Convoy 19: A Zombie Novel (3 page)

“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.”

Chapter 2

Dr. Henry Damico’s heart thumped in his chest as he made his way through the crowded steel corridors of the USS Ronald Reagan Super Carrier. The sound of battle was ominous – muffled by the thick steel hull of the warship that served as guardian to otherwise defenseless tens of thousands of civilians. Mothers and fathers hurriedly escorted crying children through passages to assigned quarters, fearful looks in their eyes. As invincible as the carrier seemed, more than one warship had succumbed to the tenacious Mexican military and their relentless guerrilla tactics. As the former Health and Human Services Assistant Manager, it had been a very long time since Henry had put his hands to work inside a hospital. However, doctors, particularly medical doctors, were in desperately short supply. He was going to help if he could.

Henry’s mind dwelt upon the events that had lead up to the insanity raging off the coast of San Diego. The absurd conflict had, for months now, cost far too many lives and resources that were already in short supply. Anticipating their inability to maintain order in the face of the undead epidemic, the Mexican government had abandoned its civilian population. Overnight, the vacuum of power had been filled by drug lords, brutal gangs, and ruthless murderers.

When the coastal cities of North America began evacuations, some difficult protocols had been put into place. One such protocol prohibited evacuation clearance to any individual with a violent criminal history. This common-sense strategy was designed to ensure that civilian refugee population required as little internal security as possible. It had been anticipated that the well-armed criminal networks throughout the region would not sit idle, while critical resources were transported to navy cargo ships. It had not, however, been anticipated how insane their reaction would be. A brutal organized crime element immediately added their strength to the surprisingly well-armed Mexican military.

Caught without their wealth, trapped within a country drained of food and medical supplies, and drowning in an ocean of flesh eating undead, Mexico declared war on the US and Canada in a vain hope that they could use their military strength to steal some of the resources they would need to survive. Many gang members were themselves Mexican ex-military. This meant that what the senseless criminal enterprise lacked in rational leadership, it more than made up for with the skills and knowledge to wage asymmetrical war.

Despite being hobbled by thousands of refugees, evacuation efforts, and desertion, the U.S. Navy still managed to crush each raid with brutal efficiency – inflicting grossly disproportional casualties on their attackers. At this point, it was pure desperation that drove the Mexican military to continue to throw themselves against the implacable might of a far superior force. The absurdity of the war was a bloody waste in almost every conceivable way, but hopelessness drove men to do reckless things.

“Pass?” A marine dressed in fatigues holding a shotgun stood between the doctor and the entrance to the ships hospital. The young soldier attempted to express a demeanor of authority, but Henry could see within his eyes, the same fear that everyone else wore on their sleeve. The marine’s duty as hospital security included some nightmarishly unthinkable things that made a part of Henry long for the luxury of ignorance. Would this soldier have to kill a doctor who had been trying to save the life of a wounded fighter pilot, only to be rewarded with an infected bite? Would he have to put his shotgun to the head of a patient – perhaps a fellow serviceman – who couldn’t come to terms with their own infection and pleaded desperately for mercy? Or would he have to give an order to quarantine the entire hospital, as a swarm of living dead rose up to attack the doctors and civilians who were only there to help? If history was any indication, every one of those things was a distinct possibility.

“Pass?” The marine asked again.

Henry was indistinct from any of the other civilians that rushed through the corridors - middle-aged, out of shape, dark-haired. The only thing that set him apart in any way was the fact that he was moving against traffic – into the mouth of danger, not away. He had gotten used to how the bridge security recognized him as an advisor to the Admiral and waved him into restricted areas with a smile and a nod. Here, in the bowels of a ship crewed by over four thousand men and women, he was just another civilian that the military had asked to help in a desperate time. It took a moment for Henry to comprehend the soldier’s question. “Uh, pass…” he fumbled around through his pockets, “here it is.”

The marine glanced over the card that identified Henry as a civilian military advisor and cocked his head. He had, no doubt, noted the top-level security clearance on the identification card that would most certainly stand out from the rest of the medical staff. He handed the pass back to Henry, nodded, and stepped aside.

