Sci Fi & Fantasy / Up From the Depths

                  
                  UP FROM THE DEPTHS

Authors note; to get a better picture of the world this story takes place in, it’s recommended to view the remake of Dawn of the Dead 2004.  The montage that takes place at the first part of the film was used to generate this story.    

The Ohio Class submarine displaces about 30-32 feet when submerged and stands about 40ft tall not counting the ‘sail’ or antennas. By removing the missile tubes and changing the designation to ‘726’ it identifies the vessel as a Special Operations Force or SOF transport/asset. Definitions  can be found in the last part of this story listed as ‘Up From the Depths; Terms and Abbreviations’.
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  PROLOGUE

It started with a bite.

The first case of symptoms was shrugged off as just a bad infection, some new strain of the tetanus virus or a reaction to the injury. Then the deaths started. Doctors were reluctant to admit what was happening was something they had not seen before. At Glenview General Hospital, Doctor George Baker, a third year resident was the physician lucky enough to have patient zero or rather the victim of patient zero. A male, 25-30 years of age had been admitted to the ER early that morning with a bite to the hand. The report went on to state that said bite was not self-inflicted and that patient had received it from another person, presumably a vagrant with many kinds of systemic infections based on the blood screen that had come back.

        Baker, a tall, prematurely balding, dark-haired man, at the end of his 14hour shift, reviewed the admitting notes, matching them to what was on the patient chart. Shortly after admission, the patient complained of pain, nausea, and spiked a high temperature. Baker had prescribed a wide spectrum anti-biotic hoping to counteract what looked like an infection. Within one hour, the patient began convulsing then went into a coma, vital signs plummeting. Not able to interrogate the patient further as where and from whom the bite had originated, Baker sent the patient to ICU in hopes that a cause for the change in condition could be found. Less than 45 minutes later, the patient died. Per hospital procedure, the body was moved to the morgue where it would be stored pending an autopsy.  Enroute to the morgue, the body ‘woke up’, attacked the orderly and several other members of the medical staff before finally being shot several times by hospital security and local police.

        All across the nation, these cases began appearing, in small towns and major cities. Bite victims arriving at local rural clinics; urgent care facilities and major hospitals. All with the same symptoms and all with the same final results.  Within a 24hour period, the amount of victims was so staggering hospitals were soon overwhelmed. Doctors, normally calm, tried to see patterns forming in the rate of infection. The younger ones who had never seen such a thing, as if the more senior had themselves, went online and posted the symptoms and results to fellow classmates and other medical facilities. Soon reports of reanimation of the bite victims began to flood websites and chat rooms. When more of those reports began to appear in the media, other reports of panic and rioting soon followed.  Reports of attacks at hospitals with armed security and police responding. Calls of attacks in and around the vicinity of major public gatherings. New victims began appearing in droves as the result of these incidents. Soon the Center for Disease Control was called in. Once the CDC established that there was some form of virus present, they spent several hours reviewing the initial reports while more and more police responded to unrest in different parts of the country. By the time the CDC had some vague idea of what the cause of all this disorder was, it was too late to do much but order some more intense testing. Large cities became the scene of mass rioting; citizens clogged the streets, freeways and hastily organized emergency shelters in an attempt to get out and away from the problem. Civil disorder became the norm. Televangelists preached the end of the world; state governors activated the National Guard and directed that all citizens stay indoors for their own safety. The situation deteriorated very quickly. Bite victims now roamed in packs seeking more victims to add to their numbers.  The president ordered all active military units not involved in overseas deployments, to assist the civilian authorities and National Guard units in securing vital areas of the country. Martial Law was discussed in those areas most hard hit.  Power plants, water filtration facilities, airports, bus stations, train stations and hospitals became armed enclaves, guarded by soldiers and police. The President then directed base commanders to open their medical centers and installations to house, aid and care for displaced residents.

        The Center for Disease Control was still formulating its theory as to how victims spread infection and why reanimation occurred. They were mostly fumbling in the dark until they discovered a connection between bite, infection, death and reanimation. They determined that a bite victim became an infected carrier, passing the infection to others through the transmission of a bite. Bite victims needed to be quarantined and studied. The most severe infected would need to be destroyed.  Immediately they began to send out this information by any means available. With cell phone towers overloaded, landlines clogged, the airwaves filled with speculation and end of the word prophecies, the message was lost in the clutter. Without that knowledge, these military installations were ill prepared to handle the ensuing results. Bite victims as well as non-bite victims shared space in hospital waiting rooms and shelters. The result of such events led to several military installations being overrun by what the media called rioters, then infection carriers until finally someone coined the term zombies. Contact was lost with these bases and posts as the soldiers, sailors and airmen stationed there fought off the infected as best they could. When the CDC results made it to the proper authorities then finally the pentagon, it was disseminated, reviewed, discussed, and analyzed before passed to units and personnel on the front line that could have used it minutes, hours, day’s prior.  

  It was too little, too late.

                                                      UP FROM THE DEPTHS

        While the rest of the country was reeling from news of mass rioting, civil disorder and alleged re-animation of the dead, an Ohio class former ballistic missile submarine, a ‘boomer’, was gliding silently beneath the ocean’s surface, blissfully unaware of the extent of chaos that was happening. This boomer, the last of the Ohio designation, one of the original boats of this class, although now the first production model was nothing more than a collection of high dollar razor blades. This boat had been decommissioned and re-designated as a SSGN, given the numerical designation 726. The ‘Sherwood Forest’ of missile tubes removed. In their place, a two-section dive out ‘locker’ installed, encompassing the entire two-story space left from their removal.  This locker was built for use by special warfare teams, SEALs and SDV units, and provided enough space for both units to work comfortably and have plenty of room for storage, including a ‘wet’ lock out section for dive operations.

        What had started as an experimental project to use the aging ballistic missile boats as long as possible, this was the next generation of special warfare stealth delivery and recovery. This class of boat defined the word quiet when submerged.  Some of the older boats, the Ethan Allen class, had exterior storage compartments bolted to the outside deck that SPECWAR teams had to suit up, exit the submarine through an escape trunk then open the compartments to remove their gear. Others had been fitted with mounts that SDVs would be attached to, but again, the teams had to exit the vessel to get to their underwater conveyance.  At first, the idea was acceptable, but then problems arose.  The compartments were add-ons to the top deck of the sub, most were just barely rated for the depths that the boats operated at and frequently the hinges or clasps would pop open under pressure. None were covered in the sound absorption material that the hull was.  Luckily these incidents happened at times that stealth wasn’t a factor, as the banging of these components ruined the sound characteristics of the boat.  The idea to use the Ohio class came from a petty officer that was thinking about re-enlisting.  One day, he was walking by the quay and noticed the large, old boomers tied up, wallowing in the tide like pregnant water buffaloes. He took the weekend and came up with an idea that he thought would never get past his Officer in Charge.  Strangely, within a matter of weeks, he was inside the E ring of the Pentagon giving a briefing to the COMSUBPAC, COMSUBALT and COMSUBEUR.  Nervous in front of the admirals, he stumbled over his conceptual idea but less than ten minutes into his dissertation; he was so engrossed that he almost forgot whom he was talking to. Within a month the first of the last big missile boats was being retrofitted and the young petty officer had been promoted to Chief petty officer.  His ideas and plans led to the evolution and conversion of the former missile boat, Claggett. This was to be its last cruise for this old boat as a new model; smaller, more capable, with better stealth characteristics and sonar image was coming from drawing board to open ocean in just a matter of months.

