Convoy 19: A Zombie Novel (11 page)

“Goddamn motherfucking shit!” Carl screamed, pounding the roof of his vehicle with his fist over and over again.

“You’re clear.”

Chapter 17

“The convoys are at their end, Admiral,” Dr. Henry Damico stated confidently.  He stood on the bridge of the Aircraft carrier. The sounds of the command center seemed to fade away as the Admiral’s attention focused on him. “It’s time to pull our remaining ground forces out, ration the resources we have, and say goodbye to the mainland for a while.”

Admiral McMillan set his jaw and nodded in agreement. He received daily reports from San Diego, and Henry’s recommendation aligned with the information he had been getting for weeks. Henry could tell the Admiral had been waiting for the moment when he could finally cut the fleets tether to a mainland overflowing with walking dead and helpless civilian refugees. “I’ll order Captain Sheridan to reserve one convoy mission to San Onofre and withdrawal from the docks.”

“San Onofre?” One of the senators sitting behind the Admiral inquired with a curious tone.

Dr. Damico sighed. Whenever he issued a briefing, the civilian leadership aboard the U.S.S. Ronald Regain was included. As was typical, they had neglected to read his last report. He wondered why he bothered wasting the paper – a resource which, like much else, was finite. “We have to evacuate San Onofre and shut the power plant down, Senator.”

“Won’t evacuating the San Onofre plant cut off power to the DDCs?” The senators asked. “Thousands of people in Southern California depend on that energy! We can’t just shut the plant down.”

The Admiral’s anger was impossible to hide. Behind clenched teeth, he spoke with quiet rage to the statesman. “Unfortunately, Sir, you are correct. The San Diego DDCs and anyone else within several hundred miles will have their power shut off when San Onofre goes offline. This is an eventuality that has been included in your briefings for weeks now. Any suggestion from the civilian leadership as to how to avoid the situation would be most welcome. If you’re going to make suggestions, however, could you please bother to read your goddamn reports, educate yourselves on the finer points of the goddamn situation, and provide commentary two or three weeks
prior
to the same goddamn day I’m going to be issuing an order?”

A congressman who clearly missed the Admiral’s point and emboldened by his colleague’s interruption, replied, “We could keep the plant running indefinitely and add additional personnel to complement defenses.” The other statesmen at the table nodded in agreement. “It’s a nuclear power plant. It can provide power basically forever.”

“Leaving the San Onofre plant running was a calculated risk to begin with.” Dr. Damico replied, sensing the Admiral’s rage boiling over. “I made the recommendation based on our mainland evacuation efforts. Originally, the danger of shutting it down outweighed the danger of keeping it running.  Now that we’ve gotten as many survivors and supplies out of Southern California as possible, however, it’s become a liability. Outside the fact that we do not have the ability to safely manage nuclear waste material, there is a high likelihood – indeed a probability that San Onofre will eventually succumb to a rogue civilian attack or be overwhelmed by WDs.” Dr. Damico had taken to using the military acronym lately.

“If that happens…” the Admiral took over explanation of the situation, his rage diminishing somewhat and the flush fading from his face, “not only will we lose equipment and personnel vital to re-establishing a land-based infrastructure, but the unmanned plant could meltdown. A SCRAM emergency shutdown is the last thing on the minds of civilian engineers and technicians busy defending themselves against throngs of flesh-craving monsters. A systematic shutdown of a nuclear reactor during a security breach is also out of the question. We don’t have the military resources to defend the plant against the WDs indefinitely, and the very last thing San Diego needs is an unmanned nuclear power plant meltdown.

“But…” A congressman attempted to interject.

The Admiral continued over the politician. “If we do not shut San Onofre down now, while we have staff in place, every survivor in Southern California currently locked in a life and death struggle with the WDs, will experience a certain and painful death. They can either lose power, or die of radiation poisoning – we’ve chosen the lesser of two evils. However, if the civilian leadership wishes, we can leave the San Onofre personnel and equipment in place. I will have a helicopter pilot escort you to San Onofre personally, so you can explain to those men and women who volunteered to keep the plant running under extreme circumstances that they will be left behind. You can also tell them that despite their abandonment, they will still need to keep the plant running as long as possible. Upon your return…
if
you return…” the Admiral chuckled menacingly, “you can further explain to the civilian and military personnel within this strike group that vital resources needed to re-establish mainland civilization are being used to provide power to a scattered and derelict collection of failing DDCs. Excellent idea, sirs. If only we had had your guidance at the strategy meeting three weeks ago.”  The sarcasm dripped like venom from the Admiral’s tongue. “We are all lucky to have your foresight and leadership.”

