Up From the Depths

BOOK 1: Denial Measures

J.R. Jackson

Forward by Tony Monchinski,

Author of the ‘Eden’ series

Up From the Depths Book 1 Denial Measures by James R. Jackson

Amazon/Createspace edition. All Rights reserved.

Copyright© 2013 JRJ/Ghost 27. No part of this novel may be reprinted without express permission. This is a work

of fiction, any similarities to real people, living, dead or undead is purely coincidental. Business establishments,

events and locations mentioned or described within this novel are done so with the utmost respect or are purely

coincidental in nature. Artistic license has been applied. The Special Operations forces depicted in this novel are by

no means based on any real world units. Any similarity is purely a coincidental, fictional contrivance created by the

author.

For Sara, editor extraordinaire

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to

other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy

for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use

only, then please go to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard

work of this author.

Forward by Tony Monchinski

You know, it's funny how things from our childhood stick with us through life. My parents and Uncle

Mike instilled a love of reading in me, a love that has paid untold dividends in my later life as student,

teacher, and writer. I didn't particularly care for the books they made us read in elementary and middle

school--although I really looked forward to those monthly Troll Book Club order forms and the days the

books arrived--but I'll never forget the afternoon my dad brought home a copy of Larry Hama's GI Joe: A

Real American Hero issue 1.

I grew up in a militarized culture: the United States was engaged in a Cold War with an "evil empire"; the

United States defense budget made all other expenditures pale in comparison (and still does); at home my

mother cut my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches into "soldiers." And I liked action, martial-themed

comics: G.I. Joe led me to Joe Kubrick's Sgt. Rock, G.I. Combat, and Timothy Truman's Scout. An avid

reader, I found Don Pendleton's Executioner, Mack Bolan, and a whole slew of Gold Eagle and similar

books. (I still feel many of these authors--often laboring anonymously under a shared pseudonym--helped

teach me how to write and tell a story). Shows like the A-Team (where, interestingly, for the thousands of

rounds fired no one ever seemed to die) and movies like First Blood, The Wild Geese, The Dirty Dozen

and Red Dawn fed my appetite for action. In later life my politics did a complete 180 from the world-

view presented in these books and films, but I continue to harbor a healthy respect for firearms and our

Constitution's Second Amendment. Guns, like cars, trucks and power tools, are big boy toys, and that's

something some people--who focus on the harm firearms can inflict in the hands of the wrong people--

just don't get.

As a kid I also got into horror. I don't remember too many good horror novels as a youth--a few early

Stephen King titles were about it (I wouldn't read Richard Matheson's I Am Legend until years later). But

I remember clearly the horror movies I saw or didn't see/wasn't allowed to see. Jaws messed me up and

leaves me, more than a quarter century after the fact, with an uneasy, irrational feeling when I immerse

myself in bodies of water--including pools. I was afraid to get in the bathtub after watching the original

Friday the 13th. Then there were the films I didn't see or couldn't see because I was ten or eleven years

old and my parents wouldn't take me or I couldn't get into the theater. I'd stare at the disquieting black and

white ads in the local newspapers and wonder at the gruesome Grand Guignol spectacles unfolding

onscreen, movies with titles like Last House on the Left, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and I Spit on

Your Grave. I remember vividly the tag line for Screamers (the American release title of the Italian L-

isola Degli Umini Pesce), which promised that the audience would see a man turned inside out (As you

can probably guess, when I saw all these films years later as an adult, they didn't live up to the dread I'd

imputed to them, and there was no man turned inside out).

One night I watched Romero's Dawn of the Dead and I've never been the same since. Only kidding. Sort

of. Romero's story and Savini's special effects sparked my love-fear of and fascination with the

cannibalistic undead, as it did for many my age.

So, reading, horror, and action. Keep in mind this was all before puberty and girls. Which catches us up to

the present day. Reading, horror, action and girls: Up From the Depths combines horror, military

hardware, and a myriad cast of characters. I've known James Jackson for a few years now and we've

talked about our shared love of 1980s men's action adventure novels (he turned me on to titles I missed

the first time around, like D.B. Drumm's First You Fight). Jackson has a background in the military and a

love for the undead, and these loves shine through in his Up From the Depths (UFTD).

The first in a planned series, Jackson introduces us to a variety of characters in UFTD: a survivalist and

his wife; a submarine crew and its beleaguered captain; a hitman and the call girl he spares. There's even

a gaggle of Z-Corps fanboys facing the apocalypse from their forward operating base in a storage unit.

Jackson thankfully violates one horror genre trope--the victim's unfamiliarity with the threat faced--with

this Z-Corps, one member of which actually bluntly asks, "didn't you guys ever watch a zombie movie?"

UFTD is a novel that abounds with acronyms: Z-Corps stands for Zombie Coalition for Resistance,

Preparation and Survival. And that's because life abounds with acronyms and jargon, whether you're in

the military or education, the corporate world or the (Wall) Street, healthcare or gaming. Fortunately

Jackson provides footnotes throughout and a glossary of terms at the back of the book to edify his reader,

and this is a good thing. A lot of people might know the CDC, but how many general readers are familiar

with COMSUBPAC, the DSC, or SOTIC? I wasn't.

Of the various and sundry characters, many of them fall under the umbrella of the American armed

forces. In fact, once the outbreak goes full tilt, UFTD switches almost entirely to military people and their

travails for many. Here Jackson is on comfortable and familiar terrain with the language, equipment and

operating procedures, and it shows. And in reality, in the case of an undead viral outbreak, America's

fighting forces would be on the front lines because Posse Comitatus would quickly and necessarily be

chucked out the window. UFTD shows that when discipline and training take over, they may not always

be enough, but they're our best chance for prevailing in a catastrophic situation. If nothing else, well

armed and well trained, the military man and woman would stand a good chance of surviving and

facilitating the survival of others.

James Jackson shows how bureaucratic administrations handle and mishandle the developing crisis.

Tough decisions have to be made, like when General Waller overcomes his doubts and orders his military

installation and its hospital--sealed, thereby stranding a sea of civilians outside with the undead.

In the last decade, there's been an explosion of zombie-themed literature, from Brian Keene to Max

Brooks, from Alden Bell to Robert Kirkman. For fans of the undead and eager readers, these are good

times. Perhaps the books closest in comparison to Jackson's work here are J.L. Bourne's Day by Day

Armageddon series. What I prefer about Jackson's tome are the multiple characters, the third person point

of view, and his steering clear of a "it came from outer space" genesis for the epidemic. Above all, it's

great to see the things I loved as a kid--horror and zombies, action and adventure, books and reading--

coalesce in the popular culture and in the book before you. Enjoy!

Tony Monchinski, Peekskill, New York, October 2012

‘If the epidemic continues its mathematical rate of acceleration, civilization could easily disappear from

the earth.’

Dr. Victor Vaughn, The American Experience, ‘Influenza 1918’

How many of them can we make die!

Excerpt from March of Cambreadth

These, in the day when heaven was falling,

The hour when earth's foundations fled,

Followed their mercenary calling,

And took their wages, and are dead.

Their shoulders held the sky suspended

They stood, and earth's foundations stay;

What God abandoned, these defended,

And saved the sum of things for pay.

A.E. Housman

Epitaph on an Army of Mercenaries

The virology and genetic manipulation described in the creation of the fictional virus exist in the real

world. However, no one has used those methods to create a virus such as the one described within this

novel.

Not yet.

The Filovirus is more common in animals and not humans. However, it has been postulated that the

Spanish Flu that killed 50 million worldwide in 1918 was a mutated form of a Filovirus that somehow

‘leaped’ species.

‘Filoviruses are zoonotic viruses, meaning the natural hosts of these viruses are animals, but infection

can be transmitted to humans.

Although some species of filovirus have been found to infect monkeys and swine, the natural host of these

viruses is not known.

Some species of bat have been found which are naturally infected with Ebolavirus in the wild, without

displaying disease symptoms. On the basis of this evidence it is currently suspected that bats are the

natural hosts of filoviruses.

Filoviruses can be spread through contact with infected bodily fluids, including blood, saliva, vomit, and

excrement.

This is generally how the virus is spread from person to person during an outbreak. Most outbreaks start

when the virus is transmitted from an animal to a human; however it is not known how this transmission

occurs.’

Excerpt from the article Written by: Emma Lloyd

Edited By: Bronwyn Harris

Copyright Protected: 2003-2011

Conjecture Corporation

Two years from tomorrow.

CHAPTER 1

Los Angeles, California

The tenth floor boardroom of Glenview General Hospital looked out on the urban sprawl of Los Angeles.

The large floor to ceiling tinted windows a physical barrier from the smog and noise most commonly

associated with the city. This opulently furnished room served as the inner sanctum to the powers that be

that controlled every aspect of the facility. Today, those powers were gathered to pass judgment on one of

their own.

“Doctor Robert Foster, this board of inquiry has received several complaints about your actions. From

those complaints we find you guilty of misconduct. Specifically the violation of patient rights pursuant to

the Nuremburg Code, whereas it clearly states that any physician that conducts experimental procedures

must have the consent of the subject. This code was placed in effect to prevent exactly the kind of abuse

and disrespect that has been brought to our attention. Your wanton disregard for patient welfare and the

use of terminal patients, those in a comatose or mental vegetative state, who are physically and mentally

incapable of providing consent is highly inappropriate and not within the standards of care within this

hospital.” Ernest Hopkins, the director of the hospital stated as he glared at Foster.

“Not only have you violated patient rights, you’ve endangered the public trust and the reputation of this

facility. This board hereby rescinds your right to practice medicine within the confines of this

establishment and places you on administrative leave without pay pending further investigation into the

allegations we have before us. Rest assured that based on the initial review of the evidence, we have more

than enough to permanently revoke your medical license and pursue criminal charges.” Hopkins paused

while he looked down his nose and over the top of his glasses at Foster. “I wouldn’t get too comfortable

in that new condo you purchased last month. And you might want to cancel any travel plans.”

Foster sat with his attorney and listened as his medical research career ended. The temperature in the

room seemed to drop suddenly even though it was computer controlled and never wavered more than five

degrees. It was the icy looks he was getting from those he had thought of as his peers. Foster knew what

the risks would be if his after-hours research was discovered. But this outcome was not one he had

anticipated. When, not if, this case went to trial, his future in medical research was over no matter what

the outcome. The AMA appointed attorney looked at him with a sad, world weary stare and an unspoken

apology.

As the board members filed out of the room, Foster stood, gathered his files that he had hoped to present

but never received a chance and left the room. As he left, he passed a man in a three piece suit sitting in

the back of the room. It occurred to Foster that this was probably the hospital attorney who was sitting in

on the review board. The well dressed spectator followed him at a discrete distance, entering the elevator

with Foster and his attorney. They rode the elevator down in silence, Foster lost in thought as to what he

would do next while his legal aid advised him quietly that his best course of action would be to admit to

the accusations, lose his license and hope to remain out of prison.

When they reached the main floor, Foster looked up at the number then at the lobby as the doors opened

to reveal it. The attorney looked at him one last time and with a sad shake of his head, exited the elevator.

Taking a step forward, Foster was lightly grabbed on the arm just below the elbow by the unknown third

party who had watched and listened intently during Foster’s inquisition.

“Dr. Foster, if you’ll step this way please?” It was more an order than a request and Foster felt himself

guided to a waiting limousine already idling in the driveway in front of the hospital main entrance. He

was hustled inside the darkened car and before he was fully seated, it pulled away from the curb. The

shadowy figure seated across from him looked vaguely familiar, perfectly coiffed hair, aquiline nose and

white teeth.

“Robert, may I call you Robert?” Not waiting for a reply, the other man continued, “You may know me or

you may not, it doesn’t matter if you do. You could say that I’m very interested in your work. In fact, I’ve

followed it for quite some time. I’d like you to come to work for me; as an incentive you can continue

your research at triple your current salary, you get a blank check for any and all research costs and this

little legal problem of yours goes away.” The man waved his hand in the air as if he were a genie then

turned his gaze to Foster.

“Unless, of course you’d prefer sitting in prison, a disgraced medical practitioner pondering how you got

in that position and constantly wondering what might have been.” He dropped two ice cubes into a

tumbler with a small set of tongs before covering them with whiskey and offering the glass to Foster.

Eyes now adjusted to the heavy tint on the windows, Foster finally recognized who the man was and

realized what he was being offered. Salvation. He stared at the other man as his mind raced; here was a

chance to continue his work or step out of the car and very likely spend the rest of his life in prison.

Foster took the proffered drink and drank most of it down in one long swallow.

“I really want to continue my research,” Foster replied hoarsely as the alcohol burned his throat. Nathan

Bedford Conley, one of the richest men in the world, smiled a rather peculiar smile and then picked up the

phone.

“Sherman, take us to the airport.”

***

Fort Bragg, North Carolina

“Damn it, Alan! Do you always have to volunteer for every single deployment?” Sara Hathaway,

formerly Sara Richards, asked. Alan Hathaway, her new husband of three months and the target of her

anger sat at the kitchen table in their shared on base housing unit in the Biazza Ridge neighborhood. A

large muscular man, with short brown hair worn per regulation, Hathaway liked to consider himself as

someone who could handle just about any adverse situation. Having an argument with his new wife was

not one of those situations. He looked up at her as she glared at him.

“Babe, you knew this was what I do when we started dating. I wanted to get this deployment out of the

way.” While that statement made sense to him, it obviously didn’t to her. Sara stood with her back to the

kitchen sink and digested what he had just said. She felt her face grow hot with anger and her eyes burn

with unshed tears.

“Damn you. You deployed to some third world banana republic the day after we were married and you

just got back yesterday. We never even had time for a real honeymoon and now you have to deploy

again?” she asked incredulously, shaking her head as if trying to understand the reasoning behind his

decisions.

“I know,” she said before he could answer. “It’s the action, you’re an adrenaline junkie, always have to

prove you’re the best.” Frustrated, she turned away, long blonde hair flying and leaned over the sink

gripping the edge of the countertop. Why didn’t I listen to my mother? She could hear her mother’s voice

telling her not to marry an Army man let alone an Army man in Special Forces. She heard his chair slide

on the floor as he stood up. Sara almost jumped when he touched her arms with his strong, calloused

hands and pulled her into a hug, her back against his firm, muscular chest.

“Babe, this is what I do; it’s what I’m good at,” he said softly into her hair as he kissed the top of her

head. She leaned back into him. Closing her eyes and for a second, she felt his heartbeat and everything

was right in the world again. Why can’t you just stay here with me? she thought. But, her anger at him

resurfaced and she spun around to look up at him. She felt the tears start to flow, angry and frustrated at

herself that she had let this get to her.

“That’s not the real reason. You and I both know the real reason. I’ll always be the second choice no

matter what. Special Forces will always be your number one priority,” she said vehemently.

“What was it that one of the wives said at the enlisted spouse’s club? Oh yeah, we’re not ‘mission

essential’ so we had better get used to it,” she spit out, pushing him away and storming down the hall to

the bedroom slamming the door. Hathaway stood there in shock that turned to resignation as he realized

what she had just said was the truth. Master Sergeant Alan Hathaway had, in all probability, just watched

their relationship and short marriage end.

***

Interlude

82nd Airborne Staging Area

New Jersey

“Eighteen hours ago the President and the Joint Chiefs announced that the United States has been the

victim of a biological attack from an as yet unknown enemy.” General Hudson waited for the room to

become quiet before he continued. “You men are the response to that attack. You will be taking part in an

offensive operation that will restore order within New York City.”

Hudson paused to let his amplified voice stop echoing inside the stadium.

“The first phase of Operation Urban Denial has already started. Earlier today, forward elements of the

Second Brigade were dropped at key locations around Manhattan Island. Their job is to act as spotters and

provide precise tactical suppression for the ground forces that we are deploying over the next 24 hours.”

“Forward units deployed to La Guardia have met heavy resistance but are well on their way to securing

the airport against a numerically superior hostile force. I have no doubt that we will prevail, as we have

done in previous operations.”

General Hudson looked out at the heavily armed men packed into the sports stadium.

“You men of the 3rd Brigade will be moving into Manhattan later tonight as a blocking force, ensuring

that the bridges, subways and other means into and out of the island are secure. We are facing an enemy

like none other ever encountered. We will improvise, adapt and overcome to achieve our objectives.

The situation in Manhattan is somewhat more promising. The majority of the surviving uninfected

population has moved to the south part of the island where the Coast Guard and Navy are evacuating

them to safe locations. A forward operating base has been established in Central Park and is expanding its

sphere of influence to the surrounding city blocks. We now control that battle space. Third Brigade will

be facing a great number of obstacles and hostiles as their area of operation is the most heavily populated.

Entering from the north and moving south, your objective is to join up with the forces moving north from

Fort Ticonderoga, the Forward Operating Base at Central Park. We expect you to join up with them

within 12 hours after you enter the city. This is not a holding action; this is a sweep and clear operation.

The plan is for your forward elements to force the infected south and into the kill zones and choke points

established by the 2nd.”

Hudson paused to take a drink of water, then continued.

“The United States is once again depending on the 82nd Airborne to defend this nation. We will be placed

squarely into harm’s way and we will meet this enemy head on. You need to understand that the

opposition you will be encountering may look like civilians but they are classifiable as hostiles. They are

infected with an unknown and infectious biological agent. They are to be terminated with extreme

prejudice.” A wave of murmurs and whispering swept the room. Hudson waited for it to stop before

continuing.

“I know you will do well. Good luck and good hunting.” The gathered men all stood as Hudson stepped

back from the podium and gathered his notes.

“Airborne!” the crowd shouted at the top of their lungs. Hudson nodded then left the dais, seeming to

deflate in stature as he did so.

The large screen LCD behind the podium came alive as Major Powers began his power point

presentation.

***

CHAPTER 2

65 days before infection

Olympia, Washington

“Dude, the State’s got Night of the Living Dead playing,” Randy Walker, a skinny teenager in a black

rock band t-shirt and jeans stated excitedly. He practically bounced from one foot to the other with his

statement. The occupants sitting around the table in the Timberland Regional Library looked at him then

returned to what they were doing. The library, across the street from the city hall and just a few blocks

from Tumwater High School had been the small groups’ chosen meeting place since they had attended

high school. Now, years after graduation, they still congregated at the same table.

“Well, yeah but we’ve all seen that like about hundred times,” Kirk Mendenhall replied looking up from

his pencil drawing of a zombie feeding on a victim. His own black t-shirt had a faded logo of Return of

the Living Dead on it.

“Shit, man, I can get you all in if you still want to see it,” Peter Zorrell said, looking around for a librarian

in case his use of the ‘S’ word was overheard. Zorrell, the oldest of the group, had a job at the State

Theater located downtown Olympia as an usher/ticket taker. He was dressed more conservatively in a

white polo style shirt and tan Dockers.

The other two boys, Robert ‘Robbie’ Townsend and Ezekiel ‘Zeke’ Moyer looked up expectantly at that

proposal. They were dressed identically in jeans and athletic shoes but each of them wore a shirt with a

different movie logo on it, all for B-movies.

“Yeah, dude. Like that time you got us for that double feature of All Flesh Must Be Eaten and Rec 3.

Dude, that was so sweet.” Zeke nodded approval at Robbie’s statement.

“Just let me know and I’ll hook you up. The manager goes home at 9pm so any time after that is cool,”

Pete said. Just then another boy, Patrick Middleton walked up to the table and sat down. He tossed a

hardback book on the table with a muffled thud. His t-shirt was a bit graphic with a Tanto-style blade

ripping through the front with simulated blood and a logo of ‘Real men prefer Cold Steel’. On the back of

the shirt the writing stated, ‘Buff it, Hone it, Grind it.’

“Man, this place is so lame. All I could find is that wannabe zombie book Cell. I’ve like read it a couple

hundred times.” He looked around the library as if an entire section of the zombie horror sub-genre would

suddenly appear. Zeke pulled a well-worn paperback from his backpack which was sitting on the floor

next to his chair. Nestled between his college course books was what he was searching for.

“Here, try this one.” He tossed the book to Patrick who caught it easily. He turned it over and looked at

the cover.

“Dude, Keene’s City of the Dead. Sweet,”

“We need to go to the mall or Barney’s,” Patrick stated, using his nickname for the book store chain of

Barnes & Noble. “Maybe they’ll have the latest Monchinski book.”

The other boys all nodded and looked at Zorrell, the only one of the group who had his own car.

Zorrell looked up to find his friends staring at him awaiting his response.

“And hit the paperback exchange while we’re up there,” Zeke added.

Zorrell, still not agreeing to the suggestion, watched the other boys putting their various books, pencils

and other items into their packs and jump bags. Realizing that it was futile to complain, he stuffed his

own items into his pack.

“Alright, but then we’re going to Taco Bell and I’m not paying for that or my gas,” he said as he stood.

The other boys all joked about him leaving them on the Westside of Olympia at the mall and making

them all walk back downtown but it was all good naturedly.

***

CHAPTER 3

Joint Base Lewis/McChord, Washington State

“Hey Butler, wait up!” Captain Declan ‘Deck’ O’Toole called out to his Team Sergeant. Richard Butler, a

squat, barrel-chested man with over a decade in US Army Special Forces, stopped and looked back at the

younger man as he jogged to catch up.

“What can I do for you, Cap’n?” Butler asked once the young officer had reached his side. O’Toole put

his arm around the sergeant’s shoulder and looked around conspiratorially before answering.

“Glad you asked, Top,” O’Toole answered. “Walk with me and I’ll enlighten you. It just so happens that I

could use a man of your unique talents.” O’Toole looked around the 1st Special Forces Compound as

they walked from the ‘Team House’ to the billets. Butler recognized the action as situational awareness,

something that was second nature for a SF soldier.

“It seems that ODA-161 has somehow misplaced their snow mobile helmets and have no idea where they

might be.” O’Toole smirked, knowing full well where the alleged misplaced helmets were but keeping in

the tradition of pranks well known within the Special Operations community.

“And this involves me how, sir?”

“With your special talents, I am tasking you with placing aforementioned helmets in ODA-181’s team

room.”

Butler nodded, a little confused about the reasoning behind all this subterfuge.

“And this would do what?”

O’Toole clapped the older man on the shoulder and grinned widely.

“Glad you asked, oh mighty Master Sergeant.” O’Toole chuckled before continuing. “By placing the,

contraband into 181’s room, it points the finger at them as the culprits thus causing an internal

investigation and thereby hampering 161’s deployment to Alaska for winter training.” Butler frowned a

little while he tried to put all the pieces together still not comprehending the young officer’s logic.

“I see that I’ve lost you, old wizened one,” O’Toole flashed a boyish grin. “If 161 gets delayed by the

heinous act perpetrated by 181 that moves our ODA into the slot to deploy to the Caribbean in place of

161’s Alaska deployment.” Butler looked at the officer with feigned shock.

“A ghastly consequence for all involved, sir.” O’Toole’s face lit up like a small child at Christmas.

“Exactly my point, Master Sergeant. Make it happen.” O’Toole said as he shook his senior NCO’s hand,

spun on his heel and headed for the group’s motor pool. Butler walked off shaking his head in dismay.

The Deck was at it again.

***

CHAPTER 4

Somewhere off the Pacific Coast

SSGN Claggett

“COB, surface the boat,” Commander David Powell stated as he flipped the handles of the periscope up

and pressed the controls to retract the viewing instrument.

“Aye, captain. All stations prepare to surface,” Senior Chief Petty Officer Gregg Wilson relayed the order

throughout the command area. Crewmen all over the aging former ballistic missile Ohio class submarine

performed a myriad of tasks to make the huge vessel rise to the surface. Further aft of the control room, a

small detachment of Navy SEALs, the descendants of the early frogmen and underwater demolition

teams, now the premiere Special Warfare force for the US Navy, readied their equipment for the

upcoming evaluations. Designated ‘Shark’ by the other Naval Special Warfare groups that operated off

the west coast of the United States, they were an eclectic mix of personalities. Normally based in

California, this team had been chosen to test a more secure and presumably stealthier method of

deploying special warfare teams from underwater vessels.

Lieutenant James Willis, the OIC, or Officer in Charge, of what his men called Shark Platoon had to

chuckle when he remembered the actual phrasing that some techies had thought up to name this project.

‘Covert deployment methods of NAVSPECWAR assets from existing and predicted submerged tactical

platforms.’ The title that this whole project had been saddled with was quite the mouthful. Rumor was

that a petty officer had walked by the docks where most of the decommissioned boomers had been

moored and had some kind of epiphany about using the old boats. The Ohio class boomers were what

some of the bubbleheads called a black hole in the ocean due to their stealth ability and lack of sonar

signature which was the primary reason for this new use. While the original Ohio was now nothing more

than a collection of expensive razor blades and her sister ships looked like they might join her, the idea of

using the old boats right up to the end or beyond their lifespan had been a very appealing option for the

Navy who was faced with the cost to salvage and scrapping the expensive boats. It was either find some

use for them or turn them over to the environmental groups who wanted to use them for monitoring whale

migrations.

The Claggett was one of the last of the Ohio designation and had been chosen for this project while most

of her sister ships awaited their fate. Decommissioned and salvaged or renovated and remain part of the

active fleet.

Claggett’s missile tubes or ‘Sherwood Forest’ and running track had been removed to make room for a

large dive out locker with a connected wet/dry lockout area and storage. Shark Platoon, Detachment Golf,

SEAL Team 3 called it the ‘barn’ reminiscent of such a building due to the large clamshell doors that had

replaced the individual launch tubes and the interior ‘stalls’ for storing equipment. This was an innovation

that while initially expensive requiring several months in dry dock, was what some hoped would breathe

life back into the aging boomer fleet.

Other experimental methods of Special Warfare deployment had been tested in the past with mixed

results. Some of the older boats, the Ethan Allen class, had exterior storage compartments bolted to the

outside deck that required Special Warfare (SPECWAR) teams to suit up, exit the submarine through an

escape trunk, then open the compartments to remove their gear. Others had been fitted with mounts that

SEAL Delivery Vehicles (SDV) could be attached to, but again, the teams had to exit the vessel to get to

their underwater conveyance. At first, the idea was acceptable, but then problems arose. The

compartments were add-ons to the top deck of the sub, most were just barely rated for the depths that the

boats operated at and frequently the hinges or clasps would succumb to the exterior pressure, releasing the

contents and disrupting the sonar signature of the vessel. None were covered in the sound absorption

material that the hull was. Luckily these incidents happened at times that stealth wasn’t a factor, as the

banging of these components ruined the sound characteristics of the boat. Claggett, with its renovations,

was now capable of supporting up to 60 SEALS and their various water craft.

Claggett broke the surface cleanly amid a surge of white water then settled into a steady pace of twelve

knots. Her crew rapidly and efficiently set stations for surface operations as the embarked SEALs

prepared for the latest evaluation.

***

Interlude

New York City, Office Building designated 215

Sierra 3, Forward Recon Team

Sergeant Stanislaus Luzetski listened as his team debated the proper label to attach to the infected masses

filling the streets beneath them. Zeds, Zombies, Zulus, Zips, Ghouls, Gomers? It didn’t matter to him

what they were called, Luzetski just wished there weren’t so many of them. He was glad his men were

conversing in very low voices, as sound had a way of echoing inside an urban environment. This was

supposed to be a strategic reconnaissance mission, an urban creep, something they were very good at.

Instead, it was looking more and more like a clusterfuck.

His recon element was assigned to the roof of an office building in Harlem overlooking Harlem River

Drive. It was an older building that had seen many tenants, probably built back when New York was still

processing people through Ellis Island. Sierra 3 had fast roped from a UH-60 Black Hawk over two hours

ago with orders to act as spotter for the ground forces and guide in tactical air strikes when air support

became available. The ground forces were supposed to be right behind them. Yeah, Luzetski thought, any

minute now those forces would appear.

Typical Army fuck up. Now it was a ‘hurry up and wait’ situation.

Luzetski suppressed a sigh as his radio man relayed yet another deployment delay. The join up of forces

from Fort Ti hadn’t happened, probably wouldn’t happen today, maybe tomorrow. 2nd Brigade was

bogged down somewhere north of their position. They could hear the firing in the distance. One prong of

the advance element had pushed as far as Morningside Heights before they had been stopped by the

massive number of Zips. Profanities hissed from the other men each time they heard a negative report

from Fort Ti or some unit that was stuck and requesting support. They wanted to get the job done and get

extracted. Lower Manhattan was a paradise compared to being around the Harlem legions of whatever

these things were called.

“Jiminez, stay ready, we don’t want to give the Air Force an excuse to blame the Army for dropping the

ball, Hoo-ah?”

“Hoo- ah, Sergeant. Ready whenever those bus drivers get around to it. I’ll paint the target the second you

say so.”

Luzetski lowered his binoculars and winked at the Puerto Rican corporal. The soldier was adjusting the

GLID, Guidance Laser Illumination Device, focusing the invisible beam on the Harlem River Bridge.

Crap, there sure are lots of those things. Hope this doesn’t spread to North Dakota. Zips, Luzetski

thought.

“Guys, we’ll call ‘em Zips or Zulus, easier to say than zombie and Bragg requested that we not use that

term,” he finally announced.

Pruitt looked up from his Stoner M110 suppressed sniper rifle.

“Leave it to Uncle Sam to stay politically correct when the whole world is going down the toilet.”

Turning to the only African-American on the team, “Washington, Zip or Zulu doesn’t bother you, right?”

Washington slipped his radio earpiece off and grinned slyly.

“Nope. Course, I ain’t from the Zulu tribe. I’m an elder statesman of the Poontang Brotherhood. Just

don’t call ‘em Poontangs and I’ll be mighty pleased,” Washington grabbed the crotch of his pants, a big

grin on his face as he suggestively moved it up and down.

Luzetski just shook his head at Washington’s comment. No matter where they were or what they were

doing, Washington always thought with his dick first.

Pruitt spoke up as he looked through his scope.

“Movement,” he announced. “Doesn’t look good, it’s more of the Zulus,” he announced. “Hey

Washington, this one looks like one of your type, kind of Halle Berry meets blender look.”

“Yeah, Washington,” Jiminez chuckled, “You’re so fine with the women, why don’t you go put the

moves on Halle down there? Bet she’d eat you right up!”

Better to have them smarting off than being so quiet like Stamper over there. He’s the only one of us

that’s married. Stamper’s wife, Deidre was out of state at some wedding Luzetski remembered. Stamper

was slowly swiveling his M249 Squad Automatic Weapon (SAW) on its bipod and watching the streets

below.

“Nope. She don’t look too healthy, I’d hate to catch some funk from her for sure. Besides, she looks like

she’s been rode hard already,” Washington remarked peering over the side.

“Like that’s ever stopped you before? What about that one time you stuck your…” Jiminez paused

suddenly then held up his hand as his AN/PRC 119 SINCGARS Joint Tactical Radio System beeped to

indicate an incoming transmission then started relaying information. The bantering stopped.

“Commo chatter coming in.”

“Give it to me,” Luzetski ordered taking the offered handset.

“Sierra Three this is Eagle One looking for the indicator, how copy?”

“Eagle One this is Sierra Three the target is lit. I say again, the target is lit and the music is

playing.”Luzetski snapped his fingers at Jiminez, then pointed to the bridge. The corporal adjusted

himself behind the GLID, sighted through the scope then looked up and nodded at his NCO.

“Eagle One, the music is playing.”

“Sierra Three, Eagle One has the music.”

“Eagle One copy that.” Luzetski turned to his men.

“Get your heads down, he’s coming in hot.”

The F-16 came roaring in from the south. The laser guided smart bomb was released and followed the

GLID’s beam perfectly to the span of their particular bridge currently full of the infected at one end and

survivors and Military Police at the other.

The explosion was always louder than expected.

Just like Iraq. Luzetski thought. He felt a little sorry for the units that were trying to stem the flow of Zips

pushing their way across the river. Wrong place at the wrong time. He watched body parts rain down with

splashes into the Harlem River.

A sudden thump beside Washington startled them all.

A man’s severed right forearm had landed two feet from him. It bore a gold band Rolex watch and a large

diamond encrusted gold wedding band in ghastly contrast to the gray tinged flesh. Stamper looked as if he

were about to vomit.

Washington let out a long, ragged breath.

“Guess I get the first souvenir,” he quipped as he eyed the gold Rolex and ring wondering about the

empty apartments overlooking Central Park West and the Upper Westside. He couldn’t help but think that

the units operating in those areas were helping themselves to what was left in the stores and apartments.

***

CHAPTER 5

51 Days before Infection

Flagstaff, Arizona

“As you can see, Mr. Chambers this house has had some extensive remodeling to accommodate the

previous owner.” The realtor, Candace Reed, a fairly buxom blonde was telling Ronald Chambers as he

inspected the basement. “The previous owner was a bit odd, you know? One of those people who thought

that the year 2000 was the end of the world.” Reed explained the reason why a section of the expansive

basement had been converted into a ‘safe room.’ These safe rooms were becoming more and more

common in major cities for those who had the financial wherewithal to afford such an expense. Chambers

was somewhat listening to Reed as she droned on about the lack of neighbors, the high adobe/concrete

fence that was nicely incorporated into the perimeter landscaping and the intricate alarm system. What

impressed Chambers the most, besides Candace’s figure and ample bosom, was the space in the basement

that could easily be converted into his private laboratory.

“I’m sorry Mrs. Reed; you were saying something about an alarm system and a safe room?” Chambers

turned to look at her. Candace, focused a prize winning smile on Chambers before answering.

“It’s Miss not Mrs.,” she corrected him with a slight nod.

“But of course it is,” Chambers replied with a smile of his own as he looked into her eyes.

“Well, yes the alarm system is quite involved. It monitors the entire property, all ten acres, and the

interior of the house as well. The safe room,” she indicated to a section of the basement that had a very

solid door. “Is right over there.” Chambers noticed that she left out that the previous owner was a

producer of amateur pornographic movies and had at one time considered using his home for an adult

version of the reality television show, Big Brother. Full disclosure was something he would normally

expect if the issue was detrimental to the structure of the house in this case it was not relevant and he

understood why she didn’t mention it.

“The instruction and operations manual is located on the main floor in the kitchen. There’s an additional

monitoring station in the safe room.” Reed gestured to the door of the safe room at the far end of the

basement. Chambers silently chided himself for not considering that the security station would be inside

that room but the expanse of space available in the basement had distracted him.

“I see. I’m sure that’s all fine and well but let’s talk price.” Chambers noticed Candace’s smile grew

brighter when he mentioned actually buying the house. It was perfect for him. Out of the way, no real

neighbors, a nice secluded home with privacy and everything he needed to work in peace. He followed

Reed upstairs to the large kitchen and couldn’t help but notice the sway of her hips and the firm flexing of

her buttocks as she negotiated the stairs.

“As you may know the home went into foreclosure when the owner defaulted on his mortgage. Originally

it was listed at 1.2. The current list price is 975,500 and that’s waiving most if not all penalties and fees.

However, that doesn’t take into account the back taxes.” She watched for a reaction from Chambers.

There was none.

“Is that the cash price or can we come to some arrangement?” he asked without turning from his

inspection. He knew he had just dropped a bombshell on her and smirked to himself when Reed didn’t

answer right away. A cash sale would undoubtedly mean a promotion for her and a tidy commission.

“I’m sure we can come to some agreement. What did you have in mind?” she asked.

Chambers turned around and faced her. “I’m willing to give you, in cash $900,000 and that would include

all closing costs, penalties, and fees. I can take care of the back taxes separately. Provided that I can take

possession in one week.”

“Deal,” Candace agreed without a second’s hesitation. Chambers smiled. Reed knew that this house had

sat empty for some time and the bank was very anxious to move it.

“Excellent. I’ll meet you at your office with a cashier’s check in say two hours and we’ll finalize this

purchase.”

***

Camberley, Surrey, United Kingdom

The Royal Windsor hotel, a large multi-story complex rated as a four star experience with award winning

terraced gardens and its own 18 hole golf course, was situated in the town of Camberley. Within a

reasonable drive time from London, the town and the hotel were used by businessmen for holiday and for

those residents of London wanting to get away from the big city but still be close to the amenities they

preferred. Built when splendor was in fashion, the ivy covered monolith was one of the oldest buildings

outside of London proper. The main lobby had a large crystal chandelier and a massive stone fireplace

both accentuating the dark cherry paneling and white marble columns. Located off the M3 motorway,

Camberley had already garnered a reputation with tourists, golfers, and harried businessmen as a place to

go to get away from it all and relax.

Jack Larkin, a resident of nearby Bagshot, and his close friend Arthur Higgins, had been employed by the

Windsor for the last several years. Larkin was now supervising porter and Higgins was his equal in

facilities maintenance.

One of the many benefits for both was the visits from celebrities, both native and foreign that stayed at the

hotel due to its reputation for discretion.

At the outskirts of Camberley were two more world class golf courses and the ever popular Royal

Military Academy, Sandhurst.

“Hey Jack, you ready for the yank convention next month?” Arthur Higgins asked as he approached the

small desk in the lobby that the porters used.

“Dumb ass Ammies,” Larkin muttered, thinking about the chaos that the American conventions created in

the small town. Now with the yanks coming, any idea of relaxing would be pushed aside. Larkin

remembered back to the last convention that had been held at the Royal Windsor. Bleeding sods had made

a right mess of things. The last yank convention that was held at the Windsor, some investment company

that was celebrating opening a new branch in London, had damn near set fire to the banquet hall. Their

cousins across the pond didn’t know about the difference in electricity while in the UK. Most of the

repairs were to the electrical outlets as the wankers hadn’t bothered to understand that the voltage was

different over here and they needed to use the converter that the main lobby gift store carried if they had

forgotten or neglected to bring one along for their appliances.

***

Interlude

New York City, Office Building designated 215

Sierra 3, Forward Recon Team

Sierra 3’s men were becoming increasingly uneasy. This was their second night in the same position and

still no word on extraction. They had quietly remained in place all afternoon; accomplished their mission,

all the while exercising fairly decent noise discipline. The strain of being literally surrounded by massive

numbers of infected was starting to show. Luzetski knew his men were good, but enough was enough.

He put his cigarette out and went over to Pruitt, the secondary commo man and designated marksman for

the small unit. Pruitt had quit smoking a couple months ago, but always carried a couple packs in his gear,

just in case. Now Luzetski was wondering why not keep on smoking, what difference did it make? He sat

down quietly, the rooftop gravel crunching under him.

“Got a smoke?”Ski asked.

“I thought you quit?”

“I did. Then I started five minutes ago so shut up about it. Anything moving down there?”

“Nothing living,” Pruitt replied as he removed a pack from his uniform pocket and shook loose a cancer

stick for his NCO. “I was only concerned about the smoke. The zips might be able to smell it.”

“Kiss my ass. Most of the city is burning,” Ski joked as he held out his binoculars. “You want to watch

Yankee Stadium burn? If they can make out one cigarette with all that crap in the air, well fuck it then.”

He looked over at the team RTO. “Jiminez, get hold of Sierra 2.”

Ski changed channels on his JTRS when he got the nod from Jiminez then sent a transmission.

“Sierra 2, this is Sierra 3, over.”

“This is Sierra 2. Wait one.” A different voice came on. “Stan, this is Benny. What’s the latest? Over.”

“I called to see if you guys heard anything, over,” Luzetski stated.

“Hell no! Oscar Six jumped my ass about 5 minutes ago for reminding them we were still waiting for

dust-off. Over,” Staff Sergeant Benjamin McDonald replied.

“Break Break this is Oscar Six to all Sierra units. You are advised to exercise radio silence and keep all

channels free of unnecessary traffic. We are aware of your situation. Hold your positions until extraction

becomes available.”

“Oscar Six, Sierra 3, when can we expect extraction?”

“Sierra 3, not long, unknown at this time.”

“Sierra 2, Trumpet Dance, Sierra 3 Out”

“Roger that. Out.”

Trumpet Dance had been an exercise from the previous year. The two units had thought up a way to

circumvent the usual radio monitoring the evaluators did. They would soon be at it again after their

commo men made some minor changes.

“Jiminez, you know what to do. What Oscar Six doesn’t know won’t hurt us.”

“Doing it now, Ski. You know I hate it when you make me do that,” Jiminez said, trying to inject a little

humor as he opened the back of the radio and made some adjustments. Pruitt looked up from attaching his

night scope to his rifle with a smirk.

“Now you’re pulling commo tricks? Probably get us sent to some shit assignment like sitting on top of a

building surrounded by a hundred thousand cannibals. Oh wait, that’s already happened,” Pruitt observed.

“I bet there’s more than that, maybe half a million,” Earl Stamper spoke for the first time in hours.

“Welcome back from the wherever the hell you’ve been, Earl,” Pruitt smiled at him. “Stay frosty and

keep that righteous thunder gun handy, okay?”

***

CHAPTER 6

25 days before Infection

Private Research Facility, Florida Keys

Robert Foster poured a thick viscous liquid into a beaker containing nothing but plain, sterile water. The

water mixing with the liquid turned bright yellow then faded to dark purple. He set the beaker down and

made notes on the clipboard resting on the lab table. Foster was able to continue his research work with

what he hoped would be positive results.

The faint sounds of alternative metal rock made him look towards where his assistant sat, feet propped up

on the desk and a set of lightweight headphones connected to an iPod. Foster shook his head and

continued with his work. Bill Johnson wasn’t the type of assistant Foster had expected when he had

agreed to the terms of his employment with Conley. Johnson never arrived on time, was always dressed

as if he had just come from the beach and had a lack for following basic protocols in the lab. Several

times Foster had caught Johnson neglecting to use the airlock properly when entering the laboratory. At

other times, Foster would come back from his lunch to discover that Johnson had used a specimen cart to

block open the airlock doors thereby bypassing yet another containment protocol and potentially allowing

outside contamination to enter the sterile working environment.

When he confronted Johnson about this, all he received in way of apology was a “Relax, old dude,”

comment and attitude. Foster had reported the incidents to Conley who just shrugged it off as Foster’s

eccentricity. His work demanded strict adherence to the protocol as he was trying to perfect what he

called Neurogenesis, the reanimation of dead brain tissue. The primary goal was to apply his finding to

stroke victims and victims of traumatic brain injuries. However, getting permission from those victims

proved difficult as for obvious reasons, coma victims couldn’t sign any consent documents allowing

Foster permission and in most cases the stroke victims he wanted to work with were in an extreme

vegetative state. In all the cases, family members were very reluctant to allow Foster permission to

experiment on their loved ones, especially with a treatment that could very well end in death. That was

the legal issue two years prior when he had conducted his first experiments resulting in his expulsion

from the medical field.

He looked up as Doctors Williams and Stine entered the lab. Williams was a tall, slender man, whereas

Stine was overweight, balding and perpetually sweating causing him to wipe his brow with a

handkerchief. Foster had chuckled the first time he had seen them as the pair reminded him of the Laurel

and Hardy comedy duo from the 1930s. They were coming to check his progress. He mentally shook his

head.

Progress can never be rushed.

***

CHAPTER 7

Bakersfield, California

John Mecceloni drove down the desolate highway, eyes hidden behind an expensive pair of Foster Grant

sunglasses. He was not oblivious to the magnificent sunset with its dramatic coloring painting the

landscape around him in warm hues. No, Johnny was focused on the contract job that he had accepted.

Mecceloni was what some might label a ‘fixer;’ one that performed the most intricate and delicate of jobs.

‘Removing liabilities.’ Mecceloni smirked as he recalled that euphemism. His mentor, now long retired to

some non-extradition country, sipping margaritas and chasing senoritas as he had boasted about for years,

had coined that term when the two of them had been on a job some years back.

Seeing the sign ahead for a rest stop, Mecceloni checked his mirrors and changed lanes, the call of nature

was becoming more forceful on his bladder and besides, he’d rather piss now instead of later when he was

on the job. That way he could focus on the objective and not on other extraneous issues. He pulled his

nondescript rented sedan into the section of the rest stop reserved for cars and parked it a few spaces away

from the other cars and precisely within the white lines. He got out and casually scanned the parking area

in the waning light before walking to the small building containing the restrooms. Surprisingly, the men’s

room was neat and clean. He strode up to a urinal and did his business. Finished, he zipped and washed

up at the sink looking at his reflection in the mirror.

‘When you start seeing the faces, Johnny Boy, that’s the time to retire,’ Patrick O’Connell, his mentor had

mentioned to him just before he retired. Washing his face and then drying it he looked again into the

mirror. Staring back at him was a tanned face with intense green eyes framed by dark brown hair. A well

trimmed mustache rounded out his features. Not quite 40 Johnny Boy, Mecceloni thought before turning

and exiting the restroom. As he exited he noticed that there were five sheriff’s deputies, one of them a K9

officer, that had rolled up and parked. They were all standing around the large map of the area and

conversing with each other. Mecceloni knew they weren’t after him; no law enforcement branch had his

picture or his prints. He nodded and smiled to them as he passed.

In a few hours he would be at his hotel, make the phone call and find out the specific details of his latest

assignment.

***

Interlude

82nd

Airborne staging area

New Jersey

Williams leaned over. He motioned with his hand to the young lieutenant across the bus aisle to get

closer. The smell of alcohol emanated from his mouth as he spoke.

“Hey kid, don’t worry you’ll do fine. If you’re anything like your dad you’ll be better than fine.” Colonel

Williams looked back and forth to see if anybody was listening. None of the soldiers around them

appeared to take note of their conversation.

“Listen, I’ll let you in on the latest from HQ. I have some good news and some bad news,” Williams

chuckled at the old joke, his words slurring a little as he spoke. “Urban Denial is all of a sudden turning

out okay. That’s what we’re telling the media anyway. Truth is, we’re getting royally ass fucked.

Especially in Upper Manhattan and at La Guardia. Glad you’re not dropping on La Guardia.” Williams

belched and leaned back over in his seat, staring out the window.

“What’s wrong with La Guardia?” Lieutenant Smith asked as he leaned across the aisle towards Williams.

“La Guardia is a lost cause. No way we can hold it for any length of time. The infected have the numbers.

But it won’t make any difference anyway.” Williams stifled another belch and tasted the sharp tang of

bile in this mouth.

“Why not?” Smith asked.

“Why not what?” Williams asked.

“Why won’t it make a difference,” Smith asked. Williams opened his eyes wide, blinked rapidly, shook

his head a little then leaned towards the younger officer.

“Our airlift is going right down the crapper,” he explained. “With the budget cuts and oversea peace

keeping deployments, we don’t have the capability to force project like we used to. Hell, we’re lucky to

keep up a sustained operation in the states. We’re down 60% since yesterday, and I’m talking about the

capacity of the entire Air Force! A week from now we won’t even have enough fuel or personnel to keep

the air force flying!” Williams had gotten a little loud. Heads were starting to turn towards the officer.

Smith motioned to Williams to lower his voice as he nervously looked around the bus at the other

soldiers, many of them trying to ignore the obviously drunk superior officer.

“That can’t be true,” Smith insisted. “We have aircraft and crews moving us tonight. It can’t be as bad as

you say.”

“Like hell! We’re gonna drop 3500 men into the big apple tonight. In three days we’ll be lucky to drop a

thirty round magazine or an MRE. We can’t pull food, fuel, and ammo outta our ass.” Williams looked

around at the men crowded into the bus and knew that most of them would never be coming back.

***

CHAPTER 8

New York

18 days before Infection

Nathan Bedford Conley sat at the highly polished conference room table located in the executive wing on

the 27th floor of his building. Spread on the table top around him were several folders and computer

discs. At the far end of the room, flanking the doors stood two of his security personnel, impassive behind

their dark sunglasses. A small tightly coiled wire led out of their tailored suits to the earpieces they each

wore. At the other end of the table sat Doctors Hollis Williams and Greg Stine. Stine wiped his forehead

with a handkerchief every few minutes even though the air conditioning was on in the room. This action

made Stine look like he was nervous to be in Conley’s presence which pleased Conley.

“Gentlemen, it appears that Foster has made a breakthrough,” Conley stated as he closed the file he had

been reading and looked at the two men.

“Yes, sir. Doctor Foster has made some promising advancements in reviving dead brain tissue. But he

still hasn’t got all the bugs worked out,” Williams replied. Stine nodded agreement and wiped his brow

again.

“Yes, I read that he still has some issue with the outer layers of the cortex dying off rapidly. Though that

really doesn’t seem too much of a problem considering the mental state of the patients he’s been working

with,” Conley added.

“Mr. Conley, sir. If Foster can stop that deterioration of the outer cortex, we could market this drug for

stroke and traumatic brain injury victims. This could mean literally millions if not billions in profit once

the FDA approves it,” Stine mentioned as he wiped his brow yet again.

Conley leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling, seemingly in thought. He pursed his lips, and

then leaned forward, his elbows on the table, fingers steepled before he replied.

“Be that as it may gentlemen, the tissue die off may work to our advantage. From what I’ve read, we have

no actual field study from non-brain injury subjects. We need to do so at our earliest convenience.”

Williams and Stine’s shared a shocked look before Williams cleared his throat and found his voice.

“Mr. Conley that’s highly irregular. To do a test such as that on a non TBI patient could have catastrophic

effects. It could actually kill the patient. And even if we were able to conduct such a test, where would we

find any subjects?”

Conley had a strange little smirk on his face before he replied.

“You let me worry about test subjects. Just see that we have enough of the finished chemical to conduct

thorough testing.” Conley shuffled the files into a neat little pile in front of him and used his hands to

straighten them up before he stood and placed the files inside his briefcase.

“Good day, gentlemen. I have another appointment I need to be at. Thank you for flying up to meet with

me. I’m sure you can find your own way out,” Conley said in way of dismissal as he stood and walked

towards the double doors of the conference room already opened by his security personnel. He was

ushered to a waiting express elevator that whisked him to the sub-basement of the building and opened

into what could have been mistaken for a high end, ultra modern medical research facility had it not been

situated under his corporate headquarters. Walking the white tiled floors and well lit hallways, he stopped

at a secure door and withdrew a card key. Swiping it through the reader, he leaned forward and pressed

his right eye into the retinal scanner before the door beeped and opened. Conley’s two bodyguards took

up station on both sides of the door as he entered and shut the door behind him.

The room Conley walked into was a combination preparation room and observation room for the bio-

level 4 laboratory that was built into this level. While other bio-level 4 labs existed, it was highly unlikely

that they existed in a densely populated area or were located under a commercial building. Behind the

glass partition, several people worked in full containment gear. They all moved slowly and carefully

knowing that the viruses they were handling could kill them very quickly and very painfully. He walked

over to an intercom on the wall.

“Doctor Roberts? I need to speak with you in the briefing room.” A figure encased in the sealed, positive

pressure suit looked towards the observation room and nodded before moving slowly towards the

decontamination area. A few minutes later, Doctor Henry Roberts walked into the small briefing room

sans the protective outerwear and now in a set of hospital scrubs he nodded a greeting to Conley. On the

wall screen was a slide containing the chemical breakdown of Foster’s formula.

“What do you make of this?” Conley asked as Roberts sat down. Roberts studied it for a few minutes

from behind his glasses as he formulated his reply.

“Now that looks interesting. There’s some professional work in this. Look at how clean and smooth the

grafting is of the cell structure. Truly excellent work.” Roberts quickly looked at Conley. “This is for

brain tissue isn’t it?” Conley nodded without replying.

Roberts looked at another of the slides as Conley advanced the projector. “Beautiful. A radical concept

for sure. This is an entirely new direction than where we had been going.”

He looked at Conley, “What’s the theory based on?”

Conley slid over the stack of files. “Revitalization of dead brain tissue.” Roberts shot Conley a shocked

expression. “Look for yourself. It’s from Robert Foster.”

“Foster? Oh, yes. ‘Brain dead’ Bobby. I remember him from some years back. Got himself into a mess of

trouble out in California last I heard. Something about unauthorized medical experiments on terminal

coma patients. Almost lost his license and came within a hair of being tossed in prison.”

“All of that’s true. Then he came to work for me.”

Roberts nodded, and then began paging through the files. Conley watched Roberts and was amazed to see

an almost childlike glee come across the other man’s pale face as each page he turned seemed to delight

him more and more. Roberts bald head flushed with excitement at the same time as his face did.

“Can you adapt this to our purpose?” Conley asked. Roberts paused as he read a notation in the file.

“I’m sure we can. It should be relatively easy with the original formula already laid out for us. It already

stimulates the adrenal glands as part of its process, we can use that. I’m sure we can make it a bit hardier

by splicing in some cancer genes that would make it very resilient and able to live outside the host for a

short period of time. Maybe add something else to give it more gusto.” Roberts brought his fist up to

accentuate his point. Roberts began scribbling notes on the cover of another folder about what could be

done all the while muttering quietly.

“Cytokine storm? Oh that is a lovely addition,” Conley heard Roberts mutter.

Conley could only smile as the other man seemed to get more and more excited about the prospect of

creating something so virulent and deadly that he had to wonder if Roberts was just a little insane.

Roberts was only one of many thousands of converts to Conley’s cause.

Nathan Bedford Conley was also the secret head of what some would consider a radical environmental

group. Only his group was not one that garnered media attention with publicity stunts such as chaining

themselves to trees or oil drilling platforms. His group was more covert in their actions. They were

concerned about the ‘brown haze’’ the smog caused by man and all his meddling with nature that was

slowly eating the earth and destroying the habitats of its wonderful creatures. The same haze that could be

seen when flying and the same haze that hung over almost every major city from Los Angeles to Mexico

City. Conley had spent years cultivating a select group of scientists, virologists and researchers into his

movement. There were even a few senators and congressmen that were considerate to his cause. They all

believed that the earth could recover if man was decreased to a more controllable population.

Conley had already introduced a genetically engineered corn crop into Central and South America that

would sterilize the population within two generations thereby eliminating extreme population growth.

There were also plans to release a genetically engineered isotope that would remove the impurities of the

human race. But, that program was too slow and would raise all kinds of unwanted media attention if

everyone who was afflicted with genetic traits that led to dwarfism, Spina Bifida and Down’s Syndrome

dropped dead after ingesting it no matter if they were recessive genes or not. Now, maybe he could induce

something a bit more extreme with this new discovery then there would truly be a reshaping of the human

race and cleansing of the planet.

