A handful of zombies lingered outside the fence and lolled their heads lazily toward the approaching vehicles. The mounted guns cut them down immediately. The noise echoed for miles off the San Diego skyscrapers. The clatter would certainly draw more walking dead, and whatever the convoy was going to accomplish here, would need to be accomplished quickly.
“Where are the guards?” Pam asked, noting the deserted look of the DDC. When approaching a DDC that did not greet the convoy arrival, the crews were to enter on foot, search for supplies and survivors, and then leave.
“I really hate Walk-ins.” Miguel used the term that described their next mission protocol. It was a protocol that every convoy crew loathed, not only because of the extreme danger, but also the moral quandary it presented. These expeditions were notoriously lethal, but what was especially loathsome about Walk-ins, was that it was up to the convoy leader to decide if the DDC should be abandoned. It was so easy to decide that a DDC looked too dangerous to enter, and such choices had dire consequences for any survivors trapped within.
“When was the last time there was contact with the Tierrasanta DDC?” Carl asked.
Pam punched up some information on her laptop. “Looks like… three weeks ago. There were over seventy occupants at that time.”
A few seconds passed, interrupted only by the sound of a mounted gun cutting down another undead corpse that was slowly wandering toward the vehicles. Carl sighed, noting the dark letters scrawled on the second story wall — ‘Alive inside.’ There were thousands of messages like that throughout San Diego. For every one that was genuine, there was another that was a trap. What appeared to be pleas for help appealing to the good nature of anyone altruistic enough, were actually lures. Many a do-gooder had fallen into the trap and then killed for their supplies. For each ruse, there were a dozen more that were no longer accurate — leftovers from a desperate band of survivors who had long since relocated or been overwhelmed by the undead. In some cases, they were vacant hideouts picked clean of everything of use. In others lay festering broods of ghouls waiting to spring on anyone who wandered into their midst.
“There could be people in there. If we abandon this DDC, they’re dead.” Carl said over the communications network, appealing to his team. He was the leader, his soldiers would follow him if ordered, but this was their last mission.
The communication network was silent for a moment until Pam answered back. “This is our duty. I say we do it right just like every mission before this.”
A few more seconds passed before the rest of the crews agreed. The soldiers knew it was dangerous, but if there was anyone alive within that building… Convoy Nineteen was their only hope.
“Okay, gunners on Four and Five: guard the convoy. Drivers and comms stick with them. Keep the perimeter inside the fence clear. Everyone from cars One, Two, and Three, searches the ground level in their squad. When the bottom level is clear, we hit the second level,” Miguel ordered. When it came to anything to do with the Humvees or on the streets of San Diego, Carl was in charge. On foot, Carl gave Miguel free rein. Carl had recognized long ago that being a good driver and good leader did not necessarily mean he was good in tactical situations. Part of the reason he had survived as long as he had, was that he was able to recognize the strengths of his team and leverage them. Miguel was a fantastic lead gunner, but beyond that, he was a fearless and quick-thinking Sergeant who had led many a successful Walk-in.
The convoy pulled up slowly to the fence gate, and Carl put his vehicle in park before opening his door and stepping out. “Hand me those bolt cutters.” Carl looked back into the vehicle for a moment, and Pam fished around in the back seat before handing him the tool.
He looked at the ominous structure in front of him and summoned his courage. A mounted machine gun shattered the silence, and a small group of undead that had been wandering up behind the convoy fell lifelessly to the ground.
Carl jumped out of his skin. “Jesus Christ! Warn me.”
Tense laughter could be heard over the network. “Just keeping you on your toes,” Miguel replied.
Carl cautiously approached the gate as he scanned the area with his rifle over his shoulder and bolt cutters in hand. He looked at the padlock on the gate, and he could see it had endured the previous months intact. A quick snip with the bolt cutters, however, and the chain that had held the gate closed fell to the ground. Carl dashed back into the safety of his vehicle. “Lock was okay. Don’t know if that was a good sign or bad sign.”
The vehicles slowly rolled into the lot, pulled in front of the clinic, and scanned the area. Stillness made everyone all the more uneasy. The vehicles formed a semicircle with their backs facing the clinic entrance, mounted guns facing into the lot before them. “Everyone ready?” Miguel asked.
Cautiously, everyone in vehicles One, Two, and Three, opened their doors and surveyed the area with their rifles. The gunners in vehicles Four and Five remained at their posts, inspecting the area from behind their mounted weapons. The other soldiers fanned out, rifles drawn.
Miguel approached the doors of the clinic and peered inside. Ruined blinds obscured his view, but what he could see was in wild disarray. Personal effects and furniture were strewn about, the front glass was broken out, and lifeless bodies lay where they had fallen. Brownish-red stains streaked the floor and walls, and were a foreboding sign that things here had gone terribly wrong. Miguel gripped the door handle, found it was unlocked, and quietly swung it open. “Go!”
Miguel, Carl, Pam, and their six compatriots moved into the front room. They were expecting to see a hungry corpse or grateful DDC staff greet them from behind some hideout. Instead, there was nothing — no one.
“It’s not too late to forget this whole thing,” someone whispered.
Distant scuffling could be heard from somewhere within the building, and everyone looked around frantically. Suddenly, the sound of breaking glass shattered the tension, and the crystal shards tinkled on the parking lot behind them.
“Here! We’re up here!” A woman’s voice screamed with desperation.
“Let’s make this quick!” Carl ordered. The three convoy teams found the stairs and bounded up them.
“Wait!” Miguel ordered. “It isn’t clear! We haven’t cleared the ground floor!”
The team, headless of their sergeant’s orders, and anxious to put this DDC behind them, lept to the aid of the civilian survivors.
Chapter 22
“The Chinese would never agree to a joint occupation of Hawaii.” Dr. Damico stood in the meeting room addressing a collection of politicians, officers, and ship captains — two dozen men and women who now counted among the most powerful people on earth. Perhaps a hundred more listened attentively to the discussion via speaker phone. It had taken almost no time for the meeting to get bogged down with small-picture issues: civilian fleet security, ammunition, water distillation, the Mexicans and the Chinese. Henry’s challenge was to show them the big picture — to make it crystal clear how dire the long-term situation was for the fleet. “You have to understand the Chinese position — they have One point four billion WDs on their hands. Combined with India and other Southeastern Asian countries, they’re looking at an outbreak of over three billion walking dead. Three billion… think about that number for a moment.” Dr. Damico could barely fathom the number himself.
Tracy Gowda handed him a manila envelope. Henry opened the report, and quoted some statistics: “Shanghai — fifteen million WDs. Beijing — ten million WDs. Guangzhou — nine million walking dead. These are outbreaks as severe, if not more severe than New York’s. Outbreaks that make Los Angeles and Chicago look insignificant by comparison. You have to understand. They have no choice!”