We made it, almost. The Zs were slow to react, but by the time PFC Redshirt, bringing up the rear, tried to make it through, they were worked up to fury and he was buried under a pile of them, swinging his hammer as hard as he could. He went down with a fight and a yell. Mya started back, but Brit grabbed her and shoved her forward. She screamed at the crying medic, “He’s done! Let’s go!” and then took off running herself. The rest of us had turned and were laying down a suppressive fire so they could catch up. We smoked the few still standing Zs as they came at us but couldn’t see where Redshirt had fallen through the tall weeds. A quiet fell over the grounds as we made our way over through the brush which grew up over the parade field.
The LT and Mya looked visibly shaken, and Mya was crying steady tears. Brit stood next to me, and whispered in my ear.
“You knew that was going to happen. The frigging kid’s name was Redshirt, for Pete’s sake. I’m surprised he lasted this long.”
“Shut it Brit. I don’t care if he was predestined to get sacrificed to the great Zombie God. He was my troop.”
“Whatever. Just trying to make you feel better.” She walked away to scan part of the perimeter. It made me feel like an ass that I understood what she meant. People die in our business.
“OK, that sucked, and it’s going to suck worse trying to get back to the boat. Let’s get on with this mission, and stay on your toes. Jonesy, you had point, you SHOULD have seen them coming. Be more alert.”
“Warn’t nothing I could do, Nick. They just popped outta the doorway next to me. But yeah, sorry about that Injun kid. Hope you’re at your happy hunting grounds now.”
He led onward, across the field. Everyone’s eyes were peeled now and the LT hadn’t said a word since leaving the boats.
We got to Trophy Point without further incident. The cannons, captured from America’s enemies in our 19th century wars, were still there, lined up facing north against enemies that didn’t exist anymore. We stood in a row, unfurled a flag, and Specialist Mya took our picture. Propaganda for the civilians in the Secured Zones and the FEMA camps around the country. I hope it helped them get through the day.
Down below, we could see the shattered mush that was the Zs we had hammered with artillery. As we watched, another two rounds burst over the parking lot. The redlegs were pumping them in every half hour until we called stop. We watched until the smell was carried to us on a change of the wind, then set out, back across the field, but a different way than we had come.
The buildings themselves were shattered. It looked like some serious fighting had taken place, and many of them were burned out. I wondered how long they had held out, how long the ammo had lasted against the hordes from New York City. South of here was one of the most densely populated places in the country. Never mind the Zombies; the refugees would have stormed this place. It happened to every military installation near a major population center. The military represented hope, and places like Fort Bragg, close to major southern population centers, had been quickly overrun, their troops reluctant to fire on civilians until it was too late. West Point had been burned and picked clean. It didn’t leave me much hope for Camp Smith. It might have made great propaganda to have a picture of troops back at West Point, but from a military point of view, the place was useless.
We moved slowly past the fire-scorched stones of the cadet barracks. Up ahead, echoing between the buildings, we heard footsteps running quickly in our direction. Doc, now on point since we had another medic, held up a hand signal for “halt” and we all quickly dropped behind cover.
A blood-soaked figure came around a corner about a hundred meters away and continued down the road away from us in the direction of the boats. Ahmed raised his rifle to shoot. I put my hand on his arm, motioned for him to wait. Something didn’t look right. It moved wrong for a Z. Too fast. It was wearing the remnants of an army issue uniform. Could there be survivors here?
I stood up and yelled, “HEY! HEY YOU!” I know, too much noise, but the figure stopped and turned at the sound of my voice, started stumbling towards us.
He wore the remains of ACUs, ripped and shredded, and he was bleeding from a dozen wounds when he collapsed in the road in front of us. Doc walked forward, covering him with his rifle, then quickly slung it and reached for his aid bag, yelling for Mya to come forward. She came at a run, then stopped dead and vomited right there in the middle of the road. I had begun to think that maybe she was in the wrong profession if she vomited every time she saw blood. Brit said “Shit!” then jumped up and ran over herself. She too stopped dead and started drawing her pistol from her leg holster.
Doc reached up and slapped it out of her hand. By then I had made it up there, and I looked down at a bloody, but alive PFC Redshirt.
He had a half a dozen bite marks on his hands and other exposed areas, but it looked as if his armor had saved him from having his neck torn out. Doc was already cutting away parts of his uniform to check his wounds, and he yelled at Mya to give him a hand. After a few minutes, seeing the kid was in no immediate danger of dying, I pulled Doc aside and asked him why we weren’t shooting him dead on the spot, or sticking him with the Gom Jabbar and icing him.
“He’s immune. I’ve heard of it, but only two confirmed cases. Ever. One in England, and another in Southeast Asia before communications fell apart.”
“Really? No shit.”
“Really, yes shit. He’s still in a bad way, and those wounds can get infected. We have to get him back to the boats.”
Jonesy reached down with a hand, and slung the unconscious figure over his shoulders. We started off in a trot down towards the pier.
Before we got there, the radio Ahmed was carrying cackled into life.
“Lost Boys, Lost Boys, this is Castle 3, over”
The Firebase Ops officer was calling. I motioned for LT Carter to take the radio.
“Castle 3, this is Lost Boys, um, Lost Boys 5, over.” I knew he’d been about to say “Lost Boys 6” which was the call sign of the commander of a unit. I laughed a bit.
“Lost Boys, be advised, engine fire and explosion on number two boat, crew evacuated with injuries to boat one, boat damaged and rowing back to base, over.”
“Uh, roger, over.” I grabbed the mike from the LT.
“Castle, how the hell are we supposed to get out of here, break.” “Be advised we have one litter WIA, over”
“Understand, one litter WIA. Trying to arrange air Evac from Albany now, over.”
Great. You can’t make shit like this up. Everything that can go wrong, will go wrong, especially since spare parts and new equipment were almost impossible to come by.
“Lost Boys, be advised, Air Evac will be available in five hours. Find a good LZ and hunker down, over.”
“Castle, if that bird doesn’t show up, I am going to come back as a Z and eat you, over.”
“Understood, Nick. We will be there ASAP. Navy Close Air Support is on station.”