The Last Blade Of Grass (36 page)

I guess that’s where we are now. The world’s been at war with walking dead for about a year, and we’ve lost.

We lost for a lot of reasons, but maybe more than anything, we lost because we’re human. The undead, they don’t think, feel, or worry about their next meal, or how they are going to stay warm. Humans do, however, and cold hard objective facts say that that’s a weakness. If you saw your husband, wife, child, or parent get sick, die, and then reanimate to what (to you) looks like life, what would you do? Is your first instinct to bash their brains in? Because if it is, congratulations. You’re a soulless monster, but you may just be alive. If not, if your first instinct is relief and joy at what you perceive to be a recovery, then I have some bad news for you. You’re dead too, and now there are two more zombies in this world instead of one.

When my son Ruben was bitten, I knew exactly what it was. I knew there was no hope and I knew what would happen when he died. Knowing that and accepting that are two different things, however. Even after he bit my wife, Melissa, it took a week of them locked in the bedroom clawing, scratching, and moaning before I got the nerve to put them down.

So am I human or am I a monster? I don’t know. I’ve watched my neighborhood devolve from a nice upper class gated community into a boarded-up ghost town. I try to stay connected to whatever government is still functioning, but my generator is almost out of gas and my supposedly secure government wireless signal is growing more and more unreliable. I killed my own family. I’m afraid to leave my house. The dead are wandering about outside, and I think some of them know I’m in here. I’ve done very little to help with this apocalypse, and a lot more to contribute to it. I think that makes me a bad human being.

Consider this letter as my resignation. The best person to replace me is Dr. Henry Damico – Assistant Manager to the Director of Health and Human Services in District Nine. He’s done a lot of good through all of this and he’s a smart man. If he had had my job, things wouldn’t be so hopeless.

I’m going to go downstairs and drink a cup of coffee. Then I’m going to take my .38 special and join my wife and son. Sometimes, things get so fucked up there aren’t any solutions, and all you have are bullets.

Secretary of Health and Human Services,

Willard Clark

Chapter 1

“Almost home,” Sergeant First Class Carl Harvey whispered under his breath, as he accelerated his military Humvee through the dark, rubble-strewn city streets. The windshield wipers, moving at full speed, barely cut through the torrential downpour that was so uncharacteristic of San Diego weather. Carl leaned forward in the driver seat struggling to lead his convoy of military vehicles home. The interior of the hummer was a noisy cacophony of confusion. Terrified sobs and screams from the civilians who sat in the back of his vehicle, mingled with the constant squawking of communications across the combat network. The .50 caliber machine gun mounted above him drowned the havoc in sporadic thunder and death.

A swarm of living dead was close behind. Carl had often wondered at the horrifying phenomenon that drove undead to gather in groups. Individually, they were dangerous, but easily dealt with. In groups, however, they could work themselves into frenzy. Hundreds, even thousands of rotting cadavers sprinted after the convoy like a ravenous marathon.

Agitated for long enough, a boiling swarm of zombies might pursue prey for miles until they were distracted. Carl knew that if he were to stop driving, the howls of the hungry dead would raise to a crescendo as they engulfed the convoy. He blinked away the mental image and pressed on the accelerator.

Harvey’s responsibilities as point driver – the lead vehicle of the convoy – were measured in split seconds – instantaneous judgment calls that led the convoy through the mayhem of a city consumed by the undead. A wrong turn, break down, even a flat tire, would cost lives. Having grown up in northern Michigan, he had learned to drive in an unforgiving crucible of weather that was encouraged and supported by a culture and family that loved everything about cars. Now, as the country struggled to survive a living nightmare of death risen to devour the living, he couldn’t help but remember the blizzards he had experienced in his youth. A relentless, high-intensity storm, where no one respected the law, cars being abandoned and debris littered every inch of the road. On top of all that, an armed hostile civilian or flesh-eating monster could, and often did, jump out at you at any second.

Carl Harvey was in his late-twenties, but the stress of the last year had aged him. His dirty-blond hair was cut military short and was beginning to show flecks of gray. His jaw was always covered in stubble. He walked and talked as if he was half soldier, half truck driver, and extended a cool aura of confidence that made him a natural leader. He was the kind of man that made other soldiers believe that, whatever shit the world threw at them, Sergeant First Class Harvey knew what he was doing, and he would get you through it. Aided by the obscenely high attrition rates among the convoy teams, he vaulted quickly through the ranks.

