asshole,” he said. “The colonel’s going to brief everybody. He says it’s important.”

“Alright,” I groaned. I climbed out of the vehicle and groggily followed him over to the command tent. Most of the company was already there. Everyone tried to ignore the sounds and the stench emanating from the sample tent.

The old man and Lt. Beckham were seated near the
tent; everyone else was just standing around, waiting for the colonel.

Finally, the colonel stepped through the tent flap. The major and the LT stood up.

“At ease,” the colonel stuttered, waving them back to their seats. He looked pretty rough. I realized he probably hadn’t slept since we had arrived.

“I called you men together to share what I’ve learned with you,” he began. “I understand we’ve already suffered some casualties, and I want you to know the stakes, what we are fighting for, and what we are up against.”

He paused for a moment. “I’ve gone through all the records the medical unit’s commanding officer left behind. His name was Colonel Ortega. The colonel had identified the virus they were sent here to contain, and was working on an anti-virus, or serum. Unfortunately, he failed to complete it before his own death. All the people originally from this village contracted the virus and died. I believe that they are the people who have returned and attempted to attack us. I am now convinced that these same locals attacked Ortega and his staff, and killed them all.”

The colonel paused again to cough, then he continued. “As difficult as it has been for me to accept, apparently this virus causes some sort of physical reanimation of dead tissue in its victims, in order to spread and propagate itself. I would have considered this as medically impossible, if I hadn’t verified it myself under laboratory conditions and in the field, as you men have. Colonel Ortega had termed this condition Ambulatory Cadaver Syndrome. That name is as good as any.”

I smiled smugly, I was right. My smile faded as I realized that might not be such a good thing.

One of the transport guys spoke up, “No offense, sir, but are you telling us that the people attacking us are really dead, that they are zombies?”

The colonel sighed loudly, “I don’t know that I would technically call them zombies, but yes, they are dead, reanimated cadavers. These creatures retain no real brain activity, they are mindless. From a security perspective they will be no real threat to a fully armed combat company. A headshot should disable their remaining senses. When you combat these creatures you must simply remember to fire disabling shots. Target the joints; shoulders, knees, hips, and neck, or remove the limbs and head entirely. The virus is driving these dead bodies to attack the living in order to spread itself into new host material. A bite, a scratch, any fluid transfer will spread the virus to a new host. You must avoid any unprotected physical contact with these creatures. Their remains are an extreme biohazard. They must be burned immediately.”

“What about the men who were bitten, Colonel?” I asked.

“As of now, all of our personnel who were bitten have been placed in quarantine, under restraint. I am working on the problem, but the virus is fatal once contracted. The incubation time is extremely fast if the virus enters the bloodstream through an open wound. Anyone bitten must be admitted to my care immediately, they will become a danger to everyone around them.”

I didn’t need to ask about
Jonesy, I knew now that he was dead.

“Our mission to rescue the medical corps is no longer viable. I have five members of the original unit we were sent here to secure, two that were captured during the attack last night. These were American service men, not locals, who were among the reanimated dead. I have examined them, and they are dead. They have been dead for days. It is my opinion that the medical unit was killed to a man. Those who were not completely
devoured reanimated and wandered away, until we arrived here.”

I was happy to hear this. It meant that our mission was over and we could get out of this hellhole. I thought that the colonel would announce that next.

“These creatures will continue to attack us as long as we remain here. Our own casualties will become a threat if their bodies are not destroyed. But we must remain here. I need more time, time to complete Ortega’s work. This virus is not just a danger to us; it is a threat to Africa and really to the whole world. I don’t know how far the virus has spread, but our best hope is to complete Ortega’s work,” he concluded wearily. 

The major stepped up to speak, “We will be relieved by Special Forces within forty-eight hours. Our mission has changed, it has not ended. You men will hold our perimeter and protect the medical unit so that the colonel can continue his work. Dismissed!”

Some asshole called us all to attention. The officers ducked back into the tent. Everyone began to wander away, most complaining bitterly.

Even I had to admit; asking us to hang around to handle a virus and zombies was pretty far off our normal radar. I wasn’t even sure if we were drawing hazardous duty pay.

I found a semi-private place to drop a deuce, then I walked back by the mess tent and grabbed a couple of MRE packets and some coffee. I would have them away from the stench of the camp.

I wandered back over to my foxhole. It looked like I would be calling it home for at least a couple more days. I said a quick prayer that it wouldn’t rain.

Sgt. McAllister was sitting with Hard-on. They were smoking and drinking beers. It looked like Price had been by. I joined them, squatting on the muddy ground nearby. I spread out a dirty uniform shirt and broke down my M-4, laying the parts on it. I cleaned and oiled the receiver and the bolt while we talked.

“Jonesy is dead, isn’t he, Sarge?” I asked, not looking up.

“Yeah,” McAllister replied sadly. “He died during the night.”

“Did he come back?” I asked hesitantly.

“Don’t know,” the sergeant replied. “They’re not letting anybody back there, where they keep the casualties. I know he was a friend of yours. Try not to think about it. Just remember him the way he was.” 

I didn’t say anything for a minute. I cleaned my gun’s barrel and began to reassemble it. “What about Gunner? Did you find him?”