Henry entered the hospital, which had an atmosphere that sharply contrasted with the rest of the ship. Within the steel corridors, military personnel and crewmen bustled to their posts amidst refugees who scurried back to their housing accommodations. Here, there was absolute silence and a tension that hung like a fog. Medical staff stood rigidly with a thousand-yard stare that would give even the most grizzled veteran the chills. They stood waiting by ER equipment and empty beds with fear rising in their gut for the first casualty to arrive. Each of them was anticipating horrifically wounded men and women that they would attempt to save amidst a commotion of screaming, crying, and begging. Undoubtedly, someone would rise from the dead and the marine security force would spring into action – maybe just in time, or maybe a little too late – and a doctor or nurse would get bitten.

Henry made his way to the front desk and a short, red-haired woman in a Navy uniform greeted him. She recognized him from his numerous information requests and his assistance during times like this. Without a word, she handed him a small plastic bag of markers, pens, and lipstick, then took him by the arm and escorted him to a large area blocked off by white curtains.

“Triage,” she said, as she made eye contact that was meant to convey both her need that he perform his assigned duty and her apology that he had been assigned that duty. She then turned around sharply and headed directly back to the desk from which she originated. Dr. Damico lifted a curtain to enter the small square room.

He looked around. Security presence was strong in the triage area. While the main hospital had perhaps one armed marine for every ten medical staff, here stood merely a dozen marines… each conveying the same quiet intensity of the man who had checked Henry’s identification. Each one of them was armed with a shotgun, but for practical purposes—would be using a suppressed pistol to do the dirty work of ensuring the dead didn’t become the
living
dead.

The eerie stillness was broken only by muted explosions outside the ship’s hull and the murmurs of a civilian nurse who stood next to him. Henry looked over to the woman – or perhaps girl, would better describe the thin, blonde-haired figure that stood penetrating the wall with a wide-eyed stare. She was far too young to have completed any serious medical training, and would have likely been a first or second year student had her education not been interrupted by the undead.

She gripped the plastic bag of writing implements tightly in her hands and tears poured down her beet-red face. “X can’t be saved,” She shook her head subtly. “O is priority,” she nodded. “W can wait,” she nodded again. “B is bitten,” she shook her head again before reciting the triage prioritization system to herself over and over again.

A nearby army medic jumped at the sound of a blast outside. He closed his eyes enduring a silent anxiety, as a gentle shockwave sent vibrations through the entire carrier. Henry looked over to the man, who appeared to be around the same age as the young woman. He too stared at the wall…but in complete silence. His uniform indicated that he had been trained to deal with some extremely bloody things, but his nerves had gotten the better of him. He clutched a red marker in his shaking white knuckles.

Henry turned to the young girl. “I’m Doctor Damico,” he said placing his hand on her shoulder. “If you have any questions or need any help, you just ask me okay? What’s your name?”

“I won’t remember the letters! What if I give someone an X who should be an O? What if I give someone a W who should be a B?” Her voice was shaking and eyeliner ran down her face in a wet mess.

“You’ll do fine. You just ask me if you aren’t sure. What’s your name?” Dr. Damico asked again.

“Audrey,” she answered.

“I’m Doctor Damico,” he repeated, in case she hadn’t heard him. “You’ll do fine, okay?”

Audrey nodded.

Henry smiled, and then turned to the Army medic. “How are you doing, son?”

“I’m okay,” he said with staged confidence.

“What’s your name?”

“I’m…” the sound of another explosion outside vibrated the ship and the young man’s eyes fluttered “I’m Private Tobias, sir.”

“Have you done this before, Private?” Henry asked.

“No, well, yes sir… in a compromised DDC but not aboard a ship,” Tobias replied.

“Okay then, you have an idea of what to expect. If you need a hand or have any questions, you just ask me, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” Tobias nodded.