        The Claggett was returning from an exercise to test a new SPECWAR delivery method.   They had been operating under strict EMCON; simulating a wartime condition where contact with command would be detrimental to the safety and security of the mission. Therefore they had no normal communication with the outside world. In reality, the fault was due to a small $.39 cent fuse that had burned out without notice.  This little item controlled the red light that signaled a priority message from CINCPAC/COMSUBPAC. If the red light didn’t flash, the printer wouldn’t send the message but hold it in the buffer. Some civilian engineer thought that was a good idea and for the money his company was charging to build that particular system, he really didn’t care. The issue of a problem was never brought up as the red light warning system was built by a different contractor and it wasn’t part of the original design.  Due to the mass confusion resulting from the surface disorder, the low tasking priority of the Claggett, and the fact that it was no longer an active missile boat, no one at COMSUBPAC noticed that the Claggett failed to respond to the coded emergency message. A new petty officer, fresh out his ‘A’ School, scared, nervous, not knowing exactly who to tell about the failure to respond, finally assumed that the sub fell into the ‘out of service’ category much like the vessels being used to track whale migration patterns by the environmentalists.
  
Captain David Powell, Commander of the Claggett, a naval veteran who had come up through the submarine fleet and now had command of this vessel. This was his last cruise; he was finally looking forward to retiring after 21years of service and numerous commands.  Powell leaned over the chart table and mentally calculated the distance left.  His short-cropped hair just now showing faint streaks of gray, a set of half spectacles perched on top of his head.

“Diving officer, bring us up to periscope depth.”

“Periscope depth, aye sir.”

Powell moved easily towards the center section of the command bridge, his movements smooth like an athlete not those of someone who had two decades in the subsurface fleet, and operated the controls to raise the periscope. Powell tried to keep in shape but these days it was almost a losing battle. Somewhat of a fitness nut, he used every chance to workout when not deployed. He chuckled to himself about the pull up bar he still kept in the small shower in his private head.

“Sonar, any surface contacts?” he asked, waiting for the scope to rise to its pre-assigned height before he put his eyes to the rubber cups.

“Conn, Sonar, negative surface contact.”  Powell swiveled the periscope slowly, looking at the calm surface above. He was glad for the polarization filters were in place or the bright sunlight might have made him wince as it reflected off the water and into the expensive optics.

“COB, surface the boat.” Powell swiveled the handles upright on the scope and sent it back down. “Mr. Ridley contact command and let them know we’ve completed our testing and are returning to port.”

Chief Wilson, a burly man who was close to retirement and one that some of the younger sailors thought of as a father figure, leaned forward, relayed the order to the seaman manning the dive controls of the large vessel.  

“XO, you have the Conn, I’ll be in my quarters.” Powell stated as he went aft of the command area, down a small ladder, through a passageway to his quarters.

Further aft, just outside the wet locker/storage area, Lieutenant James Willis, SEAL team commander; team Shark was reviewing the reports of the completed exercise. He was seated at a small bench, attached to the new bulkhead that was installed outside the dive out area or ‘the Barn’ as his team called it. ‘The Barn’ was aptly named because of the large hydraulically operated hinged doors reminiscent of a barn when they swung open. Wearing his standard shipboard uniform, OD green Nomex flight suit, partially unzipped to reveal a black t-shirt, pant legs tucked into a pair lightweight Hi-Tec boots.  This bench was his little oasis of space amid the hustle of equipment being cleaned and stowed for the return trip. He was young by SEAL standards, having gone to BUD/S straight from Basic, no A school option, he had been in Navy ROTC in college enrolled in the SEAL Challenge and from there to BUD/S then SQT. He tried to grow a mustache to look older but only succeeded in looking like he had a thin line of chocolate milk on his lip. Willis was reviewing the results of the new delivery method, which looked promising. Occasionally, he would glance up at his team as they cleaned and stored equipment, sharing jokes or ribbing each other good-naturedly. His team was wearing a mix of uniforms, black BDU pants with the SEAL/UDT blue and gold t-shirt, others in UDT swim shorts with the same shirt, and a few with cut off woodland pattern BDU pants now made into shorts.  What stood out the most was the casualness that they had towards each other. The storage area outside the locker was painted in that bright, light blue/green color that was used to contrast with the now removed dark red missile tubes. His team chatted and joked good-naturedly as they worked. Willis looked up and caught the eye of his team chief, motioning him over.

“Billy, what’s this about a snag?” Willis asked Billy Rogers, team chief. Rogers, a short barrel chested man with more than ten years with the teams sported a shaved head under his baseball style cap with the SPECWAR emblem, a small red aquatic seal tattooed on his large forearm, walked over to where Willis sat.

“Ell-tee, its not that bad, one of the zodiacs hung up on the initial deployment.  One of those tie down straps popped and slowed down the ascent rate, boat crew had to bail some water out of it.  Damn thing almost inflated on the way up.”

“Thanks chief.  I’ll talk to Berry about that, it was his boat.”  Rogers grinned and walked back over to check on the dive equipment.  Paperwork is never done. With some more training, a little fine-tuning, the method would be a boon to the SPECWAR community. Willis returned to his review, making notes in the margins for his official report.

Further forward, in the communications compartment, the radioman did a standard check of his equipment and found the faulty fuse. He requested through his chief to get one from stores and fix the problem.  Along the way to stores he made a stop at the head then chatted with a shipmate in engineering. Finally reaching stores, he fumbled through the supply closet before finding the correct replacement.  When he got back to the radio shack, it was a good hour later.  He then took another 45minuted to carefully unscrew the faceplate, remove the burned out fuse, check the connections then insert the new fuse.  He put the old fuse in his pocket then ran a systems check to make sure the new fuse worked properly. He sent the coded message to COMSUBPAC notifying them that the Claggett was enroute to its homeport. He had just sent the message when the red light flashed informing him of emergency flash traffic.  At first he thought it might be another faulty fuse but then the SATCOM fax began spitting out several sheets of paper.  He glanced at the first page as it printed, after reading the first two lines, he notified the COB who then called Charles Ridley the executive officer.

