Part 2
Chapter 3
Street Sweep
May 16, 2053
Stand Up! SoCal
Southern California Greater Metropolis, California
[Phoenix frowns and looks out of the window. Then he shakes his head.]
No. It wasn't. I guess a lot of people have this idea that there was something exciting or adventurous—but it wasn't like going off to fight a war. We were still home!
[He makes an exasperated noise and slumps in his seat, placing a hand over his eyebrows.]
There's nothing comforting about that.
Well, so anyway, after training, and a few weeks of patrols near the Reserve Center in Long Beach—Lang sent my Platoon to meet up with the rest of Foxtrot Company. Mostly so we could help with the clean-up effort. Stuff like making sure the way was clear so we could move quickly North or South as needed. Foxtrot Company had the entire coast from the Palisades to Torrence Beach—so the last thing we wanted was to be halted by the derelict cars and rubble.
You have to remember too, that even though the National Guard was in the middle of swelling it's ranks right then, and we had no idea when we could expect them to come out of the ocean, there was still a lot to do. The city was a mess.
Long Beach was one of the first places to be secured, because the National Guard already had a solid presence there. So most of our focus was going to be the beach Northwest of LAX. Basically we had to clean up the coast from there to Santa Monica.
[Clean up the coast?]
Yeah. Doesn't sound very glamorous does it?
[He chuckles.]
So yeah, it was maybe fifteen miles up, and the 405 had been mostly cleared up by then so they literally drove us—my Platoon, Klavier's, Mitchell's—and what what his name…? Anyway they drove about four hundred of us up to Marina Del Rey, dropped us on the south end of Venice Beach and told us to "get cracking".
Our job was to widen the useable road along the beach—which meant knocking down a lot of the boardwalk—reinforcing areas so that we could bring equipment through. It was a little heartbreaking—all those beach-side shops empty… We had to clear them away so the BSB could come in behind us—you know to bury the dead and set up the roads.
[Were there still Zombies in those areas?]
Oh yeah. Not a lot. Ones and twos, holed up and forgotten in the rubble. At least we didn't have to do the remains… BSB had remains. Our job was to eliminate the threat, with Zack that means incapacitating them so they weren't threatening.
[Like what? Decapitating Zombies?]
You have to do a little more than that. You actually have to remove the jaw. Because those heads will bite. Hands and major limbs were important too—if they didn't have anything to swing at you, you were going to be all right. We were pretty well trained on how to do that—incapacitating them—then BSB would take all of the bits and box them up so they could be buried as they came through behind us.
[They buried them?]
There were several pits—have you been out there? There's a granite marker on each one denoting the year and month it was filled in…
Anyway, Support Battalion's job was to dig the pits and they layered the bits in there—with lye or something, sometimes they burned them—and they would layer them until they were full, then bury them.
[Wait every one of of those mounds on the coast…?]
[He gives me a stern pointed look, eyebrow cocked.] Yeah. There were about four million people in LA when this went down… What do you think happened to the bodies? That's what cleaning up meant. If we were going to protect the beaches, we couldn't have any surprises rising up out of the city behind us.
So yeah, the Army's main job was gathering up the dead and securing the city. So we spent the next couple weeks going up Oceanfront Walk—clearing away everything from there to Ocean Ave. Once the beach was opened, we went inland—like maybe five or six miles a day. Just cleaning up.
April 3, 2022
South Venice Beach, Marina Peninsula
Los Angeles, California
"ALL I WANNA DO! Is have some fun!" He shouted more than sang as he walked along the beach while his men were spread along the other side of Oceanfront Walk clearing brush and debris.
"ALL I WANNA DO! Is have some fun!" They replied in chorus.
"I GOTTA FEELIN' I'm not the only one!" He cradled the Lobo in his arms at the ready—like they'd been trained.
"I GOTTA FEELIN' I'm not the only one!"
"ALL I WANNA DO! Is have some fun!"
"ALL I WANNA DO! Is have some fun!"
"UNTIL the sun comes up over SANTA MONICA boulevard!"
"UNTIL the sun comes up over SANTA MONICA boulevard!"
"Otherwise the bar is ours!"
"The day and the night and the car wash too!" Phoenix grinned, he wasn't sure who it was, but it was probably Captain Gavin—Captain Gavin loved to sing.
"The matches and the Buds and the clean and dirty cars!"
"The SUN AND THE MOON!"
"But, ALL I WANNA DO! Is have some fun!"
The road they'd cleared reached Santa Monica shortly after noon and several trucks from FSB were already using it to set up the encampment on the far side of Colorado Ave Northwest of Santa Monica Pier, in what used to be a parking lot.
