“They want to shut it down… leave thousands of people without power…” one of the congressmen protested.
Nostrum climbed onto his chair and cracked his knuckles. “Did you read your brief?”
The congressman slowly sat back in his chair, visibly embarrassed. “Yes…” He said slowly, hoping his lie would not be tested.
“Admiral… Dr. Damico, please forgive my associate. Without lobbyists to tell them what to do, my colleagues across the aisle don’t know what to make of this whole leadership thing.” Nostrum met the gaze of the Admiral. “Evacuating San Onofre will be fine. It’s a shame there isn’t an alternative, but hard times call for hard choices.”
Silence reigned for a moment. The politicians were visibly frustrated, but they were also helpless. Nostrum had clearly established himself as the “Alpha” among the group — an ambitious and intelligent man who asserted his influence over his colleagues like a chess player moves pawns. Rank and file career bureaucrats were unequipped to deal with leadership in a world where impossible decisions and hard facts meant the difference between life and death. Their paralysis made them into Nostrum’s puppets, and a fact that met Dr. Damico with a mixture of relief and concern. As much as he appreciated Nostrum in this moment, Henry had never trusted the man. Experience had taught him that politicians, particularly skilled politicians, were always working an angle.
“As I was saying, Admiral, it’s time to pull out,” Dr. Damico concluded, “and if I could ask…” Henry leaned into the Admiral and lowered his voice, “isn’t the Tierrasanta DDC on the way to San Onofre?”
“It certainly is, Doctor. We’ll send a convoy there to retrieve some final supplies and personnel from Tierrasanta. I’ll make sure Kelly is among those personnel.” The Admiral smiled as he picked up a telephone on the console in front of him and addressed his communications officer: “Get me Captain Sheridan.”
Chapter 18
The city was dead. Carl, Pam, and Miguel drove in silence, passing through the lifeless remnants of San Diego. A highway once congested with traffic was now vacant, the skeletons of abandoned and burnt-out cars littering the shoulder. Military crews had dumped them there for lack of any better place. The sun shone behind the convoy, casting the city in bright yellow light. Office buildings and skyscrapers, left in disrepair for nearly a year in a raging hellhole of war, stood lifeless. All the windows were busted out. Warnings reading, ‘dead within,’ ‘danger, do not enter,’ and ‘infected,’ were graffiti over government propaganda posters that had previously reassured the public at large that everything was under control.
Terrified children sat silently in the backs of the Humvees, watching their abandoned city pass quietly by. They had spent the last several months trapped within a DDC, watching the immediate area deteriorate into an undead wasteland. The totality of the devastation was as awe-inspiring as it was spirit crushing.
The Super Cobra had taken its leave, as its ammunition was spent and its fuel was limited. Air Zero had meant the difference between life and death mere moments ago, but now it was an empty metal bird that was helpless to affect events on the ground.
As the naval base came into view, even the defenses that encircled its perimeter were silent. An eerie stillness had consumed the city as if humanity and the undead— for this moment—had called a brief truce. Large yellow and red signs — ‘Authorized personnel only’ and ‘Trespassers will be shot’ — welcomed them home.
Carl barely recalled the gates opening to allow his team inside or stepping out of his vehicle to meet Captain Sheridan. Standing face to face with the Captain, briefing his superior on what had transpired the previous night, was an out-of-body experience. It felt like it was not even him speaking to his commander, but someone else. Pam and Miguel stood by, filling in the holes in Carl’s memory. Exhaustion and grief had finally overwhelmed them, and in this moment, they were as lifeless as the monsters who roamed about outside.
They reported on the civilian attack that had claimed seven lives and two Humvees. They then recalled Sergeant Keal, Dr. Rosenthal, and conditions within the Spring Valley DDC. Finally, they forced themselves to recount the deadly trip back that had cost five more lives. The Captain listened, nodded expressionlessly. Meanwhile, the children were escorted out of the convoy vehicles and into medical screening facilities. Captain Sheridan stopped periodically to jot down important details of the debriefing. He never asked any questions, nor did he communicate any disapproval of his Convoy’s inability to return with the personnel and supplies he had requested.
When they were dismissed, Carl wandered into the mess hall for food and coffee. He was exhausted to the point of insomnia. His every step was an act of muscle memory. A cook looked at him with pitying eyes as he filled Carl’s plate. Despite his mental fog, Carl couldn’t help but notice the emptiness of the enormous room. There was once a time when the cafeteria would have been filled with the din of convoy teams eating, talking, and joking. Now, Carl was the only soul within.
He lumbered over to a table, sat down, and sipped his coffee. He pushed his food around his plate absently. He barely noticed Pam and Miguel enter the cafeteria, fill their trays, and sit down across from him.
The trio sat in silence until Miguel spoke. “That was a bad one.” Miguel had pulled off his gore-covered uniform, and he sat shirtless in boxer shorts. He searched through a crumpled pack of cigarettes.
“Yeah,” Pam replied. She took a drink of coffee and played with the strap on her laptop case. Her uniform was filthy and stained, but she was well beyond caring.
“Things are bad out there,” Carl said, not really expecting a response. In truth, he didn’t have anything to say. He had lost twelve men. The sense of responsibility for their lives weighed on his conscience.
Miguel dumped out his cigarette pack. Most of its contents were broken, their tobacco spilled out like guts on the table. Only three remained intact, and as battered and wrinkled as they were, they could be smoked.
“These are my lucky cigarettes. I’m going to save these,” Miguel mumbled.
The door of the mess hall swung open, and the sound of Captain Sheridan’s boots on the tile floor filled the room. He made his way to his team, clipboard in hand. As Pam and Miguel moved to salute, Sheridan waved them away. The act of rising and saluting was one that he would not demand of a team that had driven themselves to complete emotional and mental exhaustion.
“Cap,” Pam looked up at Sheridan. Her eyes were heavy with black bags of fatigue.
Captain Sheridan looked over the rag-tag group for a moment before speaking. “I’m consolidating the remnants of Twelve and Seven into Nineteen. You’re the most experienced… the best crew, so you’ll be lead car again.”
“We’re going back out there, sir?” Carl asked with a tone mixed of equal parts surprise and anger.
“Your convoy will consist of five cars, including you,” Sheridan answered.
The group looked to each other with destitute expressions on their faces. For months, the teams had been consolidated into one another as losses mounted and the situation in Southern California deteriorated. This time, however, Pam, Miguel, and Carl were convinced that the military couldn’t possibly expect them to dive back into hell.