Omega Days (Volume 1)

THIRTY-TWO



Central California



The Blackhawk cruised south, one thousand feet above the dry central valley. RJ sat with his legs hanging out the left door, clipped in with his safety strap and draping an arm over his mounted M240. Six men in combat gear, led by an Air Force sergeant, sat in the back not talking. A few tried to sleep over the roar of wind and blades.

I-5 was a gray ribbon below, cutting through a vast open country of agriculture, quickly browning from lack of irrigation. Vladimir’s eyes moved in an easy, experienced pattern across his instruments and out through the windscreens.

“Ranch House, Groundhog-7. Updates on our objective?”

“Negative, Groundhog. No new transmissions.”

“Da, Groundhog copies.” Aepno, he thought. Shit. More wasted time and fuel. Another oxota ne tycb, a hunting of the goose. Lemoore had picked up a brief broadcast from a woman claiming to be an LA County sheriff’s deputy, who gave her position as just south of Lost Hills, a tiny farming hamlet halfway to Bakersfield on I-5. She said she was at the head of a refugee column. The woman did not respond to repeated calls from Lemoore, and there were no further transmissions. Vlad had been sent to investigate.

The highway was only lightly scattered with vehicles and remained fairly open. A few lone shapes wandered the asphalt, but they weren’t refugees. He glanced at his instruments. “Coming up on objective,” he said into the intercom. “Five minutes.”

RJ and the Air Force sergeant, also wearing headsets, acknowledged with two clicks.

It didn’t take five minutes; Vlad saw them long before he reached them, a sight impossible to miss. Ahead, I-5 was packed with a dark mass of bodies, vehicles sprinkled among them. The Blackhawk descended to three-hundred feet and then swept overhead. People below began waving their arms.

Dear God, how many were there? The refugee column stretched out for over a mile, covering both the north and southbound lanes and the wide grassy area between. Most were on foot carrying bags and packs and small children, others pushing wheelbarrows or shopping carts, some on bicycles with small trailers pulled behind. Trucks, cars and buses with people piled on the roofs or hanging off the sides were trapped in the surge of bodies, the whole thing creeping along at less than a walking pace.

“Ranch House, Groundhog-7. We have eyes on the objective. Confirm large column of refugees on foot, moving north on Interstate Five.”

“Copy, Groundhog. Can you estimate a count?”

Vlad shook his head. “Ten-thousand plus.”

The controlled at Lemoore asked him to repeat the number. The Blackhawk reached the end of the column, back where the stragglers were; people carrying stretchers, a horse-drawn wagon loaded with children, others pushing people in wheelchairs and one actually rolling along a hospital gurney with a woman strapped to it.

Vlad whispered a single word in Russian.

The dead were following. A wall of corpses covered both lanes and spread well out into the fields on either side, the closest of them less than a hundred yards behind the fleeing survivors. Vlad climbed to a thousand feet for a better view, and wished he hadn’t. An ocean of the dead went back as far as he could see, millions of them.

A ripple of nervous curses came from the back, the squad of troops peering out and down at the same thing the pilot was seeing.

“Ranch House,” Vladimir called, his voice tight, “the column is being pursued by hostiles. Estimate they will make contact in less than two hours.”

“Copy, Groundhog. Strength of opposition?”

Vlad didn’t need to consult the map strapped to his knee to know where I-5 went. He stared out at a moving carpet of death.

“Groundhog-7, Ranch House. Report enemy strength.”

Vladimir keyed the mike. “It is Los Angeles.”

There was a long pause before, “Stand by.”

The Russian banked and brought the Blackhawk around to the left, the men in the doorway gripping the frame extra tightly as the endless ghouls passed beneath them, fearing a fall, as if the impact from this altitude wouldn’t kill them instantly. The chopper descended and came up along the side of the column again, low enough to get a good look but not so low as to buffet them with wind. They were slow, slower than the horde behind them. It was a basic math problem which would end in disaster. Vlad saw only a few firearms among them, and no military presence. The people on the ground continued to wave their arms.

“Da, I see you,” he said quietly.

In the back, the Air Force sergeant spoke over the intercom. “Don’t even think about setting this crate down, Russkie. We’d be overrun.”

