Siege
14 Jul
1940
We have been discovered by what is left of the Marines in this area. Fifteen military vehicles are parked nearby and shots are again being fired outside Hotel 23 directed at the undead. They have made no attempts to disable our cameras, so we have been watching them carefully. Of the fifteen vehicles, six are LAVs. There are some military Hummers and even a four-wheeled ATV. I didn’t count the ATV or the olive-drab dirt bike as part of the fifteen. They all appear to be in Marine issue digital camouflage, which tells me that some order still might exist within the unit. The radio has been playing the same loop. I cannot get an accurate head count on them, as the dead are amongst them attempting to converge.
The creatures that the Marines are dealing with outside are not the same as the one I had to avoid when on my last rescue mission. I have a feeling that if I were faced with an overwhelming army of the radiated dead, I would eventually fall to either their slightly faster mobility or their extreme radiation. The small numbers outside at this moment should not be a problem for the men dealing with them.
We can escape now (via the alternate exit) and leave Hotel 23 forever, never knowing if the military outside are our allies, or we can stay and fight or maybe attempt communication. We still maintain our radio silence and do not plan to break it unless absolutely necessary.
They are making no attempts to gain entry at this time and have made no gestures toward the cameras. The sun will be down in roughly two hours and if they plan to gain forced entry, I feel they will do it in the dead of night.
One thing is absolute . . . defeating foolish raiders with a lucky cheap shot is one thing, but going head to head with a couple of dozen well-armed U.S. Marines is quite another.
17 Jul
2236
Negotiations at first were civil, then turned to threats that in turn led to violence. They began with radio transmissions directed “at the ones in the bunker.” Then came the explosives. They set the explosives but did not detonate them. They wanted to get in without resistance. After seeing block after block of explosives being carted down into the silo hole, I had no choice but to break radio silence with the Marines.
I keyed the microphone and said (to the best of my recollection):
“To the men trying to take this facility by force, please cease hostile actions or we will be forced to retaliate.”
I thought for sure I would hear laughter on the radio, but they were professional.
“No one wants hostilities, we just want the complex. It is U.S. government property, and we have rightful claim to such properties, in accordance with applicable federal laws and executive orders. We ask that you allow us to gain access and no one will be harmed.”
That was the moment when I wanted to laugh at them on the radio. We were at a standoff. I had to speak to the person in command of this unit. I requested to do so and was met with evasive wording and lip service.
“The commanding officer is at headquarters and will not be present.”
I asked for the person speaking to identify himself. He refused.
I asked, “On what real authority do you claim this compound?”
He replied, “On the authority of the chief of Naval Operations.”
“Don’t you mean the Commandant of the Marine Corps?”
At first there was silence, and then the tinny voice came back and said, “The commandant is missing in action. It is our best guess he is with his fellow cadre of the chairman of the Joint Chiefs at some secure location, along with most of the nation’s leadership . . . dead.”
“So you are under naval operational control at this time?”
“We are the Marine Corps, Department of the Navy.” There was audible laughter at this point.
I didn’t see any point in hiding that we were the ones who had saved Ramirez and his men.
These Marines probably knew that we were the same people, so I asked, “What about Ramirez and the other men that we saved from the disabled LAV?”
“They are fine and one of them is with us now. Ramirez is back at base camp on perimeter defense duty but wanted to pass something along face-to-face.”
With as much sternness as I could muster on the radio, I yelled into the mic, “Let me speak to a commissioned officer now, Marine!”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“We don’t have any . . . er, I mean we don’t have any here.”
The Marine had slipped. I began to wonder who exactly was in command of these men. More banter went on until I finally convinced the Marine on the radio to put me on with the senior noncom present. Gunnery Sergeant Handley answered the call.
The Gunny bellowed, “Now listen down there, we need the complex as a forward command center, as there’s still a little bit a’ hope. A plan is being formed for the remnants of the U.S. military to attempt reclamation of the United States from the creatures.”
I asked him how often they had communicated with the Chief of Naval Operations (CNO).
“We got regular but sunspotty HF comms with his carrier and they’re still flyin’ very maintenance-limited sorties off the boat doing airborne reconnaissance on the mainland in an attempt to give accurate intelligence to what’s left of the men on the ground. Hell, they’ve even dropped some iron a time or two for us when things got real bad.”
I asked him, “So, I suppose much of the Navy has survived the plague?”
He replied, “A lotta ships turned into floatin’ caskets in the beginnin’. Of the ten carriers in active service at the start a’ all this, only four were not infested and overrun by the dead. You might also wanna know that there is a ballistic missile submarine that has been under for seven months. They’re livin’ off powdered eggs ’n’ dried fruits ’n’ meat. That boat is the last normal piece of the lifecycle. . . . People can still die in peace there and not come back.”
