Day by Day Armageddon: Beyond Exile (8 page)

The undead are slowly building numbers at the front blast doors again. A week ago there were only ten or fifteen. Now, scores of them cluster around the heavy steel doors around the front of the complex. We have been leaving off the IR mode of night vision at night to reduce the chances of the Marines’ seeing our infrared
camera beam on their own night vision devices. This has forced us to monitor living activity via thermal mode. This was the only thing that allowed us to see the small group of Marines pass within four hundred yards of our complex last night. They are getting closer, but for some reason have not stumbled upon the field of chain-link fence and open silo door that marked Hotel 23. Something in the back of my mind tells me that perhaps they know what this place is and that they could be just casing the area to determine weak spots to exploit.

Normally John only monitors a few HF channels at night. He cycles through them on a random schedule so that he can possibly catch a transmission that he normally would not. Last night, he did. It was severely garbled, but John swears he heard the words “Andrews Air Force Base.” Andrews is very near D.C. I had assumed that D.C. had been nuked along with New York.

I don’t know how much longer we will be able to hold out before the military finds us. I suppose they might give up, but I find that prospect unlikely. Another haunting thought is that they refuse to mention the commanding officer’s name and rank in their recorded transmissions. Perhaps he wishes to be anonymous, as I do.

14 Jul

1940

We have been discovered by what is left of the Marines in this area. Fifteen military vehicles are parked nearby and shots are again being fired outside Hotel 23 directed at the undead. They have made no attempts to disable our cameras, so we have been watching them carefully. Of the fifteen vehicles, six are LAVs. There are some military Hummers and even a four-wheeled ATV. I didn’t count the ATV or the olive-drab dirt bike as part of the fifteen. They all appear to be in Marine issue digital camouflage, which tells me that some order still might exist within the unit. The radio has been playing the same loop. I cannot get an accurate head count on them, as the dead are amongst them attempting to converge.

The creatures that the Marines are dealing with outside are not the same as the one I had to avoid when on my last rescue mission. I have a feeling that if I were faced with an overwhelming army of the radiated dead, I would eventually fall to either their slightly faster mobility or their extreme radiation. The small numbers outside at this moment should not be a problem for the men dealing with them.

We can escape now (via the alternate exit) and leave Hotel 23 forever, never knowing if the military outside are our allies, or we can stay and fight or maybe attempt communication. We still maintain our radio silence and do not plan to break it unless absolutely necessary.

They are making no attempts to gain entry at this time and have made no gestures toward the cameras. The sun will be down
in roughly two hours and if they plan to gain forced entry, I feel they will do it in the dead of night.

One thing is absolute . . . defeating foolish raiders with a lucky cheap shot is one thing, but going head to head with a couple of dozen well-armed U.S. Marines is quite another.

17 Jul

2236

Negotiations at first were civil, then turned to threats that in turn led to violence. They began with radio transmissions directed “at the ones in the bunker.” Then came the explosives. They set the explosives but did not detonate them. They wanted to get in without resistance. After seeing block after block of explosives being carted down into the silo hole, I had no choice but to break radio silence with the Marines.

I keyed the microphone and said (to the best of my recollection):

“To the men trying to take this facility by force, please cease hostile actions or we will be forced to retaliate.”

I thought for sure I would hear laughter on the radio, but they were professional.

“No one wants hostilities, we just want the complex. It is U.S. government property, and we have rightful claim to such properties, in accordance with applicable federal laws and executive orders. We ask that you allow us to gain access and no one will be harmed.”

That was the moment when I wanted to laugh at
them
on the radio. We were at a standoff. I had to speak to the person in command of this unit. I requested to do so and was met with evasive wording and lip service.

“The commanding officer is at headquarters and will not be present.”

I asked for the person speaking to identify himself. He refused.

I asked, “On what real authority do you claim this compound?”

He replied, “On the authority of the chief of Naval Operations.”