Henry felt the tension within the room diminish slightly. Even the military security seemed to walk easier knowing there was an experienced doctor in charge. In truth, as much as he had wanted to help fellow triage staff, he had acted more for his own sake. He always felt better and performed better when he knew someone was relying on him. Certainly, the wounded would rely on him to do his best to save their life, but it wasn’t the same. Henry wasn’t so much a natural leader as he was a natural authority – he always projected a confidence in his decisions, even when he didn’t feel that confidence himself. His heart slowed at the thought that—whatever the next few hours brought—the men and women in this room would be looking to him to inform their decisions.

He fished into his pocket, pulled out his cellular phone, and flipped it open. The cellular networks had been down for months, and even if they had been up, the aircraft carrier itself was impervious even to the most sophisticated electronic signals. Still, he thumbed through his contacts to the name of his wife – and punched the letters into his clumsy text message.

“I love you Kelly,” he typed before hitting send. The message wouldn’t send, but he had to go through the motions anyway. He hadn’t seen or heard from his wife in far too long, and the vague hope that maybe she’d get his text was enough to give him a small measure of comfort.

The chaotic shouting and hurried noise of the first arriving casualties echoed through the hall outside. Rescue helicopters were beginning to land, deploy their bloody cargo, and then take to the air again in a cycle that would last through the rest of the battle and well afterward. Henry could feel his adrenaline rise in terrified anticipation and he turned to look at Audrey and Private Tobias.

“We’ll do fine. I’ve got your back,” he reassured them. “Ready?”

The two nodded back.

Chapter 3

Dr. Kelly Damico gently nudged the shoulder of the sleeping man curled in his cot. His chest rose and fell almost imperceptibly beneath a thin blue blanket. “Liam?”

Liam stirred, and then slowly opened his eyes. It took a moment for him to recognize the silhouette speaking. “Hey, Dr. D, I was dreaming. I was dreaming about…home.”

“How are you feeling?” Kelly whispered. Liam was but one of over a dozen patients in various stages of terminal illness that had sought refuge within the Tierrasanta DDC. Some slept soundly, others shifted restlessly in their cots, but all were hooked to medical equipment that carefully monitored their vital signs. When the apocalypse began and the public health system broke down, critically and terminally ill people had been shuffled between hospitals and hospice care before finally arriving at various DDCs around the city. Nurses, doctors, and clinicians, who were charged with the responsibility for screening occupants, rationing access to healthcare services, and managing supplies and medicine, were also thrust into a moral grey area: in a world where the dead rose to murder the living, what should be done with the terminally ill? It was hard enough to turn away someone who had clearly been bitten by the walking dead and had only a few hours or days before the infection took them. Working in a DDC, required staff to make impossible decisions, but dumping a dying cancer patient into the street to be torn apart so someone else could have their cot, simply wasn’t going to happen.

“I’m tired. Let me sleep,” Liam replied. Liam was in his late thirties, and he had spent over two years on the organ donor list waiting for a kidney. When the dead stopped staying dead, organ donations ceased, and everyone on earth waiting for a liver, lung, or heart, was served a double dose of hopelessness. Not only was the world falling apart, but they were also guaranteed to join the mindless legions tearing it down eventually. As bleak as things were, and despite all the horror around them, someone who was healthy could still cling to some tiny shred of hope. For the extremely ill, there was none.

Kelly wondered if she should have simply tried to transport Liam while he slept. “We have to move you. Just lie still and we’ll carry your cot with you in it.”

Liam had months to prepare for the inevitable. Since being removed from dialysis, he had deteriorated gradually, but Liam had been healthy enough to stay with the general population. Now, his vital signs were getting low enough that he needed to be quarantined for everyone’s safety.

“I’m going back to sleep,” Liam sobbed. He knew why and where they were moving him. The abandoned space connected to the clinic had been a music store, and once the shelves and racks were moved, served as an additional living quarters for the Tierrasanta DDC’s seventy-nine occupants. Within the back office area, was a soundproofed room that had been used to record music or shelter office workers from the trendy pop tunes blasting up front. Today, it was an execution chamber.