***

CHAPTER 9

Somewhere off the Pacific Coast

SSGN Claggett

Lieutenant James Willis, SEAL Team 3, Shark Platoon, Detachment Golf, slowly shook his head as he

read over the After Action Reports. He was seated on the small bench outside the ‘barn’ where the

majority of the former submersible’s missile tubes had once been. This was the second time for Willis and

his SEAL team on board Claggett. The first time, just a month ago, was to evaluate a relatively new

deployment method from submarines that used to be ‘boomer’ class. Willis was used to referring to the

Ohio class as SSBNs or just Boomers. Now they were designated as SSGN, higher was always changing

the designation to something else. Shark Platoon’s last visit to this cold war offspring had resulted in the

discovery that not only did the bubbleheads eat very well while underway, they had quite the

entertainment system and library of movies. One of the small benefits of military service was the ability

to intercept satellite television broadcasts. Of course, this was only an accidental occurrence and very

rarely exploited.

Or so he was told from the commo people.

Willis was finishing up his paperwork on this last evaluation, occasionally glancing over to the work area

where the rest of his team cleaned and stored their equipment. Wearing his standard shipboard uniform,

his short cropped brown hair covered by a navy blue cap with the Special Warfare crest imprinted on it,

OD green Nomex flight suit, partially unzipped to reveal a black t-shirt, legs tucked into a pair of

lightweight Hi-Tec boots. This bench was his little oasis of space amid the hustle of equipment being

cleaned and stowed for the return trip. He was young by SEAL standards, having been in Navy ROTC in

college, he enrolled in the SEAL Challenge and from there to Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL

(BUD/S) training then SEAL Qualification Training (SQT). He had tried several times to grow a

mustache to look older but only succeeded in looking like he had a thin line of chocolate milk on his lip.

Willis looked back down at the results of the latest evaluation of their MAROPS (Maritime Operations), a

method that was looking better all the time. During breaks in his paperwork, he would glance up at his

team as they cleaned the salt residue from their equipment, sharing jokes or ribbing each other good-

naturedly. His team was wearing a mix of uniforms, black BDU pants with the SEAL/UDT blue and gold

t-shirt, others in UDT swim shorts with the same shirt, and a few with woodland pattern BDU pants cut

down into shorts.

What stood out the most was the casualness that they had towards each other. They knew each other

instinctively and had formed a tight bond. Not this brotherhood of war bullshit, but mutual respect and

trust earned over the course of several years living and operating together. The storage area outside the

locker was painted in that bright, light blue/green color that was used to contrast with the now removed

dark red missile tubes. His team chatted and joked as they worked. Willis looked up and caught the eye of

his team chief, motioning him over.

“Billy, what’s this latest snag?” Willis asked his Chief Petty Officer. Rogers, a stocky barrel-chested man

with a decade in the teams, had a shaved head under his UDT/SEAL cap and a small red aquatic seal

tattooed on his large forearm, walked over to where Willis sat. Willis had deep respect for his team chief.

Rogers was a no nonsense operator and quite the utility outfielder on deployments.

“Ell-tee, it’s not that bad, one of the boats hung up on the initial deployment. A tie down strap loosened

and slowed down the ascent rate, boat crew had to bail some water out of it. No big issue, just item

number twenty seven on the checklist to submit for pre-deployment procedure.”

“Thanks, Chief,” Willis said. “I’ll talk to Berry about that, it was his boat.” He made a notation in the

margin. “That’s going to add another paragraph to the report,” Willis stated as Rogers grinned and walked

back over to check on the dive equipment. Willis turned back to his report, ‘Paperwork is never done’ he

thought as he made some notes regarding what to include in the final report. With some more training, a

little fine-tuning, this new method would be a boon to the SPECWAR community.

Commander David Powell, Captain of the Claggett, a naval veteran who had cut his teeth in the ranks of

the subsurface fleet was in command of this vessel. His close cut dark hair just now showing faint streaks

of gray supported a set of half spectacles perched on top of his head. He stood at the chart table and

mentally calculated the ships position, bearing and speed. This was his last cruise; he was finally looking

forward to retiring after 21 years of service all of it spent in submarines. Powell leaned back from the

table after he had finished his mental arithmetic and checked his answers with those of the crewman who

was inputting the same data into the computer before using a grease pencil to make notations on the table.

“Diving officer, bring us up to periscope depth.”

“Periscope depth. Aye, sir,”

Powell moved easily towards the center section of the command bridge, his movements smooth like an

athlete not those of someone who had two decades in submerged metal pipes, and operated the controls to

raise the periscope. Powell tried to keep in shape but these days but it was almost a losing battle.

Somewhat of a fitness nut, he used every chance to work out when not deployed. He chuckled to himself

about the pull up bar he still kept in the small shower in his private head.

“Sonar, any surface contacts?” he asked, waiting for the scope to rise to its pre-assigned height before he

put his eyes to the rubber cups.

“Conn, Sonar, negative surface contact.”

Powell swiveled the periscope slowly, looking at the calm surface above. He was glad the polarization

filters were in place or the bright sunlight might have made him wince as it reflected off the water and

into the expensive optics.

“COB, surface the boat,” Powell swiveled the handles upright on the scope and sent it back down. “Mr.

Ridley secure from diving stations.”

Chief Wilson, a burly man who was also close to retirement, leaned forward and relayed the order to the

seaman manning the dive controls of the large vessel.

“X-O, you have the Conn, I’ll be in my quarters,” Powell stated as he went aft of the command area,

down a small ladder, through a passageway to his quarters. Two more weeks left on this float then I’m

putting in my papers. Powell thought as he entered his cabin.

***

Interlude

New York City, Office Building designated 215

Sierra 3, Forward Recon Team

The thump of artillery and faint machine-gun rattling could be heard far to the north. An hour ago the

heavy droning of transports had thundered overhead. AH-64D gunships could be seen darting among the

buildings like deadly dragonflies.

Over the sounds of the distant firefight, the men of Sierra 3 became aware of a new, very disturbing noise.

The infected were agitated. Moaning and other sounds rose from the streets below. The men looked at

each other without speaking yet conveying what they thought.

Luzetski quickly stubbed out the last cigarette he had bummed from Pruitt, waving his hand to disperse

the smoke. He listened as Washington wondered aloud if the zips would settle down for the night, and

then put a finger to his lips.

“No talking for ten minutes. No unnecessary movement,” Luzetski ordered hoarsely.

Several tense minutes went by; it was obvious the Zips were responding to loud noises, and then reverting

back to silence once the noise stopped. Glances over the side assured them the number of infected were

now only in the dozens instead of the hundreds, or perhaps thousands from hours ago. Most of them had

migrated toward the south end of Manhattan, where the survivors had fled. Sierra 3 relaxed.

Two small clicks came from the SINCGARS/JTRS pack that sat on the roof between Jimenez’s boots.

Sierra 2 was sending a SITREP. Jiminez passed the handset to Ski.

“Ski, I think we’ve been compromised. Over,” The voice whispered over the net.

“Say again? What’s happening Benny? Over,”

Benny responded in a very small voice in their earpieces. Sierra 3 listened intently to what the leader of

their sister team was saying.

“We heard some small arms fire a few floors beneath us, some screams, yelling. Sounded like it was a

group of survivors holding out on one of the floors below us, might have been some cops or ESU guys.

The zips found them and are piling into the building. They’re comin’ up. We can hear ‘em on the stairs.”

They all looked to the south, as if to see Sierra 2’s building. It was just under a mile away and could not

even be seen during daylight, but the men were purely following their empathy for Sierra 2.

Luzetski struggled to keep his voice low.

“Benny, can you get out of there? Get on the fire escape or barricade the roof door?”

“No place to go, we’re too high for a fire escape. We put some sand bags and Claymores in front of the

roof door, won’t hold that mob back long. The zips are just a couple floors under us now. They sound

really pissed. Maybe they can smell us or something.” There was a pause, long enough to make Luzetski

think that the transmission had ended.

“If I don’t make it out of here, you tell Jackie I love her. This is no way for a soldier to die. You tell her I

was downrange when I went down, not like this,” Benny continued. Shouting and shooting could be heard

over the radio.

“This is Sierra 2,” Sergeant Benjamin McDonald stated loud and clear over the Net. “Alpha Mike

Foxtrot.” The transmission ended.

The men of Sierra 3 looked south. A minute passed. Then two almost simultaneous white flashes,

followed by sharp bangs and a phosphorescent white cloud with streamers, White Phosphorous. Someone

in Sierra 2 had popped a Willy Pete grenade. Immediately following that eruption, two more deep booms

were heard. Sierra 2’s Claymore mines had detonated. Crackling and popping of weapon fire echoed

among the high rise buildings for a good twenty seconds. Then a sight that signaled the end: the rising

and falling of red tracer fire in a great arch. Sierra 2’s SAW gunner had just been lost. Silence and

blackness returned to the night punctuated by the rotor throb of a flight of OH-58Ds accompanying their

bigger brothers, AH-64 Apache gunships, swept by overhead.

Washington watched all this in silence, his fear increasing as he gripped his M4 and looked around. He

didn’t want to die on some rooftop surrounded by hundreds maybe thousands of infected assholes.

Looking at the other men hunched together on the roof, he thought about how he could make this work to

his advantage. In his mind, civilization was over and it was every man for himself. He unconsciously

brought one hand down to finger the Rolex watch he had secretly removed hours earlier from the severed

arm that now rested in the thigh pocket of his ACUs .

***

CHAPTER 10

12 days before Infection

New York

Nathan Conley was again in the sub-basement of his corporate building discussing the progress that

Roberts had made on what he now called the Reset Virus or just RV.

“Bottom line it for me. Does it work?” Conley asked. Roberts had been addressing several elements that

had been added to the chemical compound to turn it into RV.

Roberts retracted his pointer and stopped his diatribe on how each element had been grafted to the

original cells to make RV what it had become.

“Computer simulations show a positive saturation point with predictable spread and nominal loss in

dispersion.” Roberts tucked the pointer into his pocket before continuing.

“Of course, this is only supposition as we have no way of testing it on large numbers of human subjects.

It’s been engineered to adhere to the human DNA and genome so it’s possible that higher primates and

simians won’t be affected but the possibility does exist that future mutations might have some effect.”

Roberts saw the look on Conley’s face; Conley had always had a soft spot for primates. “The majority of

our simulations show that most of the animals won’t be directly affected unless they come into contact

with a large dose such as a direct injection. Without proper test trials on human subjects over an extended

period of time, it’s unknown what side effects and/or mutations will actually occur.”

By the time those future mutations occur, there won’t be enough humans left to make a difference. Conley

thought.

“Yes, that’s all fine and good, but does it work?” Conley asked again. Roberts blustered a little before

replying.

“Well, of course it works. But, this goes way beyond purely theoretical research. The finished product,

the virus, RV as you call it, is quite the nasty bug. Not only will it perform as predicted, it multiplies itself

every chance it gets thereby forcing the victim to constantly seek nourishment from any source available.”

Roberts paused as he gauged Conley’s reaction. “I added a little extra something to make RV more

delightful. A little publicized parasite known as Toxoplasma Gondii; commonly found in vermin, rats

mostly, which has been known to affect their mental state. We cultivated large amounts of this parasite

and used it in the final product. Studies show that this parasite is linked to schizophrenia. As you may not

know, approximately three billion people are infected with T. Gondii. Toxoplasma infection is associated

with damage to astrocytes, those are the glial cells which surround and support neurons in the brain.

Schizophrenia is also associated with damage to astrocytes. The incorporation of this parasite into the

overall makeup of RV has increased the potency to the absolute maximum according to the computer

simulations.

“Use of RV would be catastrophic on major population centers. Depending on the delivery method, the

chosen target would suffer massive immediate infection and frank symptoms would show within hours if

not minutes based on exposure levels. Couple that with its ability to live outside the host for a period of

time and we have almost achieved 100% communicability.”

Roberts paused before continuing, “However, the test subjects that were provided showed very violent

tendencies within minutes of exposure. The aggressiveness was off the chart and we found that contact

with any bodily fluids leads to infection. Blood, sweat, saliva, mucous, and although we haven’t tested all

those fluids yet, quite possibly urine, semen and sexual secretions. There was also a visible development

into a pack mentality with distinct Alpha and Beta grouping. The subjects that we euthanized after five

days showed massive deterioration of higher brain functions such as reasoning and logic. Autopsy

showed an enlarged adrenal gland which we attribute to the aggressive and violent behavior. The overall

result was complete and irrevocable destruction of the outer cortex thereby removing higher thought

processes. As we projected, only the most basic, primal instincts were left in the subject. The

rudimentary skills exist, those of kill, eat, and quite possibly mate but beside that their sole focus appears

to be locating more hosts for the virus. However, a small percentage of the subjects seemed to retain some

advanced yet still basic skills such as opening doors and limited tool use.” Roberts looked down at his

notes before continuing. “We estimate that with a timed global infection in key population centers

coupled with random outbreaks in select areas, there will be a total and complete breakdown of

civilization in less than 12 months.” Conley leaned back and smiled when he heard that.

“In two years, we can emerge and start rebuilding the earth with the environment in mind instead of

raping her and leaving toxic scars behind,” Conley commented, envisioning a world where one could

actually see animals in their natural habitat not in some fenced in zoo.

Perfect. Reset will finally happen. Nature will be restored. The human disease reduced to mindless

morons that can easily be contained and removed. As he thought of the world being cleansed of the

human blight, he smiled a knowing smile. RV was the cure for the environment and would allow the earth

to heal from the trauma inflicted by man.

Roberts watched Conley for any kind of reaction before continuing. “There was something peculiar that

we recorded. Subjects that were not infected, but were placed in the same containment of those infected,

were savagely attacked and suffered extremely traumatic injuries. Upon removing the bodies to study the

attack pattern, we found that for all intent and purposes, they were clinically dead.” Roberts seemed to

falter a little in his dissertation. Conley watched as the other man appeared to be at a loss on how to

continue.

“Those subjects somehow have gained the ability to reanimate as it were. Some were on the exam table

and showed similar violent tendencies as those initially infected. It appears that not only can the virus be

spread to others quite easily; it also has the ability to reanimate them by a process as yet undiscovered.

Further study would be greatly beneficial into this phenomenon so that we can better understand the entire

viral process from bite, to infection, to reanimation.”

Roberts looked back down to his notes. “The tests we ran on the reanimated infected showed nominal

brain functions, even less than those initially infected. They exhibited slower motor skills and remarkably,

no detectable respiration or heartbeat. Furthermore, it is notable they seemed impervious to injury except

when struck in the head with force.

For the test we used a five pound sledge hammer. In the tests involving the initially infected subjects,

those that had not reanimated, we found the same results. They were able to withstand massive and

extensive body trauma and almost complete internal damage, with only hard blunt trauma to the head

resulting in massive internal damage or destruction of the brain resulting in their termination.”

Conley looked even more pleased if that were at all possible. Mindless humans wandering around, wasn’t

there already enough of that?

“The conclusion we have to this point is that Reset settles in the brain and takes control of the nervous

system, shutting down the pain receptors and bypassing the major organs.” Roberts paused and looked

over his notes.

“What we have now is a virus that not only spreads from initial contact but also through bites, bodily

fluids, maybe sexual contact, and now even from the victims of an attack by an infected subject. The

primary distinction between the victims appears to be a level of skill retention and movement. Those re-

animated appear incapable of retaining any skills they previously may have had and move quite a bit

slower.” Roberts looked up from his notes. “On a side note, I’d like to start research into the fluid

transference methods and why both infected subjects feel the need, or desire, to devour the flesh of those

they attack, even if it’s after they’ve fed. I theorize that it’s the virus’s ingrained need for reproduction

that initiates the feeding frenzy for lack of better phraseology.” Roberts stopped and waited for Conley to

respond.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about those issues, whatever or however this is transferred is of no concern.

As long as RV gets out there and starts working,” Conley commented. “What delivery method have you

come up with?”

“We’re going with an oral delivery. I had some of the compound synthesized into edible products and

inserted into one of our subsidiary companies. The rest was sent to oral surgeons who will insert it as a

dental cap into the chosen pool of candidates,” Roberts explained.

“Excellent. What about the test subjects?”

“Out of the original 500 that were supplied, we have 350 left, all in a highly agitated and infectious state.

If we add in the non infected carriers, those with the dental implant, that’s over 2000 spread over the

globe not counting the random carriers from the food products.”

“Excellent.” Conley grinned as he thought about the chaos that would ensue. Infected biting and attacking

anyone around them creating more infected and then more and more until utter anarchy ensues. Once the

virus died out, taking the infected with it, they would emerge from their fortified shelters and remake the

world as it should be. He was going to have to watch the security feeds once RV was released, those

would be most entertaining.

“What about the oral surgeons who are doing the placement?” Roberts asked.

“I wouldn’t worry about them. I have a contingency plan already in effect,” Conley said with a smile.

***

Interlude

New York City, Office Building designated 215

Sierra 3, Forward Recon Team

Sierra 3 was numb with exhaustion. They had tried to remain alert, but the heat and tension wore them

down to a lethargic state. Their main concern was becoming so exhausted that it affected their combat

readiness. Ski had broken them down to where half were on alert watching the streets below them and the

others resting but they feared a loud snore could actually cost them their lives. Washington had warily

nodded off a few times, keeping his eyes lidded as he watched and waited.

Shortly after Sierra 2’s demise, they had made a few improvements to their rooftop prison. Luckily, there

was only one entry point to the roof. An enclosure measuring 10 feet by 12 feet housed access to a

stairwell that ran the height of the building. The door was poor quality having been exposed to the

summer heat and the winter cold; it didn’t retain a good seal as it was slightly warped and would not latch

properly due to the hinges being sprung. They had blocked it as best they could.

Using a rappelling rope cut into three lengths and bound around the enclosure at the top, middle, and

bottom of the door was part of the barricade. A small pile of foundation bricks and three fifty pound sand

bags were stacked against the bottom of the flimsy door. They had used their ponchos to make shade on

the hot roof by tying them together, and then tying one end to the back of the roof door enclosure and

securing the other end to vent pipes that stuck out of the roof. It wasn’t much but it gave them some relief

from the radiated heat off the gravel and tar roofing material. The only problem Ski could see was that by

securing the door, they had cut off their only access to the restroom they had been using one floor down.

He had to designate a temporary latrine area on the roof behind the empty pigeon coops. The men had

grumbled about it but what other option did they have?

They now spent most of their time watching the infected below them and reviewing routes on the map in

case they had to extract on foot via the fire escape. Nothing looked too promising.

Luzetski looked back over in the direction of the smoldering Yankee Stadium. He had a two-week leave

scheduled for next month; he had planned to take his dad to watch a Twins-Yankees series in

Minneapolis. Sipping cold MRE coffee, he wondered if he’d ever see the North Dakota plains again. His

thoughts were interrupted when Pruitt spit out his toothpick.

“Holy shit, she’s alive! She’s human! What’s she doing?”

“Hold it down, Pruitt,” Luzetski whispered loudly. He picked up his field glasses. “Where do you see

someone alive?”

The rest of the team had come over to the edge and crouched down. They had binoculars, except for

Pruitt, who was looking through his scope.

“See that police car? Go right ten meters, just past the bus. See the lady with the little boy? They’re just

passing that corner bodega. They came out of that old brownstone diagonally across from our position.

They were hidden by the cars and that fire truck and I only just now got a good look at them.”

Luzetski slowly panned the binoculars, following Pruitt’s directions and saw a woman and a small boy

just as they cleared the dense traffic snarl of abandoned cars. The woman was furtively looking around as

she and the boy stayed close to each other.

She was slightly built and wearing dark sunglasses. She had caked some type of powder on her face and

arms, that or she was an albino. Luzetski studied the little boy. He looked about three maybe four years

old. The little guy sported the same make-up job the woman had. An oversize pair of men’s sunglasses

covered his eyes and tears streaked down the powder on his face. A square lump was under the front of

his shirt that he hugged tightly.

As Luzetski looked back at her, she quickly raised her sunglasses up and glanced at the top of Sierra 3’s

building. Even from this distance, Ski could tell she had a desperate, searching look in her eyes. With the

back of her right hand, she coaxed the little boy forward.

“Oh shit! Ski, she’s comin’ to us! What do we do?” Pruitt asked as he watched.

Luzetski leaned over and looked at the street below. The aimless zombies seemed to pause and sniff the

air, some actually cocking their heads as if hearing something vaguely remembered. They were moving

slower than before, some were almost stopped; trying to pick up what had entered their realm.

“They’re not gonna make it, guys,” Jiminez observed. Quickly, noiselessly, Luzetski stood and waved

both arms twice, and then emphatically pointed back toward the building they had come from. He brought

up his binoculars to see her response. All of Sierra 3 watched as well.

Tears came from under her sunglasses. She shook her head from side to side twice, and patted the

bandage wrapped around her left forearm.

“She knows she’s gonna turn, she’s trying to save her boy!” Stamper choked out. He was openly weeping

as he gasped out the words.

Luzetski swallowed the lump in his throat.

“Pruitt, cover her. Everyone else hold fire! Washington, get ready to cut the ropes. If she makes it to the

sidewalk, we go down.”

A zombie stopped its shuffle, turned as if tracking the mother and child, and then headed straight for the

pair. Pruitt’s rifle popped a suppressed shot. The bullet dropped the zip.

Like sharks on a feeding frenzy, the zips started noticing that there was something in their midst.

Something new. Something tasty. They began to turn and watch the pair, then form up and slowly started

shuffling towards the humans. A zombie with a partially gnawed off arm stepped in front of the woman

and waved it’s nearly amputated limb at her. The mother shrieked loudly, stepped back, and threw her son

into a nearby car, then ran away yelling to distract the zips or just yelling at her son, the men of Sierra 3

couldn’t tell.

Pruitt kept firing, dropping infected with each shot. The rest of the team followed the mother’s progress

until she was finally cornered between two cars that had collided into a city transit bus. If the attackers

had been human, it might have been interesting. She unleashed a barrage of martial arts moves that would

have made Jackie Chan and Bruce Lee proud. While the moves were impressive, it only slowed down the

infected who were beyond feeling pain. In a last ditch effort, she began a series of furious hand, arm, and

leg strikes that normally would have incapacitated an opponent but had little effect on the infected.

In an incredible spinning back kick she nearly decapitated a zip but as she recovered from it, she

stumbled, going down to one knee. That was what the horde needed to envelope her.

Pruitt paused in his firing as he witnessed the slaughter of the mother. He then resumed shooting at the

pack that was now fighting over the choice parts of what used to be the kids mother, hoping that one of

his shots would put her out of her misery.

“Damn it, Pruitt! Check fire! She’s down! Cover the boy!” Ski yelled out nearly hysterical.

The boy had exited the car opposite the side his mom had put him in. He glanced just once towards where

his mother was being devoured then with his head thrown back, took off running towards Sierra 3’s

building. He had a Sponge Bob Squarepants figure gripped tightly in his right hand as the oversize

sunglasses flew off his face.

Several zombies cut him off but the little guy was agile and was almost to Sierra 3’s building. One

zombie, wearing a UPS uniform grabbed his arm. The zip’s head exploded as Pruitt took him down. In a

one in a billion chance, the high powered rifle slug exited the zip’s head with enough force to continue

into the boy’s right foot. The boy dropped to the ground screaming in agony as the bones in his foot were

shattered. Pruitt collapsed on his rifle, sobbing and swearing. The boy’s screams and the zombies’ moans

mingled until the screaming stopped.

The moaning of the zombies during their feeding frenzy was abruptly drowned out by sustained automatic

weapons fire.

Luzetski looked to his left, eyes wide. The brass cartridges from Stamper’s SAW seemed to float in a

perfect golden copper rainbow as Stamper fired through the entire one hundred round drum. The injured

boy and his attackers were turned into coarsely cut rags and meat splattered on the sidewalk.

A chorus of zombie screams broke the sudden silence as thousands of infected looked up at where Sierra

3 was. Hundreds began to pour out of buildings and alleys, looking up at the rooftop. Never-ending

numbers of zombies converged on the building, throwing themselves against the doors until finally

crashing through seven floors beneath Sierra 3.

Luzetski was speechless as he watched the massive throng flow from everywhere.

Finding his voice he stated the obvious.

“Stamper, you- you’ve killed us all.”

***

CHAPTER 11

Infection +12 hours

Elko, Nevada

Frank Durst awoke from an interesting dream of a young starlet dancing on his bed removing clothing as

she did so. The alarm clock went off just as she was removing her top to reveal what he hoped to be some

magnificent breasts. Annoyed, he reached over and slapped the snooze button to enable him a chance to

regain his subconscious fantasy. Rolling over he realized that it was futile to linger any longer in bed.

Sitting up and yawning, Durst stood and walked towards the bathroom to wash up and take care of his

morning ablutions. Stepping out of the shower, he wiped the condensation from the mirror and looked at

himself in it. Smoothing back his unruly brown hair he smiled at himself a few times before finishing

drying off.

“You handsome devil, you. Better get a whip and chair to keep all the women back,” he joked to his

reflection as he shaved. Finished with his bathroom duties, he walked into the small bedroom and began

to get dressed. He was not looking forward to another day at Wex-Tec, the local Internet Service provider,

as their field service technician. Durst walked out the door and got into his 1996 Ford Bronco. Starting up

the big V8, he let his truck idle a little as he took inventory of the interior. This truck was the last year that

Ford produced this model before switching over to the Expedition. He listened to the engine rumble and

felt the vibration as he gently increased pressure on the accelerator before dropping it into gear and

backing out of the driveway.

As the sun shone down on the tan and brown vehicle, the chrome overhead mount for the off road lights

sparkled. Slipping on a pair of Ray-Ban Aviator sunglasses, he rolled his window down and came to a

smooth stop at the stop sign. He looked to the left and thought about blowing off going to work and

spending some time with his on again off again girlfriend Cammie or turning right and going to work.

Maybe he could take her to the lake for a picnic, and then back to her place.

Decisions. Decisions.

Turning right, his decision was made, another day in the salt mines.

As much as he disliked working for the small ISP, the drive to the support site was a relaxing time for

Durst. Located in an old communications bunker built back in the late 1960s, Wex-Tec’s servers and

backup equipment were secure from major power outages and even a nuclear war as one of the owners

joked upon signing the deed for the underground building. With 6100 square feet of space, Wex-Tec had

plans to become Nevada’s premiere Internet Service Provider and then expand into the surrounding states.

Durst turned off the two lane highway and onto the dirt road leading up to the surface buildings. He could

see the single story concrete garage where Wex-Tec stored their only service truck as he entered through

the gates and parked in the employee parking area designated by the painted rocks lined up in a row.

Rolling up his window he stepped out and was greeted by the heat of the high desert. He stood for a

minute and looked at the rocky landscape spread out before him. High above him, a hawk soared on the

updrafts. Durst walked over to the main entrance, typed in his key code and swiped his ID badge through

the card reader. A green light came on and the electronic lock clicked. Entering the building was a relief

from the increasing heat outside.

Taking a moment to remove his sunglasses, he let his eyes adjust to the dim indoor lighting before

making his way down the stairs and through the open twenty-ton blast door.

Always amazed at the size of the facility each time he entered it, Durst walked over to his cubicle and sat

down. Booting up his work computer, he looked around for the other technician who was supposed to be

on duty with him. Francis ‘Butch’ Anfinson wandered in from the far end of the room where the break

room had been set up and where the only restroom in the facility was located. Overweight, with a round

face that made the glasses he wore seem too small for his features, Anfinson was carrying a large amount

of snacks from the vending machines in his arms. Durst watched as Anfinson dropped several items, and

then dropped more each time he stopped to pick up those that he had dropped initially. Shaking his head,

he turned back to his computer and realized that he was in for a long day, wistfully thinking he should

have called in and made that left turn.

***

Interlude

“Washington! Get on the SAW!” Ski yelled again snapping Washington into action.

Washington hustled over to Stamper’s gear, slung his M4, and pulled out one of the ammunition drums

from the vest that Stamper had shrugged off before he had jumped from the roof. He grabbed the SAW,

removed the spent drum and snapped a new one in place. Racking back the charging handle, he slipped

the sling over his shoulder and pointed it at the rooftop access door. The doorway was twenty-five feet

directly in front of him. Washington took a deep breath and prepared for what was about to happen.

Luzetski and Doc Graham took up positions at angles to the door. They both slid the breech forward on

their M203s and fed a M576 High Explosive-Multiple Projectile round into the under barrel grenade

launcher.

A distinct rumbling was now coming from the stairwell as hundreds of infected made their way up.

“Jiminez, take the radio; get on the fire escape with it. See if you can raise Oscar Six, we need immediate

extract.”

Jiminez removed the magazine from his rifle, tapped it against his helmet and inserted it back in, jacking

a round into the chamber; all as he backed towards the edge of the roof and the fire escape. He felt words

coming out of his mouth, words he hadn’t thought of in years, words his papa had forced him to

memorize a dozen years earlier

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me lie down in green pastures; He leads me

beside still waters. He restores my soul,” Jiminez muttered softly.

A loud bang against the door made them all jump.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me.

Your rod and your staff,” Jiminez continued as he moved to the edge of the roof.

Jiminez climbed down the escape as quickly as he could, avoiding looking at the infected that filled the

streets below. He stopped at the fifth floor and looked back up to where the rest of his team was. He

pulled a small crucifix that was attached to his dog tags and gave it a kiss before he slid it back under his

shirt.

“Short controlled bursts. Choose your targets and stay in your zones,” Luzetski reminded his team as he

checked his magazine.

Incessant moaning and pounding became louder as the door vibrated under the onslaught of the infected.

“Steady,” Luzetski muttered, more for his own benefit than for his team.

The door began to shake violently and vibrate as more and more infected pounded on the other side. The

men watched as the top hinge of the door pulled out of the frame before the last feeble barrier between

them and the massed infected violently flipped over the remaining middle rope strand and fell to the

rooftop. The now open doorway swarmed with infected as they fought each other to get to the trapped

men.

“Washington!” Ski yelled.

The SAW erupted in a fury of bursts.

The 5.56mm rounds ripped into lower legs and knees, dropping the first wave of the mindless as they

shoved their way out of the opening. As the rest of the team directed their fire into the teeming mass, the

SAW ran dry. Luzetski fired his 203 sending a MP round into the packed infected. The steel ball bearings

shredded the first few rows of Zips. Washington reloaded the SAW, engaging the horde with short bursts

that were devastating in the narrow confines of the access doorway.

“Cover fire! Keep them bottled up!” Ski yelled as Graham’s MP round tore through the clustered mass

like a giant scattergun, shredding the next wave that tried to gain access to the roof.

***

CHAPTER 12

Dupont Federal Center

60 miles South East of Idaho Falls, Idaho

Major General Franklin Marshall Spears strode across the command center in a crisp set of undress greens

like a king striding through his domain. The Dupont Federal Center was his kingdom, his realm of power

away from the real power in the United States Military, the Pentagon. Spears had conceived of the DFC

shortly after he realized that he was looking at being RIF’d. Reduction in Force was a nice term that some

staffer had come up with when the Pentagon had created their Base Realignment and Closure (BRAC)

program several years ago. The Joint Chiefs had made a decision to stand down hundreds of units,

combine other units, and close down installations they felt were no longer needed while reducing in force

anyone who they felt weren’t mission essential.

Spears had heard that his name was being considered for the RIF list and had begun work on a program

that he hoped would save his career and maybe get him another star before he was faced with mandatory

retirement.

Ordering his staff to look into every program that had been shelved in the last 50 years had taken months

before a little known Continuity of Government program called Project Blue Light had been discovered in

a dusty storage facility. It had been commissioned by a former administration and created by an unnamed

think tank located just outside the beltway. Blue Light was a plan to adapt existing facilities that had been

built during the height of the Cold War into secondary command and control facilities in the event of a

catastrophic disaster. The vast majority of these facilities were now vacant or used for storage. Most of

these facilities had been built in the mid to late 1960s then abandoned and would require serious financial

investments to make them habitable.

With the current global issues, Spears saw this program as a chance to stay off the RIF list. He developed

a plan to use existing funds allocated within the BRAC program to revitalize one of the major federal

centers that had been built towards the end of the Cold War but never finished or activated. When he had

read the report on DFC, it was being used as a storage facility by a few state agencies. The Dupont

Federal Center was perfectly located in an area outside Idaho Falls and unknown to the majority of the

local population. Nestled into and under the hills outside the city, and listed on maps as the Dupont

Federal Reservation: US Department of the Interior, very few local citizens realized the extent of the

complex. Designed to withstand a nearby nuclear detonation, all of the outside structures were recessed

into the rolling hills with every exposed surface sloped to allow blast waves to roll over them without

causing damage.

Spears entered his office and walked over to the large, soundproof glass window that allowed him to look

down on the main command center/operations room. In a few days this center will be conducting its first

real world test. Spears thought as he gazed down at the unmanned desks and watched as technicians

finished up their last minute installation and testing of computer and communications equipment. One of

his hands wandered into his pants pocket and felt the small case that held his new rank. If the Pentagon

wouldn’t grant him his third star then he would just do it himself.

He noticed his reflection in the glass and puffed up his chest a little looking at the subdued stars on his

collar. I waited a long time for this. Finally, I have my own command, my own personnel, and my own

facility. Let them try to RIF me now. This is what I’ve waited for my entire career.

***

Camberley, Surrey, United Kingdom

Jack Larkin watched as the American conventioneers made their way across the main lobby to the check

in desk. The tourists/conventioneers oohed and aahed at the high ceiling, the dark oak trim, and the

massive fireplace. Shaking his head he looked back down to the list of items he was checking off to make

sure that everything was in order for their convention.

Sim-Com Tech. What a crazy name for a computer company that also did medical research, Larkin

thought as he reviewed the list of events that were planned for the week. Arthur Higgins walked up as

Larkin placed a check mark on the last item. Higgins leaned closer and spoke in low tones.

“We might have an issue. I just heard that Leesa Tobias’ agent called and requested a suite for the week.”

Larkin looked up at Higgins in surprise. Tobias was a rising star in the music video industry and quite the

attractive woman. For a yank anyway.

“Bloody hell. That’s going to muck up the waters a bit.” Higgins nodded with a barely suppressed smile

knowing that Larkin was an avid fan of Tobias.

“Fucking A, mate.” He replied before walking off and leaving Larkin to his thoughts. Larkin, who was

like any young man, was acutely aware of Leesa Tobias. She had come on the scene with what most

people had thought to be a Britney Spears clone but had showed some actual vocal talent and was now a

fast rising star on the pop music charts. She was even doing commercials for major car manufacturers and

rumor had it that she was a pick for a starring role in what might be one of next year’s summer box office

blockbusters. Larkin brought his thoughts back to reality as he watched the Americans check in and

shuffle off to their rooms. Waiting until they had left the desk, he picked up the hotel phone, and called

over to the main desk.

Patricia Logan, the desk clerk, picked up the phone on the second ring.

“Front Desk, how may I direct your call?” Logan answered very professionally.

“Patty, it’s me Jack.” Larkin watched as Logan turned to look across the lobby at him. He could almost

see her eyes narrow.

“What do you want, Jack?” He could hear the disgusted tone in her voice once she realized who she was

talking to.

“I heard that there might be an American celebrity coming in this week.” There was a pause as Logan

looked back to her reservation listing.

“Yeah, Jack. There’s a celebrity coming in later today. Some American singer.”

“Thanks, Patty,” Larkin replied.

“Jack, its Patricia not Patty. Please try to remember that will you?” Logan said semi sternly before

hanging up. He shook his head a little at her closing remark. Stuck up bitch never got over me asking her

out for a pint, he thought to himself before returning to his task at hand.

***

Interlude

“Move!”

On the roof, the last three remaining members of Sierra 3 were scuttling for the fire escape. Washington,

Ski, and Graham were walking backwards, laying down cover fire. When Ski reached the top of the fire

escape, he fired another MP round at the closest zip concentration, blowing several back, and spraying the

rooftop with gore. He hurried down the metal stairs to the fifth floor landing where the other men were

waiting. Zips began pouring over the lip of the building, falling past him to the street below. Pruitt

worked the clacker that trailed wires back to the roof. The Claymore mine left in place on the roof

shredded the densely packed zips, spraying the rooftop with chunks of flesh, bone, and other matter. Body

parts rained down onto the fire escape landing and street below.

Jiminez kicked open the fire escape door, Washington entered with the SAW at the ready. Two Zips

appeared at the far end of the hallway; a short burst tore their legs out from under them. As the zeds tried

to crawl forward and continue their attack, Pruitt, rifle now slung, shot them both in the head with his M9

as he ran past. Washington lagged behind the rest of the squad, under the pretense of covering the access

door to the stairwell. He watched his team run down the hall and disappear around the corner. As soon as

the last of them were out of sight, he stiff armed the stairwell door and ran down two flights before taking

refuge in an empty office.

About halfway down the hall and on the front side of the building, Sierra 3 found what they wanted: an

unlocked office. The men quickly entered, cleared the offices, and then began shoving bookcases and

furniture against the door. A thorough search of the law offices revealed no undead occupants, though

their handiwork was apparent. Looking like the trail left from a ghastly slug, a wide swath of dried blood

and gore led down a hallway and away from the main office.

Further searching revealed that the attorneys, who had once been in these offices, had quite the sweet

tooth. Several dozen boxes of numerous brands of candy bars were found in one of the supply closets. A

water cooler still had several gallons of relatively fresh water and more full water jugs were in the same

closet as the candy bars. The sofas were infinitely more comfortable than the tar and gravel covered

rooftop they had spent time on. After their frantic escape from the rooftop, the men had sat quietly eating

candy bars and thinking how close they came to death. While Jiminez scanned through the radio channels.

Luzetski did a head count and came up one short.

“Where’s Washington?” Ski stood and looked around the office trying to see where the man had gone.

“Anyone see Washington?” The rest of the squad shook their heads; no one had seen him slip away.

“God damn it,” Ski swore quietly. He had gotten his men off the roof only to lose one while inside.

Turning to Jiminez,

“Send Oscar Six our ACE and inform them we need immediate extraction.”

“I’ve been trying, Ski. The Net is jammed up, everyone is sending in SITREPs and calling for support but

Oscar Six is not responding,” Jiminez reported as he flipped through the channels.

***

CHAPTER 13

Infection +12 hours

Joint Base Lewis/McChord, Washington State

Lieutenant General Douglas Clarence Waller awoke to the insistent ringing of the phone on his

nightstand. Reaching over to turn on the light he looked at the time. Who the hell is calling at this time of

night? he thought as he reached for the phone. The somewhat high pitched screeching voice of the mayor

of Tacoma made him involuntarily squint. Mayor Rebecca Hoades was on the other end of the phone line

already talking before Waller had the earpiece to his head. Waller sat up, took a deep breath, and then

tried to listen to what Hoades was babbling about. He heard words such as ‘civil disorder,’ ‘hate crimes,’

‘riots.’ It seemed that about every fourth or fifth word was all he could understand due to her rapid fire

delivery.

“Mayor Hoades, you’re going to have to slow down so that I can hear what you’re trying to tell me,”

Waller said, thinking that someone at the post phone exchange was going to hear from him in the morning

for putting this call through. Mayor Hoades seemed to get more irritated with Waller by each passing

second. Finally, Waller put the handset down on the nightstand, stood, and walked over to his closet.

He threw on his favorite robe and slippers and ran his hands through his short gray hair before walking

back over to the phone. He could hear Hoades still talking rapidly and loudly.

“Mayor Hoades, Becky,” Waller reverted to her name in an attempt to calm her down, “I’m sure what’s

happening is something that can wait until morning. Whatever is going on in your city really isn’t my

concern.” Waller realized that he was going to need to get some people from public affairs to smooth that

one over. Hoades seemed to falter a little as she absorbed the words Waller had just spoken.

“If it weren’t for my city, Doug, you wouldn’t have your civilian workers,” Hoades shot back bitterly.

“I’ll have you know that what happens in my city affects your precious installation more than you think.”

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I should have listened more to what was being said.” Waller paused again to

gather his thoughts. “So, what do you want me to do about this Becky?”

“I’ve been getting reports since late last night that there’s rioting in the streets of my city! No one seems

to know why, but some idiot at the TV stations has been carelessly throwing around that it’s a race riot.”

Hoades finally had slowed down enough for Waller to truly understand what was happening.

“You know I can’t activate my troops for this type of problem,” Waller stated.

“Dammit, Doug! You know that’s exactly what I want you to do. My police need support and you have

the manpower,” Hoades spit out knowing what she was alluding to.

“Mayor Hoades,” Waller he said addressing her by title, and then paused, “Becky, I’m obligated to

remind you that unless I receive a direct order from the president ordering me to deploy troops to quell

civil unrest, federal law prohibits me from interfering in a civilian matter. I’m sorry; there’s no way I can

do anything to support you.”

“This is more than some goddamn civil unrest, Doug. This is a full-fledged fucking riot! With the budget

cuts, I have a shortage of manpower. My officers are responding to hospitals because people are

panicking!” Hoades paused and Waller could hear her breathing, calming down. “Doug, I’m sorry. This

whole event is getting to me. I’m looking at reports of people biting each other. Hell, I have a report on

my desk right from a seasoned officer. He swears he witnessed a person eating another person. I can’t

have that kind of rumor get out. I need help to contain this before the media make it some kind of circle

jerk. God forbid CNN gets hold of this, those fucktards will blow this way out of proportion.”

Waller listened patiently knowing he was unable to overtly assist the mayor, but maybe there was some

way he could provide support without breaking any federal laws. He was sure there was a way to keep the

fort’s involvement low key and out of the media spotlight.

“Okay, Becky. I’m beginning to understand the situation. I’ll put a call into General Taylor over at Camp

Murray for you. I’m sure he can provide the assistance you’re asking for.” Waller knew full well that it

would take most the day for the governor to be briefed on the situation, and then form some bullshit

committee to look into the problem that would then advise her to contact all the state National Guard

commanders. Maybe by the end of the week she would order a deployment of any units.

“In the meantime, I’ll open up the Madigan Gate for your use and notify MAMC to expect the overflow

of your trauma cases as well as activate our DMAT groups.” Can’t be violating any laws by doing that, he

thought. “I’m sorry, that’s all I can do at this time.” It was quiet on the other end of the phone.

“I understand, Doug,” Hoades said now more relaxed, “Thank you,” she said before hanging up.

Waller looked at the phone for a few seconds before he replaced it on the cradle. Walking to the bedroom

door, he paused and looked back at the bed. He let his mind wander as he gazed at the side of the bed that

his wife normally slept on. Mrs. General Douglas Waller had died five years ago when he had been

stationed in Maryland. She had always wanted to see the Pacific Northwest but cancer had claimed her

before she had a chance. Waller exited the room and made his way to his home office. The sun was

starting to rise as he sat at his desk and placed a call to his aide, Colonel William Owen.

“Owen? Get your ass over here right now,” Waller gruffly barked into the phone without even waiting for

a greeting. He hung up the phone and opened one of the drawers to remove a cigar. Damn, what a day this

is shaping up to be, he thought as he swiveled the chair to face the windows looking out onto the parade

field. He could just barely see the Welcome Center parking lot between the older brick barracks buildings.

It amused him to no end that the fort’s Welcome Center was named Waller Hall. He absently puffed the

cigar, blowing smoke into the air as he thought about Hoades’s problem. People biting each other? He

heard the door downstairs open signaling that Owen had arrived. Waller stood up, ground out the cigar

and headed for the bathroom. A quick shower and shave and he was downstairs and ready to face

whatever this was.

A few hours later, Waller was sitting at the head of the conference table located on the main floor of the I

Corps headquarters building surrounded by the various officers representing the corps support and tenant

units.

A portly balding major from the base Special Compartmentalized Intelligence Facility (SCIF) was

preparing for the briefing.

He adjusted his thick glasses and attempted to smooth out the rumpled looking uniform whose name tape

read COOPER. Looking like he had presumably been in the same uniform since the day before, he placed

a thick manila folder on the table as his aide passed a copy around to all the officers gathered.

“These are copies of the initial assessment and the police reports on the violence which started

approximately 1930 Zulu. This is everything up to an hour ago. My staff and I have looked over them in

detail. If what is reported is accurate, they paint a grim picture of the events happening outside the gates.

The violence is escalating. Estimates tell us that unless civilian forces are augmented with National Guard

troops to restore order soon, the majority of the northwestern pacific coast could very well be engulfed in

this by dawn tomorrow. Which,” he paused, consulting one of the many clocks on the wall, “gives the

governor and NCA just under 18 hours to make a decision and implement some course of action.”

Waller opened the folder, put on the glasses he needed for reading, and began to skim the reports. They

were just as described; the top report was time coded at 1930 hours last night and took place at some dive

bar located just off Pioneer Square in Seattle. It seemed to start with one or two people attacking a group,

then the number of attackers started to grow. Shortly after that, similar reports were made about violent

attacks in and around that same area. A few hours later came reports from just north and south of Seattle

and in the adjoining cities. By 0230 hours, reports of that same style and type of violence were being

made by the law enforcement agencies in Bellevue, Tacoma, Lakewood and Spanaway and spreading as

far north as Bellingham, up near the Canadian border. The reports were vague on means of attack and

type of injuries but they were consistent on the mention of bites. There were copies of the police logs and

incident reports, some more legible than others. The majority of statements used words such as “gang

violence,” “racial tension,” “possible drug related violence” followed with a question mark. Apparently,

the cops on the street were unsure of what to make of the growing carnage.

“This isn’t just isolated to the west coast. Similar incidents are occurring all over the east coast, the mid-

west and at other major cities outside of CONUS.” The major motioned to one of his staff who dimmed

the lights while he clicked the remote in his hand. A retractable screen descended from the ceiling and

news footage minus sound began playing.

“This is Berlin, London, Riyadh, Mombasa, Sri Lanka, and others.” Turning back to face the seated

officers, the major continued with his briefing. “These are not random events. We believe this to be a well

planned and coordinated attack, possibly from an unknown, well financed terrorist cell or even a hostile

nation state. This is at a scale we haven’t seen before. Whatever is causing the riots is also causing some

sort of viral outbreak. It’s possible that it’s a weaponized form of rabies or some other similar disease.”

From the blank looks he received from the men around the briefing table he realized that they hadn’t

noticed the mention of biting or had skipped over it in the reports in front of them.

“I mention rabies as only a possible issue here. It could be any number of diseases. Reports state that the

rioters seem to literally bite people they attack and encounter. This seems common in all the incidents.

Victims are bitten so we looked at it as if it were a rabies issue. Without HUMINT we really don’t know

what the root cause is or if we’re dealing with a new form of rabies so we need to keep an open mind.”

“What about medical reports?” Deck O’Toole asked, representing the tenant 1st Special Forces Group,

Airborne.

The Major turned to look at the young Special Forces officer before replying, “We haven’t received many

complete medical reports. Evidently, only a fraction of those attacked make it to the hospital. We have yet

to determine why that is. The reports we have received show…” he trailed off as he read down the page

of his report, “and I quote, ‘severe bite marks with extreme and extensive tissue trauma.’ The reports from

the major hospitals are a bit stranger but report pretty much the same. Victims who make it to the

hospitals have a high fever, vomiting, bleeding, etc, which could be from a number of injuries or illnesses.

At first we thought we were dealing with some type of food borne illness. The bleeding is what pointed

towards some form of hemorrhagic fever, but then we’re right back at the biting issue. I have to say that a

lot of what we received so far is very disjointed and confusing. I have some of my staff trying to track

down more definitive information from those medical centers.” He looked around at the officers before

continuing. “Adding to all this, we haven’t been able to establish contact with Harbor View, the

University of Washington medical center, St Joseph’s, or any of the other local hospitals. It would appear

on the outside that they’ve been overrun with casualties that have overburdened their resources and will

very soon if not already, be turning people away. That last bit is being kept out of the press so far.”

“What about autopsies?” A captain from Madigan Army Medical Center (MAMC) asked. O’Toole looked

up at that and caught the eye of Colonel Stephen Knight; a blonde haired buzz cut officer, commander of

4th Battalion/160

th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, Airborne (SOAR). They both looked at Cooper

for an answer. The intel officer looked at his notes before replying,

“This is still an ongoing event; there hasn’t been any time for thorough and complete autopsies. If any

have been done, it’s very doubtful they are more than just some preliminary results that won’t be released

for some time,” Cooper looked up at the shocked faces in the briefing room. “I know that sounds totally

wrong but you have to understand that every civilian hospital on this side of the mountains is literally

being swamped with cases, real and imagined, on top of their normal case load. To directly address the

autopsy issue, it would appear that those that die at the scene don’t get transported to any hospital that

we’re aware of.” Cooper held up his hand to quiet the room as a wave of murmurs swept through it.

“Please wait until I finish before asking any questions.” He waited for silence before continuing.

“It is quite possible that the local governments have established temporary morgues to attempt to stop the

spread of whatever this is. So far, no one can locate any of the bodies or any of these temporary facilities.

We have calls in to DHS and FEMA about that. Investigating into this further, we have discovered rumors

that the bodies of the victims that have died in hospitals or ERs have vanished. That’s what leads us to

believe that there is some facility set up that is receiving and processing the bodies. We played with the

idea that this was an accidental leak from a lab and there was a cover-up being conducted that was totally

black. However, what destroys that theory is the missing medical personnel from emergency rooms and

the paramedics that transported those victims. It’s possible that they were taken into some sort of

quarantine due to direct exposure. But, we have unconfirmed reports about signs of violent struggles that

have taken place within ERs and ambulances and those locations and vehicles have been found

abandoned.”

A young lieutenant entered the room and handed Cooper a slip of paper. The officers gathered in the

room conversed amongst themselves, comparing notes, and bouncing ideas off each other.

“Sir, if I may?” Cooper spoke up. Waller nodded his affirmative. Clearing his throat, Cooper began to

speak.

“According to the latest information, elements of the 82nd Airborne have been activated and sent to New

York. National Military Command Center (NIMIC) is requesting that all military units be moved to

Defense Condition 2. All passes are hereby revoked. All installations are to be sealed under Protocol

Level 3, subsection 6. Any military personnel on leave are to report immediately to the nearest military

facility.”

Cooper swallowed hard when he finished, tasting bitter coffee and the stale sandwich he had choked

down an hour ago in the back of his throat. He passed the memo over to Waller who read it quickly before

standing up.

All eyes were on the base commander as he reread the memo to be clear on what was happening.

“Okay, gentlemen. Lock it down. This installation is now closed to unauthorized personnel. 100% ID

check is now in effect. We need to round up all the civilians on post and contain them. That means civil

service employees, retirees using their base privileges, and anyone transiting the post. Notify all your

units that we are at DEFCON 2. That means that the use of deadly force is now authorized for anyone

illegally entering this installation.”

The assembled staff rose almost as one, gathered their notes, and moved purposefully out of the room.

Waller looked at the scenes still playing on the screen as he crumbled the memo in his hand. Dear God,

what was happening out there?

CHAPTER 14

Joint Base Lewis/McChord, Washington State

That meeting had been hours ago. Waller had spent the time since then working with his staff to

coordinate their efforts with securing the base perimeter and getting all the enlisted and officers who were

off base notified and back to base. The situation was very fluid right now and Waller was awaiting

confirmation that the installation had been locked down. He had ordered Predator UAVs sent up to check

the perimeter and expand their intelligence umbrella. The armed Reaper UAVs were hidden away in their

hangars as he was hesitant to initiate the order that would put them in the air. He had finally received

word from General Taylor, the Adjutant General for the Washington Army National Guard, was already

getting his units organized, a mild shock as that deployment order had been fast tracked through the

governor’s office and had only taken mere hours to initiate. The guard was most likely overwhelmed by

the mass exodus of panicked civilians trying to get out of the cities. Phone calls from across the freeway

to the state Emergency Management Center at Camp Murray were quick and it appeared to Waller that no

one over there had any idea what was happening.

The television news reports were showing cities and towns that had previously been unaffected were now

overwhelmed by the event. Whatever this was, it was spreading fast. Waller looked at the installation map

on the wall and stared hard at each of the access points to his installation. He knew that the base’s 504th

Military Police battalion commander had assigned his troops to watch the perimeter. Waller trusted the

MP Colonel to make sure that no one got onto his base without authorization. There had already been

reports in the past several hours of people trying to force their way onto the base.

The other military police companies under the 504th’s command had been activated and were supporting

the civilian security at the only gates left open, the main gate and the gate allowing access to the base

hospital. The rest of the units were patrolling the perimeter, at security checkpoints or at MAMC

providing crowd control and additional security. The engineering battalion, the 555th, had been called on

to place concrete barriers at the entrances that remained open. The combat engineers had then been

ordered to make sure the other gates were sealed. At those entrances, they poured quick setting concrete

with inserted rebar to reinforce the gates and anywhere a vehicle could possibly ram the fence. MPs

supported by units of the 25th Light Infantry Division were then stationed at those gates to dissuade

anyone attempting to enter.

Several companies from the light infantry division were acting as a roving reaction force. So far, the only

event that Waller was mildly worried about was a confrontation between riot gear garbed MPs and some

frantic civilians at the East gate. Tear gas had been used and the civilians taken into custody by local

police.

Waller leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes taking a deep drag on his cigar, a pleasure he only

allowed himself when in a stressful situation. Within the last few hours, he had seen live news footage of

Harbor View Hospital in Seattle surrounded by police and other emergency vehicles with a massive

throng of people trying to get inside. He wasn’t sure how much of the information he was getting could

be seen as accurate.

He had considered several times driving over to the command bunker as it had satellite connections to

every national and global news service. Instead, he had sat in the I Corps Headquarters conference room,

smoking, drinking burnt coffee, and reading updates about the escalation of events. His stomach was a bit

sour from all the strong coffee he had drank since the bland breakfast that was hours in the past and the

equally forgettable lunch. He glanced up at one of the wall mounted televisions to see a breaking news

report. Though the sound was muted, he could clearly see the worried looks that the local newscasters had

on their faces. The image changed to show crowds storming the UW Medical Center while campus police

backed up by local police in riot gear were pushed aside.

