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RAMIREZ TRIED FOR THE third time in the last hour to reach Maravich, without result. He left another message and disconnected. Screw it. He’ll have to catch up on his own.
He rode the elevator to the basement of the CTA building with the second group of ART team members. His eighteen Revivants and three controllers waited near the vault-like entrance to the freight tunnels, while Alvie Brockbank, the retired engineer, hammered on the rusted wheel that should—in theory—unlock the door.
The living personnel wore black hazmat suits with the hood thrown back to conserve the oxygen in their narrow backpack tanks. Twelve of the zombies carried automatic weapons, and the other six wore a different type of tank strapped to their backs, metallic canisters without paint or adornment. A hose ran from the top of each tank, under the Revivants’ right arms, to a wand with a flap trigger. To Ramirez, they looked exactly like exterminators with bug spray devices.
And they have a similar mission.
Finding volunteers to join the assault had not been as difficult as DiNunzio predicted. Ramirez approached the Z-Squad human controllers, also dressed in hazmat gear, the instant the elevator doors opened. “Bishop,” he said to the tall, skinny kid with zits, “your Z-team will be on point through the tunnels until we locate and pin the enemy. The AR team will provide personal security for you while you maneuver. Understood?”
“Yah, brah. No problem.” The techie carried a handheld device—though handheld was stretching the definition as the unit dangled from straps around the kid’s neck—and wore a pair of wraparound VR glasses.
Ramirez addressed the second controller, who was also tall, skinny, and spotted with flaking acne. “Crenshaw, your team will remain behind until called. If we hit resistance, your group will lead the way with full-body riot shields.”
“Gotcha.”
The third Z-Squad controller fidgeted in place like he wanted to take a piss. Shorter, rounder, and Asian, but with an identical map of pimples, the kid could not have been older than twenty.
“Rao, your crew will follow behind Crenshaw’s team. Your Z’s have the important job of sweeping the tunnels clear of vermin using the... bug spray.”
The kid swallowed before stuttering an acknowledgement.
With a final slam and a curse, the wheel lock broke free, and Brockbank chortled in victory. “Got you that time, you bitch... showed you who’s boss, didn’t I? Just have to give it a spin—uhhh!” The old man grunted and turned the squealing lock, retracting the bolts. With a solid kick, the door burst free. A shower of rust fell from the frame and pattered across the floor, bringing with it the smell of musty water and damp concrete.
“There you go, boss,” the engineer said. “Like I promised.”
Ramirez went through first and found the top landing of a metal staircase that creaked and moaned when he trod on it. It switchbacked into the underground darkness and disappeared. He activated his shoulder-mounted light, and the beam stabbed the gloom with a white bolt. “All right, Mr. Bishop, you’re up. Get your Z’s down the hole and let’s find these traitors.”
“Fuckin-A, man.”
The squad of Revivants marched forward as a unit, shuffled into single file, and crossed the threshold onto the landing. Their filmy eyes didn’t flicker as they clomped down the metal treads, moving like so many sleepwalkers on a midnight refrigerator raid. Ramirez shivered and waited for the procession of dead to march past before following them into the tomblike darkness.
***
IT TURNED OUT MILLIE drove an electric golf cart much like she did a car: at full speed and without formal introduction to the vehicle’s braking system. I could reach out and touch the walls on either side, and John Marsh would be decapitated by the arched ceiling if he stood up from his backseat position. Zipping through the narrow-gauge passages in a MacCauley-driven cart was a bit like being shot from a gun. Wide-spaced bulbs painted us with short bursts of yellow light.
Every so often, we’d reach a joining of several passageways, and Millie would shoot off to the left or right, guided by a confident sense of direction. Actual street signs affixed to the walls flashed by too fast for me to read, and within minutes she’d confounded my sense of direction. I was as lost as the battle of Pearl Harbor.
Millie tromped the brakes and nearly vaulted me through the nonexistent windshield. We skidded to a stop a meter from a line of people jamming the tunnel ahead of us. Those in the rear turned and stood straighter as Millie jumped out and approached the group.
“How fast are you moving?” she asked.
A man in a tattoo body suit and not much else said, “More like how fast we ain’t moving. Seems like we’ve been standing here for over an hour.”
