Even Zombie Killers Can Die (7 page)

Doc rolled over and kicked the guard struggling with Ziv in the head, stunning him.

Ahmed took out the remaining three guards in as many seconds with sniper fire.

I ran over to Danny, pulling a field bandage off my kit and pressing it to his neck. Blood was everywhere. He had been hit in an artery and was bleeding out quickly. I pressed my hand over the wound, but it kept squirting out.
Not again. Just like that kid on the barge.

“DOC,
HELP ME!’ Doc crawled over, and pulled my hands off Danny’s neck.

“He’s dead, Nick. Let him go. We have to get out of here.” He was
right; the flow of blood had stopped, Danny’s eyed had glazed over. I reached up and pushed his eyelids closed. Then, with a ripping sound, I pulled the Velcro American flag off my uniform sleeve and put it on Danny’s chest.

“All enemies, foreign and domestic. You did
good, Brother.” Then I stood up and helped Ziv carry Doc to where Brit had pulled up to the dock.

As we passed the General, he tried to drag his pistol out of the holster and aim it at me. I kicked it away, the
n tied tourniquets around  his legs. Each had a bullet hole through them, one in his thigh and the other through his kneecap.  

“Help me!” he moaned.

“Fuck you, you traitor, I hope the zombies take a long time eating you. You swore an oath to your country and your state, and you broke both.”  Then I kicked him in the wounded kneecap and he screamed.

“That wa
s for Danny. And this is for Doc” and I kicked him again. He screamed even louder.

I started back towards the island and Brit shouted at me
, “Nick, where the hell are you going?”

I yelled back
, “I have to warn the civilians!” As I spoke, a UH-60 rose from the back side of the island and thundered off in the direction of Isle Le Motte. An air raid siren started sounding. I looked over to the right, and saw that the zombies were swarming down the causeway. I stopped, turned around, and ran back towards the boat. I guess they knew now.

As
I ran down the dock, a crowd of civilians appeared, running for the gate to the fortress. Before they got there, it slammed shut, and a stream of tracers reached out into the crowd, chewing through their bodies. The crowd broke and ran, but the zombies were in among them, biting and clawing.

Hart had cast off the line holding the boat to the
dock , and Brit yelled at me “Let’s go, you fat old slug!” I fell more than I jumped, landing on Ziv, who cursed me in Serbian. We pulled away and raced back over the water to where we had left Red and Ahmed. The spot where they had been was swarming with a nonstop stream of animated corpses, heading onto the island, but we picked up the two of them floating on their inner tubes, kicking hard away from the causeway.

“Hart, can you blow that bridge?”

“Sorry, Nick, my mouth just isn’t that big,” Hart deadpanned, then got serious. “How much C-4 do you have?” Brit handed her a brick, about a pound or so. “Oh hell yeah, that will work.”

She slipped over the side onto an inner tube and paddled over to the bridge. We backed off another hundred meters while she worked, packing the C-4 under one of the bridge pilings. As she did so,
zombies were reaching down to grab at her. One got hold of her hair, and she coolly fired her pistol straight up into the zombie until it let go, then finished what she was doing. I guess she had gotten over the shock of seeing her team mates killed and was back to being a smooth operator.

When she got back to the boat, I nodded to Ahmed. He leaned forward with his rifle resting on the bow, and fired. A puff of dirt shot up just above the C-4. When Red snickered,
he muttered “damn waves,” and fired again.

The C-4 exploded with a dull crump, and the bridge shattered into a million pieces, throwing
wood and concrete into the air. The rush of zombies stopped short, some falling into the water, the volume of their howl kicking up a notch and carrying across the waves.

“Whoohoo, Hart! Put Red on your shoulders and I’m going to call you Master-Blaster instead of Lady Brianne!” She ignored her, and we watched as the pieces fell down into the water.

“You know several thousand got onto the island. Those civilians are dead,” said Ahmed.

“Yeah, but there is one thing I can do for them.”

I reached for the radio.

“Orion, this is Lost Boys. Execute Arc Light
, Target AA 2375, over.”

“This is Orion. Roger, execute Arc Light
, Target AA 2375, out.”

Three miles up, a
mix of a half dozen B-52H and B-1B bombers had come back on station after carpet bombing a zombie horde outside Newburgh. They had been patrolling over the Adirondacks for the last two hours, ready to support combat operations anywhere in the Northeast. Scout teams had priority of fire if there were massed targets, and I had worked with these guys before. Two years ago, the team had extracted the navigator and copilot when one of the overworked, sixty years old B-52s had come apart midair, and their chutes had carried them down onto some flatland just outside Syracuse. Before we had left Albany, I had given a target list to the Air Liaison at the Task Force Headquarters.