A little forward of Willis and all the excitement, Powell was updating his personal log, catching up on paperwork and composing a letter to his daughter who was graduating this year from Stanford. They weren’t really close, not since his wife died. The cancer had eaten his wife up on the inside faster then projected. Powell had not been there for her final days.  His daughter, Allison, had sat by her mother’s side, hoping that her father would be there.  Powell was on an extended float, under orders by COMSUBPAC to evaluate a newly minted captain on one of the 688 class attack boats. When he finally got to port, his wife had passed and a rift had formed between him and his daughter.  Over the years he had tried to repair the damage, only succeeding in a truce with her in the last six months.  Powell had sat her down and told her the feelings he had for his wife, how he missed her little smile, the twinkle in her eyes, her companionship.  Halfway through his hasty speech, his voice broke, tears flowing from his eyes as he tried to make his estranged daughter understand the void that was left inside by his wife’s death. He blamed himself for being self-absorbed in his career. He had loved Olivia with all his soul but she knew that his heart would always be the sea.  Allison had started out angry with her father, the man who was never there in her life.  Angry with him for not being there when his wife needed him most. When his family had needed him.  Now she saw the man her father really was, the man her mother had seen.  She had comforted her father, letting him cry on her shoulder, realizing how selfish she had been and how caring he was.  Over the next several weeks, their relationship grew close to what a father/daughter should have.  She had helped him pack and deliver her mothers clothes to homeless shelters and church groups.  Then sat with her father in the empty house off base, watching him periodically get up and walk through the house before closing the door. She drove him to the base and helped him get settled in the Bachelor’s Officer Housing. She told him that she was graduating college soon and would appreciate him being there.  He agreed, telling her that he had only one more cruise, a few months out, then he was putting in his retirement papers.  Already in his mind, he knew that this was the best choice he could make.  On his desk next to his personal journal was the letter he was mailing to command, requesting retirement.  Powell looked at this letter, knowing that several of his friends, friends from the Academy, had retired much earlier.  He was proofreading the letter he had started to his daughter telling her he would be there the day of graduation when he was interrupted.

“Captain, flash traffic from CINCPAC.”  The 1MC speaker barked in Powell’s quarters.

“Pipe it down here, sparks.” Powell ordered.

“To all commanders. Naval units currently deployed have been ordered to assist civilian authorities when possible. National civil unrest and rioting has occurred in major cities. Naval forces are now at DEFCON 2.”
  
That announcement made Powell reach for a legal size notepad, pushing aside his previous paperwork, preparing to take down pertinent information.

“Vessels returning to port are to remain offshore as long as possible. Under no circumstances are you to dock unless the facilities have been secured and no rioters are present.  Rioters have taken control of several civilian port facilities and are to be considered armed and extremely dangerous.  Use extreme caution if any are present. They appear to be infection carriers. A list of symptoms is being sent to you via secure SATCOM fax.  If for any reason you need to go ashore, go well armed.  Any infected encountered should be avoided.  If contact is inevitable, engage with extreme prejudice at your discretion. Further information will follow.”

Powell sat there, listening; intent to hear what might come next.

“Until control of the situation can be attained on a national level, all units still operating will be under regional command to be determined by the onsite commanders.  That is all.”

Captain Powell had been taking notes at a furious pace, not wanting to miss out on any of the details.  He underlined the word communication, as his first priority was to establish contact with other ships and land bases so some sort of chain of command could be determined. He reached over and snapped the intercom to the bridge.

“Mr. Ridley, notify all department heads and the embarked SEAL commander to be in the ready room in 10 minutes.  Have Doc Brown there and bring a copy of the flash traffic with you.”  He released the button and took a deep breath.  Holy shit. What was happening? Why now?  He got up and went to his private head, splashed water on his face before drying his face and hands, grabbing his notes and heading to the ready room.

Powell conducted the briefing and answered any questions he might be able to, which weren’t many.  Most of the men assembled sat there with shocked expressions, except lieutenant Willis.  Internally he was shocked at what Powell described, but he kept his emotions in check, partially due to training but mostly because he had always had a poker face.  

“Sir, let me get this straight.” Lieutenant Spencer Peters, engineering section, as he read over his copy of the SATCOM fax. “Civilians are rioting and biting each other. Then, somehow, the bite victim gets infected and goes violent?” He shook his head, “I’m sorry sir, it just sounds like a bad movie.”

“Lieutenant Peters, thank you for your insight. No matter how outrageous it sounds, this is what is happening. If this was an exercise, there should have been an OP order referring it. If such an order was issued then this entire scenario is a drill. However, that is an assumption I’m not willing to make at this time. Its been suggested that we treat this as a viral/biological event. What we know is in the paperwork handed out to you. People are apparently attacking each other, biting, and the victims become violent shortly thereafter, apparently from infection. What I’ve read of the symptoms, it seems to work fast.  Civilian authorities are having a difficult time restoring order and have requested military assistance. We will do whatever we can to support their operations.”  Powell continued. “As you can see, section 4, third paragraph, it mentions that shooting the infected has no effect.” Powell paused to let that sink in.  “Officially we don’t shoot non-combatants.  In this case, we will view the infected as combatants if they don’t respond to verbal or warning shots. Failing acceptable responses, we will have no alternative but to engage them with appropriate force. Look at the bottom of section 4, it recommends shooting the infected in the head. That should be a last resort.”

Powell looked at Willis when before he continued. “From what Lieutenant Willis tells me, that’s against standard military training doctrine.  I think in this case, we’ll have to view each incident and then determine what level of force is necessary.” Powell looked at the assembled department heads.  “Any questions or comments?”

“Captain, before coming here, I had radio try to contact Port Winthrop.  Nothing yet sir.” Ridley added.

Powell nodded solemnly. The assembled men began talking amongst themselves.

“Very well then. Gentlemen.  You have your orders.  I want to see a complete list of our shipboard resources at 1400. Dismissed.”

All the department heads filed out except Lieutenant Willis.

“Captain.”

“Yes lieutenant?”

“I’d like to get a copy of the medical information for my corpsman and offer my men for strategic recon of any shore sites.”

“See Ridley before you head aft.”

Willis turned to go but stopped at the door.

“Dave? Is this shit for real?” he asked.

“Yeah Jim, it would appear so.” Powell confirmed.

Several hours later, all the department heads had returned their plans and Powell was reviewing them in his quarters with Ridley.