Vladimir clenched his teeth. “Sergeant, if I choose, I will shake this bird until you all fall out the doors. And I will fly us straight into the side of a mountain before I take orders on my own aircraft.” He shook his head, instantly regretting the rebuke. The man was just scared, and with good reason. If the Blackhawk touched down, thousands of terrified people looking for a way out would swamp it in seconds. Vlad didn’t descend further, simply held position off to the side of the column and waited. There was no response from Lemoore.

He could imagine why. Right now, naval officers of assorted senior rank, including the base’s commanding admiral, would be in a tense discussion about the refugees. NAS Lemoore was already bursting with displaced civilians, and more were flying in daily. The dead continued to pile up at the fence line, and the repeated claims of the briefers that it would hold was getting harder and harder to believe. These new refugees, assuming a way could be devised to get them through the creatures encircling the base, would stretch Lemoore's resources to the breaking point. Vlad imagined stern-looking men debating around a table, throwing out ideas, and not all of them in the interest of the refugees. Might someone even suggest using them as bait, to draw the masses away from the fence? The situation grew increasingly dire each passing day, and frightened men made frightening decisions. Most likely, however, they would do nothing, and hope the column simply continued moving north.

The flaw in that hope, Vlad knew, was that the refugees no doubt had maps, and could clearly see that the air station was the only military installation in the area. It was probably their intended destination.

He banked the helicopter so he could see the endless, hungry mass closing from behind. The dead would catch up, attacking from the rear and working forwards, driving the front of the group north…right into the waiting teeth of the horde outside the base. And when the dead of Los Angeles reached the fence line…?

“Groundhog-7, Ranch House. You are ordered to make no contact with the column, and return to base immediately.”

He looked once more at the people standing and waving below, hoping that his was only the first of many helicopters coming to carry them to safety. “Keep moving,” he whispered. “Do not stand and wave, keep moving.” He turned the Blackhawk north, climbing and staring directly ahead so he wouldn’t have to see their faces as their salvation flew away.

“Groundhog-7 copies, we are RTB.”

No one spoke during the twenty minute flight home.

Vladimir approached the base from the southwest, and at two miles out he could easily see the dark smear which represented the bodies packed around the fence, fifty deep. How many now? A hundred-thousand? Two?

“Ranch House, Groundhog-7 coming in at two-one-zero, two miles.

“Roger, Groundhog, you are cleared to land at pad seven-alpha.”

The Russian was about to copy when he saw the C-130. The big green bird, driven by four massive props, was lumbering in from the north, landing gear down, one-hundred feet off the runway. Another load of refugees from who knew where. As he closed the distance to the base, he saw the wings suddenly waggle, the nose drifting left to right. Vlad immediately pulled on the cyclic and collective at the same time, the Blackhawk’s nose coming up as he settled into a quick hover directly over the horde.

“What’s up, Lieutenant?” RJ called.

“Aircraft in distress.” The pilot watched as the big cargo plane wobbled, began to rise as if it was going to wave off, then dropped, slamming hard onto the runway before leaping back into the air, crippled and on fire. One engine broke free and shot across the field in a ball of flaming, twisted metal, taking out a large Navy helicopter sitting on a pad, exploding it in an instant. The rest of the C-130 reared up into the sky, nosed over and began to pinwheel through the air, pieces of tail and wing breaking free.

The doomed plane spun straight into the cluster of hangars serving as housing for refugees, streaking wreckage and gouts of burning fuel ripping through the adjacent tent city. The sound of the explosions was muffled by the Blackhawk’s rotors, clouds of black and red ballooning silently into the sky.

“What the Christ was that?” the Air Force Sergeant yelled over the intercom.

Vlad’s eyes followed the fireball erupting from the refugee hangar. How many had been on board the plane? How many thousands on the ground? With the airspace now clear, he was about to move the helicopter forward when he caught new movement below and to the right.

The fence was collapsing.

A twenty foot section sagged inwards as tons of pressure moved against it, the dead spilling in behind it. Those creatures at the fence fell to the ground as it gave way, only to be walked over by a wave of bodies. An adjacent section folded as well, chain link torn away and metal support posts bending in half. More fence went down in a line beyond that, and the dead trudged onto the base by the thousands.