Now the news outlets, at least those locally and nationally, were reporting things that just didn’t make any

sense. They were trying to say that the attackers were actually dead but were still walking around. Adding

to that confusion, victims of these apparent ‘walking dead’ were now just as dangerous. While that would

seem to explain the lack of dead bodies in the face of such overwhelming violence it was just way too

hard to believe without some strong evidence. It was all starting to sound like a very bad horror film.

The phone on the table rang. Waller looked at it before picking it up. On the other end was Colonel

Owen. The colonel sounded rattled, which was not normal for him. He started talking before Waller even

finished his hello. Finally Waller said, “Slow down, colonel. Take a deep breath, calm down, and start

from the beginning.

“Sir,” Owen started, “we’ve lost contact with one of our perimeter teams.” If things had gotten so bad that

heavily armed troops couldn’t patrol the inner fence, then there was a serious problem. Waller realized

that Owen wouldn’t have called him if his staff didn’t consider it important enough to bring to his

attention. He couldn’t help but think that maybe some unit was off dicking around somewhere thinking

this was all some training FTX . If that was the case then Waller was going to be hip deep in some junior

officer’s ass for not properly briefing the men under his command.

“It’s a platoon from the 1/24,” the harried colonel reported in a grim tone, “they were assigned to North

Fort to check and secure the old warehouses and patrol the perimeter. They reported that a group of

civilians was seen cutting the wire out by the small arms ranges and trying to get in. Nothing they

couldn’t handle but then when asked for a SITREP, they reported that they were engaging a heavily

armed force.” Josephson paused to catch his breath. “I’ve been receiving reports now that there is heavy

small arms fire from that area. I dispatched another company from the 1/24th and Colonel Ritter at the

504th is sending a reinforced weapons platoon for support.”

“Colonel, I want you to get to the bottom of this. Kick ass and take names if you have to. You do

everything you have to do to keep this installation secure.”

“Hoo-ah, sir!” Owen replied before he hung up. Waller closed his eyes and visualized that section of the

post. Joint Base Lewis/McChord straddled Interstate 5 with the majority of the facilities on the south side

and a new housing area and the less vital areas such as old warehouses and some World War Two era

barracks on the north side. He opened his eyes and looked at the large installation map on his wall.

“What the hell is going on out there?” he asked the empty room.

***

CHAPTER 15

Deck O’Toole had been assigned by the 1st Group commander to support the Military Police at the

command post set up at the shoppette located less than a quarter mile from the hospital gate. Normally

there would be maybe two MPs with civilian security personnel on duty at the gate but in light of what

was happening just up the road, Waller had ordered an increase in security. Now O’Toole’s ODA-141

was split into two groups with one element acting as cadre with a full company of light infantry

supporting the MPs and the other element with Chief Warrant Officer Two Wainwright and Sergeant First

Class Campbell, operating in a support capacity. Wainwright was a new addition to the ODA. He was a

ten year veteran of Special Forces that had transferred over from 5th Special Forces Group. His reputation

as a no nonsense operator had preceded him but he was still an outsider to ODA-141, the Outlaws.

O’Toole knew that Sergeant Campbell would make sure that Wainwright’s insertion into the unit would

be as painless as possible.

For the most part, gate duty had proven to be, to use a phrase that Sergeant Butler had coined, something

that mud puppies were good for and only punctuated by hours of sheer boredom and little to no

excitement. This was not a job where their high-speed skills would be put to the test.

O’Toole’s element had taken over the small convenience store which allowed them access to the base-

wide cable television service and of course, the snack food and other items on the shelf and in the

stockroom. During the hours of boredom, the team commo sergeant ‘adjusted’ his radio equipment to

scan the civilian police, National Guard, and civilian radio broadcasts. The team waited and sat in the

store listening to the comm chatter from around the base and watching the muted television mounted high

on the wall. If the events being reported could be taken seriously, and sometimes that seemed like a very

big if, then things were spiraling out of control. Some brave or stupid people had managed to stake out the

local hospitals and emergency rooms and had posted their cell phone and hand held camera footage on

You-Tube and other sites. Most of it was jerky, grainy, and of poor quality that only served to show how

chaotic the situation was. So far, local cable news and other major stations hadn’t provided any new

additional information to be disseminated to the viewing audience.

The comm chatter from the National Guard units provided more information. It was becoming more and

more undisciplined and erratic. It sounded like several units were having difficulty getting into positions

and entire squads went missing either at their assigned posts or on the way to their assigned sectors.

Sands, one of the ODA sergeants, commented,

“Sounds like the Guard are getting their asses handed to them.”

The team listened to the National Guard radio chatter as units called in to the National Guard Tactical

Operations Center (TOC) for support. The TOC would reply back asking for a SITREP and get nothing

but dead air and static. The local police and Washington State Patrol were having a hell of a time

directing traffic out of the cities while attempting to coordinate National Guard troop movements. Fire

calls and the 911 system were soon overwhelmed.

As the men watched the television and read the news ticker running across the bottom of the screen, the

closed captions were now showing addresses and locations of emergency shelters and people in FEMA

and Red Cross windbreakers directing displaced persons.

The scene cut back to a talking head who was discussing what measures citizens could take in the event

they were confronted by the rioters.

The men were silent for a while, lost in their own thoughts until finally O’Toole spoke,

“That’s some wild shit,” he stated out loud what the rest of his team all thought. Absently, he fingered the

toggle switch for the tactical light mounted on the foregrip of his FN MK17 SCAR-H rifle, turning the

light on and off.

“Yes sir. That it is,” Sergeant Butler admitted grimly as he sharpened his SOG SEAL Pup knife.

“I would have to say it’s just not natural. I’ve seen some weird shit in my time. Civil unrest, riots, wars,

police actions whatever you want to call them. I don’t recall ever seeing anything like this, people running

around biting each other like animals,” Sergeant Gorman, the team medic added before he leaned over to

punctuate his statement by spitting a stream of tobacco juice into a can on the floor. “I talked to one of the

medics over at 18th CASH.” He indicated the large collection of tents and prefab buildings in the field

adjacent to the main road leading to the hospital. “They’re saying the survivors being treated look like

some kind of animal attack gone bad.” Gorman was about to continue when Sergeant Gillette piped in.

“Hey, hey! Here it is!” he exclaimed, grabbing the television remote and turning the volume up.

The TV began to broadcast an interview that General Waller had done with the media earlier that day just

outside the Madigan gate. Heavily armed soldiers were just off camera as the reporter interviewed him,

the cameraman made sure to get a group of civilians standing at the gate trying to get in.

“I’m speaking with Lieutenant General Waller of Joint Base Lewis/McChord. General what can you tell

us about Joint Base Lewis/McChord’s role in this event?” the off camera reporter asked.

“The Fort’s responsibility in this event is to provide as much aid and assistance as possible without

committing our troops to riot control. That’s a job best suited to the National Guard.”

“So you’re saying that the National Guard is essentially a police force?”

“No. I’m not saying that at all. What I’m saying is that a civil unrest is not something that regular army

troops need to be involved in. Unless I receive orders contrary to that, all I can offer is the use of the base

medical center.”

“Am I to understand that you would rather sit this incident out and not get involved?” the off camera

reporter goaded Waller.

“Apparently we have a lack of communication here. Let me make this perfectly clear. The US Army is

forbidden to interfere in a civilian matter by federal law unless a direct order comes from the President of

the United States. Last I checked, that office was also known as the Commander in Chief of all armed

forces. That being said, I would strongly request that you understand the Army’s role in domestic matters

before you make wild accusations and false statements. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an installation to

get back to.” Waller walked away from the reporter and got into a waiting M1009 CUCV leaving the

reporter to wonder how he had let himself be so profoundly chastised on live television.

***

The medical center was a madhouse. Civilian ambulances had been let in as Waller had promised Mayor

Hoades. When the main hospital began to get overcrowded, less serious injuries were sent to the 18th

Combat Army Surgical Hospital (CASH). Most of the patients started out as minor injuries, sprains,

broken bones and lacerations. Soon, bite victims of varying severity were being sent to the CASH along

with the sprained ankles, broken bones and occasional gunshot wounds.

Everyone who was brought in was processed and categorized by severity of injury by the tried and true

triage method and then treated accordingly. The chief resident base physician, Doctor Peter Barnes was a

professional with a long career in army medicine. Starting as young medic at the end of Vietnam, he

eventually became the chief resident at Madigan Army Medical Center. The gold eagles on the collars of

the light green shirt he wore under the white doctor smock told of his rank.

Even with all his years of experience, he had never seen anything quite like this. He was looking over a

patient who came in with a very bad bite wound on his upper arm. In fact, the flesh had not only been

bitten, sections of it had been removed down to the bone. The surrounding tissue showed clear signs of

mastication as if the attacker chewed on the arm before ripping the flesh from it. If the stories Barnes had

been hearing were true, that missing flesh ended up in the mouth and then stomach of the attacker.

A sick thought to comprehend.

He knew his staff would be exceptionally busy this day. Just as he was done looking over the wound

chart, making a notation about administering broad-spectrum antibiotics for the apparent infection

General Waller appeared at the doorway looking for him.

Barnes let out a sigh. Waller had been requesting a SITREP every half hour since allowing ambulances

onto the base.

Barnes pretended to be distracted checking up on a soldier who had been attacked by a civilian while on

gate duty when Waller walked up to him.

Waller had stood in the doorway to the ward and watched while Barnes took the young man’s vitals,

checked him over and gave him another shot of antibiotics, before he cleared his throat. Barnes finally

turned to face Waller.

“Can you tell me anything new Doctor?” Waller asked as Barnes turned to face him.

“No sir. Nothing new, same symptoms with no response to anything we use.” Barnes looked back into the

treatment room then up and down the hallway seeing his staff working on treating as many victims as

they could. He leaned a little closer to Waller.

“Let’s talk about this someplace a little more private.” Waller followed Barnes as they walked down the

crowded hallway and past filled patient rooms. They exited the main nursing tower and headed towards

the Medical Mall.

Barnes stopped outside the door leading into the Command Suite for the large hospital.

MAMC’s Command Suite, a series of offices just off the Medical Mall area, overlooked the main

entrance and provided a spectacular view of the Cascade Mountain Range. Barnes opened the door to the

outer office of the medical center’s commanding general. He knocked once on the inner door then opened

it, ushering Waller before him. The hospital commander’s office was located at a corner, giving the

occupant a majestic view of the manicured hospital grounds. Lieutenant General Walter Scott was behind

his desk reviewing reports when the two men entered. His command consisted of the hospital and the

medical companies that supported it.

One of the office walls was covered with diplomas, certifications and unit photos. On the opposite wall, a

large oil painting of the hospital hung. When the two men had taken seats, Scott pulled open a drawer and

produced a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels and three glasses. Behind his desk was a mini fridge hidden

inside a credenza, from it appeared a 2 liter bottle of Coke.

“Jack and coke?” he asked. Normally none of them would consider drinking while officially on duty, but

these were far from normal times, Waller shook his head.

“No thanks.”

“You may want one by the time this is all over,” Scott said as he prepared the drinks, pouring in much

more Jack and much less coke than he normally would have.

“That bad?” Waller asked. Scott didn’t answer just pushed the glass in Waller’s direction.

“One hour ago, we were at 85% capacity with more cases arriving. All the hospital support units have

been activated. The civilian logistics area is overworked and backlogged with pull orders.”

Scott took a drink before he continued. “All the patients that aren’t part of this have been moved to other

floors. I’ve designated that floors 2 thru 5 are for the incoming. That may work short term. Long term, I

don’t know.”

Scott paused to gauge the reaction from Waller.

“We have to be optimistic about this and hope that it burns itself out soon or we’re going to have to make

plans on where to put the patients that aren’t serious. Maybe use some of the old hospital facility.” Scott

leaned back in his chair and looked at Waller.

“Now for the bad news,” Scott announced as he set his glass down and held up a fax.

“This is from the CDC. They’re recommending immediate quarantine of any infected until such time that

they can send a team to gather samples and evaluate the extent of infection. However, they have no idea

when they can send a team given the current circumstances.”

He placed the fax on his desk and held up another.

“This fax is from USAMRIID. They strongly urge that all infected be immediately quarantined and then

terminated with extreme prejudice to prevent the further spread of this disease. They don’t seem to care

about blood samples or any other samples for that matter.”

He dropped the fax on his desk and reached for his drink. Waller picked up the fax and read through it

once, blinked a few times and read through it again just to make sure he understood what was written

there. It was clear what The Rid meant. Quarantine was no longer a viable option. The way the orders

were worded, there was a lot of gray area. The Rid was skirting Article 118 of the UCMJ, Murder. If

Martial Law was declared then technically, the infected could be classified as enemy combatants but even

then that was a bit of a stretch when it came to Escalation Of Force (EOF).

“I’ll take that drink now,” Waller said as he reached for the glass and took a long swallow.

“It’s possible we won’t have to go to those extremes,” Barnes finally commented. Both general officers

looked at him.

“I mean the termination of infected patients. We could quarantine them in place. Designate a ward or

maybe ship them off to part of Old Madigan. The simple injuries, the broken bones and less major

injuries we could send home as out-patients or have them moved to the Medical Mall, or maybe even

some other location on post. It’s the bite victims that we need to concentrate on. The speed of this

infection is like nothing I’ve ever seen. We’re dealing with something so new that we’re still trying to

develop a test for it. Possibly, it’s a mutation of something we already know,” Barnes shook his head as

he spoke, “I really don’t know what we’re dealing with. All I know is it’s present in everyone who was

bitten. Once we determine the patient as a bite victim we immediately move them to the secure area.” He

paused and took another sip before continuing.

“Whatever it is, it’s very resilient to standard antibiotics. No matter what we try, the patient still gets very

sick. I have close to a hundred patients right now that are critical, all bite victims of various degrees and I

have no idea how to treat them.” Barnes paused to think about what he might have missed.

“I considered amputating the infected area to stop the spread, it might work but that’s an extremely

radical procedure that should be done as soon as the bite occurs which would mean in the field. Even

then, there’s no way to guarantee that it would be effective. But the speed of this thing... amazingly fast.”

“The choices are here in black and white,” Scott said as he gestured to the faxes. “The way I see it, we

have two choices. We either take the CDC route or we take non-combatants whose only crime was to be

in the wrong place at the wrong time and send them to a firing squad. I don’t have to tell you that there

will be some serious dissension within the ranks if we start executing sick people,” Scott observed.

The men sat in silence for a few minutes and then Scott’s pager beeped at the same time that Barnes’

pager went off.

“What is it?” Waller asked.

“Something’s happening in the ICU,” Barnes said as he stood and left the room followed by Scott and

Waller.

As the three men entered the Intensive Care Unit, Barnes started quizzing the staff.

“What’s going on here?”

A young medic with a look of fear and puzzlement on his face responded,

“I don’t know. It started when one patient died and then it was like a series of dominos. This patient died,

that patient died,” he said indicating the beds where several of the medical staff was busy attempting to

resuscitate the occupant.

“This patient here,” the medic indicated to the gurney, “he was dead, all vital signs flat lined. I called a

code and time of death and was having him transported to the morgue when he sat up and tried to bite the

people moving him. We hooked him back up thinking that somehow we had made a mistake. But as you

can see…” he trailed off.

The patient’s mouth still had the intubation tube in place. The EKG hooked up to the body registered no

heartbeat, no respiration and the EEG showed no discernible brainwave activity.

Scott walked over to a wall phone and made a call. Hospital security and several MPs arrived and formed

a cordon around the ICU. One of the hospital security personnel handed Scott a duty belt with a holstered

M9 and several magazine pouches. Waller watched as the other general buckled on the duty belt still

trying to understand what was happening around him. This infection wasn’t a form of warfare he had

been trained for.

“What the fuck,” Waller muttered quietly as he watched the ‘dead’ body jerk against the restraints.

“Are those machines working properly?” Barnes asked as he stared at the thing on the gurney that was

snarling around the throat tube and trying to get loose.

“They were working before, but those readings can’t be right,” the medic stated.

“Do a full workup, keep on your toes, and out of bite range,” Barnes directed.

A couple of the orderlies managed to carefully pull the thing back down and utilizing additional straps,

got it secured enough where it couldn’t move. Barnes moved in closer, no longer having to worry about

getting bit, and started his examination. He took out his stethoscope and checked for a heartbeat. After a

few minutes he gave up and announced,

“No detectable heartbeat. Clinically this person is dead,” he reported stepping away from the gurney.

“That’s impossible. Then why is he still moving around?” Waller asked.

“I have no idea but I intend to find out,” Barnes replied.

One of the other medics who had been busy checking the machines by running simple diagnostics such as

a reset and test function stepped back and shook his head.

“They all check out. No faults no errors. They’re working perfectly,” he reported.

“What?” Barnes asked rhetorically, finally showing some reaction, “There must be something wrong with

them. That has to be the case, or else this person has no life signs.” He stared at the body that was trying

to free itself.

“Not quite,” One medic said, “it’s registering a very minimal brainwave activity. I turned the setting way

down and something still shows.” He stepped aside and pointed. “See for yourself. With that kind of

reading it can’t be working on anything more than pure instinct.”

“I want a full spectrum of tests run at once. Do everything, blood gas, biopsy, CT, everything,” Barnes

ordered. “Move this out of here quietly and down to Mental Health. Seal off the ICU and double the

security at Mental Health. No one gets in or out without my permission.”

“Right away sir!” the young medic said, already moving the gurney with the help of another orderly.

Barnes turned to Waller and Scott with a very worried expression on his face.

“We’re going to need more help with this,” he said watching the steady stream of gurneys being wheeled

out the door under guard. “This is going to go south real fast.”

***

CHAPTER 16

South of Olympia, Washington

The small town of Tenino, Washington which most people had rarely if ever heard of, was located at the

junction of highways 507 and 99. Though rich in history and known as the only town to ever issue

wooden nickels during the Great Depression, most citizens of the state of Washington had little

knowledge of its existence with exception of passing through it on their way to other destinations.

A quiet little ‘bedroom’ community for state workers from Olympia, Tenino boasted a population of just

1700 within the city limits. The majority of the residents were like most small town people, quiet, friendly

and some a might distrustful of outsiders.

James Martin parked his Ford Expedition in front of Rocky’s Market, the local grocery store in the small

town, stepped out and looked at the preparations for the upcoming Oregon Trail Days festival due to start

in just a few hours. Oregon Trail Days was a big happening for the small community as it drew visitors

from as far away as Portland, Oregon and British Columbia. The three day event, held on the last

weekend in July, consisted of recreations of the Oregon Trail pioneers that passed through the small town

back in the 1800’s. There were also some contemporary events such as the Wino in Tenino that kicked off

the festivities on a Friday night with wine tasting from local wineries and live bands.

Martin, tall and broad shouldered, reached down to rub the side of his knee. Medically retired from the

Navy, he tried to work out the kink he always seemed to get in that knee after driving for a little bit. He

had damaged that knee while in the military and it had eventually led to his medical discharge after ten

years of active duty. He looked at the locals setting up for the event and nodded to a few as they walked

past. Those he nodded to nodded back but didn’t stop to talk. The townspeople, those that considered

themselves ‘old timers’ had no interest in ‘outsiders’ as Martin was referred to at some events even

though he and his wife had been living just outside of Tenino since his discharge.

Martin stepped up onto the sidewalk and entered Rocky’s, nodding to Rocky himself who was at his

customary position behind the counter. As usual, Rocky Marcone was dressed in a Hawaiian print shirt

and presumably Bermuda shorts. Marcone was an older man with a full head of gray hair, a matching

beard, and a faded tattoo of the Marine Corps globe and anchor on his right forearm. Marcone had bought

the building that was currently the market after the old lumber/hardware store had gone out of business.

“Hey ya, Rock. How’s it going?” Martin greeted Rocky. Looking up from the counter and reading his

newspaper, Rocky smiled and returned the greeting.

“Hi J, you know how it is, SSDD as always.” Martin smiled and nodded at Rocky’s reference to same

shit, different day acronym and the use of his initial. Rocky had a way of using a person’s name, and then

shortening it to what he felt comfortable using.

“Yeah, I hear you,” Martin replied as he wandered around the small market.

“How’s the wife?”

“The usual, mean as hell and ornery as sin.” Both men laughed at Martin’s reply.

“Say J. You hear what’s been going on back east?” Rocky asked. Martin shook his head as he read the

back of a can of soup.

“No, can’t say as I have. What’s the Big Apple have going on now?”

“Shit, they’re talking about riots in the major east coast cities and overseas then they go on to talk about

some new sickness that supposedly caused the riots. They’ve repeated the broadcast of the president

ordering the 82nd Airborne into New York about a dozen times.” Martin looked up.

“Sounds to me like a real problem for those New Yorkers. On the positive side, there might finally be

parking available.” Both men chuckled at that statement whether from the uneasiness of the events

transpiring or maybe just to assuage any concern they might have.

“It sounds serious. I heard one guy on the radio talking about the dead coming back to life and how it’s

the end of days. Real hellfire and brimstone type shit,” Rocky commented. The older man looked around

the store before reaching under the counter and producing an Ithaca M37 shotgun. “I like to keep this

handy for close encounters. You never know when the shit will hit the fan.”

Martin nodded and grinned a little.

“I know you and your wife are shooters,” Rocky continued, “I’ve seen you both out at the gun club once

or twice. Your wife’s a damn good shot.”

Martin nodded without answering. Only in a small town could this type of conversation happen; in larger

cities, residents would have issues or go into full panic mode when discussing weapons in public let alone

actually firing them. Rocky put the shotgun back under the counter when the little bells above the door

rang, announcing another customer’s entrance.

“Seems like this event gets bigger and better every year,” Rocky commented on the activity outside the

large windows that faced the main street, Sussex Avenue, before he went back to reading his newspaper.

Martin nodded and continued with his shopping, looking for items that were on his list. It wasn’t until he

reached the cereal aisle that he felt something peculiar, like the sixth sense he used to get when deployed.

The only other customer was the man that had entered a few minutes ago and was standing at the far end

of the aisle looking out the window, slowly swaying back and forth as if listening to a tune only he could

hear.

In those few seconds, Martin sized him up, automatically placing an invisible grid pattern over him with

red dots highlighting areas that would incapacitate or kill. It was an old habit that he had tried to break for

many years but now, it seemed strangely pertinent. He looked around the store to see what might be

causing the uneasy feeling and his eyes were drawn back to the other customer.

The man was wearing medical scrubs and hospital slippers. Without the slippers, the man would have

looked like a doctor but there were no hospitals in town or any emergency clinics. With just a doctor’s

office, a veterinarian and a dentist where had this person come from? Martin observed the other man out

of the corner of his eye all the while trying to shake that uneasiness. Slowly making his way down to that

end of the aisle he realized that he would need to pass by the other man to go to the next aisle or retrace

his steps and go back the way he had come.

“Excuse me there buddy,” Martin said good-naturedly as he started to warily move past the other

customer. The other man slowly turned to face him, immediately Martin saw that there was something

physically wrong. The other man’s face was twisted into a grimace and there was a large flap of skin

hanging from the left side of his jaw line exposing the deep red tissue, tendons and muscles along with

the sharp white of bone. Martin recoiled and moved sideways as the man took a step towards him.

“Buddy you need some medical help,” Martin stated then called out, “Rocky! Call 911! This guy’s hurt

pretty bad!”

Rocky looked up from his newspaper then stood up causing the stool to scrape on the tile floor as he

moved towards the phone on the wall. Martin watched the other man as he advanced towards him forcing

Martin to back up. No way was he going to turn his back on the man. He took note of the disconnected IV

line hanging from the man’s left arm and the blood stains on the front of the scrubs. The stains didn’t

match the head injury. Looking closer, Martin could see that there were also blood stains around the

man’s mouth and some dried streaks of blood on the chin. What the hell did this guy get into? he thought

to himself as he backed down the main aisle. He could hear Rocky calling 911 and also sirens from

outside and what he thought might be screaming.

The other man suddenly started swinging his arms, hurling canned food and other items off the shelves

and onto the floor. Each time the man moved closer to Martin, he swung his arms and sent items tumbling

to the floor. He then stopped and looked down at the mess he had made and then back at Martin.

Unexpectedly, the man lunged towards Martin, with arms outstretched and a look of pure evil on his

ruined face. Martin dodged, threw his hand basket at the man and backpedaled until his heel caught the

edge of a counter and he fell to the floor. The other man caught the hand basket and squeezed it until it

was a mangled mess before tossing it aside. He fixed Martin with a glare and started to move faster

towards him, guttural noises emanating from his mouth. Martin was frantically crawling backwards like a

crab down the aisle, grabbing items off the shelves, throwing them at his pursuer. His retreat was stopped

when he hit the large counter that held the cash register.

Behind him he heard Rocky hang up the phone and start to ask what was happening when he saw the

customer lunge at Martin, arms outraised and an angry grimace on his face. Rocky grabbed the shotgun

from under the counter and tromboned the slide.

“That’s enough of that shit,” he stated quietly to the other man. There was a slight pause in the attacker’s

approach as he tilted his head to one side to look at Rocky. Martin took the momentary distraction to get

to his feet.

“Careful Rock. This guy’s not right in the head,” Martin cautioned, realizing that what he had just said

was a gross understating of the facts. Martin stood his ground, his latent combat senses now working

overtime, analyzing his next moves based on the man’s actions, hoping that the other man was just having

some sort of medical issue. The other man became more agitated, tilting his head left and right while

working his mouth as if chewing on something. He violently lunged towards Martin. Rocky fired into the

man’s chest, throwing him back and to the floor where he slid along the smooth tile until the force of the

shotgun blast was expelled. He worked the pump of the shotgun to eject the spent round and inject the

next. The interior of the store grew deathly quiet after the blast. The sudden silence was only broken by

the steady drip of the contents of broken glass jars and the clink rattle of the spent shotgun shell as it spun

around on the tile floor. Martin’s ears were ringing from his nearness to the shotgun being fired in an

enclosed space.

“Jesus Christ,” Rocky muttered in a harsh whisper as he realized what he had just done, taking in the

bloody trail left by the man as he had slid along the white and black checkered tile flooring.

“You had no choice Rock. There was something seriously wrong with him.” Martin cautiously

approached the prone man, staying out Rocky’s line of fire but stopped when he noticed a limb twitch.

“Holy shit, I don’t think this guy’s dead,” he said stepping back. Rocky walked up alongside Martin and

both men stood and looked at the body as it started to twitch, not convulsive but more like someone who

was waking up.

“The hell he ain’t, that was double-ought,” Rocky stated, looking at the gaping wound in the man’s chest

and pointing the shotgun at the prone man. Martin watched as the limb twitching became more

coordinated and the man sat up oblivious to the ragged cavity in his chest.

“Fuck me,” Martin muttered in amazement, sweeping his shirt tail aside with his right hand as he drew his

Beretta 92FS, and aimed it at the man now struggling to stand up. Both men watched in shock as the man

grabbed the shelves and used them to stand upright, knocking items off without concern, dripping blood

and other contents from the hole in his chest. Once the man was standing, he turned to face the two men.

Martin, unhesitant in his actions, quickly fired a double tap into the man’s forehead dropping him to the

floor. The lighter popping of his 9mm sounded more like the snapping of one’s fingers when compared to

the loud booming of Marcone’s shotgun.

Outside, they could hear screaming as people ran down the street and between the buildings, fleeing from

something or someone. Some of the people wore the same attire as the now dead man on the floor and

were chasing those that were screaming.

“Rocky, it looks like the shit has hit the fan. Take a look outside.” Both men stepped over and around the

body on the floor and looked out the windows. It was utter pandemonium. Local police, the two full time

officers, were trying to maintain order amid the chaos but it was a losing battle. More and more of the

crowd appeared, wearing hospital scrubs, business suits, pioneer clothing, or even EMT uniforms. A

young girl in bra and panties ran by the front of the store then stopped upon seeing the two men inside

and started to pound on the window.

“Help me! Help me!” She looked back over her shoulder, and then ran off being chased by a horribly

injured man in a torn business suit.

Rocky and Martin looked at each other before Rocky walked over and locked the door. Martin stepped

back from the windows and watched as the main street of town became something like a national

geographic film on predators and their prey.

Martin was roused out his reverie by the sound of shells being fed into a shotgun tube magazine and the

click clack action of a shotgun’s slide. Turning from the horrid events outside, he watched Rocky load

more shells into the Ithaca. Instinctively, Martin moved his left hand down to his belt and felt the two

magazine pouches there giving him a total of 30 rounds plus what was left in his weapon. He had his rifle

outside in the truck but was hesitant to retrieve it just yet. He watched as Rocky removed a box of 12

gauge ammunition from under the counter, dumping a handful of red shells into his shirt pockets before

he started filling the pockets on his shorts. Martin grabbed his cell phone and hit speed dial. After two

rings the phone was picked up.

“Babe, Code 5. No shit,” Martin said without waiting for a reply then closed the phone and clipped it back

to his belt. Rocky walked up beside him after shutting off the interior lights, the M37 now in both hands

at port arms.

“The shit didn’t just hit the fan, it fucking smothered it.”

***

CHAPTER 17

Outside Elko, Nevada

Frank Durst had been sitting for hours reviewing the computer logs for the ISP Service Center trying to

find the single line of code that had caused one of the servers to go down and listening to the muffled

burps and farts emanating from Anfinson. The phone on his desk rang, jarring him out of his reverie.

“Durst,” he answered curtly.

“Frank? Frank, oh my god, Frank,” The harried voice on the other end of the phone line sputtered out.

“Sharon? Sharon, what’s wrong?” Sharon Wharton was Durst’s sister, one of the few people who had the

direct phone number to his desk.

“Frank, its Tom. He came home last night and went ballistic. He was yelling about how some homeless

wino bit him on the hand at one of his calls. Then he got really sick and hasn’t come out of the

bathroom.” Frank could tell that his sister was upset and most likely had been crying. Tom Wharton was a

local sheriff’s deputy who had a violent streak in him that he would occasionally take out on Sharon.

Over the few years of their marriage, Sharon had been admitted for cuts and broken bones. Tom’s police

friends looked the other way and no charges were ever filed. Frank and his old high school friend, John

Stone, had talked to Wharton about the abuse and even went so far as to allude to an untimely demise for

Wharton if such actions continued. Wharton had laughed it off but then noticed the looks in the eye of

both men and had stated that he would do what he could to control his temper.

“Oh shit, Frank! Tom just broke the bathroom door!” Durst could hear what sounded like growls and

splintering wood or maybe furniture being thrown around.

“Sharon! Get out of there!” Durst yelled into the phone, not realizing that he was now standing up. He

could hear more yelling and what sounded like a large animal growling. What had to be furniture being

broken or tossed around came through the handset before a loud slam and heavy breathing was all he

heard.

“Sharon?”

“I’m okay. I locked myself in the closet under the stairs. It’s a solid door and there’s no way Tom can get

in.” Durst heard how brittle Sharon’s voice was and muffled thumping sounds in the background.

“Okay, okay. You need to call the police. I know Tom’s a deputy but I really think that they’ll see he has

problems now.”

“Frank, I’m scared. What if they don’t get here in time? Can you come get me?” Durst looked over at

Anfinson and saw the concerned look on his co-worker’s face as well as chocolate smeared at the corners

of his mouth.

“Okay, I’ll see what I can do. Be safe.” Durst hung up and looked around the room as if an answer to the

problem would materialize.

“Frank, if you need to take care of something, go man. I’ll cover for you,” Anfinson stated. Durst nodded

then picked up his keys.

“Thanks, Butch. Take it easy and uh, you got a little something on your face.” Durst turned and walked

quickly to the door then ran up the stairs two at a time until he got to the exterior door.

He pushed the door open and was assaulted by the bright sun and heat. Fumbling for his sunglasses, Durst

jogged to his truck and threw himself inside. Starting the vehicle, he jammed the truck into drive, spun the

wheel and put his foot down. The off road tires dug into the gravel and sprayed it behind in twin streams

as Durst fishtailed out of the small parking lot and onto the dirt road leading towards the highway.

***

CHAPTER 18

Flagstaff, Arizona

Ronald Chambers awoke after spending a long night carrying and unpacking equipment down to the

basement. Having all his research notes and equipment delivered to the attached garage had saved him the

time and expense of renting a truck to haul it. The moving company that was contracted for his

furnishings was more than happy to accept the additional cargo for a fee.

Now he was faced with the task of organizing all the notebooks and acquiring additional supplies and

equipment. The home he had just begun residing in was more than he could have expected in terms of a

secluded and secure facility for his research. Sitting up in bed, he was greeted by the aches and pains

caused by the previous day’s work. Swiveling to place his feet on the floor he leaned forward and rested

his elbows on his thighs, and then his head in his hands. Thinking back to a few weeks prior, Chambers

remembered spending time with Candace ‘Candi’ Reed. When he had met her at the real estate office

with the cashier’s check, they had finished up the sales contract and the transfer paperwork, and then had

started in on some small talk. That soon escalated to him asking her out to dinner, and then dancing which

led to a nightcap at her place. Over the next few weeks, their relationship progressed to the point of

intimacy. Sex with Candace was incredible. The façade that she displayed at work hid a wild animal in

bed. Standing and stretching, Chambers thought back to the nights spent in her bed. He remembered with

a wistful smile that the aches he felt then were much more pleasant memories than the aches he felt now.

Yawning and blinking, Chambers walked to the expansive bathroom and did as was required. Washing

up, drying his hands and face, he walked out to the kitchen and started his coffee maker. Rinsing out the

coffee mug in the sink, he placed it next to the coffee maker, and then turned on the small television

sitting in the counter.

The smell of fresh coffee soon permeated the kitchen as Chambers focused on the CNN breaking news.

‘Reports of rioting are coming in from major cities all over the world. As yet, a direct cause for these

incidents hasn’t been determined.’

Chambers poured a cup of coffee before returning his attention to the television.

‘Breaking news, reports of bites attributed to the rioting are now coming in from numerous sources. As

incredible as it sounds, some of the rioters are biting people. Authorities are advising that anyone not

needing to leave their home is to stay indoors and remain there. Bite victims are instructed to seek

medical attention as soon as possible.’

Okay, the world’s going to hell, not my problem. Chambers thought as he muted the television and began

making breakfast. Halfway through preparing his omelet, the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Ron? Its Candi, have you been watching the news?” Tucking the receiver between his shoulder and ear,

Chambers continued stirring the ingredients.

“Not really, just bits and pieces. Why?”

“It’s horrible, Ron. Hospitals are being swamped with patients, people are being killed, and many more

are becoming sick.” Sick? Chambers stopped stirring.

“Sick? Sick how? In what way?”

“No one seems to know. People are getting bitten by the people that are rioting and those people are

getting sick,” a noticeable strain in her voice as Reed answered.

“There are several reasons a person could get sick from a bite. The human mouth is a breeding ground of

all kinds of bacteria.” Chambers poured the mixture from the bowl he had been stirring into a microwave

pan.

“I know Ron. But this is something totally different. I’m scared. Can I stay with you for a while? I know

its last minute and you have work you need to get done but I’m really scared,” Reed pleaded. Chambers

stopped in mid pour and thought about what Candace had said.

“Sure. I have plenty of room,” He quickly blurted out before Candi thought he didn’t want her spending

time with him. Chambers heard a sigh of relief over the phone line.

“Oh thank you, Ron! I’ll be there in half an hour.” The line went dead. Chambers placed the phone back

in the stand and then closed the lid on the omelet maker and put it in the microwave.

Chambers turned the volume up on the television while he waited for his breakfast. CNN was still

announcing how riots were now erupting at hospitals and aid stations and that people were once again

cautioned about going out. The microwave beeped and Chambers retrieved his meal as he sat down at the

eating bar to watch while he ate.

‘Reports are still coming in from all over the country about the rioting. It appears to be widespread and

without any apparent cause or purpose.’ The scene broke to an overhead view of a city where police and

firefighters were trying to stop rioters with the water cannon mounted atop a fire truck. The scene then cut

to one that Chambers had seen during the LA riots some years ago. Shop owners were boarding up their

stores and some were arming themselves to protect their property. A small group of Asian store owners at

a strip mall in Los Angeles were on the rooftops and firing at anyone who came close.

Stupid, Chambers thought, when they run out of food and water in that heat, they’ll have to come down.

He had finished up his meal and was rinsing the pan when the chime from the driveway call box signaled

Reed’s arrival. Walking over to the small security monitor mounted in the wall next to the gate controls,

Chambers verified it was Candi before opening the gate. He recognized her Ford Escape sport utility

vehicle at the gate and watched as she drove quickly up the driveway and parked in front of the garage.

By the time he reached the side door, she had already dragged a large suitcase out of the rear of the small

SUV and was almost to the door.

“Thank you again, Ron for letting me stay here. I hope it’s not too much of an inconvenience.”

“Not at all. Here, let me help you with that.” Chambers reached out and took the suitcase from her as she

hugged him.

***

CHAPTER 19

Las Vegas, Nevada

John Mecceloni exited the elevator on the 8th floor where the executive suites were located at the

Bellagio Hotel. He checked the hall before moving towards the presidential suite. As he walked he

removed a pair of thin surgical gloves from his pocket and slid them on. Pausing to look up and down the

hallway once more, he removed a small handgun from the holster on his right hip, hidden by his suit

jacket. Reaching into his suit jacket pocket he withdrew a SOCOM style suppressor and screwed it onto

the extended, threaded barrel of his Walther P99T. Once that was finished he let his right arm hang down

and removed the passkey that he had appropriated from the service area from his other pocket. Sliding it

into the card key reader on the door he was rewarded with a green light and quickly stepped inside the

suite closing the door quietly behind him.

Standing with his back to the door, he looked around the room to see where his target might be. Moving

deeper into the room he heard the television on in the master bedroom. Bringing his weapon up, he moved

his left hand to the weapon taking a two handed grip and swept the room searching for his target.

Checking each room as he passed through them, he noticed a pair of high heels on the floor directly

outside the master suite. The intelligence information on the target had revealed that the subject was a

married orthodontist from Ohio, with two kids and had not brought his wife with him to this convention.

What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, Mecceloni thought as he stepped lightly around the shoes and

moved to the partially open doors of the master bedroom. In the mirror on the wall, he could see most of

the bed, the sheets and comforter had been pulled back to the foot of the bed. All signs of preparation for

activity but no target.

Stepping quickly through the open double doors, he saw his target. The middle aged man was slightly

turned away from him and removing his pants, his shirt already removed and on the back of the nearby

chair. Mecceloni watched as the man actually took the time to fold his pants before placing them on the

chair next to the bed. The man turned and saw Mecceloni standing there. Surprise followed by

puzzlement crossed his features as he started to speak. Two sub-sonic 115 grain 9mm hollowpoints

entered his sternum, fracturing it and sending bone fragments into his heart destroying the organ. A third

hollowpoint entered just above the bridge of his nose as the lifeless body was falling backwards. The only

sounds in the room were the television, the mechanical sound of the slide traveling back and forth as the

rounds were fired, and the dull thud as the body fell to the thickly carpeted floor. Mecceloni swept the

room for another target before bending to retrieve the spent shell casings.

He had straightened and was backing out of the room when the bathroom door opened revealing a young

red haired woman dressed in a bra, panties, garter belt, and stockings.

“So Charles, what did you have in mind? You have me for an hour and I’m sure…” She stopped talking

when she saw her john lying on his back with a stain just starting to form under him. Looking to her right

she saw Mecceloni standing there before she quickly looked back to the dead man that had paid for her

services.

“If this is some kind of mob rubout or whatever, I swear I haven’t seen anything,” she said quite firmly to

Mecceloni. He had already brought his weapon up and had her head centered within the sights. Surprised

by her reaction, he stopped before applying just enough pressure to fire the weapon.

“Excuse me?” he asked quietly. She turned to him, fixing him with her light green eyes and not making

any attempt to cover herself up or show intimidation to be looking down the barrel of his weapon.

“I don’t even know this guy. I just met him in the bar downstairs so if he was some sort of mob guy I had

no idea.” Mecceloni looked at her quizzically. This was a new parameter to the equation. He was only

paid to remove the primary target not any collateral material.

“He was a dentist from Ohio,” Mecceloni stated, lowering his weapon. The girl looked at him strangely.

“So someone had some work done by him and they didn’t like it so they hired a hit man?” she asked.

Mecceloni shook his head. “No, it’s a bit more complicated than that.”

“Oh,” she paused looking at him closely. “Are you a mechanic?”

“Mechanic?” he asked her quizzically.

“Yeah, you know? A mechanic,” she said emphasizing the word and pantomiming a gun using her

fingers.

“Not exactly,” Mecceloni replied as he unscrewed the suppressor, pocketed it and holstered his weapon.

He realized the girl wasn’t a threat just an inconvenience. She had seen his face and could recognize him.

Looking around the room for any options that could be used, he found none that would work given the

situation.

“I think you’re a mechanic,” she stated confidently as she looked him up and down.

“Look, Miss. I don’t have time to discuss semantics with you. You need to get dressed and we need to get

out of here.”

“Its Cassandra not Miss and what’s with this ‘we’ stuff?” She still stood with her hands on her hips

looking at him with her intense green eyes as if daring him to shoot her.

“Cassandra, we need to get out of here so you need to get dressed before someone comes in and finds

your friend which would mean trouble for both of us.”

Cassandra snorted a little at Mecceloni’s use of the term ‘friend’ before retreating back into the bathroom.

She started to close the door but he stopped her realizing that she could have a cell phone in there with

her. She went about gathering up whatever items she might have left in the bathroom while Mecceloni

waited patiently standing in the doorway watching her.

She quickly slipped on her emerald green evening gown that hugged her figure, tugging on it here and

there before running her hands through her hair. She grabbed the complimentary shampoo and

conditioners on the counter and stuffed them into her purse and turned to face Mecceloni.

“Hey, you never know,” she said when she noticed his intense stare as she cleaned off the counter.

Leaving the bathroom, she walked to where her now dead client had placed his pants on the back of the

chair and felt for the wallet. Opening the wallet, she removed all the cash and slipped that into her already

stuffed purse. Walking over to her shoes, she slipped them on, hopping from one foot to the other as she

did so.

“I have what I need so I’ll be leaving now,” she announced as she tried to shove past him. Mecceloni

grabbed her arm and pulled her around to face him.

“Listen, you’re a liability to me right now. If you want to become an asset you need to do what I tell you

when I tell you. Understand?” he fixed her with a hard stare.

“We get out this hotel and we can go our separate ways like nothing happened,” he glared at her with a

look that he hoped would create fear. For just a split second, he saw the fear in her eyes as he tried to

ignore the intoxicatingly pleasant aroma of her perfume. Letting go of her, he gave her a gentle nudge

towards the door and watched her figure as it swayed inside the tight confines of the gown before

following her to the main suite door. How long had it been since he had been in the company of a

woman? He asked himself. Two, maybe three months? Damn, that long? Shaking his head to bring

himself back to the present, Mecceloni stopped her before she could open the door. Slipping his arm

through hers, he shot her a wry grin, and then opened the door himself and stepped out taking her with

him.

“When we get out of the parking garage, I’ll drop you somewhere,” he whispered to her as they walked

towards the elevator.

“I’ll bet you’ve told a lot of people that,” She muttered to herself. Mecceloni heard her remark and had to

chuckle a little at it. Cassandra looked up at him with a mild look of concern. Mecceloni slipped off the

surgical gloves and tucked them into a pocket before using the knuckle of his finger to press the elevator

call button. He realized that he had no intention of killing the girl but now he needed her to play her part

until he got out of the hot zone.

The elevator ride down to the main floor was uneventful. Only one other couple got on at another floor

and no words were exchanged except some polite nods. Exiting the elevator, Mecceloni guided Cassandra

to the parking garage and down the stairs to the lower level. He felt her body stiffen up when she realized

that there was no one else on the garage level.

“Don’t worry, there are security cameras on all levels and if I really wanted to kill you, I’d have done it

back in the room,” he told her quietly.

She looked up at him with a wide-eyed look. Mecceloni just shook his head and guided her to his car, a

high end sedan. Unlocking the doors electronically from the key bob, he opened the passenger door for

her and inclined his head in way of indication for her to get inside. Reluctantly, she did. He closed the

door, walked around to the driver’s side, and got in.

“Now, was that so bad?” he asked as he fitted the ignition key and started the engine.

Backing out of the parking stall, he drove to the exit and turned onto Las Vegas Boulevard. Cassandra

stared out the passenger window, watching the casinos and hotels go by with their bright lights and

wondered if this was the last time she would ever see those sights. Mecceloni was not really concerned

about Cassandra at this point; his main concern was to make it out of Vegas before housekeeping found

the body. Once he was safely out of the area he would then decide what to do with her. Turning onto the

entrance to Interstate 15, Mecceloni accelerated south. Soon the casinos dwindled and the landscape

became more desolate. He saw her glance at him a few times thinking he wasn’t paying attention. It

wasn’t until she reached for the door handle that he said anything.

“That won’t do you any good.”

He saw her stiffen in her seat, and then bring her hand slowly back her lap. Reaching over, he turned on

the radio.

“…residents are asked to remain calm and indoors. Local police and emergency services are continuing

to be overwhelmed by the rioting. The governor’s office has issued a statement that the National Guard is

being mobilized to assist in restoring order.”

Cassandra looked at Mecceloni, and then back to the radio. Mecceloni scanned through the channels and

heard roughly the same type of broadcast; only different cities were mentioned. He glanced over at

Cassandra, and then turned off the radio. Neither spoke for several more miles as the sun rose over the

desert. Coming up on the sign for Jean, Nevada, Mecceloni took the exit and turned into the gas station at

Nevada Landing.

“I need to use the restroom,” Cassandra volunteered as they came to a stop. Mecceloni looked over at her

with a grin as he shut off the car and removed the key.

“Of course you do,” he said as he stepped out and moved around to her door. Opening the door for her, he

extended his hand to assist her. She took the offered hand and stepped out, then stretched a little as she

looked around at the area.

“You do know there’s a prison in this area,” she mentioned offhandedly as they walked to the door of the

combination gas station convenience store.

“Yes, I do. Was there someone there you wanted to visit?” Mecceloni replied. She looked at him then

suppressed a giggle as he held open the door for her. Maybe he isn’t such a bad guy, she thought; looking

at him a little differently. Stepping inside the air conditioned interior was a relief from the increasing heat

outside.

Mecceloni pointed to the restroom, and then walked up to the counter and prepaid for his fuel. Cassandra

looked back at him in dismay as he walked back out the door to the car after paying the clerk. She

watched him walk away seemingly without concern that she might make an attempt to escape or call the

police.

He’s leaving me inside? What’s going on? she thought.

The clerk was too engrossed in watching a live news cast on the wall mounted television to take note of

how she was dressed. Wearing a shimmering emerald green evening gown with spike heels didn’t fit the

décor of a 24 hour convenience store even this early in the morning. Cassandra stepped closer to the

counter and craned her neck to see what had caught the attendant’s attention so completely. The television

was on to some news channel that was reporting massive riots in Los Angeles, and then the scene cut to

the newsroom where the reporters were discussing riots now occurring in all major cities around the

world. There was some mention that it was a coordinated terrorist attack, but then the screen changed to a

‘Breaking News’ logo and went live to a CDC spokesman at a news conference.

“We don’t know what the cause is at this time. I’m sorry I don’t have any more information. No we don’t

know what it is.” The spokesman was saying over shouted questions from the press pool.

“Ready, Honey?” Mecceloni asked when he reentered the store. She glanced towards him with a strange

look, and then turned back to watch more of the special report on television. Mecceloni stepped up to her

and watched as well. After several minutes the screen went blank with the Emergency Broadcast System

emblem.

“Are you staying here or coming with me?” he asked her.

“You mean I have a choice?”

“Yes, you do. You can stay here and take your chances, or you can come with me and I can drop you

somewhere safer.” Mecceloni indicated the increased traffic heading for the freeway before he began

walking towards the parking lot.

Cassandra lingered a few seconds to see what the television station would report next before grabbing a

tall container of licorice ropes and hurrying outside to catch up with him. Getting in the car just as

Mecceloni started it, she looked over at him as he looked at the container she had on her lap.

“I figure I’m safer with you,” she paused, looking at where his eyes were, and then up at this face, “at

least for the time being.”

Mecceloni smirked at her comment as he turned onto the frontage road paralleling Interstate 15, before

crossing back over onto Las Vegas Blvd and driving towards a small airfield. Cassandra buckled her

seatbelt and sat back anticipating the journey ahead; still holding the licorice container on her lap.

She had just finished adjusting herself in the seat when Mecceloni pulled into a small parking lot outside

a private airfield.

The large, blue roofed terminal was the most distinguishing feature as Mecceloni parked in one of the

many spaces out front.

Without a word, he shut off the car, removed the keys from the ignition, and placed them on the center

console before getting out. He went to the trunk where he retrieved a small overnight bag and walked

inside the terminal.

Cassandra sat and watched him walk away, and then looked down at the keys on the console wondering

what she should really do. Sure, she had seen him in a room with a dead body and a smoking gun in his

hand, but was he really a bad man? What did it make her? She rented her body out to men who wanted

sex.

Looking around at the half empty parking lot and the cars now steadily flowing onto the freeway, she

realized that her options were very limited. Leaving the keys but grabbing the licorice container, she got

out and walked quickly towards the terminal. Inside, Mecceloni was standing at a counter getting some

paperwork when she opened the door.

“If you think you’re leaving me out here in the middle of nowhere, then you’ve got another thing

coming,” she said sternly as she walked up to him. The older man behind the counter just stepped back

and smiled a little. Mecceloni looked at her then grinned before replying.

“Honey, I know how much you had your mind set on getting that condo, but it’s just not going to work

out with my travel schedule.” She stopped and squinted up at him trying to think of something to say

when he grabbed her and kissed her full on the mouth.

“Run along now, Sugar Plum and get freshened up,” he directed as he took the licorice container, turned

her around and playfully swatted her buttocks. Turning back to the man at the counter, Mecceloni

shrugged his shoulders as if to say ‘women’ as he shoved the container inside his overnight bag.

Cassandra walked on weak knees to the ladies room amid jumbled thoughts. Here was a man who had

abducted her from a hotel, and then driven miles into the desert to this place. Now he was acting as if

nothing was out of the ordinary.

Mecceloni, meanwhile, was conferring with the FBO on flight plans.

“What are my chances for a flight plan to LA?” Mecceloni asked.

Chuck Sears, the employee manning the FBO for the airfield, shook his head soberly and handed

Mecceloni a FAA memo.

“Slim and none, FAA has limited all flights in and out of the state. You could try hop-scotching through

the hills and maybe get into a small airfield in southern California; but I wouldn’t want to try that. I heard

that they’ve rerouted all air traffic to their alternate fields and most of the east coast airports are doing the

same. The latest reports I received mentioned fighter planes circling over some of the airports to keep

flights on the ground. Plus, I just heard a little while ago that some of that rioting has hit North Vegas.”

Mecceloni raised an eyebrow at this; it appeared that they had left at just the right time. He was about to

comment on this when Cassandra returned from the restroom. Mecceloni smiled at Sears, and then turned

to Cassandra.

“Honey, you ready to leave now?” he asked as he took her hand and guided her to the door that exited

onto the apron. She looked out at the private planes parked there and then back at Mecceloni before

replying.

“Sure thing, Babydoll,” She waved to Sears as they exited the building and walked towards a few years

old twin engine turboprop.

“Babydoll?” Mecceloni asked as they walked.

“Sugar Plum?” Cassandra replied as she looked up at him with a grin. Mecceloni laughed but kept his

hand firmly on her bicep as they walked towards the parked aircraft.

“This one yours?” she asked as he opened the side door and tossed in his bag.

“It is today,” Mecceloni replied as he stepped inside and made his way forward to the cockpit. Cassandra

quickly followed him, shutting the cabin door behind her.

***

CHAPTER 20

Camberley, Surrey, United Kingdom

Jack Larkin sat at his desk at one end of the Royal Windsor lobby finishing his entries into the daily log.

He had just finished noting the time that the main convention hall cleaning crew had left, when the desk

phone rang.

“Royal Windsor, how can I direct your call?” he replied as he glanced over to the main check-in desk

trying to see where the night clerk was.

“Yeah, hey. This is the Royal Suite and I’d like to complain about loud noises and screams coming from

the room down the hall.” He recognized the female on the other end of the phone as Leesa Tobias.

“Sure thing, Ms. Tobias. I’ll send someone right up to check on that.”

“Please do that. I have an early shoot tomorrow and really need my rest.”

“Right away, Ma’am,” He hung up the phone and paged the other employee on duty, Arthur Higgins.

What seemed to Larkin to be an extremely long time, but in reality was under five minutes; Higgins

arrived at Larkin’s desk.

“Oi, Mate. What’s the drill?”

“I have to head upstairs to check on something so I need you to cover the desk.”

Higgins wiggled his eyebrows at Larkin’s mention of heading upstairs.

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain yank female would it?”

“Shove off, you wanker,” Larkin replied good-naturedly before walking to the elevator. When the

elevator opened on the top floor, he was aware of loud noises emanating from one of the suites at the end

of the hall. On this floor, there were only four large, multi-room suites with the Royal Suite being the

largest. Walking past the door of the problem room, he knocked on the door to the Royal Suite. A few

seconds later the door opened to reveal Leesa Tobias who was wearing an ankle length faux fur coat over

her sleepwear.

“Did you fix the problem?” she asked before Larkin could even greet her.

“Uh, no. Not yet. I was just checking to make sure everything was okay with your room.”

“Well, yeah. It’s that other room over there.” She pointed down the hall in the general direction of the

other rooms. “That’s causing the problem.”

“Right. I’ll see to it.” Larkin nodded and then turned around and walked towards the suite in question,

removing the small flashlight he kept on his belt and using it to knock on the door. Behind him he heard

Tobias close the door to her suite.

He knocked again on the door but received no answer. Tilting his head closer to the door, he listened to

the sounds coming from inside. There was a muffled grunting and some tearing sounds that he couldn’t

associate with anything. He was about to knock again when a loud crash and the sound of glass breaking

came from inside. He Realized that quite probably someone was hurt or worse, trashing the room. his

concern was justifiable; a few years back, a traveling rock band had done that to one of penthouse suites.

