The sound of the horn playing reveille come morning felt like a parasite in his ears. Rising from his bag, he swore to shove that blower up Ridley's ass right after he put a bullet between his eyes. But with the passing of another day his men seemed to be growing fonder of the charismatic psychopath, making his task that much harder.
Did the goddamn jerk even sleep? He couldn't recall seeing him bed down with the men last night, unless he had his own personal sleeping quarters that no one knew about. On every morning, Ridley had played reveille before setting out a hot breakfast for the soldiers, and then appearing before them in his dress greens.
As his soldiers stood in line, Townsend sidled up next to Ackroyd. The pilot looked haggard and spent, his hooded eyes only outdone by a two-day beard. Despite all the good work Ackroyd had done, Townsend still maintained a strong dislike for the seedy looking pilot.
“Sleep well last night, Tinkerbell?” he whispered.
“Yeah, General, like a night at the Ritz. Champagne and room service to boot.”
“Don't be a smart ass. Get some grub down that gullet of yours and you'll be as good as new.”
“I helped waste a roomful of those dead yesterday, almost got killed in the process, and then had to watch you shoot two of our guys in cold blood. I'm just so happy to be here.”
“You rather those boys turned into zombies? We both know there's no cure for this shit, asshole, so smarten up.”
“Yes, sir,” Ackroyd replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“I got an important job for you, Lieutenant. General Fucknuts wants us to dispose of all the corpses today and throw them outside. I'm guessing that this task will take the better half of a day. Once he goes down to the basement, I need you to take that chopper up for a quick spin.”
Ackroyd turned toward him with a surprised expression.
“A quick spin? But there's a whole shit load of them dead walking outside, sir.”
“Take the pistol with you. The vehicles are parked just outside the door. All you need to do is sprint to the first Stryker, climb up, and then you'll be safe. Once you're safe, walk across to your whirlybird. I want you to try and locate those Benedict Arnolds who absconded with the president. I figure they must have run out of gas by now.”
“We got food and shelter right here, General. Forget that bitch.”
Townsend grabbed the pilot's wrist and twisted it behind his back. Ackroyd yelped in pain and his head arced backward.
“Cocksucker! Show some respect for the office, you piece of shit. I don't give a rat's ass that our Commander-in-Chief's a broad and neither should you, you sexist bastard. Do I make myself clear?”
“Loud and clear, General.”
“Good. Because whatever else you might think of that whore, she's still in charge of this nation. So you better respect the office, asshole. You never know who might be in there next.”
“Yes, sir.”
Townsend released Ackroyd's wrist and had a good mind to deliver a punch to his kidney for good measure, but stopped for fear of injuring the only soldier who knew how to fly the chopper. But the pilot's every gesture made him want to slap his fat face. There seemed to be a subtext to every word he uttered, and he spoke in such a droll manner that Townsend got the feeling that the man was constantly belittling him.
He waited patiently in line and by the time he got to the front he saw two of his soldiers dishing food out of the large metal warmers. Ridley had not even consulted with him about using his soldiers for KP duty. Not that he had to ask, outranking him by a full star. Still, professional courtesy would have been nice.
The soldier slopped powdered eggs and a scoop of oatmeal onto his dish. After pouring himself a cup of black coffee, he grabbed the far end of a table and sat by himself, watching as Ridley paced between the rows of tables like a prison guard. The man's act pissed him off and he had a good mind to call the general out on it as he watched him pace the aisle across from him. But such a move would prove counter-productive, causing anarchy and chaos among the troops, and he desperately needed the hierarchical structure of the chain-of-command to fuel his outsized ambitions.
“Get lost,” he instructed a young private who tried to sit down across from him.
He sipped his coffee and watched the kid move to the next table. The coffee tasted delicious, black and piping hot. He was about to go up for a second cup when Ridley leaned over his shoulder and cupped his hands around his ear.
“I don't like you, Willard, nor do I trust you as far as I could throw your sorry ass. And I could throw it far. So you better do exactly as told or else I'll be all over you like white on rice.”
“With all due respect, General, why are you attacking me so harshly? What I do to deserve such treatment?”
