The Gathering Dead (37 page)

“Get up! Get up!” McDaniels shouted to them. He turned and fired at the zombies behind them, dropping more ghouls this time as they emerged from the smoke. Earl and Regina got to their feet.

“
Escanaba
, Terminator—we’re almost at the crossing point!” Ahead, Gartrell was already nearing where the lanes came together. “Cease fire with the big guns now, over!”

The 76 millimeter gun stopped firing a moment later, and the .50 caliber resumed, sounding tinny and ineffectual when compared to the ferocious roar of its bigger shipmate. Gartrell crossed over to the guard rail, then stopped short for a moment before shouldering his AA-12 and firing for all he was worth.

“Wait there! Wait there!” he shouted. As he fired, he backpedaled and reached into one of the cargo pockets on his BDU trousers. As a wave of walking dead suddenly crested the guard rail, he pulled out a long cylinder from the pocket. Running southbound now, away from McDaniels and the rest of the group, he jumped onto a car and fiddled with the cylinder. A bright purple-white flame sprang into existence. Gartrell had lit a flare.

Earl gave voice to the question McDaniels was asking himself. “What the fuck is that crazy man
doing?
”

He’s leading them away from us,
McDaniels thought.

“Come on, you dead motherfuckers!” Gartrell screamed, waving the flare over his head. “
Come on!
” He then set off to the south, bounding from car to car, pausing only momentarily to stop and shoot at the zombies closest to him.

“Gartrell!” McDaniels said over the radio. “Gartrell!”

“You’re clear to cross now—get to it, it’s not going to last! Find out where my family is, and make sure they’re all right!” Gartrell responded, his voice breathless and rushed in McDaniels’ headphone.

“Gartrell, you’re committing suicide!”

“Things weren’t exactly going my way before, major. You might want to take advantage of this and get your ass to the boat with that damned thumb drive.” Gartrell paused to fire once again, then resumed running, the flare clearly illuminating him. “Besides, you always thought I was a pain in the ass anyway. If the meek are going to inherit this place, at least one of them has to live, and that’s you!”

“Gartrell… Dave. Dave, thank you. Thank you.”

“Just find my family, make sure they’re safe,” Gartrell said. “Terminator Five, out.” Gartrell continued running, yelling and firing as he went, drawing the zeds away even as the
Escanaba
continued firing, picking them off one by one.

“Hole up somewhere!” McDaniels said. “We’ll come back for you, Gartrell!” He raised the sat phone to his ear. “
Escanaba
, we’re coming across now! Send the boats in, and don’t fire on us!” He switched on the infrared strobe clipped to his body armor, and it flashed brightly in his NVGs. “I’m illuminated with an IR strobe, over!”

“Terminator,
Escanaba
… roger that last, you are illuminated, over.”

McDaniels grabbed Zoe and pushed her into Earl’s arms, then shoved his way past them and Regina. He led them to where Gartrell had attracted the attention of the zeds, and leaned over the concrete guardrail. There was massive decimation on the other side, where the 76 millimeter rounds had done their job. Cars and trucks and buses were aflame, with great columns of fire reaching a hundred feet into the sky. Here and there, stupefied zeds tottered about. Some were smoldering, others were half blown to pieces; the .50 cal. on the
Escanaba
continued to chatter, raking the remaining zeds with tight, controlled bursts. Just the same, some rounds went wild, slamming into the concrete retaining wall.

“Let’s go!” McDaniels led the group across the lanes to the south of the conflagration, staying clear of the engagement area. A zombie rose up from between two cars, and he gunned it down. Another appeared, this one much smaller, a girl in a frayed, blood splattered dress, clutching a headless teddy bear to its dead chest. Regina made a strangled sound in her throat as the small ghoul rushed toward them, moaning in hunger. McDaniels shot it through the head, straight and true.

“Hurry!” he urged them as he headed across the FDR. Another cement guardrail was ahead. McDaniels leaned across it, looking to the left and the right. A small group of zombies moved toward him from the south. McDaniels raised his rifle, but he needn’t have bothered. Several muzzle flashes from across the water sent rounds that ripped through them, eventually bringing them down.

“Terminator! Over here!” came a voice.