Larkin removed his passkey and opened the door.

“Hello?” he called out as he pushed the door open all the way and looked inside. One of the small lights

on the wall in the main room was casting a white cone of light into the hallway. No other lights were on

in the suite. He brought up his flashlight and turned it on, shining its beam into the short hallway.

“Hello? Hotel staff,” Larkin announced as he stepped just inside the main door and waved his flashlight

around.

He heard some animalistic sounds coming from somewhere in the suite but couldn’t narrow down the

origin of the noise. Stepping inside all the way and allowing the door to close behind him, he walked over

to the light panel on the wall, and turned on the lights in the front room of the suite.

“Hotel staff, is anyone in here?” Larkin asked redundantly.

He walked into the sitting area and looked for the room’s occupants. He found the source of the glass

breaking; the inlaid beveled glass coffee table that normally sat between the two couches had been tossed

to one side and the glass had shattered when it struck the end table. A shuffling sound made him turn to

look towards the master bedroom. There on the floor was one of the executives from Sim-Com Tech

crouched over something or someone on the floor. From the rear, Larkin could see that man was dressed

in pajamas and appeared to be having some sort of convulsive, seizure like movement.

“Hey mate. You alright?” he asked as he approached the man. He tentatively reached out to touch the

man’s shoulder. The man abruptly turned his head to look at Larkin with wild eyes, blood dripping from

his chin, and bared teeth. Larkin recoiled and took a step back. The huddled man shuffled to one side in a

simian sort of way revealing what he had been crouched over. It was a body, or rather what used to be a

body. There was a bloody mess strewn around the prone form. The body cavity had been ripped open and

the internal organs had been partially pulled out and left lying on the floor around the corpse. Before he

could fully comprehend what he was seeing, the executive charged at him, yelling incoherently and

swinging his arms. Larkin backed up rapidly before falling over the back of the couch and landing in the

space normally occupied by the now broken coffee table. He lay there stunned until he heard a grunting,

shuffling sound to his right.

Turning his head, he saw the man now moving slowly towards him, slightly hunched over and weaving

from side to side. Larkin frantically tried to get to his feet but his attacker quickly grabbed his ankle.

Larkin fell against the couch once again but then twisted around to kick the man in the face.

He kicked the man several times in the face before his ankle was released and he was able to scramble to

his feet. He stumbled/ran to the main hall of the suite where his shoulder collided with one wall,

swiveling him around to face the main suite. His momentum kept him moving until he impacted the suite

door. The room’s tenant appeared at the other end of the short hall, standing upright, head bowed but

weaving back and forth as it looked at its prey. Larkin grabbed for the door handle behind his back and

tried to open the door as the man slowly approached. Finally getting the door open, he exited the suite and

slammed the door closed behind him. He heard and felt the room’s occupant throw itself against the door

as it vibrated, and then the former executive from Sim-com Tech howled inhumanly at the loss of its next

victim. Larkin moved across the hall and leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes breathing

heavily, just now realizing that he was soaked in perspiration.

“Did you fix the problem?” Larkin jumped at the question, and then looked at Leesa Tobias as she stood

in the doorway of her room. Larkin nodded as he tried to find his voice.

“Sounded like a war going on in there,” Tobias stated. Larkin nodded, swallowed a few times to get saliva

back into his dry mouth before he was able to speak.

“There’s been some trouble inside. I need to use your phone.” Tobias stepped to one side of the door and

motioned for him to enter with a sweep of her hand. He took a deep breath to steady himself, and then

walked into her suite. He couldn’t help but notice how nice Tobias smelled as he went by her. Quickly

walking over to the phone he dialed Higgins.

“Art? Call medical services and the police, there’s an issue in the Windsor Suite. Yeah mate. It’s serious.”

Larkin hung up the phone and then turned to leave. He saw Tobias looking at him strangely then she

walked up to him.

“I think you need to sit down,” she said taking his arm and leading him to a chair.

“Ma’am, I really need to go out in the hall and wait for the ambulance.”

“No, you really need to sit down,” Tobias insisted pushing him down into a chair. He tried to get back up.

“Stay,” she said pointing her finger at him as if commanding a puppy. “There’s something that I need to

look at first,” she said firmly as she walked to her suite’s bathroom and returned a few minutes later with

a couple of hand towels.

“I need to be going now. The police and ambulance will be here anytime.”

“You really need to stay in that chair,” Tobias stated once again as she placed a towel on one of his

shoulders. He could feel her standing behind him. And then her hands were in his hair. Suddenly, there

was a sharp pain in the back of his head causing him to jump up.

“What the bloody hell?” he exclaimed as he felt the back of his head and brought his hand back with

blood, looking at her with a mixed look of shock and anger. Tobias showed him a shard of glass that had

blood on the tip.

“This was sticking out of your head,” Tobias said. “It sparkled in the light when you walked in,” she said

as she brought it closer to him. He recognized it as a piece of the coffee table.

“Bloody Hell,” he muttered. Tobias grinned as she tossed the glass shard into the nearby garbage can.

“I grew up with three brothers. They were always getting into something,” she explained, wiping her

hands on a towel. Larkin shook his head at her comment, his opinion rising from what he had initially

thought of her. His pager went off startling both of them. He grabbed it from his belt and looked at the

number, Higgins. Larkin walked over to the phone and called down to the main lobby.

“Oi, mate. What’s happening?” Larkin asked.

“I can’t get the police or hospital.”

“What? You dialing it right?”

“Sod off, mate. How bleeding difficult is it to dial three fucking numbers?”

“Keep trying.”

He hung up the phone and looked at the closed suite door, and then around the room before he looked

back at Tobias. She was still standing there barefoot in her ankle length fur coat which covered her sleep

wear. Larkin let his eyes focus on the flesh visible in the gap between the unzipped coat halves long

enough for Tobias to grab the ends of the coat and pull it closed.

“We’re going to have to move you to a safer room,” he said blushing and averting his eyes. Tobias looked

at him in bewilderment.

“What? What’s wrong with this room?” she looked around the room trying to see the dangers her current

location presented.

“Ms. Tobias, we have a situation in the hotel. Just one suite over,” he indicated towards the other room,

“the person in there is not well. It might be just a mental problem or maybe something worse. My mate

downstairs is calling for medical and police and I feel that you should leave this floor for your own

safety.”

Tobias looked at him, frowned, and then replied.

“No.”

“No?”

“That’s right. I’m staying right here. I’m not moving. I have an early shoot tomorrow and I need to get

some sleep.” He shook his head in dismay at her obstinate words.

“Ms. Tobias, there’s a man next door that quite probably killed his suite mate. There’s blood and other

really bad stuff in that room.” Larkin started shaking involuntarily as he recalled the ghastly scene.

Tobias’ face went white.

“Killed? You mean like murdered type killed or killed some other way?”

“Murdered type killed,” he replied.

Tobias abruptly ran to her room and grabbed her clothes from the closet, throwing them into a suitcase.

She closed the suitcase with articles of clothing still hanging out, and then ran as fast as she could back

out the to main room pausing only long enough to slip on a pair of athletic shoes.

”Okay, let’s go.”

***

CHAPTER 21

Outside Elko, Nevada

Frank Durst sped down Ottawa Avenue at speeds that seemed reckless, the full size SUV‘s off road tires

humming loudly on the asphalt. He held his cell phone in one hand as he tried to dial John Stone’s

number. He heard the ringing then a voice.

“John? Its Frank. Meet me at Sharon’s place.”

Durst stopped when he realized that the voice on the phone was still talking. Recognizing Stone’s

voicemail, he turned his phone off and tossed it onto the dash as he pressed the accelerator to the floor. He

heard the low roar of the engine and felt the full size V8 push him back in his seat. John Stone was

Durst’s long time friend who owned and operated a custom truck business and salvage yard on the

outskirts of town. Rocketing past the city limits sign with such force that the metal post vibrated in his

wake, Durst slowed down just enough to make the right turn onto 18th with tires squealing in protest

before pressing the pedal back to the floor. He knew that at this speed he would be entering Sharon’s

subdivision in just a few minutes and be forced to slow down due to the speed bumps that were installed

on every street. Durst was concentrating on the left side of the road, looking for the street sign that would

let him know where to turn when a small Honda pulled out of a driveway to his right.

Jerking the wheel to the left and slamming on the brakes, the Bronco was affected by the laws of physics.

The right front end dipped in response to the abrupt maneuver, throwing off the center of balance and

making the entire frame tilt dangerously. Swerving back to the right, the already precarious angle of the

truck was now affected by the forces of mass, momentum, and velocity. The weakest part of the vehicle,

or rather the the left front tire where most kinetic energy was being funneled to, broke the seal with the

rim and lost traction on the road. The Bronco’s left front end dipped lower and centrifugal force took over

as the metal rim dug into the street, sparking until the forward motion was arrested by the high concrete

curbing; thereby transferring energy once again. The resulting action was abrupt as the Bronco flipped up

and over the curb, completing two spins in midair before landing wheels down in a small, dry stream bed

on the left side of the road. The Honda that had played a part in this event, continued on its way, the

passengers oblivious of the near collision.

Durst was still gripping the steering wheel and staring unseeing out the now cracked front window as

steam rose from under the hood. The accident was playing out in his mind. He saw the frightened faces in

the Honda’s windows as he replayed his actions until his thoughts caught up with what had happened and

where he was now. Looking down to the instrument cluster, several of the warning lights were on, but the

engine was no longer running. Turning the key to restart the engine he was rewarded with nothing but a

flickering of the warning lights. Sliding the transmission into neutral, he tried to start the truck once

again. The starter whined and growled but the truck refused to start. Turning the key off and removing it,

he leaned back and let out a breath.

Removing his sunglasses, he ran his hands over his face and shook his head. Leaning his head back

against the headrest, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply, twitching slightly as the adrenaline exited his

body.

After a few deep breaths, Durst straightened up and looked for his cell phone. A few seconds of searching

yielded the device; it had been tossed to the passenger side foot well. He dialed Sharon’s number but all

he received was a busy signal. Trying Stone’s number again he got the same voice mail. Closing the

phone and putting it on the seat, he looked around the interior for his softball bat that he had left in the

truck from last week’s practice. Unbuckling his seat belt, he leaned between the two front bucket seats

and looked on the back seat. Not finding the bat on the seat, he leaned further into the back seat area until

he saw the handle partially sticking out from under the passenger seat. Grabbing the exposed section and

yanking it back and forth to get it loose, he was startled when there was a pounding on the hood of his

truck. Jerking upright, he saw John Stone standing there, looking at him questioningly.

Durst pushed opened his door and crawled out with the bat in hand, grateful to see his friend.

“Hey Frank. Doing a little unscheduled off roading?” Stone joked.

“No, I was on my way to Sharon’s because of Tom and some asshole cut me off.” Stone’s light smile

disappeared from his face at the mention of Sharon’s husband’s name. Durst knew that Stone had always

been interested in his sister as far back as junior high school but had never worked up the nerve to ask her

out. It was common knowledge that Stone created excuses over the years to drive by her street or to ask

how she was doing when they hung out for beers. When she had gotten married, Stone had disappeared

for three years before returning to Elko and starting up the salvage yard.

“Let’s go take care of that problem before I get your truck out of here.” Stone started walking up the

incline with Durst following. As both men reached the road, Durst saw that Stone was driving his

Freightliner wrecker, the amber lights rotating.

“Brought the big one, huh?” Durst mentioned as he walked around the front to the passenger side.

“Yeah, had to get a small RV off the freeway earlier this morning and was taking a shortcut back to the

yard when I saw your truck in the ditch,” Stone explained as he put the big rig in gear and pulled away

from the curb. Durst shook his head, looking at his long time friend with a raised eyebrow. They both

knew that there was no shortcut back to Stone’s business from this street. The truck radio’s volume was

turned up loud to some news talk show and Durst was only able to hear a few of his friend’s words. Stone

reached over and turned down the volume.

“You hear the shit that’s going down?” he asked glancing over at Durst as he shifted through the gears.

“Not really. I’ve been debugging a server all morning. Why?”

“A shit storm is coming, some kind of global riots and disease. Like they say, it’s about to get real.”

“No shit?”

“Oh yeah, heard it all started with some sort of protest march, and then riots from that and now some sort

of disease thing,” Stone explained.

The men fell silent as Stone turned into the subdivision just off Delaware and 15th, the diesel unnaturally

loud and out of place in a housing area where all the homes looked exactly the same, even down to the

manicured lawns. They didn’t pass or see any other traffic, which struck both men as an oddity, yet

neither felt the need to comment on it. Driving past a gardener’s truck with lawnmowers and other

instruments of yard care mounted, stored, or visible on the sidewalk, they took note of the absence of the

workers.

“That’s damned peculiar,” Stone commented as he slowed down and looked at the truck as they passed

by.

“Yeah, where’s the guy cutting the grass?” Durst asked rhetorically. Stone shook his head in reply and

continued to the cul-de-sac that they were looking for. Pulling to a stop at the curb, Stone shut off the

truck and looked around, taking in the lack of pedestrian and vehicular traffic, no neighborhood kids

riding bikes or playing outside, and absent gardeners.

“Frank, do me a favor and open the glove box.” Durst reached over and opened the compartment.

“Is it there?” Stone asked as he continued looking around the neighborhood. Durst reached inside and

removed a padded, zippered case and handed it to Stone. Stone placed the case on his lap and unzipped it,

revealing a full size Colt 1911 and two loaded magazines. Durst watched as Stone slid one magazine into

the butt of the handgun and yanked back the slide, chambering the first round before dropping the

hammer to half cock.

“You think that’s necessary? I told Sharon to call the police. They could already be on their way.” Stone

reached up and tapped a police band scanner mounted to the overhead.

“Pretty unlikely. The PD has their hands full with some shit at the hospital.” Stone then leaned forward

and tucked the .45 into the back of his pants and slid the extra magazine into his left front pocket.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” he stated as he opened his door and stepped out. Durst got out of his

side, and then reached back in for the bat he’d taken from his truck. The sound of the truck doors closing

was unnaturally loud in the quiet subdivision. Both men walked up to the front door, the silence that

permeated the area broken only by the swishing sound of lawn sprinklers.

As they reached the front door, Durst went to knock and was surprised to see the door move inward. It

wasn’t even closed all the way. He looked at Stone who just shrugged his shoulders and removed the .45

from the back of his belt. Durst pushed the door all the way open and stepped to one side as Stone

entered, weapon up and gripped in both hands. The inside of the home was dark as the curtains hadn’t

been opened from the previous night. The open door framed a rectangle of light which spread across the

floor to dimly illuminate a figure crouched in front of the closet door. The figure was so intent in it’s

mission to break down the door, that it had beat its hands to a bloody pulp against the thick wood. Bloody

streaks painted the barrier, floor and framework. From the amount of bodily fluid abstract art in

attendance, the futile activity had been going on for some time.

Durst jumped when Stone yelled out to the hunched form.

“Knock that shit off and back away from the door, asshole!” Stone ordered. The figure turned to look at

them with bloodshot eyes and a grimace that was halfway between primal rage and intense pain.

“Goddamn,” Durst muttered as he recognized Tom Wharton.

“What the..?” Stone started to ask when Wharton stood upright and began walking towards him, his head

tilted and twitching slightly.

“Hey! Who told you to move asshole? Get the fuck on the floor!” Stone demanded. Wharton continued

his advance. Stone centered his handgun on the approaching deputy and took aim. Durst stepped closer to

the wall and tentatively readied his bat.

“Last chance, asshole,” Stone stated flatly. Wharton continued his advance as if the large caliber pistol in

Stone’s hands didn’t matter. Stone thumbed the hammer back to full cock and applied pressure to the

trigger, firing one round into Wharton’s right shoulder. The impact spun Wharton around, knocking him

facedown to the floor. The gunshot reverberated within the room and echoed outside. Durst nervously

cast a glance outside to see if the shot had attracted any neighbors or if any police had arrived unnoticed.

Stone took a step closer to Wharton, weapon still aimed at the prone form as Durst moved to the closet

door and knocked quietly.

“Sharon? It’s Frank and John. You can come out now.” Durst heard the metallic clicking of the lock, and

then the door was flung open and Sharon burst forth to hug him, crying uncontrollably. Stone looked over

and caught her eye, winked, and then returned to watching her husband. Wharton twisted over onto his

back, and then sat up, favoring his right side as his did so. Stone took a step back as Wharton struggled to

his feet, using the wall as support, leaving a trail of blood behind.

“Stay down, man. Don’t make this worse than it already is,” Stone cautioned. Wharton fixed him with an

evil glare, and then opened his mouth and shrieked inhumanely as he flung himself at Stone.

“Fucker’s still wearing his vest,” Durst heard Stone say as he stepped back, dropped into a modified

Weaver stance and put a single round into Wharton’s forehead. Blood, skull fragments, and pureed brain

matter sprayed out in a macabre fan-like pattern on the walls and floor as Wharton dropped where he

stood. Durst looked at Stone in shock.

“You just shot a cop.”

“No. I shot a wife beater hiding behind a badge,” Stone replied as he brought his weapon down.

“I’m glad he’s dead,” Sharon said quietly as she looked at the body on the floor. Stone had lowered his

weapon and was looking at the man he had just killed, thoughts racing in his head about what had just

happened and what the consequences would be.

“Uh guys. I hate to break up the moment but look outside,” Durst commented as he looked out the still

open front door. All three turned to look at the crowd of neighbors forming at the entrance to the cul-de-

sac.

“Let’s get out of here,” Stone suggested as he started to move to the door with Durst and Sharon in tow.

As the trio made their way to Stone’s tow truck they watched as more and more residents were exiting

their homes and joining with the crowd at the entrance.

Durst noticed that the crowd was acting strangely and seemed to be easily distracted. An errant garbage

can rolled into the street from a gust of wind and the entire crowd focused on it until it stopped moving.

He heard moaning with some kind of warble like noise but couldn’t discern where it was coming from.

The three of them squeezed into the cab of the truck as the crowd slowly advanced towards them. Stone’s

hand was shaking so much it took a couple of tries for him to get the key in the ignition.

The crowd was now encircled around the truck and pressing against it, rocking the 16-ton vehicle back

and forth. Stone, momentarily distracted by the strange behavior outside, turned the key and the big rig’s

starter whined loudly before the engine fired up.

“It’s alive!”Stone exclaimed as he pumped the accelerator, revving the engine as black smoke rolled out

of the twin stacks. The noise seemed to enrage the crowd and they pressed harder against the big rig,

some beating their fists on the sides.

“That’s my fucking truck you’re denting!” Stone yelled out as he reached up and pulled the cord that

operated the air horn. He let the horn blow for several seconds in an effort to scare away the diseased

neighbors from around his truck. If anything, the noise of the horn agitated the growing mass more.

Releasing the cord, he kept pressure on the accelerator while watching the tachometer climb before he

popped the clutch.

With a bark of dual tires and a roaring engine, the truck leapt forward, flattening the mindless infected

massed at the front of the truck. Stone spun the wheel and shifted smoothly through the gears as he drove

up on the sidewalk then across several front yards, through a privacy hedge, and swatted aside a small

import hybrid car before getting back onto the main road.

“Well, that was fun,” Stone stated as he glanced over to his passengers.

***

CHAPTER 22

Washington DC

President Hamilton Jefferson Wood was in the middle of his morning workout on the treadmill, feeling

‘the burn’ as he liked to call it. He really missed running, but his knees just weren’t what they used to be

and his schedule had put an end to that. He could still get a good workout through the treadmill though.

He had promised himself when he became president that he would keep in shape, and he had for most of

his term. As a young senator from Wyoming, he had dreamed of one day occupying the White House.

That dream had become a reality when he had accepted his party’s nomination for the office and won by a

landslide victory over the incumbent. After four years of total mismanagement, rumors of corruption, and

back alley pay-offs, it was no wonder that the American people wanted change. His fresh outlook on how

the country could see an actual balanced budget was one of the major factors for his being where he was.

Now, two and a half years into his first term, the economy was in an upswing, the budget was getting

close to being balanced, and he had managed to cut most of the pork from agencies that appeared to revel

in mismanagement or assuming authority they hadn’t been granted. His normal morning in the Oval

Office was spent reviewing projects and bills and cutting out the waste before sending them back for

more review or just applying a presidential veto.

But this wasn’t a normal morning; an aide had woken him just before 4am to notify him about the

increasing reports of rioting in major European cities and similar reports within the states. Inside the latest

report was a short statement about the potential use of a viral weapon that may be the cause for the

rioting.

Wood thought about the quick briefing he had received after getting out of bed. He had hardly been

awake enough to form a cognizant thought. There wasn’t much information as it was still being compiled

by the White House Signals people in the basement. He chuckled when he thought back to when he had

first seen the Signals room. It was dark; the lights turned down, with several people hunched over

computer screens reading and compiling data. He joked that it should be called the ‘Mushroom’ because

it kept the workers in the dark and fed them shit. He stepped off the treadmill, grabbed the towel hanging

off the bars, and wiped his face before turning to see an aide holding another briefing binder. The young

aide didn’t say anything just handed him the binder and left the room. Inside were more reports from local

news channels and major networks all reporting an increase of people admitted to hospitals with bite

wounds related to being caught up in rioting. The last page was a threat assessment from the Secret

Service. It was a cut and paste document that included excerpts from police reports. What had started as a

protest movement had now escalated into rioting. There seemed to be a pattern forming that they were

working on. He made a mental note to ask his detail head about it. Closing the binder, he walked back to

the residence and quickly kissed his wife’s cheek as he passed her on his way to the shower. Dana Wood

was sitting at her dressing table putting on a pair of earrings.

Wood finished his shower and entered the living quarters with a towel wrapped around his waist. Dana

was ready to leave for the day; she was going to be visiting an inner city school to promote her literacy

program.

“I won’t be able to eat breakfast with you this morning. I promised I would eat breakfast with the children

at the school,” Dana announced. Wood just shrugged his shoulders.

Their marriage wasn’t as close as it used to be. As much as he regretted, it seemed that they needed to

schedule time to be with each other due to their tight schedules.

“Hope you have a good time on your little fieldtrip,” he said quietly in her ear as he hugged her, feeling

her body for the first time in months, his mouth against her neck, inhaling her scent.

He nuzzled her ear and then softly kissed the side of her neck as his hands roamed her body. Dana

quivered and moaned quietly. He reluctantly let her go and she stepped back to straighten her dress, her

face flushed. Looking down at the tented towel, she smiled.

“I’ll see you tonight,” Dana replied, her smile the kind that he had missed for so long. “You do that again

and maybe you’ll get lucky sailor,” she promised, blowing him a kiss before leaving the room and letting

him get dressed for the day.

Wood sat down to breakfast with a goofy smile plastered on his face. He was almost finished when he

realized that something was missing. Jack Delaney. Delaney was his closest friend and most trusted

advisor. Although not part of the official cabinet, Wood consulted him on many occasions. The age

difference between them was more like a grandfather and grandson, Wood appreciated Delaney’s

experienced insight. Normally, they ate breakfast together and discussed global politics as their schedules

permitted. However, this morning Delaney was absent.

“Where’s Mr. Delaney?” he asked one of the servers. The man gave him a blank look as he obviously

didn’t know and replied that he would have to ask one of security detail agents. A short time later, one of

the floor agents reported that Delaney had checked into Bethesda Medical Center earlier that morning

after experiencing some minor chest pains. Wood looked worried; the agent was in contact with

Delaney’s detail leader who didn’t think it was serious, just a precaution but would keep the president

informed in the event anything changed. Wood felt a little relieved at that and elected to cut short his

breakfast.

By the time he made it to the Oval office, the Secretary of State, Constance Price, and the usual

entourages of aides and staff were already standing outside the office door waiting for him.

“Howdy, Connie,” he greeted her in his practiced drawl.

“Good morning, Mr. President. We need to discuss some matters,” Wood settled back into his thick

leather chair and watched Price as she removed several folders and binders from her briefcase, stacking

them on the table in front of her.

“Mr. President, we appear to be in a crisis,” Price said calmly as she opened a file and handed him several

pages stapled together.

He skimmed over the typed pages, and then looked up.

“What are we looking at, WMDs or some home grown terrorist cell that cooked up a batch of super

Anthrax?”

“Sir, it’s a bit more sophisticated than Anthrax I’m afraid. Whatever this is, it’s not just the rioting. It’s

nothing we’ve seen before. There was no hint that this was happening. SIGINT has nothing, NSA has

nothing, and CIA has nothing. They’re all scratching their heads as who did this and why,” Price stated.

“We do know that the rioting is somehow connected to the spread of whatever you want to call it but we

think it’s definitely something biological, quite probably a weaponized bio-agent. Either the rioting is a

cover to allow agent provocateurs to spread this bio agent or it’s a direct result of exposure to said agent.”

“Really? I wasn’t aware of any solid connection between the two,” Wood replied thinking that he should

have spent more time reading the initial brief.

“Yes, sir. It appears that the riots appear to be caused by exposure to whatever this agent is, weaponized

or not. We’re not really sure which it is. This exposure then manifests more riots and these riots lead to a

violent, biting frenzy,” Price said.

“What?” Wood looked up, confused. “A germ is causing people to bite each other?”

“We don’t have all the specifics, but we’re really hoping it’s not what we suspect it might be and just

some kind of super rabies or something similar,” Price said as she looked at her watch. “We have a

meeting with Carl Hocking, the director of the CDC, at ten in the briefing room. We’re hoping he can fill

in some of the blanks. From the latest reports, this problem isn’t going away,” she explained.

Wood was about to comment when the agent at the door opened it to allow his chief of staff to enter.

“I apologize for interrupting, but I was sure you would want to see the news reports on television. There’s

rioting going on in several more cities including here,” Chadwick Van Goren said as he walked in

quickly.

He turned on the TV, and then flicked through channels until he found CNN. Adjusting the screen, he

then split it into four smaller pictures, showing simultaneous riots going on in New York, Chicago, Los

Angeles, and Washington, D.C. The scenes were almost identical, each showing police in riot gear and

National Guard troops holding back panicked citizens outside of hospitals, and then cutting to show

police firing tear gas into crowds before wading in with shields and batons.

“Get all of my security advisors to the situation room right now,” Wood ordered after watching for

several minutes in silence.

“I’ll meet you there, sir,” Price responded as she exited the room followed closely by her aides who

grabbed up all the files and binders she had stacked on the table. Wood looked at his Chief of Staff.

“Chad, what is all this?”

“I don’t know but we need to get you in front of the cameras and make a statement. I already have Caitlin

Sweeney working on your speech and a press conference scheduled for the East Wing Press Room at

11:30,” Van Goren looked at his watch. “That means that you’re going to have to shorten your 10 o’clock

or maybe reschedule it.”

“That’s Dr. Hocking from the CDC at ten. How about we just include him in the press conference?”

Wood suggested.

“Good idea. We’ll brief him on what to say and keep the questions to a minimum.” Van Goren pulled out

a cell phone and started dialing.

Wood thought back to what he had seen on the television, wondering what the hell was going on. It didn’t

make any sense; it didn’t appear to be race riots or the occupy protests that had become popular. His

thoughts were interrupted as Jack Delaney appeared from one of the connecting hallways.

“Good to see you feeling better, Jack. Walk with me and we can play catch up.” Wood didn’t notice that

when he left the Oval Office his usual security detachment had been augmented with additional

personnel. Van Goren brought up the rear still talking on his cell.

Wood noticed that Delaney’s right hand was bandaged.

“What’s that all about?” he asked, motioning to the bandage. “They screw up taking blood from you?”

“Oh, that. It was the damnedest thing. On my way out, they were treating a young serviceman who had

been caught up in these riots. I stopped to talk to him and he bit me,” Delaney explained holding up his

bandaged hand.

“No shit? I’ve been told there’s been a rash of bite victims connected to this rioting issue over the last 24

hours,” Wood observed as they walked.

“Well, he barely broke the skin, I don’t think it’s anything to worry about,” Delaney shrugged.

“Well, maybe he was a Democrat,” Wood said chuckling to lighten the mood. “We’ll worry about it later;

we need to get these riots under control or the press will have my ass.”

Wood and Delaney entered the briefing room, the door being held open for them by a uniformed Secret

Service agent. Constance Price with her aides, Ronald Drinkwater the Secretary of Defense, Charles

Rowell, the director of Homeland Security, along with other various military and civilian officials were

already present.

“Chuck, do we have a handle on this yet? Just what the hell is going on?” Wood asked as he entered. “I

go to bed last night and the country’s fine. This morning I wake up and the shit is hitting the fan. What

are we going to do about it?” Wood demanded. Drinkwater squinted a bit at the president’s words,

thinking it a bit early for the use of profanity albeit lower case.

“We just don’t know. There doesn’t seem to be any connection to these riots except disease. The rioters

are from all walks of life, no political ties, no connections to domestic terror groups, nothing that directly

ties them all together. All we know is that it’s breaking out nationwide. This is not confined to just the

major cities anymore. We’re getting reports of incidents happening in small towns all across the nation.

Whatever is causing this, it’s really putting a strain on local law enforcement.”

“Have we mobilized the National Guard yet?” Delaney asked.

“What there is of it, most of the guard units are deployed in support of overseas peace keeping missions,”

Drinkwater answered. “We’re mobilizing all the military personnel we can,” he added. Wood knew that

Drinkwater was a presidential appointee from the previous administration and was known for dragging

his heels with any program Wood had initiated.

Delaney nodded, started to speak, coughed slightly as he reached for the pitcher of water on the table but

was too weak to hold it. His coughing became more violent, Delaney’s face turning a deep red as his

esophagus clamped shut cutting off his air supply. The pitcher slipped from his hand and tipped over

spilling water on the table. Delaney’s right hand gripped the top button of his dress shirt, trying to loosen

his tie before he collapsed to the floor.

“Jack? Jack!” Wood leapt to his feet.

Rowell, who had spent a short time in the military, and had some minor experience with medical

emergencies, like the application of a band-aid, went to Delaney’s side and mimicked what he had seen

on television as he searched for a pulse. He really didn’t know what to look for but it seemed like what all

the doctors on TV do. A White House EMT ran into the room and moved Rowell aside, put his

stethoscope to Delaney’s chest and listened for a heartbeat. Finding none, he was sure that it was just a

mistake and continued listening while he paged for more medical help. The EMT knew what death looked

like, and it looked like the Delaney was beyond help.

The senior medical officer for the White House ran into the room accompanied by more of the medical

staff and supervised the EMT using a defibrillator on Delaney.

The EMT looked up and shook his head. The medical officer turned to the President who had stopped out

of concern for his friend.

“I’m sorry, Mr. President. He’s dead. Looks like a massive coronary.” Wood was shaken to his core; he

felt light headed.

His security detail, which had increased in the last few minutes due to the medical assistance call, was

getting edgy; either from the recent death of a presidential advisor or from the comm chatter over their

earpieces. Wood stood there looking down at his friend when Jack opened his eyes and lunged towards

the EMT.

Wood was about to mention that his long-time friend wasn’t dead when Delaney’s guttural scream

shocked everyone. He had lunged upward and bit a large section of skin out of the EMT’s face before any

of the security detail responded. The two Marine guards posted just down the hallway ran into the room

along with more agents. The Marines drew their holstered sidearms and aimed at Delaney.

“Move! Move! Move! Code 4 East Wing!” The head of POTUS’s security detail yelled out to the

assembled agents and into his lapel microphone. Instantly, the agents closest to the president grabbed him

under his arms while the rest drew their weapons, two pulling out mini-Uzi submachine guns and as one,

hustled out of the room and down the hall. The president could only watch helplessly as his security detail

dragged/carried him at great speed past wide-eyed White House staffers. He saw armed secret service

agents appearing out of offices and hallways including the heavy weapons team, bristling with light

machine guns and encased in bulky body armor.

“Go! Go! Elevator!” the agent in charge yelled.

They shuffled the president down the hall and towards the elevator that would take him down to the

emergency command bunker, the most secure area in the entire White House complex. He tried to tell the

agents not to hurt Delaney but to restrain him. The lead detail agent, the SAC, listened to his earpiece, and

then relayed the information back to the president.

“Mr. President, I don’t think we can avoid taking him out. The SECDEF and SECSTATE are down. Sir,

protocol is that we are now weapons free.” Weapons free meant that anyone who was not part of the

security detail was to be considered hostile and could be fired upon until their intentions proved

otherwise. Wood wanted to protest, but realized the SAC was right.

“Okay, okay, just do what you have to do,” he said quietly as the elevator doors closed. The compartment

was a bit crowded with eight burly agents packed inside. The SAC spoke into his radio, relaying their

status, directing other agents on the White House campus and listening to SITREPs. As they rode down in

silence, they could hear shooting and heavy weapons fire from above. The deeper the elevator went, the

fainter the shooting became until it receded totally.

“What’s happening?” Wood asked. Erwin Grayson, the Special Agent in Charge (SAC) of his security

detail responded,

“Sir, the West Wing security detail is engaging a hostile threat from inside the press room.”

The Press Room? What the Hell? Wood realized that there had been a press conference planned there later

that morning. That realization hit the president worse than the death of his friend. Before he could adjust

to it, the elevator doors opened up. Several more agents and heavily armed, Marines in full battle rattle

greeted them, including the officer with the ‘football’, the high-tech briefcase containing the launch codes

for America’s nuclear arsenal.

“Go! Go! Go!” Grayson directed. The elevator group ran as the Marines formed up on the flanks, and

covered the rear after securing the elevator. Once inside the emergency bunker, the heavy vault doors

closed and the agents breathed a sigh of relief.

The agents still in the White House were locking down the building while trying to deal with panicked

and potentially infected staff. Several small firefights erupted as agents engaged numbers of the infected.

The majority of the fighting took place in the West Wing and involved uniformed and plainclothes agents

who engaged the mass numbers of reporters who had been infected like wildfire in the cramped room.

Contact was soon lost with the remaining security forces in that wing. The offsite secret service command

post located across the street in the Old Executive Office Building or OEOB, tried to contact any agents

left inside. The only response they received was from the rooftop sniper/anti-aircraft teams. They would

be secure for some time but without a way to be extracted until some air assets could be called in.

The president sat in the duplicate Oval office located inside the command bunker and thought about what

was happening. His security detail, now augmented by the heavily armed Marines and more agents

looked hyper alert for any threat. The main elevators had been locked out on this level and the only other

access point was the tunnel connecting them to the OEOB. That access required a special pass code and

security card that only he and Grayson had. Not even the agents in the secondary command post had

access to that entrance.

The staff inside the command bunker was well trained and knew that the president’s safety was

paramount. All access to the ground levels of the White House were secured and all personnel thoroughly

checked by the medical staff. Repeated communications attempts to the agents still in the White House

were futile. One of the two-man sniper/spotter teams had made it inside the building and secured a small

portion of the upstairs of the West Wing. They had encountered minimal resistance and were able to

regroup with a small detachment of uniformed Secret Service agents that had barricaded themselves into a

section of the hallway on the second floor.

These agents, though part of the overall security for the White House, didn’t have the communications

capability to contact the presidential detail directly; their communications went through the auxiliary

command post across the street before being relayed to the emergency command bunker. The

sniper/spotter team was able to contact the command bunker using a secure phone located in the

presidential quarters.

***

CHAPTER 23

Below, in the command bunker, the military communications officer received the message and passed it

onto the head of the security detail. Agent Erwin Grayson, the presidential security detail leader, delivered

the message to the president who sat in the duplicate oval office thinking about what was happening. The

rioting was related to the infection that caused violent, animalistic actions. USAMRIID recommended

that all those infected be quarantined and those that exhibit advanced symptoms be terminated by any

means possible given the violence they are capable of.

The final line on the report was that Fort Dietrich, USAMRIID’s headquarters, was now on complete

lockdown with deadly force authorized against anyone who breached their perimeter.

Just after Grayson left the room, Wood’s cell phone rang. Only a few close family members and

dignitaries had that number. He answered it and heard his wife’s voice on the other end.

“Ham?” she asked using the nickname she liked to call him in private. “What’s happening?” Dana asked.

“My people here are getting really nervous.”

“Dana, I really don’t know. It’s crazy over here. Jack, Jack is gone,” he blurted out.

“What? What do you mean gone?”

“I mean he’s gone. I don’t know how but he had a heart attack and died, and then he bit one of the

medics,” Wood put his head in his hand realizing how crazy that sounded.

“He bit someone? You’re not making sense, Ham. If Jack died how could he bite someone? Wait a

minute we’re pulling up to the school now,” Wood listened to the muffled sounds, and then he jumped

when he heard gunshots. The line went dead.

“Dana! Dana!” he yelled into the phone while he pushed the panic button on his desk. Several agents

from his detail burst into the room, hands on their weapons and secured the room. Grayson walked in and

saw the president holding the phone, thumb still depressing the panic button.

“Mr. President, there was an incident at the school. I’m in contact with her detail leader and they have it

under control,” Grayson reported as he watched his president slowly close his phone. “These men will

stay with you until she’s safe. This might be a move to abduct her in order to get you to accept demands.”

Wood slowly nodded as he sat down. What Grayson had said was not unlikely.

Whatever group or person planned this, and there was no doubt in Wood’s mind that this was planned,

had done their homework. It would make sense to unleash some kind of germ, and then make a series of

demands.

This virus or whatever it was, had been released simultaneously in the largest population centers

worldwide. The time zone differences had been taken into account and the release had been highly

coordinated.

There seemed to have been a special emphasis on cities with military bases close by, almost as if the plan

was to eliminate a military response. Many soldiers were already infected or missing. As far as he knew,

there were no contingency plans for something like this. The command and control structure was eroding

and contact had already been lost with several facilities and installations. Some religious leaders were

saying this was Armageddon and the End of Days. He didn’t believe that. He wasn’t a very spiritual man,

and the way this had gone down there was human involvement not divine intervention.

This ‘infection’ was too widespread, too many civilian casualties and too calculated to be considered

random. For another reason, it appeared to be in every major city, it wasn’t isolated to a small area or just

one city, which would be expected with a natural event.

The Middle East was close to being under control before this, but now it was complete chaos. The

soldiers there were desperate to know what was happening with their families back home. There were

reports of similar riots erupting all over the region, including Tel Aviv, Baghdad, Riyadh, Kuwait City,

and large sections of Iran. India was in danger of being overrun with this infection; it was spreading like

wildfire through the densely packed cities in that country. In many countries, United States military

personnel were now fighting rioters at embassy gates.

Some insurgents took this crisis as an opportunity to begin a series of planned events all over the world

adding to the catastrophe. Amid the chaos, there were reports of terrorist cells surfacing and attempting to

claim responsibility, and then running from groups of these infected rioters before eventually succumbing

to them.

***

Later that day, Grayson came to him with disturbing news. Contact with the first lady’s security detail had

been sporadic and hectic over the last few hours. From the reports that had come in, it was apparent that

the motorcade had barely cleared the inner city and was now trying to make it to Andrews Air Force Base

by way of a circuitous route that would, hopefully, keep them out of the worst of the rioting.

Marine Two, dispatched out of the Pax River Naval air station, was enroute to rendezvous with a small

combat team from the Marine barracks at 8th and I. Once they joined up, they would proceed to extract

the first lady to Camp David after she arrived at Andrews. From there, the president would meet up with

her.

If all went according to plan.

“I understand that you’re doing all you can. But know this, that’s my wife out there. I want every effort to

be made to safeguard her life. I want notification as soon as she arrives at Andrews and I want shoot on

sight orders issued to her detail that no one, I mean no one, who even remotely looks infected is to get

within 100 yards of her.” Grayson understood what the president meant. He had already ordered more

agents to Andrews, including the Secret Service Incident Response team, and requested military aid from

the Air Force commander in charge of Andrews. A SEAL team was being flown in from Little Creek to

reinforce the first lady’s security detail. With that amount of firepower, there was little chance that any

infected would get close enough to cause a viable threat.

Wood knew that he had to address the nation to reassure the citizens that measures were being taken to

restore order. With none of his staff available, especially his speech writer, he had to write his own and

hopefully do a good job. An hour and several rough drafts later, he was in the press room of the bunker

looking over his notes. When the light went on he looked up at the camera and began his address to a

beleaguered nation.

“My fellow Americans, as you know our great nation is enmeshed in unrest and disorder. The major cities

of this nation are under siege. There’s rioting in the streets and chaos nationwide. At this time I’m

authorizing all active military units to assist each state’s National Guard and police forces to restore order.

I would like to refrain from initiating Martial Law but that option is up to you, the American People,” he

paused for dramatic effect before continuing.

“I urge every able bodied citizen to remain indoors and protect their family the best way they can. If

you’re hurt, seek out medical aid at the designated facilities. Those cities and towns not affected by this

turmoil, I ask you stand ready to assist those who may be displaced by the events we are now

experiencing. Military units, Federal agencies, FEMA, and the Department of Homeland Security are

working in conjunction with the Red Cross and other disaster relief agencies to establish aid stations and

shelters for those that need them.” Wood looked down to his notes and reread what he had written before

he looked back up again.

“It saddens me to say this but I have authorized military operations to commence in the city of New York

in an effort to regain control and prevent further damage. At this time I ask that your prayers go out to the

brave men and women of our armed forces that are tasked to participate in this operation. Thank you and

good night.”

The camera light went off, and then the spotlight. Hamilton Wood stepped away from the podium

emotionally drained from his speech.

Wood did his best to get some sleep; he needed to be alert the next day to deal with the ongoing crisis.

The next morning, he met what remained of his advisors. The first report was that his wife had safely

arrived at Andrews late last night and due to growing concern about the security and dependability of the

perimeter fencing, she had flown onto Camp David with her security detail and the SEAL team. The

Marines at Camp David had secured the entire perimeter of the facility and the president was assured that

nothing was spared to protect the first lady.

The overall situation had only worsened; reports now indicated that what was happening had spread

exponentially during the night. He had medical experts, secure at Fort Dietrich, who had examined some

of the infected, and they confirmed that these crazed people did indeed appear to be clinically dead but it

was inconclusive what actually reanimated them. The working theory, yet to be proven, was that they had

been exposed to some kind of chemical agent that mimicked death. Reanimation of the dead was a clear

medical impossibility. Or so they reported. The only confirmation was that yes, these ‘reanimated

victims’ were running around with an instinct to bite and kill living humans.

Later that morning, a Marine general by the name of Braddock, the only general officer who was on duty

in the command bunker prior to the outbreak, finally spoke up.

“Mr. President, we need to initiate COGCON 1 and get you out of here. Normally we’d try to get you to a

NAOC, but we have reason to believe that they may be compromised. Cheyenne Mountain is out; they’re

on lockdown and are not going to break their seal because word is out this is a biological event. That

limits the options. Mobility is usually a good defense but given the circumstances and the speed of

advance of this event, my vote is to get you somewhere that has defense in depth. Site R is the closest. It

was built toward the end of the cold war, in the event of a nuclear conflict. It’s part of the old COG

program, still fully stocked and manned, and due to the remote area, difficult to assault. My

recommendation is to go there, lock it down, and wait this out. We have contact with them and they’re

secure and free of infection.”

“I don’t like the idea of and running and hiding, if I do that, whoever unleashed this has won,” the

president sputtered. Back in his home state when there was a predator threatening your herd, you went

after it. You didn’t hide under the bed and hoped it went away.

“Mr. President,” Braddock continued, “whoever is behind this has already won. It’s growing at a

geometric rate; most of our communications network is compromised. Several key facilities and

installations are off the Net. Right now, your safety comes first and containment is secondary.

“We can’t use some of the containment methods being suggested. I will not use nukes on American soil. I

will not be the general remembered for nuking his own country and I’m sure you don’t want to be

remembered as the president that gave that order. From the latest intel report, this thing is everywhere.

We need to get you to a safe location and wait for it to run its course. If this is some sort of infection, as

the experts are saying, then it will die out in a few weeks, maybe a month, maybe less. If it’s something

more than that, you’ll be in a safe location to command what’s left of the country. My priority, and I’m

sure your detail head will agree,” Braddock looked up and got a nod from Grayson, “is to get you out of

here and someplace more secure.”

He paused and looked around at the people in the room.

“We’re working on finding a way out of here. Until that happens, we’re on lockdown under one of the

most recognizable buildings in the world. Tactically, we have good position, but the infected control the

high ground. Logistically, we don’t have the supplies for a prolonged siege. We lack the manpower,

ammunition, and firepower to repel more than a handful of attacks. At some point, those things upstairs

will find a way down here. We can’t afford to have you here when that happens. We’ve already lost the

SECDEF, Chief of Staff Van Goren, and SECSTATE. We’ve tried to contact Vice President Barnes who

was on a public relations junket through the Midwest. The general assessment is that he’s down as well,”

Braddock informed Wood. “We can’t afford to lose anyone else. We need to get you out of here, to

someplace more secure where you can still monitor everything that’s going on out there.” The personnel

in the room looked at their president.

“Sir, you are the only member of this government that we know is safe and alive,” Braddock announced.

“He’s right, Mr. President. I don’t know how long we can keep the bunker secure,” Grayson agreed.

Wood sat in silence, slowly looking around at the faces of the men and women in the command bunker.

“You’re all correct, I can see that now,” he finally said, “get Marine One ready to go, and gather what we

need. How soon can we leave?”

Braddock consulted his watch before answering. “I can get some Marines topside in twenty minutes.

General Price over at Bragg already has a Delta unit in the air. They’ll secure the helipad and move inside

to assist the agents when we move you.”

Contact was made with agents at the auxiliary command post inside the OEOB; they had secured the

elevators and stairwells. From their floor up to the roof, the building was secure. The first two floors of

the OEOB still contained infected that had gotten inside prior to sealing the building.

Marine One would land on the White House lawn and evacuate the president and what remained of his

staff. The problem was getting out of the bunker and up to the surface to meet the forces that would

safeguard the president’s movement.

The president was ready to board Marine One with his advisors. Normally, the press corps was off to the

side, in their ‘corral’ taking pictures, but the only ones there now were either brave or stupid to be outside

with the threat of infected still running around.

From the looks of it, with hundreds of those creatures outside the white house gates, it wouldn’t be long

before they broke through. Wood settled into the helicopter for his ride to Site R.

As Marine One took off, Wood stared out the window at the secret service agents, Marines, and Delta

operators engaging the swarms of infected now pouring through the fence and attacking the reporters.

Marine One rotated and moved off with more speed than his normal trips.

As the city flashed below him, he saw fires burning out of control and mobs of people roaming the streets.

He thought back to the brave men who were now most likely dead that had protected him so he could

escape from the nightmare that had invaded his country.

Maybe someday, it would all be over and he could start working on a plan to rebuild the nation.

Until then, all he could do was run and hide.

***

CHAPTER 24

Somewhere off the Pacific Coast

The Claggett rode on the ocean’s surface like the mighty warship she was. Returning to her home, Port

Winthrop, after successfully completing the current evaluations, Powell decided to relax shipboard

etiquette a bit and give the crew some down time. For the last few days, they had been operating under

strict EMCON; simulating an operational condition where contact with command would be detrimental to

the safety of the vessel and security of the mission. Therefore, they had no normal communication with

the outside world. Upon completion of their evolution, Claggett’s COMMO section sent an encrypted

burst transmission to COMSUBPAC. Due to the low tasking priority of Claggett, it wasn’t uncommon to

go several hours before receiving a response. In reality, the fault was due to a small, thirty-nine cent fuse

that had burned out without notice. This little item controlled the red light that signaled a priority message

from CINCPAC/COMSUBPAC.

If the red light didn’t flash, the printer wouldn’t print the message but would hold it in the buffer. Some

civilian engineer thought that was a good idea and for the money his company was charging to build that

particular system, he really didn’t care. The issue of a problem was never brought up as the red light

warning system was built by a different sub-contractor and it wasn’t part of the original design. Due to the

mass confusion resulting from the surface disorder and the fact that Claggett was no longer an active

missile boat, no one at COMSUBPAC noticed that the Claggett failed to respond to the coded emergency

message. A new petty officer, fresh out of his ‘A’ School, scared, nervous, not knowing exactly who to

tell about the failure to respond, finally assumed that another communications officer had received a

confirmation from the vessel and had failed to log it into the system.

In Claggett’s communications compartment, the radioman did a standard check of his equipment and

found the faulty fuse. He requested through his chief to get a replacement from stores to fix the problem.

Along the way to stores he made a stop at the head and chatted with a shipmate from engineering. Finally,

reaching stores he fumbled through the supply closet before finding the correct replacement. When he got

back to the radio shack, it was a good hour later. He then took another 45 minutes to carefully unscrew

the faceplate, remove the burned out fuse, check the connections, and insert the new fuse. He put the old

fuse in his pocket, and then ran a systems check to make sure the new fuse worked properly. He sent a

standard yet coded message to COMSUBPAC notifying them that the Claggett was returning to its

homeport. He had just sent the message when the red light blinked informing him of emergency flash

traffic in the buffer. At first he thought it might be another faulty fuse but then the SATCOM fax began

spitting out several sheets of paper. He glanced at the first page as it printed, after reading the first two

lines, he notified the COB who then called Charles Ridley the executive officer to the COMMO section.

A little forward and down one deck, Powell was updating his personal log, catching up on paperwork, and

composing a letter to his daughter who was graduating this year from Stanford. They weren’t really close,

not since his wife died. The cancer had eaten his wife up on the inside much faster than the doctor had

given her time to live.

Powell had not been there for her final days. His daughter, Allison, had sat by her mother’s side, hoping

that her father would arrive. Powell was on an extended float, under orders by COMSUBPAC to evaluate

a newly minted captain on one of the 688 class fast attack boats. When he finally got to port, his wife had

passed and a rift had formed between him and his daughter. Over the years he had tried to repair the

damage, only succeeding in a truce with her in the last six months. Powell had sat her down and told her

the feelings he had for his wife, how he missed her little smile, the twinkle in her eyes, her

companionship.

Halfway through his hasty speech, his voice broke, tears flowing from his eyes as he tried to make his

estranged daughter understand the void that was left inside by his wife’s death. He blamed himself for

being self-absorbed in his career. He had loved Olivia with all his soul but she knew that his heart would

always be the sea. Allison had started out angry with her father, the man who was never there in her life.

She was angry with him for not being there when his wife needed him most, when his family had needed

him most. Now, she saw the man her father really was, the man her mother had seen. She had comforted

her father, letting him cry on her shoulder, realizing how selfish she had been, and how caring he was.

Over the next several weeks, their relationship grew close to what a father/daughter should have. She had

helped him pack and deliver her mother’s clothes to homeless shelters and church groups and sat with

him in the empty house off base, watching him periodically get up and walk through the house before

closing the door. She drove him to the base and helped him get settled in the Bachelor’s Officer Housing.

She told him that she was graduating college soon and would appreciate him being there. He agreed,

telling her that he had only one more cruise, a few months out, and then he was putting in his retirement

papers. Already in his mind, he knew that this was the best choice he could make. On his desk next to his

personal journal was the letter he was mailing to command, requesting retirement. Powell looked at this

letter, knowing that several of his friends, friends from the Academy, had retired much earlier. He was

proofreading the letter he had started to his daughter telling her he would be there the day of graduation

when he was interrupted.

“Captain, flash traffic from CINCPAC,” The 1MC, the shipboard public address system, barked in

Powell’s quarters.

“Pipe it down here, sparks,” Powell ordered.

“To all commanders: Naval units currently deployed have been ordered to assist civilian authorities when

possible. National civil unrest and rioting has occurred in major cities. Naval forces are now at DEFCON

2.”

That announcement made Powell reach for a legal size notepad, pushing aside his previous paperwork,

preparing to take down pertinent information.

“Vessels returning to port are to remain offshore as long as possible. Under no circumstances are you to

dock unless the facilities have been secured and no rioters are present. Rioters have taken control of

several civilian port facilities and are to be considered armed and extremely dangerous. Use extreme

caution if any are present. They are infection carriers. A list of symptoms is being sent to you via secure

SATCOM fax. If for any reason you need to go ashore, go well armed. Avoid all contact with infected if

possible. If contact is inevitable, engage with extreme prejudice. Further information regarding infection

will follow.”

Powell sat there, listening; intent to hear what might come next.

“Until control of the situation can be attained on a national level, all units still operating will be under

regional command to be determined by the on-site commanders. That is all.”

Powell had been taking notes at a furious pace, not wanting to miss out on any of the details. He

underlined the word communication, as his first priority was to establish contact with other ships and land

bases so some sort of chain of command could be determined. He reached over and snapped on the

intercom to the bridge.

“Mr. Ridley, notify all department heads and the embarked SEAL commander to be in the ready room in

10 minutes. Have Doc Brown there and bring a copy of the flash traffic with you.” He released the button

and took a deep breath. Holy shit. What was happening? Why now? He got up and went to his private

head, splashed water on his face before drying his face and hands, grabbing his notes and heading to the

ready room.

Powell conducted the briefing and answered any questions he might be able to, which weren’t many.

Most of the men assembled sat there with shocked expressions, except Lieutenant Willis. Powell had

noted that Willis seemed to have limited facial expressions and would make one helluva an opponent if

they ever played poker. Whatever the SEAL team leader was thinking, his face didn’t show it.

“Sir, let me get this straight.” Lieutenant Spencer Peters, representing the engineering section, spoke up as

he read over his copy of the SATCOM fax. “Civilians are rioting and biting each other. Then, somehow,

the bite victim gets infected, and then becomes violent?” He shook his head, “I’m sorry, sir, but I really

don’t see the connection here. But, I do have to admit, if I was bitten by someone I’d get pretty pissed

off.” This brought a few nervous chuckles from the gathered group.

“Lieutenant Peters, thank you for your insight. I know this sounds pretty outrageous but if this is what’s

happening, we do need to prepare ourselves as much as possible. If this was an exercise, there would have

been an OP order referring it. If such an order was issued then this entire scenario is a drill. However, no

such OP order has been sent. To verify this I had COMS recheck all their equipment.”

There was an uneasy silence as that news settled in.

