Z-Day (Book 3): A Place For War Read online

  Pete stuck his hand out again. The doctor looked at it for a moment, then shrugged and shook it.

  “Doc, can I interest you in a job?”

  The other man frowned. “What kind of job, exactly?”

  “Saving the world, of course.”

  May 15, 2026

  Forward Operating Base Hope—Southwestern Indiana

  Z-Day + 3,131

  “—so, in the end, it all worked out. We ended up bringing Sandy, his wife Kendra, and their son along. I figured we could hook him up with Eberman and the rest of the CDC people. Pooling their talents should speed up the process of going through all the data that Miles and the SEALs recovered.”

  Vincent leaned back in his chair. “All things considered, you made the best of a tough situation, Major.”

  “The men don’t deserve any repercussion from what happened, General. As far as they knew, they’d come upon the second coming of Adolf Hitler or Saddam Hussein. That’s why I was oblique in my report,” Pete said. He kept his tone firm, refusing to budge on the issue.

  He waved a hand. “Not a concern, Major. What I do need to know is this—are you mission ready? The situation is still fluid. Based on the intelligence your team and Dr. Eberman provided, we need to begin the process of retaking and holding CONUS before the infected evolve to a point where we can’t destroy them.”

  “Oorah, General. I’m good to go. The alphas are—” Pete took a deep breath. “They’re jarring. I got used to looking down my nose at the enemy over the years, sir. I won’t make that mistake again.”

  “Understood. We’re building up ordnance and equipment for the next operational phase, but I need you to make another road trip. Master Sergeant McFarlane can run the show while you’re gone—well, Sergeant Major McFarlane, I should say. Based on your report, we’re passing out a few promotions. By the time you get back, we should be ready.”

  “Well deserved,” Pete said. “Thank you, sir. Operational details?” The general opened one of his desk drawers and pulled out a three-ring binder. Pete raised an eyebrow at the weight of the mission packet as he accepted it. “‘Operation Gateway’, eh?”

  “We pull it off, it’s going to be a beautiful sight. Keep that close-held for now. We don’t have to worry about zulu using intelligence gathering, yet, but there are a lot of moving parts on this mission. I’d like to avoid any morale issues if we hit any speed bumps along the way.”

  “Sounds good. Where am I headed?”

  Vincent grinned. “You’ll love it, Major. I’m sending you on a tropical vacation. I want you to take Dr. Scopulis along to visit the GenPharm prison camp. I’m hoping that the shock of seeing his face will shake something usable loose. If he’s as willing to cooperate as you say he is, we’ve got a place for him.” The major said nothing and frowned. Vincent waited. Finally, Matthews made eye contact and cocked an inquisitive eyebrow. “I’m all ears, Major.”

  “Two requests, sir. First, I’d like to take Agent Guglik along. I understand she has some familiarity with the, ah, inmates. Between her and Sandy, I think we’re likely to get better results.”

  Vincent didn’t even have to consider it. “Done. And?”

  “I’d like to bring my nephew Miles, as well. He may not have been in the medical division, but he got in and around enough of the GenPharm campus that he should have some experience with most of the faces. If someone’s been playing possum over the years, he may have some insight as well.”

  He held back a grin. “Agreed, but you’ll have to make a slight detour if you want to fetch him. He’s not here.”

  Pete frowned again, but it was a confused expression, now. “I don’t understand.”

  “We haven’t been resting on our laurels while you were gone,” Vincent said, smirking. “We had an interesting expedition of our own, as a matter of fact.”

  Chapter Two

  March 20, 2026

  Lake Erie, offshore of Kelleys Island, Ohio

  Z-Day + 3,075

  The surface of the water wasn’t all that choppy, but the bow of the RHIB—rigid-hulled inflatable boat—still pitched through the waves enough to give Miles a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  It was unseasonably warm, though the cooling mist from the front of the boat compensated for the intensity of the sunshine. Once they were back on land, the gloves, leather jacket, and heavy pants would be sweltering. But the alternative was the risk of infection. On the TV shows, everyone wore short sleeves. Weather be damned, in the real zombie apocalypse, you bundled up when you were out of cover.

