Authors: John Ringo
Tags: #Fiction, #science fiction, #General, #Apocalyptic & Post-Apocalyptic, #Military
Strands of Sorrow (37 page)
“The family that does time together, stays together,” Faith said. “Come on. What are they going to do to us? We’re
juveniles
!
And
we’ve been traumatized by all the shit we’ve been through! Boo-hoo, it’s been so
terrible
! We’ll plead temporary insanity. Worse comes to worse, we’ll share a cell. It’ll be like being back on the
Mile Seven
.”
“You’re supposed to be arguing in favor of the plan, Faith,” Sophia said.
“Even
if
this works, no matter what we’ll be in a heap of trouble,” Faith said seriously. “The Prez was no great shakes. But it’s not about
us
, Sophia. It’s about our nation. If it works, the nation will be better off. With the SecEd in charge . . . The U.S. is screwed. Texas will probably secede. Do you want my Marines having to fight
Texans
instead of zombies?”
“I can get the gear,” Sophia said, sighing. “Once more unto the breach, dear sister?”
“Once more,” Faith said, grinning. “Or close up the wall with our American dead.”
* * *
Timing was everything.
Amtracks were still moving around. You fixed one, you gave it a test drive. They might never again be used for any reasonable purpose but they had to be used or they’d go bad. They’d learned that.
Faith knew which Marines were the PI guys. You could tell. They looked like Decker when he was just off the boat. They still weren’t real good at questioning orders, especially from an officer, especially from Shewolf.
She found some PI Marines to load an amtrack with seabags. That’s all they were, seabags. Just heavy seabags. And PI Marines followed orders.
Then she drove the amtrack to the ammo point that
also
had PI Marines working at it and ordered them to load the track with .50 and 40mm, 5.56, .45 and 12 gauge. Then signed for it with a flourish. Every I dotted, every T crossed.
All the brass were busy preparing “transformational plans for low-impact assistance of afflicted persons.” Like,
all
of them were busy. Even the gunnies and master gunnies were in meetings. There was no one senior to her to say “you can’t do this.” While she was loading ammo one staff sergeant had walked over with an expression of curiosity on his face, stopped, turned around, put his hands behind his back and sauntered away whistling.
But timing was still everything.
* * *
“Just in case” they kept a loaded Gunhawk on the hot pad. Good news. Bad news, the crew was sitting in a ready room with the helo in view. They had to be . . . disposed of. With extreme prejudice. Sophia wasn’t looking forward to what she was about to do. She was deeply ashamed. But it had to be done. For the good of the nation, they had to be removed from the equation.
“You’re going to love this,” Sophia said, sticking her head in the hatch of the ready room. “You are hereby ordered, as of this moment, to attend a mandatory class on ‘Consideration of the feelings of the Afflicted’ in number six conference room. Now. Well, at thirteen hundred. Conducted by one of the ‘Acting President’s’ staff.”
“You have GOT to be shitting me!” Lieutenant Commander Wilkes swore.
“And Da has officially been charged with crimes against humanity,” Sophia said.
“That we’d heard, Soph,” Wilkes said. “I just . . . There’s no way it will stick.”
“I’m under the impression that there’s going to be a compromise,” Soph said. “Da always said all he wanted was a stout ship and a star to sail her by. House arrest at worst. Anyway, orders. Conference six. Sorry. Now, sir.”
“Roger,” Wilkes said, standing up. “I would rather die a thousand deaths.”
“But now you really must go,” Sophia said.
“What about you?” Wilkes asked.
“As a grounded and soon to be discharged for the good of the Navy officer, I’m exempt,” Soph said. “I’ll just sit here looking at a bird I’ll never fly again.”
* * *
“Going somewhere, ma’am?” Staff Sergeant Decker said.
He’d been waiting at the lowered ramp of the amtrack when Faith walked back from signing for the ammo. He was carrying two very heavy-looking seabags.