“The only good news is from stores and engineering.  Apparently we have enough food for 8months, maybe a year if we half ration.” Powell thought about how fortunate it was that the Claggett was not an operational boomer, with only half the normal crew, it increased their food stores. “This old tub is still listed as a missile boat and supply loads us according to that.  Engineering tells me the reactor was overhauled two months ago so we have prime fuel rods and the desalinization plant is operating at peak efficiency.”

Ridley nodded affirmation to all Powell had just read off before adding.

“Sir the crew has heard some of it and you know how scuttlebutt is.  They’re planning on watching some old zombie movie in the galley tonight”

“Whatever works for them.” Powell looked up at Ridley, “I want you to keep an eye on the crew for me and tell all the officers and senior enlisted to do the same.  We can’t afford for someone to lose it.”

“Aye sir.” Ridley copied down a note on the clipboard he held.  “One more thing, radio did have some sporadic contact about Fort Pastor on the civilian band.  What we could make out was that it was a displaced person center and then something happened at the hospital.  We’ve had no further contact. The civilian net is pretty chaotic.”

“I see.” Powell put his hand to his chin as he thought about how something could have affected an entire military installation and the secure comm. net.  “Have them keep scanning the civilian net, any information we can get will be beneficial.  Any luck with any other naval vessels?”

“We did contact a tender leaving Guam and a Coast Guard cutter on patrol in the Caribbean.”

“The tender we could use.  Out of Guam? Damn. That’s a long trip for them.  Any word on their crew or supplies on board?”

“Full complement.  They estimate 22 days until they can rendezvous with us.”

“22 days?  We can hold out that long no problem.”

“What about that cutter?”

“They were on a regular drug patrol and were heading back to port when they got a distress call from a civilian sailboat.  They report that two civilians were on board and something about the dead coming back to life and attacking the living.”

Powell looked at Ridley with a raised eyebrow.

“Obviously in some form of shock. Lets not spread that around.” If they only knew the truth, Powell thought, sure wish I did. “See if you can get some verification on that report. The civilians might have been under the influence of controlled substances.” He looked up at Ridley, “Keep that report under your hat.”

“Aye sir.” Ridley nodded and made more notes.

“Contact that cutter and let them know that we are attempting to reach Port Winthrop. Give them a sitrep, captain’s eyes only. Don’t tell them what type of vessel we are as yet. We’ll keep that on a need to know.”

“I’ll see to it.”

“Anything else Mr. Ridley?”

“No sir.”  Ridley paused before turning.  “Oh, there is one more item.  We’ll pass the lighthouse at Dante’s Finger just after dusk. It’s been tradition to contact the lighthouse keeper. We might be able to use that for independent confirmation of the situation.”

“Very well Mr. Ridley. Ring me in my cabin when we get in range.”

“Yes sir.”

“That will be all Mr. Ridley.”

“Very well sir.”  Ridley turned and left the captain’s quarters.

Meanwhile further aft.

“Ell-tee you bullshitting us?” Jimmy Webb, team sniper asked from behind his tinted Zeiss shooting glasses.

“No Webb, I’m not. This is the real deal, no shit.”

“Gawd damn Ell-tee.  What the fuck?” Hannaberry, the team commo expert added in his southern twang.

“Stow that shit Berry.” Rogers chided, pointing a thick finger at the man.

“You know what I know.  This is some serious shit. No doubt we will be in harms way.  Doc Johnson has all the details that command knows at this time. I want everyone to read it, make notes, review it, and discuss it amongst yourselves.  When I get something new, I’ll pass it on.” Willis turned to Rogers. “Chief with me.” He turned and walked to his onboard cabin, Rogers trailing behind. Willis wanted to talk to the senior enlisted man, pick his brains on the current tactical situation.

Just after 1730hrs.

“Sir, contact with the lighthouse keeper has been established.” The 1MC squawked in Powell’s cabin.

“Very well, I’m on my way.” Powell commanded.

“Hello Navy.  This is the lighthouse keeper, Dante’s Finger.  How goes it?”  The voice crackled over the speaker.

“Dante’s Finger, this is Naval vessel Archangel One One. Request station verification.”

“Naval Vessel this is the operator at Dante’s Finger Lighthouse, station ID is KWXRL9857. How copy Navy?”

“Station ID confirmed. “

“You boys a little jumpy this evening?” the old voice asked.

“Negative on that Dante’s. Just checking out the signal strength, got a newbie working the comm gear.”

“Glad to be of help Navy.” The voice chuckled.

Powell entered the Conn and walked over to where Ridley and Chief Wilson stood listening to the radio exchange. Powell grabbed his deck coat from the locker, slipped it on, zipped it, then picked up a set of image intensifiers from the shelf above the coats.

“Mr. Ridley. Slow to one half. I’m going topside to look around.”

“Aye sir, slowing to one half.”

Powell climbed the ladder inside the conning tower to the upper deck.  Fresh sea air and a strong breeze greeted him as he popped out the hatch, nodded to the deck watch then put the image intensifiers to his eyes.  He automatically scanned the horizon before focusing on the lighthouse off the starboard. He reached down and flipped the switch that would allow him to listen in on the radio chatter.

“Say Navy, can you spare a cup of sugar for an old sailor?” the lighthouse keeper was asking.

“You short of supplies there Dante’s?”

“Ayup. My supply ship is running late and I’m down to my hard stores.  Thought my radio was broke but then you called me.”

“Wait one Dante’s.” Powell heard the click as the inter-ship intercom kicked in.

“Captain. Request permission to send a shore party out and verify the conditions.” Ridley called up to the observation deck.

Powell thought for a few seconds, his eyes still pressed to the rubber eyecups of his optics as he stared at the lighthouse.

“Very well Mr. Ridley. Inform Lieutenant Willis he has a mission.”

“Aye sir.”

In the aft area.

“Get those zodiacs prepped.  Four man team per boat, Webb you and Lindsay cover our asses when we hit the rocks.  You all remember rock portage so now we get to do it for real ladies.” Willis directed the team as they readied themselves, checking weapons and equipment.

Rogers would take control of one boat crew and Willis would have the other. The two men had discussed at great length in Willis’ cabin how the deployments would go. In the event that they had to split into groups, Rogers would take command of the second group.  The SEALs wrestled the collapsed zodiacs or IBS, inflatable boat, small, out the hatch and onto the deck. The boats were inflated and tied off on the leeward side of the sub. Each man had an M4 with nightscope; the short barrel M16 that was slowly replacing the full size rifle, two with the 203, a 40mm grenade launcher attached. Doc Johnson had a MK48, a highly modified M249 SAW, the Belgian replacement to the older, heavier M60.  They all had sidearms, Willis’s team being one of the few who chose to go with the large frame HK MK23 in .45 instead of what the other teams preference was. A lighter, smaller version of the Sig Sauer model or even the M9 Beretta. They all wore the black BDU’s; supplemented with black tactical vests configured to what position they had within the team.

