General Willard Townsend stood on the deck of the naval cargo ship and watched as the caravan of military vehicles drove out the hull and onto the terminal parking lot. A recon security detail consisting of six armed soldiers roamed the perimeter of the port in case any of the horde slipped through the gate. From what he could tell, the galvanized steel fence protecting the terminal remained intact and the gates secure. But since the cargo ship had pulled into port, waves of the dead had arrived and stood pressing against the gates, putting undue pressure on the oversized padlock. Their guttural moans filled the air, above the grumbling engines of the cargo ship and military vehicles now emerging out of the dark hull.
After getting picked up off Nag's Head Island, he'd convinced the captain of the USNS cargo ship to provide him with enough vehicles to venture forth through the countryside, exterminating as many of the horde as possible. The captain had gladly assented and let him have the vehicles he needed. After settling on a number, Townsend sent his best mechanic down into the cargo area and ordered him to disable the computer systems and make sure that the vehicles operated solely on manual function. The Strykers' computerized systems would be shut down, including the gas gauge, oil pressure and all the sophisticated tracking devices. He knew from experience that the powerful signals given off by the horde would inevitably shut down their computer systems and render the engines and weapon systems useless, and for this reason he decided to travel as low tech as possible.
Over one hundred soldiers stood below, waiting in formation as the last of the military vehicles drove out the ramp and parked along the weed-filled lot. The faded yellow lines on the pavement were a reminder of order and inventory, in a once civilized society. Townsend counted his fleet: seven Strykers, five medium tactical cargo trucks, two fuel trucks, ten Humvees, and one flatbed carrying the Bell UH-1 Iroquois chopper. The captain of the cargo ship, a civilian, had given him enough vehicles to transport all of his troops and supplies. Deep inside the hull of the ship were more transport vehicles, and Townsend presumed the captain would one day utilize them when the time came to abandon ship. He only hoped the captain and crew knew how to operate the vehicles.
The ship, named the USNS Keating, was a civilian cargo vessel with over two hundred thousand square feet of space designed to transport heavy equipment and Army combat vehicles overseas, mostly to the Middle East. But since the Navy had ceased to exist in this post-plague world, the ship had been set adrift to fend for itself, though it still flew the American flag at full mast. The seas the world over had filled up with international vessels and nuclear submarines, most of which had gone rogue in order to fight for their own survival.
Townsend understood how lucky he’d been to get picked up by this cargo ship. The USNS Keating had been cruising just off the coast when he'd somehow managed to broadcast a weak radio signal to the captain and explain the severity of their situation. Stranded on Nags Head Island, with every bridge out of commission, he and his troops had been destined to die had that cargo ship not picked them up.
Once all the vehicles had been offloaded, he spoke to his men through the loudspeaker system, ordering them to make their way to their designated vehicles. Assignments had been handed out while en route to Boston so that there'd be no confusion once they'd disembarked. Each Stryker would carry two soldiers. Ten to fifteen soldiers had been assigned to sit in the back of each cargo truck. The remainder would occupy the Humvees and the two fuel tankers.
“Suppose it’s time for us to head out.”
“May God be with you, General,” Captain Mykos said.
“Thanks for all you've done for me and my men by picking us up when you did,” Townsend said, extending his hand.
“You’re quite welcome. I wish you all the best trying to rid this country of those dead scum. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”
“Trust me, Captain, you’ve been a huge help. The rest is up to God now. And me and my men of course.”
The Captain stroked his chin, hesitating for a second.
“Something you want to tell me before I leave, Captain?”
“I’ve got a Chinaman on board who works in the engine room. He’s not a U.S. citizen, but he’s legal, not that legality matters anymore.” He stared out at the choppy harbor, where a stiff breeze blew in. “We intercepted some weak radio reports just before we picked you up. As you might suspect, the goddamn seas are filled with enemy combatants. Being a transport ship, we’re a sitting duck out there, not equipped with any big guns.”
“What did you hear?”
