Strands of Sorrow (38 page)

“Understood, ma’am,” Phillips said.

“Oorah, ma’am,” Staff Sergeant Cordova said, grinning.

* * *

It had been a week and a half with no sign of rescue. Daily they checked the infected density. If anything, it had gone up but that might just be because they were turning the light on every day. Which would make getting out trickier. The zombies were going to be waiting for them.

They’d decided on a plan of heavy firepower at the beginning. Blast through the ones nearest the bunker, then work their way to the stairs. Marines would lead the way with the detail and two of the biggest FEMA guys either interspersed or at the rear. The bunker contained some full-coverage “silver suits” that the fighters would wear to protect from bites. Rebecca had pointedly refused them even for her family. They went to the people most in harm’s way.

Quietly, they had discussed the likelihood of surviving the breakout and it didn’t look good. The infected showed no signs of leaving the underground areas and there were tunnels from FEMA to other basements. They would come flooding in at the first attempt to break out. And the people in the bunker didn’t have any really good melee weapons except one clearance tool.

But it was the only reasonable option. That or cannibalism, which had been discussed. In retrospect, they should have eaten the people who turned. They had microwaves.

They’d all decided trying to break out, even if the chances were low, was the better alternative. There were fewer infected. It might work. Might.

“Freeze,” Sherry said.

There had been a lot of cross-training in the bunker. The Marines had shared their experience and training. The FEMA guys and gals were managers but had all spent time in the field and had their own training and experience. Even the detail had opened up about personal protection. So everyone knew what “freeze” meant. And did.

“I hear something,” Sherry said. “Stethoscope?”

Phillips applied it to the wall and frowned.

“You try,” he said, offering it to the girl.

“Something,” she whispered. “Tracked vehicle I think. But . . . it stopped. It didn’t fade. Just stopped. Now all I can hear is something . . . odd and you guys. Wait . . . that’s . . . You?” she said, offering it to Jerry again.

Jerry listened carefully, then shook his head.

“I don’t know what that is,” he said. “Maybe . . . I think it might be lots of infected moving . . . could be massed running . . . Wait . . . There’s thumps . . .”

* * *

“More grenades, Staff Sergeant!” Faith shouted, pulling the pin on two M87s and tossing them through the crack on the hatch one after the other.

“Aye, aye, ma’am!” Decker said, pulling more out of her rucksack.

They’d managed to fight their way to the building security station and get the hatch jammed against the infected. There was a shit-pot of them, though. Not like London but they only had two people.

The security station had been a nice secure point. The hatch was sturdy and they had it nicely blocked. Gave them time to water up, get a map, find the location of the bunker and reammo. Now all they had to do was get
out
of the room.

She leaned back as fragments pinged into the room. Not many, though. They were being caught by the bodies of infected blocking the hatch.

“We
will
eventually kill enough we can get out,” Faith said.

“Oorah, ma’am,” Decker said, handing her two more grenades, one at a time. “Caution. Pins are pulled, ma’am.”

“Thanks for that helpful safety tip, Staff Sergeant . . .”

* * *

“Lots of grenades,” Staff Sergeant Cordova said. “Has to be. More . . . More . . . Jesus.
Somebody
believes in peace through superior firepower . . . It’s stopped.”

“I think we should be prepared to break out,” Staba said. “Fighters, rig up.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Cordova said. “Let’s get it on!”

* * *

“You ever see the movie
Predator
, Staff Sergeant?” Faith shouted over the fire.

They were getting hit from both directions. Wave after wave of infected. They barely had time to reload. And the basement of FEMA was flooded. Really rancid water, too.

The only thing that was allowing them to move forward was her Saiga. And she was running out of pre-loaded magazines. She’d also carefully avoided dropping her pistols. She wasn’t going to go fumbling for them in the water.

“Yes, ma’am!” Decker said, drawing his 1911 and firing carefully.