“OK ladies, saddle up.  We go in, check out the place, extract the lighthouse keeper if needed and exfil.  I want it to go by the numbers and no mistakes.  Gold team take the rocks, Blue team with me.”  As Willis spoke, each man checked his weapons, equipment, and ammunition one final time before making sure his face was blackened. Willis directed them to man their boats.  Powell watched from the tower as the SEALs efficiently boarded their small craft in the now choppy sea. The Claggett had moved closer to the lighthouse and the waves became stronger.  Willis paused before boarding to throw Powell a jaunty salute.  Powell returned it and Willis was off.

The SEALs lay along the gunwales of their rubber boats, one heading for the rocks at the base of the lighthouse. The other for the small concrete dock used by the supply ship. The only sign of their passing, a faint wake from the heavily muffled powerful engines. The first boat made the rocks and the point man jumped out to secure the boat while the rest of the crew dug their paddles in to hold the boat.  The second boat went around to the supply boat dock and glided up to the shore. Through the use of silent hand signals, Willis directed his boat crew.  Over the inter team comm net, two quick squelches notified him that the first team was in position.  The men crept silently up the dock, weapons ready, checking every shadow and darkened area.  Willis moved up to the door to the keeper’s house and motioned his men to take positions.  Two more squelches notified him that the rest of the team was ready. He took one last look around, motioned to Webb, stepped onto the small porch and knocked.

Willis was about to knock again when the door swung open and a grizzled old man stood there, dressed in a well-worn white turtleneck, jeans, thick soled solid boots and a pipe clamped between his teeth.  They looked at each other. The older man didn’t seem startled or even slightly fazed to see a blackened face man holding an assault weapon on his front porch, just puffed a few times on his pipe before speaking.

“Navy?” The old man asked around the pipe stem.

“Yes sir.”

“Well damn son, come on in, I’m not heating the outside.”  The old man swung the door open wider and Willis stepped inside. The keeper’s house was small, not much bigger than a cottage, the kitchen was made for one person, with an adjoining dining room filled with a folding table and some mismatched chairs that connected to the small living room that had a patched loveseat and an old recliner, a short hall led to what Willis assumed to be the bedroom and single bath. The door in the kitchen led outside to the short pathway and the lighthouse itself. The house smelled of aromatic pipe tobacco, brewing coffee and faintly, sea air.

“Coffee?”

“No sir.  I’m Lt. Willis. We’re here to get you out sir.”

The old man paused from pouring coffee.  He half turned. Willis could almost detect a slight mirth in the man’s voice.

“Get me out? Where we going lieutenant?”

“Sir, there had been major civil unrest.  Our job is to evacuate all civilians to a safe area.”

The old man handed Willis a steaming cup of coffee.

“Safe area? What you think this is? I heard what’s been going on. Even seen some of it on the TV before the signal went.  Seems to me this here is a safe area.”  The old man said as he sipped his coffee.

“Give me a minute.” Willis handed the coffee back and reached up to his throat mike.

“Saber Two Seven to Archangel One One”

“Archangel One One, go ahead Saber Two Seven”

“Saber Actual request secure commo with Archangel Actual.”

“This is Archangel Actual, go ahead Saber Two Seven.”

“Actual, civilian realizes situation. Request permission to designate this a safe zone.  Also request additional supplies and medical stores be distributed until such time as we can locate a more suitable area.”

Powell paused while he considered what Willis suggested.  He put the binoculars back up to his eyes and scanned the lighthouse island from point to dock.  A barren rock, small, secured easily, no place to hide, surrounded by water on all sides.

“Saber Two Seven, Archangel Actual.  Permission granted.” Powell called down to the Conn.

“Mr. Ridley, put us into the sheltered leeway behind the rocks then all stop. COB assemble a shore party and get a corpsman ready.”

“Aye sir.”

The Claggett moved into the sheltered area using the rocks and lighthouse as a buffer from the wind and choppy seas. The little cove was a slight anomaly that created a natural breakwater, shallow waves and calmer seas.

Over the next few hours, a relay of zodiacs raced back and forth to the lighthouse island, illuminated by the powerful searchlights from the submarine.  The little storage building was supplied with fuel for the generator and spare parts.  The storage areas in the house and lighthouse itself were filled with canned food and MRE rations.  A small group of sailors, one of them a lower ranking corpsman, volunteered to stay there and make temporary housing for any survivors that the Claggett might find.  The old lighthouse keeper, Amos Coffelt was very happy to have company and Powell promised him to locate a supply ship or return with the supplies himself.  As Powell was turning to leave, the old man handed him a picture.

“This is my grand daughter.  If you find her, can you keep her safe until you can bring her to me? She’s all I got left in this world.”

Powell took the picture, looked at the young, college age girl in it, so much like Powell’s own daughter, and then looked back at the old man.

“I’ll do what I can Mr. Coffelt.”

“Ayup. I wouldn’t ask any more.”

It was just after 2100hrs when the Claggett made the channel buoy.

“Mr. Ridley, any contact with Port Winthrop?”

“Negative sir.”  

“Anything on the civilian nets?”

“No sir.”

Powell had been on the tower for hours since leaving Dante’s Finger, constantly scanning the surrounding waters.  There had been no ship traffic, which was a little strange, considering the current situation.  As the Claggett turned to line itself with the deep section of the channel, Powell turned to look at the civilian shipyard as it passed by.  He scanned the freighters and cargo ships of all size, moored there and the docks; all lit up like a Christmas tree.  Something was wrong but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Maybe the sea air had lulled him into a sense of calm or apathy. As he scanned each of the vessels in turn, it dawned on him what it was.  No activity on the docks or the ships.  He watched the docks intently as they passed by. The screech of tires, glass breaking and gunfire echoed across the water. The deck watch swiveled as one to focus on the civilian dock.  They all watched as several people ran from a disabled van along the waterfront, firing at another group that appeared to be chasing them.  Powell focused on the pursuing group, shocked to see people with large chunks of flesh missing, some trying to run on legs that had no feet, arms hung slack like dislocated, all looked like rejects from a bad car accident.  He watched as several were shot but didn’t drop, just staggered as chunks of meat were blown off them.  He panned back to the running group and saw some of the men turn and fire, a couple stop and take careful aim, dropping a few of the chasers with headshots.  Finally he was galvanized into action when he panned beyond the running group to see that the dock ended in a high fence topped with razor wire.

