The Gathering Dead (33 page)

“Amazing how they don’t read that well through the FLIR. I guess a lot of those people have been dead for a long time. No body heat left, they’re all just ambient temperature.” Hassle shook his head. “Poor bastards.”

“It’s the lights,” Sullivan said. “They can see our running lights, and the deck lights where the boat crews are working. It seems to me that’s going to make it much more difficult for those Army people to get to the shoreline, sir.”

Hassle nodded, and turned to Petersen. “Where’s the deck force department head?”

“Overseeing the small boat ops right now, sir.”

Hassle nodded. That was where First Lieutenant Herve Castillo would do the most good, keeping watch over the men on the deck.

“Very well. Once the boat crews have finished preparing the RHI and the rescue boat, tell them to extinguish the deck lighting except for whatever is essential for crew safety. I want more men on the fantail with NVGs, just in case one of those zombies comes aboard. If there’s any way to do that, it’ll be from the stern, unless these things can climb up steel like Spider-Man. When you go back outside, gently remind Castillo that his men have to stay sharp. Even though there’s almost no chance one of those things can get aboard, anything’s possible. And with the weather getting better, I don’t want anyone thinking they can slack off.”

Petersen got the message. “I’ll go tell him now, captain.” He zipped up his foul weather coat and exited the pilothouse. Hassle watching him bolt down the gangway outside.

“Wind is tapering off,” Sullivan noted. “Should make launch and recovery of the shore teams easier.”

Hassle nodded as he rubbed his eyes. The entire crew was bushed. The run in from their holding area in the Atlantic had been thrilling but rough, and their arrival in New York City waters had been nothing short of traumatic. Hassle had seen more than one man lose his balance as the
Escanaba
heeled in the wind, or trip over the hatch combings of the watertight doors on the lower decks. The crew was being driven into the ground, but there was nothing he could do about it.

“Lord knows we need a little bit of easy right now,” he said.

Sullivan grunted. “You really think those Army guys have someone who can stop all of this from going on?” he asked, waving an arm toward the darkened expanse of Manhattan. The only parts of it that were illuminated were from fires that continued to burn.

“I don’t know,” Hassle said after a long moment. “But if they do, I hope to God we can get them out of there.”

“Here’s hoping you have a direct line to the big guy.”

Hassle snorted. “Not in a hell of a long time, XO. He ignores me pretty much routinely these days—”

A sudden flash to the north caught his attention, and he turned away from the darkened city. A rustle went through the bridge crew, audible over the rumbling of the engines and the whisper of the fan-cooled electronics. Another flash from beyond the northern horizon reflected off the low-hanging clouds. It looked like someone was shooting fireworks into the sky.

“What the heck is
that?
” Sullivan asked.

“Artillery,” Hassle said after another moment’s observation. “Looks like some unit with some serious firepower has made it to the northern part of the Bronx, and they’re lighting it up with artillery.”

Sullivan shook his head slowly. “I’ve never seen anything like that. Makes our 76 look like a pea shooter.”

“Excuse me, sir?” This was from the young, pimply-faced port lookout, who stood on the left side of the bridge. He peered into the darkness beyond the port windows through light-intensifying binoculars.

“Yes, what is it, son?”

“Movement in the streets, sir. Maybe a half mile away from here.”

“More zombies?”

“Negative, sir. I think it’s Army. And they’re using a tow truck to bash through all the dead traffic in the street.”

Hassle hurried over and took the binoculars from the crewman. “How long have you been observing them?”

“Just now, sir. With the extra illumination from that light show, you can just barely make them out. Right up that street there,” the young man said, pointing out the direction.

Hassle raised the binoculars to his eyes. Black night was instantly rendered in varying shades of green and white. At first, he saw nothing more than the mouth of the street the crewman had pointed out to him, that and what seemed to be a zillion zombies lining up against the fence, staring at the
Escanaba
with mindless, hungry eyes. The artillery explosions flashed on the horizon, and the low cloud cover reflected more light into the area. The additional illumination revealed much more the Upper East Side than the binoculars could on their own. Hassle saw the crewman was right; someone was using a big, battered tow truck to shove aside cars and trucks on what seemed to be First Avenue, only a thousand yards or so from the
Nob
.

“XO, slew the FLIR to port. Zoom in on that area right there,” Hassle said, pointing out the window.

Sullivan nodded to the crewman manning the electronics station, and the crewman grabbed the FLIR’s control yoke. After aligning the unit with the street in question, he slowly zoomed in while Hassle and Sullivan watched the displays.

