Days Of Perdition: Voodoo Plague Book 6 (9 page)

Rachel flushed the toilet in the latrine, exited the stall
and began to wash her hands.  Looking up she saw her reflection in the mirror
and paused, staring into her own eyes.  She was upset.  Happy for John, yet
distraught for herself.  She had always known there was a possibility he would
find Katie, but deep down she’d never believed that the woman could still be
alive.

Now, just when she was starting to believe that John was
hers…  Damn it!  She had no ill will for Katie.  That wasn’t it.  She just felt
like her heart had been broken.  Not intentionally, and she realized it was no
one’s fault other than her own for allowing herself to fall in love with a
married man.  John had never led her on.  He’d been candid and upfront since
the day she’d met him in Atlanta, but that didn’t make her ache any less for
what could have been.

What did she do now?  She loved him, but she knew that once
he got Katie back she wouldn’t be able to stay around.  There was nothing that
could be done about her feelings, and the thought of seeing John every day but
not being able to touch him was not something she could live with.  But what
the hell did she do?  It wasn’t like she could just pack up and move to a new
city to start over.  That world was gone.

She would help John do whatever he needed to do to save
Katie, then she’d be on her way.  Somewhere.  Somehow.  With a sigh, she looked
down at the running water and the thought hit her that maybe Roach had already
killed Katie.  For a moment the idea gave her some comfort, then she got mad at
herself for even thinking about the other woman’s death being a solution to her
heartache.

Turning the water off, Rachel was reaching for a paper towel
to dry her hands when the sound of a disturbance from the hall made her pause. 
The first thought that went through her head was “infected”, but after a couple
of seconds of listening to the shouts and sounds of a fight, she knew this was
something else.

Rachel quickly stepped across the room and was almost hit in
the face when the door was suddenly pushed open.  Captain Blanchard dashed
through the opening and before she could utter a sound, he grabbed her and
clamped a hand over her mouth.

“Shhhhh….” He hissed softly in her ear and after a moment
she relaxed a notch and nodded her head.  Blanchard slowly removed his hand and
turned to face the door as it finished closing.

“What’s going on?”  Rachel whispered in his ear as the
sounds of fighting continued to grow.

“The Air Force is trying to arrest the Major by order of the
President.  He’s not going quietly.”  He whispered back.

Rachel immediately stepped forward, but Blanchard grabbed
her arm and held her.  “We can’t help him if we’re in the cell next to his.” 
He said, staring into her eyes.  Finally she nodded and he released his grip.

The sounds of the brawl continued on for what seemed like
forever, finally stopping as quickly as they had started.  After a few moments
Blanchard stepped to the door and cracked it open half an inch, peering through
with one eye.  He watched for a long time, then waved Rachel over to join him. 
He motioned at the opening and moved aside so Rachel could see into the hall.

No less than a dozen Security Forces cops were clustered
around the door into the conference room, all of them trying to see what was
happening inside.  Movement amongst their legs caught Rachel’s eye as Dog
slipped through the crowd.  She hissed his name as loudly as she dared, his
head turning in her direction.  She spoke his name very softly and he moved
down the hall towards the latrine door.

Rachel was concerned as she watched Dog approach.  He was
unsteady on his feet and favoring both left legs.  When he reached the door she
darted her eyes up to make sure none of the cops were looking in her
direction.  Their attention was still focused inside the conference room and
she quickly stepped back and pulled the door open far enough for Dog to slip through.

Door closed, he moved past her and sat down with a slight
whimper.  Rachel kneeled next to him and ran her hands over his body, but
failed to find any injury.  She rubbed his head and pressed her face to his,
Dog letting out a long sigh.

“What did they do to him?”  She asked.  “I don't see
anything, but something’s wrong.”

Blanchard knelt next to her and placed a hand on Dog’s head,
giving him a moment to accept the contact before also checking him over for
injuries.

“They must have used a Taser on him.”  He finally said after
a thorough inspection.  “He’ll be OK in a bit.  Just feeling the after effects
at the moment.”

Rachel wrapped her arms around Dog’s neck and held him for a
few moments, then stood up and glared at Blanchard.

“What are we going to do?  Did they arrest the Colonel,
too?”

“I don’t know.  He had left the room to have a conversation
with Admiral Packard.  I’m sure they will if they can find him, but if he’s got
a heads up they won’t have an easy time of it.”  Blanchard said.

“That’s good, but what are we going to do?  We have to help
John.”  Rachel said, anger threatening to boil over.

“We’re going to wait until there’s not a small army of Air
Force cops standing just down the hall, then we’re going to get out of here and
round up a few platoons of Rangers.  Once we have some combat muscle behind us
we’ll get the Colonel and Major back.”  He said.

Rachel was momentarily surprised.  She had always seen
Blanchard operating in his role as Colonel Crawford’s aide.  That job required
him to maintain a calm and diplomatic demeanor, and she had never looked at him
as a leader of rough men, despite the Special Forces tab he wore on his
uniform.  Apparently there was more to the man than she had given him credit
for.