A soldier at Liam’s head and one at his feet carefully hoisted his cot up, and they quietly made their way through the room of sleeping people toward the office hallway. Kelly led with her flashlight. She was glad, at least, that the darkness would hide her tears. Liam, she knew, would die relatively peacefully. As the toxins in his blood built up, he would slip into serene unconsciousness and pass away – dealing with the terminally ill was bad enough, but it was the toll this task took on the few remaining soldiers that was unbearable. A few weeks ago, a convoy had arrived and requisitioned the bulk of the remaining ammunition. Up to that point, the deceased would be shot in the head to ensure they would not reanimate. They would then be removed from the soundproof room, and dumped out a window onto a pile of corpses that was well out of view of anyone within the DDC. It was a barbaric task that had visibly numbed all involved. Now, low on ammo, the soldiers had taken to using combat knives to do the dirty work, and it was a responsibility that they drew straws to avoid.

The soldiers set Liam’s cot down in the soundproof room and then left in silence. A third soldier stood in a far corner, knife in hand, with an emotionless expression on his face.

Kelly placed a reassuring hand on Liam’s shoulder and felt his body shudder with sobs. “If you need anything, let the guard know.” She then turned to the soldier who stood ready to do what needed to be done. Since the nightmare began, she had gotten to know each of the warriors who protected the DDC from the wandering dead outside. “Private Stenson, if
you
need anything, let me know.”

Private Stenson nodded. Everyone had seen the living transform into the living dead, but this was different. There was something that deadened the soul watching the weakest and most vulnerable lay helpless, as death took them and the infection of undeath took control. The quicker it happened, the better, and the quieter, the better. Liam, she hoped, would be both quick and quiet.

She left the room, closed the door, and tiptoed down the dark hallway. She contemplated Private Stenson as she made her way past dozens of sleeping refugees crammed into every conceivable space. He had been with the first military group to arrive – terrified, confused, and green as an 18-year old soldier could be, but he hardened quickly. Months passed and when it eventually became clear that the war against the undead would be lost, he had called his parents in Nebraska. Soldiers were deserting in droves to protect their neighborhoods and families and he wanted to get an idea of the situation back home.

Private Stenson had told her while they shared a sleepless night over a cup of coffee that it was the first time he had ever heard his father cry. His father had told him to stay where he was, that he was doing something important. There was nothing for him at home, and that “home” was already dead. One sister had been bitten and the other had vanished. The family was going to attempt to barricade their farm and try to hold out as long as possible, but he had some rat poison on hand “just in case.”

Private Stenson had an insight beyond his years that he shared with her that night. He had said, “Every soldier has a story. You have meatheads and geeks, jokers and gun nuts, but everyone came from somewhere. Everyone has a family, friends, a neighborhood, and if you’re still here, doing your job, it’s not because of the army, duty, or even the bond you share with the men and women around you – it’s because you realize that this is all there is. There isn’t any hope for Bum-fuck Nebraska any more than there’s hope for San Diego. You can’t make a difference fending off looters or the walking dead from some postage stamp of a hideout you’ve carved out for you and your family. You make a difference by surviving, now, where you are. You add yourself—mind, body and soul—to the entirety of the strength that humanity has left, and you pray that that strength will one day be enough to take the world back. I understand the guys who left…believe me I do…but I also hate them. They killed themselves and weakened the rest of us in their absence. Everyone has a story, and if you’re still here, you realize that where you came from is gone, and where you are is all that matters now.”

It was a long-winded “live in the moment” kind of solider-philosopher’s story, as much truth as it was a way to deal with the guilt of abandoning his family to their fate. They finished their coffee and attempted to fill the remaining hours with whatever work they could find. She reflected a bit on her own story. Her husband was trying to save humanity in the American fleet somewhere. She was trying to save humanity here in the DDC. She hadn’t heard from her sister or parents in months, and—now that civilian communication lines were all but completely gone—she doubted she ever would again. These people…these seventy-nine remaining civilians, soldiers, and medical personnel…they were her family now.

Kelly quietly stepped around cots, beds, and those who were camped out on the floor in sleeping bags and under blankets. A guard nodded silently to her as she entered into the adjoining clinic that housed even more sleeping refugees. After weaving her way through the slumbering figures, she finally arrived at the stairway to the second story. As she was ascending, Nurse Jeffry was descending to replace her in monitoring the nighttime DDC.

