Left With The Dead Read online

  “Where would we go?”

  Gartrell sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly. “I don’t know. I need to figure that one out. You’re sure none of your neighbors are around?”

  “No. They all left, like I said. I’ve been all through the building—most of the apartments are locked, but I’ve been in a few that aren’t, and no one’s around. That’s where I got all the stuff on the dining room table.”

  “I noticed that. Good, so you’ve already scavenged a lot of stuff. How many apartments are on each floor?”

  “Two.”

  “Have you been in the apartment next door?”

  “No. The Skinners locked up when they left. Why?”

  “Because we’ll need a place to fall back to in case this unit gets compromised.”

  She looked at him oddly. “Like I said…it’s locked. We can’t ‘fall back’ to it, unless you want to break down the door. And what good would it be then?”

  Gartrell waved the question away. “We’ll go over that tomorrow. For now, though…we ought to get some sleep. We might be here for a while, so we should take the opportunity to rest while we can. Can I bunk in here?”

  Jolie nodded. “Sure.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  “I’ll catch you tomorrow morning, then.”

  She left, taking the LED light with her. Gartrell closed the door, then reached behind him and felt around for the bed. It was right behind him, and he slowly lowered himself onto it. The mattress was firm, just how he liked it. He stretched out on it and found it wasn’t lumpy at all—an extra bonus. He stood the AA-12 on its butt stock in the corner, between the bed and the wall, figuring it would be relatively safe from a certain young boy’s inquisitive fingers, at least as long as he was in the room. He flipped on the radio and scrolled through the frequencies. The ones assigned to the former OMEN Team were silent, as he had expected. He tried to raise McDaniels, but he was certain the major was well out of range as the Coast Guard cutter returned to the open Atlantic Ocean. The rest of the open frequencies were mostly silent, devoid of any organized chatter, though a few of them did reveal some garbled transmissions. Gartrell identified himself and tried to make contact, but no one responded to his calls.

  Exhaustion hit him suddenly, and Gartrell slowly pulled off the remainders of his gear. His web belt and his MP5 went under the bed, while the radio and knapsack and the contents of his pockets went on the bureau. He would take a full inventory of his meager possessions when the sun came up. But for now, he needed as much sleep as he could get. He stretched out on the bed fully clothed and stared into the blackness, listening to the sounds of the building and the city beyond. The artillery continued exploding in the distance. Gartrell figured the 10th Mountain Division or whoever was launching the attack was going for pure neutralization fire. He hoped the arty would be effective against the zeds, but knowing them as he did, he rather doubted it.

  And with that cheery thought in his head, Gartrell fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  When he awoke, it was daytime.

  At first, he couldn’t remember where he was. He looked about the small bedroom, blinking against the dim light that filtered past the window shade. He saw his gear lying on the bureau next to his head—his radio, his web belt, the grenades, magazines of ammunition, his knapsack, flares, bottled water, white plastic quick ties, paper bags with the Starbucks logo on them—and wondered how it all got there. Then he remembered the woman from the night before, the one he had met in the blacked-out Starbucks, the one who had been prowling through the store looking for lemon cake. He sat up in the bed and listened, but the apartment was quiet. He checked his watch. 9:37am. As Gartrell swung his legs over the edge of the bed, he was struck by something else.

  The artillery barrage had stopped.

  That could have happened for several reasons, one of them being the arty emplacements had been overrun by the walking dead. Or they had run out of ammunition. Or the advancing echelons of the dead had been destroyed, though he thought that unlikely. Or the artillery batteries were repositioning, or had ceased fire so other units could move in and secure the zone…

  Enough guessing. Let’s see what we can find out.

  He donned his radio headset and switched on the transceiver. He scanned through the channels, and was overjoyed to discover several frequencies had become operational. He announced himself on them using his mission call sign, but he received no response on the first two frequencies he tried.

  The third time was the charm, however. On another frequency, he captured someone’s attention.

  “Call sign Terminator Five, this is Summit Three-Seven. Say again, over.”

  “Summit Three-Seven, this is Terminator Five. I’m solo in New York City after a busted mission on the Upper East Side. What’s the situation in the world? Over.”

