The Apocalypse Crusade 2 (29 page)

General Collins went limp with relief when he saw the large white planes whisking over the lines. “Oh, thank God,” he said. After a brief chuckle that was mostly relief, he barked out: “Get someone, anyone in contact with the Coast Guard. I don’t care how you do it, but we need to be able to talk those birds and direct them as if they were ours.”

The general then radioed Courtney Shaw. “The Coast Guard is here. Tell me, where are we on the second part of our deal?” He thumbed off the mike to listen, what came back to him was the rattle of small arms fire and screams. “Courtney!” he bellowed into the mike. The others in the Humvee lifted their eyebrows and shot each other glances, each thinking that Courtney was likely the general’s mistress.

They weren’t far off the mark. In the last day he had begun to think of her as, if not a daughter exactly, then maybe a favorite niece, and it had stung his heart when he told her that rescue was off the table, but then Doctor Lee had offered something Collins had been in desperate need of: a way to light the battlefield, a way to give his men a fighting chance, and that had put rescue back on the table again.

It meant he was going against a direct order from the President, and a separate one from the Governor and, of course, common sense, which told him that absolutely nothing should come out of The Zone, alive or dead. But he had relented, though not without a stipulation of his own, one that he was not sure was worth it.

A voice on the radio screamed something about a door that “wasn’t going to last” and then the line went dead in his hands. For over a minute he sat with his ear to the headphones, his face was that of a carven statue; the lines in it were deep with worry and his brows were heavy with grief.

“Hold on Courtney,” he whispered. He then turned to one of the three lieutenants in the cramped confines of the Humvee. “I need two Blackhawks, right now. Divert the first two that aren’t carrying anything essential to a…”

The lieutenant didn’t look up from his console. “They’re all carrying essentials.” He pointed at his screen. “We’ve got seventeen of them transferring fuel, another twelve are bringing up ammo. These ones near Kingston are moving troops. Most of the rest are overloaded with everything from water to concertina wire. All except these parked south of the Point. Six are down for repairs and the rest are out of fuel, in fact, most of the birds that are in the air are low to very low on fuel. The rest are being controlled at the brigade level and lower. I can try to get in contact with them but communications are still fucked…sorry sir.”

Collins ignored the curse words; he’d been cursing practically nonstop all night. “Well how soon can you get me two?”

He stared again at the screen and spoke low under his breath. Collins caught only mumbled numbers. Finally, the lieutenant looked up, his face had an unhealthy glow from the light of the computer; it made the young man look Collins’ age. “Fifty minutes…maybe an hour,” he said.

General Collins’ bargain was simple in concept, nearly impossible under the circumstances and within the time allotted. All Courtney had to do was convince the Governor of New York of two things: One to ignore the Rules of Engagement laid down by the President, and allow his men the ability to shoot on sight, something they were doing anyway, and two, Collins wanted the use of his entire arsenal.

Basically, he was asking for Stimpson to grow a pair and take some: “Damned personal responsibility for the state he was the governor of.”

“And you’ll get us some helicopters?” Courtney had asked. “We need them right away.”

There had been a long pause, which had Thuy and Courtney glancing at each other, nervously, and then the general had agreed: “Just as soon as I can.”

That had been back when life was simple, back when there was only the one breach in the building. The office window had shattered into a thousand worthless diamonds and then, minutes later, the door was attacked. Pounding fists drummed at it and the walls shook.

Doctor Lee had stood there, her face a porcelain mask, showing an outward calm that she didn’t feel. She had turned to Courtney, saying: “The Coast Guard has a multitude of flares of all sorts. They also have the means of delivery so the general won’t have to divert any airpower he is currently using. Call them before you try the Governor.”

She had done just that. It had proved to be the simplest task she had performed in a week. The Coast Guard Air Station on Cape Cod had been preparing and waiting for exactly that sort of call; within minutes planes were wheels up and heading west at full throttle.

The next call, to Governor Stimpson went nowhere. Her name seemed to be flagged and her first attempt at faking her way past the myriad of secretaries failed because just as she was affecting the bored voice of a “fellow personal assistant”—she was finding out the hard way that secretaries hated to be called secretaries—another loud gonging sound caused all the women in the call center to cry out as if in misery; another window was being attacked.

“I’ll have to call you right back,” she said, as Deckard ran up and began shouting orders.

“I need two men over here, now! The rest of you keep hauling out the furniture. And ladies, if you don’t mind, shut the hell up. The zombies still have to get through the doors and they’ll be harder to break down than the windows.”

