CHAPTER 22

Frederick, Maryland

“I think I’m going to vomit.” Rios said gagging, turning his head to the side smashing his eyelids shut, while pulling in deep deliberate breaths through his nostrils.

“Freakin’ gnarly!” McCune shouted from the back seat.

“Why are there so many Grays wandering around on the highway?” SSgt Beckett asked, raising his voice over the wet grinding sound.

“Carin, one of the lab scientists, gave me some pheromone to drizzle on the road during the last resupply run to USAMIIRD. Apparently, this stuff is like an aphrodisiac to the Grays! Look at them all!” Chuck laughed while he steered the big orange county salt truck through an endless horde, Grays where packed shoulder to shoulder.

“Where did you find such huge snow blowers?” Raymond asked in awe, as hundreds of Grays were sucked into the front mounted grinding machine. The triple stacked rotating spiral augers sliced and diced the Grays into chunks of infected meat slop then fed into a spinning impeller. The disease-ridden clumpy sludge launched up and out of the discharge chute spewing a thick black spray up and over the edge of the highway’s protective barrier.

Chuck shifted his head, trying to find a clear spot on the windshield as the wipers swept away bits and pieces of gore. “Same place we found the plow trucks, at the county’s transportation department next to the Island’s airport. I just had to unhook the plows, then attached the snow blowers. The thing WAS nearly brand new.” Chuck said with an evil grin while shifting lanes slightly to scoop up a thicker group of Grays.

Beckett looked into the truck’s bouncing side mirror and watched what appeared to be a giant fire breathing dragon. An enormous stream of fire swept the pavement behind them dousing any hazardous matter that didn’t successfully make it over the highway barrier. “You know, fire trucks are supposed to extinguish fires, not start them?” Beckett looked to Chuck, “Is that thing also your doing?”

“I may have helped swap the water pump for a fuel pump on the fire engine, but it wasn’t my idea.” Chuck said to his passengers who gave him a look of doubt. “I swear! The medical staff was worried about airborne disease from decaying biomatter. Talking real nasty black plague type of stuff, let alone not wanting infectious Gray innards to be painted all over Maryland.”
Rios dry heaved in the backseat.

“Incinerating the mess that you are making is probably the best option for sterilization. But using a water cannon to spray gas, that is an impressive flamethrower!” Doc said, giving his stamp of approval.

“Of course, pure gasoline burns to fast to get that nice long beautiful fire stream.” Chuck said over his shoulder proudly. “A sixty forty gasoline to diesel mixture gets the best fire range.”

“How much of that pheromone did you use to draw in this big of a crowd?” Raymond asked?

“Not a lot. About a perfume size bottle sprayed out the window for a few miles.” Chuck answered.

The crowded highway began to thin the further they got away from Baltimore. As their Gray pulverizing convoy got closer to USAMIIRD there wasn’t any more Grays on or near the highway.

“Alright boys, that is as far as this convoy can take you today.” Chuck said as he took the Frederick exit ramp, made a big U turn, then repositioned his gore covered salt truck to reenter the highway for a return trip to Kent Island. “Good luck out there and watch your step getting out. It might be a little slippery.”
 
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“Daddy shark this is baby shark. Wheels down and Oscar Mike to check point Apple. How copy, over.” Silence spoke into his SINGARS radio handset, and then gave SSgt Becket a thumbs up confirming they had comms with headquarters via a repeater antenna located at USAMIIRD laboratory.

“This is our initial rally point if you become separated, we will meet back here in that school bus.” Beckett pointed across the road. “If nobody shows up for you in twenty-four hours, escape and evade to USAMIIRD which is one-mile due north from here. McCune, you’re on point, step out.”

Everyone one on the team shared Beckett’s disgruntled feelings of their mundane mission assignment. Yes, they were Reconnaissance Marines, and technically, they were best equipped and trained in recon and surveillance techniques. But with all of the other missions readily available, observing a FEMA distribution center wasn’t high on the thrill list. They would go in, make their reports, take some photos, extract back to the island, and then prepare for a better mission.

Beckett tried not to let his guard down though. The last time he got lackadaisical, his entire team had been surrounded at an oil refinery. Luckily, that turned out for the best, but could have gone south very easy. Frederick is a large town, which had a dense population of over 70,000 people when the Dark Day attack happened, which means the likelihood of running into Grays, was probable. And there was also a chance of getting sniped by BRICS operatives, which had the team stopping often to glass suspicious building through binos and spotting scopes.