  “Terminator Five, this is Summit Three-Seven, a command and control element with the two-eight-seven infantry. This is an operational frequency for the Summit battalion. You sure you’re in the right place? Over.”

  “Summit Three-Seven, Terminator Five. I was part of an alpha detachment that went tango uniform about twenty-four hours ago. My frequencies are dead, because there are no other SOF units in the zone. Looks like you lightfighters are all I’ve got. If you have another frequency I can roll to, give it to me and I’ll give it a shot, over.”

  Another voice came over the radio. “Terminator, this is Summit Six. Give me your name and unit, over.”

  Gartrell’s spirits rose slightly. He was now speaking to the commander of the Summit Battalion, which he knew to be the Second Battalion, 87th Infantry, a tenant unit of Fort Drum and part of the 10th Mountain Division. The infantry battalion CO would be lieutenant colonel, maybe someone with enough horsepower to get something done about his situation.

  “First Sergeant David Gartrell, current senior NCO, Echo Company, First Battalion, First Special Warfare Training Group at the Swick. Was pulled out of my normal duty position and assigned to Operational Detachment Alpha OMEN on an emergency basis, over.” Before deploying into the field with Major Cordell McDaniels, Gartrell had been a trainer of Special Forces soldiers, posted at the John F. Kennedy Special Warfare Center and School, Fort Bragg, North Carolina. For ease of communication among peers, the name had been shortened to simply SWCS, or more informally, ‘Swick’.

  “Terminator, Summit Six. You say you’re a trainer at the Swick, that correct? How’d a trainer get into the field? Over.”

  “Summit, Terminator. Long story, Six. But here I am, and I’m wondering if you guys might be able to give me a hand, over.”

  “Terminator, this is Summit Six. Listen, we have our hands pretty full at the moment. I’ll try and find a Special Forces liaison to talk this over with, but we have several synchronized movement to contact ops underway right now. You probably know better than we do, but these things are damned hard to kill, over.”

  “Summit, Terminator. You got that wrong, Six, they’re easy to kill—you just have to hit them in the head to put them down for the count. Nothing else works, not even major deboning injuries, unless you blast them to pieces. And listen, you need to watch out for something. Ninety-nine percent of those things are brainless, but some of them can come back with skills. We were shagged by members of our own ODA, and they still knew how to use guns and get their stalk on. Let me know if you got that. Over.”

  There was a long moment of silence, and then the infantry commander came back on the air. “Uh, Terminator Five, this is Summit Six. Understand you just said that some of the zeds can conduct…coordinated offensive operations, is that correct? Over.”

  “Summit, Terminator. Roger that, you are correct. Certain zeds can retain pre-existing high-level skills, though they are not one hundred percent mission capable. But they can operate weapons and machinery—we had stenches roll up on us in a taxi cab and open up with assault rifles. I would advise you to make the appropriate notifications. Over.”

  Summit Six di
dn’t sound thrilled at the prospect. “Roger that last, Terminator.”

  “Summit, what can you do to help me out here? Terminator’s single gun with two civilian noncombatants, and it feels like we’re in the middle of stench city. Do you have any aviation assets you can send my way? Over.”

  “Terminator, Summit. Negative, we have zero airlift, only attack. All our transport assets were surged down to participate in the evacuation op you must have been part of. We’re trying to get into Central Park to recover some airframes, but that’s going to take a while.” Gartrell grunted to himself as Summit Six spoke. He knew all too well that dozens of helicopters, from small scouts to massive medium lift helicopters that could carry upwards of 50 troops were on the deck in Central Park. The assembly area had been overrun by stenches that had broken through the various cordon sanitaires set up throughout the city. It had been obvious then that the military brass calling the shots had underestimated the sheer mass the horde could bring to bear.

  “How long can you hold out at your current pos, Terminator? Over.”

