“We’ll be back.” Sheridan whispered, as he flipped the breaker switches to the command platform and thrust the dock into near twilight. The last of the soldiers meandering through the garage toward the ships became nothing more than a somber procession of faceless shadows. His teenage communications officer slid past him on the stairs and jogged away until he disappeared into a boat.
Captain Sheridan paused for a moment, gazing upon San Diego through the closing garage doors. It was a dead city that had cost him too many good men and women. He felt the Bible’s textured cover in his hand, slid the list of names out, and placed the paper in his pocket. As San Diego disappeared from his view, he set the book on the arm of his former command chair and placed his hand upon it.
He thought of the soldiers he had lost and the soldiers he would yet lose. He thought of the millions of men, women, and children of San Diego who now walked among the living dead — their hopes and dreams cut short. He thought of the hardship facing the survivors in the fleet and all around the world.
“You stay here. You have work to do,” Sheridan whispered. He gave his Bible a gentle pat, sighed, and turned to take his leave of San Diego.
Chapter 21
In the post-apocalyptic streets of San Diego, traveling a few miles could take hours. The roads were littered with broken down and abandoned vehicles. The walking dead roved in packs that could, and often did, fuse together into one writhing mass of flesh eating undead madness. While the dead tore down man’s civilization, Mother Nature was already reclaiming its carcass. Thick tufts of grass sprouted from cracks in the highway. Vines crawled up buildings. Even cars abandoned on the side of the street had rapidly disintegrated into rusted and burnt-out skeletons, their windows shattered and their interiors ripped and moldy. It had taken merely a year for sidewalks to crumble. Heaps of reeking garbage littered the streets.
Carl turned down an off-ramp that curled under the highway and through a commercial district. Skyscrapers towered above, casting the convoy in the shadow of an urban jungle. Carl wondered how long the undead would last. Would the men and women who had been killed under his command and risen to join the walking dead, still be wandering about two hundred years from now? Or would time claim even them? Was a ghoul immortal?
The thought of his fellow soldiers roaming the earth for eternity made his stomach turn. It felt like a disservice to their memory that they might still be out there somewhere. “We should burn it all,” he mumbled.
“What was that?” Specialist Grace looked up from her laptop.
“Gunners three and four, clear that alley on the left. Looks like we may have to go through there if we can’t get through that mess of cars ahead.” Miguel interrupted, anticipating slow progress through a difficult stretch of road. Machine gun fire erupted from the other vehicles, and a small pack of walking dead vanished in a cloud of dust and gore.
“How long do you think it’ll take for people to realize we’re gone?” Someone’s voice came over the communications network. Carl recognized the voice but couldn’t put a name to it. Normally, he made it a priority to memorize the names of the men under his command immediately. After the last mission, something had changed in him. He had tried to commit the names of each of his men to memory, but he had failed.
“Well, anyone who can see the fleet will wake up one day and notice it’s gone,” Pam replied. “I’d say there’s a good chance this road is blocked. We may want to…”
“Fuck that mess of cars. We’re taking the alley,” Carl interrupted. The undead presence was growing rapidly. Previously docile ghouls rose from their resting places to join brethren who turned toward the convoy in anticipation of living flesh. Convenience stores, restaurants, and office buildings stuffed with zombies began to trickle their occupants into the street.
The convoy stopped, turned around, and veered up the alley that had been cleared by the gunners.
“We good?” Carl asked Pam, wanting to confirm his decision to take the convoy off course.
“We’re good.” She replied as she adjusted the Global Positioning System. “This is a good call. Take the second right and that road will take us parallel to the street we were just on.”
A lone zombie limping on a street corner craned its head toward the convoy and moaned at its approach. The shambling cadaver wore mud and bloodstained robes, and a large sign hung around its neck reading in bold: ‘Zechariah 14:12.’
Carl cut the corner so tightly that he bounded up the sidewalk, slammed into the undead prophet, and crushed it beneath his tires. “That’ll be too much for a lot of people.” He spoke absently as he brought the convoy back onto the road.
“What’s that?” Pam asked confused.
“Seeing that fleet off shore always gave me some comfort. I take for granted that we all have a ride on those ships waiting for us. A lot of people don’t have that luxury, but I’d imagine it’s still a source of hope. When it’s gone…” Carl trailed off. He could barely imagine waking up for the first time and seeing no trace of the mighty American Navy that had been floating just off the shore for months.
The convoy continued in silence. Curious undead emerged from doors and windows to examine the approaching vehicles and stagger after them slowly. Signs on buildings read, ‘Dead inside’, ‘Danger! Do not enter,’ or simply, ‘Help.’ A long series of identical posters plastered along a concrete wall depicted a strong masculine figure with a hardhat and hammer and read: ‘We need you to keep working… Don’t let THEM kill the American Economy.’
A trail of undead followed in the convoy’s wake. Businessmen, EMTs, Police Officers, service workers, bus drivers, and school children, all formed a motley crew of hungry dead that choked the road behind them. The swarm swelled and its moans echoed through the streets, summoning more and more with every passing second.
“Okay, the Tierrasanta DDC is up that hill. We can see it from here.” Pam craned her neck to look out the passenger side window. “You’ll want to cut through that park and wrap around the plateau. The terrain’s kinda tricky — one way up, one way down. We’re going to have to make this quick.”
“Okay gunners…” Carl began “we’re approaching the DDC. Keep gunfire to a minimum. There are lots of WDs in the area and we should avoid attracting too many more if we can.” Carl feared that the commotion of their approach had already attracted too many ghouls. If they were lucky, however, they could move quickly into the DDC and get out before the horde behind them caught up.
“Control, this is Convoy Nineteen. We have a STOG building in our area and may need air support,” Pam started. “Air Zero, you up there?”
“Negative, Convoy Nineteen. We are out of fuel. Air support is unavailable. Proceed with caution.” A voice came back casually relaying the news that, if the convoy were to become trapped, they would be on their own.
Carl led the convoy through the park and onto the side street that banked sharply up the hill and into the commercial district. At its heart was the Tierrasanta DDC. The convoy approached the crest of the hill, and the clinic grew closer. It became clear that something was wrong. The former urgent care facility was nestled between a music store and a café. It seemed empty, sitting behind a tortured fence reinforced with sand bags. The gun towers flanking the gate were abandoned, and roving figures could be seen through a huge hole smashed into the side of the structure.