Zombie Battle (Books 1-3): Trinity Read online

  Jack and Carlson were the only two of their team in that shed. Led there by the man’s wife Jack wanted to shoot it, or rather him, but the wife seemed to take a protective mode over her husband, flailing a machete freely through the air threatening Jack when he even tried to raise his weapon.

  “We need someone to interpret,” Jack said. “Convey to her that we have to take him.”

  “You want to take him back to base?” Carlson asked. “Are you nuts?”

  “No! I want to take him out . . .” Jack lowered his voice. “And shoot him.”

  The wife shrieked hysterical, rambling in her native tongue, lifting the machete in a taunt to Jack.

  Carlson shook his head. “I think she knows English.”

  Jack nodded in agreement. His mind raced for a plan, he had one, but he couldn’t convey it. Not there and then. “Carlson, nothing we can do. Back up and let’s join the others.”

  “But, Sarge.”

  “Just back up.” Jack held tight to his weapon. He turned to aim his voice outward, to call for his men, and that’s when it happened.

  With a snarl, snap and a hard jerk of his body, the creature lunged out. But this time the chains didn’t stop him. A simple ‘crack’ of the wood, the restrained man, mouth agape, raged at Jack and Carlson.

  Both men were fast, but not fast enough. The enraged man aimed his open mouth at both men as if a weapon, snapping, growling in a biting attack; finally, locking his teeth into Carlson’s hand.

  Jack knew at that instant, pulling the man from Carlson was useless. The young specialist screamed out in pain as blood poured from his hand into the man’s mouth and he struggled to free himself.

  Close range, Jack, weapon ready, fired a single shot into the man’s head. No sooner did he do that, the wife released a blood curdling scream. She raised the machete high, swinging it down at Jack.

  Quickly, he latched on to the machete and grabbed it from the woman. As she raced to Jack, he fired at her in defense. The moment she fell to the ground, Carlson dropped to his knees, holding his bleeding arm.

  “Sarge,” the young man, weakly called in desperation, looking up to Jack. “Help me.”

  There was no hesitation on Jack’s part. In fact, if asked later on why he did it, or what made him think to do it, Jack wouldn’t have a clue. Instinct perhaps. But he shoved Carlson back, knocking him backwards to the dirt. The much bigger Jack stomped a boot down on Carlson’s shoulder to pin him, then with one continuous swing, brought the machete down severing his arm.

  Carlson screamed his loudest yet.

  Dropping the machete Jack, reached for his own belt, pulling it from the loops of his pants.

  He didn’t hear what the other two soldiers said when they blasted in the shed, Jack was too focused.

  Dropping to his knees, he whipped the belt around the stump of Carlson’s arm, snapped it tight and created a tourniquet.

  “Get a jeep. Now!” Jack ordered. “We have to get him to camp stat.”

  The other two soldiers didn’t move. In their shock, their eyes shifted to the massacre in that shed.

  With a ‘fuck it’, Jack shouldered his weapon, then swiftly lifted Carlson, tossing him over his other shoulder.

  Carlson’s body slumped. Whether he was dead or he passed out, Jack didn’t know and he wasn’t taking the time to find out . He darted from the barn. They had footed their way into the small village; a jeep had dropped them off a short distance beforehand.

  Carrying the weight of all that happened along with Carlson, Jack just ran. He would run until he met up with the rest of the platoon and the jeep or until he made it to camp. Whichever was first. It didn’t matter to Jack . What did matter was getting Carlson the help he needed as fast as possible. If Jack had to carry him all the way to camp, he would.

  <><><><>

  It was a wound. Plain and simple. About four inches long, a gash that needed stitched, and it was just on the inside of the forearm.

  Colonel Manning didn’t have a clue what type of wound it was. Scratch, bite, or some other injury. Jack wasn’t any help. He couldn’t recall how he received it.

  When Jack arrived at camp he was covered in blood. Most of which came from the young specialist that Jack toted over his shoulder.

  The strong veteran sergeant didn’t seem shaken by what had happened, just focused. It was when Manning debriefed him that he noticed Jack’s wound.

  Jack was tested. No sign of the infection was present. However, the calmer the victim the longer it took for the infection to show in the blood stream. So Manning couldn’t use that as a determination that Jack wasn’t bitten. Especially since Carlson still showed no signs either.

  In any event Manning couldn’t take any chances. He explained to Jack, until some time had passed, he had to treat Jack as if he were bitten.

  Jack understood.

  He and Carlson were placed on the transport going to Atlanta with the other injured soldiers.

  Captain Long was excited at the prospect of examining Carlson.

  When Manning told Long what Jack had done, Long replied, “Wow, really? That was really cool thinking.”

  Really cool thinking.

  Manning, a doctor himself, had to agree with Long, even though he wouldn’t have chosen those words. Jack’s actions were logical, and perhaps something thought of by medical personnel down the road but not practical when in the field.

  Maybe Jack was thinking if he took the limb, he would stop the virus from hitting the blood stream.

  Manning could only guess Jack’s motives.

  He questioned Jack about amputating the limb. Jack only shrugged. He seemed more distraught about having to leave Peru than the possibility of having been bitten.