Deep reconnaissance missions typically penetrate far beyond the FEBA (forward edge of the battle area) to gather intelligence on a particular route, zone, or an area of interest. Since small units are easier to conceal than conventional military forces, stealth is a small team’s best protection while in enemy territory. If a Recon team becomes compromised, there is a high probability that hostile forces would overwhelm them through mechanized maneuvering of troop masses and firepower. Operation Read Wings in Afghanistan and the story of Bravo Two Zero in Iraq are examples how extremely risky small unit deep reconnaissance missions can be.

As the team patrolled through a suburban intersection, it was difficult to keep their mind in mission mode as they passed franchise coffee shops and common convenience stores. Beckett had bought frozen slushy drinks and cold beers from stores just like the ones they patrolled past most of his life. His lips moistened as they pasted one of his favorite donut shop chains then his stomach growled at sight of a familiar pizzeria. It was hard to remind himself that they were deep behind enemy lines here in a typical American suburb and that they could easily be overwhelmed by infected or even foreign operatives while strolling down an American suburban street in a tactical column.

McCune on point threw a fist up next to his head, telling the team to freeze in place. A few seconds later he patted the air down next to his waistline and the team slowly took a knee lowering their profiles behind whatever cover that was closest to them. McCune, who was now behind a white sedan, that was coated in dirt and dust giving the white car a tan color, with dry-rotted deflated tires. Using his middle and index fingers, he pointed to his eyes, then pointed his rifle in the direction they had been traveling, then held up three fingers.

They all nodded their heads, understanding that three hostiles were spotted to the twelve o’clock direction. McCune then pointed to Rios and then to a car on the left side of the road. Then McCune pointed to his Staff Sergeant, then towards a large tree planter on the right side of the road. Beckett nodded his understanding. 

Even though Beckett was the senior ranking member of the team, since the point man had the best understanding of the situation, Beckett let McCune take charge. If he had disagreed with the decision to stand their ground, instead of tactically withdrawing, Beckett would have made it known. As soon as Beckett took position behind the large concrete tree planter on the sidewalk, he could see three Grays lazily walking directly towards them.

There are many circumstances in combat that loud weapons are beneficial. This wasn’t one of them, and McCune was happy to have suppressors on all of their weapons. McCune gave a quick nod to Rios, then to Beckett confirming they were set. Instead of leaning over the trunk of the dirty sedan where he certainly would have been spotted, he leaned out on one knee slowly from around his cover.

Pffft. Pffft. Pffft. Three rapid shots ripped tiny 5.56mm holes through a tattered T-shirt that was so dirty, it matched the scabby skin color of the closest muscular Gray. A-zone body box baby! McCune congratulated himself of his tight shot group placement that would have normally incapacitated an enemy. His target stumbled slightly but did not fall. Instead, the beast howled out an angry gurgling cry that startled him. Shit! He thought, and centered his sights on the creature’s hairless head, looking into the demonic pinpoint pupils he squeezed the trigger again, finally silencing his target for good.

Rios with his DM rifle, and Beckett with an expert aim both dropped their targets with one round headshots. The team collapsed in, forming a tight 360-degree circle behind McCune’s car.

Beckett looked to Raymond. “Grays in the area were bound to hear that roar. Will they come running or does that scare them away?”

Raymond looked at their surroundings. “Oh, they will come running for sure. But nothing here is suitable of a defensive position, I say we push forward as fast as we can safely. Grays will be on the move though, so keep guns up.”

Beckett studied the area as well, looking for a hard point in the dilapidated storefronts with broken out windows and smashed in front doors. “Ok, I agree. This is check point Apple, but not a rally point. If something happens, we rally up at the start point.” Beckett instructed. “Darkness, call it up to daddy shark that we are on the move to CP Banana. Let’s go.”
 
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A brisk walk turned into a Recon shuffle as an increasing flow of Grays jumped over white picket fences and chased after them down narrow suburban roads. Even with a suppressor, an M4 remains audibly loud, especially when the world is void of civilization noise pollution. With every howling target that was downed, three more Grays came running to investigate the action.

In a neighborhood that was once a friendly and peaceful place to raise a white-collar family, was becoming a bloodbath littered with infected corpses. Halfway between check point Apple and Banana, the team was near a point of becoming overwhelmed behind enemy lines and needed a place to call their Alamo.

A massive bloated late stage Gray charged across an overgrown lawn that had tall weeds poking up through a thin layer of snow. The beast aimed its pinpoint pupils in on Doc and belted out a growl and reached its bloated arms forward when it stumbled into a tricycle that had once belonged to a playful child. The navy corpsman pumped five quick rounds into the creature as its swollen feet tangled into the tricycle. The snow was left with a darken gore streak, the white lawn stained with puss and spores.