Looking out the left door in the opposite direction, RJ called, “The west gate just fell! They’re inside!” The gunner watched as not fifty yards to the left of the aircraft, thousands of the dead pressed through the mangled gates and walked into gunfire coming from several sandbagged bunkers and a pair of machinegun-mounted Humvees. Tracers lashed out at the moving wall, but it didn’t even slow them down. They flowed over the bunkers and vehicles like high tide, burying the defenders even as they fired their weapons, their mass tipping over a Humvee. A few men in camouflage managed to break away from the breach, half of them running without rifles.

It’s over, Vlad thought. There would be no putting the genie back in the bottle now.

“Get us down there,” the Air Force sergeant said.

“Not a wise idea,” said Vlad. “They cannot be contained.”

“Goddammit, those are our guys down there! Put us down right now!”

The Russian pushed the cyclic forward between his knees and nosed the Blackhawk over the fence, over the sea of bodies, looking ahead for a safe landing spot. In the back, the sergeant was telling his men to lock and load.

“Ranch House, Groundhog-7.”

No reply.

Vlad repeated the call, and received only silence. He took the bird in fast and low, ensuring his landing zone was clear of flaming debris, then flared and pivoted sideways, touching the wheels down a hundred yards ahead of the first wave of walking dead. Without a word the sergeant led his tiny squad out the door, taking off at a run towards where a small knot of men were kneeling and firing. Vlad lifted off at once and took the Blackhawk back towards the collapsed fence.

“Ranch House, Ranch House, this is Groundhog-7. I am taking station over the western breach, awaiting instructions.” Behind him, RJ went to work with his door gun, sending long streams of automatic fire down on the heads of the crowd.

Ranch House did not respond.

The view from the cockpit revealed that the situation was far worse than Vlad had originally thought. He could see a half dozen other places where the unrelenting pressure of the dead had finally flattened the fence, and that was just on this side of the base. Reason assured him there would be many more. Fixed defenses and mobile patrols had been overwhelmed immediately, and the dead flowed in like the lava Rocker had described; slow, spreading, unstoppable and absolutely fatal. They flowed across streets, manicured lawns, between buildings, and out across the tarmac. This was not an infantry base; there were no armored vehicles and only a small percentage of the personnel were armed.

RJ soon exhausted the ammo supply for the left gun, with little measurable effect, but still unhooked and moved across, snapping back in at the right door and getting that M240 rolling. It sounded like a chainsaw. Vlad rotated the Blackhawk to give him the best exposure, as the bullets chopped into the mass below. Bodies went down in little groups, heads disintegrating under the high power fire, but the gaps were instantly filled by more.

There was some radio traffic, though nothing from the tower. Another inbound C-130 ten miles out announced that it was turning back towards Nevada. A pair of Navy helicopters which had gone down to Bakersfield this morning transmitted that they would head south and try to reach the USS Ronald Reagan, supposedly now somewhere off the coast of the Baja Peninsula. One pilot reported that he didn’t think he had the fuel to make it, and might have to set down so the other chopper could pick up his crew.

Vlad looked at his own gauge. The trip to Lost Hills and the subsequent time over Lemoore had cost him a third of his fuel. If the Reagan had moved south as the Navy bird reported, it was beyond his reach. Even if the ship was still somewhere off the coast of LA, it would be cutting things close, tight enough that an unexpected headwind could bleed off the last of his fuel right over the city. The additional problem would be finding the vessel in the first place, since the Blackhawk had no direct comms. An aircraft carrier might seem exceptionally large, but on open ocean it was very small indeed, and every minute spent over the water visually searching for it would burn precious fuel. As a pilot, Vlad had imagined his own death many times; fire, crashes, combat. Drowning or being eaten by sharks, however, was not one of the ways he would choose. It didn’t matter; the carrier was too far away.

“Lieutenant, three o’clock,” RJ called.

Vladimir looked to the right across the field. He saw Rocker’s lone Super Hornet still on the ground, and he wondered what had happened to the young fighter jock. That wasn’t what RJ was drawing his attention to, however. Another Blackhawk sat on the deck close to a cluster of buildings, rotors turning, masses of the undead coming in at it from all sides. A small circle of men was falling back to the chopper, firing in all directions. Vlad recognized the tail number as Conroy’s bird, his former co-pilot.

