Soldier On: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (30 page)

Two Bradleys, two Humvees and a fuel truck made up the small convoy. Staff Sergeant O’Malley, call sign Tempest Seven, was in the lead Bradley. In addition to his driver and gunner, six soldiers of the 4th Infantry Division out of Fort Carson rode in the troop compartment. All of the soldiers were combat veterans and had recently returned from the big sandbox; to a man they were ready and itching for any reason to dismount the rolling sauna.

The Humvees held four soldiers each, also from the 4th ID. Bringing up the rear was another Bradley fighting vehicle. It held three living crew members and eighteen corpses, stiff with rigor mortis, stacked like cordwood in the troop compartment.

O’Malley adjusted the binoculars focus, the undead woman’s features sharpened up. She tottered stiffly towards his column. An adventurous black mountain bird swooped down to feed on a charred corpse. The walking sunbaked cadaver paid the raven no attention. The zombie was focused only on the soldiers in the noisy machines and the meat on their bones.

O’Malley still couldn’t believe what he was looking at. She wasn’t the first zombie he had come across; in fact he had lost count of how many of these things he had put down since he returned from the other war. A Muslim extremist wearing a suicide vest-that he could believe, he had seen the aftermath with his own eyes and had picked up the body parts of friendly Afghan troops; their only mistake-waiting in line for a hot meal. That had been real...too real.

At some point he hoped that someone would explain, why? Why did they come back in the first place? Why do they keep hungering for human flesh after they die? Why don’t they feel pain? O’Malley had a million questions, but only his orders to follow, recon Montana, Eastern Idaho and Wyoming before returning to Colorado Springs via Jackson Hole, Wyoming.  

The driver’s voice crackled in O’Malley’s earpiece, “Some pileup we’ve got here Sir. Does it appear navigable?”

O’Malley, busy glassing the apex of the Teton pass, answered without removing the binoculars from his face, “We’re going to have to move some of the wrecks, at least the ones that aren’t fused to the asphalt, and it should be no problem if
our
vehicles don’t give up the ghost first.”

***

Staff Sergeant O’Malley and the thirty-two men under his command left Colorado Springs three days ago. The patrol consisted of one M978 fuel truck, five Humvees, two Deuce and a Half transports and two Bradley fighting vehicles-including the one he was perched atop. They were patrolling northeast of Boise, Idaho, when they rolled into an ambush. The pitched battle proved to be deadly for both sides. IEDs planted by the roadside immediately destroyed three Humvees and disabled both Deuce and a Halfs. Heavy machine gun and small arms fire tore into the disabled vehicles killing the remaining survivors.

O’Malley’s gunner returned fire, the 25 mm cannon chewed up several SUVs and half a dozen bikers including their Harleys. One of the tracer rounds found a Humvee fuel tank resulting in a massive explosion. The greasy, black fireball roiled into the sky.

O’Malley called in the ambush requesting a dust-off and air to ground support. His call for air was immediately denied, aviation fuel had been getting scarcer by the day, and even calls for medical evacuation were being turned down. O’Malley made a difficult decision and broke contact. The commander was feeling a little like George Custer, all alone, surrounded by the enemy; desperately wanting to get back inside the wire in one piece.

After pulling back and regrouping they returned to recover the bodies of his soldiers. He would never be able to purge the images from his memory, nor did he wish to forget the atrocities committed by the evil deviants. All of the dead were stripped of their uniforms and left naked and defiled for the crows to feed on. Some had swastikas gouged into their dead flesh, the rest were desecrated with the interlocking letters N and J.

O’Malley was livid and wanted retribution. His hopes were dashed by the response that he received from the brass. His commander at Fort Carson acknowledged his dire situation but he indicated their air resources were- “Stretched thin” -whatever that meant. The man did say they would be diverting RPAs from Salt Lake City to gather after-action intelligence.
Predator drones
, he thought,
were great for Intel during an engagement, but no help getting the wounded the attention they needed afterward
. Staff Sergeant O’Malley was disheartened after the exchange and came to the bitter conclusion that, ultimately, he was on his own.

