The Dying of the Light (Book 1): End (11 page)

Mary nodded, engaged the gun’s safety, and removed her headset, and we followed suit. “Dr. Fanning originally designed them as mobile trauma units, but then he gave them to me when he saw the implications, and I improved on them a bit. So, what do you think?”

Kim was the first one to speak up. “How does it work?”

“It monitors vital signs such as blood pressure and temperature and then transmits that data wirelessly to the system; it also includes a GPS transceiver. We can monitor the vital signs of anyone wearing it. Hence the mobile trauma idea.” She pointed at a small computer attached to the side of the gun’s mount.

“The defense system compares the transmitted data to a set of specifications that we have programmed into it. If the data falls within the parameters, the gun doesn’t fire. If not, it does.”

“So if a target is cold, with no blood pressure…” I asked.

“Like a zombie…” added Rachel.

“Then it gets some more iron in its diet,” Mary said, grinning. “A
lot
more.”

“How does it track the targets?” asked Angelo. “I mean, inside a building or whatever, if they don’t give off heat…”

“Ah, good question, captain. It uses a combination of radar, sound amplification, infrared and other sensors to pick up movement.” She paused. “Have you seen
Aliens
?”

He laughed. “Of course, doc. It’s practically required viewing for anyone my age.”

“Right, of course. Well, the motion trackers we’ve built into this system function very much like those in that movie. Granted, not as spiffy-looking, but basically the same thing.”

“Sweet.”

“What’s it called?” I asked.

“We’re calling them ‘Real-time Enemy Assessor and Physiology Readers.’” There was a snort from Tom Reynolds to one side, and when I looked at him, he just waved off my unspoken question.

“Nothing, sir. Sorry.”

I jumped and swore as Mary snuck up behind me and strapped one of the devices on my arm. “Damn woman, you should be one of us.”

She shrugged. “Too smart for that, I guess. You all need to know that it works, so you’re going to show them. They’re not perfect, but we’ll get there. George wants them ready for you before your first mission.”

She looked over at Reynolds, who by this time was red-faced trying not to laugh. He was practically crying as he held his sides. Mary got a mean look in her eye. “Don’t you dare, Reynolds. Don’t you dare.”

The rest of us looked on in puzzlement as Reynolds tried and failed to contain his laughter one last time. “Sorry, Mary… but this is too good.” He turned to me and pointed at my arm. Another warning glance from Mary just bounced right off. There were groans and guffaws alike as he finally got it out: “Don’t fear the REAPR, sir.”

Sometimes I hate my squad.

Fast-forward a few days, and we were near the airfield, practicing fast-roping. I’d done so many drops out of Blackhawks and other helicopters at this point that it was almost second-nature. After I piled out of the current bird, I noticed Maxwell observing, and ran over.

“Mr. Blake. What can I do for you?”

“Well sir, I’ve been thinking about this for some time now. Our main objective is to stay as far from the walkers as we can when we take them out, but we’re still on the ground in most of the scenarios we’re practicing.”

Kimberly and the others looked interested as they gathered around, the dust from the departing Blackhawk settling down as it moved off.

“Where are you going with this, Blake?”

“Well, sir… why don’t we use the helos, sir? For more than just transport, I mean.”

“You mean like miniguns or snipers or similar mounted in the helos?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Walk with me, Blake. The rest of you might as well come, too.” He waved off the Humvee driver, and we began the march back to the main part of the base.

“We’ve thought about using helos and aircraft for a long time, frankly. The problem is that when you’re talking about walkers, you’ve got one of two ways to take them down — a shot to the head, or a leg shot that you can follow-up on later.”

“Right, sir. Surely you can do that from a chopper?”

“Son, you’ve been on the firing line. You know how hard it is to make a headshot in perfect range conditions. Now imagine that you’re 40, 50, 100 feet in the air, swinging back and forth with the wind.” He snorted. “There’s maybe 30 guys in the world could make those shots with any reasonable reliability. And they’re all spoken for, protecting high-value targets
without
having their butts in a sling a hundred feet in the air.”