I asked the gunnery sergeant what he meant by that.
He said, “The boomer sub was under before all of this happened, so somehow they’re unaffected by whatever is causin’ the dead to rise. They radioed in on the very low frequency band that they had suffered one natural death in the month of February but the corpse didn’t rise. After a twenty-four-hour observation, their doc put the corpse in the freezer and had it restrained with riggin’ web. The thing has been there since, motionless. Of course, they will have to surface sooner or later or they’ll run outta food, but for now they are the last unaffected humans known to exist. All the other boomers and fast attack subs didn’t hit the right time gate to avoid exposure. I guess we all have some form of this plague dormant inside us . . . waitin’ on the day our heart stops beatin’. The whole thing’s f*cked up as a football bat.”
Then came a chilling silence, interrupted only by the random report of 5.56 rounds being fired at the creatures.
“Sir, we don’t wanna blow a big hole in your clubhouse and then take it from ya. Isn’t there some sort of peaceful agreement we can come to? There are civilians at our compound that are happy to be there.”
I replied, “We won’t be happy there, Gunny, we aren’t cattle. We have been surviving on the run since the beginning and much of it was before we found this place.”
“That is impressive, but it doesn’t change the fact that this complex falls under military jurisdiction.”
“Gunny, you still haven’t given me proof that you all aren’t some rogue group of military survivors with no government leadership backing your actions.”
“Sir, government guidance and hesitation are what brought us into the shithouse and to the point of extinction.”
“Yes, Gunny, you may have a point. However, we found this place and we don’t want to live under any iron fists, even if they belong to the U.S. military.”
He just replied with a “very well” and then came more radio silence. This was the night of the sixteenth. Two hours after the last radio call they detonated their first charge in the silo. It had no effect save for a barely visible crack in the eight-inch-thick window glass of the blast door. Then another detonation, and another. The already damaged camera in the silo was disabled at this point, not even returning any variance of visible signal. The explosions were having no effect.
Thinking of this, I wondered if the civilian marauders had even had a chance at getting in with their cutting tools before I killed them. The alloy and fiberglass embedded concrete that made up Hotel 23 was very strong. I suppose it would need to be to withstand a nuclear blast. I felt an ever-so-slight sting of guilt at the possibly needless killing of the civilian raiders. Perhaps they would have given up when their torches turned out to be ineffective. Maybe I didn’t have to see them as walking, burnt men. Rationalization tells me that they deserved it . . .
Every synapse ping of pain.
I snapped out of this thought at the sound of another explosion. I felt a slight pressure change. This change caused me to pinch my nose, close my mouth and blow to equalize the pressure between my ears. The explosion did not damage the structure of the complex, but it did vibrate the alloy enough to induce a quick change in pressure inside. Jan and Tara were very upset at the thought of being captured and taken to a military-controlled camp. For all they knew at this moment, they would be used as breeding vessels; I would never let that happen. The explosions weren’t making anything better. Laura was crying and Annabelle yelped in fear and stuck her tail between her legs every time another went off. After thirty minutes of this, the explosions ceased. They must have been fresh out of plastique.
The radio once again crackled.
“Had ’nuff yet? Why not just open the doors and come out peacefully? You will not be harmed.”
I asked the gunnery sergeant to give us until sunrise to pack our things before we opened the door. He bought it.
I gathered the adults and we began brainstorming on what cards we could possibly play in this scenario. Options were limited. We could go on the run again and try to find another defensible location, but nothing would compare to Hotel 23. It would take us years to build anything as durable and safe.
Jan suggested we take off in the aircraft. I explained to them that the Cessna could not possibly hold us all, let alone our gear, and that that option was out. Besides, the aircraft was not in excellent condition; the brake on one side was out. It was midnight and we had six good hours to come up with something. I turned to John, who would normally have an “outside the box” answer to give me. He claimed that there was no logical answer.
I was not sure that they knew the alternate exit existed, but there were vehicles parked in that area near the fence. They probably knew about it. The front door was a decent option, but there was a growing group of undead there, still banging on the door. The other option was to trust the Marines. If they kept their word, they would simply let us go after they seized the compound.
I had no desire to be on the run again with an older lady, two small children and a dog. We would be dead before the month ended at the claws and maws of those things. I just didn’t know what to do. I sat in my living quarters pondering on any possible solution to our conundrum. If only I had possessed some sort of leverage.