“Just taking it for a test drive, Staff Sergeant,” Faith said.
“I am not that stupid, ma’am,” Decker said, throwing the bags into the amtrack. “Nor inflexible anymore. And you can either wait around and have this op—whatever it is—blown, or you can enter the vehicle, ma’am.”
“Decker, they will bust you to dooley,” Faith said, getting in the amtrack. “
And
throw you in jail.”
“I am very high-level PTSD, ma’am,” Decker said, raising the ramp. “I have been verified as having a psychotic attachment to my officers, ma’am. The proof being I kept that fucktard Lieutenant Klette alive as an ‘afflicted.’ The worst they will do is stick me in a padded room, ma’am. And they’re probably going to do that anyway, what with the new regime. I’ll drive. You man the guns, ma’am.”
“Oorah,” Faith said.
“By the way, ma’am,” Decker said, as he started the amtrack. “What
is
the op?”
It took about five minutes to walk to the “conference room,” which was five tents hooked together. Which was about when Lieutenant Commander Wilkes would know he’d been conned. Sophia waited one minute to walk down the corridor, pick up her flight bag then walk to the bird and get in. There would be no pre-flight. Then she looked at her watch again. Bang on twelve fifty-seven. She looked over to her right and saw an amtrack headed for the water. She hit the start button. The bird was kept warmed. She wouldn’t have to wait for it to get to temp. Everything was in the green. Full power.
Operation Actions of the Tiger was a
Go
.
She keyed the radio and selected the Regiment Combat Ops frequency.
“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,
“Or close the wall up with our American dead!
“In peace there’s nothing so becomes a woman
“As modest stillness and humility;
“But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
“Then imitate the action of the tiger!”
“Very nice,” Olga said over the intercom. “Very touching.”
“You think you’re going anywhere without
us
, you are sadly mistaken, Ensign,” Anna commed.
Sophia just shook her head. No time to argue.
“Gunhawk Nine, light on the pad.”
She switched frequencies, pulled up on the collective and was gone.
* * *
Getting to the FEMA building had been a nightmare.
They’d stopped by the Washington Monument to change. She couldn’t board the amtrack in full clearance rig without the mission being obvious. There were still a buttload of infected in D.C. In keeping with orders, they had not engaged them. But they didn’t want to be sitting outside the building changing.
So all her gear, and the staff sergeant’s, had been in the seabags.
Then it was just a matter of shaking their trail of infected and finding their way through the blocked streets to FEMA. The likelihood that the President of the United States was there was low. But it was the only shot they had of getting this ungrammatical idiot out of power.
The FEMA building was a massive right trapezoid with dark brown windows bounded by C Street and Virginia Avenue. The ground floor had been lined with shops and the main entrance was a walkway between the FEMA building and the flanking Holiday Inn on the 500 block of C Street; the Virginia Avenue side was blocked by a retaining wall.
There were, sure enough, three LAVs parked higgledy-piggledy on the street. But no Beast. Some armored SUVs were
nearby
but no limousines per se.
They’d come this far. They weren’t going back.
There were infected filtering out of the building, blocking the walkway entrance.
“Gunhawk, Ground,” Faith said. “Can you clear the poor innocent bystanders?”
“Will do,” Sophia said, bringing the Gunhawk in to hover over the amtrack. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“Let’s roll, Al,” Faith said.
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Decker said, opening up the passenger hatch. There was an infected right outside and he blew him away with three rounds of 5.56. “This is gonna be a hot one, ma’am.”
“Just the way I like it, Staff Sergeant,” Faith said, getting her knees under a full-sized ruck full of ammo and hoisting it up. It was going to be nearly impossible to scrum until they’d blown some of it off, but she figured they were going to need it. Heavy as a motherfucker though. “Gunhawk,” she grunted. “Start the music.”
The Gunhawk opened up with all four miniguns, shredding the infected blocking the walkway as Olga and Anna covered the sides. The door miniguns could aim almost straight down and they walked the rounds out from the amtrack, littering C Street with zombies.
