Dirty Bombs
In October 2007, I deployed to Iraq for the first time. I spent the fifteen months resolved to the fact I would just live there forever. This mentality kept me from over anticipating the journey home and made the length bearable. I do not recall doing much reading except one book. Sergeant Clise gave me his copy of World War Z by Max Brooks. This opened a door for intense nightmares and long stares into darkness considering the parallel universe of zombies in a war zone. Where would I go? Who could I trust? Over a decade later, I finally found the courage to pen my first zombie story.
Her ears rang, disorienting her after the blast hit right outside. She blinked through the darkness, small rays of light shined through the holes that peppered her roommate’s side of the metal trailer. Miranda rolled softly to the floor, dragged her body armor from its resting place under her twin bed, and pulled it open over her. She low crawled to the growing pool of blood by the other twin bed. Christy appeared to be still sleeping peacefully, her pulse nonexistent. Miranda lay for a moment listening. More impacts followed the loud whistles of bombs as the enemy continued their assault on the forward operating base. Though they shook her to the core, the blasts moved farther and farther away - mortars. The enemy must have been targeting the embassy.
Fumbling to find her roommate’s gear, she secured an extra medic pouch, a full combat load of ammunition, and the spare set of keys to the hospital compound. She considered taking her friend’s weapon, but she knew how rarely Christy cleaned it.
Bold enough to stand, Miranda moved her armor over her head, feeling the wound for the first time. In her grey shirt, she found a hole the size of a pencil eraser. She pushed her finger into her abdomen and felt the sharp piece of shrapnel. A sigh of relief it had not even penetrated the muscle. The metallic thorn would have to stay until she made it safely to the combat support hospital where she would prepare to treat the more severely wounded.
Kevlar helmet and body armor secured, she fought against the pain to pull up her uniform pants and lace her boots. The embedded noncommissioned officer within her cringed at the mismatched uniform, but there was little time. She threw the rest of her uniform in an assault pack, with the extra rounds and medic pouch. One thirty-round magazine slid with ease into the ammo well of her rifle, a short motion slammed it into place, and she chambered a round.
Her hand touched the doorknob, and a gasp came from the bed across the room.
“Jenkins!” Miranda whispered a startled cry. But something was off. For a moment she considered her assessment had been flawed, but no. Her friend was lifeless without breath or pulse for over two minutes. “Jenkins?”
At the sound of her voice, the corpse fell off the bed. Legs unmoving, the body crawled across the floor to her. Miranda moved quickly around it, pinning the base of the neck with her boot. Two fingers reached for the neck. There was no pulse.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me.” She pulled a knife from its sheath attached to her armor and with a short pendulum swing of her arm, pushed the blade into Christy’s temple. The body went limp.
The bombs stopped. The enemy had not, in fact, targeted the embassy, but meant to pepper the living areas with their contaminated weapons. Remembering her wound, she sat a moment to collect herself and check her state of being.
Her heart pounded inside of her chest. Adrenaline coursed through her body. Growls came from neighboring rooms. She had enough food and water to last two days if she rationed, but if there was any escape or treatment, her chances would pass her by if she stayed to scavenge for more.
She tightened the chin strap of her helmet and kept the knife in her trigger hand. For the first time in her career, she wished she had a bayonet. With 210 rounds readily accessible and another 210 in her assault pack, one-shot one-kill could still end quickly in close quarters combat. The forward operating base held 25,000 soldiers and countless civilians. Ammo would run out before targets did.
The hospital would hold the largest collection of dead, but it was a secured compound. Miranda knew every turn, corner, and room, and could evade for the half mile it took to get to the back gate.
The door resisted her push to open. Swallowing her adrenaline, her fear, she guided the lock as slow and soft as she could. Any more drama in this situation and she would come undone.
“You can cry when it’s over,” she whispered, and flipped off the switch within her, governing her emotions. She was no longer Miranda, mother of an eighteen-month-old named Naomi in Rutland, Vermont. She was Staff Sergeant St Clair, and had a mission.