I hadn’t put my belongings away since I let Dean have my other living area. A small box of what I had was still sitting in the corner of the room, waiting for the day I got tired of looking at it. Now it seemed that day would never come. I stared at the box for a few minutes, thinking of how we were going to transport all of our gear with us cross-country and survive. Walking over to the box I began to inventory its contents. Two extra flight suits, gloves, kneeboard for flying, Glock 17 handgun, three small family pictures, six boxes of 9mm ammunition and my Velcro name patch with, of course, my name, rank and wings embroidered into the fabric. I hadn’t worn this patch since civilization fell. What was the need? Finally, I pulled my wallet out of the box . . .
Looking inside my wallet, I found numerous cards. I was an NRA member back when it existed. It wasn’t that long ago. I also had a card for what seemed like every video rental chain. Would I be exempt from the late fees if society ever rebuilt itself? I am sure the server that housed my felonious late fees data would long be rusted by the time the power grid was restored. If ever.
Then came something that changed everything. Last month I had remembered looking at my military identification card with a feeling of nostalgia. It was two years until it expired. I stood there looking at it, running my thumb across the microchip embedded in the front. My data was on that chip, along with the data that was embedded in the barcode on the right side of the card. Again there was my photo. A clean-shaven, naive version of myself who would have never thought the dead would walk.
If these men were still U.S. Marines, following the Uniform Code of Military Justice, then I was still a commissioned officer and still their superior. If anyone still followed the rank structure of the military, it would be a Marine. In all my limited encounters with the Marine enlisted men in my military past, they had always stood up to address me when I spoke to them. The gunnery sergeant had said himself that there was no officer available topside and that he was the senior man present.
He was lying and didn’t know it.
I was, in theory, the senior man present.
As I stood there with my back to the door, staring at the card in my hands, I saw Dean reach over and take the ID card and look at it. She carefully examined the military ID and looked at me.
She said, “Looks a lot like you, sailor.”
I smiled back at her and said, “Yes, it used to be me.”
She replied, “It’s still you, it’s just that you lost your military bearing and it looks like you need to shave!”
I thought for a moment that she could be right. I had done some bad things since January, but that didn’t change the fact that there were military units still active and I was still a military officer. My unit was destroyed, probably with no survivors. I knew this; I had flown over my base and seen it with my own eyes. The base had been overrun, then later nuked. Game over. For all I knew, I was the only one left.
I called the group together and discussed what I planned to do. They all gasped at the thought but eventually agreed that it was the only real way to handle the situation.
It was 0500 hrs this morning before I woke up and switched on the lights. I took my shower kit and began the laborious task of getting myself together. As I passed my old quarters, the door swung open and Dean stepped out with a pair of scissors from the control center office.
“Can’t have you going topside without a haircut.”
I laughed and made sure my towel wouldn’t fall off in front of her.
“I suppose not, Dean.”
She had cut Danny’s hair when he needed it, and she made sure to tell me that he had never complained. My hair had grown long and far out of military regulation in the past months. I had shaved it off three months ago, but I had not touched it since and it was rather long. It was unlike me to let it get this way. The end of the civilized world was a decent excuse, I thought, but Dean wouldn’t have it. Like a master barber, she restored my head to unwritten aviation officer regulations (just a little longer than that of the enlisted men).
As I finished up in the shower and hacked my thick stubble off, I looked in the mirror. I looked presentable for what I was about to do. I had no dress uniform or officer’s sword, but I would make do. With my towel wrapped around me I walked my way back to my quarters. Outside my door were my boots, shined to perfection with a note in child’s writing: “I hope you like I shined my dad’s boots before—Danny.”
He must have come in and retrieved them while I slept. I leave the door open so that I can hear if anything is going on in the walkway. I must be losing my edge, or he must be a very quiet kid. I thought back to when I had seen Danny urinating on the undead at the tower. What a funny sight.
I put on my clean flight suit, with rank on my shoulders and name patch on my chest. I pulled my garrison cap out of the leg pocket where it had been for six months and put it on my head. I walked out of my quarters in uniform, prepared to meet the Marines. It was 0550 hrs and I could see on the cameras that the sun was coming up, making the clouds to the east shine with an ominous orange tint.
I keyed the radio. “Gunny, are you there? . . . over . . .”
After a short pause, a tired, haggard and perturbed voice came back, “Yes, I am here, and I have been here all damn night.”
“Good, now clear your men away from the silo opening, I am coming up.”
“We’ll be waiting on you at the top . . . out.”