“Maxim Four:” Faith said, dropping out of the track. “Close air support covereth a multitude of sins.”
Second Lieutenant Faith Marie Smith and Staff Sergeant Alfred J. Decker, USMC, marched forward into a scalding deluge of brass. . . .
CHAPTER 27
ABOUT TWELVE MONTHS EARLIER:
“I told you we should have used the LAVs in the first place, Special Agent!” Vice President Rebecca Staba said as they boarded the vehicle. Her limousine was high and dry on a pile of infected bodies. “Marine!”
“Ma’am!” the Marine PFC sitting next to her in the light assault vehicle barked.
“Are there any spare weapons?”
“Ma’am . . .” Special Agent Jerry Phillips started to protest.
“Spare me, Special Agent,” Staba snapped. “Zombie apocalypse. These Marines are unvaccinated, unfortunately. Some of them, sorry,
will
turn. And I am NOT going to be unarmed in a
zombie apocalypse
!”
Staba had been one of those compromises that you have to make in politics. The former lieutenant governor of Oklahoma, she had not been near the top of the rankings in the primaries. She was not beloved of the Republican Party leadership—she got not only zero support but constant criticism from them—and she was frankly hated by the media and her much more “nuanced” and “bi-partisan” running mate.
What she
did
have was a massive following among the “Guns and God” conservative base. And since the former governor of NY who had won the primaries was looked upon as not much more than another Republican-In-Name-Only, he needed the shoring.
A former high school math teacher who had gotten into politics to try to get some sense into education, Vice President Staba was a mother of four children with a husband who was a successful businessman in his own right. She had supplemented their income in the early days of the marriage as an NRA firearms instructor. She invariably had more people show up at her rallies than her running mate’s. Which did not enamor him more with her. The fact that she was an “over-endowed” smoking-hot blonde who was
never
seen in public other than fully made-up and well-dressed was constantly criticized by the news media. The snarking, mostly by female commentators, about her make-up, hair and wardrobe was half her coverage during the primaries. Fuck ’em. She looked good and liked it that way.
Her intense devotion to her Christian faith, the Second Amendment and her “large” family was pretty much the rest of her coverage. Never in a good light.
The staff sergeant across from her unclipped his M4 and thrust it out. “Locked, loaded, on safe, ma’am!”
“Not your own, Staff Sergeant,” Staba said. “You’re going to need it.”
“Here, ma’am,” Phillips said, defeated. He opened up a ZIP bag and pulled out an MP5. “Also locked and loaded.”
“And
not
on safe I see,” Staba said, safing it. “Now, who’s got one for Dave?”
“I’m fine, honey,” Dave Staba said. “I’m sure some will turn up.”
Among other actions that had seriously pissed off her detail, the Vice President had ensured her family was aboard the LAV
before
she boarded. Most people had come to the conclusion that in a reverse of an earlier First Family, Dave Staba was the brains of the outfit. He’d been her political manager for most of her career and was the “back room” dealer. He was
not
the brawn. Capable, mind you, but not the “in your face” type.
“Are we gonna be okay, Mom?” Sherry said. The youngest didn’t sound traumatized so much as curious.
“We’re going to be okay, sweetie,” Rebecca said, leaning forward. “We’ve got Devil Dogs to keep us that way . . .”
“Can
I
get a weapon?” Thomas, the fifteen-year-old asked, raising a hand.
“Not unless we really need to,” Rebecca said. “And if we really need to, yes.”
“Ma’am . . .” Phillips said, shaking his head.
“Tommy has more firearms training than most members of Federal Law Enforcement, Special Agent,” Staba said. “He is not the level of the detail but he is proficient. If we have to dismount, and if there are weapons available, he and Dave and Christy will
all
be armed. Sherry is not ready, yet. That is not for discussion.”