Silence. To the left and right of her, nothing moved. Her boots crunched the gravel at the foot of the steps that led to her room. She inhaled deeply and breathed it out of her mouth, a slow and quiet force.
Running, she calculated her pace. Exactly four minutes to reach the gate. If open, the walls surrounding the compound would offer her fast cover if anything pursued. But it would also mean things within the hospital were far worse off.
When she passed the tall, concrete Texas barriers designed to shield the living areas from attacks, she saw others. Some running, the dead dragging.
Thank God Brad Pitt was wrong. They don’t run, she thought, jumping a shallow dry ditch, in sight of the gate. Closed and locked. A familiar face was behind it.
“Conrad, open the damn gate!” There was no recognition in the young soldier’s stance. He swayed back and forth.
“Shit,” Miranda whispered, lowering her M4 rifle. Slowed to a walk, she approached making sure there were no threats on her side of the fence.
Then she was face to face with the young man. He worked in the headquarters building on night shift and was promoted, having pinned a rocker under his previous mosquito-winged rank the day before. She grabbed his collar through the gate, pressing his forehead against the bars. Not happy to use his eye socket as an entry point, she doubted any of her comrades would get open casket funerals either way.
The gate was closed but not secured. Miranda shouldered her rifle and opened the soldered bar door. She cleared the immediate area before turning to lock the entrance.
“Sar’nt St. Clair!” A group of five soldiers ran from the living area toward the gate. Three more trailed behind, one supported by the other two.
She waited, keeping eyes and ears open to the inner courtyard she was standing near and the area that closed between her and the group.
“Fucking zombies, Garrett. Jenkins turned into a goddam zombie.”
The six-foot-three bald man helped the others inside and looked down at Private First Class Conrad’s body.
“Top, too,” he said with a long sigh. “First Sar’nt was hit with shrapnel in his damned sleep.”
Miranda nodded. “Who’s that?”
“Sar’nt Hutch from the OR. She’s got a deep one on her shin. Down to the bone. She put a fucking tourniquet on herself.”
“Take her to the ER,” Miranda shouted to the two soldiers helping the injured woman. “You three work in maintenance, right?”
The junior soldiers nodded.
“I need you to clear the compound. Lockdown as you go. Let in survivors and send them to the outpatient clinic. That’s where we’ll keep the manpower pool. I’m sure you knuckleheads have played enough video games to know what to do. They might be your superior, but if they are already dead, you need to stab them in the head. Try not to kill anyone that has a chance, even if they’re assholes. Got it?”
“Roger, Sar’nt.” With that, the three soldiers went on their mission.
“I’ll help you clear the TOC,” Miranda said looking up at the superior noncommissioned officer. “You’re taking charge, eh?”
Master Sergeant Garrett pulled the 9mm handgun from his leg holster, and they made their way to the headquarters building. As they rounded the corner to the entrance, Miranda saw where a rocket hit the top of the tall concrete barrier. Fresh rubble was scattered everywhere, and there by the door was a large puddle of blood. Drops led to Conrad’s body.
Garrett punched in a series of numbers, and a light above the door handle turned green, granting them access. Miranda flipped her safety switch and gave him a nod. He swung the door open.
“Clear,” Miranda said staring down the dark empty hallway.
RAP RAP RAP! Garrett pounded on the wall. “You guys okay in here?”
Tap Tap Tap. She heard it, faint and far down the hall toward the locked tactical operations room.
Garrett nodded back to Miranda, and she followed him in, listening. He pushed another set of numbers and opened the door to the TOC.
“Get off the damn floor, Sar’nt Viola, Jesus Christ.”
Sergeant First Class Viola huffed as she crawled out from under her desk.
“I think that boy is dead,” the older woman shook a finger toward Conrad’s empty desk.
