Rise of the Dead (16 page)
The streets we travel above show the extent of the destruction of the past couple days. Most of the fires have burned themselves out, but the air still smells and tastes of ash. Entire city blocks have been incinerated. Figures, some of them charred, shamble along every street. A couple of times I can see the corpses swarming around a house or building where there might be survivors. One man sitting on the roof of his house waves as we pass overhead, but the helicopter is full, and we keep on going. Even a war could not have created this much devastation in such a short time.
We pass over the airport, the planes are motionless on the ground while zombies wander around the runways. They look up at our helicopter flying overhead. It's a relief to be back in the suburbs, which are slightly less horrific than the city. There are still a lot of undead, but nothing like the hundreds of thousands that surrounded the naval station. They congregate on the main streets and around buildings, but some side streets seem relatively clear. We pass over a forest preserve where I don't see any at all.
The helicopter touches down in the middle of an enormous grassy field, along the Des Plaines River, just southwest of Joliet. Though I had only seen a single barb wired fence along the perimeter, there were very few corpses around it. From where we are, there is nothing but prairie grasses and trees visible in any direction, so I can't imagine we could attract much attention. The nearest town is maybe five miles away, and there are several large farms on one side and the river on the other. It seems like a secluded location.
We unload the helicopter, and I throw one of the heavy packs over my shoulders. It weighs a good seventy or eighty pounds, not including the assault rifle, which I also sling over a shoulder. We walk single file through the field, following one of the soldiers along.
"Everyone, keep your eyes peeled," whispers Reynolds. "It should be clear, but don't assume it is."
We walk about fifty yards east and come to a blast door embedded in the earth, almost invisible amongst the tall surrounding grasses. It leads down a flight of stairs to another thick steel door next to a keycard lock. The lead soldier swipes a badge and following two quick beeps the lock disengages.
We file into another room that seems like an airlock of some kind, then through another doorway into a small storage room. It's a relief to see the halogen lights on the ceiling. Somehow this place still has power. The soldiers carry their rifles but drop their packs, so I follow their lead and set my gear down on the floor. My shoulders ache just from that short walk from the helicopter.
"What is this place?" Danielle asks.
"This site was part of Project Nike during the Cold War," says Reynolds. "It used to house Army surface-to-air missiles before the Air Force took over air defense fully and the sites were decommissioned. Well, officially anyway. As you can see, it's still here. It's been refitted to protect against chemical and biological attacks, in addition to a nuclear strike. The SEALS just happened to be up here doing some training exercises when the shit hit the fan."
At the opposite end of the room from the door we just came through is another door, which Reynolds opens. We step into a concrete hallway and follow Reynolds to the left until he stops and opens a door on the right. He leads us into a spacious room with a kitchenette, television, a few couches, a ping pong table and a long mess table.
"This used to be the missile bay. There's sleeping quarters off each of those doors," Reynolds says. "It's pretty cramped, but this is the most secure facility in the area. We have food, electricity and satellite communications with what few remaining military installations are operational."
Some of the soldiers head over to the fridge and pass around cans of beer. The air smells stale, but I am relieved to finally be in a place that seems impossible to breach. We are actually safe here. The muscles in my shoulders relax and I feel like a giant weight that I have carried since the beginning of this mess has finally been lifted. I walk over to one of the doors and open it to find spartan living quarters, only a bunk bed and an alcove for storing clothes.
"The boys will get you some chow and make sure you get settled," says Reynolds. He looks at Fletcher, who gives him a nod. "I'm going to show Agent Lorento to the com room to see if we can reach Washington and New Mexico." Lorento follows him out the door, pausing to look back at the doctor as he studies his reflection in the screen of the television on the wall.
The old man has clearly lost it. Seeing his strange behavior, I remind myself not to relax too much. He seems elderly and frail, and if he suddenly kicks the bucket, things could get nasty in here in a hurry. Aside from that, he is definitely not thinking straight, which I already know can mean trouble for everyone.
Aside from Lieutenant Fletcher and the co-pilot, Wiz, seven other soldiers flew in the helicopter with us. I recognize a couple of them from the night before, when we saw Fletcher outside the barracks. Since a few guys don't seem as big as some of the other soldiers, I assume they are part of the helicopter crew. I haven't really been paying much attention to any of the insignia on their uniforms, but it isn't too hard to figure out. The other five soldiers all look rough and fit, and I have no doubt any one of them could kick my ass. These guys have to be the SEALS. The SEALS stick together, and the helicopter crew hangs together. While there is a mutual respect, there is still a definite division.
"Throw a couple pizzas in, Hernacki," Fletcher orders one of the SEALS. "And don't drink all my beer."
The youngest looking of the SEALS grabbed two boxes of frozen pizzas and turned on an electric toaster in the kitchenette.
"You guys okay with that?" Fletcher asks us.
Just the mention of the word 'pizza' has me salivating. Quentin looks over at the other soldiers, then to me, and without a word, he walks into the room behind me and lays down on a bunk.
"That would be perfect," says Danielle. "I'm starving."
"You two want a beer?" he offers. He hands us each an ice-cold can. It's cheap beer. I probably would have even turned it down a couple of days ago, but a lot has changed since then. I crack the top and taste the cool foam that bubbles out the opening.
The room begins to fill with the aroma of the warming pizzas. Chuck, Danielle, and I sit around on the couches. The helicopter crew plays some ping pong while the SEALS sit around the table with a deck of cards. I watch the old man as he moves from door to door, opening each one and then scanning the identical sleeping quarters as though he was looking for something.
Within a few minutes of drinking the beer, I can even relax a little more.
Chuck tells us about how they were working on special ops training with the SEALS and the stealth helicopters. They flew mock missions around the Chicago area at night, then monitored the media and internet to gauge how well they could avoid detection in an urban environment.