“Shut your hole. I'm the guy running this base now. Do as I tell you and you and I will get along just splendidly.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now that's music to my ears, General,” Ridley said, slapping him on the back. “I want you to take your men and return to that top floor after breakfast. Make sure you toss all those casualties out the window. Once you're done, mop everything up. I want this building spic and span, Townsend, and ready for inspection come 0600 hours.”
“General, there's nothing left on this base to defend. It's in ruins,” Townsend said, looking back up at him.
“How about you do as you're told and let me worry about that?”
“Of course, sir, but my men and I were sent on a top security mission by the Pentagon brass to return President Roberts to the White House. After we clean this place up, we need to get back on the road.”
“You'll do exactly what I tell you to do, Townsend. No more, no less. Now gather your men and start scrubbing that top floor until it shines. The mops and buckets are located in the supply room. You need anything else, I'll be down in the basement overseeing the clean-up there.”
“How come I never heard of you before, General Ridley?”
“Probably had your head up your ass like always, trying to make a name for yourself like you have your whole life. Now get to work.”
“Yes, sir.”
He walked over and called out to his soldiers, including Ackroyd, and led them upstairs with mops, buckets and scrubbing sponges, stepping over all the rotting corpses sprawled over the stairwell. Once they reached the top floor, he assigned three men to each room. He walked over to one of the windows and thrust it open, and stared down at the vehicles parked in front of the admin building. The horde shuffled along the front of the base, oblivious to his glare. He called Ackroyd over to assess the situation and devise a plan.
“Shit, General. There's a lot of them dead out there today.”
“It don't get any better, hero, so get used to it. When you make it out the front door, sprint over to the first vehicle in line and jump up onto it. Once you make it up there you should be fine. Walk across the vehicles until you get to the chopper.”
“What do you want me to do once I'm up in the air?”
“Try and locate those escapees. They most likely abandoned their trucks due to the storm and low fuel. Once you locate them, I need you to identify their coordinates so that we can track them once we get out of this hell hole.”
“But, sir, I don't think General Ridley is going to let us out of here.”
“Don't worry about him. What he doesn't know won't hurt him,” he said, staring into the pilot's eyes. “Better not breathe a word of this to anyone, Ackroyd.”
Ackroyd nodded and then stared down at the zombies roaming around the entrance of the base.
“You work with me and I'll make sure you're amply rewarded once we take back the president. Cabinet position sound nice?”
Ackroyd laughed. “Cabinet of what? Zombie affairs?”
“Tell anybody about this, smartass, and I'll make sure you wander the earth for eternity searching for human flesh. I'll tie you up in the basement and leave you to rot.”
“You can trust me, General.”
“I don't trust anyone. Now start cleaning. I'll call you when the time is ripe.”
Townsend went from room to room, overseeing the clean-up of the offices and meeting rooms. The soldiers carried the corpses to the open windows and then tossed them until they piled along the foundation. The dead below stumbled along the lawn and stared up at them, their arms raised as if signaling a touchdown. Bodies began to pile up against the beginning like sandbags along an overflowing river.
After an hour passed, Townsend ordered Ackroyd to the chopper. He watched the soldier emerge from the building and bolt down the granite steps. Ackroyd moved faster than he expected, easily dodging the first few zombies approaching him. The horde turned in unison and began to stagger in his direction. Ackroyd climbed up onto the Stryker just as a zombie dressed in an Army uniform grabbed his ankle and began to pull him down. The pilot kicked him to no avail. The zombie leaned in to bite his calf but Ackroyd kicked one last time, knocking the zombie soldier off him. The zombie fell back to the ground, allowing him to scamper to the top of the vehicle.
Townsend breathed a sigh of relief. Ackroyd turned and stared up at him with hate in his eyes, the terror of his narrow escape still fresh in his mind. He high-stepped from one vehicle to the next, staring down at the growing horde now moving beneath him. He reached the platform truck supporting the chopper, climbed inside the cockpit and started the engine. The rotors began to spin and in a matter of seconds the chopper lifted off. Townsend pumped his fist as it took to the air and disappeared from sight.
He walked around from room to room and made his soldiers swear to secrecy, promising that he'd reward them for their loyalty. After a quick break, he ordered them back to work and they resumed scrubbing the blood off the walls, floor and ceiling.
He stared over the ruined base, praying that the pilot would find those survivors alive and well.