“Yeah, no shit. Get the COMS up. Call a medevac to Baghdad. We need to get out of here.” Garrett turned to Miranda. “I got this. Run to the ER. Send two troops back here from manpower. We’ll run accountability the best we can. You good?”
Miranda nodded again. “Yeah, just find us a way out of here.”
As she made her way to the main hospital building, she spotted the team of three.
“What’s the status?” she yelled to the young soldiers.
“We’re secured, Staff Sergeant, just scanning the gate for survivors.”
“I need one of you in here with Master Sergeant Garrett. Top’s out. Garrett’s in charge.”
Without hesitation, one man broke into a light jog and disappeared into the headquarters building.
The moment she opened the outer door, she heard the screams. She unbuckled her chin strap and made her way to her office in the outpatient side of the hospital. She set her assault pack on the floor and put her armor on the rack. Miranda pulled her shirt over her head, her wound still bleeding. Her fingers dug inside, grabbing with her fingernails, and she pulled out the metal thorn. Her wound cleaned and patched with gauze and tape, she put on the clean shirt from her bag. On her desk was a picture of her and her newborn daughter.
Miranda inhaled deeply, her heart threatening to pull her apart. She picked up her rifle and assault pack and made her way to the emergency room.
“If you are uninjured and not a medic, I need you to move to the outpatient clinic and await an assignment,” she announced into the crowded bay of makeshift beds. All three mesh litters had a person in them. The first of which was a CPR in progress.
Miranda pulled back the curtain, just as the body reanimated, grabbing the specialist doing chest compressions. Miranda slid her blade into its temple.
“Major Morales?” she called out.
“Not accounted for, Sergeant.”
“Who’s the doc on duty?”
“I am,” a meek voice came from the next curtain. Captain Rainey was a pediatrician from Las Vegas.
“Ma’am? You’re one rotation?”
The doctor shook her head. Miranda and the doctor had bonded over the last few months, having left their children with relatives to deploy.
“Okay. We’re okay,” Miranda projected her voice over the commotion behind the last curtain. “Listen up. MSG Garrett is in charge and working on getting all of us on a medevac out of here. We’re all getting the fuck out of here. But, this will sound crazy. We’re dealing with a zombie epidemic.” She paused, hearing herself say the words. “We will assume everything we’ve seen on TV to be true. Triage will be slightly different as well.”
The yelling in the back of the bay was increasing. Fully prepared to slice everyone, Miranda pulled back the curtain. Four soldiers held down a large local, national man who was thrashing despite being restrained. His eyes were yellow and his skin grey.
“Johnson, he’s dead. Grab that scalpel and…”
The soldier did not wait for her to finish. Silence fell over the room finally.
A young red-haired soldier released her grip on the dead man. Her sleeve was red with blood. A U shape grew on the cloth. Terror on her face, she looked up to Miranda, her leader, and mentor.
“Get a tourniquet on that now!”
Johnson again took action. He coached the fellow soldier through the placement and even the pain as he wrenched it down as tight as he could, just above her elbow.
“Sar’nt St. Clair!” a voice yelled from the hallway.
Miranda met the soldier she had sent to the TOC, “Yeah?”
“ETA is thirty minutes. We only have four birds coming at a time. Master Sergeant Garrett says only uninjured soldiers can go on the first round. That’s 44 seats, Sergeant. We have positive accountability on 65. They can’t all go.”
She pulled the back of her hand over her brow, “I’ll have them ready.”
“Ma’am, please hand your 9mm to Specialist O’Flynn.”
The red-haired girl looked at her perplexed.
“Johnson, I need you and Captain Rainey to come with me and help triage the folks in the outpatient clinic. O’Flynn,” Miranda stepped close to her soldier. “I need you to hold it down in here, okay? I know you’re injured, but you will run a tight ship for a few minutes until I get back. Continue to triage in here and send the uninjured to the clinic. I’m not leaving you. Okay?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
Once the three of them reached the empty hallway just shy of the outpatient clinic, Miranda stopped them.