“Radio transmissions on the seas are weak and practically nonexistent, which is why you don't see many fleets. It's every ship for itself. The first radio transmission was in Mandarin. We had no idea what those chinks were saying, so we called this Chinaman up from the engine room. About fifteen minutes later the transmission comes over the radio again. We ask the kid what they’re saying and he translates for us. Said the goddamn Chinese Navy has a fleet out there and is planning to drop off troops on these very shores. Where and when I don’t really know, General, but I figured they must be landing somewhere along the Eastern seaboard.”
“Why the Eastern seaboard?”
“Who knows? But to pick up a signal like that means they must have been cruising very close to us. At least within a ten mile radius. We intercepted the transmission fifty miles from the Boston Harbor.”
“What’s the purpose? Those Commies trying to take over America?”
“That's what the Chinese kid thought. Maybe they see this whole crisis as a way to dominate the world once things settle down, and turn us all into Commies. Maybe the plague is much worse in China. Who knows, General? You gotta figure if they got hit by this virus they must have a billion zombie gooks walking around.”
“So aside from fighting off the dead, we're also going to have to watch for Chinese troops patrolling the area?”
“Maybe they didn’t make it ashore, General. I just thought I should tell you what we heard.”
“Okay, Captain, thanks. Really appreciate it,” Townsend said.
“Hey, we're all in this mess together.”
Townsend thanked the captain before making his way down to his Humvee. Despite his calm demeanor, a fire burned in the pit of his stomach on recalling the humiliation of being outfoxed by President Roberts and that cocky pilot back on Nag’s Head Island. The plague had been the greatest opportunity ever presented to him and he’d let it slip out of his hands. That Cajun pilot had convinced him that his loyalties were with him, and then he and Roberts had the balls to escape during the diversion they created using stolen Army ordnances. They’d killed two soldiers assigned to guard the airstrip, jumped into the chopper, and somehow managed to escape before the others caught up to them.
He walked down the length of the terminal, examining each and every vehicle. The two fuel trucks had been filled to capacity and would sustain them for a short while. The cargo trucks were stacked with containers of food, water and blankets. Townsend waved his arm to the first Stryker, the signal to move out.
He climbed into his Humvee, located behind the last Stryker in line, and stood over the roof and behind the M2 machine gun. Soon they'd be venturing into the horde's territory. He glanced back one last time and saw the turbines of the Navy cargo ship begin to roil the polluted harbor. The murky ocean bubbled up as its massive propellers churned through the stagnant water. Fortunately the tide was high, which would make it easier for the captain to guide it back out into the Atlantic. Townsend didn’t give the unarmed Keating much of a chance in the open seas. Without any guns to protect themselves, it wouldn’t be long before some foreign enemy took command of the ship and killed every seaman onboard.
The first Stryker crashed through the metal fence, busting the padlock and causing the gates to fly open. Townsend felt an intense pain shoot through his temple as soon as the Humvee made its way into the horde. He clutched his temple, trying to ease the excruciating pain pulsing through his skull. His eyes watered as he lifted his head and struggled to maintain his composure. Townsend glanced back and saw the horde rushing inside the terminal and past their caravan. Never before had he seen anything so horrific.
Millions of them populated the city. Everywhere he looked he saw the dead crowding the streets and staggering aimlessly for food. The ones in their path got steamrolled by the massive weight of the eight-wheeled Strykers, making it easier for the vehicles behind them to drive over their flattened, crushed corpses. Fresh ponds of stagnant blood flowed over the city streets, reflecting the sun's rays.
Townsend immediately understood the cause of his blinding headache. The powerful signals given off by the horde triggered it, and he had no doubt that every other soldier was suffering from the same debilitating effects. Pain was not foreign to him. There was a saying about pain that he took comfort in. In fact he liked it so much he had it tattooed across his chest:
Pain is weakness leaving the body.
Townsend recalled his past as they motored through the city. A star linebacker at West Point, he'd played many a game in pain, never telling his coaches about the extent of his injuries. He’d once broken his hand against Navy and played the entire second half in agony. Dings, the euphemism for a concussion, were the worst. Those dings were now coming back to haunt him and he had no doubt that his old football injuries only exacerbated his pounding migraine.