“Roger, ma’am,” Phillips said, wincing as the LAV bumped over something large. “Continue for the FEMA building.”
“Can we make it to C Street?” Staba asked.
“Ma’am, unlike your limo, we will make it to C Street if we have to drive over
cars
,” the staff sergeant said.
“Oorah,” Staba said.
* * *
The FEMA bunker was, unsurprisingly, well designed. Besides a very large fuel supply, generators to maintain power and pumps, and all the usual food and medical supplies, it had “recovering power” exercise systems. The stationary bike, Stairmaster and rowing machine were connected to mini-generators similar to those in a Prius, which fueled the massive banks of batteries. The lights were low-wattage LEDs. More or less continuous use of the exercise equipment could even keep up with the sump-pumps—especially important given that the bunker was barely below water line for D.C. The toilets were hooked up to water-recovery systems designed originally for the cancelled NASA Mars mission. They used hand power to run them.
It was also occupied, by about twenty FEMA managers
and
their families. In a bunker designed for twenty, total. With the addition of the Marines and her detail and family, things were tight. And only her detail and family were vaccinated. Or so they thought. They later learned the FEMA managers had “procured” vaccine for their families. Where and what type, they were reticent about. She wasn’t going to bitch.
She’d
have turned every infected in the world into vaccine.
The first order was that everyone unvaccinated was to secure themselves. One of the Marines had already turned on the trip. That was unfortunate, but on the bright side it gave Dave a weapon. The efficacy of the vaccine was proven when Thomas was bitten subduing one of the Marines. He got very sick but recovered.
Food was an issue. The bunker was stocked for five years. With even the shortest possible rations, they had at best a year and a half. The Marines had volunteered to evacuate the bunker. And Staba stomped her foot on that. They’d all make it or they wouldn’t.
Then there was another issue, sort of: it wasn’t bad food. One problem of long duration missions like “being stuck in a bunker in a zombie apocalypse” was called “food ennui.” People just got sick and tired of the same damned crap. They would stop eating and eventually succumb to malnutrition.
FEMA’s response was to acquire long-duration foodstuffs from, well, all
over
. Many nations besides the U.S. made long-duration food supplies. And FEMA had a “test and share” program with other nations. There were German rations, British rations—surprisingly good—Indian, French, Chinese, Italian, stuff from Singapore which was . . . all sorts of different nationalities. The Chilean rations included a small bottle of not-bad wine. MREs were right at the
bottom
of the list.
The problem was not eating
too
much. Not enough rations. But they also had to have the energy to run the exercise machines.
Greatest weight loss program in
history
. If she ever got out of the damned place she was planning on starting a weight loss program based on it. Her butt was in the best shape it had been in years.
Of course . . . that was
if
they ever got out.
The Marines had had to fight their way in and lost people to bites. Being Marines, as soon as one was bitten, he took the rearguard and stayed. Semper Fi, Marines. Semper damned Fi. They’d also used up most of their ammo. She’d used up all but five rounds for the MP5. The detail was out.
Nobody
had had the concept of fighting their way
into
a bunker in the plans. And, honestly, there wasn’t
any
way to carry enough ammo to fight through all the infected. There were a zillion of the bastards.
The bunker was hooked into the building’s security feeds. They could see what was happening. Naked zombies just . . . took over. And they were
everywhere
. In the streets. In the lobbies. In the hallways. In the corridors outside the bunker. The Marines estimated that after a month the LAVs probably wouldn’t start right up. And even if they had enough rounds to get to them . . . where to go? Most of the cameras had failed with the power. The only two remaining, internally powered by the bunker, were outside the main door and the secondary door. They were using the intervening space to hold the bodies of those who turned. After a while they turned off the light at the outer door. There was nothing to see but infected and it was just wasting power. From time to time they turned it on and waited. Eventually, the corridor would fill with infected. They timed it and started to get a feel for how bad it was. At first the corridor filled in less than five minutes. After six months, it was up to ten. And so on. That was all the intel they had. Still far too many to attempt a breakout even if they knew where to break out to.