“Don’t you mean the Commandant of the Marine Corps?”

At first there was silence, and then the tinny voice came back and said, “The commandant is missing in action. It is our best guess he is with his fellow cadre of the chairman of the Joint Chiefs at some
secure
location, along with most of the nation’s leadership . . . dead.”

“So you are under naval operational control at this time?”

“We are the Marine Corps, Department of the Navy.” There was audible laughter at this point.

I didn’t see any point in hiding that we were the ones who had saved Ramirez and his men.

These Marines probably knew that we were the same people, so I asked, “What about Ramirez and the other men that we saved from the disabled LAV?”

“They are fine and one of them is with us now. Ramirez is back at base camp on perimeter defense duty but wanted to pass something along face-to-face.”

With as much sternness as I could muster on the radio, I yelled into the mic, “Let me speak to a commissioned officer now, Marine!”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“We don’t have any . . . er, I mean we don’t have any
here.
”

The Marine had slipped. I began to wonder who exactly was in command of these men. More banter went on until I finally convinced the Marine on the radio to put me on with the senior noncom present. Gunnery Sergeant Handley answered the call.

The Gunny bellowed, “Now listen down there, we need the complex as a forward command center, as there’s still a little bit a’ hope. A plan is being formed for the remnants of the U.S. military to attempt reclamation of the United States from the creatures.”

I asked him how often they had communicated with the Chief of Naval Operations (CNO).

“We got regular but sunspotty HF comms with his carrier and they’re still flyin’ very maintenance-limited sorties off the boat doing airborne reconnaissance on the mainland in an attempt to give accurate intelligence to what’s left of the men on the ground. Hell, they’ve
even dropped some iron a time or two for us when things got real bad.”

I asked him, “So, I suppose much of the Navy has survived the plague?”

He replied, “A lotta ships turned into floatin’ caskets in the beginnin’. Of the ten carriers in active service at the start a’ all this, only four were not infested and overrun by the dead. You might also wanna know that there is a ballistic missile submarine that has been under for seven months. They’re livin’ off powdered eggs ’n’ dried fruits ’n’ meat. That boat is the last normal piece of the lifecycle. . . . People can still die in peace there and not come back.”

I asked the gunnery sergeant what he meant by that.

He said, “The boomer sub was under before all of this happened, so somehow they’re unaffected by whatever is causin’ the dead to rise. They radioed in on the very low frequency band that they had suffered one natural death in the month of February but the corpse didn’t rise. After a twenty-four-hour observation, their doc put the corpse in the freezer and had it restrained with riggin’ web. The thing has been there since, motionless. Of course, they will have to surface sooner or later or they’ll run outta food, but for now they are the last unaffected humans known to exist. All the other boomers and fast attack subs didn’t hit the right time gate to avoid exposure. I guess we all have some form of this plague dormant inside us . . . waitin’ on the day our heart stops beatin’. The whole thing’s fucked up as a football bat.”

Then came a chilling silence, interrupted only by the random report of 5.56 rounds being fired at the creatures.

“Sir, we don’t wanna blow a big hole in your clubhouse and then take it from ya. Isn’t there some sort of peaceful agreement we can come to? There are civilians at our compound that are happy to be there.”

I replied, “We won’t be happy there, Gunny, we aren’t cattle. We have been surviving on the run since the beginning and much of it was before we found this place.”

“That is impressive, but it doesn’t change the fact that this complex falls under military jurisdiction.”

“Gunny, you still haven’t given me proof that you all aren’t
some rogue group of military survivors with no government leadership backing your actions.”

“Sir, government guidance and hesitation are what brought us into the shithouse and to the point of extinction.”

“Yes, Gunny, you may have a point. However, we found this place and we don’t want to live under any iron fists, even if they belong to the U.S. military.”