“OK,” she said, giving him a smile.  “Two months ago I
didn’t know what a Ranger was, but now I think they’re about the best people on
the planet!”

Rachel looked down when Dog stood up and shook.  He was
steady on his feet and looked like he had gotten past the shock of the Taser. 

“Will the Marines help?  John knows one of them and…”

“All the Marines got sent to Texas to secure an oil
refinery.  That may or may not be another problem.  I’m supposed to be
coordinating air support between them and the Air Force.  I’m a little worried this
turn in events may leave their asses hanging out in the wind.”  Blanchard said,
shaking his head.

“Besides,” he continued.  “This is going to be a little
tricky.  The President has the authority to do what she’s doing, no matter what
any of us in the military think.  She is the Commander In Chief.”

“So you think this is OK?”  Rachel glared at him.

“That’s not what I’m saying.  I know the facts, and if times
were normal… Well, let’s just say nothing is normal any longer.  We have a
President who was a political appointee.  There’s no Congress, no media, no
public opinion, no international partners, nothing to guide or temper her
decisions.  In effect she has unchecked power as long as the military will
follow her orders.  That’s not the way it’s supposed to work.” 

“Then why is the Air Force arresting John?”  Rachel didn’t
understand what Blanchard was trying to explain to her.

“It’s General Triplett who is following the orders of the
President.  It’s not an Air Force thing; it’s an officer following the oath he
took.  I know Colonel Crawford and Admiral Packard were already concerned about
President Clark and were prepared to refuse orders they felt weren’t in the
best interest of the country.  But there will be officers that will follow the
President blindly.  This is quickly becoming one hell of a mess, and I only
hope it doesn’t end up with the complete fracturing of the military and two
armed camps facing off against each other.”

Master Gunnery Sergeant Matt Zemeck stood atop a hastily
erected barricade that surrounded the Texaco oil refinery outside of Midland,
Texas.  It was late morning, the sun hot on his shoulders as he held a pair of
binoculars to his eyes, surveying the scrub desert spreading out to the south. 
Next to him, standing in an identical pose, Marine Colonel Jim Pointere cursed as
for the fourth time his binoculars lost focus for some mysterious reason.

“Here, sir.  Use mine.”  Zemeck held them out, taking the
Colonel’s in exchange.  Pointere looked through them, grunted his thanks and
scanned the horizon.

They couldn’t see the approaching herd.  Yet.  But it was
coming.  It was being watched on satellite and from drones that were tracking
the mass of infected humanity.  Arrival of the leading edge was expected at
about 1900 hours, or just before sundown.  And right behind that leading edge
were more than two million bodies determined to kill every living thing in
their path.

“Bravo platoon will be making contact in about 5 minutes.” 
Zemeck said.

Bravo platoon was comprised of 35 Marines spread across four
Humvees and four, eight wheeled LAVs or Light Armored Vehicles.  Their
unenviable job was to decoy the herd away from the refinery by distracting the
front ranks of infected and leading them in a safe direction.  No one knew if
it would work, but it was an idea courtesy of Army Major John Chase and was the
Marines’ only hope of saving the vital infrastructure so it could continue to
provide fuel.

The sheer numbers of the infected precluded any successful
armed resistance.  The infected, once zeroed in on prey, don’t quit.  They
can’t be scared off or their will to fight broken like a normal army.  All that
can be done is to kill every single one of them, and while Zemeck knew his
Devil Dogs were the best fighters on the planet, they didn’t have enough men,
rifles or bullets to kill over two million attackers.

Colonel Pointere had hoped that the refinery could be shut
down and abandoned until the herd passed, but was disappointed to learn that it
takes days to safely shut one down that is operating at full capacity.  There
simply wasn’t time to evacuate ahead of the herd’s arrival.  But the shutdown
process was underway, and it was up to the Marines to hold back the tide of
infected long enough for the workers to shutter the plant and escape.  Once the
herd was no longer a danger they could return and restart the production of
fuel.

“How many Ospreys are up?”  Pointere asked.

“We’ve got two flying cover for our guys.”  Zemeck
answered.  “Sure is nice to be staging out of a gas station.”

Pointere, a man of no more words than absolutely necessary,
grunted again in acknowledgement.  Lowering his binoculars he turned to face
Zemeck.

“You trust this Army Major knows what he’s talking about? 
There’s a chance this will work?”  He asked.

“He knows his shit, sir.  If it weren’t for him my head
would be decorating some jihadists wall in sand land.  But this was an idea,
not something anyone’s tried before.  What he does know is that we can’t hold
the herd back.  Too damn many of them, and not enough Marines or ammo.”

The Colonel stared at him for a few moments then nodded his
head in understanding. 

“You’ve got to tell me the story sometime.”  He said.

Before Zemeck could answer a voice came over his radio
earpiece.  Pausing, he lifted his hand to his ear to make sure he heard the
communication clearly.  He listened for a couple of moments before turning to
Pointere.