“Liam?” he asked in a whisper.

“We moved him. There are four others you’re going to want to monitor, but make sure and check on Private Stenson in the quiet room,” Kelly answered.

After they passed by each other, Kelly reached the top of the stairwell and entered into yet another living area – this one designated for young children and their families. Here, mothers and fathers lay with their toddlers and babies, trying to get as much sleep as they could. Cribs and playpens sat next to folding beds filled with parents who were tasked with keeping their children as quiet as possible.

Kelly’s eyes turned to Dr. Thomson’s office, where his silhouette was framed by the streetlight that shone through the large second story window. She tiptoed over, closed the door quietly, and stood next to him, looking out over the front of the DDC perimeter.

The DDC was in a horseshoe-shaped strip mall on a natural rise, its back facing the city from a steep rock cliff. The front parking lot was about the size of a football field, and it was fenced in and reinforced by sandbags. Wooden guard towers had been erected at each corner, and the shadowy figures of soldiers behind their machine guns sat motionless inside them. Just outside the fence and well beyond it into the surrounding commercial district, small groups of ghouls wandered about the area. The DDC had done its best to appear as lifeless and deserted as the rest of the city, as not to attract hordes that would deplete ammunition and supplies. The fence had endured its own hell and every link was rusted, tortured, bent, or broken – but it held as the very last line between the living and the dead.

Dr. Thomson, official head of the DDC, stood unconsciously twisting his wedding ring around his finger. He was in his sixties: a worn and wrinkled old man in a white doctor’s coat. “The storm stopped,” he mumbled.

Kelly slipped into her professional doctor’s skin. “Liam’s in the quiet room. Nurse Jeffry is looking after the other four.”

Dr. Thomson remained silent for a moment before answering. “Nurse Jeffry has been cutting. He’s hiding the scars, but they’re there.”

This time, it was Kelly who took a silent moment before answering. Dr. Thomson had confined himself to Tierrasanta DDC since it was placed under his supervision and every moment of his waking life had been devoted to the people – patient or staff – and ensuring they were fed, healthy, and safe. He had the foresight to think long-term and he had contacted his wife and family months ago to bring them in. As refugees from across the city poured into the DDC, he waited for them to be among them, but they never arrived. He had utilized every contact he had to locate them, but no one was able to find any information. His only facts had come from a convoy driver who had taken a detour to his home. The driver had said that the door was unlocked, there were no signs of the family, and no indication that anyone had packed to go anywhere. Since then, Kelly had never seen Dr. Thomson sleep, and the task of maintaining the DDC had worn heavily on him.

“What should we do?” She asked, knowing there was nothing to be done. The DDC staff was very good at maintaining the illusion of clinical professionalism – but every one of them was as emotionally crushed and physically drained as the people they cared for.

“His fiancé was killed. He’s a broken man. There’s nothing that we can do,” Dr. Thomson replied. “We need him to keep doing his job. My wife is a counselor. She would know what to do… she could do a lot of good here.”

“I’m sorry,” Kelly replied.

Dr. Thomson nodded and continued to twist the ring on his finger while staring out the window.

Kelly Damico stood next to Dr. Thomson for a while, trying to imagine the headlights of a family sedan driving toward the DDC. It would pull up, and Mrs. Thomson and their kids would pour out before the guards rushed them to safety. Dr. Thomson would light up and embrace his family. Whatever happened in the coming months wouldn’t matter. He would have his happy ending.

That happy ending would never come, however, and—in all likelihood—Dr. Thomson would never know what happened to the people he loved. His story was as depressing as it was typical of the broken souls who lived within the DDC.

She fished in her pocket for her cellular phone as she turned away from Dr. Thomson. She couldn’t remember the last time she heard her husband’s voice, and though she hoped he was safe somewhere in the fleet, their inability to contact each other was maddening. She carefully hid the glow of her phone as she typed a text message that her husband would never see.

“I love you, Henry.”