  Of course, you needed more than clothing to stay alive, these days. Miles carried his old, familiar load out of a suppressed carbine and .45 ACP pistol as well as a backpack stocked with food, water, medical supplies, and extra ammunition. He gave Vir a sideways glance and assessed the wicked-looking submachine gun his friend had strapped to his chest.

  “Finally gave up on the twelve-gauge, huh?”

  The Sikh flashed white teeth in the dark forest of his beard. “A gift from my new friends in the Corps of Engineers. They were unhappy that I was going along with you, and doubly so when I told them I preferred a shotgun.” He patted the gun. “A marvel of construction—a bit louder than I’d prefer, but still quieter than what I’m used to. Heckler and Koch MP7A1.”

  Miles shook his head and tried not to laugh at the other man’s excitement. It wouldn’t have hurt Vir’s feelings if he’d told him that he was way down on Miles’ list of people he wanted at his back on a mission. The reason he’d settled for the other man was the fact that his Uncle Pete had taken Charlie with him on a mission to California. Their absence eliminated two of his top three options. His father-in-law, Larry, was still recovering from a bad stab wound to the leg, so the usual suspects he’d become accustomed to working with over the years were out of the question.

  Not that Miles was scraping the bottom of the barrel with Vir. He’d spent most of the past few years guarding the wall, which took a special kind of toughness. Then there was the undercover mission he’d taken on to root out the community’s incipient drug problem, and he’d gotten more than a passing grade, there.

  Vir will do fine. And if he didn’t, for some reason, at least the Marines had been generous enough to provide a couple men to back them up. Miles didn’t know either of them personally. At the very least, they were in the same chain of command as Captain Hanratty. The Marine officer had made the initial contact with Hope and shepherded both groups through, well, an alliance, Miles supposed. The returning military had not pushed to take over any of the leadership from the civilian survivors, and if they’d been assertive, it had mostly been in the form of beefing up defenses and pushing out patrols.

  The survivors hadn’t needed much convincing after the evolved infected had shown that the fences and barricades they’d placed so much faith in posed no more than a momentary obstacle.

  Which, in part, was why they were here. Walls and rivers were great. After the infected came within a hair’s breadth of claiming their compound, more than a few of the survivors had decided that relocating to an island several miles offshore was even better. The Marines were in, as well, if it meant a more secure harbor. They’d had problems of their own at their own initial port of entry.

  On a map, Miles thought that the shape of Kelleys Island was a bit like Australia, save for a peninsula jutting out from the northwest corner. That extension was their intended insertion point. The island’s population had numbered a bit more than three hundred before Z-Day, but the narrow isthmus had been one of the less populated areas according to Vir.

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Bed and breakfast, huh?”

  “On the south side of the island, yes. It was quite relaxing.”

  Miles turned back as the helmsman steered the boat closer to shore. “Huh. You know, now that I think about it, I’ve never taken a vacation with Tish.”

  Vir sounded surprised. “Never?”

  “We got married after Z-Day, man.
None of the good honeymoon spots were taking reservations.”

  “I suppose that explains her enthusiasm at relocating.”

  “To an extent,” Miles agreed. He scanned the shoreline as the boat drew closer. The tip of the peninsula was rocky and ill-suited for landing, but there was a strip of sandy beach about halfway up the east side. It was narrow, overhung by trees, which made him a bit nervous. Who knew what sort of things lurked in those woods? Then again, two weeks ago you were stuck on top of an office tower with no way out. Jumping in the lake and swimming away is a huge improvement.

  The Navy guy piloting the RHIB idled the dual Caterpillar diesels that drove the boat. The senior of the two Marines nudged Miles in the shoulder as they drifted closer to the island. “We’re on point. You two stay close.” Sergeant Byers was an intense-looking white guy with a trio of parallel scars running down one cheek. The other Marine, Corporal Lawrence, was a squat and powerfully-built black man with the best poker face Miles had ever seen. He returned Miles’ look with a placid stare that eliminated any desire he might have had to be flip with Byers.