“Of course, you’ve got the M240’s and rockets and other things, but those are ‘spray and pray’ at best. You might get one in a hundred headshots, and maybe 20 to 30 in a hundred will take out a leg or two, but either way you’ve still gotta helluva mess to clean up. And you have to get down there to do it.”

“Napalm,” said Gaines, jogging alongside us without apparent effort.

“And we can use that, when it’s appropriate. Flamethrowers on some tanks and ground troops, etc. The problem with all this is that the most effective tools we have at fighting the enemy also destroy nearly everything around them. Tanks can’t really fight effectively in an urban environment — even Humvees have a problem turning in some areas, although we’ve had good luck with the Bradleys.” Maxwell slowed and began walking as we approached his office.

“It’s not about the machines and the firepower and everything else. Hell, do you have any idea how much fuel it takes to run a tank like an Abrams?” He turned back to us. “We can run the helos and the tanks and the planes, and take out a lot of zombies — and a lot of civilians and structures at the same time, while we burn through our available fuel like there’s no tomorrow — which there won’t be, if we don’t take these bastards out. And we may end up doing that, if the situation gets bad enough.”

“But for now, we need surgical strikes. In, out, and done with minimal impact on the surroundings and
especially
minimal impact on civilians. The fewer who know about us, the better.” He glanced at us, and then down at his watch. “Now, if I’m not mistaken, it’s chow time. And it’s chili night. So get going! Dismissed!”

“David, wake up.”

I woke up thinking I was in a rocking boat, but as it turns out, it was just Kim shaking me. “Wha? What is it?”

“It’s Tom, David. He’s… well, you need to see him.”  Her voice sounded shaken.

What the hell?

I was dressed and out the door, headed for the infirmary, before I even realized it. Only when we got there did I realize the rest of Alpha squad was with us.

I was only partly surprised to see Mary in the ward this late, attending to our friend. Turning as we rushed in, she held up her hands and ushered us back into the waiting area.

“He’s okay for the moment, but he’s asleep, and needs it. So none of you are going to wake him up.” She motioned to the infirmary’s commander, Captain Stephen Drewson, who signed a form and headed over to us.

“He’s sedated, for now. Multiple contusions and lacerations on his face and upper body, his jaw is broken in two places, and his nose. Swelling indicates he was hit in the ear several times as well.”

I could see Kimberly getting red to match her hair, and laid a hand on her arm. Surprisingly enough, she didn’t immediately fling it off, but just took a deep breath.

“Go ahead, doc,” I said.

“Well, he didn’t go down easy, I’ll say that much for him. Bruises and scrapes on the knuckles as well as some blood that clearly isn’t his on his ACU indicates that he put up a hell of a fight. Whoever did this is definitely going to be in pain, from what I can guess. And they haven’t shown up here to be treated.”

“That’s good to know, doc,” said a voice from behind us, and we turned to find Major Matthew Daniels standing there. Fort Carson’s Provost Marshal, the man wasn’t physically imposing, unless you’d seen him in the training grounds or in the gym. Even Gaines gave the man a wide berth. “Should make it easier to find them.”

Rachel spoke up. “I think I know who you can start with, sir.” The look on her face made me feel sorry for the fool who engendered such a reaction in Rachel. I wouldn’t have wanted to be on the receiving end of whatever she was planning.

Ten minutes later, we watched through the one-way glass in the provost’s office as Daniels interviewed Petty Officer, 3
^rd
Class Edward Ames, a member of Bravo squad. Lieutenant Commander Jake Powell, squadleader for Bravo, had joined us in the viewing room.

“You look like you could use some medical attention,” said Daniels.

He wasn’t wrong. Ames looked as though he’d been through the wringer and come out the other side hard. Split lip, eyebrow bleeding, and when they brought him in he was limping more than a little.