He just replied with a “very well” and then came more radio silence. This was the night of the sixteenth. Two hours after the last radio call they detonated their first charge in the silo. It had no effect save for a barely visible crack in the eight-inch-thick window glass of the blast door. Then another detonation, and another. The already damaged camera in the silo was disabled at this point, not even returning any variance of visible signal. The explosions were having no effect.

Thinking of this, I wondered if the civilian marauders had even had a chance at getting in with their cutting tools before I killed them. The alloy and fiberglass embedded concrete that made up Hotel 23 was very strong. I suppose it would need to be to withstand a nuclear blast. I felt an ever-so-slight sting of guilt at the possibly needless killing of the civilian raiders. Perhaps they would have given up when their torches turned out to be ineffective. Maybe I didn’t have to see them as walking, burnt men. Rationalization tells me that they deserved it . . .

Every synapse ping of pain.

I snapped out of this thought at the sound of another explosion. I felt a slight pressure change. This change caused me to pinch my nose, close my mouth and blow to equalize the pressure between my ears. The explosion did not damage the structure of the complex, but it did vibrate the alloy enough to induce a quick change in pressure inside. Jan and Tara were very upset at the thought of being captured and taken to a military-controlled camp. For all they knew at this moment, they would be used as breeding vessels; I would never let that happen. The explosions weren’t making anything better. Laura was crying and Annabelle yelped in fear and stuck her tail between her legs every time another went off. After thirty minutes of this, the explosions ceased. They must have been fresh out of plastique.

The radio once again crackled.

“Had ’nuff yet? Why not just open the doors and come out peacefully? You will not be harmed.”

I asked the gunnery sergeant to give us until sunrise to pack our things before we opened the door. He bought it.

I gathered the adults and we began brainstorming on what cards we could possibly play in this scenario. Options were limited. We could go on the run again and try to find another defensible location, but nothing would compare to Hotel 23. It would take us years to build anything as durable and safe.

Jan suggested we take off in the aircraft. I explained to them that the Cessna could not possibly hold us all, let alone our gear, and that that option was out. Besides, the aircraft was not in excellent condition; the brake on one side was out. It was midnight and we had six good hours to come up with something. I turned to John, who would normally have an “outside the box” answer to give me. He claimed that there was no logical answer.

I was not sure that they knew the alternate exit existed, but there were vehicles parked in that area near the fence. They probably knew about it. The front door was a decent option, but there was a growing group of undead there, still banging on the door. The other option was to trust the Marines. If they kept their word, they would simply let us go after they seized the compound.

I had no desire to be on the run again with an older lady, two small children and a dog. We would be dead before the month ended at the claws and maws of those things. I just didn’t know what to do. I sat in my living quarters pondering on any possible solution to our conundrum. If only I had possessed some sort of leverage.

I hadn’t put my belongings away since I let Dean have my other living area. A small box of what I had was still sitting in the corner of the room, waiting for the day I got tired of looking at it. Now it seemed that day would never come. I stared at the box for a few minutes, thinking of how we were going to transport all of our gear with us cross-country and survive. Walking over to the box I began to inventory its contents. Two extra flight suits, gloves, kneeboard for flying, Glock 17 handgun, three small family pictures,
six boxes of 9mm ammunition and my Velcro name patch with, of course, my name, rank and wings embroidered into the fabric. I hadn’t worn this patch since civilization fell. What was the need? Finally, I pulled my wallet out of the box . . .

Looking inside my wallet, I found numerous cards. I was an NRA member back when it existed. It wasn’t that long ago. I also had a card for what seemed like every video rental chain. Would I be exempt from the late fees if society ever rebuilt itself? I am sure the server that housed my felonious late fees data would long be rusted by the time the power grid was restored. If ever.

Then came something that changed everything. Last month I had remembered looking at my military identification card with a feeling of nostalgia. It was two years until it expired. I stood there looking at it, running my thumb across the microchip embedded in the front. My data was on that chip, along with the data that was embedded in the barcode on the right side of the card. Again there was my photo. A clean-shaven, naive version of myself who would have never thought the dead would walk.