While Millie and Tattoo caught up on old times, I wandered back to a crossing tunnel and found a sign claiming we were under Canal Street at Madison. The weight of my stubby submachine gun dragged at the shoulder strap, making me as self-conscious as a man buying feminine products. By carrying around a gun like some modern-day cowboy, I might as well paint IDIOT on my forehead.
But I felt better having it. More in charge of my own destiny.
The marines were nowhere to be found, having taken their own carts and dispersed through the underground system on a plan known only to them. We had communication, of a sort, depending on line of sight and the range of the nearest repeater, so I caught scattered bits and pieces of chatter as Gonzales and her crew sifted through the tunnels.
“Hey, John,” I called out. “Where’d you say the exit was?”
The giant shuffled to me, stooped over to avoid banging his head on the bare bulbs. “There are two down this end of town. The one directly ahead is at Polk. Parallel to us is State Street, and there’s an exit from State at Roosevelt. Not far from where we met—outside the Office of Benefits and Welfare.”
In this section, the tunnels were laid out in a grid pattern that mirrored the streets overhead. I closed my eyes and pictured a Chicago street map. “That’s... nearly a mile away. What the hell? We’ll be here for hours moving these people out.”
“Guys”—Millie hustled back to where John and I stood—“our signal strength is crappy down here. I’m going to the front and find out what’s going on. Can you hang back and keep in touch with Gonzales?”
After Millie jogged away, John said, “You think we should take the cart and get closer to the marines? We might get a better signal.”
“Good idea. While we’re at it, let’s lose the cart keys so Millie can’t find them.”
***
ROGERS HAD LONG AGO rigged every building in Cabrini territory with video cameras and networked them so that he could maintain an overall view of any conflict from his command post. He swiveled in a leather chair positioned in front of a massive display screen, divided up into a score of smaller pictures surrounding a larger segment in the middle. With a flick of his fingers, he could call up any video feed and drop it into the expanded view, or sequence through any number of pictures on a rotating basis. He’d also configured analytics for certain events—such as a human figure carrying a weapon—that would autoflag a flashing callout and draw his attention to a particular screen.
That latter feature was going somewhat crazy right now as twenty-plus Homeland agents advanced from cover to cover along Cosby Street, led by a phalanx of parading Revvies, unconcerned with either cover or concealment. The front rank carried riot shields the way a marching band carried banners.
“Well this should be interesting,” he muttered.
“Sir?” A junior aide named Dixon occupied a station to Rogers’ left, a comm mike jutting in front of his lips.
“Nothing. Just an old man rambling on.” Rogers flitted from screen to screen for a few more moments. “The enemy appears to be well within the engagement envelope, Mr. Dixon. Please give 2nd and 3rd Platoon the signal to fire.”
“Yes, sir.” Dixon keyed his mic. “2nd Platoon, open fire. Fire at will. 3rd Platoon, open fire. Fire at will.”
Smoke boiled from windows along Cosby, and muzzle flashes twinkled. There was no audio, so Rogers studied the action in silence. The living elements of the Homeland force scattered for cover, leaving the non-living troops to advance alone. The rear ranks of the Revivant squads opened up with automatic weapons, all six of the walking dead in a squad firing in the same direction, targeting the buildings sheltering Rogers’ resistance fighters.
He chuckled, and Dixon flicked a worried glance his way.
“It’s okay,” Rogers said, “I haven’t lost my mind, son. Just thinking how one man’s resistance fighter is another man’s traitor.”
Dixon frowned. “That’s true, sir.”
The Homeland agents huddled behind cars or at the corners of buildings while the Revivants advanced along an axis that would lead them to Rogers’ Oak Street headquarters. On their current trajectory, the RVTs would come under minimal direct fire from the Cabrini fighters. The ones in front stumbled a bit when a round impacted their shields, and the following Revivants would jerk or stagger from a direct hit, but very few fell out of line. In minutes they would reach his headquarters’ blindside and be sheltered from the Cabrini shooters.
“Dixon, please advise 1st Platoon to redeploy along our northwestern edge. And get me Lieutenant Claybaugh on the line. I’ll need to brief him on what to expect.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dixon repeated his commands while Rogers frowned at the screen and spoke under his breath. “Now would be a good time for some grenades; blow the legs right out from under these bastards. Maybe I’ll ask Santa to bring me some next Christmas. In the meantime, how do I kill something that’s already dead?”
***
“—ontact!” the radio fizzed in my ear.