“Hold tight.” The Russian banked hard and roared across the base towards the surrounded helicopter, while RJ loaded his last box of ammo. Ahead of them, the defenders began to fall, and two men with rifles turned and leaped through the open side door as Conroy began to lift off.

Handfuls of the dead galloped after them and scrambled aboard as well.

Groundhog-7 was almost there when Conroy’s bird became fully airborne, close enough to see the side window of the cockpit suddenly splashed red. The chopper staggered and tipped sideways, racing horizontally through the air and dropping. The Blackhawk’s engine made a high-pitched death whine as it streaked towards the ground, and then there was a tremendous blast as it crashed…

…into NAS Lemoore’s tank farm of jet fuel.

“Aepno!” Vlad cried, banking away sharply and accelerating, pushing the turbine for all its power. Behind him there was a deep boom which he felt in his chest cavity as the first above-ground tank erupted, an enormous bomb which sent a flaming pressure wave of shrapnel in a three-hundred-sixty-degree circle. The blast set off others, the giant tanks going off like a string of firecrackers.

The pressure slammed into Groundhog-7, lifting it from behind and hurling the aircraft forward, nose down, trying to knock it out of the sky. Pieces of metal banged and rattled of the fuselage, and a frantic warning buzzer sounded in the cockpit. The helicopter dropped towards the flat roof of a barracks building, turbine intakes sucking at the super-heated air, and the cords in Vlad’s neck and arms jumped out as he hauled back on the cyclic.

The Blackhawk pulled out ten feet above the rooftop, low enough for the wind from its blades to scatter gravel like a dust storm. Then it was roaring across the base.

Vlad whispered something in Russian, a little prayer his mother had taught him, and slowly gained elevation. He shut off the warning buzzer – a caution that his air intakes were suffocating, though no longer – and aimed the chopper towards the tower. He circled it, calling repeatedly on the radio, and still getting no response. No one moved behind the glass. He pulled away, looking down as the streets of the naval air station filled with the dead. Many were charred black from burning fuel, civilians who had come here seeking sanctuary and found something worse than death.

The pilot made a slow, low level inspection of the base, seeing no more firefights. “RJ, do you see anything on your side?”

The gunner said nothing.

“RJ?” Vlad twisted in his seat to look back into the troop compartment. The metal decking was slick with blood, and RJ was flat on his back, jumpsuit scorched, a blackened twist of metal jutting out of his throat. His eyes were open, staring up at nothing.

The Russian cursed softly. The man had probably been killed instantly when the jet fuel tank went off. Vlad told himself that even if he had known his gunner was hit, and was able to find a safe place to land, there wouldn’t have been anything he could do. Nonetheless, he felt the weight of the man’s death. He could rationalize it all he wanted to, but he knew his dreams would have something quite different to say about it.

If he lived long enough to sleep again.

He continued his slow patrol across the length of the base, searching for survivors, finding only the walking dead as they continued to file through the breaches. If anyone was down there, they were out of sight, hiding in a building and beyond Vlad’s help.

A howl at his right ear made him flinch left as fingernails clawed the corner of his seat. Vlad twisted to see RJ on his feet, the metal still in his neck, reaching with both arms. His eyes were filmy, and he hissed through bared teeth. The door gunner’s safety line, still clipped from his harness to a ring on the floor of the troop compartment, held him back like a vicious dog straining at the end of its leash. The dead man lunged against it, coming up short, able only to touch the corner of the pilot’s seat. He moaned, and kept at it, jerking and snapping his teeth.

Vlad put the Blackhawk into a hover and slipped a small automatic from a zipper pocket of his flight suit, just beneath his armpit. “Forgive me, tovarich.” He shot RJ in the face, and the gunner’s body collapsed to the decking.

The pilot looked down for a moment, and then looked at the map strapped to his right knee. It showed secondary and tertiary landing zones – both military and civilian - as well as places he might find the JP-5 fuel his bird consumed at a rate of 0.74 miles per gallon. He knew that most, if not all, were out of date and already overrun.

He flew the Blackhawk north.