Now, fifteen minutes after my call, f
rom the open bomb bay doors spilled dozens of two thousand pound dumb bombs, falling in a steady stream towards the island. Each plane made several passes, laying a string of explosives from one end to the other, south to north. The heavy ordnance blasted huge craters into the bedrock, and an eruption of dirt and stone leapt high into the sky. 

I took the
controls from Brit and headed west, full speed. We skipped over the waves, and, behind us, the island shook and turned into a cloud of dust.

Brit s
at next to me, helmet off and red hair whipping in the wind. “WE GOTTA GET DOC TO SOME MEDICAL CARE, ASAP!” she yelled over the concussion of the two thousand pound bombs pounding the island. “WHERE TO?”

“ISLE LE MOTT, AROUND THE NORTHWEST SIDE!” 
The S-2 had forwarded me some satellite recon photos, and there had seemed to be some settlements and fortifications on the island, although much smaller than on Grand Isle. I just hoped we got a better welcome than we had here.

I looked down
at Doc. Red was bandaging his fingers where the nails had been torn off. Ziv sat in front of me, looking backwards, smoking a cigarette, watching the bombs fall. Hart was helping Red, handing him bandages while holding up an IV that ran into Doc’s arm. Ahmed looked out over the bow, scouting ahead.

For better or worse, the Lost Boys were together again.
We sailed on into the falling darkness.
 

END, PART I
 

PART II

Chapter 18
Long minutes passed as the zodiac cut around the northeastern edge of Grand Isle, out of range of any snipers that might be hiding among the trees. The wind that blows perpetually across the northern end of Lake Champlain whistled eerily in the dark. Isle la Motte gradually came into view, or what I thought must be Isle la Motte; what looked like a concrete wall obscured the interior. If S2's recon photos were correct, there should be settlements there, and if so, that wall was a pretty good way of keeping anyone out. Still jumping on adrenaline, I worried maybe the General had controlled this place too.

I glanced back at Doc, lying across the inflatable seats just in front of Hart, who had one hand on the motor and the other holding
up an IV bag. Doc looked like hell, and Brit, temporarily on nursing duty, looked up at me with eyes full of worry. I couldn't hear his breathing over the motor, but I could see even in the failing light that one side of his chest was rising out of sync with the other. If he didn't have a collapsed lung, he had at least three broken ribs on that side.

The remains of the Vermont Bridge loomed to our front, creating mini-rapids in the current flowing north towards the Richelieu River; the Vermont National Guard ha
ving blown the bridge when the Undead made it to northern New York before northern Vermont, in the vain hope of defending Burlington from that direction.
The lake was deceptively peaceful. Ziv was sitting just in front of me, facing the way we had come, watching in silence as secondary explosions from the JDAMs continued to eat whatever was left for it to eat on the island - South Hero, if I remembered right. North Hero was connected to it by a causeway. And if the General was as big an SOB as I thought, hopefully he would have placed explosives on that causeway as well. Maybe North Hero Island could avoid the pounding its sister just caught to the south. If not... I pushed away that line of thought and hunkered down next to Doc.
“How bad?” I shouted to him above the engine noise.
He just shook his head. He didn't have the breath to try and shout an answer to me. I placed a hand on his shoulder, not daring to squeeze reassurance for fear of hurting him worse. I turned instead towards Ziv, who pitched his cigarette into the lake and leaned his head back against the rubber sides.

Asking him if he was injured would be useless, but I looked him over. His face wasn't smashed in like Doc's, and I remembered from the fight that his arms and legs worked, at least; but I
wouldn't put it past him to fight with broken bones. The way his left arm was socketed tight against his chest suggested a fracture of some kind. Whatever, we'd deal with his injuries when we got to Isle la Motte - if we were able to get any kind of help there, that is.
It was maybe half an hour or forty-five minutes from the southern end of Grand Isle to the remains of the causeway between Isle la Motte and the Alburgh Peninsula, but it felt a lot longer. When we got close enough to the peninsula, I had Hart cut the motor and we used the paddles. There was no sign of life anywhere, but the gap between the two wasn't more than two or three hundred meters, and I didn't want to alert anyone to our presence until we had to.