The stuttering burp of gunfire echoed through the tunnel. I tapped the brakes and allowed the cart to roll to a stop, turning my head like a radar dish to try and locate the sound. More staccato bursts rattled like a drummer with palsy.
A voice I didn’t recognize blurted out, “. . . omeo Ac... Romeo 7, contact, grid... ference G4, Golf Four, co...?”
“Copy Golf Four, Romeo 7,” Lieutenant Gonzales’s voice came through much stronger. She must be closer.
“Romeo Actual, Romeo 7. Estimated six... advan... heavy incoming fire... inned down.”
“. . . they’re not dying!” a new voice chimed in.
“Pull it together, Romeo 2,” Gonzales ordered. “Help is on the way.”
“Shit, they got around Rogers somehow.” I nudged the big man beside me. “Where are we?”
“LaSalle, north of Adams.”
In our quest to find Gonzales, John and I had wandered farther east than I’d realized. My nose was running from the chill in the air, and dried blood clotted my sinuses. I snorted and spat the gunk out, trying to breathe through my nose. The chatter of small arms fire continued echoing through the underground passage. “Okay, here’s what we’ll do. Take the cart back to the line and send one of the fastest guys to run up and tell Millie we’re about to take it up the ass here.”
“Take it up the ass,” the big man repeated, nodding.
“Don’t use those words, John. Tell them the feds are in the tunnels, and John”—I paused with a hand on his arm—“whoever you pick as runner, pull him aside and tell him quietly. Let’s not start a panic.”
“What about the gunfire? You can hear that for miles down here.”
“Tell ’em ... hell, I don’t know. Just tell them not to panic, okay? The marines have everything under control.”
“Okay.”
“Then come back and find me,” I told him as he switched over to the driver’s seat and I hopped off. The golf cart sagged heavily from one side to the other when he settled. “I have a feeling I’ll need you, and this cart, before we’re done.”
John waved and backed into the nearest juncture, where he spun the wheel and hummed away. Leaving me alone in a dimly lit tunnel. With people shooting at each other not far away. Towards whom I started marching.
“You’re an idiot, Joe,” I told myself. Even my whisper echoed.
I checked the SMG60 as I walked. Safety, trigger, sight, magazine. Should I set it to Burst now? Or wait until feds were climbing into my shorts? If I turned a corner and bumped into one of our people, could I avoid shooting them? Damn good question. I left the safety on and continued forward.
Voices buzzed and chattered through my radio earbud, excited shouts in the arcane language of war. A strong burst of fire hammered the tunnel; the string of overhead lights flickered, and a fat dollop of water hit the top of my ear. I checked the ceiling for cracks. My luck, somebody would set off an explosion down here and the entire tunnel would flood like it did back in the 90s.
“Look on the positive side,” I told myself. “Ahhh... Nope. Can’t. There is no positive side to drowning under tons of river water.”
I trotted through the passageway, the scuff of my shoes amplified by the narrow walls and complemented by the thrumming bass of automatic weapon fire. It sounded stronger to my left, so I turned that way at the Madison tunnel, which had been converted to sleeping quarters. Cots lined one wall, partitioned by blankets that now hung limp, shoved aside in the rush to evacuate. Each tiny “room” was smaller than the jail cell where I’d first met Millie and John and...
Alex.
Lieutenant Gonzales’s voice boomed in my ear. “Fire Team Bravo! Move forward along route Fox Three-Two. Try and find their flank.”
“Aye! Fox Three-Two, flank.”
I poked my head around the corner and found Gonzales crouched over a map with Corporal Jackson and a marine I didn’t know. They huddled against the wall in the north-south Franklin Street tunnel, about halfway between Randolph and Lake. The lance corporal glanced up and motioned me forward.
“What’s going on?” I yelled in his ear. The stuttering flashes from an entire army of small arms lit up the walls and shuddered deep in my chest.
“It’s a clusterfuck is what,” Jackson groused.
Gonzales barked orders, alternating between the map unfolded against her knee and staring into the middle distance. It took me a second to realize she used a helmet with a Heads Up Display. I’d seen them in vids and VR games; an entire encyclopedia of information could be displayed in front of her eyes. Depending on where she directed her gaze, vital statistics or the individual helmet cams of her troops would pop to the forefront. Whenever I tried to use one in a simulated HUD in a VR game, I’d be swamped in information overload in seconds.