The troops were allowed to spread out on the beach. Phoenix brought his guys together in formation and did a roll call before allowing his men to do the same.
It's not too soon to make a habit of this.
They didn't cart around rucks like the regular Army—in fact none of their backpacks really matched. Like the rest of his squad, he wore a dark tee shirt and denim jeans in one of a range authorized blues—most of the 'uniform' was provided by the individual soldier.
No one had helmets although headgear was authorized. Only the officers were prescribed ball caps—plain black with the rank embroidered on the front and the unit, Company-Battalion/Brigade stitched on the back.
And haircuts—in the California National Guard?—ain't nobody got time for that!
Phoenix stood in the sand and hitched his own backpack before pulling off his ball cap and running a hand through his spikes, and he surveyed his troops. It wasn't like the movies in his platoon. Guys ranged in age from their late teens and into their forties—the need for personnel was greater than the long-term development of soldiers.
The platoon sergeant—SFC Rainier, was actually a younger guy who'd been promoted through the ranks—he was only a couple years older than Phoenix. There were several privates in the platoon too who'd joined late. Guys in their forties. PFC Daniels stood out because he liked to talk back and ask questions. He was an executive at some internet service firm or something before the panic—but there was no internet anymore.
There was PFC Sidaris, originally from Missouri. Everyone called him Hollywood, because he was an actor before the panic—mostly television bit parts and commercials. Then there was Ed, Edd, and Eddie—PFC Wilson, PFC Connelly, and PFC Wu—none of whom were actually named Edward or Edgar, who joined mostly so they could eat and have a place to stay. Crip—SPC Harris—was from Inglewood and was in prison before the panic. PFC Bingham, who they called 'Ham' was a personal trainer who used to love coming out to muscle beach before the panic—he actually lost it when they cleared out that part of the beach.
It was Phoenix's first real test as a platoon leader, trying to console that guy, while keeping the other guys on task.
That first day had been pretty easy, they'd cleared about five miles of oceanfront walk by lunchtime and were allowed a four-hour siesta. In the afternoon they started inland—Zack didn't like the sunshine so much—so they had a relatively easy time of it that first night. When they returned to camp that night and settled in, Phoenix felt some relief—this might not be so bad after all.
But as he drifted off—housed in a cramped tent with the forty or so guys in his platoon—listening to the steady beat of the ocean, he was reminded all too clearly of what they were preparing for.
May 16, 2053
Stand Up! SoCal
Southern California Greater Metropolis, California
[Shi-Long Lang doesn't reply. He just grins his lupine grin and takes off into the back of the house. He returns several minutes later with what looks like a sheathed sword and a long-handled spade with an axe blade on either side.]
This is the Standard Infantry Entrenchment Tool—a.k.a the Lobo… I like to think it's called Lobo like a wolf—but I heard it's actually short for 'lobotomizer' because it's great for smashing zombie heads.
[He turns the lobo in his hands and chuckles.]
What do you expect from something the Marines came up with? Now this beauty—
[He sets down the Lobo and holds up the sheathed sword.]
This is the M11Mod4 Mitsurugi.
[He draws the straight double-edged blade from it's black synthetic sheath. It's blade is dark gray with a smooth matte finish]
The blade is straight—like a jian—which is a traditional Chinese sword. Twenty-eight inches and round tapered at the tip. The blade is parkerized to prevent oxidation and you can see it has an eight inch ricasso for close quarters fighting.
A lot of guys liked katanas—but you know what? There's no art when you're fighting zombies. Having the double edge gave you more flexibility.
It's light—not quite two pounds. The pommel is designed for one or two handed use—which also gives it a unique balance.
[These were more effective than guns?]
Definitely. A bullet—even a larger caliber is rarely enough to knock down a zombie, and in close quarters which was much more common on a battlefield with the mindless walking dead, guns really didn't do you a whole lot of good.
This was light enough for most troops—including females. You could take out two or more with a well timed swing, just letting it follow through.
[He gazes lovingly at the blade as he slides it into it's sheath.]
You won't run out of ammo. You don't have to change out magazines.
April 16, 2022
Santa Monica State Beach
Santa Monica, California
They walked back toward the blazing lights set up around the encampment.
"Doing all right, sir?" Sergeant Rainier elbowed him as he came up from behind.
"Yeah," Phoenix said, "I'm fine. You?"
"It's bullshit," Rainier replied, "I'm pissed."
"It won't change anything," Phoenix glanced at his platoon sergeant, "We just have to keep going."
