Meg, who now had a shortened over/under slung across her back, picked through the cans. She quickly went to work cooking a stew for the team. When she brought Jake his bowl of stew, she could tell that he was troubled, but had learned not to question her team leader. He was solid, but the weight of the world sometimes bore heavy on his shoulders. She sat next to him silently as he ate and fished her iPod from her BDU pants. She popped one ear bud into her right ear and one into Jake’s left before she started a playlist of music she knew he liked. He smiled modestly and tipped his spoon to her, silently thanking her for the meal. Once he finished, he settled back onto his makeshift bed of gear and covered his eyes with his hat, listening to the music and the quietly snoring woman beside him.
The new day normally would clear Jake’s mind. Normally.
Sean,
I hope that in finding this letter, you have not seen the troubles I have known in these dire days. Please, as they asked, do not go into the garage. Take my word that your parents passed peacefully with you in their hearts. Read their words and know that you were their world. I have not found many that have loved as unconditionally as they did.
I have taken the shotgun and supplies they left you. With hope, I am not leaving you unprepared. My team is tired, hungry, and sparsely equipped. We must forage for a good amount of our supplies, so with regret I must take yours. If you have made it this far, you ARE the strong and resourceful man your parents loved. In exchange for your supplies, I give you another task: Make it to Medford, Oregon. I will see that the debt is repaid.
THE GRUNTS
by
Specialist George Roy
Contributing Author
Corporal Phineas Thog
It was hot in the cockpit, despite the air streaming past at almost a hundred miles per hour. Flying up and behind the other UH-60 in the flight, the pilot could see the hot engine exhaust of the lead Blackhawk being blown downward by the rotor wash. The turbulence shook the bird, and he ignored the warning lights on the dashboard.
“Goddamned missing spare parts” he said into the headset when the copilot tapped the lights. “Can’t get a replacement until we get back to the Fort Orange, and there isn’t any at FOB Castle. We should be OK this flight.” He went back to concentrating on following the path of the Hudson River as it passed beneath them.
In the back, Staff Sergeant Mowers ripped off another piece of green hundred mile per hour tape and wrapped it around a hydraulic line that was leaking purplish orange fluid. He grinned at the trooper who sat on the canvas seat next to him, who looked like he was ready to puke. “Kid can’t be more than seventeen years old” he thought to himself.
The trooper, Private Henry Boudreaux, gripped the stock of his M-4, pointed down on the floor, and prayed a silent prayer with his eyes open. The crew chief held up his hand with one finger. One minute out, oh Jesus Christ save us. The helo tilted to the right, and the crewman on the other side opened up with his 240B machine gun as they circle the landing zone. With a flare they came down on the cracked pavement of the parking lot, and his squad leader, Sergeant Ramirez, punched him hard on the shoulder and yelled “GO GO GO!” in his ear. He unsnapped the crossed seat belts and grabbed the rucksack full of extra magazines for their rifles, then jumped to the ground, turned left, ran 5 paces and down, scanning for targets.
Sergeant Ramirez fell to the ground next to him as the Blackhawk increased power and lifted off, nose pointing back up river. Ramirez was yelling into his headset, giving a situation report to the company commander back in the TOC at FOB Castle. He glanced around, counting off the squad. One, two, three, six total plus him. They had hit the ground short of a full squad, as usual. He stood and pumped his fist towards the target building, then fell into the middle of the column as they rushed the front doors of the four story apartment building.
“Team one, GO!” he yelled, and the first team crashed through the yawning front door, clearing the lobby. One shot rang out as the second man in fired into a zombie that came down the stairway. The remains of the obese woman crashed to the floor.
“Up the stairs, to the roof!” They knew what to do, but his command reinforced the urgency. Boots pounded up the stairwell. As he passed the bloated corpse, Private Boudreaux vomited onto the boots of the man in front of him. Team One stayed behind, watching out of the doorway.
“Thanks, you asshole noob!” yelled Specialist Schride, glaring back at him over his shoulder as they hit the second flight of stairs. By the third landing, they were all out of breath. 75 pounds of ammo, water and food on their backs, plus a survival kit around their waist, weapon, and the extra ammo many of them carried in bags. That combined with the short rations everyone in America had been living on for two years combined to make them more tired than they should be. When they got to the top, one of them collapsed on the tarred blacktop, chest heaving, face red with exertion. PFC Johnson, the only woman on their squad.
“GET THE F UP!” yelled Ramirez, kicking the prone soldier until she rose to her feet. The others were already scanning their sectors, looking out over the tops of their ACOG sites.
“I GOT MOVEMENT. IT’S THEM!” PFC Johnson, on her second mission with the squad, was as keyed up as Boudreaux, and her voice cracked as she yelled it.
Ramirez barked at them “Make sure you ID your target! Remember what we came for!” He leaned over the parapet of the roof, and yelled into a bullhorn.
“CIVILIANS, MAKE FOR THE FRONT DOOR. RUN!”
A group of a half dozen civilians, dressed in ragged clothes and armed with a variety of makeshift weapons, ran toward the front of the building as fast as they could. Behind them, rotting figures started lurching quickly towards them.
Johnson open fire without orders from Ramirez, and her first shot hit one of the lagging civilians in the hip, sending him sprawling to the ground. He fell with a screech, and before he could rise, the zombies ripped him apart.
“God you stupid puta!” yelled Ramirez, and he smacked Johnson hard across the helmet, yelled “RUN” over the edge of the parapet, then started firing at the zombies. Downstairs, as the refugees cleared the door, Team One , the more experienced, disciplined fire squad, opened up, a rolling crackle of shots that started dropping zombies. More appeared at the edge of the woods, and the team rolled back from the doorway to follow the civilians up the stairway. They left a tiki bomb on a trip wire in the looby, set to spread a thousand steel pellets at head height. It detonated with a muffled BOOM as they rounded the second landing.
The civilians huddled on the roof as second team fired at a measured pace into the horde crossing the parking lot. POP POP POP.
First team took up a position over the stairwell, shooting downward into the zombies that were climbing the stairs. In a minute, the pile had grown so great that it blocked the stairway.