These Dead Lands: Immolation (40 page)

“Lakota One One, this is War Eagle. Over.”

“War Eagle, this is Lakota One One. Send. Over.”

“Lakota One One, Apache One Two is BLUE at this time. Over.”

“Roger, good copy, War Eagle. Lakota One One is kickoff at this time. How copy? Over.”

“I copy kickoff at this time, Lakota One One. Over.”

“Roger. Lakota One One, out.”

With the pilots accelerating to one hundred fifty miles per hour, the flight was going to be fast and short. They would catch up to the ground convoy then fly on to the objective. The idea was to have the convoy arriving a few minutes prior to Lakota’s arrival. Guerra would radio Hastings to let him know that Apache had set up the outer perimeter security before the birds landed in the rail yard. Hastings leaned over and shouted to the crew chief, asking how long until time on target. The crew chief spoke briefly to the pilot over the intercom then held up both hands, fingers spread—ten minutes.

“Apache One Two, this is Lakota One One. Over.”

There was no reply. Hastings tried again, and once more, received no response. He checked to make sure he was on the right frequency and that he was still plugged in to the radio. Verifying he was set, he gave it another try. “Apache One Two, this is Lakota One One. Over.”

Guerra came back. “Lakota One One, this is Apache One Two. Over.”

“Apache One Two, we are ten mikes out. How copy? Over.”

“Roger, I copy ten mikes out. We are not on the objective yet. Estimate five mikes to arrival. Over.”

Hastings gritted his teeth. That was not what he wanted to hear. He’d hoped that Guerra would already be in the process of setting up. “Roger, Apache One Two. Give me a call when you’re set. Over.”

“Lakota One One, Apache One Two. Wilco. Out.”

If Guerra needed another five minutes, then Hastings figured they would be just getting set when the Chinooks arrived. But that would be a perfect world circumstance, and there was nothing perfect about operations during the zombie apocalypse. It was cutting it a little too close, Hastings thought. He leaned over and got the crew chief’s attention then told him to slow their approach so the ground convoy would have time to get in place. The crew chief relayed that to the pilot then gave Hastings with a thumbs-up. Hastings returned the gesture and leaned back in his web seat. There was nothing else to do but enjoy the flight and wait for Guerra to do his job.

*

Guerra’s convoy continued
to make good time using the shoulder of the road and, in some places, going cross-country for short distances. Once the convoy got close to the objective, smaller groups split off at predetermined points. Tharinger’s section would exit off of US 322 at Grayson Road, where they were to continue down the street to secure specific intersections and points. Stilley’s contingent would continue a bit farther to secure the southern end of Grayson Road at the intersection with Paxton Street. The rest of the convoy took the exit dubbed “Sam’s Exit” due to the presence of a Sam’s Club that overshadowed the ramp. Guerra stared up at the side of the building, featureless beneath its tan paint and lacking windows. The large consumer goods store shared the same parking lot with a Wal-Mart. The road actually terminated farther down onto Grayson, right in front of the rail yard. They couldn’t cover all of the streets, but they could guard the likely avenues of approach. Some of the vehicles in Guerra’s group would be responsible for driving up and down portions of Grayson Road to clean up any reekers that might come out of the surrounding buildings or slip through once the helicopters landed and the trains started making noise.

When they reached the Grayson Road exit, small groups of reekers that had previously been aimlessly walking around on the side streets took notice. Guerra watched the shambling figures slide past as his Humvee sped past. Finally bearing down on the objective, he felt his guts begin to tighten. He had to remind himself that even though he’d already lost one man, the convoy hadn’t run into anything they couldn’t overcome. All they needed to do was stick to the plan, remember their training, and not lose their shit at a bad moment.

Speaking of guys losing their shit…
“Apaches One Three Alpha and Bravo, give me an up when your teams are in place. Over,” he said over the radio. He hoped the call would give Stilley and Tharinger a quick pulse and let them know that, even though he wasn’t with them, he was still watching them.

“Roger that, Apache One Two,” Stilley replied immediately.

Tharinger took a few seconds to respond with a quick “Roger.”

“Apache One Three Bravo, put down the Nintendo and get back to work. Over,” Guerra said.

“Roger, Apache One Two.”

A few seconds later, Guerra watched in his side mirror as Tharinger’s element dropped back and took the Grayson Road exit. The guy was on his own, and Guerra hoped the most exciting thing he had to look forward to was the batteries failing on his handheld game.

A mile down, Guerra’s team pulled off of the highway, driving on the ramp’s shoulder. The ramp turned 90 degrees hard right and ended in the parking lots for Wal-Mart and Sam’s Club. As expected, multiple traffic wrecks and abandoned cars and trucks littered the area, along with several decaying bodies. It looked as though there had been a mad rush by looters to stock up on whatever they could get their hands on. Some vehicles sat with their trunks still open and full of items. More goods lay scattered around on the ground—food, water, clothing, even the occasional big screen TV, which would always come in handy at the end of the world. The parking lot had also become a buffet for the reekers.

Guerra’s driver turned left and headed to the intersection with the Sixty-Third Street bridge, which crossed over part of the rail yard. Some abandoned cars were on the bridge but nothing that couldn’t be ignored or pushed out of the way. Guerra heard distant gunshots in the north, where Tharinger was setting up. Obviously, they’d run into something while getting squared away.