That seemed like an obvious lie to Deckard, but the women quieted and went back to work, doing what they could to untangle the communications mess that the 42
nd
Infantry Division found itself in. He knew the doors wouldn’t hold. Whatever evil creature was wielding the stone would probably put two and two together and see that the same stone that broke glass could hammer off a doorknob almost as quickly. When that happened, the halls would flood with the undead.

Only that didn’t seem to be happening. The stone-wielding zombie went from window to window breaking them so that soon every office had been invaded and all the office doors were being subject to a relentless attack.

“Ok, let’s pull back,” Deckard said when the men who had been guarding the doors started to look around in fear. At his orders, the office wing was basically abandoned. Only Deckard, Chuck, Burke and Max Fowler remained standing behind a barricade of desks at the end of the hall. At their backs was a heavier fire door that led into the center of the building, where the others were guarding the doors to the outside, working the phones, or sitting pensively, waiting without much hope for a rescue.

Chuck practiced dropping magazines out of the bottom of his M16 and slapping in a new one as fast as he could. It kept his mind occupied. The sound of the zombies pounding and pounding had gained in volume so much that it seemed to be taking over his thinking. When he felt he had perfected the art of reloading he glanced around at the nervous faces of the others. “You fellas should go on and get inside. Me and ‘Ol John here will guard,” he said. At this, Burke gave Chuck a quick look, one that was easy to read:
Why the hell are you volunteering me for this shit
. But he didn’t say anything, he just rubbed the scruff on his cheek with the ragged nails of one hand. The scruff might have been only a few days old but Deckard figured he would look much the same if it had been a month.

Chuck went on: “I don’t got long for this world, neither way and John’s immune. You two should ju…” One of the doors down the hall splintered, sending shards of wood flying. He swallowed loudly and began again: “As I was sayin’ y’all should get on inside.”

“The other areas are holding firm,” Deckard said. “So there’s no need for you to be a hero, Chuck. And you too, Burke.”

“I ain’t no hero,” Burke replied. “I’m jes tryin’ to stay alive. Just cuz I’m immune don’t mean I can’t get my face ate off. I swear that’s what I hate most about them, they like to eat faces. That’s just about the grossest...” The door down the hall staggered and then sagged in the middle and now grey arms could be seen reaching out, scrabbling at the carpet. Suddenly the desks in front of them didn’t look like much of a barrier and Burke felt exposed with only a few pieces of flimsy office furniture between him and who knew how many thousands of zombies trying to bash their way in.

Deckard brought up his weapon and sighted down the length and then made a noise in his throat. “It doesn’t need to be this dark. I think the zombies know we’re here already, and if not, when we start shooting…” he didn’t need to finish his sentence. They all knew that it would be like a tremendous dinner bell ringing and they would come flocking to the feast.

He sent Burke to switch on the lights in the building. It was better to fight in the light and it would chase away some of the fear that was obvious on some of their faces.

Chuck was the best to hide his fear. Max Fowler, who stood next to Deckard seemed to have the driest tongue on the planet. He kept licking his lips but they would never go moist, not even enough to put a shine on them. He tried to laugh as he said to Chuck: “He’s right, there’s no need to be a hero, but if you want to be last inside, be my guest—ha-ha.”

Now a head and torso dragged itself through the gap in the door, leaving long peels of dead flesh on the shards and a smear of black blood on the carpet.

“Who wants to take the first shot?” Deckard asked.

With a grunt, Chuck raised the M16 to his shoulder. “I’m still getting used to this thang. It looks mean, but it’s so light that it makes me a tad nervous that it won’t do the job.” He was quiet for a moment and then Bam! He fired and his aim proved to be a hair too high; the zombie lost a good chunk of its scalp, but it didn’t notice and went on squirming in the breach.

“Hmm,” Chuck murmured, squinting at the zombie. “I swear that bullet just jumped up some.” He aimed lower and the second shot holed the creature’s forehead dead center. “Careful boys, there’s a rise to these guns.”

Deckard opened his mouth but before he could say anything there was a new sound that was even more frightening than the sound of the eight doors in the hallway coming apart, and the moans of the undead growing louder and louder.

They all turned toward the admin area where a huge banging noise filtered through the cracks of the door. Burke asked: “What is that? A fuck-all sledgehammer?”

“Sounds like two,” Deckard said. Each loud bang added to his burden of stress. He felt the stress more than the fear. It hunched his shoulders and made the muscles of his face grow tighter and tighter. “You three stay here. Just keep knocking them down until you feel it’s appropriate to retreat.”

He left them just as another door came apart and a zombie fell into the hallway. Burke killed it with a single shot.

There were eighteen people in the admin area and not one was moving. Conversations had ceased and satellite phones were ignored. Breathlessly, they stood listening to the crashes. The sound was coming from the incarceration wing. Deckard pointed to three of the state troopers. “You three come with me. If you have masks get them.” Deckard only had a blue surgical mask, while some of the troopers had more elaborate, protective masks.