Up close, I could see that the wall was maybe
twenty feet high and made of cinderblocks and cement. The exterior was incredibly smooth, even the cement between the cinderblock joints had been carefully set; the effect was of one flat, even surface. After a few seconds' staring at the thing in stupefaction, my brain kicked in and I realized that no zombie would be able to climb the wall. Pretty slick, no pun intended.
“Ahoy, the island!” I shouted when we were about fifty meters away. Behind me, Brit snickered. Two heads popped up from behind the wall, and one of them shouted to me.
“Qui est-il?” The voice switched to English. “Who are you?”
We’d heard rumors for several years that the Quebecois north had managed to remain organized, and it didn’t surprise me to hear French; it stood to reason they would want the Vermont farmland as much as we did, especially after the fall of Montreal. The Canadian Parliament had the city nuked, ostensibly to contain the plague up there. However, from the paranoid mutterings of the few survivors to make it south, after Toronto succumbed to the plague moving north from Buffalo and Niagara Falls, Quebec had tried to secede and seal up their own borders. It may have worked. Despite the destruction of their capital city, regular radio traffic could be heard from French news channels. Reportedly, Newfoundland and Nova Scotia remained zombie-free. Ottawa was now its own glowing lake of glass thanks to the Chinese, but the Frogs had evidently survived.
“United States Army! We have wounded here!” Hart had pulled out the flag we'd used down south at the ambush site and was waving it madly.
The two heads disappeared for a second, then a series of ropes were tossed over the wall and one of the men rappelled down easily, stopping just short of the water. Several more heads appeared over the edge of the wall. We paddled the boat over to him, and he shined a flashlight into each of our faces. The light paused on Doc.
“Is he bitten?” This man, for sure, was Quebecois, and it took a minute for me to understand him through the thick accent.

Brit astonished me by rattling off a string of French to the man. After a few minutes of back-and-forth, he nodded and shouted back up to the others. A second man rappelled down with a collapsible stretcher, and after a minute or so we we
re able to wrestle it atop the Zodiac and carefully set Doc onto it. The stretcher was tied off and lifted to the parapet with a crude pulley system. The rest of us, even Ziv, were harnessed in and carefully lifted one at a time to the top of the wall. The two Frenchies remained below, attaching the boat to a series of lines before lifting it clear of the water, winching it into a makeshift gantry.

After I untied myself from the swiss seat, I looked around. Each of the local men was armed with a rifle, their pistol grips and butt stocks shiny from use. Radios beeped, the volume barely loud enough to register. The first man, the one to hail us, untied himself and stepped towards us. "What are you doing here?" His voice was not friendly, but neither was it openly hostile. I saw immediately that they had saved our lives, but didn't yet see a reason to keep us breathing.
“Do you work for the General?” I asked warily. He hawked in the back of his throat and spit over the wall.
“I guess not,” I murmured. “You see those explosions to the south?”
“Oui. We are not blind.”
“The General and his men are dead. The causeway block failed and the island has been attacked by zombies.”
He swore in French and yanked his radio off his shoulder, barking into it. The voice that came through the radio was American, and speaking English. “Do they have wounded?”
“Oui.”
“Get the wounded to the doctor. Hold the others there. Five minutes.”
Brit and I glanced at each other. The man clipped the radio back in place and extended one hand to me. “I am Pierre.” He said. “We will get your wounded to our docteur. You wait here for Cassandra.”
“Who is Cassandra?” This could either get better or it could get worse, really fast. “I'm not letting you take my wounded away.”
Something in his expression softened. “We will care for them. Cassandra, she is one of you. Do not be afraid.” He touched the flag on Red's uniform. “We have been waiting for you Americans.”
We all shared wary glances. He wasn’t exactly clarifying the situation. A few minutes later a cart drew up, led by two horses of the same huge breed as those monsters we'd seen outside Schuylerville a year back. Belgian war horses, I think they were called. Doc's litter was carefully lowered, set perpendicular so that he was not lying directly in the cart, cushioning him from the worst of the jolting. “Ziv, go with him,” I ordered quietly. He might not admit to being wounded, but I wasn't going to let him stand up here with a broken arm, either. “No one is alone until I sort this out.” For once he didn't argue with me, just jumped down into the wagon and took a seat next to Doc. The driver clucked to the team and slapped them with the reins.
A trim woman of perhaps sixty was climbing the ladder to the parapet. In looking her way I saw that the entire wall, what I could see, anyway, had a deck, maybe four feet wide, running along the inside. When I'd climbed over, I'd seen that the wall was actually a type of permanent coffer dam: two separate walls of concrete blocks with tons of gravel fill between them. The wall was nearly three feet wide, a more permanent version of the HESCO barriers that had been everywhere in Iraq and Afghanistan.
“Name,” she ordered when she reached us. She wore old-style Multicam pants, the ones with the knee pads sewn directly into the fabric, and the brown cotton undershirt.
“Sergeant First Class Nick Agostine, United States Army.”