“That’ll do it,” Hassle said, and the zoom stopped. Framed within the confines of the display, he and Sullivan could very plainly see two large heat sources. Both were vehicles, the tow truck the lookout had mentioned, and behind that a van of some sort.

And around the van, people-shaped silhouettes blazed in dull white fidelity as a horde of dimmer shapes advanced upon them. But the Special Forces troops weren’t going down without a fight; already, there were dozens, maybe even a hundred, inert bodies strewn around the area.

“God damn,” Sullivan said under his breath.

“Tell Castillo to launch the boats,” Hassle ordered.

“Will do. But what about the zombies at the waterfront? How’re those Army guys going to get past them? I mean, we’re talking a couple of thousand deadheads, at least!”

Hassle nodded slowly. “Weaps!”

The weapons officer looked up from his position on the bridge. “Sir?”

“Make the Mark 75 ready for firing. I’ll want you to deliver a tight grouping of shells against that line of zeds when I give the order.”

“Aye aye, sir,” the weapons officer said as he immediately set about following his captain’s orders.

“You’re going to blast those things to pieces?” Sullivan said.

Hassle shrugged. “I don’t know how effective it’ll be, but at least we might be able to give those Army guys a path to drive down. Comms, get me the Special Forces team commander. He and I should have a chat.”

“Aye aye, sir!”

The tow truck managed to clear another path through the clogged intersection at First Avenue. McDaniels ordered the rest of the troops back to the van, and they retreated while fighting a rear action. The zombies were so numerous now that the bodies were really beginning to pile up, and they continued to attack even as the van drove off. They pounded against its sides with their fists, moaning and wailing.

McDaniels checked his M4 ammunition. He was running out. He asked the others to report their ammo status, and was unsurprised to discover the rest of the soldiers were in the same predicament.

“We better start using grenades,” Gartrell said. “You can use your M203 to keep them back a bit, major. Not the best weapon for use against dead people, but it’s about all we have. We have to keep them back.”

“Agreed,” McDaniels said. “We should use the smokers again, too. The zeds are thicker in this area, it’s more residential.”

“Terminator, this is
Escanaba
. We have you in sight. Are you in the van following the tow truck? Over.”

“Roger that,
Escanaba
. We’re using the tow truck to clear a path through the intersections. How’s it look on your end? Over.”

“Terminator, not so hot—there are zombies all along the waterfront. We’re going to open up on them with seventy-six mike mike, but we’ll have to let up once you’re in the zone. We’ll try and clear a path to the water, and our boats will be waiting for you. How many souls in your party? Over.”

“
Escanaba
, Terminator has nine souls, five shooters and four pax, over.”

“Roger that, Terminator. You’ll be met by two small boats, but the rigid hull inflatable is the one you’ll be boarding. There will be four guardsmen aboard, armed with rifles and shotguns. The other boat will stand off as a rescue platform should the RHI have an incident. The
Escanaba
will not dock, over.”

“Roger,
Escanaba
. We’ll be looking for the boats. Hope they can move in quickly, we’re deep in Indian country. Over.”

“They’ll be in faster than you can blink, Terminator. Don’t delay, once the boat is there, jump in right away. Over.”

McDaniels smiled despite himself. “
Escanaba
, Terminator. Believe me, if we have to, we’ll walk across the water to your boats, over.”

“Understood, Terminator. Coffee’s on and it tastes like shit, but it’s all yours when you get here. Over.”

“Roger that,
Escanaba
. We’ve got to go to guns on the deadheads now, will contact you when we’re on the move again. Terminator Six, out here.” McDaniels updated those who couldn’t listen to the conversation. “Coast Guard’s on station and waiting for us. They’ll meet us at the river in two boats, but we’ll board the rigid inflatable. Safires and Browns, you’ll follow us and do exactly as we say, understood?”

“Yes,” Safire said.

“Just get my daughter out of here,” Earl mumbled. “I’ll do anything you say, just get her someplace safe.”

“We’re going to do just that, Earl. Ritt, how you holding up back there?”

“I’m all right, but this bite… well, it hurts like hell.” Rittenour’s voice was barely audible above the roar of the van’s big V-8 engine as Finelly charged after the tow truck. Then: “Doctor Safire… can you maybe help me?”

“Of course,” Regina said.

“I meant your father.”

McDaniels looked back at Safire as he sat on the bench seat behind him. He looked even more pale and drawn, his gray hair plastered to his head, his face covered with a sheen of sweat as he fidgeted on the seat, the puddle of stinking vomit lying between his feet. Safire did not turn around to face Rittenour, and he avoided meeting McDaniels’ gaze.

