Townsend directed the caravan to head out, leaving behind the unfortunate soldiers that had been blindsided and overtaken by the horde. It was too late to help them. Once they'd been bitten there was little he or anyone else could do. He cursed himself for his failure to protect his men. The horde had caught them completely off guard, seeming to appear out of thin air. He'd watched that black kid help Stokes sprint back for his life, pancake the dead in his way as if he were a blocking guard, and then help the infected soldier leap up onto his LAV. He'd broken every rule in the book by saving that sick soldier. Protocol was to shoot anyone who'd become infected, regardless of the severity of the wound, and if he hadn't made that abundantly clear to his men he would certainly do so the next time they stopped. If it hadn't been for the arrival of that Chinese battalion tracking them he'd have gotten out and shot the kid himself.
A tactical decision had to be made; hold ground and fight back the Commies or keep on moving. The soldier in him wanted to turn around and kick their fucking asses, and yet the tactician part of his brain advised to live and fight for another day. Assuming that the Chinese contingent was as large as described, only a surprise guerrilla attack had the potential to defeat them.
He ordered his driver to pull ahead. The Humvee cut out to the left lane of the highway, swerving around the rusted chassis piled in the middle of the highway. It then cut back in front of the line by coming up on the right.
Up ahead he caught sight of something in the sky. He swiveled in the gunner's seat, trying to make out what it was. Maybe the Chinese had somehow sent aircraft out to attack them. If that was the case they were sitting ducks. But the closer the flying object got the more relieved he was to discover that it was the old Huey he'd sent up to do recon. He'd forgotten all about it during the skirmish with the horde.
Townsend raised his arm, ordering the procession to halt and then watched as the chopper descended onto the mobile helipad. The rotors slowed and then stopped. Townsend leapt from vehicle to vehicle until he reached the transport rig, watching as the melancholic pilot stepped out of the cockpit.
“Where the hell'd you take off to, soldier? Our entire goddamn unit just got blindsided while waiting for your sorry ass to return.”
“I followed them, General, and nearly crash-landed in the valley because of these sick freaks.”
“Followed who?”
“The survivors from Boston. I've located them. They're on the run and escaping in two eighteen-wheelers. They drove up one of the mountain roads to presumably catch a break from the horde but they didn't have much time. The dead followed them up the mountain and began to attack them once they reached the top. I have no doubt they suffered casualties, General.”
“Fuck the casualties, hero. Did you see if the President Roberts was with them?”
“She's with them alright, safe and protected. And that ghost lady had her back the entire time.”
“You saw their ghost?” Townsend said, nearly choking on the words. “Where did they go?”
“That's why it took me so long, sir. I followed them from a distance to see which way they were heading. Looks like they're traveling due west on 84.”
“To the great utopia in Washington State.”
“You don't think it's real, sir?”
“Fuck no, I don't think it's real. But that's entirely beside the point. I need you back up in the air. It appears that we have a contingent of Chinese on our tail, ready to engage us in battle.”
“But, sir, I just returned from a mission. I'm hungry and tired.”
“Grab an MRE and some water, Lieutenant, because you're heading back up. And quit your bitching.”
Townsend retraced his steps back over the LAVs and Humvees, glancing down at the horde rustling below. He positioned himself behind the M2 heavy machine gun and gripped the trigger, eager to do battle. The Strykers assigned to them had been equipped with heavy firepower and included a BGM-71 Tow missile, Mk 19 grenade launcher, the M240G/B machine gun and the M134 Mini-gun. If the Chinese wanted to engage them in battle he'd be ready. But first they needed to move out and gain a better strategic position.
The chopper flew up and away until it disappeared from sight.
He'd purposely lied to his soldiers about one aspect of this mission by telling them that Roberts had been kidnapped and that their job was to save her. He truly believed that those derelict survivors didn't give a lick about the country and that they were only concerned about their own survival instead of the nation at large. He would protect President Roberts at all costs and make sure that the legitimate line of succession passed down to him.
Even as a young officer he'd been aware of his reputation as a career-minded officer with outsized ambitions. Some underlings had even nicknamed him 'General Ballbuster' because of his predilection for doing things properly and by the book. It was the reason why he so badly wanted President Roberts in custody; to make sure the transfer of power was legitimate and by the rule of law. Protocol still mattered to him even if the country was in disarray and all its democratic institutions had gone to hell.
Townsend thought back to the outbreak, when the dead first began to rise up and exhibit cannibalistic behaviors. He'd been based out of Fort Lee at the time, located just to the south of Richmond, but because of the mob riots he'd been out patrolling beyond the area with his troops. His wife called in desperation to inform him that the neighbors were fighting outside their house. He told her to calm down, lock all the doors and load the guns, and to make sure and hand out weapons to each of their three boys, all of whom he'd taught to shoot. It was the last time he'd spoken to her. When the full-on outbreak struck the Richmond area he ordered his unit—or what was left of it—to head out. Keeping Richmond horde-free had been a losing battle and the further south he traveled the more he'd been convinced that the entire country had succumbed to the plague. He ordered his troops to follow him to his suburban home located just outside Fort Lee. Every street he passed swarmed with the dead.
By the time he'd arrived at his home he knew all hope had been lost. The front door lay open and the diseased, many of whom had once been his friends and neighbors, came and went at will. They shuffled about, slow and lethargic. He witnessed his neighbor, appeals court judge Forrest Jackson, feasting ravenously on the leg of his wife, which he identified by the butterfly artwork tattooed to her bloody ankle. He jumped off his Humvee, walked to the front door and shot every sick bastard that stumbled toward him, not in the least fearful for his own life. Opening the door, he saw his three sons hunched over the torso of their mother and pulling striated pink flesh strands from it. When his three sons saw him, they stood, turned and headed toward him. He raised his pistol and put a bullet between each one of his son's heads, tears streaming from his eyes. Then he sprinted back to his Humvee and directed his men to move out. There was one safe place he knew of where they could ride out the plague until the virus crashed and burned, and that was Nags Head Island.
He was snapped back to reality by his driver asking if he wanted to merge onto 84 or keep going straight. Townsend, realizing he needed to make a snap decision, decided to turn onto Interstate 84. Something in his gut told him that the survivors would be taking this route, it being a more direct path to Washington State.