CHAPTER 16

I-70 West of Baltimore, Maryland
 
“This is going to be a good one. Hang on General.” Chuck said downshifting for more horsepower and then gripped the wide steering wheel with both hands.

At twenty miles per hour the colossal V shaped snowplow of the orange county salt-truck lifted and tossed a small sedan three lanes over. Chuck roared laughing as the small car flipped through the air, high over the center divider, and landed upside down on the opposite side of interstate 70.

“General, did you see that one buddy? Here comes an SUV, we might actually feel this one.” He said, reaching a dry and calloused hand over to rub the floppy ears of his spotted Great Dane who occupied the majority of the truck’s cab. General lifted his head slightly, then laid his head back down to continue his nap, unamused by his human’s game of flipping cars.

The heavy sixty-thousand-pound county salt truck barely changed course as the SUV was sent rolling end over end smashing into the concrete divider. “Ahhh man! That one didn’t make it over the barrier.” Chuck said aloud to his sleeping copilot, while looking in the vibrating side view mirror.

An additional orange plow truck followed behind him hit the SUV again, lifting the wrinkled and twisted vehicle up and over the center divider. Trailing behind that, was a third plow truck that was scraping shattered glass and broken fender parts off the road. Also in the convoy where three recovery vehicles, a fuel truck, ten five-ton cargo trucks, and four security escort Light Armored Vehicles armed with 25mm autocannons, M240 machine guns and a platoon of infantry scouts.

Looking forward again, there was a mile stretch of unobstructed highway which seemed like a good time to take a little break to stretch his legs and drain his bladder. Chuck lifted the handset on the SINCGARS frequency hopping encrypted military radio and keyed the mic.

“All convoy elements, this is T-Rex. Taking a fifteen-minute tactical pause. Maintain dispersion and take up defensive positions. Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em” Chuck said in his gruffy voice, sliding the shifter into park and engaged the parking brake.

Chuck climbed out of the truck and stood on the firm highway. After hours of driving the big rumbling truck, it took a minute for his legs to get used to the solid ground. He bent over to touch his toes then twisted at the torso trying to stretch the kink out of his back.

“General, do you need a piss break buddy?” Chuck asked his K9 companion that continued to carelessly sleep. He glanced around his rig, checking for leaking fluids, punctured tires, or any other damage that could be mission critical. Looking towards the rear, he noticed the other drivers doing the same thing. Good lads, he thought to himself.

“Hey Gunny, you want us to take lead for a while?” The driver behind him asked walking towards his truck.
Chuck had asked the young troops to stop calling him Gunny several times, but it seemed he was in a perpetual state of enlistment in the big green machine. The day the world had went dark, he was due to retire from active duty in the US Army. Over the past twenty years he had served as a 62Bravo heavy construction equipment mechanic and 91Bravo wheeled mechanic.

He had gone all over the world from duty station to duty station keeping government vehicles and machinery in good working condition. In reality, if a machine burned petrol, he worked on it. If it used electricity to activate a motor, he rebuilt it. And if it used circular motion and created voltage, he rebuilt those too.

Chuck’s passion was heavy machinery and fabrication though, which is why he had spent so much time on convoys in war zones.  He loved problem solving, and when a military vehicle broke down in the middle of bad guy neighborhoods, it was up to him to get things running again, quickly as possible by any means necessary.

After twenty years of Army abuse and combat wear and tear, his body was ready for a permanent vacation. He truly did love his job, but he was smart enough to realize that injuries, even minor ones, were taking longer and longer to heal and someday he may never recover. So, he made the difficult decision to end his active-duty service.

With all his personal possessions being transported cross country by a government contracted moving company, he was left with just his truck, a duffle bag full of clothes, toiletries and his best friend General who was also eager for a new civilian life adventure to begin.

Before he could get off the base for the last time, the lights went out and never came back on. Then the dark world of hunger riots and anarchy warlords became even darker as humans began to physically morph into nightmarish monsters. As society completely disintegrated, Chuck and his small squad of mechanics were able to survive by doing what they did best, improvising and fabricating.