The sergeant had another tough choice to make. Should he push on or turn the train around and limp home?
This mission was a clusterfuck from the get-go
, he thought,
a long circuitous route through Indian country- only something a desk jockey could dream up. Screw them; they can finish this circle jerk with their UAVs
. O’Malley put his index finger in the air and twisted his hand around.

The other soldiers knew it meant they were going home...or what was left of it.

***

Teton Pass

Jackson Hole

There were at least twenty vehicles of all makes and models twisted together into one big clusterfuck of a road block. Some of the cars had caught fire and were nothing but scorched bare metal. Charcoal blackened corpses remained seated in many of them. The inferno had been so hot the metal sign announcing the 8,431 foot elevation of the Teton pass had wilted and now rested on its side with the base still cemented into the roadbed.

Of the many zombies milling around the blocked road, the female was the closest. She would be the first one of the day. The walkers flesh was pale, her eyes were jaundiced and her gait resembled that of a drunks. Black blood had dried on her tank top days ago. Even though she had been petite by most peoples standards, her midsection had bloated up horribly. To O’Malley she looked like a pear with legs, albeit shriveled, scabbed up cadaver legs. He took the binoculars from his eyes for a moment and then replaced them, hoping the scene would change. He really didn’t want to continue putting down infected Americans; it was deeply troubling to him, and deep down, against everything he stood for. The young commander was aware of the dark cloud of depression hanging over his head. The only solace from the guilt he was feeling was in the mantra he kept repeating in his head,
orders are meant to be followed
.

O’Malley’s head reflexively turned toward the sound he knew all too well. It usually preceded the annihilation of an enemy stronghold or the demise of a stubborn insurgent sniper. The cough-pop, followed by the whoosh of the solid propellant igniting, meant one of the four vehicles and the crew inside were certainly doomed. From the left of the column, partway up the canyon, a Javelin anti-tank missile arced up out of the pines.

Tempest Seven gaped as the tail of white smoke traced a path directly for his convoy. Training kicked in and he started barking orders into his throat mike. “
Tempest One-Six we are taking fire, reverse course, reverse now
.”

Before they could follow orders, the driver and the security man in the tanker truck were killed, only seconds apart. The sniper watched as the dying driver popped the clutch, the semi truck lurched and stalled at the rear of the convoy; effectively sealing off any means of retreat.

The reassuring sound of the .50 cals gave O’Malley reason for hope as the Humvee gunners started returning fire, uphill, at their unseen enemies. The ground troops banged on the inside of the track, they were clamoring to get out.

Staff Sergeant O’Malley tracked the streaking projectile with his eyes; it only took the Javelin two seconds to cover the short distance before striking the trailing Bradley, Tempest One-Six, directly on its top where the armor is thinnest.

The first mini detonation sounded as the penetrator charge popped the hull, allowing the eighteen pound HEAT warhead access to the innards of the armored fighting vehicle. Explosion number two sounded like a thunderclap, sending a shockwave of pressure and intense heat rolling over the entire line of vehicles.

The driver and gunner died instantly when molten aluminum from the skin of the track entered the crew compartment. Secondary explosions from the onboard ammunition cooking off masked the report of the high powered sniper rifle being fired at them.

The gunner atop the third vehicle was instantaneously cut in half by flying fragments of razor sharp aluminum and steel. His dead fingers locked on the trigger, emptying the .50 caliber machine gun into the dirt berm on the roadside. The gear strapped to the rear of the Humvee quickly caught fire, black oily smoke obscured Tempest One-Six from the commanders view.

Small arms fire started impacting the skin of O’Malley’s M2. “
Lower the ramp
.” He screamed to his driver over the din of battle. It was the last order he would ever give. An enemy sniper scored a direct hit, the .50 caliber round caved in O’Malley’s face. The only thing distinguishable from his neck up was the Kevlar helmet firmly strapped to the remaining chunks of his skull.

At the rear of the M2, the thick blast door covering the troop area slowly descended. Before the ramp hit the ground the 4th ID soldiers charged out.

The sound of the ammo cooking, along with the booming 25 mm cannon atop the intact Bradley was deafening.

