Convoy 19: A Zombie Novel (13 page)

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.

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!”

Dr. Damico sat back down, exasperated. He remembered analyzing the Chinese outbreak several months ago and thinking there was simply no hope for East Asia. The only option for anyone in that region of the world would be to evacuate to the Pacific Islands. He had vainly hoped that evacuation would be peaceful.  It had not been. Accepting that there was nothing he could do about the violence in the Pacific, was almost as difficult as getting the American leadership to stay out of it. Old habits die hard, and a government that was accustomed to meddling in every conflict on earth could scarcely be expected to sit idle when Hawaii was attacked.

“Dr. Damico, are you suggesting that we simply abandon Hawaii and leave those American citizens to their fate?” Senator Allan Nostrum grumbled condescendingly. He was a dangerous politician who fancied himself the most qualified leader of the civilian government – de facto president of the United States in the absence of a true democratic government. “I think that communicates weakness to the rest of the world.” He rose to his feet and addressed everyone at the meeting. “If we let the Chinese and Mexicans push us around, by God, that will invite the Russians and the Brits and Germans…”

Dr. Damico slammed his fist on the table in anger. “They had no choice!” The room fell silent. Henry possessed a stoic personality, and his outburst of anger took everyone off guard.

“Doctor, you look like you could use some sleep…” Senator Nostrum began.

“Listen, Senator…” Dr. Damico interrupted. He leaned forward in his chair and rubbed his temples as he spoke. “The Chinese aren’t monsters. They aren’t out for conquest. They’re desperate. They need to establish land-based infrastructure or they are going to starve. They still have to clear WDs from Hawaii before they can even think about tackling their mainland problems. Do you honestly think they want to go to war with the U.S? We blockaded Hawaii. We stopped incoming refugees – with our guns. The Chinese had a choice; they could either take Hawaii, or die in their ships…”

“If we’re going to maintain an appearance of strength in the world, we can’t allow aggressors to simply snatch up American land,” Nostrum answered. “We owe it to those boys on the U.S.S. Truman… they gave their lives for us. I, for one, do not believe their sacrifice should be in vain.”

“And you want to what? Go to war with these people with the civilian fleet at our side? For what? Because you think the rest of the world will think we’re weak?” Henry was shaking with fury. “If we go to war over Hawaii…no matter the outcome, everyone in this room and every soldier and civilian in the fleet will be dead.”

The Admiral interrupted the two men before their argument could continue. “Senator, while I appreciate your position and understand your reluctance to abandon Hawaii, unfortunately, the U.S.S. Ronald Reagan battle group is not equipped to wage whole-scale naval warfare coupled with an amphibious assault on Chinese occupied Hawaii at this time. When we are, I would like personally, to assure the civilian government that you will have the Navy’s full commitment to retake every inch of American soil.”

“That is satisfactory… for now.” Nostrum shot Henry a look of half anger and half admiration before retaking his seat.

“I’d like to move on to another topic of discussion – Moving the military and civilian fleet off the coast of Southern California.” Admiral McMillan continued. “As of today, the convoy runs have been suspended.”

A murmur of disbelief washed through the meeting.

“What about the civilians trapped in the DDCs?” Someone asked over the speakerphone. “We can’t just abandon them.”

“With our current food supply and fuel situation, we can no longer afford to sink resources into the mainland…” The Admiral replied.

Dr. Damico’s mind wandered. The words stuck in his mind, ‘What about the civilians trapped in the DDCs?’ His wife was in a DDC. The very last convoy mission was, among other things, responsible for retrieving her. Henry couldn’t help but wonder if he was abusing his power. Would the fleet be better served utilizing the convoy elsewhere? How many wives and husbands were trapped on land? If they had been lucky enough to know someone powerful in the fleet, would they have had a convoy sent to get them? If he was misusing his position and endangering lives, was he any different from the Senator?

“Most of the factors that give us the best chance for survival do not lie off the coast of Southern California,” the Admiral concluded.

The room fell silent, and Dr. Damico looked around. Everyone seemed to be staring at him. Tracy elbowed him in the ribs, and he grimaced in pain but was thankful for the cue.

“Ah! Oh, yes…” Dr. Damico cleared his throat, “the Gulf of Mexico.”

Everyone whispered as they pondered the prospect, and Dr. Damico stood to pass out folders filled with extensive research. He allowed everyone to take a look at what they had been given before continuing.

“In summary, the Gulf has the resources we need:  oil platforms with existing reserves, on-shore refineries, and fisheries. Most importantly, it has access to water-based transportation into the mainland United States via the Mississippi River. Once we’ve secured the Gulf and established food production, we can mount expeditions into the mainland for supplies and survivors. Additionally, the location should give us the ability to more efficiently defend ourselves from eastward threats.” Dr. Damico outlined the key points of his strategy.

“Gulf of Mexico? Are you trying to get us wiped out by a hurricane?” Nostrum said with a chuckle.

“We can avoid hurricanes,” Dr. Damico countered. “We can’t avoid running out of fuel and food.”

“Doctor, you mention eastward threats? What about the west? Won’t Mexico be after the same resources we’re after?” A Navy ship’s captain asked the astute question.