“It’s been suggested and recommended that we treat this as a viral/biological event. Sadly, all we know is

in the paperwork handed out to you. Summing up what little Intel we have to go on, civilians are

apparently attacking each other, biting, and the victims become violent shortly thereafter, apparently from

some sort of infection. What we know of the symptoms, it seems to work fast. Civilian authorities are

having a difficult time restoring order and have requested military assistance. Our orders are to do

whatever we can to support those operations but not get directly involved.” Powell paused to look around

the room.

“As you can see in section 4, third paragraph, the Rules of Engagement (ROE) include the use of deadly

force.” Powell said. “That’s an Escalation of Force (EOF) that I don’t want to get into.

“Officially we don’t engage non-combatants and most definitely not civilians, be they US or other. In this

case, we will need to view the situation before labeling any civilian we encounter as a hostile combatant.

That means each time we encounter a group of civilians, we need to be absolutely positive that the level

of force we use is equal to the threat. That means we adhere to the ROE and use verbal warnings and if

necessary, warning shots. If those methods fail to achieve the desired results, we will have no alternative

but to engage them with appropriate force. I’ll leave that up to the decision of the senior ranking officers

and review it as a case by case situation.” Powell took a deep breath and looked each of the gathered

officers in the eyes before continuing.

“I don’t want any mistakes when we move towards deadly force application. These are US citizens that

we’ll be encountering. They’re going to be scared and anxious. We don’t want them to see us as killing

machines but we also don’t want to lose control of the situation. When we get closer to port, I’ll have the

Master at Arms post an armed roving patrol and we’ll set watches as if we were in a non friendly foreign

port. If anyone has any suggestions or questions about the ROE and EOF now would be a good time to

post them.” The room was silent as each man understood that this was a crisis but one that they could

hopefully deal with. Powell dismissed the group and they quietly left the wardroom. Willis lingered

outside in the passageway as Powell contacted his executive officer, Ridley, who had remained on the

bridge.

“COMM had any contact with Port Winthrop?”

“Negative, captain,”

“Very well. I’ll be in my cabin, notify me the minute contact is made.” Powell stepped out into the

passageway and was stopped by Willis.

“Captain,”

“Yes, lieutenant?”

“I’d like to get a copy of the medical information for my corpsman and notify my men to stand by for

strategic recon of any shore sites.”

“See Ridley before you head aft for a copy of the report. I’ll keep your team in mind if the need arises.”

Willis turned to go but stopped.

“Dave? Is this shit for real?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah, Jim. It would appear so.” Powell confirmed before turning away and heading for his cabin.

***

CHAPTER 25

Olympia, Washington

Peter Zorrell was in a sound sleep from working late nights at the State Theater. His apartment that he

shared with Doug Carrington was located just past the Washington State Department of Transportation

office building. An older construct dating back to the 1950s, it was a solid steel reinforced concrete

design popular from an era where building design came from a Civil Defense manual, making it

incongruent with the newer smoked glass and steel structure that now housed the WSDOT offices.

His cell phone rang with a custom tune taken from Night of the Living Dead. Zorrell rolled over and

grabbed it just as it started to chant ‘They’re coming to get you Barbara’. He picked it up and looked at

the caller ID.

Fucking great.

“Yeah?” he answered somewhat sleepily.

“Dude, it’s happened!” The excited voice at the other end announced.

“What’s happened?” Zorrell asked.

“Dude, it’s happened! It’s Z-day man! The dead are walking and shit!” Robbie Townsend exclaimed.

Zorrell sat up and rubbed one eye while he tried to wake up enough to understand what Townsend was

attempting to explain.

“Robbie, if this is some kind of joke or you’ve been into the Red Bull again, I’m going to have to kick

your ass.”

“Turn on your TV! The shit is happening all over the place! It’s Z-day for real dude!” That statement got

Zorrell’s attention and he grabbed the universal remote which was on the floor and turned on the

television across the room.

“What channel?” he asked still trying to shake the cobwebs from his brain.

“All of them.” That woke him up all the way. There on the local news channel were reports of riots,

violence and civil disturbances.

“You sure this isn’t some kind of publicity stunt?” Zorrell asked incredulously.

“No way, we would have heard about it on IMDb or through the Z-Corps forum. We need to activate The

Plan.” The Plan was something that they had thought up one beer-fueled zombie film fest night. That

statement made Zorrell literally stand up and start paying attention to what the news media was reporting.

“Yeah, The Plan. Umm, yeah okay. I’ll call Zeke and you call Pat and we’ll get it moving.”

Townsend agreed and hung up. Zorrell stood there for a few minutes watching the television before

looking down at his phone. The call had been terminated but he stared at it for several seconds, and then

closed the phone. Looking around the room he tried to organize his thoughts before he found himself

facing the bed. Replaying the phone call in his mind, he stared at the bed, unsure if he was really awake or

was having a very vivid dream. Sirens outside woke him from his reverie. He dropped to his knees,

reached under the bed and pulled the Eagle Industries ‘Warbag’ from underneath. Inside the 6500 cubic

inch capacity pack, he dug around finding a pair of military surplus, Battle Dress Utility, woodland

camouflaged pants and matching shirt which he slipped on. Standing up, Zorrell walked to the bathroom

and splashed cold water on his face, and then looked into the mirror at the open door to the other

bedroom. The room was empty and far neater than his own. His roommate, Doug, had probably left for

classes at the local state college. Doug Carrington was someone who had no interest in zombies and

laughed off Zorrell and his friends when they talked in depth about the topic.

Walking back to his room, Zorrell stopped to make sure the front door was locked, and then sat on his bed

and pulled on a pair of lightweight boots of the style favored by SWAT teams. Kneeling down again and

searching through the pack, he produced a tactical belt and thigh holster that he quickly donned before

removing the small rigid gun case that contained his pride and joy. Inside was a blued model Colt 1991A1

compact .45 loosely based on the small frame Detonics .45 from the 1970s. Donning the belt and

snapping the clasps on the holster so that it was secure to his leg, he picked up the small .45 and worked

the action before inserting a magazine and letting the slide travel forward stripping off the first round and

feeding it into the chamber. He ejected the magazine and added a loose round from the box of

ammunition he had placed on the bed, and then reinserted the magazine and carefully let the hammer drop

before slipping it into the holster. Grabbing the other two magazines from the case he loaded them before

sliding them into the pouches on the belt. Zorrell looked around the apartment then closed up the pack

and carried it to the front door. Going to miss this place, he thought as he took one more look around the

room before he opened the pack once again and removed a tactical vest and began to transfer several

items from the pack to the appropriate places on his vest. The last item he transferred was a satellite

phone that had cost almost a month’s pay. Removing his cell phone from his pants pocket he dialed

Zeke’s phone number.

C’mon, c’mon answer already.

The voice mail came on for Zeke. Damn, where are you man?

“Zeke, Pete here, its happening. The Plan is now activated. Meet at the castle.”

Zorrell placed the cell phone in a pocket on his vest and slid into the packs shoulder straps. Kneeling

down on one knee, he reached out and slowly turned the doorknob to his apartment door. Opening the

door a few inches, he hesitated, and then reached to his vest and removed a small dental mirror and slid it

through the opening, angling it to carefully look in both directions of the hallway. Whew, hallways clear.

He replaced the mirror and stood up. Knowing that the door had a bad squeak, he pulled out a small

squeeze bottle of CLP Break Free and dribbled a little of the lubricant onto the door hinges. Returning the

small plastic bottle to his vest, he squinted one eye as he slowly opened the apartment door all the way,

half expecting the hinges to squeal.

Breathing a sigh of relief at the absence of sound, he cautiously looked out the door and in both directions

before stepping out of the apartment and into the hallway. Closing the door behind him, he stayed close to

the wall as he quietly walked down the hall towards the elevator bay and stairwell.

Zorrell glanced at his watch, and then looked around the hallway. It was unnaturally quiet for this time of

day. He stopped and listened for the Schmidt’s television. They were an older couple that always had

some game or talk show on. Usually walking down the hall, you could hear it. Larkin listened intently

until he heard the faint voices coming from the apartment to his immediate left. Okay, some things are

still normal, he thought as he stepped up to the elevator and pushed the button. Nervously looking up and

down the hall, half expecting everyone who lived on this floor to appear simultaneously, he couldn’t help

but think how he looked. Dressed in surplus army BDUs, wearing a tactical vest with holster and carrying

a large backpack, he felt very out of place looking all Tactical Tommy.

The elevator chimed and the doors opened to reveal an empty car. He blew out his breath not aware that

he had been holding it and stepped inside the elevator for his trip to the first floor.

He nervously rode the elevator down to the ground floor. Several times during the course of the short trip

he had restlessly adjusted the shoulder straps of his ‘Warbag’. The elevator came to a smooth stop and the

subtle bell chimed, he drew his Colt as the doors opened onto the lobby of the apartment building.

Cautiously stepping forward into the doorway, Zorrell looked around the lobby. Nothing was out of place.

His head on a swivel, he walked to the main doors and opened them. The silence of the lobby was broken

by emergency sirens wailing from downtown. He stepped outside and looked north on Capitol Way. He

could see state patrol cars and National Guard vehicles in the streets and in front of the capitol building

complex. Orange and white barricades were across the road as traffic was being diverted.

Still anxious, he walked quickly to the parking lot where his mid-size GMC SUV waited. Holstering his

sidearm, he fished out his cars keys and unlocked the rear where he stowed his backpack. Closing the

hatch back, he looked around the parking lot before he got in and started the truck up. This was always

when the hero gets attacked, he thought. Backing out of his parking space, he took one last look around,

then drove down the alley. He turned onto Water Street, which led him through the older section of

homes, before going past a small museum. Seeing this section of Capitol Way crowded with vehicle and

pedestrian traffic, he turned into the parking lot servicing a professional complex.

Across the street he saw the Frog Pond Grocery. In the past, he and his friends had visited the

establishment for soft drinks and snacks. Today, it was crowded with people trying to stockpile what they

could.

Two City of Olympia police cars, a Thurston County Sheriff’s SUV, and a National Guard Humvee were

parked at the far end of the lot. None of the official personnel seemed concerned that the neighborhood

was swarming the small convenience store.

Zorrell remained on the back streets as long as he could before utilizing Capitol Way shortly after it

became Capitol Blvd.

Traffic wasn’t as bad as he had expected. Apparently, most of the panicked citizens weren’t trying to get

out of the city using the alternate routes. Yet. He reached Lee Street where he turned right and followed it

to the self storage facility that he and his friends called ‘The Castle’. Driving up to the gate, he rolled

down his window and typed in the code to open the gate. Behind him he could hear horns and yelling

coming from I-5, just a few yards below the road he had turned off. As the gate slowly opened, he looked

around to see if anyone noticed him or if there were any infected in the area. The storage facility was

located off the main street and nestled between a drywall contractor and the local Boy Scouts of America

office. It was several blocks from any residential streets; hopefully preventing any unwanted attention.

Entering through the open gate, Zorrell drove to the far end of the U shaped facility and parked his truck

out of sight from the road and close to the rear door. Shutting off the engine, he sat for a few seconds,

listening to it tick as it cooled and to the sound of distant sirens and horns honking in the traffic tie-up.

He didn’t expect to see any other cars here as he was the only person within his little group that owned

one. Getting out of the truck, he unlocked the rear and removed his backpack, slinging it over one

shoulder as he closed the hatchback and walked to the security door.

Unlocking the door, he opened it and entered, making sure it closed securely behind him. Letting his eyes

adjust to the dim light inside, he saw several mountain bikes leaning against one wall and heard the

chatter of a television. They had chosen this particular facility based on several factors. Their section of

the building had limited exterior access, or roll-up doors and the units were large enough to store just

about anything that would fit through the hallway doors. Furthermore, this wing had its own restrooms,

but most importantly, the entire storage facility was owned by Walker’s parents who were currently in

Hawaii.

Walking down the hallway he stopped in front of door 233 and unlocked it. Stepping inside, the television

chatter grew louder as well as the voices of several people. Room 233 and the adjoining rooms on both

sides had been rented by this branch of Zombie Coalition for Survival, or Z-Corps as the boys liked to

call themselves. Doorways had been installed in the walls to connect all three units together. Zorrell

dropped his pack on the floor with the other packs and walked over to where Randy Walker, Kirk

Mendenhall, Zeke Moyer, Robbie Townsend, and Patrick Middleton sat watching a small television

which was covering the spreading panic and chaos.

“Hey guys, thanks for returning my calls,” Zorrell quipped as he plopped down on the sofa and grabbed a

can of Mountain Dew from the wheeled Coleman cooler.

“Sorry about that man, it was getting wild out there,” Moyer stated off handedly not even turning his face

from the TV.

Popping the top of the can, Larkin drank most of it in one long swallow, belched loudly, and then leaned

forward to watch events as they unfolded live. The screen showed a reporter outside Joint Base

Lewis/McChord interviewing the commanding general. From what was said, it sounded like the army was

doing all they could to assist but the reporter, some second string asshole wannabe probably pulled from

weather, didn’t understand what he was told.

The interview cut to a scene in Seattle where police in riot gear were pushing back crazed and panicked

citizens from the front of a hospital. Zorrell leaned back on the large sectional couch and looked around

the room. He saw that everyone was dressed the same as he was, in surplus woodland pattern BDUs,

combat style boots and a tactical holster. Off in one corner was a clothing rack salvaged from a retail store

dumpster and from it hung surplus tactical vests imprinted with each boy’s last name in 2 inch tall yellow

lettering on the back panel just below the collar and grab strap.

Moyer stood up, maneuvered between everyone else, and sat down next to Zorrell. He reached into his

shirt pocket and pulled out two patches which he handed to Larkin. One patch was a subdued American

flag the other was the team logo, a large Z inside a C with the words ‘Western’ printed above and

‘Region’ underneath. Zorrell slapped them to the Velcro on the shoulders of his uniform.

“I had these made up a couple days ago and was going to give them to you at the meeting this weekend.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah, we’re official now.”

The group of young men sat and watched the television late into the night, feeding themselves on canned

food heated up on a hot plate or frozen pizza taken from the freezer in the next room and heated in the

microwave. Full of junk food and caffeine from the sodas in the refrigerator and cooler, it was very late

before any of them went to sleep.

Zorrell awoke the next morning to a television that was all snow and no knowledge of what time it was.

A quick glance at his watch confirmed that it was actually mid-morning. He had only slept for five hours.

Getting up from his cot, he wandered over to the TV and tried all the channels. On some, the EBS symbol

was present, on the rest it was just snow. Leaving the room, he walked down the hall to the restroom. The

hallway lights were still on indicating that at least the power grid was still up. Re-entering the room, the

rest of the group was awake and eating pop tarts, cold pizza, or hot pockets warmed in the microwave.

Mendenhall was standing by the TV flipping through channels.

“I already tried that,” Zorrell stated. Mendenhall put the remote on top of the appliance after he shut it off.

“Get the radios out,” Zorrell directed as he tore open the top of a pop tart packet.

Townsend and Moyer opened up the Rubbermaid Roughneck container that was serving as an end table

and removed two hand crank emergency radios while Middleton went into the other room and wheeled a

small solar panel and power inverter out the door and into the hallway. Townsend and Moyer cranked the

radios, and then began scanning through channels. Short broadcasts with static could be heard as they

tried to tune in stations still operating.

“Emergency shelters can be found at the Salvation Army center on 4th and Plum, the National Guard

Armory on Central and the Governor House Hotel on Capitol. Citizens are asked to not call 911 unless

there is a serious injury. Saint Peter’s hospital has set up an urgent care center at Olympia High School

behind Lowe’s. Black Hills Medical Center has a similar facility at Yauger Park. The National Guard has

a field hospital at the Port of Olympia. The Red Cross has an aid and comfort station at the south end of

the Westfield Mall parking lot. All travel to Tacoma and other northern locations is restricted. All lanes

of I-5 have been opened for one way traffic southbound only. This is KGY on the waterfront. More news

in 15 minutes.” Townsend tuned in a station from Seattle.

“…this is horrible, there are people running in the streets covered in blood and screaming. My God! A

car just ran down an entire family! If anyone is hearing this, we need help! There are ten of us inside the

KOMO building. We’re surrounded by infected! Someone please! We need help!” The sound of glass

breaking and screams ended the transmission. The boys all looked at each other, fear evident on each

face.

“Dude, just like in Dawn of the Dead,” Middleton stated somewhat excited as he came back into the

room.

“This is so cool,” Townsend muttered quietly. Zorrell, as acting commander of this unit of Z-Corps, knew

that they should check the metal bar fencing around the buildings to make sure it was still secure and that

the office was locked.

“Okay, everybody. Lets finish up breakfast and then do a patrol of the area.”

They eagerly ate, and then hurried over to the rack and donned their vests. Zorrell checked them out to

make sure each vest was on properly and all the gear pouches were firmly attached; no one wanted the

dreaded ‘battle rattle.’ The last thing they checked was their weapons. Each of them had a handgun, either

a 9mm or a .45. Berettas and Colts were highly favored among the group. Zorrell helped Walker and

Moyer drag an open end 55 gallon barrel, some sandbags, and two buckets of sand out into the hallway,

and then outside the main door. Once they had the barrel angled and resting on sandbags, with the open

end up, he and Moyer poured the sand from the buckets inside while Walker steadied the barrel. This was

the weapon check barrel. They would stand in front of it before entering the building and clear their

weapon. Once everyone was ready, Zorrell formed them up into two-man teams and sent them out.

Zorrell was teamed up with Moyer and the two of them went to check the solar panel and the fencing

along the rear of the complex. Seeing the panel set up at in an open area with plenty of sun, he squatted

down next to it and checked the connections to the power inverter. Looking up at the roof of the building,

and then back down to the panel, he bounced an idea off Moyer.

“Hey Zeke. You think we could put this thing on the roof, and then run the wire down the wall?”

“Yeah, we could do that. That would free up more space,” Moyer agreed as he looked up at the flat roof,

and then nervously around the empty parking lot.

“Let’s do that later,” Zorrell said as he stood back upright. The sound of running boots on blacktop caught

his attention. Townsend and Middleton appeared from around the corner, running fast, and then slowing

to a jog.

“Dude, you have to see this!” Townsend blurted out.

The group jogged to the main office and up the interior stairs to the second floor. From the windows they

could overlook I-5 and the businesses across the freeway. Mendenhall and Walker were already there

looking through binoculars at the traffic moving slowly south.

“What’s going on?” Zorrell asked. Walker handed him his binoculars.

“Take a look.” Zorrell brought the optics to his eyes and looked at the cars filling all lanes of the freeway.

Trucks, RVs, minivans, even people on bicycles with small trailers attached were crowded together, all

trying to leave the city.

“Check out Fred Meyer guys,” Walker said as he focused his binoculars on the large retail store across the

freeway. Everyone looked in that direction and saw citizens running out of the store with armloads and

shopping carts full of food.

“What about Home Depot?” Zorrell asked. They all looked in that direction and saw that the home

improvement store was virtually deserted.

“Nothing like Fred’s, just like you thought,” Townsend stated. Zorrell set the binoculars down.

“Okay, we’re going to set up a rotating shift here with two on and two off. I figure two hour shifts.” All

the boys nodded agreement.

“Pat, you and Randy take first shift.” Zorrell looked at his watch. “Rob and Kirk will relieve you in two

hours and then Zeke and I will take over. Those of us not on duty will be cleaning up the headquarters and

getting our gear ready. Let’s get it done.” The boys not assigned to duty filed down the stairs and walked

back to their ad-hoc headquarters.

Over the next 14 hours they rotated shifts amidst grumbling and excuses to go out and find zombies, but

Zorrell was adamant that they stay put and not draw attention to their location. Early the next morning,

everyone was in the storage unit as the two-man team from the rental office had been recalled to listen to

an important radio message.

“Anyone still in the Olympia area is asked to make their way to the Port of Olympia where the National

Guard will evacuate you to a safe location. On Saturday the Guard will be making a final sweep of the

area. If you are unable to get to the port, hang a white sheet outside your home so that rescue workers can

find you. Saturday will be the last final sweep of the area.” Zorrell turned off the radio and looked at his

group.

“Decision time, guys. We can stay here and hold out or we can leave with the Guard.” He looked at each

boy before continuing.

“We have enough food and water to last for quite some time and we can forage for more when the time

comes. But, we need to make a choice, either we stay here and see what happens or we leave.” He saw

indecision on Mendenhall’s face but then Middleton spoke.

“Fuck that, man. We can handle staying here. I vote we stay put,” he stated boisterously as he looked

around at the others.

Townsend had a complex look on his face as he tried to weigh the choices.

“I don’t know. This is fun and all but we’ve never encountered a for-real zombie. How do we know we

can take one down?”

Middleton stood and drew his sidearm, holding it above his head.

“With these and the ARs we have next door, we can take down anything.” Zorrell realized that what

Middleton said was in some ways true. But, there would come a time when extra ammunition would be

difficult to find. Not like in the movies where those issues were rarely mentioned, finding ammo in a post

zombie apocalypse world could be next to impossible.

“That may be true and we set this place up with zombies in mind, but we’ve never faced any or even seen

any,” Walker stated.

“So we go look for some,” Middleton said as he holstered his pistol.

“I don’t know about that. Talking about them and watching them in movies is one thing but to go looking

for them...” Moyer let his sentence trail off as the thought of actually going out and searching for zombies

hit home.

“Yeah, the TV hasn’t even shown any so how do we know there’s really some out there and this isn’t like

some kind of natural disaster?” Townsend asked.

“Natural disaster? Does anyone here actually think this is a natural disaster?” Middleton asked as he

raised his hand. “C’mon guys. Show of hands. Since when does a natural disaster make dead people come

back to life?” Middleton asked loudly. No one raised their hands. Everyone except Middleton looked at

Zorrell to make a statement.

“Okay, I agree. We don’t really know if zombies are involved. We’ll have to go out and see if there really

is a zombie presence. Then, we’ll make a decision based on that,” Zorrell finally said.

“When do we leave?” Middleton asked excitedly.

“First thing in the morning,” Zorrell replied.

The rest of the day, the boys rotated their shifts watching the I-5 corridor until there was no more traffic,

just the vehicles that had overheated and broke down. Those had been pushed to the shoulders to clear up

the lanes. A strange stillness hung in the air, shattered only by the occasional faint wailing of emergency

sirens or a gunshot. Zorrell stood outside and looked north. In the distance, he saw several small dots

circling in the sky that could be news helicopters. The door to the hallway of the storage facility opened,

disturbing his thoughts.

“Pete? Food’s ready,” Moyer said as he poked his head out. Zorrell nodded, took one last look at the sky

before he turned and walked inside. Entering the main unit, he caught the end of a conversation.

“I can’t wait until tomorrow man. We’re finally going to see some real zombies,” Middleton was saying

as he wiped a cleaning rag through the barrel of his pistol which lay disassembled on the table. Zorrell

walked into the other unit, opened the large commercial freezer and removed a hot pocket. Middleton was

just finishing assembly when he reentered the main unit.

“Dude, it’s going to be so sweet to pop a cap in one of those dead heads,” Middleton commented as he

slipped a full magazine into the butt and let the slide travel forward, feeding a round into the chamber.

Zorrell un-wrapped his meal and put it into the microwave.

“We only have one vehicle; we’re going to have to draw straws on who goes and who stays,” Zorrell said

as he waited for the microwave to beep.

“I don’t care as long I’m going,” Middleton stated as he holstered his handgun.

Zorrell shook his head as the microwave beeped. Tomorrow wasn’t going to be like a trip to Wild Waves

or Disneyland, he thought as he removed his meal from the appliance. He ate in silence listening to

Middleton talk about searching out zombies and what he planned to do when he found some. Zorrell

finished his meal and thought about the AR15s that they had stored in the adjoining unit. He wasn’t sure

what bothered him more, issuing those rifles or having to use them, he walked through the doorway and

looked around at all the items they had accumulated and stored.

Cases of MREs, cases of bottled water and canned food, winter clothing, first aid supplies, and

ammunition. Lord, did they have the ammunition. He figured that if that section of the building was ever

struck by lightning, they’d never know it. All of the equipment, mostly surplus, was organized in nice,

neat aisles. Food and clothing on one side, ammo and weapons on the other. Everything they would need,

he hoped, to survive. Walking back into the main room he passed through to the other unit and took

inventory.

This unit had all the stove fuel, empty gas cans, gun oil and motor oil, and right by the door, a small

Honda generator mounted on a rolling cart. No smoking signs had been posted and the door replaced with

a thick metal fire door. Extinguishers were scattered around the room as well as fire blankets. Returning

to the main room, the conversation had died down. Everyone was thinking about what tomorrow would

bring.

***

CHAPTER 26

SSGN Claggett

Somewhere off the Pacific Coast

Several hours had passed since Powell had briefed the submarine’s department heads. Though the ship

was still hours away from reaching its home port, Powell was concerned about the lack of radio traffic on

the military and commercial bandwidths. Since the initial report and orders from COMSUBPAC there

had been no further updates or even simple, routine COMS chatter. Erring on the side of caution and

operating with what little information command had sent him, Powell had shifted to wartime SOP. The

Claggett was now running silent and following a thermal layer. As his executive officer, Charles Ridley,

reviewed the status of the ship’s systems with him, Powell found himself lost in thought as to what the

end result of all this was. If it was some sort of exercise, then protocols had not been followed. But, if this

was a real world event, as implausible as that may seem, then the end result could and would most

definitely be unknown. With the lack of communication between high command, the hierarchy of rank

would have to assert itself.

“Sir?” Ridley asked, concerned about his captain.

“Yes, Mr. Ridley, you were just mentioning how the desalinization plant is working at peak efficiency

and that the reactor was overhauled three months ago giving us prime fuel rods.” Ridley nodded in

agreement.

“Aye, Captain. And the ships stores were loaded at Winthrop as if we were still an active missile boat.”

Ridley looked down to his notes. “That gives us just over eight months food supply but with rationing we

can extend that to ten give or take a few weeks.”

“Well, let’s just hope we don’t have to consider rationing and are able to resupply before we reach that

point. However, work up a plan in the event resupply becomes an issue.” Ridley nodded once again and

made a notation on his notes.

“Of course, Captain. That brings us up to communications. So far, nothing further has been received by

COMSUBPAC as you’re well aware of. There has been some chatter on the civilian bands but mostly its

emergency broadcasts and recorded messages. I have COMS scanning for any news that might help us

better understand the shore situation. We did have contact with a Coast Guard vessel coming back in from

a northern patrol and a tender coming up the coast from San Diego.”

“Excellent, what’s the status of the tender?”

“Full load, full crew, headed for Bangor. We notified them that Bangor may be a no go zone and the

captain informed us that in the event that he can’t reach Bangor, he’ll divert to Winthrop.”

Powell nodded knowing that the BBB or Bangor Boomer Base as some squids called it would have first

priority over the tender. Claggett had already tried contacting Triple B with no luck.

Powell was well aware as he had participated in the command workshop that had written those

procedures, that the standing orders in an emergency, albeit a ‘normal’ emergency not something like this

madness, was that all submarines in port and able to depart would do so and make best possible speed for

their failsafe positions and await further orders. The base itself would go to full lockdown.

“The Coast Guard cutter, the Hampton, is heading to its home port at Cape Disappointment but hasn’t had

contact with them for over twelve hours. They have had radio traffic from Joint Base Lewis/McChord and

the Seattle area. Apparently, the shore situation is worse than we expected. There are massive power

outages and other disruptions of utility services all over the Seattle area. Fires, massive traffic jams, and

panic seem to have taken hold of that area. They also reported that the hospitals are or were over capacity.

That information is several hours old and the situation could have gotten worse by now.”

Powell sat thinking, digesting the information for several minutes before speaking.

“Okay. We contact the cutter and give them a SITREP and let them know our destination. Don’t tell them

what type of vessel we are. Forward that same information to the tender, they’ll obviously know who we

are by our message tag.” Ridley made more notations on his list.

“One more item, we’ll be passing by the Dante’s Finger lighthouse in two hours, that might be an

opportunity to gather more intel on the shore situation before we reach Winthrop.”

“Very well, Mr. Ridley. See to it.” Ridley stood to leave. “Ridley, let me know when we get within radio

range of Dante’s,” Powell said then he looked up as his executive officer. “Chuck, this is shaping up into

a very serious situation. I want you to make sure that the crew knows this is not an exercise. No one is to

be dicking around. Might be a good time to run a General Quarters drill.”

“Aye, Captain,” Ridley responded before he left Powell’s cabin.

***

Further aft, a different conversation was taking place just outside the ‘Barn’.

“What the fuck Ell-tee? Pull the other one, it’s got bells on,” James ‘Jimmy’ Webb, Shark’s primary

SOTIC stated.

“Jimmy, I sure wish I was joking. This is the real skinny straight from command. Unknown events have

disrupted civilian order and that has spilled over onto several military installations. There’s not much

more to it than that with exception to the usual riots and fires but then the biting comes into play.”

“Biting? I heard you say that the first time but I’m still having a hard time wrapping my mind around that

concept. Biting leads to rioting which then leads to civil unrest,” Elbert Hannaberry or just Berry as he

was known in the team stated as he shook his head. “It all sounds a little too much like a bad movie and

we’re stuck right in the middle of it.”

The rest of Shark stood quietly listening and absorbing the information their 1IC had just disseminated.

Willis looked around at his men, not knowing what to add to this already strange briefing. They had been

discussing it for a few hours and still no one had a complete picture on what their response would be once

they made landfall. Only Clint Lindsay, the Leading Petty Officer for the detachment had remained quiet.

He hadn’t commented on anything that Willis had said, just continued to lounge against the large stack of

OD Green Pelican cases.

“All right, ladies. That concludes this briefing. I want full equipment and weapons check completed by

1630 hours. Everyone will be at mess call at 1700. At 1745, the Chief and I will conduct an inspection of

the onboard gear and note any deficiencies. We are now on 30 minute alert so I want a rotation of half on

and half off until further notice.” Willis dismissed the men but then added.

“Billy, Clint, you’re with me,” he motioned to Rogers and Lindsay to follow him as he headed for his

cabin where they would discuss basic tactical deployment.

***

Just after 1800 hours

“Sir, we have contact with the lighthouse at Dante’s Finger,” The COMM section reported to Ridley as he

stood at the chart table.

“Copy that COMS.” Ridley replied as he walked to the overhead phone handset, picked it up and dialed

Powell’s cabin. On the second ring, it was picked up.

“Sir, we have contact with Dante’s Finger.” Ridley announced before replacing the handset in its holder.

Powell arrived on the bridge less than a minute later.

“Captain on the bridge,” Chief Wilson announced as Powell arrived. Powell nodded and then walked over

to Ridley who was standing behind the COMM section petty officer.

“Dante’s Finger, this is naval vessel Archangel One-One requesting station verification.” There was a

brief burst of static and then a voice replied.

“Navy Vessel, this is the operator at Dante’s Finger Lighthouse, station ID is KWXRL9857. How copy?”

“Copy that Dante’s, station ID is confirmed.”

“You boys a little jumpy this evening?” the voice from the lighthouse asked.

“Negative Dante’s, we have a newbie on COMMS tonight and wanted to make sure he knew the

procedure.”

“Copy that,” There was lengthy silence and then a short burst of static before the lighthouse keeper

continued. “Glad to be of help, Navy.”

“Mr. Ridley, slow to one third, go to red and bring us up slow.”

“One third aye sir. Diving control, slow ascent, ten degree up angle,” Ridley ordered as he flipped the

switch that changed the lighting in the Conn to red. Powell moved to the periscope controls.

“Sonar, any surface contact?” he asked as he slowly swiveled the scope.

“Conn, Sonar, negative surface contact.”

Powell nodded then stepped back and lowered the periscope as the submarine breached the surface. He

moved to the locker at the base of the conning tower and shrugged into his deck coat. Grabbing a pair of

night image intensifiers from the shelf in the same locker he slipped the strap over his head before zipping

up his coat and making his way to the ladder. He popped the hatch to a rush of fresh sea air and a strong

breeze that greeted him as he exited the submarine. The surface deck watch joined him as he put the

image intensifiers to his eyes. He automatically scanned the horizon before focusing on the lighthouse off

the starboard bow. He reached down and flipped the switch that would allow him to listen in on the radio

chatter.

“Say, Navy? Can you spare a cup of sugar for an old sailor?” the lighthouse keeper was asking.

“Are you running short on supplies, Dante’s?”

“Ayup. My supply ship is running late and I’m down to my hard stores. Thought my radio was broke but

then you called me.”

“Wait one, Dante’s,” Powell heard the click as the inter-ship intercom kicked in.

“Captain, request permission to send a shore party out and verify the conditions,” Ridley called up to the

observation deck. Powell knew that this was a chance to get more solid information on just how bad the

situation was on shore.

“Very well, Mr. Ridley. Inform Lieutenant Willis he has a mission.”

“Aye, sir.”

Further aft, Shark Platoon was preparing for their shore excursion. Not knowing what to expect, Willis

and Rogers were reviewing the map of Dante’s Finger. Originally a rocky mound several miles off the

coast, Dante’s Finger got its name after extensive construction was done back in the mid 1900s when the

need for a lighthouse in that area was required due to the increase of shipping traffic. The outcome of that

was thousands of tons of rock dumped in and around the mound and then overlaid with even thousands of

more tons of concrete and pilings until a distinct finger shape with what looked like a large talon was

formed. The ‘knuckle’ was where the lighthouse had been built and the rest of the ‘digit’ was where the

support buildings were placed with the talon being used for the dock.

“I see two ways to reach the objective,” Willis stated. “Gold Team does a rock portage on the north side

and Blue Team secures the dock.” Willis pointed to both locations as Rogers nodded in agreement. Willis

looked at the rest of the team trying to gauge their reaction. There was no way to tell what they were

thinking. They had their game faces on and were all business. Lindsay, the LPO, caught his eye and

nodded indicating that he should continue the mission brief.

“Once we secure the area, we collapse back to the lighthouse and set a perimeter. Remember, the keeper

is a friendly. We don’t expect any resistance from hostiles, mainly due to the location, but be ready for

anything. Now, let’s get those Zodiacs prepped.” The SEALs moved quickly and efficiently as they

readied the watercraft and made a last minute equipment check. Chief Rogers would take control of one

boat crew with Lindsay as Lead Petty Officer taking charge of the overwatch element. Willis would take

in the lead element. The men had worked together long enough to know each other’s method of operation

when their team split into separate elements.

The SEALs wrestled the collapsed Zodiacs out the hatch and onto the deck. The boats were inflated and

tied off on the leeward side of the sub. Each man carried a highly modified M4 with night scope and

sound suppressor. While the suppressor was unnecessary due to the noise of the waves crashing against

the rocks, it would conceal the muzzle flash in the event they had to engage any hostile elements. Two of

the team was equipped with the M320, a 40mm grenade launcher attached under the barrel of their M4

that replaced the older M203. Doc Johnson, the platoon corpsman, carried a MK48, a highly modified

squad automatic weapon based on the Army’s M249 SAW. The side arms Willis’s team preferred was the

HK MK23 chambered in .45; a large frame handgun that had won the SOCOM challenge. The majority of

other Special Warfare teams used a smaller framed handgun like the Sig Sauer 226 or 228 or even the M9

Beretta.

They were all clad in black BDUs; supplemented with black tactical vests configured to what position

they had within the team. Before they had left the Barn, each man had darkened his face with combat

cosmetics and checked the batteries in their Night Vision Goggles before snapping them into place on

their helmets.

Powell watched from the tower as the SEALs boarded their small craft in the now choppy sea. The

Claggett had moved closer to the lighthouse and the waves had become stronger. Willis paused before

boarding to throw Powell an exaggerated salute. Powell returned it and Willis was off.

The SEALs lay along the gunwales of their rubber boats, one heading for the rocks at the base of the

lighthouse, the other for the small concrete dock used by the supply ship. The only sign of their passing

was a faint wake from the powerful but heavily muffled engines. The first craft made the rocks and the

bow man jumped out to secure the boat while the rest of the crew dug their paddles in to hold the boat.

The second Zodiac went around to the supply boat dock and glided up to the pilings.

Through the use of silent hand signals, Willis directed his element into position. Lindsay, ghostlike,

disappeared into the night with the overwatch. Over the inter-team commo net, two quick squelches

notified him that the first team was in position. The men crept up the dock like wraiths, weapons ready,

checking every shadow and darkened area. Any noise they may have made was covered by the crashing

waves hitting the rocks beneath the primary structure. The entire small spit of rock was searched and

secured in under five minutes. The lighthouse keeper’s house was attached to the lighthouse itself,

thereby making it easier to secure and the last objective to achieve. Two more quick radio squelches and

Willis moved up to the door to the keeper’s house. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a couple of dark

shadows move as his men took positions around the building. Two more squelches notified him that

everyone was in place. He took one last look around and then stepped onto the small porch, and knocked.

Willis was about to knock again when the door swung open and a grizzled old man stood there, dressed in

a well-worn white turtleneck, jeans, thick soled solid boots and a pipe clamped between his teeth. They

looked at each other. The older man didn’t seem startled or even slightly fazed to see a blackened face

man holding an assault weapon on his front porch. He just puffed a few times on his pipe before speaking.

“Navy?” The old man asked around the pipe stem.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well damn son. Come on in, I’m not heating the outside.” The old man swung the door open wider and

Willis stepped inside.

The keeper’s house was small, not much bigger than a cottage, the kitchen was made for one person, with

an adjoining dining room filled with a folding table and some mismatched chairs. This room connected to

the small living room where a patched loveseat and an old recliner shared space. A short hall led to what

Willis assumed to be the bedroom and single bath. The door at the far end of the small kitchen led to the

lighthouse itself. The house smelled of aromatic pipe tobacco, brewing coffee, and faintly, sea air.

“Coffee?”

“No sir. We don’t have time. I’m here to get you out.”

The old man paused from pouring coffee. He half turned. Willis could almost detect a slight mirth in the

man’s voice.

“Get me out? Where we going, lieutenant?”

“Sir, there has been major civil unrest. We need to evacuate you to a safe area.”

The old man handed Willis a steaming cup of coffee.

“Safe area? What you think this is? I heard what’s been going on. Hell I’ve even seen some of it on the

TV before the signal went. Seems to me this here is a safe area,” the old man said as he sipped his coffee.

“Give me a minute.” Willis handed the coffee back and reached up to his throat mike.

“Saber-Six to Archangel-One-One,”

“Archangel-One-One, go ahead Saber-Six.”

“Saber-Six Actual request secure commo with Archangel Actual.”

“This is Archangel Actual, go ahead Saber-Six Actual.”

“Saber has secured the area. One civilian, no hostiles present. We’re holding position awaiting further

instructions.” Willis reported, hoping that Powell would come up with something further to add.

“Saber Six, Archangel Actual copies all. Request that you develop intelligence from civilian.”

“Saber-Six copies,” Willis turned to the man. “Sir,” Willis began.

“Don’t call me sir, my name’s Amos, Amos Coffelt. Least you could do is address me by my name.”

“Very well, Mr. Coffelt. What can you tell me about what’s been happening on the mainland?”

***

The Claggett moved into the sheltered area using the rocks and lighthouse as a buffer from the wind and

choppy seas. The little cove was an anomaly that created a natural breakwater, shallow waves, and calmer

seas.

Over the next few hours, a relay of Zodiacs raced back and forth to the lighthouse island, illuminated by

the powerful searchlights from the submarine. The little storage building was supplied with fuel for the

generator. The storage areas in the house and lighthouse itself were filled with canned food and MRE

rations.

A small group of sailors, one of them a lower ranking corpsman, volunteered to stay and make temporary

housing for any survivors that the Claggett might find. The old lighthouse keeper, Amos Coffelt was very

happy to have company and Powell promised him to locate a supply ship or return with the supplies

himself. As Powell was turning to leave, the old man handed him a picture.

“This is my granddaughter. If you find her, can you keep her safe until you can bring her to me? She’s all

I got left in this world.”

Powell took the picture, looked at the young, college age girl in it, so much like Powell’s own daughter,

and then looked back at the old man. They both knew the chances of finding her were slim to none.

“I’ll do what I can, Mr. Coffelt.”

“Ayup, I wouldn’t ask any more.”

It was just after 2300 hours when the Claggett made the channel buoy marking the final leg of their

journey to Port Winthrop.

“Mr. Ridley, any contact with Port Winthrop?”

“Negative, sir.”

“Anything on the civilian nets?”

“No sir, just the EBS with no new data.”

Powell had been on the tower since leaving Dante’s Finger, constantly scanning the surrounding waters.

There had been no ship traffic, which was a little strange, considering the current situation. As the

Claggett turned to align itself with the deep section of the channel, Powell turned to look at the civilian

shipyard as they passed by. He scanned the freighters and cargo ships of all sizes, moored there and the

docks; all lit up like Christmas trees. Something was wrong but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Maybe the

sea air had lulled him into a sense of calm or apathy. As he scanned each of the vessels in turn, it dawned

on him what it was. No activity on the docks or the ships. No crewmen on deck. He watched the docks

intently as they passed by. No workers loading or unloading cargo, no trucks leaving or entering the

dockyard.

The echoing screech of tires, glass breaking, and gunfire echoed across the water. The deck watch

swiveled as one to focus on the civilian dock. They all watched as several people ran from a disabled van,

firing at another group that appeared to be chasing them. Powell focused on the pursuing group, shocked

to see people with large chunks of flesh missing, some trying to run on legs that had no feet, arms

hanging slack as if dislocated, all looked like rejects from a bad car accident. He watched as several were

shot but didn’t drop, just staggered as chunks of meat were blown off them.

He panned back to the running group and saw some of the men turn and fire, a couple stop and take

careful aim, dropping a few of their pursuers with headshots. Finally, he was galvanized into action when

he panned beyond the running group to see that the dock ended in a high chain link fence topped with

razor wire.

“Mr. Ridley. All Stop!”

“All Stop. Aye sir.”

“Get Lieutenant Willis up here.”

“Aye, sir,”

Minutes later, Willis joined Powell on the tower.

“That group of civvies is fighting off a horde of rioters. Infected rioters from the look of them. I want you

and your team to get over there and extract the civilians.”

Willis was watching the scene unfold as Powell spoke. He saw the infected for the first time and realized

what his team was up against.

“Hostile extraction, sir. My men are ready for this,” Willis stated confidently.

“I’ll hold position as long as possible; the current may move us some. It’s pretty strong tonight.”

“Aye, sir. We’re on it.” Willis handed the binoculars back and dropped back down the hatch like a prairie

dog. He joined his team on the aft deck as they boarded their boats.

***

The Zodiacs flew across the smooth water as the team raced to the end of the dock. The gunfire had

slackened as they drew closer. They could see that the civilians were almost to the fence and that several

of them had run out of ammo for their rifles and were using handguns. A few even had tire irons or

baseball bats. The SEALs made it to the end of the dock, tied up their boats, and started climbing up the

barnacled pilings. A strange smell, more powerful than the salt air, enveloped them as they got to the top

of the wharf. It was an almost overpowering stench thankfully diluted with the aroma of the waterfront.

Moaning could be faintly heard above the creaking of the lines that tied the ships to the wharf.

Rogers was the first one to the top and directed Doc Johnson to start laying down suppressive fire with his

MK48. The civilians froze when the 48 started yammering. As the rest of the team got to the top of the

dock, they added their weapons to the firing, effectively pushing back the infected horde. Some of the

undead that Johnson had shot were getting back up. Webb, using his MSG3 rifle, began engaging the

encroaching crowd firing single shots into any available target.

Willis had Hannaberry enlarge the hole in the chain link fence to allow the civilians to pass through

quickly.

Rogers switched weapons with Johnson so Doc could check out the survivors as they went by. Willis

thought he knew what the strange new smell was, decay and rot. There was no real source for it unless it

was coming from the hostiles they were engaging.

“Aim for the head!” Rogers called out, adjusting his aim after seeing several infected get back up after

taking bursts to center mass. He stood up, leaned forward a little to compensate for the ‘48’s recoil, and

began putting short bursts of 5.56mm into the heads of any infected that appeared in his sight window.

The team switched from full auto suppressive fire that had driven the horde back, to single shots and re-

engaged the infected, dropping the next ranks with head shots.

More and more infected appeared out of the warehouses, off the tethered ships, moving in on the SEALs

foothold position, moaning, screeching as they shambled forward. Webb sighted on a zombie moving

down the gangplank of a nearby ship, his 7.62mm messenger of death penetrated its forehead at an

upward angle with enough force to continue into the open mouth of the infected behind it, dropping both

and blocking the gangway. Mildly surprised, he swiveled to find more targets.

“Stand by to peel!” Willis yelled out, firing a single shot into the head of the nearest zombie.

“Frag out!” Rogers yelled as he grabbed the M67 grenade off his vest and threw it. The rest of the team

mimicked his actions, throwing their grenades over the first rows of infected to detonate within the core

of the mass.

“Last man!” Doc yelled out after the multiple explosions of the grenades diminished, indicating the last

civilian was through the fence.

“Stand by to Peel!” Willis yelled over the firing switching to full auto, cutting the legs out from under

several dozen infected approaching him. He cast a glance at the fence and then back at the ever increasing

number of hostiles approaching their position.

“Peel!” Willis yelled.

Rogers took one step forward and swept the barrel of the MK48 back and forth spraying short full auto

bursts into the infected, cutting them down like tall grass before a scythe. The rest of the SEALs went to

full auto fire, cutting huge swaths of the undead down. One by one they fired off a sustained full auto

burst, tapped the man next to them, and then moved through the hole in the fence, dropping to the water

below.

The two grenadiers popped white phosphorous grenades into the ever-growing horde, throwing an eerie

light over the battle before turning and diving into the water.

The WP grenades popped, colorful white streamers showering down to melt through the concrete and

wooden pier, setting fire to several of the infected, who continued moving forward, unaware of the flames

licking across their ragged clothes and undead bodies. The stench of burning hair and flesh now mixed

with those of rot and saltwater.

“Last man!” Hannaberry yelled out and dove through the hole.

Smith, the team demo expert, scrambled through the hole, stopping momentarily to hang precariously off

the side of the wharf. He quickly set up two Claymore mines at the fence opening, connecting a radio

trigger to the arming mechanisms.

“Smitty! We are leaving!” Willis yelled up to him, the Zodiac bouncing and bobbing among the pilings.

Smith dropped into the water, surfaced, and ran his arm through one of the rope handles that ran along the

side of the Combat Rubber Raiding Craft he was next to.

“Go! Go! Go!” he yelled.

The Zodiacs swung around and sped out to the waiting submarine. The team held their fire and watched

behind them as the zombie horde reached the fence and pushed against it, the fence bowing out as more

and more of them pressed against the ones at the front. Smith reached into his tactical vest, removed a

small radio transmitter, and pushed the button.

A white flash and a series of dull explosions blew the wailing horde to pieces as the M18A1 Claymores

detonated. Necrotic flesh blew in all directions as the anti-personnel mines destroyed the aggressive mass.

The infected that weren’t demolished outright still attempted to seek their prey. Several tried to get back

up only there were no legs to stand on. Others were ‘killed’ outright as the 700 steel ball bearings per

antipersonnel mine penetrated their skulls, perforated their diseased brains, and severed limbs finally

extinguishing their deadly motives.

On the short ride back to the Claggett, each man of Shark Platoon replayed what he had just witnessed.

Amos Coffelt had told them that the infected could only be stopped by shooting them in the head. They

had now just proved that point with their first encounter. To a man they were shocked that with the

amount of firepower they had poured into the advancing horde, only a head shot had stopped them.

The medical staff and Doc Johnson checked out the civilians, thankfully finding that their injuries were

mostly cuts and scrapes, no bites. Powell went down to the sick bay to talk to the survivors. He ordered

the Master at Arms to assign armed guards to the sick bay area, thereby minimizing contact between the

crew and the new passengers until such time as a proper debrief could be done. Powell stepped through

the hatchway, as Commander Robert Brown, the Claggett’s chief medical officer was just finishing

stitching up a nasty looking wound on a young man’s forehead. Sitting or standing were the rest of the

survivors, eight in all.

“I’m Captain Powell, Commander of this vessel.”

“I’m Chuck Carrig,” a tall kid with a local high school letterman jacket on replied. “And that’s my brother

Bobby that your doctor is sewing up.” Pointing to the other boy dressed in a lightweight jacket, jeans, and

dirty tennis shoes.

“I’m Steve. Steve Josephson.” A tall lanky, blonde hair guy that had the knees of his jeans cut out, and a

faded heavy metal group name on his shirt.

“That’s Julie over there. We were at a party when all this shit went down.” He pointed to a dark haired

girl sitting in a chair with an ice pack on her head. She raised a hand and gave a weak smile and wave;

Powell noted the hot pink fingernail polish and the nose ring.

“Stan Johannson, I used to work security at the docks.” An older guy, full head of gray hair, large belly,

wearing a soiled and sweat stained security uniform, stepped forward to shake Powell’s hand.

“Pedro Rodriguez, I ran the roach coach for the night shift.” A short, squat Hispanic man stepped forward

without the trace of an accent, wearing a smeared apron, thin mustache, and a torn hairnet.

“Norbert Wilcox,” A light skinned black man in work jeans, heavy construction boots, orange safety vest,

and wide tool belt. “I was doing some work down the road from the docks when those two,” he gestured

to Steve and Julie. “came roaring up with this wild tale, and then whatever those things are, showed up. I

jumped in their van with the rest,” he gestured to Chuck and Bobby, “but then we crashed at the docks.”

“Aaron Grant, I was kind of like dumpster diving.” A young kid, long hair that almost covered his eyes,

dressed in dark jeans, a dirty white t-shirt, and long overcoat, hung his head when he finished speaking.

“Yeah, I thought so; I’ve been trying to catch your ass for months.” Stan said as he walked over to him.

“But after you saved my ass, I think I can let bygones be bygones.” Stan stuck his hand out. “What you

say kid? We let it go?”

Aaron raised his head up shook his head to move his hair out of the way and flashed a smile at Stan.

“Sure, man. No problem,” he said as he shook the older man’s hand, his face reddening into a blush.

Powell watched the exchange and realized that this was group of survivors that had been through a hellish

situation and pulled together to work as a team. Over the next half hour, he talked to each person to get

some background for his contact report. He discovered that each one related the same story with very

minor deviations. As strange as it sounded to him, each survivor admitted that the people who were

chasing them were reanimated dead.

If Willis and his team hadn’t intervened and saved them, in all probability they would have become that

way themselves.

Powell soon found that the general consensus was that the rioting was caused by some sort of unknown

viral epidemic. What was surprising and shocking was the news that this epidemic, which caused violent

unrest, was now spreading outside the major cities and moving into the suburbs and rural areas. This

revelation made Powell adjust his initial plan to tie up at Winthrop. He pushed that thought aside and

looked down at his notes.

Had it not been for some very fortunate equipment, the rifles in the Carrig brother’s truck, the pistol that

Johannson had been issued for his work, and some very good timing, the end result would have been

much more horrific. Powell was being briefed on the injuries the group had and the projected time for

recovery when the intercom beeped.

“Captain, radio contact with Port Winthrop has been established,” the 1MC announced bringing him out

of his thoughts.

“On my way, Mr. Ridley,” Powell excused himself from sickbay and headed for the bridge. He entered

the Conn; Ridley saw him and flipped the switch to broadcast the transmission through the bridge

speakers.

“Attention all vessels, this is Port Winthrop Naval base. Do not attempt to pass by the restricted markers

without being inspected first. The base is conducting a security lockdown. 100 percent identification

check is in force. This is not an exercise. Deadly force has been authorized and any vessel will be fired

upon without warning that fails to heave to. Attention all vessels. This is the Port Winthrop Naval base.

Do not attempt to pass by the restricted markers without being inspected first. The base is conducting a

security lockdown.” The message repeated.

“Captain, someone had to be there to start the recording,” Ridley observed.

“How far are we from Winthrop?”

“About 45 minutes, sir.”

“Slow to one third.”

“Aye, sir,”

Powell went over to the chart table and looked at the computations written there in grease pencil

calculating their present speed and the speed of the current.

“Conn, Sonar, contact bearing 195.” Powell reached up, pressed the push to talk button enabling him to

communicate with the sonar department.

“Sonar, Conn, what you got?”

“Conn, Sonar, single screws bearing 195 holding stationary.” Powell pushed another button on the

overhead comm panel.

“Deck watch, any contact bearing 195?”

“Conn, Deck Watch, I have navigation lights at 195, looks like two vessels, stationary at the inlet to

Winthrop.”

Powell looked at Ridley.

“COMS attempt to establish contact with vessels.”

“Aye, sir,”

“Mr. Ridley, I’ll be topside. Have Lt. Willis meet me there.”

“Aye sir,”

Powell donned his deck coat, climbed topside and took the offered binoculars, focusing them on the

smaller watercraft as his ship moved towards them. Willis, still in his tactical gear, climbed up and joined

him.

“What’s up, sir?”

“Sonar contact at the opening to the inlet,” Willis picked up another set of binoculars.

“Sir, looks like Winthrop’s patrol boats. Any response from the radio?”

“Not yet.”

“What about the signal lights?”

Powell let his binocs hang and called down for a signalman. The young sailor popped up onto the tower

and was briefed on what he needed to do.

“Flash them an authentication code,” Powell ordered.

Almost immediately a flashed response came back.

“Hold position. Do not attempt to enter inlet without being inspected.” Powell read through the

binoculars.

“Hold position?” Willis asked.

“Mr. Ridley, all stop,” Powell called down and then turned to Willis. “Send your men aft and over the

side. Be prepared to board the other vessel if they show signs of hostile intent.”

“Aye, sir,” Willis dropped down the hatch and made his way aft to brief his men. Minutes later, a deck

hatch opened and shadowed men scampered over the side of the sub with sea sleds. The hatch was sealed

before the men disappeared into the dark waters.

“Conn, Sonar. Single screw vessel approaching, second vessel still holding position.”

Powell watched as one of the small craft slowly approached the sub, stopping about 20 feet off the

starboard. He could make out several armed personnel onboard.

“Ahoy, submarine!” A voice called out.

“Ahoy, vessel!” Powell responded.