“Mr. Ridley. All Stop!”

“All Stop Aye sir.”

“Get Lt. Willis up here.”

“Aye sir.”

Seemingly seconds later, Willis joined Powell on the tower.

“That group of civvies is fighting off a horde of infected. I want you to get them out of there and extract them to safety.”

Willis was watching the scene unfold as Powell spoke.  He saw the infected for the first time and realized what his team was up against.

“Hostile extraction. Sir. My men are ready for this.” Willis voiced his views aloud while a phrase from Sun Tzu came to mind, ‘know yourself and know your enemy.’

“I’ll hold position as long as possible, the current may move us some. Its pretty strong tonight.”

“Aye sir. My teams on it.” Willis handed the binoculars back and popped back down the hatch like a prairie dog.  He joined his team on the aft deck as they boarded their boats.

The zodiacs flew across the smooth water as the team raced to the end of the dock.  The gunfire had slackened as they drew closer.  They could see that the civilians were almost to the fence and that several of them had run out of ammo for their rifles and were using handguns.  A few even had tire irons or baseball bats.  The SEALs made it to the end of the dock, tied up their boats and started climbing up the pilings. A strange smell, more powerful then the salt air enveloped them as they got to the top of the wharf. Moaning could be heard from above as they climbed up.

Rogers was the first one to the top and directed Doc Johnson to start laying down suppressive fire with his MK48.  The civilians froze when the 48 started yammering.  As the rest of the team got to the top to of the dock, they added their weapons to the firing, effectively pushing back the zombie horde. Some of the undead that Johnson had shot were getting back up.  Webb started using his PSG1 rifle, dropping the closest zombies with well-placed headshots.  Willis had Hannaberry enlarge the hole in the chain link fence to allow the civilians to pass through quickly.  Rogers switched weapons with Johnson so Doc could check out the survivors as they went by. Willis realized what the strange new smell was, decay and rot. Coming from the hostiles they were engaging.

“Aim for the head!” Rogers yelled out over the moans coming from the encroaching mass. Adjusting his aim after seeing several zombies get back up after taking bursts to center mass.

More and more zombies seemed to be coming out of the warehouses, pouring off the tethered ships, moving in on their tenacious position, moaning, screeching and shambling forward.   Webb sighted on a zombie moving down the gangplank of a nearby ship, his shot went through the forehead then continued into the side of the head of another, dropping both and blocking the way for others bottled up behind the two. Mildly surprised, he swiveled to find more targets.

“Stand by to peel!” Willis yelled out, firing a single shot into the head of the nearest zombie.

“Grenade!” Rogers yelled, throwing his.

“Last man!” Doc yelled out as he pushed a civilian through the now widened fence hole.  

“Peel!” Willis yelled, switching to full auto fire, mowing down several dozen undead.

Rogers started to lay down cover fire from the MK48 as everyone else went to full auto fire, cutting huge swaths of the undead down. One by one they fired off a full auto burst, tapped the man next to them, then dove through the hole to the water below.

The two grenadiers popped white phosphorous grenades into the ever-growing horde, throwing an eerie light over the battle before turning and diving into the water. Powell watched from the sub as the white phosphorous grenades popped, colorful white streamers showering down to melt through the concrete and wooden pier, setting fire to several of the infected, who continued moving forward, unaware of the flames licking across their ragged clothes and undead bodies.

“Last man!” Hannaberry yelled out and dove through the hole.

Smith, the team demo expert, scrambled through the hole, stopping momentarily to hang precariously off the side of the wharf. He quickly set up some Claymore mines at the fence breech, connecting a radio trigger to the arming mechanisms.

“Smitty! We are leaving!” Willis yelled up to him, the zodiac bouncing and bobbing among the pilings.

Smith dropped into the water, surfaced and ran his arm through one of the rope handles that ran along the side of the first boat he was next to.

“GO! GO! GO!” he yelled.

The zodiacs swung around and sped out to the waiting submarine.  The team held their fire and watched behind them as the zombie horde reached the fence and pushed against it, the fence bowing out as more and more of them pressed against the ones at the front. Smith reached into his tactical vest, removed a small radio transmitter and pushed the button.

A white flash and a series of dull explosions blew the zombies to pieces as the M18A1 claymores detonated.  Small chunks of zombie meat was flung in all directions.  Several tried to get back up only there were no legs to stand on. Several more were ‘killed’ outright as the 700 ball bearings per antipersonnel mines penetrated their skulls and perforated their undead brains.

The medical staff and Doc Johnson checked out the civilians rescued only to find that their injuries were mostly cuts and scrapes, no bites.  Powell went down to the sick bay to talk to the survivors.  He ordered the Master at Arms to assign armed guards to the sick bay area, thereby minimizing contact between the crew and the new passengers until such time as a proper debrief could be done.  Powell stepped through the hatchway, as Doc Brown was just finishing up stitches on a nasty looking wound on a young mans forehead.  Sitting or standing were the rest of the survivors, eight in all.  

“I’m Captain Powell, CO of this vessel.”

“I’m Chuck” a tall kid with a local high school letterman jacket on replied. “And that’s my brother Bobby that your doctor is sewing up.” Pointing to the other boy, dressed in a lightweight jacket, jeans and dirty tennis shoes.

“I’m Steve.”  A tall lanky, blonde hair guy that had the knees of his jeans cut out a faded heavy metal group name on his shirt.

“That’s Julie over there.  We were at a party when all this shit went down.” He pointed to a dark haired girl sitting in a chair with an ice pack on her head.  She raised a hand and gave a weak smile and wave; Powell noted the hot pink fingernail polish and the nose ring.

“Stan, I used to work security at the docks.” An older guy, full head of gray hair, large belly and the remnants of a security uniform on, stepped forward to shake Powell’s hand.

“Pedro, I ran the roach coach for the night shift.” A short squat Hispanic man stepped forward without the trace of an accent, wearing a smeared apron, thin mustache and the remains of a hairnet.

“Norbert,” A light skinned black man in work jeans, heavy construction boots, orange safety vest and wide tool belt. ”I was doing some work down the road from the docks when those two,” he gestures to Steve and Julie.” came roaring up with this wild tale and then the ‘others’ showed up.” Others meaning the undead, “I jumped in their van with the rest,” he gestured to Chuck and Bobby, “but then we crashed at the docks.”

“Aaron, I was kind of like dumpster diving.”  A young kid, long hair that almost covered his eyes, dressed in dark jeans, a dirty white t-shirt and long overcoat, hung his head when he finished speaking.