“But…” the senator protested, “why do we have to abandon the plant? Are we going somewhere?”

The Admiral snatched the senator’s brief and jabbed the corner of the folder at the senator as he barked. “I swear to fucking God! I’m keeping this… it’s going in my bathroom where it will see more use when we run out of toilet paper in a couple of months.”

Dr. Damico could understand McMillan’s frustration, and it was little wonder that the political establishment had led the country and the world to this point. “We’re running out of food, sirs. We can’t stay here. The fleet is already stretched thin trying to feed the battle group, let alone the civilian fleet, which is almost entirely devoid of long-term food stores. Even drinkable water is in short supply. Things are going to get a lot worse before they get better, and if they are going to get better at all…we have to reestablish a mainland base that has area enough to farm.”

The politicians stared blankly at Dr. Damico. The possibility of running out of food had clearly not occurred to any of them. Now that it had, their slow, dull minds were considering how best to address it. It was difficult to blame them on this point, however. Dr. Damico knew that the vast majority of Americans did not know what it was to miss a meal. The infrastructure that supplied food to every corner of the country had disintegrated months ago, and stockpiles had only just begun to diminish, but those stockpiles were finite. Conflicts over food within the civilian fleet would eventually be inevitable.

“Haven’t you been paying attention to anything that’s been going on here?” Admiral McMillan shouted. “The damn Mexicans are hitting us whenever they can, and that’s costing us. Rogue civilians are hitting our mainland, and that’s costing us. Hell, who knows what China’s game plan is? WDs are just one of a shit-stack of problems we’re facing, and if you dumb-asses can’t make yourself useful…” The Admiral stopped short. He did not want to tempt himself with power. The men and women under his command would follow him to hell and back.  After months of listening to the politicians’ perpetual incompetence, not one would blink an eye if the Admiral simply abolished the entire civilian leadership.

On the eve of his promotion to Secretary of Health and Human Services, Henry and the Admiral shared a scotch and a cigar. Lips loosed by alcohol, the Admiral shared some of his internal struggle with Henry.

“It would be unbelievably easy simply to slip into a military dictatorship – we’re on the cusp of that already,” he had said, “but I don’t want that power…” He had paused for a long while, letting Henry contemplate his words. “More than that, we have a legacy here. If I succumb to the temptations of power and slip into the mindset of every military dictator in history…that will be the
real
end of humanity. I will have succeeded in obliterating America in a way that WDs never could. Every leader, civilian or military, who comes after me, would carry on my legacy. If that happened, the New America would be nothing more than another wicked regime. It’s not enough to survive… America must endure.” The Admiral then turned to Henry with a laugh and a smile and slapped him on the shoulder. “You think fighting the undead is hard… try dealing with congress!”

It was during that conversation that Henry truly realized how lucky the fleet was to have the Admiral in command.

“Sorry I’m late,” the short balding form of Senator Allan Nostrum waddled onto the bridge. “There was a situation aboard the Sapphire Cruise Ship and my helicopter was delayed…” He looked up at the gathering, and at the admiral posturing as if he was about to smack someone. Henry Damico was visibly frustrated, the senators and congressmen sitting dumb-faced and confused. “San Onofre?” the Senator asked.

“They want to shut it down… leave thousands of people without power…” one of the congressmen protested.

Nostrum climbed onto his chair and cracked his knuckles. “Did you read your brief?”

The congressman slowly sat back in his chair, visibly embarrassed. “Yes…” He said slowly, hoping his lie would not be tested.

“Admiral… Dr. Damico, please forgive my associate. Without lobbyists to tell them what to do, my colleagues across the aisle don’t know what to make of this whole
leadership
thing.” Nostrum met the gaze of the Admiral. “Evacuating San Onofre will be fine. It’s a shame there isn’t an alternative, but hard times call for hard choices.”