“Permission to come alongside!”

Powell glanced down the hatch at Willis who gave him thumbs up.

“Granted!”

“Do you have any infected onboard?”

“Negative!”

Powell motioned for some of his deck crew to throw out bumpers as the smaller boat came alongside and

was tied up. Four armed men in Marine Corps duty uniforms, rifles, heavy body armor, and helmets

climbed on board and watched the deck crew.

Finally, a thin looking, pale, younger man, in wrinkled navy khakis stepped onto the sub deck, looked up

at Powell and saluted.

“Sir, Lieutenant Commander Grant requests permission to come aboard.”

Powell just waved at him and the young man started inside the sail and up to the tower. The four Marines

kept their positions on the deck. The two officers looked at each other before shaking hands.

“Captain, I’m sure glad to see you, sir,” the young man said as he finished the handshake.

“Same here, Commander. What happened?”

“Well, sir. Where would you like me to start? It all happened so fast.”

“Just tell me what you know and maybe we can fill in the gaps later,” Powell suggested.

“We had some protesters at the outer fence. The usual idiots that thought we had nukes here. The Marine

security team was on alert and some were at the gates assisting the civil service cops.” The young man’s

gaze seemed to be slightly out of focus as his mind’s eye replayed the events. “Another group of

protestors came out of the woods behind the first group. This second group started screaming and

attacking the first group.” Powell looked at the deck watch; while they appeared to be studiously involved

in staring at the darkness with their image intensifiers he could tell they had been listening to the young

commander relate his tale.

“We sealed the perimeter and the Marines locked down everything. We had enough time to get the

civilian workers to help us move jersey barriers to block the main gate, and then the Marines set razor

wire on that. The perimeter is sealed up really tight, nothing gets in and if anything does, the Marines

have orders to shoot on sight. Thankfully, this isn’t a large installation and most of the gates had already

been sealed due to budget cuts.” Commander Grant paused to catch his breath.

“Where’s Admiral Harrington?” Powell asked.

“I think the admiral’s dead, sir. So is the XO and most of the staff. They were off base when it happened.

I tried to call them on their cell phones and was on the phone with the admiral when it just went dead. Sir,

I think that the admiral was attacked and killed. He said something about a car accident in front of him

with numerous casualties and then nothing.” Grant paused again.

“What about the civilian authorities? Didn’t any of the local police try to stop it?” Powell asked.

“Yes sir. They tried. There were a few state troopers watching the protestors. They called for backup, and

then tried to break up the attackers. Those people just tore them to ribbons. One trooper made it back to

his car and they just ripped him out of it.” Grant paused to swallow, his face white. “They ate him sir.”

“Then the local sheriff sent some cars but the same thing happened. We tried contacting command after

that but all the lines were overloaded. We switched to the civilian net, tried implementing emergency

radio protocols but that was just as bad. We got a coded message from CINCPAC about the rioting and

infection so I ordered the Marine officer to secure and reinforce the perimeter.” Grant stopped and took a

deep breath. “Sir, most of the civilian workers have families on the outside. I have them quartered in the

old Base Exchange building with shore patrol covering the entrances and the Marines assisting. I didn’t

know what else to do sir. I’m just an admin guy.”

“You did fine, Commander. Who’s in charge of the base now?”

“That would be you, sir.”

***

CHAPTER 27

Joint Base Lewis/McChord, Washington

The events occurring in and around Joint Base Lewis/McChord, mainly Tacoma to the north and Olympia

to the south had facilitated increased security measures at the MAMC gate. Concrete Jersey barriers had

been placed at odd spacing, forming a serpentine path to slow down and stop any vehicles that attempted

to make a speed run into the installation. The tense situation under the freeway overpass, Freedom Bridge,

connecting the city of Lakewood to JBLM had been increasing due to the traffic stalled in both directions

of Interstate 5.

O’Toole’s section of ODA-141 had divided themselves into sniper/spotter and fire support teams to

support the light infantry and military police units manning the gate. The Red Cross had set up an aid

station at the 7-Eleven directly across from the main gates to Camp Murray, handing out blankets and hot

drinks. O’Toole stood in the roof hatch of his Humvee, now parked just outside the MAMC gate and

watched through binoculars as the Red Cross workers did their job. Shouting and screams from the

freeway below caused him to refocus on the stopped traffic. As he swept the scene, a sudden flash of

white drew his attention. Dialing in the focus knob, he watched as an irate driver in a once white t-shirt,

holding a tire iron approached another man. The other man retreated, bouncing off one stopped car, and

then another as two Washington State Patrol troopers tried wading through the sea of humanity and metal

to defuse the situation. The man in the t-shirt raised his tire iron over his head when a blossom of red

appeared on his chest followed by the delayed sound of a single gunshot. O’Toole watched as the man

stood upright, looked down at his chest in surprise before he fell forward on his face. O’Toole quickly

turned to the two troopers and watched as one holstered his sidearm, and then they both turned and

walked towards their parked cruisers.

“Holy shit, they’re smoke checking civilians now,” he muttered as he shook his head in amazement,

lowering his binoculars. He didn’t bother to look behind him as he knew that the light infantry soldiers

had witnessed what had just occurred. Off in the distance, O’Toole saw the flashing lights of another

approaching ambulance using the lane that the WSP had cleared for emergency vehicles. Bringing his

binoculars back up, he focused on the approaching aid unit. Following in the wake of the ambulance were

several cars using the same lane of egress. Quickly turning to look back at the state troopers, he watched

as they noticed the cars following the emergency vehicle. The two troopers jogged to their cars, one

removed a shotgun from his cruiser while the other grabbed the radio mike to request instructions.

Focusing on the shotgun armed trooper, he observed the trooper move into an intercepting position, and

then brace himself over the hood of a stopped car. O’Toole saw the looks of fear and horror on the

occupants of that car.

As the ambulance slowed to take the exit to Madigan, the cars behind it slowed as well, and O’Toole

could see the momentarily hesitation as the drivers decided what their best course of action would be.

That one moment of hesitation was all it took for the trooper, who opened fire into the engines of those

vehicles as they passed his position. Rapidly and accurately, the state trooper disabled each of the vehicles

before the drivers could react. Each car in turn slowed, rolling to a stop as steam erupted from the hoods

while multicolor liquids poured out from underneath. Both troopers approached the now disabled cars,

weapons drawn, shouting for the occupants to step out and raise their hands. O’Toole brought his

binoculars back down and shook his head once again in amazement.

Over at the 18th CASH compound, set up in the vacant fields between the medical center and the MAMC

gate, medics were attending to the overflow of patients, mainly minor wounded, which had been sent to

them. While most of the injured were treated for cuts and scrapes, there were some injuries that required

more than just some antiseptic and band-aids.

One case in particular was a woman who had injuries severe enough that she needed stitches. As the

medic worked on her, he couldn’t help but notice that the injury he was stitching looked suspiciously like

a bite wound and she appeared feverish and heavily sweating. Finishing up with the last stitch, he

removed his bloody gloves and tossed them into a nearby biohazard container before making a note on

her chart that a general antibiotic should be administered and further testing required. Leaving the patient

to locate an officer, he didn’t notice that she had stopped breathing.

General Waller still hadn’t returned from his meeting at the medical center. Command Sergeant Major

Johnson was concerned about the increasing number of reports coming in from North Fort. Between

passing off repeated phone calls from Mayor Hoades and re-establishing communications with units

deployed outside the installation perimeter, it was very hectic inside the command center.

To complicate an already tense situation, the infantry platoon that was checking the perimeter fencing

over at North Fort reported that they had spotted civilians cutting the fence and entering the installation. A

reinforced company and a military police platoon had been dispatched for support to take the trespassers

into custody. Both units had failed to make their designated radio checks.

The 504th MP Commander had dispatched a company to find the missing units. Other than the signs of a

fierce and bloody struggle, neither the unit nor the civilians had been located. A thorough search was still

being conducted but so far, no luck. An engineering unit was repairing the damage to the fence and

setting up other obstacles to slow down other attempts to breach the perimeter.

Johnson was also trying to coordinate the walking wounded and displaced civilians that had come in from

Tacoma and the outlying areas. The Welcome Center had already booked some of them into the Joint

Base Lewis/McChord Inn, a military hotel on base for traveling and retired military personnel. The

overflow was being temporarily housed in several of the on post gyms with the majority sent to the

Soldier’s Field House. The Corps support units were still being organized so that some form of food

service could be provided for those Displaced Persons (DPs) as they were now being referred to.

Until such time as the various unit Dining Facilities (DFACs) could get up to speed, he had ordered that

MREs be distributed and Morale, Welfare and Recreation (MWR) staff members do something to distract

the DPs and keep them occupied.

Johnson stood up from his desk in the command bunker and looked around the room. Clerks, soldiers,

and civilian workers were hustling to and fro updating information on various white boards and maps.

Standing there amid the organized chaos, Johnson realized that he could perform his duty without

commanding a desk. Picking up his helmet and battle harness, he quickly corralled a couple of younger

soldiers and strode out of the command center to the parking lot. A Humvee was just starting up with a

young private behind the wheel when Johnson opened the passenger side door.

“Where you heading, private?”

“Uh, uh, over to 2nd Division Drive, 29th Signal, Sergeant Major,” the private stammered out.

“Excellent. That’s where I wanted to go anyway. You can drop me at the Field House,” Johnson stated as

he took a seat in the front as the other soldiers he had shanghaied got into the back. The private behind the

wheel watched and waited until everyone was inside before he eased out of the parking lot and drove

towards his destination.

***

Colonel Peter Barnes was in a quandary on how to deal with the increasing deaths. Once it was confirmed

that a bite victim had died, the body was securely strapped to a gurney for transport to the psychiatric

ward, the most secure area in the hospital. He had just signed off on another transfer when he looked up

and noticed General Waller standing off to one side in quiet discussion with General Scott. Catching both

the officer’s attention, Barnes motioned them to a nearby office.

“What’s the current situation, Doctor?” Scott asked as soon as the door had closed behind him.

“We still don’t have a handle on what’s causing the death toll to rise. We’re looking at large numbers

here. Just in the last hour over forty have died.”

“Forty in the last hour? That’s not counting the ones previously?” Waller asked incredulously.

Barnes shook his head, “No, that’s not counting the 152 from earlier,”

“Where are we putting the bodies?” Scott cut in before Barnes could answer. The thought of setting up a

temporary morgue was running through Scott’s mind.

“They’re being sent to Mental Health for the time being. If this continues in the pattern it has, we’ll be

looking for more space,” Barnes stated flatly.

The men were silent as they remembered what had happened previously with the supposedly dead patient.

“Just to clarify, what we saw is happening to all the injured?” Waller asked.

“Yes and no. The injured that haven’t been bitten don’t show any symptoms. It’s only those that have

bites that we see ‘aggressive reanimation’ for lack of a better term,” Barnes commented.

“What’s the cover story for the family members?” Waller asked realizing that if word leaked out there

could very well be a riot within the waiting rooms.

“Those that have family with them, we explain to them that we’ve moved the patient to another wing for

further testing. I don’t know how long we can keep that charade up before someone questions what type

of testing or demands to see their family member,” Barnes explained.

“Do we know anything? Has the CDC sent back any information about what we’re dealing with?” Waller

asked.

“Nothing new from CDC or The Rid,” Scott replied using the nickname for United States Army Medical

Research Institute for Infectious Disease, USAMRIID.

“Damn it. How can we contain this if we have no idea what it is? Keep me posted if anything does come

through,” Waller said dismissively as he checked his watch, realizing he was late checking in with the

command bunker.

“We should invoke Level 4 quarantine procedures for this entire installation. We have to stop accepting

outside patients,” Barnes said as Waller reached for the door to leave the impromptu meeting.

“What?” Waller exclaimed, and then looked around to see if anyone had overheard Barnes. General Scott

just looked at Barnes with a shocked expression on his face.

“Hear me out - this is a serious biological event. We have no contact with the CDC or The Rid. I say we

do what the CDC suggested and move on from there if and when necessary,” Barnes reiterated.

Waller crossed his arms and gave Barnes a hard look before speaking.

“Okay, Doctor. I understand your need for caution. But, going to an installation Level 4 lockdown would

be an extreme operational posture. We need to be absolutely positive that this is going to get worse or is

leveling off before we make that decision.” Waller thought quickly about what that would mean to the

military dependents on the installation, not to mention those people at the gates that were demanding

entry. Locking down the base wouldn’t go unnoticed.

“Doug, I have to agree with Peter here. This situation is almost verbatim from the manual. Hell, it’s

almost right out of Bio War ’10.” Scott mentioned referring to the exercise that MAMC, JBLM, and other

installations took part in several years back. “We have an unknown, very virulent biological agent,

increasing casualties, and no end in sight. If we keep accepting additional outside civilian cases, we could

very well compromise the security of this base.”

Waller looked over at Scott as he finished speaking.

“General Scott,” Waller stated using the other man’s rank as a way of reminding the other officer of the

protocol when addressing each other in the presence of junior officers, “I will not place this installation on

a Level 4 lockdown just because of some unusual incidents; no matter what the CDC recommends,”

Waller emphasized. “Granted, those incidents are traumatic and unnerving, but, I will not invoke a Level

4 until I’ve received substantial information that supports such an action.”

“Fine, but I’m initiating Level 3 quarantine for this wing of the hospital.”

“That’s well within your authority to do,” Waller snapped back before he turned and exited the room.

“General,” Barnes caught Scott’s arm before he could leave. “You do realize that those persons who are

bit or get bit will become very dangerous,” Barnes stated grimly after the door closed behind Waller.

“How dangerous?” Scott paused at the door.

“Very dangerous. So far, all the dead have been strapped down and moved immediately to a secure area.

But, it’s just a matter of time before something happens that we can’t cover up or move out of sight.”

Their discussion was interrupted by a loud scream from the hall. Turning the corner, they saw a female

medic on the floor struggling with a civilian who was trying to bite her.

Several medics, MPs, and doctors rushed to pull the man off of her but the infected patient took a large

bite out of the woman’s throat. He ripped the flesh with his mouth, and then raised his head up, flesh

evident in his mouth as jets of blood sprayed from the hysterical woman’s neck. Several MPs tackled the

man to the floor while two medics supervised by the doctors stepped forward attempting to stem the flow

of life fluids from the victim. The man thrashed and growled as several more MPs stepped in to subdue

him.

“Stand back!” General Scott yelled, “Don’t get bit!” Scott had his hand on his holstered sidearm.

Scott’s warning was enough of a shock that some of the Military Police hanging onto the man loosened

their grips. The infected man growled louder and broke loose from his captors. Throwing off the two men

who were holding his arms down, the man kicked at the others, flinging them against the walls, and then

he stood facing Scott with a primal look of violence in his eyes. Scott grabbed a nearby empty gurney and

shoved it hard against the man. They both began maneuvering in the hall as the general attempted to keep

his opponent away from more victims. The diseased marionette of the Reset Virus seized the gurney,

yanked it from Scott’s grip, and sent it wheeling down the hall where it crashed noisily into a wall.

Scott speed drew his M9 and fired two rounds into the man’s center of mass, staggering him backwards

and against the wall. The man regained his footing and looked menacingly at the person who had shot

him. Scott fired twice more into the chest with no effect. The loud report of Scott’s sidearm within the

confined hallway was enough to stun some of the medical staff and cause the civilians who heard it to

scream.

Scott fired into the man’s chest again with little discernible effect when a loud report from just over his

shoulder was heard and the man’s head jerked back. A new red eye presented itself in the center of the

forehead followed by a fountain of crimson and pinkish brain matter spraying out behind him to paint the

wall in modern gore abstract. The infected man dropped to the tile floor with a thud.

Scott turned to look behind him and saw Waller standing there, an M4 still to his shoulder the barrel

slightly smoking.

Several medics rushed forward to check on the man that Waller had just shot. Barnes watched as the

doctors working on the bitten woman stopped and stood up. The floor around them was thick with blood

and used bandages. Barnes saw that the woman’s eyes were open and staring at the ceiling, her skin pale

as blood slowly pumped out of the grievous injury on her neck.

“Everyone step back, get away from her,” Barnes ordered as he gestured with his arms and hands to back

away. Scott walked over and looked down at the woman, his sidearm still in his hand.

Waller, still holding the M4, walked over and stood beside Scott.

“We need to get her out of here before people see what happens next,” he stated quietly, looking back

towards the doors that led to the waiting area and overflow area.

Already there were people trying to crowd through to see what was happening. They were being held

back by the hospital security personnel at the far end of the corridor. Barnes quickly motioned over two

medics who lifted the woman onto a gurney, strapped her down, and covered her with a blanket. Barnes

leaned over to speak quietly to the senior NCO and told him where to take the body. Waller cleared the

M4 and handed it back to the soldier in his detail who he had taken it from and walked over to a phone

mounted on the wall. He dialed the number for the command bunker, and then spoke clearly and

concisely.

“This is Waller, lock it down. Yes, everything. Lock it all down, Level 4.” He hung up the phone and

turned to look at Barnes and Scott, his face pale.

“We can’t afford to lose containment. As of right now, this base is sealed.”

***

The soldier at the command bunker who took Waller’s call looked in the SOP for Level 4, did a double

take, and then carefully reread what the procedure was and how to initiate the protocol. He then called the

officer of the day and repeated what General Waller had stated. The officer, a colonel with over twenty

years in, shook his head and started making calls.

All over the installation in the dependent housing area, at unit staff duty desks and warehouses, phones

began to ring. When the phone was answered, a recorded message began speaking. All dependents were

to return to their residence immediately, secure their homes and remain inside. All warehouses were to be

locked, any employees inside were to stay inside until a MP unit could come in and clear them. The Post

Exchange was evacuated and then closed. A dusk to dawn curfew was now in effect. All the gates to the

installation were now closed. No entry or exit was permitted for any reason. The use of deadly force was

in effect for anyone attempting to enter or exit the installation, specifically entering. Almost immediately,

every wife or husband who tried contacting their loved one in uniform found that the cell phone tower on

post had been shut off.

Those that tried to use the landlines were greeted with the busy signal no matter what number they dialed.

As if to drive home the seriousness of the lockdown, a loud siren could be heard. A siren that had never

been used before, not even in practice.

Every soldier who was not currently involved with perimeter patrols was ordered to stand to and await

further orders. Arms were issued from each unit’s armory and details were tasked to take vehicles to the

Ammunition Supply Point (ASP) to get a full combat ammunition load out for their respective units.

One of the Military Police companies was already setting up black and yellow barricades across

intersections and placing 55 gallon barrels, concrete barriers, and sandbags at key locations diverting

traffic and closing roads.

***

MAMC Gate, Joint Base Lewis/McChord, Washington

O’Toole was standing in the roof hatch of his Humvee still observing the I-5 corridor from just outside

the MAMC gate when his radio crackled.

“Relay One-One,” The voice in his ear stated clearly. He didn’t hesitate at all; he slapped the roof of the

Humvee and yelled down to the driver.

“Go! Get us inside now!” The large vehicle started up and quickly entered the base just prior to the MPs

closing the gate. O’Toole turned to look back and watched as one of the MP’s M117 ‘Dragoon’ armored

cars pulled lengthwise behind the gate and the soldier manning the big fifty caliber machine gun swiveled

it to face out and yanked the charging handle to chamber a round. He watched as other soldiers stepped

away from the fence and began to put on their MOPP suits. A squad of light infantry was already in

MOPP Level 4 uncoiling razor wire and stringing it along the fence line. O’Toole faced back forward as

his Humvee entered the parking area for the shoppette and squealed to a stop.

“Bout time you got back, sir,” Sergeant Butler greeted him as he exited the vehicle.

“What’s the deal? We moving to full MOPP?” O’Toole asked seeing his senior NCO in the chemical

protective suit.

“No, we’re going to MOPP 2. Those boys at the gate are at 4,” Butler said as he jerked a thumb in that

direction. “We stay at 2 until we detect an agent or the alarms go off.” He reached up and tapped the

chemical agent detector that was clipped to his tactical vest and pointed to where Sands was opening up

chemical agent test strips. Inside the building, the rest of the team was already donning their MOPP suits.

***

Outside the base, those people stopped in the congested traffic watched as soldiers, now dressed in their

bulky chemical protective suits, secured the gate and began stringing razor wire. In the distance the

warble of an approaching ambulance siren could be heard. The two Washington State Troopers had seen

the Madigan gate close and the armored car pull behind the gate but didn’t know what that meant. The

ambulance slowed as it negotiated the three cars that had previously been disabled, and then pushed as far

to the shoulder as possible. The driver of the aid unit slowed to make the turn into the gate, and then

slammed on the brakes when he saw the gate closed, the armored car, and the large caliber machine gun

pointed in his direction.

“What’s happening up there, Clay?” Marie, the paramedic in the rear, asked as the vehicle came to a

sudden stop.

“Don’t know, Mare. The gates closed and the soldier boys have it blocked with a tank.”

“What?” Marie asked in disbelief. “Find out what they want us to do?”

The paramedic and driver, Clay Skinner, exited the ambulance and slowly approached the gate watching

as the soldier manning the machine gun followed his every move.

“Hey, you gonna let us in or what?” he called out.

“Sir, you need to step back in your vehicle and leave.” The soldier told him, his voice muffled through the

chemical suit hood/mask.

“Leave? We’ve got a casualty onboard; we have to get to the hospital.”

“Sir, you need to get back inside your vehicle and leave,” the soldier repeated.

“Who’s in charge here? I want to speak to someone in charge,” Skinner demanded. He saw another

soldier step from behind the armored vehicle, the black and white MP armband on the bicep of his

uniform, and walk to the fence.

“Sir, you need to leave now. Get back inside your vehicle, turn around and leave,” the new arrival stated

firmly. Skinner could see that the soldier had a rifle in his hands which wasn’t pointed at him but it wasn’t

pointed away from him either. What Skinner didn’t see was the crowd that had gathered at the far end of

the overpass and those that had exited their stalled vehicles, watching and listening.

“Sir, I’m not going to tell you again. Back away from the gate, return to your vehicle, and move on.” The

soldier stated once more.

Skinner stepped forward to the gate but before he could plead his case to the soldier, a squad of soldiers

ran up and took position behind the soldier that had spoken to him. They all aimed their weapons at him.

A wave of cold fear swept through Skinner as he broke out in a sweat.

“Back away from the gate now!” the soldier yelled out as he stepped back and brought his weapon up.

“Get back!” he yelled out.

Skinner instinctively raised his arms above his head and stepped away.

“Get in your vehicle and leave! This gate is closed! This is your last warning!” To confirm that statement,

the soldiers took one step forward, their weapons still aimed at Skinner.

“Okay, okay. I’m leaving.” Skinner got back inside his ambulance and anxiously fumbled with the keys

before he started the engine and backed away from the gate. The crowd of people who had gathered,

parted as he backed the truck up and did a K turn to get back on the freeway.

As he pulled onto the freeway, still shaking and not knowing where he would go to deliver his patient, he

felt dampness on his leg. Looking down to his dark blue pants he realized that he had urinated out of

fright.

Behind him, the gathered crowd began chanting and jeering at the soldiers, soon rocks, soda cans, water

bottles, and other garbage began to sail over the fence and pelt the soldiers manning the roadblock. As the

soldiers ducked away from the barrage of litter thrown their way, the Military Police captain walked over

behind the Dragoon and removed a CS crowd control tear gas grenade from his battle harness. Getting the

attention of the soldiers around him, he pulled the pin and hurled the grenade over the top of the vehicle.

The smoking canister of irritant landed amidst the unruly crowd.

***

CHAPTER 28

The death of the female medic seemed to be the trigger. As if on cue, those Displaced Persons that had

been bitten and treated began to convulse and die; one almost every half hour. It was happening at such a

rapid pace, medics and staff had a hard time transporting the bodies to the Psych Ward. Barnes and Scott

were finally resigned to just securing the body to the bed, and then sealing the room and posting a security

officer or soldier outside the door.

The problem was with the non-bite patients. Most of them were still being seen and were usually in the

same room as those that had been bitten. Space was becoming an issue as more and more of the bite

victims died, resulting in those rooms being filled with bodies waiting their turn to reanimate, while the

non-bitten patient was transferred. When noises and screams began to emanate from those sealed rooms,

the DPs became concerned, scared, and in that fear, somewhat aggressive and apprehensive. One DP

wanted back into the room after hearing the screams coming from inside. He was stopped at the door by

hospital security but the distraction was enough for another man to open the door to another room where

his wife lay strapped to the bed.

Vincent Schultz tentatively entered the room where his wife was. He had been told that she had died and

would be taken to the morgue where he could arrange for her transfer to a funeral home. Somewhere in

the back of his mind, he thought that he had been hurried out of the room as if it was inconvenient to

remain inside.

Now, with the distraction at the other end of the wing, he used that to gain entrance to his wife’s room.

Sliding back the privacy curtain he gazed at the shrouded form of his wife. Pulling back the sheet that

covered her, he gazed at her face. She was still beautiful even in death. Schultz reached his hand out to

touch her when she opened her eyes and fixed him with an animalistic gaze. Taking a startled step back,

Schultz looked at his wife. Her eyes were bloodshot and wild as she met his stare. She began thrashing on

the bed, trying to break free from the restraints that held her. Schultz backed up and continued backing

until he was against the door. Reaching behind his back, he felt for the handle, opened it, and backed out

of the room in a state of shock. He kept backing up until he bumped into the wall across the hall from the

room. Sliding down the wall to sit on the floor he was found a few minutes later by a staff member.

Vincent Shultz was just staring at the door behind which his wife was reanimated.

***

When Sergeant Major Johnson arrived at the Soldier’s Field House he saw that several units had

volunteered personnel to assist with the DPs. Within the interior of the Field House, rooms had been

converted to temporary living spaces by moving the workout equipment to one side and laying down the

exercise mats when possible. The racquet ball courts now contained cots and portable screens to allow

some privacy. What pleased Johnson the most was that at the entrance to the building, an impromptu

check in, had been set up where soldiers took down information so that they knew who was staying there.

At the far end of the parking lot a mobile canteen had been set up so that the DPs could at least get a hot

meal. While military food wasn’t known for its exquisite taste, it was filling. As Johnson walked around

he noticed that there were small groups of DPs that stood and watched what was happening. The

distinctness of those groups was that all of them were men and all had a look about them that bespoke

prior service. Johnson approached one such group and introduced himself. The men recognized his rank

and realized he was the post command sergeant major.

Over the course of the discussion with the group, Johnson conceived of the idea that he could use this

group and their experience to help his people operate the former sports facility, now DP center, more

efficiently. Not everyone was comfortable with a uniform telling them what to do but if these men, now

civilians, if they passed on the information as a sort of liaison between his troops and the DPs, it would

smooth over any hesitation.

Explaining the idea to the former service members, they agreed to help where they could. Johnson turned

to move to the next group when a young female sergeant walked up to him.

“Sergeant Major, your presence has been requested in the command center.”

Johnson nodded. “Thank you, sergeant. Have someone organize some activities for these people to get

their minds off what’s happening.”

“Hoo-ah, Sergeant Major,” the young sergeant replied before she walked off in search of the MWR

representative.

At the 18th CASH compound, although it had set up with the intention to only receive those patients with

no critical injuries, the unit had been taking the overflow from the hospital right up to the time the

installation closed its gates. Not having the information that bite victims would become violent, those

patients that had died of those injuries were being stored in the temporary morgue, a portable air-

conditioned building designed for that purpose.

***

O’Toole stepped out of the shoppette in MOPP level 2 and checked the M8 and M9 chemical detection

paper for signs of any agents present before he checked the badge now affixed to his tactical load bearing

vest.

“Has there been any further information from command?” he asked Butler who stepped out behind him.

“Nothing since they ordered the base sealed. I have Simpson monitoring all bands for any news,” Butler

replied as both men stopped and looked at the MAMC gate just a quarter mile away. They could hear the

yelling and shouting coming from the civilians outside the gate and saw the tendrils of white smoke from

tear gas. Several green suited figures on their side of the fence were moving back and forth with urgency.

“That shit’s going to get worse if some young stud pops a cap into a civvie.” Butler commented.

“No kidding, make sure the boys stay hydrated in this gear,” O’Toole said as he pointed to the MOPP

gear they now wore. “I…” he started to say when gunfire erupted from the 18th CASH compound 200

yards from them.

“What the fuck?” Butler muttered when several figures burst from a tent and began running in all

directions.

The remaining ODA team members ran outside to see what was happening. They all stopped and watched

as more and more people, some in civilian clothes some in uniform, ran amid the tents and vehicles. One

soldier ran in their direction screaming until he stopped by one of the parked Humvees. Leaning forward,

hands on his thighs as he caught his breath, he looked up at the Special Forces soldiers and nodded his

head, and then looked back down at the asphalt then back up and nodded again.

“Soldier, you want to tell us what the fuck is going on over there?” Butler asked directly. The young

medic stood up, and then looked back over his shoulder at where his unit was then back at Butler.

“Shit, sir. All hell’s breaking loose over there.” As if to punctuate his statement, several more shots were

heard, and then a short burst of full auto fire. The ODA had their weapons ready but were unsure how to

proceed; they were casting glances at O’Toole, the young medic and back over across the street.

“What kind of hell is breaking loose over there soldier?” Butler asked overlooking being called ‘sir’.

“It’s the civilians; don’t really know what’s happening but some of them are attacking each other and us.

We were only supposed to get the non-serious injuries but we started getting ones that were really fucked

up.” The soldier looked back over his shoulder before continuing.

“Some of those people were really messed up, bites, massive trauma, shit like that. We had people dying

left and right. Colonel Williams had a temporary morgue brought in and we started cataloging those that

died and putting them in there. But they weren’t dead.”

“What do you mean they weren’t dead?” O’Toole asked.

“I mean they were dead then they weren’t dead. I know it doesn’t make any sense. But they were dead. I

put some in body bags myself. Flatline. Nothing. Dead.”

More small arms fire came from the 18th CASH area as one Humvee with a mounted M249 drove rapidly

across the fields towards the main hospital, the rooftop gunner laying down short bursts in its wake. Two

Military Police Humvees raced the gate towards the collection of tents as a swarm of people surged

towards them.

“Saddle up, people. Get everything that kills,” O’Toole called out to his men.

“Get inside and stay there,” Butler ordered the young medic pointing to the shoppette. O’Toole watched

as the MP Humvees drove into the 18th CASH compound and stopped. Several people, civilian and

military, recognizable from their attire, began clinging to the vehicles. One of the gunners was pulled

from his position and to the ground. Screaming was heard as he saw blood spray up on the side of the

Humvee. The other gunner began firing short bursts into the tents at an unseen threat. He couldn’t believe

what he was seeing.

***

“We need to get these people to another area,” Barnes stated to Scott and Waller. “This will be happening

to everyone who was bitten.”

“All right. Organize a safe and orderly movement. Make sure that everyone is checked,” Scott ordered.

Waller stood off to one side speaking with one of his detail soldiers who handed him a two-way radio.

After a few minutes of speaking quietly into it, Waller handed the radio back and walked over to Scott.

“We’re losing containment at the gate. The MPs report that the crowd outside is becoming very hostile

and there’s already trouble at the CASH.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“I don’t know yet. No one is responding.” Waller looked over at the hospital staff that was just now

starting to move patients into other areas of the hospital before replying. “I’m on my way back to the

command center; I’ll swing through the 18th and see what kind of trouble they have.” Scott nodded as he

watched the faces of the people as they walked past. More than one had an abject look of fear mixed with

uncertainty.

Further down the corridor, a commotion broke out. Waller and Scott craned their necks to see what was

happening when they heard a scream followed by struggling, and then a loud crash as a gurney was

overturned.

“What now?” Waller asked.

One of the soldiers from Waller’s detail jogged back to him from the hallway.

“Sir, there’s more of those things down there. Don’t know where they came from but there’s a shitload of

them. We blocked the door but it won’t hold for long.” Waller nodded, and then looked at Scott for some

direction as it was his hospital.

“We can reroute through Corridor B and try to get to the Medical Mall,” Scott suggested as rifle fire

broke out accompanied with the lighter popping of an M9.

“Let’s get it done,” Waller shouted. He stepped into the hallway.

“Everyone! This way! C’mon!” he yelled as he gestured with his arms.

The civilians ran towards him and were directed to Scott by one of the medics. The screaming and small

arms fire was increasing as the last group of survivors ran past Waller. The only personnel left in the hall

were hospital staff and some of Waller’s detail. The staff were piling items to block the double doors

while the armed soldiers were firing through the small windows to keep whatever was on the other side

from approaching too close.

“Secure that door and let’s move!” Waller called out to them.

“Someone needs to hold this position or no one makes it out! You go! We’ll catch up!” one of the soldiers

called out amid the weapons fire. Waller looked at the small group gathered by the doors and saw a

couple of the unarmed medical staff run his way while the rest kept adding to the barricade. As one of the

staff members ran past him, Waller grabbed his arm.

“Soldier, what happened down there?”

“I don’t know for sure, sir. We had secured a lot of the bodies in their rooms after they died but now they

seem to be out of their rooms. Don’t know how that happened.” Waller released his grip on the man’s

arm.

“Get to the Medical Mall.” Waller took one last look at the brave men and women holding back a horde

of infected, and then turned and started jogging towards the Medical Mall as the soldiers manning the

barricade continued their firing.

***

O’Toole’s team had loaded their gear into the Humvees and sat watching as the CASH compound

continued to erupt into chaos. So far, none of the people from that area had taken notice of the parked

vehicles that were just a few hundred yards from them. They seemed primarily focused on the one MP

Humvee which was still moving. O’Toole sat in the passenger seat and watched the bloody faces of those

infected through binoculars. They were intent on biting, tearing, and quite possibly digesting the bodies of

those uninfected around them. To the infected, being inside the medical area was a target rich

environment. He watched as several of the infected were shot repeatedly with the roof mounted M249

with little to no effect; it was only the lucky head shot that put them down.

Shouting and shooting from his right caused him to turn in that direction. As he focused on the MAMC

gate, he saw the civilians had pushed the gate off its track and several of them were crawling through the

gap. The MPs were firing warning shots in the air and throwing more tear gas to no effect. O’Toole dialed

in the focus on some of the first few to make it through the gap. Their faces were all bloody and they

moved like a pack of hunting animals. A squad of MPs moved to intercept them and the group engaged in

hand to hand combat. More of the bloody faced, red eyed civilians poured through the gap as more

soldiers joined in the battle. Without support, the LID and MP soldiers would have a tough fight on their

hands. Heavy thumping on the hood of O’Toole’s Humvee brought his attention back to the front.

Standing in front of the idling Humvees was a group of the infected made up of civilians and military all

staring at the occupants and swaying side to side as if to the tune of an unheard song.

“Oh, shit,” Williams said quietly from the back seat. The burly Special Forces soldier had a knack for

stating the obvious.

“No one make any sudden moves. Let’s all stay frosty,” O’Toole advised as he lowered his binoculars.

Slowly raising his left hand to key his radio, his right hand moving equally as slow to the M9 in the Serpa

holster mounted to the front of his LBV, he watched the crowd grow in front of him.

“Outlaw Two, Outlaw Six,” he said quietly into his radio as he gripped his sidearm.

“Outlaw Six, go ahead,” Butler replied from the other Humvee.

“No sudden moves over there.”

“Copy that –Six, check your three o’clock.”

O’Toole slowly turned his head a little to the right and using his peripheral vision, saw that none of the

soldiers at the gate were in sight. The only uniforms he saw were on the ground surrounded by the

infected. The crowd from outside the fence was continuing to grow as more and more poured through the

gap heading for the CASH. O’Toole thought he saw a couple of the infected wearing Washington State

Patrol uniforms as they passed by. He tried to see past the group gathered at the front of his vehicle but

was unable to do so due to their shifting back and forth. He did notice that the remaining mobile MP

Humvee had stopped moving. Slowly removing the M9 from the holster on his vest and keyed his radio

as his finger indexed the trigger.

“-Two, - Six, can you see the MP Humvees?”

“Affirm, Six. They ain’t moving and that ain’t good.”

“Copy, Two. On my mark we lay down suppressive fire and move to the hospital.”

“Copy, Six,” O’Toole slowly removed his left hand from the radio, and then passed his M9 from his right

hand to his left placing his right hand on the window handle.

“Okay, everybody. When I roll this window down, get ready.” He slowly cranked the handle until the

window was partially down, it was then he heard the warbling sound emanating from the gathered

infected. It was more like moan that seemed to go up and down in pitch and volume. Passing the M9 back

to his right hand, he keyed his radio.

“Do it.”

The roof mounted M240s, a heavier caliber machine gun than the M249, on both Humvees opened up

and cut through the massed infected, while the occupants fired their weapons out the windows. Before the

machine guns had finished their short bursts, both Humvees laid strips of rubber on the asphalt and

plowed through any infected that were in their path. O’Toole fired his M9 dry as they drove over, past,

and through the infected.

“Loading!” he called out as he dropped out the spent magazine and quickly inserted a new one. By the

time he had accomplished that, both vehicles were away from the horde and almost to the circular drive in

front of the hospital’s main entrance. The Humvees squealed to a stop in front of the main doors. O’Toole

opened his door and stepped out, rifle up and tracking for targets. Two of his team from each vehicle got

out as well.

“Outlaw Two, head to the rear of the building and take up an over watch. I want to know if any more of

those things get through the fence and start heading this way.”

The lead Humvee roared off in a cloud of diesel exhaust, and then hopped the curbing and drove across

the manicured lawns to the rear of the building leaving fresh dirt exposed in its wake. O’Toole leaned

down to the open window on his vehicle.

“Sands, you and the rest wait here and give us seven minutes. If we’re not back by then, head to Outlaw

Two’s position and we’ll catch up.” O’Toole motioned for the soldier on foot to follow him and ran to the

main doors of the hospital.

***

“Seal off the Mall! Close the security gates!” Waller yelled out as he entered the Medical Mall. General

Scott had already thought of that and had his key out and inserted in the security slot to close the gates.

Waller and Scott stood there for several tense seconds as the security gates rolled down from the ceiling

effectively sealing their section from the rest of the facility. Both men breathed an audible sigh of relief as

each gate closed and locked into position. Waller turned and watched as Barnes organized his remaining

staff and began checking on the civilian survivors.

“What about the rest of the tower?” Waller asked Scott.

“No problem.” Scott showed him his key ring, “I can lock out the elevators to those floors. That should

prevent spreading.” Scott walked over to a recessed panel on the wall, used another key to open it, and

then slid the correct key in, turned it, and shut off all the elevators in the building. Closing the panel, he

turned to speak to Waller when a resounding metal bang caused both men to jump. The metal mesh

security gate was vibrating wildly from the mass of infected beating on it.

“How long will that hold?” Waller asked.

“I don’t know. They’re built pretty solid but under that kind of force, it’s unknown. We should move

deeper into the Mall and find an area we can secure.” Waller nodded agreement and moved off to find

what was left of his detail. As he passed the Infectious Disease Clinic, he saw Barnes and several other

hospital staff wrestling with large Pelican cases and deployment bags.

“What are you doing?”

“We need this equipment to help run a diagnosis.” Waller nodded and grabbed the handle of the nearest

wheeled case and started pulling it out of the clinic. Pulling it to where the rest of the survivors were at,

he set it down, and then moved off to check on the exterior doors. One of the soldiers that had been

assigned to the hospital as extra security was already at the doors looking out at the field where 18th

CASH had set up.

“How’s it look out there?”

“Not good. Two Humvees are stopped dead center of the field hospital. I can’t see anyone in them or

anyone around them at all,” the soldier replied without turning. “I can’t see the gate from here so I don’t

know what’s happening over there. There’s a lot of people moving around over there but they’re moving

weird.”

The soldier continued before he turned to see who had asked him the initial question. “Uh, sir,” he added

once he saw Waller standing there. Waller smirked and patted the man on the shoulder.

“Good report, soldier. Keep an eye out for any thing, or anyone heading this way.”

“Hoo-ah, sir,”

Waller walked back to where the survivors had arranged themselves in the seating area as Barnes was

inventorying the cases and bags that his staff had removed from the ID clinic.

Outside the security gate, large numbers of infected had formed with the intention of getting to the people

they knew were on the other side. The infected at the front of the horde were pressed into the mesh by the

mass behind them. Further back in the corridor, one infected was dragging a chair. Before it had

succumbed to the virus, one of its arms had been strapped to a chair for blood withdrawal. Now, lacking

the basic knowledge on how to extricate itself from the furniture, it just dragged it along occasionally

swinging the chair against the walls.

General Scott made sure that no one was in direct view of the security gate in hopes that if the infected

couldn’t see their target, they wouldn’t try to force themselves through the gate. The chair-swinging

ravager arrived at the gate and began waving its arms around, knocking other infected away with the chair

until one leg connected with the fire alarm box on the wall. By chance the connection between the chair

leg and the system’s pull down lever was enough to activate it. A shrill siren sounded and strobe lights

began to flash.

“We have a fire!” Scott yelled over the noise. The medical staff moved to calm down the survivors.

“Where is it?” Waller called out looking around to see if he could see smoke or flame. Scott ran to the fire

control panel located on the wall behind the piano and looked for an indication. The light board showed

him what alarm had been activated but none of the other sensors showed any indication of an actual fire.

He heard a rumble from the corridor where the gate was. Running to that area, he watched in horror as the

security gate slowly started to rise back up into the ceiling.

Racing back to the main area, he called out. “We need to move! Now! We need to move!” The survivors

panicked and started running in all direction. Some ran to the main doors and beat against the glass while

others ran to clinic doors and beat on them. Waller, Barnes, and Scott grabbed people next to them and

shouted at them to calm down.

“Get to the Pharmacy!” Scott yelled out over the screams and sirens. Several staff members herded the

civilians in that direction. Scott pushed through the crowd, fumbling with his key ring. When a fire broke

out, the security gates automatically retracted to allow exit, however, the pharmacy security gates rolled

down to protect the contents. These weren’t mesh gates but solid, fire-resistant barriers that sealed off that

section completely. Waller shouted and gestured to people to follow Scott as he saw the first of the

infected emerge from the hallway. The sirens and strobes seemed to distract the infected at first, but then

the movement of the survivors spurred them into action.

Waller watched as more and more infected filed into the mall. Grabbing a civilian that was still beating

her hands against the glass doors that led outside, Waller half dragged, half carried her to the Pharmacy.

Pushing her inside the room, he drew his sidearm and waited until Scott used his keys to lower the

security gate that sealed off the Pharmacy hallway.

“C’mon! Move your ass!” Waller called out to the other general. Scott removed his key ring as he jogged

over to the door. Waller shoved him inside, and then stepped inside and slammed the door behind him.

Scott used another key and lowered the barrier over the door.

Waller looked at the people gathered in the waiting room and did a quick head count. He came up with a

small number. There were only twenty-five people in the room including Barnes, Scott a mixed group of

frightened civilians, soldiers, medical staff and himself. He shook his head in dismay; what happened to

all the rest? He asked himself. The barrier lessened the wail of the fire sirens but there was still a strobe

light flashing, illuminating the darkened room with flashes of light. One soldier stood on a chair and

smashed the strobe with his rifle butt. A few seconds later, dim emergency lighting kicked in bathing the

room in a soft orange glow.

“There should be a way for us to get out through the delivery area and make our way to the command

center,” Scott said in response to a question asked by Barnes.

***

Command Sergeant Major Johnson was looking over the shoulder of one of the soldiers who was

monitoring the radio net. As he listened he heard units calling in with SITREPs. Johnson walked over to

the officer of the day, Colonel Owen.

“Colonel,” Johnson said in greeting.

“Sergeant Major.”

“What’s the latest?” Johnson asked.

Owen sighed quietly, then pointed to the large, wall mounted multi-function display showing the borders

of the installation.

“We’ve got several Predators on station monitoring our perimeter. As you can see, the one over the

MAMC Gate is showing a breech,” Owen said.

Johnson watched as Owen manipulated the hand held controller until the screen resized to show several

views fro the overhead UAVs. He zoomed in to show masses of people flowing through the gate and

around the parked MP Dragoon. Pulling back and focusing on another image showing the main gate to

JBLM. Owen finally pulled up the screen that showed the 18th CASH area, and the Madigan Shoppette.

The throng of infected had spread that far and was heading directly towards the hospital. Owen turned to

look at Johnson.

“Any word from General Waller?” Owen asked.

“Not since he went to MAMC,” Johnson replied. All the way back from the SFH, Johnson had tried to

reach Waller with no luck. Movement on the big screen that showed the hospital caught Johnson’s

attention.

“What’s that?” he asked as he pointed to the screen. Owen manipulated the remote before the image

cleared up and zoomed in on two Humvees speeding up to the main entrance of the hospital. Five forms

exited from the vehicles before one Humvee drove across the grass and around the side of the hospital,

stopping just short of the helipad.

“Who’s that?” Johnson asked.

“I don’t know.” Owen turned to one of the soldiers nearby. “See if you can find out who that is at the

hospital.”

“Yes, sir.” The two men watched the screen as the five figures disappeared under the overhang of the

main entrance. The image pulled back to show the mass of infected slowing down as it reached 18th

CASH.

***

Inside the hospital, O’Toole and four members of his ODA element just entered the building when the fire

alarm went off. The men moved to whatever cover they could find. The main lobby was empty. No one

was at the desk or walking the halls. O’Toole motioned the group forward with hand signals as voice

communication was next to impossible with the blaring fire siren. The men moved quickly through the

halls searching for anyone that may be alive and hiding or infected and violent. The flashing strobe lights

cast shadows that made it difficult to verify what was just an image or what might be a hostile. Room

after room, office after office was empty or locked. Seeing the signs to the logistical area, O’Toole

motioned his men in that direction.

He knew that from that location access to the entire hospital was possible by using the automated,

replenishment cart elevator shafts and service hallways. Bursting into the logistics area, his men fanned

out and secured the other entrances, and then moved to clear the supply rack area. They could find no sign

of the civilian workers that were normally in this area. One of his men, Gillette, the team SOTIC stood in

front of the main fire control panel and looked at the indicators. Letting his rifle hang from its sling, he

pulled out his Leatherman tool, popped the cover off the panel, and cut the wires to the siren and strobe

lights. The sudden silence was deafening as each man stopped what they were doing and looked around.

O’Toole walked over to where Gillette stood, snapping the cover back on the panel.

“Thanks, Razor. That was becoming a bit annoying. Where did it originate from?”

“Looks like the main hall outside the Medical Mall,” Gillette replied; indicating above the panel to the

wall mounted hospital map with the pliers end of his multi-tool.

“Okay, let’s head that way and see what we can see.”

O’Toole twirled his left hand in the air, and then pointed to the doors leading out into the main hospital.

His men moved carefully and quietly, only the slight squeak of their boots on the tile an indication of

their presence. Moving through the strangely deserted corridors of the main hospital, signs of struggle

could be seen in certain areas. Overturned furniture, smashed windows, empty magazines, and spent brass

littered one hallway. Blood spatter was on the walls, floor, and at times the ceiling in such great quantity

that it looked more like an off color paint job rather than bodily fluids.

A wide, bloody trail started amid the shredded remains of military, civilian, and medical staff clothing

along with pieces of field gear and unrecognizable material. The ODA stopped at the intersection of the

main corridor and a secondary hallway, seeing more signs of a bloody struggle but no survivors.

“Cap’n,” Gorman, the ODA medic, called out to O’Toole. O’Toole turned and looked in his direction.

Gorman was holding up a combat boot, and then turned the opening so O’Toole could see inside. The

white of bone was visible. Gorman dropped the boot. Gillette peered into one of the rooms through the

small window set in the door.

“Captain, you’re going to want to see this,” he said. O’Toole moved over to look through the window and

saw the room inside in shambles with blood spray patterns on the floor, walls, and window.

“Doesn’t look like anyone made it out of here,” Gorman stated flatly as he looked around the hallway

trying hard not to look too closely at the mixed organic and inorganic debris scattered about. Williams

picked up a discarded M9, with the slide locked back. He hit the slide release, and then tucked the pistol

into his belt. O’Toole looked around wishing he didn’t recognize some of the items strewn about and

realizing then that their search for survivors was fruitless.

“Pull back to the main entrance,” O’Toole ordered.

***

CHAPTER 29

Waller and Scott had managed to open one of the main loading dock doors at the rear of the pharmacy.

Sending one soldier outside to secure the immediate area, both general officers decided that the best

course of action would be to head to the main road then follow that to the command center. The plan was

that once they reached the main road, there had to be other units securing various intersections. Waller

watched Barnes as he stood to one side and shook his head.

“What’s wrong, doctor?”

“We left all the diagnostic equipment from the ID clinic out in the mall.” Waller hadn’t noticed that in the

mad rush to reach the pharmacy, no one had grabbed any of the pre-packed deployment bags or Pelican

cases that Barnes had salvaged from the Infectious Disease Clinic.

“Come on, Doc. You know there wasn’t any time to grab that gear. Those things would have been all over

us.” Barnes nodded solemnly knowing that the other man was correct. Waller gestured to Barnes to join

the group as they made their way out the roll up door.

Once outside, Scott and another soldier pulled the door down and secured it as best they could. Waller

was kneeling on one knee by the end of the loading ramp looking out at the fields around the building.

Barnes and his staff had gathered all the civilian survivors into one group with two of the soldiers

flanking them. Forming an outer ring was the remaining hospital staff with Barnes in the lead. He had

already discarded his white smock before exiting the building. Scott crouch-walked to Waller and the two

men spoke quietly for several seconds as they checked their sidearms.

“We head that way towards 41st Division Drive, maybe skirting the tree line for better cover,” Waller

suggested as he motioned with the barrel of his M9.

“I was thinking of using the building for cover, stay close to it, then head to 41st,” Scott stated as he

ejected the magazine from his pistol, looked at the rounds inside then slid it into the butt of his M9 and let

the slide travel forward, stripping a fresh round into the chamber.

“Heading to the tree line with a gaggle of civilians on our ass? Not a good option. They don’t have

training like us old warhorses do. They’ll be spread all over hell’s half acre,” Scott continued, “Look at

them. They’re in no shape to deal with this.” Scott tilted his head in the direction of the rest of the group.

Waller nodded without looking, already knowing what condition the survivors were in.

“Okay, we circle the main building, using it as cover until we get to the road, then use that to get to main

post. Smooth surfaces are easier on warhorses,” Waller said. Both men nodded then turned and crouch

walked back to the survivors and Barnes’ group.

“We’re going to move quickly and quietly and head for main post. Everyone needs to pair up and stay

together.” Waller saw the looks on the survivor’s faces. The civilians and some of the medical staff

looked scared shitless but they all nodded agreement.

“Let’s go,” Waller commanded and took the lead with one of the soldiers. Scott waited for the rest before

he took up the rear to keep everyone together and watch for stragglers.

The group walked quickly around the side of the main building and headed for the overflow parking lot

that bordered 41st Division Drive.

The loud blatting of a diesel engine was heard as a Humvee drove slowly in the direction of the helipad.

Topping a small rise, the group saw that there was a second Humvee already parked at the helipad. Waller

motioned to the soldier next to him to jog on ahead and find out who that was. Waller halted the group at

the top of the rise and watched as the soldier ran up to the two Humvees. Men poured out of the vehicles

and set up a security perimeter. Two men and the soldier ran back to Waller. One man, a captain, snapped

off a salute to Waller who returned it.

“General, Captain O’Toole, 1st Group.”

“Good to see you, Captain.”

O’Toole looked over at the group of survivors. “We didn’t know anyone was left alive inside the

hospital.”

“Most of us made it out,” Waller stated without further comment. O’Toole nodded as he remembered the

bloody hallway he and his men had found.

“Let’s get these people out of here. We were heading back to 1st Group to resupply. We can drop these

people somewhere,” O’Toole offered as he motioned to the vehicles.

The men who had exited and set a perimeter jogged over as the two Humvees started up and drove to the

rise. O’Toole did a head count and realized that there was no way everyone was going to fit in the

vehicles. He turned to his unit and directed everyone but a driver and gunner to exit, and then started

loading as many people as possible. Squeezing four people into the backseat plus the one in the front

passenger seat left four civilians without a ride. Opening the rear hatchback, he placed two people per

vehicle in that area. That left only the remaining hospital staff, the soldiers, and the general officers

without transportation.

“Sir, if you don’t mind a short walk, we can get you a ride to main post once we reach Group,” O’Toole

said. Waller nodded as he looked around at the remaining people.

“That’ll do just fine, Captain.” O’Toole motioned for the Humvees to leave and watched as they drove

slowly across the fields until they reached the main road, and then disappeared out of sight.

O’Toole looked around at his men, and then looked at Sergeant Butler, put his index finger to his eye then

pointed at the two general officers. Butler nodded, pointed to Anderson who nodded and moved to flank

the the command officers on the right while Butler took the left. O’Toole and two others moved close to

Waller. The rest of the ODA would form a security cordon around the remaining medical staff. The group

moved off at a quick pace towards the 1st Special Forces Group Compound.

***

Sergeant Major Johnson and Colonel Owen watched the entire event as it unfolded via the MFD on the

wall as the Predator UAV’s cameras sent back real time imagery.

“I don’t know who that is just yet, but they’re heading towards main post,” Owen stated. Johnson

watched as the other group now on foot was moving in that same general direction but once reaching the

main road, turned towards the Special Forces compound.

“They’re SF,” Johnson stated. Owen looked at the MFD and saw the group enter the Special Forces

compound. They both watched as the group split up, some heading for the motor pool and the rest

heading for the command building. A soldier walked up to Johnson a few seconds later.

“Sergeant Major, a call for you from General Waller,” Johnson followed the soldier back to the

communications section and picked up the phone.

“Good to hear from you, sir,” Johnson said as he put the handset to his ear. He listened for several

minutes, nodding once or twice before he hung up.

“Colonel,” Johnson called to the officer of the day then motioned to the briefing room. Once both men

were inside and Johnson had shut the door, he turned to the officer.