"Nobody ever gets to see these helicopters we've been flying around in. There's only a dozen or so out there," he says.
He smiles at Danielle, and I can tell he is hoping his story has impressed her. She smiles back.
"So what about this place?" I ask. "How'd you end up here?"
"We had to have someplace low profile to keep the Blackhawks. Since this place isn't even officially in service, we got clearance from the Army to conduct training exercises here this month."
"If all this is top secret, or whatever, should we even be here?" asks Danielle.
"I doubt it matters anymore," he says. "They got bigger problems now."
Hernacki brings over one of the pizzas and sets it down on the table. I extract a slice for myself and bite into the warm, melted cheese. It's so hot that I burn my tongue, but I don't even mind. I devour the piece in five bites, wash it down with a swig of beer and then take another slice.
The room grows quiet as everyone eats hungrily.
"Don't get too used to this," says Fletcher.
I savor the last of the crust, sucking the oil and parmesan crumbs from my fingertips.
"So how long will the supplies here last?" I ask.
"Not very long," he says. "For all of us, maybe a couple of weeks. We won't be here that long, though."
"Why not?" I ask.
"We still have orders from Washington to get Charlie Foxtrot over there to New Mexico." He points to the old man who is now in the room where Quentin is resting on the bed, and stands there staring down at the sleeping man.
"That seems like a waste of time," says Danielle.
“Indeed, it does," says Fletcher. "But orders is orders."
Reynolds and Agent Lorento return to the room. Lorento sighs and goes over to retrieve the old man and ushers him across to another room.
"Bad news," says Reynolds. "Washington has gone dark."
Fletcher looks up at him.
"I can't get anyone at the White House or the Pentagon," says Reynolds.
"What about New Mexico?" asks Fletcher.
"Still operational, but it sounds like it's FUBAR. Some private led a mutiny. Fragged the commanding officers. Told me he is running the show now."
"So?" asks Fletcher. "What now?"
"We have standing orders," says Reynolds.
"Fuck orders," mutters Fletcher. "There is nobody left to give a damn if we follow orders or not."
Agent Lorento exits the sleeping quarters, closing the door behind her. Fletcher and Reynolds stop talking as she approaches.
I shoot a glance over to Danielle to catch her attention and she grimaces, which I take to mean she is as concerned about our situation as I am. Since we were rescued and brought to the Naval Station, every decision has been made for us. We had no control over anything, and the military personnel have these conversations like we aren't even in the room. It seems like we are mostly just extra cargo they have been ordered to transport.
"So when do we leave?" Lorento asks Reynolds.
Reynolds glances over at Fletcher and says, "2200 hours."
Fletcher groans.
"Is there a problem?" asks Lorento. She folds her arms in front of her chest and shifts her weight to one leg. The room grew silent as everyone listens. Even Quentin gets back off his bunk and ambles through the doorway to see what is going on.
"There is," says Fletcher. "I ain't flying to New Mexico."
"Lieutenant," Reynolds starts, but Lorento cuts him off.
"You have direct orders from Admiral Livingston to get me and Dr. Schoenheim to Area 51 by any means necessary."
"That was yesterday," says Fletcher. "The situation has changed."
"Nothing's changed," insists Lorento. "The order was never rescinded."
"Probably because there isn't anyone alive to rescind it, lady," Fletcher growls. "The situation has changed. You don't have a pilot."
"Check your tone, lieutenant," orders the Lt. Commander. "Respect the chain of command."
"Reynolds," Fletcher says. "With all due respect, you need to wake the fuck up. This whole mission is FUBAR just like Dr. Charlie Foxtrot in there. If I thought there was any chance that by getting him to New Mexico we might turn this thing around, hell, I'd be the first one lined up to get on that bird."
"Look," begins Lorento. "We all have a job to do, whether we like it or not."
"No. We don't
work
for anyone. Not anymore."
"I still work for America, and right now my country needs me. We can't just sit here hiding in a hole in the ground. We need to do whatever we can to make things right."
"There is no goddamn America. Can't you see that, lady?”
Lorento rolls her eyes and growls. Fletcher picks up his cowboy hat from his head, tilts his head back and then rests the hat over his eyes.
"We are leaving in ten hours, Lieutenant, with or without you." She picks up the last slice of pizza from the plate on the table while giving Fletcher a look of disgust. He doesn't seem to notice from beneath the brim of his hat. Then she retreats to the room where she left Dr. Schoenheim and slams the door loudly behind her.
"You sure got a way with the ladies," says Wiz. Not bothering to look, Fletcher salutes him with a middle finger.
"You can choose to stay or go," Reynolds informs us. "Our orders were just to get you someplace where you can safely wait this out. The rest of us," he pauses to glance sidelong at Fletcher, "still have a job to do."
"Fucking A," chimes in one of the SEALS.
"You've got weapons and supplies to last you a few weeks until we can relocate you to a permanent facility."
I can tell that Reynolds doesn't really want us to go. Just more civilians to try and look after. That is all right with me, too, as I am wary about the situation in New Mexico.
"If anyone else here has a problem with our mission, well, I'm not going to shoot anyone for dereliction of duty. I have my own doubts, but I am going to see this through. We can die in a hole in the ground, or we can try to do something to turn this thing around. So just think about that before you decide."
Reynolds looks around the room at the soldiers. Then he walks over to the table, grabs one of the beers and proceeds to another of the sleeping quarters, closing the door behind him. Once he leaves, a few of the SEALS glance back at Fletcher. He remains still and seems to be dozing beneath his cowboy hat. After a few seconds, they return to their card game, talking not too discretely and with some bravado about finishing their mission instead of hiding under a rock. Within a minute or two, they are again joking and griping over their cards.