“They are sending a medevac, but we won’t all fit.”
“I’ll stay,” Johnson said without skipping a beat.
“No, you’re going. That’s an order, Johnson. I swear to God too many people have already died.”
“With all due respect, Sergeant, I’ll make sure they all make it out.”
Miranda did not want to argue. She knew Johnson too well. He should have been a Ranger instead of a medic.
“Well then, Ma’am, we need to triage everyone. Make them tell you of any injuries they have. No open wounds are to leave on that bird. We can’t risk infecting other FOBs, especially the Green Zone. They only have 44 seats on the birds, but, honestly, I don’t give a fuck. If we have 63 healthy people, they are all leaving on that medevac. Now I have to grab something from my office. You guys get started and have everyone assemble in here. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Miranda unlocked the door to her office and shut it behind her. She held her breath, picked up the landline phone sitting on her desk and put it to her ear. Exhale. A dial tone. Her fingers flew, punching in the numbers to make an international call.
“Andy?”
“Mark, I need you listen to me.”
“And, do you know what time it is? I have to be at work in four hours.”
“Dammit just listen. The hospital was hit, and the base is under attack.”
“Oh my God, are you okay?”
“Yes and no,” she choked on the words. “Honey, I love you so very much. And Naomi. I need to hear her. Can you wake her?”
“Ummm,” Mark paused.
“I just need to hear her one last time.”
“I’m, uh, not at home, Andy.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“Nay is at my mom’s tonight.”
“Where are you?” Miranda heard a voice. Not her husband’s voice. A woman’s voice. Miranda slowly placed the handset back down on the receiver. Picking it back up, her hand shaking, she dialed her mother-in-law. The phone just rang, for an eternity it felt like, before going to voicemail. She tried two more times, with the same voice claiming “Please leave your message for…”
“Naomi, it’s your mama. I know you’re too little to understand, but maybe someday you’ll hear this message. I will not stop fighting until I am back home. I will do whatever it takes, to my very last breath to get back to you, my sweet little baby. And if I don’t, just know it’s not because I gave up. I will never give up. I love you so so so so much.”
A knock came at her door before it opened. Garrett ducked his head in and waited for her to collect herself.
“I’m staying back,” he announced quietly.
“Me, too,” she sniffed and raised her uniform blouse to reveal the small spot of blood leaking through her tan t-shirt.
“I pulled Johnson aside. He’s going to create a diversion with a handful of grenades we had in the armory. The sound of the birds will draw the dead, so we must pick off stragglers and divert other survivors inside the compound. Colonel Montgomery said they’d send another round about an hour after them.”
“Sounds promising,” she answered, trying her best to forget what had just happened on the phone.
“The mortar rounds were tainted. The shrapnel is infecting people and then the bites after that. Is that a bite?”
“Shrapnel from my trailer.”
“Well, maybe it’s not infected and just a piece of tin from the walls.”
“Let’s get these folks ready.” Miranda stood and followed Garrett into the waiting room where sixty people stood, including Sergeant First Class Viola.
“Break up into even groups of four. This is your chalk group. You will only have seconds to get on. They won’t wait for you to strap in so hold on to one another for dear life.”
Officers, enlisted, young and old were all getting another chance at survival. Some married with kids, others, just kids themselves. It did not matter. She was doing the right thing. Even if she survived all the way home, if she turned then, she shuddered to think of the danger she was to her own baby. The baby she’d weaned from her breast just a week before deploying.
“Staff Sergeant St. Clair and I will take positions on the roof of the ER and take out anything that might hinder this mission. You very well might need to take out some of the dead in the short distance between the bay doors and the helipad. Aim for the head and do NOT hesitate. Make it home so that our sacrifice is not in vain. Understand?”
“Yes, Master Sergeant,” the room answered in a sober refrain.