“That scene where Jesse Ventura fires up the trees with the minigun,” Faith said, drawing her chest pistol. “Zumwald told me that was live. They didn’t use ‘squibs,’ whatever those are; they just fired the minigun. I should have seen one of those Navy nukes about getting a shotgun minigun!”

“That would have been useful about now, ma’am,” Decker said.

“
After
we find the President,” Faith said, holstering the gun. “Assuming we don’t get court-martialed. Need to reload.”

“Roger, ma’am,” Decker said, stepping backwards carefully so they were beside each other.

Faith dipped into his pack and started pulling out magazines, sliding them into pouches and weapons. The bottom of the pack was filled with ammo but the top was filled with pre-loads. On the other hand . . . She ran out of Saiga pre-loads before she got all her magazines filled.

A couple of infected had trotted up while she’d been loading. She took them off-hand and kept on going. Decker was dipping into her backpack at the same time, switching empty M4 mags for full.

“We gotta move before they cluster again,” Faith said. “Right up ahead if I’m reading the map correctly.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Decker said, firing at an incoming infected.

“Let’s roll . . .”

* * *

“The man trap where the bodies are is going to be an almost zero oxygen environment by now,” FEMA Deputy Director John Rossman said. “If we aerate it, we’ll temporarily overload our own filters. We can do that but it cuts down on our air time. I know we’re breaking out but . . . air is air. You’ll need to use the air pak to move forward. If we open up both doors, we’ll get air from both directions and it will clear. But not until then.”

Staff Sergeant Cordova was moving forward to try to hear if there was any sign of movement in their direction and getting a safety brief from the director.

“Roger, sir,” Cordova said, his voice muffled by the air pack and silver suit.

“Good luck, Staff Sergeant,” Rebecca said as a phone rang.

“Or not,” Phillips said, picking up the red phone and keying on the external light and camera.

There were two people in what looked like fire-fighter bunker suits and just
covered
in weapons at the external phone. The one with the phone to his ear was firing a pistol off-camera one-handed.

“HELLO! HELLO! TELL ME SOMEBODY’S IN THERE!”

“This is Special Agent Jerome Phillips,” Phillips said. “Who is this?”

“Lieutenant Faith Marie Smith, United States Marine Corps!”

She momentarily dropped the phone, whipped out a kukri and chopped the neck of a zombie that was clawing at her companion.

“Open the damned hatch! We need to reammo! Stand by!”

The woman dropped the phone again, holstered faster than he’d ever seen a detail member manage, pulled out two grenades, one in either hand, pulled the pins, flipped off the spoons, waited a moment then flipped them up and out. Both of the figures scrunched into the water, up against the wall, holding their arms inward.

“Holy fuck no!” Cordova said. “Sorry for the language, ma’am.”

“I was thinking much the same thing, Staff Sergeant,” Staba said.

Both figures stood back up after a moment and the grenade thrower picked up the phone.

“You’ve got ten seconds and we’re leaving,”
the woman said, holding the phone with her head and reloading one of her pistols. It was apparent she’d taken some fragments in her arm.
“We cannot hold this position.”

“Unlock the exterior door,” Staba said.

“Ma’am,” Phillips replied.

“Not a request!” Staba said.

“Unlocking the door,” Phillips said.

“Vent the mantrap,” Staba added.

“Already done,” Kraznewski said. He was the official systems engineer for the bunker.

* * *

“Thanks
so
much.”

The woman on the pickup . . . might be young. Might. It was hard to tell even with the gas mask off. Scarred of face, lined and weary, she had flat, dead, eyes. If the smell in the mantrap bothered her, it wasn’t apparent. It had seeped into the bunker when they vented the environment and it was gagging. It had to be worse in there.

“I need to see ID,” Phillips said.

“You want my ID?” the woman said. “Staff Sergeant, turn around.” She reached into the man’s backpack and pulled out a box of military grade 5.56. “That’s my ID. You want to reammo or not?”

“I still need to see ID,” Phillips said.

“Staff Sergeant, did
you
bring your ID?” the woman asked. “I left mine in my other pants.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Show the jerk your ID.”