“Yeah I thought so, I’ve been trying to catch your ass for months.” Stan said as he walked over to him.  “ But after you saved my ass, I think I can let bygones be bygones.” Stan stuck his hand out.

“What you say kid? We let it go?”  Aaron raised his head up shook his head to move his hair out of the way and flashed a smile at Stan.

“Sure man, no problem.” He said as he shook the older mans hand, his face reddening into a blush.

Powell watched the exchange and realized that this was group of survivors that had been through some serious shit.  Over the next half hour, he got some background on them as they each related their story of how they came to be where they were when Willis and his team intervened and saved them. Powell was being briefed on the injuries the group had and the projected time for recovery when the intercom beeped.

“Captain, radio contact with Port Winthrop established.”

“On my way Mr. Ridley.”  Powell excused himself from sickbay and headed for the bridge. He entered the Conn; Ridley saw him and flipped the switch to broadcast the transmission through the bridge speakers.

“Attention all vessels, this is Port Winthrop Naval base.  Do not attempt to pass by the restricted markers without being inspected first. The base is conducting a security lockdown. 100 percent identification check is in force.  This is not an exercise.  Deadly force has been authorized and any vessel will be fired upon without warning that fails to heave to. Attention all vessels. This is the Port Winthrop Naval base.  Do not attempt to pass by the restricted markers without being inspected first. The base is conducting a security lockdown.”  The message repeated.

“Captain, someone had to be there to start the recording.”

“How far are we from Winthrop?”

“About 45minutes sir.”  

“Slow to one third.”

“Aye sir.”

Powell went over to the chart table and looked at the computations written there in grease pencil.

Several tense minutes later.

“Sir, sonar contact bearing 195.” Powell reached up, pressed the push to talk button enabling him to communicate with the sonar department.

“Sonar, Conn, what you got?”

“Sir, single screws bearing 195, holding stationary.” Powell pushed another button on the overhead comm panel.

“Deck watch, any contact bearing 195?”

“Conn, Deck watch, I have lights at 195, looks like two vessels, stationary at inlet to Winthrop.”

Powell looked at Ridley.  

“Radio attempt to establish contact with vessels.”

“Aye sir.”

“Mr. Ridley I’ll be topside.  Have Lt. Willis meet me there.”

“Aye sir.”

Powell donned his deck coat, climbed topside and took the offered binoculars, focusing them on the smaller watercraft as his ship moved towards them.  Willis, still in his tactical gear, climbed up and joined him.

“What’s up Sir?”

“Sonar contact at the opening to the inlet.”  Willis picked up another set of binoculars.

“Sir, looks like Winthrop’s patrol boats. Any response from the radio?”

“Not yet.”

“What about the signal lights?”

Powell let his binos hang and called down for a signalman.  The young sailor popped up onto the tower and was briefed on what he needed to do.

“Flash them an authentication code.” Powell ordered.

Almost immediately a flashed response came back.

“Hold position.  Do not attempt to enter inlet without being inspected.” Powell read through the binoculars.

“Hold position?” Willis asked.

“Mr. Ridley, all stop.”  Powell called down then turned to Willis.  “Send your men aft and over the side.  Get me some hard intel on what’s going on here.”

“Aye sir.”  Willis popped down the hatch and made his way aft to brief his men.  Minutes later, a deck hatch opened and shadowed men scampered over the side of the sub with sea sleds.  The hatch was sealed before the men disappeared into the dark waters.

“Captain, sonar.  Single screw vessel approaching, second vessel still holding position.”

Powell watched as one of the small craft slowly approached the sub, stopping about 20feet off the starboard.  He could make out several armed personnel onboard.

“Ahoy submarine!”  A voice called out.

“Ahoy vessel!” Powell responded.

“Permission to come alongside!”

Powell glanced down the hatch at Willis who gave him thumbs up.

“Granted!”

“Do you have any infected onboard?”

“Negative!”

Powell motioned for some of his deck crew to throw out bumpers as the smaller boat came alongside and was tied up. Four armed men in Marine Corps duty uniforms, rifles, heavy body armor and helmets climbed on board and watched the deck crew. Finally a thin looking, pale younger man, in wrinkled navy khakis, stepped onto the sub deck and looked up at Powell and saluted.

“Sir, Lieutenant Commander Grant requests permission to come aboard.”

Powell just waved at him and the young man started inside the sail and up to the tower. The four Marines kept their positions on the deck.  The two men looked at each other before shaking hands.  

“Captain, am I sure glad to see you sir.” The young man said as he finished the handshake.

“Same here Commander.  What happened?”

“Well sir, it all started pretty simple.  We had some protesters at the outer fence, the usual; idiots thought we had nukes here like they always do.  The Marine security team was on alert and some were at the gates assisting the civil service cops.” The young man’s eyes seemed to be slightly out of focus as his mind’s eye replayed the events. “Another group of protestors came out of the woods behind the first group.  Then this second group started screaming, moaning and attacking the first group.” Powell looked at the deck watch, they all appeared to be studiously involved in staring at the darkness with their image intensifiers, he could tell they had been listening to the young commander relate his tale. Taking Grant’s arm, he ushered the other man a little further out of hearing range before motioning him to continue. “We sealed the perimeter and the Marines locked down everything.  We had enough time to get the civilian workers to help us move jersey barriers to block the main gate and then the Marines set razor wire on that.  The perimeter is sealed up really tight, nothing gets in and if anything does, the Marines have orders to shoot on sight.  Thankfully this isn’t a large installation and most of the gates had already been sealed due to budget cuts.”  Commander Grant paused a little to catch his breath.

“Where’s Rear Admiral Harrington?” Powell asked.

“The admiral’s dead sir so is the executive officer and most of the staff.  They were off base when IT happened. I tried to call them on their cell phones and was on the phone with the admiral when it just went dead.  Sir I think that the admiral was attacked and killed.  He said something about a car accident in front of him then nothing.”  Grant paused again as if remembering the event.

“What about the civilian authorities? Didn’t any of the local police try to stop it?” Powell asked.

“Yes sir, they tried.  There were a few state troopers watching the protestors.  They called for backup and then tried to break up the attackers.  Those people just tore them to ribbons.  One trooper made it back to his car and they just ripped him out of it. Looked like they ate him sir.” Grant paused to swallow, his face white.  “Then the local sheriff sent some cars but the same thing happened. We tried contacting command after that but all the lines were overloaded. We switched to the civilian net, tried implementing SCATANA but that was just as bad. We got a coded message from CINCPAC about the rioting and infection so I ordered the Marine officer to secure and reinforce the perimeter.”  Grant stopped and took a deep breath.  “Sir, most of the civilian workers have families on the outside.  I have them quartered in the old Base Exchange building with shore patrol covering the entrances and the Marines assisting.  I didn’t know what else to do sir, I’m just an admin guy.”