While the men scrambled to put their masks on, Deckard went to the door, but Thuy beat him to it. She came marching up fast with a pistol in her hand. It seemed very large compared to her delicate fingers. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, very much ready to play the man card and demand that she stay back.

“If that door is about to fail, we’re going to have to move the prisoners,” she explained and reached for the door handle.

He grabbed her wrist in a soft grip, and whispered: “Be careful in there. Don’t trust any of them.”

She gave him a smile. It was a small thing that barely showed her white teeth but it was a sweet one to him. It cracked the tense look she’d been wearing all day and it almost made him smile in return. The huge metallic banging was practically a guarantee that a smile wouldn’t replace the scowl that he wore.

“I’ll be careful, that goes without saying,” she whispered. “But...but I’m glad you did say it. I’m glad you’re here with me.”

His hand left her wrist and slid up her arm. He pulled her close, and despite the banging and the symphony of moans that filled the air to such a degree that it made a few of the women dribble tears constantly, Deckard leaned in and kissed her. It was gentle and way too brief.

The troopers came up and their presence ended it and when it did, Thuy’s face twisted back into its tense sharpness, which she hid behind a blue surgical mask. She reached up and pulled Deckard’s mask down over his nose and mouth, just as she had done the day before and, just like then, he felt the same electricity at her touch.

Finally, he smiled. Thuy could tell by the new lines at the corner of his eyes. “Alright,” was all he could think to say to her. He opened the door and glanced into the incarceration wing. The short hall consisted of the three questioning rooms on the left and a single door on the right that led to the holding cells. At the end of the hall was an emergency exit that rattled and shook under the thundering blows. It wasn’t fists denting the door. It was something else, something heavy and hard.

There were two troopers standing halfway down the hall. They held their pistols out but looked ready to bolt. One was Lieutenant Pemberton, he glanced back and Deckard would describe the odd look he wore as “grateful.”

“The door isn’t going to hold,” Pemberton said. “What the fuck are we going to do?”

Deckard didn’t trust the wild eyes of the man. They were too unpredictable. “Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to leave this to us. I want you to go into the cells with Dr. Lee and move the prisoners to the storeroom. The rest of us...” Deckard paused. He didn’t know what they were going to do, really. Waiting for the door to come down didn’t seem like much of a plan. “...Uh, we’ll get ready.”

“Get ready for what?” the trooper who had been with Pemberton asked. He was aglaze with sweat despite the air conditioning that made the building feel like an autumn evening.

“We’ll go on the offensive,” Deckard declared. “If they have sledge hammers we can’t just sit here waiting. So the plan is to kill those fuckers out there and grab up the hammers or whatever it is they have. Any questions?”

“Whoa, hold on,” one of the other troopers said. “We don’t even know what we’re dealing with. There could be hundreds of them out there.”

Deckard opened his mouth to speak but just then Thuy and Pemberton, with guns leveled escorted Anna, Eng, and Meeks out of the holding area. When they were safely out of earshot, he said: “There are going to be hundreds of them out there. You can count on it. That’s why we shoot fast and accurately. Don’t hesitate, don’t miss, and we’ll be good.”

This brought on mumbles but as no one else had a better plan, they went to checking their weapons and gear. Deckard waited until Thuy and Pemberton returned to get the two men who’d been with the Mexican he had killed. He gave them both a long look, checking their eyes and their gums. They seemed clean, but no one knew if that would last.

When they were gone, the men put their masks in place. Breathing through a mask, even the surgical ones wasn’t the easiest, but the way these men breathed it sounded like they were panting. Deckard was sure at least one of them would run away, but none did.

The men edged forward towards the door as if they thought it was a time bomb that was only a tick away from exploding and when they were within three feet, Deckard stopped them. He pointed at one of the troopers who held only a pistol. “Put that away. You’ll come last and grab the sledgehammers. Got it? Good. You, Driscoll, follow me on my left and Brady on my right. Don’t hesitate with those shotguns. Blast anything that moves and then step back.”

He then turned to the other two men who had M16s. “You two come in right behind them. Don’t worry so much about headshots. Just keep blasting them. Knock them down, knock them back, I don’t care. I want our total time out there to be twenty seconds at the most so that means we’re going to pop out, start shooting, grab the hammers and get back in. Any questions?”

There were none. There was only fear and men trying their best not to show it.

Deckard took a long, deep breath and then kicked at the bar across the emergency door. It was labeled with a warning:
Alarm Will Sound
, and it did. A ringing was added to the already noisy station, and then a second later, gunshots punctuated the air as well.