Silence reigned for a moment. The politicians were visibly frustrated, but they were also helpless. Nostrum had clearly established himself as the “Alpha” among the group – an ambitious and intelligent man who asserted his influence over his colleagues like a chess player moves pawns. Rank and file career bureaucrats were unequipped to deal with leadership in a world where impossible decisions and hard facts meant the difference between life and death. Their paralysis made them into Nostrum’s puppets, and a fact that met Dr. Damico with a mixture of relief and concern. As much as he appreciated Nostrum in this moment, Henry had never trusted the man.  Experience had taught him that politicians, particularly skilled politicians, were always working an angle.

“As I was saying, Admiral, it’s time to pull out,” Dr. Damico concluded, “and if I could ask…” Henry leaned into the Admiral and lowered his voice, “isn’t the Tierrasanta DDC on the way to San Onofre?”

          “It certainly is, Doctor.  We’ll send a convoy there to retrieve some final supplies and personnel from Tierrasanta. I’ll make sure Kelly is among those personnel.” The Admiral smiled as he picked up a telephone on the console in front of him and addressed his communications officer: “Get me Captain Sheridan.”

Chapter 18

The city was dead. Carl, Pam, and Miguel drove in silence, passing through the lifeless remnants of San Diego. A highway once congested with traffic was now vacant, the skeletons of abandoned and burnt-out cars littering the shoulder. Military crews had dumped them there for lack of any better place. The sun shone behind the convoy, casting the city in bright yellow light. Office buildings and skyscrapers, left in disrepair for nearly a year in a raging hellhole of war, stood lifeless. All the windows were busted out. Warnings reading, ‘dead within,’ ‘danger, do not enter,’ and ‘infected,’ were graffiti over government propaganda posters that had previously reassured the public at large that everything was under control.

Terrified children sat silently in the backs of the Humvees, watching their abandoned city pass quietly by. They had spent the last several months trapped within a DDC, watching the immediate area deteriorate into an undead wasteland. The totality of the devastation was as awe-inspiring as it was spirit crushing.

The Super Cobra had taken its leave, as its ammunition was spent and its fuel was limited. Air Zero had meant the difference between life and death mere moments ago, but now it was an empty metal bird that was helpless to affect events on the ground.

As the naval base came into view, even the defenses that encircled its perimeter were silent. An eerie stillness had consumed the city as if humanity and the undead— for this moment—had called a brief truce. Large yellow and red signs – ‘Authorized personnel only’ and ‘Trespassers will be shot’ – welcomed them home.

Carl barely recalled the gates opening to allow his team inside or stepping out of his vehicle to meet Captain Sheridan. Standing face to face with the Captain, briefing his superior on what had transpired the previous night, was an out-of-body experience. It felt like it was not even him speaking to his commander, but someone else. Pam and Miguel stood by, filling in the holes in Carl’s memory. Exhaustion and grief had finally overwhelmed them, and in this moment, they were as lifeless as the monsters who roamed about outside.

They reported on the civilian attack that had claimed seven lives and two Humvees. They then recalled Sergeant Keal, Dr. Rosenthal, and conditions within the Spring Valley DDC. Finally, they forced themselves to recount the deadly trip back that had cost five more lives. The Captain listened, nodded expressionlessly. Meanwhile, the children were escorted out of the convoy vehicles and into medical screening facilities. Captain Sheridan stopped periodically to jot down important details of the debriefing. He never asked any questions, nor did he communicate any disapproval of his Convoy’s inability to return with the personnel and supplies he had requested.

When they were dismissed, Carl wandered into the mess hall for food and coffee. He was exhausted to the point of insomnia. His every step was an act of muscle memory. A cook looked at him with pitying eyes as he filled Carl’s plate. Despite his mental fog, Carl couldn’t help but notice the emptiness of the enormous room. There was once a time when the cafeteria would have been filled with the din of convoy teams eating, talking, and joking. Now, Carl was the only soul within.

He lumbered over to a table, sat down, and sipped his coffee. He pushed his food around his plate absently. He barely noticed Pam and Miguel enter the cafeteria, fill their trays, and sit down across from him.