  Miles glanced at Vir, and the other man nodded after a moment. “After you, Sergeant.”

  Byers grunted, and Miles turned his face to hide a smirk. The Marines had spent most of the apocalypse running and gunning from the few holdouts they’d managed to secure on islands around the world. They hadn’t had to concern themselves with holding a position for years while outnumbered thousands to one. Byers’ attitude wasn’t much different than the one the fallen SEAL, Janacek, had taken during the mission to GenPharm. Hard-earned muscle memory and survival skills hadn’t made him the equal to the trio of operators who’d escorted him, but he’d earned their respect, at least.

  Sand scraped the bottom of the boat, and Byers, true to his word, led the way. The water came up to the middle of Miles’ thighs. It still held a bit of winter chill, but he refused to let himself worry about it. He was more concerned with staring down into the murky water to determine if the lake bottom had imprisoned any infected. Save for a few skittish fish, the way was clear, and Miles powered his way through the water and up onto the narrow beach. Considering the sand, he shrugged to himself and took a knee. His pants were already soaked. If everything went according to plan, they’d be on the island long enough for them to dry out. A little sand on top of the wet wouldn’t kill him.

  The RHIB’s motor came back to life. Raising his eyes to focus on the trees, Miles dipped the barrel of his carbine down to let any water drain out. The Marines, having conducted their own scan, signaled for the foursome to move forward. Vir stepped up to Miles’ right side. Nodding his readiness, Miles stood and ducked into the trees right behind the Marines.

  As they moved further from the beach the sand transitioned to topsoil and the tree- and ground-cover grew thicker. The island was quiet but not abandoned—wind rushed through the trees, and he heard the chirping of birds all around. That wasn’t, in and of itself, a good sign. Birds were usually too fast to make for meals, so the infected tended to ignore them unless they were dumb enough to stray into reach. Unlike the dead that ruled most of the Earth, their feathered friends weren’t getting any smarter.

  The Marines slowed as the path grew more obstructed. The canopy overhead was thick enough that the undergrowth was light-starved and sparse, but there was still plenty to pick through. In the ethereal stillness of the woods, a snapping tree branch would be akin to ringing a dinner bell.

  Vir and Miles fell into a pattern. Check the ground in front for limbs or other obstacles, take a step or two while scanning to the side. They were far enough from the beach that the sound of the waves had fallen off to a whisper. If not for the intermittent birdsong, Miles might have thought it was too quiet.

  Byers and Lawrence froze, and both men raised their hands in the universal freeze gesture of a clenched fist. Vir took half a step forward, realized the others had stopped, then imitated Miles.

  “Easy,” Miles muttered. He twisted around, checking behind them, but they still seemed alone in the trees. After what felt like an eternity of stillness, Byers beckoned the two of them forward. Silent, he waved a hand to indicate what prompted the call to freeze.

  The tree before them was one of the bigger ones in the forest—Miles doubted he could have put both arms around it. At the base, it swelled out to nearly double that size, but it wasn’t due to the wood.

  The fallen bodies had succumbed to decay, and the collapsed piles of bones were woven through with weeds and other foliage. A gape-mouthed skull leered from the top of the pile, where the body of the infected had collapsed against the trunk of the tree. Green leaves jutted from the nasal cavity, eye sockets, and the star-shaped entrance wound in the forehead.

  The bodies of the attackers hadn’t endured, but the obvious subject of their attention had. The tree house had a few sprung boards and the wood was beginning to turn gray, but Miles could see the obvious care and skill invested in its construction. It was too high off of the ground to see if it remained occupied. The very small hand clutching a rusting rifle that dangled over the edge above a coiled rope ladder told him everything he wanted to know.

  Trina’s hands are about that big, a detached part of his brain noted. Call it six to eight years old, depending on if it was a boy or girl.

  A sour taste rose in his mouth, and he shook off the urge to vomit. When he lowered his eyes from the tree house, he found Byers staring at him.

  “You good?”

  Miles dug deep and winked. “Charlie Mike, Marine.” The NCO gave him a dubious look but finally nodded.