Sergeant Jeffries, acting on muscle memory and instinct launched out of the track, his M4 rifle at the ready. The sensation of the cool mountain breeze was a welcome feeling after being cooped up inside the armored fighting vehicle. Jeffries moved to the right side of the Bradley hoping to seek cover from the withering fire from the concealed snipers.
They must be well trained soldiers
, he thought, because their firing positions were well planned out; scattered amongst the boulders and trees. The other five soldiers formed up next to him, awaiting his orders.

Suddenly the wind changed direction carrying with it thick acrid smoke and the smell of rotting flesh. Jeffries covered his face and struggled to draw in a breath of fresh air. The chemical laden smoke seared his eyes; he found opening them was almost impossible, it felt like he had been pepper sprayed.

Jeffries felt a body bump into him. “Staff Sergeant, is that you? I can’t see a damn thing...I got smoke in my eyes.” A stiff gust of wind redirected the smoke, revealing the open maw of the undead female he was conducting a one sided conversation with. Cold pustule covered arms wrapped around his shoulders. “
Get off me
.” The sergeant tussled with the rank smelling walker, lost his footing and fell in a heap. The zombie fell on top of him, clamped her yellowed teeth on his ear, and shook. Jeffries screams, shrill and animal like, drew the attention of his squad.

Corporal Byrd turned toward the sound; it reminded him of the insurgent video Al-Jazeera reveled in showing over and over again, the U.S. soldier being decapitated by Iraqi insurgents made the exact same sounds as Jeffries. Shaken by the events unfolding before his eyes, the corporal leveled his rifle at the scrawny form; but held his fire because he didn’t want to risk fratricide.

Jeffries pushed the monster away and was frantically calling for a medic when he collapsed unmoving, it was too late, the Omega virus was already surging through his bloodstream and it would only be a matter of minutes before he reanimated.

Corporal Byrd had the feeding zombie in his sights when the world around him erupted in fire and pain, followed by a never ending darkness.

The second Javelin had plunged into the remaining Bradley and detonated. The earthshaking blast killed the dismounted soldiers instantly.

Bookended by the burning hulks of armor, the two Humvees couldn’t move, the drivers maneuvered the vehicles to and fro trying desperately to escape the kill zone.

Large caliber rifle fire continued booming from the high ground. One by one, starting with the drivers, all of the remaining 4th ID soldiers fell dead or dying.

The one sided massacre was finished in less than five minutes. America’s new Civil War had just begun.

Totally oblivious of the ammunition cooking off, nor phased by the flesh melting heat, the undead moved in to feed on the wounded soldiers.

Outbreak Day 7

Guild Headquarters

Jackson Hole, Wyoming

Ian Bishop retrieved the Cobra two-way radio from his back pocket. “Yes, what is it.”

“Sir, we initiated contact with a five vehicle convoy. Two Bradleys down, there are still two Humvees and a fully loaded tanker truck intact. What are your orders?”

“All of this is important, so listen very carefully. Destroy the radios
right now
and then make the vehicles vanish except for the tanker, bring it to town, we can unload the fuel.”

“Copy that,” Joshua answered.

 “How many soldiers were there and what branch and unit were they from?” Joshua knew what to look for, he had seen combat in Iraq early on and had even been there when Baghdad fell. For the the last six years he had worked as a Spartan mercenary earning the trust of their founder Ian Bishop. “There are thirty-two enemies KIA. They’re all Army, 4th Infantry Division, if my memory serves, that unit calls Fort Carson home. What do you want done with the bodies?”

Fort Carson was in Colorado Springs
,
a little too close for comfort
, Ian thought, as he ran his hands through his short cropped hair and pondered what to do about the mess. It took but a second, being a Navy SEAL had taught Ian to think quickly and decisively. Failure to do so in combat was a good way to make the Grim Reapers acquaintance. “Collect the weapons and ammo and throw the corpses in the ditch and burn them. Sterilize the area. I don’t want any evidence left behind, not so much as a charred dog tag. Make sure you don’t leave any undead soldiers either. Good work Joshua, if they would have been able to get down into the city center our jig would have been up.”