The trio sat in silence until Miguel spoke. “That was a bad one.” Miguel had pulled off his gore-covered uniform, and he sat shirtless in boxer shorts.  He searched through a crumpled pack of cigarettes.

“Yeah,” Pam replied. She took a drink of coffee and played with the strap on her laptop case. Her uniform was filthy and stained, but she was well beyond caring.

“Things are bad out there,” Carl said, not really expecting a response. In truth, he didn’t have anything to say. He had lost twelve men. The sense of responsibility for their lives weighed on his conscience.

Miguel dumped out his cigarette pack. Most of its contents were broken, their tobacco spilled out like guts on the table. Only three remained intact, and as battered and wrinkled as they were, they could be smoked.

“These are my lucky cigarettes. I’m going to save these,” Miguel mumbled.

The door of the mess hall swung open, and the sound of Captain Sheridan’s boots on the tile floor filled the room. He made his way to his team, clipboard in hand. As Pam and Miguel moved to salute, Sheridan waved them away. The act of rising and saluting was one that he would not demand of a team that had driven themselves to complete emotional and mental exhaustion.

“Cap,” Pam looked up at Sheridan. Her eyes were heavy with black bags of fatigue.

Captain Sheridan looked over the rag-tag group for a moment before speaking. “I’m consolidating the remnants of Twelve and Seven into Nineteen. You’re the most experienced...the
best
crew, so you’ll be lead car again.”

“We’re going back out there, sir?” Carl asked with a tone mixed of equal parts surprise and anger.

“Your convoy will consist of five cars, including you,” Sheridan answered.

The group looked to each other with destitute expressions on their faces. For months, the teams had been consolidated into one another as losses mounted and the situation in Southern California deteriorated. This time, however, Pam, Miguel, and Carl were convinced that the military couldn’t possibly expect them to dive back into hell.

“There’s nothing out there, Cap.” Miguel replied. “Our own guys are ready to shoot us. We’re lucky we made it back here alive, let alone with our cars, fuel, guns and ammo… and we ran out of ammo on our way back.”

Sheridan paused for a moment, judging whether to take a hard line or soft approach with this situation. He knew that his crews were barely holding it together…and chose the latter. “Every trip you’ve made is incredibly important. Not just to the people on the ships out there, but to the people trapped in the DDCs. We have to keep the convoys going until we can’t. Do you understand? I realize I’m asking a lot of you, but I don’t think you know how important you are. You are people’s lifeline.”

“When do we leave?” Pam brought the coffee to her lips again. Her hands trembled with anxiety as she held the cup.

“Six hours. Seven and Twelve returned a few hours before you and the maintenance crews will need some time to get the cars back into fighting shape. Get some rest,” Sheridan replied.

“How are the other teams doing, Cap? Do they have it as bad as us?” Miguel asked, hopeful that what they had just experienced was the worst of what they could expect.

Sheridan looked at the group for a minute, judging whether or not to answer that question. After everything his soldiers had been through, he figured he owed it to them. “There are no other convoy teams, Private. There are no more cars, no more crews, not even enough ammunition to stock a second convoy. You are all there is. Seven lost half their team and four Humvees to a civilian ambush. Twelve… most of Twelve just disappeared, separated on the road. Only car three made it back.”

Pam sighed. “Five cars? Us and four other crews…”

“Soldiers,” Captain Sheridan sighed. His military rank gave him authority over his men, but he couldn’t help but feel that his office job separated him from his front-line troops in a way he could never overcome. He could bark orders, intimidate, even threaten Court-Martial, but ultimately, the convoy teams followed orders because they chose to. Appealing to their sense of duty was the only way to motivate the men and women under his command. Historically, soldiers fought for their country, for their family, for freedom, or for pay, but that structure had been consumed by the undead. Now, military rank was a bygone of a forgotten era. Captain Sheridan, for all his training and experience, was no more than a courier ferrying orders from the fleet to his men and women. “You’re the only remaining lifeline anyone in the DDCs has to the fleet. We need you.”

“We’re the last convoy?” Miguel asked, wrapping his head around that notion.

“That’s right, Sergeant,” Sheridan answered. “Convoy Nineteen is the last.”