“No,” he said finally. “I only have research and a template for treatment. I don’t have anything here that can help you. If we were in a good research hospital, perhaps. But not here.”

“How long does he have?” McDaniels asked.

“It’s… it’s difficult to say.”

“Coming up on the next intersection,” Finelly reported. The van began to slow. “Check out the sky… something going on, looks like arty.”

McDaniels ignored him. “Then give us your best estimate, Safire.” He was in no mood to allow Safire off the hook.

“Between twenty-four and forty-eight hours. The fever will come first, then the sickness as certain tissues become… necrotic.” Safire risked a quick glance at Rittenour, who sat behind him. “I’m sorry, Rittenour. If we can get out of here soon and get you to a suitable treatment facility, then you might have a chance. That’s really the very best I can do.”

Rittenour snorted and shook his head. “This fucking sucks,” he said.

“Don’t give up, troop.” Gartrell slapped Rittenour on the shoulder. “We’ll be aboard that boat in no time, and then we’re out of here. We’ll get you looked after, I swear to God.”

Rittenour nodded silently.

McDaniels faced forward again. He slid a 40mm grenade into the M203 grenade launcher mounted below the M4’s barrel, and clicked the launcher closed. He heard similar sounds from behind as Rittenour and Gartrell readied their weapons for combat yet again.

“Six, this is Leary—the stenches are fucking thick up here, but listen… I see that Coast Guard boat in the river! It’s a beautiful sight. Over.” There was no mistaking the excitement in the staff sergeant’s voice.

“How’s the truck holding up? Over.”

“Six, the engine’s shaking like it’s a vibrator turned up to eleven and the temperature’s through the roof, but it’ll get the job done. Over.” Already, there was the sound of crunching metal accompanying Leary’s transmission.

“Roger that, keep doing what you’re doing, we’re about to dismount. Six, out.” To the others: “Okay, we know the drill. Let’s get to it.”

Finelly braked the van to a halt thirty yards from the intersection. The big NYPD tow truck was back in action, slamming into the stalled traffic in the intersection, its tires smoking now that the pavement was beginning to dry. McDaniels was out of the van before it had come to a complete halt, his boots landing on the street sure and square. Finelly had been right, there was definitely something going on; the clouds overhead were illuminated by distant, stroboscopic lights, and above the crashing of metal, he heard distant explosions. He slammed the door closed behind him just as the first zed lurched toward him from the sidewalk. He dropped it with one round, then took out another and another. Most of the zeds were fixated on the tow truck, and they swarmed toward it like some sort of single-minded amorphous beast. But that didn’t mean the van had gone unnoticed. As McDaniels attempted to pull a smoke grenade from the clip on his vest, another zombie heaved toward him, moaning. The stench of it made his stomach roil. He fired the M4 into its face with one hand while pulling the grenade from its clip with another. He let the rifle hang across his chest by its patrol strap and ripped the pin from the grenade, then tossed it in the tow truck’s direction. The grenade rolled along the street before its fuse ignited with a visible flash. White smoke billowed into the air, turning the zombies into vague shadows even through the NVGs. McDaniels raised his rifle to his shoulder and fired at the specters, dropping them one by one. From his left, he heard Finelly’s MP5 bark in a measured, single shot cadence.

“Grenade!” Gartrell shouted, and a moment later, a tremendous explosion tore through the night. The explosion was followed by the
crack-crack-crack!
of Rittenour’s M4, backed by the throatier roar of Gartrell’s AA-12. McDaniels saw a clutch of ghouls shamble through the wafting smoke and head toward the van from the sidewalk. He reached for the trigger on the M203 and fired a 40 millimeter grenade at them, but his aim was a bit high; the round passed through one ghoul’s chest before it armed, knocking the animated corpse off its feet and slamming it into its companions. The grenade traveled on until it struck the wall of the apartment building behind them and exploded in a flash of fire and fury, sending chunks of concrete façade whirling through the air. The shrapnel pelted the zombies furiously, but it did not deter them; they only clambered back to their feet, ignoring the damage to their bodies, dripping viscous ichor onto the sidewalk and street. The one which had taken the grenade to the chest was among them, and it tottered toward the van, trailing a rope of gray-green intestine behind it. McDaniels fired round after round, dropping the zombies as quickly as he could, but there were many, so many. He found himself on the retreat, backing up step by step, his heart hammering in his chest.