Henry considered his answer carefully before speaking, knowing his next words would be unsettling to many in attendance. “Before I answer that, I should remind everyone here that the military fleet is running low on supplies and the civilian fleet is in far worse shape. We need to move quickly if we want to avoid the civilian fleet descending into food riots.”

“Are you the only expert on this subject? I’m not convinced you’re being objective. Are there any other scientific minds that can provide a second opinion?” Nostrum interrupted.

Dr. Damico ignored the Senator and continued. “There are no alternatives here.  If we fail, we stand an almost certain chance that nearly every man, woman, and child in this fleet will die. The challenges we’re facing are serious, complex, and not just limited to food production and external security. Disease,
internal
security – crime, social challenges, fuel production, education, labor, and the undead are quickly becoming among the least of our worries. Even the Mexican attacks, futile as they may be, are costing us way too many resources. The world is in complete shambles, and everyone on earth is doing what they must to survive. Many will not be successful unless we embrace this reality. We need to be willing to cross lines we might never have considered crossing before…”

“What are you getting at, Doctor?” A congressman sensed the gravity of Dr. Damico’s tone.

“We have to execute a tactical nuclear strike against the Mexican nation with the goal of obliterating all remaining military threats,” Dr. Damico answered gravely.

The strategy session exploded into an uproar. Dr. Damico knew that this linchpin of his plan would not go over lightly. The zombie apocalypse sent the world flying out of control, and some countries with nuclear capabilities executed strikes on their enemies. Tragically, some strikes were against their own cities…overrun with the undead. The United States had, thus far, elected not to use nuclear weapons, and many had taken that fact as a point of pride.

Nostrum sat grinning at Dr. Damico – a bizarre grin that made Henry uncomfortable. Nostrum then stood to impose his presence on the meeting. “Ladies and gentlemen!” the Senator spoke over the discussion until it quieted. “Now, Dr. Damico and I certainly have our differences – I have my reservations about the Gulf of Mexico, but I’m prepared to review these reports and make my decision about them with due diligence, but these Mexicans…” Alan Nostrum paused for effect, “these Mexicans have been harassing us for months now! We’ve lost civilians, soldiers, ships, and these are losses that we cannot sustain much longer. Am I right, Doctor?”

Dr. Damico hesitated before he answered. “That’s correct, Senator.”

“We should have nuked these bastards long ago.” Nostrum put on an air of gravity. “If one or two bombs can solve our Mexican problem, I say we push the button. Last night a military ship was sunk. Am I right, Admiral?”

“The Chancellorsville: Eight hundred people and two thousand tons of worth of supplies. It was a lucky hit, but it cost us,” the Admiral acknowledged.

“It was a lucky hit,” the Senator nodded. “Any one of us, any one of you could have been on that ship and next time, it could be your ship that takes that ‘lucky hit’.”

Debate erupted again, but this time, Admiral McMillan interrupted. “Everyone! Everyone! Listen, you have your report, and we have some decisions to make. Go back to your ships. Think about this, and we will reconvene in two days. Whether we do this or not, we’re going to want everyone’s input…so please consider all the details carefully.”

The meeting adjourned, and the prominent figures shuffled out of the room with a din of discontent. Tracy lingered for a few minutes before wheeling herself out of the room, a box of papers on her lap. Eventually, only the Admiral and Dr. Damico remained.

“Ed, you know I wouldn’t have made this recommendation if I wasn’t certain that it’s the only way.” Henry used the Admiral’s first name to take a personal tone.

“I know, Henry, but this isn’t a simple choice,” the Admiral responded. “If we do this, it’s something we’re going to have to live with…and it’s not going to be easy. It’s bad enough we’re fighting the WDs, but what does it say about us that we’d consider wiping out an entire country?”

“It doesn’t matter what it says about us,” Dr. Damico answered. “We’re close to the brink here, Ed… really damn close… and not as a country, but as a species. I’m sorry I put you in this position, but I don’t see any way around it.”

“History may paint us as monsters, Henry,” Admiral McMillan replied solemnly. “That’s a legacy that we’ll be carving in stone – that when the claws of the living dead gripped our throats and snarled in our face, we turned on each other first.”

“If there is any history to be written at all, it will be because we have done our jobs, Ed.” Dr. Damico responded somberly as he looked down at the table, the weight of his burdens growing heavy. “Frankly, I don’t care if I’m depicted as Satan himself so long as we survive this.”

“That’s a slippery slope, Henry. Keep that in mind,” the Admiral responded.

The two men made eye contact, and a chill rose up Dr. Damico’s spine. The Admiral was a man who walked that dangerous line every moment of his life. He could have sent a dozen nuclear missiles anywhere on earth if he had wanted.

“I’m sending some men over to the U.S.S. Boxer to help with cargo. Your wife should be landing there shortly. How’d you like to greet her when she lands?” The Admiral suggested, knowing that the Doctor badly needed a reprieve from his 24/7 pressure.

Henry’s eyes lit up. “That’d be… that’d be amazing.”

Admiral McMillan stood up and gestured for Dr. Damico to follow. “It’ll be at least two days before this fleet will be ready to go anywhere. Spend that time with your wife while we give everyone here some time to think about things.  If you still think hitting Mexico is the only option when you get back here, let me know. I can’t promise that’ll be my choice, but this vacation will give you a little time to clear your head.”