"We need to do something about Meekins, sir," the sergeant spat, "we could've lost somebody—"
"But we didn't," Phoenix interrupted him, "This hasn't really even started yet. I'm not going to start beating these guys down—"
"How else are you gonna train them?" the platoon sergeant grabbed him by one of his backpack straps and turned him around, "Sir, I know this isn't where you're coming from—but we don't have the luxury of giving these guys the benefit of the doubt."
"In this case we do, Sergeant," Phoenix's glare hardened, "So let's leave it at that. Brass is coming up to look at us tomorrow, we've been poking in the bushes and chasing out Zack day in and day out for a couple weeks—everybody's stressed."
"We can't afford it if Meekins—"
"What's your problem with Specialist Meekins anyway? I think he's pretty solid—the guy was a cop!"
The platoon shuffled wearily into the close confines of their tent. Phoenix dropped his gear and went to the shared latrine to wash up.
It made him throw up the first couple times—now it was like washing dirt off his hands. Funny how quickly one adapts to these things.
The rows of portable sinks were surprisingly empty—usually a run like today followed by the prospect of chow had the latrines packed with soldiers. He scooped up some of the pumice soap from one of several cans left out for their use and started scrubbing his arms all the way past his elbows—like a surgeon. Well, technically it was human guts—so yeah, he was kind of like a surgeon.
He was still rinsing suds from his forearms when the other guys from the platoon trickled in. Phoenix looked around quizzically at them, none of them seemed very willing to make eye contact with him.
"Guys?" Phoenix grabbed his towel and began wiping his arms, "Come on, guys…"
Phoenix yanked off his filthy t-shirt and balled it up with the towel—man he could use a nice bath. A soak in the tub. One night without the grime and the stink and the never-ending sand.
He stopped Sergeant Rainier on his way out, "We'll pow-pow in fifteen minutes."
"What about chow?"
"This won't take long," Phoenix turned away from him as he spoke and headed back to their tent.
It was deserted in there—well everyone had gone to the latrine after him…. He didn't dwell too hard on this as he made his way toward his cot and went to dig out a clean t-shirt. He sat on the cot and pulled the shirt over his head and that's when he noticed the sobbing.
Phoenix stood and pulled his shirt the rest of the way on and looked around the deserted tent. Wait, there was one guy lying in his rack. Phoenix grimaced and went to his side immediately.
Meekins was tied up to the cot so that his feet and arms were extended and he'd been gagged with what looked like some dirty socks. He was crying and shaking.
Phoenix pulled his utility knife from the sheath on his belt and started to cut him free. He could feel the anger boiling up in him then, realizing that his platoon had felt the need to take matters into their own hands. He tore the rag from Meekins's mouth and the lanky young man coughed and sputtered.
"Are you okay?" Phoenix put a reassuring hand on his back.
Meekins nodded, still sputtering.
"Who did this?" Phoenix's glare turned hard and he frowned, but Meekins only shook his head.
"You're not—! Just tell me who did this, Meekins!"
Meekins sobbed harder and shook his head more emphatically.
Frustrated, Phoenix stood and pointed toward the tent exit, "Just! Just go get cleaned up!"
They started trickling back into the tent about ten minutes later. Phoenix was sitting on his cot staring at the lobo he'd discarded beside his bed and frowning blankly. The sharpened edges took on the natural color of the carbonized steel it was made of and stood out almost white against the blackened metal parts of the rest of the tool. Except where there was still some red and brown from the blood. He didn't stir as his soldiers gathered around him.
The edge of the spade had one golden hair stuck to the ichor on the blade it teased the air as it tried to float away.
"Captain?" Sergeant Rainier was right in front of him, arms crossed and grim, "You wanted to talk to us."
Phoenix sighed and then looked around at them in turn. He stood slowly, frowning, and brought his hands to his hips.
"This will only take a few minutes," he began and sighed again, "Good job today—every day. This shit sucks… I know that every day we go out there you're trying your best. Everyone is trying their best. But we're a team. But the next time anyone feels the need to take matters into their own hands you're going to wish you hadn't."
He clenched his fists because his hands were starting to shake, "I don't care whether you all had come to a consensus or if it was only one or two out of the group—this whole platoon is going to feel it. Do you understand me?"
"Sir, yes sir," came the chorus from the group.
"Kaye…" Phoenix paused to try and calm himself down, "Go get chow before they run out of whatever's good."
He sat back on his cot as they left the tent. The golden hair on the lobo had caught his attention again as it strained against the sticky filth that held it to the blade. He blinked. He wasn't sure if it had been a boy or a girl. But it was at least eight—no more than ten years old. Phoenix swallowed and then reached for his used towel and dirty shirt and wiped at the spade on the lobo before shoving it under his cot so he didn't have to look at it.
It's funny the things you adapt to…
A/N: OMG! Scarrrrrryyyyyyy!