McDaniels looked over and saw a small, rigid hull inflatable with a single outboard engine approaching the shoreline. Several armed Coast Guardsmen sat in it, all wearing night vision goggles. A stocky Guardsman with an M16 waved at him from the bow, holding an IR chem stick. McDaniels hopped over the guard rail and reached back for Zoe. Earl lifted her over the guard rail and handed her to him, then helped Regina crawl over. Behind him, a mass of ghouls boiled over the guard rail separating the north and southbound lanes.

“Holy shit, this again?” he muttered before flinging himself over the edge of guard rail, landing beside his daughter.

McDaniels charged toward the metal fence separating the shore from the river. “Come on, Coast Guard! We’re next on the menu here!” Regina, Earl, and Zoe joined him at the fence. The river was perhaps five feet below.

“Don’t jump in the water!” the Coast Guardsman said. “Zombies!” He pointed to a corpse floating nearby, slowly paddling its way toward where McDaniels and the others waited.

“Good God, when will this be over,” Regina moaned.

The Coast Guardsman in the bow of the boat shouldered his M16 and fired a burst at the zombie. Though his aim was imperfect, at least one of the bullets struck the ghoul in the head, and it slowly sank beneath the dark water.

“Uh major…” Earl looked behind them. McDaniels turned and saw the first of what seemed to be a hundred zeds crossing the FDR, stumbling toward the other guard rail. It was the only thing that separated them from their hopeful next meal.

“Coast Guard, let’s get a move on, we have about a hundred friends named zed showing up for dinner!” he shouted as the boat drew nearer.

“Keep your shirt on, Army,” the Guardsman in the bow said. The boat stopped right below them, and McDaniels stepped away from the guard rail. He peppered the advancing ghouls with fire from his MP5.

“Earl, help the ladies into the boat, but be quick about it!”

Earl was already in the process of handing off Zoe. Regina turned and fired her pistol at the zombies, then vaulted over the railing and into the waiting boat. The .50 caliber aboard the
Escanaba
spoke, and several of the ghouls were blasted into pieces as the heavy rounds passed through them like exploding missiles. It didn’t faze those who were not hit. The zombies made it to the guard rail and crawled over it, moaning, eyes flat and soulless in the firelight.

“Major!” Regina shouted.

McDaniels vaulted over the fence and crashed into the boat.

“Pull away!” the Guardsman in the bow yelled as he and another Guardsman pushed the boat away from the cement breakwater. Just in time; the zombies swarmed over the fence and plunged into the dark water, landing only a foot or two from the small vessel. A moment later, and the Coast Guard would have had a lot more company in the boat.

The Rigid Hull Inflatable’s outboard engine roared, and the boat turned toward the waiting
Escanaba
.

Aboard the
Escanaba
, McDaniels turned and looked back at New York City. It was dark, dotted here and there with fires that continued to rage. He searched for any sign of Gartrell, but there was nothing. His radio calls went unanswered, and that was not a good sign. Even if Gartrell was in hiding, surrounded by zombies, he would click his microphone on and off to let McDaniels know he was still alive.

Which he likely wasn’t.

“Did anyone see what happened to First Sergeant Gartrell?” he asked the deck crew. “The soldier with the flare?”

“He turned up that street there, 79th Street,” said a tall Coast Guardsman about McDaniels’ age. His nametape read HASSLE and his badges of rank were silver oak leaf clusters. A commander. McDaniels saluted automatically, and the captain of the
Escanaba
returned the salute, then stuck out his hand. “I’m Commander Hassle, skipper of the
Nob
. Welcome aboard, Army. Looks like you guys had a hell of a night.”

“Cord McDaniels, and that we did. Any idea if he might still be alive, sir?” McDaniels asked.

“When his flare died, we lost sight of him. We were concentrating our attention on you and the civilians. I’m sorry.” Hassle looked past McDaniels, where Coast Guardsmen were tending to Regina, Earl, and Zoe. “I don’t suppose that black man is…?”

“Doctor Safire? No. He’s dead. Back there.”

Hassle looked shocked. “Oh, Jesus Christ. The man is
dead?
”

“Completely. But he’s not forgotten.” McDaniels stepped away from the rail and pulled the IronKey thumb drive from his pocket. “This is his research. All of it, right here.”

Hassle looked at the thumb drive for a long moment, then smiled wearily. “For real?”

“For real. You think you might have a safe place for this?”

