Convoy 19: A Zombie Novel Read online

  Carl Harvey was in his late-twenties, but the stress of the last year had aged him. His dirty-blond hair was cut military short and was beginning to show flecks of gray. His jaw was always covered in stubble. He walked and talked as if he was half soldier, half truck driver, and extended a cool aura of confidence that made him a natural leader. He was the kind of man that made other soldiers believe that, whatever shit the world threw at them, Sergeant First Class Harvey knew what he was doing, and he would get you through it. Aided by the obscenely high attrition rates among the convoy teams, he vaulted quickly through the ranks.

  “Approaching Interstate 8, five miles east of US Naval Station. We’ll be home in no time boys.” Specialist Pamela Grace sat in the passenger seat speaking into her headset-mounted microphone. A laptop computer sat on a dashboard-mounted tray in front of her. Her words seemed to calm the civilians somewhat. As point vehicle communications expert, she was connected to an extensive network of communications, satellite feeds, and minute-by-minute reporting. This gave her a picture of how to get the convoy where they needed to go, without leading it straight into a roadblock, hostile civilians, or a swarm of flesh-eating dead who would stop at nothing to consume the living.

  With a gentle spin of the wheel, Carl expertly turned his Humvee up an onramp onto a yellow-lit highway that would lead them to their destination. The machine gun fire gradually dropped from a sporadic thunder to a periodic rattle.

  “What’s that?” Pam covered her microphone and sat up abruptly.

  “What? SHIT!” Carl quickly pushed down on the accelerator before he slammed into a dozen figures huddled on the highway. Gore and body parts launched in every direction, smearing the windshield with thick gouts of blood. The civilians in the back screamed in horror.

  Convoy drivers had been trained to neither slow down nor swerve, but rather to accelerate when something – living or dead – crossed the path of their moving armored vehicle. Swerve and you risk losing control or crashing; a very bad thing in the best of circumstances, a death sentence in most. Slow down unexpectedly, and you risk being rear-ended by the Humvee on your tail, ending up with a carcass on your hood, or giving an armed attacker with nothing left to lose that extra second he needs to put you in his crosshairs. It was best to use the Humvee’s kinetic energy to plow through anything that didn’t have the wherewithal to stay out of the convoy’s way.

  The force of the impact jolted the rain-soaked gunner out of his mount. Sergeant Miguel Ramos dropped down into the cab from his position and cursed. “What the hell?”

  “More dead. Civilians know not to cross into the street by now,” Pam assured them both. As the situation across the country worsened, one of San Diego’s main arteries, Interstate 8, had been blocked off for strictly military purposes. The road served as a valuable pipeline connecting the various pockets of survivors scattered around the city to the US Naval Base. The U.S.S. Ronald Reagan, Nimitz-class supercarrier, and its accompanying battle group floated offshore collecting supplies and refugees. For over two months, the battle group had been filled with survivors from every reachable corner of California. The convoys were an essential component of a much bigger picture, whose focus was to survive an Armageddon no one had anticipated or planned for – the rise of the living dead.

  “There comes a point when the threat from the walking dead is greater than the threat from us,” Miguel grumbled curtly. He made the sign of the cross over his chest, pulled his stocky body back into the gun mount, and resumed scanning for targets. As the lead gunner, he was responsible for defending the convoy from constant onslaught – a job that seldom lent itself to looking at the bright side of things. No one knew how many unlucky innocent civilians found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time when a convoy passed by. The saying “from behind a .50 cal everyone looks the same”, was common among gunners who would return to the Naval Base with the gnawing guilt in the back of their mind about something they had seen on a mission. Was that shadow an animated corpse or some teenager running for his life? Was that an attacker or someone trying to flag the convoy down for help? There were millions of questions like this that were probably best left unanswered.

  The six-vehicle convoy had been making trips to and from the Naval base all day and well into the night, each time loaded up with civilians and supplies from Defensible Detention Centers. DDC’s - as they were called - had originally been set up as medical screening clinics all over the country when the outbreak first hit. As the outbreak grew, the clinics became more like detention facilities where those that had been screened were urged to remain to avoid infection. When the centers began to overflow with desperate people, the military had stepped in to provide security and supplies. Now that the entire country - indeed the world - was beset by the incomprehensible epidemic of cannibalistic undead, the decision had been made to evacuate the North American continent. Every convoy trip into the hell-torn streets of San Diego had cost lives, but had also saved countless more with the food, medical personnel, and supplies they brought to the fleet.

  “Control, this is convoy nineteen. Entry code: Alpha, Alpha, Tango, Alpha. We’ve got supplies and about thirty civvies that need offloaded, ASAP.” Grace’s voice always sounded monotone when she spoke through the communications network to the command center. The sandbag fortifications, gun towers, and bright yellow lights of the naval docks slowly loomed into view through the blurry windshield, and the sounds of the Naval Base defenses echoed off the buildings.