“Approaching Interstate 8, five miles east of US Naval Station. We’ll be home in no time boys.” Specialist Pamela Grace sat in the passenger seat speaking into her headset-mounted microphone. A laptop computer sat on a dashboard-mounted tray in front of her. Her words seemed to calm the civilians somewhat. As point vehicle communications expert, she was connected to an extensive network of communications, satellite feeds, and minute-by-minute reporting. This gave her a picture of how to get the convoy where they needed to go, without leading it straight into a roadblock, hostile civilians, or a swarm of flesh-eating dead who would stop at nothing to consume the living.

With a gentle spin of the wheel, Carl expertly turned his Humvee up an onramp onto a yellow-lit highway that would lead them to their destination. The machine gun fire gradually dropped from a sporadic thunder to a periodic rattle.

“What’s that?” Pam covered her microphone and sat up abruptly.

“What? SHIT!” Carl quickly pushed down on the accelerator before he slammed into a dozen figures huddled on the highway. Gore and body parts launched in every direction, smearing the windshield with thick gouts of blood. The civilians in the back screamed in horror.

Convoy drivers had been trained to neither slow down nor swerve, but rather to accelerate when something – living or dead – crossed the path of their moving armored vehicle. Swerve and you risk losing control or crashing; a very bad thing in the best of circumstances, a death sentence in most. Slow down unexpectedly, and you risk being rear-ended by the Humvee on your tail, ending up with a carcass on your hood, or giving an armed attacker with nothing left to lose that extra second he needs to put you in his crosshairs. It was best to use the Humvee’s kinetic energy to plow through anything that didn’t have the wherewithal to stay out of the convoy’s way.

The force of the impact jolted the rain-soaked gunner out of his mount. Sergeant Miguel Ramos dropped down into the cab from his position and cursed. “What the hell?”

“More dead. Civilians know not to cross into the street by now,” Pam assured them both. As the situation across the country worsened, one of San Diego’s main arteries, Interstate 8, had been blocked off for strictly military purposes. The road served as a valuable pipeline connecting the various pockets of survivors scattered around the city to the US Naval Base. The U.S.S. Ronald Reagan, Nimitz-class supercarrier, and its accompanying battle group floated offshore collecting supplies and refugees. For over two months, the battle group had been filled with survivors from every reachable corner of California. The convoys were an essential component of a much bigger picture, whose focus was to survive an Armageddon no one had anticipated or planned for – the rise of the living dead.

“There comes a point when the threat from the walking dead is greater than the threat from us,” Miguel grumbled curtly. He made the sign of the cross over his chest, pulled his stocky body back into the gun mount, and resumed scanning for targets. As the lead gunner, he was responsible for defending the convoy from constant onslaught – a job that seldom lent itself to looking at the bright side of things. No one knew how many unlucky innocent civilians found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time when a convoy passed by. The saying “from behind a .50 cal everyone looks the same”, was common among gunners who would return to the Naval Base with the gnawing guilt in the back of their mind about something they had seen on a mission. Was that shadow an animated corpse or some teenager running for his life? Was that an attacker or someone trying to flag the convoy down for help? There were millions of questions like this that were probably best left unanswered.

The six-vehicle convoy had been making trips to and from the Naval base all day and well into the night, each time loaded up with civilians and supplies from Defensible Detention Centers. DDC’s - as they were called - had originally been set up as medical screening clinics all over the country when the outbreak first hit. As the outbreak grew, the clinics became more like detention facilities where those that had been screened were urged to remain to avoid infection. When the centers began to overflow with desperate people, the military had stepped in to provide security and supplies. Now that the entire country - indeed the world - was beset by the incomprehensible epidemic of cannibalistic undead, the decision had been made to evacuate the North American continent. Every convoy trip into the hell-torn streets of San Diego had cost lives, but had also saved countless more with the food, medical personnel, and supplies they brought to the fleet.

“Control, this is convoy nineteen. Entry code: Alpha, Alpha, Tango, Alpha. We’ve got supplies and about thirty civvies that need offloaded, ASAP.” Grace’s voice always sounded monotone when she spoke through the communications network to the command center. The sandbag fortifications, gun towers, and bright yellow lights of the naval docks slowly loomed into view through the blurry windshield, and the sounds of the Naval Base defenses echoed off the buildings.

“Negative, convoy. Entry code rejected. Do not pass checkpoint or you will be fired upon.” The casual voice of an officer in some comfortable office somewhere came back through the Humvee speakers. The civilians in back shuddered in terror at the thought of their struggle for survival within the DDC’s, meeting a violent end mere walking distance from salvation.

Sergeant First Class r Harvey slammed on the brakes and the screeching tires of every vehicle behind him could be heard above the rattle of gunfire. His heart thumped into his chest. He knew his drivers were good, but rain-slicked streets made stopping on short notice a roll of the dice. Two Blackhawk helicopters hovered into position to block their entry to the docks. The menacing war machines looked like birds of prey, hungry to strike a defenseless target. A glance in the side mirror confirmed that the ravenous silhouettes of their pursuers had not given up the chase. Time was a valuable commodity.