“This will take a moment, sir,” the man said, starting to loosen his gear.

“Can you give a brief on the exterior conditions?” Phillips asked.

“Fucked up and then some,” the woman said, pulling more ammo out of the sergeant’s ruck and beginning to reload. “Long damned story. Short version is we were clearing D.C., found the Secretary of Education and she called a halt to all clearance operations. We have to be ‘kinder and gentler to the afflicted’ or some shit. This is a totally illegal and unauthorized operation but the worst they can do is arrest me and my sister, who’s providing top-cover. Besides, my da is
already
under arrest. If the Prez isn’t in there, we’re fucked. Hell, we’re probably fucked anyway. Not a big fan. If he’s listening . . . still not a big fan. Don’t give a fuck. Whatever.”

Rebecca leaned forward and pressed the talk button.

“The President isn’t,” Staba said. “The Vice President is.”

“REALLY?” the, definitely young, woman said with a squeal. “I’m, like, your BIGGEST fan!”

“Open the door, Jerry,” Staba said. “I think we’ll be okay.”

* * *

“Holy shit, it really
is
you!” Faith said then threw a salute. “Madame Vice President! Lieutenant Faith Marie Smith with a party of one! Permit me to introduce Staff Sergeant Alfred J. Decker, U-S-M-C, who has previously been declared totally bughouse due to PTSD and therefore is
not
responsible for his actions in this matter, ma’am!”

“I take it the President is missing or dead?” Staba said, returning the salute.

“MIA, ma’am,” Faith said. “You’re the highest ranking official we’ve found, ma’am.”

“Then neither of you have a
thing
to worry about,” the Vice President said, grinning. “But whoever obeyed the order to stop clearance operations may have a thing or two to answer for.”

“Semper Fidelis, ma’am,” Faith said. “There were reasons. My da agreed to house arrest to keep her from charging everyone in the world with crimes against humanity, ma’am. Ma’am . . .” Faith frowned for a moment.

“Rather than pull your party out, I should probably fight my way back to commo. There’s a Gunhawk driven by my sister up top. She can commo to Colonel Ramos that you’re here. That will give him the cover to break out. It’s pretty nasty out there, zombies, rats and nasty, stinking water, and we’ll have to fight our way to the surface. The staff sergeant and I can make it back topside. I’ve done weirder shit.”

“Oh,
hell
no,” Staba said. “I barely got a chance to shoot zombies on the way in. But no throwing grenades like popcorn, Lieutenant. Got it?”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

* * *

There was, unsurprisingly, a helipad on the roof of the FEMA building. Sophia had set down on it gently. Just because it was a helipad didn’t mean it was rated for a Gunhawk. But the building didn’t collapse. And the hatch was, for a change, locked.

So she’d been sitting there for four hours, occasionally restarting the engine to keep it warm, hoping against hope for word from Faith. She intended to wait until someone flew in and told her to leave at gunpoint. So far, so good.

“G . . . k . . . G . . . hawk . . . Wolf . . .”

“This is Gunhawk Nine,” Sophia said. “Broken.”

“Gunhawk . . . Got the . . . V . . .”

“Faith, you’re broken and unreadable,” Sophia said, starting the engines. “Olga, Anna . . . I’ve got Faith.”

“Thank God,” Olga said, test-firing her weapon.

“Gunhawk, Shewolf, over.”

“Hear you, Faith, over,” Sophia said.

“Heading to roof with Vice President,”
Faith said. There was a background of fire but that was normal for Faith.
“You are going to fly her and her family out. Six packs. You got the lift, right?”

“
Vice
President?” Sophia said. “And yes I do, over.”

“Make that President,”
Faith replied.
“Already sworn in. Call ops. Order of the President, not, say again,
not
acting. Need extract for twenty-three, say again, two-three, packs. That is
after
you pick the President and her family up. Over.”

“Roger,” Sophia said, grinning and changing frequencies. “Combat Ops, Combat Ops, Navy One. Say again . . . Navy
One
. . . Over.”