Sergeant Gallagher, situated in the first Stryker, had been given orders to head directly to the Boston Common. It had been well documented that a survivor camp had popped up and prospered in that spot. Gallagher grew up in Dorchester and knew the city well, which was why Townsend had placed him at the front of the line. Townsend smiled through blurred eyes, coming to terms with his pain, accepting it as the sacrifice they'd all have to make in order to save this country.
He couldn’t wait to see the survivors’ faces when they pulled up to the gate. It had been roughly a month since President Roberts’ daring escape, and he’d been waiting anxiously to get his hands on that sneaky bitch. The first thing he'd do when he entered that camp would be to place Roberts under arrest and make sure that she never escaped again. With the president by his side, he could fulfill his ambition to legally succeed her and become the next President of the United States. It was important that it be done constitutionally and by the book. Assuming she'd died, it would make the transition that much more difficult. Any survivors traveling with her he would terminate with extreme prejudice.
The caravan rolled through the city. Townsend stared out at the ruins, the dilapidated buildings, corpses and rusting traffic pile-ups. It resembled one of those war torn cities from WWII. Everywhere he looked the horde prowled for flesh, filling every doorway and alley. The dead stared up at them as they passed, their soulless eyes glazed over and their arms lifted in desperate yearning. He had no sympathy for these sick fucks. As far as he was concerned they were now the enemy, the scourge of the earth.
He’d never been to Boston and now wondered what the big deal was. The city looked like a dump. Growing up in San Diego, he was a Californian kid through and through. Sunshine, surfing, cold beer and blonde-haired bimbos spiking volleyballs on the beach.
Massaging his temples, he felt the Humvee jerk to a halt. He looked around at his surroundings, wondering why the caravan had stopped. Without benefit of radio contact, he had no way of knowing what had happened up front. The horde gathered below, clumsily trying to climb onto the hood. A soldier popped out of the lid of the LAV in front of him and began to communicate down the line. After a few seconds, the soldier turned toward his Humvee and began to shout something to him. Townsend popped his head over the M2 machine gun.
“What’s up, soldier? Why aren’t we heading toward the Boston Common?”
“Sir, you’re not going to believe this, but Gallagher says we’re sitting right in the middle of what used to be the Boston Common.”
“Say what?”
“This is the Boston Common. The camp is gone, sir. It's in ruins.”
Townsend felt his heart sink. It wasn’t the end of the world—okay, maybe it really was the end of the world—but he sensed a lost opportunity. Now it would make his goal of becoming president that much more difficult. He gazed around at the rundown buildings encircling what used to be the city's most celebrated park. The horde had infiltrated every square inch of it and he realized that there was no way anyone could have survived such an onslaught. He was about to slip back inside the vehicle when he heard the sound of human voices calling out. He looked up at the buildings and saw people leaning out the windows and waving bed sheets and pillow cases. So there were some survivors. He pulled out his bullhorn and directed his driver to pull up closer to them.
“Where's President Roberts?” he shouted.
“She's gone. A small group of them left about a month ago, including the president. I saw them from my window after those crazies broke through the fence,” one woman said. ‘We’re starving to death. Could you please take us with you?”
“Of course we'll take you with us. But first explain how they could have made their way past the horde?”
“They had a ghost with them and were able to form into a human chain. All those people connected to the chain were protected from the dead and were able to walk out of here unharmed.”
“Where did they go?”
“They headed south. The leader of our camp, a girl named Dar, talked about heading west and finding some outpost she believed existed in Washington State. Now could you please help us get out of here, General? I have three hungry children up here.”
“May God be with you,” Townsend said, directing his driver back to the caravan.
“Wait! Where are you going?”
The people trapped in the buildings began to cry out, their voices echoing off the bricks.
“You can’t just leave us here. You’re sentencing us to death!” a man pleaded. “We have little food and water left.”
“We have young children starving to death!” a young woman shouted.
“I’m sorry, people, but there’s nothing I can do. We have only enough food and water for ourselves.” Townsend turned to the soldier standing on the Stryker in front of him. “Tell the boys up front to head out. Due west until we can find some empty space out in the country.”