“Repeat, Control, entry code for convoy niner one. Alpha, alpha, tango, alpha!” Pam spoke clearly back through her headset.

It was moments like this that he was reminded how lucky he was to have Pam as his communications expert. Had it been him speaking to Control, he would have screamed obscenities in impotent frustration, until the entire convoy was buried beneath a mountain of zombies. Despite the gravity of the situation, Pam always maintained a calm demeanor.

The communications network was silent for a second before a voice came back. “Sorry, convoy. Proceed.” The Black Hawks lingered for a moment before reluctantly breaking off in separate directions to patrol the perimeter.

The gunfire from the convoy stopped, as more robust firepower from the docks took over defense of the area. Two Abrams tanks flanking the entry to the docks thundered away at unseen targets. Their big cannons were ideal for obliterating large pockets of walking dead before they gathered in numbers that would be difficult for the tower gunners to handle. Machine gun nests were staggered in a half dozen towers inside a chain-link fence topped with razor wire. They rattled away at roving bands of zombies that approached the dock perimeter. Sniper groups sat on roofs scanning the area for lone wandering corpses that somehow made it through the defenses. The docks were—at least for now—the safest place in the city. Carl allowed himself to relax. Whatever was following them, could not get past the Naval Base perimeter – for now.

Sergeant Ramos plopped back down into the cab before closing the hatch to the gun mount. “What the hell was that all about?”

“Command has its head up its ass as usual.” Pam removed her helmet to let her short brown hair fall. She was a good-looking woman, in great shape, and possessing a self-assured confidence that commanded attention. Her technical knowledge, ready sidearm, and relaxed demeanor, made her equal parts librarian, geek, and action hero. She was the best communications expert in the convoy teams, and Sergeant First Class Harvey and Sergeant Ramos were both happy to have her on their team.

The convoy rolled to a stop inside an enormous warehouse stocked with people and supplies. Every driver, gunner, and support personnel of the six-vehicle convoy poured out of their Humvees. They were desperate to stretch their legs, eat, and grab a smoke. Harvey, Ramos, and Grace—familiar with the ballet of logistics around them—never ceased to be amazed at the organized chaos taking place. Civilians were escorted from the convoy and entered medical checkpoints, where they were thoroughly examined before moving on to a series of additional checkpoints. The exhaustive screening—in addition to ensuring no infected made it into the fleet—was designed to distinguish people with uniquely beneficial skill sets, from the rank and file who had little to offer the fleet outside of hungry mouths. Meanwhile, forklifts moved every imaginable type of supply onto ferries, destined to venture into zombie-infested waters to deliver precious cargo to the battle group and accompanying container ships off shore.

Mechanics, reminiscent of a NASCAR pit crew, instantly took to maintenance on every vehicle in the convoy with incredible efficiency. The lead convoy team stood wondering quietly, with everything going on around them, how the walking dead had gotten the better of the United States Military.

As usual, Captain Sheridan approached the group to give a de-briefing and issue new orders. “Good job, soldiers. Here’s your next rendezvous point, and...” Captain Sheridan glanced about his paperwork before handing two slips of paper to Pam. “…here are your acquisition orders.” His finely pressed uniform and intellectual-looking glasses were a sharp contrast to the three disheveled soldiers standing in combat fatigues.

Miguel sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Another run?”

“Cap, how many more of these we gonna do?” Protocol had long since fallen by the wayside, and Grace cut right to the issue on everyone’s mind.

“Another one down, Cap.” A mechanic covered in grease interrupted Sheridan’s reply. “There’s a police spike strip tangled in the suspension of number four. The axel’s warped… the transmission housing is cracked… hell… I don’t even know how it made it back here. It’s done.”

“A police spike strip?” Captain Sheridan looked the mechanic straight in the eye before turning to address Carl.

“I don’t know, sir. It’s pretty rough out there. Any cops trapped outside the DDC’s aren’t above doing whatever they can to hitch a ride…they get pretty pissed when we don’t stop,” Carl answered.

“Specialist…” Sheridan looked at Pam, addressing her question: “you’re going to continue to make runs until your vehicle is broken down, out of gas, out of ammunition, or the Admiral says we’re pulling out--whichever comes first. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Pam pretended to look over her new requisition orders.

“Get some chow and some rest. You’ve got two hours. Dismissed,” Captain Sheridan ordered.  He softened. “There won’t be many more runs after this, and remember…you people are saving lives.”