For the longest time after the collapse, him and his small squad of Army mechanics thought to be the last survivors on the east coast. Definitely the last survivors with electrical power, hot showers, and refrigerators full of cold beer. Considering they had spent much of their lives living in fighting holes or filthy abandoned warehouses in foreign countries, their makeshift camp inside the fenced in motor-pool perimeter was quite comfortable, to Army standards anyways.

Although Chuck wore a tight regulation haircut with matching mustache, which he had meticulously maintained during the apocalypse, he hadn’t worn the Army uniform since the day the world went dark. The younger troops still looked to him as their ranking leader who had kept them all fed and alive. Chuck cared about his troops who he had served with for years, so being the father figure was okay by him, but he was through breaking his back, quite literally, for an unappreciative organization.

One day while sitting under a cami-net canopy, stretched between a pair of five-ton cargo trucks, the group was playing a round of cards while debating on relocating to more comfortable living conditions in the more luxurious part of town. Perhaps to a mansion with an inground pool and private bar. The troops bickered back and forth, discussing the pros and cons of the work needed to leave the base and reestablish the security measures that had kept them safe so far. Chuck was listening to the complaints that had merit and was carefully formulating a decision when an all too familiar sound of helicopters flew over heading towards the Chesapeake Bay.

Soon after that they relocated their camp, and their entire mechanic shop to Kent Island. Since then, they had been putting their skills to use for more than just survival, but to reestablish a working community. Chuck refused to consider himself as part of the Atlantic Naval Fleet’s command structure, but he sure did like General Lyon’s sales pitch about rebuilding America.

His squad took up the task of clearing and neatly relocating all the EMP killed vehicles from Kent Island’s clogged roadways to allow for military patrols and logistical supply chains to move freely about their new community. And in typical military nature, they rewarded a job-well-done, with another job. Which brought him to his current mission of clearing a MSR (main supply route) from Kent Island to the USAMIIR research facility.

What would have normally taken an hour to drive pre-Dark Day, had taken them a day and a half. The last few miles driving at a twenty MPH speed had been a treat after the slow push around the congested south side of Baltimore. Near sun down, the convoy had made it to their first check point at Fort Mead where a tight defensive perimeter was established around the National Security Agency headquarters.

While Chuck and his crew refueled and did a quick assessment on every vehicle in the convoy, some tech nerds went into the NSA building to pillage hardware. The geeks were in nerd heaven, coming and going from the building all night completely filling the ten cargo trucks with computer towers, racks of hardware, and computer cables.

Holding his trusty M1A rifle that had saved his life so many times over the last few months, he shook his head at the computer technician’s excitement for electronics.

“What are they going to do, save the world with spreadsheets?” Chuck scoffed, elbowing one of his junior men in the ribs.

“I wonder if they have any video game consoles in there?” One of his young troops wondered out loud remembering a long ago time of being mindlessly entertained for hours in front of a television.

After the sun had come up in the morning, the five-ton trucks had been filled to the maximum, and a hot cup of instant coffee was enjoyed, Chuck took command of the convoy and got them back out clearing the highway again. From Fort Mead, the consistency of dead vehicles on the highway thinned making for faster travel time.

At their current tactical pause location on I-70, aka smoke break, they had cleared two-thirds of the way towards their objective. Worst case scenario, they would reach USAMIIR by dusk, and have to spend another night in the field. Best case scenario was, that they could boogie on back to Kent Island before dark to sleep in a comfortable rack with his K9 bed heater, General.

Chuck twisted his torso again, stretching the kinks out of his back in preparation to climb back into the cab of the orange county salt-truck when he heard the familiar sound of dual rotor blades on a CH-47 Chinook helicopter. He was not aware of a personnel or cargo flight to USAMIIR today, but it’s not like he would be privy to that sort of information anyways.

The helicopter was coming in low from the east using the highway as a navigational guide. As the bird got closer, he noticed that the helo had a cargo sling-load swaying from it’s underbelly. The closer it got, the cargo net didn’t look quite right, not like a typical pallet load but round with small shapes inside. Human shapes? He squinted his eyes to see better as the CH-47 flew overhead towards the west.