  Gartrell rose and walked to the window. He slowly peeled back some of the tape that held the window shade in place and peered out into the bright day, squinting against the harsh sunlight. The street outside—Second Avenue—was full of abandoned cars. At the corner nearby, where East 86th Street intersected with the broad avenue, a roadblock had been set up with New York City snow plows. It had been overrun a day ago, and judging by the amount of brass cartridges that twinkled in the sunlight, it had been some fight. The rains of the preceding night had washed away most of the blood, but Gartrell saw strips of cloth, shoes and boots, and fallen weapons lying on the street.

  And of course, the zombies were everywhere. Hundreds of them. Most milled about aimlessly, waiting for some clue as to where their next meal might be. They shambled about like automatons, moving between the vehicles in the traffic-choked street. Most kept their eyes down low, looking for food at ground level. But not all. Though they couldn’t see Gartrell through the small opening he peered through, some of the stenches below scanned the buildings from the street, actively searching the windows for signs of prey. Gartrell taped the window shade back in place, and gloom returned to the tiny bedroom.

  “Summit, this is Terminator. If the zeds get a lock on us, we’ll be lucky to have ten minutes. Over.”

  “Roger that, Terminator. I need to park you on another frequency. I’ve got battalion-level reports coming my way in just a couple of minutes. Stand by, over.”

  “Roger Six, I’ll stand by here. Over.”

  During the pause, Gartrell opened one of the water bottles he’d taken from the Starbucks downstairs. He was parched as all hell, and he drank from the bottle with gusto. His growling stomach informed him some chow would be a great idea as well. He consumed one of the cinnamon coffee cakes in virtually three bites. It was stale, but he barely noticed.

  Even stale coffee cake is better than an MRE.

  “Terminator Five, Summit Six. Over.”

  “Summit, this is Terminator, go ahead. Over.”

  “Terminator, I’ve got a place to park you for the moment.” The infantry commander on the other end of the radio link read off a frequency. Gartrell pulled out his pen and wrote the freq on the brown Starbucks bag on the bureau before him. “Can you make that frequency? Over.”

  “Summit, Terminator. Roger, I can make that frequency. Over.”

  “Roger that, Terminator. Switch over now. Summit out.” As Summit Six finished his sentence, another transmission began, and Gartrell heard the terror in the reporting soldier’s voice. He was in contact with the horde, and the engagement wasn’t getting any better with age. Gartrell didn’t bother to acknowledge Summit Six’s transmission, for another report came in, stomping over the first one. Summit Six wouldn’t be able to hear him anyway, and it sounded like the light infantry battalion commander had more pressing things on his plate right now.

  Gartrell switched over to the allocated frequency and announced himself. He heard only the slight hiss of background static, marred every now and then with some bleed-over from a neighboring frequency. He couldn’t make out the contents of the radio traffic, as the distortion level was extremely high. It could have been anything—more lightfighters in contact and looking for help, probably. Or maybe something as mundane as a truck convoy looking for directions.

  “Terminator Five, this is Falcon Four, over.”

  “Falcon, this is Terminator, go ahead.”

  “Terminator, Falcon. I understand you’re caught behind the lines in the Upper East Side, is that correct? Over.”

  “Falcon, Terminator. That is a roger, over.”

  “Terminator, this is Falcon. Did Summit Six notify you that most of our elements are either in contact with the zeds, or soon will be? We’re a little stretched for resources right now. Over.”

  “Falcon, that kind of came up in the conversation right after I asked for help, over.”

  “Uh…got that, Terminator. Listen, we need you to stay tight. We’re looking for a way to get to you, but with all the north-south routes basically blocked with dead traffic, our guys can’t get in with vehicles. They have to hoof it. It’s going to take a long time, and they’ll have to fight from block to block, over.”

  Gartrell buried his face in his hands. What the hell are they thinking? Of course they can’t take any vehicles in!

  “Falcon, Terminator. I know I’m not in your command silo, but I’m Special Forces and I’ve been behind the line of troops for more than a day. These things do not give up. They will not stop. Sending dismounted troops at them is only going to embolden the zeds and get your guys killed. You can’t treat this as a normal movement-to-contact mission, the zeds have no ability to be afraid of your firepower, and they will swarm over each unit you send in until they defeat it by mass of bodies alone. This is a no-shit assessment from a guy who’s been there, done that. Over.”

