For a moment, the wind died, and nothing moved. Ben sighed as he scanned the tarmac.
So many bodies...
They littered the tarmac. Hundreds of them.
A new gust of wind picked up some debris again and sent it swirling in the air. Plastic bags and paper napkins leapt off their perches and continued their wind-driven dance. Ben closed his eyes and listened to the sound of the wind. It sounded angry. He leaned his forehead against the thick glass and could feel tiny vibrations as the wind assaulted the building.
It drove Ben to deep contemplation. We think we are unmovable objects. But we’re not. We are fragile. In time even this building will collapse. And the wind will roar in victory.
Ben felt the chill of the outside air, creeping into his forehead through the glass. He opened his eyes, pulled his head back, and with some reluctance, turned away. Ben looked at his radio. He had established radio contact with leadership several days ago. They had instructed him to wait.
Waiting. Ben was not a fan of hurry up and do nothing. But now the waiting was finally over, and Ben was ready to move once again. His gear was ready too. All his weapons had been disassembled, cleaned, oiled and put back together. He had inventoried his ammunition and supplies – all was at optimum levels.
Of course, that wasn’t the case a couple of days ago. So, he had gone out and scavenged off dead soldiers and hidden corners of the airport to supplement his ammunition, gear, food and water.
In order to keep himself busy, Ben had taken the time to scrub and clean all his stuff. He had exercised and sharpened his knife and polished his boots. He had even given himself a haircut.
Ben caught his reflection in a mirror. His hair was nice and short, but his beard had become somewhat bushy. He reached up and scratched at it.
Maybe I should shave.
No. Leave the beard.
He liked how it made him look like a different person.
Ben walked to one of his observation points and surveyed his surroundings. He had established a secure perimeter but was happy to be moving on, nevertheless. This wasn’t the best location.
Only one way in and out. No, this was not Ben’s idea of an ideal location. But this had to be the place. The only place around here that might allow him to communicate with leadership. It had worked. He managed to establish a connection. And he got his orders.
Stop it. You’re pacing. Ben reprimanded himself. Ben had caught himself wandering from observation point to observation point.
His analytical mind told him that there was no need to attract undue attention to himself. There weren’t many zombies out there, but there were some...
Ben had run in to a few on his earlier excursions. But he needed to gather gear then, so he did what he had to do. That also meant stripping dead soldiers, which Ben had more difficulties with.
It was quite a shock to find Matheson’s body though. He remembered discovering the body and examining the cause of death. Single shot to the head from a small caliber weapon. Likely a sidearm. Likely self-inflicted.
Ah damn, Matheson. I didn’t know you well, but you showed that were a good leader. You didn’t deserve this... Ben remembered thinking as he stood over the Captain’s corpse.
A Captain. A real one. Not one of the Order. The admission shocked Ben and he quickly hid away the thought.
There were surprisingly few dead soldiers lying around. An indication of their organization, tactics, and tenacity. Especially considering how things went down.
His brigade had come in and cleared the whole place out. There were a lot more zombies than expected though...
Ben recalled the morning of the assault.
Chapter Sixty-three
It was early morning on October 31st. 5:15AM to be precise. Garcia had roused Ben at 5AM. Ben was already awake anyway. The two men shared a tent that had room for four. But the other cots were empty. Just a couple of nights ago, they had buried one of their tent-mates. One of their team-mates. One of their friends. The irrepressible Collins.
Garcia and Ben were the only ones left from their thrown-together squad. It filled Ben with sadness. And responsibility. For wasn’t this his own doing? Wasn’t he responsible for all these deaths?
Get up soldier of the Order. Optio. Spy. Betrayer... You’ve got a job to do. Ben could brood on it no longer and got up out of his cot.
Ben and Garcia silently put their gear on and checked their weapons. Before leaving the tent, they checked each other’s straps. They were heading to a battle. Both men realized that it might be for the last time.
Once satisfied, both men stepped out of their shelter and out into the darkness of early dawn. The camp was buzzing with activity. Ben and Garcia joined the stream of soldiers heading to the main muster point. Ben remembered looking around at the other soldiers, trying to detect which ones were not suffering from the syndrome, and therefore likely with the Order. So far, he had a few suspects. But his mission prevented him from making contact.
A line of trucks and other military vehicles stood ready to take the soldiers to their destination. Ben wondered where the tank was, then realized that the last tank crew hadn’t survived the night.
Several Gunny Sergeants organized the teams with their prospective rides, but before they embarked, they were told to stand in formation and face a hastily erected stage.
Captain Matheson stood on the stage, along with another Captain and the head honcho; Lieutenant Colonel Shaw.
The ‘LTC’ was a grizzled old man. He didn’t stand for pomp and ceremony, which was obvious by the way he dressed. This was no desktop general.
An aide passed LTC Shaw a bullhorn.
Inevitably, the first sound was a static squeaking noise, through which Ben heard Shaw utter a string of obscenities that was definitely unbefitting a man of his