The bunker was
supposed
to have continuous communications. No joy. All the comms were down. Damaged, inoperable or nobody on the other end, nobody knew. They couldn’t even get anything from the radios on the roof. As far as they could tell, they were the only remaining humans on the planet. Well, sentient, uninfected, humans. There were plenty of the other kind.
* * *
“Is someone humming?” Rebecca asked calmly, looking up from her iPad. Fortunately, she had thousands of books stored on the device. And she finally had all the time to read that she could possibly want.
Humming was
verboten
. Lots of things were
verboten
. She blessed the fact that they had chosen the FEMA bunker. Everyone, the Marines, the detail, her own family and the FEMA people understood the importance of allowing people their personal space in both body and other forms. They couldn’t continuously take showers but people maintained hygiene. They might talk but they used “inside” voice. They didn’t hum. Singing was only for the few, including Rebecca and Sherry, with really good voices and only as part of a group thing that was planned. You didn’t do things that might annoy others. It was too tight. Everyone not only “hot-bunked” but “hot-sat.” There weren’t enough horizontal spaces, even on the floor, for everyone. And
everyone
understood that.
“It’s more of a rumble, ma’am,” Staff Sergeant Jason Cordova said musingly. The staff sergeant, NCOIC of the detail supporting the Secret Service in extracting the Vice President, was one of the survivors. Which had been a good thing. He had a font of good jokes which had taken a while to come out. Things had just been too damned grim for too many months.
It was one year and three days from the date the President had announced the Plague. They had been in the bunker just over ten months with no clue what was going on except the slow and unsteady decrease in infected drawn to a light like moths.
Whatever it was, it shortly went away.
“Do an exterior infected count,” Rebecca said, looking back to her book.
Special Agent Phillips flipped on the exterior light and waited. And waited . . . And waited . . .
Rebecca was trying not to be too curious. Everyone was acting as if they were doing something else.
“We have full corridor, ma’am,” Phillips reported. “Thirty minutes.”
“That’s a big change from just last month,” Rebecca said.
“Not enough of a change to break out, ma’am,” Phillips said, turning off the light.
* * *
There was another rumble, closer, the next day. This time Phillips got out a stethoscope and applied it to the bunker wall.
“Tracked vehicles,” he said, pulling the phones out of his ears. “Staff Sergeant?”
“Tracked vehicles,” Cordova confirmed. “Fading. Wait . . .”
Everyone in the room heard the thump. It was faint, but you could feel it through your bones.
“Main gun on an Abrams would be my guess,” Cordova said, grinning. “Maybe a Paladin. But I’d guess main gun on an Abrams, ma’am.”
“Someone is clearing the city,” she said, smiling. “’Bout time. Special Agent Phillips. I want a daily check on infected numbers.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
* * *
There were rumbles, some distant, some closer, for several days. Although the time for the corridor to fill dropped to nearly forty minutes, other than the first big drop it didn’t drop much. And that was
still
too many to make a breakout.
Then the rumbles stopped. And there were still infected.
“It’s possible that they have essentially cleared the streets but the tunnels remain inhabited,” Phillips said. “Or that they are clearing buildings or bunkers. It may be some time before they get here.”
“At a certain point, we’re going to be out of food,” VP Staba said. “We will go to heavier rations for the Marines, detail with the exception of Special Agent Bryant—sorry, Maryann, but melee truly is a man’s game—and . . . Misters Kraznewski and Flaherty. Those persons will begin working out and training on hand-to-hand. We will secure every bit of coverage for them we can and if push comes to shove . . . we’ll
melee
our way out. These things don’t use weapons. We’ll be tool users even if it’s a crowbar. Everyone will arm themselves and fight as well as they can. We’ll get up on the roof and signal for help. Modified ration schedule now; two weeks and we break out. It is that or starve to death.”