  “Negative, convoy. Entry code rejected. Do not pass checkpoint or you will be fired upon.” The casual voice of an officer in some comfortable office somewhere came back through the Humvee speakers. The civilians in back shuddered in terror at the thought of their struggle for survival within the DDC’s, meeting a violent end mere walking distance from salvation.

  Sergeant First Class r Harvey slammed on the brakes and the screeching tires of every vehicle behind him could be heard above the rattle of gunfire. His heart thumped into his chest. He knew his drivers were good, but rain-slicked streets made stopping on short notice a roll of the dice. Two Blackhawk helicopters hovered into position to block their entry to the docks. The menacing war machines looked like birds of prey, hungry to strike a defenseless target. A glance in the side mirror confirmed that the ravenous silhouettes of their pursuers had not given up the chase. Time was a valuable commodity.

  “Repeat, Control, entry code for convoy niner one. Alpha, alpha, tango, alpha!” Pam spoke clearly back through her headset.

  It was moments like this that he was reminded how lucky he was to have Pam as his communications expert. Had it been him speaking to Control, he would have screamed obscenities in impotent frustration, until the entire convoy was buried beneath a mountain of zombies. Despite the gravity of the situation, Pam always maintained a calm demeanor.

  The communications network was silent for a second before a voice came back. “Sorry, convoy. Proceed.” The Black Hawks lingered for a moment before reluctantly breaking off in separate directions to patrol the perimeter.

  The gunfire from the convoy stopped, as more robust firepower from the docks took over defense of the area. Two Abrams tanks flanking the entry to the docks thundered away at unseen targets. Their big cannons were ideal for obliterating large pockets of walking dead before they gathered in numbers that would be difficult for the tower gunners to handle. Machine gun nests were staggered in a half dozen towers inside a chain-link fence topped with razor wire. They rattled away at roving bands of zombies that approached the dock perimeter. Sniper groups sat on roofs scanning the area for lone wandering corpses that somehow made it through the defenses. The docks were—at least for now—the safest place in the city. Carl allowed himself to relax. Whatever was following them, could not get past the Naval Base perimeter – for now.

  Sergeant Ramos plopped back down into the cab before closing the hatch to the gun mount. “What the hell was that all about?”

  “Command has its head u
p its ass as usual.” Pam removed her helmet to let her short brown hair fall. She was a good-looking woman, in great shape, and possessing a self-assured confidence that commanded attention. Her technical knowledge, ready sidearm, and relaxed demeanor, made her equal parts librarian, geek, and action hero. She was the best communications expert in the convoy teams, and Sergeant First Class Harvey and Sergeant Ramos were both happy to have her on their team.

  The convoy rolled to a stop inside an enormous warehouse stocked with people and supplies. Every driver, gunner, and support personnel of the six-vehicle convoy poured out of their Humvees. They were desperate to stretch their legs, eat, and grab a smoke. Harvey, Ramos, and Grace—familiar with the ballet of logistics around them—never ceased to be amazed at the organized chaos taking place. Civilians were escorted from the convoy and entered medical checkpoints, where they were thoroughly examined before moving on to a series of additional checkpoints. The exhaustive screening—in addition to ensuring no infected made it into the fleet—was designed to distinguish people with uniquely beneficial skill sets, from the rank and file who had little to offer the fleet outside of hungry mouths. Meanwhile, forklifts moved every imaginable type of supply onto ferries, destined to venture into zombie-infested waters to deliver precious cargo to the battle group and accompanying container ships off shore.

  Mechanics, reminiscent of a NASCAR pit crew, instantly took to maintenance on every vehicle in the convoy with incredible efficiency. The lead convoy team stood wondering quietly, with everything going on around them, how the walking dead had gotten the better of the United States Military.

  As usual, Captain Sheridan approached the group to give a de-briefing and issue new orders. “Good job, soldiers. Here’s your next rendezvous point, and...” Captain Sheridan glanced about his paperwork before handing two slips of paper to Pam. “…here are your acquisition orders.” His finely pressed uniform and intellectual-looking glasses were a sharp contrast to the three disheveled soldiers standing in combat fatigues.

  Miguel sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Another run?”

  “Cap, how many more of these we gonna do?” Protocol had long since fallen by the wayside, and Grace cut right to the issue on everyone’s mind.

  “Another one down, Cap.” A mechanic covered in grease interrupted Sheridan’s reply. “There’s a police spike strip tangled in the suspension of number four. The axel’s warped… the transmission housing is cracked… hell… I don’t even know how it made it back here. It’s done.”

  “A police spike strip?” Captain Sheridan looked the mechanic straight in the eye before turning to address Carl.

  “I don’t know, sir. It’s pretty rough out there. Any cops trapped outside the DDC’s aren’t above doing whatever they can to hitch a ride…they get pretty pissed when we don’t stop,” Carl answered.

  “Specialist…” Sheridan looked at Pam, addressing her question: “you’re going to continue to make runs until your vehicle is broken down, out of gas, out of ammunition, or the Admiral says we’re pulling out--whichever comes first. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir.” Pam pretended to look over her new requisition orders.

  “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 st
and 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.