A thunderous BOOM startled him, causing him to duck behind the giant wheel of his truck like he had done many times before when reacting to roadside bomb detonating near his convoys in warzones. He looked up to the CH-47 helicopter to see a thick black trail of smoke exiting the tail rotor engine as the helo quickly descended over a tall tree line and out of site.
 
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A single engine can drive both CH-47 rotors in the event of an engine failure. But not a total destructive mechanical failure caused by a Rocket Propelled Grenade blast. The CH-47’s duel top rotors spin in opposite directions for stabilization, unlike most helicopters which have a tail stabilizing rotor that counters the inertia of a single top engine.

There really isn’t a benefit of crashing to the ground in a helicopter, but the only thing that made this crash suck less was that the pilot had been flying at a low altitude. The time it took to fall from the sky to the ground, the rear rotor blades had kept rotating just enough to keep the bird from going into a violent spin which also slowed their descent.

“I’ve lost all control! Brace for impact!” The pilot yelled into the head set that had still been playing a fast beat heavy metal track.

The helo was falling towards a subdivision of uniformed rows of matching houses. Side to side the cargo net swayed beneath, causing the helicopter to pitch left and right. The dangling cargo net full of sedated Gen 2’s skimmed across a two-story house roof peak, then got tangles into a large oak tree. The tree bent at a forty-five-degree angle, the line went tight, the tree heaved and threatened to unearth itself, but the deep roots won the tug-of-war battle.

The helicopter instantly lost all forward momentum and like a bowling ball, it plunged into a large community pond. A thin layer of ice shattered when energy waves rippled away from the sinking aircraft.

Victor’s arm had been yanked free from the window safety strap. His head had bounced off the cockpit bulkhead before he was thrown against the fold down troop seats. He saw stars and a dark tunnel clouded his vision. Just as he was about to lose consciousness, he was engulfed in freezing cold water that rushed into the fuselage from every direction. As soon as the aircraft hit the water it began flipping over upside down, with the heavy engines pulling the craft to the bottom of the pond.

At a time like this is when being buckled in would have been favorable, so Victor could have kept his sense of direction as the floor became the ceiling and the water clouded his vision to 2200. He hugged onto the fold down canvas troop seats until the fuselage stopped rotating and water filled his nasal cavity. Being completely disorientated, he blindly pulled himself towards the cockpit area with hand over hand where he knew an escape window to be.

Keeping a hand on the wall, he felt for the window until finally an opening presented itself in the black abyss. Victor pulled himself through and let his buoyancy pull him in the right direction. Cold air pealed the water off his face, and he took a large gulp filling his burning lungs. Attempting to shake the water from his face brought neck pain so severe that he almost blacked out again.

Treading water, he spun around looking for the aircrew. He kicked his legs a few more time while trying to get a lung full of air, and his foot struck the submerged helicopter. It wasn’t all that deep.

Victor dove several times trying to free the aircrew, but the only person he could locate was the door gunner who had drowned. He was able to locate his backpack and the door mounted machine gun, but his hands had numbed to the point that his fingers couldn’t successfully dislodge the mounting pins.

Since he had packed for a watercraft insertion on this mission, he had properly waterproofed his backpack which now made for a flotation device for him to cling to. A searing pain shot up his right arm, into his shoulder and down his back when he tried to hug the bag reminding him that his arm had been yanked violently when holding onto the window safety strap.

Nursing his wounded arm, he managed to get himself to shore and onto a frost covered overgrown lawn. Laying on his back, he looked up wondering what he had gotten himself into this time. Staring up at the crisp blue sky, he followed a bird float peacefully across cloud wisps until it perched upon the thick green nylon rope that still tethered the sunken aircraft to the tangle up oak tree. His eyes followed the line to the cargo net, that had started to squirm with Gen 2 Grays that had survived the crash.

“Wonderful.” Victor said in frustration. He talked to himself out loud, trying to organize his thoughts through a massive headache. Laying there motionless felt good, but if he laid on the frozen ground much longer, his body core temp would drop to dangerous levels. “First things first, I need to get dry.”