“Bravo platoon in contact, sir.  They’re lighting up the
leaders to get those fuckers’ attention.”

Pointere grunted, did a quick pat check of the twin combat
knives strapped to the small of his back, then resumed looking to the south
through the binoculars even though the action was too far away for him to see.

“Let’s go see what’s going on,” he said after a few
moments.  “Everything’s quiet here.  Let Captain Simon know we’re going.”

“Yes, sir.”  Zemeck answered, making a call on his radio as
he turned to follow the Colonel.

Five minutes later they were on board an Osprey, the rotors
spinning up a maelstrom of dust and debris as they reached take off speed.  The
pilot took exaggerated care in every movement once they were clear of the
ground, the hulking refinery close enough to present a hazard if he didn’t pay
close attention.  Moving clear of the facility he fed in full power and
transitioned to forward flight, the aircraft streaking across the desert.

Once they were in stable flight, Pointere and Zemeck moved
forward into the cockpit, the Colonel crowding in with the pilots and Zemeck
eclipsing the hatch with his bulk.  Directly in front of them a massive dust
cloud was clearly visible on the horizon.

“Jesus Christ,” Pointere breathed.  “How many does it take
to stir up that much dust just from walking?”

The question was rhetorical, and Zemeck didn’t bother to
answer.  He well knew how large the herd was, having seen it on sat imagery as
well as video feeds from orbiting drones.  But no matter what you see on a
video screen, no matter how good the image is or how large the screen, nothing
prepares you for the sight of several million infected all moving together.

Pointere spoke an order to the pilot who fiddled with some
controls on the radio.  Moments later the voices of the men in Bravo platoon
came over speakers mounted in the ceiling of the cockpit.  No calls for help or
any indication of problems, but one of the Marines was being a little too
talkative and flippant about the whole situation for the Colonel’s taste.

“Who is that?”  He asked, turning to Zemeck.

“That would be Lance Corporal Bradley, sir.”  Zemeck
replied.  “I’ll take care of it.”

Stepping out of the hatch, Zemeck activated his radio and
placed a call to the offending Marine.  The conversation was short, and Bravo’s
voice traffic died down to nothing more than the exchange of essential
information.

“I’ll have a conversation with him when we get a moment,
sir.”  Zemeck said.

Pointere grunted his response and leaned forward for a
better view as the vehicles of Bravo platoon and the front edge of the herd
came into view.  The vehicles were no more than a hundred yards in front of a
group of charging females, spread out and driving due east in their attempt to
change the herd’s direction.

As they moved across the desert, gunners fired occasional
bursts to knock down the fastest females and keep those behind them
interested.  But the million dollar question was would the body of the herd
turn to follow the head.  Could a mass of infected this large be tricked into
following the leader?

The pilot started to slow, intending to go into a hover to
observe the operation, but Pointere told him to keep flying south over the
herd.  Adjusting some controls he put them back on a southerly course, nothing
visible below other than dust and a sea of raging humanity.  It took a long
time to reach a point where the infected weren’t a solid mass of bodies.  The
pilot checked an instrument and let the Colonel know the herd was nearly six
miles long.

“OK, take us back to the front.”  Pointere said after a
moment’s thought.

Once they were turned and heading back, Zemeck checked the
Osprey’s compass.  Their heading was only a few degrees to the east of due
north.  The infected beneath them were stretched out like a fat snake, and if
Bravo platoon’s efforts were working he expected to see a bend in the snake as
they approached the leaders of the herd.

But that bend wasn’t there.  Thousands of females were
sprinting out ahead of the herd, chasing after the Marines on the ground, but
the bulk of the infected were staying on course.

“Why aren’t they taking the bait?”  Pointere asked, eyes
glued on the action below.

“I don’t know.”  Zemeck answered.  “Maybe we’re not making a
big enough distraction.  Maybe we can’t make a big enough distraction.  This is
all theory.”

“If it’s a bigger distraction that’s needed, let’s give them
one.”  Pointere said, turning to the pilot and telling him what he had in mind.

The pilot nodded and a few minutes later transitioned into a
hover a hundred feet over the heads of the infected.  The Osprey was positioned
about half a mile back over the herd from the leading edge, and as soon as the
aircraft was in a stable hover the co-pilot began hosing down the bodies below
with the belly mounted minigun.  The pilot slipped them sideways as the weapon
continued to devastate the bodies below, dropping until he was only fifty feet
above the ground.  Giving his co-pilot a few seconds to keep wreaking havoc, he
then moved them to the east in the direction of Bravo platoon.

But the infected didn’t follow.  The females looked up and
screamed at them, the males tilting their heads in the direction of the noisy
aircraft, but none of them changed course.

“Save your ammo.”  Pointere said, the minigun falling silent
immediately.

“We need that air support the Air Force promised, sir.” 
Zemeck said.  “And we need it now if we’re going to slow or turn them.”

Pointere grunted and told the pilot to take them back to the
refinery.