  “Stay tight. We’re halfway to the road,” Byers ordered. The plan was to loop a few miles south to their initial waypoint. Depending on how things looked there, they’d push further into the more populated areas of the island or fall back to the RHIB.

  The sergeant turned and led them past the tree and its memorial to the last stand of an unknown child. This entire venture would have been a hell of a lot easier with a helicopter, but the Marine higher-ups had turned conservative after losing an irreplaceable Black Hawk during the Cincinnati mission.

  As the trees thinned and they stepped into an overgrown backyard, the reason for the child’s retreat to the tree house became apparent. A single-story ranch house stood before them. Overgrown, waist-high grass rippled in the breeze off the lake, but it didn’t hide the blood-smeared siding and shattered windows. The French doors leading to a small deck were particularly abused—the left-side door leaned inside of the house, supported by a single hinge.

  “Worth checking?” Vir murmured. Miles shrugged.

  “Not now,” Byers said. “Eyes on the grass. Single file.” He eased into the backyard, sweeping foliage aside with the barrel of his rifle before each step.

  No shit, Sherlock. Miles pressed his lips together to hold his snark back. The zombies didn’t need legs to be dangerous, and even the ones that laid down to hibernate could burst into sudden movement if a potential meal presented itself. He and his fellow survivors had figured that out during the first spring.

  Vir gave him a wink and a shrug, and Miles shook his head as he turned to follow. He flipped his rifle onto semi but kept his finger off the trigger. It was still one less step to take if they had to go loud. On the bright side, Byers and Lawrence were plowing the road, so all he had to do was keep his eyes to either side. Charlie had dubbed the tell-tale signs a crawling zombie made in overgrown grass ‘worm tracks’ back in the day, and the thought made him smile, now.

  Hope things are going smoothly wherever you are, brother.

  The quartet bottlenecked into the narrow space between the side of the ruined ranch and an age-rippled fence. Miles pressed himself closer to the wood as they went, keeping his eye on the dirt-smeared windows on this side of the house. Curtains shrouded most of his view inside, but he got the impression of overturned furniture and motes of dust floating in intermittent beams of sunlight.

  Byers jerked to a halt, and the re
st of the group twisted around at the sudden explosion of noise. Wings flapping, a massive bird erupted from a hidden nest in the grass and made for higher ground. After a moment of stunned silence, the sergeant muttered, “Damn.”

  Miles ignored the Marine and the echoes of the bird’s startled flight. He had his chin tucked into his chest with his eyes closed, and he strained to listen with every bit of skill he’d gained over the years. In all the old movies and TV shows, zombies moaned or hissed. Real zombies didn’t need to breathe, which brought new meaning to the term ‘silent but deadly.’

  “House,” Vir murmured, and Miles nodded before he realized he wasn’t even sure if his friend was looking at him. He hadn’t heard anything so much as he’d gotten the vague sense of something moving from the front of the house toward the rear. Sometimes it wasn’t so much about the actual noise as it was the sense of vibration.

  “Back door,” he agreed. Neither of them paid any heed to the Marines. They reacted with well-honed muscle memory, pivoting to face the way they’d come.

  “I’ll take lead,” Vir said. He considered the compact submachine gun he cradled for a moment before slinging it over one shoulder and drawing a wickedly-curved knife from under his jacket. The blade was about the same length as Miles’ forearm. For his Sikh companion, the kirpan was a literal article of faith.

  Its utility against the dead was a pleasant side benefit.

  Vir crouched near the rear corner of the house, while Miles stayed near the fence, his rifle at low ready. He took a quick look over his shoulder, but the Marines had fallen into defensive postures of their own. Lawrence faced the front of the house, while Byers took watch over the rear. When the sergeant noticed the look, he gave Miles a calm nod that was pure business.

  Well, it beats the way he’s been acting. He turned back to cover Vir. A couple of thumps sounded, back near the shattered doors, and he tucked the stock of his rifle more tightly into his shoulder. The sound of feet dragging through the grass made swishing noises, and Vir pressed his body against the side of the house, waiting at the corner.