Guerra was about to pick up the radio handset and get a report, but shots suddenly rang out nearby. He leaned forward in his seat, pulling his M4 closer. The vehicles in his group were already working on dealing with the reekers they couldn’t avoid. While the gunfire was necessary to preserve the immediate safety of the troops, over the longer term, the noise could develop into a liability, luring dozens, hundreds, or possibly even thousands of reekers to their location. That was one of the reasons why he was positioned at the bridge. It was a high-speed avenue of approach that the reekers could potentially use and right above the rail yard where the main effort would be arriving shortly.

No sooner had the gunfire ended at his location than it erupted to the south. Stilley’s team had made contact and was engaging reekers as well.
They probably heard his big mouth
.

Tharinger’s voice came over the radio. “Apache One Two, this is Apache One Three Bravo. Over.”

“Apache One Three Bravo, this is One Two. Send it. Over.”

“Apache One Two, we’re up on this end. Over.”

“Roger, One Three Bravo. Good to hear. Out.”

The gunfire from the south increased in intensity. It sounded as though a full-on battle was going on. The radio crackled to life, and Guerra could hear machine-gun fire in the background, though it wasn’t loud enough to drown out Stilley’s Foghorn Leghorn voice. But Guerra was sure a Boeing 747 at full takeoff power was quieter than Stilley.

“Apache One Two, this is Apache One Three Alpha. Over.”

“Apache One Three Alpha, this is One Two. Send it. Over.”

“One Three Alpha element is up at this time. How copy? Over.”

“Good copy, One Three Alpha. Keep me advised if you need help down there. You sound busy. Over.”

“Wilco. Out.”

Guerra pushed opened the Humvee’s door and stepped outside, holding his M4 at low ready. Gunfire was pretty constant all around him. It had started off sporadic but was picking up in intensity. He looked up at the soldier manning the .50-caliber machine gun in the Humvee’s cupola. The young man didn’t look down at Guerra, just stayed eyes out.

Guerra eased back inside the vehicle and picked up the radio handset. “Lakota One One, this is Apache One Two. Over.”

Hastings came back almost immediately. “Apache One Two, this is Lakota One One. Over.”

“Lakota One One, Apache teams are in position. Surrounding area is hot, but the objective appears to be free of hostiles. Bring the birds in. Over.”

“Roger, Apache One Two. We’re inbound now. Thirty seconds out. Over.”

Before Hastings could finish his transmission, Guerra heard the Chinooks on their approach. He looked north and saw the birds were barely above treetop level.
Holy shit, those pilots aren’t fucking around
.
Dear God, please don’t let them hit anything. I hope they can see all the wires and shit around this fucking place.

The Chinooks banked sharply and turned in opposite directions. One headed to Guerra’s left, toward the southern end of the yard, while the other went right, rotoring on to the northern end. Guerra watched from atop the bridge as they slowed and transitioned into hovers directly above the train engines. After pausing to line up, the helicopters descended then lowered their ramps until the edges protruded just below the airframe. The pilots dropped the tails toward their target train engines until they almost touched the locomotives. They held their hovers steady, and except for the flashing rotors, they looked as motionless as prehistoric flies caught in amber. Men poured out of each helicopter, right onto the tops of the trains. They climbed down to the walkways on each engine. Guerra was impressed. When Hastings had briefed them on the OPORD, there had been no mention of that kind of delivery. Guerra had figured the birds would just land, and the guys would run off. But what they were doing was a far better option and cool as hell to see.

Once the soldiers had disembarked, the Chinooks slowly gained altitude before pitching slightly nose-down. The CH-47s accelerated away much faster than Guerra had expected. He wouldn’t have been surprised if they were going two hundred miles per hour.

The soldiers tasked with security for the train crews moved to their positions, providing three-hundred-sixty-degree eyes all around their charges. No reekers were in the rail yard at the moment, at least none that Guerra had seen. It probably helped that the train yard was fenced with a healthy tree line along the northern side of the tracks.

Guerra saw a few zombies starting to walk his way from the other side of the bridge. The gunfire up and down Grayson Road was still going strong, which was giving Guerra some serious heebie-jeebies.
It’s like they’re coming out of the woodwork or something. And why didn’t we see them on the Shadow feed earlier?
Reekers didn’t hide, at least not intentionally, so he had no idea how they could have missed seeing them.

The sound of machine-gun fire exploded over the radio. “Apache One Two, we got a shit-ton of reekers coming out of the Sam’s Club and Wal-Mart! Over!”

Guerra didn’t recognize the voice. “Last calling station, this is Apache One Two. What do you mean? Over.”

“Apache One Two, I mean it’s like someone locked a fuck load of reekers inside the stores, and when the birds came in, they went ape shit. They’re pouring out of the buildings like ants.
Oh fuck! On the left! Left! Watch your left side, damn it!
Listen, One Two, they’ll be headed your way shortly. Get your people back in the vehicles!”

The sounds of nonstop gunfire and moans of the dead filled the radio waves. Everyone who was listening in would be able to hear it.

“We’re fucking surrounded!” After that, the chatter of a .50 cal drowned out the rest of the transmission before the airwaves went silent.

The shit show had officially started, and they all had front row seats.

“Yo, ice those deadheads walking up on us!” Guerra shouted.

The turret gunner opened up on the small group of reekers making their way across the bridge. The first burst didn’t take them all down, but the second left the remaining ones horizontal. Guerra could see them writhing about on the asphalt, still trying to slither toward his men by using whatever appendages they had left.

“Keep an eye on our six,” Guerra yelled. “There may be a lot of them coming our way!”

*