Raymond engaged five Grays that had broken through a bay window directly to his flank. He took a half step forward, squared his shoulders to them, leaned in slightly and pulled the foregrip tightly into his shoulder to control the recoil, and pumped three rapid shots into each of the wretched creature’s chest. As the beast studder stepped slightly from absorbing the projectile’s energy, Raymond finished them off with a head shot each.

McCune had just stripped an empty mag from his M4 and reached for a full one when a Gen 2 jumped out of a nearby tree towards him. Luckily, he had been doing a quick SA (situational awareness) check while reloading and had seen the talon claws and shark-like teeth of the pint-sized creature flying toward him. Using his rifle, McCune parried the airborne demon knocking it to the ground where he commenced beating the toddler creature to death with his buttstock.

McCune wasn’t the only one fighting hand to hand. Maintaining control of his sector, Rios used a minivan and a SUV to channel Grays to him. His DM rifle was slung across his back, and with a pistol in one hand and his KA-BAR knife in the other, cursing in Spanish, Rios stood sweating before a growing pile of dead infected.

The team had lost all forward momentum.

“Push right! Push right! Push right!” Beckett yelled. “Alamo in the red brick house!”

It was a small single story 70’s style ranch with small windows. The best option they had for survival.

Doc was first to the front door. “Get in!” he yelled as he covered the rest of the team rushing towards the house.

Raymond was next, he paused at the threshold waiting for a secondary rifleman before making entry. He reached down and twisted the unlocked doorknob. A hand squeezed his shoulder, and for a moment, Raymond thought Beckett was going to pull him from the stack, but instead Beckett told Raymond to buttonhook. The released of the squeeze gave Raymond the green light to make entry.

The door swung open with a strong push. Raymond’s rifle was leveled and swept a majority of the room before he even crossed the threshold. Eye, muzzle, target. Where his eyes went, his muzzle went. Without over-penetrating into the room, his muzzle hinged on the doorframe as he entered, pivoting into the room clearing the deep corner.

As Raymond entered the room, SSgt Beckett’s muzzle was right next to his shoulder hinging on the opposite side doorframe. Just a microsecond behind him, not getting tripped up on each other’s feet, Beckett entered and crossed the threshold and took the opposite wall as Raymond. They both slid further down the wall away from the front door to make room for the rest of the team as they piled into the living room slamming the front door behind them.

“Rome is clear, on me!” Beckett commanded, as crazed bodies slammed against the outside door.
Beckett made his way across the small living room into an intersection with a short hallway that likely led to a pair of bedrooms, a dust covered kitchen to his front and an open garage door to his right. Bodies continued to slam against the front door with a constant thump and then a window shattered somewhere in the small house. Options were slim.

“On me!” Beckett yelled. A squeeze of the rubber pad on his weapons handrail, turned on his weapon light as he aimed towards the dark garage. A hand squeezed, then released his shoulder and he entered the garage with the rest of the team piling in behind him.

Doc was the last one into the garage and gently shut the kitchen door behind him. “Last man is in.”  He whispered.

With his weapon light still on, he did a quick head count to ensure everyone was accounted for. “Give me an ACE report.” He commanded, and one at a time they each reported the number of full magazines they currently had, if they had sustained any injuries, and if they had lost any special equipment.

It did not take long before scraping of bony talons could be heard clawing at the kitchen door. The garage was full of miscellaneous household items like every other suburban home, but nothing worthy of a barricade.

“Any chance that they’ll get bored and leave?” Beckett asked, looking toward Raymond.

“They didn’t see us enter the garage, but they obviously know that we are in here so, no they won’t leave. Not for a several hours anyways, and I don’t think that door will last that long.” Raymond said.

“And we thought this was going to be a snoozer of a mission.” McCune snickered watching the kitchen door shutter and the trim began to separate from the unpainted sheetrock wall.

“Is this a good time to initiate the chow plan?” Rios asked with sarcasm.

“Remember to hydrate during stressful events.” Doc added a bit of useless medical advice.

“OK, any of you smart asses have any valuable ideas that could benefit our survival before I tape a claymore to that door?” Beckett asked.

“I can’t get a signal out from inside this brick house.” Darkness added, holding a hissing radio handset.

They all looked to each other, pleading for ideas, as they rotated fresh mags forward in their mag pouches and reloaded their weapons. McCune signaled to a M67 fragmentation grenade in his open hand and shrugged, suggesting that he was ready to go out with a bang.

“I have an idea that might help.” Raymond offered, while digging into his rucksack “Or, it might make matters worse.”