  Jack told the colonel, “I can’t leave. My work is not done.”

  Colonel Manning simply told him. “No one said you were done working. You’re just finished in Peru.”

  If the injury to Jack’s arm turned out to be invasive and not infectious, then someone like Jack was needed in Atlanta should problems arise with the infected they were testing.

  What he also didn’t convey to Jack was that in all reality, in a few hours, everyone’s work was finished in Peru.

  CHAPTER THREE

  May 7th

  Berlin Brandenburg International Airport

  It was cloudy and damp, not very bright for morning and that gave it an eerie feel. Greg impressed himself. Despite the fact that he couldn’t focus, was scared out of his head, he landed the plane gently and probably the best landing he had ever made.

  He knew it would be his last.

  They didn’t roll into the gate, ready to have the passengers disembark. Somewhere just after he touched down, Greg brought the plane to a stop on runway 19 and shut it down.

  “What are you doing?” Marion asked. “What?”

  “I can’t, not with a clear conscience, bring this plane near the airport. Not with what is happening in the back.”

  “But we don’t know what is happening.”

  “We know enough.”

  And Greg did. The load moans, the constant attempts to get into the cockpit were there. There were no more screams for help, no crying. Only sounds of the damned came from the plane, and that told Greg pretty much him and Marion were the only ones who hadn’t turned into those things.

  They weren’t on that section of runway more than a few minutes when the tower radioed to see what was wrong.

  “We have a situation on the plane,” Greg told them. “It started when we had to find Hans Riesman. He started it all. Things . . . things are out of control. People are dead. Lots. They’ve taken over the plane.”

  Tower asked them if they were secure in the cockpit and told them to stay calm.

  Stay calm.

  Within a few minutes airport security was on the runway. Then following them, were police -- at least eight squad cars.

  Greg felt a little better. He and Marion would get out of the cockpit eventually. But one
thing Greg didn’t realize. Perhaps he should have been more specific when conveying what was happening on this plane.

  <><><><>

  “We believe it is a terrorist situation,” Thomas Bauer, head of the Brandenburg Police division told John Koch when his SEK teams arrived thirty minutes later. The SEK were an elite squad, the German equivalent of a SWAT team.

  “And it goes way beyond what we have here,” Thomas continued.

  “What is the situation?”

  Thomas exhaled heavily before beginning his explanation. “The flight took off without incident. Approximately three hours ago we received a call from Health Authorities and US military that a virologist Dr. Hans Riesman had fled a Peru infection site and was on the plane. He left the site without notice and, while they didn’t believe he was infected, they wanted him located.”

  “Infection?”

  “Some object contaminated a local village.”

  “Bio warfare.”

  Thomas held up a finger with a slight smile. “Makes sense when you hear the whole story. Riesman was located, Seems from what we gathered from the co pilot, he was violent with another passenger and he and others began taking control of the plane, attacking people. Looks like some are dead. Looks as if possibly the passengers revolted.”

  “The co-pilot not the captain?”

  Thomas shook his head. ‘Captain was killed in the violence.”

  “So basically, you have a bio weapon in Peru, looks like maybe this virologist had something to do with it, fled and took over this plane. Why?” John asked.

  “Maybe he had plans to spread this virus further than Peru.” Thomas shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “Whatever his plan was it stops here.” John nodded in a pointing motion to his preparing team. “My men are getting ready to gas and storm the plane. From both emergency exits and the cargo.”

  Thomas looked at the teams taking placement. “We have the co pilot and the attendant in the cockpit.”

  “They’ll be fine.”

  Thomas nodded. “Let’s get this done with.”

  <><><><>

  Billy Meyers was nearly kicked from the church youth group over his obsession with horror films. The pastor believed Satan was digging his claws into Billy via evil movies. Billy like the youth group so he lied about his infatuation being done, never divulging the fact that he rented a good zombie flick every chance he could.

  He was a typical teenager in so many ways.

  He was also grateful for the abundance of knowledge he gained form horror films.

  Returning from a mission trip to Peru, getting a connecting flight from Berlin to New York, Billy never expected what transpired on that plane.

  “Haven’t any of these people ever heard of George Romero?’ was Billy’s first thought when all hell broke loose. The second thought was to get to safety and get out. To Billy, that was the Cargo hold.

  He led the small group from the main belly of the plane.

  It started with eight, and only five remained for the last leg.

  Lisa was a hold up. Not that there was anything wrong with praying, but Billy felt she could do that when she was running. He kept his cool, logical, was remarkably keen for a seventeen year old. The final straw with her came when one of the zombies grasped her hair as they made it to the last secure door of Cargo.

  With all of his weight, he charged as fast as he could, bodily slamming the cargo door closed and amputating the undead arm.

  It still clutched to Lisa’s hair.

  “Enough!” Billy blasted. “Calm down.”

  The undead were relentless. They banged against the door. It wasn’t going to hold, Billy knew that.

  Lisa cried hysterically.

  Before leading the small group to find the cargo door, Billy calmly removed the hand still clutched to Lisa’s hair.