“You did fine Commander.  Who’s in charge of the base now?”

“That would be you sir.”

An hour later the Claggett was tied up to the dock and some basic maintenance was being done. Willis had recalled his team from their recon mission and now all the remaining officers, the head civilian workers from Port Winthrop and the officers from the sub were in the headquarters building briefing room.

“OK you all know the current sitrep.  Any of you have anything to add?” Powell asked after introductions were made.

“Sir, I’d like permission to form recon teams and begin combing the local area for survivors, supplies and equipment that we could use.”  Burgess, a tall, large built man with a high and tight haircut, dressed in the MARPAT camouflage pattern utilities, Commander, Marine Security Forces, Port Winthrop.

“I’m sure you would captain.  I want you to work with Lt Willis on that and present a plan to me later today.”

“The base medical station is well supplied and we can handle most anything.” Doc Brown, now the acting base resident doctor added, seated next to the chief hospital corpsman from Port Winthrop.

“Me and my workers want a chance to help out, look for survivors, our families, whatever.  Don’t like being under house arrest, if that’s what you want to call it.” Warren Noel, a swarthy faced fat man, with large calloused hands, dressed in jeans and a LL Bean shirt, a Carhart jacket hung on the back of his chair. A faded, dented and well-used yellow safety helmet on the table in front of him, the civilian worker’s supervisor.

“Mr. Noel, we’ll get to your part in all this very shortly.” Powell said.

“Captain Powell, Steve Hurgeson, civilian security.” An older man, thick, dark hair, in a white uniform shirt, epaulets, dark pants and Sam Browne duty belt with handgun, cuffs, keys, radio and ASP baton, completed with high shine paratrooper boots.

“Yes, Mr. Hurgeson?”

“Captain, I got twelve men, roughly trained in security, we were augmenting the Marine security detachment, handling passes and the main gate.”

“Captain Burgess, I want you to include Mr. Hurgeson on the inner security planning and see that his men know which end of the weapon the bullet comes out.”

”Aye sir.” Burgess made some notes on his paper.

“Now gentlemen the way I see it is pretty simple.  According to the last transmission from CINCPAC, we’re pretty much on our own.  I want verification of a secure perimeter at all times.  No one goes anywhere alone. Get every vehicle we have and check them out, get them mechanically sound, I don’t want any vehicle not starting or breaking down at the wrong time.  No soft sided vehicles.  Any hummer we have that doesn’t have hard sides or top, replace it with something that is, fabricate it if you have to, I don’t care how you do it just do it.  Mr. Noel, I hear some of your people are welders?” Powell received a nod from Noel before continuing. “OK then have them assigned to make armor for any vehicles that don’t have it.”

Powell paused and looked around the room.

“Secondly, once that has been done, I want a complete inventory of what we have, how long it will last and where we can get it. After that, we will begin to send out recon patrols to the surrounding towns and cities to look for survivors and supplies.  Primary on the list is foodstuffs, medical supplies, ammunition and fuel. In that order. We now have more personnel to feed and house. I want the base housing looked at. We need places to put potential survivors.” Powell looked around the room. “Anyone know how to run heavy equipment?”  A small show of hands from Mr. Noel and some of the civilian security personnel.

“Very well.  Mr. Noel, your job is to interview people and find out what they can do then send someone over to the Sea Bees compound and see what’s left and what you can use.  When you finish there, I want an estimate of how much material you’ll need to construct a concrete wall around this base, 12ft high, eight feet thick at the base, tapering to six feet thick at the top.”  Several people looked up at that with questioning eyes.

“I want this facility totally secure. No one knows how long this will last, we have nowhere else to go, our back is to the water.  We make a stand here.” Powell drove his point home by pointing down.

“And lastly, I want to see a working long distance radio system that we can get contact with someone in the civilian sector. There’s a water tower on base, see if you can use that to rig up an antenna.  By the end of today, I want to see estimates and readiness reports.  Dismissed.”

By the end of the week, the plan was already in action to enhance the perimeter and begin recon patrols of the surrounding town.  Several theories about why there hadn’t been more zombie attacks were brought up and discussed, the most common being that the closest town had at one time been a thriving community of over 12,000, supporting the naval base, but soon after defense budget cuts, it had dwindled down to only slightly less than 4000.  Construction of the wall had begun after it was determined that materials were already at hand to facilitate it.  The final plan called for the wall to have a slope to the outside, starting at the base but be straight up and down on the inside.  Lt. Willis and Capt. Burgess recommended that claymore mines be placed at five feet height along the outside with command detonation switches located at the central bunker, newly constructed just inside the main gate. Guard stations were every 50 feet along the top, close enough to provide mutual support in the event of an attack.  A successful recon/forage patrol had recovered the stadium lights from the local high school, several large generators of construction size from the local building contractors, all the medical supplies from the small community hospital, 4.2” mortars, ammunition, more weapons from the national guard armory, the local police station and the only sporting goods store in town. The grocery store and 24hour gas station were emptied and then boarded up. The minimal zombie presence was a great training aid for the Marines who conducted the patrols sometimes with Aaron who had become the master scrounger able to locate the most esoteric of items.

Because of the past protestor problem, the Marine security force had been equipped with the Cadillac Gage ‘Ranger’ patrol vehicle that they had used occasionally for perimeter patrol.  Modeled after the Chevy suburban, the Ranger was it’s big brother on steroids, it sported a 7.62 machine gun on the roof, a crew of eight, smoke grenade dispensers, fully armored, self sealing fuel tank, run flat tires, firing ports along the side, could have side skirts attached for crowd control that swung out and locked into place. It was heavy enough to prevent a crowd from tipping it over if they got close enough. The only downfall of this vehicle was fuel consumption.

At present, the base fuel stores were sufficient as several tankers trucks had been located and recovered at the truck stop just outside of town. These trucks were used to pump out the fuel from the truck stop and the only gas station in town. The patrol to recover those tankers had gone down like clockwork.  The Marines who were to breech the building all wore Damascus riot armor that had sat in storage for years. Similar to the Damascus hard shell cell extraction armor, this armor was several layers thick, had forearm, elbow, leg, groin, shin, chest and foot coverings and when completed with a large four foot by three foot shield, the Marines were virtually unstoppable.  The zombies who had remained at the truck stop for whatever reason were quickly dispatched when the doors were kicked in and the Marines entered with their shields and armor.  One Marine even had a zombie bite onto his forearm with no effect.  The riot armor was too thick for them to bite through; the Marine just dropped his shield, reached over to take the Kimber

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