Unslinging the AR15 off his back, he used it as a crutch to get to his feet then lifted his dripping backpack with his left arm. Leaving a trail of wet boot prints in the tall, frosted grass he made his way across the back yard to the closest house with a chimney. Passing by the cargo net, swaying from the tree, he could see that at least a few of the creatures had survived. Victor noted himself shivering and wondered how the naked little demons hadn’t frozen to death.

 Rattling doorknobs and tugging on sliders looking for an entry, he finally found that the garage door had been left wide open leading him into a musty smelling foyer. Quietly setting his pack and rifle on the floor, then gently closing the door behind him with a light fingertip push he listened for anything moving about inside the house.

His shivering was getting worse as the wet clothes he wore began to stiffen as they froze. Dry clothes were needed quickly, but first he need to ensure the house was clear. He started to reach for his pistol and was again reminded of his shoulder wound that made him curse under his breath. With his left hand, he reached across his body, and pulled the pistol from his holster. Having an awkward grip, he pinched the pistol between his knees, rotated his hand, and then got a proper firm left-handed grip.

Having a weapon gave him a little encouragement that he might survive the SNAFU ordeal.

“Anyone home?” he yelled into the house loud enough that anyone, or anything, in the large house would hear him. Satisfied that nothing was on the move, he opted not to clear the entire house and instead locked himself inside a main floor bedroom so he could change his clothing without fear of being attacked by predatory inhabitants.

Inside the soaking wet backpack, were several bundles individually wrapped in trash bags. With his good arm he dug deep finding the soft bundle of dry clothes that he desperately wanted. Tearing the bag open with his teeth, he began to painfully redress himself.

His body continued to uncontrollably shiver as his muscles tried to create warmth. As much as Victor hated being cold, he also knew that most of his body was numb for the moment. As soon as he warmed up, a whole new set of injury pain was going to unleash.

On the outside of his pack, he opened his individual first aid kit and found a green thin cloth arm sling which he tied and slipped around his neck. After stabilizing and securing his wounded limb, he opened a bottle of Motrin, which was labeled “Grunt Candy” and downed 800mg, then another 800mg for good measure.

Standing at the edge of the king-sized bed, Victor was lightheaded and a little woozy from the head injury during the helo crash. My luck I have a concussion, and I just increased my chance of a brain hemorrhage by taking Motrin. He thought to himself. Swaying slightly, he looked at the mountain of pillows and closed his eyes for a minute imagining how good a nap would feel. Opening his tired eyes, they fell upon a case of tranquilizer darts sitting on the bed and he knew that there was still work to be done.

Back at the casino, at the top of the parking deck stairs, the team had encountered over two dozen Gen 2 infected. After the short battle, they had sedated and captured thirteen. Of that, only five remained alive inside the cargo net.

Victor had enjoyed hunting wild game in his life but was never into trophy hunting. “If you kill it, you eat it” is what he taught his children. Taking a life should never be without cause, human or otherwise. When Victor cut the cargo net free from the oak tree, opened it to separate the dead from the living, he had a moment of empathy for the creatures. In his mind the Grays were not infected or sick people, they were an enemy, and vicious ones at that. But seeing the little toddler sized dead creatures piled up that bore a resemblance of human saddened him.

Using the last of the tranquilizers, he sedated the five remaining creatures, and caried them one by one to the garage. They remained bound with flex-cuffs with sandbags over their heads. Using electrical cords, cut from lamps inside the house, Victor tied the creatures together in a chain and then tethered them to a mounted garage door track and shut the doors securing them inside.

Fire was his next mission, and straight to the fireplace he went. Using a phone book found in the kitchen and a few broken wooden chairs, he lit a fire that would save him from hypothermia. The fire roared and crackled casting heat onto his aching hands and suddenly fatigue washed over him. He nudged the sofa closer to the fireplace and took a seat. He would close his eyes. Just for a second while he pondered a way to contact help and get back to his family.

​Just for a second....