  “Let’s go,” he ordered brushing by Lisa and leading the way, hopefully to the door. At the very least Billy was thinking about making a barricade wall with luggage.

  He had moved about five feet ahead when he noticed Lisa was still in the back. “Lisa!” he called, then with irritation ran to her. “Come on.” He reached for her, but she pulled away.

  Her eyes rose from her hand to Billy. “I’m bit.”

  <><><><>

  Using high powered, precision grenade propelling weapons, the SEK team simultaneously shot six windows of the airplane that sat on the run way. Doing as they were designed, the windows did not break, they popped inward with the force, and canisters sailed into the aircraft releasing an opiate fentanyl based gas throughout the cabin.

  It was a bold move, but one the SEK team was confident of.

  Smoke seeped from the broken windows. Giving it a few seconds, John waved his arm and called on the radio to his team and other squads that were there.

  It was time to storm the plane.

  At top speed they raced across the runaway.

  It was a well rehearsed ballet.

  How could it go wrong?

  <><><><>

  Billy heard the commotion and knew something was going on above them. That noise along with the undead trying the hardest to get through the one door made things tense enough, but when everyone started yelling Billy was ready to scream.

  As if he held all the answers, they panicked, asking how they were going to get off the plane when they were so far off the ground.

  Billy thought maybe the emergency chute would deploy; it didn’t matter, they’d cross that bridge when they opened that door.

  It was daylight, and Billy was pretty certain whoever flew the plane radioed for help, so someone had to be out there. That had to be the people who fired the shots.

  “Help is out there. I believe it.” Billy told them. “Now let’s just open this door.”

  Two things occurred within five seconds of him saying that.

  The first, just as Billy and another man reached to unlock the cargo door, it opened and four soldiers, armed stood there on a mobile stair case.

  The second . . . the undead broke through.

  Billy let out a shriek of shock. Lisa screamed. Summing up the best advice he could in one word, Billy grasped the arms of a soldier, looked him squarely in the eyes and said, “Run!”

  Then Billy, forgetting everything else, followed his own advice.

  He took off.

  <><><><>

  Thomas exhaled loudly in relief, relaxing just a tad when he saw the squads storm the plane and the passengers running free.

  At first there were five, then following some gun shots and commotion, a lot of passengers flew from the cargo area. Thomas thought, how smart they were for hiding down there, but so many and then he chuckled a little how in their enthusiasm they were falling down the stairs.

  That cheerful moment lasted briefly.

  He heard the crackle of John’s radio just before the panicked cries of his men onboard. More shots rang out and then there were more screams.

  “Get out, pull out.” John ordered.

  It all happened so fast. Pull out? Thomas went from looking at John to raising his eyes to the plane; more passengers emerged from the aircraft, leaping from the open door to the ground. In what should have been a fall that broke their legs, they stood again and raced Thomas’ way.

  Mouth moving in question, yet not speaking, Thomas saw the first group of five running his way at top speed. They didn’t stop. A young man in the lead took a second to make quick eye contact with Thomas, cry out the words, ‘Get out’ and he kept fleeing.

  Thomas made the mistake of watching the young man, trying to make heads or tails out of the situation. A close shot fired by his ear caused him to turn around, when he did, the wall of passengers ascended on the wall of police.

  It was a riot out of control. His men fired on the frantic passengers. But they kept coming, pouncing on the police officials. Something wasn’t right, they didn’t look right. Before he could decipher what was wrong with them, one jumped on him
knocking him to the ground.

  Struggling, Thomas pushed the man up from him as best as he could. He caught one glimpse of the pale and bloodied face, took one whiff of the nasty odor that came from him and then Thomas lost his struggle. The man overpowered and lunged with an open mouth for his neck.

  Then man succeeded in literally ripping apart Thomas’ neck.

  Thomas was dead . . . for the moment.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Centers for Disease Control – Atlanta

  Deep below the surface it was hard to tell day from night. No windows, just a clock on the wall or the time perched in the corner of a computer screen.

  Captain Steven Long knew it was morning. He hadn’t been to sleep in over 24 four hours and if it hadn’t been for the smell of bacon, he wouldn’t have known it was morning.

  They were given a section of the underground lab, even though they worked on the virus on the floors above. Where he and Saul set up shop was more to study the victims in a hospital setting.

  Steven thought he’d probably end up living down there until the episode was over.

  He didn’t figure himself to be the one to find the cure, although he had isolated the bacterium, and impressively, at least to himself, was discovering a lot about how the bacterium ran its course. More than likely, Dr. Powers would be the one to beat it. He was brilliant and was working with his team, nonstop several floors above. As a young medical student in virology, Steven had heard a lot about Powers and his work.

  Steve waited to hear from him, in fact, before he checked in with Saul, he called Dr. Powers. Dr. Powers wasn’t willing to give out information, but he did reluctantly. Steven reasoned he’d probably be the same if he was in Dr. Powers’ position. Powers didn’t know him at all and was pretty much forced to work with the Army doctor.

  Armed with what information he had along with a warm bagel, he raised his hand to knock on Saul’s door. The sounds of commotion, screaming flowed from Saul’s underground office. Muffled sounds as if Saul were listening to a recording.