“I know what ‘fuck’ is,” I said, “but define ‘cluster.’”
The corporal showed me his own map and pointed out landmarks with a grimy finger. “The feds busted in here, somewhere on Lake Street, west of the river. They were advancing due east along Lake when our guys ran right into them, here at Clinton. We lost three men trying to break contact and establish a perimeter.”
Gonzales ordered, “Hack their legs out from under them, Sinacola! I don’t care if they die or not; you cut their legs out, they ain’t moving.”
“Fucking RVTs,” Jackson said. “We got our ass handed to us by a bunch of cold meat.”
“Shoot the controller gizmo on their heads,” I offered.
Gonzales flashed sour eyes with a message that very clearly told me to stay out of her kitchen and let her cook. “They learned that lesson; they’re wearing helmets over their controllers.”
“The federal agents are using riot shields. We’re chopping the zombies to dog meat, but the live agents are about as hard to kill. They pushed us back almost to Wacker.” Jackson indicated a spot by the Chicago River.
“Dammit,” I spat. “They’re already past Canal. If they turn right on Canal, they’ll run smack into the backs of the people lined up there.”
All of us paused to listen as the volume of fire scaled down to a few cracks, like the last kernels in a popcorn bag before drying up entirely. After a full minute of breathless silence Patrick’s voice came over the radio in my ear. “Romeo Actual, Romeo Six.”
“Go, Six.”
“Romeo Actual, be advised the enemy advance has halted for the moment. No movement. All Revivants are combat ineffective at this time. I have six Whiskey-India-Alpha—two of whom are combat ineffective—and one Kilo-India-Alpha. Jacobsen.”
“Jacobsen? Fuck!” The muscles in Gonzales’s jaw worked, and I imagined I could hear her teeth grinding. “Romeo Six, Romeo Actual. Hold until further.”
“Romeo Actual, Six. Hold, aye.”
Gonzales studied the map on her thigh with an intense frown then slapped the folded sheet with the back of her hand. “This is impossible! There’s too many holes to plug with thirteen men. It’s like that game where the rats pop up and you try to smack them down, but you can’t reach all the holes.”
“Sounds like my old apartment.” But the lieutenant was right. The old freight tunnels ran in a grid pattern; if we blocked one tunnel, the feds would go to the next. Or the next. There was no way we could keep ahead of them and know which way they would jump.
“Blow the tunnels behind us,” Jackson said.
“No!” Gonzales shouted it the same second I did. I let the lieutenant explain. “We blow the wrong place and these tunnels flood. Explosives are out, but we do need some barricade material. Suggestions?”
The corporal and I exchanged a look while the other marine stayed out of the discussion and kept watch. I shrugged. “I have a golf cart, Lieutenant. We could tip it on its side, but I don’t think it would block the whole tunnel.”
“Where is it?”
“Ah, well, John Marsh has it now.”
“And where is he?”
“Uh. Well. Not here.” John would have gone back to the end of the Canal Street queue to deliver his message. I’d told him to come find me, but I didn’t tell him where. If he came directly back along Canal and kept going, he’d run smack into the bad guys.
I explained this to Gonzales, who shook her head with a pinched-lip expression of disgust.
“Let me see your map, Jackson.” Gonzales snatched it from the lance corporal’s hand. “We have to protect the evacuees, right? One exit line is on State, one is on Canal. On State, we put a couple of guys here, here, and here.” She pointed out the three intersections before the Polk Street exit. “If one pair spots trouble, the others relocate to back them up. On Canal, we need to stop the feds from making a straight run up our butts. Put the rest of the guys across the river, Randolph and Canal, and maybe a spotter on Clinton, in case they try an end around.” Her eyes focused on her HUD, and she rattled out a series of orders with grid references.
I ignored all the radio babble and said to Jackson, “I have to make sure John doesn’t drive smack into the feds. I’ll be at the Canal-Randolph intersection.”
“Safety, trigger, sight, magazine,” the lance corporal said. “Oh, and the sight uses all spectrums of energy—thermal and IR as well as visual. Use it in the dark, okay? And, hey, point it at the enemy and do not shoot my ass by mistake.”
“I make no guarantees, Corporal. Besides, who’s the dumbass gave me live ammo?” I jogged off without waiting for his response.
Safety, sight, magazine, trigger...