“Just fell down the stairs, sir.”

“Is that right? Which stairs would those be? We have to make sure the facility’s safe, after all.”

Ames said nothing, and stared straight ahead.

“Do I look stupid to you, kid? Or maybe you think I’m just dumb enough to believe that.”

“No, sir.”

“No, sir,
what
, soldier?”

“No, sir, I don’t believe you’re dumb or stupid, sir.”

“Well, then, that’s a start. Now, you wanna tell me where you really got your injuries? Cause it wasn’t from falling down the fucking stairs.”

“I… It was a fight, sir.”

“Oh, I see. A fight. Looks like you need a little more time in the gym, son. Cause you got your ass whupped!”

Ames turned red and shouted. “Bullshit! I kicked that faggot’s ass!” Realizing he’d said too much, he slumped back in his chair, looking through the provost as if he didn’t exist.

“You really are a moron, aren’t you?” Daniels just shook his head. “Why don’t you tell me who started it? Save yourself some brig time. Not all of it, mind you, but some.”

Ames looked up from under lowered brows. “He did. Prancing fucking fairy!”

The sound was like a thunderclap designed by God himself as Daniels’ hand slapped the tabletop. “That is enough, Seaman.”

“Petty Officer, sir.”

“Not if you don’t tell me what I want to know, it isn’t. Hell, you’ll be lucky to end up as a Seaman Apprentice. Wanna go back to swabbing decks, asshole?”

Ames shook his head. “No. No, sir.”

“Then tell me what I want to know. Now.”

“He hit on me, sir.”

“Who did?”

“The fa… Reynolds. After our leave a few weeks back. He was drunk off his ass when he came in the barracks and he hit on me.”

I looked over at Kimberly, who was obviously trying to control her temper. Rachel stood beside her, equally pissed.

“Tom would never have done that,” Kim whispered to me. “I don’t care how drunk he was.”

“I know, Kim. Let’s just let Daniels handle this.”

“What exactly did he say?” asked the provost. “What words did he use to make you think he was hitting on you?”

“Uh, well… he said we… um, should get drinks some time. And he said it looked like I was losing weight, and I looked good. And some other stuff.” Ames looked down at his hands, clenched in his lap.

The door to the interview room slammed open, and Commander Anderson stormed in, looking as pissed as I’d ever seen him. “Thank you, major,” he said to Daniels, who looked stunned. “That will be all for now. I’ll take it from here.”

“But you can’t… this is…” Daniels started to protest, but then looked at Anderson’s face. “Yes, sir.” He stood up and left the room without even the briefest of backward glances.

Anderson walked over and put his fists on the table, leaning forward. “You asshole.”

Ames didn’t even look up.

“We’re fighting a fucking war against the goddamn undead,” Anderson continued, his voice never raising. Those of us in the viewing room struggled to hear it through the pickup. “And you go and pull some dumb redneck shit like this. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Anderson leaned closer. “I should feed you to Chauncey right now.”

Ames went as pale as I’d ever seen anyone get; he knew that he could be disappeared, and no one would ever know. He cowered back in his seat.

“But I’m not going to,” the commander said, straightening. “I don’t have to. Act like that again, and your own people will take you out. I won’t have to lay a finger on you.”

I glanced over at Powell, and saw him nodding. I hope it was an unconscious agreement.

“We need everyone we can get in this fight. Reynolds is ten times the man — ten times the
soldier
— that you are. If I had to choose… well, it wouldn’t be a choice. So let me make myself perfectly clear.” He walked toward the door, turning back to look at the cringing man that had replaced the bigoted jackass who sat there only a few minutes before. “If I ever hear so much as a peep out of anyone that you’ve tried this shit again, I guarantee you that you and I
will
have that little meeting with Chauncey. Understood?”

When Ames didn’t reply, Anderson continued. “Is that understood, soldier?”