“Damn… look at all of them…” Private Barona gasped. “I’ve never seen so many in one place.”
“They’re attracted to the commotion.” Carl responded. “If we stayed here long enough, we’d have every ghoul in the city on top of us.”
“How many?” Private Barona asked. A rotted face pressed itself up against the passenger side window and the Private casually rolled the window down a few inches. As the ghoul leered at him, he placed his pistol against its head and fired.
“A million in the city. Three million metropolitan.” Carl watched Pam, Miguel, and Private MacAfee scramble into the nearest Humvee. He punched the communications link on his helmet. “Check if you’re in a car!”
Seven “checks” came back. Carl loved every member of his team, but was particularly relieved to hear the voices of Pam and Miguel.
“Anyone else?” Carl waited a few more seconds. “Okay, Pam and Miguel, bulldoze us out of this nightmare. We’ll take up the rear.”
Sergeant Quinn’s Humvee exploded through a pile of writhing bodies with a crash of gore and limbs. Some persistent corpses tried to hang on, but were thrown off as it sped forward. Civilians attempted to grab hold of the convoy vehicles as they escaped. Those who managed to find purchase were dragged for a while before losing their grip or torn away by the hungry dead.
Carl followed his team. As he went, the mounted gunner spun around and continued spraying into the densely packed mass of ghouls.
A few moments passed, and the unmistakable sound of helicopter blades rumbled in behind them.
“We’re clear, air support. Party’s all yours.” Pamela’s voice cracked through the headsets.
“Copy that, 19.” The relaxed voice came back.
Carl watched in his rear view mirror. The mayhem in the street behind him vanished in a thunder of fire and smoke, as missiles made contact with their targets. Civilians, undead, and vehicles were obliterated in a cleansing aerial bombardment.
“Armor’s on the way, 19.” The same pilot’s voice assured them. “It’ll be clear by the time you come back through.”
The sight of the Black-hawk helicopters cleaning up the perimeter vanished in the distance. The military would have the street reopened in a few hours, but the undead that had survived would disintegrate back into the city to wander around looking for new prey.
“Sound off.” Pam ordered, and the voices of Carl, Miguel, and five others came back.
“Shit — so we lost seven,” Carl responded. “Okay, we have three Humvees, three drivers, three gunners, and two comms. On my mark, we stop, reorganize crews, and get going. Middle car goes without a comm… don’t get lost. Everyone ready?” Carl paused for a few seconds. “Mark!” The three vehicles screeched to a halt, and the soldiers poured out. Pam, Miguel, and Carl, were reunited in the lead Humvee. Sergeant Quinn, Specialist MacAfee, and Private Barona took up the rear. Private Richards and Sergeant Ornstein took the middle car.
Convoy 19 sat in the street for a moment, collecting itself. They had only been stopped for a few precious seconds when the lurking shadows began to roam into view. Their hollow moans carried on the wind and echoed through the streets and alleys.
The mission had just cost seven lives, and it had barely begun.
Chapter 9
The gray corridors of the U.S.S. Ronald Reagan were crowded by sailors rushing to and from their battle stations, but Dr. Damico felt alone. Step by step, Henry made his way to his living quarters. His mind was in a fog after six grueling hours in the hospital. The adrenaline had left his system, and exhaustion was beginning to hit him. Sleep would have been welcome, but—tired as he was—he felt the insomnia creeping over him. The pressure of his responsibilities as Secretary of Health and Human Services began to worm its way into his mind.
He arrived at his stateroom, glanced up to ensure he was in the right place, turned the door handle, and stepped inside the cramped living space.
“Good morning.” Tracy Gowda sat hovering over her laptop at Dr. Damico’s desk. Boxes containing file folders had been piled high over every possible surface, and only a narrow path—barely wide enough for her wheelchair—ran from the door to the desk. Of the two fluorescent lights that lit the cabin, one had stopped working. The other cast the room in a gentle yellow hue that reminded Henry of a dingy bar.
“Good… morning…” Henry answered back confused, before realizing that technically it was early morning. The Mexican attack had begun late at night and time had flown while he was working in triage.
Tracy wheeled herself around and punched a few keys on a second laptop that sat behind her. “You’ll want to take a look at the documents that I’m sending to you. Admiral McMillan needs your report ASAP.”
Dr. Damico had seen his share of workaholics in his life, but none even came close to Tracy. She had been his advisor for four years at his office in San Diego. She had never taken a sick day, personal day, or vacation day in that entire time, and was at her desk every morning before he arrived, and every evening when he left. As far as he could tell, the young professional lived entirely on a diet of coffee and vending machine food. Her understanding of sociology, economics, and international politics, was more than any three Health and Human Services employees combined, and she was immediately perceived as a threat by every rung of the professional ladder. She had been relegated to be his assistant for the entirety of her career, but had never once expressed an interest in advancing upward, despite being vocally disgusted with incompetence at the top. She seemed to exist for no other purpose than to dissect miniscule details of thousand-page reports on obscure topics, and translate them into tidbits of information that Henry found unbelievably helpful. With the rise of the living dead, her encyclopedic knowledge of numbers, statistics, trends, and outcomes, guided him in ways that saved countless lives.
There was no place to store the piles of paperwork and reports that had accompanied Henry from his mainland workplace. His quarters in the aircraft carrier had doubled as his office since his arrival. Since the reports were here, Tracy had taken to working in his room at all hours. Henry felt as if he should be annoyed by the constant intrusion, but he had come to appreciate Tracy’s dedication. Since he never slept anyway, it seemed pointless to make a fuss.
Henry squeezed into a narrow space between two boxes on his bed and dug around the mess for his laptop. He rubbed his eyes as the pale blue light of his monitor washed over him. A few moments of silence passed, and he started to digest the information Tracy had sent him.
“Thank you very much for keeping me on through all of this, Henry.” Tracy reached for a coffee pot that sat atop a jumbled stack of papers and filled her cup as well as a second cup, which she passed to Henry.
Henry took the coffee. “Thanks? For what?”
Tracy wheeled her chair around to face him. “If it wasn’t for this job, I wouldn’t be here, on this ship. I’m alive because of you, Henry. This chair wasn’t built for outrunning the living dead, and warships weren’t exactly built for cripples. I realized while you were gone at triage that if things went badly, I might not have an opportunity to express my gratitude.”