“Parts of him I think,” McAllister replied grimly. “It looked like they pulled him outta his hole and tore him to pieces. At least we don’t have to worry about him coming back.”

“He was a mean, little fat bastard,” Hard-on intoned. He lifted his beer. “Here’s to Gunner.”

He and the sergeant drank a toast.

I wouldn’t miss Gunner, but I wished he hadn’t gotten himself killed. Every man that died in your squad brought you that much closer to your own death.

They tossed me a beer. I opened it and drank to Gunner.

“And to Jonesy!” I added.

We all toasted him too.

“They burned Fitzy. At least they didn’t just toss him in with the zombies,” Hard-on added.

“Don’t make no difference,” McAllister opined. “Once you
’re dead, you’re gone.” He tapped his thick shoulder. “This is just a shell of flesh and bone. Your soul goes on.”

“You believe in that shit,
Sarge, Heaven and Hell?” Hard-on laughed.

“I’d believe in Hell if I was you, Hard-on,” the sergeant laughed back. “You’ll be there soon enough. If
they cremate your nasty ass it’ll just give you a head start.”

“The only motherfucker in this outfit who had any religion was Gunner. Fat lot of good it did him,” Hard-on observed.

“We’ll all find out what’s waitin’ on the other side if we don’t get out of this village pretty soon,” I grunted.

“Always the optimist,” McAllister laughed.

“I’m serious, Sarge,” I replied. “Isn’t there anything you can do?”

“I’m not in charge here, Parsons, you know that,” he answered.

“This is just nuts,” I complained. “I think the colonel has lost his mind.”

“What are you talking about?” Hard-on asked.

“Anything he’s doing here, he could do back in the real world,” I pointed out. “He’s working out of a tent, with field equipment. He needs to be in a real lab. This is all bullshit!”

“There you go again,” McAllister warned. “Don’t talk like that where anyone else can hear you. The major is still gunning for you.”

“You know I’m right,” I continued. “And I’ll tell you something else. I think those fuckers he’s keeping in his ‘
sample tent’
are attracting the others to us.”

The low moans from the sample tent echoed eerily across the camp to us.

“That noise is driving me crazy,” I groaned.

“Suck it up, and keep your pie hole shut,” the sergeant barked.

McAllister stood up and stretched. “I’ll be back,” he grunted.

“Where
ya going, Sarge?” Hard-on asked.

“I’m going to talk to the old man. We need to be
doin’ something besides just waiting around.”

We hung out in our foxholes. There wasn’t much else to do. Grey clouds began to move across the afternoon sky, threatening rain. I began to grow drowsy. It was still very warm, and I had a hard time staying awake. I was just about to nod off when Sgt. McAllister and Gordo walked over to our line. The sarge had his shotgun with him, and Gordo was carrying an M-4. They approached my hole. I groaned and climbed out to meet them.

The sergeant had a folded
topo map in his hand. He showed it to me.

“We are here. There is another village about three miles from here, closer to the Congo River.” He pointed to them with his finger.

“I want to do a quick scout and see if they’ve been hit with the virus. We need to get a handle on what’s going on around us,” he informed me.

I groaned.

“I’m taking you and Gordo,” he laughed.

“Why me?” I inquired.

“I don’t want you to stir up any more shit while I’m gone,” he answered. “At least this way I can keep an eye on you.”

“Fuck,” I replied.

“You’d better bring your poncho,” the sergeant suggested, pointing to the thickening cloud cover. “I think it’s going to rain.”

We left the village and trudged into the rain forest. The sergeant knew where he was going. He led us to the trail on which we had encountered the first zombie. We took the split to the left and followed it deeper into the trees. The sergeant took point, with Gordo in the middle and me at the rear.

“Stay sharp,” the
Sarge warned.

He moved forward on the faint trail at a quick walk, scanning the
foliage around us. The forest was alive with all of its normal sounds. Monkeys and birds chirped and screeched in the treetops, insects buzzed and droned.

We didn’t see any sign of zombies once we moved away from the village.

McAllister led us onward. He stopped occasionally to listen, or peer into the brush. I didn’t notice anything unusual. The massive trees filled the world on both sides of the dim trail. Their trunks formed dim corridors that led away into the green gloom. They didn’t look inviting to me. I wished for a breath of fresh air. The interlocking canopy of branches and leaves overhead blocked out the sky and sealed out the wind. The air was heavy, moist and laden with the smell of the trees. I didn’t like it.

We walked onward through the
forest. The path labored up a series of small hills, and then wound down into a valley. The sergeant checked his map.

“The village is at the bottom, be ready,” he warned.

We moved slowly forward, scanning the trees and foliage around us. Nothing seemed amiss, nothing happened.

The forest trail emerged from the trees and we were left standing on a small bald knob. The stony path led down the barren hillside, through a tiny, thatch hut village, and ended at the Congo River.

Sgt. McAllister stopped to look around. The place looked a lot like the village we had left behind. There were no people, no activity, nothing at all, just empty huts.

“Let’s check it out,” he suggested.

We entered the village and carefully searched for any sign of its inhabitants. The small thatch and clapboard huts were empty. This village didn’t have a church or a clinic to search. We could pretty well guess what had happened.  All we found were bloodstains and footprints in the mud.