“I just got off the phone with General Waller. MAMC has been lost.” He paused, and then continued

before the officer could speak. “He ordered us to act as if this were a viral agent; one that infects people

through bites, and then turns them violent. Violent enough to attack anyone not infected.” He paused

again to watch for a reaction. “This viral agent is not airborne so far as we know but it does appear to be

transferred via bites. And it reanimates the dead.”

There was silence from Owen as he analyzed what Johnson had just said.

“Wait just a minute. I’m no virologist or a doctor but dead is dead. Bodies don’t get up and walk around

after they’re dead,” Owen stated.

“I know,” Johnson nodded, “But apparently this virus can do it. Maybe it just makes the person look like

they’re dead, lowers their vitals way down. I don’t know all the facts. General Waller has Madigan’s chief

resident with him. He said they’ll explain it in more detail as soon as they get here. Until then, he wants

all units to shoot on sight any infected within the perimeter of this installation. I think those orders would

carry more weight if you were the one to issue that order.”

“Of course, I’ll pass that along,” Owen said as he exited the briefing room. Johnson sat down and blew

out a breath. What Waller had said sounded almost like the ravings of a lunatic. If Johnson hadn’t seen

what had happened at the MAMC gate and in the 18th CASH area via the UAV’s cameras he would’ve

had a hard time believing such a thing was possible.

***

CHAPTER 30

Colonel Richard Carter, Commander of 1st Special Forces Group listened as Waller briefed him on what

had happened at MAMC. Carter, a Special Forces ‘lifer’ was relaxed and sipped coffee while Waller

detailed the events inside the hospital. Barnes sat in the other chair and added his observations to Waller’s

dissertation. Carter set his coffee mug on the desk top, the US Army Special Forces logo prominently

displayed on it, and then turned to look at the installation map on the wall of 1st Groups Tactical

Operations Center (TOC). Carter tapped the SmartBoard and selected a red icon, and then moved it to

cover the symbol of MAMC.

“General, from what I understand, this situation is more than just a viral issue,” Carter stated as he turned

back around. Barnes nodded and started to speak but Carter raised his hand in a stop motion.

“I’ve heard enough to formulate my own conclusion. The remaining teams I have on post will secure this

area, and then become a mobile reaction force. With your permission,” Carter nodded towards Waller,

although knowing that what his men did was not really the concern of the installation commanding

officer, “those mobile teams will then move around the installation securing vital locations and providing

support as needed.”

“Colonel, when I get back to the command center, I’ll have all the Intel we’ve gathered on this sent to you

as well as any real time imagery. I’m all for using your men as force multipliers and am willing to give

you whatever support you need,” Waller stated. He was all too familiar with how other generals treated

special operations forces. Most Generals considered them a waste of time, prima donnas, and not worth

the support they required.

“Excellent,” Carter stated. “There’s already a vehicle waiting for you and Colonel Barnes out front that

will take you back to main post.” Carter extended his hand to both men, and then motioned them to the

door. He stood just inside the main entrance of the Group command building and watched as the small

convoy of heavily armed Humvees pulled away. Turning around to the staff duty desk he spoke with the

soldier seated there.

“Get me Captains O’Toole, Stiles, Peters, and Holroyd.” Carter then walked down the short hall to the

TOC. In the short time it took for General Waller to get to the main post command center, Colonel Carter

and the four captains of the remaining ODAs had created a plan for securing their compound and with

luck, securing the rest of the installation.

“Jack, you and Roger have the Log Center and the ASP to secure,” Carter said as he pointed to the

locations on the installation map indicating the areas that Captain Peters and Captain Holroyd would need

to reach. “It’s imperative that we secure the gates to the Log Center, then secure all the buildings in that

area. When that is done, secure all the gates in between there and here.” Carter looked up at the men

gathered in the briefing room watching as they took notes. “That means the gates between Old Madigan

and the Log Center.” Old Madigan was the section of the installation where the original base hospital had

been built back in the early 1900s. Now, that area was mostly open fields with just a few buildings

remaining that were in use.

“Deck, I want your boys to secure this compound with the assistance of the remaining B and C teams.”

Carter continued. “George, your ODA has the job of securing the airfield. If we lose air support, we lose

the base. Coordinate with 16 CAB and the boys over at 160th SOAR. I also want a back door out of here

if this goes south. Deck, I want you to place your other element in an overwatch position at the East Gate.

Once Jack and Roger secure their objectives, they’ll send over some of their people over to relieve your

element. I’ll need them back here to coordinate with the B and C teams. The remaining elements will

operate as a mobile reaction force. Any questions?” Carter stood upright and looked at the competent men

gathered around him.

“All right, people; let’s move like we got a purpose,” Carter said in way of dismissal.

***

General Waller’s arrival at the command center was not with fanfare, marching bands, or a catered party.

Instead, he was greeted with SITREPs from units and the problem with containment in the MAMC area.

Already several companies of the 25th LID had been dispatched to support the 555th Combat Engineers.

Triple Nickel was tasked with securing the gate once the 25th had cleaned out the infected from that area.

Colonel Knight from the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, Airborne, had sent several of his

aircraft to assist. However, there was a distinct hesitation at using airborne weapons platforms to engage

the infected outside the perimeter of the installation. That hesitation didn’t apply to the infected still

roaming the 18th CASH cantonment area. With the combined firepower of Knight’s gunships and those

of 16 Combat Aviation Brigade, the hostiles in the open fields between MAMC and the CASH site were

swiftly dealt with. The gunships raked the area with their chain guns until nothing was left but smoking

ruin and puddles of gore. The 25th LID rolled through in company strength to sweep and clear but found

nothing moving, alive or infected. The gunships then moved to secure the area around the MAMC gate.

Using the MP Dragoon as an aiming point, the gunships lined up and one after the other fired their

remaining ordnance into the massed horde of ghouls that crowded the opening.

When the smoke cleared, the overpass connecting the installation to the city of Lakewood and Camp

Murray had collapsed, several cars were overturned and burning. The infected mass had been shoved

back across the freeway. Triple Nickel moved in with support from the 25th and secured the gate. Placed

in rapidly poured concrete, the engineers repaired the fence posts damaged in the initial and gunship

attack while others uncoiled razor wire and still another group placed concrete barriers. In a matter of

hours the gate area was heavily fortified with several layers of defense.

“I want Observation Posts (OP) set up at these locations. They see anything I want to hear about it,”

Waller stated as he pointed to locations on the map of the installation spread out on the briefing room

table. Around the table, officers stood representing units from engineering to aviation, all in full battle

gear.

“By now you’ve all heard what happened at Madigan. We can’t afford to have any infected get a foothold

inside the wire. That means extreme measures for anyone who is bitten.” He looked around the room,

meeting each man’s eyes before he returned to his briefing. “Any infected are to be engaged with extreme

prejudice.”

Waller dismissed all the gathered men but one, Colonel Harris, the commanding officer of the 62nd

Medical Group. Waller motioned Harris to a seat, pulled out a cigar, cleanly snipped the end off, and then

lit it.

“Bob, I know you’re still reeling from the loss of personnel,” Waller stated referring to the 18th CASH.

“And you know by now that we’ve lost the hospital,” Waller said as he blew a smoke ring towards the

ceiling. Harris placed his helmet on the table and leaned back in his chair.

“There is a dire need for a medical facility on this post. You find a place and set one up.” Harris nodded

as he thought of the best location to set up a large field hospital.

“I understand, sir. With your permission, I plan on using the large fields across from the main PX.”

Waller nodded agreement. Harris stood, picked up his helmet, saluted, and then left the building. Waller

leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling tiles while his mind wandered.

What were the long-term problems? How long before this virus burns itself out or grows beyond

reasonable containment? How long can we hold out? Waller mentally asked himself these questions.

***

Colonel Carter’s Special Forces soldiers were highly efficient in their tasks. One ODA sealed the

Logistics Center’s exterior gate while another took care of both the gates that led into the main post

including the one that opened to the Old Madigan complex. Rendezvousing at the rail head almost in the

middle of the Log Center, both teams took a moment to look around. The large warehouses and other

ancillary buildings were spaced haphazardly around the area with two main rail lines paralleling the larger

group of warehouses. A slight breeze was blowing, stirring up dust, whistling through the buildings, and

making the Cytisus scoparius, better known as ‘Scotch Broom’ wave slowly. A coyote ran across the road

leading to the DRMO warehouses in the distance. The stillness was broken as the ODA vehicles started

up with a rumble of diesel engines. The Humvees roared off, leaving behind wisps of dirt and the clatter

of pea gravel as it was thrown out of the large lug tires.

ODA-181 sped along 2nd Division Drive as it circled the far end of Gray Airfield. Their objective was to

secure the main control tower and as many of the hangars as possible. The two Humvee convoy turned

right at the stop sign and drove past several of the armor brigade’s buildings before making another turn

onto the airfield itself. Some of the units in that area had already placed concrete barriers and razor wire at

the main entrance to the field.

Soldiers manned these barricades but waved the Special Forces Humvees through. Once inside the

perimeter, the vehicles split up; one Humvee heading for the control tower, the other to the 160th SOAR

hangar. A short time later, an Air Force CCT unit arrived and set up shop in the control tower followed by

a squad from Alpha Company 2/75 Rangers now assigned to them as security.

***

Waller was still sitting in the briefing room reviewing SITREPs and other information when Colonel

Owen stuck his head in the room.

“General? Do you have a moment?” Waller motioned Owen inside.

“Sir, we need to institute some sort of procedure for a long term siege,” Owen began as he opened a

folder he had been carrying. “I have the initial inventory of supplies on hand. It’s not bad but we also

need to think about the dependents on post. Last count we had 4000 family members, that’s a combined

number including children. We also have 250 retirees, reservists, and survivors that were on post when

we locked down. That gives us 4250 extra bodies to worry about and a large number of non-combatants

within our perimeter. Granted, that number can be decreased once we review the medical status of the

retirees and make a determination if some will be combat effective. But, that still leaves us with the issue

of fresh food supply. There are literally tons of MREs in storage. That’s not the problem. The problem is

the Commissary. There needs to be some sort of regulation in place when, not if, the dependents want to

restock their own pantries.” Waller nodded agreement. He had been thinking along those same lines on

and off over the last few hours.

“I agree, there needs to be something done to prevent problems. What do you suggest?” Waller asked.

Owen closed his folder, and then leaned back.

“I hate to use the term ‘rationing’ but that might not be a bad idea. Several ideas have found their way to

my desk that show promise. One in particular involved shopping by street and address. That would work

better than trying alphabetical or by unit. What those dependents don’t get from the Commissary, we can

supplement with MREs. That’s a short term solution. Long term is unknown. If we had more information

on what this is, how long it’s projected to last, and if we can expect any support, we could formulate a

more effective plan.” Waller nodded at the idea. While it would take some getting used to, most residents

could adapt to the method.

“Colonel, what you mention is all part of the big picture but right now, I’m more concerned about

checking out those survivors we have scattered all over this post and making sure that the infected inside

Madigan stay there. While we’re on the long-term topic, we need to establish concentric rings of defense

around the core of the installation. Losing any more critical facilities is not an acceptable option.”

Owen started to speak when a junior officer knocked on the door to the conference room.

“General, there’s something you need to see sir.” Waller stood, and then exited the room followed by

Owen. The junior officer directed the men to the MFD. Sergeant Major Johnson was already there and

watching the screen.

“Sergeant Major, what do you have?” Waller asked. Johnson shook his head.

“It’s not good, sir,” Johnson stated as he pointed to the upper right corner of the screen.

“Carson, zoom in that section,” Johnson directed the sergeant seated at a nearby console. The image

resized and changed to show the section in question now full screen.

“What we’re looking at is the perimeter of McChord. From I-5 there’s limited access mainly due to that

big ass gravel pit,” Johnson used a pointer to indicate where he was talking about. “That’s the good news.

Bad news is General Huber has been calling, asking for more support. I sent him some MPs and a

company of sappers (combat engineers) but he’s pretty insistent about wanting more.” Johnson looked

over to the drone controller and nodded.

“While that is a concern, this is our main concern,” he said as he stepped back to allow Waller to see the

full screen.

Shapes were moving down the freeway, funneled between the stopped cars. The amount of people made it

difficult to get an accurate count.

“What are we seeing?” Waller asked.

“Civilians coming from Tacoma and surrounding areas,” Johnson stated. The shapes on the screen moved

strangely, bumping into each other and the stopped cars as if they didn’t see them.

“Are they?”

“Infected? Oh yes, sir. They most certainly are,” Johnson replied.

“How many?” Owen asked.

“All of them it looks like,” Johnson stated.

General Waller, Colonel Owen, and Command Sergeant Major Johnson watched the MFD as the massive

horde of infected streaming out of Tacoma advanced mile after mile towards Joint Base Lewis/McChord.

Inside the command center, soldiers stopped what they were doing and stared at the images on the large

screen. Johnson was the first to notice how quiet the center had become. Looking around at the men and

women gathered there, he saw for the first time, fear on their faces. No matter how well prepared they

were for conflict, this was not something they had been trained for. Johnson leaned over to Sergeant

Carson, who was seated at the console monitoring the Predator UAV sending back the images, and

nudged him on the shoulder. Carson blinked a few times, and then resized the image to the small upper

right corner that it had been. Johnson looked around at the soldiers who had stopped what they were

doing.

“Show’s over, people. Get back to work,” he barked gruffly. Owen and Waller noticed the lack of

activity. Waller indicated the conference room and both men headed in that direction. Owen closed the

door, and then leaned against it.

Waller walked over to the large map of Joint Base Lewis/McChord on the wall. His eyes wandered over

the laminated form, squinting occasionally. Finally, shaking his head he turned to Owen.

“We don’t have the numerical superiority. For all we know those infected are coming from further north.

Seattle, maybe even as far as the Canadian border,” Waller surmised.

“Sir, if that’s true then this has spread further and faster than anyone could have predicted,” Owen stated.

There was a knock on the door.

“Come,” Waller said loudly. The conference room door opened and a junior officer poked his head in the

room.

“Sir, Sergeant Major Johnson asked me to get you. There’s something he wants you to see.”

Both of the officers followed their younger guide back to the main room of the command center.

“Sir, we just re-tasked the northern most drone. You’re going to want to see this.” Johnson said as he

pointed to the MFD. The image resized to show the south Tacoma area. Several buildings and what

looked like entire neighborhoods, were ablaze. Vehicles of all kinds including emergency service vehicles

could be seen in the streets, on the sidewalks, and even partially inserted into a Denny’s restaurant. What

stood out amidst all that chaos was the sheer number of infected moving like army ants amongst the

destruction and moving south, literally devouring what was in front of them. The mass was heading

straight for them using the I-5 corridor and growing in numbers exponentially as it moved.

“My God,” Owen muttered as he stared at the display. Waller turned to Sergeant Carson, the NCO in

charge of monitoring the UAV feed.

“Sergeant, your task is to keep an eye on this situation. I want approximate numbers and speed along with

an ETA to this post. You will inform me when that larger group reaches the 512 interchange.”

“Hoo-ah, sir.”

Waller motioned to Owen and Johnson, and then to the conference room.

***

CHAPTER 31

Colonel Daniel Knight, Commander of the 4th Battalion/160

th Special Operations Aviation Regiment,

Airborne, stationed at JBLM, was dressed in his flight suit standing by one of the MH-60M Black Hawks

that made up part of the medium assault helicopter company in his unit. He was looking over the flight

log for that aircraft. Standing next to him were a warrant officer and one of the aviation mechanics.

“Looks good, nothing to worry about,” Knight said as he closed the log and handed it back to the warrant

officer. Outside the hangar, Knight could hear the high pitched buzzing as another Predator UAV took to

the air. Across the field, he saw aircraft from the 16 Combat Aviation Brigade (CAB) refueling and

rearming for another run. The deep thumping of a heavy lift helicopter brought his attention to the MH-

47G Chinook, one of the birds from his heavy assault helicopter company as it flared to a landing outside

the hangar. The large double rotor helicopter threw up a cloud of fine grit as it settled onto its landing

gear and dropped the rear ramp. The noise level of the turbines mounted high over the rear of the ungainly

aircraft decreased in pitch as the rotors slowed. Knight waited just inside the hangar for the flight crew to

exit. He watched as the crew clad in OD Nomex flight suits stepped out and walked towards him.

“Sir, didn’t expect to see you here,” Chief Warrant Officer Two, Dwight Manning, said in way of

greeting as he casually saluted his superior officer. Knight returned the salute as more men and equipment

exited from the rear ramp of the helicopter.

“Is that all of them?” Knight asked referring to the Disaster Medical Assistance Teams (DMAT) and the

Chemical, Biological, Incident Response Teams, (CBIRT) that had been deployed. Manning turned to

look back at the soldiers off-loading his aircraft.

“Yes, sir. That’s all of them that we could find.” Knight nodded and did a quick count. Of the teams that

had been sent out by Waller to set up aid stations at rest stops, this small number was all that was left.

“That’s it?” Knight asked.

“It’s pretty wild out there, sir. Quite a few of those pickups looked like combat zones or were hot LZs.

The others? Well, they just weren’t there anymore.” Manning shook his head as he spoke. “After that last

pickup, we swung over Saint Joseph’s, then looped over hilltop and the college. I wanted to see if any of

our teams had moved to the hospital. That got a bit hairy. On the way out we caught small arms fire from

the hilltop.” Manning shook his head again as he made the comment. “Fucking gangbangers. You’d think

that they would want us to help them not try to shoot us down. Reminded me a lot of the ‘Stan. Really

shook White up when we started catching rounds,” Manning stated as he mentioned his younger copilot.

“Speaking of fires, half of the college is on fire. And there’s infected people wandering around

everywhere, madness,” Manning said shaking his head again.

Knight nodded agreement as he had already been briefed on what was happening outside the post.

***

General Waller was seated at the conference table with maps of JBLM and the surrounding area spread

out before him. For the last several hours he had been making notes as he poured over the information.

During that time, Colonel Owen had been trying to reach the Pentagon and the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

Unable to contact higher command, Owen then ordered two soldiers to start dialing DSN numbers to see

what installations were still on the net.

“Sir?” Owen asked as he stuck his head in the conference room. Waller looked up over the half glasses

that were perched on his nose and motioned him inside. Owen entered, and then closed the door behind

him before taking a seat.

“Anything new to report?” Waller asked as he continued studying the maps.

“Yes and no, nothing from JSC.” Owen unconsciously shook his head as if trying to understand why.

“We did get hold of NORAD. General Wilbur passed on information that POTUS and several other

officials have already been evacuated to secondary locations and NIMIC has been sealed. That might

explain why no contact with JCS. Wilbur’s had nothing new from Dietrich since all this started. As a

precaution, he sealed the mountain.”

“NIMIC being sealed doesn’t account for lack of communication. If anything, there should be more

comm traffic. This doesn’t make any sense at all.” Waller shook his head disgustedly.

Owen leaned back in the chair, more tired than he could remember, as he stared at the ceiling acoustical

tiles. Waller looked up at the silence and saw the haggard expression on the other man’s face.

“When was the last time you slept?” Waller asked.

“I don’t know, sometime yesterday I think,” Owen replied. “What day is today?” he added in a weak

attempt to inject humor.

Waller nodded; he had been working on strong coffee, bland food, adrenaline, and determination since he

had first been contacted by Mayor Hoades earlier this morning. Or was that yesterday morning? he asked

himself. Since the MAMC gate breech, he had tried to reach her with no luck. The conference room door

opened as a captain opened the door and stuck his head in.

“General Waller, a call for you on line 3. It’s General Huber at McChord.” Waller picked up the phone

and punched the flashing button.

“Waller here,”

“Doug? Jack here at McChord.” Waller could visualize the other general at the adjoining US Air Force

base smoking a Cuban cigar and sitting in his dark paneled office.

“What can I do for you, Jack?”

“I want to thank you for the units you sent my way. Now let me toss a little something your way.”

“All right, I’m listening.”

Waller leaned back, removed his glasses and set them on the table.

“You and I both know that this situation is not going well,” Huber commented.

That’s an understatement, Waller thought.

“My Intel staff tells me that several of our installations in Alaska are unaffected as well as Diego Garcia.

Don’t know why that is and I really don’t care. What I’m doing is flying my dependents there. What I’m

offering you is a chance to get in on that.”

Waller sat back in his chair and snapped his fingers at Owen to get his attention. The other man jerked

awake at the sound, unaware he had fallen asleep. Waller motioned him over as he started to quickly write

down what Huber was saying.

“Go on.”

“My dependents are almost all gone and I still have several C5s and C17s, fully fueled with crews just

sitting here.”

“How many?”

“Enough to get all your people out of there,” Huber replied.

Waller sat there in silence for several seconds as he absorbed what Huber was offering him.

“How much time can you give me?” he finally asked.

“Six hours. After that, it’s not likely that we can keep the perimeter secure.”

“Deal,” Waller hung up the phone and turned to Owen. “Round up every bus and cattle car we have on

post. Get to the phone exchange and send out a message, all dependents are allowed one carry-on bag, no

exceptions. Use whatever areas you need to start loading.” Waller handed Owen his notes as he spoke.

Owen quickly read them.

“Yes, sir!” he exclaimed as he ran out of the room. In just a few minutes, every phone in the residential

housing area was ringing.

Soon cars and groups of people on foot were moving towards the sports fields, parking lots, and other

designated locations to begin boarding school buses, troop transports, and any other vehicle capable of

carrying large sums of passengers for the short trip out the back gate of Joint Base Lewis/McChord to

McChord AFB . Soldiers along the road that the buses were taking stopped and watched as their loved

ones were hopefully sent to safety. Faces young, old, with tears of fear and hope, could be seen pressed

against the glass as the vehicles drove away.

Waller was outside getting some fresh air and stretching his legs as he watched the last of the buses drive

off post. Owen walked out the doors of the command center and into the fading light just as the last

Humvee escorting the bus convoy drove past.

“That’s the last of them. The only civilians we have left on post are the DPs at the Field House.” Owen

stated. Waller stood staring at the receding tail lights of the last vehicle before replying.

“What’s the time?” Owen looked at his watch.

“2010 hours, we just completed a major personnel movement in less than five and half hours.” Waller

nodded with a slight grin.

“Status of the OPFOR?” Waller and his staff had taken to calling the infected Opposing Force or OPFOR

some hours ago for lack of a better term.

“No major movements since 1645. However, the 512 mass has grown to what we now estimate to be

250,000. For some reason they seem to be gathering without advancing.”

“Any contact with anyone?” Waller asked, anyone meaning JSC or any other installations.

“One contact, The Rid, but the message just keeps repeating.” Waller raised an eyebrow at that.

“That’s new. A few hours ago, we couldn’t even get JSC. What’s the message?”

“Don’t enter built up areas, terminate infected on sight, and stay indoors. Then the message repeats.”

“That’s real helpful,” Waller stated cynically as he turned and walked back inside the command center,

Owen following him. Walking down the stairs and making a 90 degree turn, Waller nodded to the soldier

on duty, and then opened the cipher lock door and stepped into the well-lit and busy command center.

***

Across the base at the 1st Special Forces Compound, there was a distinct lack of visible activity. Nothing

moved within the fenced area. Darkness had descended with little fanfare and now the only discernible

movement was the natural sway of the trees in the still night. The soldiers on the roof of the four-story

dormitory building saw everything through their night vision goggles. Groups of four men located at each

of the corners of the roof, took turns watching the perimeter of their compound. Two watching with two

resting. Conversation was in whispers and hand signals. Stacked around each group of men were the

implements of war. Boxes of grenades, cases of ammunition, flares, and anti-tank weapons seemed out of

place with cases of bottled water and MREs. Each group had a dedicated sniper/spotter team, a grenadier,

and a M240B machine gun. As the men surveyed the compound and the surrounding area, their gaze

swept over similar positions on the roofs of other buildings. Concrete barricades had been set in front of

the gates while one parking area had been cleared and marked as a helicopter landing zone (LZ).

At the motor pool, Humvees were fully loaded with weapons, ammo, ration packs, and water, ready to

roll at a moment’s notice. At several places within the compound, heavy weapons teams had dug in their

mortars and M2 heavy machine guns. Colonel Carter stepped out of the group headquarters building with

a cup of coffee and looked around his compound. With most of the overhead lights off, the primary

illumination was from the full moon. As his eyes adjusted, he could make out men and equipment behind

sandbagged revetments on roof tops and spread out amongst the buildings.

In the distance he heard the rumble of vehicles, the buses full of dependents as they left the post. Standing

there in the silence as the passing of the large vehicles faded, he heard the crickets chirp and the slight

breeze whisper through the trees. Sipping his coffee he thought back to other times, quieter times, spent at

his cabin in Montana.

The stillness was broken by the abrupt stutter of small arms fire echoing in the night. Finishing his coffee,

Carter turned and went back inside the building.

“Sir, there’s contact at the MAMC gate,” a soldier reported as Carter entered the TOC.

***

CHAPTER 32

At the main post command center, Waller watched the UAV camera show large numbers of infected now

swarming the MAMC gate.

“How’d they get that close without us seeing them?”

“Sir, we were using thermal and didn’t see the movement.” Sergeant Carson spoke up from his console.

“What? They don’t show on thermal?” Waller asked incredulously.

“They do but not like we’d expect.” Carson tried to explain. “The image we saw on thermal wasn’t the

right size for a human. We had to adjust the setting but that increased the background clutter. We were

picking up extraneous heat sources so we had to program in a bypass. Without the bypass, it made for

quite a cluttered perspective.”

“Explain,”

“The software registers heat sources; that much we know. The filtering software analyzes heat sources

and matches those sources with its library. If it detects something that is determines to be rodent and that

source is not within the search parameters, then it’s irrelevant. We had set the thermal sensor sensitivity to

a point where it was picking up heat from anything and everything. Underground utilities, transformers,

things like that. What I mean is we were getting heat blooms from anything that was moderately warm.

The bypass filtered out the smaller heat sources and allowed us to focus on the heat sources from the

OPFOR. There are some obvious bugs in the program and that explains lack of alert by the movement.”

Waller shook his head in disbelief. The hostiles had approached their perimeter all because some quickly

written software patch had overlooked them.

“What about the mass that was at the 512 interchange?” Carson typed a command into his computer and

the MFD resized to show that location. Various heat sources could be seen.

“Give me a tight focus on that,” Waller ordered. The green tinted thermal image zoomed in to show

several cars on fire but little signs of infected.

“What the hell is going on?” Waller asked. Carson typed frantically on his keyboard.

“Sir, it looks like they moved. The car fires and the spilled flammable liquids on the asphalt increased the

heat signature making it appear that the hostiles were still which masked their movement. If we hadn’t

tied in the feed from McChord and their UAVs we would have missed this entirely.” Waller just shook

his head in disgust. Millions of dollars spent to increase surveillance capabilities and they were fooled by

burning cars and the radiant heat of road material.

“Get me a SITREP of the units manning that gate now.”

***

At the MAMC gate, the units of the 25th LID had pulled back to the secondary line of defense and were

holding their fire. Behind them, vehicles were already lined up to transport them or support them, based

on the outcome of the next few minutes. All along the fence, swarms of infected were pushing against the

wire. The moaning they made was increasing in volume as their numbers grew exponentially.

“This is Lightning Two Five requesting illumination at grid 81-2 over,” The radioman for Captain

Nelson, Charlie Company Commander of the 25th, said into his mouthpiece.

Turning to Nelson he relayed the answer. “Sir, gunships inbound ETA four mikes.” Nelson turned and

looked back towards main post; in the darkness he could see aircraft anti-collision lights as two

helicopters from the 16 CAB raced toward his position. Turning back to face the fence he raised his

image intensifiers and looked at the teeming mass of infected all intent on getting to their prey. As Nelson

swept the fence line with his image device, the heavy thud of mortars and the deep throb of rotors grew

louder. Suddenly, white flares popped above the infected illuminating the area for several hundred yards.

The sheer numbers of diseased, once human victims could be seen by all the soldiers manning the

barricade.

“Direct the mortars to fire at the rear of the mass, squeeze them towards us, then all units engage after the

first barrage. Fire at will,” Nelson ordered, still looking at the infected through his night vision device. He

listened as his radioman passed on the order.

Seconds later he heard the whistle overhead as the heavy weapons platoon’s mortar rounds screeched

past. Sequential detonations erupted at the rear of the infected mass, throwing up shredded bodies and

limbs. The reaction of the infected closest to the fence was snarling as they somehow experienced the

trauma of their destroyed brethren. All units facing the fence began firing into the mass. Tracer rounds

reached out and into the swarm as the infected were cut down by the weapons fire. The floating flares

settled down into the melee, their harsh white light diminishing as it was swallowed up by the horde of

bodies. Nelson continued to watch as the infected were thrown back by the barrage of fire that his units

sent into their ranks. Smiling, he lowered his night vision binoculars and watched as the mass of

contaminated people were pushed back from the fence.

He was still smiling when one of his units on the right flank was overwhelmed by a group of infected that

had pushed through the wire at the old entrance to the Logistics Center. While that entrance had been shut

down and closed years ago, the fence hadn’t been maintained as well as the rest of the post due to the

shrubbery and trees overgrowing the old road. The Special Forces team assigned to sealing those gates

hadn’t seen the old road or the old gate when they did their base tour to secure the outlying gates.

Increased weapons fire from the right flank made him turn to see what was causing it. Nelson raised his

image intensifiers to get a better view of that area and watched another mass of infected appear out of the

tree line that separated the MAMC area from the Log Center. As he watched, more and more infected

poured out of the trees and engaged his men.

“Get some support to that flank!” Nelson yelled out as he pointed in that direction.

Two Humvees roared off in that direction, their M2 .50 caliber machine guns already laying down fire.

Nelson watched in horror as his right flank collapsed, decreasing the amount of fire that was being

administered to the infected at the gate.

In that small lull, thousands of infected pushed through the MAMC gate and were once again inside the

installation. Nelson grabbed for the radio,

“This is Lightning Two Five to all Lightning units; fall back by squads to position Charlie. I repeat fall

back by squads to position Charlie.” Not knowing if his broadcast had reached all his units, Nelson

grabbed his RTO and pulled him along as he jogged to his Humvee. Already thousands of infected were

partially encircling his perimeter. The cold realization that he was facing a two prong attack from a larger

force than what was outside the gate hit him like a shower of ice water.

“Lightning Two Five to Lightning Six, we need immediate suppression at grids 81-85! Prepare for Final

Protective Fire! I say again, Final Protective Fire!” Nelson yelled into the radio. Waiting for a reply, all he

heard was the hiss of static and then the radio crackled with yelling, screaming, and weapons fire.

Looking at the handset he realized that the TOC was being overrun by the infected. That didn’t make any

sense. The TOC had been set up at one of the middle schools on post and was well over a mile away on

his left flank closer to the residential housing areas. Nelson watched as his men pulled back under the

onslaught of the infected, taking cover behind concrete barriers, barrels, and vehicles. They were firing

their weapons empty, and then being taken down as they reloaded. In groups and pairs, soldiers were

grabbed up and swallowed by the mass of infected now flowing through the MAMC gate with impunity.

“All Lightning units this is Lightning Two Five. Pull back, pull back!” Nelson yelled into the radio

jumping into his Humvee.

“Get on the fifty!” he yelled to the men inside as he closed his door.

Not getting any response, he turned to look at the men in the rear only to come face to face with a red-

eyed marionette of the Reset Virus. Grabbing for his sidearm was Nelson’s last act as the unwanted

passenger grabbed for him and pulled him into the back of the Humvee by the brim of his helmet.

***

“What’s the status of the 25th?” Waller asked the sergeant at the commo desk. The NCO shook his head

as he removed his headset.

“Not good, sir. Last contact we had with their TOC was that there were hostiles inside the perimeter.” The

sergeant looked at the large clock mounted on the wall. “That was less than five minutes ago.”

“Dammit! I need to know what’s going on out there,” Waller exclaimed. “Sergeant Major Johnson!”

Waller yelled out to the command center. “Get a vehicle and meet me outside.”

Waller stopped by the temporary office he had been using and grabbed his combat harness and Modular

Integrated Communications Helmet (MICH). By the time he had reached the door, Johnson and four other

soldiers were waiting for him.

“Sir, this may not be a tactically prudent move at this time,” Johnson commented as they climbed the

stairs to the parking area. “We’ve only been out of contact with the 25th for just a little over five

minutes.”

“Sergeant Major, I can’t command from inside a goddamn bunker. I need to see what’s happening out

there. Battles are won or lost in five minutes,” Waller stated flatly as he got in the nearest Humvee.

Johnson shook his head, and then got behind the wheel. Two soldiers climbed in the back, one manning

the overhead M2 as Johnson started the Humvee. The vehicle pulled out of the parking lot with another

Humvee following close. The two vehicle convoy raced through the darkened streets towards the 25th’s

TOC.

***

“Colonel, spotters report tangos have breached the fence.” The commo sergeant relayed to Colonel Carter

at the 1st Special Forces headquarters building. Carter stood holding his coffee cup as he looked at the

map of the installation on the wall.

“Order all units to go dark.” The commo sergeant relayed the message to all the SF units inside the

compound. Outside, any external light source that was still operating was shut down. Strict noise and light

discipline was now in effect. Carter was testing a theory that the infected were drawn to light and sound.

It was a risky gamble but one that needed to be tested.

***

Johnson drove as fast as he dared with only the vehicle blackout lights as his source of illumination.

Slowing down to weave through one of the last security posts that had been set up at the intersection to

the main road and the turn off that led to the Special Forces area, Johnson accelerated as he cleared the

last barrier. The rear Humvee sped up to catch him when Johnson hit the brakes hard bringing the vehicle

to a tire squealing stop. Ahead of them in the dim lights a wall of infected stood weaving back and forth.

The second Humvee stopped at an angle behind them mere inches from their rear bumper. All occupants

of the two vehicles stared at the undead obstruction before them.

“Oh, shit,” Johnson muttered quietly.

The horde slowly advanced towards them, a foot at a time. Johnson slipped the transmission into reverse

and gunned the engine slamming hard into the right side of the Humvee behind him. Pressing his foot to

the floor, he began to slowly push the other vehicle as his own Humvee’s tires smoked and clawed for

purchase on the road. Finally the second Humvee backed out of his way and Johnson was able to spin his

vehicle around into a wild bootlegger, drop the transmission into drive, and roar away from the inexorable

advance of the diseased. The second Humvee followed just seconds later as the two vehicles now raced

back towards main post.

Coming to the last security post, Johnson flipped on the main headlights and swerved down the small

embankment and onto one of the range roads to bypass it. Bouncing through the brush before reaching the

gravel road, the contents of the Humvee and its passengers had a wild ride as Johnson slid onto the gravel

road and pressed the pedal to the floor. Behind him, the second Humvee bounced onto the gravel road,

fishtailed, straightened, and then raced to catch up.

“Yankee Station, Copperhead Six.” Waller said into the radio.

“Copperhead Six, Yankee Station.”

“Be advised we have Tangos inside the wire. Repeat large number of Tangos inside the wire,” Waller

reported as Johnson slewed around a corner so fast the entire vehicle was broadside for most of the turn.

Once they had straightened out, Waller looked over at Johnson fixing him a reproachful glare before he

resumed speaking into the radio.

“Initiate Lima Delta.”

“Confirm Copperhead Six, Lima Delta.”

Waller replaced the radio mike on the SINCGARS radio mounted on the transmission hump between the

two front seats and turned to look at the soldiers in the rear seats. The two NCOs were hanging on to keep

from being tossed around the interior by Johnson’s wild driving.

Turning back forward, Waller grabbed the dashboard as Johnson kept driving straight when the road

curved, taking the vehicle down another embankment, through a small stand of saplings before hitting a

drainage ditch, and flying through the air to land hard on 4th Division Drive with a chirp of rubber.

Forcing the wheel hard right, Johnson sent the heavy vehicle into a four wheel drift that felt to the

occupants that they went up on two wheels before throwing them back to the right side of the vehicle as

they made an abrupt left turn to race down a side street between barracks buildings. Johnson drove the

Humvee like a man on the verge of losing control, yet the way the vehicle responded was presumably not

how the manufacturer had intended.

Running the stop sign at 3rd Division Drive, Johnson roared towards 2nd Division Drive before stopping

at the intersection of 41st Division and 2nd Division. The other Humvee skidded to a stop beside them as

they sat there and looked out at the 62nd Medical Group, now fully deployed as a field hospital in the

large field across from the main Post Exchange. They watched as section by section of the field hospital

shut their lights off until the entire field was dark. Waller stepped out of the Humvee and stood by the

open door to get a better view as his installation went dark. In just the minutes that he stood there, Joint

Base Lewis/McChord became a darkened city with no light but the full moon that looked down upon it.

From his right, Waller heard the stutter of a machine gun with the popping of small arms fire as an

unknown unit engaged the infected. Turning to look in that direction, he strained to discern if the ongoing

engagement was coming from the SF compound or maybe from another section of the 25th LID that had

fortified the hill just above the road aptly named Hillside Drive. The crump of mortars and the lighter

thump from grenades joined the battle. The staccato fire of a 249 with the heavier report of the M2

sounding like a giant typewriter on backspace soon joined in. Waller caught the glimpse of tracer fire in

the darkness, and then the overhead throb of rotor blades as a flight of gunships overflew him and added

their rockets to the night. A steady stream of tracers lanced out of the sky like a laser beam as a gunship

opened up with its mini-gun on the throng of contaminated humans assaulting his installation.

Most definitely there were several infantry companies from the 25th entrenched on the hill and they were

engaging the infected with everything at their disposal. Waller stared into the night watching as flares

popped in the sky lighting up acres of infected as they slowly pressed forward.

Tracer fire stabbed out into those ranks as mortars, machine guns, and grenades tore them apart. As he

watched, those infected shredded by the barrage were replaced by the seemingly never-ending flow still

coming through the MAMC gate and the Log Center.

Waller was standing there watching the shock and awe when the soldier manning the rooftop M2 of his

Humvee swiveled the ring mount and depressed the butterfly trigger while yelling,

“Shit!”

The Humvee rocked slightly as the heavy machine gun fired short bursts. Waller instinctively crouched

by the open door as the concussive force of the heavy machine gun washed over him. He looked to where

the gunner was firing and saw staggering shapes appear between the buildings. The strobe-light effect of

the M2 firing was enough light for him to recognize that those shapes were the infected. Waller brought

up his sidearm just as the second Humvee backed up several yards and its gunner opened up catching the

advancing group in a withering crossfire.

From the rooftops of the barracks buildings that this group of undead passed between, thunderous

firepower poured down on them as the units billeted within joined the engagement.

In a few seconds the undead that had tried to flank Waller and his men were nothing but chunky red

smears on the road.

“Sir! With all due respect, get your ass in the vehicle!” Johnson called out to Waller.

Just before getting inside, he saw more shapes appear from the direction that they had come from during

their earlier evasion. Small arms fire erupted from the rooftops again as some of the soldiers must have

seen the infected through their night vision goggles. Waller had just barely seated himself when Johnson

accelerated. Waller watched in the side mirror as the soldiers inside the barracks buildings continued to

engage the infected. Roaring past the fields where the 62nd had set up their field hospital, Waller grabbed

the radio mike.

“Nightingale Six, Nightingale Six, this is Copperhead Six Actual.”

“Nightingale Six Actual, go Copperhead Six Actual,” General Scott’s voice came through the speaker.

“Nightingale Six Actual, be advised you have hostiles advancing on your position. Fallback to Papa X-

ray.” Papa X-ray was the main Post Exchange that would provide more protection than the canvas tents

and prefab buildings.

“Copy that, Copperhead Six. We’re moving now.”

Waller watched the personnel of the field hospital scramble to their vehicles while others formed up and

moved on foot.

“Yankee Station, Yankee Station this is Copperhead Six Actual. What’s your status?”

“Copperhead Six Actual, we are compromised. I say again, Yankee Station has been compromised.”

Waller looked at the radio mike in his hand as those words came through the speaker.

“Yankee Station, repeat your last.”

“Copperhead Six Actual, this is Swordsman,” Owen said as he came on the comm net. “Yankee Station

has been compromised. Spotters report that we’re completely surrounded.”

Waller looked at the radio, and then over to Sergeant Major Johnson. Johnson nodded, then slowed down,

jerked the wheel to the right, and then sharply to the left as he threw the Humvee into a U-turn.

“Copy that, Swordsman. Copperhead Six Actual out,” Waller said solemnly as he replaced the mike.

Johnson turned right at the intersection and headed for the airfield. As they passed the now dark Burger

King and Popeye’s restaurants, the men saw the winking of small arms fire coming from the 62nd

Medical Group area.

Nightingale Six was now engaged in fighting the infected.

***

CHAPTER 33

ODA-141 had replaced ODA-181 at the airfield several hours ago. Now, O’Toole and team sergeant

Butler were standing on the exterior walkway at the airfield control tower watching through night vision

binoculars as the infected swept through the base. Headlights rapidly approaching the main entrance to

the airfield made O’Toole look in that direction.

“We got company coming,” O’Toole stated as he watched the Humvees slow down for the entrance, get

waved through by the Ranger squad manning the checkpoint, and then head towards the 160th hangars.

O’Toole’s earpiece chirped to indicate an incoming message.

“All Outlaw units, this is Raven Six Actual,” Colonel Carter said over the SF commo net. “Standby for

SITREP. All Outlaw units, Clubhouse is secure,” Colonel Carter reported to notify his men that the SF

compound was still secure. “Hostiles have bypassed Clubhouse and are heading for Yankee Station.”

O’Toole looked over at Butler with evident relief. The sound of small arms fire echoed across the airfield

as the 62nd Medical tried to hold back the wave of undead. From other sections of the base, the report of

gunfire could be heard. On top of hill 234, above Hillside Drive, the 25th LID poured fire into the

swarming infected as they encircled the hill like army ants. Helicopters were landing and taking off,

dropping off much needed ammunition to the beleaguered units that fought to keep control of that small

piece of real estate. Gunships from the 16th Combat Aviation Brigade flew overhead, adding their

weapons to the conflict.

The night sky was lit with tracers, flares, and orange fireballs. Screaming and small arms fire continued to

echo through the night as the infected swept through 62nd Medical seeking flesh to feed upon. General

Scott and Colonel Harris directed their remaining personnel as they tried to hold back the wave of

infected.

***

“Move, people!” Scott bellowed as he saw the main pre-fab hospital building fill up with the undead.

Dressed now in his field uniform and tactical vest, Scott fired his M4 at the nearest group of infected.

Harris was at the far side of the cantonment area laying down cover fire while some of his soldiers loaded

a Humvee with last minute supplies.

“Move! Move!” Harris yelled out as he brought his rifle to bear on a small group of infected that appeared

from behind one of the General Purpose, Small tents. Firing a short burst into the group he saw that it

only staggered them back a few steps. Switching the fire selector to semi-auto, Harris took careful aim

and fired single shots into the head of each of the zombies, dropping them before they could approach

further.

“Sir, we got everything that’ll fit! We need to leave now!” A sergeant yelled out to Harris over the sounds

of battle. Harris nodded and jogged towards the Humvee. Another group of infected surged towards the

vehicle causing him to stop and fire at them. The soldiers around the Humvee responded by firing into the

new group pushing them back.

“Go! I’ll catch up!” Harris yelled out realizing that if the vehicle waited, it wouldn’t make its escape.

Harris dropped out the spent magazine and slapped a fresh one in place. Jogging after the Humvee as it

roared away, he fired single shots into any infected that presented itself.

Scott was in the midst of a group of soldiers that were walking backwards firing into the mass of infected

that confronted them.

“Nightingale Six to Bishop Six, we need immediate support,” Scott said rather calmly into the radio

handset connected to the backpack unit his RTO wore.

“Copy that, Nightingale Six. Gunships enroute.”

“Expedite.” Scott handed the handset back bringing up his rifle and firing into the infected.

Scott’s group moved steadily, heading towards the PX. By the time they had reached the parking lot,

several thousand infected were focused on them. Scott chanced a quick look and saw that they were just a

few yards from the main entrance. Already other soldiers were adding their firepower to Scott’s group. A

fast moving shape caught his attention. Colonel Harris was at a full sprint heading for the main entrance

to the PX with several hundred undead shambling along in his wake.

“Shift left,” Scott called out to the group. The group crabbed left a few yards, and then resumed their

backward movement. The firing from the soldiers already at the PX lessened, and then stopped as Scott,

Harris, and the remaining soldiers from MAMC and the 62nd Medical Group reached the entrance.

Quickly moving inside, they closed and barricaded the doors as gunships thundered overhead strafing the

assemblage of undead.

***

CHAPTER 34

General Waller stood inside the main hangar of the 4th Battalion 160th SOAR, listening to the commo net

as units called for support or dropped completely off the net. Colonel Knight walked over, his flight suit

unzipped to mid chest, survival vest unzipped all the way and flight helmet in hand. He was tired, hungry,

and smelled of sweat and aviation fuel.

“Sir, if this doesn’t let up, we’ll be out of fuel in less than 36 hours,” he reported. “Before then, most of

my birds will need maintenance.” Waller looked at his disheveled appearance, and realized at that

moment that they were losing the battle to hold the installation. Waller looked out the open hangar doors

at the lightening sky. With the ongoing battle resounding in the distance, Waller stepped outside the

hangar and looked at the air traffic moving on and above the field. Radios squawked with chatter,

squelch, and static. As he looked out at his installation, at the haze and rising smoke, he knew his men

were gallantly fighting to hold their home but the numbers of infected were too much to overcome. The

sun rose slowly, shining its light on the snow covered peaks of the Cascades and Mount Rainier with

orange hues. Waller turned around and walked back inside the hangar.

“Sergeant Major, have you had any contact with anyone south of our location?” Johnson looked at Waller

quizzically.

“Sporadic at best, sir,”

“Clean it up and find out what the situation is.” Waller turned to face Colonel Knight who was lounging

on an office chair, feet up on a desk. “Colonel, organize an airlift for the remaining forces on post.”

Knight sat up, removing his feet from the desk, nodded, and then went in search of his operations officer.

“Sergeant Major, find out if the ASP is still secure, and then send a detail there to get as much ammo as

possible.” Waller then turned and walked back outside to watch the sun rise.

***

General Scott looked at the soldiers in the PX. They were tired, dirty, and more than a little scared.

Outside, the horde of infected surrounded the building. Scott walked among the men sprawled

haphazardly on the floor, counters, and in the food court. He was taking a mental count of how many

were left and observing what weapons and equipment they had. Scott’s journey took him to the main

doors, now locked and barricaded, and to a squad of Military Police. This squad had been manning a

security checkpoint at the intersection in front of the PX. He noticed that none of the soldiers appeared to

be older than their mid-twenties.

“Who’s in charge of your squad?” he asked one of the men.

“Who wants to know?” one soldier asked without looking up. Scott stepped close to the man causing him

to look up and notice the subdued stars on Scott’s collar.

“Uh, sir,” The soldier jumped to attention, “Sorry sir. It’s just that…”

“No need to explain, soldier. We’ve all had quite a night.” The soldier relaxed a little.

“What unit are you with?” Scott asked as he read the soldiers name tag.

“Bravo Company 571st MP, sir,”

“Okay, Sergeant Stanley, I need you to organize your men into a security force and check every single

way into this building. I want you to make sure we’re secure.”

“Hoo-ah, sir,” The sergeant replied as he gathered his squad.

Scott walked away to find the rest of the medical staff. His first stop was the food court area where some

of the medics had already set up an aid station and were treating some minor injuries. Colonel Harris was

seated at a table, M4 on the table top, staring into a Styrofoam cup full of coffee.

“Colonel?” Scott asked as he approached the other man. Harris looked up at Scott with a dull stare and

nodded a greeting. Scott took a seat across from Harris and removed his helmet, placing it on the table.

“Some night, huh?” Scott said as he ran a hand through his hair. Harris looked up, nodded, and then

returned to looking at his cup.

“How many made it?” Scott asked.

“Not enough,” Harris replied, thinking back to the previous night. “I watched as entire platoons went

down.”

Scott nodded as he remembered seeing soldiers literally disappear into the teeming mass of infected.

“Have you seen Colonel Barnes?” Scott asked, trying to change the subject.

“Yeah, I saw him. I saw him get ripped apart by some of those things. They just grabbed him and tore

him apart. I was only fifteen feet away from him and I couldn’t do a damn thing to save him.” Harris

looked up at Scott with a haunted expression in his eyes. “They tore him apart and ate him,” he said loud

enough to make some of the soldiers look in their direction. “Those things fucking ate him,” Harris

repeated shaking his head.

“Easy, we’ve all had a rough go of it.”

“Rough? You call what happened last night ‘rough’?” Harris asked loudly as he stood up fast enough to

make his chair fall to the floor with a loud bang. “It’s pretty goddamn rough when over half your fucking

unit is killed and eaten by some fucked up people.” Harris grabbed his rifle from the table and walked

away. Scott stood and followed Harris, pulling him into a side room.

“I know what you’re going through. I lost the entire fucking hospital, patients, staff, every damn thing in

the place to those things out there,” Scott stated angrily, “And I want some righteous payback for that.

Don’t you go all holier than thou on me. I’ve been there, done that, and have the fucking t-shirt to prove

it.” Harris realized that Scott was right, sure he had lost several units and soldiers but Scott had lost an

entire hospital with several thousand people inside.

“You’re right,” Harris finally said. “We can’t be at each others’ throats in here. We have to work

together.” Harris straightened his uniform, “And I want some payback.” Scott nodded agreement.

“Then let’s find out who and what we have. Then we make a plan.” Both men nodded, already thinking of

ways to extract their personal revenge.

***

CHAPTER 35

Gray Army Airfield, Joint Base Lewis/McChord, Washington

Sergeant Butler climbed the stairs inside the control tower, carrying two cups of MRE instant coffee in

Styrofoam cups. I’m getting too old for this shit. He thought to himself as he got to the top. Inside, the

two air traffic controllers were monitoring the incoming and outgoing helicopters. Butler walked over to

where Captain O’Toole lay sleeping, wrapped in his poncho liner on a pile of ODA-141’s gear and kicked

his boot. The officer jerked awake, M9 coming into his hand and pointing at Butler.

“Easy there, Cap’n. I brought you some coffee.” Butler extended one cup towards O’Toole while the

other man holstered his sidearm.

“Thanks, Top,” O’Toole said as he took a sip of the steaming beverage. Butler squatted down next to him.

“Latest Intel informs us that we’ve lost most of the post. OPFOR controls everything from the Log Center

to Eye Corps.” Butler said quietly. O’Toole sipped his coffee before replying.

“Clubhouse still secure?” O’Toole asked as he noticed that Butler wasn’t wearing his MOPP suit. Butler

nodded affirmative.

“Roger that.”

Both men were quiet as they thought about their fellow SF soldiers surrounded by thousands of infected.

O’Toole finished his coffee, placed the cup on the floor, and then rubbed his face feeling stubble.

Yawning, he stood up, shrugged off his own MOPP gear, and repacked it before he picked up his SCAR

and looked out the large glass windows.

“Too nice a day to have to put up with this shit,” O’Toole muttered as he walked towards the stairs, Butler

following him.

Halfway down the tower was a small room with offices normally used for the admin staff. Now, the room

had been taken over by the Air Force CCT personnel. He nodded as he went though the room to the stairs

at the other end, and then finally down to the ground floor. Walking across the parking lot to where his

team’s Humvees were, he noticed the silence broken only by the sound of helicopters flying overhead.

O’Toole walked up to the first Humvee. Looking through the windshield he saw that his team was still

sleeping inside. He banged his fist on the roof a few times before his team spilled out, weapons ready.

Seeing O’Toole and Butler standing a few feet away, the team relaxed.

“God damn it, Cap’n. I really wish you wouldn’t do that,” Anderson said good-naturedly. O’Toole shook

his head; if it wasn’t Anderson it was Sands who was always making some kind of quip.

“Our illustrious Team Sergeant has informed me that we’ve got a new mission tasking,” O’Toole paused

to make sure he had everyone’s attention. “Seems someone likes us so much that we get to provide fire

support for a critical extraction mission,” As if on cue, a MH-47 circled overhead and settled for a landing

nearby stirring up dust and grit.

“Grab your shit, we’re heading out,” O’Toole called out over the noise of the turbines and rotors.

ODA-141 scrambled aboard the large helicopter and had barely taken a seat on the canvas webbing that

lined the inside when the big helo pulled pitch and lifted off. O’Toole watched out the open rear ramp as

the horizon tilted.

Looking forward he saw that the aircraft had been fitted with M134 miniguns in the left and right side

doors and a .50 caliber heavy machine gun mounted and aimed out the rear open ramp. Standing up and

walking towards the pilot’s ‘office’ he met the crew chief who nodded and handed him a radio headset.

O’Toole put on the headset and stepped into the doorway separating the cockpit from the cargo area.

“Good morning, gentlemen. What’s the plan for the day?”

“Looks like a busy day. We’re going to be overflying unit positions and looking for survivors. Then later

in the day, we’re heading over to the Log Center and ASP for some last minute Christmas shopping.”

Warrant Officer Manning remarked. “Only 200 shopping days left.”

***

Inside the command center, Colonel Owen was looking over reports from the observation posts. The

building was still surrounded and had been since early last night. They were still attempting to find out

where the infected had entered the installation and had several UAVs in the air.

“Sir?” A junior officer stuck his head in the room. Owen looked up and nodded. The officer stepped

inside and placed another report on the desk, and then exited. Owen picked it up and briefly read it. He

reached over and pressed a button on his desk phone.

“Get me General Waller at the airfield.” A few minutes later the call went through.

“Sir, Owen here at Command.”

“Good to hear from you colonel. How’s it going over there?” Waller asked.

“We made it through the night. That’s the good news. Here’s the bad news. The northern UAV is sending

back images of thousands more infected heading south.” Owen didn’t need to tell Waller what area the

infected would pass by.

“We’re still looking for the entrance point that was used last night.”

“Keep me informed on any progress you make. Any contact with other units?”

“General Huber called, all his aircraft have safely left. General Scott reported in from the PX with a

mixed group of 62nd, MPs, and some Light Fighters. What’s left of the 504th has secured North Fort but

they’re barely holding it by their fingernails. No other unit has responded.” Waller realized that all this

time, the MP battalion had been engaged with an unknown civilian force that had attempted to breach the

fence at North Fort.