“How about the ship’s safe? Fireproof and waterproof, and only I and the XO have the combination.”

McDaniels nodded. “That’ll do.”

Hassle took the IronKey and smiled again. This time the expression was full of relief. “I’ll notify my district command. They’ll get word back to your superiors. Looks like you might have saved the day after all, Army.” The cutter began to move then, accelerating into a slow turn that would take them around Roosevelt Island.

“We’ve been ordered back to Boston, our home port,” Hassle said, responding to the unspoken question in McDaniels’ eyes. “We’ll probably transfer you and your party to another ship or an aircraft there.” Hassle glanced back at the city. “How many men did you…”

“All of them,” McDaniels said. His voice was a flat monotone.

Hassle looked at him for a moment, then nodded. There was nothing else to be said on that matter.

“Let me get you a cup of that crappy coffee you were promised,” he said instead. “It won’t taste very good, but it’ll keep you on your toes for the next four days.”

“I’d like that,” McDaniels said.

Click. Click.

McDaniels whirled back to face the city. He pressed his radio’s transmit button. “Gartrell! Terminator Five, is that you? Over.”

Click. Click.

“Five, this is Six. Can you speak? Over.”

Click.

“What is it? Your first sergeant is alive?” Hassle asked, amazed.

McDaniels was struck by the absurdity of the question, but it suddenly made sense to him in a way that it would never have yesterday. A lifetime ago.

“Five, this is Six. Are you somewhere on 79th Street? Over.”

Click. Click.

“Five, are you injured? Have you been bitten? Over.”

Click.

“Five, stand by.” McDaniels turned back to Hassle. “My first sergeant is still alive. We need to go get him.”

“I don’t have the manpower for that kind of operation,” Hassle said. “I’m sorry, we can’t do that. Besides, it’s… it’s suicide. I can’t order my men into
that.
” He jerked his chin toward the darkened city.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” McDaniels growled.

Hassle didn’t bend, and his eyes grew hard. “I’m not kidding you, soldier. And this ship has been ordered home.”

“Captain, I don’t give a flying fuck if the President himself ordered you back, you give me some men so I can go get First Sergeant Gartrell. We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him!”

“Gartrell’s alive?” Regina asked from nearby. She was draped in a thin blanket. A Coast Guardsman walked toward McDaniels and held another blanket out toward him. McDaniels ignored him and fixed Hassle with his best Special Forces Officer Glare.

Hassle looked away. “I’m sorry, major. We can’t do that.”

“So you’re going to leave that man there, to die?” Regina asked incredulously. “After everything all of those men did for us, you’re just going to leave him to
die?
”

“It’s not my call,” Hassle said. “I’ve been given a mission.” He looked up at McDaniels, and true regret showed in his eye. “I
am
sorry, Major McDaniels. But I won’t send my men in there. I won’t send them in to die. They’re Coasties, not Special Forces.”

“Then give me a boat. I’ll go myself. Or just get close enough to the shoreline that I can go ashore and find him myself.”

“You won’t be doing that, major. And any move by you to do such a thing will get you time in my brig. And trying to force the issue”—Hassle motioned toward McDaniels’ MP5, hanging across his chest by its patrol strap—“will get you a burial at sea.”

Unbidden, Gartrell’s joke sprang to life in McDaniels’ mind.
Why do Coasties need twelve men to bury someone at sea? Six to dump the deceased overboard, and six to jump up and down on the casket to push it under the mud.

“You’re despicable,” McDaniels said.

“Lieutenant Castillo, take Major McDaniels’ weapons away from him,” Hassle ordered. “Use whatever force is necessary, but I want this man disarmed.”

“Sir,” Castillo said. He was the short, stolid man who had been in the bow of the RHI. Two of his Guardsman compatriots came forward while Castillo hung back, a hand on his sidearm.

“This is ridiculous!” Regina shouted. “
Ridiculous!
”

“No ma’am,” Hassle said. “This is reality.” To McDaniels: “You’re not getting a boat, and this vessel is bound for Boston. Hand over your weapons. Now.”

McDaniels turned and faced the city. He let the Coast Guard take his weapons, but slapped them away when they tried to take his radio. “First swabbie who tries to take my communications gear will walk away with two busted collarbones,” he said.

“Leave the radio alone,” Hassle said. “He’s in contact with one of his men.”