Chapter One
"Griffin, Eddins, pull back to Reserve Position One! Fire Team, cover the retreat! Stay sharp, stay moving, stay alive!" In the week since the plague had come to the states , Major John "Key" Locke must have uttered these commands over one hundred times in his group's transit across the nation.
Amidst dozens of other soldiers retreating to the line of vehicles at the edge of the interstate, Locke pulled the lightweight rifle he carried around his waist to his shoulder, and peered through the sights at the mob steadily approaching. Squinting his eyes and looking through his ACOG, his weapon's telescopic gunsight, he fired three rounds from his M4A1 into the head of the closest Zeke, the blood from the exit wound painting dots on the two Zekes behind it.
"Keep moving. Hold at the convoy until everyone is safe." yelled Locke over the microphone system that protruded out from under his helmet. He took a step back as four Zekes to his immediate right were hit by a volley from one of the M240s held by the Fire Team directly behind him.
Locke let down his rifle, took another step back, and felt the hard grip of asphalt beneath him. He raised his rifle once more, emptied another four shots into the mob of Zekes, and, checking to make sure he hadn't left any soldiers behind, pulled himself into the cab of the nearest Humvee. The deafening roar of .50 caliber machine guns filled the air, and as Locke peered out the front window of his vehicle, he could see body upon body of Zekes crumple as the sheer volume of fire took its toll.
Listening through his earpiece, he could hear the reassuring voice of Captain Charlie Harvill, his second-in-command, ending the check.
"Humvee 17, all troops accounted for. M35 four, all troops and civilians accounted for. Major Locke, all soldiers and civilians are accounted for. No reported casualties among either our men or the civies. Orders, sir?"
Locke reached for his radio and eased the button down with his index and middle fingers. "Affirmative, Captain. Convoy, prepare to move out. Standard formation. Humvee 1, you have a go." Locke released the microphone button as he felt his Humvee come to life and proceed back onto the road.
As his Humvee took its place as second in the convoy, Locke felt he could finally let his guard down. He re-fastened his pistol holder, which had fallen askew when he jerked his pistol out to kill a Zeke that had pinned a young Private to the ground, and slowly took his earpiece off, making sure not to stretch the cable attached to his radio, and placed the headset into a pocket on his jacket. He attempted to close his eyes and lean back in the seat, knowing well that the roar of the engine and the pattern-less trickle of machine gun fire would prevent him from sleeping. Realizing the futility in the attempt, Locke readjusted his seat and looked out through the window of the vehicle at the noon sun that lofted high over the head of the convoy, and reflected on what he had experienced in the past week.
His original force of 283 Special Forces soldiers, the remnants of the group that was able to survive the massacre at the MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa, Florida, had been slowly dwindled to 54. In a week, two hundred and twenty-nine soldiers had been killed, only to rise once again in an attempt to kill those who had until then been their comrades.
"Special Operations....Best of the Best." Locke slowly chuckled to himself.
Although he would entrust his life to any man in his unit, he realized that even a force such as the one under his command wouldn't be able to hold its own for long against these beasts. No training could prepare one to shoot at an eight year old girl as she ripped the flesh off of a grown man's throat. No training could prepare one to look down the sights of a gun, to pull the trigger on an elderly woman. No training could prepare one to shoot his own loved ones. A droplet of sweat dripped off his forehead, and Locke shuddered, but quickly collected himself. He had come to understand that battle was as much about morale of the troops as it was about their ability. No matter what experiences he held, no matter how terrifying, he knew he must continue to appear strong and decisive.
As his Humvee pulled over a shallow ridge, Locke reached into the pack secured to his thigh, and removed a neatly folded map. He unfolded it in his lap, and peered down. He traced to his position, and began to silently speak to himself.
"We have just passed Yuma, Arizona. No survivors found. Zekes numbered in the thousands."
He scrawled down the figures onto the parchment, and looked at the discernible route made by his markings. A multitude of dots and scribbles marked the larger cities that his group had encountered during the trip. Locke looked over the map, looked at his scribbles.
"No survivors found. Zekes numbered in the thousands."
He realized he had written the same two lines a dozen times. Gainesville, Mobile, Shreveport, Dallas, Las Cruces, Tuscon. Each held the same terrible fate. It wasn't the monotonous rhythm that angered Locke. Being a soldier, he was accustomed to such a repetitive lifestyle. But even after seeing the events first hand, he felt mystified that such a force could devastate the world like the Zephyr. His convoy had encountered just over eighty survivors along the trip, whom they carried in the large M35's, colloquially referred to as Deuce and a halfs, that accompanied the convoy. But in the route that they had taken, out of the millions of people, eighty was an infinitesimally small number. As he continued to scan the map, machine gun fire broke the calm. The sounds of bullets firing and shell cases hitting the roof erupted from the top of the Humvee. Private Robert Parks, who manned Humvee 2's .50 caliber machine gun, was always eager to "Scrap some Zeds", as he put it. Locke could even hear him yelling, his unmistakable Georgian accent echoing through the cab of the Humvee. Locke scrambled to put his map back in the pack as he felt the Humvee begin to slow.
"Major, look up ahead" stated Corporal Richard Paris, the Humvee's driver, as he motioned to the large mob that stood before them.
Locke could see a large group of Zekes huddled a mile away in the middle of the interstate, amidst a sea of charred and deserted automobiles.
Comm chatter from one vehicle to another seemed to herald the mob's appearance, and almost as if by instinct, Locke found himself removing the half-filled ammo cartridge from his weapon, and replacing it with a filled cartridge taken from his ammunition belt, replacing the half-empty cartridge in his belt. Ammunition was at a premium, and they were at a time when a single bullet could mean the difference between life and death. Securing the cartridge, he looked behind him, where Corporal Mark Griffin, and Sergeant Stephen Eddins, sitting in the rear section of the Humvee, were both reloading their own rifles.
"You know the drill, boys. Eddins, Griffin, suit up. Paris, bring us in nice and easy."
Through the radio that rested on his shoulder, Locke could hear the clicks and pops of other soldiers reloading their own weapons. Locke nodded to Griffin, Eddins, and Paris, and received the same apprehensive nod back from each. As he reached up to his shoulder to press the transmit button on his radio, Paris pulled to a full stop just behind the lead Humvee.
"Alright men, we're only a few hours from safety. This is just a small group, but there could be survivors in those vehicles." Locke knew full well that there was no chance that anyone could have survived out here for this long, but he also knew that he could not afford to let go of hope this close to salvation. "Take it slow. Fire Teams Alpha and Beta, move in on the left side. Gamma and Delta, move in on the right. All other teams move up through the center. Stay sharp, stay moving, stay alive."
Locke reached down the neck of his shirt, brushed his dog tags aside, and grasped the crucifix he wore around his neck. Releasing the lock on the door, he stepped out, both feet hitting the solid ground at the same instant. He slammed his door shut as the sound of metal hitting metal reverberated down the line of vehicles- other soldiers doing the same. He looked up at the sky, nodded, and lowered his head. Raising his rifle to his shoulder, he took a step forward, and proceeded to lead his soldiers, his comrades, his friends, into Hell.
