Left With The Dead

infantry. This is an operational frequency for the Summit battalion. You sure you’re in the right place? Over.”

“Summit Three-Seven, Terminator Five. I was part of an alpha detachment that went tango uniform about twenty-four hours ago. My frequencies are dead, because there are no other SOF units in the zone. Looks like you lightfighters are all I’ve got. If you have another frequency I can roll to, give it to me and I’ll give it a shot, over.”

Another voice came over the radio. “Terminator, this is Summit Six. Give me your name and unit, over.”

Gartrell’s spirits rose slightly. He was now speaking to the commander of the Summit Battalion, which he knew to be the Second Battalion, 87th Infantry, a tenant unit of Fort Drum and part of the 10th Mountain Division. The infantry battalion CO would be lieutenant colonel, maybe someone with enough horsepower to get something done about his situation.

“First Sergeant David Gartrell, current senior NCO, Echo Company, First Battalion, First Special Warfare Training Group at the Swick. Was pulled out of my normal duty position and assigned to Operational Detachment Alpha OMEN on an emergency basis, over.” Before deploying into the field with Major Cordell McDaniels, Gartrell had been a trainer of Special Forces soldiers, posted at the John F. Kennedy Special Warfare Center and School, Fort Bragg, North Carolina. For ease of communication among peers, the name had been shortened to simply SWCS, or more informally, ‘Swick’.

“Terminator, Summit Six. You say you’re a trainer at the Swick, that correct? How’d a trainer get into the field? Over.”

“Summit, Terminator. Long story, Six. But here I am, and I’m wondering if you guys might be able to give me a hand, over.”

“Terminator, this is Summit Six. Listen, we have our hands pretty full at the moment. I’ll try and find a Special Forces liaison to talk this over with, but we have several synchronized movement to contact ops underway right now. You probably know better than we do, but these things are damned hard to kill, over.”

“Summit, Terminator. You got that wrong, Six, they’re easy to kill-you just have to hit them in the head to put them down for the count. Nothing else works, not even major deboning injuries, unless you blast them to pieces. And listen, you need to watch out for something. Ninety-nine percent of those things are brainless, but some of them can come back with skills. We were shagged by members of our own ODA, and they still knew how to use guns and get their stalk on. Let me know if you got that. Over.”

There was a long moment of silence, and then the infantry commander came back on the air. “Uh, Terminator Five, this is Summit Six. Understand you just said that some of the zeds can conduct…coordinated offensive operations, is that correct? Over.”

“Summit, Terminator. Roger that, you are correct. Certain zeds can retain pre-existing high-level skills, though they are not one hundred percent mission capable. But they can operate weapons and machinery-we had stenches roll up on us in a taxi cab and open up with assault rifles. I would advise you to make the appropriate notifications. Over.”

Summit Six didn’t sound thrilled at the prospect. “Roger that last, Terminator.”

“Summit, what can you do to help me out here? Terminator’s single gun with two civilian noncombatants, and it feels like we’re in the middle of stench city. Do you have any aviation assets you can send my way? Over.”

“Terminator, Summit. Negative, we have zero airlift, only attack. All our transport assets were surged down to participate in the evacuation op you must have been part of. We’re trying to get into Central Park to recover some airframes, but that’s going to take a while.” Gartrell grunted to himself as Summit Six spoke. He knew all too well that dozens of helicopters, from small scouts to massive medium lift helicopters that could carry upwards of 50 troops were on the deck in Central Park. The assembly area had been overrun by stenches that had broken through the various cordon sanitaires set up throughout the city. It had been obvious then that the military brass calling the shots had underestimated the sheer mass the horde could bring to bear.

“How long can you hold out at your current pos, Terminator? Over.”

Gartrell rose and walked to the window. He slowly peeled back some of the tape that held the window shade in place and peered out into the bright day, squinting against the harsh sunlight. The street outside-Second Avenue-was full of abandoned cars. At the corner nearby, where East 86th Street intersected with the broad avenue, a roadblock had been set up with New York City snow plows. It had been overrun a day ago, and judging by the amount of brass cartridges that twinkled in the sunlight, it had been some fight. The rains of the preceding night had washed away most of the blood, but Gartrell saw strips of cloth, shoes and boots, and fallen weapons lying on the street.

And of course, the zombies were everywhere. Hundreds of them. Most milled about aimlessly, waiting for some clue as to where their next meal might be. They shambled about like automatons, moving between the vehicles in the traffic-choked street. Most kept their eyes down low, looking for food at ground level. But not all. Though they couldn’t see Gartrell through the small opening he peered through, some of the stenches below scanned the buildings from the street, actively searching the windows for signs of prey. Gartrell taped the window shade back in place, and gloom returned to the tiny bedroom.

“Summit, this is Terminator. If the zeds get a lock on us, we’ll be lucky to have ten minutes. Over.”

“Roger that, Terminator. I need to park you on another frequency. I’ve got battalion-level reports coming my way in just a couple of minutes. Stand by, over.”

“Roger Six, I’ll stand by here. Over.”

During the pause, Gartrell opened one of the water bottles he’d taken from the Starbucks downstairs. He was parched as all hell, and he drank from the bottle with gusto. His growling stomach informed him some chow would be a great idea as well. He consumed one of the cinnamon coffee cakes in virtually three bites. It was stale, but he barely noticed.

Even stale coffee cake is better than an MRE.

“Terminator Five, Summit Six. Over.”

“Summit, this is Terminator, go ahead. Over.”

“Terminator, I’ve got a place to park you for the moment.” The infantry commander on the other end of the radio link read off a frequency. Gartrell pulled out his pen and wrote the freq on the brown Starbucks bag on the bureau before him. “Can you make that frequency? Over.”

“Summit, Terminator. Roger, I can make that frequency. Over.”

“Roger that, Terminator. Switch over now. Summit out.” As Summit Six finished his sentence, another transmission began, and Gartrell heard the terror in the reporting soldier’s voice. He was in contact with the horde, and the engagement wasn’t getting any better with age. Gartrell didn’t bother to acknowledge Summit Six’s transmission, for another report came in, stomping over the first one. Summit Six wouldn’t be able to hear him anyway, and it sounded like the light infantry battalion commander had more pressing things on his plate right now.

Gartrell switched over to the allocated frequency and announced himself. He heard only the slight hiss of background static, marred every now and then with some bleed-over from a neighboring frequency. He couldn’t make out the contents of the radio traffic, as the distortion level was extremely high. It could have been anything- more lightfighters in contact and looking for help, probably. Or maybe something as mundane as a truck convoy looking for directions.

“Terminator Five, this is Falcon Four, over.”

“Falcon, this is Terminator, go ahead.”

“Terminator, Falcon. I understand you’re caught behind the lines in the Upper East Side, is that correct? Over.”

“Falcon, Terminator. That is a roger, over.”

“Terminator, this is Falcon. Did Summit Six notify you that most of our elements are either in contact with the zeds, or soon will be? We’re a little stretched for resources right now. Over.”

“Falcon, that kind of came up in the conversation right after I asked for help, over.”

“Uh…got that, Terminator. Listen, we need you to stay tight. We’re looking for a way to get to you, but with all the north-south routes basically blocked with dead traffic, our guys can’t get in with vehicles. They have to hoof it. It’s going to take a long time, and they’ll have to fight from block to block, over.”

Gartrell buried his face in his hands. What the hell are they thinking? Of course they can’t take any vehicles in!

“Falcon, Terminator. I know I’m not in your command silo, but I’m Special Forces and I’ve been behind the