Armed only with a sidearm, I went to the access hatch that led directly into the silo. John and Will covered me with their weapons. It took three of us to spin the wheel and open the hatch, as all the heat and explosions had expanded and contracted the alloy. As soon as the hatch opened, a flood of light shone down from above and dust billowed in. John and Will quickly dogged the hatch. I hadn’t seen the inside of the silo close up for quite a while. There were bits of burnt bone and clothing all over the bottom. Lots of teeth were scattered on the deck. There must have been quite a few creatures down here when the marauders started burning them. The walls were blackened from all the explosives that had been detonated during the past twenty-four hours.
The men at the top could not yet see me, as I was near the bulkhead at the bottom. With cold anticipation I stepped into the light and began climbing up the ladder to the top. The ladder was covered in ash. I kept climbing. The sound of “Holy shit!” signified that I had been sighted. I kept climbing until I reached the top. The gloved hand of a USMC gunnery sergeant reached out to help me over the lip of the silo doors. I stood there and looked him in the eye. He squared off in front of me and rendered a sharp salute. I returned it with the same bearing and he dropped his. He immediately led me to his tent and a handful of staff sergeants followed.
“Sir, we had no idea, I . . .
“No need for that, Gunny, you didn’t know I was an officer and I wasn’t going to tell you until I had to.”
A question-and-answer session followed, and I told him my story from day one. I left out the part about my XO ordering me to report to the base shelter. I told him that I was probably the last surviving member of my squadron and that I had been surviving and picking up others when I could. It was then that he ordered the staff sergeants to leave the tent.
He leaned in close to me and with a very quiet and nervous whisper said, “Sir, I have not seen an officer for months. All of our ground-pounder brass was ordered to an undisclosed location months ago and we have not seen nor communicated with them since. Basically, they left us to die in the open out here. I have been tellin’ the men that the commanding officer was alive and issuing orders directly to me via secure radio. It is not really lying, considerin’ I have been receiving orders from an Admiral Goettleman, onboard the flagship USS George Washington. They are starting to doubt my word. I had to keep the men’s morale up. How would they fight or even work as a team knowing their unit’s superior officers left them in the open to die and were probably dead themselves?”
We both sat there. I pondered what this implied. My concentration was broken intermittently by gunfire as the men fended off the undead.
“What are you telling me, Gunny?”
“Sir, I’m telling you that you are the first officer I have seen in a long time, and we need you, if only as a mouthpiece leader for the men. Leader or not, I just need you to play the part or this whole thing is going to unravel quick-like and blow up in everyone’s face.”
“Gunny, in that case, this place, Hotel 23, will be my command. You will need to stay and send most of your men back, along with your most trusted staff sergeant.” He agreed. I told him that I would address the men while he decided who stayed and who didn’t.
Over the next half hour, I stood on an ammunition crate and watched the faces of the young patriots who looked on and listened.
“I am the commanding officer of this stronghold, and I need a few good men.”
This was met with aggressive applause.
“About six and a half months ago, something really rocked our world. Now no one really knows what it was that happened, but it doesn’t really matter what it is.”
I didn’t think I sounded that great, but the men disagreed with their whistles and clapping.
“The way I see it, we may run out of rounds, but we still have sharp sticks! It may take a long time, but we won’t give up. We’re going to save as many as we can and we are going to put the hurt on those things.
“I want you men to never forget that you are in the United States military. I don’t want to hear any talk of there not being a United States. That is nonsense. Our Constitution may be sitting there in D.C. just fine or it may be burned up, but that doesn’t mean it’s dead like those things out there. We will still support and defend till the end.”
This was met with cheers and claps and also led to a crowd of men gathering around the Gunny, volunteering to stay here at Hotel 23. The sun was now rising over the tree line on this summer morning. My simple address was over and I could already see a visible boost in their morale. The compound was buzzing with purpose.
The Gunny said, “One more thing, sir. Ramirez wanted me to give you this.”
He handed me a fixed-blade knife with a heavy-duty leather sheath. The sheath had a small pocket containing a sharpening stone. I pulled the knife from the sheath and noticed that it was a very high-quality combat knife with a black micarta handle. The knife appeared to be stainless steel and had the words “Randall Made Orlando FL” stamped into the blade near the handle on one side. I laughed as I thought to myself, “They don’t make ’em like this anymore.” Hell they don’t make anything anymore.
After all was said and done, three LAVs and a covered supply truck stayed here along with twenty-two men, including the Gunny. We were topside when the staff sergeant and his convoy left for base camp with the news that they had found an officer to help with the cause. Two military radios, loaded with crypto key-mat code from KYK-13s (small cryptographic storage units), were taken down into the compound and set up in the command center. The Marines quickly set up their berthing below.
Most of the afternoon was spent returning Hotel 23 to an operational military combined operations center.