  “Roger Terminator, I get that. I’ll—I’ll advise Six of that as soon as I can. He’s a little busy right now, over.”

  “Falcon, Terminator. He’s busy getting his guys killed. You’d better grow a pair and tap that guy on the shoulder right now, otherwise the only thing that’ll be left of his battalion is the headquarters company. You read me? Over.”

  “I read you, Terminator.” Falcon didn’t seem to grasp the urgency of the situation, which left Gartrell incensed. If the entire 10th Mountain Division was fed to the zeds, then there wasn’t going to be anyone left to help him out.

  “Falcon, Terminator. What’s your position in the Two-Eight-Seven, over?”

  “Terminator, Falcon…say again? Over.”

  “Falcon. This is Terminator.” Gartrell had a tough time keeping the frustration out of his voice. “I asked what your duty station was. Are you with the S-Three shop? S-Two? What?”

  “Terminator, this is Falcon. I’m…I’m with the battalion S-Five, over.”

  Gartrell was dumbfounded. “Falcon…you’re with the battalion’s public relations shop?”

  “Uh…roger that, Terminator. Like I said, we’re a bit pressed for resources right at the moment—”

  “Falcon, this is Terminator. Stay on this frequency. I’ll come back to you in one second.” Gartrell flipped back to the 2/87th’s common net, and found it was saturated with radio traffic from infantry units that were in contact with the legion of the dead. It was horrifying to listen to, but Gartrell had unfortunately heard it all before.

  “Summit Six, this is Terminator Five! Pull your troops back, don’t push them into the zeds! Pull your troops back, or they’re gone, over!”

  A half-dozen transmissions stomped on his as he tried to speak. He repeated the transmission several times, but he wasn’t getting through. The net was jammed. He was about to roll back to the frequency Falcon was waiting on, but a voice caught his attention.

  “Terminator! Terminator, this is Yankee Five-Five-Six! We’re pinned down at the intersections of First Av
enue and One Twenty-Seventh, you have anything you can help us with? The fucking zeds, they’re all over the place! Over!”

  “Yankee Five-Five-Six, Terminator’s got nothing for you. You need to fall back or fortify your position, over.” Again, Gartrell’s transmission was stomped on mercilessly. He didn’t know New York City very well, but the Yankee unit’s position put it on the Harlem side of the East River—or was it called the Harlem River up there? Whichever, it didn’t matter. What it did mean is that the stenches had rolled all the way through Manhattan and Harlem throughout the night, which meant the Bronx would be the next borough to go. And as tough as he’d heard folks were in the South Bronx, he was pretty sure they wouldn’t hold up for very long against thousands of walking, flesh-eating corpses.

  He repeated the advice to Yankee 556 twice more, but he heard nothing further from the unit. He caught snatches of conversation between other units and their commanders on the frequency, and the overall impression he got while listening to their fragmented reports was essentially grim. The lightfighters weren’t just getting their asses kicked, they were getting them bitten off. With a sigh, he rolled back to the frequency Falcon waited on.

  “Falcon, Terminator. Give me a read on your side, over.”

  “Terminator, this is Summit Six. I told you stay on this channel!”

  Gartrell was surprised to hear the infantry commander’s voice on the radio. “Sorry Six, I could have sworn when I’d left there was just a PAO weenie on this frequency. If I’d known you were coming over, I wouldn’t have switched back to try and get you on the command net. Over.”

  “Terminator, I don’t have a lot of time. My troops are getting slaughtered over there, and some of them are cut off. Falcon tells me you may have some guidance. Over.”

  My, my, my. When Big Army gets its panties in a bunch, who does it call? The snake-eaters, of course. “Your troops need to stay organized, practice fire discipline, and get to cover, Six. They’re in a vertical urban environment, the only place to go is up—they’ll have to try and gain access to buildings and fortify in-place.” Something tickled the back of Gartrell’s mind, and he reached for it. “Uh, that’s not all, Six. They can go down, into the subway tunnels. Zed can’t see in the dark, so if your troops have night vision, they can use that to their advantage. Over.”