The realization of how many units he had lost struck him hard. Of the many units on post, the thousands

of soldiers stationed here, only a handful were left. Waller took a deep breath before continuing.

“Copy that. You hang tight; we’re working on a way to get you out.” Waller hung up the phone, and then

turned to Johnson. “They’re in a world of shit over there.”

“It gets better,” Johnson said cynically. “I just got off the phone with the governor’s office down south.

Olympia’s been hit but not as hard as other places. They had more time to prepare a secure perimeter but

they still got their asses handed to them. Before it went to shit, they were able to organize some sort of

evacuation plan and got most of the people heading to the Kelso/Longview area and points further south.

The governor’s already in Eastern Washington, where the National Guard has secured the Yakima

Training Center. Her staff tells me she feels safer there.”

Johnson handed Waller a fax which he read over quickly. Nodding his head, Waller looked back up as

Johnson continued.

“The local Guard commander has set up an air evacuation point at the regional airport. He doesn’t know

how long they can hold that position and he reports that he’s pulling out and heading east as soon as all

the civvies are gone. He has units out making a final sweep for survivors,” Johnson added.

“Did you get a time table on when the Guard will be leaving?”

“Eighteen hours from now, but he sounded like he wanted to be gone before then.” Waller nodded then

looked out the open hangar doors before continuing.

“Okay. Round up everyone we have, get vehicles, rations, water, and ammo. We load up what we have

and head south. Once there, we join up with that Guard unit and move east.”

“Copy that, sir,” Johnson replied before he left to notify the rest of the soldiers.

Waller walked back over the open hangar doors and looked out at the expanse of the installation. Smoke

drifted into the morning air carrying with it the smell of cordite, aviation fuel, and lingering somewhere in

the background, death. He slowly shook his head as he realized that he had lost the fight for his base.

***

O’Toole looked out the round porthole-like windows that lined the fuselage of the MH-47 as they

overflew the Log Center. Crowds of infected were scattered all over the warehouse complex. The

previous stops to pick up survivors had proven fruitless. The first stop they had made was on Hill 234

where the 25th LID had put up a tremendous fight for that piece of real estate. The forest that normally

covered the flanks of the hill had been blown down, uprooted, and blasted out of the hillside; leaving dark

earth exposed, like wounds in the normally lush green landscape. The hilltop and surrounding slopes were

littered with bodies of the infected and soldiers alike; in some places several deep. Hovering over the hill,

O’Toole and Butler looked for signs of any survivors of that horrific battle only to find nothing. Now, as

they circled over the Log Center they saw that the stragglers of infected wandering around aimlessly. As

the large Chinook turned towards the Ammunition Supply Point (ASP), O’Toole’s headset crackled.

“Unknown aircraft, this is Stinger flight two of two. Squawk Ident on 121.5.”

“Stinger flight two of two, this is Knife-03 out of Lewis. Identify.” O’Toole heard the pilot’s reply.

“Knife-03, this is Stinger One Eight Whidbey. Good to hear from you guys.”

“Stinger flight you boys are a long ways from home.”

“Copy that, -03. We have some thirsty planes here and could use a fill up.”

“Wait one, Stinger flight.” Manning switched frequencies and radioed the tower at McChord.

“Sundance, Knife-03, I have Stinger flight two of two requesting landing clearance.”

“Knife- 03, clearance granted.” Manning switched frequencies and relayed the news to Stinger flight.

“Copy that, Knife- 03. Stinger flight out.” A few seconds later, two dull gray EA6B’s flew by on their

way to the airfield. O’Toole watched them fly by, and then returned to his scanning of the ground.

The MH-47 flew low over the high chain link fences surrounding the ASP while O’Toole, Butler, and the

rest of his team searched for signs of the infected. The fences appeared to be intact and secured. After

circling over the entire facility with no sign of infected, Manning brought the large helo into a holding

pattern.

“Outlaw Six to Copperhead,” O’Toole called back.

“Go, Outlaw Six.”

“ASP is secure. No tangos present.”

“Copy that Outlaw Six. RTB. Copperhead out,” Manning swung the helicopter back towards main post

and safety.

***

General Scott inside the PX had organized the remaining soldiers into groups assigned to different tasks.

Some of the medics had already set up an ad hoc sick bay to examine and treat any of the injuries from

the previous night as well as check for bites. The MPs were assigned interior perimeter patrol to ensure all

doors were locked and secured while the remainder of the soldiers searched the large store for items that

they could use.

Outside the building, the infected were gathered in great numbers. For whatever reason, the PX and the I

Corps headquarters building seemed to attract them. The few stragglers wandering around the airfield

fence didn’t appear to notice the activity on the field or inside the hangars. The Rangers that had been

assigned airfield security were now working with the soldiers of 3rd Brigade who were still on post. Most

of 3rd Brigade was deployed overseas and all that remained was combined into a company sized unit.

Those soldiers were gathering vehicles from various motor pools and driving them back to the airfield.

Already a line of Humvees and M977 HEMITT s were forming waiting to be loaded. The noise of

numerous MH and CH-47s from 16 CAB and the 160th SOAR hovering to release their sling loads or

taking off to retrieve more supplies was almost constant. Gunships swooped around the perimeter of the

airfield and dealt out sporadic fire at targets of opportunity.

ODA-141 had returned to the airfield to pick up a squad of Rangers who helped secure several of the

ammunition storage ‘igloos’. The Chinook had dropped them there, and then returned with a full load of

personnel to begin palletizing the ammunition for transport via helicopter relay.

ODA-181 fast roped onto the roof of the main supply warehouse on the Log Center and using a rescue

saw opened a large square hole there. The MH-60 that had delivered them returned to the airfield. The

Special Forces soldiers rappelled into the dark interior of the warehouse, and then spread out to make sure

the building was still secure. Once they had completed that, they regrouped, received their individual

assignments, which were more like shopping lists, and split up into teams of two.

Four hours later, the ODA had gathered all the items on their respective lists, palletized them then moved

those pallets into position using the powered material handling trucks.

“Outlaw Two Eight to Sundance, we are ready for extract,” Captain Holroyd called in.

His men had secured a loose perimeter around the gear they had gathered and were now facing out

waiting for their extraction. Several minutes later, the thundering of a MH-47 was heard, and then the

shape of the large helo blotted out the rough cut opening in the roof. A thick cable was lowered through

the opening as the men of ODA-181 gathered the ends of the cargo net that the pallets sat upon.

Connecting the ends to the large hook, the men made one last check for obstructions.

“Darkrider-06, you’re clear to lift.” Holroyd radioed up to the hovering Chinook.

Slowly, tension was applied to the netting as the helo started to lift the items out of the warehouse. The

soldiers guided the load as best they could until it was above their reach. Each man watched carefully for

a movement that would snag the cargo on the roof on the way up. The pallets cleared the opening then the

MH-47 swung slowly towards the airfield and out of sight.

As the heavy beat of the rotors dissipated, the beat of another set of rotors was heard as a MH-60 hovered

overhead. ODA-181 climbed up the metal shelving then onto the ropes they rappelled from hours earlier

until they reached the roof. The MH-60 lightly touched down on the roof, never applying its full weight,

as the Special Forces team climbed onboard. The MH-60 then lifted off and swung around to follow the

MH-47 already halfway to the airfield.

***

“How far are we on extracting the trapped personnel?” Waller asked Sergeant Major Johnson.

“Getting into the PX isn’t that big of an issue. We can access several of the skylights, and then extract our

people that way.” Johnson unrolled a blueprint using coffee mugs and a helmet to prevent it from rolling

back up.

“Getting to the personnel at I Corps creates an entirely new set of obstacles. The original building was

built back in the late 1940s and remodeled over the years to what it is today. The command center is in

the basement with exterior entrances here and here.” Johnson indicated with a pencil.

“During the various remodels, interior access to the command center was sealed. I have a squad of

engineers who looked over the plans and think they can cut through the floor to get into the center and we

can extract our people that way. They assure me that it can be done within our time window. It should be

relatively easy once they get inside as the stairs are still in place all the way down the ground floor. So

far, the main floor and the floors above are secure. This has been independently confirmed from the OP s

on the neighboring buildings.”

Johnson looked up at the gathered men around the table. “Extracting those people will effectively cut off

further intel. We do know that in less than twelve hours, the last Guard unit will leave Olympia and head

east to get over the mountains. The rally point is the Yakima Training Center. Anything we do has to be

done fast. I would suggest that we do both operations at the same time while the main exfil is going on.”

“Colonel Knight, do you have enough flight crews to do a simultaneous extract?” Waller asked.

“No problem. Between my birds and 16 CAB, we have enough to move everyone that doesn’t have a ride

and still provide cover and support then meet up at Objective Green,” Knight said.

“Sergeant Major, have the vehicles leave in one hour by the East Gate. That should give them enough of a

head start that we can leap frog ahead and all meet at Objective Green,” Waller ordered. The gathered

officers and soldiers moved swiftly as they dispersed.

Outside, the vehicle convoy started their engines and formed up into travel groups. Captain O’Toole and

his team watched from the parking lot of the flight simulator building as the vehicles left the safety of the

airfield. For some reason, the infected hadn’t gathered at the gate or fence line of the airfield. Johnson

pulled up to them in his Humvee, got out and walked over to where O’Toole and Butler were standing.

“Sergeant Major,” O’Toole said in greeting.

“Captain,” Johnson replied, and then leaned on the hood of O’Toole’s Humvee watching the second

group of vehicles leave the field.

The men stood there for several minutes watching the vehicles and aircraft. Johnson let his gaze travel to

the two gray US Navy EA6B Prowler jets sitting on the apron then back to the vehicles leaving through

the gate.

“Something I can do for you, Sergeant Major?” O’Toole finally asked. Johnson straightened up and

looked at him.

“You know that Colonel Carter is planning on staying behind,” Johnson said as a statement more than a

question.

“I do.”

“Do you know why?”

“The colonel believes that he can disrupt the swarm of infected that are moving south; maybe slow them

down enough to buy us some more time.”

“That’s what he told Waller. I have my doubts that anything he does will slow them down for long.”

“The colonel’s a resourceful guy. I’m sure if he puts his mind to it, he can think of something to do that

will slow them down,” O’Toole commented. Johnson nodded, knowing the reputation of Colonel Carter

before he had been assigned to 1st Group.

“No one gets left behind,” Johnson stated before he walked over to this Humvee and drove back to the

160th’s hangar.

“You think the colonel’s not going to make it out?” Butler asked after watching Johnson’s Humvee

depart.

“I think the colonel’s going to need some help,” O’Toole replied as he looked at Butler.

“Damn sir. I really hate it when you get that look.”

***

Colonel Carter and his operations staff were in the TOC looking over maps of the surrounding area. The

large table was covered with strip maps, blueprints, topographical maps, and street guides.

“Once more, so we’re all clear on this. Jack, your team drops the Gravelly Lake overpass while Roger’s

team plants their demo here.” Carter indicated on the map with his finger. “When you’re finished, Escape

and Evade to here,” Carter pointed to a second location on the large map of Pierce County. “George, your

team moves to here and provides a distraction. Nothing heroic. No John Wayne hero bullshit. Just get the

job done. We’ll have Little Birds up for a short time to provide cover before they have to haul ass to

Objective Green. We’re buying time for the support units to get out the East Gate. Once we achieve our

own objectives, we’ll be using the range roads and alternate routes and meet up with the main body at

Objective Green.”

Carter pointed to the map of Thurston County, indicating the south end of the Olympia Municipal

Airport.

“The primary identifier at Objective Green will be the Northwest Helicopter sign at the south end of the

airfield.” Carter looked at the large clock on the wall. “Mission starts in one hour forty-five minutes.” All

the men looked at their watches, and then the clock to make sure they had the correct time before they

filed out of the room.

***

O’Toole watched the gate close behind the last of the trucks leaving the airfield. The only units left were

the flight crews. The only ground forces still on post were the Air Force CCT group in the tower, Waller,

Johnson, the survivors at the PX and I Corps, two squads of Rangers, and ODA-141. The MH-47s tasked

with personnel retrieval were already hovering over their targets. The personnel in the command center

had cleared a space where the engineers would cut through and were awaiting evacuation of the

underground facility. The first ’47 with a squad of Rangers onboard lightly settled its back wheels on the

roof of the PX and lowered the rear ramp all the way. The Rangers fanned out and set a security perimeter

while the engineers moved to one of the skylights and started work on removing it.

The second ’47 copied the first by setting its rear wheels on the roof of the I Corps Headquarters building,

lowering the ramp and disgorging engineers who immediately popped the roof access door and began the

run down the stairs to the ground floor.

O’Toole climbed into his Humvee just as the two south bound EA6B’s took off together with a scream of

jet engines. Looking over at Sands, who was driving once again, he pointed to the gate.

“Let’s go raise some hell.”

***

The end of Book 1

Acknowledgments

For the successful completion of this novel, there were numerous people involved that made it all

possible. I want to extend my many thanks to the initial editors/proofreaders, Ben, Carl, Dan, Gus, Gene,

Pete, Chelsea, Paul, Chip, Art, and Jack who struggled through the bucket of slop I sent their way.

Without their work this novel would not be where it is today. For all their hard work I can’t say thank you

enough. There are other people out there that deserve just as much a pat on the back, hearty handshake

and thank you. Those are the people I used as resources. These would be the hard charging operators in

the world of the US Army Special Forces. SFC Jack Peters, SFC John Biddle, SFC Will Castro, SFC John

Wilson-Heid and the men (and some women too) of 1st Special Forces Group at Joint Base

Lewis/McChord, Washington who allowed me open access to their compound and personnel.

To those whom I met through other sources that gave me the incentive to continue with my work, Kevin

Walsh, Tony Monchinski, Craig DiLouie, John O’ Brien, Jessica Meigs and Stuart Conover. Without

their connection to the genre, I might not have continued this project. Many thanks go out to Stephen

Knight, author of the Gathering Dead and the Rising Horde (if you haven’t read his work yet, what are

you waiting for?). With Stephen’s amazing and oftentimes funny comments and critiques, this work has

moved beyond the crayon and construction paper project stage and into something more along the lines of

a color-by-number.

Special thanks go out to Dana Fredsti, author of Plague Town and Plague Nation and S.P. Durnin, author

of Keep Your Crowbar Handy for taking the time to read my initial scribbles and providing amazing

feedback. Additional thanks to Bobby Cooper who provided comments and critiques. Another big round

of thanks go out to Will, a huge fan of the genre and Eve, web mistress of a Zombie site who both took

the time to be the first victims, oops, I mean ‘beta’ readers. Without their feedback, my work would still

be floundering in the dark.

Thank you to all that I didn’t list here, there are many more that helped in so many ways.

JRJ

As you know from reading this book, there are a lot of terms and abbreviations used within that can be

confusing. The initial idea was to add in these items as footnotes but for epub versions those take the

reader out of the story and can be quite a nuisance. The other idea was to insert the definition/meaning of

those terms and abbreviations within the section that they occur. That may work for some of the shorter

terms but there are some definitions that are quite lengthy and would also take the reader out of the flow

of the story.

It was finally decided to add a glossary at the end of the epub books that contained a comprehensive list

of all the definitions for the terms and abbreviations used within this book and the entire series.

Glossary of Terms and Abbreviations

AC-130 SPECTRE: A conversion of the C-130 Hercules cargo aircraft that is equipped with a

105mm Howitzer cannon (the largest operational gun ever placed in an aircraft), a 40 mm

BOFORS automatic cannon, and 25 mm Gatling guns. The aircraft has been nicknamed

“Spooky”. The airborne gunship concept has been in use since the Vietnam War era. The most

recent upgraded version is equipped with a television sensor, infrared sensor, and radar. These

sensors allow the gunship to visually or electronically identify friendly ground forces and targets

in most weather conditions and can even detect spark plugs firing in vehicles. The gunship

squadrons are part of the Air Force Special Operations Command (AFSOC), a component of

United States Special Operations Command (SOCOM). See SOCOM.

ACE: Ammunition, Casualties, Equipment. An ACE report is similar to a SITREP (Situation

Report) as it lets command know the combat status, i.e., readiness of a unit after contact with a

hostile force, what their remaining ammunition level is, status of equipment, and any casualties

that unit may have sustained. See SITREP.

ACH: Army Combat Helmet. Replaced the Kevlar ‘K-pot’ or “Fritz’ Helmet.

ACU: Army Combat Uniform. The successor to the BDU and Army Desert Pattern BDU (DCU).

Features design changes and a new camouflage pattern known as Universal Camouflage Pattern

(UCP). A blending of tan, green, and gray allegedly to work better in more environments. Similar

to MARPAT: the USMC digital pattern camouflage. Eliminating the color black, as it is not

found in nature. Some design changes include more Velcro, a Mandarin style collar for a more

comfortable fit while wearing body armor, and more breathable fabrics. Slant chest pockets were

reintroduced from the older 1960-1970s style OD green ‘fatigues’ as well as the addition of

elbow and knee pockets to facilitate pads. See BDU, MARPAT.

AEGIS: Advanced Electronic Guidance Information System. An integrated missile guidance

system in use since 1987. Integrates single ship and ship-to-ship networking, and is able to

perform search, tracking, and missile guidance functions simultaneously with a track capacity of

over 100 targets at more than 100 nautical miles. This interface makes the Aegis combat system

capable of simultaneous operation against a multi-mission threat. In use by other countries as

well as the US navy. See CIC.

AMA: American Medical Association.

Alpha Mike Foxtrot (AMF): A term that dates back to the Vietnam War. Originally used as a

joke or a way of signing off a radio transmission. Has since been adopted as a way of signing off

when the unit/individual is imminently being over run by hostile forces and there is no support or

extraction available. Adios Mother F**ker.

AR-15: The civilian, semiautomatic only version of the M-16. Originally designed as a civilian

sporter rifle by Eugene Stoner; creator of the Stoner Weapons System. The AR comes from the

manufacturer, ArmaLite which sold the rights to Colt in 1959. Colt marketed the rifle to the US

military which adapted the automatic/semiautomatic version into what became the M16A1 in

1963 and was the standard infantry weapon for the US Military by 1969. Other manufacturers

continue to sell the semiautomatic only version as the AR-15 to civilians and law enforcement

agencies. See M-16.

ASP: Ammunition Supply Point. A remote yet highly secure location on a military installation

where ammunition, artillery shells, mortar rounds, grenades, and other items that go boom are

stored in concrete ‘igloos.’

BDU: Battle Dress Utilities. Phased out in 2008 for the ACU. This style was first introduced in

the woodland pattern, then a first generation desert pattern, and finally in a three pattern desert

version (DCU) which is still in use but being phased out within the US Army for the ACU

pattern. Some SPECOPS (see SPECOPS) units still prefer the woodland pattern BDU over the

newer ACU while others are using Multi-Cam. See ACU, SPECOPS.

BENELLI M90: A tactical 12 gauge shotgun sold by Benelli, an Italian manufacturer.

BRAC: Base Realignment and Closure. The program that combined some military bases that

neighbored each other into joint bases like Joint Base Lewis/McChord and closed others that

were too expensive to remain open or were deemed redundant.

BUD/S: Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL. The beginning step to become a Navy SEAL (see

SEAL). The course runs 25 weeks or approximately six months to complete not counting pre-

BUD/S, INDOC or any time allotted for ‘rollbacks’ due to injuries or too small a class size. See

INDOC, SEAL.

BZO: Battle Sight Zero. This is a basic form of calibration that soldiers will do so that their rifle

is accurate up to 300 yards.

CBIRT: Chemical, Biological, Incident Response Team.

CDC: Centers for Disease Control. The federal agency that is responsible for monitoring

diseases and pandemics.

CIC: Combat Information Center. The brains and fire control of most naval vessels. See AEGIS.

CINCPAC: Commander in Chief, Pacific Fleet, (pronounced as ‘sink’). Example would be

‘sink-pac.’ The position of CINPAC (Commander in Chief, Pacific), CINCEUR (Commander in

Chief, Europe) ‘sink- your’, CINCALT (Commander in Chief, Atlantic) ‘sink-alt’.

COMSUBPAC (Commander, Submarine forces, Pacific), COMSUBALT (Commander,

Submarine forces, Atlantic), COMSUBEUR (Commander, Submarine forces, Europe), are all

held by admirals or generals obviously depending on the branch of service.

CIWS: Close In Weapons System. This looks like a white, round top garbage can on naval

vessels. It is a radar guided 20mm Gatling gun that fires depleted uranium shells. It was designed

as a last resort weapon to destroy incoming missiles and other hostile flying objects. Normally,

CIWS does not have an IFF (identify Friend Foe) setting so friendly aircraft are sent out of the

immediate airspace. See AEGIS.

Claymore: M18A1 Claymore Antipersonnel mine contains 700 steel ball bearings fired in a 60-

degree arc from a 1.5lb charge of high explosives. Small, man portable, and can be fired

remotely with a pocket-sized, hand squeeze type device (a ‘clacker’), a tripwire, or other means.

Has raised writing in the front that states ‘Front towards Enemy’ and is rumored to have had ‘Do

Not Eat’ on the back.

CLUSTER MUNITIONS: Air or ground launched weapons that distribute smaller bomblets, or

submunitions. These can be anti-personnel, anti-armor, anti-vehicle, aircraft runway crater

charges, anti-infrastructure, or mine laying payloads. They are called “firecracker” or “popcorn”

bombs due to the large number of mini-explosions that occur after deployment. They are

controversial due to the large areas that can be covered that may lead to non-combatant casualties

and the large number unexploded ordnance (UXO) or “duds” that can lead to casualties decades

after combat operations have ceased. Recently, submunition-based weapons have been designed

that deploy so-called smart submunitions. These use heat and visual sensors to locate and attack

particular targets, usually armored vehicles, and are exempt from recent international attempts to

ban the weapons.

CO: Commanding Officer.

COB: Chief of the Boat. Normally, a senior petty officer, a chief petty officer, or a senior chief

petty officer.

COG: Continuity of Government. A program to preserve government operations and viability

after a major crisis such as a nuclear war or devastating natural disaster. There are also

COGCON or COG Conditions similar to DEFCON where certain protocols are enacted based on

the severity of the event. See COGCON, DEFCON.

COGCON: Continuity of Government Condition. This term is usually followed by a number

that indicates the level of severity of a threat to the US government. Examples of this are

COGCON 1, COGCON 2, etc. COGCON 1 means a severe situation where as many members in

the line of succession to POTUS are moved to safe locations within a 300 mile radius of

Washington D.C. See DEFCON, POTUS.

CONN: Conning Tower. The upright structure on a submarine hull. Older submarines were

commanded from this structure. Sometimes referred to as the sail.

CSH: Combat Surgical Hospital. Pronounced as CASH. Replaced the MASH units that were in

use from 1945 to 2006. Essentially, this replaces the tents with modular prefab structures to

create a ‘hard shell’ hospital in the field. Think of it as a relatively mobile trauma center that

emphasizes evacuation of seriously injured by air.

CUCV: Commercial Utility Cargo Vehicle. Pronounced ‘Cut-Vee’. Military designation for the

M1009 and other variations, usually patterned after full-size civilian Sport Utility Vehicles,

(SUVs) and pickups depending on the numerical designation.

DEFCON: Defense Condition. Normally followed by a number. Examples: DEFCON 2,

DEFCON 3 etc. DEFCON 4 is peacetime, DEFCON 1 is war.

DFAC: Dining Facility. A term now in use to describe what used to be referred to as the Mess

Hall in the US Army. However, the Navy and Marines still refer to their eating areas as the

galley.

DMAT: Disaster Medical Assistance Team.

DOT: Department of Transportation.

DP: Displaced Person. A term used to describe civilians that have been displaced from their

homes due to an event such as war or a disaster.

DZ: Drop Zone. Normally a designated area aircraft will drop airborne troops and supplies.

E-6B Mercury: Highly modified Boeing 707 designated as an E-6B by the U.S. Air Force. Also

goes by the codename “Looking Glass.” Operation Looking Glass is the airborne military control

center operated by the US Navy and the counterpart of “Kneecap.” Its primary mission

(TACAMO: Take Charge And Move Out) is to communicate with the ballistic missile submarine

fleet in case land based operations are incapacitated. It is also called the Doomsday plane. See

NEACP/NAOC.

EA6B Prowler: A four seat, US Navy, electronic warfare aircraft based upon the A-6 Intruder,

which was as all weather, medium attack aircraft in service with the U.S. Navy and U.S. Marines

between 1963-1997.

EMCON: Emission Control. No unauthorized radio transmissions/emissions.

EMP: Electro Magnetic Pulse. These pulses are caused by a nuclear explosion. Normally

occurring when a nuclear device is detonated at altitude but can still occur to some extent with

any nuclear type detonation. This pulse affects all unshielded electronic devices.

EMT: Emergency Medical Technician. An individual that provides basic, emergency medical aid

and treatment. Similar to a paramedic.

EOF: Escalation of Force. The measured amount of force used to respond to a threat. The level

of force will increase with the level of hostile intent. Essentially, an equal response to a viable

hostile threat, usually combined with the Rules of Engagement (ROE).

ESU: Emergency Service Unit. A select group within the New York City police department who

performs SWAT like operations as well as water rescues and administer basic medical aid.

Fast Rope: A quick method of exiting a hovering helicopter using thick ropes and usually no

other rappelling gear other than sturdy gloves. The method is quite similar to that of sliding

down a pole.

FBO: Fixed Base Operator or Fixed Base of Operation. A commercial business, usually the

primary provider of services to general aviation aircraft (private planes) and operators. Can be a

private enterprise, state, county, or city owned, usually providing parking, fuel, hangar rentals,

air taxi service, and other basic services such as aircraft tie-down, maintenance, restrooms,

telephones, and car rentals.

FEMA: Federal Emergency Management Agency. Now part of the Department of Homeland

Security (DHS). The successor to the Civil Defense of WWII and Cold War era.

FFAR: Mk 4 or Mk 40 Folding Fin Aerial Rocket (FFAR) that was developed in the late 1940’s

as an air to air rocket but was adapted for the air to ground role in the 1960’s. It has since been

replaced by The Hydra 70 rocket. See Hydra 70.

FLECHETTE: Small metal darts used in munitions for light material and/or personnel targets.

They have been used from WWI to the Russian-Georgian war in 2008 in bombs, missiles,

artillery shells, special purpose grenades, and shotgun shells. At expulsion, the flechettes separate

and form a disc-like mass which breaks up with each flechette assuming an independent

trajectory, forming a repeatable dispersion pattern. The flechette uses kinetic energy derived from

the velocity of the projectile to produce the desired impact and penetration effect on the target.

FN-FAL: Fabrique Nationale de Herstala (FN) is a Belgium based manufacturer of light arms

which produces the FAL, Fusil Automatique Leger, (Light Automatic Rifle) a high power

military rifle used by over 90 nations beginning in the 1950’s. It is chambered in 7.62 mm

caliber.

FSG: Forward Surgical Group. Some of these medical units are airborne qualified, meaning they

can parachute in with airborne forces. The designation for those units would include an ‘A’

following their unit name. Example: 27FSG(A) = 27th Forward Surgical Group, Airborne.

FTX: Field Training Exercise.

GOTH-P: Go To Hell Plan

HEMTT: Heavy Expanded Mobility Tactical Truck. An eight wheeled, heavy duty, cargo truck

that can be converted into several variations. The M977 and M985 cargo trucks carry all types of

equipment, especially ammunition. The M978 is a fuel tanker while the M983 is used for the

Patriot missile system. The M984 is a recovery vehicle, somewhat like a heavy duty tow truck.

A crane is mounted at the rear of most versions of the vehicle. The most recent version, the A3 is

a diesel electric hybrid much like a train locomotive or a Toyota Prius.

HK MK23: Heckler and Koch Mark 23. A handgun that won the Special Operations Offensive

Handgun Weapon System, (OHWS), chambered in .45 caliber. It can be fitted with any of the

following accessories: a Laser Aiming Module (LAM), sound suppressor, or a variety of optional

sighting, and/or illumination accessories. Due to its overall size, some SPECOPS units prefer the

Sig Sauer 226, 228 or the M9 Beretta. See SPECOPS

HMMWV: High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle. Also known as the Hummer or

Humvee. This vehicle replaced the M151 ‘Mutt’ Jeep. It can carry a squad of soldiers and be

mounted with several different weapons systems, such as the M2 .50 caliber Heavy Machine

Gun, the MK19 Automatic Grenade Launcher, the TOW missile system, 20mm Gatling guns,

etc. The HMMWVcan be configured into an ambulance, air defense system, troop transport, or

command vehicle, etc., hence the ‘multipurpose’ in the name.

HUMINT: Human Intelligence. Generally gathered by actual assets meaning agents on the

ground and in the field.

HYDRA 70: A 2.75 inch diameter or 70 mm unguided air to ground rocket which began to

replace the Folding Fin Aerial Rocket (FFAR) unguided rocket in the mid 1980’s. Both the old

MK4/40 and the newer MK 66 are 2.75 (70 mm) in diameter and carry different types of high

explosive, flechette, air burst, illumination (flares) or smoke warheads. The MK 66 is longer than

the MK 4/40, uses an improved smoke-less propellant, and has a completely new fin and nozzle

assembly. The three fins are of the wrap-around type, and fit around the circumference of the

rocket nozzle. Therefore the MK 66 is sometimes called a WAFAR (Wrap-Around Fin Aerial

Rocket) instead of an FFAR. They are often fired from pods that have 19 of these rockets on each

side of the aircraft in pairs, usually helicopter gunships such as the Marine AH-1A/B/C Cobra or

the Army Apache (AH64). This gives each aircraft a minimum of 38 and up to 76 rockets. An

upgrade planned for the Hydra system will be a guided warhead called the Advanced Precision

Kill Weapon System (APKWS) using the Hellfire Laser Designator. See FFAR.

IBS: Inflatable Boat, Small. Used by various military forces for a variety of light duty on bodies

of water. Sometimes referred to as a CRRC, Combat Rubber Raiding Craft pronounced ‘Crick’,

or generically as a Zodiac. This can be stored in a US Submarine for use by SEALs, and other

special operations units but has to be hand rowed or electric motored since gasoline cannot be

stored in a submersible. See SEAL, Zodiac.

IMDb: Internet Movie Database. An online website that contains information on just about any

actress, actor, director, movie, producer, or screenwriter.

INDOC: Basic indoctrination to naval special warfare. Most candidates will drop out at some

time during this phase when they realize this field is not for them. This phase is prior to the

official beginning of BUD/S and is sometimes referred to as Pre-BUD/S. This phase can last up

to 6 weeks. See BUD/S.

ISP: Internet Service Provider. Examples: AOL, Earthlink, etc.

JCS: Joint Chiefs of Staff. General officers representing all branches of the US military.

JSOC: Joint Special Operations Command. Consisting of all US special operations forces and

occasionally foreign special operations units. Pronounced ‘Jay-Sock’.

K-Pot: Slang term describing the Kevlar combat helmet that replaced the old steel helmet.

LAV 25/Striker: Light Armored Vehicle (LAV). Using the same chassis and basic configuration

of the USMC LAV is what the US Army is now calling the Stryker, or the M1126 Infantry

Carrier Vehicle (ICV), or the Interim Armored Vehicle, or the LAV-III. The United States Marine

version incorporates a small turret that has a 25mm ‘chain-gun’ (LAV-25) whereas the US Army

version uses the M151 ‘Protector’ remote weapon system which contains a M2 .50 caliber heavy

machine gun. The LAV/Striker is a sloped front, eight-wheeled amphibious, light armored

personnel carrier that can be configured into a command vehicle, a recon vehicle (LAV-R), an

ambulance and many other options.

LHA: Landing, Helicopter Assault/Amphibious Assault Ship. Has a wet well (the ability to

‘flood’ a small section of the interior of the ship) for amphibious operations and a small flight

deck for helicopters and/or VSTOL aircraft. See VSTOL/VTOL.

LID: Light Infantry Division. Example: 25th

(LID) or 25th

Light Infantry Division.

LPC: Leather Personnel Carrier. Slang term used by soldiers to identify their footwear.

LPD: Landing Platform Dock/Amphibious Transport Dock. This seagoing vessel has a wet well

for smaller amphibious vessels to use as a point of embarkation, storage facilities for equipment

and vehicles and a small flight deck for helicopters and/or VSTOL aircraft. (See

VSTOL/VTOL).

LPH: Landing Platform Helicopter. This is a support vessel for amphibious assault operations.

Its appearance is that of a miniature aircraft carrier. Some LPHs can be used as a floating hospital

after all the aircraft have been launched usually helicopters, AV8 Harrier VSTOL ‘jump jets’

and/or AV/MH/MV-22 Osprey tilt rotor aircraft. Similar to the LHA but has no wet well. See

LHA, VSTOL, VTOL.

LZ: Landing Zone. An area designated for helicopter landings which drops off cargo and troops.

M2: A heavy machine gun in .50 caliber (12.7mm). Also known as the ‘Ma Deuce’ or MA2.

Originally designed by John Browning and used since the 1920’s. It is the longest serving

weapon in the US Military. It can be used on a tripod by infantry, but is more commonly

mounted on a vehicle or ship.

M4 Carbine: M4 Special Operations Peculiar Modification (SOPMOD). A shortened version of

the full size M16 with barrel lengths of 18”-22”. Newer versions are also equipped with

Picatinny slide rails for optical devices, scopes, passive laser systems, and additional weapon

systems like the M203 or the M320 GLM. In some special cases, a shortened 12 gauge pump

shotgun, originally a Remington 870 (what some refer to as the ‘key to the city’ configuration)

has been replaced by the M26 Modular Accessory Shotgun System (MASS). This features a

magazine attachment for the shotgun. Essentially, the M4 is the replacement for the M16

incorporating many design changes, mostly internal.

M9: The Beretta 92FS. The current designation of the sidearm universally adopted by all

branches of the US Military. It is a 9mm handgun that replaced old ‘slab sides’ the Colt 1911 .45

caliber pistol.

M16: Introduced in 1963 during the Vietnam War, it is now the standard infantry rifle for the US

military since 1969. The current version is the M-16A4 and is typified by a Picatinny rail with

which accessories such as scopes, flashlights, etc., are attached. All are chambered for the 5.56

mm round. See M-4, AR-15.

M24: The M24 Sniper Weapon system is a military version of the Remington 700 bolt action

hunting rifle. It will eventually be replaced with the M110 Semiautomatic Sniper Weapon

system. Although, orders for the M24 are still being fulfilled by Remington as of February 2010.

M37 Ithaca: A tactical shotgun that has the shoulder stock removed and a pistol-like grip in its

place for easier handling in close quarters.

M60: A Light Weight Machine Gun (LWMG) firing a 7.62mm bullet that can be belt fed, drum

fed, vehicle mounted, tripod mounted, or hand carried. Popular in Rambo movies, the M60 has

seen some modification over the years into the M60E3. The M60E3 has a shortened gas cylinder

and an added a foregrip and integral bipod. This weapon is loosely based on the MG 42, the

feared German machine gun of WWII.

M110 Semiautomatic Sniper System (SASS): A highly modified SR25 rifle in use by US Army

Ranger units and some Recon teams. Loosely based on the Stoner AR10 rifle which is an

American made 7.62mm battle rifle.

M203: A grenade launcher attachment. This is an under the barrel, 40mm, pump action, breech

loaded, single shot grenade launcher. Mounts under the M4 or the full size M16 as well as

several other military rifles. Increases firepower of the individual soldier and removes the

position of a dedicated grenadier within a squad or platoon. Replaced the single shot M79

grenade launcher from the Vietnam era.

M240: Heavier model SAW based on the M249 but chambered in 7.62mm, the same caliber as

the M60. This medium weight machine gun can be belt fed, drum fed and has been seen with a

box magazine attachment. See M249, SAW.

M249: (MK48 Naval designation) The Minimi, or SAW for Squad Automatic Weapon. A

Belgian (FN) manufactured LWMG or Light Weight Machine Gun. It is currently adopted by US

forces and several countries. This machine gun fires the 5.56mm round same as the M16/M4.

Can be belt fed, drum fed, or magazine fed or adapted to use the M16/M4 magazine. Usually

comes with a lightweight bipod attached to the forward gas piston. Purchased to replace the

older, heavier M60 Light Weight Machine Gun (LWMG). See SAW.

M320 GLM: Grenade Launcher Module (GLM). The M320 is replacing the M203 as a single

shot grenade launcher. It can be mounted on almost any military rifle or used in a stand-alone

configuration. The major differences between the M320 and the M203 is that the 320 has a side

opening breach where the 203 has a slide forward breach for reloading and unloading and the

320 can be used without being attached to a rifle. See M203.

MAD: Mutual Assured Destruction. One of the reasons that the Cold War never went ‘Hot.’ The

MAD theory describes that in a nuclear exchange with relatively evenly matched opponents,

there will be mutual levels of destruction, and therefore no real winner.

MAMC: Madigan Army Medical Center. Most military hospitals are referred to by abbreviations

similar to this. Exceptions are Walter Reed, Bethesda, and so on.

MASH: Mobile Auxiliary Surgical Hospital. Not exactly the television series by the same name.

The last MASH was deactivated in 2006 and the equipment donated to Pakistan. It has been

superseded by the Combat Surgical Hospital (CSH or cash). See CSH.

MARPAT: Marine Pattern camouflage. Adopted by the USMC it contains a digital pattern style

of camouflage, or ‘digi-pat’, with blends of green, tan, and gray.

MC-130 Combat Talon: A four engine, propeller driven, cargo aircraft used by special operation

services. Based on the C-130 Hercules transport, the MC-130 mission is the infiltration, pickup,

and resupply of special operations forces, psychological operations support, and the air refueling

of (primarily) special operations helicopter and tilt-rotor aircraft.

MICH: Modular Integrated Combat/Communications Helmet. Yet another replacement for the

Kevlar K-pot and an upgrade from the ACH. See ACH.

MH-47: Modified Helicopter. The upgraded version of the Army’s CH-47 Chinook cargo

helicopter. Based on the original airframe design from the early 1960’s, the MH model was

developed for special operations and its major difference is the capability for in flight refueling

and the advanced electronic cockpit.

MH-60: Modified Helicopter. A heavily modified UH-60 Black Hawk utility helicopter. It is

designed for the insertion of special operation forces and differs mainly in electronics and in-

flight refueling capability. It is equipped with at least 2-.50 caliber machine guns or miniguns in

door mounts. Other weapon systems and Mission Support Stores in pods can be added or used as

needed. Some of the ‘sling wings’ (helicopter pilots) also call this helicopter the ‘Cat Fish’.

Minigun: The M134 (7.62mm) or M214 (5.56mm) Automatic Gun is sometimes referred to as a

Minigun. Originally developed for use mounted in and on helicopters and light aircraft. Like

most General Electric Gatling gun type weapons it has six rotating barrels and the potential for

an absolutely incredibly high rate of fire. It is electrically driven, and has a firing rate that can be

adjusted from 1000 rpm (Rounds Per Minute) all the way up to an unbelievable 10,000 rpm (yes,

that’s 10,000 rounds per minute). It is usually in 7.62mm caliber, but other models (M61 Vulcan)

are 20mm mounted in fighter aircraft such as the F-15, F-16, and F-18.

MK43: Highly modified version of the venerable M60 or M60E3 Light Weight Machine Gun

(LWMG) used specifically by Naval Special Warfare (NSW) units. See M60, NSW.

MK48: Highly modified version of the M249 SAW used specifically by NSW and special

operations units. See NSW, M249, SAW.

MOPP: Mission Oriented Protective Posture. Chemical, Biological, Radiological protective

garment that is issued to military personnel when there is a possibility of operating within one or

all of those environments. There are 4 levels to MOPP. Level 1 is the suit, hood, boots, gloves,

and mask carried in their deployment pouch. Level 2 is the suit worn but not sealed. Level 3 is

the suit, boots, and gloves worn. Level 4 is everything worn and the suit sealed. Not a very

comfortable garment to wear for any length of time.

MOUT: Military Operations, Urban Terrain. Combat within an urban area i.e., cities. Some

installations have training areas that resemble small towns with actual buildings although not

normally with paved streets or actual glass in the windows. These training areas are designed to

teach soldiers how to operate within built up areas.

MP: Military Police. Sometimes referred to as ‘Mud Puppies’.

MP5: German Heckler and Koch submachine gun. The Machine Pistol version 5 comes in

various calibers from 9mm, .40 caliber to .45 caliber. There are 168 variations and 7 different

trigger groups. The MP5 is used globally by police, military and paramilitary units.

MRE: Meals, Ready to Eat. Jokingly referred to as Meals Rejected by Ethiopians or Meals

Ready to be Expelled. The U.S. Military ration pack replacement for the traditional ‘C’ rations. It

comes in a thick brown or tan plastic envelope, which has a complete meal inside including

flatware, seasonings, moist towelette, chewing gum and matches. Some menu choices leave a lot

to be desired. An MRE has the recommended daily amount of calories and vitamins in each

packet, and rumor has it that they are supposed to be good for you.

MSG3: German Heckler and Koch rifle patterned after the G3 military rifle but normally has a

heavy match barrel, bipod, and usually a mounted scope. This rifle is favored by several special

operations and police forces globally for its accuracy and dependability.

NASA: National Aeronautical and Space Administration. Agency responsible for the United

States Space Program and tracking mostly civilian satellites.

NEACP/NAOC: National Emergency Airborne Command Post. Pronounced kneecap. Also

known as the National Airborne Operations Center (NAOC). Pronounced ‘NAY-OCK’. This is a

highly modified Boeing 747B (E-4B) containing communications and other equipment that

allows the President, Vice President, Secretary of Defense, or other civilian official in the chain

of command to direct operations. There are four EA-4B Advanced Airborne Command Post

aircraft known to exist known as project Nightwatch. Sometimes referred to as the Doomsday

plane. See E-6 Mercury.

NCA: National Command Authority. The President of the United States (POTUS). Generally a

term used by military forces. See POTUS.

NCO: Non-Commissioned Officer. Any enlisted personnel who have achieved the rank of E4

resulting in the rank of Petty Officer 3rd Class or Sergeant depending on the branch of service.

NMCC: The National Military Command Center. Referred to as ‘NIMIC.’ It is located at the

Pentagon and is responsible for issuing Emergency Action Messages (EAM) to launch control

centers, submarines, recon aircraft, and battlefield commanders. NMCC provides continuous

support, intelligence, communication, and monitoring of all communications, electronic activity,

and systems to ensure minimum connectivity for the Single Integrated Operational Plan (SIOP)

execution, worldwide monitoring and crisis management. This allows the JCS up to the minute

status on all US armed forces and their capabilities. See JCS.

NOE: Nap of the Earth. Flying an aircraft as low to the ground as possible to mask its sound

signature and avoid radar detection or to evade other hostile aircraft/missiles. Some aircraft have

terrain following radars and other electronic navigational aids specially designed to allow this

type of flight.

Nomex: Flame retardant material used in aviation flight suits and other items of clothing such as

flight gloves.

NSW: Naval Special Warfare. Encompassing SDV, SEAL Teams, and SWCC units. See SDV,

SEAL, SWCC.

ODA: Operational Detachment Alpha. Also referred to as a ‘A-Team.’ A small, tactical

operations group within US Army Special Forces usually consisting of 10-12 personnel.

ODB: Operational Detachment Bravo. Known as a ‘B-Team.’ Usually a support unit or larger

operational unit supporting the ODA, usually consisting of 12-24 personnel. See ODA.

ODC: Operational Detachment Charlie. Known as a ‘C-Team.’ Usually a support/command

element that supports both the ODA and ODB during deployments. This could be by way of

COMMO (Communications), vehicles, artillery, heavy weapons, or a combination of all of these.

See ODA, ODB.

OD: Olive Drab. A color commonly found or referred to within a military environment. A shade

of green.

OEOB: Eisenhower E Office Building (EEOB). Formerly known as the Old Executive Office

Building (OEOB). Originally, it was the State, War, and Navy Building, is an office building in

Washington, D.C. across the street from the White House. The building is maintained by the

General Services Administration and occupied by the White House Office of

Administration/Executive Office of the President. It is also rumored to be a hub for a vast

underground tunnel network that connects several key buildings.

OIC: Officer in Charge. Known as the 1-IC. Usually a term used within the NSW/SPECOPS

community as the average SEAL Team consists of an OIC and 2IC conventionally, a Lieutenant

and a Lieutenant Junior Grade (LTJG). See NSW, SPECOPS, SEAL.

Petty Officer: Enlisted rank of maritime service branches, Navy, and Coast Guard. Rank

structure is roughly equivalent to ground force ranks. Petty Officer 3rd Class is similar to a

Specialist or Corporal. Petty Officer 1st Class is similar to a Sergeant First Class.

POTUS: President of The United States.

PSG1: German Heckler and Koch 7.62mm match grade semiautomatic rifle. Similar to the HK

MSG3 in caliber but having many cosmetic design changes regarding the pistol grip, rifle barrel,

and magazine capacity.

RHI(B): Rigid Hull Inflatable (Boat). Pronounced as ‘rib.’ One size up from the Inflatable Boat,

Small, (IBS), can sometimes be referred to as an IBM, or Inflatable Boat, Medium. Sometimes

generically referred to as a ‘Zodiac’. Due to their size, these cannot be stored aboard a

submarine.

RIF: Reduction in Force. A federal program that studied officers and units, and then made

decisions on what units would be disbanded and what officers would be given an early retirement

as they were deemed to be non mission essential.

ROE: Rules of Engagement. Rules that a military unit adheres to when in a specific situation.

ROE and EOF usually go hand in hand. See EOF.

ROTC: Reserve Officer Training Corps. Pronounced ‘ROT-C.’ Usually offered at colleges and

universities to students wanting to pursue a career or education opportunities within the military.

Most students become commissioned as 2nd Lieutenants or Lieutenant Junior Grade (LTJG)

depending on what branch of service they elect to join.

SAC: Special Agent in Charge. The lead Secret Service or FBI agent in a detail or investigation.

An old abbreviation for the US Air Force Strategic Air Command, now defunct having been

replaced by the Air Combat Command (ACC).

SALUTE: Acronym for Size, Activity, Location, Unit, Time, Equipment. This is a specific report

sent back to command from units that are either recon dedicated or performing a strategic

reconnaissance mission.

SATCOM: Satellite Communication. A very secure encrypted form of communication, restricted

for military use only.

SAW: Squad Automatic Weapon. See M249, M240.

SEA HAWK: The naval designation and version of the US Army UH-60 Black Hawk. Comes in

many various configuration just like the Army versions. US Coast Guard has adopted it as well

and designate it the HH-60 Jay Hawk. Replaced the UH-1 ‘Huey.’

SEAL: SEa, Air, Land. US Naval Special Forces, first formed in 1962.

SDV: SEAL Delivery Vehicle/Swimmer Delivery Vehicle. Advanced SEAL Delivery Vehicle or

ASDV. Normally a ‘wet’ mini-submarine used as a taxi to insert/retrieve SEAL teams to their

targets, can be used from surface ships as well. The SDV is flooded, and the swimmers ride

exposed to the water, breathing from the vehicle's compressed air supply or using personal

SCUBA or Draeger (Re-breather) equipment. SDVs are generally launched from a Dry Deck

Shelter (DDS) on the back of a submarine, or from amphibious carriers (surface craft) equipped

to launch and recover the SDV. It can be airdropped (unmanned) into an operational area from a

C-130 Hercules.

SFG: Special Forces Group. Usually followed by (A), example: 1SFG(A) denoting that group as

airborne (that’s the capital ‘A’ part of the unit descriptor) qualified which most if not all US

Army Special Forces units are. Example: 1st Special Forces Group, Airborne would be 1SFG(A).

SIG Sauer: a European manufacturer of small arms. In this context, it is referencing a high

quality handgun favored by most SEAL team operators for its reliability and compact size. It is

available in a variety of calibers including 9mm, .40 caliber or .45 caliber. See SEAL

SITREP: Situation Report. A term used by the military and requested by command about the

disposition of a unit.

STICK: An airborne term referring to 10-12 soldiers (a squad) that are grouped together prior to

jumping from an aircraft. A platoon could have 4 or more 'sticks' known as a ‘chalk’ which might

be broken down by squad with a 'stick' leader usually a senior NCO as squad leader. Forming the

paratroopers into sticks and chalks makes it easier for the jumpmaster to know how many people

are on the plane and in what order/formation they will be exiting the plane. These terms come

from the common use of white chalk on the sides of planes and vehicles to mark and update

numbers of personnel and equipment being emplaned. See NCO.

Stoner SR25 SD Rifle: Developed by Knights Armament Company and Eugene Stoner the

creator of the M16 and Stoner Weapons Systems. The SR 25 was the AR-15 rifle scaled up to

shoot 7.62x51 / .308 Winchester ammunition, with up to 60% of parts of the new rifle being

interchangeable with standard AR-15 components. In 2005, a modified version of the SR-25 /

Mk.11 rifle won the US Army Semi-Automatic Sniper Rifle or Special Application Sniper Rifle

(M110 SASR) competition, and today it is being issued to US Army snipers, in an attempt to

replace the venerable M24 Sniper Weapon System.

SOCOM: Special Operations Command. It encompasses all branches of service and their

specific special operations forces.

SOTIC: Special Operations Target Interdiction Course. A school that special operators from any

branch of service can attend similar to the Marine Corps Scout/Sniper School.

SPECOPS: Special Operations. Generic term used to identify military forces trained for special

operations without identifying any specific unit or branch.

SPECWAR: Special Warfare. Commonly referred to as NAVSPECWAR, or Naval Special

Warfare (NSW). Designated naval warfare specialty that conducts operations in the coastal,

riverine, and maritime environments. The emphasis is small, flexible, highly mobile units that

can operate under, on, or from the sea. These operations are characterized by stealth, speed, and

precise application of force, encompassing SEAL, SDV, and SWCC units. See NSW, SEAL,

SDV, SWCC.

SQT: SEAL Qualification Training. This training comes after graduating BUD/S. It is like a

finishing school for SEALs and takes approximately 18 months to complete. See BUD/S, SEAL.

SSGN: SSGN is the United States Navy hull classification symbol for a nuclear-powered cruise

missile submarine. The SS denotes "Ship, Submersible" (submarine), the G denotes "Guided

Missile," and the N denotes "Nuclear Powered." Several “boomers”, Ship, Submersible,

Ballistic, Nuclear, (SSBN), that carried Inter-Continental Ballistic Missiles (ICBM) were

converted to carry cruise missiles from 2002 to 2008. 22 of the 24 missile tubes were converted

to carry 7 Tomahawk Cruise missiles each. The remaining two tubes are converted to Lock Out

Chambers (LOC) to be used by Special Operations personnel. This allowed the former SSBN to

become a deployment/support platform for special operations units. The submarine (fictional)

mentioned within the story has had all missile tubes removed and that space converted to a large

dive out locker and storage area. For more information on SSGNs, see this link:

http://www.specialoperations.com/Navy/SSGN/

SWCC: Special Warfare Combatant Crewman. Pronounced ‘swick’. The brown water navy, a

term that goes back to the Vietnam War where naval riverine forces operated along the Mekong

River, a body of water known to be brown. Primarily, SWCC is a taxi and support service for the

SEALs and may use RHIBs or other smaller watercraft to support naval special operations in a

maritime environment. Also known as The River Rats as they operate, usually along coastlines,

inland waterways and rivers. See RHI(B), SEAL.

TBI: Traumatic Brain Injury.

TOC: Tactical Operations Center. Usually a temporary, portable, or transportable facility,

building, tent, vehicle, or location that military personnel will use to communicate and interface

with other units during a tactical situation.

UAV: Unmanned Aerial Vehicle. Essentially, it is a large remote control plane. The most

recognizable would be the Predator and Reaper models, but there are numerous versions from

the small man portable WASP III designed to be used by a single infantryman on the battlefield,

to the jet powered Global Hawk designed for high altitude long endurance surveillance. The US

has placed Air to Ground guided missiles on the Reaper and Predator with great success in the

Iraq and Afghanistan conflicts.

UCMJ: Uniform Code of Military Justice. Articles set forth by congress that define how military

personnel should act and what is against the rules; a set of laws to be adhered to by all military

personnel or face charges from punitive to court martial.

UDT: Underwater Demolition Team. Historical precursor to the SEALs. The last UDT team was

decommissioned in the 1980s. See SEAL.

UHF: Ultra High Frequency. Radio waves and broadcast bandwidth within the frequency range

of 450 MHz to 952 MHz.

UM84: Universal holster made by Bianchi replacing the old leather style, made with ‘ballistic’

nylon and several other features. A bit more comfortable to wear and can be extended to a

tactical carry when wearing a field jacket and/or body armor.

USAMRIID: US Army Medical Research Institute for Infectious Disease. This is the group that

finds the germ, virus, biological agent, etc., and then attempts to develop a vaccine or antidote.

The military medical bio-defense unit. Sometimes referred to as ‘the RID’.

VHF: Very High Frequency. Radio waves and broadcast bandwidth within the frequency range

of 89.00 MHz to 216 MHz.

VSTOL/VTOL: Vertical/Short Takeoff and/or Landing. Usually performed by a helicopter. Very

few fixed wing aircraft are capable of absolute and vertical immediate lift or drop. Currently, the

AV8 Harrier and the AV/MH-22 ‘Osprey’ tilt rotor are the most common aircraft capable of

performing such an evolution.

XO: Executive Officer. The second in command beneath the Commanding Officer (CO).

ZODIAC: Combat Rubber Raiding/Reconnaissance Craft (CRRC). Pronounced ‘crick.’ Zodiac

is the manufacturer of inflatable boats used by civilians, naval forces and other military units.

The name ‘Zodiac’ has become synonymous with the CRRC in popular culture.

About the author:

J.R. Jackson is a former U.S. Navy Chief Petty Officer. During his career, he has been deployed

all over the world working with other branches of the U.S. military and military units from

foreign countries. This is his first venture into fictional writing. He is currently a Military

Technical Advisor and an outdoor survival and disaster mitigation educator.